Chapter Text
You’re so polite with
your sadness.
You don’t want to ruin this
for anyone.
(Silas Melvin)
___
There’s a Cardinal perched on the mud-spattered fence lining the yard. The grass is brown but its feathers are harsh red against it. The sounds it makes feel too soothing in this moment, like it didn’t quite get the memo. He doesn’t want this bird to be vibrant and happy right now. It should be a crow or raven, something foreboding but it’s not. The bird is bright and hopping on its feet like it’s dancing, whistling something that should mean love.
Eddie Lee Munson is 10 years old when he’s guided into a car that smells like soft linen and smoke, hand restlessly fiddling with the stretched-out collar of his shirt. He knows what's going on. Knows that his dad flew too close to the sun with the strange shiny car parts hidden under that bright blue tarp behind their one-story. Knows that his parole officer had visited one too many times to be casual .
It still feels like a surprise. Too similar to that one awful night 5 years ago when the police came, hats off; sad faces snapping up at his entrance like he was the star of the show. There’s a strange symmetry there, 5 and 10. Mom dying and dad going away. Feels like a weird thing to notice.
They tell him in simple terms that he can’t stay. Dad’s going away long enough that it’s a problem. People got hurt this time. They can’t get him out of it. Three strikes you’re out kinda deal.
The last time he sees his dad, Randy Munson is bloody-faced and bloody fisted pleading with wrists behind his back and a foreign hand on his head. He always thought it was odd for the police to offer that last kindness, making sure you don’t knock your head on the car door.
They gave him time to pack up what he could, an old duffle stuffed with worn tees and duct-taped shoes, cassettes and notebooks, figurines and guitar picks, his mother’s acoustic; all thrown in the boot of a yellowing Dodge Charger.
The car windows fog up, impulse urging him to draw shapes. It’s a long drive. Leitchfield, Kentucky straight shot south from Hawkins. Not the longest he’s been on, but long. Long enough for the broad-shouldered woman driving, Patricia (though she told him to call her Patty), to turn up the shitty radio whimpering out Glen Campbell, and tap red chipped nails on the steering wheel.
“We’re close, honey. Your uncle is very excited to see you,” she says, voice light and full of that forced joy adults use around kids. He’s gotten good at reading tones. It feels demeaning, is all.
He meets her eye in the rearview, glares, then turns to watch the trees get dense. It’s not so different from Bluegrass, he supposes.
It’s kind of spooky. Normally he likes spooky, loved the chest-pulsing adrenaline that came with late movie nights rewatching battered VHS tapes of Dracula and Frankenstein. The forest here is not that kind of spooky. The longer he looks at it, the more he feels like he’s staring at someone. Something. People don’t like when he stares, so he just watches as the fabric of his jeans unfurls at his knee instead.
His uncle's trailer is smaller than his dad’s place, but he’s always had a good time here. Uncle Wayne is kind, if a bit broody and quiet. He always listened when Eddie talked.
Uncle Wayne greets him with a hand on his head and a furrow of his brow. He’s sent to unpack in the single bedroom ‘while the adults talk’. Which is just code for mind-numbingly boring conversation, so he’s fine with missing it.
It’s warm for April. The grass is still dead but the clouds are thin and the sun beats down at its pinnacle. The trailer is cool, windows open but shades not fully lifted, keeping it dark and breezy. Despite everything, he’s excited at the prospect of decorating. Covering the walls and nooks with new things that catch his eye.
Uncle Wayne always liked filling in blank spaces, weird funny mugs lining the kitchen, baseball hats bordering the walls. He remembers going to some of those games, Wayne and his dad getting tipsy enough to joke but sober enough to read the score. They never really got along outside of that, something tense and unspoken. It was nice but he never seemed to get it. It’s just a bunch of guys far away enough to look like ants chasing a ball. Not very riveting. Thinking about it makes his stomach hurt.
His uncle walks in, hat fumbling between rough fingers, his smile real but sad. He doesn’t know why but it sends him over the edge. He can feel the pressure of tears build.
“Oh, kid, com’ere.”
The first hitched breath releases the second he can bury his face in the dense fabric of Wayne's flannel.
“It’s gonna be jus’ fine. I gotcha.”
He calms down, Wayne makes him a pb&j with the special blueberry jam he gets from a nearby farm stand, and they quietly eat while watching some soap opera he can’t see properly through his blurred vision.
Night rolls around and Wayne takes the pull-out. Eddie can’t really sleep, eyes tracing over bare walls. It still feels like he’s watching someone. Whatever it is isn’t watching him though, so he can’t find any real reason to freak out.
