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Eddie’s been acting weird.
Which is nothing out of the ordinary, really, but…this is different, somehow. His usual sparkling spirit has dulled, just a bit. Not so much that the others have noticed, but Steve does.
He’s still animated in his demeanor, arms flailing wildly as he tells the kids yet another story, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. But Steve picks up on something he hasn’t quite seen before. Eddie’s eyes keep flickering to the right, then to the left, then the right again. It repeats like this, over and over again, in almost practiced repetition.
When Eddie’s hand taps incessantly on his knee, these repetitive little motions, Steve goes to grab it. It isn’t unusual for them, this unspoken sort of intimacy. Shared touches in passing. Hands held under the table, an arm slung around a shoulder during movie night.
Steve doesn’t know when it started, these wordless interactions. He just has this sense of understanding, rooted deep within him, that it anchors them both. Eddie comes over before the party does, stays long after they leave. Helps set up, helps clean up, lights joints that they share when it’s all done.
Steve tells Eddie things he’s never uttered out loud. He doesn’t even think about it—the words fall from his lips before he realizes it, and he finds he just doesn’t care. Can’t bring himself to wonder if Eddie will judge him, because deep in his soul, as sure as he feels the blood running through his veins, he knows he won’t.
They pass secrets alongside beer cans, exchanging intricacies like playing cards. The party notices, sometimes; lets their eyes travel to where Steve’s pressed up against Eddie on the couch, nodding off against his shoulder as some movie ends on the television. They say nothing when Eddie cards his hand through Steve’s hair, just make this ignited eye contact with each other like they can’t believe what they’re seeing.
Steve and Eddie. As sure as the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening, they’ll have each other. Knuckles brushing against skin, secret smiles exchanged between squinted eyes.
After so many sleepless nights spent together, there’s nothing Steve doesn’t pick up on. So, naturally, he notices when Eddie’s attention is drawn elsewhere.
He’s been spending more time working on the campaigns recently. This isn’t new, he’s always been dedicated to the craft. More than that, he wants to give the kids the chance to just be kids. Thinks they deserve it, and of course Steve agrees—so when Eddie leaves early some nights to work on the perfect fight or new NPC, he doesn’t argue.
Eddie’s always had this aura of perfectionism. Unnoticeable from afar, with his horribly messy room that feels more like a maze than a home. His mangled curls, ratty vest with a slew of pins and patches hastily sewn into the fabric. To the unknowing eye, Eddie cares little about being what anyone would consider polished.
But Steve notices things. Recently, he’s been picking up on it more. Eddie makes these little movements, minute utterances under his breath, like he’s reassuring himself of something. The seemingly incessant tap tap tapping of his fingers, too exact to be strumming a rhythm in the seam of his jeans but too calculated to be mindless.
Steve doesn’t say anything, but he makes a mental note every time it happens.
On a particularly stressful night, when the kids just can’t seem to settle down, he watches Eddie intently. Sees him chewing on his lip, eyes darting back and forth, blinking over and over again like he’s caught in a trance. The teens are busy yelling at each other, something about ‘We can’t keep fighting, you’re the only one who’s still alive and you only have 10 hit points left!’, but Steve finds himself entranced among the noise. Stuck on Eddie, watching him like a tape stuck on a loop.
His pointer finger taps the table. Once, twice, three…Five times. Five times before he moves onto his middle. Then his ring, then his pinky, then back to the pointer.
Interesting.
The motion seems like it’s calming him, eyes fluttering closed as his chest expands with a deep breath. But then Dustin raises his voice, always taking after his role model, and slaps a hand on the table. Eddie startles, finger stalling like he’s lost count, and squeezes his eyes shut.
“Enough!” Eddie yells after the noise erupts. “We’re taking a break.”
He stands suddenly, chair scraping against the wooden floor as he pushes it back. He leaves the room in a flash, barely allowing the kids time to process what he said.
They all sort of stare at each other, voices quieting to little murmurs amongst them: “Didn’t mean to…” “Do you think we upset him?” “Let’s just take a breather, guys.”
Steve rolls his eyes, standing up and placing his hands on his hips. “Buttheads,” he mumbles. “Give the guy a break, will ya’?” He shakes his head slightly and makes his way out the sliding door to his backyard.
Steve hears the party start back up again, quieter this time, but he pushes the sound from his head. He trains his eyes, brows furrowed in determination, as he looks around in the darkness for that familiar form. The orange glow of a joint alerts him to what he’s searching for.
“Hey.” Steve’s voice is calm as he approaches Eddie, slowly, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. “You okay?”
Eddie turns around, eyes frantic. They soften when he looks at Steve. He takes a drag, embers falling to the ground. He holds the smoke for a second, watching the white tendrils swirl in the air, before releasing it with a sigh.
“Yeah,” he says, pinching his eyebrows together. “Yeah, I just…got overwhelmed.”
Steve hums, reaching out to grab the joint. Eddie brings it to Steve’s mouth instead, a small smile pulling at his lips. Steve inhales, grasping Eddie’s wrist as he holds it out for him.
“Thanks,” Steve mumbles as he releases the smoke. Eddie just smiles softly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
It’s quiet for a moment; a couple of birds converse somewhere in the distance, and Steve listens to the faint crackling of the paper being burned. It’s comforting, this serene silence. A nice break from the chaos inside.
“Do you…wanna talk about it?” Steve says after a minute. He’s referencing a few things, allowing Eddie to pick the bait he wants to use.
Eddie’s lips press into a thin line, roach held between two fingers. He takes another drag, offers it out to Steve, who declines. He presses the tip of it into the ashtray and leaves it there.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “It’s just…I work so hard on these campaigns, you know? I want them to be perfect, they need to be perfect and I…” he takes a breath, steadying himself.
“Hey,” Steve says, quiet but clear in the windless air. “It’s okay, Eds. You’re okay.” He brings a gentle hand to Eddie’s arm, tracing the outline of his tattoo. The motion soothes them both. “Talk to me.”
Eddie closes his eyes, willing himself. “I…have this idea of how the sessions are gonna go. I plan out everything, I make plan A’s and B’s all the way through fucking Z’s and—I want ‘em to go how I planned, you know? I don’t know what to do when they go a different way and I…don’t know. I don’t know,” he says with a huff, hand tightening on the wooden rail so hard that his knuckles turn white.
Steve grabs his hand, holding it within his own. Eddie tenses, then relaxes, tensing again for a second before thinking better of himself. “It’s okay,” Steve stresses. “You can squeeze, I don’t mind.”
Eddie looks at Steve for a second, searching his eyes for any sign of dishonesty. He sighs before tightening his fingers around Steve’s hands, tensing and relaxing in those familiar, repetitive movements.
Steve counts. One, two, three, four, five. A rest. And then it starts again.
“I hate it,” Eddie admits quietly, like he’s ashamed. “I hate when they start arguing like that. I don’t mind the yelling—I mean, fuck, I’m the one who taught ‘em that, but—it stresses me out when they can’t make a decision. I don’t know what I’m gonna do, I keep going back and forth between what my next move is, but when they don’t know what they’re doing…” he sighs. His hand squeezes again. Five times.
“I get what you mean,” Steve replies softly, tracing his thumb along the back of Eddie’s hand. “I hate not being on the same page as everyone else. I always feel like I have to look after them, you know? I wanna be ten steps ahead so I can be there in case something goes wrong,” he admits. The conversation’s shifted to something different, something deeper, but he goes along with it.
Eddie nods. “Yeah. It’s…sort of like that.”
They’re quiet for a moment, Eddie’s hand tensing and relaxing around Steve’s as he stares, glassy-eyed, at the porch deck. Steve feels the curiosity that’s been building for weeks start to bubble over. Before he can think better of it, he opens his mouth.
“Why do you do that?” he asks.
