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8 ▰▱▰▱ Take Me Home (Please Stay With Me) ▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

"came back wrong" post-s4 fanfiction, featuring monster kas!eddie. pre-steddie -> steddie

minors DNI please, here be some S P I C Y thoughts, although nothing too explicit yet.

TW: Period typical use of f-slurs, the word dyke is used by a lesbian to self identify. Queer used as a self-identifier, also implied to be derogatory. Period-typical implied violence against LBGTQ+ community. Additional period-typical warnings may apply. It's the 80s, you all know the shit that happened then.

⚠️ADDITIONAL CONTENT WARNING (possible spoiler)⚠️ unreliable narrator thinks he's been forcibly outed at the end, but it's a miscommunication.

Part I┊Part II┊Part III┊Part IV┊Part V┊Part VI┊Part VII┊Part VIII (📍)

The next 72 hours pass in what feels like a few blinks, but Eddie knows time isn't actually moving at an accelerated speed. With the rapid changes his body and mind undergo with every day, it all tends to blur together into one long second rather than the actual increments it truly is. His thoughts are still a tangled mess, but the chaotic cluster steadily has become less of a tangled mass and more of a tight knot in a singular, extended line, because the more he pulls, the longer the string gets but the harder it is to disentangle entirely.

Since his resurrection and subsequent transformation into a nightmare creature like something out of the Monster Manual or the Creature Catalogue, he'd been running on instinct alone. Now that he can follow logical trains of thought, now that he’s able to separate the instinct from the rational, he’s struggling to see where the beast ends and he begins. The animal part of him doesn't believe them to be separate entities, that they're actually simply two halves of one whole, and unfortunately he’s starting to see that it may be correct. Instinct feels just as right in many instances as logical thought does, and often he finds himself rationalizing his instinctive reactions–excusing his behaviors for when he just does something that feels right at the time, even if after the fact he then has the wherewithal to feel embarrassed about whatever it is he’s done. The actions he’s most torn up about are his behaviors around Steve because the more rationale he has, the more humiliated he feels about how he's been behaving around the slightly younger man.

Instinct draws him to Steve like a planet to the sun; he’s endlessly pulled in by Steve’s gravity and doomed to orbit him until the inevitable heat death of the universe. The way he smiles so kindly at Eddie, when he simply cares for Eddie so whole-heartedly… the way he doesn’t bat an eyelash at the prolonged intimacy that Eddie’s instincts have been driving him to pursue. All of it makes Eddie want to press himself as close to Steve as possible, to mold his body against him and rub himself all over Steve until their scents intermingle; until you can’t discern where one of them ends and the other begins. He wants the man for himself. Steve’s skin is scarred, proof of his protective nature; his indomitable spirit–each mark telling a story about how the world tried to tear him down and how he refused to let it. He’d thought Steve had brown eyes before, a lighter shade than his own, but no. His eyes are hazel, streaked through with threads of gold as though Rumpelstiltskin himself made them, weaving the delicate strands between green and brown like stitches. His natural scent alone drives Eddie to distraction–sweet and spicy, like buckwheat honey and peppercorns in the back of his throat, tinged with wood-smoke and that human salt-sweat-musk–but fuck, the flavor of his blood on Eddie's tongue? It’s better than that first hit after a tolerance break.

Steve’s been very firm about making sure Eddie receives a daily dose of blood since Dustin came over, since their initial discovery of what it can do for him. He’s undergone several physical changes since then, each subsequent feeding granting him another modicum of control over his form and his own mind. Physically, his wings have shrunk to the point that he can hide them under one of Steve’s sweaters or one of the oversized sweatshirts that Steve has managed to dig out of the donation bin at the shelter. He’s lost the second set of ears perched on the top of his head, although the others have remained stubbornly elongated and pointy. His tail is shorter but no less agile and it’s much easier to wear actual pants now, even if he still has his oddly shaped legs. His fangs are still there but his lisp has gotten better as they've shrunken slightly with each feeding, and his skin is still oddly colored but it’s such a difference from where he started.

The best thing about the feedings isn't the humanizing benefits, though. Guiltily, selfishly, Eddie’s favorite part is that it gives him an excuse to crawl into Steve’s lap and drink straight from the delicious source until he’s had his fill–which is surprisingly less than they'd all expected. Being in Steve’s space with his own thighs splayed out across Steve’s thick, muscular ones and feeling the flutter of his pulse under his tongue is something borderline holy, and maybe that makes him blasphemous, call him a heathen even, but it's the only type of worship he can get behind. He's horribly embarrassed by how much he likes it, how much he craves it. Not even the blood consumption itself–that’s actually pretty metal–but the closeness, the sheer intimacy of the act. However, therein lies the problem:

Eddie’s not gay.

He’s not, despite what the rumors have always said about him: that Eddie Freak King Munson is a queer, that he’s a Faggot Freak who will suck your dick under the bleachers if you ask pretty enough. Flattery works on him, sure, but he’s not done any of that, ever. And don't get him wrong, he's got zero issue with queer folks! They're freaks in their own way, just a different flavor of his people. He’d go to bat for them any day, ‘cause freaks are meant to stick together, and solidarity is so important when you’re being marginalized. But Eddie likes girls, he's slept with girls. And he’d liked it, really enjoyed it even. The softness of curves, plush tits under his fingers, the parted pressure of glossy lips of either type, and the wet heat they create around his cock…

But you've looked at men before and wondered. Wondered what those girls you fucked felt like.

He wants to deny the little voice in the back of his mind, he wants to shout and scream and cry and run from the traitorous thought entirely, but. There’s something damning in it, because what if he is queer and just… never let himself believe it? Tricked himself into thinking he had to be a certain way? And wouldn’t that be the most ironic of all, internalizing his own conformity to the point that he’d forced a part of himself to fit a mold that was wrong. He doesn’t know, though! He doesn’t know, because he doesn’t have any basis of comparison, only his own experiences. He’s always noticed men; admired their physiques, found the shape of some guy’s jaw nice or thought some dude’s eyes particularly mesmerizing or wondered if one guy’s hair was as soft as it looked, but… isn’t that just a given? How is he supposed to know if that isn’t exactly normal? How would he know if most people don't do that? It's not like he can go around asking about it, what with still being a wanted man and also a secret from pretty much everyone he would ask, anyway.

He wishes he could just... ask Steve about this, because Eddie’s so comfortable with him now. Steve has become his safe harbor, his port in the storm. He is the Light of Eärendil's Star dispelling the darkness in Shelob’s lair. Steadfast, perpetual protector Steve; the Samwise to his Frodo–willing to carry him if it means also lessening his burdens, even for a moment. Steve’s an Aragorn, for all Eddie wishes he could possibly measure up to the Evenstar. Something in him screams that Steve would be safe to talk to about this, that he wouldn’t react poorly to Eddie asking if he’d ever had thoughts about other men the same way without getting punched in the face. But… he’s still a jock, and Eddie's refreshed memories of Jason and his band of cronies has him still wary of that type. It's- It's going to take time to lose that knee-jerk reaction, especially with the complication of layered traumas, but. He wants to, for Steve’s sake if nothing else. Steve is nothing like the other jocks, he’s proven that time and time again–protecting a merry band of nerdy kids and misfits without a thought for his own well-being. He doesn’t do it for glory, he doesn’t do it for recognition. He does it because he cares, because he loves with his whole heart, so easily sharing affection even if he does try to hide it beneath a veneer of disgruntlement.

