His voice was flat, unimpressed, the barest hitch to it that no one would ever catch.
Steve just grinned, kept tracing his thumb over the back of Eddie's hand, figure-8s around the knuckles, the barest trace of maddening pressure that made Eddie's throat click around a swallow.
"Eddie," Steve said, solemnly, a tiny quirk of a grin hidden at the edge of his mouth.
"Hospital hand-holding," Eddie said, going for his most maddeningly pedantic, "is for coma patients and grandparents. Siblings, possibly. Spouses, I'll allow."
The grin wasn't hidden any more, curling Steve's mouth up into something indescribably soft. Eddie'd look away, look at the damp-stained ceiling, if that didn't feel like admitting defeat.
"So more than friends, is what you're telling me," Steve said, squeezing Eddie's hand a little tighter. Eddie had to bite back a soft noise - almost managed it, too.
"Are we even- " Eddie started, then redirected, to avoid the line forming between Steve's eyebrows. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"
"You got a problem with me holding your hand, Munson?" Steve asked, leaning in too close, his grin lost to the brightness of his hazel eyes, his weight leaning on the bed sheets and pulling them tight against -
Eddie failed at biting back a noise again. Closed his eyes as Steve looked down.
"Look," Eddie said, shake in his voice, hopelessness in his tone, "look this is progress, okay?"
"I guess boners require blood pressure," Steve said, his tone a little off.
"It's not my fault you're some kind of fairytale hero," Eddie said helplessly. "I can't help it if my dick's kind of in love with you now."
A pause, then another tightening of Steve's fingers.
"Just your dick?" he asked, and there was something in his voice that sounded like it wanted to be hope.
Eddie was still too thin, tiring too quickly even though he talked a good game. Steve was willing to be the asshole for him, chasing the kids out of the door when the sun had barely gone down, picking up their trash behind them and gently herding Eddie towards his room in the same gentle movement.
He never left when the kids did - or if he had to, if one of them needed a ride, he always came back after. He always knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep until he'd seen Eddie's, bright eyes closed and generous mouth relaxed and drooling, chest rising and falling with reassuring regularity that didn't have to be measured any more by coldly beeping machines.
So maybe it was creepy now, slipping his hand into Eddie's like he had at the hospital, the gentle twitch of fingers unconsciously curling him in closer tugging impossibly at his heart. Maybe it was crossing a line, watching him sleep like this, maybe it was another damning piece of evidence that he was always too much. But if lines were being crossed over, it was the ones that ran through the heart of him, stitched him together, reinforced with every breath and just enough to stop him falling apart.
It sure as hell isn't dignified, so it's a good thing he never really had any truck with dignity.
Steve fishes in his pocket and pulls out the lollipops - Bastian counts them into his little rucksack, one, two, three - and straps the kid into the car seat that's permanently installed into his beamer now.
"Ready for the library?" he asks, and Bastian sighs, long-suffering.
Time was, the kid would've been lit up like a Christmas tree just at the mention of the place. Now Steve has to resort to bribery and the solemn promise of the play park after - the good one, in the next town over, with the slide that looks like a dragon. Apparently even tiny nerds, those that come by their nerdity naturally with a genetic disposition on both sides, get tired of visiting the library when they're ferried there every day.
It's just - see, Steve didn't have the usual kind of upbringing. He was being treated like an adult by the age of ten, left to fend for himself regularly by twelve. He can't actually remember a time he was tucked into bed; there's a vague and confusing memory of fear, and darkness, and his nightlight being tossed into the trash can outside, but it's not very clear, so he must have been pretty young. One thing he's certain of is that he was never read to, never told stories by either of his parents before bed.
So yeah, sure, the librarian is gorgeous - long curly hair, and dark eyes, and the kind of lean hips that Steve wants to put his hands on to push him up against the wall. And sure, the heavy silver rings make Steve want to suck on his fingers and taste metal on his tongue. But mostly it's his voice - deep and smooth, curling perfectly around his words, painting pictures and crafting characters for all the tiny spellbound kids.
And Steve, cross-legged with a sulky Bastian in his lap, entirely rapt with tales of hobbits and dwarves and dragons, and blushing to the tips of his ears when the librarian catches his eye with a grin.