Eddie’s hand stills, eyes widening slightly. He tries to move it out from between Steve’s, retreat back into his pockets, but Steve stops him, rubbing comfortingly over his skin.
“Do what?” Eddie responds like he doesn’t know.
“That…” Steve struggles to find the words. “You do these repetitions, like you’re counting something.” He pauses. “I’ve noticed it more recently.”
Even in the darkness of nighttime, Steve sees Eddie’s face blanch. He tries again to pull his hand out from Steve’s, and he’s successful this time, withdrawing like he’s been burned. He wraps his fingers around his other wrist, rubbing the skin there harshly.
“I…” Eddie tries, opening and closing his mouth like he’s trying to figure out what to say, a happy medium between what he wants to share and what Steve wants to hear.
The sound of the sliding glass door squeaking open startles them, their heads turning toward the noise in tandem. Will’s standing at the doorway, looking sheepish. “We, um,” he starts. “We’re ready when you are. And we’re sorry, for being so rowdy.”
Eddie meets Steve’s eyes for a moment, squinting slightly, before he rocks back on his heels and plasters that typical Munson smile on his face, walking with a renewed energy back toward the house.
“It’s all good, little Byers. Just needed a minute,” he says as he claps Will’s shoulders, turning him toward the living room and marching back into the house.
Steve stays outside, following Eddie with his eyes. The man turns around before he sits down to reclaim his throne, giving Steve a pointed look. Later, it says.
Steve can only nod.
—
Later is quite an unclear boundary, Steve learns. He watches as Eddie guides the party through the “Forgotten Realms,” as he earlier called it. He’s fascinated by the detailed picture Eddie paints with his words, voice low and gravelly as he sets the tone for the impending battle.
To everyone’s surprise, the fight is over almost as soon as it started. A few lucky rolls have the party cheering at their victory, Eddie leaning back in his seat with a smug look on his face. He bows dramatically over his little DM screen folder thing (Steve has no fucking idea what it’s called) and ends the game with a clap of his hands.
The kids take a while to filter out of the house, Jonathan and Nancy arriving right on time to pick them up and take them back to the Byers’ house. It’s a Friday night, which of course means they won’t be separating until Sunday. Sleepovers are usually held at the Harrington house, but Steve made the kids promise he’d get at least one free weekend a month.
They leave with their backpacks filled to the brim with snacks, arms carrying more sodas than they can fit. Dustin and Lucas hang back for a minute, meeting Eddie’s gaze with bashful eyes as they apologize once more for stressing him out.
“It’s okay, my little sheep,” Eddie reassures. “Your Dungeon Master lives on another day.”
Steve thinks it’s the weirdest way to accept an apology he’s ever heard, but the kids seem satisfied with the answer, grinning toothily and shouting “You’re the best, Eddie!” as they run to meet the rest of the group at Jonathan’s car.
They wave goodbye and shut the door after they can’t hear the engines anymore. Eddie lets out a long sigh, making his way back toward the kitchen to finish cleaning up.
Steve stops him before he can with a gentle hand to his chest. “Let me roll one up for you?” he offers, tilting his head toward the stairs.
Eddie looks at the dishes in the sink, pauses briefly, and says, “Fuck yeah.”
—
As it turns out, Steve might be the worst joint roller in all of Hawkins.
Eddie tells him as much.
“Oh my god,” he gets out in between giggles. “Steve, this looks like fucking ET’s finger.”
Steve rolls his eyes, shoving Eddie so hard he nearly falls off the bed. “Does not,” he states petulantly.
Eddie wipes tears from his face, letting out a shaky breath as he wills himself to calm down. “No, no, you’re right. It looks like ET’s dick.”
Steve kicks him off the bed then, which only reignites the laughter.
Where Eddie can’t see him, Steve smiles to himself. He can’t help the warm wave of delight that washes over him when he hears that breathtaking laugh.
He gets onto his knees, asking permission of his “grand highness King Steve” to be let back on the bed. Steve allows it with a smooth motion of his hand, making room for him to sit once more. When Eddie settles in, back against the headboard, he pats the spot next to him.
Steve curls up in that spot that fits him perfectly, slotting in against Eddie’s side. It feels practiced, at this point. The kids leave, one of them rolls up, and they cuddle on Steve’s bed, exchanging stories and puffs equally.
They haven’t talked about it, but they don't need to. It’s understood, whatever this is between them. It’s calm and easy and too many things in their lives aren’t, so they let it exist. Let whatever blooms between them flower and flourish in wordless sanctity.
Eddie lights the misshapen joint with a giggle, bringing it to his lips and inhaling deeply so the flame catches. He sucks on it a few times, letting it burn evenly before passing it to Steve with a slightly shaky hand.
Steve nods his head in thanks, letting Eddie place it between his two awaiting fingers. He puffs on it in silence, watching the smoke escape his lips and suspend in delicious perfection in the air.
They sit like that for a few minutes, passing the joint back and forth, eyes growing hazy with every hit. Steve places his hand on Eddie’s thigh, feeling the muscle ripple, then tense under his fingers. He rubs his thumb over it, grounding, until it relaxes.
Something creaks in the room, a telltale sign of an older house, and Eddie’s head flies up. His back straightens, neck craning as he looks around for the sound. This abnormal anxiousness reminds Steve of the conversation they started earlier, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Eddie beats him to it.
“Jesus,” he groans, sitting back against the wall. He puts the joint in his mouth before rubbing his hands over his face. “I’m so fucked up.”
Steve’s eyebrows furrow at the statement, clear discomfort painting Eddie’s features. He squeezes Eddie’s thigh once, encouraging him.
When Eddie doesn’t continue, Steve speaks. “Eds,” he says calmly, using his free hand to grasp gently at Eddie’s chin. He guides it upwards until Eddie’s meeting his gaze, eyes glassy and apprehensive. “What’s going on?”
“There’s something wrong with me,” he blurts out, weed loosening his tongue. He closes his eyes as soon as he says it, regret taking form on his face. “I…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.
“Hey,” Steve says for what feels like the hundredth time that night. He takes the joint from Eddie’s lips, allowing him one more puff before rubbing it out on the ashtray next to them. “Don’t say that. It’s not true.”
Eddie laughs, a self-deprecating sound, and turns his head away from Steve. “It is,” he insists, “Even you’ve noticed it.”
Steve’s breath hitches then, words caught in his throat. Fuck, is that what Eddie thinks he meant?
“No, Eddie,” he starts, fumbling to find the right way to say it. “That’s not…I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve just noticed…you’ve been really strung out lately. Like there’s something going on.”
Eddie chuckles breathily, smiling like Steve’s just told him a joke that only he understands. “You could say that.”
Steve faces him, then, crossing his legs so his knees touch Eddie’s thigh. “Okay. Then tell me. What is it?”
Eddie stares off into Steve’s room, eyes blank. That hand starts up again, etching a repeated pattern into the fabric of his jeans. He notices, for the first time, Eddie’s lips moving along with it. Just barely. Steve squints, trying to make out what he’s saying.
One… two… three…
Oh.
He’s counting.
“Does it have something to do with numbers?” Steve asks. Eddie snaps his head toward him, looking mortified.
“How do you know that?” he asks, and his tone is more stern than he maybe means it to be.
Steve shrugs, thumb still rubbing pacifying circles into Eddie’s thigh. “I’ve just noticed. You’ve been doing things in groups of five, like you’re counting something. Is…is it a Vecna thing?”
Eddie laughs again, but it’s different this time. More genuine. “No,” he smiles slightly, “Not a Vecna thing.”
“Okay,” Steve says, shoulders sagging slightly with relief. “Then what is it?”
Eddie pauses, eyes taking on that glazed look once more. “I—I don’t want to tell you.”
Steve’s lips purse into a thin line, free hand reaching over to gently grab at Eddie’s cheek again, turning him so they face each other. Eddie doesn’t meet his eyes.