It’s the kind of affection he hasn’t really had since before his mom died, before he was six years old. The closest it’s come to matching that feeling is when he spends time with Joyce–Ms. Byers. Steve had her come by to keep an eye on Eddie for the first two days following his first blood feeding, not wanting to leave him alone while he had to go in to work. He’d struggled with it of course, but Joyce’s presence was grounding and it kept him calm. She’s a strong woman and her nurturing nature reminds him so strongly of his mom it aches a little, deep in his chest. She has sadness in her eyes when she smiles, like she’s been hurt before and it’s so familiar to the sadness he remembers seeing so often in the eyes of Elizabeth Munson–the eyes of his mom. His memories of her are still sharp and he refuses to let them fade. As a kid, he never noticed the melancholy lurking in her gaze when goddamn Al left her behind while he fucked around on one of his shitty schemes; he only remembered the way the whole world seemed to light up when she smiled at him, dancing in their kitchen with him standing on her feet as she twirled them around to the sound of old vinyl spinning in the background. But all of that has burnt to the ground now, lost forever.

Day three had been the hardest, as he’d managed to convince Steve that he’d wanted to try sticking it out alone the night before. He hadn’t realized how empty the house would feel, devoid of life the moment Steve left for work. With Joyce there, Steve’s absence was still noticed, but it was… dampened. Less pronounced, even if he still felt it down into the marrow of his bones. But without the buffer of another person to muffle the loss of his buoyant presence, Eddie felt himself drowning. Everything felt too wide, too dark, too deep. Vacuous and unending, every room felt like it echoed and made his thoughts sound like they were screaming back at him. He couldn’t help but wonder if this is what Steve felt, spending every day like this in High School? Plastering a mask upon his face to conquer the war-torn halls of academia, wear his body down, battling his way through opponents upon the court, combat by fire, only to come back to a tomb, a- an empty mausoleum rather than the warmth of a home. Once upon a time, he’d looked at Steve with disdain, thinking ah, here’s a guy who has it all… but Steve hadn’t truly had much, had he?

Material wealth means nothing to a man who measures his riches in experiences–in his connections to his friends, his family–a man who understands that it doesn’t end with blood, but with those you choose to share your life with. A man who forges his bonds in blood drawn and skin bruised, a man who has borne battlefields unimaginable, walked into the endless abyss and still come out on the other side, all in one piece. Eddie has seen all of this in him, and he believes it, because Steve is exceptional. Steve is a paragon, a paladin of the highest order. Steve takes the world in his scarred and worn hands, turns it on its axis without force, just a gentle flip of his hair and a smile that reveals a meager ounce of his kindness. He wonders how he might ever measure up; how he could possibly hope to be able to look at himself and think he was worth the risk that Steve took in going back for him, going back for his body. Because Steve had done that–kicked down the doors of Hell, determined to retrieve that which he believed full-heartedly belonged on the other side. Yeah, that's some serious Orpheus and Eurydice parallel shit, and it’s painfully romantic, at that.

So how the fuck is Eddie supposed to be normal about that? How is anyone expected to be normal about that kind of devotion? That kind of unconditional dedication? Like, he's not gay, but Jesus H. Christ… that’s the kind of love the great Bard wrote his Sonnets about; the kind of ardor that inspired myths like Orpheus and Eurydice, like Eros and Psyche. He remembers when he’d been flustered by Paige once upon a time, caught off guard by a pretty girl actually wanting to talk to him and not immediately being turned off by the cringe-inducing lack of game he had; game he still doesn’t have. What he’d experienced then doesn't hold a candle to the feelings he struggles with now. Knowing how much Steve risked for him, how determined he was to get Eddie home makes Eddie feel all sorts of hot and bothered. No one has ever given him such attention in that way before, treated him like he’s something valued beyond his usefulness in the grand scheme of things. It rattles him, makes him go blushy and tongue-tied while his heart feels like it broke into the Chocolate Factory and drowned in fizzy lifting drinks. It’s absurd, really, but it’s a sensation he’s quickly become addicted to and he refuses to consider losing it.

The animal part of him, the instinct parts sing in response to Steve’s attentions, bandying about terms like courtship and mates and bonds as though it’s all some red-string of fate, predestined, soulmate shit. And his treacherous romantic heart so badly wants to agree with it, but god if he isn’t terrified by what it all means for him. Because it would imply things about himself he’s not… he’s not sure he’s ready to accept. Things he’s not sure he’s able to fully believe. Well, no, that’s not true. He thinks it would be… remarkably easy to let himself love Steve. Hell, he probably already does, if he just allows himself to and stops fighting the instincts that have kept him moving since his initial transformation. Steve is just so good, and for so long he’s had to convince himself that fuck-ups don’t get to have good things. But, is that really true? Or is that just some goddamn hold-over of Al Munson, corrupting any modicum of happiness he might manage to salvage? He hates it–hates how whenever he looks in the mirror he still sees his dad in his own reflection, still sees the Junior staring back at him even through monstrous eyes. How could he… how could he even consider deserving someone like Steve, even if… even if he managed to get his shit together and figure out what he wants in the first place?

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, pulling his knees to his chest and curling into them, a quiet whine slipping from his throat. He can feel that the animal part of him is unhappy, lashing out in his mind and demanding his presence. Its dissatisfaction makes him nauseous, his mouth growing slick with saliva as a precursor to vomiting. He swallows it down, turning his attention inward. He’s gotten pretty good at this part–the communing, when he’d figured it out on the first day after the initial feeding. His mindscape is empty and dark, blackness as far as he can see and the ground is dark water, but it isn’t wet. He blinks into the abyss and red eyes gleam back, a rumble echoing in the space around him. The riotous part of him, the animal-him, is upset with the rational-him. That much is obvious. He exhales, his breath like vapor in the air, although he cannot feel any chill. He doesn’t need to speak here, he and his monster understand each other perfectly without words as he relays his emotional turmoil, his confusion, his fear. It gusts a sigh back at him.

He is bombarded with a rapid-fire montage of memories from a time where his rational mind was locked away, tucked safely behind a protective barrier (he still has no idea how that happened but he’s certainly not ungrateful) and fuck if it doesn’t make him fall even deeper for Steve. Because how can one man have so much- so much love and kindness in every single thing he does? If Eddie didn’t know better, he’d assume the man in the memories was a figment of his imagination, a character dreamed up to be an NPC for a future campaign, exclusively designed to weasel his way into the hearts of his players–the perfect hidden BBEG or perhaps tragic hero, a sacrificial lamb to motivate the party one way or the other. But he’s not, Steve is very real, too real, and so incredibly beautiful in so many ways. The animal part of him purrs, content at Eddie’s agreement, even if he’s still hesitant. Because it’s one thing to agree here, in this strange liminal space within his own mind, but out there? In the real world? That’s so much more terrifying. He’s still so confused about whether or not he’s actually gay, because what does it mean if it’s just Steve? Is Steve the only man he’d actually consider acting on such thoughts for? An exception rather than the rule, or were the girls a lie? Was he… was he lying to himself the whole time?

What does it matter? The bestial part of him rumbles, the past is past. He is our Stars–and you agree with us. Should that not be enough?

He doesn’t know how to explain laws to something that eschews them, the stigma that exists in society for daring to love and lay with someone of the same gender, or for having the gumption to present differently, labeled as deviant and subsequently targeted for your differences. He’s no stranger to being alternative, he’s one of the few followers of metal culture in this podunk town deep in the armpit of America after all, but what’s being suggested is a very specific brand of different. The kind of different that can get you killed.

Can I really… just let myself love him? Am I just falling into everyone’s expectations with this? Some self-fulfilling prophecy or whatever? Telling myself that his kindness translates to love in a romantic sense, deluding myself into some fucked up fantasy when there’s no chance of any feelings actually being returned?

