Wayne's used to worrying about Eddie. He should be; he's been doing it since the kid was twelve. First it was Eddie's silence, his permanent frown, the way the bones stood out too prominent on his small wrists. Then it was the kids at school, taunting him and calling him names, the fights and calls from the principal's office. Next came the late nights, the drinking, the dealing, failing his senior year twice. But all of those times, every single one, Wayne had known what to do. Maybe it wasn't perfect, maybe it took a little time, but he'd always figured out exactly what his boy needed.
And now--now Wayne doesn't know if he can help; knows it's not in his power to fix it.
So, he sits for the second week in a row, watching his nephew--his whole heart--sitting in front of the window, looking out at the forest, nursing the same cup of coffee that he poured six hours ago, and wonders how in the world he can help.
They're cleaning up from dinner, Eddie quiet at his side, when he says, "Gonna need some help with the mugs tomorrow."
After moving to Oregon once Eddie graduated and he retired, he found an affinity for pottery. Never woulda thought it, but he loves it and tourists love his booth at the farmers market.
He can't think of a better way to get his nephew out of the house, but wonders if he doesn't know his boy as well as he thinks after a decade in Los Angeles, that Eddie'll refuse. He just nods, though, goes back to drying the plate in his hands.
And next morning, right at 6:45, Eddie is in the living room in black jeans that are so worn they're nearly grey in places, and the threadbare Metallica tee Wayne thrifted for him nearly a decade back. It's a win. Small, yes--Eddie doesn't even complain once about the country-western station Wayne plays in the truck--but still a step forward.
Wayne wastes no time parking and handing Eddie a box of carefully packed merchandise. He leads the way, trusts that Eddie is right on his heels until he hears Jim Hopper's voice say, "You better keep an eye on those mugs, son. Your uncle will tan your hide."
He turns to see Hopper balancing one end of Eddie's box, Eddie's cheeks flushed pink. "Sorry, I--uh, I've got it now." Hopper lets go and for the briefest instant Eddie's eyes dart to the side and the pink in his cheeks grows deeper.
Wayne tracks the path Eddie's eyes took and finds--he swallows back a chuckle--Steve Harrington just setting one of his Adirondack chairs into place, his t-shirt lifted to show of a stretch of stomach.
Well. Eddie did always like the pretty ones.
They setup the booth in companionable silence, and Hopper pops back over for a proper introduction. Before he departs again, he says to Eddie, "I got some kids who really love that dnd game and your show. They're going to be crazy to meet you. That okay?"
And Eddie, he's a good boy, he smiles and nods but as soon as Hopper is out of earshot, Wayne's saying, "Hop's kids and their friends are big fans and I know you're heartsore about the cancellation, but you better be polite."
Eddie glares. "What do you think, old man, that I'll be mean to children?"
"Well, with how you've been moping around the cabin these last few weeks, hard to know."
He scoffs. "Yeah, well. Netflix putting your hit show on indefinite hiatus without warning or explanation will do that to a guy."
Wayne knows there's nothing he can say to soften this hurt, so he gives Eddie's shoulder a tight squeeze. "I'm proud of you no matter what, son."
His nephew nods, eyes down, but Wayne doesn't miss the small, pleased, lift at the corner of his lips.
The morning passes smoothly and Wayne pretends he doesn't notice every time he finds Eddie's gaze straying to Steve's booth.
The kids come by around noon, Dustin Henderson breaking away from the pack to shriek, "You're Eddie Munson!"
Eddie smiles, stands. "That I am, young adventurer." He bows low, exaggerated and the kids giggle. "Pray tell, what are your names?"
The chatter is fast and easy, Eddie the happiest he's been in weeks, and Wayne relaxes back in his chair, lets out a long, slow breath of relief at the breaking storm. He stretches back in his chair, eyes catching on Steve Harrington across the way. Steve who is watching Eddie and the kids with an expression Wayne can only think of as fond.
Wayne isn't one to play matchmaker, but--he thinks, just maybe, just this once he could nudge.
It happens late in the afternoon, when business has well-slowed, Eddie asking, "Um--that guy over there, who is--what's his deal?"
Wayne thinks he manages to keep all traces of amusement from his face and voice as he answers, "Who? Ohh, Steve Harrington. He's the guidance counselor down at the middle school. Does a bit of carpentry in his free time. Best friends with the woman who owns that little bookstore."
He watches as Eddie processes, as his eyes widen, probably in remembrance of the pride flags and Protect Trans Kids shirts, how the woman in question wore a lesbian flag pin on her apron. "Guidance counselor?" He says eventually. "Kind of a drag."
"You would think, but the kids love him. The ones you met earlier today? He babysat them for years; imprinted on him, Jim and I say."
"Hmm," is the only response he gets, Eddie's attention back on the man in question.
---
The day after the market, Wayne walks into the living room to find Eddie's laptop tucked into the cushions of the window seat. He hasn't seen the thing since Eddie came home, never used to see him without it, and this--well.
He says, "need to run into town for a few things. You up for a trip? You might could stop at that bookstore."
Eddie nods, takes a sip of his coffee--he's actually drinking it-- says, "Yeah. Yeah, I think that'd be cool."
The store isn't busy when they arrive, and Wayne drifts towards the magazines to leave Eddie to his own devices.
Wayne loses himself to quiet browsing, wanting to give Eddie space, to maybe chat with Robin Buckley, strike up the beginnings of a friendship. Enough time passes, though, that Wayne is wondering where his boisterous, noticeable nephew could've disappeared to so silently.
He winds around a shelf and sees Eddie and Steve Harrington in deep conversation. He can't hear it, not really, but they're standing close, with pink in their cheeks. As he watches, Steve says something that makes Eddie laugh and pull a few strands of hair over his mouth.
