Chapter Text
Steve is huddled in the corner of the understocked, walk-in pantry, hugging his Dustin-approved-walkie-talkie and one of his trusty nail bats close to his chest with a white knuckle grip. Logically, he knows that the position provides absolutely nothing beneficial in case of an actual attack. He does not have enough room to swing his bat and there’s only one exit that doubles as the entrance for whatever threat may come his way. He has essentially trapped himself with no escape. Quite literally backed himself into a corner. His dad had gone to bed a few hours ago after taking out his frustrations about the housing market or the economy or the president or something. Steve, of course, having acted as a living punching bag.
Steve is safe now. But he can’t seem to make himself move from his position nestled in the shadows of empty shelves. His fingers keep twitching over the buttons on the walkie and he desperately wants to call a Code: Red.
But there are no monsters or Russians here. It’s just Steve. And Steve’s dad. This is not a Code: Red.
What would The Party do anyway? What would anyone in their motley crew do?
It was Steve’s own fault really. Fighting Demogorgons and mind flayers and Vecna, or Henry or One or whatever he was called, had made Steve cocky. He doesn’t remember what he said to piss his dad off, but he should’ve just kept his stupid mouth shut.
Too late now. Steve tries to fold himself up even smaller under the bottom shelf.
When he was a kid, in the moments where things were good between the reprimands and the beatings, when Steve would ask to play hide and seek, he fit comfortably behind the extra paper towels and potatoes. Steve was very good at hide and seek. His dad would count loudly to 20 with a hand covering his eyes, and Steve would scurry off to find dark nooks and crannies where he could tuck himself away. His dad never managed to find him. Sometimes he would fall asleep in the dark closet that stored snacks that Steve wasn’t allowed to take without permission. (The irony of him hiding in a closet is not lost on him.) Steve would wake later to some hired staff opening the pantry, and they would give him a soft sad smile and offer him breakfast and pain medicine for the inevitable crick in his neck and ache in his back.
Steve was the king of hide and seek.
In hindsight, Steve thinks his dad probably wasn’t actually looking for him, just using the childish game as a way to keep Steve from bothering him so much, but that doesn’t take away from the comfort of the dark and the cold tile floor.
It’s quiet aside from the melodic hum of the light above the stove and the quiet crackling of the air vents.
Steve flips the frequency of the walkie over to their non-emergency channel hoping someone is awake and talking. He doesn’t need them here, just needs to hear at least one of their voices and come back to himself. He’ll be fine.
There’s no one talking. No Max and El gossiping about the boys. No Dustin and Will strategizing for their next D&D session. Nothing.
Steve shifts the frequency back over to the S.O.S. channel. They’re all supposed to keep the walkies on and flipped to the S.O.S. frequency. It’s a safeguard in case there actually is a Code: Red.
Steve takes a deep breath and presses the button to talk. “Code-“ It’s really not a Code: Red. No fantasy monsters or portals or Russians. Just Steve, hiding pathetically in a pantry.
Code: I need someone? Code: my dad is a dick? Code: I’m cowering in a pantry and can’t get myself to move?
“Not Red. Just Code um,” Steve tries to remember the laminated emergency code references plastered on the walls in hospitals. He’s been to a lot of hospital patient rooms in the last few years. He’s read over the codes hundreds of times while his friends lay unconscious in hospital beds under thin scratchy sheets surrounded by tubes and chords that Steve didn’t know the purpose of. “Code: White.”
Hopefully someone else is awake and knows what Code: White means.
He takes his finger off the button and waits for a response. He isn’t sure what time it is. He knows it’s late, later than he’s usually awake, but he isn’t sure exactly what time. It was already pitch black outside when he scampered to the pantry in the first place. His dad had left him crumpled on the ground. It could have been worse, would have been if Steve tried to fight back. Once his dad was away, Steve waited for the click of a door shutting to run to his room and grab his under-the-bed bat (not to be confused with his trunk bat) and his walkie. Once they were in his grasp, he rushed downstairs to the dark kitchen hiding himself away regardless of the fact that the threat was gone for now.
Steve isn’t sure how long he’s been curled up and tense, waiting for something to happen, but it’s certainly very late. Which is why it’s surprising when sound crackles to life from the walkie.
“I’ll be there soon, are you safe? Over.”
And it’s Eddie, because of course Eddie is awake right now at whatever the fuck time it is. And of course he’s on his way with no questions asked.
Steve does not deserve Eddie. Steve is bullshit. Eddie is perfect. A shining star amidst a vacant black sky. His heart is too big for his own good and his smile is blindingly bright. Eddie has always been better than Steve. Eddie has his own opinions and his own style and his own hobbies. Eddie is brave. As much as Eddie claims otherwise, Eddie is brave. Steve isn’t brave. Steve is hiding in a pantry from his father, trembling and crying and hoping he can hide the bruises so no one has to worry.
