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Inspired by this post by @0nemorestranger Hopefully close enough to what you had in mind

Lost Media

Steve didn’t realize he’d been humming along to anything until the music cut off suddenly and looped around to start over. The opening riff played for about three seconds before it cut off again.

“Wait, who’s humming?” The question came from one of Steve’s younger co-workers. A part-timer working his way through college. Steve couldn’t remember his name.

“Uh, that was me. Sorry,” he tacked on the apology as an afterthought.

“You know that song?” the kid asked. He sounded like Dustin.

“It’s called Plane of Shadows. I think it’s a DnD reference,” Steve answered. “Band’s Corroded Coffin. Haven’t heard them in years.”

That wasn’t strictly true. Every once in a while, Steve would play the tape he still had. Think about that one summer he’d spent as an unpaid, unofficial roadie. Daydream about what could have happened if he’d known himself a little better back then.

Not too often. Steve wasn’t that much of a loser.

The kid came over and plopped down in Robin’s empty chair. She was out sick today, getting over the flu Steve had picked up last week.

“It is. A DnD reference, I mean,” the kid said. Steve probably needed a better thing to call him; he was probably Erica’s age. “Shit, one of my friends posted that clip to this metal bulletin board. We've been trying to identify it forever. How do you know it?”

“They’re from the same small town I am. We all went to highschool together.” Not that Steve had known their music in highschool. “I don’t think they ended up with a record deal, but they did have an EP they used to sell at concerts. I can bring it tomorrow if you want.”

*********

Steve brought the tape, along with the souvenirs he’d saved from that summer. A couple of photocopied flyers. An ad clipped from a local Bloomington paper for a concert. A wristband from a bar that had marked him as too young to drink. Also his Walkman. Steve wasn’t sure if kids still had cassette players now that CDs were everywhere.

“This is so cool,” the kid - Brian, apparently - gushed when Steve handed him the shoebox he’d brought it all in at lunch. “Is it alright if I scan these? And can I borrow this tape? I want to digitize it and share the full song with the board.”

“You can do that?” Steve really needed to learn more about computers. Just not from Dustin who couldn’t teach anything without turning into a condescending asshole.

“Yeah, just record from the Walkman like it’s a mic. I’ll burn you a copy of the whole EP. That way you won’t have to worry about wearing out your tape,” Brian offered. “I would never have guessed you were such a metal fan.”

“I’m not, really,” Steve admitted. Brian blinked at him, surprised. And, well, it wasn’t the eighties anymore, and they weren’t still living in Hawkins. “Massive crush on the lead guitarist.”

“Oh, uh, thanks for telling me.” Brian leaned over and patted Steve’s shoulder. “So you and Robin aren’t-”

“Strictly platonic.” Maybe Robin was right and they should get signs for their desks.

*********

It was nearly a month later when Brian grabbed Steve at the water cooler and dragged him over to his desk, saying “You’ve got to see this.”

This was a post on the Brian’s metal bulletin board:

Crazy to hear from a buddy that our old band is a minor Internet sensation. Thanks, all. If you guys had been around back in the day we might have managed a full album. Or maybe not. Gareth’s parents would have killed him if he dropped out and Jeff actually wanted to go to college, so maybe we still would have broken up in ‘87. Regardless, we’re all thrilled our music is bringing joy to today’s metal heads. As the primary songwriter, and with the agreement of the rest of the band, I grant permission to upload and download the entire EP. We think any money we might potentially have made on it is worth less to us than the value of preserving what could have been lost media. Just make sure to credit us if your garage band turns one of our songs into a hit. Anyway, if you guys have any questions about Corroded Coffin, or the songs, reply to this post and I’ll do my best to answer in a timely fashion. Aside to OP: Is your preppy co-worker who had all our stuff a handsome former jock with spectacular hair? Because I’d love to get back in touch with our old roadie. -EM

“Oh my god,” Robin squealed, leaning over Steve’s shoulder as he read. “Please, you have to give Eddie Steve’s email. Or get Eddie’s email to give to Steve. Or both. Both would be best. That way at least one of them will have the balls to reach out first.”

“Eddie’s already reaching out,” Steve said. “And I thought you said it was anti-femminist to use testicles as a proxy for courage.”

“Stop quoting me when I’m being right, Steven.”

“So I should get his contact info for you?” Brian asked.

Steve hesitated. Real life was not some romantic comedy where attraction was always mutual and true love overcame all obstacles in the end. But it wasn’t like he’d spend the last decade pining. Even if it was nothing more than getting a friend back, it would be good to get in touch with Eddie again.

“Sure,” Steve answered. “Why not?”

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Maid cleaning a massive chateau surely belonging to the richest people you’ve ever seen, and as she’s walking from room to room you notice that every single portrait is of her

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Regular Guy Steve Harrington accidentally meeting Famous Rockstar Eddie Munson, and may be the first person in over five years to not know who he is. It’s so surprising that Eddie blurts out, “You don’t recognize me?”

The thing is, Steve does think that Eddie looks vaguely familiar. He just can’t place where until - “Oh, we went to high school together, right?”

Steve is so effortlessly endearing that Eddie would go to hell if he asked so, “Yeah, yep. High school, that’s it.”

Now Eddie has plans to catch up with a guy he most definitely did not go to high school with and absolutely zero percent that this won’t blow up in his face, so…

At least he’ll have a good anecdote for Jimmy Fallon.

[samsoble]

I meant for this to be a tumblr short, but it got a little long. Oops.

Siesta

Inspired by this post by @grandwretch

Except:

Steve Harrington’s corpse was draped on top of Eddie’s personal picnic table, the one he dragged into the woods behind the school three years ago. It hadn’t been there long. Only a light drift of snow had fallen on it, and the flakes that landed on skin melted almost immediately. If Harrington was still warm, he couldn’t have been dead long.

Tentatively, Eddie reached over with one ungloved finger and poked Harrington’s cheek.

“For fuck’s sake, Munson.” Harrington swatted his hand away without opening his eyes. “I was almost asleep.”

[samsoble]

their polyamorous swag

[samsoble]

Routine Hang Out

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Referenced Drinking Tags: Post-Canon, Angst, Hurt With Minor Comfort, Pre-Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Internalized Homophobia, Drunk Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Takes Care of Eddie Munson, Emotionally Hurt Steve Harrington, Emotionally Hurt Eddie Munson, Plot Twist, Ambiguous Ending What if we gave Eddie Munson internalized homophobia as a little treat?

💔—————💔 Steve’s two beers deep on the Munson couch. And Eddie’s next to him even more wasted; three beers, a couple shots of vodka, and the last quarter of a joint from a different time they hung out all swimming in his system. They’re watching some…some movie, it’s unclear which one it is in the slow to glaze vision he’s sporting. All he knows is this: the couch is sinking slowly under both their heavy bodies, Wayne should probably get somebody to fix the leak in the trailer’s bathroom, and Eddie’s extremely clingy when inebriated. Not that that’s a bad thing, per se, just…unexpected.

Maybe he should’ve expected Eddie to be flopping all over the place. Considering how easy it was for the guy to lean into his space in the Upside Down, quirk his dimpled grin, flash his crazy eyes, and laugh around raspy, tired breaths. Shockingly, it was easy to let him. To have Eddie in his space. To joke and poke and tease. If anything, Steve’s only continued to bring that energy to their hang-outs; though, now that they’re around each other more, he’s come to notice that Eddie doesn’t casually enter Steve’s space or joke or tease or…whatever else he fancies doing. No, Eddie would rather sit as far as possible, and snark rather than smirk.

With the alcohol, Eddie’s come right back to square one.

Currently, there’s a hand on Steve’s right cheek. Thumb working into his skin. Tracing it down the edge of his face.

Slurred, “You’ve got such a nice face,” Eddie comments.

He snorts. “Eds, you’ve already said that, like, four times.”

“It’s true!” And that’s another thing about Eddie—when he’s wasted, he gets a little too loud. Not enough to really cause a scene, but just enough to make the wall vibrate. “God, I could look at you all day.”

“Feels like you have been.” Steve gently circles his fingers around Eddie’s wrist. Sweeps his thumb in the little dip where a pulse point sits. “How about we get some food and water in your system? Maybe go to bed?”

Eddie sighs, pulling forward into Steve’s shoulder. His forehead rests. And then he groans, pushing himself back up. All the while, keeping a heavy, steady hand on Steve’s cheek. “No,” he whines. “I wanna keep looking at you…like…like so bad.” His other hand comes up, sweeping back some of Steve’s stubborn hair. Holding his bangs in place. Eddie smiles, small and adoring. “Did you know…”—hic—“…know that you are so pretty?”

Something churns in Steve’s stomach.

Sour and alive and sickly.

“Ed,” he sighs. “C’mon, man, don’t…don’t say stuff like that.” Not that he particularly wants it to stop. Just…

If he keeps hearing just how pretty he is, it’s going to get his hopes up.

It was a hard thing to conclude. How much he’s really invested and infatuated and at the ready for Eddie. All the things he’d do for him. Waive a late fee at Family Video, take him out for food, odd jobs around the trailer, be at his side during physical therapy or recovery, take a trip around the moon to gather the rocks Eddie can’t pocket, and stop the world for them to remain frozen in time—right next to each other, stitched at the sides.

He loves Eddie.

