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Someone who leaves on a light for me

steddie | 10k | mature | cw: suicidal thoughts, blood, toeture aftermath, puking | season 3 alternate meeting

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Summary: Eddie doesn’t expect to find Steve Harrington half-dead on a dark road in the middle of the night — or to be the one he clings to after.

Eddie doesn’t need the devil chasing him to speed down the empty country roads outside the city limits—his own thoughts are doing a good enough job of that.

With Judas Priest’s Defenders of the Faith blaring through the speakers, he pushes the gas pedal down as far as his trusty old van will allow—further than is probably safe. Part of him doesn’t care. A big part, actually. And that should scare him.

But all he feels is empty.

Failing senior year once had been annoying, sure. But it had almost felt like part of his whole thing—giving the system the middle finger.

Failing senior year a second time, though? That stung. More than that.

It makes him feel ashamed. Like a failure. Like the son of his father. A fuck-up. A loser. A lowlife with no chance of ever making it outta here.

It would be so easy to swerve right, just a bit. At this speed, that’s all it would take — a slight twist of the wheel and the van would wrap around one of the trees lining the road. Another thought that doesn’t scare him the way he knows it should. He only wonders if he’d have time to feel any pain, or if it would all be over too fast.

It’s the thought of Wayne that keeps his hands steady and his foot easing off the gas. Wayne has lost enough. His face is lined with the weight of every sorrow he’s carried. He doesn’t deserve Eddie adding more pain to the pile.

A small voice in Eddie’s head suggests maybe it’d be doing Wayne a favor — removing himself from the list of Wayne’s responsibilities.

But despite what Higgins and the rest of the school might think, Eddie isn’t stupid. He knows Wayne loves him. He knows it would gut him to hear Callahan say Eddie died driving too fast.

So he ignores the voice. Ignores the intrusive flashes of twisted metal and splintered bark. Slows to a more reasonable pace. Cranks the music louder — lets the screaming guitars drown it all out.

It’s a good thing he did.

Not a minute later, he sees a figure walking in the middle of the road — swaying left and right like they’re drunk.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” he blurts, swerving and slamming on the brakes at the same time. Exactly what everyone says not to do when a deer runs out — you’re supposed to keep going, keep straight.

But this isn’t a deer.

It’s a person.

And anyway, Eddie wouldn’t willingly hit a deer, let alone a human being — even if it means dying just after he decided not to.

(How is this his life?)

The endless, panicked ramble in his mind cuts off when the person — the boy, Eddie realizes — lifts his head.

Distant, glazed-over eyes.

(Eye, Eddie thinks hysterically. Only one is glittering in the headlights.)

Then the van stops.

Mere inches from disaster.

There’s a beat of silence. And then—

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” Eddie screams, slamming his hands against the steering wheel over and over. His whole body feels like it’s vibrating out of his skin, adrenaline flooding him, teeth clattering, hands shaking.

If he’d been driving just a little faster—

If he’d seen the boy a second later—

But there’s no point thinking about that now. Not when there’s a boy outside, his face disfigured, maybe hurt. Maybe in desperate need of help.

Eddie’s brain drops straight into panic mode — always has. Anxiety scuttles just under his skin like ants, worst-case scenarios blooming behind his eyes faster than he can shut them down. And yet, despite the panic, he hesitates. Fights with himself. Afraid of doing something wrong. Of making it worse.

“Get a grip, goddammit,” he mutters. “It’s probably just some drunk jock. The light’s playing tricks on you. He’s fine. Just get out, check on him, drive him into town, and get the fuck out of here. Easy as pie.”

Great. Now he’s talking to himself.

Shaking his head and muttering more curses under his breath, he shoves open the door and climbs out. The plan is simple: tell the guy to get in the van before he gets himself killed. That’s it.

But when Eddie rounds the front of the van, the words catch in his throat.

What he sees could be ripped straight from one of the horror movies he loves.

Or a nightmare.

It is a boy. Or maybe more like a young man, around Eddie’s age. It’s hard to tell, honestly.

He’s dressed in what looks like a uniform — dark shorts, mostly likely a dark blue, with white seams, a short-sleeved shirt in the same style. Strange and kind of silly looking, but not unheard of. That’s not what stops Eddie cold.

It’s the dark stains blotting the fabric. The bruises and bloodied scrapes on the boy’s arms and legs.

It’s the face — battered and swollen, one eye completely shut, lip split, hair matted with sweat and dirt.

It’s that the face is familiar*.*

Even wrecked like this, Eddie knows that face.

“Harrington?” he breathes. “What the ever-loving fuck happened to you?”

It’s meant to sound incredulous.

But it comes out more like a whimper.

The boy — Harrington. This is Steve Harrington, former King of Hawkins High — holy shit — doesn’t even look up at the sound of Eddie’s voice. He just stares straight ahead, unblinking, into the glare of the van’s headlights.

Eddie thinks again of a deer — frozen in the beams, no fight, no flight, no instinct to survive until it’s too late.

He shivers, despite the stifling heat of an Indiana summer night.

Taking another cautious step forward, Eddie moves to stand between Harrington and the van, blocking most of the light casting the boy’s injuries in harsh, unforgiving detail.

“Harrington?” he tries again.

Still no reaction.

Softening his voice, he tries, “Steve?”

Nothing.

Fuck. He looks drugged. That vacant stare, the total lack of reaction — it has all the signs of a bad trip.

Maybe someone slipped something into his drink at a party.

Not anything Eddie would’ve sold — he’s careful about that kind of thing — but he’s not the only dealer around Hawkins. And some people are a hell of a lot less picky about what they push.

Or maybe — another voice in his head suggests — someone assaulted him, and he’s in shock.

That would be typical for Eddie, wouldn’t it? Jumping to conclusions. It's a hazard of the trade, maybe — doing what he does to make a little extra on the side, to help Wayne with the bills. But still, looking at the damage done to Harrington’s usually picture-perfect face, that doesn’t look like the effect of any drug Eddie knows.

And then a worse thought creeps in: Maybe it’s both.

Whatever happened to him, it’s bad. Eddie can feel it in his gut.

It kicks up the same instincts that have always made him step between bullies and freshmen, the same ones that turned Hellfire into a safe haven for outcasts.

