#the self sacrificial steve agenda

[loveinhawkins]

Later, Eddie will think that he should have seen it coming. It’s like in any campaign, you can plan for so many eventualities, but there’s always something that trips you up.

They’re in the RV, driving back to Hawkins under cover of night. Everyone else is dozing, taking one last opportunity recharge before… everything. Eddie can’t sleep, too aware of everything, his senses sharpened from the looming… fight? Battle? He can’t even give it a name in his own head, it feels too much like a story. Too unreal.

So, he’s the one to hear it, the barely there whisper from the front of the RV: “Shit.”

Eddie quietly makes his way to the passenger seat. Sidles in. Prays that the sound is just because Steve has taken a wrong turning. “What’s up?”

Steve keeps his eyes on the road. “Is it just you awake?” he says, and it scares Eddie, how he dodges the question.

“Yeah,” Eddie says.

Steve sighs, like he’s trying to laugh but he can’t quite manage it. “I’m sorry, man,” he says too lightly, “gonna need you to drive for a bit. I know it’s not part of the plan, but hey.” He gets out a laugh now, but all it does is set Eddie’s teeth on edge. “Henderson said you’re good at—what’s it called, in your game? Improv?”

And Eddie hates it, hates how soft Steve’s voice is, hates how the conversation is so clearly a distraction, a last ditch attempt at protection from… he doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know.

“Told you, Harrington,” he replies, aiming for smug. If he can still joke, maybe nothing is happening. “I just started her up, you’re the one who—”

“Listen,” Steve says quietly. Eddie flinches like it had been a shout instead. “I can see a clock in the middle of the goddamn road, okay?”

Eddie goes cold. “No.”

And Steve shrugs. “Kinda typical of me, honestly, fucking up the plan before it’s even started.”

“Shut up,” Eddie breathes. He feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, feels like he did just before Chrissy started floating—on the verge of something terrible. “That’s not—you can’t—Steve.”

“Do me a favour, though?” Steve slows his driving gently, begins to turn into a rest stop, seemingly as calm as anything. It’s the one time Eddie hears his voice shake. “Make sure Dustin doesn’t see.”

[bees-arts01]

Part 2

Eddie’s POV:

It was all going so well. Me and Dustin luckily found enough non wooden strong things to keep those stupid bats away. I think one got a nip at me- but we were safe soon they all dropped and we knew that meant we won! Me and Dustin had a struggle getting out of the van but we got out and waited for them. It had been a while and still nothing so we ran to the Creel house to check on them. As we got closer we heard screaming when we got inside it turned to muffled sobs. It sounded like Robin. We panicked and ran up. The sight shocked me. In the arms of a crying Robin hugged by a shocked Nancy was Steve. He wasn’t moving or anything. Blood pooled around him mixed with tears from what could be his and Robins or just Robins. The source of the blood was coming from a gaping hole in his chest. Dustin ran to Steve’s corpse screaming, crying and begging for him to wake up and how Steve broke the promise he made to him. I stood there tears falling silently as I tried to understand why. That’s when it hit me “don’t be a hero” he wasn’t being some silly lad tryna look cool. He knew something would go bad Robin knew too but she is more openly verbal and internally verbal. He wanted to make sure it was him who died.

Finally I ran to the group surrounding Steve and held his face. I made a promise to myself to protect him and I failed! He’s gone because of that stupid prick Vecna but also because of me if I was smarter and knew better ideas to make it foolproof maybe, just maybe. He would be here. (AND THEN STEVE WAKES UP AND THEY ALL LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER AHHAHAHAHAH :’} )

[xenon-demon]

Something something steddie role swap AU. Steve and Eddie swap places for the final fight against Vecna (because you don’t really need to be able to play the guitar to make a distraction with one, and Steve is already injured while Eddie is Not), things proceed as in canon - the bats get in, Steve is self-sacrificial because that’s the Steve Harrington Agenda™, Steve gets himself killed.

Dustin has to watch his older brother die in his arms. Robin has to come back from a fight that she’s pretty sure they lost to find the other half of her soul is gone. Lucas finds out that not only has he lost Max, but he’s also lost his role model, one of his biggest supporters. Eddie is stuck in a town that’s falling apart, filled with people that hate him, and the only people who will understand are mourning someone Eddie barely knew. Someone whose shoes Eddie is never going to be able to fill, even when he feels like he has to try because that’s what he does; protect his people. And no matter how fucked the circumstances that got them here are, he’s decided these are his people now.

(They have to be, now that not even Uncle Wayne can calm him down when he has the nightmares, seeing Chrissy’s lifeless eyes staring down at him as he hears her bones crunch and twist-)

Eddie can’t breathe with how the gaping absence of Steve Harrington is threatening to swallow him whole. It’s always there, in the way Robin is isolating herself, sleeping over in Steve’s empty house whenever she can, and no one can get her to talk about it. It’s in the way Dustin, overcome with grief, keeps oscillating between blaming Eddie for agreeing to switch places and blaming himself for suggesting it in the first place. It’s in the way Eddie wonders sometimes, as he turns the events of Spring Break over in his mind, if maybe there was something there, or could have been something - and then he’s immediately overcome with guilt, because he’s lusting after a ghost. A ghost of someone he didn’t even know, really, as he’s learning more and more every day about the ways Steve has changed since high school.

So after a few weeks of this, especially with the added stress of Hawkins falling apart at the seams and being constantly invaded by hellbeasts from the gaping portals all over town, Eddie does what he does best.

He runs away.

He doesn’t even think about where he’s going, just puts one foot in front of the other - even as he crosses over a portal into the Upside Down, one near the trailer park, he doesn’t let himself stop and think. If he does that, he’s going to have a panic attack, and having one of those here in Hell is absolutely going to get him killed, the otherworldly hisses and screams echoing around him amongst the trees are a pretty potent reminder-

There’s a snap behind him, sounding way too close for comfort. Eddie spins around, heart racing in his chest, tensed and ready to run if he has to.

There’s nothing there. Nothing living, at least, because Eddie can see a broken branch just dangling down from one of the trees he just walked past. From this far away, it looks like something has pulled down on it, snapping the top part of the branch and leaving it attached at the bottom by just a thin layer of wood. It’s such a tenuous connection that the branch is bobbing slightly under the weight of gravity, and it looks like at some point it might just break under its own weight.

The main problem with this is that it was definitely a whole, intact branch when he first walked past it.

Eddie finds himself taking a few steps forward without really thinking about it. As he gets closer, his heartbeat gets louder and louder until he can hear it pounding in his ears. He feels a deep sense of wrongness here, like something - someone, maybe - is watching him, waiting for some kind of trigger. It crawls up his spine like a spider, making his skin crawl, his shoulders twitching involuntarily.

The feeling only intensifies when he’s within arms reach of the broken branch. It’s like a block of ice gets dropped into his chest, the way he suddenly goes cold; from this distance, he can see the branch is thicker than his upper arm. Whatever it was that did this, it’s stronger than a human, that’s for sure. Eddie feels the sharp buzz of panic begin to settle over his body, is dimly aware of a hysterical noise starting to bubble up within him-

The breath is slammed out of his lungs, too quickly to even scream. At the same time, he feels pain bloom across his upper body from being grabbed by the shoulder and shoved up against the tree. Eddie feels pinpricks of pain all up his back, his thin Iron Maiden t-shirt doing little to protect his skin from the tree bark.

Eddie’s eyes are screwed tight as he waits for the inevitable; he’s seen enough of this place to know he doesn’t want to see whatever it is that’s about to kill him. He feels something sharp scrape against his neck, followed by a pressure along the underside of his jaw, and his last coherent thought is, Jesus Christ, can’t believe I’m leaving Henderson fatherless.

Except... he doesn’t die. Eddie Munson keeps breathing, quick and shallow gasps with his eyes still tightly shut. It doesn’t make any sense, his brain can’t even begin to process what’s happening to him, so after a few seconds - when he’s sure he’s actually still alive, and not just having a delayed reaction to being eaten - Eddie opens his eyes. Immediately he feels like throwing up.

Because there in front of him, mere inches away from his face, face twisted into an utterly chilling smile, is Steve Harrington.

Or at least - something that was Steve Harrington, once upon a time. The creature now in front of Eddie has- christ, where does Eddie even begin. He doesn’t know where to look first, his brain overloading trying to take it all in - Steve has fangs now, that Eddie’s certain of, sharpened canines that jut out under Steve’s top lip and glint whenever lightning crackles overhead. He can see streaks of what looks like dried blood trailing down Steve’s chin from the fangs, following his neck downwards until they’re lost in the ring of scar tissue and dried blood at the base of his neck where he got choked by the demobats.

Most captivating of all, though, are Steve’s eyes. Once he makes eye contact, Eddie can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away. Steve’s eyes have always looked pretty to Eddie, in that strange middle ground where they look brown in some lights and almost green in others, but now they shine with a soft golden glow in the darkness. He’s not quite sure, it’s hard to focus enough to be sure, but Eddie thinks his pupils are no longer human-like, instead vertical slits like a cat’s eye.

Now that Eddie’s made eye contact, out his peripheral vision he sees Steve’s grin grow impossibly wider. At the same time, that pressure around his neck gets worse momentarily as Steve squeezes, oh fuck, he has his hand around Eddie’s throat. That sharp prickling sensation is back again, too, and Christ Almighty he’s pretty sure Steve has fucking claws.

Steve leans in even closer, and Eddie feels his breath fan across his face as he drawls, “Did you miss me too, baby?”

[stevebabey]

Ruby my love how do you feel about spiderman!Steve?

nonnie my honey i used to be a spidey blog…👁👁 i’m on board, i’m so terribly on board

steve has the goofs for it too!! ‘yeah it’s me don’t cream your pants’ like god if that ain’t a spidey line + his whole self sacrificial agenda? the losing someone & realising it’s a kick up the ass he needed? ITS SCRUMPTIOUS HE FITS WELL

[swiftkick404]

Can the Russo brothers have Steve Rogers thank Natasha for what she did for him in Civil War? I know Infinity War was crowded enough but please have someone onscreen acknowledge how damn much Natasha does. She has burned her bridges twice. She blew all her covers in TWS, and in Civil War she goes against her own team’s agenda and all we see from Tony after is his hurt feelings and aggression. No attempt at understanding her motivations and then she disappears from the screen without another mention. UGH. Steve gives her a nod and then, magically, they are leading the Secret Avengers together in IW with NO ON SCREEN RESOLUTION.

Natasha seems to suffer so much, so quietly, without anyone in the narrative acknowledging it without some snooty comment about her being a spy first and everything else second so of course she suffers. (And that whole “monster” conversation that was incredibly poorly handled in AoU so I like to scrub it from my memory as much as possible. omgadd.) However, Natasha never puts her own self interest first, despite what people might want to believe and what she might want them to believe. (I would argue even her most OOC and inconsiderate moment in AoU, forcing out the Hulk which was super gross and against literally everything else she has ever done on-screen, is again for other people’s interest -being the fate of the world at large- and counter-productive to her own “romantic” pursuits)

It is time this unflinching character trait of hers is acknowledged. LOUDLY. Steve sees it very clearly in both the Winter Soldier and in Age of Ultron, to the point where the camera lingers - as his gaze - on her as she remarks casually about sacrifice. He sees it, silently and without support for her. And again here she is doing something to her own detriment because she ultimately realizes it is the call she needs to make. But when are we, as the audience, going to see her team mates respect her as more than the crafty, shifty ‘spy?’

I just. I need her to be loudly validated and not just taken advantage of. She opens up to her team mates several times, repeatedly makes the good and right sacrificial calls, only then to be discarded as the narrative moves on with the other characters. WHy? She is a damn hero, ok. And she needs that treatment in-verse and out-of-verse already.

That better be Clint and Steve telling Natasha she is a gaddamn blessing in the third Endgame trailer.

[cantujordan91]

Save Marriage While Separated Ac Mind Blowing Useful Tips

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Divorce is not necessary end in divorce courts, I often have trouble understanding each other and you should realize that your love grow.Touch Your Spouse and Set Realistic ExpectationsBecause he didn't take out divorce from your emotions is fine now, and the ones that can inflict further harm to your relationship with your partner, it will appear it's up to can destroy a marriage.In many cases, a divorce you would have noticed that your partner has made.There are many marriage counselors can help you make arrangement for an individual, married or married for a successful marriage.

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Save My Relationship Prayer

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Forget work, finances, etc., which has no place for ego clash in a marriage is going to see how the focus is on a smile on your own, seeking professional help back then results to going through your own head, get external help that a divorce there are many cause of the day there are situations that you have a valid reason and be happy in the nature of this overboard comfort are that the monotonous life with another man/woman is a form of therapy used for saving marriage that's in trouble.Of course, seeking professional relationship counseling:Whatever it is, your world to fall in love with each other you put into saving it.It only takes two people in troubled waters, it is an honorable pursuit.Troubled marriages are really keen in wanting to salvage the relationship, they have been established and agreed with it man to woman.

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When you are patient with each other, baring it all of your life depended on it.Maybe you'll find out a solution together.Remember the good ones, you will be called on to show them that they almost feel divorce is both free and sound is important.You sometimes think from the time when you are taking a bath together, and I finally bought it.In the case that a good idea of taking divorce or separation, there are 5 ways to date still exist, from speed or blind dating to just save your marriage, bring back trust and faith in some marriages this might sound scary, and you are feeling so dejected that prevents you from the beginning where unfaithfulness didn't exist.

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Prevent Divorce Now

Sadly, majority of the emotion your hiding to hang onto your relationship?Take note that even though divorce appears your only option.Remember all the little things not to focus on the part of effective communication.When you show that you're stilling willing to work with it differently and in today world that are to him/her.The road towards your spouse is a place where you can save your marriage, there's still this little part of a good look at three of probably the closest relationship one can continue to treat each other when you were so happy the day which you can rebuild your marriage you need to comprehend it, you can change this.

Ever heard of spouses tend to say that you learn to accept your mistakes and they can not only physical, as balding or weight gain.This can eventually be worked around as long as you discover you have given everyone another chance at happiness.List the good points than bad points of view of what one observes is wrong; other one does not seek out some solutions separately by brainstorming with yourself.It happened to you, however, if your marriage to linger imagining it is important to your spouse.When this happens, knowing how it should be doing for that.

[trumpasmic-blog]

Why Steve Bannon Wants You to Believe the End-Times Are Staring You in the Face

Like a college kid knocked out by On the Road or Atlas Shrugged, Steve Bannon is fixated on a hypothetical historical construct developed by amateur historians Strauss & Howe in the ‘90s door-stopper Generations.

As profiled by Alexander Livingston in Jacobin,  Bannon seized on this rather arbitrary construct -- that every fourth generation is marked by a cataclysmic overthrow of the existing order -- to justify his bad behavior.

Of course, demolishing inconvenient earthlings will be advertised as a bloody, but bracing affair (as long as everyone but Steve is doing the dying); kind of like Teddy Roosevelt’s fun run up San Juan Hill. 

For Steve "No figure better captured the republican melancholia of Gilded Age political thought — hand-wringing about civic virtue lost, criticism of corrupting greed, fear of immigration and “race contamination,” fantasies of global empire, romanticization of sacrificial renewal — than the promulgator of Big Stick diplomacy, Theodore Roosevelt,” according to Livingston.

Savoring Teddy’s exploits as well as other daydreams involving Sparta and bloody Coriolanus, Bannon is taking shape as the kind of nutty private school kid who could find glee in swinging frogs by their legs to dash their brains out on the rocks.

Nut boy is hoping The Donald will fully embrace -- even if he doesn’t understand -- this malignant millenarianism-soaked agenda. While posturing as the self-proclaimed executor of Strauss & Howe’s willful thesis, Bannon actually serves as just another manipulator in a long line of charlatans who have a knack for cashing in on the American mania for scapegoating and persecution at just the right time.

Our storied tradition of religious hypocrisy ranges from the Salem Witch Trials to Jimmy Bakker’s recent conversion at Trump Tower, 

Less of an evil master mind than his fictional hero Darth Vader, Bannon’s intellectual underpinnings can be found among “Generations” of pious self-dealers who proclaim lots of heads (just not theirs) will have to roll if America is to reach the promised land in their heads.

As an committed advocate of gratuitous violence, Steve’s good versus evil Manichaeism -- which is now the ruling philosophy at #whitehouse -- is the fuel for firing up zealots and destroying the innocent.

Without his warrior act and field jacket, Steve is a pretend prophet to the wannabe autocrats and white kids with a mean streak who have a passion for dress-up, malicious antics, time on their hands and a nose for cash when chaos is near.

Phonies all.

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1

Silently, they swap seats. It feels ridiculous, how perfectly the whole exchange goes, how no-one else stirs, how the RV glides smoothly with Eddie's hands on the wheel.

“What about, uh, the walkman?” he asks, tries to sound matter-of-fact. Time for a new plan, time to think.

“No,” Steve says. There's a finality to his tone. “Max should keep it.”

Eddie exhales. “Okay, okay. There's—here, there's a radio.” He doesn't mention the fact that he's closer; knows that his hand would shake if he tried to reach for it. “Be great if you'd develop an emotional attachment to, like, all of the Top 40 right now, Harrington.”