But he can’t say that right now.

“Let’s just get you to bed, Eddie,” Steve says, more pressure under the words. “Then you’ll be right back to normal in the morning. I’ll make us eggs for breakfast, you can brew some coffee, and we’ll ride on over to the video store to return the movie and VCR—alright?”

Eddie releases Steve’s bangs from the top of his head. Clumsily, he points out his right index finger, and boops the tip of Steve’s nose. Squishing it with pure determination. “I want you to stay right here,” he husks. It’s almost flirtatious. Low enough, but melancholic instead of sultry. “Don’t…don’t want this to be over yet.”

Steve frowns in confusion. “I’m not going anywhere, man. I’ll be right where I always am when I stay the night, yeah? On the couch, waiting for you to wake up in the morning.” He licks his lips, stutters his breath when Eddie follows the motion. “You’re just very drunk right now and feeling a little bad, okay? Get on up with me and we can make you feel better.”

It takes some more resistance, but Eddie finally concedes, standing heavily against Steve’s side once off the couch. One slow step at a time, they get to the back bedroom. Where, gently, he plops Eddie down onto the bed.

He takes the extra time to help Eddie lay on his side. Tuck the blanket around him. Set out a mop bucket just in case. Water on the nightstand, next to the lamp he leaves on—just as he does every night they hang out; it’s the same routine.

When he smooths his hands over the top of the blanket again, Steve slows extremely in his tracks.

Eddie’s looking at him. Wide eyed and glossy. Breathing gently. Tracking. One of his hands comes up out of the blanket, latching itself to Steve’s left forearm.

He steadies himself with a deep breath. Then, “You need something, Eds?” Steve murmurs.

The thumb on his arm sweeps.

“Can you sit with me?”

Steve, without a second thought, sits down on the edge of the bed, facing Eddie. Cautiously, he reaches up and places a hand in Eddie’s hair. Combing through it gently. “Everything alright?”

Eddie shrugs tightly. “I think so.”

“You having nightmares again? I can stay in the room tonight if you need me to.”

“No,” Eddie whispers. “I just…just feel—different.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Because what does that mean? Of course Eddie’s different he’s…Eddie! The whole wild card character, his big eyes, every little thing he takes apart and nitpicks. How he interacts with others. How he usually accepts others. Nobody else in Hawkins lives like Eddie does—courageously, somehow even free.

“Steve?”

He hums in question.

“I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“Do you think you’re sick? I could find a thermometer around here, check your temperature? I could maybe grab some Pepto”—

Eddie groans. Long and garbled and rough. “Being around you feels…feels…impossible sometimes,” he confesses, still slurring—heavy and distraught. “One moment, you’re my friend. And the next…”

Confused once more, Steve can only furrow his eyebrows. “What are you saying”—

“I wish that you were a girl,” Eddie harshly sobs out. There are fast falling tears smearing down his cheeks. Steve didn’t even notice they were there to begin with. But they won’t stop. And Eddie’s face goes blotchy in distress. “I wish…I wish you were a girl and I could…then I could—It’s not supposed to be like this. I’m not supposed to be”—

“Ed,” Steve interrupts softly, “I think you should close your eyes and go to sleep.”

“But I”—

He shakes his head. Hates the way something dark shutters in Eddie’s gaze. “We can’t…I can’t talk about this right now, Eds. It’s not the right time.”

Eddie sniffles. Pouts. “What the fuck do you know about right time and”—

Voice croaking, “Maybe I have feelings, too,” Steve miserably admits. His throat hot and pinched with oncoming tears. “And I know they’re right for me, but I can’t walk you through this. I can’t…I can’t help you this time, Eds. I can’t tell you who you are.” Reluctantly, even though Eddie tries to grab back for him, Steve removes his hand from where it’s petting. “But if you were a certain way, Eds, it wouldn’t be wrong. It’s not wrong. I know it’s not wrong.” He folds his hands in his lap, fidgeting loosely with his fingers. And casts his stare just off of Eddie’s face. Quietly, “When you’re sober and you’ve spared some thought to it, then come find me. For now, I just want to be a friend. I want to support you. But you’re also breaking my heart.”

“I am?” Eddie chokes out. “‘M sorry, Stevie…’m so sorry.”

Even though it’s going to hurt more, Steve ends up reaching out again. Touching Eddie’s heated face. Caressing him, swiping away the tears, holding onto him. “Hey,” he coos, “hey, it’s okay.” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose with his spare hand, and lets out a quick, shuttering breath. Shakes his head, sucks on his teeth, sighs. “I’m gonna be okay, I promise. It’s just that I…I…”—be brave, he tells himself, you just gotta be brave—“…I love you so much, Eddie. It hurts right now, hearing you say stuff like that. But I know you’re just…you’re figuring stuff out for yourself. And that takes time. And I’m gonna be right here with you…for you.”

“But what if I never figure it out, Stevie? I’m…I’m broken. I…I can’t feel this way. Not a-about you.”

Steve quirks a small, sad smile. “You’re not broken,” he murmurs, “you’re different, like you said. And that’s completely okay. It’s also okay if you don’t figure anything out. I love just being your friend.” He pats his thumb along Eddie’s under-eye. Lets him tilt into the hold. “I love you, no matter what,” Steve whispers, “even if all we are to each other is just friends. I’m still gonna love you.”

Against the fresh, broken, wet sobs from Eddie’s mouth, Steve closes his eyes, turns his head down, and tries to put himself anywhere else.

In another version of himself, Steve would’ve left fifteen minutes ago. He would’ve chugged down a couple glasses of water, grabbed his keys from the coffee table, and left Eddie to sober up on his own. The front door would’ve hit his backside. Stairs creaking as he stepped upon them, drifting farther and farther away from the blood to his beating heart. Drove himself—home, he doesn’t know, aimlessly almost sounds better. And maybe he’d go and drown himself in more booze—something stronger and darker and more bitter—and choked on his bile swirled saliva, sprayed puke from his nostrils the following morning, forgotten all about the fiasco that was this night before.

But he’s not that guy.

And he’s always loved too hard.

His heart still beats even when his chest hurts. And his soul still sings even when his throat closes up. He still touches and he still feels and he still loves. That’s his problem—oh, how he loves Eddie.

The safety and warmth that comes with somebody who just gets it. With somebody in similar age, in large personality and quirks. Somebody he can riff off of, tease with his words and scoff with his eyes and still find themselves laughing with one another—rather than at one another. He hasn’t felt a connection like this since meeting Tommy Hagan in the second grade; but he doesn’t want a connection like that…especially if it means the same fate as before.

He can’t lose Eddie. And he knows how to keep to himself, how to yearn from a distance, how to bite his own clumsy tongue. Steve knows the limits he possesses, yet how to burst and cross them. He can flirt, he can bitch, he can close up and keep to himself. He can be anything Eddie needs him to be: the bumbling idiot of a best friend, the charming boyfriend who doesn’t know when to let up, the last minute reservation when all the other restaurants closed, the friend you only see at reunions and by happenstance at the bar.

Tonight, he can be the one to comfort. And, sneaky as he’s claimed to be, Steve can keep a secret.

It’ll be just like any other night they hang out.

Eddie gets too clingy, too inebriated, too clumsy. And Steve keeps an eye out, helps them to the bed, leaves out the puke bucket, serves breakfast in the morning.

By the time the sun meets them through the windows, Eddie will have forgotten the night before. Just as he does every time.

But Eddie doesn’t know that.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he had confessed to Steve four nights ago.

“Something about you just feels right,” Eddie had said around a tipsy-happy smile.

“I’d kiss you if I could,” and that was whispered just last night.

If he could change to make Eddie feel safer, Steve would do it in a heartbeat.

Even if that means not being himself. Be a woman or something, whatever that really entails. Nancy and Robin would probably tell him it’s…anti-feminist to try and fit a stereotype. But he would do it anyway.

He’d do anything for Eddie to say those words in the daytime. To touch Steve. To want him in all these carnal, late night craving sort of ways. For Eddie to wrap himself along Steve’s back as breakfast is sizzling on the stovetop. Slow dancing to Etta James records that Eddie only breaks out when he’s feeling particularly emotional while drunk; clumsy feet trying to keep pace on the carpet, in the dark, syrup stuck to each other’s souls.

Steve can keep a secret.

No matter how much it’s killing him to keep quiet.

Not even Robin knows.

Tonight, he is still quiet. With his hand warming Eddie’s cheek. Drying his tears. Soothing him to sleep.

With snores muffled under the blanket, puffs of air hitting Steve’s fingertips, he remains glued to the edge of Eddie’s bed. Right where he remains, as he has for weeks on end now, every single time he’s asked to sit down. Watching the same alcohol soaked memory sleep soundly by the amber glow of a giving out lamp and tucked securely by Steve’s own handiwork.

He should head out to the couch. Wrap himself in a scratchy throw. Move to the recliner when Wayne’s ready to get the fold-out. Just as the original plans when they first started hanging out one on one.

Instead, though, he cautiously maneuvers around Eddie. Lays himself between the rise and fall of a warm back and the cold press of a bumpy wall. Keeps his arms and hands tucked into himself. And he closes his eyes—thinking of an alternate world where Eddie feels safe to completely give himself to his truth.

Even if he never does, Steve will remain tucked against the wall.