“That’s okay,” he says, breathes every ounce of encouragement he can muster into the words. “You don’t have to. I just want you to know you’re safe here, okay? It’s just us, Eds. I’m not gonna judge you, not for anything. You hear me?”
Eddie looks up at him, face bright with the slightest hint of hope. He believes him, Steve can tell. He wonders what’s holding him back.
“I don’t want you to think differently of me,” Eddie mumbles, and there it is.
Eddie Munson, the Freak of Hawkins, the man who took Steve’s kids under his wing and showed them a side to life they’ve never been able to experience. The man who loves unconditionally, unapologetically himself in a way that inspires Steve to do the same. The one who stands on tables, sticks his tongue out like he’s tasting the Earth, and screams.
Like Steve could ever think anything less than the world of him.
“Never,” he promises. “Eddie, I could never. I think you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met, nothing could ever change that.”
Eddie stills for a moment, turning to face Steve finally. “...Really?” he says after a beat. “You mean that, Stevie?”
Steve nods, reaching out to grab Eddie’s hands and hold them where their knees meet. “I promise.”
Eddie’s eyes narrow slightly, taking a deep breath like he’s resigning himself. “Okay,” he says. “Just…you asked for it, ‘kay?”
Steve nods, smiling supportively, and waits.
“Okay,” Eddie says after a moment. “I have this…thing. It’s like a…a brain disorder? I don’t know, the doctors say it has to do with, like, the way my brain works. It’s wired differently, or whatever.” He looks at Steve, shoulders tense like he’s expecting him to run away, or hit him, or worse.
Steve just squeezes his hands reassuringly and nods for him to continue.
“Damn, Harrington. You must really like me if I haven’t already scared you off,” he jokes weakly, the words holding no weight.
Steve laughs under his breath, rolling his eyes fondly. “Shut up,” he teases.
Eddie sticks his tongue out at him, finally starting to relax a little. He doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes as he speaks again.
“It’s called OCD,” Eddie says finally. “Stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It basically means…like…how do I put it?” he mumbles, mostly to himself. His eyes dart back and forth again, squeezing Steve’s hands over and over without even realizing he’s doing it.
“I get these thoughts,” Eddie starts, finally settling on an explanation. “They’re…they’re really fucking awful, Steve.” He looks up tentatively, and Steve meets his gaze with understanding.
“I can imagine,” he half-jokes, referencing the slew of intrusive thoughts he himself has dealt with over the last couple of years.
“Yeah. It’s…it’s like that, but. I can’t—I can’t stop them. Well, I can, but…” he trails off, shaking his head like he’s regathering his thoughts.
Eddie sits up a bit straighter, removing his hands from Steve’s grasp. He holds them up on either side of him, mimicking a scale, and continues.
“One side,” he starts, bouncing his right hand up and down. “Obsessions. These thoughts I get, they’re…addicting, in a sense. I can’t control them, and they just keep coming, and they get worse and worse, and it’s all I can think about. I try to ignore them but they’re loud, they’re so fucking overwhelming and I just can’t stop, it’s like they’re on this never-ending loop.” He pauses, taking a breath.
“Compulsions,” he says, motioning to his left hand. “It’s these…it’s things I do that make the thoughts better. Makes them quieter, sometimes makes them go away. I don’t know why I do them, I just—I have to. It feels like my body is, like, fucking burning until I do them. Like I can’t breathe.”
Steve just nods, putting the pieces together in his mind. “Like how you tap your leg?” he asks.
Eddie shakes his head like he can’t quite believe what Steve’s saying, biting his lip slightly. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I don’t know how you noticed that.”
Steve smiles. “I don’t know if you realized this, Eds, but I kind of notice everything about you.”
Eddie’s eyes shine, then, alight with a declaration brought to light. “Really?”
Steve puts his hands on Eddie’s knees, squeezing gently. “Yeah, really.”
Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, shaking his curls in front of his head before brushing them back. “I kind of notice everything about you, too,” he says, cheeks staining pink.
A smile lights up Steve’s face. “Good to know.”
They sit in silence for a moment, breathing in the newness of confessions first spoken. It’s not much, barely makes a dent into the depth of their feelings, but—it’s something. It’s anything.
Steve makes a noise for Eddie to continue, so he does, demeanor more relaxed than it was a few minutes prior.
“I have a lot of them,” he says. “Compulsions, I mean. A lot of the time I don’t even realize I’m doing them. Like…I do this thing with my eyes, I look back and forth so many fucking times it makes me dizzy. But I have to do it, have to wait 'til it feels right.”
Steve hums, trying to understand. “Do you…not want to do it?”
Eddie shakes his head quickly. “No. I hate it. I really fucking hate it. It’s so goddamn frustrating, it takes over my fucking life. I feel like…like I can’t do anything until I satisfy this need that sits, like, deep inside me. It feels like it’s gnawing at me. Like there’s this little voice in my head telling me I have to do this, just one more time, just one more…‘til it feels right,” he repeats, like it’s the clearest statement he can come up with.
Steve’s chest hurts, his whole body fucking aches with the intensity of Eddie’s explanation. He sounds like he’s being tortured, like he’s exhausted of living in his own body, this prison that keeps him trapped inside a never-ending loop. Steve wants to cry, wants to rip out whatever little voice that sits in Eddie’s brain and tells him all this fucked up stuff. Wants to hold him, rock him back and forth until he’s asleep, give him a break from this debilitating experience Steve didn’t even know he had.
“I’m so sorry,” is all he can say. Eddie smiles, a little pitifully, and grabs Steve’s hands once more.
“It’s okay,” he says, and they both know it’s a lie.
“How can I help?” Steve asks, because he can’t bear to listen to this, can’t go on knowing his best friend is suffering like this and not do anything about it.
Eddie stills then, swallowing as he processes what he just heard, and against better judgment, asks, “Why do you want to help?”
Steve makes a noise of confusion, leaning more into Eddie’s space. “Why wouldn’t I? You just told me about this…this awful thing you have to deal with. Why wouldn’t I want to make it easier for you?”
Eddie’s quiet for a moment, eyes narrowed like he’s actually thinking about it. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Just…really thought you’d be scared by it.”
Steve lets out a breath through his nose, reaching up to cup Eddie’s cheek. “Darling, I’ve seen demogorgons swallow human beings whole. I’m not gonna be scared of a fucked up game of Simon Says.”
A laugh bursts its way out of Eddie’s chest, the sound cacophonous and thick in the near-empty room.
“Holy shit, Harrington,” he pants after his giggles die down. “That’s the best thing you’ve ever said.”
Steve just smiles smugly, hesitating for a moment before bringing Eddie’s hand up to kiss his knuckle softly. He watches as Eddie’s lips part in surprise.
“Just tell me what I can do to make it easier,” he urges.
Eddie’s eyes follow the motion of Steve’s lips until he puts his hand back down, settling it in his lap. “I…” he starts, sighing. “Just don’t tell anyone, please? No one knows and I—I don’t want them to look at me differently.”
Steve wants to tell Eddie that they wouldn’t, that the group is as safe as he is—they wouldn’t say a word if he was vulnerable with them. But Steve remembers what happened when he first told them about his headaches: the concerned looks, pitied smiles, the gentleness they started approaching him with. Vaguely, he realizes, he understands.
“I won’t,” he promises. “This is just us, Eds. No one else. Just you and me.”
Eddie smiles, looking more tranquil than he has the entire night.
They fall asleep holding each other in Steve’s bed.
—
Nothing’s really changed since Eddie told Steve about it. Not to the naked eye, anyway.
They hang out with the group and host DnD sessions at Steve’s house, as usual. They watch boring movies that the kids suggest, cleaning up pizza boxes and empty soda cans after they leave. Steve watches Eddie when he DMs, vaguely noting the way he tugs on a curl once, twice, five times whenever he gets stressed. When they’re alone, he holds Eddie’s hands, lets him squeeze as many times as he needs to before that aching wildfire in his chest dissipates.
