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kscheibles · 8 months

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e la vita ch. 1

content warnings: f! reader, drug mentions, drinking, emetophobia, bisexuality (homophobes and biphobes begone I will block u so fast)

word count: 3.8k

I didn’t want to be in Italy this summer.

That makes me sound ungrateful or something, but it’s the truth. Three months ago, I had planned to stay in Brooklyn with Claire all summer long. Hosting dinner parties, eating greasy breakfast sandwiches, dancing to old $1 records in our cramped apartment, picnicking in Prospect Park, and being totally, delusionally in love.

That was before things went south, she stopped trying and left me with more rent than I could possibly pay in the city. When Christina had first mentioned that a group of her friends was headed to Italy for the summer, I’d dismissed the possibility of going with them. Not only did I dread cohabitating with her wealthy, influencer friends who seemed to deal only in clout, I thought I’d be otherwise engaged. Weeks later, I’d gone back to her groveling, asking if I could sleep on the pull-out couch in Nina’s family villa for the summer. Luckily, the sofa was still available.

Now I sit at a wrought iron table – lease broken and all of my belongings sold to wealthy Manhattanites – in the warm yellow light of the Lombard sunset. Around me are chatty, outgoing girls, each more beautiful than the last. They gab about clubs and brands and boys. In the sea of Botox and iPhones, I cling to Christina like a life buoy. I push my tortellini around my plate to make it look like I have an interest in food, but I really don’t. I’m jet-lagged and uncomfortable. And even if that wasn’t the case, I’ve barely eaten since the breakup, relying on oat lattes and dirty water dogs to keep me alive.

“Try the pasta,” Christina jabs, “trust me, you’ll have a lot more fun this summer if you lean in.” I break the shell open with my fork revealing succulent ricotta curds and bright green spinach. The filing swims in a sauce of brown butter and fragrant tarragon but doesn’t affect me as it should. Nothing does anymore. The group’s conversation interrupts my train of thought.

“They’ve come every summer since the nineties, same as us,” says Nina, smirking at the girl to her left. “Hottest little accents you’ve ever heard, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Who is she talking about?” I whisper to Christina.

“The boys in the other house,” she says, “the one you see on your way up here.” Nina’s family’s home is at a higher altitude than the rest of the city, necessitating a laborious hike to the bottom to actually do anything while in town. I’m sure that they’d been sold on the privacy of the location, but its impracticality left me wanting. The only other villa nearby sat at the base of the lush green hills before the road disappeared into winding dirt.

Another girl chimes in, “I saw them last year at a dinner in the city. They’re cute, too,” she coos.

“I kissed George the summer I turned fifteen,” brags Nina and the whole table breaks into oohs and aahs. I usually have a shut-up-unless-spoken-to policy at group dinners, but I know Christitna is right. If I don’t lean in then the credit card debt I’d amassed to buy my plane ticket and the back problems I'm sure to contract from sleeping on a pull-out couch for a whole summer will have been for naught. Think of it as an acting exercise, I tell myself, a performance of the girl who is totally not hung up on her ex and excited for a fun summer with her friends.

“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, “who are these guys?”

“They’re in a band,” says Nina.

“Like a real one?” I ask. Years of living in New York have taught me that all bands are not, in fact, real ones. Nina laughs.

“You’re funny,” she muses, “yes, a real one. They’re like famous. We’ll go over eventually, they throw the best parties you can find around here. Get real drugs, too. Not just liters upon liters of Aperol, not that I mind that either.”

With my question sufficiently answered, I return quietly to my pasta, cutting each shell into impossibly smaller pieces until it’s rabbit food that will glide down my throat and do the hard job of nourishing me without any work on my part.

–

After dinner, I tuck into the pull-out couch in the villa’s spacious living room. The lack of A/C and the balmy summer air make it impossible to enjoy the luxurious wool blankets Nina’s family no doubt splurged on. I allow myself to eavesdrop on the elated sounds coming from upstairs: women confiding in each other, commiserating about their troubles, and shrieking excitedly at each other's successes.

I first try to doze off at 10:15, hoping that an early night will be exactly what I need and I’ll wake up refreshed and on Italian time. After an hour of staring at the popcorn ceilings and trying to suppress my crippling fear of missing out, I’ve tired my mind out enough to begin slipping toward sleep. I have fewer and fewer thoughts until I’m jolted by a hip-hop bassline. It resonates through the trundle bed and rebounds off my ribs, cozying itself into my heart. As I begin to come to, I recognize the chords of a house track that used to play at the girl bar Claire and I frequented in Green Point. The melody is warm and familiar and undeniably annoying. How loud must the music be for it to affect me so acutely even as I’m a few kilometers away from them?

I decide I’m pissed – and yes I decided. I’m freshly single, broke, jet-lagged, and fucking pissed at those entitled rich assholes. I slide my sandals on and head out down the hill in my sleep clothes.

I step outside onto the winding dirt road that leads the way to the boys’ home. The night is dark, lit by stars much brighter than I’m used to seeing in Brooklyn. I tilt my head back to look at them, trying to identify the big dipper. After a few seconds, I’m dizzy. I shake myself and trudge ahead, almost lulled into submission by the constant chirping of cicadas and the sweet fragrance of orange blossom that wafts off the bushes.

With each step I take towards the boys’ villa (what were their names again? Nina said one was called George), the music, electronic and fast-paced, becomes louder.

When I first knock on the faded wood door, I’m quite sure no one has heard me. I stand outside for a few minutes, contemplating whether I should knock again or cut my losses and return up the hill. I decide I may as well disrupt their party as some kind of karmic retribution for keeping me awake even as I’m exhausted from a transatlantic flight. I raise my fist and rap harshly at the door. A moment later, it flies open, revealing a curly-haired boy. Well, not boy, I decide as I inspect his features – lines decorate his forehead, and gray peeks out at me from within a ringlet that hangs over his eyes. He gives me a once over and can immediately tell I’m not here for the party.

“Can I help you?” he asks, annoyed. His accent lilts and falls over the words. All of a sudden, I feel insecure in my braless and plaid pajama-clad state. He’s beautiful – and exasperated by me. I double down on my own annoyance.

“Would you mind turning the music down?” I ask, still cordial, “I’m staying at the house up the way and I can’t get to sleep.”

The guy in front of me purses his lips and considers me for a moment. I feel itchy and uncomfortable. He’s looking at me like he can see through my clothes, to my soft hips and painted toes and peaked nipples.

“Let me show you around, gorgeous,” he smiles, “then maybe you won’t mind so much.” He grabs my wrist and yanks me into the party. A warmth covers me as I cross the threshold into the villa. The inside of the home smells like college: cheap weed, sweet sticky mixers, and sweat. My sandals stick slightly to the floor, reminding me that I really shouldn’t be here right now. Like the alcohol that’s been spilled on the ground is some great cosmic interference to convince me to go home and get the rest I ought to.

Suddenly, a big hand falls on the shoulder of the boy who’s pulling me by my limbs.

“Matty!” says the man. I can make out enough to see that he’s tall and devastatingly handsome.

“George!” the boy – Matty, I remind myself – drops my hand and fully embraces the bigger guy. “Was just showing…” he nods at me to introduce myself.

“Y/n.”

“Around,” Matty finishes. George gives me a once over.

“Did she just roll out of bed? Or get released from prison?”

“Y/n came to ask us to keep the noise down,” Matty declares with fake sincerity, “Not a partier, are ya love?”

“Under the right circumstances, I can be,” I retort. Matty and George’s eyebrows raise in amusement, faces breaking out in smiles. That sounded much more cunning in my head. Now I feel like a toy they’re playing with, winding me up to see what noises I make. It feels infantilizing. I’m uncomfortable, crawling in my skin; pride battered and desperate to go home as soon as it doesn’t look like I’m running away from a fight of my own picking. “I’d better be going actually,” I assert.

Matty puckers his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “I’ll show you out, princess.” It’s a sweet nickname but it tastes bitter out of his mouth. He seems to twist everything good and make it unbearable. I resent him for it. I trudge in front of Matty towards the door with steadfast focus. As I cross the threshold, I turn to meet his gaze.

“Thanks for nothing,” I say calmly. Matty breaks into a devilishly smug grin. His eyebrows tilt a little and his lips reveal a few crooked teeth at the bottom of his mouth.

“My pleasure, darlin’,” he says. I scoff and turn on my heels, leaving Matty in the dust.

–

The scent of freshly chopped garlic fills the kitchen as I stand in an assembly line of young women with cutting boards and chefs knives, each diligently chopping an ingredient for the bruschetta.

In front of me is a bunch of basil, perfectly fresh and green. I gently remove the leaves from the stem and create a pile in the middle of my board. It reminds me of when I would be tasked with raking the leaves as a kid. Too distracted by my childish whims, I would create more work for myself by piling the leaves on top of each other and taking a grandiose dive into them before scooping them up into a trash bag and discarding them. Each leaf was like a piece of confetti, a celebration of the season and of youth. Now I do these things to prove to myself that I’m young and that I can still conjure up that imaginative, playful nature if I try hard enough.

As I rock my knife back and forth over the soft leaves, Christina asks me where I was the night before.

“I came out around eleven to invite you upstairs, but I couldn’t find you,” she says.

Embarrassed, I train my eyes to the task at hand. This is not the group to look like a tattle-tale in front of. Actually, there’s very few groups in which that would fly. My penchant for playing God and divvying out karmic consequences to everyone whose path I cross is a part of my nature I’m not particularly fond of. I’m not keen to share it, especially around people who are still making up their minds about me. Despite my steadfast beliefs and borderline-outlandish behaviors, I maintain a fervent desire to be liked. It’s pathetic.

“I stepped out for some air,” I murmur.

“Really?” she nudges, “Because I didn’t see you on the porch.”

I turn my basil bunch 90 degrees in a flourish, beginning to chop it lengthwise.

“Fine, I couldn’t sleep because of the music,” I spit.

“And…” Christina has always been too good at getting me to reveal my true feelings. She goads me torturously until it’s easier to say what I’m thinking than to conceal it.

“And I went to ask them to turn the music down,” I finish, “There, are you happy?”

“Very,” she smiles.

I pick up the chopped basil, letting the pieces float through my fingers and deciding I need to chop them smaller, still. I whack at the pile haphazardly, ruining the lovely squares I meticulously crafted earlier.

“They didn’t turn it down, if you were wondering,” I pant, “Pricks.” Christina chuckles to herself.

“No one ever does.”

–

The music of the club is omnipresent as I enter hand in hand with Christina. On my feet are heels too high to be comfortable, but the perfect lift to accentuate my calves. As soon as I cross the threshold, I drag Christina to the bartender, ordering two negronis. We idle by the bar for a moment and I take in my surroundings, savoring the bitter aftertaste of my drink and the waltz of the lights that flicker and cover the dancefloor with reverie. I listen to the synths and flourishes of the melody that envelop my senses. I hadn’t expected to like the music, but the DJ is spinning disco and it just feels right: the cold Italian aperitif, the funky basslines, and the tranquil nighttime air. I almost wish I’d left my phone at home. Nights like these aren’t compatible with phones anyway. The atmosphere feels like a relic of a bygone era, full of free love and intoxication.

Nina and a friend of hers find Christina and me at the bar and run up to us with inebriated bravado. “You guys made it!” she squeals. Little does she know we were pre-gaming at the villa in anticipation of this exact moment. I couldn’t handle Nina while sober tonight, that much I was absolutely sure of. It also didn’t help that I was alone – for the first time in several years – in a romantic foreign country without the girl whom I still loved. As unhealthy as it was, alcohol made that reality hurt a bit less. Nina grabs my hands and leads Christina and me away from the bar.

“I need to introduce you to the DJs!” Nina exclaims. I glance at Christina to communicate that no, I’m not particularly enthused at the prospect of meeting some Eurotrash guy whose head is shaved and whose torso is covered in Gucci logos. She returns the glance, silently begging me to behave. I relent.

Nina leads us around the side of the floor to some kind of dark stairwell. Rationally, I should be scared of being kidnapped but my drunken stupor inspires more carelessness than I would usually indulge in. I watch the sway of Christina’s hips and follow her like a lost puppy. Finally, we reach the top and the DJ deck is revealed. It’s shadowy and hazy. To the left is a corner booth with a straight couple making out in a way that really ought to be illegal in public. Past the lookout, laser lights flicker and sweep across the dancefloor, catching on the artificial fog and filling the air with psychedelic color. My eyes fall on the backs of two figures at the DJ booth, smoke rising above their heads. I can make out that one has headphones on and is faffing with the turntable while the other has their hands in the air and the small, flickering glow of a lit cigarette dancing around their figure. I’m dragged towards them by Nina who throws an arm around each of their necks in greeting. As soon as the one with the cig turns around, I catch his eyes.

It’s Matty. Selfish, arrogant Matty. I nod my head and flatten my mouth in a kind of recognition. The room is spinning from the alcohol and my skin is buzzing with discomfort. The bass of the music resonates in my ribs, teaching my heart how to beat. My mouth tastes salty and my knees feel weak.

I’m running to the corner where I can see a bin. Tears prick at my eyes and my hair sticks to my sweaty forehead as I swiftly empty the contents of my stomach into the small trash can. I kneel on the rough carpet and brace myself on either side of the bin with my hands. Between heaves, I lift my head to shake my hair off the back of my neck. The cool air feels grounding, but I’m soon back with my head in the can. I feel a hand on the back of my head, wrangling my frizzy hair off of my shoulders. I gasp, looking back for the sisterly comfort of Christina’s bottomless, cerulean eyes. Instead, I find a pair of brown, honey-flecked irises: Matty’s. I’m reeling too severely to be upset or confused; I’m just grateful when he uses his free hand to sweep my damp bangs out of my face and nods at me.

“Go on,” he encourages, “better out than in.”

I bury my head in the bucket again.

“Atta girl,” Matty coos in my ear. I can almost notice his hand rubbing circles on my back. Even when I’m quite sure I’m finished, I keep my head down for a moment savoring the last few seconds that I don’t have to look Matty in the eyes. Curse him for helping me. I wouldn’t know how to interact with him under normal circumstances, much less when he’s been nice to me – and watched me unceremoniously blow chunks into a bin.

“You feel better?” he asks. I lift my head tentatively, still scared another wave of nausea will hit me.

“I think so, yeah,” I mumble. Matty searches my eyes for any warning sign that I’m still sick.

“Have you got a hair tie?” I instinctually fish in my jeans pocket for one, handing it to him. Slowly, he corrals my locks into a ponytail and secures it, fingers grazing the tops of my ears and making me shiver. I sit back against the wall with my legs splayed out in front of me, knees visibly carpet burnt from my previous position. Matty flops down beside me. He reaches out to touch the red, irritated skin.

“You don’t need a doctor or something, do you?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I hiss when he applies a little pressure to my knee and shake his hands off me, “Why are you being nice to me?”

“When have I not been nice?”

“You wouldn’t turn the music down the other night,” I state. He smiles at me, eyes scrunching up until his pupils are totally obscured.

“No one ever turns the music down,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Plus,” he adds, “I thought you were a buzzkill. Now I can see that’s not the case, sweetheart.”

“I can usually handle my drink better than this,” I protest, “And I’m also usually not a buzzkill.”