They're almost inseparable after that. Eddie, Steve, Robin, and all those kids. They play dnd, have movie nights, spend hours at the diner. And Eddie, he's writing, sketching, gets down Wayne's acoustic guitar and plays around for a while.
When he asks how things are with "that Harrington boy," Eddie flushes red and says, "none of your business, old man" before giving Wayne a quick, affectionate squeeze.
---
Two and a half months after Eddie came to stay, Wayne's walking back from the river, the sky the light navy of new dusk. His fishing rod is draped over one shoulder, tackle box held easily in his fist, the walk home pleasant, a perfect end to a good day.
The light from the front porch seeps through the trees, and he's thinking about a cold beer, a warm pizza, if Eddie's found his way home yet, when figures standing on the porch stop him in his tracks.
It takes a second, longer, for his eyes to adjust from the dark of the woods, and the glow of the bulb, but then he sees--
Eddie and Steve locked in a fierce embrace, desperate and very much private.
He turns right back towards the river, doesn't mind giving the boys some time.
He waits a good half hour, just enjoying the forest, before heading back. Steve's car is gone, the porch vacant, but the cabin is lit up, bright and warm and inviting.
Wayne steps inside, and his nephew is there, laptop open, but he isn't working, just smiling to himself, chin resting on his fist.
"Okay?" Wayne asks.
"Huh? Oh, yeah." Eddie's smile doesn't fall from his face.
He doesn't want to interfere, ask too much, not when he's sure things are still young. Instead, he asks, "What'd you say to ordering a pizza?"
And Eddie, heedless of Wayne's question, says,"you know. I've been thinking about maybe staying here for a little longer."
And Wayne, his smile grows, and he claps a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "You're welcome here for as long as you want. Already consider it your home anyway."
Wayne knows eavesdropping isn't the done thing. He's definitely old enough to know better, and he wasn't going to. He had a plan. He was going to walk directly into the living room, so they'd know he was awake, and after he'd fixed his cup of coffee, he'd plopped into his perfectly worn in recliner and subtly glare at the Harrington boy until he squirmed.
Mostly because it amused Wayne, but also just a little sliver of it was because he wanted the Harrington boy to know Wayne didn't think he was good enough for his boy. But only a little! Lord knows that Wayne couldn't do anything to make Eddie change his mind about Steve Harrington, short of Harrington proving Wayne right. Which he doesn't actually want because he doesn't want Eddie hurt.
He's just... He expects it to happen. That's what boys like Harrington do to boys like Eddie. He's seen it enough times to know that this song and dance leave no room for improvisation. Boys like Harrington play around, get their kicks with the devotion Eddie shows them, and then when they've had their fill, they leave.
Boys like Harrington will never be good enough for Eddie, but they always leave with Eddie feeling like he's not enough. Wayne hates it.
Anyway, his plan wasn't to eavesdrop. It's just that Harrington said his name and Wayne found himself standing still instead of continuing.
"Why doesn't Wayne like me?" Harrington asks.
"This again?" Eddie says dismissively, which has Wayne agreeing. His opinion shouldn't have bearing on their friendship.
A deep sigh from Harrington before, "I just. It's- he means so much to you. And, like, I- nevermind. It's stupid. I'm stupid."
"Hey," Eddie sounds a type of serious that Wayne rarely hears from him, "you're not stupid. And you gotta quit fucking saying that. You say it enough and you'll start to believe it and it's not true."
"Hard to quit feeling stupid when people dismiss my concerns like they are stupid," Harrington snaps back, bitchy as can be. The tone makes Wayne bristle on behalf of Eddie. His boy doesn't reply immediately, though. Doesn't bite back like Wayne's used to hearing. Huh. Maybe he's growing up, just a little.
"You're right, Steve," Eddie says when he finally speaks. "That was dismissive. I'm sorry. Explain it to me. Why does it matter to you whether Wayne likes you or not?"
"Well, because he's your family."
"Yeah," Eddie agrees, "he is. But that doesn't explain why it matters. I don't care if your parents like me or not."
"That's different!"
"How?" Eddie asks, soft but firm.
"Because their opinion doesn't matter. It's not- It's irrelevant. What they think."
"That makes no sense. Wayne's opinion matters because he's my family, but your parents' opinion doesn't even though they're your family?"
"Yes!"
"But why?" Eddie presses.
"Because they're bad people!" Steve bursts, not quite shouting but close. "Because when bad people don't think highly of you, it's not a fault in you. Their disproval is, like, a compliment. They don't like you because you're too different from them. And that's great! You shouldn't want their approval. It's different, because your uncle is a good person. And when a good person doesn't like you, it is your fault. It's something- it's..." Harrington loses steam here, voice dropping low and defeated, "there's something wrong with me. Something in me that- that he just knows. Senses about me or whatever. Something wrong or rotten or-"
"Steve! That's bullshit. Sure, Wayne's been standoffish, but he'll come around. You're not wrong, or rotten, or whatever else you think you are."
"How do you know that? I was an asshole most of life and what if that's just the real me? What if that's who I'll always be deep down. 'Cause I'm trying so damn hard, man. I'm giving it my all trying to be a better person and it's not enough! Everyone still talks about who I was in high school and even you-" Harrington snaps his mouth closed so hard that Wayne hears the clack of his teeth from his position in the hallway. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- I'm sorry."
"Steve. This is about more than just my uncle's opinion of you, isn't it?"
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."
"I want you, too. I want to know if I've ever done anything to make you feel like you aren't enough."
Wayne really shouldn't be listening. He should back down the hall and into his room. Give them time to talk.