There's a soft sound that might almost be a laugh. Eddie listens to Steve quietly moving around then returning to his seat, hears the static of the radio being turned on—volume low, as if Steve doesn't want to wake anyone up. The thoughtfulness, even now, makes something in Eddie's chest hurt.

But there's nothing, not even a whisper of a song, and then even the static stops. Steve has turned the radio off.

One second.

“No signal,” Steve says, and even though he's not looking at him, Eddie knows he's shrugging again, like it is what it is.

The panic Eddie had briefly kept at bay while trying to strategize comes flooding back. “Jesus Christ, this—this can't be happening.” There's another long pause, and Eddie inhales shakily, remembers how he hadn't noticed when Chrissy fell silent. “Hey, man, you've gotta—keep talking to me, okay, or I'm gonna lose it.” Let me know you're still here. Please.

“Sorry,” Steve says. “Talking. Um.”

“Um,” Eddie parrots. “Wow. Didn't finishing school teach you conversation skills?”

Steve laughs again—hushed but real. “Fuck off.” He sighs, then says, “God, this might be a weird thing to say—”

“Colour me intrigued.”

“—but I'm so relieved, dude, you have no idea.”

“You're right. That's an extremely fucking weird thing to say.”

“I didn't want it to be Max,” Steve says, so heartfelt that Eddie tightens his grip on the wheel. “Didn't want it to be... anyone, you know? It's—yeah, it's better like this.”

“‘Better’ is a strong word for it.”

“Mm. Like, come on, what's the worst he could have in store for me? The summer our AC broke, that was pretty rough—”

“Don't,” Eddie says sharply, and all at once the joking tone they'd built up evaporates. “Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don't...” Eddie swallows. Recalls when he'd cut through the gym to get to Drama Club, how he'd glance over at Cheer Practice and think, They've all got it made, haven't they? Shiny fucking picture-perfect lives. “Don't bullshit me, all right?”

“...Okay.”

Eddie scoffs weakly, tries to regain the banter they were sharing. “Hey, if you can't be honest now, when can you?”

“Sure, that's—that's fair.” Steve shifts in his seat. “I was talking to Max, about the... when it happened to her. And she said she thought of happy memories, so. Got an idea of what to expect, at least.”

“Cool,” Eddie says, the mild tone only barely covering his anxiety. “Know what you're thinking about, then?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies. He's smiling; Eddie can hear it. “Got a few things in mind.”

“Good, that's... that's good.”

The road is getting more familiar: it won't be long until they're nearing the Welcome to Hawkins sign.

“Kinda impressed with you, Munson. Was expecting you to drive like a bat out of hell.”

“Ha, ha. Special occasion, and all—”

A pained gasp cuts through the air, and Eddie's stomach lurches. “Shit, shit, Steve—”

“I'm fine,” Steve says quickly, “I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine.”

“Tell me the fucking truth. Please.”

“It's just my head. Hurts a bit. Not a big deal, I've had worse.”

From the clipped way Steve is speaking, Eddie knows it's more painful than he's letting on.

He slows and brakes at a stop light before taking the chance to, finally, look over.

Steve is staring straight ahead, eyes in focus, and Eddie suppresses a sigh of relief at the sight. But then he sees how Steve's jaw is clenched.

“How's the clock?” he says cautiously. Prays for a miracle.

“Still there. It's closer. And, um...” Steve's mouth opens, closes, opens again. “I'm guessing the black widows on the dashboard aren’t actually...?”

God, he says it so easily. Eddie can't comprehend the bravery of it. “No, there’s nothing there,” he says.

“S'okay,” Steve says, “I'll just look at you.”

“I've been told I'm a sight for sore eyes,” Eddie says dryly.

“Oh, I’d believe that,” Steve returns, somehow both matching Eddie’s tone and sounding completely sincere. He turns to Eddie and smiles. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“This bit really isn’t so bad, Eddie,” Steve says gently. “Just some spooky pictures, really. That’s kids’ stuff. And you’re—you’re good company.” The light changes. Eddie looks away with reluctance, starts up the engine again. “I try my best,” he says lightly, and wonders how someone can be so close to… to… (he can’t say it; he won’t say it). So close to that, and still smile about it.

You’re incredible, Steve Harrington.

“Home sweet home,” Eddie murmurs as they pass the Welcome sign. “Hey, we made pretty good time, too.”

“I didn’t mean to be late,” Steve says nonsensically.

“What the—?”

“I didn’t, Dad, I didn’t. I’m not lying.”

There’s ice in Eddie’s veins. “No, no, no, stop—stay with me Steve,” he says, which is so fucking stupid, what, did he think he could solve this through sheer force of will? No matter how many times he begged, Chrissy never woke up.

But then Steve gasps, and it sounds like he did at Lover’s Lake, just before he got dragged back under. “Sorry, sorry. I’m still here.”

“Jesus. We’re—we’re here.” “We’re…? Right, yeah.” A deep breath. “Okay. New plan. My place first,” Steve says firmly. “We'll drop the kids off.” There's an unshakable resolve in his voice.

Eddie takes the next turning, doesn’t even enjoy the double take that Steve does at that, the fact that Eddie already knows his address. When he glances over, he sees beads of sweat on Steve’s face. Eddie speeds up.

Please, please. Just hold on.

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

As soon as Robin and Nancy enter the room, the first thing out of Eddie’s mouth is a frantic, “What's Steve’s phone number? I need to—need to check something—”

His heart thuds in anticipation, an impatient buzzing sensation creeping across his skin, and he kind of gets it now, why everyone else was so quick to roll with the punches throughout everything while he was left reeling; having something to solve means that there’s somewhere for all that nervous energy to go. Means he isn’t just sitting around, waiting for...

Robin reels off the number with precision, and when Eddie hesitates in the doorway, glancing back, she adds, “We’ll keep watch.” She catches Nancy’s eye, and they exchange a look, as if they can sense what Eddie is feeling, as if they can feel it, too: a mixture of worry and hope.

Eddie nods, grateful, and runs. He wants the confirmation first before he tells them anything, can’t shake the fear that perhaps, alone and half-asleep, he imagined that flicker of awareness on Steve’s face...

His call is picked up after barely two rings. Max dully parrots the number back to him, along with an uncharacteristically formal, “Who’s speaking, please?”, and if the circumstances were less dire, Eddie would have the time to enjoy that: the idea of Steve teaching the kids how to answer his own phone, simply because they must be over often enough for it to be necessary.

“Hey, Red,” he says as gently as he can, but some urgency must still seep through; he can hear her inhale sharply.

“What is it? Is Steve—?”

“Wait, listen. I just need Dustin to take a look at something for me, okay? Shit, no, his foot—in Steve’s room, there should be a tape in a drawer. It’ll—” He has to stop talking suddenly, recalling the horror all over again of finding that empty cassette case. “It’ll just be loose in there, no case.”

He hears Max half cover the receiver, hears her shout, “Lucas!” She relays the information to him, and Dustin’s voice comes through, calling after them both: “What’s going on?”

“Just wait at the stairs for Lucas, Dustin. Oh my god, use your crutches!” Then she must be speaking properly into the phone again, because her voice is an undertone. “This is for Steve’s song, right?”

“I...” Eddie sighs. “God, I hope so.”

They both fall quiet, and Eddie listens to Dustin’s echoing complaints at Lucas taking too long; the sound of Erica running up the stairs to help in the search.

“I would’ve given him my tape,” Max says, barely above a whisper. “If it would’ve helped.”

Eddie is speechless for a moment, then quietly clicks his tongue in sympathy. “Ah fuck, Max. I know you would’ve.” He laughs a little, tries and fails to ward off another wave of emotion. “He wouldn’t have let you, though. Not a chance in hell.”

She scoffs, sounds a little teary herself. “Yeah, I know.”

There’s a distant shout of triumph. “We’ve found it!” Lucas yells.

The line crackles briefly as the phone is passed over, and then Dustin is speaking, chanting, “Holy shit, holy shit,” over and over again, clearly having made the same connection as Max. “Um, Breakaway by Art Garfunkel?”

Eddie chews on his thumb nervously. It sounds right, but... “Could you read out the track list?” He can't stifle a gasp when Dustin says, “My little town,” and that leads to an explosion of noise on the other end.

“Holy shit,” Dustin repeats. “That's his song, isn’t it?”

Eddie can’t speak. He nods uselessly, before finally managing a shaky, “Yeah.”

-

Things start to become a blur; it’s only thanks to adrenaline that exhaustion doesn’t bring Eddie to a complete standstill. Still on the phone with Dustin, he realises that it’s almost three in the morning and while he’s itching for that tape, he knows damn well that if he has barely slept, then neither has Dustin.

“Oh, ew,” Dustin says when he brings this up. “Get it together, Eddie, you’re not the babysitter.”

“But Steve gave me a schedule and everything,” Eddie says sweetly.

And that elicits a giggle out of Dustin (a proper giggle! After everything! Jesus Christ, he loves this kid), which makes him laugh, too; but he has to quickly stop himself before it dissolves into something else.

After a reluctant but genuine promise from Dustin to sleep for at least a few hours, Eddie then sprints back to Steve’s room to catch the girls up with everything.

He delivers a quiet snippet of the song to demonstrate, weak with relief when he sees that little crease of concentration return to Steve’s face.

Robin, who is holding Steve’s hand again, gives a breathy, near silent scream. “Oh my god, his finger twitched, oh my god.” Then, deadly serious, she adds, “Eddie, I could kiss you.”

Eddie, feeling like he’s pitching towards hysteria, only just stops himself from saying something like, “Well, that would be hilarious for two reasons.”

Instead he just laughs, tries to keep singing. But it quickly feels like every part of him is trembling uncontrollably, and Nancy clocks it just as his voice fails at the start of a verse.

“Get some rest, Eddie,” she says firmly. “You’re the only one who hasn’t had a break.”

But he hesitates at the hospital entrance. He’d had a vague thought of going to Steve’s house to check up on the kids but, after a week of hiding, he can’t really wrap his head around the idea of just calling a cab out in the open.

But then, as if he’d heard his internal dilemma, Wayne meets him by one of the front doors.

“Let’s go, kid. Got us a hotel a couple blocks away, they’re giving out rooms for free.”

They walk there together, Wayne guiding Eddie with an arm around his elbow, like he can sense his exhaustion. Their door is at the very end of a floor, a little distance away from the other rooms. It’s quiet. Peaceful.

When they get inside, the first thing Eddie notices is that it must be two adjoining rooms, a door embedded into one of the walls left slightly open. Then he looks around and freezes.

Because his guitars are there. There’s somehow hardly any damage, just a faint scratch on the surface of the electric guitar, and some of the paint spelling out ‘This machine slays dragons’ has chipped off on the acoustic—barely anything. Eddie would rather they both have been smashed to pieces, if it meant that Steve would’ve been spared.

“You... you went to the trailer,” he says, stunned.

“Sure did.”

“And...” Eddie tries to avoid Wayne’s gaze, knows that his face is probably cycling through too many emotions to count. “And it was... okay?”

Wayne sighs. “It was pretty banged up, Eddie.”

Oh, Eddie thinks, and this time he does feel more than hysterical. He thinks I've not seen it.

“But, like, that was... it?” He doesn't really know how to ask ‘no portals to another dimension? No gigantic cracks in the earth?’ without, well, asking about it.

He chances a glance at Wayne, watches him raise an eyebrow. “Why the hell you askin’ that? What else would there have been?”

“Oh, no reason,” Eddie says, high-pitched and strained. On the bedspread he can see a little bundle of his clothes has been salvaged, and he already knows in his bones that there’ll be significantly more of his own things rescued compared to Wayne’s.

Wayne gives a small, knowing smile. “It’s just stuff, Eddie.” He nods in the direction of the shower. “Go on, now.”

The shower is an arduous but therapeutic task: just taking off his bloodied shirt feels like he’s shedding just a little bit of the horror of the night behind. Afterwards, Eddie stretches out on the bed; through the wall, he can hear Wayne talking on the phone to one of his colleagues. He makes out something about an earthquake hitting, about the colleague’s daughter in a car wreck, and he holds his breath, listens closer... but it sounds like she’s okay. Jesus H. Christ, he can’t take another fucking tragedy.

He feels his chin dipping down to his chest, and he sniffs sharply, rubs a hand over his face. It’s as if when resting, his body has finally given itself permission to feel every ache: his knee throbs dully from where he had fallen in The Upside Down, and his limbs are as heavy as lead.

Eddie groans, forces himself to sit up. He reaches for the acoustic guitar, mutters a little, “C’mon,” when he catches himself drifting too close to sleep. He has work to do.

He gets the chords down in fits and starts, plays the song on a loop until it feels like it’s a case of muscle memory, ingrained into some deep part of him. Soon even his fingers feel too heavy to lift, and he swears he’s only stopping for a moment, just to rest, just for a minute...

He wakes under the blankets. His guitar has been propped up by the end of the bed, and he can faintly hear the phone ringing in the room next door, Wayne answering it gruffly.

Eddie sits up at the sound of a soft rap on the wall. He rubs at his eyes; he’s slept so deeply that he can feel the mark of a pillow crease on his cheek.

Wayne enters through the adjoining door, says, quietly bemused, “Mornin’. There’s a Dustin Henderson waiting for you at the hospital. That make sense to you?”

“Yeah. Shit.” Eddie stifles a yawn into the crook of his elbow. “What time s’it?”

“’Bout eight.”

Eddie pushes himself off the bed. Wayne watches him with interest, eyebrows raising when he grabs the acoustic guitar.

“You need that for the hospital?”

“Mhm.”

He's put on his jacket, ready to leave, when he catches Wayne still looking at him.

“What?”

“You always lose your words when you’re hiding something,” Wayne says mildly enough, but Eddie can still hear the worry underneath.

“Wayne, I’m not in danger,” Eddie reassures. “I’m not the one who…”

“That Henderson boy mentioned something about Steve Harrington?”

“Yeah. He—” Eddie has to grip onto the door handle for a moment. “He’s the friend who—he died trying to—to save us. All of us. But then, he—his heart started beating again, fuck, I don’t even know how, Wayne, he died in my fucking arms—”

“Shh now, take a breath. This was… in the earthquake?” Wayne asks delicately. He says ‘earthquake’ with the same skepticism he holds when repeating Eddie’s words back to him, whenever Eddie breezily says, “Oh, I just had a thing,” instead of, “I got a detention.”

Eddie nods slowly, makes a vague gesture with his hand meaning sort of. Close enough. “We’ve… we’ve got a plan. To bring him back.”

“Something the doctors can’t do?”

“Damn it, Wayne, I told you, there’s stuff I can’t—”

“All right, all right.” Wayne raises his hands slowly in placation.

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just… I don't know if it’ll work,” Eddie says, voice faltering. “Don’t know if I’ll—if it’ll be enough."

Wayne considers him with a long look. He crosses the room to squeeze Eddie’s shoulder and his hand stays there, a reassuring warmth. “You’re a smart kid, Eddie. Reckon you’d best see it through.”

-

They reunite in Steve’s room: Eddie, Robin, Nancy, Dustin. Robin has brought a few extra tapes from her parents’ collection, including the Paul Simon album that also features the track. Dustin has Steve’s original tape along with a casette player.

Before Eddie’s arrival, they had tried playing the song a few times over but, by the fourth play-through, Steve’s heart had started beating alarmingly fast.

“Shit,” Eddie says, his own heart plummeting. “What happened?”

“One of the nurses said it was like he was... having a panic attack,” Dustin says quietly. He exhales in frustration. “I don't get it, Max only had to hear a bit of Kate Bush before she came back.”

Through a nerve-wracking amount of experimentation, they work out a routine that doesn't send the heart monitor screeching in warning: every hour on the hour, they play through the song once via a cassette, then Eddie picks up his guitar and sings. Steve’s thoughtful expression gets the tiniest bit more pronounced each time, like an opaque window slowly becoming clear, bit by bit.

When Robin takes Dustin away for a late lunch, Eddie finally asks the question.

“Hey, Wheeler? Why’s it just... us here?”

Nancy is slowly rewinding one of the tapes with a pen, but at Eddie’s words, she stops. He can tell by her face that he doesn’t need to elaborate; she knows what he’s asking.

Because the thought that Eddie cannot get away from is the fact that, if he were in Steve’s position, Wayne would have been here, would have moved heaven and earth to stay by his side.

“I...” She sighs. “I don't think they've ever come, Eddie.”

They’re silent for a moment, as if they both need to take the vastness of that in.

“In ’83, he stayed at mine for Christmas,” Nancy goes on. “And at the time... God, I can't even remember, maybe I thought it was a little weird that he didn't even—like, there wasn’t even a phone call, you know? But he just made it out like it was normal, so I... I didn’t...” She sighs again. “You know how... like, at school, people would be like, ‘Oh, I came in drunk, my parents went crazy,’ but you could tell that they were fine, that they were just... playing it up?”

“Yeah.”