“I guess I don’t know anything about you, then,” he acquiesces, thinking for a moment, “Do you want to start over?”

“Sure, I’d like that,” I nod, smiling tipsily.

“So what’s caused you to be sick tonight?” Matty asks, leaning his head back against the wall. His hair is curled up in perfect ringlets and his skin glows golden even in the dim club light. He looks at me carefully, like his stare could hurt me. It could, I suppose.

“Alcohol?” I say it like that should be obvious. His face wrinkles up again in a laugh I can vaguely identify as something that’s my fault. He looks pretty. I realize I want to make him do it again and again forever. I want to see the crinkles that grow at the sides of his eyes and the curl of his upper lip that reveals his boyishly crooked teeth.

“I figured as much. Anything in particular that drove you to drink?” I frown for a second, trying to remember.

“My ex,” I say quietly.

“What’d he do?”

“Nothing,” I shake my head, “that’s the problem. She didn’t do anything.”

“When was that?”

“Two months ago?” My god, it’s already been two months.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “that’s still fresh.” I shrug.

“It’s alright I guess. You just feel a little betrayed when someone stops trying. I thought that was the whole point of…” I trail off, gesticulating aimlessly with my hands, “love or whatever. To keep trying.”

“I get it,” he utters.

“People stop trying with rockstars, too?” I tease. He smiles.

“How did you know that I’m a musician?”

“Well, first of all, I said rockstar–”

“Which I chose to ignore because it was sarcastic.” I roll my eyes.

“And second of all, the girls I’m staying with told me,” I finish. He nods in understanding.

“Well yeah,” he sighs pensively, “people stop trying with everybody. Even rockstars. If I’ve learnt anything in my life, it’s that giving up usually has more to do with them than it does with you.”

“You’re probably right, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less,” I argue.

“Nothing does. You just have to let it hurt for a while.”

We’re both quiet for a second. I catch a couple of bars of an Earth, Wind, and Fire song and hum along, content with the silence. I let my head fall onto Matty’s shoulder and he immediately turns his head to look at me.

“Oh fuck, sorry. Is this okay?” I ask, hand flying to my mouth “I know I just puked.”

“It’s okay,” he says, “I just didn’t think you would want to.”

“I want to,” I kiss his shoulder through the cotton of his white button-up shirt. He watches me the whole time as though he can’t quite compute what’s happening. Then he snaps back to his regular confident state.

“Let me know if you ever want to deal with your girlf– ex without drinking your feelings away…” he trails off, mouth meeting the crown of my head, “I’d love to show you around here sometime.”

“Okay,” I mumble, the alcohol, tiredness, and emotions beginning to get the better of me and coax me toward sleep.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Matty grabs my hand from my lap and wraps it in his two larger ones, caressing my thumb and humming into my ear.

–

a/n: the next bit is written, but I am still writing the end. smut soon! x

#matty healy fanfic #matty healy x reader #matty healy x y/n #matty healy fluff #matty healy fanfiction #matty Healy

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mc-i-r · 8 months

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Disposable Heroes

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four Ao3

A/N: Guys, I’m so sorry for the late update! Life has been crazy for me the past couple weeks but I hope that I can get back to writing more regularly. This chapter is the well-awaited Eddie pov, as well as a ton of backstory for him that I didn’t really plan on but it just kinda came out. This chapter is kinda rushed, I’m gonna be honest, but I wanted to get it out to you guys as soon as possible since its been awhile. There are gonna be some major warnings here so I’ll post them below. Take care of yourselves and stay safe, now enjoy!

Tw: homophobia, homophobic language, child abuse, domestic violence, referenced drug use, Eddie being incredibly gay

———

It’s a muggy Sunday morning, the summer sun burning through the last vestiges of chilled night air and frosted dewdrops as it rises from its slumber. Like the sun, Eddie rises as well. However, it’s with much less fanfare and grace due to the obnoxious pounding at his front door.

He groans dramatically, shoving his face in his pillow and willing whoever the fuck decided to bother him at—he glances at his alarm clock on the other side of the room, squinting to read the numbers—nine in the morning to go away. His wish must have pissed off some universal god because the knocking only gets louder, making the window above his desk rattle with every shake of the door.

With a sigh big enough to rival the windy intro of “Holy Diver”, he pulls himself to the door in a zombie-like state. Movements sluggish from his interrupted sleep, he misses the doorknob twice before finally turning it, throwing it open with newfound strength to find one Robin Buckley in all her glory. Her fist is raised and ready to knock again, her face the epitome of righteous fury as she glares at him.

“Uh, hey Buck. Whatcha doi—“ he begins, only to be interrupted by Robin shoving past him and barging into the trailer. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and pulling on his hair slightly before shutting the door.

Kids and their manners nowadays.

“Yeah, sure, come on in. Totally fine. I wasn��t sleeping or anything, noooo,” he says to himself before turning to face his intruder. Whatever Buckley is upset about seems serious, and from the icy look she’s giving him it also seems like it’s his fault. Her hands are on her hips like she’s in a Steve Harrington impersonation contest and plans on taking home a first place prize. Something in him squirms at the thought.

But, he is nothing if not a performer. So, of course, he puts on a show.

“Lady Buckley,” he declares in a posh British accent, bowing deeply with a flourish on his arm. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this fine morning?”

He’s expecting a fond eye roll, or a laugh, or huff, or something. He gets silence.

“Cut the bullshit, Eddie. We need to talk about Steve,” she demands.

Steve… Now isn’t that an interesting subject?

Now, Eddie has always been different. He was loud, and jumpy, and fidgety, and the other kids never wanted to be friends with him because they were scared. He was always covered in dirt, always barefoot because he either forgot to put on shoes or the ones he had were too small for his ever-changing feet. He would talk to himself, mutter little reminders under his breath or work through the questions plaguing his mind aloud because he just functioned better that way.

Then, at eleven, he found out just how different he really was. He was outside during recess when he fell off the monkey bars and scraped his hands and knees. He huddled on the ground, tears falling down his small cheeks because it hurt and his wounds felt like they were throbbing. Then a boy, James, ran up to him and asked him if he was okay. James had stark blond hair, a face full of freckles, and bright green eyes. He looked so concerned for Eddie, and was gentle when he picked up one of his hands to inspect the cuts littered there. It was that gentle touch that elicited a flutter of butterflies in his stomach, and ever since then Eddie knew.

When he had gotten home to the trailer that day, he felt confused. Other people in his class were constantly talking about who they “liked”; boys liking girls and girls liking boys. About how they would get all nervous around their crushes, and Eddie realized he had never felt that before. All of the girls in his class were just… girls to him. They never gave him that fluttery feeling James had. But… no one ever talked about boys liking boys. No one ever said if it was okay, so Eddie thought it must not be. That boys liking boys wasn’t okay. That he wasn’t okay.

It took awhile, but he finally confessed to Wayne that he liked boys, that he got all the little butterflies that boys were supposed to get about girls. Wayne shook his head and told him that he could feel butterflies for anyone he pleased, as long as they made him happy. They both cried that night, and ended up in a hug so tight they nearly fused together.

Since then, Eddie’s come to accept the fact that he’s gay. Has added it to his whole anti-conformist persona, even. So when high school hit he let himself finally be free. He joined Hellfire club, made friends with the upperclassmen who ran it, and learned all the intricacies of D&D that he never imagined he would. After two years, he met Gareth and Jeff who joined Hellfire much in the way he did. Then, Grant joined halfway through Eddie’s junior year and he quickly recruited him as well. He found his friends, his people, and he finally let himself be himself around them.

He told them he was gay after a long session of lazily practicing in Gareth’s garage and smoking, the weed having loosened both his limbs and his lips. They were all extremely chill with it, even after the weed had worn off. That, however, didn’t exempt them from making fun of him though.

Eddie was loitering in the hallway after school, waiting on Gareth to finish up a quiz he missed the week prior, when none other than Steve Harrington walked out of the pool room in nothing but those little speedos that leave zero to the imagination. Seriously, all those girls were right, holy shit. After he picked his jaw up off the floor, he noticed Steve was looking at him with that adorable little confused puppy look before a god damned smirk fell across his face. Eddie’s face, he knew, had to rival that of a Victorian nobleman fawning over a sliver of pale skin shown by a lady across the room with her face hidden by an elaborate fan because he was literally drooling for the man in front of him.

It got considerably worse when Steve leaned down to drink from a nearby water fountain, making Eddie’s mouth go completely dry with this blatant offering of ass right in his face. In hindsight, it might not have been an offering, per say, but it was definitely there and Eddie was definitely staring. So it really wasn’t a surprise that he jumped when Gareth tapped his shoulder, Eddie having not heard him come up behind him, and he turned on his heel so fast he’s surprised he didn’t get whiplash.

“Dude, you good?” Gareth asked. Eddie opened his mouth, squeaked out, “I’m fine” and immediately felt his face go up in flames. Gareth glanced over Eddie’s shoulder and he could see in slow motion the series of thoughts that crossed his mind. Gareth went from concerned to confused to understanding to smug so fast it was almost comical. When their eyes met, Eddie’s went wide.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” he hissed, and the smug look only intensified.

Once they got to his van, Gareth immediately rounded on him.

“Seriously? Steve Harrington?” Gareth teased. “Of all people, it had to be that douche?”

Eddie groaned and clenched his eyes shut. “I know, Garebear, now shut up before I push you out of the van.”

Of course, news about his little crush spread around his friend group like wildfire, and soon enough he was being teased by them relentlessly. Eddie knew his crush wouldn’t get very far, Steve was very clearly straight and in a happy relationship with Nancy Wheeler of all people. Still, Eddie couldn’t stop thinking about that smirk.

Just as his crush began to fade away, Steve showed up to school with a busted face and eye bags deep enough to rival shitty vampire Halloween make-up from a toddlers costume contest. Feelings came rushing back, the intense need to protect, to find out what happened and get justice for that pretty face.

Then it kept happening, and Steve showed up to school with a beat up face yet again. However, judging by his stumbling and droopy eyes, it came with a concussion this time. Just when Eddie was trying to figure out who did it, Billy Hargrove came stalking through the empty halls and all attention was focused on his scabbed knuckles. On the hungry glare he sent Steve’s way. On the way Steve shrank back a little on instinct.

And Eddie… Eddie just couldn’t leave well enough alone, now could he?

He walked up to Steve, brows furrowed. “Harrington?”

Harrington didn’t turn, eyes still focused on the spot where Billy had been before. Eddie tapped his shoulder. “Steve?”

He jumped that time, like Eddie had actually hit him, and spun to face him. Up close, his face looked a hell of a lot worse and Eddie had to suppress a wince just looking at him. Steve looked at him confused, though it was hard to tell between the swelling and assortment of bandages on his face.

“…Munson?” Steve began. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come up.”

He said it flippantly, with a wave of his hand towards his left ear like that explained everything. It didn’t, but Eddie felt like it wasn’t his place to push.

“You good, man? You look like you got in a fight with a dump truck and lost,” Eddie said. “Badly.”

He expected Steve to scoff and roll his eyes, push past him and hit his shoulder too hard to be an accident. He expected him to spit some barb and walk away, to leave Eddie there in the hallway alone. None of that happened, though.

Instead, Steve smiled. A little self-deprecating, but a smile nonetheless. He huffed a laugh.

“Make it a supercharged dump truck and you’ve got it right,” Steve joked at his own expense. It resulted in a shocked laugh bursting from Eddie’s lips, which he immediately stopped by smacking a hand over his mouth.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling his hand away. “That’s not funny. I mean… your joke was, just not,”—he gestured to Steve’s… everything—“this.”

“It’s okay man, I know what you meant,” Steve said sincerely and Eddie doubted why he was ever called King Steve. The person who stood in front of him was the furthest thing from what those jocks supposedly worshiped that Eddie had to hide another bubble of laughter.

“Seriously, dude, did you even go to a doctor?” Eddie asked, and at Steve’s wince he knew the answer. He rolled his eyes and slung an arm around his shoulders, careful not to land too hard in case he was bruised there too, and led him down the hallway towards the nurse’s station.

“Uh,” Steve began. “Where are we going?”

“The nurse,” he explained. “Figured a look wouldn’t hurt, right?”

Steve’s shoulders relaxed a little under his arm, and Eddie decided to focus on him during their walk down the empty hallway. He noticed the way his hair bounced a little with every step, how a couple strands were threatening to fall from their perfectly coiffed positions. He noticed his moles and freckles, how he had a smattering of faint ones all over his face from time in the sun. He noticed how his nose was a little crooked now, with a bump on the bridge that wasn’t there before the weekend. He noticed how pretty his eyes were, with at least three different shades of brown all swirled together like melted chocolate with flecks of forest green nestled in the folds.

He noticed that Steve was looking at him.

They had come to a stop in front of the nurse, yet Eddie’s arm was still over his shoulders. He quickly retracted it, but Steve didn’t move away and neither did he.

“Well, this is your stop,” Eddie nearly whispered out. Steve smiled, just a small quirk of his lips, and his eyes flitted across Eddie’s face.

“Thanks, Eddie,” he started. Steve took a step backwards toward the station and did a little wave with his fingers that had no right being as endearing as it was. “See you around.”

With that, he disappeared behind the thick mahogany door and Eddie was left there alone, face full of flames and smiling like he was in fucking love with the guy.

Fuck, maybe he was a little bit in love with the guy.

That feeling didn’t waver, not even after seeing him in a skimpy sailor uniform as he scooped overpriced ice cream for toddlers in the Mall. Or, when he was pinning him to the rickety wall of the boathouse he was hiding in after seeing Chrissy murdered in front of him by some freaky wizard from an alternate dimension with a broken bottle to his beautifully freckled throat.

That feeling greatly intensified when he saw Steve take an honest to god bite out of a demonic bat and spit the flesh and blood out on the dried lakebed in the previously mentioned alternate dimension.

And, really, you can’t blame him for falling all the way when he found out exactly who dragged his half-dead body out of hell and saved his life.

So yeah, Steve was a very interesting subject indeed.

“Is… Is he okay?” Eddie questions as he straightens from his hunched position, head tilting to the side and making his bangs fall in his eyes. Robin throws her hands up with a mighty huff and a frustrated groan.

“Obviously not!” She exclaims. She starts pacing around his living room, back and forth in front of the coffee table. “He’s obviously not okay because you’ve been avoiding him and making him feel like shit for months and I’m actually really worried about him ‘cause he’s been doing stupid shit that can get him killed and I don’t know how much longer he can go on like this before it completely ruins him.”

As Robin rambles, her face turns a bright shade of pink. She finishes her speech, sucking in a deep breath as if she ran out of air. Eddie’s brows furrow.

“I haven’t been avoiding Steve,” he defends weakly. He hasn’t, not really. He just… he doesn’t want to get hurt.

Okay yes, Eddie is practically in love with the guy, but that doesn’t mean Steve feels the same about him. They’re friends, that’s it. Steve is going to find some beautiful girl and get married and have the houseful of kids he’s always wanted and Eddie will be here, still pining from afar. He knows it would be easier to just forget about him, and forget about the feelings clutching his heart like a starved hawk with its first fulfilling catch in months. That’s why he’s been slowly letting go over the past few weeks, trying—and failing—to get that stupid pretty boy out of his head. Of course, it’s not working, and every day he spends not talking to Steve feels like hell.

