j2h5b5 - Tumblr blog

[j2h5b5]

Brain worm! 🪱 Just a lil silly somethin written in a daze.

Eddie had to wrench the wheel back so he didn't run the fucking van into a tree.

Did he seriously, seriously just see what he thought he just saw?

As soon as there was a gap in the road Eddie swung the van around and pulled into the gas station he had just passed, trying to keep as low a profile as possible.

Which was no mean feat considering the state of his catalytic converter but once he'd pulled up into a dark corner, a glance in the wing mirror told him he hadn't been spotted.

It also told him that, yes. He'd been correct on his initial passing glance. He was actually seeing this shit.

Eddie glanced down at his clothes. Ripped up jeans, his 'Hell Awaits' Slayer t-shirt depicting a giant inverted pentagram, demons and hellfire, chains, rings, leather jacket, battle vest, boots.

Yeah, he looked sufficiently scary.

Night was starting to fall around him so he still went unnoticed as he slid carefully out of the van and made his way over to the two lone figures just barely lit up by the harsh artificial exterior lights.

He planted himself just behind, what looked like, some middle class dad type who was standing just a little too close for comfort.

Eddie crossed his arms and spoke to the second figure barking out in the lowest tone of voice he could muster.

"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing, young man?"

The middle class dad whipped around. The second his eyes landed on Eddie he had a look on his face like the devil himself had just manifested behind him.

Without a second of wasted time he scampered away, tail between his legs, leaving Mike Wheeler standing there, wide eyed, pale faced and terrified.

Good.

"Edd-" Mike swallowed, slowly backing away as Eddie advanced. "What are you doing here?"

Mike's back hit the wall and Eddie took one more step forward, looming over him. "You don't get to ask questions, Wheeler. You get to answer them. Now I'm only going to ask this one more time: Just what THE FUCK are you doing out here?"

"N-nothing! We were... I was just-"

There was a clatter and some hushed expletives before the rest of The Party appeared around the corner.

"He's not here alone!" Dustin shouted, apparently under the impression that that was going to calm Eddie down in any way at all.

"And you think that makes this better, does it?"

"Yes! Safety in numbers!"

"There is no safety in whatever the hell I just witnessed!" Eddie exploded. "There is no safety in being at a remote gas station on the outskirts of town at night and talking to strange men for whatever reason!"

The kids all looked to be in various stages of shock, clearly not expecting Eddie to lay into them so fiercely but he didn't care. He refused to feel bad for them.

"Tell me, oh braniacs, what would have happened if someone had come along and snatched Little Wheeler up, huh? Would you have chased after the car on your bikes?" He sneered. "How would you have contacted anyone? How long would it take someone to get here? What if one of you had been attacked? Or robbed? Or murdered? What would you have done then?! How could you all be so stupid?"

"It's not stupid! We weren't being stupid!" Dustin shouted back. "We have our walkies-!"

Eddie laughed, cold and mean and so, so angry but Dustin continued to dig his own grave.

"You all never let us try anything! You never give us a sip of beer or a smoke or any of your weed which we know you still have-"

"Watch it, Henderson." His voice was low and dangerous.

"So we were just trying to get someone to buy something for us, that's all!"

"Oh that's all? That's all, is it? And you have money to pay for this purchase?"

Dustin scoffed. "Of course."

"So tell me, what would have happened if someone went in there and bought you your beer but then decided that wasn't payment enough? What would you have done if he started asking or demanding something else?"

"Like what?"

"Oh I don't know, what could a grown man possibly want with a fifteen year old little boy?" Eddie shook his head. "You know what, I'm not having this conversation out here. Get in the van."

"But... our bikes-"

"GET IN THE FUCKING VAN, HENDERSON!"

Eddie observed in stony silence, his face thunderous as the kids all loaded their bikes into the back of the van before they scuttled in themselves, quiet and cowed.

He slammed the drivers side door closed before turning his key in the ignition and pulling out of the gas station, the silence in the car suffocating, bouncing off the walls.

"Um..." They were nearly halfway back to Hawkins by the time Will's small voice cut through the air. "You're not going to tell our parents, are you?"

Eddie looked back at him in the rear view mirror. The kids were all watching his reaction with worry and Eddie refused to drop his anger in the face of Baby Byers. Not this time. Not for this. He had to stay angry because if he stopped being angry he might just lose himself in what if's.

"No. I'm not going to tell your parents."

The kids all sighed in relief, somehow still believing they were being let off the hook.

"But I am going to tell Steve."

The explosion nearly shook the van. The kids were all screaming, begging, nearly crying not to tell him.

"No! No, Eddie, please!"

"You can't tell him, he'll kill us!"

"Yeah, then he'll bring us back from the dead just to kill us again!"

"You can't do this to us!"

"You know what he's like, Eddie! You can't sell us out to him like that!"

"I can and I will!"

"Can you... can you- shit. Can you please tell him, like, gently? So he doesn't freak the fuck out? He's your boyfriend, he'll listen to you!"

"You all are in no position to be asking for favours right now." Eddie brought the car to a stop in the Harrington driveway. "So here's how it's going to go. We are going to go inside. You are going to tell Steve exactly what just happened. Then the two of us are going to explain to you exactly why what you all just pulled was so monumentally dangerous. Whatever he decides to do with you all after that is up to him. He is your babysitter. You all bestowed that title on him. I am just the babysitter's boyfriend. It's out of my hands."