It sure as hell isn't dignified, so it's a good thing he never really had any truck with dignity.
"I'm sorry," Steve says, "I thought you were gonna be a woman. Does that make me sexist, that I thought you were gonna be a woman?"
The witch squints at him for a second, which might be a warning sign - on the other hand, it might just be that the guy looks like he's just rolled out of bed, hair long and wild and boxers hanging low on his hips.
"I mean, probably," the witch says. His voice is low and a little scratchy, faintly familiar, and Steve has the distracted thought that he really wants the guy to say his name. No reason. He just wants to know what that would sound like.
"Shit, sorry," Steve says, after an awkward second, and the witch shrugs, prompting a shrill complaint from the bat perched a little precariously on his shoulder.
"You're fine," he says. "Unless you were relieved - pretty sure that would make you a dick."
"I try not to be."
"More than most, and better than I expected." The witch grins at him, and he has dimples when he grins, and Steve has no feelings about that at all. "So what brings you to my door at the crack of - "
"Noon," another voice says, and a grizzled older man pushes out of the trailer, past the witch. He's got a crumpled lunch bag in one hand, a battered tin flask in the other, and he stops to give the witch a judgemental look. "You're not gonna dress for company, Ed?"
"When company comes over in daylight hours it takes me as it finds me," the witch says. "When you're up all night performing dark and arcane rituals - "
"Atari," the older man mutters at Steve, folding his arms, doing an almost-perfect impression of someone who's not the least bit amused.
" - and, okay, maybe taking some relaxation time after - "
"So that was relaxation I was smellin' coming from your room all night?"
Steve couldn't help snorting, earning himself a sidelong little twist of a grin.
"Alright, Wayne, how about you let me go back to earning a livin'," the witch complains, and Wayne reaches out to tousle his hair - earning himself complaining noises from both man and bat - and heads off towards a battered truck.
"Fuck it," the witch says. "Mystique officially ruined. That's Wayne, I'm Eddie, the little guy on my shoulder is Ronald James, you're Steve Harrington, and I'm guessing you're in pretty dire fucking straits if you've wound up in Forest Hills."
"Yeah, I - " Steve pauses as the witch turns and heads inside, then follows him in, ducking a little to avoid the splintered branches nailed over the door. "I think I might be cursed."
"Huh," says Eddie, and eyes him thoughtfully. "Well that's probably about damned time."
"In my defence," Eddie says, holding up his bandage-wrapped hands, and Steve arches an eyebrow at him.
"In your defence?"
"Yeah," Eddie says, with one of those grins that are honestly Steve's undoing, "I got nothing."
Steve sighs and jerks his head, beckoning Eddie to follow him through to the kitchen, and he won't deny that his heart warms a little when Eddie takes a second to kick off his grubby sneakers by the door. There's a first-aid kit the size of a holdall under the sink - under the bathroom sink, too, and two more upstairs - and Steve hauls it out and sets it on the kitchen counter.
"How do you even -" Steve asks, as they both stare down at the oil-streaked, dust-covered, paint-spattered and unravelling bandages, and Eddie offers him a rueful grin that makes something coil up tight in Steve's belly.
"Honestly," Eddie says, "I haven't the slightest clue."
Steve sighs and gently pushes his shoulders, backing him up to climb awkwardly onto a stool, and then sits himself down next to him, twisting sideways so he can tug Eddie's hands closer, almost into his lap. His fingers are careful as he plucks what remains of the tape free, gently unwrapping the filthy bandages to reveal the torn skin beneath.
"Couple more days?"
"So the doc says," and there's another of those grins, and this close Steve has to look away. He fumbles longer than he needs to for the ointment, and murmurs an apology when Eddie flinches back a little at how cold it is against his skin.
"You know you're really good at this?" Eddie says softly, as Steve smooths the last piece of tape into place. Steve looks up, startled, meets dark eyes that have so much warmth in them.
"I'm nothing special," he says, ducks his head, and just the tips of Eddie's fingers touch his chin.
"Hey," he says, soft and sweet, "Steve," and his other hand comes up to push his long hair out of his face, and the tape gets caught immediately in the long strands.
Steve can't help but laugh at Eddie's pout.
"That was supposed to be smooth," Eddie says, and "ow, ow, fuck ow."