There’s a deep snort of derision from the darkness, the gleaming red eyes rolling from where they sit within the black shadowy shape of the abyss. There is a chance, fool! He has all but accepted our courtship! Look back, tell us we can deny it!

Eddie sighs, turning the memories over slowly in his mind. And… he’s right. Steve has actually welcomed every single one of their advances, returned more than a few of them with a tenderness that has his heart jumping to his throat, hope surging unbidden in his chest. His pulse rabbits in his veins, nervous excitement swimming side by side with his self-doubt, a potent cocktail that makes his head spin. There’s… there’s no way he’s reading this wrong, right? Steve is… inviting his courtship, implying he wants Eddie in his life, in more than just a friendly way. If Steve is trying to be safe–because fuck Eddie certainly would be if he were in Steve’s shoes and self-assured in his own identity–then his roundabout language makes perfect sense, veiled as it is. The pet names, the touching. The tenderness, the devotion. The kisses, oh fuck the kisses! Eddie feels the blush as it sweeps through him like a tidal wave, rushing from the top of his head down to his toes so fast it leaves him breathless. He’s never felt this way about any of the other girls he’s been with, not even with Paige when they’d been on good terms.

Our Stars is different from those who came before. He makes up for where we are weak and we offer courage when he is lacking. We are good apart but better together.

Swallowing, he turns his gaze back to red eyes that have softened where they glow in the blackness of the space. The bestial side of himself isn’t wrong, and as much as he wants to deny it, to refute it, he can’t. Steve brings out the best in him, makes him braver than he thought he could ever be. And he wants to believe that he can bring something similar to Steve; wants to bolster him somehow merely by being by his side supporting him in every way he can. Steve is so, so strong on his own, standing tall even in the face of unfathomable threats; but when he has something to protect? He shines that much brighter, snarls that much louder, hits that much harder. He becomes something magnificent and fuck, does he want to be a part of that motivation so badly. Eddie gnaws on his lower lip with blunt human teeth–he always looks like his old self in his mindscape, divided as he is here–licking the salty blood away when it inevitably splits. He wants to be something to Steve; he wants Steve to look at him and flash that one smile he has sometimes, the one that makes his whole face soften and his eyes glow with love. He wants Steve to look at him and him alone with those stunning golden-threaded hazel eyes, his gently curving lips with so much tenderness in the plushness of his mouth, his expression as delicate as pale moonlight reflected across the quiet surface of a tranquil lake. Eddie wants that more than he’s ever wanted anything else in his life, and the realization that he wants to be more than just good friends with Steve settles into his bones with an ease that he thinks should probably come as more of a surprise. But it doesn’t. It feels easy to accept. Normal–like just another fact about himself: his hair is curly, his eyes are brown, his guitar is his Sweetheart, his favorite genre is metal and he’s definitely falling in love with Steve Harrington.

Done chasing your own tail, pup?

Eddie rolls his eyes, smiling too widely for the action to hold any real heat. His heart is racing beneath his ribs, overfull and somehow still light as air. Giddiness is making him buoyant, effervescent and lightheaded in a way that makes him want to giggle hysterically until his sides ache and his breath catches in his lungs. It’s as though something important has fallen in line, the jigsaw edges fitting together so smoothly he didn’t even feel them lock into place, taking away the anxiety and the underlying fear that the holes from the once-incomplete puzzle had created in him. He can see the whole picture now that the gaps have been filled in, and he likes the look of the mural that sprawls before him, vibrant and far-reaching. It’s still going to take getting used to, this whole loving lark, considering it’s a facet of himself he’s never really considered he would ever actually have to deal with–falling in love with and being woefully attracted to a beautiful man, that is–but he’s excited for the adventure that awaits him, the chance to embrace something new. The likelihood of Steve accepting his advances is astronomically high based on his past reactions to his bestial half’s bold courtship attempts, and for once, he can be Eddie the Courageous. That it’s Steve he’s fighting for makes him feel brave, makes him want to be brave. Steve is worth everything, invaluable and so, so precious beyond what words can say.

Steve is his real-life Aragorn, charismatic when it counts and a fumbling dork otherwise, able to rally and call to arms when all seems lost or handle the mundane with easy capability. The nail-bat Andúril he wields matches his beautiful, brutal ferocity perfectly, his dark maroon BMW a fitting stand-in for Roheryn. Eddie wants to be his Arwen; the one he returns to to rest his weary head. The one he turns to to confide in, to raise his spirits when he feels low; to serve as an inspiration and motivation when Steve feels lost or alone. It’s a tall order, but he’s determined to be good enough for him, to prove himself worthy to stand with Steve and know he belongs there, at his side. He feels more in sync with his bestial nature now, the instincts he initially shied away from easily running tandem with his rational thoughts in a way that breeds understanding he didn’t have before until he’d let go of the denial. He’d been confused by the possessive, reverent way the bestial side referred to Steve, but now it resonates in his heart and fills his stomach with butterflies–possessing and being possessed in turn making him shiver and shake with desire. He hears mate and thinks boyfriend, or if he’s truly dreamy: husband. Listens to Stars and considers Darling or Beloved. He imagines sire and pictures standing beside him, corralling a feral pack of teenagers together until they decide–as one, as Eddie-and-Steve–that it’s time to move on from Hawkins and onto bigger and better things. He cannot imagine life without Steve now, the idea is beyond comprehension, dreary and gray–meaningless and empty.

He feels lighter, accepting this part of himself. And while he’s still not sure if loving Steve makes him gay or if Steve is just an exception to the rule, or if there’s another word for what he is, he doesn’t mind so much anymore. Hell, maybe there’s a ton of resources out there he just needs to find so he can figure himself out, learn how to label himself other than apparently queer, question mark implied. People look at him and see Junior or Freak or Faggot, call him metalhead–he’s actually a multi-genre man–but the thing is, he’s not a fan of labels. He knows better than anyone that people can change, can evolve. Labels don’t always fit forever, so why bother with them in the long run when you can just be yourself? So he’ll figure out his actual sexuality later because ultimately it doesn’t matter, because the only one he wants is Steve. His bestial side purrs happily now, clearly satisfied with his firm stance on his feelings about Steve. Those red eyes curve upwards in the darkness, closed in a way that reminds Eddie of a pleased cat as the large shadowy shape that makes it up circles around his human form. He can feel its wispy edges when it gets close; cool, soft darkness brushing up against him. It tickles a little and he laughs, reaching out to trail his fingers through what feels like the softest fur he’s ever touched, the smoky blackness curling around his rings before freely dissipating into mist. His eyes close as he feels its large, plush head butt gently against his ribs, humming in response to the deep purr that reverberates into his chest.

He inhales.

Exhales.

And opens his eyes back in the Harrington house.

He can feel the beast settled comfortably in the back of his mind, clocks the way the instinct runs parallel to his thoughts as though they’ve always been there, easy as anything. He uncoils himself from where he’s curled into a ball on the couch, arching his spine as he stretches. Shrunken wings flutter slightly against his back, constrained subtly by the confines of his appropriated butter-yellow sweater that smells of Steve. He flexes inhuman toes, long sharp talons careful against the upholstery as he extends his legs out to reach the carpeted floor. Eddie feels calm, assured in a way he hasn’t felt without Steve by his side since they’d been reunited. It’s progress, major progress and he’s proud of himself for how far he’s come in such a short time. The rumble in his chest is involuntary as he pushes himself to a standing position, his tail flicking out behind him and swaying aimlessly in counter-balance. He turns his gaze to the clock on the mantle, his neck loose and lazy as he lets his head loll back to look. Judging by the time he reads there, Steve won’t be due home for another three and a half hours, which means he’ll have to amuse himself until he has company again. No hardship, not anymore. He tilts his head in the opposite direction, recognizing the hunger in his stomach, and decides to see what’s left-over in the fridge. His toe talons click against the tiles on the kitchen floor and he stares at the contents of the refrigerator in despair, a mournful crooning sound tumbling about in his chest like clothes in a laundromat washing machine. There isn’t much in the way of food–there are plenty of ingredients of course, but nothing pre-made–and he suddenly remembers Steve grumbling about food budgets this morning before he’d headed into work; something about the trust not being open yet and payday not until next week. He’s loath to just grab something at random to chow on if Steve has plans to prep dinner with what's there.