Wayne calls it a bleeding heart. Says Eddie cares too much, every time he brings home another stray cat or a wounded bird.

Eddie has the grace not to mention which Munson he got that trait from.

Not that Harrington’s an animal or anything, but he still wakes the same instincts in Eddie.

Hell, Eddie never even liked the guy. Golden boy jock with his pretty face, shiny car, rich parents, and girls tripping over themselves just to get his attention.

It’s not like they ever talked. Not really.

Sure, Eddie was aware of Steve Harrington — who wasn’t? Even after his fall from grace, people were still talking about him.

And Eddie?

Well, he’s only human. Not immune to gossip, okay?

But he never talked to him. Never had a reason to. Their worlds were about as far apart as Hobbiton and Mordor.

Still... something about seeing Harrington like this — standing in the middle of an empty road, beat to hell and spaced out like a lost kid — tugs at something in Eddie’s chest.

Before he can second-guess it, he steps forward and gently places a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

After the way Harrington ignored every attempt to get his attention, Eddie assumes the touch will be no different — unnoticed, ignored.

It’s not.

Instead, Steve flinches — violently — jerking away from Eddie’s hand. His foot catches awkwardly on his own leg, and before Eddie can react — still too startled by the intensity of the reaction — Steve goes down. Hard.

For a second that stretches out like an hour, Eddie just stares. Blinking down at him in stunned silence as Steve whimpers and raises an arm over his face like a shield — as if Eddie’s about to hit him.

Kick him.

Hurt him.

“What happened to you?” Eddie whispers again. It’s not really a question this time, not directed at Steve — just a stunned thought spoken aloud.

He’s frozen, standing there like an idiot, gawking at someone who barely even resembles the Steve “The Hair” Harrington he used to know. Now he’s crouched on the pavement like a kicked dog, flinching from a touch like it burned.

It’s the broken “please” that finally snaps Eddie out of it.

It sounds so small. So afraid.

Like it’s not the first time Steve’s said it today.

The word breaks whatever spell was holding him still, and Eddie drops to his knees beside the terrified boy, only for Steve to shrink back even further.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice gentle — the same one he used when trying to free that cat that got stuck in the chain-link fence behind the trailer park. It had been bleeding, already hurt, and he’d known that if he scared it any more, it would only thrash harder. Hurt itself worse.

He’d managed to get it out in the end. Didn’t even make things worse — though the scratches on his hands and arms took weeks to heal.

“It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise.”

Steve doesn’t react outwardly, but he also doesn’t pull away. He stays still, the only movement the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his breathing harsh and ragged. It rattles in a way that makes Eddie’s stomach twist — like he’s got a bad cold. Or a bruised lung.

He wishes he could get Harrington to a hospital right now, but just like that cat, he knows that if he touches him too soon, the other boy might panic. Might do something that ends with him getting hurt even worse.

So Eddie stays patient — which, granted, isn’t a trait that comes naturally.

“Harrington — Steve, do you know who I am?”

Slowly, Harrington lowers his arm, the shield he’s been using to block the world. And then, finally, he looks at Eddie. Not through him — at him.

It gives Eddie a better look at his face, and what he sees turns his stomach. The meagre meal he had a few hours ago threatens to come up, bile rising sharp and bitter in the back of his throat.

Only one bloodshot hazel eye meets his; the other is swollen completely shut, the skin stretched tight and shiny. His whole face is a mess of bruises — dark and mottled and barely recognizable. His lip’s split, red going down towards his chin in a gnarly wound that will most likely scar. Someone must’ve wiped most of the blood off, but they missed a few crusted flecks at his hairline. It’s hard to look away from them, even though they’re probably the least awful part to focus on. Maybe that’s why his brain fixates there — a kind of self-preservation.

With Steve’s attention finally on him, Eddie gives a little bow — or something resembling one, kneeling as he is — and says, in his best dramatic British accent,

“Your highness, how nice of you to join us.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. Instinct, maybe.

But it works.

The eye watching him blinks. Once. Twice. Then Steve lets out a snort that sounds painful but still manages to be amused.

“Munson?” he rasps, though it sounds mostly rhetorical.

Eddie nods. “At your service.”

The tension bleeds out of Harrington’s body, and Eddie finally lets himself breathe. He doesn’t think the guy’s going to bolt anymore. Doesn’t mean he’s ready to be hauled into town, but… baby steps.

“What— Where—Robin?”

Okay. Still not entirely with it.

Eddie has no clue who Robin is, and even less idea what the hell happened to Steve Harrington, but at least he can answer one of the questions.

“We’re just outside of Hawkins, and you’re lucky this town’s as dead as it gets. No one else uses this road at this hour — well, except lil’ ol’ me, apparently.” He gestures toward the van with a dramatic flair. “Which makes me your humble servant of the night, ready to escort you to Hawkins General. So come on, my liege. Your chariot awaits.”

More blinking. Eddie swears he can see the gears turning behind that one open eye.

And because he’s never met a silence he couldn’t fill, Eddie keeps going.

“Harrington, not sure if you’ve noticed, but you look like you went ten rounds with a German tank. I might not be the smartest guy in town, but I’m pretty sure you should be in a hospital right now.”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

Even with his face beaten halfway to hell, Harrington still manages his classic scowl — that trademark, bitchy glare Eddie remembers from school. The one Steve used to aim at anyone who dared bothering the King of Hawkins High. It’s only the sixth word out of his mouth — yes, Eddie can count, thank you very much — and Eddie already feels the urge to pull his hair out.

He curses himself for not just getting up, dusting off, and leaving the guy to stew in his stubbornness. Clearly, Harrington doesn’t want help. Or maybe he just doesn’t want Eddie’s help.

Either way, Eddie should drop it. Get back in the van, head into town, and call someone — someone Steve might actually listen to — to come pick his ass up.

But then—

“Told them I don’ wanna go to the hospital,” Steve says, slurring his words a little. But Eddie’s fluent in that language — his dad practically spoke it full-time.

“I hate hospitals,” Steve goes on. “’m fine. ’s not my first—” he waves a hand vaguely toward his head, as if that’s all the explanation Eddie needs.

