Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

——🐈‍⬛ ——

The drive had been tense. Quiet. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, wasn’t mutual—it was jagged, sharp, pressing against Eddie’s skin like a knife he couldn’t see. The vibration of the car's engine was the only sound filling the space, broken every so often by Sasha’s cautious throat clears, like she wasn’t sure if she should ask if they were alright. 

Eddie hadn’t said a damn word. He couldn’t. His jaw hurt too much from clenching it, his cheekbone throbbed, and the bitter taste of blood still lingered at the back of his tongue. The second they’d gone over that familiar bump—the one that signaled they were turning into the lot behind his building—pain had shot up his ankle like lightning, sharp and hot, knocking it sideways. He’d let out an involuntary grunt, hand gripping the seat so hard his knuckles went white.

“Eddie? You okay?” Steve’s voice had come immediately, low but sharp, like the sound of someone ready to leap into action.

Eddie had dismissed it. Brushed it off with a shake of his head and a muttered, usual, “Fine.”

Now, walking down the narrow hallway of his apartment building, the silence was worse. The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly, flickering just enough to make the place feel more suffocating than usual. Eddie’s key ring jingled dully in his pocket with each uneven step, the limp in his gait making his jeans drag just a little on one side.

Steve had one arm hooked firmly under Eddie’s to keep him steady, and Sasha had taken the other side, her smaller frame stiff but determined. Eddie wanted to shake them both off. He wanted to snarl, to say something cutting like I’m not a fucking invalid, but every time he shifted his weight, his ankle screamed, and his ribs felt like they might collapse in on themselves. The fight had taken more out of him than he’d let anyone see.

So he said nothing. He kept his eyes trained on the ugly gray carpet of the hall, counting stains instead of acknowledging the burn of Steve’s touch on his arm.

“Almost there,” Sasha whispered, as if he were about to break apart in her hands.

“I know where my own door is,” Eddie rasped. His voice cracked halfway through, which did nothing for the bravado he was trying to cling to.

He caught the flicker of Steve’s expression out of the corner of his eye—torn between irritation and concern—but Steve didn’t answer. He just adjusted his grip on Eddie’s arm, steadying him when his knee buckled slightly.

The weight of it all pressed down on Eddie’s chest. The bruises. The pain. The fact that Steve was here, seeing him like this. Broken, limping, bleeding in the hallway of their crappy apartment building like some washed-up version of himself. He’d sworn this wouldn’t happen. He’d sworn he’d keep Steve far enough away that none of the ugly would touch him. And now here he was again, half-carried down the hall by the very man he was supposed to have cut ties with.

By the time they reached his door, Eddie’s breathing was shallow, uneven. He stopped just short of the handle, leaning his shoulder into the wall to hold himself up. His hand shook when he reached into his pocket for the keys.

Steve was faster. He plucked the keys from Eddie’s pocket without asking, his fingers brushing far too close to his thigh for comfort, and turned the lock in one smooth motion. Eddie wanted to snap at him, wanted to say I can open my own damn door, but the words died on his tongue when the door creaked open, spilling the dim familiarity of his apartment out into the hall.

Eddie swallowed hard, jaw tightening as Steve guided him over the threshold.

The first thing he saw was Chrissy.

She was curled up on the couch, knees tucked to her chest, TV remote abandoned on the cushion beside her. The glow of some reality show lit her face until she turned her head at the sound of the door, her expression shifting in an instant.

Concern. Horror. A sharp inhale that sliced through the stale air of the room.

“Oh my god.” Chrissy was already on her feet, a blanket sliding off her lap onto the floor. Her hands were trembling as she came closer, wide green eyes locking on Eddie’s swollen face, the blood still crusted at the corner of his lip. “Eddie—what—what happened?”

Too many questions. He could see them bubbling up in her, ready to spill out in a flood he couldn’t answer. He didn’t want to answer.

So the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t about Billy. Or the fight. Or even the fact that he was still being half-held upright by Steve Harrington.

“Where’s my cat?” The words rasped out, almost desperate. He scanned the apartment like his cat that probably couldn't give two shits about him might materialize out of thin air. “I want—I want my cat.”

Chrissy blinked, startled, like she hadn’t expected that to be his priority. Eddie hadn't either. But then her mouth softened, her features melting with a kind of tenderness only she carried. “He’s—he’s fine. He was asleep in your room last I checked.” She reached a hand toward his arm, then pulled it back, unsure if touching him would make something worse. “I can go get him.”

“Please,” he said hoarsely. Behind him, Steve shifted his grip to keep Eddie steady as they moved him further inside. Sasha hovered near the doorway, still pale, her phone clutched like a lifeline. The air felt heavy with everyone’s eyes on him, like he was some exhibit of disaster.

But Chrissy—Chrissy only looked at him like she wanted to fix everything, like she was about to cry for him, and somehow that was worse.

“Lestat,” Eddie whispered again, a plea more than a name, and Chrissy nodded quickly, darting toward the hallway to fetch the cat.

Steve guided him to the couch, lowering him down carefully, like Eddie was made of glass. Eddie hissed when his ankle bent wrong, biting back a louder sound of pain.

The door clicked shut behind Sasha as she finally stepped fully into the apartment. The room felt too crowded, too many people circling his mess. Eddie sank into the cushions, head falling back, eyes closing.

The apartment had gone strangely still.

Sasha lingered for a moment near the kitchen doorway, eyes darting between Steve and Eddie like she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to stay or disappear. Her voice, when it finally came, was soft, almost guilty, like she was intruding.

“I’m gonna… get some ice. And—uh, I think you’ve got ibuprofen, right? Bathroom cabinet?”

Eddie gave the barest nod.

“Okay,” Sasha murmured, ducking her head before vanishing down the hall.

The silence that followed pressed down heavy. Eddie let his head loll to the side, eyes still shut tight like if he just kept them closed, none of this was happening. His body ached in pulses—cheekbone throbbing, ribs screaming every time he breathed too deep, ankle sending up sharp little shocks when he shifted wrong.

But worse than all of that was the prickle on his skin—the heat of being watched.

He cracked one eye open.

Steve.

Knees angled toward him, arms braced on his thighs, leaning forward like he was waiting for Eddie to shatter right there. His eyes—those big, goddamn puppy eyes—were fixed on Eddie’s face, so soft it made Eddie want to snarl. There was something unguarded in them, something Eddie didn’t deserve to see, not now, not ever again.

“Stop,” Eddie rasped, throat dry.

Steve’s brows drew together. “Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that.” Eddie coughed, winced at the stab in his ribs, waved a weak hand in Steve’s direction. “Like you think you can just walk back in and fix everything like you always do. You helped me and I thank you for that, but—fuck. I meant what I said, Steve.”

For a second, Steve looked like Eddie had just punched him. His jaw flexed, lips parting like he had something to say—but then the sound of footsteps came, cutting him off.

Chrissy reappeared from the hallway, moving quickly, careful arms carrying the dark shape of Lestat. The cat was a limp puddle in her hands, perfectly relaxed, not a care in the world. His yellow eyes blinked lazily at the room, and Eddie’s chest unclenched just a little.

“I found him curled up on your pillow,” Chrissy whispered like she was carrying a baby, though her eyes never left Eddie’s battered face. “He didn’t even wake up when I picked him up.”

She knelt in front of him, as gentle as if she were offering up a piece of salvation. And then she placed Lestat down onto Eddie’s lap.

The cat stretched once, made a slow circle, then settled instantly, heavy and warm against Eddie’s thighs. A soft purr rumbled up, vibrating through the bruises and bone deep aches in ways nothing else could touch. Eddie’s fingers slid automatically into the familiar fur, tangling in it, grounding himself in the only piece of normal he had left.

His throat burned.

“Tired, are we,” Eddie murmured, voice breaking in a way he hoped no one else caught. Lestat only purred louder, like he knew. Like he always knew.

When Eddie finally dared to lift his eyes again, Steve was still watching him. And this time—this time Eddie didn’t have the strength to look away.

Chrissy’s eyes had been darting all over him ever since she’d walked into the room—his split lip, the swelling around his cheekbone, the way he cradled his arm just so, careful not to jostle the fresh sting along it. She hadn’t said anything right away, maybe waiting for him to offer it on his own. But Chrissy Cunningham was patient, not blind.

When she finally spoke, her voice cracked on the edges of held-back panic.

“Out of all nights you choose to get your ass kicked? Eddie, what happened?”

Usually, that was Eddie’s cue. He’d roll his eyes, huff out a laugh, spin something ridiculous— fell down the stairs, got into a brawl with the jukebox, you know how it goes, sweetheart. Something to diffuse the horror he saw written across her face.

But this time—this time his jaw just locked up.

He could feel Steve’s gaze boring into him from the side. Sasha clattering faintly in the kitchen. Lestat purring like none of it mattered. And Chrissy—sweet, careful Chrissy—looking at him like someone had taken a bat to his face.

And Eddie Munson—the guy who’d spent half his life telling stories so people wouldn’t look too close—found himself unable to lie. Not to her.

His voice came out hoarse.

“You remember that guy at the bar I told you about? The one who kept tryin’ to cop a feel?”

Chrissy’s mouth fell open, just slightly. “He did it?”

Eddie nodded once, slow. His fingers tightened in Lestat’s fur, grounding himself in the steady warmth before the rest could come spilling out.

“He came into the bar tonight. Walked in like he owned the place, sat himself down, started talking like… like nothing had changed.” Eddie let out a humorless laugh that instantly died in his throat.

“I ignored him. Sasha didn't get it yet. I don't blame her, by the way. She made a joke about Steve and—and his whole fucking demeanor changed in some way, I dunno. And then—then he asked where Steve was.”

The words felt like gravel in his mouth. He could see Chrissy’s brow furrow, could see Steve shift in the corner of his vision, tense like a spring.

“I didn’t answer him. I wasn’t gonna… I wasn’t gonna hand you over,” Eddie muttered, shaking his head just slightly, half-talking to Steve now, half-talking to himself. “So he pushed. Got angrier, louder. And when I still wouldn’t give him anything, he—he snapped.”

Eddie swallowed hard.

“He slammed his hands on the bar. Scared Sasha half to death. She tried to step in, and he—” Eddie’s voice broke, low and bitter. “He hit her away. Hard. Like she was nothing.”

He saw Chrissy flinch, horror in her wide eyes.

“And that—” Eddie’s jaw clenched, the memory burning in his ribs. “That’s when I lost it. That’s when I went for him. And it… it turned into a fight. The people around us surrounded, and suddenly it got crowded. I threw first, but he caught it like it was nothing. Then he—he hit me. Kicked me down. Didn’t matter what I tried, he had me. And he wasn’t gonna stop.”

Eddie’s hand drifted unconsciously to the sting on his arm, where the glass had grazed him. His words dropped to a near whisper.

“He picked up glass. Came at me with it. If someone hadn’t dragged him out…”

He trailed off. He didn’t have to finish—Chrissy’s trembling hand covering her mouth said enough.