So no, he’s not avoiding Steve. He just doesn’t think he could survive it if he confesses and Steve rejects him completely. Staying away means he won’t accidentally reveal his feelings for the man, and judging by how much he’s feeling, it wouldn’t be very hard for that scraggly cat to come clawing and screeching out of the proverbial bag.

Robin, however, thinks the opposite because according to the look she’s giving him, she says he absolutely fucking has.

Eddie sighs. “Okay, maybe I have just a little bit but it’s not—“

Eddie freezes, stomach plummeting as Robin's rambling words take purchase in his mind. She said Steve was doing something stupid, something that could kill him. Flashes of a night now a distant memory play in his mind, one filled with panicked breaths, stilted tears, and a bloody bat with nails.

“Robin… What do you mean by ‘stupid shit’?” Eddie asks tentatively. Part of him wants to know the answer, while part of him fears the idea of ever finding out. Robin only gives him a confused look and crosses her arms.

“Eddie, that’s totally not the point of this conversation and you know it—“ Eddie cuts her off by waving his hands.

“Robin! Just…” he trails off. Should he tell her about Steve? He promised he wouldn’t but…

“Okay, I have to tell you something about Steve but please please don’t tell him I told you because I promised him I wouldn’t but if you also know something about him then I think you should know about this too,” he rushes out, words tumbling fast out of his mouth as his lungs scream for air. Robin’s icy glare has melted a bit, turning into one of anxiety and caution.

He sighs and flops down on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks down at his hands. He feels more than sees Robin sit next to him and he knows he has her attention.

“What happened, Eddie?” She prompts, and he takes it as a sign to continue.

“I had a visit from Steve awhile back, around four or five days ago,” he begins. “It was early in the morning and I couldn’t sleep so I was writing notes for a new campaign idea in the living room. I could feel that something was… off, so I looked out the window and there he was.”

He ran a hand over his face, pushing his bangs back and pulling on the ends. He glances over at Robin to find her looking at him. He squeezes his eyes closed for a moment before looking back at her.

“He wasn’t all there, Robin. Like… like he was trapped in his mind or something. I thought,” he huffs a deprecating laugh, “for a moment there, I thought he was cursed.”

He doesn’t mention that the image found its way in his head and can’t seem to find its way out, like a stubborn housefly who keeps banging against the glass hoping to be freed. The thought of Steve floating—eyes rolled back in his head while his lids flutter and his limbs shudder and break one by one—has kept him awake on more nights than he can count. The thought of him being subjected to his worst nightmares given life, all the lies that he tells himself turned to truth. The thought of Eddie being completely helpless, watching him die in agony in front of him.

He doesn’t mention that every night since then, he’s called Steve. He needed to hear his voice, to know he was okay. To know he was alive. He never got a call back.

“I got him to come inside but he didn’t stay long. Something spooked him, I think, I just… I don’t know, it was really weird. Like…” he trails off, unable to find the words.

“Like he was in fight or flight mode?” Robin suggests, and he nods.

“Pure instinct.”

Robin groans. “Shit, this is worse than I thought.”

“Wait, did he tell you?” He asks. Steve was so insistent on Eddie not telling her—made him promise, in fact—so why…?

“Well… after a very long, very emotional, and very vulnerable conversation, yes. He told me on his own terms though, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she supplies. “He… He didn’t tell me a ton of details, though. Not… Not like that.”

There’s a pause as Robin clenches her eyes closed and looks away from him.

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” her voice comes out just barely above a whisper, something he wouldn’t have heard if he wasn’t right next to her. Eddie stays silent, unwilling to break the solemn mood. Robin, however, misses that message entirely as she smacks his arm.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me, doofus?!” She accuses, giving him a half-hearted glare that is no less threatening. Eddie holds his hands up in surrender, unable to hide the exasperated look on his face.

“He made me promise!!” Eddie defends. “Plus he gave me those damn puppy dog eyes and I couldn’t say no.”

“He is really good at that, especially when he wants something. He says he has no clue but I bet you he does,” Robin whispers, almost conspiratory as if they’re sharing a terrible secret. Eddie can’t help but smile and shake his head. Screw Harrington and his stupid pretty eyes.

“Did he say anything else while he was here?” Robin asks after a moment of silence.

“No, that was the only thing he said really, other than an absent ‘I’m fine’ before he bolted out the door. It was a very uh… one-sided conversation,” Eddie explains. “He mostly gave only one or two word answers before he panicked and ran.”

“I’m gonna assume he didn’t tell you why he left?” She asks, and at the shake of his head she curses. “Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed.”

Robin shifts beside him, raising her hand to mindlessly chew on her thumbnail. He thinks the conversation is over. Or, rather, wishes it were over.

That universal god must really hate Eddie today because Robin roughly shakes her head and waves her hands around, letting out a huff.

“Okay, one problem at a time. That was totally not the point of this little talk and you know it, Munson,” she admonishes. “Why. Are. You. Avoiding. Steve?”

She punctuates each word with a, quite literal, punch to the arm. Eddie reels back, dramatically clutching his bruised arm and gives her a fake glare.

“Ow!!” He rubs his arm. For her incredibly bony arms, she really can pack a punch. He’s only half joking that it hurts.

“Answer the question!”

“Fine fine…” he takes a deep breath, knee bouncing with building anxiety before he stands up, unable to quell the urge to move. He paces twice in front of the coffee table before he has the nerve to look at her waiting gaze.

“So, as you know, I am a raging homosexual,” he states, and at his pause, she nods. “And I miiiiiight have a teeny weeny, itsy bitsy, enormous crush on him.”

The end of his sentence is rushed out, words jumbled together as he screws his eyes closed and waits for… whatever Robin’s response is going to be. He waits for five seconds. Then ten. Then twenty-five because yes he’s counting. If he knows one thing about Robin Buckley it’s that she doesn’t know when to stop talking so silence is a very rare occurrence for her and now its been a whole minute and something must be wrong so he opens his eyes to find her—

The only word that even remotely comes close to encompassing the expression on her face is seething.

He instinctively takes a step back.

“Edward Lee Munson you better explain yourself right fucking now or I swear to every god out there that I will rip out your spleen and feed it to the neighborhood dogs before you take a step out that door,” Robin all but growls out, eyes icy and cold as they stare through him. He’s quick to explain because he really quite values his spleen, thank you very much.

“Okay, okay, geez I get it! Fine,” he huffs. “I’ve been avoiding Steve because it’s hard to be around him.”

Robin only raises an eyebrow. Eddie groans. He really wishes he didn’t have to explain his big, fat, gay love this early in the morning.

“It’s hard because he’s so…. So Steve all the time. He’s so kind and caring and hot— god, Birdie, he’s so fucking hot—“

“Okay, yeah, I didn’t need to know that,” Robin interrupts.

“Sorry,” he says, a bit sheepish. “Every little smile he gives me feels like a swarm of butterflies are fighting horde-style to get out of my stomach. I just…

“I think I’m in love with him,” Eddie confesses. The way her eyes blow wide is comical, and he’s half expecting them to pop and burst like they do in cartoons.

“But I know better,” he gives her a sad smile. “I know that I’m not special, he doesn’t mean it like that. Like I want it to. And…. And I know he never will.

“I thought that distancing myself would make the feelings go away, make it… I don’t know, hurt less? But not seeing Steve at all… fuck, it hurts worse than dying and I know what that feels like. Now I don’t even have him as a friend,” he scoffs at himself, shakes his head a little and focuses on a framed picture of him, Steve, Robin, and Dustin from graduation on the wall. Focuses on how Steve’s arm is wrapped around his shoulders, hand gripping his upper arm as he smiles shyly at the camera. How Eddie himself is leaning into his side, tucked under his arm as if he belongs there. As if he’ll ever belong there. He looks back at Robin.

“But this is what’s best. I can’t have my stupid heart feeling things my brain knows it shouldn’t,” Eddie ends his little speech by flopping back down on the couch. Part of him regrets telling her, but another small, itty bitty part is almost grateful.

Eddie’s always had a way of caring too much, even from a young age. Wayne could tell you better than anyone that Eddie has always had a soft side. He could tell you that Eddie refused to let him kill any of the bugs that got into the trailer when the weather turned cold and insisted that they be put outside under the trailer where it was at least a little warmer. He could tell you that every time Eddie would see another person cry, he would too.

He’s just always been like that, so carrying this around with him everyday? It was becoming too much to bear, having to put on a face around everyone so no one could tell. So no one could see how it was breaking him inside. Wearing him down to the bone. Slowly, slowly killing him.

Robin sighs beside him and he had almost forgotten she was there. Her voice is quiet and strangely gentle as she speaks.

“Why do you think that, Eddie?”

What?

“What?” He asks incredulously and knows his face is in a similar state to his voice.

“Why do you think Steve wouldn’t like you like that? Has he said anything to make you think he wouldn’t?” She clarifies, which really doesn’t clarify anything at all for him because what?

“Um… are we talking about the same Steve? You know, Steve Harrington, Hawkins’ resident ladies man? Why the fuck would you think I’d have a shot?” He explains. “He’s so painfully straight and I am so painfully not, Robin.”

Robin just looks at him like she’s trying to read his mind. Or, rather, push a thought into his mind. Waiting for something to click. It doesn’t. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Besides, Steve never tried to talk to me about the whole distance thing, so I just—“

“You know what happens when people assume things, Eddie,” Robin interrupts.

“—figured that he didn’t mind,” Eddie finishes with a glare. Robin closes her eyes and takes a breath as if calming herself. She pinches her nose, right between her eyes like Steve always does when he’s frustrated or tired, and turns to him. She takes his hands in hers, and her face is only a mere mask of calm, the tumbling waves of anger rolling just under the surface.

“Eddie,” she begins. “Have you ever thought of the possibility that Steve doesn’t talk about his feelings? That he would keep it all bottled up inside like he does with literally everything else?”

Well, when she puts it like that…

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Robin agrees. “I only found out about this whole… thing two days ago and that was only because I just so happened to catch him falling asleep at work. He wouldn’t have told me if I didn’t ask him, I know that for sure. He… Eddie, he honestly believes that this is all his fault. That he’s the one that fucked everything up between you and he kids.”

Eddie’s brain screeches to a halt. “Wait, what do the kids have to do with this?”

“You haven’t told them anything?” Robin asks, eyes going a little wide.

“Have I told a bunch of teenagers—whose opinions I regretfully respect—that I have a crush on their babysitter? No, I have not.”

“Okay, yeah that was a stupid question, sorry,” she amends. “Just… the kids are avoiding Steve and I can’t think of a reason why.”

“They’re what!? Wait, why haven’t I heard of this until now?” Eddie exclaims. Robin gives him a look that makes him deflate a little. “Let me guess, you only found out two days ago?”

“Bingo, we have a winner!” Robin fake cheers, raising her arms in a mock-celebratory fashion. She drops them with a huff. “They haven’t talked to him in weeks, Eddie, and I think it’s because you have been avoiding him.”

Her tone isn’t accusatory, but it still makes him feel like shit.

“They must have picked up the sense that something was going on between you two and assumed they should be avoiding him too,” she suggests. Eddie leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I don’t get how they could think that, though. I mean, Steve has been nothing but good to them for years now.”

“I know,” Robin agrees. “But they’re kids. Stupid, dumb, ungrateful kids, but they’re still kids.”

Eddie drops his head in his hands, pressing hard on his eyes until spots form behind his eyelids.

“I really fucked this up, didn’t I?” He asks it rhetorically, but Robin gives a noise of agreement anyway. “How do I fix this, Birdie?”

“You could start by talking to him,” Robin suggests.

Now isn’t that a terrifying thought?

Because knowing you have feelings for someone is one thing, but telling them? That’s something so far out of the realm of possibility for him that he’s never even thought about considering it.

“Have you lost your fucking mind, Buckley?” Eddie exclaims, looking over at her with wide eyes. “I’d like to keep all my teeth if you don’t mind. I mean, I know I’m not your type and everything but some poor schmuck would probably like to look at this face one more time before it's beat all black and blue.”

Robin only rolls her eyes at his rambling—which is rather hypocritical of her if you ask him, since she seems to treat rambling as an Olympic sport she plans on winning every time she opens her mouth. She grabs his face between her hands and honest to god shakes him.

“I can’t tell you everything, but I’m telling you to trust me and talk to him,” she practically demands, giving him a pointed look much like the one from before. Except he still doesn’t know what it means, as that final piece has yet to click into place.

He nods in her hold, partially afraid of her now, and she releases him.

“We need to fix this. Now,” Eddie insists. He looks over at her. “We need to talk to the kids.”

Eddie stands up, running to his room and groaning at the mess he left. Tossing his sheets and blankets back on the bed, he reaches under his bed for the walkie he knows he last saw under there three days ago. Except, it’s not there. He stands up, scrunches his eyebrows, and thinks.

Let’s see… it was next to the keychain that was on top of the VHS sitting on the books on the corner of the desk, then he moved it when he had to answer one of Lucas’ questions which he did while he walked around the trailer and he laid it down when he finished to get some cheese from the fridge, meaning—

Eddie runs back to the kitchen, finding the walkie on top of the fridge, right where he thought it would be.

“Got ya!” He grabs it and runs back to the living room where Robin is waiting very impatiently.

“Where even was that?” She asks but he ignores her, electing to set the frequency so he can talk to the kids all at once instead of answering her. He presses the button.

“This is Eddie the Banished calling an emergency Hellfire meeting pronto,” he orders into the speaker. “I repeat, emergency Hellfire meeting.”

He waits for a response. One minute. Two minutes. Three—

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Eddie mumbles, pressing the button again. “Over.”

Immediately, Dustin responds. “Hear you loud and clear, Eddie. Is this a code red situation? Over.”

“Nope, not a code red. More of a uh…” he glances over at Robin who shrugs. “Code yellow? I think. Over.”

“What the hell is ‘code yellow’? We don’t even have one of those,” comes Erica’s, as always, sarcastic remark. Eddie can faintly hear Lucas yelling in the background.

“Munson, you better not be shitting with us.”

“I promise you, Red, I wouldn’t. Not about this.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, people! You’re supposed to say ‘over’ when you’re done talking! Over.”

“Shove it, Dustybuns, the adults are talking.”

Eddie has to hold the walkie away from him at Dustin’s responding shriek. He presses a hand over his eyes. These kids are going to kill him one day.

“Guys, this is serious. Just get your asses over to my trailer as soon as possible. Robin’s already here, does someone have Little Byers and Supergirl?”

“I’ve got them. Over and out,” Mike responds.

“Erica and I are on our way. Over and out,” Lucas says.

“Be there in fifteen. Over and out,” Dustin declares. Eddie glances at Robin, sharing equally nervous and worried looks. This is not going to be fun.

Thirty minutes later, all of the kids are cramped in Eddie’s living room. Lucas, Max, El, and Mike are scrunched together on the couch, while Will and Dustin sit on the floor in front of them. Erica claimed Wayne’s recliner as soon as her and Lucas got there, refusing to move for the older teens.

Robin is standing next to him, hands on her hips again—really driving home the whole “Steve is my platonic soulmate” bit—as he stands there with his arms crossed. The two of them remind Eddie of disappointed parents about to tell off their kids, which, in reality, isn't too far off.