And maybe it is. Eddie had seen Harrington after Byers rearranged his face. And after Billy, too. The guy’s probably had more concussions than an NFL linebacker.

Eddie draws in a breath, ready to argue — but then Harrington’s expression shifts. The petulant frown slips right off his face like a mask, leaving behind something raw. Something real.

“Please,” Steve whispers again, and suddenly he looks young. Like a scared kid playing dress-up in the King’s crown. “No hospital. I just wanna go home.”

There it is again — Eddie’s bleeding heart, thudding loud and insistent in his chest. Whatever the hell happened to Steve Harrington — not just tonight, but ever since Jonathan Byers knocked him off his throne and he tumbled down the high school food chain — it’s clear he’s not the same guy who used to trip freshmen in the cafeteria and laugh when they spilled their lunch.

That guy, Eddie might’ve been able to leave behind on the side of the road. Maybe. Probably. But this guy? The one sitting in front of him now — dazed, broken, small — Eddie couldn’t walk away from him if he tried.

Goddammit.

“Okay, okay,” he says, slipping into the same soothing tone he uses on frightened animals. Hands up, palms out, peace offering. “No hospital. Promise.”

A small nod. Good. That’s something. Now he just has to convince the dethroned king to get in the goddamn van so Eddie can take him home. Let his parents deal with this mess. Maybe they’ll be able to talk some sense into him — get him to a doctor or something.

“But you can’t stay out here,” Eddie goes on gently. “And as much as I know a big strong guy like you can look after himself, I’d feel a whole lot better if you’d let me drive you home. What do you say?”

Steve hums, but doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at him.

Instead, his gaze drifts upward — slow and distant — toward the sky. Eddie follows it but sees nothing unusual, just the ink-dark stretch of night dotted with stars, framed by the crooked silhouettes of tree branches.

Then Steve whispers, like it’s a secret only the stars are allowed to hear: “So pretty.”

Eddie sighs. “Yeah. They sure are.”

If Steve were someone else — a date, maybe, or even just a boy who lived somewhere remotely near Eddie’s realm of possibility — he might’ve said something dumb and sweet, like how the stars don’t hold a candle to him. But this is Steve Harrington. So all he says is, “So… how about that ride we were talking about?”

But Steve’s still somewhere else entirely. “You ever wonder what happens when we die?”

What the fuck?

His mind flashes, unbidden, to his mom — as it always does when death comes up. Even on the days he doesn’t think about her directly, the ache of her absence is still there, humming underneath everything. And yeah, he wonders. He wonders if she’s really gone, or if something of her lingers. If maybe her spirit’s still around somewhere, keeping an eye on him. He wonders if he’ll see her again. Hopes he will.

But none of that’s something he’s about to unload on Steve fucking Harrington, not here, not now — not when the guy already looks like he’s halfway to the other side himself.

So instead, he swallows down the lump in his throat and asks, calm as he can manage, “Where’s that coming from?”

Steve's voice is steady and devoid of inflection when he tells Eddie, "Billy's dead.”

The sentence lands between them like a predator, crouched and waiting — tense with the kind of stillness that promises violence the second it’s acknowledged. Eddie doesn’t touch it. His mind skitters away from the implications, the questions, the truth of it. But not for a second does he doubt Steve’s words.

He just wishes he knew why it rattles him so much.

It’s not like he liked the guy — and yeah, he feels kind of shitty for even thinking it, because his mom always said not to speak ill of the dead — but Billy Hargrove had been a raging asshole. Worse than that. Billy had been dangerous, in a way that went far beyond high school bullying.

Eddie’s not sad that he’s gone. He’s not a hypocrite — not even in his own head.

But he knew the guy.

And now he’s gone.

“Fuck,” Eddie mutters.

Steve sighs. A long, ragged exhale, like the weight of the world is pressing down on his chest. Like just thinking about it has aged him a few decades.

“Yeah. Fuck.”

They sit in it — in the quiet, in the not-knowing what to say — for a stretch of time Eddie doesn’t bother to measure. Steve keeps looking up at the stars, and Eddie keeps looking at Steve. The silence settles between them like a third presence. Not exactly welcome, but not unwelcome either. Just there.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts — and maybe in the soft tilt of Steve’s battered face, who’s to say — that he jumps slightly when Steve speaks again.

“I’m glad he’s gone.”

That one eye — bloodshot, ringed in bruises — locks onto Eddie’s. “Which is a horrible thing to say, I know. But I am. I’m glad. That he can’t hurt Max. That he can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

Eddie nods.

“But I didn’t want him to die.”

Another nod. Then Eddie reaches out, threads his fingers around Steve’s, gives his hand a single, steady squeeze. I know.

Steve squeezes back — startled, like he hadn’t expected the contact, but not pulling away. His eye widens, but the surprise is fleeting.

“Can we go home now?” he asks quietly.

Eddie doesn’t examine the way that question — we, not I — makes something twist tight in his chest.

“Sure thing,” he says, getting to his feet. His legs are half-dead from kneeling on the asphalt, a thousand tiny pinpricks buzzing beneath his skin, but he grits his teeth and powers through it. Then he leans down and gently helps Steve up too, catching him instinctively when he stumbles.

“Careful,” Eddie murmurs, low and soft.

He doesn’t let go until Steve’s safely settled in the passenger seat.

Softly closing the door, a breath rushes out of him, the relief almost overwhelming. He hadn’t even realized how tightly coiled his body had been until the tension finally starts to seep out. Nothing about their situation had been remotely scary or dangerous, but something about tonight — about Steve Harrington walking along the road looking like he lost yet another fight, this one with a prize boxer — didn’t sit right with him.

But now that he has Steve safely inside the van, he feels calmer. There’ll be time later to obsess over everything that happened tonight, but first, he needs to get the hurt boy home. Maybe even come up with a story to tell his parents — one that explains why some trailer trash like Eddie was driving their bruised-up son around and makes them not call the cops.

Clambering into the driver’s seat, he tells Steve to “buckle up, buttercup” before putting on his own seatbelt. It’s not very metal, sure, but every time he doesn’t, he hears Wayne’s voice in his head giving him hell. Basically brainwashed by his own flesh and blood. Can you believe it?

He’s just about to start the van when an annoyed huff rises from the passenger seat.