It’s close enough to summer, so he doesn’t have to go back to school until the fall. Not that he was going much before, dad taking him on ‘vacations’ enough that it felt like he was barely in class. It was fun, though. Rebellious. Something odd and prideful in him shining when his dad showed him the right way to angle a flat-head into the ignition, which wires to cut, to never touch the exposed bits.
That’s over now. He’s mad at himself for feeling the slightest bit excited. The slightest bit relieved.
He wakes in the morning to yellow-orange sunlight casting lines on the wall, not quite remembering when he fell asleep. His eyes are crusty and he’s humming with energy. He wants to explore. Wayne’s puttering in the kitchen, frozen waffles being warmed on the skillet because he doesn’t have a toaster.
“Mornin’ Eddie, got breakfast on the table for ya. There’s syrup n’ fixins. Go wild.”
“Can I walk ‘round after? Wanna check out the forest.” Call it morbid curiosity.
“Sure, s‘long as you’re careful.”
He hums in agreement and scarfs down his breakfast. He’s always liked the sharp way melted butter tastes next to sweet syrup.
He throws on some oversized cargos and a dark shirt. Clothes to climb in, run in, get messy. He has these old boots that are rather clunky but there’s no holes and they’re the closest thing to water-resistant. Wayne bathes him in bug spray, the smell stinging his eyes.
He runs through the park, catching the eye of other residents. They seem surprisingly friendly. He never really knew his neighbors before, but these people wave and smile.
His heart falters at the edge of the forest. The wind feels like breath tickling his neck. All it really does is urge him forward, everything feels alive. It’s cool enough to leave his arms goosefleshed; trees canopied above him dappling sun across the new-growing moss. It looks like something someone would write about. Maybe he’ll do it.
He doesn’t know how long he’s out there, scanning for fallen trunks and big rocks. He finds some salamanders skittering through puddles and rollie pollies curled up under rocks. His knees are damp with mud, spring bringing a natural wetness to things, and he had rolled up the sleeves of his tee because they kept getting snagged on thicket.
The sun is high when he hears a quick crack . A twig breaking loud enough for him to edge close.
There’s a boy.
He looks around his age, maybe younger because he’s small. He looks… well… weirdly like a doll; like those Lance and Laurie paper dolls. Something someone could cut out and place how they pleased. His hair is neat and even with the mud coating his hands and stains on his shoes he looks unnervingly clean. The stripes on his shirt match the color of his socks. Coordinated.
“Hey!”
The boy jolts, head whipping towards him with a look so panicked it almost makes him laugh.
“Woah, no need to freak out. I’m Eddie.”
In response, he tilts his head like the stray terrier that rummaged around the train tracks back home. Eyes narrowing in question, “Oh, um, hi?”
Eddie laughs, “You know, this is normally when people say their name back.” He steps forward, pausing when the boy steps back. His eyes are big, deer-like. It’s so strange that Eddie nearly pinches himself.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m Steve.”
“Nice to meet ya, Steve. Whatcha doin’?” He hazards another step, momentarily relieved that Steve doesn’t retreat.
“Well, nothing really. I got bored.”
“Good enough reason, I s’pose. You kinda talk funny.” He does, Steve sounds like how people on TV talk.
Steve coughs, something that sounds like it could be a laugh, “Me? You talk funny. I just sound normal.”
“Not to me, ya don’t. You sound all fancy. People talk like me back home.”
“Well people talk like me here. Are you new or something?”
Eddie jumps up, hands catching on the rough bark of a low-hanging tree branch, “Yeah. Just moved, actually. Been here a few times before, but I was in Kentucky. Live with my uncle now.”
Steve’s eyes follow him as he sways, “That’s cool, I guess. I haven’t seen you around.”
“Yeah, got settled yesterday. Wanted to check out the woods.”
“Well, great news, we have a lot of them,” Steve says, shoe kicking at the base of a tree rather dramatically. As if it could possibly have done something to deserve it.
He lets go of the branch, bark scraping against his skin. Steve still looks like he’s one misstep away from bolting.
“You wanna explore?”
Steve looks around, the trees shaking with the wind, “Sure, I have to be home by three, though.”
He nods, “So, what the hell is there to do around here?”
Steve grimaces and Eddie laughs, running ahead. There’s a river just down the way, frogs budging through the small gaps in their hand. Steve doesn’t say much but that’s fine; Eddie talks enough to fill the silence. There’s a natural competitiveness to their traipse, racing up trees, seeing who can get the highest, throwing rocks aimed at bigger rocks so the sound echoes.