"No, Eddie, you don't make me feel like- that's not what I meant. I just. I'm...."
"Hey, Stevie, you can tell me."
"I'm just so afraid that... That one day everyone will wake up and realize what Wayne already knows. That I'm not good enough for them. For you."
Oh. Wayne really shouldn't be listening.
"I'll admit that Wayne's opinion is important to me, for a lot of things. But not about you. What I feel about you, how I feel about you, isn't dictated by Wayne."
"Sure. I mean, I know that, like, logically or whatever. But it's. I can't convince my brain that you won't just. Hate me one day. And I- fuck, Eddie, I'm already halfway in love with you and-"
"You're in love with me?" Eddie interrupts, sounding awed, starstruck, and Wayne cannot be listening anymore. He backs down the hall silently and back into his room.
Steve Harrington seems to think that he's a good person, but he's not feeling like a good person at the moment.
Eddie tells Wayne everything, unafraid that the man would ever think otherwise because Wayne has always encouraged honesty where Al had not cared. Wayne wanted to know, Wayne cared to know, Wayne asked, Wayne loved.
So it wasn't a surprise when Eddie said, "Wayne I love him."
Wayne doesn't need eyes to see that his nephew has slowly been falling in love with the boy that keeps coming round. The boy that shows up, yells at Eddie for lazing about while also gettin Eddie to shower, change, eat something.
The boy that makes his look alive again.
It doesn't surprise him in the slightest when Eddie tells him "He loves me too," later.
Nor does it surprise Wayne when Eddie tells him, crying happily years later "We're getting married."
Never surprised, only happy, that his boy gets to live a good life.
Dustin visits the next day, sitting next to Wayne with the same book he’s had for the past few days. Turning to the page that was dog-eared, reading. Voices and all. Just like Eddie does when he’s practicing for one of those campaigns. Claiming that it’s better to get it down with someone else’s words so he can improvise. So he doesn’t have to memorize some script and can be in the moment. Let his mind do the workings along with the players.
It’s one of the many parts of Eddie that Wayne sees in this kid. The dramatics, the drive. The snobbiness about certain things that don’t really matter to the rest of the world. But it matters to them, so it matters to the people who care about them too.
If Eddie were awake, he might yell at the kid for turning the corner of a page instead of using a bookmark. Even though all the books he gets are second-hand and already torn and bent in all sorts of ways. But it’s about keeping the art pristine. The author put their heart and soul into this work, it’s not meant to be sullied. Wayne saw Eddie bend the corner of a page a million times over though, he just likes making a big stink about nothing. Just to get a rise out of people, make them laugh. Wayne can imagine that Eddie liked to make Dustin laugh a lot.
“Have the doctors said anything new?” Dustin asks after finishing the chapter.
Wayne shakes his head. “Same old, same old. Don’t worry about it too much though, he wouldn’t want you to.”
“He wouldn’t want a lot of the things that happened over the past week. So he’ll have to deal with it.” After a pause, he asks, “How are you doing?”
That makes Wayne laugh. “You don’t have to go worryin’ about me either. You’re just a kid.”
“And you’re just a man waiting for your kid to wake up. The same way I’m waiting for my friend to wake up. At the end of the day, we’re all still people. That sometimes need a break. So, how are you doing?”
It’s scary how much Wayne sees Eddie in this kid. “It’s hard comin’ here to hear the same thing every day.” That’s all Wayne’s willing to say to a kid.
Hard is definitely a word most people would use to describe his situation. Difficult, disheartening. Maybe even hopeless. But there’s still some hope in this old heart that keeps Wayne coming back day in and day out. Keeps him moving while only getting a few hours of sleep a day. Cause as soon as the night comes around, it’s right back to the plant. Making the money to pay for the care his boy needs to keep living. To pay for the roof over his own head enough so he’ll live to see it happen.
Truth is, Wayne’s dying here. From the fatigue. From the endless waiting. From the slowly draining pool of hope. Nothing seems to change. Nothing gets better. Six days in a medically induced coma with no hopes of ever waking up. Wayne’s not dumb enough to think that the chances increase the more days pass without him showing any signs of improvement.
Part of him says that this is the state Eddie will be in for the rest of his life. Wonders if it’s worth all of this just to keep him alive. If he’s really suffering in there and would be better off resting forever. But then the heart monitor keeps beeping and his brain is still active. Wayne’s boy is still in there, he’ll come back soon.
“Yeah, I bet that’s hard. I still have hope though, I was there when he came in. He looks a lot better now.”
There’s a knock on the door that keeps Wayne from responding. It’s the Harrington boy, in normal clothes this time. Discharged.
“Sorry to interrupt but your mom said it’s time to go home.”
Dustin dramatically rolls his eyes. “Which one, my actual mother or you?”
“Your actual mother, but I happen to agree with her. Come on, you got school in the morning.” Harrington crosses his arms, looking like he’s ready to start a standoff.
But instead of fighting Dustin stands. “Have a good night Mr. Munson. I’ll still try to visit as much as I can even though school’s starting back up again.”
“Thanks, kid, I’ll try.”
Harrington ruffles Dustin’s hair as he walks out the doorway. Standing there for a beat before turning back to Wayne. “We’ve never officially met, I’m Steve.”
Steve holds out his hand, waiting for Wayne to shake it. Wayne debates whether that’s a good idea or not. Apparently, it takes too long as Steve returns his hand to his side.
“I wanted to apologize for the scene I made the other day, you didn’t deserve that. I was just so shocked that they actually cuffed him to the bed. Still have him cuffed to the bed.” Steve looks at Eddie with a guilt that Wayne doesn’t understand. Like he’s the reason Eddie’s strapped to the bed.