Turning his head, he finds Steve struggling — trying to twist his upper body to reach the seatbelt, fingers brushing uselessly against the buckle. Every movement earns a wince, a sharp inhale. The way he flinches confirms what Eddie already suspects: bruised ribs, maybe worse. Something bad enough to make even this short, simple movement feel like agony.

What the hell happened to you, Eddie wonders again, but keeps it to himself. Whatever explanation Steve has probably wouldn’t be the truth anyway.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, already unbuckling and leaning over.

The angle puts him in close — too close — and he’s immediately hit by the sour stench of dried sweat and vomit. It turns his stomach, but he keeps his expression neutral. If Steve notices, he doesn’t comment.

For Steve’s sake, Eddie hopes someone gets him into a shower soon. God knows he needs it.

Once Steve’s buckled in, Eddie fastens his own seatbelt again and starts the van without a word. He doesn’t have to ask where the Harringtons live—he’s been there once or twice before, back during King Steve’s heyday. Not as a guest, of course, but to sell a little something on the side.

There are so many questions on Eddie’s tongue he feels like they’re about to spill out of his mouth like an avalanche any minute now. So many that he doesn’t know where to start—which one is okay to ask, and which one might cause further distress to Harrington. One of the questions he’s asking himself is why he even cares so much about Harrington’s feelings. Stupid bleeding heart.

Before he can make up his mind, however, Steve answers at least one of his top three questions without being asked.

“There was a fire. At the mall. I worked there? At Scoops Ahoy.”

The way he says the last part sounds strange, like it’s really important somehow that Eddie believes him.

“Okay,” he says, then adds, “Is that why you look like that?”

Eddie’s never met a fire with fists, but he wants Steve to tell him what happened—not just assume.

There’s a beat of silence, like Steve’s weighing his options, and Eddie knows a lie’s coming before Steve even opens his mouth.

“Yeah. Building caved in. We made it out—Robin and I. Paramedics checked me over and said I couldn’t drive, so I decided to walk.”

Almost ten miles, Eddie estimates. Sure. Totally normal thing to do in the middle of the night, battered and bruised, after escaping a fire.

But he’s pretty sure that’s all he’s going to get, so he settles on, “Good thing I came along, then.”

“Yeah.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel beneath the tires. Steve leans against the window, eyes half-lidded, and Eddie keeps glancing over like he’s afraid the other boy might disappear if he looks away too long. By the time they pull into the Harrington driveway, the tight coil in Eddie’s chest has loosened—but it hasn’t let go.

The house is dark, which doesn’t surprise him. Rich people probably go to bed at reasonable hours. Dinner at six, the news and some primetime TV until ten at the latest, and then off to bed they go.

Steve looks at the house and then at Eddie, but his eyes are blank again, like he’s looking straight through him.

“Thanks for the ride, Munson.”

The words are fine, but his voice sounds off—mechanical, like he’s reading from a script.

“Anytime,” Eddie answers without thinking. “Should I—”

He gestures to the house and reaches for his seatbelt. As much as he’s not looking forward to facing the Harringtons, it feels wrong to just drop Steve off like a package on a doorstep.

Before he can unbuckle, though, a cold hand closes around his wrist. The grip is surprisingly strong.

“No!” The life snaps back into Steve’s voice and eyes. “I… appreciate it. I know I haven’t been—I was a dick at school, I know that. You didn’t have to… do all this. So, yeah. Thank you. But I got it from here. You can go home.”

The slurring’s mostly gone now, just a hint of it left, like he’s working overtime to sound normal. Another thing Eddie recognizes from his father—he’s not fooled for a second.

He shakes his head and gently twists out of Steve’s grip.

“Au contraire, my lord.” His voice is cheery, even though he feels anything but. But two people can play pretend. Before Steve can stop him again, Eddie hops out and circles the front of the van to open the passenger door.

“You—” he gives Steve a pointed look, from his swollen face to the rigid way he holds himself, “do not got it from here. I can go home when I know someone’s actually taking care of you. And if that someone’s not gonna be a hospital, then our options are getting slimmer by the second. I don’t need a diploma to figure that out. So here’s what’s gonna happen, big boy. I’ll help you to your front door, we’ll ring the bell, and then we both pray your parents don’t have me arrested.”

Steve’s face has gone paler and paler during Eddie’s little speech, and for a second he regrets the harsh tone—until Steve meets his eyes and whispers, small and shaky, “I don’t feel so good.”

Fuck. Eddie knows that face.

It’s the I’m gonna puke all over your shirt face.

He has no idea how he manages to get Steve out of the car so fast, or how he does it without seeming to make anything worse—at least, Steve doesn’t scream, which he’s choosing to take as a win.

Then he’s holding him: one arm wrapped around Steve’s waist, the other hand holding back the infamous hair to keep it puke-free.

It’s not pretty, but that’s hard to care about when the body in his arms starts to tremble, the skin under his palm clammy with sweat.

“Shhh, it’s okay, get it all out,” he murmurs, as another convulsion wracks through Steve’s body, more bile and spit hitting the pavement. At least there’s no blood.

The urge to just drag Steve back into the van and drive him to the hospital is strong, but he promised—and as much as most of Hawkins thinks the word of Al Munson’s son isn’t worth shit, that still means something to him.

He just hopes Harrington’s parents will have better luck than he did on that front.

When it seems like there’s nothing left in Steve’s stomach to give, he slumps in Eddie’s arms like a puppet with its strings cut. He’s heavy, but Eddie doesn’t let him fall—just adjusts his grip, presses in closer, and gives the other boy a moment to regroup.

The silence between them shifts again. It’s easier now, lighter. Without the sight of Steve’s bruised face front and center, it almost feels like they’re just two teenagers coming back from a party, and Eddie’s helping out a friend who drank too much. It’s a nice thought, in a weird way. Him and Harrington, friends.

He tightens his grip anyway, one hand carding gently through soft strands of hair in a soothing motion.

“Better?” he asks eventually, more because he feels like he should say something than anything else.

The hum he gets in return seems to be enough—Steve doesn’t move an inch. If they were anyone else, in any other situation, Eddie might be inclined to think they were cuddling. Which is a completely insane thought, so he shoves it far away the second it enters his mind.

