Chapter Text
The cabin was a good place to die, Steve thought.
He was several hours in to his drive there, headlights lighting up the fog ahead of him in a sickly yellow glow. There were no bags in his backseat, no clothes or toiletries or food or any other items he’d usually take with him if this was a normal trip. There was a bottle of his father's expensive liquor on the passenger seat – Steve didn’t know what it was, didn’t care, it would do the job – and the comforting weight of several sheets of his mom’s sleeping pills in his bomber jacket pocket. She didn’t need them anymore, after all.
Silence filled the car, the radio long since switched off. He tried to remember the last time he'd listened to music; thought it had been Bruce Springsteen saying he could use just a little help. Steve drove on autopilot, barely blinking as he stared ahead of him, mind somewhere far away.
Robin.
She was the only thing making him feel a stab of regret about what he intended to do. She’d been there for him for so long, covering his shifts when he couldn’t drag himself out of bed, staying up on his couch and holding his head in her lap while he sobbed, turning up at his house with no warning and wordlessly cleaning up the cesspit that his kitchen had become. Robin had been the one to finally convince Steve to see a doctor, to try and get some actual help, had attended his appointments with him, all for him to have a depression diagnosis slapped on him and told to get outside more.
Robin had held his hand at his parent’s funeral, had driven him home and slept in his bed with him and forced some breakfast into him the following morning when Steve was numb and barely responsive.
But this way, she wouldn’t be the one to find him.
Steve had no doubt she would come looking for him when he didn’t answer the phone. Not many people knew about the cabin; it was one of his father’s impulse purchases, a luxury getaway that he offered his golf buddies and no doubt took his various assistants there to fuck. Steve wouldn’t be found there, wouldn’t be interrupted. Robin would find out eventually, he supposed, and maybe she’d be sad for a short time but she would move on. Maybe she’d get out of Hawkins, go to college, live the amazing life she deserved but had put off to stay around a too-small town and babysit his useless ass.
He wouldn’t hold her back anymore.
Reaching the turn off to the cabin, Steve pulled off the main road onto a dirt one and followed it for several windy miles. The trees were thick here, blocking out the sparse moonlight. He passed Forest Hills campground, distantly noticing there was a single light on there, a tiny yellow beacon in the dark night. He spared it a cursory glance as he passed, the soupy mess of his mind conjuring his father’s words from over a decade ago – Filthy place, that. Should move those hippies on, put a holiday resort there. They’re taking up the best access to the river and attracting the worst sort of people. Steve remembered a young boy with dark curly hair wave at his father's car as they passed. He'd asked his dad why the boy didn't have any shoes, but his father had scoffed and ignored him.
But the thought disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, drifting off into the distance, and Steve couldn’t collect it again. His consciousness had been in this state for several days now, a swirling mess of memories and thoughts that came and went, loose threads he couldn’t quite grasp onto before they floated away.
The log cabin was tucked into a clearing in the trees. Steve always thought calling it a cabin had been a huge understatement – it was larger than any other he had seen, with a hot tub out the back and three double bedrooms and every modern amenity that probably wasn’t required for what should have been a peaceful getaway location.
Steve parked the beemer a short distance from the driveway. By leaving it on the road, he figured someone would notice it eventually, and then maybe he’d be found. Because despite everything, he did want to be found one day, didn’t want to rot away in this place forever. He unscrewed the lid of the bottle beside him, taking a swig with barely a wince at the burn in his throat as it went down. Fuck, it was going to make him drunk quick. Not that it mattered. Nothing would matter, soon.
He tugged the handbrake on, briefly wondering why he even bothered to do that, and walked slowly up the steps to the front door. Pulling the key from his pocket caused a sheet of pills to slip to the ground. Steve stared at it for several moments, before scooping it up and shaking off the dirt, clutching it tightly as he unlocked the door. He got halfway through kicking his Nikes off before realizing there was no point, and with a humourless laugh he walked inside, indifferently traipsing the forest floor over the rug by the entranceway.
The place smelt musty from disuse, the cold sunk deep into the wooden walls. Not even bothering to turn a light on, Steve walked steadily to the lounge and took a seat. He placed the bottle down beside him and sat in silence for an undetermined amount of time.