Occasionally, when the weather is warm, they throw on their swimsuits, slap sunscreen on the teens, and enjoy a day outside.
It’s where they are now, about a month later; Steve sunbathing on a lounge chair and Eddie watching delightedly as Dustin and Lucas splash each other in the pool. Argyle and Jonathan are holed up in the hot tub, gently smacking each other with wet hands and giggling to themselves. Robin stands above Nancy, shading her eyes from the sun as she naps on the porch.
They haven’t had a day together, the whole party, in a while. Summer finally crept its way into Hawkins, sticking its sweaty hands on the town. The teens are enjoying their last break before senior year, relishing in the feeling of being normal kids, while the adults watch them with bittersweet reverence.
Eddie’s not swimming, a fact that Steve immediately keyed in on. When he asked about it, Eddie pointed excitedly to a new patch of ink on his stomach, spanning from his sternum to his bellybutton.
“Just got it yesterday,” he’d sing-songed, flexing his abs to show off the ripple of the tattoo. Steve nearly fainted (from the heat—obviously.)
“So you can’t swim?” Steve had asked, still oblivious to the inner workings of tattoos.
“Nope,” Eddie said, popping the ‘p.’ “Not for a few weeks.”
Steve had merely shrugged, offering to help put sunscreen or ointment or whatever it is that you put on tattoos. Eddie shook his head, stating that he’d already done it with clean hands, thank you very much and that he was very keen on keeping it sterile.
“Can’t be going around getting an infection,” he said, seriousness lacing his tone.
So Steve rests under the sun, watching lazily as the kids play in the pool. Eddie sits with his feet in the water, staring longingly at the blue waves and wishing he could partake in the fun.
“S’ only a few weeks, Eds,” Steve calls out from his chair. “You’ll be back in before you know it.”
Eddie waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah yeah. Let a man dream.”
Steve smiles and pulls his sunglasses down, resting his head on the pillow once more. The sun feels delicious on his skin, warming him from the inside out. He feels whole under the bright light of the Earth, letting the heat kiss his fingertips and dance delicately along his flesh.
“Look at you, Helios,” Robin comments as she makes his way over to him. “You planning on staying out here the whole summer?”
Steve grins at his best friend, grateful that if anything were to break his tranquility, it’s her. “If I can help it.”
She pulls up a chair next to him, making herself comfortable with a set of exaggerated groans. “It’s so fucking hot.”
Steve rolls his eyes, swatting her gently on the leg. “So go inside?” he teases.
She hits him back, just as playfully. “Nah,” she says, lowering her voice. “Then I wouldn’t be able to watch you ogle over Eddie.”
Steve sputters, sitting up quickly and flailing his arms at her. “Shut the fuck up!” he hisses, but there’s no bite to it. “Do you want everyone to hear you?”
“Please. Like they don’t already know. You never take your eyes off of him, dingus. It’s pretty fuckin’ obvious.”
Steve opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. Not much of a rebuttal he can make, is there?
“I—just. Shut up,” he says definitively.
She laughs, a sweet thing, then places her hand on Steve’s knee. “Seriously,” she says, tone shifting, “Why don’t you tell him how you feel?”
Steve sighs, lifting up his glasses and facing her. “It’s not that easy, Robs. We have this— this…we don’t really talk about it.” He pauses, taking a breath, wishing the air was slightly cooler. “We just. We are, you know? We just are how we are. And we’re okay with that.”
Robin tuts under her breath, a telltale sign that the nonstop cogs in her head are turning. “Are you, though?”
Steve looks at Eddie, observing the way his hair cascades delicately down his back. It stops just above his shoulder blades, slightly grown out from the springtime. He pulls it back into a careless bun, strands flying out and framing his head like a halo. Steve’s mouth waters at the way his back muscles tense and relax as they move.
He’s still staring at Eddie as he speaks. “I don’t want things to change,” he says honestly.
“Who says they’re going to change for the worst? Hell, the way he looks at you, Steve, there’s no way he doesn’t feel the same. You’re always together. You’re like…you’re like if I was a dude. And, you know, into dudes.”
Steve laughs at that, a throaty chuckle. The sound makes Eddie turn around, catching his eye. He smiles, brighter than the sun itself.
“Yeah,” Steve admits quietly. “Maybe you’re right.”
He’s about to say something else, maybe make a joke about how things would be easier if he was a lesbian, then he and Robin could live out in the middle of nowhere and talk to no one but each other, when a loud screech shuts him up.
Steve scrambles out of his chair, nerves ablaze with the familiarity of an impending fight. He thinks, quickly, that his bat is in the closet downstairs. He wonders how long it’d take to get to it, where he could hide the kids before he tries.
He’s pulled out of his thoughts when Eddie jumps up, holding his stomach like he’s been shot. Steve realizes with a relieved sigh that it wasn’t a scream of terror, that there aren’t flecks of the underworld floating around them. He’s about to speak, make a sassy comment about how dramatic he is, but then Eddie turns around, and…
Oh god.
Eddie looks like he’s about to cry. His face is blotchy, lip caught between his teeth and worried white. He’s holding his stomach— no, his tattoo —with a gentle hand, barely letting his fingers graze the inked skin. He meets Steve’s gaze, frantic, and his eyes are shining with fear.
“Oh, shit, sorry, Eddie!” Mike calls out from the pool. “We didn’t mean to splash you.”
Steve’s eyes move to where Eddie’s holding himself, noticing with a wince that his hand is soaked. His stomach, his tattoo, are covered with water.
Steve understands instantly.
He turns to Robin, who looks about as confused as everyone else, and mouths “please” before walking toward Eddie, ushering him inside the house. Robin might not understand whatever’s going on, but she understands her best friend. Soul-bonded, or whatever.
Steve vaguely sees Robin shucking off her cover-up and cannonballing into the pool, and he doesn’t think he’s ever loved her more than in that moment. He’ll have to cover one of her shifts soon, as a thank you.
Eddie’s muttering incoherently under his breath, and as soon as the sliding glass door is shut, as soon as he’s sure the kids can’t hear him anymore, he speaks.
“Oh god, oh my god, Jesus fucking Christ, gonna get infected, gonna—” He pulls out of Steve’s hold and beelines toward the bathroom, limbs shaking so strongly that Steve can see it when he walks.
“Hey,” Steve says, following him into the bathroom. His voice is stern but comforting, taking on an authoritative tone that he most certainly does not have. “Eds. Talk to me. What’s up?”
Eddie doesn’t speak, just turns the shower on and rushes in, not bothering to wait for the water to heat up. He winces as the cold liquid hits his skin, burning the fresh tattoo with the sting of the harsh stream.
Steve watches him scrub at the ink, fingers clawing at it like he could dig it out of him. Without thinking, he steps into the shower, shivering immediately as the freezing water stabs his back. He crowds in front of Eddie, blocking him from the flow, and reaches behind him to turn the knob to a warmer setting.
“Eddie,” Steve says firmly. “Look at me.”
Eddie’s shaking violently. Steve’s never seen him like this. Even in the Upside Down, even in the face of death, he regained a bit more composure than this. For the sake of the others, he put on a brave face.
Steve places a hand on Eddie’s jaw in an attempt to get him to look up, but the man withdraws like he’s been slapped. He looks at Steve with that horrible, terrified expression, and Steve feels his heart shatter.
Steve shivers under the water and pulls his hand back, letting it fall to his side. “Talk to me,” he says instead.
Eddie takes a shaky breath, words coming out hoarse. “Mike…the water splashed me. Got—got on my tattoo.”
Steve nods, jaw setting. “Okay,” he says calmly. “Why does that make you anxious?”