Another shiver rolls through Steve’s body, reminding Eddie that they’re still standing on the sidewalk in Hawkins’ finest neighborhood, in the middle of the night.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, adjusting his stance. “Let’s get you inside, your highness, before you catch your death out here.”

Steve doesn’t argue, just lets Eddie sling his arm over his shoulder, half-walking, half-carrying him to the front door. It feels like the night is finally catching up to him—or maybe it’s the adrenaline finally burning off, leaving his body spent and fragile.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Eddie rings the bell of the Harrington mansion, wishing more than anything that he were anywhere else. He’s sure these people hate him on principle, and no matter how much he’s tried to help their son tonight, they’ll probably still blame him for the state their precious heir is in.

So he waits, breath held.

And waits.

After what feels like an eternity—though it’s probably just a couple of minutes—he swallows his nerves and rings again, this time holding it down longer.

Still nothing.

When he reaches up to press the bell a third time, Steve finally speaks—so softly that Eddie doesn’t catch it.

“Huh?”

Voice a little louder now—and much more annoyed—Steve repeats, “They’re in Florida.”

Of all the things that happened tonight, this somehow throws Eddie off the most. Which is probably stupid, because of course he’s heard the rumors. Big house, no parents. And yeah, sure, the infamous parties King Steve used to throw wouldn’t have been possible if his parents had been around, but even so—it always felt like a universal truth that someone like Steve must’ve had someone at home, caring for him.

He wasn’t Eddie, whose dad hadn’t given a rat’s ass whether he was alone, or if there was food in the house, or if he’d even made it through the week. His dad could disappear for days, weeks, months—and no one would bat an eye.

But Steve was King Steve. Rich kid. Popular. Chicks love him. Captain of the basketball team and every other cliché in the book. A douchebag, sure, but not someone who ever had to want for anything. Right?

“O—kay,” Eddie says, trying to keep his voice light. “And when will they be back?”

He’s hoping—praying—the answer will be tomorrow. Maybe even just a few hours. Please, just this once, let something tonight be easy.

Steve shrugs, careless on the surface, but Eddie sees the way he still won’t meet his eyes, the way his shoulders curl inward.

“Dunno. They didn’t say. Not for a couple of weeks.”

Weeks.

It hits Eddie like a punch to the gut, even though it shouldn’t. The way Steve’s jaw is set, like he’s daring him to say something, makes it worse. Because he knows that look. He’s worn that look.

He knows he shouldn’t push. Knows Steve’s signaling loud and clear that this door is closed. But Eddie’s never been good at listening when he probably should.

“And… does this happen often?”

The question hangs between them, thick, heavy. It spreads like a fog, settling into every crack and space. Eddie’s heart is thudding in his chest, too loud, too fast—like it knows he crossed a line.

Steve doesn’t answer. Just shrugs him off, jaw tighter now, and starts patting at his shorts. Which don’t look like they’re known for their storage capacity. He keeps checking the same pocket twice, and Eddie can tell within seconds that he’s not finding what he’s looking for.

“Lost your keys?” he asks, even though it’s obvious. The awkwardness clings to him like static, buzzing under his skin. Everything he thought he knew about Steve Harrington is crumbling, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Steve mutters something that might be “Guess so,” but doesn’t look at him. Just keeps patting himself down in frustration.

Eddie sighs and steps forward, pulling a bobby pin from the inside pocket of his vest like it’s nothing. “Good thing I came prepared,” he says, crouching in front of the door. He works quickly—faster than he probably should be proud of—and the lock clicks open with a soft snick.

Steve stares at him.

"What? I'm sure you've heard the rumors about my dad. Like father, like son, huh? At least it comes with some perks.” Eddie flashes a quick, crooked grin, but it fades fast.

He doesn’t give Steve a chance to argue. Just opens the door and gently guides him inside.

He’s been here before, but it’s still intimidating to be faced with the sheer size of the Harrington estate. Their whole trailer could probably fit into the hallway with room to spare. But it’s more than just the abundance of space that puts Eddie on edge—it’s the absence of life. The place feels more like a museum than a home, and he wonders if Steve ever feels that too. If he ever feels like a guest in his own house.

The thought sits heavy in Eddie’s stomach.

Steve flips on a light, harsh and blinding in the otherwise sterile silence, and Eddie has the sudden, stupid urge to switch it off again. To drag them back into the soft, protective dark of the van, where things felt simpler. Smaller. Manageable.

But one look at Steve chases the impulse away.

He looks worse under the glare of the lights—pale as a ghost, eyes glassy and unfocused, pupils far too wide. The bruises mottling his face look even more brutal now, purpling deeper into his skin, and something about it—about him—hits Eddie like a punch to the ribs.

He must be wearing the horror on his face, because Steve winces, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck in a sheepish, defensive gesture that doesn’t belong on someone like him.

“’m fine, okay?” he mutters. “Like I said, not like it’s my first…” He waves vaguely at his face again, as if either of them could’ve forgotten, trying to brush off the damage like it’s nothing, like it isn’t smeared across one of the prettiest faces Eddie’s ever seen outside of a movie screen. “Some painkillers, a few hours of sleep, I’ll be good as new. You can go.”

At Eddie’s no doubt unimpressed and incredulous look, Steve sighs—long, dramatic, put-upon. “Seriously, man. Go back to whatever you were doing before you picked me up.”

There’s a mountain of things to unpack in that sentence, but Eddie never claimed he couldn’t be an ass when he wanted to. So he just mutters, “Thanks for the dismissal, my lord. You’re welcome, by the way.”

He doesn’t know what reaction he was expecting—sarcasm, maybe, or another dismissive wave—but it definitely wasn’t the way Steve’s face crumples, genuine regret flickering there before he buries it in both hands, not even flinching at the contact with his injuries.

“Fuck,” Steve groans, voice muffled and wrecked. “Robin’s right. I’m an asshole.”

The Eddie from maybe an hour ago would’ve agreed with this Robin person, but present Eddie has his world view rearranged just recently and he hates—hates—how easily Steve Harrington can tug at something soft and helpless inside him, without even trying.

Stepping closer, his hands circle Steve’s wrists and he gently tugs at them until he’s once more graced with the sight of his pretty face, bruises or no bruises.