Cold against his spine. Stomach turning with sick and want and sore hope. He’ll be the battered copy of a book people are too scared to read—in fear the pages will tear. Just the same paperback, wrinkled with signs of reading, yellowing with years of just enough love to keep the words fresh. And maybe those words will be enough to help the both of them sleep, just a little while longer, just until the bedside lightbulb burns clear out.

💔—————💔

[samsoble]

a lot of media assumes robots would be immortal but i think its a lot more interesting to explore robots dealing with their parts wearing down and battery life shortening and all the horrible little failings that come with being a complicated machine. sure they can replace parts but you'd assume you cant completely ship of theseus them, or it'd have pretty big rammifications on their sense of identity. idk. give me robots with distinct, unique signs of aging. as a treat.

[samsoble]

but what if i read one of your fanfics and then went to your ao3 accounts and read all of your fanfics and left a comment on every single chapter of every single one and you got spam emails from all of my kudos and comments and it made you smile, what then? what if i brighten your day with my words like you did mine, what then???

[samsoble]

I wish you would write a fic where Steve hangs out with Uncle Wayne.

Sorry, anon. This is so late you probably forgot you asked for it. I hope you see it and it’s sort of what you wanted. Around 2.5K. Rated M (for the steddie bits not the Wayne bits.)

--*--

Steve has always been good at meeting the parents. He’s polite. He wears the right clothes. He never forgets to say “sir.” He notices what needs complimenting. Did a mom spend a lot of time on her hair? Is the food homemade? Is the yard especially well kept? Are they proud of their car, their dog, their daughter? You can tell a lot about what’s important to people if you pay attention, so Steve pays attention. And he gives a compliment where it’s wanted. Nancy used to call him a suck up, but it works. Parents like it. They like him. 

Wayne’s different though. Steve tries all his old moves. Calls Wayne sir, and Wayne waves it off. Brings food that Wayne says he can’t stay to eat. He compliments the hat collection on Wayne’s walls, but Wayne seems so unimpressed it kind of puts him off from trying again. Maybe he’s doing something wrong. Or maybe Wayne just hates him. 

“Why does your uncle hate me?” Steve asks Eddie when Wayne’s out fishing one Saturday. Ever since Wayne got switched to days for the summer, Steve doesn’t get to spend as much time in Eddie’s bed. He snuggles deeper into the sheets, moving his legs against the worn cotton, his cheek against the pillow. Twisting a bit of Eddie’s hair around his finger. 

Eddie looks over, offering Steve the joint in his hand. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You give it to me.” Steve realizes too late that doesn’t make sense because Eddie’s already holding it out to him. But he gets what Steve means. There’s a lazy smile on his face as he takes a long drag and holds it, leans past Steve to set the joint in the ashtray beside the bed. Steve’s fingers slide along his arm as he reaches, touch down on his ribs, the heat of his skin perfect under Steve’s hands. He cups Steve’s neck, lips almost touching while he breathes the smoke into Steve’s mouth. He seals their lips together at the end. Steve holds the smoke until his lungs burn, and then lets it slowly out through his nose. Eddie deepens the kiss, chases the last of the smoke with his tongue. He kisses Steve again, slow and thorough. His hand warm on Steve’s throat, his thumb against Steve’s jaw. 

When he lies back down beside Steve, Steve runs his fingers across Eddie’s chest. Stopping to feel the slightly pebbled top of his nipple. He runs his thumb over it, back and forth, pressing. Fascinated by the abrupt solid texture of the little nub, the way it interupts the smooth stretch of Eddie’s chest. He runs his fingers over the sparse wiriness of the hairs around it. Eddie is his favorite thing to touch. He’s touched him so much. Must have touched every inch of him by now. But it still feels like he’s always finding the new edge of a scar here or a mole he hadn’t noticed there. Eddie makes a small noise in the back of his throat as Steve scrapes his fingernail over his nipple. Steve looks up. Sees Eddie looking back at him. That soft I love you look on his face. It makes Steve’s chest ache. Makes him feel so swollen up inside he has to fill his mouth with Eddie’s skin, bite down on his chest.

Eddie ruffles fingers through Steve’s hair, arching a bit into Steve’s teeth. When Steve lets go, he runs his fingers over his own toothmarks. The indents in Eddie’s skin drawing up something smug from deep inside him. Like looking at the tattoo Eddie got for him. He likes leaving marks. He likes having proof. That Eddie loves him. Not like Wayne. “He acts like he hates me.”

“Who does?” Eddie says vaguely. 

“Wayne.”

Eddie shakes his head, his fingers running through Steve’s hair, dragging along his scalp. “That’s just his way. He takes a while to warm up.” He grins and gives Steve’s hair a tug. “It runs in the family.” 

“Well, I can’t exactly win him over the same way I did with you.”

“I would rather he not know how good you are at fucking,” Eddie agrees.

“Gross. I meant I can’t buy weed from him.”

Eddie laughs and lays a kiss on the tip of Steve’s wrinkled nose. “Just give it some time.” A kiss to the edge of Steve’s eyebrow. “I’m telling you, no one can resist this face.” He’s still giving Steve that look. So so soft. “And he’s so good with his hands.” He presses a kiss to the side of Steve’s chin. “Such a hard worker.” A kiss to Steve’s mouth. “Such a sweet boy.” Steve circles his arms around Eddie’s waist and lets himself be kissed. A compliment breathed into his skin, his mouth with every one. 

-*-

Whatever Eddie says, winning Wayne over seems like a lost cause, so Steve keeps his head down. Tries his best not to look at Eddie too much when Wayne’s around, look at him like more than a friend. Tries not to say too much. Tries not to do anything that’ll make Wayne want to kick him out of the trailer.

He almost passes by when he pulls up on a Sunday and finds Wayne jacking up his truck. But Steve’s noticed the way he winces, slow to get up from his easy chair sometimes. That fold up bed can’t be good for his back. Or the long hours at the plant.

“Need any help?” Steve asks, coming over.

Wayne gives him a sideways glance as he stands up. “You know anything about cars?” He says it like he thinks Steve doesn’t know much about anything.

“I took autoshop,” Steve says, a little defensively. “I do all the maintenance on the Beemer.” He can see the flicker of something in Wayne’s eyes when he says Beemer, but hell, it’s not his fault he has a nice car. He’s not going to apologize for that. He makes the payments himself. 

“It’s nothing major,” Wayne says. “Just going to change the transmission fluid. Go on. Eddie’s inside.”

Steve could take the out. But Wayne’s going to have to get under the truck to drain the fluid. And he has a bad back. “I can help,” Steve says. He doesn’t mention the back thing in case Wayne is sensitive about it. 

Wayne gets a stubborn look on his face. Looks a lot like Eddie, actually. Steve thinks he’s going to tell him to get lost. But he cocks his head, and lets out a breath. He hands Steve a wrench and a pan, and gives him a nod.

Wayne’s not a big talker. He stops giving Steve instructions when he figures out Steve does know what he’s doing. Has actually done this before. He doesn’t bother to fill the silence with anything else. When Steve wiggles back out from under the truck, they pop the hood together. Steve watches Wayne put the new fluid in.

“Belt could use replacing,” Steve says tentatively, hoping Wayne won’t take it the wrong way.

“It’ll hold a while,” Wayne says. He doesn’t sound offended though.

“Well,” Steve says awkwardly. “Looks like you’ve got it from here.”

“Thanks for your help, son.” 

“Anytime,” Steve says, and means it.

It’s easier after that. It’s not like they talk a lot more or anything, but the silence feels different. 

Wayne gets home from work one evening just as Steve’s driving up after a shift at the mall. Eddie’s van isn’t outside, and Steve’s never really been around Wayne without a buffer. He can’t just leave now though. They come up the stairs together. The screen door doesn’t squeak when Wayne pulls it open. 

“That was you,” he says, looking down at the freshly oiled hinge.

“Could have been Eddie.”

Wayne scoffs. “Eddie’s a great kid, but he’s too busy thinking about those elves or hearing music in his head to notice if the laundry needs doing or the door squeaks.”

That’s about right. Steve waves it away with his hand. “Details. He’s good at the important stuff.” Steve smiles, trying not to look like he thinks about Eddie or what he’s good at more than a normal friend would. 

“Been meaning to get around to it myself,” Wayne says. 

“It was just WD-40.” 

Wayne tilts his head noncommitally. “You want some dinner?”

Steve hopes he’s not smiling more than a person who knows dinner isn’t that big a deal would. It’s kind of a big deal though.

“My nephew thinks a lot of you,” Wayne says, while Steve hovers in the kitchen, trying not to get in the way.

“I think a lot of him too.” 

Wayne sort of hums to himself, and looks at Steve like he finally complimented the right thing. 

-*-

Eddie hates baseball just like he hates basketball and football and anything else involving balls unless they’re Steve’s balls and they’re in Eddie’s mouth. Which is something he actually said to Steve once. But he’s still sitting through this Reds game with Steve and Wayne. Steve brought the fried chicken. Wayne brought the beer. Eddie brought half a pie from the diner and a few new stories from his job bartending over at the Hideout. He’s telling them in snippets during the commercial breaks, acting them out like he’s the show the baseball game is interrupting. He makes them funnier than they probably were at the time, rubber faces and fake voices like when he’s playing D&D. Steve hopes he doesn’t look more fond than a regular friend would be. Wayne looks pretty fond too though, that smile basically the equivalent of a laugh for him.