“Okay, what the hell?” Dustin asks, still breathless from the trek there. “I literally just got home an hour ago. Why did you call us and make us bike all the way here in the heat?”

“Because you deserve it for being shitheads,” Eddie defends and rolls his eyes. He’s met with a cacophony of dweeby teen voices as they retaliate.

“What did we do this time?”

“What?! We didn’t do anything!”

“What did Dustin do, now?”

“Me? Why am I the one being blamed? I wasn’t even here!”

“Because you’re too damn nosey, dude.”

“Ouch, Lucas. Ouch.”

“Hey!” Eddie yells, clapping his hands to get their attention. It startles them all enough to quit talking over each other and look back up at him. “Okay, I’m just going to get to the point. Why are you all avoiding Steve?”

Mike gives him a confused look and crosses his arms, his expression the epitome of teenage angst.

“We thought you hated Steve, dude. You would always leave the room whenever he was around with some shitty excuse so we just decided to do the same,” Mike answers. Dustin nods from his spot on the floor.

“Yeah, we all thought he did something or said something to you since every time we brought him up, you’d shut the conversation down somehow. It just… naturally progressed from not talking about him to not talking to him either,” Dustin explains.

“Steve stopped showing up to things, too. He used to help me practice but he’s not shown up in weeks,” Lucas adds.

“Mom’s gotten really worried about him. He’s not shown up to dinner in a while, either,” Dustin chimes in. He shrugs. “We just thought the feeling was mutual.”

Eddie clenches his eyes closed and throws his head back. Fuck, this is worse than he thought. He hears Robin shift beside him, and knows firsthand the look she’s giving them right now.

“Have any of you even considered asking Steve about this?” Robin asks accusatively. “Or even talking to him about anything other than rides or movie nights?”

Silence falls over the room, so thick and suffocating that Eddie briefly prefers the air of the Upside Down to this. He pulls his hair, scrunching down on the floor and balancing on the pads of his feet.

“This is all my fault,” he groans, twisting strands of hair frustratedly.

“It is,” Robin agrees and ignores the glare Eddie sends her way for that. “But we can still fix this.”

“Wait, what’s going on?” Mike asks.

“Why does Eddie look three seconds away from strangling himself with his hair?” Max hesitates, sounding the most cautious he’s ever heard her. Eddie groans and avoids eye contact with the group.

“The reason I’m avoiding Steve isn’t because I hate him. It’s uh… quite the opposite, actually,” he explains, nervously fidgeting with his rings and pulling a thick strand of hair to hide his face. He glances at Robin, who gives him an overly enthusiastic thumbs up, and he rolls his eyes.

Max and Erica give him equally smug smirks while Will looks at him with wide, understanding eyes. The rest of the group, however, look confused.

“Wait, then why are you avoiding him?” Dustin asks.

“Dude, that makes zero sense,” Mike counteracts. El just looks lost, almost like she’s trying to read his mind. Which… he really wouldn’t be surprised if she could at this point. Eddie sighs.

“That’s not the point,” Eddie redirects. “The point is that an issue with me and Steve shouldn’t affect you guys’ relationship with him.”

“Yeah,” Robin agrees, and he deftly ignores the pointed look she sends his way. “Steve has been there for all of you for years.

“Dustin, wasn’t it Steve who helped you catch D’art when he escaped from your cellar? He bought pounds of meat for you to lure a demodog away with, then fought a pack of them by himself to keep you safe. Steve put himself in the line of fire again against said demodogs in the tunnels after he was beaten unconscious by Billy, then sacrificed himself to Russians just so you and Erica could make it out alive a year later.”

Dustin clamps his mouth shut from its gaping position—likely from him wanting to defend himself from the truth—and has the decency to look sheepish. Eddie turns his gaze to Lucas.

“Lucas, wasn’t it Steve who helped you train for basketball when you started to show an interest in it? He practiced with you every week, even after a long shift at work or when he felt like shit, just because you asked. Steve protected you against Billy because it was the right thing to do, and took a beating so you wouldn’t. Not many people can say they’d do that for someone else, especially not against anyone as vicious as Hargrove,” Eddie adds. Lucas drops his head in his hands, knee bouncing from his place on the couch.

“Max,” Robin begins. “Steve checked up on you every day after Billy died. He would bring you food or ice cream or a distraction, but he was always there. He would drive you to the arcade just to cheer you up, let you beat him at Dig Doug and Pinball just to see you smile. Steve was terrified to let you be the bait for Vecna, he… he kept telling me that he wished it was him instead. That he should be the sacrifice, not you.”

Robin wipes her eyes where they begin to tear up, and Eddie uses the pause to look at Mike. He still has his arms crossed, but the smartass look on his face has dwindled a little.

“Mike, I know you don’t like Steve because of him and Nancy, but you can’t hold onto that grudge forever. What happened between them had nothing to do with you, so there's no need to be mad at him for it,” Eddie states. Mike isn’t looking at him now, and something tells Eddie that the kid just needs a reality check. Hopefully, this will work. “Steve has been protecting you from the beginning, even when you were more than hostile to him. You’ve at least got to give him credit for that.”

Eddie looks around, sees the morose expressions on the kids’ faces.

“Steve has picked you all up countless times from Hellfire, waiting the entire session out in the parking lot while wasting away in his car. He was there rain or shine, snow or sleet, and he never missed a day. Not once,” he states.

Eddie first found Steve’s presence after Hellfire to be confusing, an anomaly. He didn’t know that the Steve the kids talked about was the same Steve he had a debilitating crush on in high school, not until he saw him waiting outside after the first session the kids attended, leaning against his maroon BMW like a Calvin Klein model. A ball of anxiety formed in his stomach at the sight, because one thing about Steve Harrington was that he’s unpredictable. Eddie just didn’t know if it was good or bad yet.

“You know, usually when people graduate they tend to stay away from high school, not willingly come back,” Eddie teased.

His words seemed to spark some life into Steve, as he jolted from his relaxed position against the hood to stand firmly beside his car. Steve ran a hand through his hair, and looked Eddie up and down.

“You’d probably know more about that if you managed to actually graduate, Munson,” Steve quipped, but it wasn’t mean. He had a smile on his face, and the air around him was friendly. Some of the anxiety churning in Eddie’s gut eased at the sight.

“Besides, who says I’m here willingly?” Steve asked rhetorically, as Dustin made his appearance by running up to him and immediately began talking his ears off about the new campaign. Steve turned his full attention on the boy, nodding along to certain comments even when Eddie knew for sure Steve didn’t know what the hell Henderson was talking about. The other kids soon crowded around the former jock, all talking so incredibly fast that Eddie was surprised the sound barrier survived their cracking voices.

Eddie watched as Steve glanced at him over the kids’ heads, giving him a loose smile and a shrug as if saying, ‘what can ya do?’

Soon, all the gremlins piled into Steve’s fancy car, still talking and gesturing wildly with their hands. Eddie had a passing thought that he should get Steve some earplugs or something to at least help drown out the noise. He immediately shook his head at the thought and jumped in his old, beat up van, driving home to an empty trailer and trying desperately to forget Steve Harrington existed.

“He always waits until the excitement starts to wear off before he takes you all home, letting you talk to each other for nearly an hour after each session despite the fact he never has a clue what you’re talking about. He always listens to you guys, no matter what,” Eddie supplies. “Did you guys know he has mixtapes for each of you?”

At the question, they all look at him with varying degrees of confusion and an all-too-late realization. Eddie huffs, while Robin mutters something under her breath that sounds a lot like, ‘of course they didn’t.’

“There’s one for each of you, filled with songs you like or mentioned liking at some point despite some of them not being his own taste. He listens to you, all of you, and it fucking hurts to know you don’t see that,” he exposes, and part of him regrets letting a bit of his anger out. Though, the kids need to know this is serious, that you can’t go through life assuming the worst in people, so if being angry is what it takes then so be it.

The kids have various emotions on their faces, ashamed and regretful being the two most prominent. Dustin clears his throat and looks up at Eddie, flicks his eyes to Robin, and returns them to his lap.

“I… I didn’t realize he did so much for us,” Dustin quietly admits, and a small part of Eddie cheers at finally teaching the kid a thing or two about humility.

“We’ve been taking advantage of him for… for so long,” Lucas breathes out. Max nods morosely beside him, and Will raises a shaky hand to cover his mouth.

Mike rolls his eyes, still petulantly crossing his arms. “Why should we even care about him? All he’s probably doing is wallowing in his fancy house or something.”

He says it with a layer of snark so thick, all the kids turn to him with varying levels of bitchy glares. Eddie, however, can tell his attitude is a mask, a way for him to hide how he’s truly feeling to prevent from being too vulnerable. From being too open. Eddie knows a lot about that.

It started when Eddie was four and he scraped his knee on the harsh gravel outside his parents’ run-down home in Kentucky. Tears rolled down his chubby cheeks as he ran inside to tell his mom, who he knew would take care of him. She told him to play outside, and not come in until she told him so, but his knee really hurt and he was scared they would have to cut it off if it bled too much. At least, that’s what Charlie—a kid who lived two streets over—said they would do.

When he stepped over the threshold, something felt off. The house was quiet, more so than normal, and it set him on edge. The TV was filled with static that grated on his little ears, and he covered them with his hands as he made his way over to turn it off. He picked up the antenna off the floor, wondering how it got knocked off the top of the TV in the first place. He looked around the living room, finding it in a similar state of disarray. He followed the trail of broken things before him; the overturned coffee table, a spilled ashtray, a stray pillow, and the chair his dad always sat on, pushed far out of its normal place. He questioned who could have messed up his house like this, leaving a big mess behind.

He found his answer when he ventured into the kitchen, just a few short steps from the living room, and found his mother laying on the floor. She was on her stomach, arms splayed out as if she tried to catch her fall and head turned to look at the doorway where little Eddie stood. Her eyes were closed but she was still breathing, the floral pattern of her dress moving with each breath. Shards of ceramic were spread out around her, littered with droplets of dark blood that spilled from a cut on her forehead. It dripped down the side of her face, along the curve of her cheek and onto the floor where it formed a small puddle. Her skin was pale in the artificial light of the house, the soft yellows doing nothing to soften the tones of her ashen face.

“Mama!” He ran up to her, falling to his knees beside her still body. He shook her, trying to get her eyes to open, but all it rewarded him was a pained grunt. His eyes welled with tears again, this time for his Mama, but nothing he was doing was working.

A shadow fell over the floor and he looked up to find his father blocking the light from the gold-colored light fixture above the kitchen table. His face was stern and dirty looking, his stubble well past the point of a five o’clock shadow and leaning more towards a sleazy strip club owner. There was a smear of blood on his face from his hand, which he noticed was bruised around the knuckles. However, the sight of what was in his other hand made him freeze, entire body going stock still.

In his father’s left hand were the remnants of the broken plate on the floor, the jagged edges cutting into his skin where he gripped it tightly. Matching blood littered the edge, and a splatter of the dark liquid traveled up his hairy arm and disappeared into his rolled up flannel sleeve.

He looked up at the figure before him, and the tears spilled over against his will.

“What happened to Mama?” He asked. “Why won’t she wake up?”

“‘Cause she’s sorry, son,” his dad answered, throwing down the ceramic and causing it to shatter against the floor. Eddie flinched, and his father caught the motion. He hadn’t been able to quell it, hadn’t learned how to hide his fear yet. The man scowled at him, lip curling as he grabbed Eddie’s arm and hauled him off the floor in one solid motion.

“She’s weak, Edward,” he began. This close, Eddie could see the redness of his eyes, and the deep purple bags that hang underneath. “Just like all women. Do you wanna be weak, boy?”

Eddie shook his head, and his father gripped his arm tighter. “Answer me!”

“N-No sir,” Eddie muttered, voice small and weak in the face of his father.

“Then stop that fucking crying, don’t be a sissy. I ain’t raising a fucking faggot, Edward.”

With that, his dad dropped his arm and stumbled into his bedroom down the hall. As soon as his figure was gone, Eddie turned back to his mom, crouching next to her. Sometime when his dad was talking, her eyes had opened and her breathing grew stronger. Eddie felt like it was nothing short of a small miracle.

“Mama, are you okay?”

“‘M okay, baby,” she replied, pushing herself off the floor with a grunt. She sat up with Eddie’s help, and frowned when she saw the reddened mark on his arm. “I shouldn’t have let him do that to you.”

“You were hurt, Mama. ‘S not your fault,” Eddie reasoned, pulling his arm out of her grasp to wipe at some of the blood on her face. “You’re bleeding, too.”

“Oh,” she began, reaching up to touch the wound as if she hadn’t realized it was there. “It’s nothing, Eddie, just a little scratch. Mama will be okay, promise.”

She didn’t look okay, this close, with her sunken-in face and slowly forming black eye Eddie hadn’t been able to see before. But his Mama was always right. Always.

“Pinky promise?” Eddie asked, holding out his little pinky. His Mama smiled, and raised a shaky hand to lace her pinky with his.

“Pinky promise.”

A year later, he was riding in the car with his Mama, backpack at his feet. She was dressed nicer than he ever remembered her being; a baby blue, short-sleeved dress hugged her slender frame, paired with white heels, white bug-eyed sunglasses, and a sheer white scarf she had tied around her hair. Her suitcase was in the trunk, but his father was nowhere to be found.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Where’s Dad?” He asked. His Mama cleared her throat before she answered, voice shaky.

“He’s not coming with us, Eddie,” she said. “We’re going somewhere far away from him. Somewhere new.”

“Where?”

“Have a look for yourself, honey,” she said, pointing to the window. Eddie crawled up on his knees to look out, seeing a sign welcoming them to a place called Hawkins. He sat back down in his seat, looking back at his mother.

“What’s here?” He asked. His mother smiled.

“Your Uncle Wayne. He’s my brother,” she supplied. “We’re just going to pay him a little visit, okay?”

A few short minutes later, they were parked in front of a small trailer, a gruff looking man waiting for them on the newly-built porch. They got out of the car and Eddie grabbed his backpack, slinging it over his shoulders before his Mama led him up the steps.

“Eddie, this is Uncle Wayne,” his Mama informed. He looked up at her and she nudged his arm, urging him to say something.

“H-Hello, sir,” Eddie greeted, sticking out his small hand for the man to shake. Wayne huffed a laugh and crouched down, causing Eddie to take a step back on instinct, before he took his hand and shook it.

“Nice to meet ya, Eddie,” Wayne began. He let go of his hand but stayed crouched. “You can call me Wayne, or Uncle Wayne, or Uncle, or—hell, Todd for all I care. Just none of that ‘sir’ business, you got me?”

Eddie smiled and nodded. “Sorry, si—uh, Uncle Wayne.”

“That’s better, boy,” Wayne said, smiling as he clapped his shoulder softly. Wayne had kind eyes, blue and soft around the edges. They weren’t mean like his fathers. Instead, they looked exactly like his Mama’s—save for a few extra wrinkles around the edges. “Why don’t you go on inside while your Mama and I talk?”

Eddie did as he was told, walking in the trailer and taking in his surroundings. It was small, smaller than his house, but cozy. A couple mugs were hung up on the wall, paired with three trucker hats and a framed picture he was too far away to see. An old, floral patterned couch sat on the long wall of the living room, a coffee table in front littered with an opened can of Coke and a half-eaten bag of chips. The windows were open to let light in, making the space feel much bigger than it actually was.