“You look like death warmed over, Harrington. Let’s get you clean and patched up and into bed, yeah?”

It's a peace offering, and they both know it.

“Take me on a date first,” Steve deadpans, and Eddie’s brain short-circuits. He stares at his old high school crush—not that he’d ever admit to that, not even under torture—unblinking, trying to process those words.

Good thing his mouth works just fine without any input from his brain.

“This doesn’t count? Midnight drive, looking at the stars together, holding back your hair while you puke on the sidewalk. Isn’t that a typical date in this hellhole of a town?”

Steve snorts, even as he sways slightly, the little strength he might have left fading fast. Eddie doesn’t think, just wraps his arm around his waist once more and tries to ignore the loud thumping in his chest when Steve leans in without hesitation. Like it’s natural. Like Eddie’s safe.

“I wouldn’t know,” Steve mutters.

Eddie scoffs. “Yeah, sure. I might’ve failed senior year again, but I’m not blind, Harrington.” Then, remembering the important stuff, he asks, “Where’s your bathroom?”

Steve lifts a hand and points toward the stairs. “Third door on the left.”

They make their way upstairs in silence, the weight of Steve in Eddie’s arms warm and comforting, the smell of smoke and old sweat strong on his clothes—but underneath, Eddie thinks he smells hints of Steve’s aftershave. Something spicy, clean, and manly.

As he leads them to the door Steve told him to, he wonders how many times Steve has brought someone up here. At the few parties he had been at, the upstairs area had been off-limits, but he thinks he saw Steve stumble up the stairs with a girl in his arms, giggling and barely able to walk.

He pushes open the door and stops short.

The room is a plaided nightmare.

“What the fuck?” The words tumble out before he can catch them.

He feels Steve shrug against his side. “My mom likes it, I guess. Not that she’s spent more than five minutes in this room.”

“Is this—?”

“My room?” Steve shrugs again, smaller this time. But Eddie can feel it—the way self-consciousness rolls off him in waves. “Yeah. I’ve got an ensuite. Figured it’d be easier to get into bed from there.”

Steve looks like he’s ready to drop any second now, and Eddie’s not sure he could carry him up the stairs—or even across the floor—if that happened, so this is actually good thinking, really.

He tells Steve as much while helping him toward the ensuite, and almost misses the look on the other boy’s face. Just a small twitch of his brows, a barely-there frown—but it’s enough to make Eddie think Steve assumes he’s being mocked. Like there’s no way Eddie could genuinely believe he did something smart.

It’s one more thing for the ever-growing box in Eddie’s mind labeled King Steve.

The ensuite is bigger than Eddie expected—definitely bigger than the bathroom in their trailer. It’s shiny and spotless, the kind of place where someone’s mom might actually scrub the tiles. Only, Eddie’s pretty sure it’s not Mrs. Harrington who’s doing the scrubbing in this house. Eddie feels out of place immediately in his ripped clothes and dirty shoes. But the only thing that looks even more out of place is Steve himself, in bloodied, sweat-stained clothes, puke on his shoes, and that hollow look in his eyes.

Eddie sits him down on the closed toilet seat but doesn’t let go right away. Steve looks like he might slide to the floor or just keel sideways, so Eddie waits until he feels the other boy sag fully into himself.

“Okay, big boy,” he says, voice gentle but firm, “how about you take a nice, hot shower, and then I’ll see what I can do for your face. You do have a first aid kit lying around here somewhere, right?”

Steve doesn’t answer. He just stares at the floor, vacant and still—like now that he’s home, he finally has permission to check out. Which, fair enough. Eddie would probably feel the same. But it makes the mission of getting Steve clean, patched up, and into bed a hell of a lot harder.

It’s late. Eddie’s tired too, his thoughts racing, all sharp edges and emotion. He just wants a break from the weight of it all.

So, he turns on the shower and kneels in front of Steve to undo his laces and pull off his shoes. Then, he tugs him gently to his feet, bracing his body as Steve sways.

“You will thank me in the morning for this,” Eddie mutters, stripping off Steve’s frankly disgusting shirt. As he crouches again to deal with the shorts, he adds under his breath, “At least I hope so.”

It takes a lot of effort, but he maintains a neutral expression despite the bruise-mottled torso before him. Fuck, he thinks. Who did this to you? Anger flares hot, bright, and sudden in his chest, but he pushes it down for now. His focus needs to be on Steve and nothing else.

There’s no protest from the other boy, just a tired sigh as he leans into Eddie, letting him carry most of his—almost naked—weight.

At least he’s not getting punched in the face, Eddie thinks. Although, honestly, Steve doesn’t look like he could lift an arm right now, let alone throw a punch. And he sure as hell doesn’t look like he can stand under the shower and clean himself up.

Which means that job falls to Eddie, too.

He’s painfully aware that this exact scenario may or may not have featured in more than one of his late-night fantasies—him and Harrington, naked under the showers in the Hawkins High locker room after a big game, his hands roaming across miles of wet skin.

Only, this isn’t that fantasy. For one, Steve’s not an eager participant. He’s hurt, out of his mind with exhaustion, and probably still loopy from pain and god knows what else.

So Eddie shoves those thoughts down, down, way down, and tries his absolute best to ignore the fact that Steve Harrington is clinging to him in nothing but boxer briefs, glorious chest hair and miles of mole-dotted skin on full, unfiltered display.

Instead, he toes off his own shoes and socks, and after a moment of hesitation, awkwardly shimmies out of his jeans—still holding onto the suddenly very clingy boy in his arms the entire time.

Then, in nothing but his black boxers, he guides them both under the spray of the shower.

The water pressure is heavenly, and somewhere in the back of his mind Eddie notes how amazing a real shower must feel here. But right now, his focus is entirely on the half-limp boy in his arms, who finally starts to look a little more awake beneath the stream of warm water.

“I’m gonna wash those luscious locks of yours now,” Eddie murmurs, adjusting his grip, “and if I don’t get it right, you’ve gotta cut me some slack, yeah?”

Hazel eyes blink slowly at him, but Eddie is relieved to see a flicker of recognition there. “Conditioner. Blue bottle.” Steve points vaguely at the line-up of fancy products along the shower wall. Then, with a little grin that’s more felt than seen, he reaches for Eddie’s dripping hair and gives it a weak tug. “You could use some too, by the way.”