“Yeah,” Steve responds, gripping the bat even tighter somehow and pulling it even closer to his chest. A stray nail pokes him in the shoulder but he doesn’t move it. The dull sting against a forming bruise is grounding and he really doesn’t care if the shirt he’s wearing gets a hole in it. “Over.” He feels a little dumb adhering to the rules of Walkie-Talking.
Steve hears the loud rumble of The Freakmobile, Eddie’s trusty rusty van, as Eddie says, “I’m on my way, are you in your room? Over.”
Steve should have thought of that. That probably would have been a better place to hide. There’s more exits because of the window and more room for swinging bats around. But it might have been too predictable too, the first place his dad would look if he actually went looking. “Pantry. Over.”
“Okay, Stevie, I’m almost there, hold tight. Over.”
Steve’s pretty sure he couldn’t move if he wanted to so there’s no point agreeing or arguing. He just nods numbly as if Eddie can see him.
If it was anyone else, Steve would be worried about how they would get in. The front door was locked and the garage was too loud. But Eddie has had plenty of practice sneaking in and out of the Harrington household. Even if it was usually just Steve in the house, they still worried about neighbors seeing Eddie “The Freak” Munson going in and out. No doubt word would get back to his parents and that certainly wouldn’t end well for anyone involved. Steve had no doubt that Eddie would find his way in, but he wasn’t the most confident about him doing it quietly.
(There are implications that come with Eddie sneaking in through Steve’s window so often, but Steve has been trying very hard as of late not to think about what those implications may be. Now is hardly the time to be considering such things.)
“Be quiet coming in,” Steve instructs. “Over.”
“You got it,” comes Eddie’s response. “Over.”
The word “over” is starting to lose its meaning.
Steve can’t do anything now but wait. Waiting is the worst.
He wants a lighter.
Years ago, when he was in middle school, it became somewhat of a trend for kids to put salt on their skin then place an ice cube on top and see how long they could stand it. The ice would melt and turn the salt into a solid piece that pulled at the skin and left red welts if you sat with it for too long. It was a test of pain tolerance amongst the 13 year olds and Steve was very good at the game. He loved to win and he loved the sharp sting and lingering marks that came with the craze.
He wasn’t sure what it was about the almost burning sensation and the way the bonded salt would tug at his skin. Steve had a habit of practicing on bad days. Days when his parents called to say they extended their trip, days when the groceries ran out and all that was left in the pantry was old potatoes in the process of growing new roots, days when Tommy turned his antagonistic comments toward Steve, or days when nothing was really the matter but Steve just felt off and needed a way to distract himself. It was almost a relief to sit down on the pantry floor with a bowl of ice cubes and the kosher salt that was kept in too fancy of a container. The sting was still present, but he found the process of picking away at the sodium chloride that had fused to his skin rather peaceful.
Beyond loving to win, Steve loved a challenge, so when Tommy dared him to replace the ice and salt with a lighter’s flame at a party freshman year, he stepped up. The original game was losing its appeal anyway. The marks never lasted long enough and the feeling of relief that came with the pain happened less frequently as he grew used to the light red marks and biting sensation. The idea of trying something more harsh, something bound to really leave a mark, something that would hurt for more than just a moment, maybe even blister or scar? To say the idea didn’t intrigue him would be a lie.
There’s something truly mesmerizing about the flame that comes from a zippo lighter. It’s different from that of a candle, a match, or even a bic lighter. It stretches and grows and dances gleefully in a perpetual breeze. It’s graceful in a way that Steve has never been. Charming and suave? Sure, Steve could manage that, but grace? That’s not really him. He was good at sports in a sense that he was athletic and strong. He was dedicated to the teams he was on and he had a habit of bringing home gold. He’s powerful and fast, but he isn’t graceful.
When he was young, maybe 5 or 6, Steve asked to take ballet classes. A girl in his class always bragged about going to her dance class on Wednesdays and would always twirl around during recess. She showed Steve some of the moves she had learned and he loved it. So, Steve asked if he could take dance classes too. His father wouldn’t hear of it. He threw around angry words that Steve would only realize later were slurs and accusations about his teacher for letting Sammy or Loni or whatever classmate it was teach Steve how to twirl. Steve’s dad didn’t seem to like fairies very much, but Steve couldn’t really figure out what was so bad about tiny wings and pointy shoes. There was a lot about Steve’s dad that Steve could never figure out. Maybe if his dad had let him learn to dance, Steve would have been graceful like a Zippo flame. As it stands, he was forced into every sport his father deemed “manly enough for a Harrington,” and Steve only ever complained once before he learned his lesson.
