Chapter Text
Steve grabbed the car keys from his desk and swung his jacket off the back of his chair. He was planning to head out to Family Video to return a few videos. The evening air was cooling outside, the sky fading to a dim purple, and it should have been a simple, ordinary errand.
He grabbed the two video cassettes from the top of his VCR and shut his bedroom door behind him. He checked his watch as he went down the stairs. It was nearly 7:30. He had plenty of time before the store closed. He might even rent another movie.
As he passed the kitchen on his way to the front door, Randall stepped out, a photo clutched in his hands. His face was red, veins straining, eyes wild.
“What in the hell is this? You brought this filth into MY house?!” Randall barked, voice sharp, full of fury.
Steve froze, the jacket draped over his arm, keys tight in his hand, every muscle stiff, his stomach twisting into knots. His pulse thudded painfully in his ears, and a cold sweat prickled at the back of his neck.
“What…” he choked, words catching in his throat as if the air itself had thickened around him.
“This disgusting dirty queer! You think I don’t know who he is? You think I’m stupid?!”
“No,” Steve said quickly, voice low, rough with tension, almost swallowed by the oppressive weight of his father’s fury. His hands clenched the keys so tightly that his knuckles ached, nails pressing into his palms.
“Don't you lie to me! I mean it, Steven! Don’t you dare bring that disgusting queer freak around here again! If I catch you with that no-good trash, I swear I’ll straighten you out myself. You think the neighbors don't talk? You think you can fuck around with my name and my reputation? I’ll knock some sense into your thick skull with my own hands if I have to, boy!”
Randall shook the photo violently, edges bending under his grip, then tossed it to the floor. Steve’s eyes darted down at it—himself and Dustin laughing, Eddie mid-laugh, Erica making a face in the background. A great picture. One of Steve's favorites. Without thinking, Steve snatched it up and tucked it into his jacket, heart hammering, hands trembling.
His fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms, white-knuckled and trembling. His father’s rage wasn’t just noise—it pressed against him, sharp and jagged, a tangible weight that made his chest tighten and his stomach churn. Every word hung in the air like a blade. A threat. A promise. One he believed all too easily, the memory of Randall’s glare still burning behind his eyes.
And it was all because of Eddie—because Steve had been seen with him, laughing in that stupid, perfect Polaroid. That alone made Eddie a target in his father’s eyes. Steve’s chest twisted with a mix of anger and helpless fear, leaving him reeling.
The hallway felt too tight, walls pressing in as Steve’s steps echoed under the weight of his father’s fury. He was already moving toward the front door when Randall’s voice cut through like ice:
“And if you won’t listen, that little delinquent freak won’t even be recognizable when I’m finished! His own uncle will need dental records just to identify him!”
Steve froze mid-step. The words stopped him cold, a chill running straight through his bones. His stomach twisted, his heart hammering in his chest.
“I’ll leave marks so deep he’ll never dare show his face in this town again. Trailer trash like him isn’t fit to breathe the same air as a Harrington. I’ll break him, I’ll crush him, and I’ll make sure he—and you—never forget exactly who’s in charge here!”
Steve didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Not without screaming, not without losing himself completely.
He stormed down the hallway, yanking open the front door and slamming it behind him with all the force he could muster. The cool night air hit him, biting against his skin, but it did nothing to calm the storm raging in his chest.
His maroon BMW waited like a lifeline. He threw himself inside, tossed the two videos onto the passenger seat, slammed the door shut, and fumbled with the ignition, hands trembling from a mixture of fear, rage, and the gnawing terror for Eddie.
His fists clenched so tight his nails dug into the steering wheel. His dad’s anger was heavy, sharp-edged, personal. A threat. A promise. One Steve believed all too easily.
Because in his father’s world, Eddie was everything vile—queer, delinquent, trailer trash. A stain on the Harrington name. An embarrassment. The kind of person you avoided, looked down on, kicked aside like garbage. Not someone you laughed with. Not someone you trusted. Not someone you cared about.
Steve shook his head, a bitter, humorless laugh catching in his throat. His father didn’t even know Eddie. Didn’t know his sarcasm, his loyalty, his laugh that cracked through tension like a match strike. He didn’t know that Eddie Munson had more integrity in one bitten fingernail than Randall Harrington had in his whole goddamn body.