He finally does laugh out loud, waving Eddie away from his spot in front of the TV. “All right, all right, fucking sit down. We just missed a double. And I know you made that shit about the raccoon up.”

“Hand to God that happened.” Eddie flops down on the couch next to Steve. “He had it on his shoulder. He ordered it a beer in a shot glass.” He nudges Steve in the side. “You believe me, right?”

Steve isn’t sure if he does, but- “I’ve seen weirder.”

“Pray tell,” Eddie says. 

Steve can’t exactly talk about Dustin feeding a demodog candy. He changes the subject. “They look better this season.”

“Not that much better,” Wayne says skeptically.

“Why do you guys even bother watching a bad team play a boring game?” Eddie asks.

Wayne just shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve always had a soft spot for an underdog.”

_*_

Steve’s in Eddie’s bed a couple weeks later. Eddie overlapping him, with his face nuzzled into Steve’s neck, his spent cock nestled against Steve’s thigh. He’s mouthing idly at Steve’s moles, letting Steve drag fingers through his hair, untangle the tangles. It still feels like a gift to be able to touch Eddie like this. Hold him against Steve’s chest. Play with his hair or the rings on his fingers. See him soft and unguarded and looking at Steve like there’s nowhere he’d rather be. But Steve’s learning not to be surprised that he gets to have this. That Eddie wants him to have it. That Eddie wants it too.

“I missed you,” Eddie says. His fingers stroke over Steve’s hole, pressing against the sore heat of his rim.

Steve’s cheeks go warm. “You see me almost every day.”

“I know, but I don’t get to fuck you every time I see you.” Steve rolls his eyes. Eddie tucks two fingers inside him, making Steve’s mouth fall open on a gasp. He sets his chin on Steve’s chest, looking up innocently through his bangs. “Can you come over Friday? Wayne has his bowling league, and I want to make you come until you cry.”

Steve still doesn’t really know why Eddie talking about him like that makes a spike of heat go straight to his dick, but he’s learning not to be surprised by that either. Eddie presses his fingers deeper inside. Steve clenches, a sharp “Ah” knocked out of him as Eddie nudges against his prostate. “I actually-” Eddie does it against, presses in right where it makes Steve ache. He trembles a little, forcing himself to keep talking. “I actually told Wayne I would go with him. To his league.” 

“What?” Eddie’s brow furrows. “Can’t you cancel?”

Steve looks at him disapprovingly. “I’m not gonna cancel on him.” Eddie gives one more push against Steve’s prostate, almost vindictive, before he pulls his fingers out. “And don’t you have Hellfire?” 

“Gareth and Jeff are both out of town. Vacation.” Eddie’s pouting in a way Steve would find hilarious if he wasn’t trying to sabotage all Steve’s hard earned progress with Wayne.

“Come on. He’s barely started liking me.”

“Exactly,” Eddie says. “I’ve liked you so much longer. I should get first dibs.”

Steve laughs. Eddie scowls at him. 

“You’re being an asshole,” Steve points out. 

“I just think it’s a little weird how much you’re hanging out with him now,” Eddie says. “And why did he ask you to join his bowling league?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it hanging out,” Steve says. “Mostly I’ve been helping him patch the roof. You’re welcome by the way. The leak was in your room. And he asked me because I’m really fucking good at bowling.”

“Of course you are,” Eddie says. “Fucking perfect son. I bet dads try to pick you up at the grocery store to take you fishing or play catch.” Steve thinks about his own dad. How Steve’s started changing into his Scoops uniform after he gets to the mall so he doesn’t have to see his dad trying not to look at him. Not really trying to hide the disdain. “Sorry, sweetheart,” Eddie says, all the sharp edges falling from his voice. 

Steve tries to wipe whatever Eddie’s seeing on his face away. 

“You were right. I’m an asshole.”  Eddie cups his cheek, runs his thumb across Steve’s lips. He lays a quick kiss on Steve’s mouth. “Will you forgive me if I share Wayne with you?” He offers his hand like they’re going to shake on it, then takes it back. “You just have to promise not to start liking him better than me.” He points mock threateningly at Steve to make it a joke, but Steve can tell there’s a little bit of something true underneath. “And promise not to make him start liking you more than he likes me either.” 

“That would never happen."

“I don’t know. You guys have a lot in common.”

“Mostly the thing we have in common is we’re both pretty big fans of you.” Steve shakes Eddie’s hand. And kisses him right in the middle of his wide grin. Catching more teeth than anything until Eddie scoots up, tilts his head to give Steve a better angle. Steve makes it a real kiss, lingering in the familiar curve of Eddie's lips. When he pulls back far enough to breath, he tilts his forehead against Eddie’s. “I love you the most of any Munson.”

“You only know two Munsons,” Eddie says. “But I’ll take it.”

“I love you the most,” Steve says, smiling.

“Good,” Eddie says. “That makes us even.” And kisses him again.

[samsoble]

saying “you are a burden on society” is just such a weird framing of priorities It’s like saying “wow, think how much better gas mileage your car would get if you weren’t sitting in it” or “think how dry that umbrella would be if you weren’t holding it in between you and the rainstorm”. the things we create? they’re for us. they are meant to carry us. they are meant to protect us. we are meant to hold them up to keep us dry. 

[samsoble]

i feel like we as a digital society have forgotten the important rules of the internet

Don't feed the trolls

Never give out personal information

Anonymity is the best defense

Don't click suspicious links

Don't click popups and ads

Just because it's written doesn't mean it's true

You are responsible for your own experience

There is porn of everything, act accordingly

[samsoble]

Six months. For six months Steve has been listening to this radio show and not ever one time did he expect to hear the host, Eddie Munson, growl out the words “Hawkins, Indiana," but here they are. The name said.

Steve stops the car dead in the middle of the road, can’t hear anything aside from the radio show host listing Hawkins facts in his sonorous voice.

He should have known. Like rationally, he should have considered it a possibility that Hawkins might come up on this late night talk radio show called Hellfire about monsters, cryptids, folklore. 

It’s just. He thought. Hawkins hadn’t exactly made national news, and what had was about a toxic gas leak and a government coverup, not exactly this show’s focus. 

But enough, apparently. Obviously. 

Eddie starts talking about the disappearance of Will Byers, and Steve lays his head on his steering wheel, tries to ignore the way his hands tremble. 

For six months Hellfire brought him comfort and companionship as he roams the dark street of Hawkins on what Robin calls his patrols. It’s not like he can sleep, not anymore, so what better to do than make sure everyone is safe? That there’s no signs of the Upside Down? That the gates are still closed? 

Hellfire has been his companion through it all and now—now—

Eddie’s talking about the Department of Energy, MK Ultra, a fake body in the quarry. 

He could turn it off. Or better yet, go home. But he sits in his car out by Lover’s Lake and he listens to Eddie detail the rumors and speculation. Listens to the callers who share their two cents and conspiracy theories—none close to the truth. 

The thing is. He’s become—fond of Eddie, of Hellfire. He doesn’t care about cryptids, isn’t interested in Big Foot, but he was captivated by Eddie. Not just him, though, it’s the whole thing with his producer, Gareth, and his two other best friends who pop in from time to time. They’re funny, nerdy, love that dork game the kids play. And if the low resonance of Eddie’s voice makes him a little melty? Well, that’s between him and 3am. 

Steve calls in, sometimes. Has called in. Just, you know, once a week or so. It's not like he knows anything about the monsters, but he asks questions, likes to listen to Eddie talk no matter if he understands.

They finish with a caller and Eddie says, "unfortunately, we'll probably never know what happened."

And Gareth cuts in to say, "Hawkins is only an hour a way. You know. If you find that interesting."

"What are you saying, Gar?" Eddie asks. "That we should go?" He laughs.

"Why not? We could do our own investigation. Maybe we'll find something the authorities don't want us to."

"Hmm, what do you think, listeners? Should we don our adventurer caps and head into the unknown?"

He doesn't remember putting the car into drive, but he knows he's speeding toward the little two-pump gas station on the edge of town and the deserted pay phone there.

The line beeps and beeps when he dials. He tries again and again, until finally there's a click, and Eddie's radio voice booming in his ear.

"Thank you for calling Hellfire," he laughs, manic. "You're--

"You can't go to Hawkins," he interrupts.

"Sweetheart," Eddie croons. "Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you?"

"I'm Fine. Stay out of Hawkins."

"You gotta ease into it a little, baby. Little small talk first."

"Eddie..."

"What do you know about Hawkins?"

"N--nothing. I've heard bad things about it. Cops."

"Cops," Eddie snorts. "I'm not afraid of Hawkins PD. Are you calling because you're worried for my well-being, sweetheart?"

"Yes." Steve doesn't hesitate.

"You're my favorite listener, you know that?"

"I'm being serious."

"It's cute."

"It's a really bad idea to go to Hawkins."

"Do you know what's funny? You didn't know what a chupacabra was, but you know about Hawkins."

"I--" he swallows. "Have specific interests."

Eddie laughs. "What do you know about Hawkins?"

"Nothing," too quick.

"Are you lying to me?"

"I can't say."

"You just keep getting more and more mysterious."