"Oh, but... you could be our babysitter too?" Dustin tried, a clear and pathetic attempt to make the incoming shitstorm go smoother.

"Not a chance, Henderson." Eddie hopped out and made his way around, throwing open the back doors of the van and gesturing to the now open front door where an extremely distinctive swoopy haired silhouette stood. "Go and face your fate."

[j2h5b5]

Testing the Limits

Summary: JJ Maybank’s little sister is doing some experimenting.

***

Oh. Oh shit.

That was Milly Maybank’s first thought upon waking.

And it wasn’t just because her head felt like a balloon filled with blood, stretched fit to burst and throbbing along with the beat of her heart.

Or because her mouth seemed to be filled with cotton, and tasted like something had rotted inside there.

Or because her stomach was roiling like the HMS Pogue in a high wind and she was pretty sure she was about to vomit all over these clean white sheets.

These clean white sheets on her hospital bed.

Yep, that’s why she woke up mentally cussing.

Because she didn’t have much memory of last night, but what flashed through her mind wasn’t good at all, and whatever had happened to land her here had to have been literally catastrophic. They couldn’t fucking afford a hospital.

There was a needle in her arm with a clear tube leading up to a bag on a pole like you see on TV, and a beeping monitor that was presumably alerting everyone in the room to the fact that she was alive?

Everyone. That would be … Without moving her head (both because to do so would risk popping the balloon that was keeping her liquefied brain in place and also because she was afraid to draw attention), Milly took mental stock. Pope, Kiara, Sarah, John B. And, of course, JJ.

Her brother was perched in a very uncomfortable-looking plastic chair at her bedside, his blond head resting on his arms, which were resting on the edge of the mattress. His eyes were closed and she bit her lip as a flashback of the night before fluttered vaguely at the back of her mind.

What did you take? Milly, answer me, what did you take?

JJ, she’s not hearing you, she needs a hospital.

I know, FUCK, I KNOW, let’s go. Move, just fucking move, I’ve got her. Come here, baby sister. Come on, Jay’s got you.

The world tilting on its axis as strong arms lifted her like she weighed nothing at all.

A bumpy ride, tires spinning gravel and mud, panicked fussing and bickering that made no sense, then bright lights, violent and harsh.

Then nothing.

Then this.

That was it for the details of the AFTER. From the BEFORE, she remembered more than she wanted to. The fight with her brother, hurling sharp words at all his soft spots. Blind anger making her cruel. Running off into the night. Running toward the very thing JJ was trying to keep her from in the first place. Triumphant at winning the battle.

She’d stayed gone for two days. Ignoring texts and calls from all of them and successfully staying off the radar until she got too brave and went to grab a late lunch at The Wreck. Sitting at a deck table off in the far corner with her back to the late-afternoon stragglers. She had almost finished wolfing down her burger when an open palm smacked the back of her head hard and a much-loved voice with an icy sharp edge commanded: “Hey brat. Call your damn brother.”

Looking up at Kie, Milly saw the older girl’s annoyance and responded with an admittedly childish “No.”

“He’s worried about you.”

“He’s a dick.”

“Yeah? He’s JJ. That’s not the point. You owe him better than this.”

And Milly knew she was right, which was why she doubled down. “I don’t want to talk to him yet. I’ll call him when I’m ready, and when he’s done treating me like a stupid kid.”

“Stop acting like one.”

Milly pushed her chair back and stood up from the table, making to leave. Kiara set down the tray she was carrying and reached for Milly. “Wait, wait. Where are you staying? At least tell me that. Are you being careful?”

Dodging Kie’s grasping hand, Milly shot her a look of honest apology—really, this whole thing had gotten out of hand but she didn’t know how to fix it now. “I’m fine. Tell him I’m fine.”

And she left fast, because Kiara was a good runner and Milly wasn’t positive she wouldn’t be chased all the way back to where her new friends were waiting.

And now.

When she finally tore her eyes away from the head of floppy blond hair next to her, she realized the others—all of them—were watching her.

Time to face the music.

***

TBC?

[j2h5b5]

It’s hard work, exhausting even, pretending to be something you’re not.

JJ should know. He’s been pretending to be okay almost his whole damn life.

When his mom left.

When his dad raged and swung. Or when he slurred sloppy affections and boozy regrets before slipping into unconsciousness—which was somehow worse.

When teachers looked through him, never at him, their minds made up about what he was and where he was going. (Nowhere. That was the answer.)

When Kooks at the yacht club started shit and he couldn’t DO anything about it because his dad would beat the shit out of him if he came home without some tip money.

JJ knows all about pretending. It’s just that he can’t, when it comes to his friends. Sure, he does that bluff and bravado thing, it’s as much a part of him as the dimple that flashes in one cheek when he smiles, as his hard-won muscles and his blond hair, his fierce loyalty and his tendency to make terrible, dangerous, impulsive decisions.

So when they find him there, drunkenly lolling in the hot tub he procured as some baffling token of his abject ADORATION of them all, it takes only three things for him to crumble like a structurally compromised sand castle.

Pope looks at him—at him—with an agonizing compassion.

John B grips him roughly by the shoulders and pulls him in for a bone-crushing hug.

And Kie. She pries his hand from John B’s back, pulls it to her lips, and presses a kiss into his palm.