"You know, you're really good at this," Steve says, and disentangling him can wait - right now he has to kiss Eddie's idiot mouth.
He’s tall, almost as tall as Steve is, and he’s stronger than you’d think to look at him. He just - he kinda flails, like he never got past that part of adolescence where your arms are too long for your shirts and you never quite know where they are. The man gangles, is Steve’s point, and -
See, he hadn’t thought about it. Not consciously, at least. But he’d been under the impression that Eddie would hug like a sack full of coat hangers. He just has that vibe.
So yeah, maybe he’s holding on a little too long, but he’s adjusting. He’s learning. He’s having some kind of revelation, here, ‘cos his arm fits just right across Eddie’s shoulders, the other tucked all perfect into the dip at the small of his back, and maybe Eddie’s startled, sucked in breath is an indication that he shouldn’t be tucking his nose against the corner of Eddie’s jaw but -
- well, he’s not the only one who’s not letting go.
Eddie brightened up when he saw Steve rounding the side of the trailer, couldn’t help it, Pavlov’s goddamn grin.
“Gimme a sec here, Harrington,” he called, raising his voice over the wailing guitars from his bedroom window, and tightened the last nut with a flourish. As he straightened he wiped hair away from his mouth, then caught a glimpse of his hands streaked with oil and swore under his breath.
“Well now I look like an idiot.”
Steve made a noise, strangled in his throat, and Eddie watched, startled, as he collapsed back against the side of the trailed and knocked his head back against the metal.
“Hey!” Eddie darted forward, hovered his hands uselessly near Steve’s face, protective instincts warring against the prospect of wrecking the perfection of his hair with his clumsy stained hands. It was an old thought, worn familiar.
“You gotta give me a break, man,” Steve said, and Eddie took an automatic step backwards, would’ve gone further if Steve hadn’t looked so pained.
“A break.” It wasn’t a question, never was, because he knew, he knew.
“You can’t keep - “ Steve gestured, incomprehensible, and Eddie could feel his face settling back into its familiar mocking smile, losing all trace of delight.
“I wasn’t aware I was -“ Eddie said, and made the same gesture with his fingers, exaggerated and mocking, then stopped self-conscious when Steve made a noise low in his throat.
“I’m handling it, I am,” Steve said, that pinch between his brows that Eddie always wanted to smooth out, only his hands were never clean. “I can - you’ve just got to give me some time.”
“Time.” Eddie said flatly, and Steve nodded like he was grateful, only - “I don’t understand what you’re asking me. You want me to keep out of your hair?”
He took another step back and Steve reached out after him, like an automatic motion, and Eddie stopped again, rocking his weight on his heels.
“No, don’t - “ Steve sighed out a long breath, frustrated. “I’m fine,” he said, not like it was so but like he was going to make damned sure he made it that way. “I can deal with it, I’ve done if before, and if I don’t see you playing guitar -“ his eyes dropped to Eddie’s hands. “Or - or your rings, maybe, maybe you could stop wearing your rings, just for a couple of weeks -“
Eddie pressed his finger to Steve’s mouth, stopping the flow of words in its tracks. Steve swallowed, clicking in his throat.
“You gotta,” he said, voice caught all hushed in his throat, “you gotta break this one down for me Stevie, I don’t -“
He can’t, right? He couldn’t be reading this right… except Steve was staring up at him, eyes dark and pupils blown, his lips parted against the streak of oil Eddie had left across his skin.
It wasn’t the best tastin’ first kiss, sure, but maybe the world can only hold so much perfect in one place.
"So," Eddie said, resting his chin in his cupped hands and smiling winsomely up at Steve, "what's my motivation here?"
Steve ran a hand through his hair, honestly stumped. This wasn't going anywhere close to how he'd thought it would, and the entire flaw in the plan was the guy right in front of him. He - the fact of it was, Steve hadn't been expecting anyone even close to so hot, and it was really screwing with his ability to form complete sentences, let alone think around corners.
"Your Craigslist ad said - "
"Yeah, the ad," Eddie waved that away. "There's only so much information your response gave me, big boy. Sure, you want Thanksgiving ruined, but what's my backstory?"
"I don't -"
Eddie vaulted to his feet, way too much energy for the peaceful clearing they'd met up in, almost tipping himself backwards over the picnic bench... and then doing it, sprawling out over the table like a swooning maiden, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead.
