Banished&Bloody: Steve's Lament
Fic Summary: Post-Volume II. Eddie Munson wasn't dead when he was left in the Upside Down; well, he wasn't dead anymore. Steve Harrington has spent the days since they came back to Hawkins haunted by the idea that he could have saved Eddie--or at least died in his place. It quickly becomes clear that the Hawkin's group has to go back to the Upside Down and, when they do, they find an unfamiliar face. Vampire!Eddie Munson, Grieving Steve Harrington.
Chapter Summary/Content: Chapter 4 of 8. Steve continues to struggle with his grief over Eddie's death, and Robin notices that he's showing signs of Vecna's curse.
Word Count: 4.6k
A/N: Hey besties remember how I said I was making myself sad? Yeah I actually almost cried in public while writing this bc the idea of Steve feeling like this makes me want to ***. Have fun!!
Chapter Four: Steve's Lament
Steve Harrington’s eyes shot open, his chest heaving as he forced mouthfuls of air down to his burning lungs. He could feel his heartbeat racing in his chest, pounding over the side of his throat, hammering in his ears. His hand slipped under his pillow, fingers reflexively gripping around the handle of the knife he now slept with under his head. He let his breathing even out, slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness around him. He was home, in the room he had slept in his entire life, the darkness of the night cut through only by the low glimmer slanting through the blinds of his window. Steve’s eyes scanned the room, fixing on the dark corners as he ensured he was alone. It was a dream, he thought to himself, his lungs finally slowing, just a normal dream.
It hadn’t been normal, necessarily, but it wasn’t more than a dream the way Max had told him about. He had dreamed of Robin again tonight–of Robin dying while he stood and watched her. The nightmare hadn’t even been original; Robin, pinned to the ground by demobats, a tail wrapped around her throat as her face turned blue. Steve had stood there in his dream, watching her lips struggle to force a scream through the too-tight constriction of her throat, and had dropped the splintered oar he had held, falling backwards as Robin’s fingers had reached out to him, clawing ferociously. Steve had had the same dream two nights ago; it was one of the regular ones at this point. The method of death changed in his dreams: sometimes demobats, sometimes Vecna, even the choking vines made the occasional appearance. Nightmares weren’t new for Steve: he had had the occasional dream about the thing the kids called the Mind Flayer, and, long after Nancy had started dating Jonathan, he had still dreamed about that thing he had beaten in the Byers’ house with a baseball bat.
But these nightmares felt different. First of all, they were every night. Steve hadn’t slept through the night since he had first made it back from the Upside Down after being dragged through the watergate. He had been haunted by the feeling of something wrapping around his ankle, dragging him through water with only half a breath of air burning in his lungs, for days, but the dreams of those fucking bats biting Nancy or wrapping around Robin had ruined what little rest he had been able to get as they made their plans to kill Vecna. The dreams had only gotten worse after they came back from their failed mission. His brain had too many images to use against him now. The worst part was that the dreams had gotten more intense; he used to wake up just before someone died but, ever since he had let Eddie Munson die in his place keeping Dustin safe, now he watched his friends stop breathing, watched their eyes turn glassy as they choked on blood. Every night. Every night Steve woke up from one of these dreams.
The worst nights were the ones where he dreamed about Eddie and Dustin, actually. The dreams about Robin and Nancy scared the shit out of him, sure, Steve wasn’t above admitting to that, but the dreams about Eddie and Dustin– The first night he had dreamed of those two, he had yanked himself out of bed, half-stumbling to his bathroom where he gripped the cool porcelain of his sink between his too-hot hands and stared at himself in the mirror. For just a second, Steve had stared in the mirror at his sweat-dappled skin, his hair sticking up in every direction, and thought he had seen just the tiniest drop of blood at the corner of his eye. He had spent the next few minutes emptying the contents of his stomach, his chest heaving as he vomited. Steve’s brain pulled images of Eddie Munson from deep in his memories, bringing out images from Steve’s junior year when Eddie was a senior for the first time. Steve would watch Eddie, hair only just starting to get too long, laugh with his friends–and then choke as blood started pouring out of his mouth. Sometimes, Steve would watch as Eddie ruffled Dustin’s hair, earning a hand-slap and a glare at the disturbance of Dustin’s careful curls, and then stand by–helpless–as Eddie crumpled to the ground, Dustin screaming like Steve had never actually heard him scream. The worst, though, were the dreams where Eddie killed Dustin. Steve didn’t know where these dreams came from, but he had woken up twice now to searing images of Eddie pulling Dustin’s head back, drawing clawed fingers like Vecna’s across Dustin’s throat, and dipping his head to the resulting crimson flow. Both nights Steve had had those dreams, he had spent the rest of the night hiding in the bright-white light of his bathroom, door locked, knife in hand. All of the dreams about Eddie kept Steve from going back to sleep. Watching Eddie die, night after night, knowing that he had sacrificed himself for Steve to kill Vecna–something he hadn’t done–was different than the dreams about Robin and Nance and Dustin. Eddie was actually dead, and Steve knew it was his fault.