“Duly noted,” Eddie croaks, trying not to shiver. This is about helping Steve. This is not about how good even that small, barely-there touch feels.

He’s starting to think this might’ve been a very, very bad idea.

So, to distract himself from the undeniably attractive, half-naked, wet man leaning on him like it’s second nature, Eddie keeps one hand steady on Steve and turns to grab the blue bottle.

“No, no, no,” Steve stops him, sounding more alive than he has all night. “You use conditioner after the shampoo.”

The sheer horror in his voice makes Eddie laugh. He can’t help it. It’s just so unexpected—from a guy who looked like a corpse five minutes ago, suddenly offended by Eddie’s hair care sins.

He’s tired, running on fumes, and his self-control is already hanging by a thread—so he just laughs, loud and unrestrained.

“Okay, okay,” he manages between chuckles. “Sorry.”

Steve huffs in mock outrage, but Eddie catches the twitch of his lips. “The red bottle.”

Following orders, Eddie sets the blue bottle back down and grabs the red one instead. He squirts some of the thick white liquid into his palms, takes a deep, grounding breath, and finally—carefully, reverently—sinks his hands into the most famous hair in all of Hawkins.

Steve—who’s already been surprisingly docile all night—melts beneath Eddie’s hands, the last traces of tension bleeding out of him as Eddie’s fingers dig into the thick strands of his hair.

It’s intoxicating, and Eddie’s not even thinking anymore. He just shifts them until Steve is leaning back against his chest, letting Eddie take his full weight as he gently massages the shampoo into his hair. Like he’s washing the whole godawful day off him—rinsing away whatever violence had brought him here, replacing it with nothing but care.

Steve is soft in his arms. It stuns Eddie, how easily he’s trusted him—how willingly he lets himself be moved, eyes closed, as Eddie shields them with one hand and rinses the shampoo from his hair with the other.

“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” Eddie teases, because the weight against him is getting heavier by the second.

“Nuh-uh,” Steve mumbles, though he doesn’t even try to hold himself up. Eddie figures it’s the warm water, the knowledge that he’s home, that he’s safe—safe with Eddie—that’s finally letting him drop his guard and succumb to the exhaustion.

Eddie would never admit it—not out loud, probably not even to himself—but he likes this. Taking care of someone. Taking care of Steve. It feels... significant. Like he’s being let in, granted access to a side of Steve Harrington that most people never get to see. And the more he sees, the more he likes.

There’s a sense of something he can’t quite name, but it feels important.

It would sound stupid if he said it out loud, but tonight feels like a watershed moment.

He doesn’t know why, but it feels big. Big enough to make him pause, hand wrapped around the blue bottle, and wonder if he should run. Pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Let time blur it until it’s just a strange, tender night he remembers only when he’s alone.

But before the panic can set in, a sleepy voice breaks through the fog.

“’ddie?” Steve mumbles, soft and uncertain.

Eddie straightens, still holding the bottle. He squeezes Steve a little tighter. “Just forgot which one’s the precious conditioner, your highness. The white one, right?”

Steve tilts his head until it rests on Eddie’s shoulder and gives him a side-eye. “If you put bodywash in my hair, I’m shaving your head.”

They both know Steve can’t even lift his arms right now, but Eddie plays along.

“Color me intimidated.”

“Good,” Steve sighs—and just like that, the moment passes. The decision is made.

Because even if part of Eddie wants to bolt, to hide from the weight of whatever this is, it would mean leaving. Leaving Steve to fend for himself. And something tells him that’s happened to Steve more than enough already.

So no. Eddie’s not running.

He’s staying. He’s going to be the one who stayed.

The conditioner smells really nice as Eddie works it into the soft strands of Steve’s hair, and he makes sure to massage it in properly, fingers moving gently as he breathes in deep.

“Conditioner needs to be left in to work,” Steve murmurs, and Eddie rolls his eyes fondly.

“Is that so? You live and learn.”

The elbow to his stomach feels less like a threat and more like an angry kitten taking a lazy swipe.

“You’re not funny,” Steve says, but there’s a smile tucked into the edges of his voice, and Eddie’s kind of terrified by how warm that makes him feel.

“No, you’re right,” he says with mock seriousness. Then adds, “I’m hilarious.”

He can feel Steve snort—actually feel it—where their bodies are pressed together, skin to skin. Which would be glorious if it didn’t also remind Eddie that Steve’s extremely well-shaped ass is mere inches away from the growing issue in his boxers.

Unhelpful. Very unhelpful.

Trying to distract both of them, he pokes a finger into Steve’s side. Gently. The bruises all over his torso are hard to ignore, and Eddie would rather set himself on fire than add to them.

“And what do you suggest, oh wise one, I do while we wait for the magic to happen?”

Steve’s answer is soft, slurred, barely hanging on. A testament to how drained and half-conscious he really is.

“Hold me.”

Eddie always thought heartbreak came from being hurt—from betrayal or loss or something sharp and personal. He never expected it to feel like this—like his chest is cracking open just because someone else has been hurt. Because Steve was.

But that ache is real. Sharp and deep.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Eddie whispers. It’s not even clear if he’s saying it to Steve or to himself.

So that’s what he does. He stands under the endless stream of warm water and holds Steve Harrington in his arms like he’s something precious. Like he’s something fragile.

After a while, Eddie starts to hum. He doesn’t even realize it at first—it’s instinctual, automatic, a melody pulled from somewhere far away. Something soft and familiar.

“What song is that?” Steve asks, voice so sleepy it’s practically part of the steam.

Eddie blinks, surprised he even noticed. “Something my mom used to sing when I was little. When I was scared of summer storms.”

Humming in acknowledgement, Steve sways lightly against him, a gentle reminder that they’ve been standing here long enough. He needs to get Steve into bed. He decides to skip the body wash after rinsing off the conditioner. The water has washed off most of the sweat and grime anyway, and the rest can wait until tomorrow.

“Must’ve been nice,” Steve murmurs, voice so soft it’s barely there. “M’mom just told me to be quiet and go to sleep whenever I was scared.”