"Am I a pining ex serenading you under your bedroom window?" He sat up, an abrupt movement that left him hunched and glaring. "A bitter rival accusing you of stealing my man?"
Steve took a couple of steps backwards as Eddie flung himself off the picnic table and darted in close, looking up at him under his lashes with an air of tragedy.
"Are you cheating on me, baby?"
"I wouldn't," Steve said, and quite without intending to he reached up and cupped Eddie's cheek, brushing the crest of it with his thumb before feeling bright colour wash across his own, up to the bright tips of his ears.
"Oh," Eddie breathed, his eyes flicking between Steve's, "you're just a sweetheart, aren't you?" His long fingers cupped Steve's elbows, then slid down to encircle his wrists, the brush of his warm skin like tingling static against Steve's.
"I just want my parents to believe me," Steve said, his blush renewing at the plaintive note in his voice, the idiot simplicity of what he couldn't do for himself.
"Oh, baby," Eddie said, his voice settling warm like syrup in Steve's gut, "I will be the most convincing boyfriend you could ever wish for." He grinned, wide and a little manic, and Steve couldn't help how the echo took up residence on his face.
"And what's more convincing," Eddie said thoughtfully, carefully weaving their fingers together and pulling Steve a little closer, "than days - nay, weeks! - of dating?"
"Weeks?" Steve asked, laughter warm in his voice.
"Months?" Eddie asked, and then - slow, and sweet, and with all the time in the world where Steve chose not to pull away - gently brushed their lips together.
"I'm in trouble with you, huh?" Steve asked, and got another of those sweet, manic grins.
"You wouldn't believe how convincing marriage can be," Eddie said.
Eddie curled helplessly forward, his hands clenching restlessly on nothing, on molasses-thick air he could barely breathe he was so overwhelmed with it.
It was too much, too fast-hot-good, pleasure like electricity down his spine, Steve’s muffled voice and the sounds of his mouth better than any music Eddie had ever heard.
“Oh god oh god oh Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie breathed mindlessly - a helpless prayer to some power he used to believe in, good enough to make him need to believe in something, a blasphemy of pleasure that would always bring him to his knees. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he gasped. (He would happily die for his sins.)
Silk between his fingers, and Eddie snatched his hand back, ‘cos he knew the fucking rules. What he wouldn’t give for a fucking headboard right now, anything to hold on to, to hold him into himself. Instead he curled his fingers into a fist and slammed it back against the tin-can trailer wall, barely registering the pain as the final pleasure arced through him like lightning, as Steve pulled off and smirked up at him like some kinda trickster god.
*
“You broke your hand?” Gareth shrilled, his voice still uneven with the awkwardness of adolescence, “your fucking hand? Eddie, we need your hand!”
Eddie leaned back against his locker and made no pretence that he wasn’t staring across the hallway, staring across at Steve goddamn Harrington, his perfect polo shirt, his carefully arranged hair with every strand exactly in place.
Eddie curled helplessly forward, his hands clenching restlessly on nothing, on molasses-thick air he could barely breathe he was so overwhelmed with it.
It was too much, too fast-hot-good, pleasure like electricity down his spine, Steve’s muffled voice and the sounds of his mouth better than any music Eddie had ever heard.
“Oh god oh god oh Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie breathed mindlessly - a helpless prayer to some power he used to believe in, good enough to make him need to believe in something, a blasphemy of pleasure that would always bring him to his knees. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he gasped. (He would happily die for his sins.)
Silk between his fingers, and Eddie snatched his hand back, ‘cos he knew the fucking rules. What he wouldn’t give for a fucking headboard right now, anything to hold on to, to hold him into himself. Instead he curled his fingers into a fist and slammed it back against the tin-can trailer wall, barely registering the pain as the final pleasure arced through him like lightning, as Steve pulled off and smirked up at him like some kinda trickster god.
*
“You broke your hand?” Gareth shrilled, his voice still uneven with the awkwardness of adolescence, “your fucking hand? Eddie, we need your hand!”
Eddie leaned back against his locker and made no pretence that he wasn’t staring across the hallway, staring across at Steve goddamn Harrington, his perfect polo shirt, his carefully arranged hair with every strand exactly in place.