"Please, stay away. It's--there are things, people--you don't want their attention. Just, please. Trust me."

"I'll agree on one condition. Tell me how you know this."

"I can't," he whispers. "That's why you need to trust me."

"What's stopping you?"

He flashes back to an interrogation room, Hopper's stern face, the even sterner ones of the government agents, the four-inch high stack of papers to sign, again and again and again.

"NDAs."

Dead silence on the other line until Eddie asks, "wait, PLURAL?" excitement spikes through the speakers.

That's when Steve hears the distant click down the line, knows it isn't him or Eddie, knows--

The line goes dead.

"Fuck."

He goes straight to the cabin. It's late enough in the morning now that he's unsurprised to see the glowing ember of a cigarette near the porch steps.

"What'd you do, kid?" Hopper asks when Steve gets out of his car.

"Called into a radio show about monsters."

The chief sighs, drops his hands to his sides, muttering. The crunch of gravel way up the long drive has them both turning.

"Guess we're in for a long day." Hopper stomps out his cigarette.

---

Steve isn't allowed to listen to Hellfire anymore. Is forbidden from calling in. And he gets it, okay, he knows. He said too much on the radio, but he hopes that he didn't get Eddie in trouble, that they don't try to come to Hawkins.

He gets a late start on his patrols one night. Took the kids to the movies, caved within minutes when they begged to go for ice cream after, Robin giving him a fond eye roll when he stops.

It's late, summer sun set for hours already, and he's driving on backroads behind the lab. And it's been--it's been a few weeks, okay, since the last call, long enough that he's stopped thinking Eddie will show, so when he sees the van on the side of the road--when he sees the van he doesn't stop right away.

It's tan and white or maybe grey, old, from the 70's or something; spiky black lettering on the side. It says Hellfire.

Steve slams on the breaks so hard the tires squeal, car skidding. He parks haphazardly on the side of the road, only grabbing a flashlight before hurling himself into the woods.

He figures Eddie and the guys will be easy to find, bumbling through unfamiliar forest, but minutes pass with nothing but his own feet crushing through the underbrush. He's afraid to yell, afraid it will draw the wrong kind of attention, but he does a kind of hoarse whisper, knowing it's not enough.

There's a small rock formation that he skirts past, mind everywhere but on his surroundings. He hears a rustle, he thinks, turns, and in the space of a breath, collides with something distinctly solid, warm, and judging by the pained grunt, human.

"Fuck. Gareth?" A very familiar voice asks.

"Eddie??" He responds. His fingers scrabble for his flashlight, illuminating the leaf strewn forest floor and some nearby tree roots.

A beam of light illuminates his chest and face, forcing his eyes down. "Who are you?"Eddie demands.

Steve finally grabs his flashlight, points it at Eddie's middle. Has a second to take in his long, curly hair, his cut-off t-shirt, pale skin and the swirl of inky black tattoos. "I'm--I--I called into your show. I--I told you not to--"

"Oh," Eddie's breath hitches. "Sweetheart. You said not to come to Hawkins and then you--you--" He blinks, seems to struggle to find words. "I didn't expect you to be so beautiful."

He smiles. "i--your show, I loved it. I miss listening to you. I miss--" He takes a step, closes the distance. Eddie smiles and it grips something in his stomach, doesn't let go.

Over Eddie's shoulder, there's a flash of movement, catches in Steve's periphery. It's an unfurling, an opening, there's a shine of saliva, teeth.

His heart stops.

"Eddie--"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Run."

[samsoble]

“Alienate.” Flo mutters, the first thing Phil Callahan hears when he enters the station. “No, that's eight letters. Darn.” 

“How’s the crossword, Miss Flo?” He asks, as he always asks, every morning. 

It’s part of a little routine he’s established with their doting receptionist, partly out of boredom, mostly because she sometimes asks him for help.  

If there’s one thing Phil enjoys doing, it’s helping.

(It’s why he became a cop, after all.)

“Hi, hun. I’m stuck.” Flo responds, staring down at the New York Times spread out before her. 

It’s a quiet Friday morning and a quick glance at the open and dark-empty office of the Chief says the man’s not in yet, and so Callahan rounds the big wooden desk to stare at the puzzle over Flo’s shoulder. 

“Which one?” He asks, seeing most of it’s already been filled out. 

Flo jabs a finger at the offending clue, her nails painted a light pastel blue. “Pushed away through inattention.” She reads dutifully, then traces her finger to the blank section of the crossword, tapping at it. “Nine letter word.” 

Phil cocks his head, thinks it through. 

“It wasn’t alienate.” Flo says, non-helpfully. 

“Ignored?” Phil tries.

“That’s seven letters.” 

They both stare down at the puzzle, the black and white squares taunting them. 

“Neglected.” Phil says suddenly, triumphant. “It has to be neglected--the word has to end with a D to make sense in the puzzle. See?” 

One of two words that crosses over with their missing piece is ‘abandoned’, which fits nicely with the apparently gloomy theme of today’s crossword. 

“Doesn’t work with the other word that goes through it though.” Flo points out, defeating the proud little glow that had been building in Phil’s head. 

The other bisecting word is ‘isolated’, making him wonder if the puzzlemaker is in the middle of a rough divorce. 

(Or maybe just a rough day, and he’s the one projecting…) 

“Well, hell.” Phil grumbles, staring down at it. 

“Try estranged!” Powell calls as he passes by with a mug full of coffee. 

Flo carefully pencils in ‘estranged’ and makes a pleased noise when it fits. 

“Thank you, hun!” She calls, and Phil huffs at himself for not seeing it, but also refuses to let Powell’s one upping ruin his day.

The man himself offers their receptionist a smile, before tossing a casual reprimand Phil’s way.  

“Callahan, get to work, would you?” 

“Yeah, yeah, smartypants.” He says, going to fetch his own cup of coffee. “Save the bitching for the Chief.” 

Powell rolls his eyes at him, and Callahan makes a face back, and the two of them go on to have a very boring, small town cop sort of day--right until a legitimate call finally comes in. 

Well.

Sort of. 

“The Harrington residence is having a too-loud party again.” Hopper says, having finally shown up sometime between nine and noon. “Drunk teenagers are throwing up in people’s lawns.” 

“It’s not even dark yet.” Powell mutters, staring at the clock as if he couldn’t imagine a party taking place before 8 pm. 

“Teenagers don’t care about that shit, that’s why they’re getting the cops called on them.” Hopper snips back. He’d been in a mood all day, and not the fun, jolly kind. 

“Come on Callahan, let’s go remind Harrington Jr. that it’s his daddy that owns this department, not him.”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about that.” Phil says as he follows Hopper out the door, waving goodbye to Flo as he goes. “People are going to think you’re serious.” 

(Sometimes, Phil thinks as he swings into the patrol truck, that Hopper is serious. 

That they are being paid to look the other way. 

Then he takes a sip of their god-awful coffee and hears Hopper’s ancient truck cough to life, and figures, if anyone was getting cash here, there would at least be evidence of it.) 

xXx 

Harrington Jr.’s party isn’t quite the chaotic disaster it was made out to be, though there are a handful of tipsy teenagers stumbling around the lawn.

“One of these idiots is going to drown in that damn pool someday.”  Hopper complains through gritted teeth as he storms up the driveway, kids scrambling into action the second they spot him. 

One loudly screams; “Cops!” and the rest of them scatter, running in so many directions it makes Phil’s head spin. He briefly moves as if to give chase before deciding there’s simply too many to bother. 

(Knows that it’s unlikely they’ll arrest anyone but Harrington tonight, anyway.)

“If the right kid bites it, Dick Harrington might even have to come deal with it personally.” Over his shoulder Hopper tosses Phil a shark’s smile, barging up the porch to bang hard on one of the two front doors. “Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?” 

“No, not really.” Phil says, because he’s thinking about dead teenagers in pools. 

“Also I don’t think Richard likes to be called Dick.” He adds cautiously, just in case the man himself happens to be home. 

It’s unlikely, doubly so given all the drunk minors, but that just means Phil isn’t surprised when it’s not the Vice President of Indiana Corporate Consulting, LLC that opens the door but his son, Steve. 

“Officers.” The kid drawls, shirtless in swim trunks, not a single strand of his perfectly styled hair out of place. “What can I do for you?”

He leans casually in the doorway, as another kid screams out a warning inside. 

“You can cut the shit.” Hopper says. “You know the drill. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” 

Harrington does neither of those things, instead tilting his head and making a face like he just smelled something foul. 

“I’m not drunk. And anyone who is drunk brought it without telling me. You should go arrest them.” Steve  jams a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the rapidly emptying house. 

Then he smirks at both of them, every inch the newly crowned King the kids insist on calling him. 

“You think your old man is gonna believe that?” Hopper snarls, infuriated. He never was one that dealt well with teenagers. Or at least, these kinds (and that damn Munson kid, who just loved stealing everybodies lawn flamingos.) 

“I think you’ll find ‘my old man’,” Steve mockinly mimics, “doesn’t care.”

“He will when the neighbors start calling.” Hopper tosses back as Phil pushes past Harrrington Jr. to begin the process of trying to wrangle drunk teenages. “That’s Janet Wilkinson’s prized hydrangeas Hagan’s been throwing up in. You wanna see what happens when she talks to your mother?” 

“She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.” Steves snarks, instead of pulling out his usual charm. “Why do you think she called you instead?” 