Eddie looked down at Lestat again, blinking hard, his throat tight. “So, yeah. That’s what happened, Chris.” He gave her a weak, broken smile that hurt to make. “Guess I’m lucky, huh?”

But even as he said it, he knew—there wasn’t a damn thing lucky about tonight.

Eddie couldn’t stand the look on Chrissy’s face. Wide eyes brimming with horror, hand pressed to her mouth like she might cry or scream or both. It made something inside him twist ugly, made his skin feel too tight, like he wanted to crawl out of it.

She finally found her voice, soft and trembling.

“Why didn’t anyone stop it sooner? There were people there, right? All those people—you said it was crowded. Why didn’t someone—?”

Eddie’s laugh cut through her words, sharp and bitter, nothing like the easy chuckle she was used to from him.

“Chrissy, I don’t know. Okay? I don’t know . Maybe they thought it was entertainment. Maybe they were scared of him. Maybe they just didn’t give a damn.” His voice cracked as it grew harsher. “And you know what? I don’t care either.”

He looked down at Lestat again, but the cat’s warmth didn’t help this time. His hands trembled against the fur.

“Eddie—”

“I wouldn’t have cared if no one stepped in. Wouldn’t have cared if Billy kept at it until I didn’t get back up. Hell, maybe it would’ve been easier that way.”

The words fell out of him before he could stop them. Honest. Raw. A part of him meant them, and another part of him—the part still clinging to the warmth of Chrissy and the unbearable weight of Steve’s eyes—hated himself for meaning it. For saying that in front of poor Chrissy, who’d tried so hard to help Eddie feel like himself again.

That’s when Steve snapped.

“Don’t,” Steve bit out, voice low but sharp enough to slice through Eddie’s haze.

Eddie finally looked up. Steve was standing there, jaw tight, eyes burning with something between anger and terror. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, like he was fighting to keep them still.

“Don’t say that,” Steve continued, his voice rougher now, urgent. “Don’t you ever fucking say that. You don’t get to sit here and talk like you’d rather be dead, Eddie. Not after—” He cut himself off, chest heaving, like the rest of it might’ve come out too blunt, too revealing.

The room fell into a heavy silence. Chrissy stared between them, pale and shaken. Eddie’s mouth opened, closed—no words made it past the lump in his throat.

That’s when Sasha reappeared.

She moved softly, like she was walking into the middle of something she didn’t want to break, arms full with whatever she’d managed to scrounge up. A crinkling ziplock of ice, a box of tissues she’d grabbed off the counter, and a roll of bandages Eddie recognized immediately. His old bandages. The ones he’d kept tucked away in a drawer after his top surgery, years ago now, because throwing them out had felt wrong.

“Here,” Sasha murmured, crouching down by the coffee table. She set everything down carefully, like laying out offerings. “This was all I could find. Sorry if it’s not much.”

Eddie stared at the bandages, a strange ache rising in his chest. Those had been his lifeline once, when healing had meant something hopeful. Now, seeing them pulled back out—because he’d gotten himself mangled in some dive-bar brawl with his past—felt like a cruel joke.

But Sasha didn’t look at him with pity. Just quiet determination. She was pale, sure, shaken still, but her hands didn’t tremble when she unfolded a tissue and pressed it gently toward his lip.

The ice pack sweated in its bag. The bandages waited. Chrissy sat rigid, Steve stood taut, and Eddie… Eddie felt like the air was pressing down on him from every angle.

“I would’ve been fine, anyway,” Eddie muttered, the words sharp enough to sting himself as they left his mouth. He waved a weak hand toward the ice and the bandages, dismissing them. “I’m fine right now. I can handle all of this myself.”

Steve’s head snapped toward him. His voice carried that same edge it had back in the club, when he told Eddie not to talk about wanting to be dead.

“ Fine ?” Steve repeated, incredulous. “You were dragging your foot down the hallway ten minutes ago, Eddie. We practically had to hold you up the whole way. That’s not fine.”

Eddie bristled, heat crawling up his neck.

“I was walking, wasn’t I? You didn’t carry me over the goddamn threshold.”

“Oh, congrats ,” Steve shot back, throwing his hands up. “You managed to limp without collapsing. Really screams healthy to me.”

“Better than being hovered over like I’m fragile porcelain!” Eddie barked. His chest heaved, and Lestat flicked his tail against his thigh at the sudden noise and when he saw Steve flinch, he toned it down. “I don't need you here anymore, okay? I’m starting to think you don't know what the word ‘done’ means. I’ve been taking hits my whole life and I’ve made it this far.”

Steve stepped closer, like he couldn’t help himself, frustration written in every tense line of him.

“And what? You think this is you making it? Sitting here bruised and bleeding, acting like it doesn’t matter if you’re alive or not?” His voice cracked on the last word, unsteady despite the anger. “You think that’s what getting by looks like?”

The air between them practically sparked. Eddie opened his mouth, something cruel and defensive at the tip of his tongue, but before it could spill out—

“Stop!”

Chrissy’s voice cracked like a whip.

Both men froze.

She was standing now, hands clenched into the sides of her pajama pants, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Just stop! Both of you!”

The words seemed to hang there, vibrating in the silence.

Eddie’s throat clicked as he swallowed, shame prickling hot at the back of his neck. He hadn’t heard her sound like that since high school—not sharp, not commanding. And it landed like a punch because she wasn’t wrong. They were tearing into each other like children while she watched her best friend fall apart in front of her.

Steve’s chest was still heaving, but his mouth shut tight, jaw flexing like he was biting back more words.

Off to the side, Sasha flinched visibly. She’d been kneeling near the coffee table, fussing with the ice pack, but the moment Chrissy’s voice hit the air, she froze. Shoulders hunched, hands still, eyes darting like a kid caught doing something wrong. She didn’t even look up, just kept her head bowed slightly, lips pressed thin. Like she was waiting for the scolding to come her way too, even though it hadn’t.

The sight made Eddie’s chest ache worse than any bruised rib. Sasha wasn’t the one Chrissy was yelling at, but she’d folded in on herself anyway.

The silence that followed was heavy. Suffocating. The only sound was Lestat’s faint, steady purr on Eddie’s lap, as if the cat had no idea the room was brimming with fire.

Eddie let out a ragged exhale, leaning back into the couch, feeling like every ounce of fight had drained out of him all at once.

Chrissy’s lips parted like she had something sharp ready to throw at both of them, but instead, her face crumpled. Tears slipped before she could even blink them back, running hot down her cheeks. Her voice broke, small and exhausted.

“I can’t—” she started, then cut herself off, shaking her head quickly, heated curls bouncing.

Eddie’s stomach sank. The fight in his chest was gone instantly, replaced by a crushing weight of guilt. “Chris…” His voice cracked, raw. He leaned forward despite the ache in his ribs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

But she cut him off, this time with words, steady even through the tears. “Don’t. Don’t apologize.” Her chin trembled, and she swiped her sleeve over her cheek. “I just… I can’t sit here and watch you two tear each other apart while you’re sitting there looking like…” Her eyes flicked over his bruised face, and she winced. “…like that.”

Eddie shut his mouth, throat tightening until it hurt.

Chrissy drew in a deep breath, gathering herself. “I’m gonna go home now. I need to… decompress. Get my head on straight.” She turned to him, her expression softening even though her tears kept coming. “But you—” She stepped closer and bent down, wrapping her arms around him carefully, mindful of the swelling and cuts. “I love you, Eddie.”

His whole body shook with the weight of it. He clutched at her, one hand fisting in the back of her polka-dot pajama top, and whispered, voice ragged, “Love you too, Chris. Always.”

When she finally pulled back, she sniffed, smiling through her tears, and gently brushed a loose strand of hair from his cheek. Then she turned toward Sasha and Steve, still hovering nearby.

“Thank you,” she said, voice firmer now, finding its balance. Her eyes landed on Sasha first. “For getting him home. For staying with him.” Then on Steve, the gratitude in her tone sharper, heavier. “And for… for not leaving him there.”

Steve only nodded, lips pressed in a tight line, but his gaze didn’t stray from Eddie.

Chrissy gave Eddie one last squeeze on the shoulder, and her words came with a mix of affection and command. “You two need to figure your shit out. Tonight. Or at least start trying. I can’t watch you keep circling each other like this.” She pointed a finger at Steve before stepping back. “And call me if you leave. I want to know he’s not alone.”

Steve opened his mouth like he wanted to argue that point, but Chrissy was already turning away, grabbing her pink duffel bag from beside the couch. She slung it over her shoulder, still wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. Then she slid her shoes on.

“Bye, Les,” she whispered toward the cat, who blinked lazily in response. Then her eyes flicked once more to Eddie, shining with love and worry, before she crossed to the door.

The apartment felt suddenly hollow as she disappeared into the hall.

Sasha stood frozen in her spot, chewing the inside of her cheek, the ice pack still crinkling faintly in her hands. She glanced at Eddie, then Steve, then the door Chrissy had gone through. Finally, she nodded to herself, quiet, decisive.

“I’m gonna go too,” she murmured. Her voice was soft, almost guilty. “You don’t need me here… third wheeling.”

Eddie blinked at her, surprised, but before he could protest, she was already gathering her things—a jacket from the arm of the couch, her wallet off the counter. She was clearly avoiding both Eddie and Steve's eyes.

“I’ll text you tomorrow, okay?” she said to Eddie, managing a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Rest up.”

And then, just like Chrissy, she slipped out the door, leaving only silence in her wake.

For the first time all night, in two weeks, it was just him and Steve.

Eddie couldn’t take it. Couldn’t stand those puppy-dog eyes boring into him, couldn’t stand the silence that felt like it was filled with every unsaid thing between them. His chest felt too tight, bruised ribs or not.

So he broke it—without words.

Carefully, he slid Lestat off his lap and gathered the supplies Sasha had left on the table: the ziplock of ice, the crumpled pack of tissues, the bottle of ibuprofen, and the roll of old bandages. He stacked them into his arms like a shield and pushed himself up from the couch.

Not a word to Steve. Not a glance. Just movement.

He was halfway to the bathroom in his mind already, rehearsing how he’d lock the door, set the supplies on the counter, face the mirror, and deal with the mess himself. The last thing he needed—the very last—was Steve Harrington seeing him like this. Bloody face, swollen cheek, limping like a stray dog. Vulnerability had never sat right with Eddie, but especially not in front of him in this specific situation.

But reality had other plans.

The moment he shifted weight onto his injured foot, white-hot pain shot up his leg, sharp and blinding. His ankle buckled instantly, and the world tilted hard to the side. He gasped, the sound ripped from his throat before he could stop it, and the supplies went scattering—ice pack sliding across the floor, the pill bottle bouncing under the coffee table.

He would’ve hit the ground if not for Steve.

Strong hands caught him fast, steady, one at his elbow and the other bracing against his ribs. Steve’s grip was firm but careful, like he was terrified of making the bruises worse.