He’s hesitant to try cooking anyway. He doesn’t actually know how to work a stove, and has never cooked anything that didn't come already in a plastic tray, or doesn’t require instructions any more complicated than pushing the start button on the microwave. His kitchen skills are pathetic, totaling to: dumping cereal and milk into a bowl, putting bread into a toaster, or emptying a can of something into a bowl and tossing it into the microwave to get ‘nuked. The last thing he wants to do is burn Steve’s house down because he got cocky thinking he could work whatever fancy rich boy stove he’s got going on in the Harrington Castle kitchen, especially since he’s trying to prove himself a worthy partner and companion for Steve–he doesn’t want to give a single goddamn reason for Steve to kick him to the curb, and burning the goddamn house down is a pretty big one.

He huffs, shutting the fridge door and flopping bonelessly to the cool tile floor. He rolls onto his back, adjusting the way his wings settle against his back and shoulders and exhales deeply as he lays there, staring up at the ceiling. His clawed hands rest across his stomach, fingers interlacing. His vision is glazed, and he’s not really looking at anything, just kind of existing there on the floor of the kitchen. He can feel the way the tiles slowly warm to his slightly-cooler-than-average body temperature, creating a halo of heat difference around him that he’s sure would look metal as fuck under thermal vision. He has no idea how long he simply lies there, staring at nothing, but eventually the gnawing of his stomach becomes too much to ignore and he’s spurred into action.

With a grunt, Eddie rolls over onto his stomach and army-crawls his way over to the pantry. He hoists himself up to his knees and starts rifling through the contents, trying to find something familiar that he can toss into the rarely-used, top-of-the-line microwave Steve has wedged way back in the corner of the kitchen. Most of what he discovers in his hunting is soup stock and canned vegetables, interspersed with some concentrated soups that Eddie will eat in a pinch but he’s not exactly gonna put them at the top of his list. Cream of Chicken is for casseroles, not so much for just… eating. He grimaces at the thought and keeps looking. Thankfully, his perseverance pays off because buried way behind everything else he finds his prize: a can of Spaghetti-Os, only two months beyond its expiration date! Crowing in victory, Eddie jumps to his feet, overbalancing and twirling awkwardly around the kitchen as he tries to find a can opener amidst the many drawers. His impatience wins out when he almost brains himself on the countertop, and he gives up his hunt. Instead, he simply stabs his talons into the can, tearing it open and dumping its precious contents into a bowl he carefully pulled down from its respective cabinet. He hovers in front of the microwave as the bowl spins inside, bouncing slightly in place with excitement. He’s not sure how his stomach is going to react to his consumption of the noodle part of the Spaghetti-Os, but he doesn’t really care at this point. He hasn’t had Spaghetti-Os in forever, and he’s going to enjoy them, dammit!

The ding of the microwave has him letting out one of those squeaky chirpy sounds of excitement and he grabs at the scalding hot bowl, releasing it with a yowl when he burns his fingertips. Whining, he pinches the lip of the bowl with his talons and inches it towards him slowly and with care, glancing around for something to hold the boiling lava hot bowl with while he stuffs his face. A towel hanging by the sink will do, he supposes, and he yanks it off the rack before awkwardly shuffling the bowl on top of it, wrapping the excess around the edges like a buffer. Able to pick up his meal, he follows his instinct to hop up onto the countertop, crouched next to the sink as he cradles his bowl and blows on its contents to cool them down until they’re safe for consumption. He hums happily, swaying slightly side to side as he stirs his food with a spoon, blowing on his first bite before shoveling it into his mouth. His eyes shut in nostalgic bliss. It’s shit, but it’s shit that tastes like childhood and memories–some of them good and some of them bad, but all of them formative. He thinks of Uncle Wayne bringing him groceries when he was a shithead kid too stubborn to admit he needed help taking care of himself; thinks of his mom splitting a can with him when money was tight because Al was “between jobs” and the food stamp stipend hadn’t come in yet for the month. Thinks about sitting in the dark, alone, eating it cold straight out of the can because the power got cut since fucking Al Munson forgot to pay the bills. Again.

His eyes are shut as he hums around his spoon, licking the weirdly sweet, watery red sauce off the silvery surface and his lips and teeth, the mushy noodles disintegrating against his tongue and palate with the barest pressure. It’s gross in the best way and he loses himself to all the sensations, all the flavors that come with eating garbage food again for the first time since his return from the Upside Down. He’s been spoiled with the way Steve’s been feeding him since he’s come to stay in Hotel Harrington, and while the hospitality has been top notch–a full five stars and zero complaints–there’s something settling about eating such crap over the sink like a heathen that makes him feel closer to a normal that he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. Distantly and as though in a dream, he hears the sound of the back door by the sun room open and close, recognizes the jangle of keys and the rhythm of footfalls approaching the kitchen. He’s still squatting like a gargoyle on the countertop, toe talons gripping the granite and stuffing his face with trash food while leaning over the spotless sink, but he’s so lost in the bittersweet memories dredged up by working his way through the damn can of fucking Spaghetti-Os that he dismisses what should have registered as an oddity as something irrelevant. In the three days Steve has gone in to work his shift at Family Video, every time he returns home he enters through either the front door or through the basement garage entrance, never through the sun room.

The thud of something hitting the floor is what finally yanks his attention away from his half-eaten meal, his whole body tensing as he finally recognizes someone or something has intruded into his space–Steve’s home. He whips his head in the direction of the sound, eyes wide and ears pricked and even with his cheeks bulged with Spaghetti-Os, he’s coiled to spring into action should the need arise. Instead, he meets the wide eyes of a woman he’s never seen before standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She’s dressed business casual, freckled skin of her ankles peeking out between the leather of her shoes and the dark subtle-pinstripe tapered trousers that rise up to the leather belt around her waist. A well-fitting fine-checked blazer hangs open over a delicately patterned button-front shirt, the top three undone to tease a hint of cleavage and show off the chain necklaces layered across her throat and collarbones. Her neck is long and leads to a strong, square jawline. Her face follows a slight curve with pronounced cheekbones and strong, well groomed brows. Her dark hair is impeccably styled, shot through with a streak of silver along one temple. He can’t tell how long it actually is with the way she has it coiffed, but the masculine vibes lend an air of authority, although oddly enough the authority she carries doesn’t immediately trigger the need to raise his hackles in defense. He can’t read her expression at all, her eyes are wider than what would clearly be normal, but her face is carefully blank otherwise. They stare each other down, this garbage dump creature perched like a feral animal on the counters and a woman in a position of power dressed in expensive clothes, perfect posture and excellent reaction control.

“Well,” her lower contralto voice is steady, calmer than he thinks he would have been if he were in her perfect leather shoes, “I may have slightly misunderstood what my son was trying to tell me on the phone.”

Eddie blinks rapidly, swallowing what’s in his mouth as he licks the residue of sauce from his lips.