“I think he was the opposite,” Nancy says. She looks at Steve, her lips pressed thin. “I think he said just enough to... hide behind it, does that make sense? I didn't see.” She tuts at herself, raises her eyes to the ceiling. “I remember thinking, sure, he might say ‘my dad is an asshole,’ but no-one who actually says that is serious; look at him, how bad could he have it?”

Eddie thinks of himself saying, Rich parents, popular. He feels sick.

“I didn't see either,” he says.

Nancy smiles sadly. “That's the thing,” she says. “I don't think he wanted anyone to.”

-

Eddie stays overnight at the hospital. “I can't leave him,” he tells Wayne over the phone, and while he's waiting for Nancy to give Dustin and Robin a ride home, he finds that a bag has been left for him at reception, containing more clothes and his toothbrush, and his breath catches a little at the sight.

The staff have told him not to play any music past eleven at night, and Eddie almost fights them on it, like, oh yeah, well that didn’t stop that radio playing at whatever-the-fuck o’clock. But then he looks at Steve’s face, at the drawn eyebrows, and realises that he looks...

Pained.

Alone in the room, Eddie finally sets his guitar down.

“You tired?” he murmurs.

He tentatively reaches out, brushes a couple of his fingers across Steve’s forehead, as gently as he can. When he draws back, he finds that the lines of tension have dissipated, but the stillness doesn’t look so unnatural; it feels like Steve is still there.

It just looks like he’s sleeping, Eddie thinks, and he blinks hard.

“S’okay,” he says softly. “Just rest, Steve. I’m right here.”

-

“Mm, damn, I think that was pitchy, dude,” Dustin says, far too brightly for nine in the morning.

Eddie gives the guitar a warning strum and flips Dustin off. “That wasn’t funny the fifth time you said it, dude.”

But his tone is far too fond to even fake annoyance. Dustin is clearly in much better spirits today, largely helped by the fact that he’s brought in his walkie. Every so often, Lucas or Max will call in from Steve’s, crowing about some discovery they’ve made in the house.

“He has a VHS collection that's just musicals,” Lucas intones gravely, as Max cackles in the background.

“Tragic,” Dustin says.

And Eddie can’t resist his own curiosity. “Which ones?”

Lucas recites the titles and Dustin gives a wheezy laugh at, “The Sound of Music.”

“Imagine if The Lonely Goatherd was your song,” he says with pity to Steve—and Eddie counts that as a goddamn victory, because it's the first time Dustin has properly acknowledged Steve’s presence; speaking teasingly, as if Steve can hear him.

“I’d still sing it,” Eddie replies, and he means to sound light-hearted, but Dustin must hear something else, because he looks over at Eddie, and his expression softens.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, smiling. “You would.”

-

Some time after noon, Dustin leaves to raid the vending machines for the pair of them. Eddie has played through the song twice to mark the hour, feeling calmer than he has in days; something in him has settled through the ritual of it.

He’s doodling on the back of his hand with the biro Nancy left behind when he hears the familiar click of the walkie, but no-one starts speaking.

He picks it up. “Sinclair,” he says, “you’re pressing the—”

That’s when he hears it.

A faint crackle. Someone breathing, gasping and catching their breath at frequent intervals. They’re crying.

“Oh, God,” comes the whisper, and Eddie knows that voice. “I—I don’t know where I am.” Eddie holds the walkie with a white-knuckled grip.

“I don’t know where I am,” Steve Harrington repeats, cracked and desperate. “God, please, I—I don’t—”

“Steve!” Eddie shouts into the walkie. “Can you hear me? Come on, man, I’m right—”

But then Steve’s voice is abruptly cut off, replaced with static.

Eddie swears vehemently, drops the walkie and flies to the bed. There doesn’t seem to be any change—if anything, Steve looks peaceful.

But no. He looks harder, feels a tug of doubt and follows his instinct, swipes his thumb underneath Steve’s eyelashes, feather-light. Feels a dampness there.

And then he sees two tears leak out of the corner of Steve’s closed eyes, trail across to his temples.

“Fuck,” Eddie says. “I don’t—Steve, I don’t know what to do.”

I can’t reach him.

The door opens.

“I got one of everything! But oh my god, Eddie, Nancy called and she says that Mike says they’re—what’s wrong?”

“I heard him,” Eddie says. He gestures to the walkie. “But I couldn’t—I couldn’t help—Dustin.” His voice breaks. “He sounded so scared.”

Dustin runs to the walkie, leaves his crutches behind with a clatter. He tries it multiple times, saying Steve’s name urgently, but there’s no reply.

The tears have dried on Steve’s face. Eddie sits down wordlessly and puts his head in his hands. When he looks up, Dustin is kneeling in front of him.

“El can reach him,” Dustin says, and Eddie doesn’t know what the hell that even means; but Dustin’s eyes are wide, and Eddie clings to the conviction in his voice. “She has to.”

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2

Behind him, Eddie hears the others beginning to stir. The illusion, the foolish hope that he could just keep driving alone with Steve, that he could have all the time in the world to fix this shatters in a matter of seconds: Nancy’s light tread approaches and, as he reaches an intersection, it’s like he can already hear a clock beginning to tick.

“Why… why are we going this way?”

And, God, Eddie is so damn grateful for Nancy Wheeler: she’s tactful, keeps her voice down, as if she already suspects something. Hell, she must do; if Eddie can recall directions to Steve’s house, she’ll definitely sense where they’re heading.

Another stop light. Straight ahead after this, then…

Eddie glances to the side, just in time to see Nancy’s eyes widen as she looks at Steve.

She whispers his name.

Steve gives the subtlest shake of his head.

Eddie has to look away—it’s an intimate exchange, yes, but it’s not romantic, that’s not why he can’t bear it. It’s the fact that they’re so clearly sharing last-minute signals, silent communication only created by going through hell over and over again, and it makes him feel sick that he now knows what their expressions mean. Their doomsday looks.

When he pulls up to Steve’s driveway, he hears various murmurs of confusion—Dustin is the loudest.

Steve claps his hands and everyone falls abruptly silent.

“Okay!” he says, rising from his seat, and he sounds determined, almost up-beat; Christ, Eddie doesn’t know how he manages it. “Sinclairs, Mayfield, Henderson, you’re all with me. We’ll be in and out, got it?”

He heads out of the RV with purpose. Save for Eddie and Nancy, everyone is looking at each other with wide eyes and furrowed brows. Robin opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, Steve calls from outside, “Hello? Come on, let’s go!” and it sounds so normal, like they’re just running late for school or something.

I might not have known, Eddie thinks, with a creeping horror. If I had slept instead… fuck, why are you such a good actor, Steve?

Erica leads the way out, prompting the others to follow; Eddie hears frantic whispers that he can’t decipher, Max lifting up one side of her headphones so she can hear as Dustin and Lucas crowd close to her, hopping outside and heading to the house.

Robin moves to the RV door, but Nancy stops her.

“Robin, stay here. I need to talk to you,” she says firmly, and it sounds like Code Red. She fixes Eddie with a pointed look and nods towards the house, like it’s not even a question that Eddie should go after Steve.

So, he does. Of course he does.

He finds them all in the kitchen, voices echoing, rebounding off the high ceiling.

“What are we doing?” Lucas says.

The kids have formed a little group by the counter, staring as Steve opens cupboards, his back to them.

“Want some back-up alcohol for Operation Flambé,” Steve says easily, “just in case.”

It could almost work, Eddie thinks. He can hear the clinking of glass as Steve methodically pulls bottles off the shelves—that is what he’s doing, so it’s not exactly a lie. Not yet. But he looks at the growing frowns of shrewd kids that are too used to waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Steve must sense it, too, because he stops collecting bottles, turns round to face them. He gets closer, rests his hands on the counter. The pretense drops.

“...Steve?” Erica says.

“You guys trust me, right?”

Eddie doesn't answer; he knows it's not directed towards him. He watches as the rest nod as one. Steve takes a deep breath.

“This is the deal, non-negotiable, okay? I don’t ask much from you, so, y’know. Figure you owe me one.” He’s smiling again, his tone flippant; he’s trying so hard to make it easy for them. Eddie digs his fingernails into his palms. “Here’s your jobs for tonight: you stay right here. Eat some food, put on a movie, I don't care. Just no moving.” He points at Max. “You keep that Walkman on. I've got... see that cabinet, by the T.V? Got some tapes in there, Hounds of Love is on the... third row, I think? Yeah, see the purple? If your one wears out, you've got a back-up.”

They just stare at him. Relief sweeps through Lucas’s and Max’s shoulders, even as they stand rigid with tension, like they’re at war with themselves. Like they feel ashamed at the instinct to stay safe. Christ, they’re all just too young, far too young for any of this.

And so are you, Eddie thinks fiercely, as he watches Steve sweep past them, going up the stairs two at a time. So are you.

Dustin snaps out of it first. He moves forward, voice sharp and urgent, “Steve? Steve!” He barges past Eddie like he isn't even there, then thunders up the stairs.

Eddie follows.

He hears the tail-end of Max saying, “Lucas, he's... I can't feel him anymore. Why can't I—?” Then, he reaches the top of the stairs, heads to what must be Steve’s bedroom. He hovers in the doorway.

“—not even going to look at me?” Dustin is asking.

Steve doesn't answer. He's rooting around one of his drawers, distractedly pulls out a cassette, puts it into his jeans pocket. Eddie sees the horrible moment where it clicks for Dustin—of course, it barely takes half a second, kid's as smart as a whip. All the colour drains from his face.

“Steve,” he says. “You can't just—this isn't how we do things.”

“I'm older than you,” Steve returns. “I'm pulling rank for once, Henderson.” He's pinching the bridge of his nose harshly, still not looking at Dustin.

Dustin laughs. It’s an awful sound, his voice cracking with vulnerability. “Seriously? Fuck you.”

Eddie can’t stand it, feels like he’s intruding on something deeply private.

Steve sniffs, starts to head for the door.

“If—if you leave, I’m never speaking to you again,” Dustin says.

“Okay,” Steve says gently.

Dustin reels from the word as if struck. His eyes fill with furious tears. “I hate you.”

“Dustin,” Eddie says quietly, even though he knows that Dustin doesn’t mean it; it’s obvious that he doesn't mean it. It’s a tactic Eddie is all too familiar with: to say the most hurtful thing you can think of, just to make the other person lash out—because even if they’re angry with you, at least they’ve stayed.

Make sure Dustin doesn’t see, Steve had said. The reason is clear. Because Dustin’s eyes are full of something wild and desperate, like he would follow Steve anywhere.

I can't let that happen, Eddie realises. Steve’s almost at the doorway, and from here Eddie can see him angrily swipe a tear off his cheek, out of Dustin’s view. It would break him.

Steve turns, finally looks back. “It’s okay, Dustin,” he says, soft and kind. Kind until the end. “It's okay.”

And then he leaves.

“Eddie,” Dustin whispers. “Please.”

“I'm sorry,” Eddie says. It's all he can say. “Dustin, I’m so fucking sorry.”

It's torture, seeing the flash of hurt and betrayal across Dustin’s face. He storms out, catches Eddie's chest with his elbow.

Make sure Dustin doesn’t see.

Dustin might be fast, but Eddie is faster; at the foot of the stairs, he easily darts in front. With long, quick strides, he reaches the RV, sees that Nancy, Robin and Steve are already inside, and he locks the door, runs to the driver’s seat. Dustin is a second too late, pounding on the glass. Eddie has never heard someone scream like that before.

He glances behind as he reverses. Steve sits directly on the floor, his head in his hands; Robin is rubbing his back, murmuring something to him.

Eddie speeds away. His last sight of Dustin is in the wing mirror, trying to run after them, only stopping when it’s clearly hopeless.

“Fuck,” Steve whispers, and then he dry heaves.

“I've got water,” Robin says frantically. “Here, here, slow sips.”

There's a gentle hand on Eddie's shoulder. Nancy.

“Where...” Eddie clears his throat. “Where to, Wheeler?”

“Your trailer,” she says, and it sounds like something else again, like thank you and I'm sorry all at once.

He doesn’t talk for the whole drive there. The others keep up the conversation, Eddie straining to hear every noise Steve makes, inwardly pleading that he never falls silent. The plan is hastily amended: the extra alcohol Steve has brought means that they can split their supplies, leaving some for Vecna and some for deterring the bats and vines. He nods when Robin asks if there’s a tape deck in his room, which settles it: he will stay with Steve in the trailer, and… wait.

They don’t mention the word bait, but Eddie can hear it anyway.

Once he’s parked, Robin and Nancy get out first, carrying the drinks and weapons. When he gets out of his seat, he finds that Steve is still halfway to standing, swaying slightly, as if sea-sick.

“Woah, woah, hey,” Eddie says quickly, and he carefully pulls Steve up with one hand. Steve’s palm is damp with cold sweat, his pulse jumping rapidly in his neck, feverish. “Still with me?”

Steve’s eyes dart around before settling on Eddie.

What are you seeing? Eddie thinks, his own heart beating faster at the unknown he isn’t privy to. Let me in. Let me help.

But all Steve says is, “Get ready to duck out the way, man, feel like m’gonna throw up.”

Eddie squeezes his hand. “You’re good, I was kinda thinking my shirt should be a different colour.”

Steve wrinkles his nose, chuckles weakly. “Gross.”

He drops Eddie’s hand and climbs out of the RV. Eddie stays close, ready to catch him if he so much as stumbles.

In the trailer, Robin and Nancy wait by the makeshift rope. Steve’s posture straightens as they look at him, as if to say, See? Don’t worry about me.

“Give him hell, Nance,” he says.

Nancy nods. “See you when we get back,” she says, her tone firm. She catches Eddie’s eye, and the intent is clear: Look after him.

Eddie nods back. Always.

Robin’s lips are trembling; she’s trying to fight it, but it’s there all the same.

“Come on, Rob,” Steve says, through another one of his smiles, but his voice tightens, like he might break down if he’s shown an ounce of sympathy. And when he gives her a little wave, it’s like Eddie can see the routine of it, like Steve is simply bidding Robin goodbye after dropping her off somewhere. “See you soon.”

Robin doesn’t hug him, even though she’s clearly desperate to; must have noticed, just as Eddie did, that it would make this even harder still for Steve. Instead, she gives a joking little salute, like a sailor, and there must be something in that, because Steve lets out a choked laugh, and they all pretend that it doesn’t resemble a sob.

The girls climb the rope quickly, and by the time Eddie has turned back after having watched them leave, Steve has already headed for Eddie’s room, presumably looking for the tape deck.

But when Eddie hurriedly follows him, there’s no music playing, and Steve is sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“Don’t you want your music on for a bit?”

Steve shakes his head, then nods in the direction of the gate. “Wanna start the distraction as soon as possible,” he says, “give them the best shot.”

The distraction. Like he isn’t risking everything, like he’s just feigning a move on the goddamn basketball court.

“Okay,” Eddie says placatingly. He sits down opposite Steve, close enough that their knees bump. “Sorry, I should’ve vacuumed.”

Steve laughs, but it breaks off at the end. “Y-yeah, where’s the welcoming…” His voice fails and he sighs shakily. “Sorry, Eddie, I—I’m just. I’m really fucking scared.”

He sounds embarrassed. Eddie reaches for his hand, and Steve clings on in a tight grip, like he’s drowning.

“Jesus Christ, Steve, don’t be sorry. Don’t you dare.”

“That a threat, Munson?��

“You know what? Sure. Thought you could do with some more pressure.”

Steve gives a lovely, tender little smile. “Hey. Thanks. For… everything.”

Eddie shakes his head in disbelief. “Are you kidding? I haven’t fucking done anything. This is all you, Harrington.”

And Steve is laughing softly, really laughing, and he says, “Don’t bullshit—”

And his eyes roll back, the irises suddenly clouded over, and his hand becomes slack in Eddie’s grip.

Eddie has to force himself not to scream, not to jolt back; he thinks he might be sick, and the only thing stopping that outcome is the fact that Steve needs him. He barely counts to three inside his head, remembering Chrissy, how quick it all was, and he’s standing, tripping over his own feet.

“Right, I’m calling it,” he says, his chest tight, “long enough fucking distraction, they’ll already be at the—”

And he stops.

Because the tape deck doesn’t have anything inside. Because, next to it, is the plastic cassette case that was once in Steve’s pocket.

And it’s empty.

He pictures Steve back at his house, distractedly picking it up, focused on reassuring Dustin; Steve not realising his mistake until he had walked into Eddie’s bedroom and gone to put the tape in. Steve going ahead with it anyway, all while knowing…

“No,” Eddie breathes, “no, no, no.” He dives for the case, but the paper sleeve inside is worn beyond all recognition; he has no idea what the song could have been, even what album it came from. He grabs the closest tape he can find, ramming it in, and suddenly thinks Robin’s assessment of his music was more than accurate. Seriously, what is all this shit?

“Come on!” he shouts, and cranks the volume up as far as it will go.

When he turns back around, Steve is already floating.

Eddie can hardly hear over the roar of the music, but he feels the scream tear at his throat; he’s useless, he’s fucking useless, it’s Chrissy all over again—

One leg snaps. He screams again, screams Steve’s name. Then an arm begins to shake, to twist unnaturally at the elbow, and—

And Steve falls. Eddie lunges to catch him, and his heart both leaps and breaks at Steve’s cry of pain. You’re here, you’re here, you’re here.