After the first time, Steve quickly became addicted to letting the flame dance across his skin. Every time, as the flame made contact with his leg or torso or wherever he thought would be easiest to hide, his muscles would tense on instinct, but he’d quickly relax into the swaying of the flame and flickering of the light. It gave him a sense of control. As high school went on and his shit got decidedly more rocked, Steve made more use of his Dad’s old lighter than the old man ever did. Steve’s pretty sure he never even noticed, which was surprising considering the deep teeth marks on the mouthpiece of the well loved wooden tobacco pipe his dad almost always had within arms reach. He probably had a slew of fancy lighters to choose from, neglecting the old dull one Steve favored. The hinge creaked quietly and there was an etching of an Ace of Spades on one side. The etching was all but completely worn off by the time Starcourt happened.
Steve really wants his lighter.
He knows he shouldn’t. He realized in his truth serum induced heart to heart with Robin what the burns actually were. What they are. Something about the way his tiny Scoops Ahoy shorts rode up let Robin catch sight of some old burns that never healed right since Steve would pick at the scabbed over blisters until they would ooze milky yellow puss and blood. He’d since learned that repeatedly picking at scabbed over burns will result in more permanent scarring, but he hadn’t known that for many of his early days carrying around that silver Zippo. He didn’t really care either, he liked the bumpy slightly pink and purple skin. He couldn’t be sure why, but for some reason seeing the scars made him smile. Robin asked what they were, if they were from some crazy Upside Down creature or one of his fights and, because he’d been drugged by Russians or because he simply wanted someone to know, he wasn’t sure, he told her the truth. That he’d been burning himself for years when things got muddy in his brain and he wasn’t sure what else to do.
He gave Robin his trusty companion after she called him out for what the burning really was and begged him not to do it again, to call her when his brain got bad instead of hurting himself. Steve tried, and he did a pretty good job too, he’s still trying, but he’s also really hoping Eddie is bringing a lighter with him because at the very least he wants to watch the graceful flame dance again.
“Steve?” Eddie’s voice drifts quietly toward Steve and there’s a light knocking pattern on the pantry door. 2 quick, 2 slow, 2 quick,1. Steve isn’t sure where it started, but the pattern has quickly become something of a Steve and Eddie thing.
“‘m here,” Steve mumbles in response, hoping he doesn’t look too commiserable hiding with the root vegetables.
The pantry door creeps open and Eddie’s concerned face peeks out from the other side. “Hey, Stevie.”
He slowly shifts so he’s standing fully in the doorway. He should look imposing or threatening, but he doesn’t. Maybe he should look ridiculous, with his plaid pajama pants bunched up in his white sneakers and a faded and slightly oversized six flags shirt under his leather jacket and denim vest. Instead, Eddie looks beautiful in the dark of the doorway, all curly hair and gentle eyes. Steve looks like a mess. He can feel the knots in his hair and he knows Eddie can see his bones shivering. Who gave Eddie Munson the right to look better than Steve anyway? It’s not fair, his looks are all Steve really has. Eddie gets to be creative and smart and caring and beautiful? Unfair.
But the world has never been fair, has it? Not to Steve. Not to the Party. Not to anyone in the Griswold Family. Not in Hawkins.
Steve can’t help the sniffle that escapes him. “Hey, Eds.”
Steve peers up to look at Eddie’s face, Eddie, who probably thinks Steve is pitiful. But Eddie’s eyes don’t hold pity, if Steve were to guess he’d say it looks more like concern. He’s not really sure what the difference is, but it feels like an important distinction.
Before Steve manages to convince himself to move, Eddie is slipping into the pantry with him and sitting down next to Steve. It’s a big pantry. Eddie fits snugly next to him with their shoulders pressing firmly against one another, Eddie breathing audibly but still quiet, humming softly. He doesn’t say anything at first and Steve doesn’t want to break this spell. Eddie doesn’t ask what's wrong, or where Steve got the bruises, or why he’s holding the bat like it’s a lifeline. He doesn’t tell Steve that everything is okay because clearly it’s not and he doesn’t rush Steve to calm down. He just sits there, a constant presence on Steve’s right side humming songs that Steve likes but Eddie definitely hates. Eventually Steve’s shaky bones still and his grip on the bat and the walkie loosens. Steve lets his head drop to rest on Eddie’s shoulder and closes his eyes.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Always,” Eddie replies, reaching up to card slender fingers through Steve’s knotted hair, gently detangling the aftermath of the day.