And just like magic, in the safe circle of his friends and wrapped up in their boundless, pure, uncomplicated love, JJ lets himself stop pretending. He drops his guard. He lets the grief come.

[j2h5b5]

Max isn’t sulking. She isn’t.

That would be very unbecoming, and it would go against everything she stands for.

She isn’t sulking because Steve is angry with her. THAT would require some serious soul-searching of the “who the hell even am I now” variety, and that sounds exhausting and maddening.

So what she is doing instead is lying on her bed with her headphones on, Walkman cranked up loud and blasting ANYTHING BUT Kate Bush, the endless catalogue of which is her post-Vecna music of choice.

She is drowning in the music and staring at the ceiling and feeling pretty damn pissed off because he had yelled at her—like, who does he think he is?—right in the middle of the skate park and then he’d tossed her board into his trunk and snapped at her to “get in,” and there were kids staring at them and her face was probably redder than her hair because she was being publicly scolded by her … what? Big brother figure slash current temporary guardian? Ridiculous.

And the worst part? The WORST part. She had not bitten back. There was no snark in her at that moment, no sassy comeback that would help her save face, because Steve looked actually angry like she’d never seen him look—at least not when it came to her—and she had, instead of putting him in his place right there on the spot, sort of melted into his passenger seat and slunk down and proceeded to stew. Which isn’t the same as sulking, thank you very much.

“Seatbelt,” he’d barked, and God help her she’d actually sat up straight and put it on.

It has been quiet since they got home and she’d retreated to her room and into her head. She doesn’t know what Steve is doing, but she sure as hell isn’t coming out until he’s gone. She refuses to speak to him until he apologizes for overstepping, for embarrassing her, for acting like a…

Like a…

He…

He just needs to learn. To learn where he fits. What his place is in her life. He needs to learn what he is to her, and that is…

That is…

That is.

There’s a knock at the door.

(tbc)

[j2h5b5]

you're just like a river.

*Btw this is for stress relief. Drawing for me is addicting and i just can't function if i don't draw for a period of time. Now, if you excuse me, i'll get back to my exams:"(*

[j2h5b5]

something something the angst potential of a gay eddie munson who’s still subconsciously clinging to the remnants of his rigid ‘munson doctrine’ worldview and the way that might manifest as biphobia/ keeping steve at arm’s length because his anxiety is so certain that steve will get bored of him and scurry back to straight suburbia with his pretty blonde wife and his six little nuggets and his big picket fence

steve who just wants someone to let him in, who just wants to be enough for someone, who can’t make sense of why eddie’s being so mean to him right now because he ‘doesn’t even like blondes, eddie! what the hell is this? why are you pushing me away? i wanted- i thought…’

and it doesn’t matter what he wanted. what he thought. he wanted a nice night with his sweet boyfriend — wanted to cuddle and kiss and watch movies on the couch — but that guy doesn’t exist anymore and maybe he never did, so steve pinches the bridge of his nose and shoves past eddie, shoulders tensed to his ears, hand shaking on the handle of the trailer door.

‘yeah,’ eddie sneers at his back with a viciousness steve hasn’t heard from him since they were in school together. the words spew like bile, hot and sour and sharp. ‘yeah, run along, harrington, that’s what i thought.’

steve opens the door. his whole body is shaking.

‘fuck you,’ steve spits, but his voice is so small, so hurt that eddie can’t even enjoy the fight in it because there’s no fight to be found, and when steve leaves he doesn’t even give eddie the satisfaction of slamming the door, just closes it with a gentle click that cracks eddie’s heart in two.

[j2h5b5]

I’m having writing withdrawals. Specifically #momsteveharrington #strangerthings #dustinandsteve #steddie #steveandmax #foundfamily writing withdrawals. But I’m also having writer’s block. It’s a sad combination.

So. If anyone is reading this who liked my other stories, hit me with a prompt or request in the same(ish) vein as those. I’m ready.

[j2h5b5]

thinking about the first time Dustin actually sees Eddie without any of his high school persona on show. They’re locking up the drama room after Hellfire, and Eddie realises that he’s left his acoustic guitar in one of the music classrooms, so Dustin follows him.

It’s then that they find a very young looking freshman sat by Eddie’s guitar—Dustin had thought that maybe he looked a little daunted starting Hawkins High, but she looks absolutely miserable.

They manage to piece together the fact that she had a violin lesson, went to the bathroom, then got completely disoriented on her way back, the teacher nowhere in sight; she stayed put, kept doubting herself about what was the way out to the parking lot.

And Eddie… he doesn’t poke fun, not even a little bit. He just picks up his guitar, says, “Don’t worry, this place’s a labyrinth sometimes,” and guides her out.

He doesn’t leave the parking lot until the girl finds her mom’s parked car, just keeps smiling even when the mom regards him with poorly concealed disdain.

That’s how Dustin knows Eddie’s kindness is the real deal: it’s not for show, not for the benefit of anyone else—not even himself. It just is.

So when the news is full of the death of Chrissy Cunningham, when others start whispering darkly about how they’re not surprised that Munson boy was no good, Dustin never once doubts Eddie.

He’s seen the very best of him, long before The Upside Down.

[j2h5b5]

after eddie introduces a demogorgon to one of his hellfire campaigns, the kids get a little squirmy. they're nervously looking at each other and aren't engaging as excitedly as they usually do. when he calls time, he watches dustin rummage through his backpack and produce a walkie talkie.

he watches, a bit dumbfounded, as the kid demands a 'check-in'. all at once, multiple different voices come over the channel. stating a name and then saying 'safe.' ("nancy, safe." "robin, safe." "max, safe.")