He peeled out of the driveway, hands still shaking. The tires screamed against the concrete as he took the turn too hard, the sound echoing too loud in the closed car. The heater hadn’t had time to kick in yet; the cold clung to him, seeping through his jacket and settling in his bones.
Steve hunched forward over the wheel, breath coming fast, fogging the inside of the windshield in short bursts. His grip tightened until his wrists ached, knuckles white, arms rigid like if he loosened even a fraction he might lose control completely.
The road unspooled beneath him, streetlights ticking by in a dull, steady rhythm. Steve barely registered the turns; his hands knew the way on their own. Forest Hills. Left at the light. Past the gas station. Straight until the pavement thinned and the houses gave way.
His thoughts felt distant, muffled, like they were happening to someone else. He stared through the windshield, jaw tight, shoulders hunched inside his jacket, breathing shallow and controlled. Every now and then his fingers flexed against the wheel, a silent check that he was still there, still moving.
The cold crept through the car despite the heater finally humming to life, but he didn’t adjust it. Didn’t notice. All his focus narrowed to the road ahead, to the simple, mechanical truth of getting from here to there.
The headlights caught the tilted sign for Forest Hills Trailer Park, its paint flaking under a weak street lamp. Steve turned in without thinking, tires crunching over gravel, heart still hammering. He knew where to go. Knew where it felt safe.
He pulled into the familiar spot in the front of the trailer and cut the engine. The light in Eddie’s window was on.
Steve showed more consideration to his beautiful car this time, letting the door close softly after he climbed out of the bimmer.
He climbed the steps and knocked hard, sharp and quick.
After a moment, the door opened. Eddie blinked at him, sleepy-eyed and practically shirtless, an unbuttoned flannel slung loosely around his body. But his wary expression shifted in an instant—he read Steve like a storm rolling in.
“You alright?” he asked, rumbly voice low and even.
Steve didn’t answer. He just shoved the Polaroid into Eddie’s hands. The one from last week. Steve and Dustin laughing at some joke someone told, Eddie frozen mid-laugh as well, Erica pulling a goofy face behind them—a single, chaotic slice of real life.
Steve raked a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as if the motion could somehow scrub the tension from his mind. “My parents are back in town. Dad saw this. Things got ugly…to say the very least.” His voice was low, edged with frustration and a tight, anxious undertone, and his eyes darted toward the floor, half-expecting another explosion to follow.
Eddie stared down at the photo, holding it as if it were fragile, curling his fingers around the edges protectively. His jaw tightened, lips pressing together, and the crease of worry flickered in his brow, betraying the weight of the moment.
“Uh-oh,” he said finally, flat and grim. He lifted his head from the picture and looked at Steve. The other boy looked like he was about to implode or explode but he couldn't decide which was easier. “I'll ask you again. You okay?”
Steve shook his head, mouth set in a flat line, eyes dark and restless, flicking to the floor and back again as if trying to contain the storm inside. His hands hung limply at his sides, trembling slightly, and the tension in his shoulders made it clear he was barely holding himself together. The weight of everything he’d just endured pressed down on him, and even in Eddie’s safe space, the fear and anger lingered like smoke in his chest.
“He flipped out and screamed in my face for 5 whole minutes about upholding the sterling Harrington name.”
Eddie’s jaw shifted, tight and deliberate, a faint clench that betrayed his own tension. Something hard flared behind his eyes—an edge of anger, disbelief, and a touch of weariness from dealing with people like Steve’s dad. “Classic,” he muttered, the word bitter in his mouth like ash, tasting of frustration and resigned familiarity. He shook his head slightly, a subtle exhale that seemed to carry the weight of all the nonsense he’d endured. “Sorry.”
Steve’s voice dropped to a harsh, cracking rasp. “Hey, I’m pissed, but not at you. At him. He doesn’t even know you, Eddie. Never met you, never had a damn conversation. But he just—he looked at that photo and decided you were trash. Like I’m supposed to feel ashamed for being your friend. For even being seen with you.”
He turned away, pacing the small entryway like a caged thing. His Reeboks squeaked softly against the worn carpet, the sound sharp in the quiet trailer. His shoulders were tense, hunched forward as if trying to make himself smaller against the invisible weight pressing down on him. Fingers flexed and clenched at his sides, jaw tight, and every inhale came sharp and shallow, like he was trying to hold back a storm that threatened to spill over.