This isn’t Phil’s first call to the house, but it is the first time Harrington Jr. has been this combative. It’s new, but not exactly unexpected. 

Not when Steve Harrington has been hurtling towards this ever since he started hosting parties. 

“You think your parents won’t care when I call them?”

“Well they haven’t before, so--” 

Phil rolls his eyes as the kid and Hopper trade more barbs, the adult’s growing sharper and sharper as Steve makes a couple of arguments about being held accountable for other people’s actions (and something else about unreasonably high standards and making his own bail.) 

Let's them argue it out as he quickly realizes he will definitely not be catching teenagers, and pivots to scanning for too-drunk stragglers in need of help. 

“Keep running your mouth, Harrington, and I’ll let you cool your heels overnight in a jail cell. That what you want?”

“You already did that, remember? Swore you’d never do it again because I was too annoying.”

“You can’t annoy me if I’m not the one there watching you--” 

Phil tunes out the rising voices, his attention snagging on something else.

The Harringtons’ entryway was sparse, and the rooms beyond weren’t much better. The whole house had the sterile feel of a museum;  untouched and unlived in. 

Not even a swarm of teenagers had managed to leave much of a mark. Or at least, not in these few rooms, anyway. 

Which is what makes the scraggly note stand out.

It’s taped to the wall right above the phone, but slightly askew, like it’d been thought of last-minute. A little crumpled, like someone half-heartedly tried to peel it off before giving up and pressing it back down.

‘Who puts a phone in the entryway?’ Phil wonders, but then, it is the Harrington’s. 

Maybe they need it to find each other in this huge fucking house. 

He leans in to read the note, spotting the bold letters at the bottom informing everyone the entire notepad had been custom ordered for RICHARD HARRINGTON, VP. 

‘Darling,’ beautiful cursive starts, at odds with the footnote, ‘Sorry that we couldn’t get a hold of you. Your father had a business opportunity, you know how important those are. I’ll send you a postcard. Take care of the house, remember that Martha is coming on Wednesdays now to get the dry cleaning. Do something fun for your birthday!’ 

It’s signed XOXO, Muffin. 

Muffin is, of course, Richard Harrington’s wife, and also a walking punchline. Or at least she is when people aren’t tripping over themselves to stay on her good side.

Weird that she signed it as such instead of with ‘Mom’, but then Muffin always has been a bit…much. 

More importantly (besides the fact that they skipped out on their own kids birthday) is the date at the top, which says the note was left Tuesday, March 17th. 

It’s currently the middle of May.

Flo’s crossword springs to mind, each guessed word clicking into place beside Steve’s own, still warm, spoken just moments ago.

Abandoned, and ‘She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.’ 

Ignored and ‘I think you’ll find my old man doesn’t care.’ 

A cold realization sweeps through Phil, as he recalls the things they’ve all heard other kids say about Steve. 

No parents. 

Big house. 

Always down for a good time. 

(‘Neglect is the failure to give somebody proper care or attention.’ Powell had argued on their lunch break, as Phil complained that ‘neglected’ fit the stupid crossword better than ‘estranged’ had. 

“Estranged works because it’s when you’re not really talking to someone. Hence the pushing away part. They’re different. Similar! But different.” 

“That’s dumb.” Phil argued back. 

“You’re dumb.” Powell replied, then laughed when Phil gasped in mock offense. “It’s why you’re getting taken to the cleaners in your divorce!”

“Hey man, come on, too far!”

“Sorry, sorry--” ) 

All cop’s develop intuition, even the small town ones, and Phil’s kicks in as he stares at the note. 

Neglected might be a hard sell for a fifteen year old that drives a BMW, but estranged definitely fits the bill. 

(He’s pretty sure neglect does fit the fucking bill no matter how much money the kids parents have, but he’s been on the force long enough to know how these things go.) 

He turns on his heel and marches over, sticking himself right in between his boss and the only remaining teenager. 

“Where are your parents at, again?” He asks, right over whatever point Hopper was butchering. 

“What?” Steve and Hopper both say, before giving the other a look for it. 

“Do you know where your parents are at?” Phil asks again, switching up the wording a little just like they’d taught him in the academy. 

“Uh…No?” Steve says, seeming too startled to lie. “You’d have to call dad’s receptionist.” 

“Okay. And when are they coming back?” 

This time Steve tosses a look at Hopper, like Phil’s the one being weird here. 

“When they get back.” He says, and it’s like he’s trying to still sound tough, to put forth that King persona, but is fumbling a little now that it’s not Hopper who's asking the questions. 

“So you have no idea, at all.” He clarifies, and feels his stomach sink a little. 

“I mean, I could also call dad’s receptionist.” Steve says, like that makes it better.  

“Whose in charge of you while they’re gone?” And yes he knows it’s a stupid question, knows that Steve is fifteen (he thinks, anyway) and is perfectly old enough 

“...I am.” Steve says, right over Hopper’s annoyed; “What the hell, Callahan.” 

“Chief, can I talk to you?” He says, turning to face his boss. 

Hopper stares back at him in disbelief, before making a show of summoning the last of his patience with a loud sigh. 

“You.” He points at Steve. “Sit. Stay.”

“Want me to shake too?” Harrington Jr calls out in an attempt to recover, but Phil’s got a hand on Hopper’s elbow and is dragging the older man away before he can get sucked back in. 

“You better have found something good Callahan.” Hopper warns, as Phil snatches the note on the wall as they pass by. 

“Hopper,” Phil says quietly, leaning in as he pulls Hopper all the way into the kitchen, kicking empty solo cups as he goes. “I don’t think his parents have been home in a while.”

He shoves the note in the Chief’s face. 

“No shit, kid.” Hopper spits, and the nickname sits badly, now that Phil’s heard it spat at Steve the same way. 

(Hopper doesn’t mean it, Phil knows he doesn’t. 

Hopper’s the best boss Phil’s ever had. The guy’s just a little rough sometimes, gets lost in the little things and needs to be brought back down. 

‘He’s got a lot going on, hun, but we’ll get him there.’ Flo says when he’s been really mean, and Phil knows they will, he’s seen it himself, but sometimes he wishes whatever the Chief was healing from would let him go a little faster.) 

He grabs the note, eyes scanning over it, and Phil talks a little faster. 

“No, I mean, look at the date, Chief. They’ve been gone for months.” 

Hopper looks up from the note and gives him the world’s flattest state. “So?”

Phil gapes a little at him. “Isn’t that abandonment?” 

In response, Hopper simply steps more into the kitchen, then throws open a door next to the stove. Reveals a huge, walk-in pantry, piled high with all kinds of food. 

Stands next to it like it’s a party trick he just unveiled. 

“Given the lights are on and that fancy little car of his seems to have gas,  I’d say they’re providing for the kid just fine.” He says crossly. 

Which isn’t wrong exactly, but it’s not right either. 

“Yeah,” Phil protests, “but--” 

“Trust me, things could be a lot worse.” Hopper cuts him off. “Save all the pity for someone who actually needs it, and not a kid whose parents’ lawyers will cut both our balls off for even suggesting they don’t care about their kid.” 

“Harsh, Chief.” Phil mutters, stung. There’s a small, growing voice in his head that says Steve Harrington does kind of need someone.

That a kid, even one as old as Steve is, shouldn’t be left like this. 

“Life’s harsh. Now unless you’re volunteering to watch the kid all night in a cell, I say we call the brat’s parents and this time, we’re gonna hit them with a citation when they get home. See if they ignore that.” 

“Please do!” Steve calls loudly, from where he’s still seated on the couch. “It’ll be funny, trust me.” 

Hopper goes to pinch the bridge of his nose, before glancing sideways at the island counter covered in solo cups and bottles. 

Changes course to pluck an unopened whiskey bottle from the pile, tucking it under his arm. 

Storms back out to whatever the Harrington’s call the room Steve’s in, pausing only to stop in front of him. 

“Hey.” Steve says, spotting the bottle.

Hopper holds it out. “Oh, I’m sorry,  is this yours?” 

Steve’s mouth opens, before he catches Callahan’s shaking head. Thinks better of it, and slams it back closed. 

Grumbles; “No, sir.” 

“Oh it’s sir now, is it?” Hopper says with a snort. “Since you’re so good at eavesdropping, you already know what I’m going to do. Congratulations Harrington, you get out of jail tonight, but,” 

He leans forward, putting himself almost nose to nose with the surely teenager, “I will be making sure that this time, your parents pay attention.” 

Quick as a shot he’s up and out the door, slamming it close behind him like he forgot Phil was there. 

“Good luck!” Steve shouts after him, but it’s clear even he thinks the Chief won their little sparring match. 

“Have your parents really been gone since March?” Phil says when the coast is clear, and watches Steve blink at him like he hadn’t realized the younger officer was still there. 

“Yeah.” Steve says with a shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Every kid’s dream.” 

It’s not. Even Phil can tell from the way Steve’s face looks just then, that he knows it’s not. 

He doesn’t know what exactly posses him, but the next words out of his mouth are; “You ever get too lonely here, you can stay with me.” 

“What?” Steve says, eyes snapping right to Phil’s face like he misheard him. 

He’s embarrassed for two entire seconds before deciding, fuck it. 

He already offered, he’s not taking it back. 