When the sun rises higher and they split ways, no real goodbye given, Eddie realizes he only learned one thing about Steve that day. He doesn’t know where he lives, his last name, what grade he’s in, what his favorite movie is, nothing.
Just one passing line while Steve balanced on an old rock wall, “You know that song? I Can’t Help Myself by Four Tops?”
Eddie, a bit distracted trying to break a fallen branch into a sling-shot shape, just hums in response.
“Well, I’ve always been weirdly obsessed with it, ya know? Like, I’ll just play the record over and over and over again. Once, my mom was home and she caught me listening to it and told me the most mind-blowing thing.”
Eddie looks up, eyes following the staggering tilt of Steve’s arms as he regains his footing. This is the most he’s spoken all day.
“What’d she say?”
“She looked all strange. Like she was surprised I even knew the song. But, she sat down next to me and said, ‘I would play this all the time when I was pregnant with you.’ I didn’t know what to say back so I just, like, nodded and kept listening. Now I think about it every day. I still listen to it, but now it feels all predetermined and shit. Like, she had somehow made that my favorite song through osmosis or something.”
Eddie stands and walks over, “That is weird.”
Steve pauses and hops down, landing right next to Eddie, “Right?”
Then he just… walks off. Shoe’s perpetually kicking things on the ground with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, posture rigged. He’s somehow so still and always in motion, straight-laced yet antsy, wide-eyed and skittish yet breaking twigs as he goes. A lesson in contradiction.
Eddie finds himself hopelessly perplexed.
___
There must have been something in the water, that day in the woods, because he didn’t see Steve again until he started classes at the intermediate school. He’d only caught a glimpse of him, hands in pockets kicking an old soda can as he walked to the elementary school building. A few people trailed ahead of him, high energy, falling back to nudge into him. Even from his perspective, it seemed odd that someone so young looked so… aloof.
In all honesty, he almost forgot about their jaunt through the forest. Then, while spring turned warm, he and Wayne were driving around finishing up some mind-numbing errands and that song came on.
You come and you go
Leaving just your picture behind
And Eddie had turned it up, trying to find something in the tone, the instruments, something in the lyrics. Something that would explain how it was Steve’s favorite. It was a good song, catchy, decent vocals, but it just felt like any of those pop love songs they played in late-night diners to appease the masses. Didn’t feel all that special.
Their next proper interaction didn’t happen for a long while. Long enough for him to scrape his way through the terror that is seventh grade and make some friends in low places. Long enough for him to learn the last name Harrington.
In the four years between, Eddie had shot up tall and wiry, arms long and hair having been buzzed from an embarrassing stint with Big League Chew in which one of the cello players in orchestra tried to make a gumball big enough to toss. He was rather miffed about it, but it made the heat bearable.
Summer was in full swing, a small fair was being set up by Lake Jordan for the Fourth of July. He's actually quite excited at the prospect of mustard-covered corn dogs and fireworks. Wayne managed to get the holiday off work so they could head down.
There was supposed to be some cover band composed of five guys in their 60s with teeth dark from tobacco. Some of them worked at the plant with Wayne, so he’d be preoccupied enough.
Eddie? Well, Eddie was planning on diving into that lake with some fuckers from band and drink whatever shitty beer they scrapped together. Maybe smoke some weed they’d procured from that dodgy junior Rick.
He ran towards the dock, spotting Andrew and Sam teetering precariously on the edge. Wayne shouted ‘Be careful, now. Don’t bust your head open’ or something just as useless against his endless will to cause mayhem.
“Eddie! Let’s fucking go! Sun’s already dippin’!” Sam shouted as Andrew gracefully toppled off the edge, splashing loudly.
“Jeez, okay! I’m here, the hell you in a rush for?” He tosses his shirt and shoes off in the grass. The old wood is cool on his feet and it feels fantastic.
“We were makin’ plans to see that Australian horror that came out, Patrick or whatever. Wanted to check it out.”
Eddie plops down, feet dipping into the water, “I’m down, that new Monty Python is comin’ out too.”
Sam sits down next to him, leg hair tickling, “Oh shit! Yeah! Supposed to be real funny, Holy Grail was fuckin’ hilarious. We’ll just have to see 'em both, eh?”
Sam was this five-seven lanky blonde kid a year above. Now done with middle school, he’s planning on joining track with the other skin and bone high schoolers. He’s got these narrowed light green eyes that make him hard to look at dead-on. Strangely shark-like.
“For sure, for sure,” Eddie says, voice serious and flat as he shoves Sam with all his might into the murky lake water.