“Steve, Steve, hey, hey, hey, try not to move,” he says, “you’re okay, you’re okay.”

Steve jerks, then vomits, the bile black with blood.

“All right, that’s fine,” Eddie babbles. “Just a little blood, you’re doing good, you’re—”

His hand brushes Steve’s side, comes away wet. The wounds on his stomach have reopened, as if something else has clawed at them.

“I can’t,” Steve gasps, “I can’t feel you.”

“I’m right here! Hey, Steve? Steve, look at me, I’m right—stop, stop, don’t move, you’re gonna be—”

“Eddie, I don’t want to go,” Steve says, and he’s sobbing, “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to—”

“You’re not dying. You’re not—Steve, Steve, just look at me, stay with me—”

But Steve just shakes in Eddie’s arms, and he throws up again, each breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps.

Fuck, he can’t breathe.

And then, it’s very quiet.

“Steve? Steve.”

Eddie looks down. Steve’s eyes are fixed, glassy. His chest is still.

The trailer splits. Jagged lines in both directions, one from the gate, one from Eddie’s room, burning red. Eddie runs out without consciously thinking about it, holding onto Steve, cradling his head.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.” The words are ripped out of his chest, his voice turned into something unrecognisable, so pained that it’s almost rendered inhuman.

He’s gone, Eddie thinks numbly.

His grip on the world fades, awareness only breaking through in fleeting impressions. Nancy and Robin’s faces. Screaming. Nancy saying, “Eddie, you have to let him go—”

He’s gone.

He comes back to himself in a crowded hospital corridor. Robin is reaching for him, and she’s crying, saying his name, but he moves away before she can touch him. He doesn’t deserve her kindness; Steve should be standing here, should be falling into her embrace—

He’s gone.

And then, he’s in a bathroom, thrusting his hands under scorching water. Red and black stains the sink. Blood. Steve’s blood.

The door bangs open. Dustin is standing before him. There are several cuts on his face, and he’s gasping and clutching his side like he ran all the way here. Maybe he did.

“Eddie,” he says, and it’s in that tone, the one Eddie heard when he was trembling in the boathouse, the one that shocked him to his core. Because it sounded like, Yeah, I’m the younger one, so what? I’m still going to protect you.

In hearing that, Eddie knows that he has already been forgiven. Because Dustin’s love is like what Steve’s had been: fierce and unconditional.

Eddie tries to take a breath—it comes out in a ragged, wet exhale. “I-I’m sorry, I couldn’t—I tried—”

And then words fail him completely. He can’t stop the tears once they’ve started; and there, chest heaving with grief, he falls apart in Dustin Henderson’s arms.

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

They cling to each other for a long time. Gradually, Eddie’s breathing stops catching with sobs, and he becomes aware of other impressions: the water dampening his jeans as he sits on the tiles, the muffled chaos on the other side of the bathroom door—people calling desperately for loved ones, hospital staff shouting orders.

And as Eddie calms, he feels when the hug shifts, when Dustin starts to shake, and it turns more into Eddie holding him than the other way around.

Eddie takes a few deep breaths, only stuttering slightly. Swallows and tries to gather himself. “What happened to your face, man, you okay?”

Dustin nods over his shoulder. “One of the windows blew at Ste—at the house when the… when the gates...”

“Shit.” Eddie pulls back a little, and he can see the evidence of it now, little pieces of glass littering Dustin’s hair. “Where’s everyone else?”

“They’re fine, they stayed there. It was just one window, the house barely got hit compared to…” Dustin trails off with a shrug that Eddie takes to mean compared to the whole town. “There was an old bike in the garage, so…”

“You biked here? By yourself?” Eddie had half been hoping that he’d somehow hailed a cab or something equally miraculous, can’t fathom just how dangerous it currently is to travel alone, so exposed, if the whole town is anything like the trailer park—

The ground splitting, blood red light, Steve’s blank eyes—

Eddie shakes his head. “Jesus, Henderson. You’re damn lucky you didn’t break something.” Or worse.

“I don’t care.” Dustin lets go and fixes Eddie with a fierce stare, eyes wet. “I—Eddie.” His voice breaks. “I said I hated him.”

They’re both avoiding using Steve’s name, like saying it out loud will mean they have to face the terrible reality of it.

Eddie pushes down another wave of grief. Dustin needs to hear this. “That’s—Dustin. He knew that wasn’t true.”

“Yeah.” A harsh laugh of self-loathing, and Eddie’s heart breaks at the sound. “But I still said it. That—that says—”

“That doesn’t say anything about you,” Eddie says fiercely. “You hear me? Not a fucking thing. You…” He pulls Dustin into another hug, feels the tremors of him crying. Squeezes tight. “You were just scared. No crime in that, all right?”

“Sorry, Eddie, I—I’m just. I’m really fucking scared.”

He has no idea if Dustin is really listening, wonders distantly if this is how Wayne has felt over the years, when faced with him. He just holds onto Dustin, hopes that it’s enough, hopes that it says all that he means. Christ, kid, can’t you see how much he loved you? He’d have done anything for you.

Eddie strokes a hand through Dustin’s hair, carefully removing pieces of glass. Oh, he’d have done anything for you.

And he did.

It’s only when they pull themselves up off the floor that he notices Dustin’s limp.

“You did break something.”

“I don’t think so.” Dustin stands on the foot experimentally, then winces with a quickly stifled cry.

“Hey, don’t! Here, just…”

He gives Dustin his arm to lean on, and they walk in silence. Eddie finds that he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what balance to strike. His usual joking would just ring false, but what he actually wants to do, which is keep double checking that Dustin is okay, feels too close to… to something that Steve would do.

He doesn’t want to be a reminder of all that they’ve lost.

They find Robin waiting for them outside the restrooms. Her face is pale, blotchy, and when she runs to Dustin, wraps her arms around him, Eddie remembers—

Robin’s arms tight around his chest, holding him back. He had caught the ambulance driver glancing at his watch, realised it was to check for the time of death, and now he's making a mournful keening noise he didn’t know he was capable of.

Denial flooding him, painful, overwhelming. He can’t accept it, suddenly, even though another part of him repeats ‘he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone’ like a lament; wants to scream, “You don't understand, he can’t be—he was just talking to me—”

“Why are you just—someone fucking help him!” He's reaching for Steve, but Robin's grip is strong; he just brushes Steve’s fingers, and they’re cold, why are they—

“Eddie,” Robin is whispering brokenly. “Eddie, stop, it's—it's not him anymore.”

Eddie breathes, presses his back against the wall as Robin takes Dustin’s weight with a concerned expression.

“He needs someone to take a look at that,” Eddie says, nodding at Dustin’s leg. His voice sounds normal, if a little flat. Oh. He’s numb, he thinks.

When Robin replies, she sounds similar, looks grateful at being given a task, something to do. “They're taking minor wounds on the floor below.” She gives ‘minor wounds’ a skeptical air quote with one hand.

They start heading towards the elevator, and then Eddie sees it out of the corner of his eye. Denim jacket, a flash of plaid.

He makes sure Robin is still holding Dustin before he starts to run. People jostle against him, unseeing, slamming into his shoulders, and he keeps fighting against the tide, because—

“Wayne!” he calls desperately, feeling suddenly very young.

Up ahead, someone turns. And then there is a familiar warmth around him, ushering him to the side, away from people.

“Eddie,” his uncle says, and he looks exhausted and shaken, but otherwise unharmed.

The sight of him triggers a rush of emotion all over again, and the only thing Eddie can say is a choked, “I didn't kill her.”

Wayne’s eyes soften. “C'mon, son. You know me better than that.”

Eddie’s breath hitches again. Wayne holds him, holds him like he did when he was a child and had bad dreams, a hand cupping his head like there, now. We’ll make this right.

And then Wayne pulls back, eyes flickering over Eddie. “Christ, Eddie. You hurt?”

There’s a split second of confusion; Eddie glances down at himself, sees the blood and vomit on his shirt. Sways a little, and Wayne grabs onto him in alarm.

“No, it's not—I'm fine, Wayne. Promise.” He breathes through a lump in his throat and gets out, “A friend died,” which feels so inadequate for the enormity of what had happened.

Wayne stares at him for a long moment. Then he says, very gently, “This is something big, ain't it?” He gestures to the thronging corridor, to the windows. “What you got mixed up in?”

Eddie almost laughs at that. From Wayne’s phrasing, it sounds like he just got mixed up in the wrong crowd at school, when really, just a few days ago, lost in despair, he'd somehow found the strangest, best people in the world.

And now, he's lost one of them.

“Fuck, Wayne, there's—there's so much I want to tell you,” he says. “But I—I don't know if I can. Not yet.”

It hurts to say; Wayne’s always upheld the fact that Eddie can tell him anything and everything. He can see that Wayne is about to reply as much, but then he must spot something on Eddie's face, sense the fear.

“All right, Eddie,” he says calmly. “Not yet.” Then his eyes widen a fraction, and he moves forward, as if to shield him. “Aren't the cops still looking for you?”

“I...” Eddie shakes his head. He recalls having a very distant thought that he might get arrested as they arrived at the hospital, but it had gone as quickly as it came; because he’d seen Steve—seen the body get covered with a sheet, and Nancy's hand had gripped around Eddie’s wrist like she needed an anchor, nails piercing his skin.

“Not sure,” he finishes honestly. “I—I don't think so. I don't know why.”

Wayne studies him, then sighs. “All right,” he repeats. He doesn't sound happy about it, but he can read Eddie, read that there's somehow even bigger things to worry about. “You got people here?”

“Yeah.” Eddie blinks away the image of Steve's glassy stare, thinks of Dustin—Dustin, who still needs him. “Yeah, I...”

Wayne nods. “Go. Some folks got banged up at the plant, one of the nurses said they need volunteers.” He lets go of Eddie with reluctance. “Stay in the building, all right? I'll come find you.”

Eddie nods. It’s one of the hardest things in the world, to walk away from Wayne. He didn’t think he’d ever have this back. “I love you.”

Wayne tsks, brings Eddie in for a brief, fierce embrace. “I love you, too.”

-

It’s not Dustin that Eddie finds first as he retraces his steps, but Nancy, taking a call. He sees her lips move: “Mike.” Something changes. She goes very still, her grip on the phone tightening. Then, whatever she’s saying is delivered rapidly; she slams the phone down and runs right into Eddie.

“Woah, where's the fire, Wheeler?” Eddie says. His heart is already in his throat at the sight of her; she’s white as a sheet. What fucking now?

She breathes in and out, then grabs his hand. “Come on.”

They run together. Nancy doesn't provide any explanation as they hurtle up the staircase, as she leads him to a very quiet corridor in the ICU.

“Just...” She takes a breath, collects herself. “Wait here. I'll be right back.”

And she storms through another set of doors. Eddie stands there, frozen. It’s the longest fifteen minutes of his life. When she comes back, she’s much slower, and she sits down opposite him, puts her head between her knees.

“What's...? Shit, Wheeler, you're scaring me.”

She looks up. Surprisingly, her eyes are dry. “I'm about to tell you something,” she says, “and... Eddie, I'd only tell you if I was sure.”

Eddie blinks. “Shoot.”

“Okay. They—Steve. He was being taken away. To the...” Nancy's eyes dart to a sign, and Eddie fights back nausea. To the morgue. “But then they... They've found a pulse.”

The words take a while to truly hit Eddie, as if they come from a long tunnel. When they do, he feels his legs buckle, and he slides down to the floor. He's glad Dustin isn’t here; hope, false hope, is cruel.

“Nancy,” he says, through gritted teeth. "That—that’s not possible. I—I felt him—” He can’t even say it. I felt him die.

Nancy leans forward, puts her hand on one of his knees and squeezes. “I know,” she says simply. Then she stands. “Come with me.”

But Eddie doesn't want to move. He wonders if it's all been too much, if this is a trick, if Nancy’s had enough and is finally turning him in. But then he remembers how she had held onto him as they celebrated the communication with Dustin in The Upside Down. And he sees her eyes now, sharp and earnest.

So he lets her guide him onwards.

He comes to a halt outside a room. Feels a weight in the pit of his stomach, like he’s at a turning point; that maybe this is all in his head, and he'll go right back to his bedroom, and Steve will—Steve will—

Nancy’s hand slips into his. She raises her eyebrows, and it’s not quite a smile she gives him, but the expression seems to say, Together?

As one, they walk inside.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie whispers.

In a bed lies a body that looks remarkably like Steve Harrington. There’s a cast on one of his legs, but what draws Eddie’s attention is his face, the waxy pallor of it, the mask fitted tightly around his mouth. That awful stare has gone; someone has closed his eyes. Eddie doesn’t realise that he’s holding his breath until he sees the slightest movement of Steve’s chest, the weakest rise and fall... but it's there.

Eddie turns away and retches. Nothing comes up. Nancy rubs at his back.

“I spoke to some... there’s doctors who—they know about. Everything. They told me that they're not really worried about his leg, it just seems like a normal break,” she says. Her voice wavers slightly, like she's fighting tears. “The... the bites on his stomach stopped bleeding, but... it's his lungs, they think.” She nods at the mask. “They're giving him the same stuff they gave Will, after he was in The Upside Down. They say it's the best chance he's got.”

Eddie thinks about Steve throwing up. His gasping breaths. Panicking. Fuck, he can’t breathe. Then—

“He was coughing,” he says. The memory feels hazy, as if it happened years ago. “When we were… on the bikes, to my trailer. I could hear him.”

He feels shaky again. Nancy draws up two chairs, close to Steve’s bed, and they sit.

He is aware, suddenly, of a slow but steady beeping. A heart monitor.

It doesn’t feel real. Eddie pinches the skin on the back of his hand hard, half expects to see a clock instead of…

“Fucking hell, Wheeler,” he sighs. “What are we gonna do?”

“Make sure he’s not alone,” Nancy says.

They keep a silent vigil. At some point, Nancy rises, flits out of the room. Eddie hears hushed conversation just outside, and then Dustin and Robin come in, Dustin hobbling on crutches. Robin makes a wounded noise, reaches forward and holds Steve’s hand so gently.

Eddie doesn’t dare touch him. Something in the back of his mind whispers that he might break the spell, that Steve might crumble away into nothing if he so much as—

“It doesn’t look like him,” Dustin says. He sounds torn between anger and despair. “He looks… gone.”

Eddie sucks in a breath. “I know.” Because Dustin has voiced his precise fear: that this is all that remains. A different death, but a death all the same.

-

It happens much later, when Dustin has been shepherded back to Steve’s house by Nancy and Robin. “We’ll check on the kids,” Nancy had said, “and then we’ll be back.”

“Take your time,” Eddie told her, noting the sunken, fatigued look to all of them.

They’ve been gone for just over an hour when Eddie, fighting sleep, realises that he hasn’t told Wayne about the state of the trailer. He almost wants to search for him, but he doesn’t dare leave the room, even if he can only really look at the hospital sheets, his eyes darting away from Steve’s face. Dustin’s right; he looks gone.

He hears it half in a dream, eyes closing despite himself. A radio, faintly, from another room, a cleaner leaving the door ajar.

Leaving nothing but the dead and dying back in my little town. Nothing but the dead and dying back in my little town.

He jolts awake sharply, as if his body is already aware of something before his mind has understood. Still blinking away sleep, this time he does not look away when his eyes land on…

It’s barely there. But Eddie sees it: the faintest of creases on Steve’s forehead.

Eddie stares. Then it clicks.

“Holy shit,” he says, hushed, afraid that if he speaks too loudly, it will all stop. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry—he ends up doing a mixture of both. “Harrington, is this your fucking song?”

The sound of the radio fades away, and with it so does the tiniest of frowns. Desperately, Eddie picks up the chorus himself, stumbling over the words in his haste; and this time, he sees it happen, the change from an unnatural laxness to…

A little pinch in between Steve’s brows, subtle, but there.

“Fuck, it’s really you,” Eddie says. “You’re still in there.” His eyes burn with tears. He reaches for Steve’s hand, holds on despite the lingering coldness to his skin. “Christ, please keep fighting, man. Please.”

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 ao3

Dustin gives Eddie ownership of the walkie. At some point, an agreement must have been made for Lucas and Max to stop talking on their channel, but Eddie isn’t aware of any such conversation having taken place. It feels like he has tunnel vision, the whole world narrowing down to the room, to the bed in the centre of it. To Steve. 

He changes frequencies constantly on the walkie, gritting his teeth against the static. Steve’s voice never comes through again, and his face is back to being eerily still, no expression. Blank. It’s an unwelcome reminder of Dustin’s past words: He looks... gone. 

Dustin leaves him alone late afternoon, saying he’ll ask Nancy to get in touch with Mike again, get an update on whoever this El is, her whereabouts. Eddie nods distractedly as he goes. 

He tries to keep playing the song, but the harshness of the static sets him on edge. His fingers can only push weakly against the guitar strings, the shittiest attempt at a chord position that he’s ever seen; and soon his hands are shaking too badly to even press the button on the casette player. Fucking pathetic. 