“Jesus, Eddie,” Steve hissed, voice rough, low with panic. “What are you doing?”

Eddie clenched his jaw, eyes squeezing shut as he tried to catch his breath. The shame hit harder than the pain did. He could feel Steve’s chest against his arm, smell the clean scent of him, feel the steady thrum of warmth from his body. Too much, all of it.

“I—” His voice came out weak. He forced it down to a mutter. “I was handling it.”

Steve’s fingers tightened on his arm, incredulous. “Handling it? You almost face planted into the damn coffee table, dude. Sit.”

Eddie’s lips twisted, half sneer, half grimace. He wanted to shove Steve off, wanted to spit some smartass comeback. But his body betrayed him, trembling from the shock of the stumble, his ankle screaming every time it shifted. He couldn’t even bring himself to look up, couldn’t stand to see the expression on Steve’s face—worried, probably. Soft. Puppy-eyed.

That was worse than the bruises.

So he said nothing and flopped himself back down on the couch and closed his eyes.

Steve didn’t say anything right away. Eddie cracked an eye open just in time to watch him crouch, collecting the scattered supplies off the floor. Steve’s movements were deliberate, calm, the kind of calm that set Eddie’s teeth on edge. He gathered the ice pack, the pill bottle, the bandages—lined them all neatly on the coffee table in front of Eddie like he was preparing for some kind of battlefield triage.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady. No yelling, no anger, just maddening certainty.

“I’m gonna help you.”

Eddie’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “No, you’re not.”

Steve didn’t even look up. He was checking the pill bottle now. “Yeah, I am.”

Eddie scoffed, throwing a hand over his face. “Unbelievable. I didn't ask for you to play nurse, fix me up like this is some cute hospital roleplay. Forget it, okay? I’ll just sit here until it all magically heals. Like always.”

The words came out harsher than he meant, bitter and sharp, laced with more self loathing than he cared to admit. He hated how it sounded—like he was begging to be left alone, when really he just didn’t know how to let someone stay.

Steve finally looked at him then, eyebrows drawn, jaw set. Not angry. Just… tired. Tired in that way Steve always got when Eddie was being impossible.

“Eddie,” he said softly, like he’d said it a thousand times before. “That’s not gonna cut it. You’re not fine. And I’m not walking out that door knowing you’ll just sit here bleeding into your couch cushions because you’re too stubborn to let someone care about you.”

Eddie flinched at that. At the word care. Steve had said it before, but that was before Eddie had called it quits. So that meant… Steve had been just as miserable as Eddie. It lodged under his skin like a thorn. He shifted, curling in on himself, his good hand tugging Lestat back closer like the cat could be a shield between him and Steve’s sincerity.

“Go home,” he said, voice low. “Seriously. Just… go home. I’ll clean myself up, put some ice on my ankle and all is well. Please.”

There was a beat of silence. Steve just stared at him, and Eddie could feel it even with his eyes fixed firmly on the cat in his lap. His pulse was hammering.

When Steve spoke again, it was simple, quiet, but unmovable. “Not happening. Besides, Chrissy just left. I can't call her already, that's just rude of me.”

Something in Eddie cracked then—something small, something he’d been clutching so tightly it was cutting into his hands. Because Steve wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t budging. And for the first time in a long time, Eddie realized there wasn’t an easy out here. He could keep fighting, keep spitting venom until his throat burned or… he could just give in.

The fight drained out of him in a rush. His shoulders slumped, his jaw unclenched. He let out a long, shaky breath.

“Fine,” he muttered, sounding every bit like a kid caught sneaking cigarettes behind the bleachers. He finally risked a glance at Steve, who was still crouched by the coffee table, watching him with those damned puppy eyes. “Okay, fine.”

His tone was defeated, but underneath it—buried deep—was something else. A crack in the armor.

Steve let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours. Relief flickered across his face, subtle but there—his shoulders loosening, the tight line of his mouth softening. “Thank you.” he said gently, like Eddie had just done him a favor instead of reluctantly waving a white flag. 

Eddie huffed, turning his face toward the back cushions. “Don’t thank me. I’ll probably regret it in five minutes.”

Steve didn’t argue, didn’t press. He just nodded once, like he’d expected that answer anyway, and pushed himself up from the coffee table. “Gonna grab a cloth. Make it easier to clean you up.”

The sound of his footsteps padded down the short hall toward the kitchen, leaving Eddie in a silence that felt louder than any argument they’d had earlier. He shifted on the couch, one hand still tangled absently in Lestat’s fur, but his brain wouldn’t stay quiet.

None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t been so goddamn stupid. If he hadn’t let himself fanboy his way into Steve Harrington’s orbit. If he hadn’t pushed past common sense just to be near him, to bask in his easy smile, to pretend—even for a second—that someone like Eddie Munson could hold the attention of someone like him.

It was supposed to be harmless. Something Eddie could keep pressed tight to his chest, safe and silent. But then Steve started showing up—actually showing up. With cookies. With bad jokes. With those concerned glances Eddie tried like hell to pretend he didn’t notice. And Eddie? Eddie had folded like a cheap tent.

And now here they were. Eddie half-broken on his own couch, about to let Steve Harrington play medic like it was second nature, and the only thing Eddie could think was: he shouldn’t care. Steve shouldn’t care.

But he did.

Eddie’s chest clenched hard, a sharp ache blooming beneath his ribs. Before he knew it, his eyes stung, his throat burned. He blinked fast, furious with himself, but it didn’t matter. Hot tears welled up, slipped down before he could stop them. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, the sound of his breathing uneven and ragged.

The reason? Hell if he knew. Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was Billy’s face flashing in his mind, or the way Sasha had looked at him like she didn’t understand how he could’ve just… stood there and let it happen. Or maybe it was Steve—always Steve—standing firm when Eddie told him to leave, never once backing down.

He tried to stifle it, biting the inside of his cheek, muffling the worst of it into his palms. By the time footsteps echoed back down the hallway, Eddie scrubbed his face quick with the heel of his hand, sniffing hard. He dropped his hands back into his lap, tried to make it look casual, like he hadn’t just come apart in the two minutes Steve was gone.

Lestat stretched, oblivious, and Eddie focused on smoothing a hand over the cat’s fur, hoping the movement hid the redness in his eyes.

Steve came back into view with a clean washcloth in one hand and a small bowl of water in the other. He was looking at Eddie carefully, like he already knew something had shifted, but Eddie forced a smirk anyway, his voice low and scratchy when he said, “Well, Nurse Steve, you ready to play Florence Nightingale or what?”

Steve didn’t waste any time. He set the bowl on the coffee table, dipped the cloth in the water, and wrung it out with steady hands. Eddie watched him from the corner of his eye, the way Steve’s jaw tightened just slightly, like he was forcing himself to concentrate on the task. Like this was the only way he could keep his own emotions from spilling over.

“Let’s start with your arm,” Steve murmured. No room for debate in his tone, but not unkind either. Just… sure. Firm.

Eddie offered it out with a little theatrical sigh, but it was a weak attempt at bravado. The second the damp cloth pressed against the torn skin, the sting lit up his nerves like firecrackers.

“Jesus H—” Eddie hissed, teeth clenched as he yanked back slightly. “Fuck, Harrington, you trying to skin me alive?”

Steve held on gently but unyielding, guiding Eddie’s arm back into place. “Easy, Eds. I know it hurts, but if we don’t clean it, it’s gonna get worse. Just breathe, okay?”

“I’m pretty sure I told you not to call me that,” Eddie muttered, voice tight as his free hand twisted into the couch cushion. “Shit, this feels like someone peeled my arm with a damn swiss peeler.”

Steve didn’t smile, didn’t joke back the way Eddie half-expected. He just kept working, methodical and calm, pressing the cloth carefully against the gash until the worst of the bloody grime was gone. His hands were steady, maddeningly steady, like none of this phased him.

But it phased Eddie. Every press of the cloth burned, and his body reacted before his brain could catch up. His eyes watered again, and this time he couldn’t blink it back fast enough. The tears slipped hot down his cheeks, and it wasn’t just the pain. He knew that. He knew exactly why his chest felt too tight, why his throat felt swollen, why the sound of his own shaky breath made him want to crawl out of his skin.

Steve didn’t seem to notice. He moved with quiet focus, dabbing at the wound until the cloth came away mostly clean. “There,” he said softly, like he was announcing the end of something monumental. He set the cloth back in the bowl, then grabbed one of the old bandages Sasha had left behind. His touch was careful, deliberate, as he secured it in place.

“You’re good to go on this one,” Steve said, sitting back a little, eyes sweeping over Eddie like he was taking inventory. “Can I see your face please?”

That’s when Eddie froze. His chest squeezed tight. He knew if he looked at Steve now—if he let him see—everything would unravel. He ducked his head, hair falling forward like a curtain, and waved a hand dismissively. “I can—I can do this part.”

“Eddie,” Steve said, low and warning.

“I said I can do it,” Eddie snapped, sharper than he meant to. His voice cracked on the last word, and he quickly busied himself with smoothing Lestat’s fur again, avoiding Steve’s gaze at all costs.

Eddie kept his head down, shoulders hunched, like maybe if he just stared hard enough at Lestat’s steady rise and fall, Steve would give up. Like maybe he could will himself invisible. His chest was already tight, his throat raw from swallowing too hard.

But Steve wasn’t letting this go.

“Eddie,” Steve said again, firmer this time. Then he reached out—slowly, like he was giving Eddie a chance to bolt—and set a hand beneath his chin.

Eddie jerked back immediately, a sharp twist of his head. “Stop.” His voice cracked, uneven and small, the opposite of the defiance he was going for.

Steve didn’t retreat. He tried again, gentler this time, cupping Eddie’s jaw with one steady hand and tilting, trying to coax him upward instead of forcing. “Please look at me, Eddie—”

“I said stop. Please.” Eddie’s hand shot up to push his away, weak but frantic, nails biting into Steve’s wrist before he could even think better of it. “It’s nothing. Just—Just drop it.”

Steve’s thumb brushed the edge of Eddie’s jaw like he hadn’t even noticed the pushback. Patient. Infuriating. His other hand came up too, steadying Eddie’s face between both palms now, and Eddie squirmed, tried to twist away—but his ankle twinged when he shifted, and he winced, and goddamn it, Steve used that split-second falter to tip his head up.

And there it was.

Steve’s gaze landed on him full-force, no escape this time, no curtain of hair to hide behind. Eddie’s damp lashes, the raw pink rims of his eyes, the tear tracks that hadn’t dried yet. Steve saw all of it.

“Oh, Eddie,” Steve breathed, his voice a little hoarse with it. His brows knit together, those stupid puppy eyes so open and worried Eddie almost hated him for it. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Did I hurt you?”

And that—those words, that tone—was the end of it. The careful, aching concern. Like Steve wasn’t annoyed or angry, just… worried. For him.

They struck him harder than Billy’s fist ever could.