Eddie steels him with a look that would kill him if it could. “Why the fuck wouldn’t it?” he snaps. “Your fucking—who knows when the last time your pool was cleaned, Steve—we’ve been in it all summer! A-and the kids were in it today, and I just got this fucking tattoo, and…and…” Eddie pauses, gasping for a breath. He looks like he’s about to pass out.
“Okay,” Steve says again. “Can I touch you?”
Eddie shakes his head. “I gotta…gotta wash it off.”
The water trickles warmly down Steve’s head, having heated up now. His swim trunks stick to him uncomfortably. “Is that safe, Eds? You were scrubbing it pretty hard, I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“S’ fuckin—it’s safer than getting an infection from your dirty fuckin’ pool!” Eddie shouts. He looks wild, eyes frantic and apologetic like he knows what he’s saying but can’t stop himself.
Eddie’s nails start to dig into his thigh, marking crescent shapes into the skin. He pushes so hard that Steve’s sure he’ll draw blood, flesh whitening around his fingers.
“Hey,” Steve says sternly. “None of that.” He moves to grab Eddie’s hand, but the man only pushes further away, now crowded against the opposite wall of the shower.
“Please,” he begs. “Don’t. It makes me feel better.”
Steve sighs. “I’m not gonna let you hurt yourself, Eds—”
“No!” Eddie interrupts. “It’s not—not like that. Just distracts me. I’m not trying to hurt myself. It’s not like that.”
Steve recalls the months he wore a rubber band around his wrist, snapping it against his skin every time he pictured Vecna’s wretched, wrinkled face. He remembers what he told Robin when she’d chastised him: “I’m not hurting myself, Robs, I promise. It’s just a distraction. Reminds me not to think about it.”
Instead of grabbing Eddie again, forcing him to stop, Steve says, “How about I clean it off for you? Please?”
Eddie makes a noise like he’s scared. “Don’t trust it. I don’t…your hands aren’t clean,” he explains.
“What if I wash them? Right here, while you watch. You can tell me when it feels right.”
Eddie trails his eyes up and down, from the showerhead to where the water drains below them. He considers it.
“Fine. I don’t know if it’ll work, though.”
Steve smiles, happy that Eddie trusts him enough to even attempt this. Steve’s been around for a few episodes, when the thoughts get really bad, but it’s never been like this.
He grabs the soap from the shower caddy, squirting an excessive amount into his palm. He rubs his hands together fiercely, letting the suds bubble up between his fingers and drip down to his feet.
Steve washes his hands like that, as though he was over a sink, for a straight minute. Eddie’s watching him intently as he does, eyes trained on his hands like he’s mesmerized.
After a little bit, Eddie whispers, “Okay. Again.”
Steve makes a noise of confusion, but rinses the soap off his hands under the stream of water and pours a dollop into his palm again.
He repeats the motion, waiting for Eddie’s approval. It comes after another minute or so, but rather than being met with a confirmation of finality, Eddie only repeats what he’d said prior. “Again.”
Steve realizes, as the soap splatters into his hand for a third time, what Eddie wants. The understanding brings his hands together harder, faster, as he washes them with a new comprehension.
He doesn’t wait for Eddie’s permission, the fourth time, and the act nearly draws a protest from the man. He closes his lips, however, as he watches Steve soap his hands up once more, then again, realizing without explanation exactly what it is that Eddie wants.
What Eddie needs.
The understanding brings tears to Eddie’s eyes, a stinging combination of humiliation and appreciation. He hates himself for this, despises the way his brain tells him he’s going to fucking die if he doesn’t scrub the impending infection off his skin. Like it’s a given, like it’s inevitable. Like the feeling of pool water splashing against his stomach was a death sentence.
When Steve’s hands are sudded for a sixth time, he doesn’t wash them off. He merely holds them up to Eddie, meeting his gaze in question. Eddie nods silently.
Carefully, Steve places his hands against Eddie’s sternum, just over the expanse of black ink. He softly rubs the skin there, dragging his hands down until they reach the bottom of the tattoo. Steve washes it gently, scrubbing with soft intention.
Eddie wants to cry. Wants to fucking scream, curse at God or whoever the fuck made him this way. Wants to get on his hand and knees and beg, pray, pledge his eternal being to whatever fucking deity can change him, make him normal, clear these intoxicating thoughts from his mind.
It’s so unfair, Eddie thinks as Steve reverently cleans his tattoo, that his life is like this. He has this beautiful boy in front of him, in the fucking shower with him, no less, and rather than thinking about all the wonderful, sinful things they could be doing, all he can focus on is the fact that he’s going to die. He’s going to get an infection, probably cellulitis or fucking MRSA, knowing his luck, and it’s gonna go to his bloodstream and he’s gonna go into septic shock and he’s the town killer, for fuck’s sake, no hospital is going to want to treat him and he’s gonna fucking die all because he wanted to get a stupid fucking sword tattoo. He just wanted to memorialize his time spent DMing for the Hellfire Club, wanted something to remember it by when he’s old and gray and can’t find the words anymore.
But now he’s gonna fucking die and it’s all Mike Wheeler’s fucking fault—
Wait.
Wait.
Steve’s…he’s still cleaning it. And he’s muttering, too, probably speaking at full volume but the voice in Eddie’s head is screaming, louder than the sound of water splashing against the tile, and he can barely make out the words.
Eddie strains slightly, willing that terrifying train of thought to halt, just for a second, so he can listen.
“... Fine,” he hears. “You’re gonna be fine, Eds, I promise, just trust me.”
Eddie’s heart stops in his chest.
“Gonna be okay, baby. You hear me? You’re gonna be okay,” Steve continues, eyeing his stomach carefully as he gently scrubs the skin. “I’m washing it, you came in so soon after getting splashed. My pool’s not even that dirty, anyways,” he jokes lightly.
Eddie watches him, studying his every move, brain willing him to find something wrong with the picture. He notices, with distinguished surprise, that he can’t.
Steve cleans his hands off, cupping water in his palms and splashing it gently against Eddie’s stomach. It tickles, just slightly, and Eddie lets out a breathy sigh.
That gnawing feeling still chews at his bones, taunting him with repulsive illusions. Eddie pictures, with vivid intensity, reddened skin, sizzled down to the muscle, chunks of pus and blood clots replacing the space where flesh and ink should be. He imagines himself comatose in a hospital, tubes shoved down his throat and in his stomach, hefty machines working to keep him alive.
For the first time, though, he sees Steve there. Holding his hand, whispering devout ministrations into the sterile air. In this picture he’s painted, Steve looks at him, looks at the ghastly site where his stomach should be, and doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t leave. Just holds him tighter, kisses his palm, and stays.
For a moment, Eddie feels okay.
“Thank you,” he says suddenly, because it’s the only thing he can think of.
Steve smiles at him, brushing a hand over his tattoo one last time, ensuring all the suds are cleared from his skin. “Don’t mention it.”
His tone is playful, eyes shining with mirth and caution. They stay like that for a moment, before Steve asks again: “Can I touch you?”
This time, Eddie nods. Steve goes to hug him before pausing, nodding his head slightly as he grasps Eddie’s arms and turns him around. He pulls Eddie in, then, back pressing against Steve’s chest as they stand under the warm spray of the shower.
Steve’s arms wrap around Eddie, holding his own over his chest. The feeling is grounding. Steve breathes slowly, deeply, against Eddie’s back, and it urges him to do the same.
Time passes around them. Eddie’s too caught up in the rise and fall of Steve’s chest against him, the inhale and exhale of his own lungs, to notice.
After a while, Steve squeezes him slightly. “How’re you feeling?” he whispers.
His breath tickles Eddie’s ear, alerting him to their proximity. A beat passes before he speaks.
“I’m…okay, I guess. I still feel…” The words escape him.