Wayne continues to say nothing, not quite sure what would be appropriate. Tell him that it’s ok, that it didn’t bother him. Or thank him for believing that Wayne knew was true. That his boy was innocent.
There was more to this story than he knew. Something to do with the kid being there and the rich boy standing in the doorway looking like this is all his fault. When Wayne knows the same scars mark Steve just as much as they do Eddie. Steve made sure that everyone knew that. Using it as proof that Steve was there, and that Eddie was innocent.
Steve was ready to offer himself up as a witness for a man that the town hates. Wayne should be grateful for that, but it doesn’t seem right. They were part of different worlds. Different status, interests. It didn’t make sense for them to be in the same place at all. Yet here they are supposedly having gone through the same vicious attack.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Steve continues when Wayne stays silent. “I’m more than happy to help out. Eddie was kind of a new friend and I hate seeing him like this as much as you do.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Wayne snaps. He hates charity, especially from this kid. For some reason he doesn’t really understand why.
Steve is taken aback. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, but you did. I know my boy and I know how my boy thinks about people like you. So don’t go ‘round gaining sympathy points from the real people who are suffering.”
“I, I wasn’t,” Steve stammers. “I would never.”
“Steve,” Dustin yells. “Get your ass moving, we’re your ride too.”
Steve sighs. “Coming, Jesus. I’m sorry for offending you. I won’t bother you again.”
Wayne shakes his head when Steve leaves, letting out a deep sigh. Maybe he was too harsh, maybe he wasn’t harsh enough. He’s not sure.
He’s not sure about a lot of things anymore.
part 4
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You were born from the moon, and just last night you didn’t think much of it. It’s been a long time since you did. Now you felt like you were abandoned at your own doorstep by a faceless mother. The feeling came to you suddenly, like a bullet turning back around and trying again after missing the mark.
You were a skinny yellow thing with a head shaped like the long-gone crescent. You found your eyes as dark as your favorite leather outfit, the boldest thing on your face when reflected in a mirror, sometimes the only thing that remained when you zoned out. But these eyes were useless, for they couldn’t find your mother.
You slept deliciously well, but you had an odd dream. The only thing you could make sense of was that you and a totem of what could be marble were on the moon. The totem was white, six-eyed, and horned. It was just the two of you.
You knew exactly what was missing, because all of your memories of the moon were vandalized by the cut-out of your husband pasted into the empty space beside you. That was exactly how it happened. He had glued himself to the moon’s surface and then glued you to his hand. The totem of quartz or something had opened a book and showed off your golden name on the front cover. They grabbed your twitching hand and ran your fingers over the hypertrophic lettering. “Wayne,” they said. “Wayne.” as if you didn’t already know that. “Wayne, it’s time to write this book.”
“I’m no author,” you tried to say, but the totem of limestone or whatever was adamant, and grotesquely so, for you had done nothing since birth.
The totem of clouds reached for your newly nude chest. They ran a finger down the middle of your shuddering thorax where the two plates met. As you feared, they sunk into the little divot of exposed membrane that divided stomach and chest. You gasped violently and tried to curl in on yourself. But the horrible totem held you in place. “Wayne, you have to matter now.”
“I don’t understand,” you hissed through gritted teeth, trying to squirm away. Your whole body tingled like it was being devoured by insects. Nothing worked.
“Listen to me Wayne, listen,” they pleaded through your pain. “You’re going to do this. You’re going to kill him. It is your time, Wayne.”
Irritated by the uncomfortable silence that followed, it pressed harder into your epidermis. You wailed and quivered like a leaf trying to withstand a hurricane. It shouldn’t hurt so terribly; this was only a dream. “Why me? I don’t want to!”
The totem of cruelty began to get angry. Their grip on your shoulder tightened, pushing it out to get a more agonizing inclination into your membrane. “You could have prevented this. You were there when he planned it! But you fell asleep!”
After a moment of gasping in pain with your eyes shut, you remembered.
Your husband used to wave his arms and talk about his satellite while pacing and fuming. He said that his satellite would make everyone “utterly useless, as they were born to be” and though you didn’t like the idea, you quickly forgot about it, because you indeed fell asleep. Your face turned red at the memory. Embarrassment joined the horrible feelings crawling under your exoskeleton.
“Do you understand, Wayne?” asked the totem. It must have noticed your shame. “Fix your terrible mistake.”
“I don’t know how,” you admitted, for you were not an author, and the idea of having to save anyone, the whole world, made you feel itchy; decisive fleas sucking your blood and leaving ugly bumps.
The totem of frost on a window stepped backward and mercifully removed their finger from your nerves. “You have no idea because you’re a shut-in. Travel the archipelago. You will learn all that you need to, and find everything that awaits you. Promise me that you will kill Gibby.”
You eyed their hands. Judging by the twitching, the totem would lunge if you refused. “Fine,” you said, averting your eyes.
The totem accepted this pitiful deal with a nod. “I am counting on you, Prime Wayne,” said the totem, but you didn’t really care, because you were waking up.
The first thing you did in the morning was press your shirt very close to your body. Then you sat up and made eye contact with the yellow cat at the foot of your bed. Your first ever friend, the blue girl who had found you on the beach, gave you this cat after helping you get a house. She thought it was the funniest thing how alike you and her two cats were and lamented about a fate you didn’t believe in.
“Meow,” you slurred, rubbing your dark eyes. “Willma, what year is it?”
Willma always loved it when you said that, but her reaction tended to differ. This morning she stretched with a horrible noise before crawling into your lap. Smiling, you lifted your hand and set it on her head, enjoying the feel of her short fur.