Sam manages a “Fuck yo-” before he’s fully submerged, coming up with that boyish head shake, hair curling in the water.
They mess around for a while, dunking heads and kicking waves of water until their breath comes up short. It’s something he’s always loved about summer, running around with shirts off and feet bare.
They take a break after Andrew throws a clump of water weeds onto his head, the texture making his skin prickle but joy overrides any ickiness. The condensation on the beer drips down his fingers and the sky turns this breathtaking color of pink-orange. His tongue tastes like stale bread but he’s used to it by now.
At this point the lake is getting more crowded, families cooling off, couples finding spots to lay down blankets and lawn chairs, canoes rowing out onto the water. It’s corny as fuck to say, but Eddie likes the community here. He likes the way people pause and enjoy things together in small towns; no matter how shitty people can be.
There’s a rather large group of kids around their age racing across the field, clothes discarded and already tipsy. Eddie, Andrew, and Sam watch as they fly across the dock, diving rather chaotically into the water all while screaming and laughing.
Andrew scoffs, “Looks like the fucking Calgary arrived, Jesus Christ.”
“The amount of polos piled in the field is enough to blind me. For fucks sake who wears that much pink and baby blue?” Sam scoffs, tossing whatever remains of his beer back.
Eddie’s got a towel around his shoulders and a half-smoked cigarette in his hands, “It’s a wonder how they have that much energy left over from all the ass-kissing and peacocking.”
The daddy's money cult arrives how they live, lavishly and all-important. In all honesty, most of them mind their own, not old enough to have any real social traction but stupid enough to step forward and say the most asinine shit he’s ever heard. A lot of the resentment comes from the entitlement of it all. They’re all bound to be those dick-head bullies that Rick had ranted and raved about. Holier-than-thou bullshit that comes with being handed everything.
He cringes when one girl honest to god squeals as some random guy tosses her off the pier.
They have the decency to calm down after the sun sets, girls and guys alike sneaking off to who knows where doing things that their church-loving mothers would sob at.
He stands, “I’m gonna go take a piss.”
The forest lines everything here, so it’s never a long walk. He ignores Andrew’s shout of ‘Have Fun!’ and light’s another Pall Mall.
He pauses when he hears a muffled sound. The trees suddenly remind him of an old closed gate. Something inside protected or, his brain supplies helpfully, barricaded in. The sound clears into harsh whispers. Whoever it is sounds rather fucking frantic, only emphasized as a voice nears the field.
“It’s fucking done, okay? This was so fucking stupid, you know that.”
The voice breaches the forest, some soccer guy a year below him. He pauses when he sees Eddie standing there, snarling, “The fuck you lookin’ at creep, buzz off.”
He turns and stomps off, hand tangled in hair as he barrels on. He kinda looks like one of those looney toons characters with steam puffing out his ears and fists shaking at his sides.
Now, Eddie’s tipsy and maybe a little high so he just chuckles, lights his cigarette, and heads into the forest because damn he does actually need to pee.
He does his business fast and turns to trek back when another voice comes through.
“Fuck. Fuck! Shit, it’s fine. It’s fine.”
Well, that makes it sound distinctly not fine. There’s a small thump like someone kicked a tree.
Eddie has never been subtle enough for eavesdropping but something about the panic interlaced with that shrill tone makes him step closer.
He knows, objectively, that this is none of his business, but he’s always seen that line drawn in the sand and stepped over it. It’s why douchebags bigger than him look shocked when he pushes back. Why he’s the one getting sent down to the office for throwing the last punch. Why teachers don’t call on him when he raises his hand during discussion. Why there are only a handful of freaks and fags that stick around him. Why he’s one step closer to this hushed voice burying itself in the tall lines of Elm trees.
There’s something poetic about him cracking the twig this time because as that sound emanates, Steve Harrington’s wide wide eyes are on him. They’re more panicked this time around. It’s too dim to make out many details, but fear is easy to peg.
Eddie, not knowing what the proper thing to do in this situation, does what he does best. He talks, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
Curveball.
“Wha- Huh?” Steve blinks, like something unfathomable just happened.
“You remember? Back in, what was it, ‘75?” Eddie steps forward, Steve steps back. Familiar.
Steve scrubs a hand down his face, “I- What are you talking about? This is- I can’t do this.”
He, well, falls to the ground, free hand sliding down the bark. It’s too graceless to call it sitting. His breath is coming out too fast, eyes clenched shut.
Eddie makes something of an aborted motion, hand out, “Woah, okay, sorry. I was just trying to distract you or something. You’re not looking too hot, man.”
Steve lets out this laugh that sounds like nails on a chalkboard, “No fucking shit.”