“I swear to God, he looked at that Polaroid and saw a problem that needed to be fixed. Like me being around you is going to ruin his goddamn reputation. Some of the stuff he said...”
Steve closed his eyes, fists clenched, jaw tight. He was shaking, his shoulders jerking slightly with each uneven breath. Eddie saw it—the tremor running through him, the way his knuckles stood out sharp and white, the faint hitch in his chest as if each heartbeat carried a jolt of panic and anger all at once.
“If I don’t listen to him, he’s going to come after you. He said he’d teach you a lesson—about where you belong and where you don’t. He said he’d leave marks… scars. He said he would hurt you. And I don’t think he was bluffing. I came here to get away from him and to tell you… to be careful. To stay away from him. My dad is—”
Steve’s voice cracked, a raw mix of anger and panic. His chest heaved, shoulders trembling with the force of it, and for a moment his eyes glistened with unshed tears that threatened to spill. His hands shook at his sides, fingers curling into fists, knuckles blanching with the strain. Eddie held the Polaroid between them, the glossy surface catching the dim light, its image of laughter now weighted with dread. Each word Steve spoke carried the weight of the terror he felt for Eddie—his pulse hammering in his ears, stomach twisting into knots, throat tight and dry. He could barely draw a full breath, caught between the boiling rage at his father and the sharp, icy fear for the boy in front of him, whose life he felt had been threatened without mercy.
Eddie stepped aside and motioned toward the hallway. “Hey, come on back,” he said softly. His voice was low, calm, almost a tether in the storm of Steve’s emotions. “Let’s go to my room.”
Steve followed, every step heavy, lungs burning, sweat prickling along the back of his neck. His heart thundered in his chest, and he found himself glancing nervously over his shoulder as if his father’s shadow could somehow reach them here. Each heartbeat hammered with guilt, fear, and frustration, a fierce mixture that left him raw and trembling.
The trailer was quiet—Wayne’s truck wasn’t out front, the gravel crunch of tires absent, leaving only the soft hum of the night and distant cicadas. Eddie’s room, tucked all the way in the back, felt like a hidden sanctuary. The air was warm and dim, a soft golden light spilling from a small lamp, carrying the faint scent of incense mingled with clean laundry. It was safe, fragile in its stillness, a sharp contrast to the storm of emotions Steve had just carried through the night.
Eddie moved with familiar ease, opening a drawer and pulling out a little tin and a pack of papers. He sat cross-legged on the bed, hands working automatically as he rolled a joint, the soft crinkle of paper and the faint rustle of tobacco filling the room.
He didn’t speak immediately. His eyes flicked to Steve briefly, registering the tension radiating off him, but he stayed silent, letting the quiet stretch.
Steve, meanwhile, stood near the wall, muscles taut, every nerve on edge. He could feel his pulse in his throat, the heat of his fear and anger settling like a weight across his shoulders. Eddie didn’t say anything, didn’t move to intervene. He just let Steve burn with his silent rage and fear, letting the young Harrington face the weight of what he’d left behind and the danger he carried with him.
“He makes me feel like I’m so small, you know?” he said finally. “Like I’m just some broken version of the son he wanted. Every word out of his mouth, it’s like he’s trying to grind me down until I hate everything I care about.” Steve shoved a hand through his dark hair, looking tired.
Eddie looked up, calm but sharp-eyed, as if he could see right through the storm churning inside Steve. His gaze was steady, assessing, unflinching—a quiet anchor in the chaos of Steve’s thoughts. “That’s what people like him do,” he said. “Guys like your old man—they can’t control what scares them, so they crush it instead.”
He licked the edge of the paper, the faintest glint of moisture catching the dim light, and folded it carefully. The soft snap of the seal sounded louder than it should have in the tense quiet of the room. Then, with a practiced flick of his lighter, he ignited the joint, the tip glowing a bright ember that cast tiny shadows across his face. Smoke curled lazily upward, drifting in the warm, incense-scented air. He held it out to Steve, fingers steady, eyes still locked on him, the gesture both casual and charged with a subtle, unspoken reassurance.