He stepped into the kitchen, just a pace away from the living room, and took in the red-toned wooden cabinets and cream countertops stained with coffee rings yet to be wiped away. There was a hallway to his left where he found a single bedroom and a bathroom. The bathroom was small, just big enough for a stand-up shower, toilet, and sink. A single toothbrush sat in the cup on the side of the sink along with a bar of soap and an almost empty tube of toothpaste. On the other side of the sink though, Eddie noticed an unopened toothbrush. It was blue and had sparkles throughout its plastic. At the bottom, there was a small dog sticker and it made him smile a little.

His attention soon wandered to the bedroom, where he found a little twin-sized bed and tons of boxes. The bed was bare, save for a folded up quilt near the bottom with a pillow on top. The boxes were filled with various things; clothes, books, a cassette player, shoes, and tons of other small trinkets. He sat on the ground, pulling a box closer to look through it. There were thin books near the top labeled ‘Hawkins High’, and he flipped through it to find pictures upon pictures of people. He read the names, sounding them out to see if he could get them right. Some of them were weird, though, and he quickly put the book down to look at something else.

There was a box of cassette tapes to his left and Eddie scooted over to look through it. There were tons of names he didn’t recognize as he rifled through the plastic cases, though one stood out to him.

He picked up the Fleetwood Mac tape along with the cassette player from a box near the closet, plugging it into the wall and putting the tape in. He eyed the front door, seeing it still firmly closed. Just then, the tape clicked, causing him to jump, and he pressed play.

The familiar voice filled his ears, and he smiled. He and his Mama used to listen to Fleetwood Mac back home in the kitchen while they made supper, singing along with the tape or the radio to fill the house with music. The sound of it brought a smile to his face, and he closed his eyes as he listened to the words.

Engrossed in the music, he barely registered that the front door had both opened and closed until a soft hand was laid on his shoulder.

“Eddie, baby, I have to go,” his Mama said, and he jumped to his feet. He kinda felt bad about going through Uncle Wayne’s things without him being there, but if they were leaving then he didn’t think he would get too mad.

“Where are we going now, Mama?” Eddie wondered. His mother’s face turned pinched, and she lifted her glasses to look at him directly. She wore make-up, much more than she usually did, and as she crouched down Eddie could see it was barely disguising a bruise along the top of her right cheekbone.

“Eddie, only I’m leaving,” his Mama corrected. “You’re staying here with Wayne.”

At that, his whole world fell apart.

His mother, his Mama, was leaving him. It didn’t seem fair that he couldn’t go with her, that he couldn’t stay with his Mama like he wanted to. Wayne seemed nice from their brief interaction, but he didn’t know him. Not like he knew his Mama.

His stomach sank to his feet, and it felt as if someone poured ice-cold water over him. His eyes grew wide as tears welled, spilling over his cheeks.

“Why, Mama?” Eddie sobbed, wiping at his face because he wasn’t supposed to cry. “Why can’t I go with you?”

“You just can’t, Eddie, I’m sorry,” she stated. It felt hollow, her explanation. Like she was hiding something.

“But why?”

“Because you just can’t, Eddie!” She snapped, and Eddie’s breath caught. She sounded mad, but Eddie had never heard her get mad, not at him at least. He didn’t know what he did, only that she wouldn’t let him go with her.

She took a breath and cupped his cheek. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“But- But you can’t leave me!” Eddie wailed. “Mama, please!”

She opened her arms and he fell into them, clinging hard enough to deem separating impossible. She hugged him back just as tight, and Eddie saw evidence of tear tracks streaking through her caked-on foundation.

“I know, baby, I don’t want to leave you either,” his Mama soothed. “But Wayne is going to take care of you, okay?”

Eddie looked over her shoulder to see Wayne leaning against one of the kitchen countertops, smiling sadly at him. Eddie screwed his eyes shut and buried his face in his mothers neck.

“You’re gonna come back, right?” Eddie mumbled before he moved to look at her. “Pinky promise you’re gonna come back for me.”

His Mama cried and wiped at her cheeks, smearing the make-up and making the bruises appear fresh on her pale skin. She held out a pinky, and Eddie laced his with hers.

“I promise, Eddie,” she said, leaning forward to kiss his forehead before getting to her feet. Her and Wayne shared a hug on her way out, and Eddie caught Wayne wiping his eyes too. He and his uncle stood on the porch as his mom drove away, waving until her taillights disappeared around the curve of the road.

That was the last time he saw his mother.

Unfortunately, it was not the last he saw his father.

He stayed with Wayne for two months until his father found him. They had grown accustomed to each other in that time, Eddie having warmed up to another parental figure and Wayne having gotten the basics down for caring for another being. Wayne insisted he start school in the fall, and he was two weeks in when all hell broke loose.

His father rolled up to the trailer in a fancy-looking sports car Eddie knew his dad didn’t have the money for. He stumbled out on the gravel, banging on the door until Wayne pulled it open.

“The hell are you doin’ here?” Wayne asked, standing firm in the doorway.

“I’m here to get my son,” his father demanded. He pushed past him and stormed the place until he found Eddie in the only bedroom—Wayne having set up a cot in the living room.

Eddie hadn’t expected to see his father again, mostly because he didn’t think the man really cared for him. That was prominent when he snatched Eddie off the bed and hauled him out of his room.

“Dad?” Eddie questioned. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m taking you away from here,” his father responded, glaring at Wayne who stood blocking the doorway.

“You’re not takin’ him anywhere, Al,” Wayne countered. He crossed his arms, looking far more intimidating than Eddie ever imagined. “He’s happy here.”

“He’ll be even more happy with me,” his dad insisted. “With his real family.”

“Son of a bitch, Al, I am his real family!” Wayne yelled. “You ain’t got the means for takin’ care of that boy, and you know it.”

His father stood toe to toe with his uncle, glaring at him. He whispered something Eddie was too far away to hear, but it made Wayne deflate completely.

Eddie didn’t want to leave. He found that these past two months with Wayne were filled with more happy memories than he ever remembered having back home. Wayne was nice, a little rough around the edges but he was a big softy inside. He cared about people, that much was evident in the way he was constantly helping people out around the park. He was a good person, so leaving him felt like his Mama all over again.

“Come on, son,” his father demanded, grabbing his arm and dragging him out of the trailer. Eddie looked back at Wayne, eyes stinging. He waved, and Wayne waved back. He watched the trailer from the backseat until he couldn’t tell which one was theirs, only facing the front when his dad snapped at him.

They rode for hours, far past the Indiana state line, until they ended up in a strange city filled with tall buildings and blinding lights that made Eddie’s eyes sting. They went through the city, stopping on the outskirts in a run-down neighborhood even more decrepit than his old house in Kentucky.

He spent two years with his dad in a city he came to know at St. Louis, but it never felt like home. Not like the trailer with Wayne, or anywhere his mother was. He learned how to hotwire cars and how to drive like a bat out of hell whenever his dad told him to. He learned that he was too much to take care of; his father constantly complained about feeding him, keeping him clothed, taking care of him like a father should. He learned that showing emotions would only get you hurt, that he had to hide them to survive. He learned what all the different white powders did to someone, how they would affect your mind and your body. How they made his father violent, or remorseful, or depressed, but never happy.

His father was on a bad trip when a rush of red and blue lights invaded their windows, sirens blaring and making Eddie’s ears ring. Their front door was kicked open, the old wood splintering easily under the force of a steel-toed boot. Police flooded the house, and Eddie was grabbed and dragged out before he had time to comprehend everything that was happening.

He was sitting in the back of a cop car with the door open, body completely still as police went in and out of their house. He couldn’t let them know he was scared out of his mind, that he was afraid of what they would do to him. He knew the best way to get through it was to show nothing at all. To be indifferent. Emotionless. It was the only thing his father taught him that he deemed useful.

His father was dragged out of the house by two policemen, kicking and screaming at them but Eddie couldn’t hear what he was saying, ears having gone deaf to anything other than the ringing in his head. Next thing he knew, his father had broken free and punched one of the officers, causing several to tackle him to the ground and handcuff him before practically throwing him into a car and hauling him away. All Eddie could do was watch, knowing there was nothing he could do to help him.

“You got somewhere to go, kid?” One of the cops that took him out of the house asked, leaning against the open door and blocking the flashing lights. Eddie nodded, and the cop took him back to the station where he called Wayne.

“Eddie, son, where are you? Are you okay? If that bastard hurt you, I swear to god—“

“Wayne,” Eddie began, his voice rough from not using it. “Can you come get me?”

A pause. “Sure, kid, where are you?”

“St. Louis,” Eddie supplied. There was cursing on the other end, muffled so Eddie couldn’t tell what was said but he knew Wayne well enough. Even after only two months, the man had become more like a father to him than his own dad ever was.

“I’m coming right now to get ya, just hold on tight, okay? I’ll be there ‘fore the morning.”

True to his word, Wayne showed up right before dawn in his beat up truck. He stormed the station like a madman, looking for him. He was rumpled, like he threw on just enough clothes to be decent before booking it all the way here. If he knew Wayne, that’s probably exactly what he did.

“Eddie? Eds, where are ya?”

“Sir,” the lady at the front desk interrupted. “I’m going to have to ask you to lower your voice—“

“Wayne!” Eddie perked up from the desk chair he was sitting at in the station, running around desks before jumping straight in his uncle's arms. Wayne held onto him just as tight, and he could’ve sworn he heard a sniffle or two come from the man.

“I was so worried, Eds,” Wayne whispered. “I tried lookin’ for ya, I swear I did, just—If I’d known he’d taken ya to another state I wouldn’t’ve stopped ‘til I searched the whole damn country.”

“I know, Wayne,” Eddie muttered. “I missed you too.”

As much as Eddie tried, he couldn’t put up that mask of indifference around his uncle. He could try, sure, but it never worked longer than five seconds before he saw right through it and it crumbled at Eddie’s feet.

“Let’s get you home, son,” Wayne insisted and before he knew it, Eddie was asleep in the passenger seat of the truck as they took the highway home.

Since then, Eddie and Wayne had become inseparable. There were no secrets between them, no masks. They weren’t needed, not when Wayne was more than good to him. They weren’t wanted, either, since Wayne made sure to remind him that showing emotions wasn’t a bad thing. That it was good, healthy.

It wasn’t until much later in middle school when he learned that having a mask was necessary sometimes. Especially when people started calling him a freak and a weirdo because he wasn’t identical to everyone else. Because he lived in a trailer with someone that wasn’t his biological parent and wore hand-me-down clothes that were baggy on him since his growth spurt hadn’t hit yet. He donned the air of indifference he had left behind long ago, letting the names and rumors bounce off his skin like water off an umbrella.

That need intensified when high school hit and the rumor mill grew exponentially. Suddenly, he was bombarded with accusations of Satanism, prison time, drug dealing—though that one was true—pet raccoons, and, at one point, an army of undead babies he sucked the life out of that he could command at will. Really, the shit people came up with was astounding, and Eddie learned to shove it all away. None of it was true—save for a couple things he would never, in a million years, tell another soul at Hawkins High—so he made sure to act like it was true. Let people believe what they want to believe. In the meantime, Eddie used it to his advantage to prevent anyone from getting too close. From looking past the barrier he put up between himself and everyone else.

So yeah, Eddie knows a little bit about where Mike’s coming from.

“Actually…” Robin starts. “Steve’s not doing so great—“

“What?!” Dustin squawks out, cutting Robin off and all but jumping up from his seated position. “Why the hell did you not start this whole damn thing with that?!”

“We were getting there, Henderson!” Eddie clarifies. “Now sit your ass down.”

Dustin—for once—does as he’s told. Eddie looks to Robin and gives her a nod, letting her have the floor.

“Steve’s got it in his head that he’s the only one allowed to sacrifice himself for us, that he’s only needed or wanted when he can put himself in the line of fire. So, like the caring dumbass he is, he’s been wandering around Hawkins at night because he’s worried that something will happen.”

“But I closed all of the gates,” El starts, head cocked and eyebrows scrunched like a confused puppy. “We are in no more danger.”

“I think part of him knows that, Supergirl,” Eddie explains. “But he needs to know for certain, to make sure you guys are absolutely safe.”

She nods, and sadness finds its way to her eyes. Eddie feels a pang of sympathy for her, knowing that learning how to live all over again is never easy.

“He’s not been sleeping much,” Robin continues. “It’s like he’s barely there anymore. Like he’s just… a shell.

“He thinks you all hate him. He thinks he deserves this for all the shit he did in the past, even though we all know he’s more than made up for it by becoming a decent fucking human being,” she spits out. There’s anger in her eyes now as she glares at a stain on the carpet, unwilling to look at the kids but needing to get her point across. “He broke down in my arms because this is the fifth fucking time the people he’s loved has left him and I think… I think this time broke him.”

She raises her head and looks over the kids, tears balanced on her lower eyelashes and threatening to spill over.

“You’re his family, the family he got to choose, and you still… you left. Just like everyone else has.”

The room fills with silence as the words sink in.

“How… How do we fix it?” Will asks, his quiet voice now loud. Eddie sighs and rakes a hand through his hair—a motion that keeps reminding him of Steve—before shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I know part of it is my fault, I admit that. I shouldn’t have just stopped talking to him all of the sudden, I should’ve… well, there’s a lot of things I should have done but I didn’t, so I plan on fixing that,” Eddie admits. He looks around the room, makes as much eye contact as he can to drive his point home. “You should too. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t going to cut it, not this time. Not for this.”

The kids all nod, and Eddie gestures to the door to dismiss them. They all look like kicked puppies with slouching posture and ducked heads, walking out of the trailer with their tails between their legs. Dustin and Mike are the first to hop on their bikes, ready to either apologize and get it over with or get as far away from his and Robin’s disappointed glares as possible. Before they can push off, Eddie calls out to them.

“Hey! Give it a couple days,” Eddie orders. “Steve… He’s going to need some time. Go to him when he’s ready, okay?”

He’s met with various nods and ‘will do’s as some of them take off, their knobbly knees hitting the handlebars of their too-small bikes. Then, he notices a particular brunette has yet to leave, her bike with little white training wheels still standing in the grass. Her big brown eyes lock with his and, even though there's a porch between them, he can feel the seriousness in her gaze.

“I miss him. He was always very nice to me,” El confesses. “He always gave me piggyback rides.”

Her face falls a little. “I did not know we were being mean to him.”

Eddie finds himself softening a little at her words.

“I know, Supergirl,” he winks at her. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”

She giggles in response and hops on her bike, meeting up with Max who stopped to wait for her a few yards away.

Eddie closes the door, falling against it with a thud. He groans, the sound bouncing off the thin door and out in the empty trailer. He turns to go to his room, preferably to wallow, before nearly jumping clean out of his skin.

Well, he thought the trailer was empty, except there now stands one Robin Buckley who has resumed her unimpressed, hands-on-her-hips, "you're a fucking dumbass" position from earlier.

"Jesus H. Christ!" He exclaims. A hand comes up to grab at his heart which is actively trying to beat out of his chest as his lungs grapple for air. "Birdie, I forgot you were there."

"Yeah," she deadpans. "Clearly."

Eddie straightens up, and quirks an eyebrow at her rather over dramatically. Robin rolls her eyes.

"Well?"