The rock star spits blood out of his mouth, brushing hair away from where it’s matted to his forehead with sweat and grime. His dark eyes are wide, which is much as expected, but his smile is incongruous, entirely out of place in the darkness of the room.
“Hey man,” he says. “Sorry about this.”
“Sorry?”
The rock star cracks his neck, rolls his head, shrugs his shoulders and shakes out his arms like he’s working himself up for a fight. It’s laughable, a comedy routine - he’s slender under all of his bulky layers, breakable. Easy pickings.
“Yeah,” he says. “This is gonna be embarrassing for you.” He cocks his head to one side; his fingers are grimed with boot dirt, bent and maybe broken, but they still come up to play in his hair. “Maybe painful, I won’t lie.”
The laughter is loud, sure, but a distant crash is still audible over it.
His smile widens.
An ear piece crackles.
The rock star is starting to look a little crazy, bright smile and bloody nose, verging on delight where there ought to be fear.
Something crashes hard into a door that’s never seemed so flimsy before. Sticks as it’s pulled away. Crashes again. Splinters fly away from steel nails bit furiously through wood.
There's a house in Hawins that's haunted, although there's no way you could tell.
In Loch Nora, all of the houses are picture perfect. Just enough variety in them that the residents can pretend at originality, just enough unique features that straying husbands can find their way home, but certainly nothing that looks haunted from the outside. The neighbourhood wouldn't allow it at all. The first hint of tangled overgrowth would result in a sternly worded note in the mailbox, a call to the home owners, and you can forget about any windows with cracks in them, staring out over the neighbourhood like vacant, empty eyes.
There's a haunted house in Hawkins and in it lives a nice young man, almost always respectably dressed (but those shorts!) He's always out at the merest hint of untidiness, mower roaring and clippers in hand before any overgrowth could get the barest toehold.
(The empty eyes, though? Perhaps.)
Still, the house in Hawkins is haunted, even if there's no way you could tell.
The inside is just as picture-perfect, of course. Luxurious! Not a cold spot to be felt. Too few pairs of shoes are lined up neatly by the door, and a yellow sweater hangs amongst the coats, which is just as well - perhaps it's a trifle cold, but that's only the air conditioning and the barest hint of neglect.
It is, though, not much for personal touches. There's a selection of tasteful throw pillows on the fashionable couch, scattered precisely as they were by the interior decorator's hand; a bookshelf crafted to be intellectual but not intimidating; a single coaster on the coffee table in front of the TV. In the kitchen, at least, there's a scatter of dark cases by the tape player, and a summer camp magnet on the front of the refrigerator holds up a flyer of a long-haired boy.
A haunted house ought to have creaks and groans - clanking chains, no doubt - but this one is almost silent; one could almost imagine it was deserted entirely if not for the barest signs of life. In an en-suite bathroom, almost tucked behind the faucet, a discarded ring, heavy and silver and entirely out of place against perfect porcelain, like an absentminded moment captured in time. An ugly, stained vest, heavy with badges, hanging on the back of a bedroom door.
Perhaps the house in Hawkins isn't haunted at all, even though room has been made for it to be.
Perhaps ruthlessly pruned branches will never scrape at the side of the house like skeletal fingers, and nothing will ever move out of place without the careful hands of the boy who lives there; perhaps it will only ever be the grainy half-light of pool lights through ugly curtains that will make the hanging vest almost give the impression that someone else could be there.
There's a boy in Hawkins that's haunted, although there's no way you could tell.
Steve wakes up and almost has a heart attack. Inches away from his face, Eddie’s eyes regard him, unblinking, fathomless darkness in the thin morning light.
“I’m not buying it,” he says, low and rough with waking, with healing that’s coming too hard and too slow.
Steve lets out a long breath.
One of those days.
It’s what he tells Dustin on the walkie, trusting that he’ll pass the message along. How the party deal with it is always left up to them, but he figures it’s fairer to prepare them, let them decide. It’s even odds whether Dustin will avoid Steve’s place, or whether he’ll spend hours trying to convince Eddie, pulling out every trick in the book and then a hundred more besides.
“I’m not buying it,” Eddie says, stabbing vengefully at his pancakes, and Steve is just grateful for the lack of neighbours when he tips his head back and bellows, “you hear that, Henry, you piece of shit?”