Steve stared at it for a second before reaching out, their fingers brushing as he took it from Eddie. The smoke coiled upward between them, drifting in the dim, warm light of the room. Steve lifted it to his lips and drew in a long, slow drag, holding it just long enough to feel the ember’s burn spread through his chest—a burn that settled deep and steady, unlike the sharp, panicked ache his father’s words had left behind. It was a different kind of fire. Less destructive, more grounding, though it prickled at his nerves in unfamiliar ways.
“I hate him,” Steve whispered, voice rough and small, almost swallowed by the quiet. “I hate that he gets to decide what’s worth something. Who’s worth something. He makes me feel worthless, like I'm…like I'm nothing.” His shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of every threat, every cruel word pressing down, and his hands fidgeted with the edge of the Polaroid in his lap.
Eddie leaned back, legs stretched out, one hand braced behind him for balance. He watched Steve with a steady gaze, calm and patient, letting the silence of the room wrap around them both. “You’re not nothing, Steve,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Not to me.”
Steve’s head lifted slowly at that, every movement deliberate as if he were afraid to break the fragile weight of the moment. His eyes met Eddie’s, searching—wide, raw, and unguarded—like he wasn’t sure he’d heard it right. Or maybe he just didn’t know what to do with the way it made his chest twist tight, a sudden, unexpected pull that left his stomach fluttering and his pulse thudding against his ribs.
The joint hovered between his fingers, forgotten, its ember glowing faintly in the dim light, smoke drifting in lazy curls that seemed to hang in the quiet air around them. Time felt slowed, each second stretching, filled with the unspoken tension between them, heavy and charged.
Something shifted in the air between them—slight, but unmistakable. Steve felt it in the way Eddie’s gaze lingered a second too long. In the way his voice had softened on me like it meant more than just comfort.
It did. It did mean more than anything Steve had expected—more than reassurance, more than comfort—it carried a weight that made his chest tighten, a quiet, almost dangerous electricity that hummed between them.
Steve swallowed, mouth dry, his throat tight as if the words lodged there were too heavy to pass through. “Yeah?” he said, a little too quiet, a little too close to vulnerable, the vulnerability coating his voice like a fragile edge. His pulse raced in his ears, and he could feel the faint heat of Eddie’s gaze on his skin, steady, unflinching.
Eddie didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he said simply. Those big brown eyes, warm yet piercing, stared right into Steve's soul, holding him there, unblinking, as if seeing every corner of him—the fear, the anger, the uncertainty—and weighing it, understanding it without judgment. The moment stretched, suspended, and Steve felt the small room shrink around them, focused entirely on that quiet, unspoken connection.
And then there it was—that flicker of something sharp and warm behind Eddie’s eyes. Not just sympathy. Not just friendship. Something slower. Riskier. Like standing at the edge of a high place and leaning just a little too far forward.
Steve’s heart skipped, then stumbled hard. He could feel the heat in his face and hated how obvious it probably was. He looked down, laughing under his breath, mostly to cover the sudden ache in his chest.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing even as his chest still felt tight. “You’ve certainly got a way of saying things, Munson.” His voice carried a mix of exasperation and something softer—something Eddie could feel in the slight quiver, the way Steve’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of the joint.
Eddie shrugged, but there was a glint of mischief in his eyes now, playful and a little uncertain, as if he were daring Steve to push a little further, to break past the walls he didn’t even know he’d built. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Steve glanced sideways, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, his eyes flicking away for a fraction of a second before meeting Eddie’s again. “Didn’t say it was.” He almost sounded shy, his tone catching slightly, revealing that beneath the bravado and the anger, there was a nervous, unspoken connection threading between them.
Their shoulders brushed again—deliberate this time. No accident. No excuses. The warmth of Eddie’s body pressed close enough to make Steve’s pulse skip, and for a heartbeat, the small, cluttered room seemed to shrink around them.
Eddie tilted his head slightly, watching him, his gaze steady and unflinching. The look he gave Steve made the space between them feel loud, almost vibrating with unspoken tension. Charged. Every tiny movement—Steve’s shifting weight, the rise and fall of his chest—seemed amplified in the quiet room, full of the faint scent of incense and the tang of smoke.