She tilts her head at him, arching an eyebrow in a horribly familiar action and suddenly the resemblance smacks him in the face. He’s seen that square jaw before. Seen the same kind of moles across her face (just on the opposite side, like a mirror), even the same soft, kind eyes as Steve. As she smiles, he watches how the two moles on the apple of her right cheek rise as her lips curve in such a similar way, how the one up above the point of her right brow follows the arch her eyes take.

“Uhh… Mrs. Harrington?” He barely lisps on the “s” in missus and only drags out the first “a” a little bit this time, mentally patting himself on the back at the improvement.

“Please call me Arlene, but if you must use my surname, it’s actually Ellsworth since I divorced Stevie’s father.” She bends her knees as she crouches down to retrieve her fallen suitcase where it lays haphazardly on the floor. All at once, he realizes that it must have been what made the thud that alerted him to her presence in the first place. The suitcase looks more expensive than anything he’s ever owned, barring maybe his Sweetheart, but the difference between luggage and a musical instrument is jarring enough that he doesn’t even know what to think about the comparison.

“You must be Eds,” she continues speaking as she straightens, settling the suitcase upright against the wall before making eye contact again. She’s suddenly striding towards him without hesitation, abruptly right in his space and extending a manicured hand for him to shake, “Stevie told me a lot about you.”

Eddie flushes, not sure if he should get off the counter or stay where he is. He has no idea what the etiquette is here, this is so far out of his wheelhouse he’s completely floundering. He decides to trust the instincts running tandem to his chaotic and untrustworthy thoughts, clumsily setting down the bowl and hopping down from the counter with far more grace. As he straightens back to his full height, he lets out a pleased rumble when Arlene doesn’t even react to his sudden towering over her.

“I- It’s actually Eddie,” he says quietly, shyly. He takes her hand to shake, mindful of his claws and she merely arches an eyebrow, blinking in mild interest.

“Hm,” she hums, turning his hand over in her surprisingly strong grip, “I suppose this has something to do with the interesting conversation I had to have with Agent Stinson and Doctor Owens outside Hawkins town limits before they confirmed my clearance level and even let me in?”

He finds himself nodding without realizing he’s doing it at first, and she releases his hand, giving the back of it a gentle pat with a smile that shows far too many teeth. This woman is dangerous, his instincts scream at him. She’s incredibly observant, intelligent in the way a top predator is; playing with her food and giving it a false sense of security before tearing it apart in a way to prolong its torture for her own amusement. She exudes protective mother energy in a way that reminds him of Joyce, but in a far less feral manner. Arlene is controlled, all precision and subterfuge where Joyce is brute force and wild swings. Eddie is both terrified and in awe, knowing Steve has someone like her in his corner. (It also explains a little as to why he was so hung up on Nancy–he’s clearly learned to favor badasses because of his mom.) He watches cautiously as Arlene runs her gaze across the kitchen, blue-green eyes so similar to Steve’s taking in every detail. She purses her lips when she realizes what’s in his bowl and picks it up off the counter, ignoring Eddie’s squawk of protest when she scrapes the remnants unceremoniously into the trash.

“Now I know my son has been feeding you better than this atrocity,” she says casually, her tone booking no nonsense, “so I’m guessing you either don’t know how to cook on your own or are afraid to use our kitchen’s appliances.” She turns her eyes to Eddie and he feels like a butterfly pinned under glass, staring back wide-eyed at Arlene as she dumps the now-empty bowl into the sink. She breaks their stare-down first and begins to move about the kitchen with a comfortable ease, confidently pulling cooking utensils out of cabinets and ingredients out of the fridge. Her diverted attention allows him to feel like he can breathe again; she’s a horribly intimidating woman, and his instincts are scrambling to find a way to impress her; to prove to Steve’s dam that he’s a worthy suitor–a worthy mate for her only son. He wrings his hands as his nerves mount steadily.

“So,” she prompts, finally turning back to lock him in place again with her gaze, “which one is it? Can’t cook, or intimidated by the appliances?”

Eddie swallows.

“Ca- Can’t cook,” he admits with some shame, “Never learned.”

Arlene’s expression gentles, something like understanding passing through her oceanic eyes. She hums, the sound soothing in the contralto range of her voice and he finds himself rumbling quietly in response. She swings a heavy bottomed pot onto one of the front stove top burners, turning back to face him and placing her hands on her hips in a familiar pose that has Eddie's lips twitching upwards in his mirth and rising fondness. It seems Steve comes by it honestly, which is unbearably charming. His feelings bubble and flutter in his chest like effervescent butterflies.

“Alright then. My Stevie-bear likes you and trusts you, so I'm going to extend to you a one-time only offer!” She wags a finger at Eddie, a crooked smile splitting her full lips and lighting up her face in a way that makes her look just like her son, “You interested in learning the abbreviated version of the patented Chiara family bolognese recipe?”

Eddie feels his mouth water. He’s never had homemade meat sauce before, but Steve’s marinara and meatballs was a family recipe too, or so he’d said, tossing the tidbit over his shoulder with a coy little wink that had made Eddie’s monstrous little heart race beneath his ribs. If the bolognese is anything like the marinara, he’s going to be licking his plate clean, and damn the need for table manners. But there’s one thing he’s confused by.

“Chiara?”

Arlene carelessly waves a hand in the air as she sets out onions, celery, and carrots on a cutting board. “Ah, yes, that’s my side of the family. All very Italian. My aunt Maria–my mom’s younger sister–was an opera singer, although she only trains new singers now. In her prime she even performed with Pavarotti, too! Aida, I think?”

“I- I don’t know much about opera.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. Stevie-bear loves it.” Arlene pulls out a strange contraption that she runs the large knife through a few times. Eddie has no idea what it is–his knowledge of kitchen utensils is rudimentary at best. “He spent a few summers in Italy with Mom and Aunt Maria as a kid, and Aunt Maria taught him quite a bit; he’s actually really talented.” Arlene says, casually dropping such a bomb that Eddie feels like he might choke on his own tongue.

He decides he needs to hear Steve sing immediately. Because from what he does know about opera–which, as he’d admitted, isn’t much at all–it’s an incredibly difficult skill to learn, and to be talented as well? It’s impressive, to say the least. He wonders if he can get Steve to teach him a little more about the genre; he’d always kind of brushed it off as some pompous rich people shit and never given it much more thought, but if his Stars loves it as much as his dam is implying he does? Well, then Eddie ought to express some genuine curiosity in his would-be-mate’s interests. He’s honestly surprised he’s never heard Steve mention it before, but maybe he just plays it close to the chest. It’s not like enjoying opera is a babe-pulling hobby, or that singing opera is going to be dropping any panties any time soon. (Although, it could potentially become boxer-dropping if he’s as talented as Arlene is implying—Jesus H. Christ fucking hell nope Eddie we’re not gonna be horny with his mom standing right next to you! Fucking hell, you–) Arlene grasps his arm and gently pulls him closer so he can watch her, jolting him out of his raunchy spiraling thoughts. He’s so grateful he might actually cry.