“You want a smoke?”
Steve breathes in something deep, “Who the fuck- I just. You know what? Sure. Why not.”
Eddie passes one over, shifting closer to sit with the lighter already lit. Steve just leans forward and takes a long drawl, coughing as he exhales.
“I got some weed too if you’re interested. Seems like you could use a nightcap.”
“Maybe another time.” It’s rather dismissive.
There’s a pause, the sounds of the forest shifting causing an almost unpleasant white noise. Nerves bundle up in his chest as the quiet turns awkward. The fireworks are gonna start soon and Andrew and Sam probably think he tripped over a root and bashed his head in. Eddie taps his fingers against his knee, “You know, I get really really bad poison ivy.”
A beat, “What?”
“Like, whenever I go out in the woods it finds me or something. Just crawls up my legs and torments me, it’s rather fucked up in my opinion ‘cause I love the woods too much to not go in. Got it really bad a month ago, that stuff itches like nothing else.”
He can feel Steve looking at him, studying him, but he’s rather set on staring at the random pattern of the leaves, “Oh. You’re that guy.”
“Pretty vague statement you got there.”
“No, like, the guy in the woods. I thought I made you up, honestly.”
That has him looking over. Steve hasn’t taken another drag, just letting the cigarette burn to his fingers, “Hmm, maybe you did. Maybe you just conjure me up whenever you’re alone in the woods. You’re getting kinda old for imaginary friends, Steve.”
Steve pushes into his shoulder, “Don’t joke like that. You’re so fucking weird.”
He pushes back, “Ok Mr. Hallucinating-A-Freak-After-Beating-Up-Trees. Seriously, what did they ever do to you?”
Steve huffs, “There’s too many of 'em. It’s pest control if anything.”
Eddie laughs, “And I’m the weird one. Okay, got it.”
“Yeah. Maybe it is me,” Steve says, head thunking against the trunk. The tone shift sends a shiver down Eddie’s spine. There’s something so serious about it.
“Well, maybe weird isn’t all that bad.”
He hums in response, “Easier said.”
There’s a high-pitched squee and then the forest is illuminated in a bright pink flash. Eddie can see it reflecting off Steve’s profile. The loud pop after only makes his skin crawl, Steve jolting slightly at the noise.
It’s all of a sudden very apparent that Steve is pretty in the soft light. He’s got these little moles that cluster over his cheek and long lashes, like he was cut out of a magazine. Something living in his stomach turns with that thought, a shifting and devouring thing that has him standing fast, “I should get back.”
Steve’s looking at him from his place on the ground, hair still damp from the lake. Another pop and he’s blue, eye’s glowing with it. He feels delusional when that face has something like disappointment drawn across it.
“Oh, yeah, that’s fine.”
He doesn’t know why that weak agreement makes him angry, it just does.
Made worse after a quiet ‘thanks’ that he probably wasn’t even supposed to hear.
Eddie waves without looking and walks very quickly back to the water. He shoves those feelings down deep as he spots his friends laying on the grass, hands behind their heads.
Sam shifts when he nears, “That was the longest pee known to mankind. You okay down there?”
“Shut up. The show’s on,” and if it comes out harsher than he meant, that’s no one's business.
All he can think about while colors burst above him is that last look Steve gave him. He has no right to look that dejected. That goddamn sad. For fucks sake, he’s one of those nepotism shit-heads that scream and holler and make themselves all big. He has no right to look small like that. No right to look that soft.
Despite all the vitriol spat at him in the halls, it holds no real weight. He’s not that. It doesn’t make him. Those vile words don’t actually mean shit when there’s nothing backing it.
He winces at the feeling of nails against the soft flesh of his palm.
It means nothing when his eyes track the silhouette leaving the woods.
It means nothing when Steve doesn’t bother to go back to the big group, wet and giddy by the water.
It means nothing when he disappears around the bright food stands and silly prize games.
It means nothing.
___
High school is a beast he had prepared for. He knew that people would be bolder here, stronger, more likely to react violently to sly comments and pointed jabs. Eddie rolled with it. Laughed back when people made snide remarks about his hair, now brushing against his shoulders. Slapped the backs of bulky teens in letterman jackets with a ‘now, what are we doing here?’ when scrawny freshmen were surrounded.
With high school came power. With power comes great responsibility (Thank you, French Revolution history, that one's a keeper).
Eddie knew how to flip tables, how to stand on them and shout, how to smile coyly when religious-nut jocks looked at him with disgust. So, he hammed it up. Brought the attention his way. Owned it.