Eddie had fought off fists, broken bones, hospital visits he definitely didn't consent to, a whole fucking lifetime of being everybody’s punching bag. But he couldn’t fight this. Couldn’t fight the way Steve sounded like he’d do anything to take it all away from him.

Something broke loose in his chest.

His lip wobbled, his throat burned, and before he could stop himself, a wet laugh slipped out of him—pathetic, cracked, miserable. He shoved at Steve’s wrists half-heartedly again, but this time it was more like a plea than a fight.

“Fuck, Steve,” Eddie choked, eyes shutting tight as another tear slid hot down his cheek. “Please just get it over with because I cant—I really can't do this anymore.”

“Do what?” Steve asked, and it wasn’t defensive, wasn’t annoyed—just soft, confused, like he genuinely didn’t know what Eddie meant.

“Do this with you acting like you still give a shit about me even though I—” Eddie’s voice broke clean in half, the words catching in his throat. He dropped his face into his hands, trying to hide again, shoulders curling inward like he could fold himself out of existence. His breath hitched hard, shaky, and the tears came faster now, no point in fighting them.

Steve didn’t move away. He didn’t let go.

Instead, he leaned closer, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m not acting , Eddie. Talk to me. Please. I just want to help you.”

Eddie dragged in a ragged breath, trying to steady himself, trying to reel it all back in before he drowned in it. He rubbed at his face with his palms, not even caring about the pain, like maybe he could wipe the evidence away. When he finally dropped his hands, Steve was still there, crouched in front of him, close enough Eddie could see the faint lines in his forehead from how hard he was frowning.

And it made him snap.

“How’d you even find me?” Eddie rasped, voice rough, biting out the words because anger was easier than admitting the panic still rattling around inside him.

Steve blinked, taken aback for half a second, then his expression softened again. Too much. Too soft. “I… couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, shoulders lifting in a sheepish kind of shrug. “So I went on a walk. Just to clear my head. There were police lights up ahead but I didn't think anything of it, really. By the time I passed the club, they were gone, but there were a few girls running out—looked like something was happening inside. A commotion.”

Eddie’s stomach turned cold. He already hated where this was going.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes flicking away just for a beat. “I asked what was going on, but they didn’t say much. Just… something about a fight.” His gaze landed back on Eddie then, steady and unshakable. “And I—” He hesitated, like he was deciding whether to keep talking, but pushed through. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Eddie’s heart stopped dead in his chest.

Wanted to make sure he was okay. He should’ve been grateful, should’ve been relieved that someone gave enough of a shit to check, but instead something ugly twisted inside him.

“That's… That's not your job to take,” Eddie’s words tangled together, caught between fury and fear. He gripped the couch cushion so tight his knuckles ached. “If you were only minutes earlier, Steve—” He shook his head hard, curls bouncing. “He would’ve gotten you too. Do you get that? Billy would’ve—he would’ve put you in the ground right next to me without blinking.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“And then what?” Eddie pressed on, his voice rising, sharp with panic he couldn’t keep buried anymore. “You think I could live with that? You think I could just—what—wake up tomorrow and shrug it off? That you got your head kicked in again because you came looking for me?” His throat closed around the last words, hot with tears he refused to let fall again. “I couldn’t forgive myself for that. Ever.”

Steve’s mouth opened like he wanted to respond, but Eddie cut him off, stabbing a finger at him like it could keep the distance. “Don’t you get it? You being there—you being around me at all—” He broke off, shaking his head, dragging his hand down his face. “It’s a fucking death sentence, man. For me, for you, for anyone who—”

His voice cracked so hard he couldn’t finish. He slumped back against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling like maybe if he didn’t look at Steve, the words wouldn’t matter as much. His chest heaved, shallow and sharp, like he’d just sprinted a mile instead of sitting there bleeding on his own damn couch.

Eddie’s chest was still heaving when Steve finally spoke. His voice wasn’t raised, wasn’t sharp, just low and steady.

“That’s not your decision to make,” Steve said. No hesitation, no room for argument in the tone. Just… certainty.

Eddie’s eyes snapped to him, ready with another jagged comeback, but the words caught somewhere in his throat. Steve wasn’t glaring at him, wasn’t trying to fight. He was just looking at him like it was the simplest thing in the world, like he’d just said the sky was blue.

“I’d do anything to protect you,” Steve added, softer now, but still so sure.

The silence that followed was deafening. Eddie swallowed hard, but nothing came out. His brain screamed at him to tell Steve he was wrong, that he couldn’t, that he shouldn’t—but his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. He just… sat there, staring, before his gaze fell to the cat in his lap.

For once, Eddie Munson was quiet.

Steve let it linger only a moment before shifting, reaching for the supplies again. His hands moved with a purpose, careful, deliberate, as he wetted the cloth and brought it back to Eddie’s face. His tone was gentler now when he spoke. “Where’s it hurt the most?”

Eddie’s tongue felt like rubber. He hesitated, jaw working, but finally muttered, “…My cheek.” The words were so soft he almost hoped Steve wouldn’t catch them.

But of course he did.

Steve’s hand came up, fingers ghosting along Eddie’s jaw, tilting his face toward the light without force, just guidance. He pressed the damp cloth against the worst of the swelling, the sting of the cut, and Eddie flinched despite himself.

“Sorry,” Steve murmured. “I’ll be careful.”

And he was. The way his thumb shifted, rubbing small, absent circles along the edge of Eddie’s cheekbone, like he wasn’t just cleaning—he was soothing. Testing the pressure, easing the ache with a gentle massage as he worked away the crusted blood. It was clinical and intimate all at once, and Eddie couldn’t decide if he wanted to crawl out of his skin or sink into it.

His eyes slipped shut before he realized, the heat of Steve’s hand and the faint, almost tender pressure working into the muscle making it impossible to keep them open. He let out a shaky breath through his nose.

Steve didn’t stop. He just kept at it, methodical and quiet, the only sound the rustle of the cloth and Eddie’s uneven breathing.

The cloth moved slow over Eddie’s cheek, a rhythm so steady it almost lulled him into forgetting what had just happened. Almost. His body still buzzed from adrenaline and pain, the comedown leaving him numb, skin prickling with every breath.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Eddie thought maybe that was it—maybe Steve would just finish patching him up and leave him to wallow like he deserved. He almost let himself believe it.

But then Steve’s voice came, quiet, tentative. “Can I ask you something too?”

Eddie huffed a humorless laugh, eyes still shut. “No. I’m not in the mood for twenty questions.”

“Please.”

There was something in his tone—soft, pleading, and so unlike the cocky, sure Steve Eddie knew—that cracked him right open. Eddie sighed through his nose, heavy, already regretting it, but muttered, “Fine. Ask.”

The cloth stilled against his face. Steve’s hand didn’t move away, though; it lingered, warm against his jaw like he was grounding himself. When he finally spoke again, his words weren’t careful. They weren’t calculated. They were just bare.

“Did you really mean it? Everything you said to me on the street that day? Like, truly.”

Eddie’s eyes flew open, heart stuttering in his chest.

There it was. The question. The one he’d been dodging since the moment it left his mouth in a reckless, desperate spit of words weeks ago. The one he hoped Steve would forget, realize Eddie was just a burden and leave everything they built burning to ashes.

But Steve hadn’t forgotten. Of course he hadn’t. And now he was looking at him with those wide, earnest puppy eyes again, like Eddie held the goddamn key to something important.

“Fuck,” Eddie muttered, dragging a hand over his face and wincing when his split knuckles protested. “You really know how to kick a guy when he’s down, huh?”

“I’m serious,” Steve pressed, voice firmer now, though it trembled around the edges. “You said all that stuff, Eddie, and I don't want it to be true. I meant it when I said I don't care, I just want you to talk to me, I want you to—” He cut himself off, swallowed hard. “I just need to know if you meant it.”

Eddie’s throat was dry, like every excuse he’d rehearsed was stuck there, refusing to come out. His chest ached worse than his cheek, worse than his ankle. Because the truth was sitting heavy and undeniable, and no amount of sarcasm could drown it.

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to laugh, to roll his eyes, to shove Steve out the door and lock it behind him. He wanted to protect himself, to build the wall higher, stronger, so Steve couldn’t see the pathetic mess he’d been reduced to.

But he couldn’t lie. Not tonight. Not after everything.

So instead he sat there, jaw clenched, pulse racing, staring at Steve like maybe if he stayed quiet long enough, Steve would let it drop.

But Steve didn’t. Steve just held his gaze, waiting, patient but relentless.

And Eddie thought—fuck.

Eddie let out a shaky breath, shoulders curling inward like he could somehow fold himself small enough to vanish. The words burned on his tongue, tasted like iron and regret, but he forced them out anyway.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice low. He didn’t look at Steve, couldn’t. “That shit I said about being done with you. About not wanting to…” His throat closed around the next part, but he pushed it out like ripping off a bandage. “I don’t want to be done. I never wanted to be done.”

Steve’s breath hitched, and Eddie felt it more than heard it, felt it in the shift of the air between them. But before Steve could speak, Eddie barreled on, desperate, frantic, like he had to choke it out before he lost the nerve.

“But we have to be. I need you to understand that, Steve. You don’t deserve—” Eddie’s voice cracked, and he laughed bitterly, gesturing vaguely at himself, at the mess sprawled across the couch. “— this . You don’t deserve a bad friend who drags a goddamn curse behind him everywhere he goes. Who keeps getting into shit that’s just gonna bleed all over you, too. I’m just gonna hurt you, Steve. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. That’s the pattern. That’s what I do.”

His hands clenched in his lap, nails biting into his palms. His eyes burned, but he didn’t bother to blink the tears away this time. “And you—” His voice broke softer now, choked and quiet. “You deserve someone who doesn’t break everything they touch.”

Steve shifted closer. Slowly, deliberately, like he was handling something fragile. He set the damp cloth down on the coffee table with care, like it was suddenly the least important thing in the world. And then he reached for Eddie.

Two warm hands cupped Eddie’s face, thumbs brushing against skin still hot and tender. Steve tilted his head up, gentle but firm, forcing Eddie’s red, wet eyes to meet his.

“It only hurts me when you say shit like this about yourself,” Steve said, low and steady. His brows were drawn, lips tight, but his eyes—his damn eyes—were steady, unwavering, full of something Eddie couldn’t name without his chest caving in. “You’re not a curse. You’re not some… some black cloud that ruins everything it touches.”

Eddie’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Steve’s thumbs swiped, almost unconsciously, against the tear tracks on his cheeks. “I was… definitely not the best after that. But I got the feeling you were trying to… to punish yourself or something for what happened and that's when I left you your bear. I don’t know if you read the note or not but I said everything I needed to say. You’ve never hurt me as much as you think you did, and you're not going to anymore because I’m not letting you leave again. I’m not leaving.”

The words landed heavy, warm, like a blanket thrown over Eddie’s shaking shoulders. He wanted to believe them so badly it hurt worse than any bruise on his body.