You two managed to sit there for maybe ten minutes, zoned out and gentle, before the cat jumped away from you and wailed about her hunger. Fine, you could go for some food.
At that moment, you couldn’t remember the face of the totem. It was simply a cruel thing that believed you should have a purpose. It wanted to operate you like a telescope, craning your neck, trying to train your weak eyes to hone in on the big white blot in the night sky. This cruel thing bit into your muscles and pulled you out of bed, shaking its head and muttering condescension. Fine, you were hungry anyways.
So you stole into your small kitchen and dug around for some cat food. Your cabinets were a desolate land that made it easy to find whatever you wanted. Sometimes you missed the full meals from the moon— meat and vegetables, maybe some bread, some juice, some wine to make you drowsy. Willma circled your heels, meowing at two-second intervals, watching you like a hawk as you added two tiny fish to her bowl. It was the closest thing to a fancy meal you’ve ever made.
“Here,” you grumbled, setting breakfast down on the floor. She stuffed her face without thanking you at all. Fine, she had to eat.
You didn’t feel like making anything else, and all that was on the counter was the cat food. As the bottom of a second bowl disappeared under a hill of dry food, you sighed in disdain at your worthless self and contemplated your husband. Those heavy meals, which you threw up many times before adjusting, were nothing new to him. He narrowed his eyes at you until you could keep it all down. “Wayne, eat your food,” he’d say if he caught you picking at your meat. “You’re used to garbage, aren’t you?”
That was wrong; you ate nothing at all. But he knew that, too, he just couldn’t decide which was more pressing to address. He would stand up and proclaim, “You are disgustingly skinny. The sages will think I starve you.” And he would lean over your body with his chest against your back. You’d blush and let him feed you. It was one of the only times you didn’t fight with him. Sometimes you would feign incapability just to be fed, which was pathetic, you didn’t even like him.
But it would always beat this cat food. Embarrassingly, you were only able to stomach it because you were thinking about the moon meals and your moon husband. You didn’t even like him. In fact, for some stupid reason, you were going to kill him.
You realized with a great deal of annoyance that your dream with the white totem was not a product of your mind. It was an intrusion, a demand, and it was painful like a dream could never be. You rubbed your face violently. How idiotic of you to make a promise of all things. You couldn’t even promise your body a meal! In a fit of irritation, you turned your head to the side and dragged your fingers down your face as hard as you could, remembering how it felt to be dug into by the totem of apathy and cruelty and expectations. You stared at the wall and imagined your dark eyes in the center, just under the window, burning through the foundation. Your breathing thinned out and you began to itch.
Your neighbor was a blot of ink in your fuzzy vision. They were pacing your garden conspicuously, waiting for you to come out and give them some vegetables. With a pleasant startle, you recalled how wonderful you were at being aloof. It was your favorite thing to do with your neighbor.
You didn’t need to write anything for that nasty totem! All you had to do was wander around! Explore the archipelago and find some junk or whatever!
Suddenly content and with perfect vision, you stepped around your cat to go locate your jacket. Hopefully it didn’t stink.
cw: period-typical homophobia/ f-slur | tags: Wayne POV, hurt/ comfort
5 times Eddie trusts Wayne, and one time Wayne has to trust Eddie
Ao3 Link
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Wayne never wanted kids, is the thing. Never particularly wanted a partner, either.
He was happy in his solitude. Happy with quiet and stillness, happy with waking up alone and going to bed alone and happy with the freedom that came from his childless, spouseless life.
But he never could’ve said no to Eddie.
His yes was so immediate the social worker wasn’t so much as able to finish her sentence, Wayne already looking around his home wondering how in the hell he’d ever be able to make this place work for the both of them. Because Wayne knew what it was like to feel unwanted. Knew his brother did, too. Knew his brother was the type of man to inject that distinct type of pain into his own kid.
1.
“SHUT UP!” The door slams, the thin wood shuddering in its jam as it does, and Wayne hears the tell tale click of the lock that means he’s not going to see Eddie until tomorrow morning.
Wayne picks up the crumpled pages of Eddie’s essay, the 34 written in large, red marker still legible. He thumbs over it.
His handwriting is neat, for once. The black ink is unsmudged and his paragraphs are indented. His title is centered. All caps.
PRISONERS IN THE U.S.
Wayne stares at the words. The careful penmanship. The numbered pages at the bottom, one through three.
Wayne only has to get to the second paragraph before he can’t read any further, Eddie’s dark pen strokes carefully spelling out My dad has been imprisoned since-
He flattens out the pages. Wonders how in the hell he’s supposed to make this better.
Eddie’s music starts, then.
Wayne winces, the headache he’s been fighting since that morning surging in earnest at the noise. He can’t tell the difference between any of that racket but it seems to help Eddie. Helps to soothe him in a way Wayne can’t.
But it doesn’t take long for the neighbors to complain. He can hear them, just a few minutes in, over the screaming vocals of Eddie’s room, chittering outside like school mice.
So he’s not surprised when he has Mrs. Bellefonte and Ms. Reed on his front porch, blithering away about his nephew's music choices like it’s midnight and not five in the afternoon.
“It’s demonic, what he’s listening to.” Ms. Reed insists, her bright red hair done up in rollers. “And it’s disturbing the whole neighborhood. I’ve never had a problem with you, Wayne. You know I’m not one to complain, but ever since that nephew of yours came around here a few weeks back he’s been nothing but noise and trouble.” She cracks her gum, and a vein pulses in Wayne’s forehead.