The underdogs of school rejoiced around him, he felt like a martyr. Like something out of a Loyd Alexander chronicle.
Now that he was finally in his junior year, officially an upperclassman, respect was rather easy to come by. Maybe he let it get to his head, just a little bit. He, Andrew, and two freshmen, Jeff and Grant, started up Hellfire with the intent to band together the nerds of the world. Sam had been distant, minding his own with cross-country friends. It was fine because Hellfire was theirs. It brought people into his circle. People who admired him, who wanted to be like him. Which, isn’t that something? It makes him understand those at the top a bit more.
What he wasn’t quite prepared for was Steve Harrington’s reign. The all-mighty King. Eddie strangely understood it. The guy was someone you wanted to be friends with. He had this air around him, this ‘catch me if you can’ attitude that worked like a charm.
What made it worse was that he never got his hands dirty. There were bullies in the school, sure. Different from the attractive rich popular kids, they would rummage and punch and shove you in the halls, not quite above it all. They were predictable, pick on the little guy. They would get just as loud and just as mean but never quite held a candle to the upper echelon of Hawkins High.
It was unnerving. They would smile and laugh, but the second you cross them, you’re all but dead. They knew words. They could spare you a look that felt like the pointed end of an arrowhead.
Maybe he was making this more dramatic than it needed to be, but that’s what he did. Built epics out of molehills. Narrated and raved.
Steve Harrington was at the center of it all. Strange and foreign for a sophomore to burst in, all eyes on him, but he did it. Somehow. New guys on whatever sports team was popular that year would follow behind him like lemmings as he tossed books in lockers and winked at all the pretty girls.
That was another thing that made him feel live-wired and ill. Steve Harrington was sought after. No matter how hard he tried to avoid the intolerable gossip of whoever-the-fucks love life, Steve’s was broadcasted far and wide. It almost made him feel bad for the guy. Almost. If the guy in question wasn’t hamming it up like the fucking world depended on it.
Girls whispering, “I heard he and Amber O’Hara were up all night, not an hour of sleep. Just Steve Harrington with his magic tongue.”
“‘ Magic tongue’ you’re disgusting.”
“Hey! Her words, not mine.”
Who the fuck talks like that. He has a passing thought that if guys were talking about girls that way they’d freak out. But it’s Harrington and the guy lives on compliments like it’s air to breathe. He’ll smirk when girls older than him hush as he passes by. He’ll throw an arm around his girl of the week and whisper something in her ear all while she laughs and pushes him away grinning.
There’s something odd about him, through it all. Like the second eyes divert, he shuts down. In class he’s quiet, only talking when people initiate. It’s something that reminds him of those stilted moments in the woods. Shy. Small.
If there was one thing he could say about Steve, no filter or social ladder present, he would say that he hides. Like his mind closes off the moment it’s allowed to. Eye’s trained to the wide windows of the classroom. But saying that would be admitting he watches just as much as everyone else does, and isn’t that embarrassing.
So, instead of dwelling on meaningless drama, he works and builds and writes. Rick had been a senior when he entered the nefarious world of high school drug distribution, passing down his ‘business’ to a junior named Mickey. Mickey then, knowing Eddie was scouting for a job, initiated him into the ever-growing market of selling pre-rolls and bud at the fancy three stories in Loch Nora.
It’s one of the main reasons people don’t really fuck with him anymore. He’s got the good stuff.
Sure he overcharges assholes and undercharges his neighbors, but that brings balance to the world. He has allies in high places and friends in low ones. All a part of his own personal doctrine. A pathetic modern-day Robin Hood, if you will.
Said job had brought him to the lavish deck of one Tina Wainshall, who always had these horribly themed blow-outs the second her parent's car was past the driveway. She’d always ham it up when he arrived, hand on his arm and hair tucked behind her ear. He was being led to the back porch, glass table and chairs set out for him to deal.
The night was still relatively young, but business never really started until drinks were distributed and courage was built. So he twiddled his thumbs and started sketching out possible lyrics to a song Andrew would then turn electric.
It gets busy fast. He’d brought more than he needed, thank god. Rick would have his ass if his portion of revenue wasn’t up to standard, the greedy bastard.
The conversation was stilted and dry, but he can’t complain with the handful of random bills shoved in his lunch box.
“That’s $30 for the blow and $20 for the pre-rolls. I’m serious when I say don’t take it all at once.”
The nameless student-council-looking fucker just nods and tosses his cash before sauntering away.
Boring.
It’s nearing 1:30 am when he decides to leave, everyone drunk and high on whatever substance their pockets allow. He starts packing up and walks down the steps when he sees someone spread flat on the grass, arms stretched out like the guy was planning on making snow angels in September.