He’d reached this point a few times in his own house. This was usually when he rang Robin, or got scared and backed out, or settled for just drinking himself into a stupor instead.
But not this time.
Taking several long swigs, Steve downed a third of the bottle – vodka, it turned out to be – and glanced up at the mantlepiece over the fire. The faint moonlight reflected off the few photos there – a young Steve, forcing a smile as his father’s fingers dug into his shoulder, his mom standing next to his father’s new Porsche with that faraway look in her eyes, his father in a business suit looking prouder of himself that he’d ever been of Steve.
He wondered if his father had ever sat in this spot and looked at those pictures for more than a passing moment. Steve thought it was unlikely.
Taking another long drink, Steve felt the alcohol warming his veins, his head starting to spin. Before the drunkenness could set in, he grabbed the pill packets from his pocket, lining them up on the coffee table in front of him. One by one, he started to pop the little white circles from their sheets, making a neat pile. He briefly thought perhaps he should have wiped down the surface first; the table had a thick layer of dust over it.
He expected his hands to tremble, but they didn’t. They were just as committed as the rest of him, he supposed.
Several faint thuds came from the direction of the front door. If he'd been sober, he might have paid more attention to the noise, but his senses were thoroughly dulled.
Steve took a slow breath in, then exhaled steadily.
“Sorry, Robs,” he murmured, and he picked up the first pill.
*****
Twigs snapped loudly under Eddie’s Reeboks as he made his way through the trees that backed onto his uncle’s campground. He cursed under his breath, knowing logically that Wayne wouldn’t have heard that, but his heart was thumping anyway. If his uncle knew what he was doing, it would break his heart.
Eddie wasn’t too happy about this either, but he didn’t see another option. Forest Hills campground was Wayne’s life, and by extension it was Eddie’s, too. He’d been living here with Wayne since he was nine years old, and he loved it. His uncle owned the campground, and it had once been a popular spot where Eddie had enjoyed watching the families pitching their tents and listening to the music played by the campfires every night. But over the years, the number of campers had dwindled, and now Forest Hills was struggling to stay afloat. Eddie had noticed the stress that permanently lined Wayne’s face these days. He’d been selling weed to try and help, and he knew the situation was bad when Wayne stopped asking him where the money came from whenever Eddie slipped him a few notes. But there weren’t enough people in these parts to make much cash from weed, so Eddie had found a new solution.
The cabin.
Since he was a boy, Eddie had clambered through the woods separating the campground from the cabin, staring at it in awe and sometimes walking around the outside of the building. One time, he’d slipped into the hot tub, swiftly exiting when the freezing water hit him like a slap in the face. Clearly, it wasn’t used often.
On a few rare occasions, he’d seen people there.
A tall man and his wife in a fancy car, sometimes accompanied by a boy around Eddie’s age. The boy was always following behind them, dragging his feet, his eyes downcast. Eddie had thought he always looked sad.
Sometimes, the man was there with different women, holding the door to his Porsche open as they stepped out, offering a joke that the women would laugh at every time, slapping at his chest and following him eagerly inside.
On one more recent occasion, Eddie had been awoken by music in the middle of the night. Confused, knowing they had no guests at the campground, he’d followed it to its source and watched the window from the cover of the trees as that same boy, now grown up and beautiful leapt around the cabin lounge in a yellow sweater, a bottle in hand and dancing with sporadic movements to Bruce Springsteen. Eddie had smiled, because he’d been helpless not to, but it had faded when the boy collapsed back onto the couch and held his head in his hands, shoulders shaking as he sobbed. You can't start a fire without a spark, this gun's for hire, even if we're just dancin' in the dark. Eddie had swallowed thickly and quietly backed away into the trees, suddenly feeling as though he was intruding on something he wasn’t meant to see.
But the cabin was dark and silent now. Eddie watched it for several minutes, checking for any sign of activity, but saw none. He stepped forward carefully, ignoring the little voice in his head that screamed at him that this was wrong. It sounded an awful lot like Wayne, that voice, and Eddie shoved it away. He didn’t have a choice. Whoever owned this place was rich as hell, they’d survive a bit of a financial blow. He and Wayne wouldn’t.