Mrs. Bellefonte nods, her saggy jowls waving as she does. “We know it’s not your fault, here, Wayne. Not like you raised him, we know he came from that brother of yours. Not your fault he is the way he is, but we really must insist-”
But Wayne’s had enough. Of these stuffed shirts coming around to his home thinking they can prattle on about his nephew like they know the boy, like they know how good he is or isn’t.
“See here.” Wayne interrupts. And he’s always been quiet. Always been one of few words. Liked to let his actions speak for themselves, but he was a sergeant, as much as he now tries to forget Vietnam, and there he learned how to command those beneath him.
“We’re all gonna let my boy play his music. Because he ain’t bothering nobody. He ain’t knockin’ down mailboxes, like your boys, Miss Reed, and he ain’t leavin’ flamin’ bags of feces on neighbors front porches, like your boys, Missus Bellefonte. And if we ever hear of you running your mouths about him, or what he listens to, or any other nonsense, well, Chief Hopper is an old friend of mine. He might be interested in those pieces of information.” He smiles, through the screen door he hadn’t bothered to open. “And don’t you worry, you can trust that when I take my evenin’ smoke breaks, I see a whole lot more than just that.”
Not like he’d rat those boys out, a bit of property damage is nothing Wayne’d ever bat an eye at, especially in the parts of town those boys do it, but it has the intended effect. The women, seemingly struck dumb by Wayne’s words, huff, then huff again, before Mrs.Bellefonte utters one more intelligent “demonic”, before they leave his front porch with identical affronted looks.
Wayne closes the door behind him. Seals in the raucous noise of Eddie’s music.
He grabs a couple of Tylenol from the bathroom cupboard, and tries to watch the Hoosier’s play.
2.
“Got band practice tonight.” Eddie says, nose in the fridge. “Do we still have jelly?”
Wayne reaches around him, pulls the sticky jar of strawberry jelly from its spot in the door.
“With a knife, Ed,” Wayne reprimands, eyeing the way his boy’s about to empty the jelly onto his sandwich without one.
“Sorry,” Eddie grumbles. But he does what he’s told, grabs a knife from the drawer and dumps half the sugary mess onto bread before slapping it together and shoving it into a plastic bag, sucking the excess off his fingers.
He bolts from the kitchen, rustling around in his room, before running back a moment later, notebook in hand and his guitar and case strapped to his back. He grabs his sandwich and shoves it under one arm, effectively crushing it.
“We’ll be at Gareth’s,” Eddie says, walking to the door.
Wayne nods, looks to the fridge where Gareth- (812)555-6279 is scrawled in messy handwriting.
“Remember your helmet.” Wayne calls, scrubbing the pan he’s been soaking all day.
Eddie makes a noncommittal noise.
“I mean it, Eddie, not playin’ with that type of thing.” He gives up on the washcloth, bends over to see if they still have steel wool under the sink.
“There’s a talent show Thursday.”
Wayne looks up, Eddie at the door, slipping on his shoes.
“Just so you know.”
And then he’s gone, screen door slamming behind him, helmet gone from the basket by the door.
*****
In the end, Wayne had to call Jeff’s parents, Eddie having bolted from the house before giving him a single bit of helpful information.
Turns out his band’s in the talent show. Thursday, 6 o’clock.
Wayne had wanted to sit up front, but the PTA moms with their stiff hair and paisley dresses have taken up the first three rows by the time he arrives. Their husbands are eyeing the stage with unfocused eyes, looking like they’ve been drug here by the scruff of their necks.
Then again, they probably had.
The kids tap dance, and jump rope, and do all number of things Wayne tries very hard to stay invested in. Unfortunately, however, he’s starting to understand the blank looks all those other fathers are giving the stage, especially after two girls double dutch for twelve minutes straight. But when the very harried looking teacher announces Corroded Coffin in her nasally, wispy voice, Wayne sits up straight in his seat.
And Eddie doesn’t talk to Wayne about much. Not outside of the essentials. Nothing outside of we need more eggs and we have a half day at school tomorrow, but he’s seen Corroded Coffin scratched across Eddie’s notebook, the letters dark and angular.
The four of them strut out, Eddie leading proudly, decked out in those dark colors and silver chains that make the rest of the town whisper. He recognizes Gareth and Jeff, can’t remember if Ed ever mentioned the third one. But he sees his boy scanning the faces in the crowd, the hard line of his brows scowling into the audience like he’s bracing himself.
So Wayne waves. Softly, barely above his head, and it takes Eddie a moment, that horrible frown on his face like he knows it’s a lost cause, but Wayne can see the moment his boy sees him. His little eyebrows relax. Those wide brown eyes soften, and the barest hint of a smile graces Eddie’s lips before he waves back.
Wayne feels lightheaded with it. The little smile. The wave. And it settles within him that he’s finally done something right. Because coming and watching his boy play music he doesn’t understand in this stuffy gymnasium with women who glare at him for his dirty boots is never how he planned on spending an evening, but anything is worth it if it gets that boy to smile at him.
That rage he thought he’d buried months ago against his brother and his wife comes back with a vengeance, watching Eddie up on that stage, because how dare they. How dare they give this up, give Eddie up, give up the opportunity to see him play the songs he wrote on a guitar he’s spent months practicing on. Because Wayne can’t think of anything that would be worth missing this for. Miss the little glances of eye contact Eddie feeds him throughout their song, like he’s checking Wayne is still there, checking Wayne hasn’t left, that Wayne is paying attention.
Like Wayne could do anything other than hang onto Eddie’s every movement. Because his nephew is brilliant. Wayne can barely see his fingers, the way they move so quickly on that guitar, and Wayne’s never been one of any musical talent but he can see Eddie has it, can see his friends have it, too.