Then, cracking a little around the edges, he admits, “I was really scared today.”

The air between them thickens with something—raw and quiet and heavy. Something Eddie doesn’t dare name. He lifts the showerhead again to rinse out the conditioner, shielding Steve’s eyes with one hand.

Under the soft white noise of the rushing water, Eddie says to the lonely boy in his arms, “I’m here. There’s no need to be scared anymore. You’re safe.”

“You’ll stay?”

Eddie turns off the water and grabs one of the fluffy white towels from the small stool next to the shower. He wraps it around Steve with care, then grabs another for himself.

“For as long as you want me to.”

Tucking his own towel around his hips—over his soaked boxers, which is probably not his best idea—he starts gently rubbing Steve dry.

“Come on, your highness. Time for bed.”

Rich people and their walk-in showers really are a blessing, Eddie thinks as he guides Steve out of the bathroom and into the adjoining bedroom. He gets him settled on the edge of the bed, the mattress barely dipping under his weight.

“Lemme check out your face real quick,” Eddie says as he examines the damage more closely.

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches, and Eddie figures it must hurt with the split in it. “You can check me out anytime if you want.”

Jesus H. Christ.

Trying really hard not to let a half-dead Steve Harrington fluster him, Eddie focuses on the task at hand. He’s thankful that while painful-looking, the bruises don’t need more than time to heal. The only open wound is the split lip—and that’s already stopped bleeding.

“Where do you keep your wound disinfectant?”

It takes Steve a moment, but then he manages to tell Eddie where to find it in the bathroom. Eddie heads off to arm himself with it.

Steve barely reacts when Eddie starts applying it to his lip, and Eddie wonders if his pain tolerance is just that high—or if he’s pretending it doesn’t hurt. Either way, he works quickly, wanting to get it over with so they can both get some sleep.

“Where do you keep your sweatpants and stuff?”

Steve, barely holding on to consciousness, waves a hand vaguely toward his wardrobe. “Right door. Bottom half.”

True to his word, Eddie finds the sweatpants easily—along with an old gym shirt that smells clean and soft. He grabs a pair for Steve, plus one for himself, and makes his way back to the bed with his bundle.

“Almost done,” he promises, helping Steve lift his arms so he can slip the shirt over his torso. Steve winces—tries to hide it—but Eddie sees.

Then he freezes, sweatpants in hand.

Fuck.

It’s stupid, he knows it. Just like gym class, he tells himself. Just two dudes changing. With a little help. No big deal. They're using the same equipment, after all. Except... he did happen to catch a few glimpses back in the shower, and well—Steve’s equipment is... notable.

Not the point, Munson. Get your head out of the gutter.

He does what any good Dungeon Master would do: he improvises.

Draping the towel carefully over Steve’s lap, Eddie pulls off the wet briefs with a level of focus typically reserved for dice rolls, then slides on the dry sweatpants with all the care of someone handling a cursed artifact.

And if the warm skin and lightly hairy thighs linger in his memory for future solo... consideration—well, that’s between him and his right hand.

At some point during Operation Get Steve Dressed Without Being a Creep, the guy just topples back onto the bed and starts dozing before Eddie’s even finished. Which, honestly, is kind of ideal—Eddie gets to change in peace without any additional acrobatics.

He takes their wet underwear to the shower, relieves himself, and returns to the room feeling marginally more human.

Steve’s awake again when Eddie steps into the doorway.

“You leaving?” he asks, voice clearer now, more alert than before. He’s still lying on his back, eyes turned toward Eddie like it matters.

Eddie crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Course not. I’m a man of my word, believe it or not. Unless you want me to go?”

“No.” It’s quick. Then softer: “I don’t wanna be alone.”

“Then I won’t leave you alone.” Eddie nudges at him with a grin. “But you need to scoot over. You’re hogging the whole bed.”

It takes some maneuvering, but Eddie manages to get them both settled under the covers. He ends up on his side, back to the door and facing Steve, who lies flat on his back—Eddie figures it must hurt too much to sleep any other way.

“You... wanna talk about what really happened?” The question slips out before he can stop it, curiosity gnawing at him. No—more than curiosity.

He’s worried. Whatever happened must’ve been bad. More than just a fire. Bad enough to rattle Steve Harrington, who doesn’t strike Eddie as the type to scare easily. He wants to make him feel safe, but he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be protecting him from.

With a tired sigh, Steve turns his head to look at him. “No. Not really.”

Eddie doesn’t know what shows on his face—if any of the hurt or disappointment is visible—but something must be, because Steve adds, “I’m sorry. ’m just... tired.”

And he sounds it. Worn thin and fragile, so Eddie lets it go. Decides it’s not what matters right now. He knows a thing or two about fear, and what always helped was knowing someone was there. That he wasn’t alone. Wayne’s TV humming in the next room, loud enough to hear through the walls.

“That’s okay. We should get some sleep anyway.”

“Yeah.”

But Steve’s eyes don’t close. He just stares at the ceiling, brow drawn tight. Eddie knows that look. He feels like he’s been studying Steve’s face for years, even if they only really talked today.

Steve’s still scared.

And then Eddie remembers what else always helped when the night felt too big—when nightmares clawed at the edges of sleep, or some horror movie got under his skin.

“You want me to leave the light on?”

Steve’s face twists into something close to comical surprise—wide hazel eyes, slack jaw. It takes him a few seconds to respond.

“But... won’t that keep you up?”

He sounds so young and hopeful, and Eddie wonders if he was ever allowed to leave a light on when he was scared.

The light probably will make it harder to fall asleep. But Eddie’s tired enough that it won’t matter for long. And even if it does—he can deal.

“Nah. I can sleep through anything.”

Steve watches him for a beat, searching his face. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Eddie echoes, then wriggles a little until he’s comfortable. He closes his eyes, lets his voice soften.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

There’s only silence, but his eyelids feel too heavy to open again. Maybe Steve’s already asleep. He hopes he is.

Sleep is just starting to pull him under when he feels a soft touch against his hand. It disappears almost instantly... then returns, tentative but steady.

And then—Steve takes his hand. Gently pulls Eddie’s arm around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

There’s a quiet smile in his voice when he whispers back, “Goodnight, Eddie.”

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