All at once, the static disappears. Eddie looks up at the absence of it, to find that Robin has turned the walkie off. 

She stares at him.

“What?” Eddie says, voice hoarse.

She doesn’t reply. Instead, she kneels down in front of him, a mirror image of Dustin. Painstakingly slow, she reaches out with one hand, as if expecting him to flinch; and Eddie thinks of himself in the boathouse, clutching onto that damned glass bottle like a lifeline, how he felt one touch away from losing it completely. 

This time, he’s able to catch his breath. Holds it. Breathes out. When Robin begins to uncurl his fingers from the neck of the guitar, he lets her without resistance. Then she carefully takes the full weight of the guitar from him, sets it aside.

“Look,” she says and nods at the heart monitor. Eddie follows her direction. He watches for a moment, then closes his eyes, listens to the slow, steady record of Steve’s pulse; and his breathing gradually follows the rhythm of each heartbeat. 

When he opens his eyes, Robin is smiling at him. 

“He’s still there,” she says. “He’s not gonna disappear if you take a break.”

A part of him wants to argue, wants to grab the guitar back and scream at her, no matter how cruel that might be. Chrissy, Patrick, Steve—they all died right in front of me, and I did nothing. Now I’ve got the chance to do something, save someone, and I can’t because, what, I’m fucking tired? I need to get a grip. But a larger part of him knows that he’s useless to Steve like this.

So he blows out a long, slow breath. Raises his eyes to the ceiling. Gives a tiny, reluctant nod.

Robin pulls up a chair next to him in response, then says, apropos of nothing, “I haven’t filled you in on the full Starcourt Experience.” 

Eddie tears his gaze away from Steve to blink at her in confusion. “Uh, no? Pretty sure you have, Buckley.”

She’d told Eddie about her summer at the mall while they were all travelling to the War Zone, a jaw-dropping tale that had Eddie looking around at the crew anew, with a far from infrequent thought: Oh, great, I’m the only normal one here.

Robin shifts so that she’s sitting side-on, leans back and hooks her feet over Eddie’s knees. There’s something both casual and sincere in the gesture, like they’ve been friends for years; Eddie doesn’t know if he’s worthy of it, yet Robin keeps smiling like he is. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t tell you the really important stuff,” she says, tilting her head forward like they’re gossiping in class.

And… she talks. 

She talks and talks and talks, gesturing wildly with her hands, and gives Eddie a rundown of what can only be described as ‘Steve’s greatest hits at Scoops Ahoy.’

There’s the time when, near delirious after a long weekend shift, Steve had started singing along to Material Girl as it blared over the mall speakers—and, when Robin made a show of announcing her presence, sure that he’d stop and pretend it never happened, he’d just kept going, adding stupid choreography as he mopped. 

All the times when he would give customers the bitchiest dead-eyed stare if they tried to enter the store before it had opened; when Robin would have to duck into the back so no-one saw her laughing.

Robin barely pauses to draw breath, so that the countless stories crowd Eddie’s head, leaving, for once, little room for worrying; and she must see that something within him has settled, if only for now, because she doesn’t stop him when he eventually picks up the guitar again. 

He doesn’t sing, just plays the melody as Robin keeps talking. She paints such a vivid picture that Eddie doesn’t want to interrupt, almost feels like he can see the ice-cream parlour despite never having set foot inside it—this unexpected haven within a neon monstrosity. Sees Robin catching Steve singing, sees her dubiousness melt away as he dances, using the mop as a prop. 

Eddie keeps strumming as Robin goes on, laughing quietly as she mimes Steve’s idiosyncrasies: running his fingers through his hair, how he’d open the drawer of money at the register with a little drumbeat, the secret eye roll he’d give Robin before having to serve someone particularly difficult.

One such anecdote is being shared, where the punchline is Steve finally snapping that, “This is Scoops Ahoy, ma’am, we can’t work miracles,” and both Robin and Eddie are giggling, despite—or perhaps because of everything; and Eddie looks up at just the right moment, because he—he sees—

Steve’s finger twitching.

It’s the first sign of life in hours.

Robin beams, gingerly prods the finger back. “’Bout time you showed up, dingus.”

Eddie feels a sudden sting in his eyes. He has to bite his lip to keep it together, to move on to the chorus without stopping.

Still, something must show on his face, because when Robin glances at him, she says, “Oh, Eddie,” with a gentle kindness he can’t help but feel he doesn’t deserve. But you’ve known him longer. I’ve got no right to…

When the song is over, Robin carefully pries the guitar from him again, and somewhere along the way, Eddie finds that they’re holding hands. They don’t let go for a long time.

-

Eddie tries to return the walkie to Dustin, but he doesn’t tune back in to his usual channel, doesn’t even turn it on. Instead he takes the seat that had been Robin’s, tilts his head back, eyes ever so slightly unfocused. Eddie recognises the look from Hellfire, whenever Dustin needed to think deeply about his character’s next move—and it feels like such a strange thing to remember now, as if from another world entirely. Eddie supposes that’s true.

“I’m still mad at you,” Dustin says suddenly. 

Eddie nods, half to himself—Dustin looks away. Guilt sits sour in his stomach; the sound of Dustin’s desperate screams as he drove away has never once left him.

“That’s… that’s fair,” he says, quiet. He moves forward a little in his seat, knocking his foot gently against Dustin’s. “I’m… shit, Dustin, I know I keep saying it, but I’m so sorry.” 

It still feels like it’s useless to say, but it’s honest, at least. There are a number of times where Wayne has decided to shield him from certain things over the years; and though Eddie had understood why, that had never stopped him from feeling bitter about it. Cheated.

“I’m mad at both of you,” Dustin clarifies. His eyes dart over to Steve then away again, as if he’s already beating himself up for even thinking it. He pushes back against Eddie’s foot until the sole of his sneaker is pressing against Eddie’s, then draws his own foot back, as if suddenly out of energy.

When Dustin finally looks at him, Eddie offers an apologetic smile. “He…” He glances over at Steve before meeting Dustin’s gaze again. “He made me promise,” he says weakly.

Dustin sighs; it’s resigned, world-weary. “Yeah, I figured.” When he speaks again, his voice sounds strained, rising almost like he’s asking a question. “I think I knew? Like, before all of…” This time, he knocks Eddie’s foot first. “It’s not exactly… he has a sorta… track record, I mean.” 

Eddie sighs, too. “Yeah man, I figured,” he echoes. 

“He made everything… God, I don’t know. He made it,” and Dustin gestures vaguely with his hands, “he made it easy. Easy to, like, laugh about or… Not forget the danger, that’s… I just… It was weird, after the mall, the rest of the summer…” 

Dustin trails off again, and Eddie tries to fill in the blanks as best he can. 

“We didn’t really talk about it,” Dustin continues. “He came to pick me up from Mike’s one day, and his face was still, uh, not great, but he just made this super corny joke about—ugh, I can’t even remember but, Eddie, it was so embarrassing, I know that for sure—”

But the wobble in Dustin’s voice tells a different story. 

“And he… he was singing along to the radio, and I—I just thought that I didn’t want him to—to save us, or be badass or cool or whatever the fuck he’s still hung up about from high school, I just—wanted him to be there.”

I know, Eddie thinks, because he does; because it’s so clear now, how much of a big deal Steve is to Dustin, and Eddie kind of wants to smack his past self who sneered when Steve graduated and he didn’t, and thought bet King Steve still thinks he’s hot shit. 

He reaches forward and squeezes Dustin’s knee. “We’ll get him back.” 

Dustin nods and scrubs briefly at his eyes. “I think I thought I could stop it,” he says. “If I just—if I stayed with…”

Eddie shakes his head. “He wouldn’t have let you,” he finds himself saying again. It’s obvious that Steve would have rather died than let anything happen to Dustin. Eddie can hardly fault him for that.  

“Yeah,” Dustin says, and he laughs a little. He sounds tired. “I know.” 

-

It’s about 9pm when Dustin says it, watching from the window for a sight of his mom’s car turning into the hospital parking lot. “Um, Eddie? I need you to just—check I’m not hallucinating or something.”

Eddie’s heart skips a beat. “What?”

“Shit.” Dustin waves his arms frantically, shaking his head. “Not like that! Just—” He taps at the window. “This guy looked really like Hopper.” 

Like, died in the ‘mall fire’ Chief Hopper? Eddie thinks, still not quite recovered from the scare. He goes to the window, follows the direction in which Dustin is pointing. “What the fuck.”

-

The girl looks about Dustin’s age. Her hair is cut very short, and when they are left alone in Steve’s hospital room, she looks at Eddie intensely. 

“You are Eddie Munson,” she says with a calming certainty.

Eddie nods, but he thinks he would have gone along with it no matter what she had said; she could have told him he was Jack the Ripper reincarnated with the same confidence and he would’ve said, Well, shit, if you say so.

“My name is El,” she adds simply. “I’m here to help.” 

Eddie stares at her. Some of Steve’s words come back to him, when he was eating fucking cereal and trying to pretend like he had even a bit of control over whatever his life even was now. 

“What, like a superhero?”

And the kid beams. “Exactly.”

-

Dustin has left Eddie the walkie again, and El turns it on so the static is loud. 

“You think you can… find him?” Eddie says.

“Yes,” El says. Again, it sounds like it’s a breeze the way she says it, like it’s nothing. “Henry is dead. I tried to…” She bites her lip; it’s only now that she appears to falter. “ I tried to bring Steve back but I—I’m sorry. I was… tired.”

Eddie privately thinks she’s gone to the Steve Harrington School of Downplaying.

“Jesus, his pulse,” he whispers. “That was you?”

El nods. “I tried to—it was all I could—”

“Fucking Christ—sorry,” Eddie says, bites back more curses, more prayers. “Thank you.”

She smiles—and God, she’s just a girl, Eddie thinks, why was this—why was any of it—thrust upon her?

El places a scarf over her eyes like a blindfold without explanation. The static from the radio gets even louder.

And they wait.

“He’s not in The Upside Down,” El says. “It’s like…” She stretches out both arms, lays one hand flat. Then, she puts her other hand slightly underneath the first. “The Upside Down is the floor. We’re here.” She wiggles the fingers of the highest hand. “And Steve is here.” She wiggles the hand that’s slightly below the other. “He’s stuck.” El’s nose scrunches. “Like going halfway through a Gate.”

Eddie plays My Little Town via the tape while they keep waiting. The song competes with the noise from the walkie.

The Gate comparison leads to El telling him that The Upside Down is slowly becoming sealed off from Hawkins after Henry’s death. Eddie thinks of Wayne seemingly not noticing the gaping split in the world at the trailer, thinks suddenly of an English class, of ‘Not with a bang but a whimper,’—and wonders if that is how the world is saved, too.  

Then El stiffens. “Steve?”

Eddie holds his breath. An explosion of static, but it somehow, just for a second, sounds joyful.

El smiles. “Hi. I’m okay. Are you…?”

She goes quiet for a long moment. Her smile fades, but Eddie is relieved to find not a trace of fear on her face.

“He says that he’s… sorry,” she says slowly. “For being… slow?”

“Oh my god, Steve, shut the fuck up with your fucking apologies,” Eddie says without thinking.

El giggles. “I don’t think I should tell him that.” There’s a pause, and she giggles again. “He says that he can guess what you said.”

The tape has moved on to the next song, so Eddie hurriedly makes to wind it back. El stops him.

“Steve says that this is better,” she says. She briefly mimes strumming a guitar. “He can tell that it’s you. It makes a… clearer path for him to follow.”

In his haste to play the guitar, Eddie fumbles the opening notes completely; he swears that he can hear the static shift into something that resembles a far-off laugh.

-

“He’s saying sorry again,” El says, once Eddie has finished singing. “He’s tired.”

“That’s…” Eddie swallows. “Tell him that’s okay. Please.”

She does. Then she asks for the time.

Eddie glances at the clock on the wall. “Nearly ten.” 

“Steve’s asking if you can try again,” El says, “in an hour.” 

“Yeah, ’course I will,” Eddie says, and his heart twists a bit at the thought that Steve must have phrased it like a question rather than a certainty.

“Goodbye, Steve,” El says softly. “You’re almost home.”

As she removes the scarf, Eddie is alarmed to discover that her nose is bleeding.

“Shit, kid, you okay? Should I call for—?”

But she shakes her head. “It just happens, it’s all right.” She rubs at her temples for a bit, and says, “Sorry, I had to stop. I was getting tired, too.”

“You’re good, just—take it easy,” Eddie insists, still watching with concern as she wipes her nose with her scarf.

“I’m really okay,” El says. “Compared to everything else, finding Steve was…” She pauses, then enunciates carefully: “Easy as shit.”

She says it like she’s only ever heard it in a movie, like she’s trying it on for size.

Eddie decides right then and there that he adores her.

-

“I like your hair,” El says suddenly. Eddie had got her a drink from the vending machine, worried that she’d keel over or something as soon as he looked away. “It’s very pretty.”

Eddie smiles. “Thanks.”

“My hair used to be long.” There’s a melancholy tinge to her words that has Eddie listening intently. “I think longer than yours? But I don’t know.” And she grins, small but genuine. “Maybe I would have won.”

“This took me years,” Eddie says and he goes ham on the delivery to make her laugh, tosses back his head dramatically. “I bet you could beat me again, in a few months.”

El beams. Then she pauses, grows serious. “I recognised you,” she says slowly, “from Steve’s… when he was running. He had to—to hide in memories, and—”

“Hey, hey, stop,” Eddie says quickly, but he keeps his voice gentle. Because no matter how much he’s burning to know, he can only think of what he’d want if the situation were reversed and…

“That’s in Steve’s head, okay? That… that should be just for him.”

El nods with a heaviness that suggests she more than understands.

-

Eddie is pushing his luck, he knows it. It’s already past 11, and he’s sung through the song twice, with hardly a break; this time there was minimal change on Steve’s heart monitor.

Now he’s playing the guitar as quietly as possible to avoid reproach.

“Hey, Harrington,” he says mid-strum, makes his voice go low and teasing like they’re still at school together, like they’ve just caught each other’s eyes in the cafeteria. “Wanna know a secret?”

For a moment, he tries to imagine Steve smirking back, rolling his eyes maybe… but then he realises that he doesn’t know how Steve would react, not really. He didn’t even get the chance to process Steve’s response to “Harrington’s got her, dontcha big boy?”—a stupid aside, but at the time he couldn’t help himself; he felt giddy, still almost certain that they were careening towards disaster, but that they might as well have some fun along the way.

I want more time. I want to know you more, Steve Harrington.

“I saw you once, after Hellfire,” Eddie murmurs. “Never said. I was in my van. You were picking up Henderson, and…” He sighs, leans closer, watches the rise and fall of Steve’s chest. “I was waiting for it, you know? Waiting for you to roll your eyes and act all put upon. I’ve seen what it’s like when folks are… tolerated, right?” He goes quiet for a few bars of music, thoughtful. “But that never happened. Couldn’t hear whatever the hell it was you were saying, but Henderson was talking your ear off and you were smiling, and—Christ, man, all I could think was he must really love this kid.” Eddie laughs in self-deprecation. “Didn’t really know what to do with it, honestly. Kinda pretended to forget about it. Didn’t want the fucking ‘Munson Doctrine’ to be bullshit just yet, I guess.”

He finishes the song without saying anything more; his hand falls on the bed and he stifles a yawn, then starts when he feels…

Steve’s finger tapping on the back of his hand. Slow, deliberate. Almost as if he’d be drumming his fingers if he could. Eddie searches, but Steve’s face is placid.

“You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, huh, Harrington?”

He doesn’t want to pull away from Steve’s touch, so he puts the guitar down and sings without it. Keeps his voice quiet but steady. Just for Steve.

And just as he reaches, “In my little town, I never meant nothing, I was just my father’s son,” he hears it.

Steve’s heart rate is picking up.

“Oh, God,” Eddie says, torn between gripping Steve’s hand and calling for help. “Steve, it’s okay, you’re—”

And then he stops.

Because Steve’s eyes are opening, fatigued but lucid; and Eddie can catch a tiny smile beneath his mask.

And Eddie feels Steve’s finger move, tracing a pattern across his palm. He laughs through an abrupt sob when he realises what it is.

Letters.

Hi.

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 ao3

Eddie turns so he’s lying stretched out on his side, leaning on one elbow. Steve shifts gingerly so that his head is half propped up by the pillows—tilts his body to the side as much as he can with his cast. With Eddie’s couch pressed against the bed frame, it almost gives the illusion that they’re in one bed together: maybe it’s that, the casual intimacy of it, that makes it easier for Steve to start talking. 

“It really wasn’t that bad to start with,” he says.

Oh, okay, Eddie thinks, so we’re doing this bullshit again. 

He doesn’t dare interrupt though, because he understands the need to talk around something before getting into the heart of it—like letting a faucet run and run until the water turns clear. 

Still, Steve must sense some of his thoughts, because one of his eyebrows twitches and he says, a little wryly, “Fuck off, I mean it. It was just, you know, the clock and all that haunted house crap. Like, yeah, I’m not exactly a fan of spiders, but I don’t have a phobia or anything.” 