His boots landed heavily on the doorstep, and Eddie pulled the paperclip and flathead from his jean pocket, tongue between his teeth as he wiggled the clip into the keyhole and gently turned the door handle. To his surprise, the door was unlocked, and swung open with a slight creak. Taking a deep breath, Eddie lowered his empty duffle bag to the cold floor and glanced around nervously. The door to the lounge was to his left, and Eddie started towards it, but faltered as the image of a stunning but sad boy flashed through his head. He bit his lip and turned away, heading for a bedroom instead. Perhaps he’d leave the lounge for last.
The bedroom turned out to be a jackpot. There was a watch that looked like it worth more than Wayne’s trailer just sitting, forgotten, on the bedside table. The drawers contained more jewelry than Eddie could have imagined, and he dumped it all in the duffle before moving on to the wardrobe. The duffle was methodically filled with designer hand bags and shoes not made to ever be touched by hands as rough as his. Silk shirts joined the pile, and Eddie quickly moved on to the next bedroom. This one was sparse, the drawers nearly empty, a few old polos hung up in the wardrobe, and Eddie’s shoulders slumped a little. There was nothing here worth taking. As he turned to leave, a flash of yellow caught his eye – a well-worn sweater lying on the end of the bed.
Eddie brushed his fingers over the soft material, and realized he was in the boy’s bedroom.
Guilt churned his stomach, and Eddie backed his way out and headed for the kitchen before he lost his nerve. Pulling open a drawer, he rifled through the cutlery, throwing the silverware into his bag.
“S’someone there?” A voice slurred from nearby, and Eddie froze, clutching his handful of spoons. Panic flooded through him, his veins turning to ice, and Eddie weighed up his options, his grip fumbling and most of the spoons falling back into the drawer. He could sprint to the front door, but would the person chase him? He didn’t have anywhere to go, couldn’t just run back home, he’d be followed right there. What if the person attacked him? Eddie knew how to scrap, had grown up poor and hungry and angry, but he didn’t think he could hold his own against that tall man he’d seen here before –
“Who’s there?” The male voice came again. He sounded…strange. Drunk, for sure, his words strung together lazily, but there was something else…
Footsteps started, and Eddie was out of options now. The man would be in the hallway, he couldn’t get to the door.
“Um…shit, I know this looks really bad, well…it is bad,” Eddie stammered, turning to face the direction of the voice, his hips pressed up against the bench. “But, look, I’ll put everything back, I didn’t realize anyone was here, not that that’s really an excuse but…fuck.”
Eddie gripped his spoon, and the man appeared out of the gloom, a single ray of moonlight lighting up his face.
It was him. Yellow sweater boy, the boy Eddie had thought about for months after seeing him for a moment.
He leant heavily against the doorway, gripping it as if trying to stay upright. His face was pale and clammy, eyes struggling to stay open under heavy lids.
“The fuck?” The man grunted. “Who are you?”
“Look, I’m really sorry man, I’m just gonna leave the bag and go, ok?” Eddie placed the spoon back in the drawer, gaze lingering briefly on the butcher’s knife next to it. But no. Eddie immediately dismissed the idea, knowing he couldn’t hurt him.
Yellow sweater boy stepped forward shakily, swaying on his feet.
“Are you…ok?” Eddie asked, despite himself.
The boy tipped back his head and laughed. It was hollow and mirthless.
It lit a fire inside Eddie.
“Not really, no.”
And then he was crashing to the ground, and Eddie was lurching forward before he realized it and cushioning the boy’s fall, both hands fumbling to grab his head so it didn’t smack into the ground.
“Mmm…thanks,” the boy slurred, eyes closed and cheek burning into Eddie’s hand.
“Do you need, um…a hospital or something?” Eddie was no doctor, but this guy looked like shit.
“No, just leave,” the boy moaned.
“I don’t think I should…”
“Leave me!” The boy repeated, insistent now, and Eddie’s hand felt wet against the boy’s face now. He realized with a pang that he was crying.
From his position in the doorway, Eddie could see into the lounge, and his stomach dropped at the sight of several empty pill packets on the coffee table, moonlight glinting off them.
“Nah, I’m not gonna do that,” Eddie murmured to him, and he pulled the boy closer, ignoring his weak protests and guiding his head into his lap. “S’alright, I gotcha.”