Steve finds himself drifting off on Eddie’s shoulder. The warmth emanating from him soothes the raw feeling Steve hasn’t been able to shake since he locked himself in the pantry. Eddie’s hands are still softly scratching Steve’s scalp before he slowly moves to stroke up and down his back.
“Steve?” Eddie whispers, careful not to disturb the fragile peace they’ve created.
“Hm?” Steve grunts, pushing his head further in the space between Eddie’s shoulder and neck.
Eddie moves so his arm wraps around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him closer and nuzzling his face into messy hair. “You wanna stay or get out of here?” He cushions the question with soft circles drawn on Steve’s bicep, but Steve still tenses beside him.
“My dad-” he starts, gripping the bat again. Steve doesn’t want to explain why he’s in the pantry, he doesn’t want to explain the way his dad, even just existing in the same space as him, sets all of his nerves on edge. Can’t recount the series of events that ended with Steve calling a Code: White and Eddie coming to his rescue like a knight in shining band shirts.
“We can get out of here without him knowing a thing, don’t worry your pretty little head about that.” Despite himself, Steve blushes. Eddie always says the most ridiculous things and Steve is glad for the distraction, if a little embarrassed about the heat rising to his cheeks. “You can stay at my place until he fucks off.” Eddie offers, still whispering into Steve’s hair.
Steve relaxes again at Eddie’s suggestion, melting into the leather and denim that Eddie wears. It’s not the battle vest from spring break, that’s still hanging in Steve’s closet with Steve’s sexuality. The one Eddie’s wearing now is not as worn, and Steve wonders if Eddie knows he still has the original.
The idea of facing his dad again leaves a gross boiling feeling in his stomach, and he’s glad to have an out.
“Is that… okay?” Steve questions hesitantly. “I don’t want to- I don’t wanna intrude.” He knows Wayne works nights, so the man shouldn’t be disturbed by his presence in the house for the night, but he may not be pleased with having a guest the next morning.
“Of course it’s okay. I wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t.” Eddie assures, pulling away a little to look Steve in the eyes. Eddie’s eyes are sharp and focused and Steve feels as though he can’t look away. Anything Eddie says is like gospel in Steve’s mind. There’s something about the swirl of walnut and chocolate in Eddie’s irises that make Steve want to listen to every word that comes out of his mouth. “I don’t feel comfortable letting you stay here, either.” His tone mirrors the seriousness of his gaze and he hesitantly brings the hand that’s not wrapped around Steve’s shoulders up to his cheek. He doesn’t say anything about the darkening bruise on Steve’s neck, and Steve is infinitely grateful to not have to explain that right now. He can tell Eddie wants to know by the way his eyes flicker to the bruise, shifting from place to place where Steve assumes it looks the worst. Eddie can’t ask about the vague shape of a hand wrapped right over the barely healed scar left from a demobat tail. Not while they’re still sitting on the cramped pantry floor, at least. Steve looks back at the floor, shaking Eddie’s hand off in the process. He misses the warmth, but the scrutiny was starting to feel like pity and Steve refuses to be pitied.
“Wayne won’t mind?” he asks, still worried about invading someone else’s home. An actual home, with warmth and light and people, it’s nothing like the museum Steve lives in. Steve doesn’t want to bring his coldness to the warm cozy home of the Munsons. It’s not fair to them. He’s worried about being a bother and also worried that Eddie will take the out presented to him. Change his mind and leave Steve on the pantry floor to hide away until Steve becomes useful or something. He clenches his teeth against the icy anxiety burning his chest at the thought. He knows he wouldn’t be able to handle the rejection, especially from Eddie. He knows he can’t handle Wayne looking at him with annoyance or disdain, or any negative emotion, really. He’s desperate to keep the fragile camaraderie he’d carefully built with Wayne over the months of hanging out at the Munsons’ new government pay off trailer.
Eddie chuckles, shocking Steve out of his spiraling thoughts. “Stevie, I know he won’t. At the very least, he’ll be glad to have another sports fan around. He’s convinced if I’m surrounded by more sports fans it might rub off on me. But also,” Eddie pauses, setting both hands on either side of Steve’s face, forcing him to look up again. He gently squeezes Steve’s cheeks together like a fish and Steve is grateful for the lack of bruising on his face because that would have hurt. “He enjoys having you over. You’re good company.” Eddie smiles at him, wide and bright. The expression largely juxtaposes the somber atmosphere of the night. He moves his hands to Steve’s hair again, stroking through the last few tangles.
Steve takes a deep breath that moves through his whole body, pressing on the soreness from curling up for so long and stretching the skin over his bruised ribs and shoulder. He sinks back into Eddie as he exhales and sniffles lightly.