"steve?" dustin demands. there's only static. "steve!" a little more frantic this time.

"he left to pick you up." a female voice replies, "he's probably fine. you'll see him soon."

none of the kids look particularly pleased, and pack up hastily. eddie and the other hellfire members all share confused glances. he, more morbidly curious than anything else, follows the little sheep as they hurry out of the school.

dustin is fucking restless as they all stand in the empty parking lot. he won't stay still and none of them are answering any of eddie's questions. and he only gets more confused when a brown beemer pulls in, windows down and playing depeche mode through the speakers. dustin goes to sprint towards it, and he has to hold him by the collar to stop him getting run over.

the beemer pulls up and steve harrington, in all his glory, steps out, frowning. dustin wrenches out of eddie's grip and all but bodies the guy, wrapping arms tightly around his midsection. steve, still looking puzzled, hugs back. lucas and mike trail after dustin.

"we called a check-in." dustin says, a bit muffled from where his face is smushed into steve's shirt. steve goes sort of pale, and- and presses a goddamn kiss to the top of henderson's head before tightening the hug.

"shit, i'm sorry." and eddie believes him. he sounds so guilty. "i meant to replace the batteries before i left. sorry, i'm okay." dustin pulls back and scrubs at his eyes. lucas takes his place, though the hug he gives is more like one of those bro-hugs jocks seem to love. steve smiles regardless. he just ruffles mike's hair, who pouts in response but looks relieved nonetheless.

"asshole." he mutters. "rule four, walkies on at all times." steve nods as the kid half-heartedly waves goodbye to eddie and hops in the backseat of the beemer. lucas follows. dustin seems reluctant to walk around the car, to take his eyes off steve for even a second.

"you wanna stay over tonight?" steve asks, warm and gentle. he folds his arms and in that moment eddie thinks they look sort of like brothers. "robin and me were gonna watch some films. we can call your mom from mine."

the kid nods, looking a bit happier. steve slaps him on the back and motions him to get in the car. dustin swivels to hug and say goodbye to eddie (who sort of forgot he was physically present in this moment) before doing as he was told.

steve turns to eddie. which- whew! hi pretty eyes.

"sorry." he smiles and eddie can't for the life of him figure out what he's apologising for. "they, uh- yeah. them." he gestures vaguely at the car and eddie just chuckles.

"hey, man, no worries." he says, a little breathless that he's having a conversation with the steve harrington. "they okay? never seen henderson look so rattled." steve nods, then seems to think better of it and just shrugs. cocks his hip to the side (stop fucking staring at his hips, munson, lord!)

"they will be." he glances back at the beemer, which is now full of childish bickering. pauses to think and then asks, "you using demogorgons in your campaign right now?"

eddie blinks at him. "yes? yeah. what the fuck- how do you know what that is? what-" steve just laughs.

"long story." there's a haunted look in his eyes before he continues, "just, uh- that's probably what upset them. demogorgons and us- them, i mean-" he waves his hand. "bad memories. hard to explain, but... if you could..." he doesn't need to ask, seems like he doesn't know how or even if he's allowed.

"got it, ill tweak the campaign." harrington smiles at him, something small and genuine, and murmurs a thanks. offers him a fucking lift, which eddie declines, motioning to his van. harrington just nods, tells him to get home safe and then clambers back into the car, yells at the kids to put seatbelts on with all the exasperation of a single dad, and pulls away.

eddie watches them go, having seen a side of harrington he'd thought dustin had been lying about. steve harrington, the caring babysitter, everyone's older brother, a changed man.

he starts escorting the kids to the parking lot more often.

[j2h5b5]

I love the steddie fandom's absolute dedication to collectively not just ignoring canon but active insistence that canon just... doesn't matter. Not that whatever happened didn't happen, but just that it straight up doesn't matter. Character existed for 42 minutes of screen time? Doesn't matter. Characters only interacted a couple of times on screen? Doesn't matter. Anyway here's 16,400 fics and thousands upon thousands of artworks in the last 6 months. That's some real old school fandom vibes. That's the good shit I've missed. Keep it up you funky little gremlins, I love this for us

[j2h5b5]

There was only one thing that could have dragged Steve out of bed at two in the morning when he was nursing a booze-induced headache and an Eddie Munson-induced heartache.

“We need you,” she said.

He didn’t even bother putting on a jacket.

***

Dustin was sloppy, red-eyed and so unsteady that when Steve thunked a strong hand down on his shoulder, he almost lost his balance turning away from the group of asshats he’d taken up with to see who had grabbed him. Some of the drink in his hand sloshed over the sides of the cup and dribbled down the front of his shirt and onto the already filthy kitchen floor.

“Hey, what the—” he began, and then he dragged his gaze up to land on Steve.

There was a time, not so very long ago, when those same eyes would’ve lit up at the sight of his babysitter slash idol slash best friend. He would wrap him in a hug if it had been a day or two since he’d seen him, or sling a companionable arm around him, or punch him good-naturedly in the arm in hopes of initiating a play scuffle, which inevitably ended with him in a headlock getting his mop of curls aggressively tousled because he was just never going to have any kind of athletic edge on Steve.