But the fear was still there, coiled tight, choking him.

“You don’t know that,” Eddie rasped, shaking his head against Steve’s hands even as he leaned into the touch. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for—”

“I do .” Steve’s voice cut sharp, certain, like he’d been waiting his whole life to say it. “I know exactly what I’m signing up for. You. Every mess, every fight, every—every Eddie Munson disaster that comes with it. And I don’t care. Because it’s you.”

Eddie broke.

There wasn’t any warning this time, no brittle laugh to cover it up, no sarcastic quip to swallow it down. The tears that had been threatening finally ripped out of him like a dam giving way, ugly and unstoppable. His chest hitched, shoulders curling forward, but Steve’s hands stayed on his face, steady, refusing to let him crumble into nothing.

“Fuck,” Eddie gasped, voice warping around the sob. He tried to wrench his head away, but Steve wouldn’t let him—not rough, never rough, just firm enough to keep him from retreating back into the shadows he always hid in. “Fuck, I’m so—” His hands trembled violently in his lap before fisting into the fabric of his own jeans. “I’m so fucked up, Harrington.”

Steve’s eyes softened immediately at the use of his last name, at the way it sounded like both a plea and a curse.

“I don’t want you to have to keep—” Eddie’s words tangled with another sob, throat closing around them. He forced them out anyway. “—to keep doing this. Babysitting me, patching me up, listening to me spiral out like a goddamn broken record. You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve me .”

His voice cracked hard on the last word.

“I’m useless,” Eddie rasped. “I’m useless and I’m broken and—fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry for hurting you like that, on the street, for saying all that shit just to push you away. I thought—” He hiccupped, shaking, tears slipping so fast down his cheeks Steve couldn’t catch them all. “I thought if I burned the bridge, you’d be safe from me. But all I did was hurt you. Again.”

Steve’s grip on his face gentled, thumbs tracing soft lines against damp skin. His own eyes shimmered, jaw working like he was chewing back words too big for his mouth.

“And I don’t—” Eddie’s breath hitched sharp, shallow, like he couldn’t get enough air. He pressed a fist hard against his thigh, grounding himself. “I don’t want to be here anymore, Steve.” His voice dropped to a whisper, but the weight of it landed like a stone in the room. “Not like this. Not in this body that feels like a punching bag, not in this head that won’t shut up. I’m so fucking tired. And I don’t… I don’t want to be here if this is all I am. I don't get what I did to deserve this.”

His shoulders sagged forward, defeated, tears streaming unchecked. He didn’t even fight the way Steve pulled him in then, didn’t resist when Steve closed the inches between them and wrapped him up like Eddie was something worth protecting. Eddie collapsed against him, forehead pressing into Steve’s shoulder, fingers curling desperately into the fabric of his jacket. His sobs wracked through both of them, loud and desperate, but Steve just held on tighter, breathing steady and low like he could will Eddie’s pieces back together by sheer force of will.

“You’re not useless,” Steve whispered into his hair, voice rough but sure. “You’re not broken. You did absolutely nothing to be dealt a shitty hand in life. You’re here. And that’s enough.”

Eddie shook his head against him, not believing it, not able to. But he clung to Steve anyway, because even if he didn’t believe the words, he believed him .

Eddie stayed pressed against Steve, letting himself be a puddle of exhaustion and grief, letting the world shrink down to the feel of Steve’s arms and the steady, grounding rhythm of his heartbeat. The sobs came in slow, jagged waves now, less violent than before, and Steve kept his hands tangled in Eddie’s hair, brushing the strands gently back, whispering soft “shh”s that sounded almost like a lullaby.

The apartment was quiet around them, the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the low ticking of the cat clock on the wall, everything else falling away. Eddie’s vision blurred with tears, but the weight pressing down on his chest was beginning to lift, little by little, as Steve stayed with him, silent except for the soothing sound of his voice.

Lestat stretched on the couch, tail flicking lazily, and slowly made his way to the other side, leaving Eddie’s lap with a soft thump. The movement was mundane, grounding, and Eddie felt himself start to breathe more steadily, the hurt of the situation softening slightly with the simple presence of the cat nearby.

After a few long minutes, when the last hiccup of sobs had faded into a shaky breath, Steve tilted Eddie’s chin up gently with his fingers. Eddie’s eyes were red, glassy, waterline smudged, and cheeks damp with tears. Steve’s gaze was soft, unwavering, full of quiet care.

“I think… I think a warm bath might help,” Steve murmured, his hands still resting lightly on Eddie’s shoulders. “Let me help you. You don’t have to—” He paused, watching Eddie’s stubborn frown, “—you don’t have to do this alone.”

Eddie shook his head, lips pressed tightly together, trying to protest, but his limbs felt too heavy, too tired to put up a fight. He let out a shaky sigh, the kind that carried a mixture of relief and exhaustion, and finally allowed Steve to guide him toward his feet.

Steve’s hands were firm yet careful at Eddie’s waist, steadying him as he tested his weight on his ankle. The slight limp still there made every step deliberate, but Steve adjusted his hold as they slowly made their way to the bathroom, murmuring quiet reassurances whenever Eddie wobbled or winced.

Steve nudged the bathroom door open with his hip and eased Eddie down onto the closed lid of the toilet, careful not to let him stumble. Eddie’s body felt like it was all sharp edges and limp weight at once, sagging under Steve’s hold until he sat down, his arms folding across his chest in silent defeat.

The squeak of the faucet filled the space as Steve turned the knob, testing the water with his wrist until it was warm enough. The steam curled slowly, softening the harsh bathroom light, and Steve kept one ear tuned to Eddie’s uneven breathing behind him.

“I’ll get you something comfortable to change into,” Steve said quietly, wiping his palms on his jeans before heading back toward Eddie’s bedroom. His tone was matter-of-fact, calm, like if he kept the moment simple enough, Eddie wouldn’t overthink it into something unbearable.

The second Steve disappeared down the hall, Eddie sagged forward, scrubbing at his face with both hands. His chest still ached from crying, his throat hurt, but more than that, there was the creeping humiliation of needing this much help. Of being this… weak. He’d thought he could at least manage the basics. Shoes, pants—he wasn’t a child.

With a determined huff, Eddie bent over to tug at his laces. The motion sent a jolt of fire up his ribs, and the second he pulled too sharply, pain lanced through his chest and ankle both. A cry ripped out of him before he could bite it back, sharp and ragged, echoing off the tile.

“Shit—fuck—” He clutched at his side, hissing through his teeth, trying to curl against the ache. His boot was still half-on, laces tangled, and now his vision swam with the hot threat of tears he thought he’d already spent.

Steve’s footsteps thundered back faster than Eddie expected, and in a second he was at the doorway, holding a soft tank top and sweatpants against his chest. His expression went from neutral to stricken in the blink of an eye.

“What happened?” Steve’s voice was sharper than he meant it to be, more panicked than angry, and he crossed the room in two steps, setting the clothes down on the counter without looking away from Eddie. “Eddie—what’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”

Eddie tried to wave him off, though the gesture looked pitiful with how his hand trembled against his ribs. “Nothing. It’s nothing, I just… overdid it. Tried to take my boots off, but damn.” He tried for a laugh, but it broke in his throat, thin and unconvincing.

Steve crouched in front of him, eyes scanning over his hunched frame, and he shook his head, jaw tight. “Just let me take care of everything now, alright?” His voice softened as his hands hovered near Eddie’s knee, not touching until he got the go-ahead. “Tell me where it hurts.”

Eddie clenched his teeth, looking anywhere but at Steve. The tile floor, the edge of the bath where water lapped higher and higher, the faint steam fogging the mirror. His pride was screaming, but the pain in his side and ankle made it impossible to keep up the mask.

“My ribs,” Eddie finally muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “And my ankle, too. God, this was not on my bucket list.”

Eddie swallowed, shoulders hunched tighter, feeling impossibly small on the toilet lid with Steve crouched in front of him, steady and unflinching.

Steve shifted closer, sinking down onto both knees, so he was level with Eddie’s boots. His fingers, steady but slow, brushed the edge of the scuffed leather. He glanced up once, giving Eddie a silent question with his eyes.

Eddie sighed, long and shaky, and gave the smallest of nods. Permission.

Steve went to work unlacing the boots, tugging carefully at the knots. He didn’t rush, like he knew each sharp tug might jostle Eddie’s tender ankle. His knuckles brushed Eddie’s jeans as he worked the laces loose, and then he wrapped one large, steady hand around Eddie’s calf, guiding his foot gently as he slipped the first boot off.

Eddie hissed at the shift, the pressure against his ankle flaring, but Steve murmured, “Almost there, almost done.”

The second boot was slower, Steve’s brow furrowed in concentration, his other hand bracing Eddie’s leg like he could shoulder the pain for him. Once both boots were off, Steve set them neatly aside against the wall.

“Okay,” Steve said softly, his voice carrying like he was speaking to spooked wildlife. “Socks next.”

He hooked his fingers under the cuff of Eddie’s left sock and peeled it off, then the right, the motion gentle. He checked Eddie’s ankle carefully, turning his foot the barest degree, watching Eddie’s face more than the limb itself.

Nothing swollen. Nothing broken looking. But Eddie’s jaw locked tight, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the toilet lid.

Steve exhaled quietly, sitting back on his heels. “Probably just pulled something. It should be a little better tomorrow.”

“Sure. Whatever you say,” Eddie muttered, trying to sound wry, but the tightness in his voice gave him away.

Steve didn’t push further. He simply reached up and ghosted his fingers against the waistband of Eddie’s jeans, pausing there—waiting. The question hung heavy in the steam filled air: Can I?

Eddie closed his eyes. He hated this—the helplessness, the ache in every limb that made something as simple as undressing feel like climbing a mountain. But he knew he’d never manage it himself without feeling like he's having a heart attack. So, with a muttered, “Yeah. Go on,” he lifted his hands from his lap in surrender.

Steve nodded once, firm and careful, and helped him shift enough to ease the jeans down his legs. He kept it clinical, steady, folding them neatly before setting them aside. He worked the same way with Eddie’s shirt, tugging the hem slowly up over his stomach, inch by inch, mindful of every sharp inhale Eddie couldn’t quite hide.

The second the fabric cleared his torso, Steve froze.

A dark bruise bloomed ugly and wide across Eddie’s ribs, already mottling in shades of deep purple and sickly green. It spread out like a storm cloud, angry and raw, the kind of bruise that promised days of pain.

Steve’s face shifted—just a fraction. His eyes widened, his lips parted, and for the first time that night, he looked like he might actually lose his composure.

Eddie caught it instantly. He knew that look. He’d seen it before—when people realized just how bad the damage really was. His stomach twisted.

“No,” Eddie rasped, shaking his head immediately, voice rough but firm. “Don’t even say it. No hospitals. Not happening.”

Steve’s jaw worked, silent words caught there, his hands still hovering an inch from Eddie’s skin like he was afraid to touch. His eyes dragged up to meet Eddie’s, wide and searching, pleading without words.