So he isn’t even embarrassed when all those parents with their ironed shirts and glinting watches stare as he gives Corroded Coffin a standing ovation. He claps his hands above his head and whistles two fingers in his mouth, proud, until Eddie is smiling wide and proper, his face beet red as he clambers off the stage.
Wayne finds them after. All the boys wearing identical expressions of giddy delight, their parents hovering behind them, looking equal parts happy and put upon.
Wayne’s nearly knocked in the face with Eddie’s guitar when his boy sees him. His scrawny arms lock around Wayne’s middle and his curly head of hair presses into Wayne’s chest, that guitar head nearly taking an eye out.
But Eddie’s hugging him. Holds on. Ties his little arms around Wayne and presses close, their knees knocking together.
Wayne swallows the lump in his throat. Wraps his arms around him.
“Now you’re gon’ start playin’ for me, right?” He asks, trying very hard to keep the emotion from wavering his voice, “‘cause I think I might start likin’ all that rubbish you listen to if you’re the one playin’ it.”
Eddie releases his hold, and for a moment Wayne thinks he’s ruined it, thinks Eddie’s about to shrink back into his shell because Wayne had to go and stick his foot in his mouth, but his boy is smiling when he pulls back.
“We have other songs.” He mumbles.
Then Eddie bites the inside of his cheek. Shoves his hands inside his pockets. Like he’s embarrassed at the show of affection. Like he’s trying to contain himself. Trying to tone himself down. To not let himself get too excited. To not be too much.
So Wayne smiles back. Ruffles Eddie’s hair. “How ‘bout we get some ice cream, and then you can play ‘em for me?”
3.
Wayne’s gonna skin him alive. Gonna string him up by his toes on the flag pole until Eddie gets it through his thick skull that no matter how smart that boy is, he needs to go to class.
“Makin’ me leave work.” He hisses to himself, and Eddie better not be at home. Better be off somewhere else so Wayne can cool down before he grounds him ‘til next year, ‘til he graduates- no Hellfire. No band practice. Nothing until that boy starts applying himself.
Because Wayne knows if Eddie could just- sit down and use half of all that energy he spends on those damn campaigns- he could graduate with honors. Which only fuels Wayne’s anger. Eddie squandering himself like this. Because he doesn’t think himself worthy of graduating. Of anything better.
But Ed’s van is parked at home. And Wayne’s never been a yeller. Never been one to raise his voice or lose his temper, but it’s threatening to tear loose, now, seeing Ed’s car parked at home after he’d waved Wayne goodbye that morning.
He stomps inside, ready to see his boy sat on the couch or with his nose in the fridge, and he’s ready to shout some sense into him before he sees the main rooms are empty.
But Eddie’s door is shut, and this is Wayne’s home- and as much as he’s respected Eddie’s privacy over the years he’s not about to grant it to him now, not when he lied. Lied about goin’ to school today, lied through his teeth when he promised Wayne he’d start trying.
And trying damn well means going to class.
So he opens the door without preamble. Without a knock and without announcing himself, he walks into Eddie’s room ready to tear him a new one.
The words die on his lips.
Eddie, shirtless, with the Hargrove boy from down the street, both their belts unbuckled.
Hargrove leaps off the bed, his eyes wide and wild, putting as much space between himself and Eddie as possible.
“Wayne!” Eddie shouts, and his panicked tone makes Wayne look to him.
All that rage he’d felt not a moment ago drains from him, because his boy looks terrified. His eyes wide as dinner plates, his lips trembling as he looks from Wayne to the other boy and back again.
“It’s not-” Eddie starts, but Hargrove interrupts.
“He came onto me.” Hargrove growls, still in the corner. Shirt unbuttoned and fly open. “I’m not one of them, sir, he tricked me- I-”
But Wayne stops listening. Sees the look on Eddie’s face, and that’s all he needs to know.
“Get out.” He says, low and slow.
Hargrove’s mouth clicks shut. He stays frozen, cornered, until Wayne steps out of the doorway. Wayne’s eyes are on Eddie, now, who’s still looking at Hargrove like he’s hoping he’ll take the words back.
“He’s the faggot.” Hargrove barks, “not me.”
Wayne rounds on him. “GET OUT!” He bellows, and Hargrove flinches, good, before fleeing, doing up his jeans as he does.
Wayne thinks longingly of the shotgun under his bed as he follows the boy out of Eddie’s room and onto the porch, watches as that snake tears from his property.
Wayne doesn’t leave the porch until he can no longer see that boy’s silhouette.
“Goddamn it,” he whispers, and he wants to shout, wants to scream, wants to shove Eddie in bubble wrap and lock him in his room because his life was already hard enough. Already enough with his daddy who he is and his mama the way she is, with Eddie dressing the way he does and the hobbies he has and- and Wayne is scared. Scared for his boy and what the world will do to him.
What the world has already done to him.
He walks back to Eddie’s room. Tries to find the words to make this better. Tries to arrange them so he can fix this.
But when he gets to Eddie’s room there’s a bag on his bed, already haphazardly half filled with clothes, his copy of The Hobbit on top.
Eddie’s crouched low, under his bed, frantically tearing through the rubbish in a desperate search for something in particular. He finds it, stands, and freezes when he sees Wayne in the doorway.
His face and chest are red. There are still tears dribbling down his face.
“He’s right.” Eddie snarls, eyes shining. “About what I am. So you don’t have to say anything. I’m leaving myself. I’m nearly old enough.” He crams whatever he had in his hands into his bag, still shirtless, belt still undone, before stepping over to his desk. His shoulders shake. His hands tremble.
So Wayne doesn’t say anything. He walks up to his son, and pulls him into his chest.