But now.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” the younger boy asked in a tone so sharp and cold and so very NOT-Dustin that it made Steve’s heart squeeze painfully in his chest.

“Hey, man,” Steve said, aiming for casual if only to keep Dustin from embarrassing himself in front of his new asshat friends. “Can I talk to you? Step outside with me for a sec, okay?”

“Um, no,” Dustin bit out. “This’s my party, i'ss my house. It would be rude to leave my guests.”

“Yeah, since you brought that up … who are these people?” Steve swept his gaze over the Henderson kitchen, which was almost unrecognizable with all of the clutter, displaced furniture, and wasted teenagers. “And Dustin … where’s your mom?”

“Not here.”

“Well yeah, I kind of gathered that. Listen, Dust…”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Are the others here?”

“Oh, you mean the traitors who called and ratted me out to YOU? Who the fuck cares?” His voice lowered to what he seemed to think was a conspiratorial level but was really just an extremely loud stage whisper. “Maybe they tripped and fell and landed their buzzkill asses back in the Upside Down.”

“Okay, that’s it.”

Before Dustin could protest, the cup was plucked from his hand and tossed expertly across the room, over the heads of several unwary drunken youths and into the crusty-dish-crowded sink and he was being towed along behind Steve through the kitchen, the living room, out the front door.

“What the fuck, Harrington? Let go of me! Let go!” Dustin struggled against the vise grip on his bicep but only succeeded in ensuring he’d probably have finger-shaped bruises there tomorrow.

Steve paid him no mind until he had deposited the boy into the passenger seat of his car, slammed the door, and locked it. Then he walked around to the driver’s side, unlocked it only long enough to get in, relocked it, and turned to Dustin.

“First of all,” he began loudly, drowning out Dustin’s sputtering attempts to find the words he wanted to hurl at Steve in his outrage at being manhandled out of his own party. “First of all. Joking about the Upside Down in a room full of strangers? NOT OKAY.”

“They don’t even know what—”

“Not. Fucking. Okay. SECOND, if you ever imply again that one of ours should BE in the Upside Down, you will find yourself with my foot so far up your ass you’ll choke on my shoe, and if you think I’m joking about that, Dustin, try me.”

This time there was only an eye-roll from Dustin, because he kind of didn’t want to try Steve on that point and because he kind of felt bad about saying it.

“Third, your friends are not traitors. They care about you and they’re worried about you; they called me for help because you’re treating them like shit and shut down every attempt they make to help you. Listen, I know I’m not your favorite person right now, Dustin, but you have to let someone help you. You’re not okay, buddy. This isn’t you. And all this shit you’re doing, the drinking and the partying and the pretending not to give a damn? It isn’t going to fix anything. It … it won’t bring him back.”

“Shut up!” Dustin shouted, flinching so hard at the words that he smacked the back of his head against the side window. Steve winced at the sound of skull meeting glass and resisted the urge to reach out and check for blood, or a bump. Dustin seemed not to have noticed that he’d nearly brained himself, infusing his next words with all the venom he could muster. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Steve. Even if you were right, it’s none of your business what I do! I am none of your business.”

“Don’t say shit like that, Dustin. Of course you’re my business.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah! What are you saying?”

Dustin barked out a humorless laugh. “As much as I’d like to sit here with you and have a heart to heart right now, I have to get back to my guests.”

“No,” Steve snapped, reaching over Dustin to slap down the peg lock when the teen yanked it up. “We’re not done here. Now I can go inside and clear out your house and we can talk there, or you can drop the bullshit and talk to me right now.”

“You’re not shutting down my party.”

“Then we talk here.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Right, sure you don’t. Maybe I can give you some words, then. How about this, Dustin? How about: ‘Hey, Steve, you useless idiot loser, you promised to keep us safe and then you fucked it all up like you always do. The plan didn’t work and Max got hurt and Eddie fucking died, and you couldn’t stop it. I hate you for that, for lying and making us feel safe and telling us it was going to be okay. I can’t even look at you anymore and I hate my friends because they don’t hate you for some reason, but we know, don’t we? We know whose fault it is that we came back a man short. It’s yours, Steve. Yours.’” Steve’s voice was cracked and painful, like he’d been eating gravel and chasing it with cheap whisky and cigarettes. It hurt, that voice. “How’s that, Dust?” he finished, staring unflinching into Dustin’s shocked eyes. “Am I in the ballpark?”

Before Steve could react, Dustin unlocked his door and flung himself out of the car. He was drunk and it was dark, though, and he only made it a few yards before tripping and landing hard on the grass. Steve was on him almost instantly, hauling him up by the arms and scanning him for injuries.

He didn’t see the punch coming, wouldn’t have believed Dustin Henderson capable of such an effective hit, right in the mouth, knocking him back a couple of feet. “Jesus, Dustin!” he shouted, touching his lip and staring dumbfounded when his fingers came away wet with blood. “What the fuck, man?”

“Hit me back.”

“What? No! Dustin, what’s—”

“HIT ME BACK, STEVE! You have to!” Dustin’s voice cracked, the sudden violent burst of emotion threatening to unleash something big and scary and unforgivable. A tidal wave that had a name.

Steve grappled wildly with the boy, trying to grab his flailing arms so he could pin him, but Dustin was surprisingly swift in his current state, and he launched another punch, this one landing heavy in Steve’s gut and socking the breath right out of him.

“HIT ME, STEVE! I KNOW YOU WANT TO, JUST DO IT!”