Steve had started out like Dustin, optimistic, but now when it’s one of those days he just keeps his head down and bullies through.
“We’ve got to change your bandages,” he says, at his very blandest, and Eddie grins his most cynical grin, a hectic fevered flush brightening his cheeks.
“It’s a nice touch,” he says. “The veracity is impressive, attention to detail, y’know. One DM to another, you’re doing some fine work.”
Steve grits his teeth and levers Eddie to his feet.
Unsurprisingly, Eddie won’t take his drugs when they’re done. He’s lost all the colour in his face, and there’s sweat rolling down his forehead, and he smacks Steve’s hand away hard enough to leave a mark.
“Really looking forward to you being a bitch about this all day,” Steve finally snaps, and Eddie barks out a laugh that’s swallowed up by a groan.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, after a moment, “I’d take it as a personal kindness if you’d choose someone else’s face, Henry old chap.” He pats Steve’s cheek, and his fingers are almost as cold as the metal of his rings, and when they rest against Steve’s skin he can feel them trembling. “My dad would be a stretch, sure, but I promise to buy into it if you pretend to be Wayne.”
He’s a little rambler than usual, eyes not quite tracking, and it’s killing Steve that this is the best they can do for him for now.
“It’s just,” Eddie says, leaning closer, confiding, “you do a pretty good impression of him, see, and it’s kinda ruining the narrative to have King Steve Harrington being so sweet.”
Steve swallows an inexplicable lump in his throat.
“You don’t think I can be sweet?” he asks.
“I think,” Eddie says, “I might very well fall in love with you, imaginary Steve Harrington, and I don’t think that’s the torture vibes we’re going for here.”
“No?” Steve croaks, heart breaking a little in his chest. “I think it’s doing a pretty good job.”
Sure, Steve was never great in school, especially those last couple of years when there was so much else that seemed more important, and numbers were always just about the worst. Still, he learns when it's important, he puts the effort in, and right now he's focused on learning Eddie math.
Like how Eddie always asks for at least five sugars in his coffee, but he gets that sweet little smile against the rim of his mug when Steve puts in three and a half.
Like how he always adds five on whenever Steve's helping him with his stretches, counts backwards and sideways around the numbers Steve's saying just to throw him off.
Like how if he's counting them right, sweat beading on his forehead, those are the times that Steve maybe needs to knock a couple off himeslf and find the hot water bottle Erica dug out for him, the one with a cover like a ragged cat, only one button eye still attached.
Steve has learned that a three with gritted teeth is actually a six, pain-wise, and he should pay no attention when Eddie covers his face, his grin and insists it's 'eleven, Steve, it's eleven, get off me, I'm dead!'
Steve has learned that when Eddie refuses to put a number on it, grey-faced and tired and out of patience with all of it, he's best off hauling the TV into the bedroom and letting Eddie relax into his body heat, ignore his uneven breathing and let him bitch about inconsistencies and physical impossibilities while things blow up on screen.
He pays attention when it's important. He learns.
So he's not sure he deserves the startled looks when he corrects Dustin, mid-campaign, as he's putting a plate of cookies next to Eddie's right hand. (Right side's a three today, but his left arm's a seven.)
"You sharpened it, right? At the forge in the village, there was that wet stone."
"Whetstone," Eddie murmurs, intonation slightly different.
"That's what I said. Eddie said that was a plus one to damage for the rest of the day. Right?"
"Right," Dustin says, after a second, and Steve really doesn't appreciate the disbelief in his tone.
"I'm not an idiot," he mutters, and then startles at the brush of callused fingers, Eddie's hand wrapping loosely around his wrist.
"You're not an idiot," Eddie agrees, looking up at him with a lopsided smile that's got something else around the edges, like confusion, or maybe dawning understanding, like he's learning something new.
"I pay attention when it's important," Steve says, and his heart thumps in his chest at the brightness of Eddie's grin.
Steve groaned out loud and slid lower in his seat, Robin's cackle from next to him doing nothing to drown out the way the PA system really couldn't deal with Dustin's high notes.