"It's a deep subject," Eddie sarcastically responds. Robin, unfortunately, doesn't find that funny. "'Well' what?"

"Go apologize!" She yells.

“Okay, okay, geez!”

Eddie pats himself down, looking for the keys to his van before Robin clears her throat. He looks over at her to see an unamused quirk of her eyebrow before she points to the hook by the door where his keys hang.

“Thanks, Buck!” he exclaims, pressing his hands together in prayer to the saint she is. Grabbing them, he throws the door open and clears the steps in one jump, stumbling a bit on the landing but really, he’s quite proud of this rare athletic appearance.

Jumping in his van, he slams a random tape in the deck, grinning a little at the song that plays first. Despite his obvious avoidance of the second track, the Master of Puppets album still holds a very special place in his heart. So it's really not a surprise that the song that just so happens to play first reminds him of the very man he’s going to see, sacrificial tendencies and all.

He slams on the gas, tires squealing as he peels out of Forest Hills trailer park faster than he ever has before.

He’s not running away this time; not running from a small cheerleader’s body trapped on his ceiling, not running from angry town hicks with their fiery pitchforks, and not running from a creepy interdimensional demon who enjoys sucking the life out of depressed teenagers.

No, this time, he’s running to something. Running to Steve.

He just hopes Steve will let him.

———

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rekikiri · 4 months

Text

ace spectrum aaron minyard

aaron grew up with tilda and the hemmick’s who were very homophobic. he was constantly around them talking about gross it is that people choose to be gay, and of course, he adopted that mentality.

he always thought girls were cute, pretty, etc but he didn’t realize until high school that he didn’t feel about girls like the other boys. he wanted to kiss girls, hold their hands, hug them. but the other boys talked about wanting to have sex with them, which thinking of always made him uncomfortable. he knew he didn’t like guys, so he wasn’t gay. but he didn’t want to have sex with girls, so what did that make him?

aaron ignores it in favor of trying to fit in. he ends up in relationships where he doesn’t want to have sex, but he does it because that’s what normal guys do, right? but he can’t help the nagging feeling in his head that tells him there’s something not right.

he doesn’t really have the chance to worry too much about it because of all the chaos of meeting andrew, losing tilda, his drug addiction, starting college, etc. andrew drove away any of the girlfriends he could’ve had in high school so it was put out of mind. aaron only really starts to think about it again in college. at first it’s not much, he’s focusing himself on school and with exy, he doesn’t really have any time left to worry about dating.

then, he meets katelyn. he likes katelyn pretty early. he thinks she’s the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, she’s so smart and nice, and just always so bright that it helps light up his day. but again, he doesn’t want to have sex. he’s hesitant to say anything, because the girls he’d dated in the past wanted things and he didn’t want to disappoint them because they’d think that he was weird and not want to date him anymore.

katelyn notices something is up with him, though. she notices how he’ll be kissing her but the moment hands start to wander, he tenses up and fakes an excuse to stop. and katelyn is fine with it. she’s okay if aaron wants to take things slow, but she wishes he’d just tell her that, not constantly back off and close off to her.

she finally asks him point blank if he wants to have sex with her, and he freezes. aaron really doesn’t want to hurt katelyn. he doesn’t want her to think he doesn’t find her attractive, because he does! she’s so beautiful! just, not that way. and katelyn takes it in stride. she really likes aaron too so she accepts that for what it is and says they can just continue as they are.

aaron can’t help feeling guilty because katelyn is putting up with so much shit because of him. between andrew, the chaos with the foxes, the thanksgiving disaster, etc, he’s fully expecting her to give up on him by that point but she stays.

aaron only starts to understand that he might be asexual during a therapy session with andrew. he’s asking andrew questions about neil. he brings up the whole, “he said he doesn’t swing but then suddenly y’all are together.”

andrew finally is fed up with it and stops him. “he doesn’t swing.”

and aaron just gets more irritated. because how the fuck does he not swing if he likes andrew??

“he doesn’t like anyone, just me. he’s demisexual.”

and aaron scoffs because okay, he knows about being gay and bi, but that has to be made up.

so bee explains what it means to aaron, and that it falls onto the asexuality spectrum. she explains that too because aaron just stared at her in confusion. then, he feels a little bit of something click into place.

josten wasn’t interested in sex or romance, until he met andrew. he was part of the asexuality spectrum, which he didn’t know was a thing at all, but the not sexually attracted to anyone part feels a bit on the nose for himself.

he gets quiet for the rest of the session, choosing to just listen to bee talking while he tries to consider that for himself. he leaves therapy that week confused and uncomfortable, so he ends up biting the bullet and asking bee for a private session so he can ask more about things.

aaron feels really awkward doing it, but he tells bee about how he doesn’t want to have sex with katelyn, but that he loves her and wants to be with her in every other way. but he’s not like josten because he has had crushes before, he’s wanted to date people, he just has never wanted sex. bee tells him more about the difference between romantic and sexual attraction. that you can be asexual and still want to date people, which is what seems to be the case for him. hearing that helps everything feel a bit more steady, he no longer feels like he’s walking a fine line trying to be normal even though he knows there’s something different.

he doesn’t really tell people. he tells katelyn of course, and she is confused at first but he tries to explain and she is understanding of it. she loves him, so she is fine if that’s not an aspect of their relationship. maybe she even asks aaron if he wants them to have a joint therapy session together so that bee can explain things if aaron isn’t sure how, which he appreciates so, so much.

andrew kind of figured it out because of how he stopped antagonizing Neil as much since a bit part of his dislike for neil for a bit was that he felt like he was lying about his sexuality or only with andrew because he saw him as easy. (maybe aaron even goes to have a chat with neil, because he wants to understand).

and maybe aaron starts to slowly feel more towards katelyn, realizing that maybe sex isn’t completely off the table as long as it’s her. he still doesn’t want to have sex all the time, but he’s found that she’s an exception to the rule. so he thinks that maybe he is demisexual, but they just take things slow to see where things go.

katelyn is just an angel with aaron, and her sticking by his side and helping him through the trial for killing drake and just how steady she is for him finally tips the scale and he really starts to understand neil because yeah, having someone who stands by him no matter how ugly his truth is, that trust and feeling of safety he gets with her is what makes him feel truly safe enough to want to “swing” for her.

#aftg #neil josten #andrew minyard #all for the game #andreil #aaron minyard #katelyn aftg #katelyn mackenzie #from the drafts #ace aaron minyard #demisexual Aaron minyard

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mad-raptorzzz · 1 year

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[ID: A fullbody drawing of a red-orange SkyWing dragon named Peril from Wings of Fire. She is sitting on all fours hunched over awkwardly with and awkward smile on her face. She is thing and gangly. She has bright re-orange scales and a bright yellow belly and wings. There are feathers along her spine and sprouting off her shoulders. Her tail ends in a large feathery fan with two smaller feathers sticking out to the sides. Her horns, claws, and teeth are a bright white. The horns on her head curve up slightly. She has bright electric blue eyes. In her right hand she is holding a small trans flag. There is steam arising from her and her body emits a slight yellow glow. The background is mustard yellow. ./End]

Peril is my favorite arc one character (minus Scarlet because Scarlet). The firescales mechanic is cool. She for sure has blue fire, the same color as her eyes, and when she's made she glows blue and leaks blue fire from her mouth and vents along the sides of her neck. I think she's skinny because she eat a lot of rocks and charred food. Also, not too buff because most of her enemies burn up before real fighting starts. But she's super fast in the air.

I really relate to her a lot and support any and all trans Peril and/or trans Sky headcannons. Again, mostly because I relate to her a lot. Plus, I like the new genre of villains who are evil but not homophobic or transphobic. Scarlet having Peril murder countless dragons, then one day little Peril says "Queen Scarlet I feel more like a dragoness." And Scarlet, while sipping wine, replies, "great get your she/her ass back in the arena doll-face." And that was that.

I have heard some people remark that trans Peril/Sky headcannons can be pushing stereotypes that all trans women are bold and loud and that all trans men are quiet and soft. Which is, first off, absolutely not true. Second, I do respect that argument, however I just relate in my gender identity a lot to Peril and imagine she is a she/they trans dragoness. Everyone thought maybe she would be more quiet and subdued after transitioning, but no her personality stayed the same because that's just Peril. Let her be her.

#wings of fire #skywing #peril wof #trans peril #trans character #this dragon is trans #firescales #I also really like her book in the second arc because I just like hearing her crazy mind think #also love the color combo of bright orange and bright blue

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gerrystamour · 1 year

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i could be honest, i could be human [Chapters 4, 5 & 6]

Rated E | Steddie

[ FIRST PART ] [ PREVIOUS PART ] [ NEXT PART ]

No summary to save space since this is a meaty update. SOME CONTENT WARNINGS THOUGH!! There is some vaguely described homophobia and a brief mention of a homophobic hate crime. Nothing is explicitly described.

Chapter Four: November 1984

It had been a few days since Billy Hargrove had beat the shit out of Steve and his ears were still ringing. Nancy wanted him to go to the doctor about it, saying something about his brain swelling and how that was bad. He figured he was fine. If his brain was going to crush itself on the inside of his skull, it would’ve done it already, right?

Regardless, going to the doctor would mean telling someone even a fraction of the events that happened, and he was in too much pain to keep his story straight.

Everything hurt at that point. His whole head pounded, and his jaw clicked at the hinge when he yawned or chewed any food, his nose was broken, and a bunch of Steve’s teeth were worryingly loose, shifting painfully in his swollen gums. To top it all off, he had a nasty gash on the side of his head from the plate Billy broke over it that definitely needed stitches because it kept reopening. But his head would have to be shaved to get stitches, and that was not an option.

He survived, and it wasn’t like it bled that much when the wound reopened. It was fine.

It also didn’t help that his breathing was also a little fucked up. The air inside the tunnels was definitely toxic, and their stupid little makeshift masks were a pathetic attempt at protecting themselves. He could still taste the tunnels sometimes when he managed to take a deep enough breath. Steve imagined that was what rotting meat would taste like, which was not helpful in the least.

Steve had been calling himself out of class, both because he was too messed up for the faculty to just ignore and because being in that bright, noisy, and crowded building while he felt so shitty was probably what Hell would feel like.

At that moment, he was shuffling through the aisles of Melvald’s—wearing sunglasses inside like a douchebag—to grab painkillers since he already used up his supply at home. The cashier gawked at him as he paid for the medication, and he didn’t even tell her off. Steve knew how bad he looked and he was just relieved that she wasn’t Ms. Byers.

Steve headed out into the sunlight with a groan, flinching as the bright light blinded him through his dark sunglasses. He didn’t even notice that he stepped out of the store and right into someone’s path as they passed until their shoulder caught his.

Normally, a bump like that would have made Steve stumble a step at most. This time, while his equilibrium was on vacation and he could barely even stand without holding onto something, he went down hard. Steve barely got his hands out in front of him to save what was left of his busted face from another traumatic injury.

Now, he had road rash on the heels of his palms, one of his wrists hurt, and the fall triggered a wave of dizzy nausea that actually made him dry-heave a bit before he regained some of his composure. To top that all off, his sunglasses had fallen off his face and from the sound of it, they had skittered directly under someone’s foot with a resounding crack.

“Fuck,” Steve managed to groan, and distantly he knew someone was talking to him, but it was difficult to hear them over the whooshing in his ears.

The person sounded alarmed, understandably so, and Steve managed to say, “Sorry, I promise I won’t puke.”

“Bummer, I was kinda hoping you would,” the person said, their voice finally coming in clearer as the whooshing subsided. “It would really make my day.”

Eddie Munson. Of course it was Eddie, there to witness another very low point in Steve’s life.

“On second thought, maybe I will,” Steve said, shakily pushing himself up onto his knees.

“Have you been drinking, Harrington?” Eddie asked, his voice getting closer as he crouched next to Steve on the sidewalk.

“I wish that’s what this was, Munson,” Steve replied with a wry laugh, hissing when cool fingers suddenly grabbed his chin and turned his face toward him.

“What the fuck, Harrington? Who the fuck did this?”

If Steve didn’t know better, he’d think that Eddie was actually concerned. Upset even. Like he actually cared that Steve was beaten up and concussed and on his knees in the middle of the sidewalk on a Thursday morning. Even if Steve could have opened his eyes against the bright sunlight, he wouldn’t have. He wanted to avoid seeing the grin that Eddie was undoubtedly wearing, didn’t want to ruin the illusion that someone else outside of the party cared that he was hurt.

With a hiss, Steve lifted a hand to the side of his head where he felt warmth trickling through his hair and sure enough his fingertips felt something wet. He laughed bitterly as he pulled his hand away.

Like Eddie said on Halloween—it was only funny if Steve was bleeding, right?

“Shit, Harrington, you’re bleeding,” Eddie said, and his voice was all wrong. There was no banter, no laughter, only what Steve would describe as panic if it was anyone else talking to him.

“Yeah, that happens. I’ll be fine, I just need—fuck, why is it so bright out here?” Steve croaked, trying to open his eyes but without his sunglasses, it just felt like hot icepicks were being driven through both eyeballs.

Steve could hear Melvald’s door open with a jingle, and the tense voice of the cashier said, “he can’t stay out here like that.”

“You’re actually fucking joking, right?” Eddie snapped, his tone so full of venom that Steve couldn’t help but laugh.

“I don’t want any trouble, and both of you are scaring people—”

Eddie cut her off with a mean laugh. “He’s on the ground bleeding, and you care about, what exactly?”

“Munson, stop,” Steve murmured, trying to get to his feet again but failing miserably.

“Either you both leave or I’m calling the cops,” she snapped, her tone closed off. Panic flashed through Steve about Hopper seeing him laid out on the sidewalk like he was and he shook his head.

“Oh, I fucking dare you to, lady—” Eddie started to taunt her again, but Steve smacked his leg blindly.

“Stop, Munson, seriously,” Steve insisted before addressing the employee. “We’ll leave, okay? I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

Eddie scoffed at his apology, but the employee thanked him and the door shut as she presumably went inside.

“Okay, can you help me to my car? I parked it down the street—” Steve started.

“Like hell am I taking you to your car, Harrington!” Eddie interrupted, his voice almost shrill with his outrage.

“Well I can’t stay here, so unless you have a better idea…” Steve trailed off, his head throbbing with a new flash of agony.

Eddie was silent for several moments before the various chains he wore jingled with movement. “I’m going to take you to my van, okay?” Eddie said, his voice now coming from above Steve rather than next to him. Eddie didn’t even wait for him to respond before he grabbed Steve and easily hauled him to his feet.

Steve was surprised at Eddie’s strength, not quite expecting it from the way Eddie looked and behaved. Not only was he strong enough to lift Steve, but he was controlled enough with that strength to do it without jostling him unpleasantly. When Eddie settled Steve against his side with an arm tucked firmly around his waist, that embarrassed fluttering filled Steve’s gut again for some reason.

Maybe Nancy was right and his brain was starting to swell.

That thought was reaffirmed when they reached Eddie’s van and he had zero recollection of moving. Eddie was muttering in his ear, and after a moment of concentration he managed to understand some of the words.

“—Idiot pretty-boys passing out and bleeding all over my new fucking battle vest—”

“You regularly haul around bleeding pretty-boys, plural, Munson?” Steve groaned as Eddie startled at his voice. The other man propped Steve against the bumper of his van and carefully let him go.