“Yeah,” Steve answers for him. “I get it. It’s okay.”
Another minute or so passes before Steve speaks again. “D’ya think you’re ready to get out? You’re pruning up on me,” he jokes.
Eddie laughs for the first time in what feels like forever. “Yeah,” he says, slightly breathless. “Yeah.”
Steve hums against him and releases him to twist the knob, shutting the stream off. Eddie shivers almost immediately, both from the chill in the air and from the anxiety still wringing his nerves out.
When they get out, Steve realizes that there’s only one towel in the bathroom. He wraps it around Eddie, who protests, insisting that Steve’s the one who should have it.
“Don’t be silly,” Steve says as he bundles Eddie in the towel. It’s thick and warm, large enough to wrap around his whole body. It kind of feels like heaven. “I’ll go grab another one—or, would you rather me stay? I can stay with you,” he offers.
Eddie shakes his head, feeling surprisingly confident in his answer. “No, I’ll be okay. Just…come back? Please?”
Steve looks at him. “Of course, Eddie. ‘M not just gonna leave you here.”
As he goes to open the door, Eddie stops him with a halted noise. Steve looks at him expectantly.
“Just…” he starts, trying to find the words. “Thank you, Steve.”
Steve smiles, gives him a shy nod, and shuts the door behind him.
He makes his way back outside, wringing his hands together as he comes up with an excuse to tell everyone. “Eddie got sick,” he’ll say. “Throwing up nonstop.”
He’s expecting to be met with concerned stares, with annoyed resistance when he tells them they’re gonna have to pack up and leave early.
What Steve’s not expecting, however, is for everyone to be out of the pool, for the backyard to be nearly spotless, and for the gang to be waiting for him in the living room.
“I—” Steve starts, stopping in his tracks at the sight of his friends sitting on the couch waiting for him.
“It’s okay, Steve,” Robin starts, leveling him with a mind-reading look. “I told them Eddie wasn’t feeling well, and that it’d be best if we left early.”
Steve wants to fucking kiss her. Of course, he won’t, but—it’s the point that counts.
But he’s definitely going to be covering her shifts in the near future. As many as she wants. That girl’s never gonna have to work another day in her life.
“Yeah,” Dustin chimes in. “Robin told us about how getting a tattoo can make you more susceptible to sun poisoning.” Steve watches dumbly as Lucas and Will nod their heads in agreement.
It takes him a second to catch up, meeting Robin’s eyes with the most appreciative stare he can manage. She just nods her head, lips curled upwards in a slight smile.
“Yeah,” Steve says, mimicking Dustin’s sentiment. “Yeah, he’s just—he’s really sick in there. Probably gonna be taking care of him all night.” He rubs a hand at the back of his neck, realizing abruptly that he’s soaking wet.
The kids, bless them to fucking heaven, don’t mention it.
“You guys, uh, you gonna get home okay?” Steve asks tentatively. “I don’t think I should leave him alone, dude’s been throwing up nonstop.”
Jonathan chimes in. “Yeah, we can drive them. Don’t worry about it, man.” He’s looking at Steve with a hint of understanding, and Steve vaguely wonders if he knows more than he lets on, or if he’s just that nice.
Steve looks around the room, overwhelmed with gratitude for his amazing fucking friends. “Thanks, guys. Really. You’re the best.” He means it.
Nancy claps her hands like a schoolteacher, chuckling as the teens groan in unison. “Yeah yeah. Come on, we’ll continue the party at my place. You’ll be back at the Harrington manor before you know it.”
They all file out of the house rather quickly, Robin hanging behind and asking Nancy to wait for her in the car. She squeezes her hand in a way that Steve’s definitely going to ask her about later.
When the door shuts, Steve turns to Robin, embracing her in a wet hug. “Thank you,” he mumbles into her shoulder. “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much. I fucking love you.” He plants a kiss on her shoulder, and she dramatically pushes him off.
“Oh god, dingus, I don’t wanna get your gay cooties!” she shrieks, mirth lining her tone.
“Please.” Steve rolls his eyes. “You’re the one that gave them to me in the first place.”
They giggle over their banter before Robin grabs his hand and squeezes it once.
“Just take care of him, yeah? Whatever it is, Steve, he trusts you the most. You gotta know that.”
Steve just looks at her, eyes glassy, and nods. She pats him on the cheek and makes her way out of the house, leaving Steve dripping wet in the foyer.
He grabs a towel from the linen closet and wraps it around his waist. Steadying himself, he makes his way back to the bathroom, rapping his knuckles on the door before entering.
“You okay if I come in, Eds?”
Steve hears a quiet hum and takes that as a yes.
He opens the door and sees Eddie sitting on the toilet, towel wrapped securely around his form, huddled into himself. He’s shaking, still, and his lips are moving in ceaseless repetition.
Eddie’s bare foot taps against the tile, making this little slapping noise. Steve counts one, two, three, four, five… one, two, three, four, five… over and over again.
“Hey,” Steve starts, and he swears that’s going to become his catchphrase. “Why don’t we go upstairs?”
He reaches out a hand to Eddie, steady in the face of his trembling. Eddie looks up at him, eyes wet with tears, and slowly moves to take it.
—
When they’re dry, clothed, and breathing a bit easier, Steve flits through his room in search of something specific. Eddie sits on his bed, a rolling tray perched precariously on his lap. His brows are pinched with determination, and Steve feels his shoulders sag at the notion that, for at least a minute, he’s not distracted by whatever thoughts usually plague him.
Steve lets out a little aha when he finds what he was looking for, sauntering to his record player and setting it down carefully. The harsh chords of “Where Eagles Dare” fill the room, immediately drawing Eddie’s attention.
“Iron Maiden?” he asks in disbelief. “My my, I didn’t know you were such a rebellious one, Stevie.” He grins as he licks the joint, sealing the paper over itself.
Steve smiles, mostly to himself. “I know it’s your favorite, so…”
Eddie places a hand over his heart, falling on the mattress in a dramatic heap. “A man after my own heart,” he sing-songs.
Steve just rolls his eyes, lips still curled up warmly. He walks over to the bed and takes the tray off Eddie’s lap, placing it safely on the floor. He plops down next to the man, who seems to be hiding his anxiety well. Steve knows him better than that.
Eddie brings the joint to his lips, lighting the end of it and sucking hard. He always starts them off, ever since Steve tried and ended up in a coughing fit that wracked his lungs for hours.
Steve understands, then, that Robin was right. He doesn’t just take care of Eddie, they take care of each other. Look out for each other.
When Steve gets migraines, Eddie comes over with chicken soup from that one store across town because it’s the only thing he can keep down. He places an ice pack over Steve’s head, tucks him into bed and sits next to him. Shuts the blinds, turns off all the lights in the house, and traces soothing circles on his temples, trying his best to lull the pain right out of him.
When Steve wakes up in the middle of the night, sweaty and shaky and swearing that he was right there, Eddie, he was right fucking there—Eddie just shushes him gently, wraps him in his arms and takes deep breaths, guides him to do the same.
Eddie’s always there, Steve realizes. He’s always there and goddamnit, Steve wants him to be.
“Can we…talk about it?” Steve asks hesitantly, reaching for the joint between Eddie’s fingers. He lets him have it, watches as he brings it to his mouth and inhales.
Eddie laughs quietly, looking down at his pants. Steve’s pants, really: Eddie couldn’t bring himself to put his dirty clothes back on and, honestly, he’s much more comfortable in Steve’s anyway. “We probably should, huh?”
“We don’t have to,” Steve says quickly. “I just…I think it’d be good. If you told me what you were feeling. I want to understand.”
Eddie looks at him then, appreciation shining in his pupils. He’s quiet for a moment, then; “No one’s ever said that to me before.”
Steve wants to sob.