They all said it wasn’t. Robin had gripped his wrist, hard, digging her nails into his skin, when he had told her all the ways he knew he was responsible for Eddie Munson’s death–for making Eddie be the babysitter, for telling him not to be a hero, for taking too long to attack Vecna. She had told Steve that they had all done those things, so if that made anyone responsible for Eddie’s death then they all were. Nancy, after Robin had obviously told her what Steve had said, had pulled him aside and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. She had told Steve that no one was responsible for Eddie’s choices but Eddie–they couldn’t go around blaming themselves for someone else’s actions. But still, that little voice in Steve’s head–the one that had told him to go find Nancy at the Byers’ house all those years ago, that had told him Nancy wasn’t in love with him like he was with her, that had made him offer to take Dustin to the winter dance, that was always, always right–told him it was.
Steve felt like he was being haunted by Eddie Munson. He was torturing himself, he knew he was, using any time he had alone to remember the things Eddie had said to him. The way he had pressed his body just slightly too-close for comfort to Steve’s when he said he was jealous. The way he had held a tool between his teeth as he ripped cords out of that RV’s dashboard. The insane light that flickered just behind his brown eyes when he suggested playing guitar on top of his trailer in the Upside Down. Between the stack of flyers on Steve’s dresser, accumulated from every corkboard around town, and the god-awful nightmares, it was like Steve couldn’t get away from him, couldn’t get away from the too-wide eyes and the long hair and the rings and the way his lips were puckered, just slightly, in every photo in Steve’s yearbooks like he had thought of something he shouldn’t say and was going to say it anyway. And yeah, Steve had pulled out the old yearbooks, turning through the glossy pages for pictures of Eddie. He had started out by searching for proof that the half-memories that turned so quickly to nightmares were real, weren’t just manufactured by his brain. His Junior year had been Eddie’s first time being a Senior, and he could be found in the background of multiple shots in the cafeteria, head leaned back in laughter more often than not. Steve had even found one picture, from his Senior year and Eddie’s second, where Steve had his arms wrapped around some of the guys from the basketball team and a long-haired, denim clad figure was running through the background, possibly flipping the camera the bird. You couldn’t see his face, but Steve knew it was Eddie.
Steve sighed, rolling on to his side in his sweat-soaked bed, and sat up. He rubbed at his face blearily, finally accepting that he wasn’t going back to sleep tonight. Walking into the bathroom, the tile cool under his bare feet, Steve turned on the tap and proceeded to strip, opting to shower off the now-chilled sweat over his body. Stepping into the shower, he turned the heat all the way up, hoping to burn some of the images out from behind his eyes. Under the heat of the water, droplets slipping through his hair to slide down his face, Steve closed his eyes–and immediately blinked them back open, the image of Robin losing air and turning stiff as she reached toward him flashing behind his eyelids again. The fucking nightmares. He shook his head, aggressively, tilting his skull back to let the heat rinse down his scalp and back. Steve shut the water off, grabbing a towel, and drying himself as quickly as possible.
He dressed and headed downstairs, flipping on lights as he went. It was still dark outside, still night–the clock in the kitchen said it was barely 2 AM. Luckily, Steve didn’t have to worry about waking anyone else up; his parents were rarely home, and he had gotten accustomed to being alone most mornings. He filled the coffeemaker with water and grounds, switching it on before pulling open the refrigerator door. Huh, Steve thought. Guess I need to buy my own groceries soon. He ate most meals at Hopper’s cabin now, fixing sandwiches or frozen dinners the kids complained about. But he didn’t mind–frankly, it was kind of nice to have the company at meal times. It made him feel like he was part of the kind of family he had dreamed about ever since the first time his parents deemed him old enough to stay home alone without a babysitter. The kids would fight for the few comfortable seats in the house, pushing and complaining, and he would take a spot on the floor next to Robin. Listening to other people talk, make jokes, tease each other, while he ate–it was the kind of life Steve dreamed about. But, as a result, his refrigerator was all but empty. He had the majority of a six pack, a carton of milk with a single swig left in it, two eggs, and some moldy cheese. Steve sighed, shutting the door. Coffee for now, then.