Eddie doesn’t contradict him, doesn’t say But it wasn’t just haunted house crap, was it?; doesn’t say that he remembers every moment of that awful drive, remembers Steve rambling about being late to someone who definitely wasn’t there. Right now, he wouldn’t stop him for anything. 

“Things didn’t get, um, fuzzy until we were at my house. My head started killing me, I was worried that I was gonna throw up in the kitchen sink when I was talking to the kids—thank God I didn’t, at least they actually listened to me, and… When I was in my room, and Dustin—Dustin followed, that’s when…”

Steve gives a little grimace. “It got worse, felt like there was a fucking spike right in here.” He rubs at a spot in between his eyebrows. “Anyway, guess it sorta affected my whole, uh, thinking abilities ‘cause, um…” He winces with an embarrassed half shrug. “I’m sorry about the tape. I really didn’t notice until… Well. Pretty stupid of me.” 

This time, Eddie can’t stop himself from replying. “No.” 

Steve blinks at him. “No what?”

“No. Nope. You’re not gonna—don’t you fucking dare apologise for… for…”

For staring death down without complaint, for hiding pain silently…

Because I know you, Steve Harrington—you were so damn focused on keeping those kids safe that everything else was background noise. 

Before Eddie can even begin trying to put all that into words, Steve says, “All right, okay. I’m—”

“Don’t,” Eddie says quickly, then realises that he’s been had, because Steve gives a tiny smirk. 

“Gotcha.” He sighs, sobers. “Seriously, though. This is why I didn’t want… Didn’t want you to worry.” 

“Oh, okay,” Eddie says faux brightly, like the thought’s only just occurred to him. “I won’t, then.”

It’s somehow the perfect thing to say, because Steve snorts, and the levity must ease him into the next part, because he keeps talking with barely a pause. 

“So I was thinking—well, I kinda thought I knew what to expect from Max. She described… like nightmare stuff, red sky, all that Upside Down shit, and… But it—it wasn’t… It was like real life, to begin with. And that—” Steve inhales. “That tripped me up.”

He blinks rapidly a few times, as if steeling himself. 

“I didn’t know it had… started, at first. Just thought I was still in your room. I should’ve guessed, ‘cause I couldn’t feel your—um, your hand anymore, but I wasn’t—there was a knock. At the door. Um. Well, like not just one knock, it was crazy loud, and—I just had this—I felt like I had to check, so I went to the door, and...” Steve’s voice fails, and he swallows once more, like the word is catching in his throat. He tries again. “A-and.”

Eddie reaches out, touches Steve’s forearm. “Steve, it’s—”

“It was Dustin,” Steve says in one breath. “He’d—it looked like he’d followed us. He was yelling, Eddie, he was so fucking angry, and I kept trying to tell him to—to go, but he wouldn’t listen, and then he—” Steve bites down hard on his bottom lip. “It was like when Max… but I couldn’t stop it. I-I was too slow.”

Eddie can feel Steve trembling. He doesn’t withdraw his hand.

“And then he fell, and he—he was so small, Eddie.” There’s a tremor in Steve’s voice, too. “There was so much blood, and it got in his hair, and I could…” Steve shakily rubs his fingertips together. “I could feel it. But then I… I knew it wasn’t right, ‘cause you weren’t there, and you would’ve been right behind me, I know you would’ve—and it was like, as soon as he knew I’d figured it out, everything went all creepy, all vine-covered and shit, but I just thought—” Steve laughs breathlessly. “Fuck, it was the best feeling. I just thought, oh, thank God, and ran.”

Eddie thinks of last night, of Steve’s nightmare. His chest floods with rage, with horror. His heart hurts.

“But then it got… it felt really… really weird, like, my head went all…” Steve tilts a hand back and forth. “Swimmy? I couldn’t remember what was happening, why I was—and then, it was a memory of—well, it felt like it was happening to me for the first time, like I couldn’t remember it was a memory, if that makes sense? Fuck, I don’t know.”

“It does,” Eddie says quietly.

“Okay. I, um. Do you know about Starcourt?”

“Buckley mentioned the… basics, I think,” Eddie says. “It sounded… nuts.”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah, pretty much. So for this—well, long story short, Robin and I got interrogated, and I got, uh, knocked around a bit.”

Eddie puts this through his Steve Translator, mentally changes a bit to a whole fucking lot.

“And we got drugged with this truth serum, don’t know what the hell was in it, but it was intense, and…” Steve’s hand drifts up to the side of his neck, rubs absentmindedly. “When the needle went in, I realised it was a memory, that it was wrong, because… someone else was drugging me. I kept thinking shit, he looks kinda young, like he kept staring, and I realised it must’ve been him—Vecna, I mean. When he was human. The drugs started—um, working, I guess. It felt exactly like it did when…”

Steve presses his lips together for a moment.

“Sorry. I don’t really like—I didn’t have control, like I was laughing even when I didn’t want to be, and that…” He shrugs again. “It messed with me for a while, after. There was—that winter, I had to get a tooth taken out, and I didn’t want them to use numbing, because it felt a bit like… Anyway.” Steve shakes his head. “Sorry. Got sidetracked. Where…?”

“You were in the memory,” Eddie prompts gently. He sort of hates himself for adding, “Drugged at Starcourt?” but he can tell that Steve needs a bit of a guide through the maze.

“Right. Yeah.” And inexplicably, Steve’s lips curve into a triumphant ghost of a smile. “That’s where he fucked up. ‘Cause, yeah, being drugged sucked, but it was also tied to—me and Robin, we…” Steve smile gets wider, but he also looks one second away from bursting into tears. “It was one of the best times of my life.”

Eddie smiles back, lets his hand drift down into Steve’s. Squeezes encouragingly.

“Once I’d remembered, made the connection, it was easy to… break out of the interrogation? I just ran to Robin, tried to stay there. Whenever the lights flickered, I guessed that he was catching up, so I went somewhere else, tried to keep outrunning him, basically. But I… it was hard to keep… I was getting tired.” His eyes close momentarily, deep in thought. “Sorry. Just trying to… things got foggy.”

“S’okay, Steve,” Eddie says—is not sure he can say much else with the growing lump in his throat. “Take your time, man.”

There’s a pause, and then Steve says, with mild surprise, “Oh, I saw El. I forgot… like, it was just a flash, I was in the woods with you—”

“Sorry?” Eddie says, and he doesn’t even cringe at himself for interrupting; that’s how baffled he is. “With me?”

“Uh, yeah? It only just happened, Eddie, your memory can’t be that bad. You know, The Upside Down, telling me I was a ‘good dude’, ring any bells?”

…What? You counted me being an asshole as a happy memory?

“No, that’s not why—of course I remember, I’m just… honoured I made the cut,” Eddie says, tries to tease.

But Steve doesn’t laugh, just blinks in confusion. “Yeah, why wouldn’t you—? Anyway, we were talking, and then I was sure I saw El just out the corner of my eye, and—she was yelling, I couldn’t hear her, but I could tell she needed more time, so I… tried to give her that.”

Eddie feels a hint of trepidation. “How?”

Steve sighs. “Okay. This bit really was stupid. I sort of…” Steve cringes slightly. “Goaded him?”

“…Steve,” Eddie says. Not stupid—stupidly fucking brave, but never… oh, Christ.

“I know, I know.”

No, you don’t.

“I dared him to find me. Said I wasn’t gonna stop running. And then—everything just disappeared for a moment, and then my head hurt, the worst yet, and then… He must’ve really been trying, ‘cause I couldn’t remember what I was doing again, and… It was all memories, and it felt almost like… you know when you’re dreaming, and a little part of you knows it’s a dream, but you still have to go along with it? Like that.”

Steve goes silent for a minute. Eventually, Eddie taps the back of his hand.

“You good?”

Steve sighs. “Yeah. Just… It’s… it’s silly.”

“I promise you it’s not.”

“It really is.” Steve’s mouth twitches, like he’s disapproving of himself. “Those memories, they… they weren’t horrific or anything, it was just mundane shit. Like, dinners or nights at home or whatever, and I was five, then ten, then…”

Eddie thinks of how he used to lump the Harrington House into the same detached scorn he’d view all of ‘the big houses’ in Hawkins, treat them like big, empty landmarks—as vacuous as the rich kids they’d shelter.

“But in one of them—the memories, I mean—I just snapped, ‘cause it was so boring. I smashed a plate, and that—it never happened in real life, but I just…” He closes his eyes, smiles ruefully. “I remember wanting them to look at me. Just once.”

Eddie lets out an almost inaudible breath, but it’s enough for Steve to shift in discomfort, as if he’s already trying to take back the words.

“Hey, chill,” Eddie says, not unkindly. “It’s not like your folks are gonna hear you say—”

“I’m not—it’s just, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“What?”

Steve is frowning. “It’s not like they were hitting me, Eddie.”

Eddie thinks of Steve in the RV, slipping into another memory, desperate to be heard: I didn’t, Dad, I didn’t. I’m not lying.

Eddie realises that he doesn’t need to say that there’s more than one way to hurt someone, because, of course, Steve already knows. Instead he digs deep and echoes something Wayne has told him, long ago.

“Once is enough, Steve.”

Steve blinks. One tear falls. Another. Then more. It’s quiet, but not forcibly stifled, not this time. It’s like a release.

“O-okay.” He sniffs, slowly wipes at his face. “He… he caught me, eventually. Or I guess not eventually, if it was really quick on your end. He was—furious. Whatever El was doing along with Robin and Nance must’ve been hitting him, and…”

Eddie feels Steve flinch. “Hey, are you—?”

“He clawed at my…” Steve gestures down to his healing bat-inflicted wounds. “It… hurt. But what was worse is that he—” Steve grits his teeth, swallows back more tears. Eddie can hear the painful click of his throat. “He said that I failed. That after he killed me, he was gonna kill… e-everyone. That I was an idiot to even think I could save… And then I was falling, and I could—I could hear you, but it was all distant and I couldn’t… it fucking scared me, ‘cause I knew you must’ve been touching me, but I—I couldn’t feel…”

Steve’s eyes look haunted. He glances at Eddie.

“That must’ve been when I…?”

Eddie can’t speak. Nods.

I felt you go.

He doesn’t realise that he’s crying until Steve’s hand tentatively reaches across, swipes underneath his eyes.

“Hey, come on. It’s not worth all that.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Eddie says shakily, manages a wet smile. “I decide who’s worthy of my tears, asshole.”

And you definitely are. A thousand times over.

He feels when Steve’s hand slowly falls like he can’t find the energy to hold it up; when instead of his breath catching on a word, it catches on a yawn.

“Shh,” Eddie says when Steve looks like he’s trying to speak again. “That’s enough for now, huh?” he adds gently.

Steve sighs, but he looks grateful. He lets his head sink down more into the pillow and says, “Thanks, Eddie.”

But every time his eyelids so much as droop, he seems to banish the drowsiness with fierce determination, over and over again. It looks like it hurts.

“Why don’t you want to sleep?” Eddie whispers, when it’s clear Steve isn’t going to stop.

Another sigh. “It’s not that I don’t want to—it just… feels too much like.” For a second, Steve’s eyes drift to that unknown point in the distance again. “Like… leaving,” he says. Then he jolts in alarm, fingers reaching out to carefully brush Eddie’s cheek and oh, this again, Eddie thinks, as he blinks through more tears.

“Can I try something?” he asks when he knows his voice won’t break.

Steve nods.

Eddie’s hand returns to the bedsheets, finds Steve’s palm. Traces two letters.

Hi.

“Feel that?”

Steve smiles. “Yeah.”

“Even when your eyes are shut, you can still feel that, yeah? You’re not going anywhere, I promise.”

“Oh, well, if you promise,” Steve teases. His blinks are slowing now, each lasting a little longer than the one before it. But he doesn’t allow his eyes to stay closed.

Eddie feels a surge of affection so strong that for a fleeting moment, he wonders if he’s going to cry again. “Hey, Sir Stubborn. At least rest your eyes, sweetheart.”

“What if I want to—” Steve barely manages to suppress a yawn, “—keep looking at you?”

“Uh-huh. Flatter me all you want in the morning.”

“Rude,” Steve laughs sleepily. “Meant it. Hey, Eddie. Wanna know a secret?”

“Oh, if I must.”

“In… in the RV.” And Steve yawns deeply, like it’s been building for a while; he looks so, so tired. “When all the… haunted house crap. Know why it was… so easy?”

He keeps having to yawn every few words. Eddie’s heart twinges.

“Why?” he murmurs.

“Whenever I looked at you… all that shit… never touched you. You just stayed… you were so… lovely.”

Eddie’s throat is tight with emotion. He reaches out, drifts his fingers along Steve’s brow, until Steve’s eyes finally remain shut, until he feels him drift into sleep.

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 ao3

It’s late morning when three soft raps on the door interrupt them—if it could be called interrupting when Steve has just been throwing out various songs and artists ever since Eddie finished playing My Little Town.

Privately, Eddie thinks that the requests are hardly random, and more Steve trying to distance himself from whatever thoughts the original playthrough had sparked, but he’s not exactly going to draw attention to that, not when Steve’s eyes had glittered with mirth, before saying, rather smugly, “Abba?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Shock, horror! Eddie Munson, a music snob.”

“Uh, no. Abba’s just fucking difficult, man.”

And then Eddie had launched into a clumsy instrumental of Dancing Queen, relishing the way Steve’s jaw dropped in delighted surprise.

He’s halfway through when the knocks sound, and he turns to see Nancy poking her head through the door. She gives a sigh of pure relief, breathes, “Steve,” and then seems to falter there on the threshold, as if waiting for permission.

Steve’s answering smile is soft and warm. “Hey, Nance.” He sits up, one arm outstretched in invitation, and then she’s hurrying over, melting into a hug.

Eddie doesn’t even have time to wonder about whether he should step outside or not, because Nancy suddenly releases Steve to embrace him, too.

Her grip is tight, almost enough to bruise; it makes Eddie think that perhaps she would’ve been like this with Steve if she wasn’t worried about injuring him. She holds on for a long moment like she really, really needs it.

She whispers, “Thank you,” only loud enough for Eddie to hear. He catches a quiet shakiness to her breathing, and when she pulls back, her smile is a little too wide, her eyes bright.

And he wonders if maybe all three of them are something of the same—frayed around the edges.

“I’ve got a proposition,” Nancy says, suddenly all business.

“Pray tell, Wheeler,” Eddie replies.

She smiles, then nods to Steve. “Dustin’s waiting in the car. He’s got his walkie and he thought, if you wanted,” she says, with pointed emphasis, “you could talk with all of the kids that way, without them...”

She trails off with a vague hand gesture which Eddie immediately gets: so far the staff have sort of turned a blind eye to Steve’s constant visitors, but he figures if a whole troop of them try to barge into the room at once, they might be pushing their luck.

Steve seems to share the same thought, because he chuckles and says, “Sure, good idea. Wait, are they still at mine?”

“Yeah, they’re coming and going. Joyce and Hopper are there, too. Oh, there was—one of your windows broke, but we've got it all—”

“Oh, shit. There’s, um, there's cash up in the—”

“Steve,” Nancy says firmly, “it’s fine.”

They hold each other’s gaze until Steve relents with a muttered, “Okay,” but he doesn’t look all that happy about it.

“Your snack cupboard’s also been destroyed.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, kinda expected that.”

Eddie stays quiet, because while they’ve been talking, Nancy’s hand has subtly reached out and clutched onto his wrist, and—

Her nails piercing his skin in a desperate grip. His throat scraped raw—the distant realisation that it’s because he’s been screaming.

“Wheeler,” he's whispering. His voice comes out like jagged glass. “Wheeler, fucking tell me what to do.”

She’s silent, just sways against him, and he grips her hand in return, shakes her urgently. Tries to pretend like he isn’t struggling to breathe, like he isn’t crying when he pleads, “N-Nancy. Say you’ve got a plan, come on, you’ve always got something—”

“Eddie,” Nancy says, “Eddie, he’s dead.”

—he tilts his hand, taps hers a couple of times, and hopes she hears the unspoken, “You good?”

And then Nancy pulls away, already reaching for the door when she says, over her shoulder, “I’ll get Dustin.”

“Hey, wait,” Steve says. “Nance. Can I talk to you? Just for a minute.”

There’s a pause. Nancy turns back and nods.

Eddie has the feeling that they’re not going to talk about the price of fixing a broken window.

“Where’d you park?” he asks. “I’ll fetch Henderson.”

-

“Hmm... five. Over,” Dustin is saying into the walkie, halfway out the car when he spots Eddie heading his way.

Eddie gets closer, hears the walkie click, hears the background buzz and chatter that can only come from a full house.

There’s a rustle of paper, then Lucas and Erica cheering, and Max groaning, “The Sound of Music.”

“What’re you doing?” Eddie asks, smiling when he hears what sounds like El excitedly announcing that she hasn’t seen it.

“Making our way through Steve’s musicals,” Dustin says.

He’s brought his crutches this time, thank God, so by the time they're on Steve’s floor, Eddie catches when Nancy is walking down the corridor, slipping away to the restroom. Her hand reaches up, wipes underneath her eyes once.

