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.
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.”
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