He places the joint between Eddie’s lips, freeing his hands so they can cup his cheeks. “Eddie,” he says, forcing the man to look at him. “I don’t know why you were dealt the cards you were, I don’t know why no one’s ever shown you the respect you deserve, but I promise, for as long as I live, I will do my best to make that up to you. I want to understand you, Eds. I want to help, as best as I can.”
Eddie’s eyes fill with tears, clouding his vision as he attempts to blink them away. He looks at Steve, looks between his eyes, at his nose, his mouth. He takes the joint out from between his teeth, holding it between two fingers, before saying, “Thank you.”
It’s not much, but to Steve—it’s everything.
He tightens his hands around Eddie’s cheeks before pulling them away, moving to sit back against the pillows. His shoulder brushes against Eddie’s, skin warm and soft after a day in the sun.
“Talk to me,” he urges gently.
Eddie sighs, shoulder moving against Steve’s. He opens his mouth, begins to speak, then stops himself. Takes a deep breath, steadying.
“It’s been getting worse lately,” he starts, fidgeting with the joint. He ashes it, tapping the glowing embers against the tin a few times.
Steve nods for him to continue, knocking their knees together.
“I know you’ve noticed. I don’t know why, it’s—some times are worse than others, I guess.”
He’s silent for a moment, the record playing softly in the background.
“I quit therapy.” Eddie says finally, handing the joint back to Steve, who brings it to his lips. Eddie plays with a loose thread on the sweatpants, trying to stuff it back into the fabric. He gives up with a sigh.
“Why?” Steve asks.
Eddie looks down, then. A blush tints his cheeks. “Can’t afford it anymore,” he admits. “They, uh, increased rent at the park. Had to stop going so I could use the money to help Wayne.”
Steve nods. “How long’s it been?”
“Three months.”
Steve flicks loose ash off the joint, humming in understanding. That makes sense, then, why he only started noticing it a little while ago.
“What do you do? To help it?”
Eddie laughs a little, plucking the roach from Steve’s fingers. He takes a long drag, tilting his head back as smoke billows from his lips. “Nothing,” he says, voice raspy. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“I don’t believe that,” Steve says, and it’s risky, really, disagreeing with him. He doesn’t want to cross a boundary, make Eddie feel like anything about this, about him, is wrong.
“Yeah?” Eddie asks, a little defensively. “What makes you think that?”
Steve never planned on telling Eddie, but he blurts it out before he can help himself. Blames it on the weed. “I did some research, at the library—” he stops himself, closing his eyes as he realizes what he said.
“What?” Eddie says suddenly, leaning forward. “You—what?” Eddie’s bottom lip wobbles, eyes filling with tears.
Steve resigns himself, deciding to lean into the honesty. “Yeah. When you first told me. I didn’t like not understanding. I wanted to know what it was so I could…I don’t know. Be better for you. Help you.”
Maybe it’s the weed making him emotional, or maybe it’s the remnants of the panic attack that wracked his body only an hour earlier. But Eddie looks at Steve, sees the care and adoration in his eyes, and begins to cry.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve coos as Eddie crumbles into him, wrapping his arm around the man’s frame. He takes the roach from his hands, setting it down in the ashtray, before placing a warm palm on the back of Eddie’s head.
Eddie sobs, voice catching in his throat as he takes shaky breaths. His shoulders heave, body racking in a manner so intense it’s almost violent. Steve just rubs his hand up and down the length of his back, calming fingers catching on the notches of his spine.
“It’s okay, baby, Eds. You’re okay. I’m here,” he reassures.
Steve’s never seen him like this before. It makes his chest ache, dread sinking deep into his bones as he watches Eddie, this beautiful, otherworldly creature, fall apart in his arms. He wants to scream, wants to grab glue or tape or whatever he can find and put Eddie back together piece by piece, making sure everything is in the right place. Whatever Eddie wants, whatever he needs, Steve will do it.
Instead, he soothes a hand down his back, stroking sweetly. He tangles his fingers in his curls, scratching Eddie’s scalp the way he knows he likes, whispering reverent words into the air.
Steve lets Eddie cry, lets him scream, lets that monster that takes root in his body crawl out, staining his throat black with its departure. Lets him bang his fists into the bed, wish himself out of existence. Lets him do whatever he needs to get through this moment.
“You’re gonna get through this,” Steve says. “I’m here now, Eds, and I’m not leaving. Ever, okay? You have me. We’re gonna get through this together,” he promises.
After a few minutes, Eddie’s breathing slows. His chest rises dramatically with a renewed inhale, willing his body to calm down. Steve just pets his head, rubs his fingers along his scalp, puts as much love into the touch as he can.
“M’ sorry,” is what Eddie says first.
Steve’s stomach twists.
“No,” he says. “No, Eds, you—you have nothing to be sorry for, okay? You did nothing wrong. This—” Steve starts, moving his hands as Eddie sits up, wiping his cheeks harshly. “This isn’t your fault, sweetheart. It’s okay to cry. Always,” he stresses.
The whites of Eddie’s eyes are stained pink, half-lidded from a wicked combination of weed, exhaustion, and tears. He looks at Steve, though, and he can’t help but be proud of that fact.
“I just…” Eddie starts. “I d-don’t understand. Why you care so much. Why you’re still—still here.”
Steve presses a warm hand to Eddie’s cheek, the skin flushed. “I told you,” he whispers. “You have me. When I say that…” he pauses. “I mean it.”
Eddie looks at Steve, then, searching his eyes for something he can’t quite name. He releases a long, breathy sigh, shoulders sagging with fatigue. “I don’t get it,” he admits. “But I believe you.”
Steve smiles, patting his cheek gently. “Good enough for me.”
—
They fall asleep shortly after that, achy and exhausted from the turbulent day. The weed lulls them into a dreamy sleep, floating in that liminal headspace where planes of existence collide and become one.
Steve wakes up first, smiling as he realizes they haven’t moved from the position they fell asleep in—Eddie’s head on his chest, his arms wrapped around the boy. Eddie snores softly in his sleep, breathy exhales lifting his bangs off his head.
He lets Eddie sleep, rolling gently onto his back so he can stare at his ceiling. The record stopped playing some time ago, disc still where it sits in the player. Sun streaks lightly along the sheets, staining the bed in its golden hue. It filters over Eddie’s face just slightly, and Steve thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Some time passes, Steve just quietly running the tips of his fingers up and down Eddie’s bare arm, before the man stirs quietly and opens his eyes. He lifts his head up, chin resting on Steve’s chest, and gazes sleepily at him.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Steve whispers.
Eddie grumbles in response. “Wh’ time is it?” he questions.
“Not sure. Sun’s just rising, see?”
Eddie looks out the window, his eyes shining in the warm glow of the sunrise. He makes a noise of recognition before placing his head back down.
“ Jesus,” he murmurs. “I feel like shit.”
Steve frowns slightly, squeezing his arm. “I’m not surprised.” A pause. “Let me make you some food?”
Eddie nods, and Steve can feel the inkling of a smile against his chest.
—
An hour and a stack of pancakes later, they’re lounging on the couch, some romance movie playing on the TV. Two mugs of coffee sit on the table in front of them, the rich, bold scent filling the air. Steve hands Eddie his when it’s cooled off slightly.
“Thanks,” Eddie says, kicking his feet onto Steve’s lap. Steve settles a hand on his ankle, bringing his own drink to his mouth and taking a few sips.
They watch the movie in a comfortable silence, making a few comments here and there about whatever piques their interest. They don’t speak more than a few words, though, until Eddie laughs at the scene where the two main characters finally kiss.
“What’s so funny?” Steve asks inquisitively.
Eddie looks at Steve briefly, setting his cup on the table before speaking. “You probably wouldn’t get it,” he says.
Steve nudges Eddie’s foot with his knuckle. “Try me.”