He sat in silence at the dining table, sipping too-hot coffee out of his favorite mug. It was one that Henderson had gotten for him, last Christmas, with a picture of Farrah Fawcett on it. Dustin had giggled, nearly in hysterics, as Steve explained to the other kids that he had a huge crush on Farrah–that was all, he had said, narrowing his eyes at Dustin. The kid had practically exploded with the effort of crushing his laughter down. Steve grinned now, alone at the table, as he remembered how happy all of the kids had been that night. They seemed so much younger then, so much smaller than they were now. Steve shook his head as he finished the last of his coffee, standing up to put the mug in the sink before he left the house. They grow up so fast, he thought to himself. Especially when they have to.
Steve had become a late-night regular at the one 24-hour-diner in Hawkins. Near the highway, usually only accompanied by truckers, Steve would order something different almost every time he came in. He was determined to find at least one thing on the menu that actually arrived at the table looking anything like the pictures on the laminated plastic menus, and the food was–if greasy–always good. He had driven past Robin’s house one night, surprised to see her outline sitting on the curb outside like she was waiting for him. When he had coasted the car to a stop, she had gotten in the passenger seat without a word. Now, every time Steve headed to the diner he passed her house first; if she was outside, she always rode along, adding her midnight breakfast of chocolate milk and waffles with extra butter to his tab. Together, the two of them had spent a few nights watching the sun come up through the grease-smeared windows, picking bites off of each other’s plates.
When the two of them pulled into the parking lot tonight, the neon glinting on the glass, Steve was relieved to have his best friend with him. She was quiet on these late-night drives, still half asleep he suspected, and she’d always lean her head against the cool glass of the car’s windows as they drove. Once they made it to the diner, she would start to chatter, giving him a constant background sound to distract himself from the images still seared on his retinas. Inside, Robin bounded across the tile before sliding into her side of their booth, and Steve couldn’t stop the half-smile that pulled at his mouth. A little grip he hadn’t even noticed around his heart loosened, letting him feel relaxed for the first time since he had woken up. A tiny half-sigh escaped his chest as he looked at Robin, settling into the seat across from her, and took in the color in her cheeks, the light in her eyes, the smile on her lips–so different from his dream. “Rough night, Harrington?” She asked, the first thing she’d said tonight as a straight eyebrow lifted over her eye. Steve just shook his head. “Aren’t they all?” He quipped, and Robin grimaced slightly. The waitress came to the table, and Steve waited until Robin ordered her usual to place his order with absolutely no concern for what would actually make it’s way out of the kitchen. Steve watched the waitress walk away, and when he turned back to Robin her face was pale. “Steve,” she whispered.
Oh God, oh shit, oh fuck–Steve had no idea what was wrong, but Robin never looked at him like that without a good reason. “What? What is it?” Steve hissed between his teeth, his head whipping around to look at the restaurant. He half expected a demogorgon to be coming through the walls, or a flock of demobats to be hurtling towards them across red, lightning-lit skies. “Your nose,” Robin said, and Steve turned back to her. “Huh?” “Your nose is bleeding,” Robin said, her voice taking on the panicked tone he knew too well as she pulled napkin after napkin out of the chrome dispenser at the end of the table. She shoved a fistful of rough, white paper towards him, and Steve wiped his upper lip. He felt his own eyes widen when he saw the red smear across the napkin. He wiped again, looking up at Robin. Her eyes were wide, lips pressed together as she watched him clean his face. When he had finished, Robin assuring him that his face was clean, Steve balled the napkins up and shoved them in his pocket, unwilling to let them sit on the table between the two of them.
“Why do you look so freaked, Robs?” Steve asked, sniffing slightly. “You know why I’m freaked,” Robin replied, leaning slightly over the table to hiss her words into Steve’s face. She leaned back, suddenly, the waitress appearing at the end of the table. As she set plates in front of them both, Robin turned and thanked her as Steve ran his fingers through his hair. He was pretty sure he had ordered some sort of omelet and–well, it was definitely eggs, plus whatever else the chef had decided to mix in. He shrugged, avoiding Robin’s eyes as he unwrapped the paper napkin around his silverware and stabbed a forkful. Whatever he had ordered, it was good, and Steve let his eyes slide closed, his head tilting as he savored the rich flavors. When he opened his eyes again, Robin was still staring at him, her own plate untouched. “You want a bite of this?” Steve asked, gesturing towards his plate. Robin sighed, rolling her eyes. “Steve,” she sighed, exasperated already. “Why aren’t you as freaked out by your nosebleed as I am?”