Fueled by a burst of frustration and a sharper burst of fear (what is this?), Steve recovered enough to trap Dustin’s arms against his body, using his own weight to twist the boy around until he was trapped with his back against Steve, the hold immobilizing him so all he could do was squirm and shout out his fury. “LET ME GO FUCK YOU STEVE WHY WON’T YOU JUST FIGHT BACK YOU ASSHOLE?!”

“Dustin, stop. Stop it. Breathe, Dustin. Take a breath. No, hey, stop. You’re not going anywhere until you calm down for me. Breathe. Shhh, buddy. Breathe,” Steve’s hold was unbudging, his tone stern but soothing. Dustin’s violent struggles gradually slowed, and it took a couple of minutes for Steve to realize that the boy was shaking with silent sobs. And then the sobs became words, almost indecipherable in the wrecked, wretched voice that was rough and strained from screaming.

Every sentence Steve parsed from the stream of horrible self-accusations added another crack to his heart, which couldn’t have been more than a mess of spiderwebbing at this point.

It’s my fault.

He’s dead because of me.

I couldn’t save him.

You loved him, I know you did.

Why don’t you hate me?

Why don’t you hate me?

Why don’t you hate me?

Finally, finally, the words stopped and Dustin sagged, exhausted, in Steve’s arms. Only then did Steve ease up on his hold, but only long enough to turn the boy around and hug him properly. He bent down to bury his face in the unruly curls, his own tears falling unchecked and inconsequential.

“Dustin,” he whispered into the mop of hair. “Oh, Dustin, never.”

And when he realized he didn’t have the right words, he just stopped. He just picked Dustin up and carried him to his car, buckled him into the passenger seat, and told him he would be right back. He had a party to break up, some kids to chase away, and a boy—his boy—to mend.

“You loved him, I know you did.”

With a soul-cleansing breath that sounded more like a sob, Steve made his way back up to the Hendersons’ house.

[j2h5b5]

Got a one-shot in the works (almost done) about protective big brother/babysitter Steve and messily grieving, angry, spiraling Dustin. Just need energy to post and tag.

[j2h5b5]

The thing I love most about fandom is that when something happens that we don't like we just collectively decide to UNhappen it. Comfort character eaten by demon bats? Nah, they just gave him superpowers and/or turned him into a vampire with awesome hair. Fave impaled on a rusty nail? Fuck that, TIME LOOP.

We. Are. Magical.

[j2h5b5]

The worst part isn't the VECNA of it all, Steve thinks as he stands frozen while Eddie and Robin and Nancy pry the hands of his devastated children from their vise grip around his middle--as if they could keep him here by sheer force of their love, as if that were EVER an option in this life that just refuses to deliver fair shakes no matter how many times a person saves the world.

No, impending death has nothing on this part.

On Dustin's body-wracking wails.

On Max's free-flowing tears.

On Lucas's wet and pleading eyes.

On Erica's childish sobs.

("They'll never get over it. This will be what breaks them. You have to get me away, when it's time. I don't want them to see.")

"I love you guys," Steve chokes on his words. Then: "Eddie?"

It's time to protect the kids one last time.

[j2h5b5]

Eddie is writing new song lyrics. Dustin discovers them on a random Saturday when they’re having pizza at Steve’s; Eddie asks Dustin to get one of his old campaign notes, and Dustin reaches for the wrong journal.

“Oh, not that one,” Eddie says with a shrug, but his eyes go a little thoughtful at the sight of it in Dustin’s hands. For some reason he pauses, and then he says, “You can still read it if you want, man.”

And Dustin stares at him, certain it’s a trick, because Eddie is notorious for ensuring that any potential Hellfire spoilers are kept under lock and key. But then he opens the book and reads.

And he gets it.

The lyrics are clever, because they hide under metaphor, apocalyptic imagery and all that stuff, but it clicks when Dustin gets to a verse about a tune echoing through a mall, ‘and it’s a song you know, you’ve known it all your life,’ and he’s suddenly thrown back to when he explained how Steve worked out the location of the Russian code, and Eddie was taking it all in, eyes as round as pennies.

Dustin sets down the notebook and says, “It’s about us.” It’s not a question.

Eddie nods. “Yeah.”

“You make it sound a lot more poetic than it actually was,” Dustin says.

But Eddie doesn’t tease back, just gives a contemplative little smile and says, “Really? I don’t think so.”

And that’s as far as they get in talking about it, because Eddie suddenly glances away, and his smile changes ever so slightly, gets softer around the edges. He turns back to Dustin and mouths, Look.

Dustin does. Steve has fallen asleep, curled up in the corner of the couch. His head is just barely resting in his hand, nodding forwards precariously every so often.

Dustin hears Eddie give an almost silent tsk, which is funny; he must have picked it up from Steve. He quietly goes over and moves Steve with a gentle touch until Steve’s head is resting comfortably against the cushions.

Steve murmurs wordlessly, eyes closed, then settles back into sleep.

Eddie catches Dustin’s eye; he mimes, Shh with a wink.

And something in the back of Dustin’s mind falls into place. …Huh.

There are days when Eddie has the journal and days when he doesn’t—he cycles through notebooks constantly, most of them having been started with a specific purpose before devolving into chaotic scribbles for anything and everything.

But this one stays consistent.

And whenever he does have the journal, he lets Dustin open it to any random page and read for as long as he likes.

It doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that a verse waxing lyrical about a protective soldier finally laying down his armour and resting is about… someone in particular.

And that makes Dustin wonder whether ‘and it’s a song you know, you’ve known it all your life’ isn’t just about a mechanical horse playing Daisy, Daisy. In fact, maybe it’s not about that at all.

He doesn’t mention anything, just says that Eddie’s writing is good when he hands the journal back over. It’s hardly a major compliment, except every time, Eddie says, “Thanks,” in an almost uncertain tone Dustin’s never heard before, like just hearing that’s really touched him.

And then one day Eddie loses the journal. Dustin doesn’t realise what’s wrong at first, just knows that Eddie is agitated, rooting around in the back of the van when Dustin sidles in for a ride home after school.

Dustin sees movement outside, and he looks up to see one of the supply teachers who’s always got a stick up her ass standing at the school entrance. She’s holding Eddie’s journal.

“Uh, Eddie?”

“What?” Eddie snaps. Then he follows where Dustin is looking. “Oh Jesus fucking Christ.”

But he doesn’t let any of his irritation show when he hops out of the van and heads for the teacher.

Dustin knows Eddie talks a good game when it comes to sticking it to authority, all I’ll flip him the bird and so on, but there’s none of that arrogance now. Dustin can’t hear what they’re saying, but he can read the body language, the teacher’s tight-lipped smile, the way Eddie has crossed an arm over his chest self-defensively; he looks suddenly very young and unsure of himself.

The confrontation ends with the teacher handing Eddie the journal—more shoving it at him, really. Eddie gives her a curt nod before he heads back to the van, slamming the door shut as he gets inside.

He throws the journal in the back, and Dustin, who has carelessly destroyed countless textbooks, somehow finds himself saying, “Watch it, dude! You’ll rip it.”

Eddie doesn’t reply. He reverses out the parking lot and makes a turning for Dustin’s house, grinding his teeth.

The silence goes on until it’s unbearable, and Dustin tentatively asks, “What did she want?”

Eddie laughs, a nasty, thoroughly unconvincing sound. “Oh, ya know. Just returning lost property. Good fucking Samaritan.”

When he gets home, Dustin finds a note from his mom, that she’s over at his aunt’s and there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge. Dustin checks, and there’s easily enough for two.

He runs outside thankfully before Eddie has gone.

“You can’t expect me to be left in the kitchen unsupervised,” Dustin says. “I might burn it down.”

Eddie snorts. “From sticking pasta in the microwave?” Then he seems to hear himself and adds, “Yeah, somehow wouldn’t put it past you, Henderson.”

So they end up eating lasagne straight out of the dish together, playfully battling for the last slice like their forks are swords.

“What did she really want?” Dustin asks eventually. He can’t help but notice that Eddie had brought the journal in with him, keeps tapping his finger on the cover uneasily.

Eddie sighs, rubs a hand down his face. He nods down at the journal. “I’d left it in a classroom that some middle schoolers use for Drama Club. Apparently there’s some concerns about the appropriateness of—”

“That’s bullshit!” Dustin says. “Why would she even—”

“Dustin,” Eddie says very quietly. He closes his eyes. “You know why.”

And Dustin does. That’s why he’s so damn angry.

Because some of the lyrics (not all, but some), are love songs. And a good number of those are unambiguously from the point of view of a boy, speaking to another boy.

Eddie sighs again, presses a thumb into the inner corner of one eye. It looks like he’s warding off a headache. Dustin knows that he isn’t.

He could say I don’t care that you’re gay, but that doesn’t sound quite right; it isn’t about not caring, it’s about…

“You know I like you, right?” Dustin says.

Eddie gives a choked little laugh. He drops his hand, opens his eyes and says, with a faint smile, “No shit? I guessed you wouldn’t share lasagne with your mortal enemy.”

“True,” Dustin concedes. He presses on. “But I meant, like…” He bats Eddie’s hand away from the journal so he can tap it instead. “Like this. It’s all a part of you, and you’re really cool, so that means—like, it’s all cool. It makes you, you. You know?”

For a long moment, Eddie just stares at him. “You said you so many times, I don’t think it’s a word anymore,” he says, but he’s blinking a lot, and Dustin sees his lips quiver. “Um. Thanks.”

He still sounds sad which absolutely will not stand. Dustin gives him a few seconds of reprieve, before he launches at him with a karate style chopping motion.

Eddie chuckles. “You little shit!”

And they tussle until, breathlessly laughing, they’re both stretched out on the couch on their backs, side-by-side.

“You should let Steve read some,” Dustin suggests.

Eddie’s laughter trails off. “Mm,” he says, non-committal.

“I mean it!” Dustin recalls a verse he’d read only a couple of days ago, one that wasn’t dressed up in symbolism.

And you want to tell him you’re enough just like this darling, you always have been

“I don’t know,” Eddie says. “So far that stuff’s had an audience of one, and I think he might be a bit,” Eddie gestures with his thumb and forefinger, “biased. Being family and all.”

Dustin smiles, feels a proud little glow in his chest. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve seen Steve hiding love poetry books. Like he underlines that shit. It’s embarrassing.”

Eddie cackles. “Well. Some of my shit’s embarrassing so…”

Dustin claps his shoulder gravely. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna be the one to say it.”

Eddie pushes him nearly right off the couch; he pulls him back before he can fall. “Oh, fuck you.”