Very coming of age.
But because he’s not a dick and doesn’t want anyone choking on their own vomit, he heads over, lunch box clanging against his chains.
He stops a few steps away because of course. Fucking of course. Who else would it be? God hates him.
He hazards those last few steps and leans over Steve’s head, “You plannin’ on sleeping out here, Harrington?”
Those eyes focus, a toothy grin spreading across that stupid face, “Oh hey! Forest guy!”
Eddie grimaces, “Forest guy? Is this your way of telling me you don’t know my name?”
His grin falters and he shifts to sit up, wobbling, “What? Nah, man, I know your name. Munson, right? I just always call you ‘forest guy’ in my head.”
Jesus Christ, he’s drunk, “Okay, cool. I was just making sure you weren’t overdosing or whatever, so I’ll be on my way.”
“What? No! C'mere,” There’s a light touch to his calf that has him pausing.
Eddie turns, “Oh, so you want the freaks company now?”
It’s mean, he knows, but there’s this pit of anger living inside him that feels just about ready to burst.
Steve looks shocked at the statement, a little guilty, “I mean, I guess?”
What a wild way to respond, “Why?”
To his credit, Harrington does seem to actually think about it, “Well, I don’t know. Felt right.”
His words are slurred and he’s levering himself up with one arm, like sitting is impossible.
“Jesus fucking Christ, fine,” He moves to sit down, “Whatever could I possibly do for you, Harrington?”
“Why do you dress like that?”
It’s not said with any malice, oddly enough.
“Not everyone wants to look like a GAP model.”
“Well, yeah. But you got chains and shit,” one of Steve’s hands tangle into the medal by his thigh. He does his best not to retreat.
“I like it. Isn’t that enough?”
“It draws a lot of attention.”
“Maybe that’s the point.”
Steve’s fingers pull, shifting so he’s facing Eddie’s side. It feels like something else is happening here. There are small pieces of grass in his hair and Eddie has the absurd urge to pick them out. Like something as simple as dirt doesn’t belong there.
“What do you mean?” Steve’s posture is shit for the first time he’s seen since that summer in the woods.
“You know those poisonous fish? The really bright ones?”
“I think so?”
“It’s like that. Don’t get me wrong, I love all this shit, but it’s also an armor of sorts. Makes me look scary,” he says, rather enamored by Steve’s undivided attention. There’s something powerful in having it.
“Oh. That makes sense.”
Eddie can hear the loud voices and muffled music coming from inside and this interaction suddenly feels very dangerous.
Steve’s still watching him, eyes trailing in familiar ways. He shifts his hand from Eddie’s chain, letting surprisingly warm fingers rest on the exposed skin peeking out of his ripped jeans, “ Harrington,” He lets it out with an air of warning.
Steve flinches at the tone, “What?”
“What are you doing?”
He sighs, “Imaginary friend. You said that, at the fair. Sometimes it feels true.”
Dangerous.
Eddie’s frozen all over, limbs locked tight, “What game are you playing at, here?”
Steve’s eyes lock with his, “Game?”
The anger is back, “Yeah, actually, what’s the goal? You strut around all big and cocky in school just to look like, fucking, this the second the lights are turned off?” He stands, “You can’t just walk the halls all self-important and then magically decide I’m your best bud when no one’s around. Us freaks are fucking people, did you know that? So… what? You get bored and flirt with the first guy called fag?”
When he looks down on Steve, he nearly backs up at the look of fury narrowed his way.
“Oh! Because that’s all we think about!” Steve spits through clenched teeth, he looks volatile as he stands, “You dress up in chains and black to scare the big bad bully’s away. What the fuck do you think I’m doing? Just prancing along with my perfect life and perfect friends fixing my perfect fucking whatever so that I can what? get the girl?”
He steps forward, arms gesturing around him like he’s on a stage. It would be mesmerizing if it wasn’t frightening.
Eddie doesn’t back down though, it feels set in stone, “Yeah, and I bet daddy pays for everything too."
They're nearly toe to toe. He’s expecting a lot at this moment. A fist to be thrown, a tackle, maybe a harsh kick to the shin.
What throws him off course is when Steve shifts forward, hand wrapping around Eddie’s neck, and kisses him.
His mind goes through a quick progression of ‘ what the fuck? This isn’t happening. Holy shit.’ before realizing he’s kissing back .
It’s crude and aggressive, Steve’s taste is coated in tequila. It’s a mess of tongue and teeth and spit mixing together, heavy breathing acting as a soundtrack to this self-destruction. On its own accord, his body is walking them toward the forest. How literary.