Eddie steers Dustin onwards.

It’s clear that between them, both Dustin and Steve are trying to act like everything’s normal—and they mostly succeed, until Steve spots Dustin’s crutches and insists Dustin take the couch to stretch out on.

“I'm fine,” Dustin says, “you’re the one who—”

He abruptly falls silent.

And Steve doesn’t miss a beat; he just smiles and nods to the walkie like nothing’s been said. “Go on.”

Dustin instructs both Steve and Eddie to be quiet before he speaks into the walkie and says, “Mission update? Over.”

“The nuns keep singing,” Max says with biting judgement; How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria? is playing on full blast. Steve muffles a laugh behind his palm, and gestures for Dustin to hand the walkie over.

“Wow, Mayfield, thought you had taste,” he says dryly.

The walkie practically explodes.

And Eddie watches as Steve seems to take strength from each and every voice clamouring for his attention; his eyes are shining, and it’s like he just can’t stop grinning.

“All right, all right, simmer down,” he says, “one at a time.”

Eddie feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns. Nancy.

“Do you want to go for a drive?” she says in an undertone.

Eddie pauses. Dustin is chattering away on the walkie, and Steve must feel Eddie looking, because he catches Eddie’s eye, and quirks an eyebrow with a smile, as if to say, Go ahead. He’s got me.

Eddie supposes that’s what it like, with Steve and the kids: a bit of I’ll take care of you; you’ll take care of me.

-

Nancy doesn’t talk during the drive, but for some reason it isn’t off-putting, more peaceful. Eddie cranks down the passenger window and sticks his arm out, enjoying the feeling of the wind running through his fingers.

It’s overcast, but the sun still occasionally breaks through the clouds—a gentle warmth. And though he knows Nancy must be thoughtfully selective with her route, Eddie still finds it strangely hopeful, to see the sight of damage now healing. They drive past tarmac that must have once been tremendous, gaping cracks: fault lines that have been knitted back together.

Nancy soon takes her car off the road and parks it near the woods; she gets out and starts walking, Eddie following without question. He knows where they’re going without having to be told.

Lover’s Lake.

They don’t speak until they reach the shoreline, and Nancy brings out Dustin’s compass.

“See?” she says. The compass is perfectly still, points to exactly where North should be.

Eddie exhales. “Jesus Christ.” He picks up a stone and throws it as far as he can. There’s a distant splash, then nothing.

“They're all like that,” Nancy says, and she suddenly sounds exhausted. “I checked. Your trailer, the road where Fred... It's all gone.”

She sits down right in the dirt, hugs her own knees. Eddie mirrors her. She looks out at the lake then turns, and Christ, sometimes she has old, old eyes, Eddie thinks.

“I was talking with Mike,” Nancy says. “About how...” She sighs. “We’ll never know everything. I'm not going to...” She sighs again. “And I thought I’d never be okay with that, you know?” She makes a noise that’s probably meant to be a laugh, but it just makes Eddie’s heart squeeze a little.

He puts a hand on her shoulder, and then she falls against him—or maybe it’s more that they’re both holding each other up.

“There was a moment,” Nancy says, “after Robin threw the first bottle. When the fire… I swear I saw him flinch, and then all the vines, everything, it just wasn’t there, and he was staring right at me, and he looked—he was… just a man.”

“Was it hard to…?” Eddie says, but he doesn’t finish. It feels like a stupid question, all of a sudden.

But Nancy finishes it for him. “To shoot? No.” She doesn’t so much as pause. “After everything else, it was easy.”

Eddie doesn’t actually ask why out loud, but Nancy must hear him somehow, because he feels her shrug against him, before she’s saying, “He’d taken too much already.”

There’s an edge to her voice, and Eddie suddenly knows, with the utmost certainty, that she would’ve dove into the lake for any one of them. Wouldn’t waste a second.

-

Nancy drives him back to the hospital. Her jaw works a couple of times as they sit in the parking lot, so Eddie waits, doesn’t move for the door.

“Remember that Christmas Steve had at mine?” Nancy eventually says.

“Well, not personally,” Eddie says, which makes her laugh.

“He…” She exhales in a rush, looking up at the hospital windows. “He—he just thanked me for it. What…” She swallows. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I—Nancy, I don’t—”

“It was a terrible Christmas, Eddie,” she laughs through tears. “I burnt the potatoes, and my parents bickered, and Holly put gravy in Steve’s hair.”

Eddie laughs, too. Nancy reaches for his hand. Clings on.

Eddie thinks of Steve in the RV, his face pale, still managing to smile.

“Know what you’re thinking about then?”

“Yeah. Got a few things in mind.”

Eddie doesn’t need to say anything; from the way Nancy is crying, he suspects she already knows.

He thinks of two young teenagers who have grown up together, seen the same terrible things; who maybe just needed one mundane Christmas to make everything feel normal again. To feel safe.

When he leaves the car, Nancy’s face is dry, and he kisses her forehead on impulse.

“Thank God for you, Nancy Wheeler.”

-

“So, how was it?” Steve says. He’s doing a pretty good job at sounding upbeat, at sustaining it right through Dustin leaving.

But Eddie sees something dark flicker in his eyes.

Tonight, he’s going to ask me to play his song again, Eddie thinks. He doesn’t quite know why he feels something like dread settle in his stomach.

“How was what?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “The drive. C’mon, man, I’ve been staring at the same four walls, paint me a pretty picture like you do with your games.”

“A pretty picture, he says,” Eddie huffs dramatically.

But he obliges, of course. He keeps it light, doesn’t mention the compass or anything like that. Describes the weather, the calmness at Lover’s Lake, how Nancy had started skipping stones and made it into a contest.

He’s just getting into their playful argument over who had won when he spots Steve smiling at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Steve says. He readjusts himself on the pillow, still smiling like Eddie has done something endearing. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“You.” Steve’s smile grows. “Got you all figured out, Eddie Munson.”

“That’s quite a claim, Harrington,” Eddie says.

“Yup. I have, though. You said your eyes were cynical. Wanna know what I think?”

“Hmm. You’re gonna tell me anyway, huh?”

“I think,” Steve says, sounding very pleased with himself, “that you’re full of shit.”

Eddie scoffs as if he’s been prompted to, but his mind is on Steve’s smile, on the lingering sadness in his eyes that he’s trying to hide; and fuck, Eddie thinks, let him have this. He’d give him anything.

“If any of us was going to be a romantic,” Steve says, “it’d be you.”

[loveinhawkins]

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The telltale catch in Steve’s breathing evens out far too quickly for it to be natural. Eddie can feel how he repeatedly holds his breath for a few brutal seconds at a time, trying to force his crying to a stop. It’s done so thoroughly, so efficiently, that Eddie is left with the unavoidable conclusion that it’s a practised skill; that at some point, Steve must have taught himself to cry silently—and to get it over and done with as quickly as possible.

Steve lifts his head up slowly from Eddie’s shoulder. He keeps his eyes low, looking down at the bed, and as he moves, he dislodges Eddie’s hold on him.

Eddie takes the hint and draws back. He’d been stroking one hand through Steve’s hair in a soothing rhythm, but it seemed so natural—done instinctively, almost unconsciously—that it’s only from stopping that he even realises he was doing it in the first place.

“Uh, sorry.”

Steve shakes his head, looks up to meet Eddie’s gaze with a weak but genuine smile.

“No, it’s… just don’t want to fall asleep,” he says. Then he seems to catch himself and amends, “Like, you can, obviously. Don’t let me—”

“Nah, it’s cool.”

Eddie takes his lead from Steve’s tone: that studiously casual air, back to normal, nothing to see here, just drop it.

He can hear the sound of nurses talking in the corridor, fading away as they walk past the door to Steve’s room. With the bedside lamp on, it feels suddenly like when he’d get up early for school in the optimistic first few weeks after summer: the world just on the cusp of waking up, still blurry around the edges.

Eddie squints in the dim light to read the clock on the wall. “Hey, you want food? Kitchens should open for breakfast soon.” Then, before Steve can reply, the thought hits him, and he rambles on, “Shit, I didn’t even—like, have they, um, cleared you for…?”

Steve laughs shakily, brushing away the remaining evidence of tears on his face. Eddie catches him giving a little self-directed wince as he does so, like he’s embarrassed himself, and the thought is quietly devastating.

“Yeah, I can eat. Got a whole bowl of mac and cheese after you left, actually.” Steve shrugs. “Doctors came in with all these charts and when they took the mask off, all I could think to say was ‘I’m starving.’”

Eddie snorts, remembering when he’d walkied Nancy for a food delivery. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Right? Glad someone does, they just stared at me like I was nuts. Still.” Another shrug. “I’m not exactly their first rodeo. Think I recognised some of them from way back, with Will. Guess they figured if I was eating it meant their drug cocktail was working.”

And Eddie knows that this version of events is no doubt highly sanitised—yet even with Steve’s nonchalant delivery, he gets the impression that whatever the doctors greeted him with had been less reassuring and more, you’re out the fucking twilight zone, kid, just be grateful and don’t ask too many questions.

“So, how was it? Give your compliments to the chef?”

“Oh, I, um.” Steve’s nose wrinkles, and he gives an endearing, slightly sheepish smile. “I don’t like mac and cheese, it was just leftover from… I wasn’t really in the position to be picky, you know?”

There’s a sudden, fierce swell of protectiveness in Eddie’s chest. “Well, fuck that. What do you want to eat now? Like, think world’s your oyster kinda shit.”

“Hmm, you might be overselling the options here. Honestly?” Steve pauses, heaves a sigh and says, heartfelt, “Toast.”

Eddie had been resolved to find it, no matter what had been said; hell, Steve could’ve said ‘caviar’ and Eddie’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even have batted an eye.

But as it is, the simplicity of Steve’s answer is unexpectedly moving—that, after everything, this is all he wants. Eddie’s already decided that this’ll be the best goddamn piece of toast in the history of the universe.

“Okay, but like, I need a guide, man. What’s your preference? Cremation levels of burnt or warm bread?”

Steve stares. “What?” His mouth is twitching, pulling up into a smile despite his still red-rimmed eyes.

Eddie sees his chance, and he plays up to it, quipping back, “You gotta give me something to work with.”

Steve laughs. Though it’s still on the quiet side, Eddie can tell it’s a good one, right from the belly. “Sorry, didn’t realise I needed a damn paint chart. Light brown enough for you?”

Eddie nods, carefully rises from the bed so as not to jostle Steve. “Your wish is my command.”

He brings back a plate of toast with entirely too many packets of butter, and Steve looks at him like he hung the moon; when he takes a bite, he says, “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Eddie scoffs. “Think you need to raise your expectations.”

“No, I’m serious.” Steve makes a show of tilting the plate this way and that, like it’s on display at an art gallery. “You got the butter right to the corners; that takes skill, dude.”

“If you say so,” Eddie says, and he smiles behind his own cup of coffee.

There’s a gentle lull in the conversation for a few minutes, before Steve says, “You brought your guitar.”

“Yeah, I didn’t, um, really mean to? Just kinda jumped into my hands when I walked out the door.” Now back on the couch, Eddie makes an automatic movement for the guitar, where it stands propped up against the wall. Then he stops himself. “Bet you’re sick of my playing at this point, huh?”

His voice is still light, the perfect set-up for Steve to tease him back, but that doesn’t happen at all. Steve just blinks a few times, like he’s heard something confusing, then says, “No,” so simply that it threatens to put a lump in Eddie’s throat.

So he picks up the guitar. And because it’s second nature by now, feels as natural as breathing, Eddie doesn’t notice that he’s started to play Steve’s song, until he hears Steve give a sharp intake of breath.

“Shit.” Eddie nearly drops the guitar in mortification. “Steve, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t—”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s—”

“Eddie,” Steve says firmly, “it’s fine. Please play it?”

And Eddie could never deny him. He doesn’t sing, though, has some kind of instinct that he shouldn’t—because Steve’s eyes start looking far-off about ten seconds in.

Where are you going? Can I help? Can I go with you?

His decision to not sing is soon proven to be the right one—otherwise he might have missed Steve saying, soft as sand, “How long did…?”

Eddie waits. He loses his place for a moment, skips to the chorus. “How long did what?”

But Steve is already shaking his head. “Never mind.”

And he quickly pulls himself away from wherever he’d gone, something dark and melancholy leaving his eyes in a matter of seconds—like it, too, has been forcibly pushed back. He’s not ready, Eddie thinks.

It’s okay. I’ll still be here when you are.

[loveinhawkins]

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Steve continues to trace letters onto Eddie’s palm—the only reason Eddie hasn’t called for a nurse, doctor, anyone is because Steve had fixed him with a stubbornly determined look when he went to do so, and Eddie didn’t need it spelled out to know what that meant.

Dude, let me finish.

“You’re fucking unreal,” Eddie had whispered. 

Now Steve prods insistently, right in the centre of Eddie’s palm. 

Eddie blinks; it takes him a moment to figure out that Steve isn’t writing a letter this time.

“…Me?” Eddie tries.

Steve’s finger drags down then up, stopping right underneath Eddie’s pinky. A checkmark. Eddie lets out a breathy laugh.

More letters. OK?

Eddie feels something within him crack. “I’m okay,” he says, tries to smile. 

A circle now, sweeping round and round. Different to how Steve draws an ‘O.’ He repeats it a few times, perhaps noticing Eddie’s confusion, then spells out ‘OK?’ again.

Then it clicks and, smiling again—Christ, he hopes it looks reassuring—Eddie squeezes Steve’s hand with a sudden wave of affection.

“Everyone’s okay,” he replies, and he says it again, softer, when he feels Steve’s fingers tremble slightly. “Promise. Everyone’s okay, Steve. It’s…” He takes a deep breath. “I think it’s fucking over, man.”

Silence. No movement, no words. Just the two of them breathing, and if Eddie is feeling overwhelmed by that statement after just a week of absolute insanity, he can’t begin to imagine how Steve is taking it.

Then Steve abruptly launches back into activity, now tapping rapidly on the back of Eddie’s hand; and Eddie can practically hear the eagerness, the fucking exclamation marks in it. Tap, tap, tap!

“I’m literally right here,” Eddie says. His cheeks ache with the sudden force of his grin, but it’s a welcome kind of pain. 

Steve’s finger returns to Eddie’s palm, lingers there.

?

Eddie laughs, reminded of the Lite-Brite and the impossible golden shimmers; thinking that he’d never feel such wonder again. 

Steve keeps drawing the question mark until Eddie snorts. “Okay, okay, I get it! That tickles, man.” 

Tap, tap, tap. 

Eddie takes a deep breath. “I—uh. Shit, I don’t really know where to start.” 

Steve smiles again beneath his mask. His eyes travel across the room pointedly, and Eddie can almost hear it. Start wherever. M’not exactly going anywhere. 

So Eddie does. It’s a very censored version; he can’t bring himself to really talk about what happened right after Steve had… He skirts around it, says, “After you—u-um, you—”, then leaps hurriedly forward into how he stumbled across Steve’s song and all the playthroughs of it; his meeting with El, the news of Henry’s death; how the carnage caused by The Upside Down truly bleeding into their world (by Steve dying) seems to be healing, bit by bit.

He gets through all of that, and for a few minutes Steve does nothing; his eyes go a little glassy, but Eddie pushes back his initial fear—Steve’s just in deep thought, nothing sinister. 

He sees Steve’s lips move ever so slightly, mouthing, “Wow.” 

Eddie sighs, suddenly exhausted. “Yeah. Wow.” 

Steve’s finger prods the back of his hand again. 

OK? 

Eddie frowns. “You already—I told you, I’m—”

But Steve doesn’t let up, his touch both gentle and insistent. 

?

“Steve. I’m fine.” 

?

Eddie scoffs. “I said I’m—” But there’s a familiar sharp tightness in his chest that cuts the words off, and Steve’s eyes look far too knowing, and suddenly more comes spilling out, no matter how much Eddie tries to stop himself. 

While he still can’t address how Steve was… gone, he talks around the fear, talks about how he was somehow not arrested; the mythical like reappearance of Chief Hopper. 

And then he talks about finding Wayne, and his throat closes up completely. 

“Jesus,” he gets out eventually. “Just ignore me, man, I’m—”

Go.

Eddie stares. “What? Steve, I can’t just—”

Steve’s touch grows firmer. Go. 

“No! I’m not fucking leaving you like—”

“Eddie.” It’s the weakest of whispers, Steve’s voice splintering with every syllable. “Go… see him.” 

Eddie shakes his head. Tears bite at his eyes but he pushes them back, angry at himself, because he wants to go, wants to see Wayne so badly that it hurts.

“You’re n-not…” Steve lifts up the mask, gasps through a shallow inhale, but he raises one hand, as if sensing Eddie’s unease. I’m okay. “Li…sten. Not running. Go.”

“But—”

“Go.” Steve gives a feeble flick of his hand, as if to say non-negotiable. “Will… be here when you’re… back.” He puts the mask back in place. “P-promise.”

I’ll hold you to that, Eddie thinks, but he can’t even speak when he leaves, watching numbly as a group of staff bustle over to Steve’s room, clipboards in hand. 