“So we have to chop the veggies,” she’s saying, “finely but not too fine, since they’ll cook down a lot. Watch how I do this, okay?” When she’s satisfied he’s paying attention she begins chopping, clearly at a slower pace than she usually goes, judging by how exaggerated her motions look to his eyes. She’s an old hat at this, her movements smooth and well practiced. Eddie’s reminded of the way Steve looks when he’s preparing his ingredients to cook for them, because Arlene gets a similar look on her face as she works her way through the celery and the carrot easily. He doesn’t get the same low rolling boiling feeling in his gut watching her that he does when he watches Steve, which in light of his epiphany and self-acceptance makes a hell of a lot of sense. Watching someone tackle a task with so much ease that they make it look effortless is just so inherently sexy, after all. Impeccable competency is deeply attractive to him, which is something he’d not realized he’d been partial to before Steve. Eddie’s lashes flutter as a shudder makes its way down his spine, his tail curling in imagined bliss as he dreams up Steve standing in Arlene’s place; glancing up at Eddie through his lashes while chopping away and raising an eyebrow in challenge. Tossing out an aggravatingly sexy smirk, baiting Eddie into–ahh, shit, he’s doing it again goddamnit! He shifts in place guiltily, so, so glad the denim hides what’s risen beneath the thick fabric, and thankfully Arlene has been talking and hasn’t noticed Eddie’s little foray down Lusty Lane. Her voice is soothing in his ears and he focuses on the way it rises and falls as she speaks, letting the contralto wash over him.

“–and he’s definitely brushed shoulders with some of the greats, although he probably doesn’t remember that.”

Eddie listens raptly as Arlene talks about Steve, sharing her memories of him and his childhood. The love she carries for him is plainly obvious as it spills out over every word, her exasperated fondness as she tells stories of Steve’s wild escapades as a child. They both have to pause, laughing when Arlene’s mascara starts to run from the sudden onslaught of tears the onion chopping causes. She curses her choice to eschew the waterproof option that morning, and Eddie is a dutiful son-in-law-to-be, pressing paper towels into Arlene’s hands so she can dab at her face. When the accursed onion is finally defeated, she dives right back into teaching him the next part of the recipe. He’s having fun, and she’s so patient with him when he still stumbles over some of his words, lisping around too-large teeth and struggling with his own vocal cords. He enjoys watching the way her oceanic eyes alight with memories as she recounts her son’s particularly precious memories, especially when she tells him of Steve’s mini opera debut his aunt helped him put together for their family back in Italy, the pride in her smile as she tells him about how bright and delighted his face had been when he’d reveled in his own success. Every tidbit she shares with him is a new piece of his Stars that Eddie gets to savor; a new part of the puzzle that brings him closer to the man he hopes will accept his courtship. By the time they’re done browning the meat in the bottom of the well-seasoned pot, she’s moved on to talking about how worried she’d been when her ex-husband had put the kibosh on the summer trips to Italy, basically forcing Steve to focus entirely on sports and stay in Hawkins full time.

“I- I had wondered why,” Eddie murmurs, “if he had su- such a cul- cultured childhood he fell into the jo- jockish life.”

“If I’d had my way, he’d never have gone into sports at all, unless he wanted to. Don’t get me wrong,” Arlene says, waving the wooden spoon as she speaks, “Stevie-bear is a fantastic athlete, and I’m so proud of him, but he’s a smart kid and somewhere along the way he lost his brain and decided impressing Dick of all people was his priority.”

Eddie snorts, clapping both hands over his mouth to smother his laughter. She grins wolfishly at him, and he sees so much of Steve in her expression it brings a pang to his heart.

“I know boys want to be like their dads, but honestly, Dick? Worst possible role model he could have picked.”

“My- My dad isn’t a good one either,” he says quietly. Something about Arlene makes him feel safe, like she would never judge him for who his father is. It’s probably because of how much she reminds him of Steve, but he just knows he can trust her.

“Oh? You don’t have to tell me, Eddie,” she says, laying a hand gently on his shoulder and barely avoiding his wing where it’s tucked against his back. She rubs in small circles, the action soothing, “But I’m happy to listen if you need to talk about it.”

He hesitates, but only for a moment. “You- Y’know Al Munson?”

Arlene freezes.

Inhales sharply.

And Eddie’s blood turns to ice in his veins.

He’s absolutely terrified he’s somehow ruined everything, that he’d been wrong about her. Maybe he’d read something wrong, misjudged her because she reminds him so much of Steve, and Steve is everything good and kind and right in this world. But she seems angry? Disgusted? Fuck, he can’t read her! She’s too skilled at cloaking her emotions, keeping them from her body language and her face, and it’s completely messing with his rational thought and his instincts. He thinks he needs to run, because if his father makes her react like that, it must only mean bad things, and he won’t consider hurting his Stars’ dam–

“You’re Elizabeth’s boy, then?”

–huh?

“Ohhh, man, I see the resemblance now, you look a lot like her!”

Wait… what? She’s… laughing?

“Jesus Christ, this is… this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Arlene wheezes, her laughter honking out of her like a goose or like, a donkey. She doubles over, gripping the counter, cackling. He is so, so confused.

“Wha–?”

“Eddie,” she manages to gasp, “my son and I must have the exact same taste, because I swear to you I had the biggest crush on your mother when she and your dad moved to town from Tennessee.”

Eddie thinks his brain might be broken. He can tell he’s just. Gaping at her, completely stupefied by the way this entire situation has gone so sideways.

She chuckles at his likely-flabbergasted expression, laughing gamely and turning to the fridge to retrieve the white wine she’d pre-opened and re-corked earlier. “But, that’s ancient history. I was friends with your Uncle in high school before he dropped out, so I knew Al tangentially. No love lost there.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Anyway, enough about my son, I’m sure you know enough about him already.” Arlene smirks knowingly, arching an eyebrow at Eddie in a way that makes him feel seen even if he’s not sure what she means by it… they weren’t friends in high school, not even close.

He shrugs, still somewhat stunned by the direction the whole conversation has gone. “We… we only really got to know each other over spr- spring break,” he manages, only stumbling over a few of his consonants and lisping slightly over his words a little bit, “even though we were in high school together all four of his years.”

“Oh? You were in the same grade?”

Eddie flinches, “I- I failed senior year. Had to repeat.” He’s not going to tell her how many times.

Arlene makes a conciliatory noise, “Ah, that’s unfortunate. At least you’re done now, though. High School was hell, especially for someone like me.”

Eddie blinks slowly. Is she saying–

“Like you?”

“Mmhm. Like me. Someone different in a time where different meant death, so I had to hide in order to be safe. I had some friends who knew me, of course–like your Uncle, actually–but it’s not easy having to hide who you are during such a tumultuous time in our teenage lives.”

“What… what could you possibly have to hide?” He’s going to process the fact that his Uncle was friends with this woman once upon a time later, because what the fuck his brain is broken enough as it is.

“Oh, honey,” Arlene laughs but not unkindly, patting Eddie’s cheek and grinning at him, the expression boyish and charming, “how about the fact that I was a big ol’ dyke growing up in rural Indiana?”

He chokes on his own spit.

She just- She just came out and said it!?

Arlene pulls the wine cork with her teeth, spitting it into the sink with far too much grace for such a crass action, shooting him a coy little wink before going right back to explaining the next steps in her recipe. Something-something deglaze, evaporate, stir frequently. It gives him a moment to quietly freak out. Because holy shit, this woman has balls of fucking steel. Eddie thinks he might love her, just a little. It’s so obvious now where Steve gets it from, because it’s undeniably hereditary. The Harrington Charm? Nah, fuck that shit, it’s the Ellsworth Charm now because good fucking Christ on a unicycle this lady has mad game.

Something in him settles, because yeah, Arlene is safe. She knows who he is, and if she’s talked to the government goons then she knows about him and the murder allegations but she’s chosen to trust her son over all of that. She clocked his feelings for Steve, revealed her own preferences and proved herself a staunch ally and a member of a small, private community he’s only just realized he’s become a card-carrying member of. He registers the gentle rubbing of Arlene’s hand on his shoulder and he blinks down at her. She’s smiling at him, soft and kind just like her son, and Eddie feels like he might start crying. He feels accepted, and his instincts sing as his thoughts calm in the face of her genuine care. He sighs, shoulders slumping as he leans into her touch, accepting the affection she so easily offers him.