“Nah, Harrington, only you get the royal treatment,” Eddie admitted with a chuckle. “Can you get yourself into the van, or do you need my help?”

Steve considered the question carefully, his eyes shut and head hanging. He could probably tough out the pain enough to get himself into the van. He had toughed out the pain and dizziness to run around tunnels made of writhing vines and crawling with Demo-dogs. Crawling into a van was nothing.

And yet…

“Okay, I’m helping before you pass out on me again,” Eddie grunted as he scrambled up into the van and knelt behind him. With a huff, Eddie weaved his arms beneath Steve’s and around his chest, his own chest pressing against Steve’s back. Curly hair tickled against Steve’s cheek and hot breath puffed across his throat. “Okay, big boy, you’ve gotta help a little bit.”

Heat burst across Steve’s cheeks, that terrible fluttering feeling running rampant in his gut, but all he did was nod and hum his agreement.

“On three, okay?” Eddie said, and once he counted them in, Steve pushed up on his tip-toes at the same time Eddie lifted him. Once he was partly inside the van, Steve was able to hook his heel on the bumper and help push himself the rest of the way while Eddie pulled.

Once inside, Steve laid on a pile of blankets on top of a mattress that was probably shitty, but at the moment was the best damn thing he’d ever had the pleasure of laying on. Distantly, he heard the van doors close, as well as some fabric shifting, and blessedly the world became a lot less bright through his eyelids. Steve found himself marveling at how Eddie’s van… did not smell bad, not even that much like pot. It did smell like pot, it definitely did, but it wasn’t awful like other vehicles he had the displeasure of sitting in after a hotboxing session.

At that thought, Steve realized he had no idea if Eddie actually did any of the drugs he sold. He could have just been selling, right? And yeah, on Halloween he offered to share a joint with Steve, but that didn’t actually mean Eddie smoked pot regularly. Steve always lied about hating the chicken nuggets at school so Jonathan would actually take them from his tray when he offered.

Suddenly, Steve felt bad about all of his assumptions about Eddie all over again.

“M’sorry,” Steve mumbled before he could stop himself, and Eddie laughed, still moving around the van.

“What are you apologizing for now, St—Harrington?”

“What I’m always sorry for,” he sighed, reaching up to cover his face gingerly. “Being an asshole.”

Eddie was quiet for a long time, or maybe it was a short time, but it felt really long because there was a script to these moments. Steve called himself an asshole, Eddie agreed, and they moved on. Eddie wasn’t agreeing, so Steve wasn’t sure how to move on.

When Eddie spoke again, he still sounded weird, almost sad. “You wanna give opening your eyes a try, Harrington?”

With a nervous sigh, Steve slowly opened his eyes and glanced around the van. It looked old and a bit rundown, like the outside suggested, but it was clean. There was a curtain between them in the far back and the middle bench, which looked like Eddie installed himself. There was also some fabric covering the rear windows, giving the space they were laying in a dimmer, gentler light. It was light enough that Steve could see, but not so bright that it hurt him.

“That’s a lot better,” Steve sighed, and finally he looked up at Eddie’s face.

Eddie was sitting next to Steve, his back leaning against the side wall of the van with his knees bent and his arms resting loosely on top of them. He looked kind of angry, and Steve was at a loss for why he would be. He remembered the muttered complaint about blood on his vest and when he looked at it properly, sure enough, there were dark red drops and smears on the shoulder.

“Sorry about your vest. I’ll pay to have it cleaned,” he promised, and when Eddie’s stare didn’t soften, he looked away nervously.

“Seriously, Harrington, who the fuck hurt you?” Eddie asked again, as if he was about to fight for Steve’s honour or something, and Steve laughed.

“Billy Hargrove,” he said as he looked back over at Eddie, and just as he expected, the other man deflated a bit, his anger turning into something closer to fear. “It was pretty fucking stupid on my part.”

“Why were you fighting Hargrove?” Eddie asked and Steve mulled over the best way to answer.

“I was babysitting—”

“Oh, fuck off, no you weren’t,” Eddie scoffed, and Steve frowned over at him.

“Yes, I was. I’m a damn good babysitter, too,” Steve said defensively.

He was really trying not to take Eddie’s skepticism too personally; he knew how weird that concept sounded from the outside. Hell, a year ago even Steve would have scoffed at what he was saying. Still, it was really starting to suck having everything he said and did doubted because of who he was a year ago.

“Okay, and why would you be babysitting? What’s in it for you?” Eddie asked, eying him closely.

“I was helping Ms. Byers out,” Steve replied as if that answered everything, before he continued, “anyway, his step-sister was hanging out with us, and then Billy showed up, she was scared of him, so I tried to get him to leave.”

“Looks like it hurt a lot,” Eddie said quietly, cringing sympathetically.

Steve shrugged, which was a bit awkward while laying down. “Honestly, I was out cold for most of it. Didn’t feel much after the first couple hits,” he laughed, but Eddie didn’t join in.

“That’s not a fight, Harrington. That’s a beating,” Eddie replied, his voice deeper than Steve was used to hearing and lacking any of its usual lightness.

“Yeah, I guess so. Better me than her,” Steve replied with a flippant shrug; he was no stranger to being hit, even if the only other time he took a beating to the face was his fight with Jonathan the year before. Then he added before he could stop himself, “she was afraid he was going to kill her, so I tried to get him to leave. Then he threatened to kill one of the other kids, Lucas Sinclair?”

Steve looked over at Eddie and watched him as he visibly sifted through his knowledge of the people in Hawkins. Recognition sparked behind Eddie’s eyes and his expression darkened.

“I know the Sinclairs. Nice people,” Eddie said after a bit, scowling.

Steve nodded. “He’s a good kid, too, not that I’d say that to his face. It’d go straight to his head,” he said, smirking when Eddie chuckled. With a heavy sigh, Steve said, “He threatened to kill Lucas, so I hit him and then…”

He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his face.

Eddie was still staring at Steve when he looked back, and he started to squirm a bit under the intense gaze. “You’re just a regular knight in shining armour, aren’t you?” Eddie asked after a bit and Steve laughed, especially at how angry Eddie still looked and how begrudging he sounded.

“Yeah, totally. And you know what they say,” Steve hummed sarcastically, looking up at the ceiling. “No good deed goes unpunished and all that.”

“Maybe you should start avoiding the Byers?” Eddie suggested and Steve barked out a laugh that hurt his head and made him wince.

“Christ, maybe,” he admitted, running his tongue along his loose teeth. “Starting to think I should just get the hell out of this town,” he muttered, surprising even himself.

“Shit, the King is going to abandon his kingdom?”

Steve looked back at Eddie and met his wide, dark eyes. His expression was searching and his smirk was back, the nicer one. The weird fluttering feeling in Steve’s chest and stomach had returned in full-force, and he floundered for an explanation. He wasn’t embarrassed, for sure this time.

“I don’t know,” Steve replied after a minute, sighing heavily. “Probably not. Where would I even go?”

“Aren’t you gonna go to some fancy college somewhere?” Eddie asked with a snort.

Steve grimaced and glared up at the ceiling again. “I guess,” he said hollowly.

He missed early admission between the whole dinner with Barb’s parents and the break-up with Nancy, plus luring D’art, plus getting beat up by Billy. Well, he deliberately missed it at first because he decided to take a gap year to stay close to Nancy. Because they were in love.

Steve scoffed out loud. “Yeah, totally,” he added sadly.

“Wait, Harrington, are you… not going to college?” Eddie asked and Steve groaned.

“Yeah, Steve Harrington isn’t going to fucking college,” he declared with a listless laugh. “Decided to be all romantic and take a gap year, propose to Nancy after she graduated, go to college together. Or I would work for my dad and pay for Nancy’s school or something. Not that she would need my help, she’s so smart she’ll probably land a full-ride wherever she wants.”

When he was done with his rant, the van was silent for several moments until Eddie asked, “What’s wrong with that plan, lover boy?”

Steve nearly snapped at Eddie, nearly told him that he knew exactly what was wrong with that plan. He caught himself, though, remembering that he never actually told Eddie why he was crying on Halloween.

“She, uh, dumped me,” Steve replied, glancing away from Eddie. “At Tina’s party.”

“Shit,” Eddie said, and Steve nearly laughed at the little cringe on his face. “I’m sure you’ll get her back, right? Don’t people like you always get back together?”

Steve frowned at Eddie, not sure what he meant by that last bit. “Not this time. No fairytale ending here,” Steve eventually said, sighing. “She’s with Jonathan now.”

Eddie made a noise. “Halloween was only a week ago,” he said flatly.

“Glad you have a grasp on the passage of time, Munson,” Steve chuckled.

“No, the timing—”

“I know how it looks. It’s not like that,” Steve interrupted firmly. “She—Nancy wouldn’t do that. It’s more complicated than that.”

“Doesn’t look that complicated from where I’m sitting, Harrington,” Eddie challenged, and he looked properly angry again when Steve looked over at him.

“Well, it is. Ever consider that you might not actually know everything?” Steve spat, a bit meaner than he liked, before continuing, “Nancy is amazing and I was fucking it up the whole time, because I’m an idiot and a douchebag. She wasn’t cheating on me. She wouldn’t do that to anyone, even me. She’s not like that, okay?”

Eddie frowned at him, and Steve could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he mulled over what Steve had said. “I can’t decide if your steadfast faith in her is admirable or pathetic,” he admitted after a few moments, dragging another startled laugh out of Steve.

“Probably the second one,” Steve replied through a grimace of pain. “I think my head is still bleeding,” he complained, and sure enough when he touched the wound, his fingers came away wet and sticky.

“Jesus H. Christ, Harrington, why the fuck is your head still bleeding?”

Suddenly, Eddie was looming over him, straddling Steve’s midsection without putting any weight on him, turning Steve’s head so he could try to see the cut through Steve’s hair.

“It’s fine,” Steve said, heat rushing to his face.

“Dude, this needs stitches or something. You need to go to a doctor—”

“No!” Steve immediately said, shaking his head and grabbing Eddie’s thigh. “I don’t want to see a doctor, or go to the hospital.”

“Why the fuck not, Harrington? You’re bleeding, this cut is really bad, and—” Eddie stopped short, and Steve blushed when his eyes narrowed suspiciously down at him. “You don’t want them to shave your head.”

Steve blushed even darker and Eddie laughed, the mocking one that Steve had expected at the start of all this. It was actually a bit comforting at that point.

“Christ, I guess I shouldn’t be shocked that Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington would walk around with an open fucking head wound before he’d get fucking stitches,” Eddie grumbled as he went back to inspecting the cut.

Steve idly began to slide his thumb back and forth where it rested on Eddie’s thigh. He barely realized he had been doing it at all, the sensation of denim against the pad of his thumb soothing. He was snapped out of his stupor with a wince when Eddie prodded a bit too hard on his tender scalp.

“Knock it off,” Eddie snapped, his hand swatting Steve’s away from his leg. “That’s distracting.”

“What are you even doing?” Steve asked grumpily, feeling pinned even though Eddie was hovering above him.

“Trying to decide if it’s worth waking my uncle up to get your stupid jock head fixed,” he replied before sitting back on his heels to glower down at him thoughtfully. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Steve registered the way Eddie’s weight settled on his midsection, and that fluttering in his gut turned to a swooping sensation.

“Is your… uncle a doctor?” Steve asked nervously, still afraid for the fate of his hair.

“No, but he was a field medic in Vietnam and he keeps some supplies around. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but I’m a Klutz with a capital K,” Eddie replied, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at Steve.

“And he won’t shave my head?” Steve pushed and Eddie rolled his eyes.

“I can’t promise that, Harrington, but I can vouch for your pathological vanity and we’ll see what he can manage. But this will keep bleeding and probably get infected,” Eddie warned, and Steve made a face up at him.

“Stop making sense,” he complained and squirmed under Eddie’s weight.

Eddie froze above Steve, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, for several moments. With a strangled little noise, Eddie scrambled off of Steve and back to his spot against the wall of the van.

“Okay! So, do you think you can manage sitting up front or are you going to lay back here?” Eddie asked, pulling a curly lock of hair in front of his face and fidgeting with it nervously..

The motion was so endearing it almost pained Steve to see it. He’d seen so many girls do that exact move when they were being shy or playful with him, and it always drove Steve mad. He wished Eddie was a girl so he could reach over and tuck his hair out of his face, pull him down for a kiss—

Those thoughts came to a screeching halt as he tried to figure out where that came from. Steve’s brain was definitely swelling, that was the only explanation for the direction those thoughts went. Maybe he should go to the hospital…

“Dude, stop spacing out on me, you’re freaking me out,” Eddie said frantically, snapping his fingers in Steve’s face.

“What?” Steve asked, unsure of what conversation they were having now.

“I’m taking you to my uncle, remember? Which means I have to drive. Are you going to hang out back here, or sit up front with me?” Eddie repeated curtly.

Steve frowned. “Do you have sunglasses I can borrow?” he asked, and when Eddie shook his head, Steve gestured around him. “Then it looks like I’m getting the real royal treatment, huh?”

“I’ll take the corners super fast so it doesn’t go to your head,” Eddie promised with a wink before he said, “Shield your eyes, Your Majesty.”

Steve chuckled and covered his eyes as Eddie scrambled over the middle bench through the seam in the curtain.

Despite his comment, the drive was actually uneventful, the gentle movement of the van actually lulling Steve to a light doze. He jolted awake when the van shut off, and a moment later Eddie poked his head through the curtains to meet Steve’s eyes upside-down.

“We have arrived, Your Highness, and we’re in luck. My uncle is already awake,” he said with a bright grin.

Steve was suddenly very unsure. “Would it’ve been a problem if he wasn’t?”

“What? No, of course not,” Eddie said with a frown, shaking his head quickly before he disappeared. Steve heard Eddie get out of the van and decided to start getting himself sat up again.

“Hey Uncle Wayne, do you have sunglasses?” he heard Eddie call, and then the quiet response from someone. He couldn’t hear the words, but it didn’t sound like a yes.

“I need your help with something,” Eddie said and Steve could hear a long-suffering sigh and the sound of footsteps coming toward the van.

“What’d you get yourself into now, kid?” The tone was so affectionate that Steve couldn’t help the small smile that came to his face.

“I didn’t get myself into shit—”

“Watch your language. Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“Just listen a minute, okay? Someone from school got a little hurt and he needs stitches—”

“Then he should be going to a doctor, Eddie. What’re you doing bringing him here?”

“Uhm, this sounded better in my head but now that I’m saying it out loud with you looking at me like that, I’m realizing it sounds kind of dumb, but he doesn’t… want his head shaved.”

Steve grimaced because… yeah, now that it was being said out loud to an actual adult, it sounded beyond dumb. It was completely childish.

“Eddie—”

“Okay, Uncle Wayne, I know. It sounds really stupid, believe me, but it’s also really important to him, and I kind of get it because I wouldn’t want my head shaved either.”

There was a long silence before a heavy sigh. “I’ll look at your classmate, and I will do my best to save his hair, but I ain’t making any promises.”

“Right! I already told him that! Thank you, Uncle Wayne! One last thing…”

“For the love of Pete, kid…”

There was quiet murmuring, too quiet for Steve to eavesdrop on from inside the van, but Mr. Munson did not sound happy about whatever other information Eddie delivered to him. After a few minutes of hushed back-and-forth, Eddie knocked lightly on the doors.