Steve’s back hits a tree and his fingers grasp into Eddie’s hair. Eddie’s got both hands gripping that waist and he dips his fingers beneath his stupid fucking striped polo. He can feel the raised moles that he now knows cover more than just his cheek.
Steve kisses him like the world is ending, tongue brushing against the roof of his mouth, teeth biting into his lower lip. He’s making these sounds, all cut-off moans. He’s kissed before, girls with tight braids and glasses that had to be maneuvered off, but never anything this wild . If anything it was awkward and chaste. This is… well it’s not that .
They break apart to breathe when Steve’s mouth starts trailing down his neck, hand gripping the buckle of his belt. There’s a slight stumble in it, fingers clumsy but practiced.
It’s mind-numbing in a way that has his hand catching on the bark next to Steve’s head.
I wonder if I’ll be the next conquest spread through the halls.
That thought has him snapping awake, like a soft dream turned night terror. He’s backing up before he knows it, hands digging in his hair, “What the fuck? What the fuck?”
He hazards a glance over to Steve, who looks frozen but almost happy, “What the fuck was that? ”
Steve rubs a knuckle into his eye, feet shifting to balance himself, “A kiss, dumbass. What? You didn’t like it?”
Steve Harrington talks like he can’t bleed.
He steps forward, “Despite all the fucking rumors I’m not actually queer.”
Steve laughs, “And I’m the Queen of fucking England. ”
Eddie turns, pacing in front of the forest where Harrington is looking cool as a fucking cat leaning up against the tree, “You don’t get to decide that for people. Do you know how dangerous that shit is? Especially here?”
“Mmhm,” unbothered. For fucks sake, the guy is checking his cuticles.
“Was this some weird ploy? Get me out into the forest so you could spread some shit later?” Eddie can feel his heart pounding against his chest.
Steve straightens at that, if only slightly, “Now why the fuck would I do that? Just run around screaming ‘look at me! I kissed a boy! Woohoo!’ I may be dumb but I’m not fucking stupid.”
He’s still way too drunk and Eddie’s way too sober, “I swear, Harrington. If shit goes around because of this-“
“What? You’ll what? Hit me? Ha! Okay, sure.”
Eddie narrows his eyes at that, “I fucking mean it."
“Now, not saying I will, but out of the two of us who are people most likely to believe?” he says, smile turning sharp. Eddie would have screamed if there wasn’t a clear picture of fear in those eyes.
“I’m leaving.”
Before he turns, there’s a hand on his wrist, “One question.”
Eddie sighs, gesturing for Steve to continue.
“If you’re not actually queer, why’d you kiss me like that?” It’s whispered out. Soft.
“Like what?”
Steve’s jaw clinches, like he’s trying not to feel, “Like it mattered.”
Eddie finds himself, for the first time in his 17 years, genuinely speechless. He has no idea how to answer that, so instead, he pulls his arm free and walks off.
It’s the only time after all these years in Hawkins, that the forest watches him.
The second he gets into his car, he punches at the steering wheel until his fingers ache . There’s a Judas Priest cassette wedged in there indefinitely, so he just turns the volume up as loud as it goes and hopes the neighbors call the cops.
The rest of his junior year, no one said a thing. Steve looks away in the halls, Tommy and Carol trailing happily behind, and doesn’t say a thing.
Come the fall semester of his first senior year, Steve’s got his arms wrapped around Nancy Wheeler and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He looks better though.
Eddie looks away too, and throws himself into his music, writing songs about false horrors stalking the forest, stuttering terrified heartbeats. Throws himself into Hellfire, dragging that short goofy freshman, Gareth, into the fray. He comes up with wild adventures and t-shirt designs. He hugs Andrew goodbye after graduation and promises to visit him in fucking Pensacola of all places.
He knows he won’t, but sometimes that’s okay.
Eddie’s many things: loud, brash, unapologetic, sharp; but brave isn’t one of them.
So when Steve Harrington comes back to school with his face beat to shit and eyes glued to the floor, he looks away.
When everyone and their mother is talking about the Byers kid and his miraculous return from the dead. When Barbara Holland disappears. He doesn’t think too hard about the forest and its eyes.
When Jonathan, Nancy, and Steve, despite the absolutely wild rumors surrounding them, come back shoulder to shoulder with a look of utter exhaustion and fear. He turns to face Gareth and Jeff and Grant to rant about how fantastic Return of the Jedi was.
He may be big and bright and colorful, but he was always a coward when things really truly scared him.