Steve looked down at the joint still burning between his fingers, the ember glowing warmly, then back up at Eddie. “You roll these just to calm me down, or is this part of your master plan to get me stoned and emotional in your bedroom?” His voice carried the edge of curiosity and teasing, but the tremor beneath it betrayed the leftover adrenaline and the thrum of something else—something unspoken, dangerous, and thrilling.
Eddie’s smirk deepened, a slow curl that tugged at the edges of his mouth, mischievous and teasing, eyes glinting with amusement and a hint of challenge. “If it was a plan, it’s working better than I expected.”
Steve laughed—low, real, letting the sound rumble out of him, shaking off a little of the tension that had been coiled so tight in his chest. For a moment, the weight of his father’s words, the sting of shame, the simmering anger… it all seemed to dissolve into the curling smoke that floated lazily between them, thick and fragrant, blurring the edges of the small room and softening the harsh lines of reality.
He passed the joint back without breaking eye contact, the ember glowing warmly between his fingers, their hands brushing briefly, the heat from the contact lingering longer than it should, unspoken and electric.
“Your turn,” he said, voice rough with something more than smoke, a rasp that carried both defiance and a thread of vulnerability.
Eddie took it, fingers brushing Steve’s—warm and electric, the brief contact sending a small jolt through him. He held Steve’s gaze steadily, dark eyes locked with intent as he brought the joint to his lips, slow and deliberate.
The quiet between them wasn’t awkward now. Not heavy, not tense. It was thick with something unspoken, alive—charged, almost tangible, humming between them like static in the air.
It was full. Full of heat, words unspoken, and the slow, simmering pull of something neither had named yet.
Eddie exhaled slow, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling in thin, wavering streams. He glanced sideways at Steve, tilting his head just enough to catch the light in his eyes, a mischievous glint that made Steve’s chest tighten. “You ever shotgun?”
Steve blinked, caught off guard by the casual audacity, his throat tightening as a flicker of nervous excitement mixed with the lingering tension from earlier. His fingers fidgeted slightly, brushing against the edge of the joint, and a small, involuntary smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Like…beers?”
Eddie grinned, all teeth and trouble, corners of his mouth tugging upward in that infuriatingly confident way. “Not exactly. Same name, different game.”
Steve raised an eyebrow, suspicious but intrigued, curiosity sparking despite the lingering tension in his chest. “What kind of game are we talking?”
Eddie took another drag, then turned toward him, eyes dark and bright at once. “I take a hit. You lean in. I blow the smoke into your mouth.”
Steve’s gaze locked on him, caught between curiosity and something hotter, something electric stirring low in his chest. His lips parted slightly, a shiver running down his spine at the thought, heat pooling in his stomach. “That’s a thing?”
Eddie’s grin widened, mischievous and teasing, and Steve felt a jolt of anticipation that made his heart hammer. “It’s definitely a thing.”
Steve looked away for half a beat, then back again, his throat working as he swallowed hard, a flush rising in his cheeks and a pulse of something unfamiliar and thrilling in his chest. “Sounds… intense.”
“Only if you want it to be,” Eddie said, voice low, teasing but not pushing. He held up the joint between two fingers, the ember glowing faintly, drawing Steve’s attention. “Wanna try?”
And Steve hesitated—just long enough for the moment to stretch, every nerve in his body alert, heat pooling low, and the idea of leaning in making his stomach tighten with both excitement and a sharp edge of fear.
Then he nodded once, jaw tight, pulse hammering in his ears, hands slightly trembling as he held the joint. “Yeah. Okay. Show me.”
Steve’s heart thumped, a mix of adrenaline and something hotter tightening his chest. His hands were slightly clammy, fingers brushing against the joint, and his breath hitched without him realizing it.
Eddie took one more hit, the ember glowing bright, casting a warm, flickering light across his face, making his eyes look sharper, more alive.
And leaned in, the ember light flickering across his face, eyes locking with Steve’s, breath warm and close, the faint scent of incense and smoke mingling in the air between them.
Steve felt the space between them shrink impossibly fast, the faint scent of smoke and Eddie’s flannel wrapping around him. His pulse raced, chest tightening, every sense suddenly acute, aware of the heat, the closeness, the dangerous thrill of what was about to happen.
TBC ...