Steve wasn’t as frightened by the blood running down his face as Robin was because, frankly, he wasn’t surprised by it. He had had a nosebleed a few days earlier too; just a few drops, easily swiped away and then rinsed down the sink when he excused himself to the bathroom. No one had noticed the light red smear on his upper lip before he washed it away, caught up in their planning to traverse the Upside Down and battle Vecna for what they hoped–they prayed–would be the last time. Steve couldn’t resent them for it: if he had wanted, he could have easily have drawn their attention to the trickle, could have let them see the panic that flooded his lungs as he thought about Max’s symptoms when Vecna first started to target her. But what good would that have done? To have scared his friends when it was possible that it was just a regular nosebleed, just regular headaches, just regular nightmares? He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to know when they shifted into something else; Max had said something about reality changing, about having a conversation with her mom that had turned dramatically, making her act shifty for the rest of their car ride to Billy’s grave. Steve’s reality hadn’t changed yet.
Steve shrugged, looking up at Robin across their plates. “You gonna eat or what?” Steve asked. Robin set her mouth, making it clear that she’d make a scene if he didn’t answer her soon. “Look,” he said, half-heartedly rolling his eyes. “There’s no reason to think they’re not normal nosebleeds–” “Bleeds? As in plural? Steve Harrington, you had better be–” Steve shushed her, waving his hands to bring Robin’s voice down. “This is only the second,” he said, and Robin’s eyes widened. “Two nosebleeds is normal! For all we know it’s some sort of delayed brain damage thing from being slammed to the ground by giant bat things.” Robin stared at him a second longer, then shook her head. “What about the nightmares?” She asked, finally picking up her silverware. Steve scoffed. “Normal nightmares.” They made eye contact, Steve self-assured and Robin angry. “No different than yours, I’m guessing.” At that, Robin blushed and shifted her focus back to her plate, cutting her food into fork-sized pieces. “Unless your nightmares are Vecna-fuel,” Steve said, his voice half-questioning as he raised his eyebrows, putting another forkful of eggs between his lips. Robin shook her head again. “Nope,” she said, voice falsely chipper. “Normal nightmares here, too.”
The two of them finished their middle-of-the-night breakfasts, Steve paying before Robin had the time to pretend she’d get the bill. “So,” Robin said, as they walked to his car in the parking lot. “How many nosebleeds do we let you get to before we tell Nancy and the kids?” Steve flinched, slightly, at the sound of Nancy’s name. The last thing he wanted to do right now was give her another reason to pity him–he had caught her ataring at him too many times since they had come back from the Upside Down, her fingers interlocked with Jonathan’s as her eyebrows tucked together in concern.
Steve didn’t know how often Nancy was watching him, but every time he caught her at it she’d dart her eyes away in the way that told him she was ashamed of herself for looking at him like that, like he was someone she needed to keep safe instead of the other way around. She’d caught him, once, on the porch of Hopper’s cabin, silent tears tracking over his face after someone had mentioned Eddie’s name and the cabin had fallen silent. There had been a few beats of nervous shifting, eyes not quite meeting, before Dustin had made a half-hearted attempt at a joke and conversation had resumed. Steve had stepped outside, avoiding giving excuses, and stood on the porch, unlit cigarette between his lips and lighter in his hands. He had stared at the woods, flicking the lighter on and off until the metal started to heat, singing the pad of his thumb just slightly. When the door opened, Steve had swiped at his face quickly, yanking the still-unlit cigarette out from between his lips before Robin could do it for him, and turned to see Nancy. She had stared at him, her lips dropped in a perfect “o” of surprise, her eyes wide as her head tilted. Steve had stuck the cigarette in his shirt pocket, jokingly telling Nancy not to snitch to the kids, and gone back inside immediately. He couldn’t stomach the idea of seeing that look on her face again.
“We don’t tell Nancy until it’s bad,” Steve said, tossing his car keys in the air and catching them as they fell. “And when is it bad?” Robin asked. He looked at her, their eyes meeting across the hood of his car. An idea occurred to him as he looked at her. “Hey Rob,” Steve asked, avoiding answering her question. “Wanna have a sleepover with me?” Robin’s mouth pulled into a half-grimace of surprise and confusion, her eyes narrowing. “I’m gay, Harrington,” she said, and Steve laughed, a genuine belly-laugh like he hadn’t had in days. “Come on,” he said, opening his door. “Maybe, between the two of us, we can actually manage a full eight hours.”