They’re quiet for a bit, and then Dustin suggests a movie, and when he’s putting the VHS in, he catches Eddie watching him with shiny eyes.

“Hey,” Eddie says. He smiles. “I love you.”

And God, it’s so much better hearing those words like this, with Eddie in front of him, safe and whole.

And Dustin doesn’t need to rush his reply this time. He picks up the journal and passes it to Eddie, careful of the binding.

“I love you, too,” he says, and the proud glow in his chest feels even stronger. “Now get writing, Shakespeare.”

[j2h5b5]

Overheard, Dustin on the phone:

Dustin: "I can't tonight. I'm grounded ... Steve said so ... Okay, fine, I'll ask."

Dustin, holding the phone away from his ear to shout: “Hey Steeeeeve? Can I go out tonight?”

Steve, yelling from the kitchen: "Nice try, Henderson. Not a chance.”

Dustin, sighing: "Sorry, Mom. Steve says I can't go home for dinner."

[j2h5b5]

She was cold when she came back to herself . She sensed that she had been cold for quite some time, at least if her stiff-armed self-embrace had a story to tell. She was shivering deeply, every muscle getting in on the action, and her nose and cheeks were completely numb. How long had she been out here, anyway? Had she fallen asleep?

With the sudden consciousness of her surroundings came another, sharper sensation—fear. It was pure, overwhelming, forming ice out of the blood in her veins and doing nothing to ease her bone-deep chill.

Alone. She was alone. She was alone in the dark. She was alone in the dark in the woods.

She might as well have been back There. That’s how vulnerable she was, had made herself. She remembered now, walking eyes wide open into these woods, fists and teeth clenched and heart hammering. It was her penance and her test. Both to punish herself for being so scared all the time and to see if she had it in her, anymore, to be anything else. It was time for her to face it, to show herself and them and him and the whole fucking world that Maxine Mayfield was no coward. That she could sit alone in the dark in the woods and face the unspeakable horrors that had taken up permanent residence in her head, every minute of every hour of every day.

Standing up was harder than it should have been. Her muscles had stiffened up considerably, and her legs wobbled with the force of the full-body trembling she had no power over. Her foot kicked an object and she looked down at the forest floor to see her walkie-talkie tumbling down a small hill. It came to rest next to a rock.

It was off. Of course it was. She had turned it off in her quest to prove all the things to all the people, and in her gradually clearing state of mind she could see the many flaws of that logic. They would have missed her by now, compared notes and found out that she was missing, freaked out and gone looking when she didn’t answer their fretful calls. It was an unbreakable rule now, in the after. Walkies on, always. Calls answered, immediately. No exceptions. And that was only in the now-rare times when they weren’t physically together, clinging to one another like the lost children they so essentially were.

“Idiot,” she chastised herself, picking her way carefully over to the hunk of plastic and bending stiffly to retrieve it. Taking a deep breath, she clicked it on, pressing the button to speak.

“Come in ,” she said in a hoarse voice that didn’t even sound like it belonged to her, “Is anyone there?”

There was barely even a pause. “Where are you, Max?”

Steve. Max’s eyes filled with tears, which definitely didn’t make her feel like the badass she had envisioned walking back out of these dark woods after facing down her demons and reclaiming her mojo. “I don’t know,” she replied, and her voice was small.

“Are you hurt?” His response was sharp, no-nonsense. Babysitter mode activated.

“I’m in the woods, Steve, I … I don’t know where.”

“It’s all right, I’m going to find you. Can you tell which direction the road is? Can you see any light?”

She paused, turning in a half circle before her eyes made out a vaguely less dark darkness in the distance. It would do, she decided, and she nodded as if he could see her.

“Max.” Steve’s voice came through again , gentle but urgent. “If you can tell which way the road is, start walking that direction, okay? When you get there, just stay put. I’m on my way. You hear me?”

“Yeah. I’m walking that way, I think. Toward the road.”

“Good. That’s my girl. Stop when you get there, all right?” he repeated.

“Steve?”

“What?”

“I’m really scared.”

There was a long pause this time, the crunch of Max’s feet through the dried leaves of the forest floor and the distant rumble of Steve’s car engine the only sounds that penetrated. Then she heard Steve take a deep breath before saying, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Max. You know that, right?”

She sniffed, swallowed back tears. She would not cry. She had made some major errors in judgment tonight, and she would not allow herself the luxury of tears.

Steve kept up a steady monologue of calm encouragement as she made her painfully slow way through the tangles of trees and roots, low-hanging branches and gnarled brambles snagging her hair and scratching her face. At last she stumbled onto the hard-packed pavement, tripping and almost hitting her knees.

“I’m here,” she said into the walkie that was clutched in a death grip in her hand. “I’m at the road. Can you find me?”

“Stay where you are,” Steve commanded. “I’ll be there in one minute.”

And somehow, miraculously, he was. She saw the headlights and fought the urge to duck back into the trees, an ice pick of fear slicing straight through her before she recognized the grille of Steve’s car as he slowed to a stop. He kept the engine running as he bolted from the driver’s seat. He reached her in three long strides, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her into an embrace that was too tight to be comfortable but at the same time not tight enough. His lips crushed against the top of her head and his words were muffled but fierce: “Jesus, Max. Don’t you ever disappear on us like that again, you got it? Never.”

As she clung to him — in the dark , by the woods, but no longer alone — she began to cry.