“I mean it,” Eddie pushed, forcing his voice stronger, though his whole body trembled. “That’s that, Steve. End of story. I don’t care how it looks.”

The bathroom filled with the quiet rush of water, the only sound between them. Steam curled around them, thick and heavy, until Steve finally blinked, grounding himself again. He swallowed hard, gave the smallest nod, and murmured, “Okay. No hospitals.”

But the look in his eyes—real, pained, burning with something Eddie couldn’t bear to name—told him everything he needed to know.

Steve leaned back on his heels, the silence between them stretching just long enough for Eddie to start to fidget, his fingers worrying at the edge of the toilet seat. The water filled the tub in a steady stream and the steam clung damp to Eddie’s hair.

Then Steve stood, brushing his palms down his thighs like this was just another task to get through, and said, casual as anything, “Alright. Last layer. On your feet.”

Eddie’s head snapped up. 

Steve gave him a look that wasn’t unkind but carried that same stubborn practicality Eddie was coming to know too well. “Well, I’m pretty sure you don't wear your underwear in the bath, so.” His tone wasn’t teasing—it wasn’t anything, really, just like he was saying it was raining outside or the kettle was boiling.

Eddie’s throat worked, dry. He swallowed hard, his pulse fluttering high in his neck. Of course he wasn’t stupid—he knew the score, knew you didn’t soak in a tub with your underwear on. But knowing it and having Steve Harrington standing in front of him like it was the most normal thing in the world? Two very different things.

Maybe if they weren't in this predicament it wouldn't be so awkward, but they are. And it is. And they're in this predicament because of Eddie. So who is he to complain over something he initiated?

“Oh,” Eddie sighed, throwing a hand over his face like maybe he could hide behind his palm. His fingers trembled.

Steve crouched again, slower this time, one hand out like he was coaxing a skittish animal. “Hey. Just me. No one else here.” His voice was even, low, the same tone he’d used during Eddie's episode. “It’ll be quick. We’ll get you situated and I’ll leave you alone for now if it's really what you want.”

Eddie let out a weak laugh, humorless and shaky. “Somehow, I think you leaving is worse than staying.”

But still, when Steve slid his hand to Eddie’s elbow, urging him up, Eddie went. He let Steve steady him, his knees wobbling, his ankle flaring with a dull ache as he stood. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the fogged-up mirror across the room, refusing to look down, refusing to acknowledge what was happening until he felt the soft tug at his hips.

Steve’s fingers brushed the waistband of his briefs, pausing just a beat—asking permission without a word again. Eddie nodded, tiny, jerky, his stomach dropping clear to his shoes.

Then they were gone, tugged down in one swift, respectful motion, and Eddie was left bare, the air cool against his battered skin.

“Alright,” Steve said, and his voice was so calm, so maddeningly steady, that Eddie hated how much it grounded him. “Let’s get you in.”

Steve’s arm slipped firm around Eddie’s waist, his other hand bracing Eddie’s elbow, and together they shuffled the short distance to the tub. Steve tested the edge of the water with his hand first, making sure it wasn’t too hot, then guided Eddie in slowly.

Eddie hissed as the warmth hit his bruises, a sharp sting that soon eased into something almost bearable. Steve didn’t let go until Eddie was sitting, until his back hit the porcelain and his hands gripped the edge for balance.

“I can do this part,” Eddie muttered, eyes fixed on the water, not daring to look at Steve. His voice was thin, but steady enough.

For a second, Steve looked like he might argue. His jaw shifted, his weight leaned forward—but then he stopped himself. He nodded once, firmly.

“Okay,” Steve said. His voice was gentle, but not patronizing. Just… steady. “Ten minutes. I’ll be back.”

He gave Eddie one last look, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, and then straightened, turning off the faucet then walking out of the bathroom with quiet steps.

The door clicked softly shut behind him, and Eddie finally exhaled, sinking deeper into the water, heat loosening the knot in his chest.

The water lapped around Eddie’s ribs, warm and soft, easing the worst of the ache that seemed stitched through his bones. He let his head fall back against the rim of the tub, watching the ceiling blur into fog. For a minute, he thought maybe he could let himself disappear into the heat and pretend none of this had happened.

Then his arm gave a faint throb, reminding him of its tear. Right. Probably should’ve bandaged that before submerging himself. He snorted under his breath, stupid and amused all at once. Too late now. He propped the arm awkwardly on the side of the tub, fingers dripping steadily onto the tile floor. Whatever. It wasn’t worth dragging Steve back in here just to rehash the argument about hospitals or antiseptic or whatever else the guy would come up with. Eddie could deal. He’d dealt with worse.

The rest, though—that was harder to ignore. His ankle twinged when he shifted, a sharp pinch that made him grit his teeth. Still, he forced himself to move, forced his good arm to work through the motions of washing off the grime and sweat clinging to him. He wasn’t graceful, not by a long shot. Half the time the washcloth slipped from his wobbly fingers, and he cursed under his breath as he fished it back out of the water. But he was careful, deliberate. He barely touched his ankle, skimming around it like it might shatter in his hand. His ribs he left mostly alone, not wanting to test the bruise blooming across his side.

By the time he got through the bare minimum, he was drained and the water had changed colors. Every movement pulled something else, demanded more energy than he had to spare. So he gave up. Let the washcloth sink to the bottom of the tub, let his body slide down until the water covered his shoulders. His arm still rested awkwardly out on the rim, but the rest of him just sagged into the warmth.

And for the first time that night, he let go. The steam loosened the tight knot of tension in his chest, dulled the buzzing edges of pain. His eyelids grew heavy. His breath evened out. Somewhere in the haze of exhaustion and warmth, he drifted. Not fully asleep—too restless for that—but caught in the kind of half-doze where the world felt a little less sharp, a little easier to bear.

It was Steve’s voice that pulled him back. Gentle, quiet, like it didn’t want to wake him but needed to all the same.

“Eddie.”

The sound stirred through him, a soft ripple in the haze. Eddie’s brow twitched, and he let out a faint hum, reluctant.

“Eds,” Steve tried again, closer this time. A hand brushed his hair back from his damp forehead, tentative at first, then settling into a slow, steady pet. Fingertips dragging lightly through tangled strands, careful not to tug. “Hey, c’mon. Don’t sleep in the bath, angel. That’s a bad idea.”

Eddie blinked himself back into the room, water dripping into his eyes, his lashes sticking together. He groaned, a small, pathetic sound, and tilted his head into the touch before he could stop himself. The petting was—god, it was unfair. It was domestic and soft and made him feel like he didn’t have to hold up the world for once.

Steve didn’t say anything else right away. Just kept at it, gentle and rhythmic, his palm warm against Eddie’s temple. Waiting until Eddie’s gaze finally flicked toward him, bleary and needing all at once.

“Better?” Steve asked softly, like he already knew the answer. Eddie nodded. 

Steve let out a slow breath, watching Eddie’s eyes flutter closed again like he might drift back into that dangerous half-sleep. He gave his hair one last stroke before pulling back, his voice steady but gentle.

“Time to get out before you turn into soup.”

Eddie grunted, murmured something unintelligible, but the look Steve gave him left no room for debate. With practiced efficiency, Steve reached for the drain stopper and twisted it free. The dirty water gurgled as it began to spiral down, sloshing around Eddie’s sides, tugging warmth away from his body. Eddie shivered faintly, hunching his shoulders as goosebumps rose across his skin.

“Yeah, I know. Cold,” Steve said, already grabbing the towel draped over the counter. He held out his arms, waiting until Eddie finally let him help him stand. The rocker wobbled, his ankle sending a sharp warning jolt through his body, and Steve tightened his grip immediately, steadying him. “Easy. I got you.”

Once Eddie was upright, Steve moved fast, wrapping the towel snugly around him before the last of the warmth could vanish. He dabbed gently at his arms and chest, then crouched slightly, pressing the towel to Eddie’s legs and feet with a care that felt absurd, like Eddie was made of jello.

“You’re treating me like a damn antique vase,” Eddie muttered, though the bite in his tone was weak, more for show than anything.

Steve’s mouth ticked up at the corner, but his eyes stayed serious. “Then quit cracking all over the place.”

That shut Eddie up, though he rolled his eyes as Steve worked. By the time the towel was discarded onto the sink, Eddie was mostly dry and still clinging to his last shreds of dignity.

Steve reached for the folded clothes he’d set out earlier—a soft tank top and an old pair of sweatpants that looked lived-in enough to be his. He slipped the tank carefully over Eddie’s head, steadying him as Eddie’s good arm wormed through the hole. Steve helped with the other side, careful not to tug where the wet bandages flopped over his arm, then crouched again to guide Eddie into the boxers and sweatpants.

It was uncoordinated, every second of it. Eddie tried to grumble through it, keep some semblance of humor, but the bruise tugging at his ribs and the throb in his ankle made every movement stiff, awkward. By the time Steve had the waistband pulled snug, Eddie was flushed, equal parts from embarrassment and from being seen.

“There,” Steve said softly, stepping back, as if to give him a little room to breathe. “All done.”

Eddie didn’t answer, just sat heavily on the toilet lid again, hair damp and curling at his shoulders, eyes flicking down to the floor.

“I’ll grab fresh bandages for your arm,” Steve said, tone careful. “Don’t move.”

The second Steve’s footsteps disappeared down the hall, Eddie clenched his jaw. His good hand twitched against his thigh, restless. Sitting here, just waiting for Steve to come back and fix him up like some helpless ragdoll—it ate at him. He hated it. He hated himself for needing it.

So he forced himself up, ignoring the protest in his ankle, and shuffled toward the sink. His toothbrush sat in its cup, toothpaste right there, easy. Something small. Something he could manage.

“Not useless,” he told himself under his breath, gripping the counter with his sloppy bandaged arm as he twisted the cap off the toothpaste one-handed. His coordination was clumsy, messy, but he managed to smear some onto the bristles. He raised the brush and began to work at his teeth, jaw tight with concentration.

The taste of mint spread sharp across his tongue, bitter and clean. It wasn’t much. Just brushing his teeth. But it was his. His choice, his effort. 

By the time he spat into the sink, rinsing clumsily with a cupped palm, his chest loosened the tiniest bit. He caught a glimpse of himself in the fogged mirror—hair damp, eyes bloodshot, bruise shadowing his ribs beneath the fabric of the tank—and snorted. A wreck. But at least a wreck with clean teeth.

He barely had time to put the toothbrush back in the cup before Steve’s footsteps padded back into the room. Eddie straightened instinctively, like a kid caught out of bed after lights out.

Steve lingered in the doorway for a second, just watching him. Eddie standing there at the sink with the toothbrush still in his hand, shoulders tight, face half-turned.

Steve didn’t say anything. Didn’t call him out, didn’t scold, didn’t hover. He just let out a long, quiet exhale through his nose—one of those sounds that carried equal parts exasperation. Then he moved forward, wordless, setting the small roll of bandages on the counter as he reached for the soggy wrappings around Eddie’s arm.