Eddie fights him at first. His arms scramble. His legs push against Wayne’s. He pulls his head away, now crying in earnest, hiccuping sobs that shake his chest.
But Wayne holds on. Grips onto him the same way he did when Eddie realized Al wasn’t coming back. The same way he did when his mama asked for money for that final time.
Eddie’s movements get sloppier. Weaker. Until Wayne’s nearly holding his boy up as he sobs into his chest.
Eddie’s knees tremble. So Wayne whispers that Eddie’s okay. That he’s here. That he’s not going anywhere.
He wraps one arm tight around his boy. Brings his other hand up to Eddie’s head and strokes his soft curls.
“I love you, Eddie.” He says. And his voice doesn’t waver. He speaks clear, right into Eddie’s ear despite his own tears. “And you’re mine. Nothin’s ever changin’ that.”
✨✨✨
Part 2
Next part is gonna be longer cause we meet Steveeeee yayy!
Probably gonna post part 2 soon cause this thing has me in a stranglehold (:<
Wayne had met Al’s child a couple of times before the kid showed up on his doorstep. The odd Christmas or Easter gathering didn’t give him much of an idea of the kid’s personality since it was still a wee thing.
The young Munson here in front of him stood tall, maybe up to Wayne’s eyebrows, whip-thin and willowy. Big brown eyes stared out at him from a sallow face. The resemblance to Al was uncanny; it would’ve been even more so if not for the kid’s raggedy buzz cut.
She wanted to be called “Eddie”. Sorry, he wanted to be called “Eddie”. Sure, it was something to get used to, but it weren’t the strangest thing Wayne had run into over the years. He’d met some colorful folk during a brief stint in Chicago. He even had a bit of an idea how to help.
He helped Eddie get documents, sorted out school, and—after finding Eddie passed out in the bathroom—started sending letters. He got the contact of an endocrinologist in Indianapolis. Wayne could only afford a consult, gathered information. Enough to place a request with his dealer.
Rick didn’t ask questions. Probably assumed Wayne just wanted some extra virility. Wayne didn’t care what he thought.
200 milligrams every two weeks is what that doctor had said. Eddie’s voice dropped quick as a stone. He worried that he’d start to look just like his dad. Wayne told him he’d look like a Munson and Eddie looked at him real long before saying that might not be so bad.
Robin watches in abject fucking /fascination/ as the whole thing unfolds.
Eddie had woken up, winced in pain, coughed spectacularly...and t
Wayne's been watching this shit show unfold for over a week now. Watching Steve Harrington stroke Eddie's hair back, hold his hand, call him 'sweetheart.'
Rush in with snacks and cups of ice chips and, sometimes, reading to Eddie. He's slow and trips over his words sometimes, but he isn't shy over that and definitely doesn't let it stop him.
He's so committed to the act that, honestly, Wayne would be fooled.
But he isn't fooled. He knows that Eddie's had a crush on that boy for literally years and absolutely nothing has ever come of it. Christ, Wayne once forked over real, cold hard cash, so that Eddie could get a year book one year just to have a picture of Steve. So Wayne knows exactly how bad Eddie had it.
Even if Steve Harrington, up to this point, had been a grade A Asshole.
But.
Wayne has to put a stop to this now. They were talking about discharging Eddie. Speaking practically. He's going to need space. He probably won't be making it up any steps any time soon. He's going to need a practical place to get discharged too, somewhere where there will be someone to keep an eye on him most of the time.
The place they are describing is very much not the trailer.
And Steve had immediately volunteered. No hesitation whatsoever with that boy. His dedication to the lie is...pretty mind-blowing.
So now, now is the moment Wayne has to interfere, because this is a step too far.
He hasn't spoken to Steve much yet, and he hasn't spent any time alone with the kid, but he ups and follows when Wayne nods his head to the doorway and asks for a word. They move off together, finding a quieter bit of hallway.
'Steve, look, this is too much-'
'No, it's fine, honestly, I've got a downstairs room Eddie can use, and the bathroom-'
'I know this whole thing is a lie.'
Steve visibly crumbles for a second before getting back into character, 'Mr. Munson-'
'Wayne-'
'Mr. Wayne Munson-'
Wayne shakes his head, 'Jesus Christ, /just/ Wayne kid.'
'Right, yeah, but Eddie can come and stay with me, it's fine, definitely not a lie-'
'I meant you being his boyfriend. That lie.'
The kid scrambles and Wayne genuinely doesn't know how anyone is falling for this, the kid wears every emotion and thought so openly, 'no,no, we were just keeping it quiet l, it's -'
'Son,' and Wayne hates to be stern about this but he really really needs to, 'I found scraps of paper with Edward Harrington scribbled on them, like Eddie was practicing his signature. I found them /four/ years ago. What is your plan here? What do you think is going to happen when you rip the plaster off? He's going to be devastated. Or worse, what if he remembers on his own and you've been lying to him? To everyone?'
'I-' Steve starts but then clearly has no where to go with that because, as Wayne is fully aware, there is no plan, 'I can't do anything about it if he remembers, just hope that he forgives me. But otherwise, I was just thinking the plaster could just...stay on. There's no reason to remove the plaster-'
'Kid, I hate to tell you this, but you've got a bit of a reputation. Eddie was in a foul mood for nearly a fortnight when you started going steady with that Nancy girl, honestly, he was going through the stages of grief-'
'And that's exactly why we're not going to tell him. Eddie deserves to be happy and I'm...not like that. Anymore.'
Wayne rubs the bridge of his nose, 'I don't even know where to start with this. You- He- I mean. This is such a bad idea.'
Steve nods, fully committed, 'I know. I'm doing it anyway.'