“It’s a big house, kid. You shouldn’t be alone for that long.” Phil thinks about his impending divorce. On the emptiness of the house, with his soon to be ex wife long gone. How that eats at him, sometimes. Adds;  “No one should be.”  

Harrington Jr. stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Whatever.” He scoffs, but it’s not quite the waspish tone he’d used before. 

“You ever need help either, you call me.” Phil says, because that seems important to say too. 

He points up at one of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, impossibly high over both their heads. “Even if it’s just to hold a ladder to change one of those lightbulbs.” 

Steve’s eyes go up with him then back down, like he’s still not sure this isn’t a joke being played on him. 

“I mean it.” Phil says, right as one of the front doors whips back open. Reaches into the pocket of his uniform, and pulls out his card. “You need me, you call.” 

“Callahan!” Hopper bellows, and Phil calls out a loud; “Coming!” before making eye contact with Steve once more.

“Take it.”  He says, holding out the card, and hopes he sounds like a proper adult when he does. 

(Phil often does not feel like an adult, least of which because he’s the youngest in the department by two decades, nevermind the failed marriage.) 

“Okay.” Steve says dismissively, but he reaches out.

Takes the card.

It feels like a victory and Phil lets it be one as he leaves the Harrington residence and Steve behind with it. Feels the rot of that be soothed by the fact he at least did something. 

(Also see’s Hopper didn’t wait for him, but is instead sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck. 

Knows his boss is gonna be pissed at him, but faces the noose anyway.) 

“Puppies are expensive.” The Chief tells him darkly, the second Phil opens the door. “And they shit all over the floor.”

“What?” He asks, not always used to his bosses nonsensical ramblings. 

He eyes the thermos the Chief’s holding, and wonders if already dumped the whiskey he stole in it. 

They all thought the Chief had been getting better, but maybe not… 

“Puppies,” Hopper stressed, jamming the hand holding the thermos in Phil’s face (no liquor smell, thank God.) “who have very rich owners, are typically well cared for, even if their idea of care and your idea are different.” 

Phil’s face contorts in confusion, eyes following Hopper’s finger pointed middle finger to the fading tail lights of Steve’s BMW. 

It takes him a second, but he gets there.

“Steve isn’t a puppy.” He says instantly offended, because teenagers and puppies are very, very different, thanks, and yes okay, he knows it’s a metaphor, but it’s a stupid one. 

“Acts like one.” Hopper says, before taking a noisy sip of the thermos. 

“He really doesn’t?” 

Phil wants to say he complains right back at his boss, but really it comes out as more of a question--because Steve Harrington has never acted like a dog. The kid’s not clingy, or whiny or even loud. 

He’s a kid, sure, a teenager that’s obnoxious, but aren’t all teenagers that way, by default?

Phil’s mother certainly said so, though she’d been teasing about it. 

(She also said something about how kids who can’t get what they need the right way, will revert to trying out the wrong ways instead.) 

“Whatever. Just don’t come running to me when you get too close and Mommy and Daddy show up to remind you it’s none of your business.”

Hopper starts the cruiser, expecting that to be that.

And normally it would be. Phil would leave it alone, even if he disagreed, but today he finds he can’t. 

Not when the words from Flo’s crossword are still haunting his head, ‘abandoned’ and ‘neglected’ and ‘pushed away’ lighting up like little warning signs, all pointing towards one very sad kid. 

“If they come back.” He finds himself saying. 

“Oh, they always come back.” Hopper snorts right back. “Just not when any of us ever want them too.” 

Phil doesn’t like that answer, but this time he does leave it alone. 

Figures the best he can do for Steve is what he already did. Let him know he saw him. Let him know he understood. 

If Steve needs someone, he now knows Phil will come. 

He won’t let anyone make him feel bad for offering that, either, because this is the exact thing he signed up to do, when he became a cop. 

Even if Harrington never reaches out to him, at least Phil can say he did something. At least he can live with himself. 

xXx

Weeks go by.

A month.

Two months and more.

By a year Phil has kind of forgotten about his promise to Steve Harrington, and by the time the Chief has gotten them all involved in some kind of--poisoned pumpkin patch problem, he’s too caught up in trying to figure out what the hell is going on in Hawkins to really think about it. 

That is, until the kid himself shows up on his doorstep, with a black eye and a hand hugging his ribs. 

Which would be concerning on its own, but it’s worse given that known lawn flamingo thief and constant pain in the police department’s ass, Eddie Munson, is right there with him. 

“Hi Officer Callahan.” Munson says, and he, Phil quickly realizes, looks perfectly fine, despite clearly being the only reason Steve seven on his feet. “Uh…Harrington said I should take him here?” 

He does not sound certain, and frankly, looks two seconds from bolting.

Given how much Steve is bleeding on him, Phil can’t blame him for it. 

“What the hell.” He says, shocked and loose tongued for it. “Did you two get in a fight!?” 

“No!” Munson yelps, then immediately stills when the act of it jostles Steve. “I found him like this. He was fucking trying to drive and was weaving all over the place--I got him to stop, and get in my van, but the only thing he’ll say is that I needed to bring him to you!” 

Like it wasn’t bad enough the chief had been out of contact all night or that there had been weird people swarming all over town, nevermind all those damn phone calls about loose dogs and--

“You said.” Steve interrupts Phil’s spiraling thoughts, voice sounding oddly strangled, and he'd pay more attention to that if he wasn’t finding new and concerning injuries every second he looked. 

“You said I could go to you, for help. If I needed it. Cause Hopper--Hopper’s busy,” Steve’s slurring, Phil realizes and oh god a lot of that blood is on his head, “An’ I didn’t want the kids to worry, but I think…i was wrong, I don’t--I think I’m…I don’t wanna be ‘lone--”  

“Okay, okay.” Phil reaches out, tries to take Steve’s weight off of Munson. “Get in here. You too, Munson.” 

Expects the latter to protest and is a little surprised to watch as the kid instead helps Steve hobble inside. 

“Put him on the couch while I get my first aid kit.” Phil orders, trying not to panic and failing. He has first aid training--more than, actually, because he took it as an elective back when he thought he was going to go to medical school, but that was years ago and Steve looks like he went head first through a blender. 

‘Stabilize him now, panic later.’ He orders himself, as Munson settles both of them down on the couch. 

“Am I dying?” Steve asks vaguely, to Munson’s increasingly panicked face. 

“Nope.” Phil says, voice as firm as he can make it. “Not today.” 

He comes over, looking over Steve once again 

“You staying Munson?” He asks, more an out for the kid than anything else. 

Watches as the older teen clocks that for what it is. 

See’s Steve unintentionally lean into his chest, breathing a little weird. 

“No man, you’re going to need an extra hand.” Eddie says. “I’m staying right here.” 

“Me too.” Steve slurs nonsensically.

“What the hell, me too.” Phil says, just to lighten the mood a little. 

Then he drops to his knees and goes about stabilizing Steve. 

(At some point Munson decides to help tell his latest flamingo heist story. Phil let him, even if no one had realized he’d pulled off another one again.

He got Steve to laugh, so Phil figures it was worth it, at least. ) 

[samsoble]

I mentioned in one of my kid Steve posts that Wayne thinks that Steve is Hopper’s nephew, and I just think it’s really funny if he just doesnt figure out hes wrong for a long time.

Like, he’s met Steve. He likes Steve. He does not realize that their Steve is the Steve Harrington that Eddie spent years complaining about.

Steve and Eddie start dating, tell Wayne, and Steve’s like, “Yeah, no one in my family would be cool about this at all. We can’t tell them.”

“What about your uncle?”

Steve thinks about his uncle Larry (Kline, former mayor) and is like, “No, he’d definitely disown me.”

Now Wayne thinks Hopper is homophobic.

[samsoble]

El doesn't really speak very well, and it's very possible that it might be because of trauma. So when hoh Steve Harrington, who signs, teaches her how to sign herself, suddenly she loves to speak with her hands. Mike immediately goes to Steve and asks him to teach him how to sign. He surprises El with it, one day, by signing he loves her.

[samsoble]

Okay, I'm getting on here to be a little bit pissy. I'm sorry in advance.

I am so in love with the headcanons regarding Steve's hearing, whether it be that he's hard of hearing, actively in the process of losing his hearing, deaf with a hearing aid, or just completely deaf—every version is fucking fantastic. I'm hard of hearing myself, it's fucking great that this representation is being written or drawn. I love it.

However, I'm going to hold your hand as I say this, stop using language such as "when he learns to lipread" or "eventually learns to lipread." Please stop.

He shouldn't have to learn to lip read. That shouldn't be an eventual skill he learns.

And, gonna give you a little bit of history here, it's historically ableist to require a deaf/hoh person to learn lip reading. From the late 1800s and into the late 1960s, there were literally programs across America that would force deaf children to write, speak, and lipread English—they were punished for signing to others in their schools, in public, in their dorms. And that didn't change until "Total Communication" was brought forth as a possibility, a philosophy that declared children would learn better using their preferred communication—whether it be oralism (the practice of writing, speaking, and lipreading) or via signing. However, oral schools that implemented total communication into their core programs had sign language that was structured with English grammar, this is commonly known as Exact Sign Language, or Exact English Sign Language. It's not American Sign Language.