“Okay.” He agrees quietly.
“Okay?” Eddie asks.
Steve nods minutely, finally feeling a semblance of control over his stiff limbs. He’s too old to be sitting on tile hunched over like this, his bones ache. A few years ago it probably would have been fine, but with his annual injuries, something always hurts.
Eddie slowly stands, stretching his arms up and arching back, making his shirt ride up. Steve pointedly does not look at the strip of skin there, and he absolutely doesn’t blush. Eddie reaches a hand down to help Steve stand too.
Steve hesitantly leans the bat against the wall and places the walkie on the bottom shelf behind him before accepting Eddie’s help to stand.
Steve grunts as his ribs throb. He hisses a sharp breath through his nose, feeling the repercussions of a beating followed by shrinking himself into a space that was too small for him when he was ten, much less twenty.
As soon as Steve is fully standing he reaches for the bat. Even with his dad asleep and Eddie by his side, Steve doesn’t want to be without the weapon. He needs to have some form of protection. Just in case. Meanwhile Eddie grabs the walkie and tucks it under his arm on the side away from Steve before reaching out to help steady Steve as they start shuffling away from the pantry.
The house is silent except for the small pained sounds coming from Steve as they walk. Hopefully Eddie has pain meds at his house. If not, he might ask Eddie if they could smoke. The numb serenity that comes with sharing a joint with Eddie would certainly dull the aching.
It takes some maneuvering in the small space, but eventually they’re both standing and Eddie is leading Steve to the base of the stairs.
“Want me to run up and grab some shit for you so we can leave through the front door? you’re already pretty banged up, it’d probably be easier,” Eddie asks, and Steve almost wants to be offended. Steve may not be “King Steve” anymore but he was still capable. He’s saved the world on multiple occasions now and he was still at least state ranked in swimming. In a show of stubbornness Steve attempts to take a step up the stairs. Attempt being the keyword as he promptly crumbles from exhaustion. It’s irritating, how tiring being upset can be.
Steve sighs as Eddie supports him. “Okay,” he agrees reluctantly.
“Alright. I’ll be quick, okay? Just stay put.”
Steve just nods again and Eddie climbs the stairs quickly and quietly. Steve doesn’t think he’d make it very far if he tried to go anywhere anyway, so he stays at the base of the stairwell with his bat loosely gripped by his side.
It occurs to Steve moments later that Eddie will be in his room alone digging through his clothes. Probably his dresser, but possibly his closet. Steve silently prays to a god he’s pretty sure doesn’t exist that Eddie doesn’t see the blood stained battle vest packed away neatly in Steve’s closet. He’s been through enough for one night and frankly doesn’t want to deal with that humiliation.
Eventually, Eddie comes down with an old duffle bag stuffed with clothes and other things he’s deemed necessary. Steve can see the brown cap of his Farrah Fawcet Hairspray sticking out near the top and can’t stifle the smile stretching across his face, so he ducks his head to hide the grin. If Steve had been packing his own bag, he likely would have left the hair products upstairs. Probably wouldn’t have even stopped by his bathroom to grab anything.
Steve reaches out, offering to carry the bag and Eddie just twirls out of his grasp.
Eddie reminds Steve a lot of a Zippo lighter’s flame. Chaotic and ever changing, but also mesmerizing. Unpredictable in a completely predictable way. No one ever really knows what Eddie will do next, but whatever actions he takes are always wholly and completely his.
Steve has never really craved a lighter when Eddie’s around. No matter how bad the day, if Eddie’s there, everything is okay. With Eddie, the only use for a Zippo is lighting a joint. In moments like those, Steve is far more focused on how Eddie holds the joint between his lips than the oranges and yellows frolicking in the breeze.
After Steve relents in his pathetic attempts at wrestling the bag away from Eddie, they make their way to the front door, stopping for Steve to put his shoes on. Now that he’s more present in his body, it’s significantly harder to ignore the pain radiating from his injuries. Putting on tennis shoes should not be this difficult. Steve hasn’t had trouble putting on his own shoes since he was two years old. It’s fucking pathetic.
Eddie moves to help, because of course he does, and Steve reluctantly allows it, leaning against the wall to balance and lifting his foot so Eddie can treat him like Cinderella. Eddie hasn’t taken off his shoes since arriving, and usually Steve would complain about the footprints and white rubber scuff marks on the tile floor, but he doesn’t really care right now, he just wants to leave. As much as Steve hates to be a coward, he’ll be safe from his father’s wrath if he’s hiding away with Eddie. So, once Steve's shoes are finally secure, they head out.