Eddie smiles, turning to meet Steve’s eyes. “These movies…” he starts, fidgeting slightly. He settles with his back to the armrest of the couch, fully facing Steve. “They’re always so perfect.”
“And that bothers you…why?” Steve jokes, softly placing a hand over Eddie’s forearm.
Eddie rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. “Easy, soldier.”
He continues. “It’s just…they’re wholly unrealistic. The main character, they’re always going through some shit, something drastic that just—changes their life. They’re lost, and they don’t know what to do, and then all of the sudden they meet this guy and have this perfect first kiss and it just…like, fuckin’—fixes everything.” He pauses.
“Why’s that a problem?” Steve asks. “They’re rom-coms, they’re not meant to be realistic.”
Eddie sits up slightly, enthusiasm coloring his features. “That’s the thing, though. They never say that they’re not realistic. You grow up watching these and you think that’s just how life is. Or…” he takes a breath. “At least, I did.”
Steve hums.
Eddie takes his legs off Steve’s lap, tucks them under his body, scoots closer to him. Steve’s hand follows, settling on Eddie’s thigh, squeezing gently. “I always…I thought that’s how this stuff was supposed to go. My life would be shit, I’d run into whoever, we’d have this perfect first kiss and…all my problems would go away, or whatever.” He brushes the notion off with a wave of his hand. “I just wanted it to be perfect, like the movies.”
“Was it?” Steve asks, curiosity lighting his eyes.
Eddie chuckles again, self-deprecating. “I wouldn’t know,” he answers honestly, placing his own hand on top of Steve’s. “Haven’t had it yet. I was always too scared to try. I—I needed it to be perfect. Thought I’d ruin my chances if it wasn’t.”
Steve makes a noise in the back of his throat, gazing at Eddie thoughtfully. He scoots closer, slightly, so his bent knee presses against Eddie’s thigh. The touch makes him look up.
It’s quiet for a moment, the two just staring, a breath away from each other. They search each other’s eyes, looking for something they can’t quite name. Trying to find it in the other, hoping the answer will come to them.
“I think,” Steve says, breaking the thick silence. Eddie can feel the words against his face, warm puffs of air. “It’s not about the moment. There’s never going to be a perfect time for anything.” He pauses, glancing at Eddie. “I know, I know. I just think…with the right person, every kiss is perfect, you know? Doesn’t matter how it happens. Just matters who it’s with.”
Eddie swallows, heart pounding in his ears. His eyes flick down to Steve’s lips. “Was…was yours?” he questions.
Steve looks at him, meeting his eyes. “Not yet.”
They’ve gotten closer to each other throughout the conversation, barely an inch apart now. Steve’s hand tightens on Eddie’s thigh, leaning into his space. Eddie’s mouth opens as he inhales.
Steve watches him intently, noting every hitch in his breath, the way his cheeks tint pink. He looks at Eddie’s lips, leans in slightly before he can help himself, and stops.
He meets Eddie’s eyes again; a question.
“Please,” Eddie whispers, and Steve kisses him.
Their lips are soft as they press together for the first time. It’s a sweet, slow kiss. Traversing new ground, an exploration. A breath of fresh air after drowning for months.
They pant into each other’s mouths, breathless with the intensity of their affection. Steve grasps Eddie’s cheek, holding him delicately, like he’s precious, breakable. His other hand finds its way to the back of Eddie’s neck, gently touching the scars there.
Eddie leans into the kiss, jaw working as he moves his lips against Steve’s. His skin floods with warmth, a comforting fire that spreads along every nerve in his body. It feels safe, Eddie notes. It feels like home.
Steve smiles against his lips, can’t help it, and Eddie does the same. Their teeth clank together but they don’t break apart, can’t imagine taking a breath that didn’t come from the other boy’s lungs.
“Baby,” Steve whispers against Eddie’s mouth. “Been wanting to do this for so long.” He says it quietly, this hidden confession that finds its home in Eddie’s ears.
“Me too,” Eddie responds immediately, like an instinct. “So fucking long, Stevie, you have no idea.”
Eddie’s hands find Steve’s waist, tracing delicately along the scars that mar his skin. He slips his fingers underneath Steve’s t-shirt, soft cotton laying over the backs of his hands. Steve’s warm, flooding his palms with this captivating heat, and Eddie thinks he could die here and be okay with it.
Steve shifts onto Eddie’s lap, nestling in like he belongs there. His knees bracket Eddie’s hips, holding him there, keeping him still and steady as he deepens the kiss. It’s comforting, the way Steve grounds him. These assured motions that make Eddie feel like he can breathe for the first time in his life.
They kiss for what feels like hours, just feeling each other, time suspended in the air as they revel in this spiritual experience. An expedition of anatomy, new yet familiar at the same time. It’s always been Eddie and Steve, the moon and the sun, tied together in cosmic permanence.
Steve pulls away first, chest heaving as he gasps for air. Eddie looks at him with glistening eyes, and Steve feels like he has to fucking squint , they’re so bright. He runs his hands over Steve’s chest, smoothing out his shirt, feeling the muscles ripple under his fingers.
“Can I…” Eddie starts, eyes drifting to the floor. Steve hooks a gentle finger under his chin and pulls, just slightly, forcing Eddie to look at him. “I’m in love with you, Stevie,” he says after a moment, and it’s the first time in a long time that he’s felt so sure of something. That, Steve notices, he’s looked so sure of something.
Steve’s body feels light, suddenly, this serene wave of ecstasy washing over him. He meets Eddie’s eyes, his own filling with tears, and Steve swears he’s never felt like this before. Like the universe opened itself up just for the two of them, suspended in euphoric bliss, allowing them to live in this timeless moment.
“Eds…” Steve whispers, every nerve in his body tingling with the intensity of the revelation, “I love you. I love you so much, oh my god, so mu—” His words are muffled as he buries his face in Eddie’s neck, tears wetting the skin as he mouths incoherently against it. “Love you, love you, I’m so in love with you, Eddie, have been for so long—”
“So long,” Eddie mimics, hoping the sincerity in his voice is clear. “So fucking long, baby.”
Steve kisses him again, can’t help it—he feels like he needs to dedicate his entire being to kissing this beautiful boy, can’t imagine doing anything else. With the way Eddie’s kissing him back, lips wet with tears and spit, he figures the sentiment is shared.
When Eddie finally pulls away, minutes or hours later, he gasps for air and tightens his hands around Steve’s waist, drawing him in. He realizes, as Steve falls on top of him, that he was right.
This wasn’t the perfect kiss, not in the way Eddie had imagined it would be.
The setting was unplanned, their tongues tasted like pancakes and coffee, they smelled like the sun and sweat—but it didn’t matter.
It was perfect, because Steve is perfect.
—
When they finally fall asleep that night, tangled up in each other like roots of a tree, lips kissed red, Eddie sleeps better than he has in a year.
—
A week later, Eddie’s speeding into his boyfriend’s driveway and ringing the doorbell incessantly. Steve comes running downstairs, a worried look on his face as he flings open the door.
As soon as he does, Eddie’s throwing his arms around him and crying softly into his shoulder. Before Steve can ask what’s wrong, Eddie speaks.
“My therapist just called,” he starts, sniffling. “She—she said someone paid for a year’s worth of sessions.”
Steve smiles then, mimicking the brightness of the sun. “Oh, sweetheart, that’s amazing. I’m so happy for you, baby,” he says, pretending like he has no idea what Eddie’s talking about.
Eddie pulls away, pressing wet kisses all over Steve’s face. “Thank you,” he murmurs. He repeats the sentiment against Steve’s lips as he kisses him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Steve just grins, kissing his baby back. “Don’t have to say that,” he says. “It’s the least I can do.”
Eddie stares at him like he hung the moon, pulling him in for yet another crushing embrace.
Steve realizes, with a flutter of pride, that Eddie only thanked him four times.
It’s more than enough.