“Sit,” he said softly, not unkindly, nodding to the closed toilet lid again. Eddie obeyed, a little grudgingly, sinking down with a faint grimace when his ankle barked at him again.

Steve’s hands worked carefully, peeling away the wet fabric with painstaking patience. Eddie hissed when the gauze tugged against his skin, but Steve didn’t rush. 

Eddie’s eyes tracked the floor tiles, jaw tight, throat working. The silence pressed in around them, heavy and thick. Finally, he muttered, voice quiet:

“I just… I hate this.”

Steve hummed, noncommittal, unrolling a fresh strip.

“I hate sitting around while other people take care of me.” Eddie’s voice wavered, caught between frustration and shame. His hand clenched on his knee, fingers tapping restless against the fabric. “Makes me feel like a kid. Like I should have a fuckin’... nanny cam on me all the time or something. I don't mean to be like this—so high maintenance—but I don't know how to stop it.”

Steve’s hands paused for only a fraction of a second before he started wrapping again, smooth and even. He didn’t look up, but his voice came low, quiet.

“I get it.”

And he did. Eddie could hear it. No judgment, no argument, just a simple acknowledgment that made something flutter in Eddie’s chest.

The bathroom fell quiet again, the sound of gauze brushing skin filling the space between them. Eddie wanted to leave it there, let the silence swallow them whole, but the question gnawed at him. He knew it wasn’t his place. He knew it would hurt to ask. But it clawed up his throat anyway, sharp and insistent.

He wet his lips, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Did Billy ever… did he ever hurt her like this?”

Steve’s hands stilled completely this time. Not for long, but long enough. His knuckles flexed around the roll of gauze, his jaw tightening before he forced it loose again.

“Eddie…” His voice cracked just slightly, so he cleared his throat. “Why’re you asking me that?”

Eddie dragged in a shaky breath, still staring at the floor. “Because… because I was just thinking—if this is what it feels like, if this is what it looks like, if Billy could so easily get angry like that—did she ever…?” He trailed off, words breaking apart as his chest tightened. “I just… I need to know.”

Steve let the silence hang for a beat before finishing the last wrap, tucking the bandage neatly. He set the roll aside and finally looked up, his eyes softer than Eddie expected. Tired, but soft.

“She’s tougher than anyone gives her credit for,” Steve said slowly, carefully. “And yeah, Billy—Billy was a lot of things. Angry. Mean. Dangerous. But Max… she got out. She doesn’t let him touch her anymore.” He swallowed, his throat working. “Not the way he hurt me. Or you. He never hurt her like this.”

“But he did? Hurt her.”

Steve just looked at him. Looked at him in a way that had the answer Eddie wanted.

Eddie’s breath hitched, guilt swirling like a weight in his gut. He wanted to apologize, to take the question back, to erase the way Steve’s eyes looked now—guarded but honest, like opening a door to a room he usually kept locked.

Steve shook his head slightly, reading something in Eddie’s expression. “Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself for asking. You care about her. That’s all that question means.”

Eddie finally met his eyes, searching. “But—”

“No buts,” Steve cut in, gentler than the words sounded. “Max is okay. She’s stronger than both of us put together, and she’s got people looking out for her. You don’t need to carry that weight, too.”

Eddie blinked hard, throat thick, pressing his palm against his knee anxiously. “I just don't want her to freak the fuck out if she finds out Billy is here. I mean, you said he moved back to California, so why would he be back? It couldn't just be for you. I don't—I don't get it.”

Steve’s mouth twisted, something complicated flickering across his face. He shook his head once, slowly, as if weighing every word.

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally, voice low but steady. “And that’s why I’m not gonna tell her. Max is already carrying enough, and the last thing she needs is Billy hanging over her again. Besides, he's in jail now. He can't get to any of us.”

Eddie opened his mouth like he wanted to push further, but no sound came. The words stuck in his throat, heavy and jagged, and all he could manage was a short, jerky nod.

Steve’s hand squeezed Eddie's cheek before he pulled back, grabbing the discarded bandage wrappers from the counter. He tossed them into the trash and gestured toward the door with a tilt of his chin.

“Let’s get you outta here before you fall asleep on the toilet.”

Eddie huffed out something like a laugh, though it cracked in the middle, real. Still, he let Steve help him up, Steve’s arm braced firm around his waist again, guiding him down the short hall until they reached Eddie’s room.

The dim light from the bedside lamp painted everything soft—his scattered guitar picks on the dresser, a couple of drawn doodles on loose paper, and the massive teddy bear slouched against the edge of the bed. The sight of it made Eddie’s throat tighten for reasons he couldn’t untangle.

Steve steered him gently to sit on the mattress. “Stay put,” he said, the words more command than request but still threaded with care. He picked up the orange pill bottle from the nightstand and set it next to the lamp. “I’ll grab you a snack, something easy, and water so you can take these. Feed Lestat for you, too.”

Eddie just nodded again, the movement mechanical. He couldn’t find anything to say—at least anything worth saying. Not with the image of Steve’s calm face lingering, steady in a way Eddie couldn’t fathom.

Because that’s what got him, more than anything. The calm.

Steve’s abusive ex was back in town. That was a headline, a screaming red flag if Eddie had ever heard one. And yet Steve was walking through it like it was a thunderstorm he’d learned to carry an umbrella for. Like it wasn’t tearing Eddie apart inside to even think about it.

Maybe this was just normal.

For Steve. For the kids who are still stationed in Hawkins.

But it shouldn't be normal.

Eddie’s gaze drifted again, landing on the giant teddy bear propped at the edge of the bed. The same one that had been there since Chrissy hadn't let Eddie get rid of it, note folded carefully, taped onto it's chest. He still hadn’t read it. 

His hand twitched, fingers curling against his thigh before he finally reached forward and pulled the bear into his lap. It was heavier than he remembered, the softness of it pressing into his chest like a weight he didn’t know he’d needed. His fingers traced over the folded slip of paper sticking out, brushing the edge but not tugging it free.

Eddie hugged the bear closer, breathing in deep through his nose, trying to relax himself in the silence of the room.

If Eddie really let himself think about it— really thought about it—he could swear the bear smelled faintly like candy apples and cider. Like the damn festival where Steve had stood too close beside him, brushing shoulders, kissing in a way that seemed bizarre for friends. 

Eddie pressed his face against the bear’s head for a second, breathing deep, and it was ridiculous but the scent was there. Warm, spiced, sugary. Like Steve had picked the damn thing up and dragged the festival air back with him.

His heart hurt with it.

Because it meant Steve had thought about this—not just the bear itself, but what it carried. Like he’d wanted Eddie to have a piece of something softer than all the jagged edges they usually lived in.

Eddie was still caught in that swirl when he heard footsteps in the hall. He looked up just in time to catch Steve in the doorway. For a second, Steve didn’t move. His stride slowed, just enough to notice, and his eyes went straight to Eddie—no, to the bear cradled tight in Eddie’s arms.

Steve cleared his throat quietly and crossed the room, setting a bottle of water and a small bag of Cheez-Its on the nightstand. The clink of the plastic against wood was louder than it should’ve been in the hush of the room. When he straightened, he didn’t say anything right away. He just… looked. 

Eddie swallowed, fingers tightening reflexively on the soft fur. The silence stretched until it burned, and finally he blurted out, rough and awkward, “I didn’t read it.”

Steve blinked. For half a second, Eddie thought he’d ruined something, like maybe there had been an expectation he’d ignored. But Steve just shook his head, calm as ever, and said, “Y-You don’t have to.” His voice was soft. Certain. No push.

Eddie didn’t answer. He just looked at Steve—looked at him the way you look at something you’re not sure you deserve but can’t help wanting anyway. A little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, fleeting and tired but real. He dropped his gaze before it could linger too long, fingers brushing over the bear’s stitched paw.

His hand slipped under the soft fur at its chest and found the thin edge of paper tucked there. The folded square was warm from being pressed to him, edges slightly bent, the faintest smudge from where it must’ve rubbed against the bear’s bow. Eddie held it for a second longer than he should have, heart thudding, then finally pulled it free.

The room felt different suddenly, smaller somehow, like the walls leaned in to watch. Steve stayed still, rooted in place a few feet away, as if even the smallest shift might spook Eddie into putting it back.

Eddie ran his thumb over the crease, staring down at it. His throat felt dry, but he swallowed anyway, unfolding the paper slowly. The corners resisted like they knew what was inside was heavy. And then there it was, the scrawl of Steve’s handwriting, smudged in places where the ink had bled into little moons of water damage.

He read the first line. His chest clenched. He read the second, and his breath hitched so faintly he thought maybe Steve didn’t catch it. The words blurred for a second, not because of the messy script, but because his eyes wouldn’t stop stinging.

Every sentence pulled him deeper—the part about forgetting the bear, about saying goodbye. About returning something that belonged to him. About goodbyes and maybes and the things Steve couldn’t seem to say out loud. And then—

I love you.

It sat there on the page, simple as breathing, but Eddie felt it like a punch. His hand shook just slightly, the paper rustling in the quiet.

Despite Steve scribbling out a sentence, Eddie still could make out what it said clear as day. He let out a little laugh.

He couldn’t bring himself to look up right away. His eyes stayed glued to the note, to the little dark circle where tears had fallen and dried into the fibers. He traced it absentmindedly with the pad of his thumb, as if doing so might connect him to whatever moment Steve had written it in.

Finally, Eddie let out a shaky breath and folded the paper back up carefully, slower than he’d unfolded it, like he was afraid it might tear. He tucked it against his chest, just for a moment, before setting it gently back against the bear. His eyes stayed low, lashes damp.

But he was smiling again. Small, soft, and maybe a little broken around the edges.

When he finally did look up, Steve was watching him with that steady, unreadable calm that drove Eddie crazy sometimes. Eddie held his gaze for a long moment, the words sitting on the tip of his tongue but refusing to come out just yet.

So instead of speaking, Eddie just kept that tiny smile and let the silence say everything for him.

Steve’s weight shifted where he stood, like he wasn’t sure if he should stay planted or move closer. His arms hung loose at his sides, fingers flexing once before curling back into his palms. His voice, when it finally came, was quiet—so quiet Eddie almost thought he imagined it.

“I didn’t know if you’d ever let yourself read it,” Steve admitted, a sharp edge under the calm. His gaze flicked toward the bear, then back to Eddie, steady but hesitant, like he was laying something fragile between them. “But I had to write it down. Had to… get it out. Even if you never read it or burned it or some shit. Because if I didn’t—if I just kept walking around like you didn’t deserve to know—I don’t think I could’ve lived with that. Not anymore.”

Eddie’s breath hitched. He folded the note tighter between his fingers, edges biting into his skin, grounding him. He opened his mouth once, closed it again.

And then, halting, like each word was pried loose from a locked door, he said, “I feel the same way.”

