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if you’re looking for eddie/billy/steve prompts… what about the three of them post s4 finale? just steve and billy taking care of eddie? i’m truly just a sucker for hurt/comfort we know this

this has been sitting in my inbox for far too long, it's time to feed our collective need for hurt/comfort (because girl same, it's my lifeblood). i present to you: soft bois.

it's you i can't deny (fic requests open)

"Woah, hey." Strong arms lock around Eddie's middle before he registers that Billy is there, that he's spotted Eddie gingerly picking his away around the edge of the kitchen counter. Eddie's whole body aches, angry wounds pulling at taught stitches, skin hot and red beneath his borrowed t-shirt — one of Billy's, sun-bleached and smelling faintly of chlorine and cigarettes. "Easy," Billy says, voice soft and low. "Easy. I got you."

Eddie swallows thickly as Billy hauls him upright. He presses him palms against the formica, tries to free Billy of his weight, hyper-aware of the scars splattered across Billy's own chest, his belly, his ribs. The skin there is thick and rough, the wounds healed, but Eddie knows they still give Billy trouble, that they're still sore and painful when he twists the wrong way or strains the still-strengthening muscles beneath.

"Sorry," he murmurs, face flushed, embarrassment and guilt shown in splotchy shades of pink.

Billy's grip loosens, his hands settling on Eddie's hips, holding him steady. "The hell were you doing?"

"I was just..." Eddie starts, then trails off. He glances across the kitchen, zeroed in the white paper bag stamped Melvald's perched by the fruit basket. Wayne had handed it to him on his way out the door, reminded Eddie not to overdo it with the pain pills, recited the dosages to Billy before they left. Billy follows his gaze and sighs.

"C'mere," Billy says, hooking arm around Eddie, mindful of the stitches and the gauze patchworked over every angry wound. He pulls Eddie to him and Eddie twists slightly, slings an arm over Billy's shoulders.

"I'm okay," he says, trying to lean away, but Billy holds fast, and Eddie is too tired to fight him. He relents, lets Billy guide him back into the living room. Eddie's legs are shaky beneath him, and the further the walk the tighter Billy's grasp becomes.

"You're supposed to be resting," Billy chides as he deposits Eddie onto the couch.

Eddie grabs onto Billy's arm before he can turn away, fingers sliding down to Billy's wrist and twining with Billy's own. He squeezes Billy's hand and mutters an only mildly petulant, "So are you."

Billy doesn't let go of Eddie's hand, but he does crouch down beside him, uses his free hand to lift the hem of Eddie's shirt. Eddie winces as the cool air hits his skin, tries not to flinch when Billy's touch ghosts over stomach.

"I'm not held together like a fuckin' rag doll," Billy says. Eddie can't bite back, not at this. The doctors say the sutures are stuck there for another few weeks, at least. Billy inspects the damage, gentle as he slips his hand around Eddie's sides, tilting his head to get a better look. "You didn't pull any stitches."

"That's good," Eddie says. "Right?"

"They're only staying in place if you do," Billy reminds him.

Eddie frowns, opens his mouth to retort, but Steve's voice comes out — "Look who's talking." — as he pads into the room. He smells like the same soft-scented soap that Billy does. He rests a hand on Billy's shoulder when he's close enough, juts his chin toward Eddie. "What happened? You okay?"

Billy stands, squeezes Eddie's hand once before letting go and retreating into the kitchen. Steve settles on the couch beside Eddie, helps him smooth his shirt back down, snakes one arm around Eddie's shoulder and tugs him close.

"Does it hurt?" Steve asks, hand hovering over Eddie's chest, his touch always feather-light, as if applying any pressure will split Eddie at his seams.

Eddie wants to play it cool. He watches Billy's shadow moving in the kitchen, thinks about the way he's borne his pain, the grit it must take to move so smoothly despite the depth of his scars. Eddie has seen Billy falter when he thinks no one's looking, the mask slipping down. He hadn't been there for Starcourt, hadn't seen Billy at his worst, his weakest, but he can guess what it was like, how frustrated he must have been. He sees whispers of it in the early mornings, when he is stiff and achy and Steve always hovers close.

He thinks of Steve, strong and steady beside him, still-healing wounds that look a lot like Eddie's hidden beneath the terrycloth of his Hawkins High sweatshirt. He's poured all of his energy into Eddie, into Billy. But Eddie has cleaned his wounds for him, and he's seen Steve curl into the safety of Billy's arms at night.

"Hm?" Steve hums, tugging Eddie a little closer. Even that soft syllable says, Don't lie.

Eddie lets his head fall against Steve's shoulder and nods. Steve smooths back Eddie's hair, kisses his temple lightly. When Billy returns with a couple of capsules, Steve holds his hand out to take them. He hands them to Eddie as Billy settles at Eddie's other side, offering a water bottle once the pills are on Eddie's tongue. Eddie takes a healthy swig, coughs a little, lets Billy rub his back until his chest stops spasming.

"Thanks," he says softly, and then he yawns and Billy sidles closer. Eddie shifts in his spot, nestles between Billy and Steve, safe and secure with them at each side.

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