“I- I understand. Thank you fo- for trusting me.”

“Like recognizes like, Eddie,” she says, her words sure and steady, “but I can tell this is a bit new to you. When did you realize you liked my son?”

He can’t help the flush that fills his face and swims down his chest. She chuckles but it’s easy to tell she’s not laughing at him. There’s no malice in it.

“Um. Sp- Spring break, technically is when I… when I first started to realize my feelings? But… I didn’t accept them until, um. To- Today?”

Arlene’s eyes go wide, more emotion slipping through her control to show on her face than he’s seen from her so far. It’s surprising, the way her lips form an ‘o’ shape and her eyebrows hitch high on her forehead. He shrugs, embarrassed. “Always thought I was st- straight.”

“Well, it’s all a very fluid thing, sexuality. Some people are a Kinsey six, some folks are a Kinsey zero, and everyone else falls somewhere in the middle.”

“You can- You can do that?”

She nods, “I’m a Six, obviously. Men do absolutely nothing for me. They’re just people, I don’t notice anything about them unless I really look.”

Eddie blinks. If a gay person didn’t look at the opposite gender and have thoughts about them or think about what ifs, then…

“An- And it’s safe to assume st- straight people have the opposite feelings as you? Look at the sa- same gender and feel nothing?”

Arlene shrugs, “I’d guess so, if they were truly straight, a Kinsey zero.”

Eddie blinks. “Huh.”

Arlene pats his shoulder again, “Don’t stress about it, Eddie. If you think you like my son, then you like my son. It’s that simple. Whether or not it’s just my Stevie or if there are others would just determine what your proclivity towards homosexuality or heterosexuality is, which right now isn’t the important thing, right?”

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? He nods, a watery smile splitting his lips as he leans into her touch. She smiles back at him, giving him a nod of her own and it feels like solidarity.

“Wanna finish up the recipe?”

He nods again, feeling a little like a deranged bobble-head, but so thankful for the distraction she’s offering him. She’s given him a lot to consider, and he’s incredibly glad she’s taken his questions seriously and not laughed at the sheer amount of ignorance he has. She’s been incredibly kind, and if Arlene sticks around he hopes she’ll turn out to be the Obi Wan to his Luke, a mentor to guide him on the path to discovering his own destiny, helping him understand his sexuality and what it all might mean for him. He listens intently as Arlene explains the importance of San Marzano tomatoes and why using anything else is absolute blasphemy, laughing when she grows heated, gesturing wildly with the sauce-covered wooden spoon and dodging the flying splatter that results. The sauce itself takes at least another two hours to simmer on low heat, she tells him, setting an egg timer on the counter in thirty minute increments so she can keep checking it and stirring so the bottom doesn’t burn. She asks if he drinks, and when he says he does, she pulls a bottle of red wine out of a glass-front cabinet he’d not really noticed before in the fancy dining room. She pours them both a generous glass, clinking rims in a wordless toast before gesturing for him to follow her out to the living room.

He hovers awkwardly in the doorway as she settles comfortably on one end of the couch, kicking off her shoes and tucking her legs up underneath her. Arlene glances back at him and frowns.

“Are you coming, Eddie?” she asks, leaning forward and patting the opposite end of the couch. He blinks, but wordlessly takes her invitation, gingerly settling in across from her. His tail coils around his waist in self-comfort and his talons clink against the glass as he tries to get comfortable under her intense oceanic gaze.

“So, Eddie,” Arlene says, swirling her wine and taking a sip, “tell me about yourself.”

She stares at him from over the rim of her glass, her wine-stained lips tilting upwards and casting a perfect illusion of a predator’s blood-smeared smirk.

He gulps.

Roll for Charisma, Eddie…

Steve hits the fob button to automatically close the door after parking his car inside the garage, letting his head drop to the steering wheel and just sitting there in the dark, breathing. Days like today test him more than all the times he’s had to battle actual monsters, combined. He’ll take Russians and Billy Hargrove concussions and flower-faced freaks with too many teeth any day over dealing with Mrs. Kissinger and her inability to understand that no, we can’t just waive your late fees, ma’am. You’re nearly a month overdue. No, we’re sorry but it’s company policy. You want to speak to our manager? Oh, Keith isn’t in at the moment, but I can take a message for him? No? Um, well, I can give you a business card and you can call back to the store tomorrow after we open? No to that too, huh… um, oh? You’ll just pay the fees then? Oh, okay–ah. Sure, all… coins. You’re paying entirely in change. That’s- that’s fine… yup. Totally fine. Mmhm, fantastic. Thank you very much, have a great day! He’d wanted to gouge his own eyeballs out and Robin had been no help, watching the entire interaction from the safety of the aisles as she pretended to restock while actually laughing at his misery the entire time.

He loves her, but he also fucking hates her sometimes. Like the annoying little sister he never asked for.

Platonic soulmates, man. Wild shit.

He exhales, straightening up in his seat and running his hands through his hair, no longer immaculately coiffed. He’s drained, but he knows he needs to make dinner for himself and Eddie still. He’s pretty sure he can throw something quick together from the ingredients in the fridge, but he’ll have to double check. It’s going to be a low effort night, that’s for damn sure. He’s exhausted, and he just wants to crawl into bed and just sleep for a year. He exits his car and unlocks the entry door, stepping inside and making his way through the unfinished basement. He feels some of his stress slip away immediately, knowing he’s home and that Eddie is waiting for him, a smile pulling at his lips unbidden. He unceremoniously drags off his Family Video vest, draping it over one forearm and stretching as he makes his way to the stairs. Halfway up, he pauses at the sound of voices. One he recognizes as Eddie’s, steadily growing stronger with every passing day and every time he feeds on Steve’s blood. (Steve looks forward to that more than he probably should, because there’s something in the way Eddie looks, blood-drunk and malleable in Steve’s lap afterwards that ignites something deep in Steve’s gut.) The other is familiar, as though there’s something about it that isn’t quite as he remembers. Anxiety churns in his veins and it spurs him to action, taking the stairs two at a time as he races towards the living room. He bursts in, ready to fight if he needs to–

“Welcome home, Stevie-bear,” his mother coos at him, “Look at him, Eddie! Ohhh, my Baby Bear is so handsome! He’s so grown up!”

Eddie giggles, and Steve’s gaze whips towards him, startled at the adorable sound and taking in his flushed cheeks and- oh my god are they drunk?

“You got him drunk!?”

“Pssht, no!” Mom waves a hand dismissively, scoffing, “Just a little buzzed!”

Eddie hiccups, giggling again as he sways where he sits criss-cross applesauce on the couch opposite Steve’s mom. Fuck he’s so cute Steve’s gonna lose his shit in a second–

“How much did you have?” Steve bemoans, both enamored with how fucking sweet Eddie looks, all flushed and giggly, and frustrated that his mom even let this happen in the first place. What the hell ever happened to drinking responsibly, huh?! “What did you even drink?”

“We just split a bottle of Cab… the ‘85 Sassicaia,” Mom says, her Italian accent more pronounced in her intoxicated state. A whole bottle is a lot of wine… what was she trying to do? Interrogate Eddie like the fucking Russians? But less violent and more drugs–or, alcohol, rather?

“St- Steeeeeeevieeeee,” Eddie croons, distracting Steve from his spiraling. His eyes are half-lidded as he shoots the sleepiest, sexiest smile Steve’s ever seen from him before in Steve’s direction. He swears he’s developing heart palpitations or something because Jesus Christ–

“Steeeeeevieeeee,” Eddie croons again, reaching out his arms and making grabby hands in Steve’s general direction, “Steeeeevieeeee I miiiiiissed you!”