Steve’s brows lifted, almost imperceptible, like he hadn’t dared let himself expect that answer.

Eddie looked down, thumb worrying the corner of the folded paper. “I do. I—fuck, Steve, I think I’ve felt it for a while. Just—” He shook his head, curls falling forward to shield his face. “I’m scared , man. I’m scared to mess it up. To screw you up. You’re… you’re steady, and you’re—” He gestured vaguely, like he couldn’t pick the right word, before settling on, “you’re Steve . You handle all your problems like it's nothing. I break shit without even meaning to.”

For a long second, it was only the sound of Eddie’s shallow breathing and the faint noise of the city outside. And then, carefully, Steve stepped closer. The bed dipped a little as he sat down on the edge, leaving just enough space so Eddie didn’t feel cornered.

“You think I’m steady?” Steve asked, the barest huff of a laugh beneath his words. “Eddie, I’ve been anything but steady. My whole life’s been tripping over shit, trying to look like I’ve got it figured out while I’m scrambling just to keep the floor under me.” He shook his head, his voice dropping to something softer, gentler. “It’s different with you. I see you , Eddie. You don’t break things. You… you make space. You make things lighter, even when you don’t mean to. And if you think you could screw me up worse than I’ve already managed myself—” He smiled, small but certain. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Eddie finally dared to glance up at him, wide-eyed and shy. “You really mean that?”

“Yeah,” Steve said simply. “Every word.”

Eddie stared at him, every nerve in his body buzzing like he was balanced on a live wire. His throat worked around words he couldn’t quite spit out. The bear’s fur was rough under his grip, grounding him and rattling him all at once. He wanted—god, he wanted—but the wanting made his stomach twist, made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth.

Steve didn’t look away. He sat there, calm in a way that wasn’t indifferent but patient, like he had all the time in the world to wait for Eddie to untangle himself. That only made Eddie more restless.

His knee bounced under the blanket. He wet his lips. “I…” He stopped, cursed under his breath, rubbed at his jaw with his hand. His heart was racing so hard he was sure Steve could hear it, could see it thudding in his throat.

Finally, barely above a whisper, he said, “Can you—can you say it?”

Steve blinked, head tilting a little, confusion furrowing his brow. “Say what?”

Eddie’s chest tightened. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Just fixed Steve with a look, raw and aching, his eyes searching, praying for Steve to catch up. For him to understand without Eddie having to force the word out himself.

It took a beat. Two. And then Steve’s eyes opened wider, realization dawning. His expression softened, and the air between them shifted, warmer somehow.

“I love you,” Steve said quietly, like it was the most natural thing in the world, not a confession that had split Eddie open like a damn coconut just minutes before.

Eddie’s breath shuddered out, shoulders sagging, but Steve wasn’t done. His voice steadied, firmer this time. “I love you, Eddie.”

Eddie’s vision blurred for half a second, the words soaking into him like a sponge. His stomach fluttered in a good way.

Steve leaned in slowly, careful of Eddie’s arm, his movements deliberate so Eddie could stop him if he wanted. When he didn’t—when Eddie tilted ever so slightly toward him—Steve pressed a gentle kiss to Eddie’s cheek, just above the scruff of his jaw, where his skin was warm. It lingered, soft and reverent, not asking for anything but giving everything.

Eddie melted. Literally . Every tight coil of anxiety in his body loosened, like someone had let the air out of him in the gentlest way. His shoulders slumped, his grip on the bear easing until it rested loosely in his lap. He let out a tiny, involuntary sound—half laugh, half sob.

He let the sound fade out into the quiet, then angled his head just enough to glance at him, a shy little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I gotta admit,” he said, voice low and a little rough, “I definitely missed that. The way you kiss, I guess—that wording sounds a little weird.” His smirk softened, eyes flicking to the spot where Steve’s hand rested on the bed. “But I like it.”

Steve’s answering smile was slow but sure, something that warmed all the way through. “Yeah?” he murmured, the word almost teasing but not quite. “Me too. I meant it, when I said I couldn't imagine doing that with anyone else.”

Eddie couldn't either. Cute Instagram model Steve Harrington pranced his way into Eddie's life and now they've both been ruined for anyone else. How’s that for love at first sight?

And yet, Eddie had been stupid enough to be so close to giving it all up.

For a moment, they just stayed there in that quiet bubble. Then Steve over slightly, reaching over to the nightstand. He grabbed the small bag of Cheez-Its, the bottle of water, and the little orange pill bottle.

He set them in Eddie’s lap one by one, his expression halfway between stern and fond. “Tell you what,” he said, like he was offering the world’s most serious bargain. “You eat these, take those, drink the whole thing— slowly —” he tapped the water lightly with one finger—“and… I’ll kiss you again.”

Eddie blinked down at the offerings, then back up at him. “That’s… borderline bribery, Harrington.”

“Mm,” Steve said, tilting his head. “Eat it.”

Eddie snorted, shaking his head, but there was no bite to it. The thought of earning another one of those soft kisses he had been thinking about for the past two weeks had his resolve crumbling faster than he’d admit out loud.

So, with an exaggerated sigh, he twisted open the bottle of water and popped two pills into his mouth, chasing it down with a long gulp. Steve watched him the whole time, eyes tracking the movement, and Eddie could tell he was cataloging every sign that he was okay.

The Cheez-Its were next—crunchy, salty, not exactly gourmet, but Eddie tore into them anyway, tossing Steve a dramatic little eyebrow lift as he crammed one in his mouth.

By the time he finished, crumpling the empty bag and tossing it toward the nightstand, he sat back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and declared, “There. Happy?”

Steve’s grin turned slow and deliberate, the kind that made Eddie’s stomach do an annoying little flip. “Very,” he said.

Steve leaned in, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight, and pressed another kiss to Eddie’s cheek—just as soft as the first, maybe even slower, like he wanted to make sure it stuck. Then he shifted up, brushing his lips against Eddie’s forehead, right where his bangs rested in a messy, tangled fringe. The touch lingered there for a beat longer than necessary, warm and bringing back a load of memories.

“You should get some rest,” Steve murmured as he pulled back, his voice all quiet edges and careful tone.

Eddie didn’t argue—not because he wasn’t tempted to, but because the weight in his body was starting to drag him down, heavy in a way that felt safe for the first time in days. He took the bear from his lap and placed it gently back in its spot on the edge of the bed, giving it one last little pat before letting it go.

“Alright,” he muttered, and then they both shifted, trying to figure out the puzzle of his injuries and the bed. Every time Eddie tried to roll onto a side that pulled at his arm or pressed too hard into his ribs, Steve was right there, tucking a pillow here, adjusting the blanket there, until they finally found something that didn’t make Eddie want to swear under his breath.

Once Eddie was settled—good arm tucked loosely over his middle, covers pulled up to his chest—Steve sat back next to Eddie, beginning to brush his fingertips over Eddie's hair.

“I’ll just sit here until you fall asleep,” Steve said casually, though the warmth behind it gave him away. “Then I’ll head home. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

Eddie let his eyes fall shut, sinking into the rhythm of Steve’s fingers combing lazily through his hair. It should have been enough—the quiet, the warmth, the feeling of someone watching over him. But after a minute, that heaviness in his chest wasn’t sleepiness. The realization crept in slow.

He didn’t want Steve to leave. Not yet.

He shifted, just enough to tilt his head toward the warm presence beside him. His lashes parted, gaze sliding up to find Steve watching him with that steady, unreadable softness.

“What’s wrong, angel?” Steve asked, voice low.

Eddie opened his mouth, but the words snagged somewhere in his throat. Asking outright felt too much, so instead, he reached out his good hand and caught the edge of Steve’s jeans between his fingers, giving it the smallest tug.

Steve glanced down at the touch, then back up at Eddie, brows lifting just a little. “You… want me to lay down with you?”

Eddie swallowed, but didn’t look away. “Would you?” His voice was quieter than he meant it to be, almost unsure, like he was afraid of the answer.

Steve hesitated, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “I don’t wanna hurt you.” he said after a moment. And yeah, it probably— definitely was a bad idea. But Eddie had been deprived of this cute glasses wearing sensation for long enough.

“You won’t,” Eddie said, more certain this time. He gave Steve’s jeans another tug, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Promise I won’t break.”

Steve stayed still for another moment, like he was studying every angle, and then finally, finally , he sighed. “Okay.”

He kicked off his sneakers, the soft thuds landing somewhere on the floor, and unzipped his jacket, tossing it to the chair. His fingers made quick work of his jeans, folding them over the back of the same chair before crossing to the other side of the bed.

Eddie’s eyes followed him the whole way, and something about Steve standing there in just a navy blue shirt and boxers made his stomach do that weird, fluttery thing again.

Steve lifted the edge of the covers with careful fingers, sliding under them like the mattress might bite back if he wasn’t gentle enough. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, the weight of him barely dipping the bed as he settled in beside Eddie. He turned on his side, propping himself slightly so he could keep an eye on him without crowding.

And just like that, Eddie could breathe easier.

Steve shifted under the covers until he was close enough for Eddie to feel the warmth radiating off him, but not so close that he risked jostling anything. His gaze stayed on Eddie’s face for a moment, searching, debating if now was the time to push more or let things rest.

“We should talk tomorrow,” Steve said finally, his voice quiet but firm.

Eddie’s first instinct was to wrinkle his nose, to throw out some sarcastic deflection about how “talking” sounded suspiciously like “feelings” and “feelings” sounded suspiciously like “homework.” But instead, the thought of shutting Steve down left a sour taste in his mouth. He wanted to do better than that. For him. For them.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, reluctantly but without the usual fight in his tone. “Tomorrow.”

Steve nodded like that was enough for now. “I’ll have to bring Molly over,” he added, a little smile ghosting across his lips. “Just so someone’s watching her. But I’ll make sure she’s calm—promise she won’t bounce all over you.”

Eddie smiled faintly at the mental image, but didn’t say anything. The quiet stretched between them, not uncomfortable, just full—like the room itself was holding its breath.

And then, so softly it was almost like the words slipped out without permission, Eddie said, “I thought I lost you.”

Steve’s eyes softened, and he didn’t hesitate—not even for a second. “I’m never letting you walk away again.” There was a finality to it, a line in the sand, like he was making a promise to himself as much as to Eddie.

Please don't.

The lump in Eddie’s throat was too big to swallow around, so he just nodded, shifting slightly on the pillow.

“Goodnight,” Steve murmured, and then, warmer, quieter, “Sweetheart.”

Eddie let out a small huff of a laugh, shaking his head just enough to move the bangs from his forehead. “Sounds better when you say it,” he murmured.

Steve didn’t answer, but Eddie could feel it—the way the air between them shifted. He knew Steve understood exactly what he meant, without him having to explain.

There was another beat of silence, and then, almost like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it yet, Eddie whispered, “I love you.”

He’d said it. And he didn't regret it.

“Love you too, Teddie.”