"Oh, my god," Robin barely got out, "did you know - "
"Jesus Christ, I told him not to - "
"Let him have it." Hopper's heavy hand landed on Steve's shoulder, his grimace probably mitigated by the bright ear plugs Steve could see stuffed into his ears. "Not every kid's favourite song literally saved the world."
"He didn't even have the tough job," Steve protested. "Sing a few high notes, distract some bats, duck back through a gate. I was the one with the vines, and the," he demonstrated a swing, "and the axe, and - yeah, okay." He settled at Hopper's renewed glare, sliding lower still like that would stop people turning to look at who Dustin was pointing to. "We didn't even win that time, anyway."
"Stop being such a Debbie Downer," Suzie scolded from Hopper's other side. "If Dusty wants to sing his Valedictorian speech then I'd say he's earned it, wouldn't you?"
"This is for you, Suzie-Poo!" Dustin bellowed, the speakers screeching, and Steve groaned and covered his face.
*
"You know you haven't gotta wait a month," Robin said, leaning unsteadily into Steve's side as they made their way back to Steve's car, some kinda co-dependent three-legged race that they always somehow stumbled back into. He tightened his hold on her, lugging the cooler in his other hand, trusting that Jonathon would get Nancy safely back to his own car 'cos there was no way he was going to turn back to look and risk unbalancing Robin.
"I know," Steve said.
"Steve, Steve, you know - you know you can come see me any time, right?"
"I know, Robs." He propped her against the side of the car so he could open the door, sling the cooler into the back seat, and then tip her in to the passenger side with only a little more care. "And you can come see me in Forest Hills, right?"
"Ooh, show me!" Robin said, her face lighting up as she fought the seatbelt into place.
"Show you?"
"Your little place in Forest Hills! I want to see the life of glamor you're leaving your parents' place for, the lap of luxury you're diving into - "
"Rob - "
Even a little drunk, she caught his tone, turning sideways in her seat so she could lean against the head rest and reach out to catch his hand, her voice softening just like her smile.
"Stevie. I want to see."
"Fuck it," he said. The sun had barely gone down, and the darkness didn't hold half the terrors it used to. Bowie gently serenaded them as they drove through the darkness, past all the familiar streets of Hawkins, all the places that bounded Steve's world in safety.
"It's not much," he warned, the gravel of the road crunching under his tires. "I know it's nothing fancy, so you don't have to - "
"Steve," Robin said, gentle and sweet, and he shrugged a little self-consciously.
"I think I can make it nice," he said. "I think I can make it feel like home."
There were lights spaced along the fences of the park, and someone had strung fairy lights over a picnic bench, making it a little spot of magical just past the half overgrown tires and the rusting siding. Someone was sitting on the table there, the cherry red glow of a cigarette allowed to be just that, nothing scary waiting in the dark.
"It's nice," Robin said, when they'd got out of the car, and she didn't even sound uncertain about it. "It's a start, huh?"
"It's a start," he said. "I think I could like it here."
"But will here like you back?" Asked a voice in the shadows, and Steve squinted to see a pale face, tangled long hair, dark eyes that shone like stars under the lights. "Not much of a court for a King here, Steve."
"...Munson, right?" he asked.
"Eddie," Robin added, low.
"I knew that," Steve said, and "I knew that," again, when Eddie gently scoffed. "And I'm not much of a king any more. Not much left of the guy you knew."
"No?" Eddie asked, coming closer, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets and shoulders hunched like a little dog trying to make itself bigger, hackles raised. "Turned over a new leaf?"
"I coach middle school baseball, now," he said, and when Eddie snorted a laugh Steve let his mouth curl into it too, because this wasn't something he was going to be ashamed of, not when he'd worked so hard. "You gotta admit, Coach Steve's got a nicer ring to it."
"And he teaches sex ed," Robin added, ever helpful, and Eddie's grin turned wicked.
"Well maybe with a teacher like you I'd have paid a little more attention," Eddie said, tugging a lock of hair across his mouth, his brown eyes endlessly deep in the darkness. "Maybe it wouldn't have taken me a second try to pass."
"Well," Steve said, feeling some shadow of the idiotic bravery he was always accused of, flickering like a kindling fire in his stomach, "if you've got any questions about the facts of life, you know where to come."
"Oh, big boy," Eddie drawled, his smile widening into something beautiful as he stepped a little closer, "count on it."