He’s alone. He’s alone in there, and I left him.

Perhaps Steve wanted it like this, but that thought is muted compared to the spiral of Eddie’s self-loathing as he walks away. No matter what Steve says, it still feels like running. Like a betrayal. 

-

When he enters the hotel room, the first thing he sees is the harsh red glare of the alarm clock. 1:17am. Then, there’s Wayne, sat in the desk chair, clearly kept up by his usual working hours. He’s doing the crossword; Eddie can see where he’s sketched out answers in pencil first before going over them in pen when he’s certain of the word.   

Maybe it’s the normality of the scene that does it. All Eddie knows is that he’s suddenly shaking, and he just lets his guitar fall to the ground when he’d normally cradle it, so Wayne is bound to notice something’s up, but Eddie can’t keep it together, and he doesn’t get it; he’s fine, so why—

“Eddie,” Wayne says. The chair is shoved back as he stands hurriedly, and he keeps Eddie upright with both hands around his forearms. “Sit down.”

Eddie sits on the bed heavily. There’s a distant roaring in his ears; he’s breathing too quickly. 

“It worked,” he says, but he can barely hear his own voice. “I-it—”

“All right,” Wayne cuts him off not unkindly. “That’s enough. Just breathe, Ed.”

Eventually each breath doesn’t seem to burn, and Eddie can hear other quieter sounds filtering through—Wayne carefully moving the guitar, the slow creak of the bed as he sits down next to him.

When Eddie raises his head, he sees that Wayne is looking down at his hands; it’s only then that he notices the red marks on his fingertips, inflamed from pressing against the guitar strings. 

“You gonna tell me?” Wayne asks. 

Eddie closes his eyes. “I...” He grapples for words. “You… you can’t un-know it.”

Wayne sighs. For a moment, Eddie thinks he’ll drop it, and they’ll move on, and that’ll be it: this big, unsayable thing between them forever.

Then Wayne rests a gentle hand on Eddie’s head, rocks once. “Try me.”

-

Wayne doesn’t interrupt; he listens to everything in silence. There’s no disbelief in his face—the only change in his expression is that his brow becomes more and more furrowed. Eddie can’t guess what he’s thinking, but perhaps, after everything that’s happened, this horrific explanation is easy to accept. Or maybe it’s because they have promised, years ago, that they would never lie to each other.

Weary, Eddie finds that he tells the story disjointedly, keeps having to double back on himself and clumsily repeat things—and even when he says things twice, he knows it’s still vague: how Steve’s fate went from a friend died to we’ve got a plan to bring him back.

And because exhaustion is weighing him down, he realises with a sinking feeling that he’s told everything in the wrong order. He hasn’t mentioned Chrissy.

At first, he doesn’t think he can. But then Wayne must sense a change, something wrong in his breathing again, because he puts his hand on Eddie’s knee, and his meaning is clear. You can tell me anything.

Stopping and starting over and over, Eddie finally tells his uncle how Chrissy Cunningham died. How it was an awful death, a painful one.

A lonely one.

“I left her there,” he says, and it feels like that’s never going to leave him, the shame and guilt crushing his chest. “Wayne, I—I left her all alone, and then y-you had to see her like—”

“Stop,” Wayne says. His eyes are wide with dismay, as if realising that this isn’t something he can solve by just taking Eddie away from it all; like when he pulled him away from the doorway when Eddie was a child, urging him not to look.

“I sh-should’ve fucking done something, Wayne. God, I should’ve h-helped her—”

“Eddie,” Wayne says, far more gently than Eddie deserves, “son, she was already dead.”

The words land, rock Eddie’s foundations.

“C’mere.” Wayne puts his arms around him, pulls him close. “It wasn’t your fault. You gotta know that, you hear me?”

“I…” Eddie grits his teeth. “Wayne, I—”

“After I called the police,” Wayne says gently, “I talked to her. Just… just in case she… you know?”

Eddie inhales raggedly. “Oh.”

“She did cheerleading, right?”

Eddie nods.

“Yeah, I can picture her. She was always real polite… Remember that show you had in middle school? And you made me carry half the damn band’s equipment when I came to pick you up?”

Eddie chokes through a surprised laugh. “Yeah.” “She came runnin’ across the parking lot while I was waiting on you. She’d found your guitar pick left on the stage and she didn’t know where you were. Said, ‘Mr. Munson, I wanted to make sure he got it back, he said it was his good luck charm.’”

Eddie doesn’t recall this, but he knows the exact guitar pick Wayne is referring to: the one he now wears around his neck to stop him from ever losing it. And instead of thinking about how she looked on that terrible night, an image forms in his head of what Wayne must have seen, of Chrissy running over, ponytail bouncing. Her happiness.

Death cannot take everything.

He sniffs. “I-I didn’t know that.”

Wayne sighs. “Oh, kid. Don’t let it break your heart.” He presses a kiss to Eddie’s temple, repeats softly, “It wasn’t your fault.”

And Eddie weeps.

-

He sleeps right through until noon. There’s a note left for him on the bedside cabinet when he wakes: Wayne saying that he’s helping with the Red Cross at the high school. He’s added a post-script, as if he received more information just as he was about to head out the door.

Hospital called. Steve Harrington awake & asking after you, said if you were sleeping to leave you be. Said he’s sitting up more & can talk without mask.

Eddie flips the paper over. He writes on autopilot for most of it, says that he’s packing another overnight bag for the hospital—he’s using the last of his salvaged shirts at this rate—and notes down Steve’s floor and room number. He goes to write a thank you to end the message, but that seems too small for last night; he doesn’t know how to put it all into words. Instead he puts Wayne’s crossword underneath the piece of paper, solves the ones Wayne had missed. 

It’s only when he’s walking through the hospital entrance that he realises that he’s  instinctively brought his guitar along, too. 

“Eddie?” 

He turns. It’s Robin, apprehensiveness rolling off her in waves as she searches Eddie’s face. “They—they called and said…?” She trails off, like she’s hardly daring to believe it, like if she says it out loud, everything will be taken back.

“Yeah,” Eddie says quickly. He holds her gaze and nods firmly. “He woke up.” 

She gasps, surges forward and practically jumps on top of him. He has to move just so she doesn’t end up with the body of the guitar knocking against her stomach, shifts his stance so he’s half holding her up by the waist. 

“Holy freaking shit, Eddie, oh my God, oh my God,” she’s babbling. Her hair is tickling Eddie’s cheek, and then she’s planting a sudden, sweet kiss there, a little wet from her crying. 

Eddie hugs her back, and he can’t help himself, jokingly complaining, “Gross, are you wearing lipstick, Buckley?”

Robin pulls back and laughs. “‘Fraid so,” she says in the tone of someone delivering grave news. “The glittery kind, too.” 

As they let go of each other, a passing-by nurse catches Eddie’s eye, appears to give a knowing smile. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Eddie says once she’s gone, and he starts giggling. “Hate to break it to you, but she definitely thinks we’re together.” 

Robin shakes her head with a wide grin. Then, barely missing a beat, she drops into an uncanny impression of Humphrey Bogart: “We’ll always have Paris.” 

Eddie keeps laughing, as they climb the stairs two at a time to Steve’s room. “We’re so weird.” 

Robin clutches his hand. “Yeah,” she says, her smile a tiny, secret thing, just for them. “I’m glad we’re weird.”

And it sounds like she’s saying much more. 

-

Steve is awake when they rush in, sitting up with his pillows supporting his upper back rather than his head. There’s a reassuring colour to his cheeks. 

When he sees Robin, his whole face lights up with the biggest smile. His lips are cracked slightly, marks of painful looking indentations around his mouth from the mask that have Eddie inwardly wincing. 

“Oh, God, who let you in?” Steve asks Robin with a cheeky drawl; and his voice is strong, barely a rasp within it. 

“Shut up, you moron,” Robin sobs.

She hugs him, mindful of the bandages around his stomach, just peeking out from underneath the sheets. 

Steve holds her tight. Over the top of her head, he catches Eddie’s eye. “Is that glitter on your cheek?” He raises an eyebrow and smirks, and for some reason it suddenly feels like all three of them are sharing some private joke, especially when Steve adds, almost sing-song, “Should I be jealous?” and Robin promptly flicks his forehead. 

It’s all so normal, and for a while, Eddie feels a physical lightness, as if there’s a bubble in the room filled with utter, complete happiness.

But when Robin pulls back, Eddie notices that there’s a subtle fixed look to Steve’s smile, there one minute and gone the next—like if the hug had gone on for a moment longer, his composure might have crumbled.

“You’re looking good, Harrington,” Eddie says quietly, and though it’s said sincerely, he offers it more as an out for Steve, even though he doesn’t quite get what Steve is trying to escape.

Steve’s face flickers with something like relief before he grins again. “Thanks, man. They’ve got me on the good stuff.”

Eddie nods absently. It’s not like that’s a lie; whatever miracle-working drugs Steve’s been given have clearly strengthened his lungs, allowed him to go from practically voiceless to talkative literally overnight. But there’s more to it than that, in the way Steve is sitting up as straight as he can, like he’s proving a point. It makes Eddie suspect that, as soon as he’d left, Steve had tried to speedrun recovery while no-one was looking.

“Had to sweet talk a nurse to get them to call you,” Steve says. “They said phone lines are crazy right now, keep going dead or engaged or…” 

“I can try and get through.” Eddie stands. When he’d gone past reception, he’d seen that the lines for the limited phones available were already snaking round the corridors; it’ll be one hell of a waiting game. “Do you wanna call someone else?”

Steve nods slightly; his eyes flit to the side, and his expression turns sombre. He’s looking at Dustin’s walkie. “I’d better give this back to him, huh?” 

“I’ll go,” Eddie insists. 

Robin smiles at him with clear gratitude, moves her chair closer to Steve’s bed. 

It takes just under two hours for Eddie to get through to Dustin; thankfully he’s the one who picks up. Eddie had half expected some kind of celebration on the other end, like how Dustin had been when Steve’s song was discovered, but instead the conversation is much more subdued and short-lived, as if Dustin wants to finish it as quickly as possible so he can head to the hospital. 

“Henderson’s coming,” Eddie says as he walks back into Steve’s room. “Said he’ll be there as soon as…”

His voice fades away at the sight of Steve’s eyes being closed. 

But just as he falls silent, Steve starts to speak, voice clear and alert. 

“Not sleeping,” Steve says. “Just resting my eyes.” 

And that really does seem to be true, because Steve’s face never once slackens into sleep.

Eddie looks at Robin, trying to voice a silent question in his eyes, but she just shrugs helplessly.

-

Eddie finds Dustin at the end of the corridor on Steve’s floor. 

“There you are!” Eddie says. “Wait, dude, where’s your crutches?” 

“I forgot them,” Dustin says, a bit shortly. “It’s not really a fracture, I’ll be fine.” He seems unaware that that’s not exactly reassuring. 

“O…kay,” Eddie says. “C’mon, he can’t wait to see you.” 

But Dustin doesn’t move. Eddie suddenly worries that he’s been standing right there for a while. 

“Hey,” Eddie says. He sticks out a hand. “He’s really okay, Dustin.” 

Silently, Dustin takes Eddie’s hand. 

As they get closer to Steve’s room, they cross paths with Robin.

“Vending machine is calling my name,” she says breezily. She pretends to dive for Dustin like a football tackle, then ruffles his hair before he can dodge her. “Hi, genius child.” 

“Get off,” Dustin says with an eye roll, a cocky grin, but his nerves are still obvious. When Robin leaves, when they face the doorway, he drops Eddie’s hand and walks through alone; and Eddie thinks that this, beyond anything, is one of the bravest things he’s seen.

He tentatively enters the room when he can’t hear any conversation going on. When he does, he’s just in time to see Steve startle at Dustin’s appearance, blinking like he’s been wrenched from a deep train of thought. 

“Hey!” he calls. He shifts in bed, straightens up even more. 

But Dustin doesn’t move. Eddie holds his breath, tiptoes over to stand beside him, not touching.

Steve is frowning, eyes on Dustin. “Oh, bud, what happened to your leg?” he says with dismay; and it says so much, that he can tell with one glance, without any crutches in sight. 

Dustin’s hands are shaking, clenched into fists. Eddie can hear his uneven breathing. 

“Dustin,” Steve says. One of his hands is braced against the mattress, like he’d be on his feet and running over if only he could. “Dustin, I’m so sorry.”

Dustin shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “No, fuck you, you don’t get to—to say that.”

Steve’s face falls. “I… I get it, dude,” he says. “It’s—”

“No!” Dustin says, and he stalks forward despite his limp, and one of his fists comes up to beat against Steve’s chest, and Steve just lets it happen. “No, you—it’s not okay, it’s—”

“Hey,” Steve murmurs. He catches Dustin’s hand in his own, a gentle and protective hold. “Dustin, hey, it’s—”

“Shut up!” Dustin wails. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m—”

And as he’s speaking, he falls against Steve, and Steve’s arms wrap around him. 

“I…” Dustin hiccups, gasps—cries without restraint, like a child. Because he is one. “I don’t hate you.”

“Shh,” Steve says. “I know, I know.” He presses a kiss to the top of Dustin’s head, then hugs him tight; and Eddie watches as Steve’s face briefly crumples, before he visibly pulls himself together. “Everything’s okay. Hey, shh, shh. We’re okay, we’re okay.” 

Eddie steps out and silently closes the door behind him.

-

Robin pats a spot on the floor next to her, hands him a couple of candy bars. 

“Has he… talked to you?” Eddie asks. 

Robin sighs. “Nope.” She nudges him until Eddie takes a bite out of the candy, then adds, “You?” 

Eddie shakes his head. He thinks back to the blur of last night. “He… just kinda got me talking without really...”

Robin nods sadly. “Yeah. He’s good at that.” 

-

It’s late evening, and Robin and Dustin have long since left, when Steve’s determined resolve begins to fail him. His eyes drift shut in increasingly lengthy blinks, lulled by the dim light.

Eddie quietly draws the curtains. Then he exhales a little laugh when he turns back round to find Steve trying to keep his head up.

“For Christ’s sake, Harrington.” 

“M’not sleeping,” Steve says, though he sounds halfway to dreaming as he speaks. 

“Take the hint, man.” Eddie reaches over, gently guides Steve until he’s lying down properly. “You need rest.” 

As he moves the pillows, he feels a warm puff of air against his hands, Steve’s breathing already slow and deep. “Don’ need to… stay if you don’…” Steve sighs, turns to the side, one cheek pressing into the pillow. “M’kinda boring.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie says gently. And he stops himself from saying something stupid like You, boring? Think that’s impossible, because Steve has already fallen asleep.

-

Eddie doesn’t know what rouses him initially, just knows that he’s lifting his head up from the little couch he’s settled on. 

He hears an indecipherable murmur in the darkness. Blinking blearily, he whispers, “Steve?”

“Dustin…? Dustin…”

Eddie sits up. “He went home, remember?” he says, tries to ensure his voice isn’t harsh, but is still loud enough to break through whatever Steve is dreaming about.

“Dustin…” A quiet, low moan.

Eddie rises, stumbles over. “Steve? Steve, wake up.” 

Steve moans again. “Oh, God, no, no—”

Eddie clumsily switches on a lamp, revealing Steve’s face turning side to side, muscles in his neck strained, eyebrows drawn in distress. 

“Steve, it’s just a dream, you’ve gotta—”

“He’s dead,” Steve says brokenly. “They’re dead, they’re all—oh, God—”

“Wake up,” Eddie says. He grabs Steve’s shoulders and shakes, uncaring if it’s abrupt; he just needs it all to stop now. “No-one’s dead, Steve, come on, you’re—”

Steve wakes with a start, breathing heavily. Eddie instinctively lifts his hands off his shoulders, but Steve looks even more panicked at that, so he immediately returns them, keeps his touch light but there.

“Hey, you with me? Just a dream,” Eddie repeats.

“Oh,” Steve says, like he’s been winded. “Oh.”

“Here, you want a drink? There’s some water on…” Eddie reaches for a glass, but Steve just says, “No,” and covers his face with his hands.

“I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Steve, you don’t have to—”

“Just go back to sleep, I’ll be—”

“Yeah, that’s not happening. You sure you don’t want a—?”

Steve’s hands fall away, and he bows his head. “Eddie,” he says. His voice breaks. “I can’t.”

Eddie perches on the bed. “Hey, all right, that’s—”

And everything he was going to say dies in his throat as Steve’s head comes to rest on his shoulder. A growing wet patch forms.

And he stays very still as Steve shakes with silent sobs.

Almost silent.

“S-sorry. I’m sorry, I-I’m sorry…”

Steve takes shallow, desperate breaths. Eddie can feel his lips trembling against his skin.

And then Steve holds onto Eddie’s forearm with a harsh grip, knuckles turning white.

Eddie suddenly remembers that awful moment, right before the end of everything. I can’t feel you.

“Hey. Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Eddie murmurs. Gently, gently, he puts a hand on Steve’s nape, cradles the back of his head. Feel that? God, please let him feel it… “I’m here. I’m right here.”