Also, children who were approved for Coclear Implants in the early 1990s, were sent from residential deaf schools into day schools (public schools) that had a primary focus on oral teaching; pushed into day schools with little to no support, were discouraged from signing with even their parents. This was due to the fact that it was believed that signing at home would slow down their learning.

I am such a fan of deaf Steve or HoH Steve, but you have to be careful the language you're approaching his character with. If he has a sign language interpreter, then he most likely already knows sign language and will, also, most likely rely on an interpreter for communication with hearing people. If he is going deaf (maybe because of head trauma, maybe he gets into a traumatic accident, maybe he gets sick and just loses his hearing, maybe he listens to music too loudly and damages his ears that way), Steve will most likely already have the skills to write and speak in English, but lipreading is a skill that's difficult to garner.

I'll say, too, lipreading is fucking difficult because hearing people are so used to speaking (most of the time. I'm not talking about non-verbal hearing people in this conversation)—hearing people will typically talk fast, which makes lipreading muddy and indecipherable. I've been trying to learn this for years and I'm fucking over it, I can't do it. I speak and write, but I also use ASL, too.

Saying that Steve needs to lipread, that's ableist. Saying that he eventually or finally learns to lipread, that's ableist. Fuck it, I'm gonna say this, too—requiring or not giving Steve the option to decide whether or not he wants a hearing aid or implant device is also inherently ableist. Deaf people are (and should be) allowed to have a choice on having to hear. My own sibling made the decision recently to stop using the cochlear implant they've had their entire life because they weren't even given the choice to get one in the first place (and decided they were done with it), they hated the feedback the cochlear had, and it was just irritating in the sense that it would fall off, the volume control would change all on its own, and they just didn't like it. That's their choice. It's important to give a character that choice.

I let this get away from me, but I despise how people talk about his options for communication sometimes. It just rubs me the wrong way. And I think it's best we all reanalyze how we approach his characterization, especially how we can approach crafting the characterization without alienating a group of people.

*this post has been approved by my deaf sibling (who was born deaf), and obviously by me (somebody who can only hear out of one fucking ear. seriously be careful about volume control on your ear buds. and also wear ear plugs at shows. it hurts like hell to damage your ear drum.)

Here's a whole Wikipedia article about deaf education in the US (just in case you wanted another reason to hate America, but also if you're curious. definitely something everybody should learn).

[samsoble]

Scary Dog Eddie Munson and Tamer Steve Harrington.

(Originally posted on twitter)

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

Steve Harrington had changed.

It was subtle, easy to miss. You really only noticed if you knew what you were looking for.

It wasn’t his hair, his clothes, his cologne… No. It went deeper than that.

It wasn’t the person that had changed, it was the soul. His very essence had been rewritten.

On the surface he was still the same goofy Steve, the jock still not quite getting the joke.

But if you saw the change, oh you really saw it.

He carried himself differently now. There was a confidence held in his shoulders that came from much more than some meaningless status as a school athlete. His smile was sharp enough to cut right through you.

It was obvious once you knew why.

Eddie Munson was a dark cloud. He infected any space he graced with a searing sense of dread and he always left people with a chill down their spine.

It was impossible to relax around him.

The whispers about what it was really like in his hidden corner of Forest Hills never sounded too far fetched because if you knew Eddie, nothing would surprise you.

Eddie was a beast. And who better to slay a dragon, than a King.

Steve was like a lightning bolt through Eddie’s storm.

They fit together in a way that boomed like thunder and flowed like a flood. If Steve was untouchable in this town before, Eddie made him invincible.

Steve revelled in the way people looked away when they went anywhere.

After years of having all eyes on him, being paraded through school like a prize pony, he licked his teeth every time someone turned away to avoid him looking their way.

Not everyone was smart enough not to stare directly into the fire.

Tommy Hagan missed his friend.

They were two sides of the same coin for years, until Munson came along. When Carol moved out of state and took her heart with him, Tommy was left adrift. He wanted some comfort from an old pal.

Getting shot down after trying to call Steve hurt. It stung. It made no sense.

Tommy was walking through the woods behind the school when he heard Steve’s voice.

He followed it to the clearing; the old picnic bench where girls would lift their skirts for ten dollars a look.

It was nice out here, Tommy decided. They could talk for a while, maybe.

Tommy stood at the treeline behind Steve, who sat backwards on the seat looking out to the forest, leaning back against the table.

His mind was slow from the warm beer he’d stolen from his old man to drown his sorrows. He didn’t see anything at first. He just started talking.

“Steve?”

Steve’s head whipped around to see who called him. He let out a small breath of a laugh, one of the hands that had been spread across the table flying to his lap.

“Tommy, hey,” Steve said, shifting where he sat. “I’m busy,”

Tommy’s brow creased. “Doing what?”

Steve laughed again and turned away, facing back to the trees.

“I just want to say hi to my friend,” Tommy protested. “Since it’s been so hard to talk to you since that fucking freak Munson started following you around,”

Steve said nothing, he simply dropped his head back.

The angle was severe enough that Tommy could see his smile.

“You think it’s funny?” Tommy demanded. “Everyone says it, they all say how weird it is that he sniffs around you like…like a fucking dog or something,”

Steve’s fave pinched slightly and he made a small noise.

“Yeah….” Steve breathed, lifting his head again.

“Yeah!” Tommy snapped. “It’s true! And-”

“Tommy fuck off, would you?” Steve said, sounding out of breath. “I told you I’m busy,”

“You’re…” Tommy spluttered. “Are you kidding me? You won’t even turn around to look at me!”

Steve didn’t answer.

“Steve fucking look at me!” Tommy yelled, echoing around the clearing.

Steve sighed and lifted the hand that had been in his lap.

Eddie appeared slowly, drifting up from the floor like smoke from a snuffed candle. “He told you to fuck off, Hagan,”

Tommy took a shocked step back. His drunken mind instantly sobered, catching up quickly. Eddie’s lips were red and puffy, his eyes wet at the corners. His hair was tangled like it had been gripped tight.

“Fuck,” Tommy said. He stumbled back again as Eddie rounded the table.

“Whats wrong?” Eddie mocked. “Don’t wanna stay and chat now that the, what was it? Fucking freak? Is here too?”

“You…you were….”

Tommy’s gaze darted over to Steve. He was still sitting in his spot, his head rolled over his shoulder to lazily observe their interaction.

“I was,” said Eddie. “And I’d like to continue, so how ‘bout you do like you were told,”

Tommy was still drunk enough to be bold.

“No,” he said, tilting his chin. “How do I know you’re not just gonna rob him? Huh? Trailer trash like you? I bet Steve’s the perfect bait,”

Eddie sighed. Tommy got no warning before Eddie lunged at him, pinning him to a tree and holding his forearm to his throat.

“Wanna say that again?” Eddie said in a low rumble. “Or maybe you wanna see what trailer trash like me can really do when I’ve got some bait on my hook?”

Tommy squirmed against his hold, feeling the pressure on his neck. Steve appeared over Eddie’s shoulder.

“I’m bored,” he said, running a finger down the side of Eddie’s neck. “Take me home?”

Eddie’s lip curled, not taking his eyes off Tommy.

Steve smiled and rubbed his cheek on the shoulder of Eddie’s leather jacket. “Down boy, let’s go,”

Eddie released Tommy at Steve’s word and stepped away from him.

Tommy leaned over to catch his breath and noticed Steve’s belt was still undone.

“Steve,” he said, breathless.

Steve raised his eyebrow at Tommy.

“You’re serious about this guy?” he asked. “Like this isn’t some sick joke?”

Eddie made a move towards Tommy again but Steve stilled him with a soft touch to his chest.

“I’m sorry Carol dumped you,” Steve told him without emotion. “Go find something better,”

“I don’t…” said Tommy. “Steve, man, I…I just want to talk to you. I want to hang out with a friend to feel better. You really won’t give me that?”

Steve regarded Tommy with a slow look

“No,” Steve said. “You called Eddie names, I don’t want to talk to you,”

Tommy baulked. “You’re…! Steve!”

“You’re a bully, Tommy,” said Steve matter of factly in a fake soothing voice. “That’s why Carols gone. I don’t wanna your friend,”

“You were a bully too!” said Tommy.

Steve smiled, took Eddie’s hand and leaned against him “And I make up for it every way I can,”

Tommy took a heavy step forward to follow them as they went to leave. Eddie turned back quickly and Tommy almost collided with his chest. “I thought we told you to fuck off,”

“Eddie,” Steve’s voice was firmer more. “Let’s go,”

No more asking. This was a command.

Eddie practically snarled as he moved away from Tommy once more and started to walk with Steve out of the clearing.

“I mean it Tommy,” Steve called over his shoulder in a light sing-song. “Go find better, than Carol I mean. Won’t be hard…”

His voice trailed off into a quiet laugh.

Tommy sank to the forest floor, crawling backwards to lean against the tree Eddie had pinned him to.

Tommy didn’t know if he’d ever find better than Carol. He didn’t know if he even wanted to look. It felt too overwhelming to think about finding someone new. He wanted to marry Carol. He couldn’t bear the idea of growing old with anyone else. Or at least thats how it felt.

But right now Tommy could barely even comprehend the last twenty minutes, never mind the rest of his life. Nothing made sense anymore.

The only thing Tommy knew for sure right now?

Steve Harrington sure had changed.