“Aww, that’s so cute,” Mom gushes, turning to face Steve with a soft expression. “Eddie is the sweetest boy, Stevie-bear! I had a feeling about you on the phone; I thought that there was something between you two, and now that I’ve met him it’s obvious!”

She smirks, “How long did you think you could be sneaky about dating a boy?”

Steve stares at his mom–horrified–as the blood drains from his face.

She catches his expression, her smile and laughter disappearing in an instant as she furrows her brow. “Stevie..?”

“Mom, what- I- I don’t–” he chokes on the lie he can’t even tell to save his own skin, feeling like he’s going to be sick.

“Eddie, honey?” Mom says, softly but firmly, and not breaking eye contact with Steve. She gets an answering coo from Steve’s drunken sweetheart and continues talking. “I’ve gotta’ go talk to Stevie for a minute in the kitchen. You stay right there, okay, cutie-pie?”

“Mmkay, Arleeeene,” Eddie croons back in response, flopping face-down onto the couch and nuzzling into the throw blanket, inhaling loudly and dramatically. (Jesus, it’s the one that he and Steve always snuggle together underneath–oh fuck, he really might actually get sick–)

Mom stands up from the couch, suddenly seeming remarkably sober. She beelines for Steve, and it takes everything in him not to turn tail and flee when she reaches out and grasps his wrist as she continues moving. (She isn’t gripping him, she’s just holding, and it’s the only thing that stops him from panicking–sending him back down-down-down miles below Starcourt–) Instead, he follows her into the kitchen, and even though he’s not falling into a PTSD-induced panic spiral, it still feels like he’s attending his own funeral march. Fuck, is she gonna’ disown him? His hands tremble and he clenches them tightly, the skin across his knuckles creaking with the effort before he shoves them deep into the pockets of his jeans. He chews the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. His mom releases his wrist when they pass into the kitchen, and he comes to a stop when he’s standing a few paces from her. His stomach feels like it’s full of snakes, writhing and roiling, as he’s suddenly faced with being forced to confront the one person he’s always known has been in his corner. But- but now she knows he’s–!

“Stevie, I’m not gonna beat around the bush here,” she says, taking a deep breath and looking away from him.

Oh fuck this is going to goddamn destroy him, this is going to hurt so badly, he thinks. She’s going to reject me I’m going to be disowned how am I gonna’ be able to take care of Eds please just let me have the trust please fuck please—

“I thought the phone call you made to me about the trust fund,” his mom starts to say slowly, an awkwardly guilty look crossing her face, “was a thinly veiled attempt at coming out to me.”

He furrows his brow, confused. How the hell did she come up with that? She’s not wrong, he is bisexual–like Bowie and Elton John and Freddie Mercury–but that’s such a weird conclusion to come to, he hadn’t even been talking about queer shit! He’s about to speak, to question her but his mom holds up a hand to stop him, raising a single finger in the universal sign for hold on one moment. Pressing her other palm against her forehead, she sighs and it sounds so frustrated to his ears. He has no idea what’s happening right now. He wishes she would just hurry up and get it over with, are you disowning me or not, this is killing him–

“Which is why,” she continues, sounding exhausted all of a sudden, “I wanted to make sure you knew you were safe with me.”

She takes a deep breath, shaking her head slowly, “I thought I’d made it clear to you in that phone call that I–” she gestures to all of herself, barking out a self-deprecating laugh, “–am also queer as a two dollar bill.”

She lifts her head and her eyes lock to his. There’s no malice in her gaze, no lies in her words, just that one eyebrow raised high on her forehead, lips pursed and her hands perched on her hips in a familiar stance. She’s… challenging him, like she’s always done his entire life when he’s being obstinate. (It’s the same tactic he uses with the kids…)

Steve stares at his mom–his incredibly intelligent mom, his apparently fucking queer mom–speechless for a long, long moment, before rational thought comes barrelling back through his brain like a runaway train, slamming into him full force and blaring like a foghorn in his mind.

“Wait, you’re what?!”

(｡ಡωಡ｡) EHUEHUEHUEHUE

you know that mood when you have a specific scene that you are DYING to write but you can't just write it cause there needs to be WORDS on both sides of it? yeah. that's me with the Spaghetti-Os here. i've wanted to write that scene fOR A LONG TIME AND I FINALLY DID IT. I CAN DIE HAPPY NOW.

Also, say hi to Arlene Ellsworth! I hope everyone likes her! I kinda HC Steve's mom lookin' a lil like Angelina Jolie because same jawline forreal and the moles?! so I used her as an inspo lol

As I said before, I'm loosely basing her off my own Gramma, who came out as a lesbian in the 80s and divorced my Grampy after being married for nearly 30 years (and having like, 10 kids, shit's fucking wild, I swear.) Her story is bonkers, and she was a crazy cool lady to know while she was alive.

also catch me throwing one of my fucking steve ideas in here lmao i don't have a problem you have a problem shush.

AND THAT FUCKING ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE POST? I SAW IT AFTER I WAS ALREADY EDITING THIS SHIT. SUS AS FUCK, WHO IS READING MY MIND? WHO IS MIND MELDING WITH ME LONG DISTANCE, HUH!?! this is me squinting at you through the screen, zero trust, y'all. quit it.

Aaaaanywhosiwhatsit, I'mma try to get crackin' on part nine asap, and I was considering getting stuff up slowly on AO3 after I reach part 10 here on the tumblr dot com.

the support banners (and the content warning banners) are from here! they're beautiful, aren’t they? So in love with them. cafekitsune has made some gorgeous stuff. please check them out if you're a creator!

----------------------------------- THE PERMA-TAG LIST ----------------------------------- @almondflavoredbookworm @anne-bennett-cosplayer @awkwardgravity1 @brainsteddielyrotted @cashewnutofdoom @child-of-cthulhu @croatoan-like-its-hot @dame-zoom-a-lot @dauntlessdiva @ellietheasexylibrarian @estrellami-1 @eyesofshinigami @goodolefashionedloverboi @gregre369 @grimmfitzz @gutterflower77 @himbosandhardwear @hippieg1rl420 @hornybunnybaby @insteviewetrust @kacatshi @kingelyx @lawrencebshoggoth @lunabyrd @matchingbatbites @me-and-my-sloth @moltenchocolatelavacake @monsterloverforhire @mugloversonly @numinosmoon @obliosworld @ohmeg @panicatthediaz @pansexuality-activated @prazinos @queenie-ofthe-void @rainyefflorescence @sani-86 @sergeisilence @simplebtromance @snarkfamily @steddieinthesun @steddielations @steddieonbigboy @steddiewithachance @vacantwatchers @waelkyring @warlordess @y4r3luv

The perma-list on the main post is full! But don’t worry, you can still ask to be tagged! Your name will just end up in the replies, rather than the main post. I won’t forget you, I had to make a spreadsheet to keep track of all of you, which is fucking wild to me but i’m so goddamn flustered and blushy and skfnalsghaso about it so it’s whatever i guess.

I also have a list of folks who didn’t ask specifically to be tagged for future installments, but have been extremely enthusiastic about the story from the beginning based on their reblogs and/or replies to the posts. So if you’re on that list, unless you tell me otherwise, I'll continue putting your name in the replies. You can also follow the story tag, which is #Take Me Home steddie fic where you might find my posted sneak peeks or wip updates in between the actual parts, or you can even just follow me, @hobbyistauthor for all my nonsense!

If you don’t want to be tagged or want to be taken off the tag list for any reason, just let me know either in the replies or via DM. I don't bite much.

#steddie fanfiction #holy shit I read this all in one sitting and I need MORE

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