Robin insisted on going back to her house first, saying she had to leave a note for her parents on the off-chance they looked for their daughter before leaving for work. She had come back to Steve’s car with an oversized tote bag, stuffed with clothes and toiletries. Steve had teased her, telling her his parents had more than enough tiny bottles of toothpaste and face wash in the guest bathroom that she could help herself to, and she had laughed, insisting that she was going to clean out the Harrington’s overpriced product horde. When they had gotten to Steve’s house, he had opened the door–Robin reprimanding him for leaving it unlocked as he shrugged–and she had immediately disappeared into the bathroom, emerging in a Hawkins Band t-shirt and too-long shorts. “Rob,” Steve had said, pulling a grimace. “You look like a man.” “Good,” She had spat at him, throwing herself on the couch and grabbing the too-plush blanket his mother insisted on keeping folded on the back. She picked up the remote from the coffee table, pressing buttons until she got the TV on then clicking through channels. “Come on, Harrington,” Robin had called, and Steve had slid on to the end of the couch, picking her feet up to drop them in his lap as he stretched out. She had made it about twenty minutes before drifting off to sleep, and Steve had turned the TV off, choosing to sit in silence and darkness until the light coming through the windows lightened.
When Robin woke up, Steve faked a yawn, stretching his arms. “See?” He asked. “Slept better with someone else around, didn’t you?” Robin, eyes red and bleary, nodded half-heartedly. “What about you?” She asked. “Slept like a baby,” he said, standing up. That was a lie, of course. Steve couldn’t sleep, even with Robin right there. He felt better with her around, sure, but it was because it gave him a sense of purpose for those long, dark hours. He had to stay up if she was sleeping because he was keeping her safe; if something happened to her while they were both asleep, he’d never forgive himself. He couldn’t let two of his friends die. Robin stood up, tossing the blanket in a crumpled heap on the floor. “Jesus, my neck,” she sighed, rubbing her limbs. “Good thing I’m not old like you,” she said, shooting Steve a grin as he exclaimed in disgust. “I’m using your shower, Harrington.” She tossed the words over her shoulder, grabbing her bag from the foot of the stairs and disappearing. Steve stood up, unsure what to do with himself. Deciding to make another pot of coffee, he wandered into the kitchen to reset the machine.
He was pouring his first cup of the day–the actual day, with the sun up–when Robin came into the kitchen. She had put on oversized jeans and a collared shirt like Steve’s mom used to buy him from the Gap, and her hair was still damp–but Steve’s eyes fell to her hands immediately. She was carrying his yearbook, her finger holding the place in it. Before she even set it down on the counter, letting the heavy leather fall open on either side, Steve knew it would fall to Eddie’s first senior portrait, the exact place he had left it open on his dresser. Robin looked at the page, letting her fingers slide down the page. When she looked up at Steve, he was only slightly surprised to see the tears in her eyes. “Normal nightmares, huh?” She asked, her voice breaking on the last word. Steve felt his throat tightening, His eyes burned, tears flooding the dry, sleepless sockets as he stared at her. “I–” he stammered, the lump in his throat burning. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, but it wasn’t what he finally choked out: “I killed him, Robs, I know I did.” When she covered the last few steps separating the two of them, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and holding him too-tightly, Steve finally let himself break down, really break down like he had been fighting off doing since Dustin and Max had suggested that Chrissy Cunningham’s death might not be natural, might be a sign that this shit wasn’t really over, might never really be over. His hair fell over his face, his face burying itself into Robin’s shoulder, dimly aware of the smell of his own soap on her skin and the roughness of her shirt against his raw cheeks as he sobbed. “I think part of me died with him, Robin,” he choked, heaving sobs contorting his throat as she squeezed his shoulder tighter.
When he had calmed down, slowing his breathing enough to finally quiet the sobs that had felt like they were shattering his ribs as they wracked his body, Robin had led him back to the couch, shoving him lightly to make him sit down. She had sat beside him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. “Stevie,” she whispered. “If you let yourself take the blame for…for Eddie,” her voice broke slightly and she cleared her throat, “You’re setting yourself up for Vecna. That same kind of thinking about Billy is what made Max his target.” Steve just shook his head, refusing to hear her words. “My fault, Robs,” he choked out. Robin sighed, deep and heavy. “I wish you would listen to us when we tell you it’s not,” she said. Steve shook his head again, and Robin swallowed hard. “Fine. Then we’re going to have to be prepared for the worst.” “No,” Steve said, pushing back to look at her. “We are not telling the rest of them about this, or about the nosebleeds, or any of it.” Robin looked at him, blinking slowly. “Okay,” she said, gauging the way his face softened as she agreed. “Then we’re going to need a walkman and your favorite tape.”
Steve already had both, of course.
Chapter Six here!