“Alright, Harrington, you decent?” Eddie called, and Steve snorted, closing his eyes.

“Ready to go when you are, Munson,” he replied and he heard the van doors open wide.

Eddie hauled him out carefully, and guided Steve up a set of stairs into what Steve assumed was his house. When Steve opened his eyes, he was met with the cramped interior of a trailer, with shelves of mugs on the walls. Where there weren’t mugs, there were baseball caps.

“Huh, nice place,” Steve said, and he meant it. It was small, a little worn out, but it was cozier than his house by several hundred degrees. It actually felt like a home, like it was lived in. Like there was love there.

“Don’t be an asshole, Harrington, you’re skating on thin ice as it is,” Eddie warned in a low voice and Steve flinched.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—Sorry,” he muttered, and refused to meet Eddie’s eyes when he was deposited into one of the chairs at the tiny kitchen table. He couldn’t really blame Eddie for his assumption, but still… Just like the comment Eddie made about him babysitting, it sucked.

When Mr. Munson stepped out of the bathroom with a first-aid kit, he pulled up short upon seeing Steve, his expression dark.

“This is a little more hurt than ‘kinda’, Eddie,” Mr. Munson said in a low voice, pulling up a chair to sit in front of Steve. “You get into a tussle with a bear, kid?”

“No, sir. Another classmate,” Steve replied quickly.

“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Apple rarely falls far from the tree,” Mr. Munson muttered, almost under his breath, and with sudden clarity Steve understood that Mr. Munson was talking about his father, that there was history there.

Steve knew about his father’s reputation; the man bragged about his glory days in high school and college. Steve often heard about it the most during the worst of his lectures and punishments growing up. Richard Harrington never let anyone forget who was in charge, and he ruled over the halls of Hawkins High and then later Harvard with his fists. Richard Harrington didn’t even have to be challenged before he asserted himself, Richard Harrington never gave anyone the chance to take his crown.

Most people seemed impressed by Steve’s father, they would call him a “man’s man” and strong. So many people described him as a provider, a protector even. A man that strong, that intelligent, that wealthy? He had to be doing something right.

And then there were people like Wayne Munson, the people who did real work and lived out of run-down trailers on the outskirts of Hawkins, and their disdain for people like Richard Harrington was palpable. Had Mr. Munson ever personally been targeted by Steve’s father? Maybe. Or maybe someone Mr. Munson knew had been.

The nauseating shame that filled Steve’s gut at that had him diverting his gaze to his lap. Part of him wanted to say he wasn’t like his father, to insist that he was his father’s greatest disappointment and how he didn’t care about trying to change that anymore.

The very thought of saying any of that out loud in front of anyone, let alone Eddie and his uncle, was mortifying, though.

“Where’s this cut you need stitched up, kid?”

Steve heard the question but it didn’t sink in right away, didn’t reach through his fog of concussion and shame until Eddie snapped his fingers in front of his face.

“Hey man, you okay?” Eddie asked when Steve looked up at him.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” Steve said, swallowing thickly against the nausea roiling in his core. “Thank you for offering to help, and thank you Mr. Munson, but maybe I should go. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Harrington. Jesus, you haven’t done anything wrong,” Eddie said pointedly, and Mr. Munson frowned a bit at that. “Just show Wayne your head,” Eddie added firmly, crossing his arms.

Steve just nodded and turned his head, cringing as Mr. Munson began moving his hair out of the way to see the injury. “Jesus, kid, what the hell happened?” he asked, and his tone demanded an answer. Mr. Munson got up to collect a bowl of warm water and a washcloth, which he used to start cleaning some of the blood off of the skin around the wound.

“He broke a plate over my head,” Steve answered immediately, and Eddie made a disgusted noise. “I don’t remember much after that.”

“Knew that piece of shit wouldn’t fight fair,” Eddie grumbled.

“Was the rest of your busted face before or after the plate?” Mr. Munson asked, and Steve gave a weak shrug. “Don’t give me that, boy. Answer the question.”

“After,” Steve answered.

Mr. Munson’s hands pulled away from Steve’s head to start preparing the needle and thread. “Sounds to me like the cops should be involved,” he said shortly.

“Hopper knows,” Steve replied tensely. “I’m not pressing charges.”

“Of course you’re not,” Eddie muttered, and Steve could hear the eye-roll.

“Time for both of you to shut up now. He can’t be yapping while I’m doing this,” Mr. Munson said, which effectively shut both of them up.

Steve tried to think of other things while Mr. Munson worked quietly, and part of him was glad he was just generally in pain everywhere. He barely felt the needle. The worst part was when Mr. Munson would tug his hair just a bit too much while trying to keep it out of the way. Eventually, he huffed after a few minutes of fighting with Steve’s hair and the needle.

“That’s it—” he started and ice-cold fear lanced through Steve’s gut.

“Please don’t shave it,” he begged, and he hated how pitiful he sounded. He was struck again with just how stupid his concern was, as if his goddamn hair was actually important.

It was just one of the few things he still had going for him. Even if he no longer had the popularity, or Nancy Wheeler, or a future his father might be proud of, he still had his stupid hair.

Mr. Munson sighed, his eyes softening at the plea. “I’m not gonna shave it, kid. I promise. Eddie, get over here and make yourself useful,” he said over his shoulder, and Eddie jumped forward. “I need you to gently hold his hair away from the cut, got it? Don’t pull so hard you’re reopening it or yanking the stitches, just enough that it stays out of my way.”

Eddie nodded and stepped behind Steve’s chair to frame the cut with his hands. With hands smoothing his hair out of the way and holding him so firmly, Steve sighed and relaxed into the chair.

“That good, Wayne?”

“It’ll do.”

Steve winced when Mr. Munson got back to work, and one of Eddie’s thumbs started moving in soothing little strokes behind his ear. The effect was immediate, his body relaxing as much as it could at that moment while actively keeping his head up. Behind him, Eddie chuckled and stepped closer so Steve could rest his head back against him. The thumb kept sliding back and forth behind Steve’s ear, lulling him into a quieter state of mind for the first time in a while.

Steve startled when Mr. Munson pulled away and Eddie’s hands disappeared.

“That should do’er,” Mr. Munson sighed as he started to clean everything up. “Come back in a few days and I’ll remove them.”

Sitting up on his own, Steve asked, “Can I remove them on my own?”

Mr. Munson looked at him flatly, before looking at Eddie above Steve’s head. When he met Steve’s gaze again, his expression brooked no argument. “Come back in a few days and I’ll remove them,” he repeated and Steve nodded carefully.

“Of course, sir,” Steve muttered, looking around. “I should probably go home.”

“I’ll give you a ride,” Eddie said quickly, and when Steve looked up at him, he caught the tail-end of a wordless conversation between uncle and nephew. Eddie was shaking his head sharply before he turned a strained smile down at Steve, and Mr. Munson was rolling his eyes tiredly. “C’mon, Harrington, your chariot awaits.”

When Steve stood up, he was a lot less dizzy, which was a relief. He knew the vehicle would still be hell, but it was a necessary evil. This time, he decided he would ride up front with Eddie instead of laying in the back like an invalid.

The sun was still painfully bright, but even that was getting manageable. Once inside the van, he leaned back and shut his eyes tightly.

“You good, Harrington?” Eddie asked as he started the van.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just relaxing my head,” Steve replied, swallowing thickly. “Didn’t wanna say this in front of your uncle, but can you just drop me off downtown? My car’s still—”

“Harrington, if you think I’m going to knowingly let you drive like this for even a second, you must really have one hell of a concussion,” Eddie interrupted sharply. “I’m taking you home.”

“Not even taking me to dinner first?” Steve teased before he could stop himself.

Eddie barked out a laugh and didn’t respond.

“Seriously, Munson, my car—”

“Can’t someone else pick it up for you? You can give me your keys and I can give them to anyone you want,” Eddie suggested and Steve’s brow furrowed as he turned his face toward him, eyes still shut.

“This is ridiculous, I’m perfectly capable of driving,” he insisted and Eddie scoffed.

“Sure you are, just open your eyes,” Eddie challenged and Steve grimaced.

“Fuck you, man,” he sighed without any heat to it and Eddie laughed again.

“Seriously, though, give me your keys once we get to your house I’ll make sure your car gets back to you,” Eddie promised.

“Even if I told you to take my keys to Chief Hopper?” Steve challenged and Eddie barked out another laugh.

“Bold of you to assume me and Hopper don’t like each other,” Eddie teased and Steve actually opened his eyes just a bit to look at him.

“Seriously?” Steve asked and Eddie just chuckled and shrugged.

“I mean, the guy’s had plenty of opportunities to make my life hell, but he hasn’t,” he said evasively, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “Figure that has to count for something.”

Steve just shrugged and closed his eyes again. “Maybe. Fine, then take my keys to Hopper,” he decided, if only because it would be less out of Hopper’s way to bring his car to him than literally anyone else.

Steve wasn’t sure how much time passed, but he was startled again as the van stopped.

“We have arrived at Castle Harrington,” Eddie proclaimed as he turned the van off, and he was smirking when Steve opened his eyes again to look at him. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

“Sure,” Steve said, and he felt his cheeks heat with a blush. Confused at that reaction, Steve got out of the van as quickly as he safely could, careful not to trigger another dizzy spell.

When he unlocked his front door, he paused to look back at Eddie, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet. “Did you want to come in?” he offered, his words a bit stilted.

“No,” Eddie laughed, looking up at the huge house. “I’ll pass, Harrington. Plus, I have an errand to run for you.”

“Right, uh, here you are,” Steve replied, handing his key chain to Eddie. “Thanks. For everything. I really appreciate it, Munson.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it, Harrington,” Eddie replied, and Steve watched as a blush rose to Eddie’s cheeks. He looked Eddie over again and remembered the blood on his vest.

“Shit, your vest. Let me get it cleaned for you,” Steve insisted, pointing at the spots.

Glancing down at his vest, Eddie shook his head quickly. “No way, Harrington. I’ll handle it. Plus,” he started, grinning broadly as he leaned into Steve’s space. “It’s kinda metal, don’t you think?”

Steve stared at Eddie, a dazed little smile rising to his lips. “I have no idea what that means, Munson,” he admitted, and he felt a little proud at the loud laugh that got.

“Oh, Harrington, when you say shit like that, it makes me wanna corrupt you,” Eddie sighed, tilting his head as he took a step back. Steve rolled his eyes at that, the tips of his ears feeling hot.

“I’ll see you around,” Steve said, stepping backward into his house and Eddie nodded with a little wave before bounding down the walk back to his van.

Steve watched from his doorway while Eddie sat in his van and appeared to begin scolding himself. The man was always very animated, his gestures huge and typically very clear to read—the way he ran his hands through his hair in frustration, or the light smacks to his forehead, or the way he seemed to lean back and plead skyward. It was hilarious to watch if a bit baffling.

Eddie glanced back at the house and visibly jumped at seeing Steve still standing there. He couldn’t see from that distance, but Steve was positive that the nervous shake of Eddie’s head was paired with a blush. With another shake of his head and a laugh, Eddie leaned over to the passenger side of the bench and rolled the window down.

“The hell are you still standing out here for, Harrington? Get the fuck inside!” he shouted at Steve, his grin huge.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve called back, waving at Eddie before he finally turned and shut the door.

After an afternoon being tucked into the back of Eddie’s van and then inside Eddie’s trailer with his uncle, the big Harrington house felt cavernous. His parents weren’t even in town anymore. They left again for business around the time Steve was on the train tracks with Dustin setting the trap for D’art. When he had finally gotten home after that entire ordeal, he had been relieved to have the house to himself.

There was a smaller part of him that had ached for someone to be there and care that he was hurt, to take care of his bruised face and call him in sick to school. There he was, almost eighteen and wanting his mom like a child. That ache was there again, but with an angrier edge to it that he was too sore and too tired to unravel.

With a huff, Steve went upstairs to wash up as best as he could and get changed. Belatedly, he realized that he had lost the bottle of painkillers he bought, making his entire excursion earlier pointless.‘Not completely pointless,’ Steve corrected himself as he fussed with his hair gently, a reluctant smile coming to his face as he thought about the overall afternoon.

Chapter Five: B-Side

Steve groaned at the booming cop-knocking at his front door as he shuffled toward it. He had been dozing on the couch and his equilibrium was slow to reacquaint with itself upon waking up. It was a lot better than earlier, at least.

“I’m coming, Jesus, relax!” Steve shouted as he got to the front door, opening it with a bit too much gusto and losing his balance.

Hopper was quick to catch him before he toppled over, one big hand on his shoulder and the other around his elbow.

“Jesus, kid, you somehow look worse,” Hopper grumbled, stepping inside without letting go of him.

“Thanks, Chief,” Steve said with a self-deprecating laugh, and he didn’t fight when Hopper sat him down on the stairs.

“Your folks still not home?” Hopper asked as he looked around, his eyes landing on the note that was on the side table at the door from Steve’s parents. Picking it up, he read it with a frown.

“You got a warrant for that?” Steve grumbled, tipping his head back to stare at the high ceiling instead of the subtle, sad tilt of Hopper’s frown.

“I’m off-duty, kid. I’m checking on you,” Hopper said, and Steve could hear him crumpling up the note. “This says you’re on your own for Thanksgiving?”

“Does it?” Steve asked, and genuinely he hadn’t even read it. His father’s handwriting was hard enough to read at the best of times, and the head injury didn’t help with that.

“You’re coming to Thanksgiving with me and the Byers,” Hopper said firmly, and when Steve looked at him again, his expression brooked zero argument. “And if you argue, I’m telling Joyce you’re home alone with a head injury, you got it?”

Steve glowered weakly up at Hopper before shrugging. “Okay. Should I bring something?” he asked, rolling his eyes at Hopper’s smug smile.

“I’ll get back to you on that,” he replied before leaning back against the front door, his expression stern. “What’re you doing with Munson?”

Steve frowned up at Hopper. “We ran into each other when I was out earlier and he helped me out,” he replied after a bit, shrugging. “I’m not doing drugs if that’s what you're asking.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking, Harrington,” Hopper sighed, but the uncomfortable way he glanced away said differently. “I’m keeping your car at the station until Wayne removes your stitches at least—”

“C’mon, Chief,” Steve protested, his mouth hanging open in shock. “You can’t be serious!”

“You heard me! I’ve half a mind to ticket you for driving earlier on principle!” Hopper shouted over him, just loud enough to shut Steve up. “As I was saying, I’m keeping your car at the station. I’ll bring you to Wayne’s place to get your stitches removed since you refuse to see a doctor. Then I’ll decide if you’re good to have your car back. Do you understand?”

“This is ridiculous,” Steve grumbled.

“I asked you a question, Harrington,” Hopper pressed, stepping forward to loom over him.

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Steve agreed, glancing away from him.

“Glad to hear it. Munson also gave me this. You apparently left it in his van,” Hopper said, pulling a bottle of painkillers out of his pocket and handing it to Steve.

Steve blinked at it before accepting it, smiling down at it a bit. He wondered if Eddie had been removing the blankets he bled on and that was when he found the bottle. “Uh, thanks, I thought I lost this,” he said, nodding up at Hopper.

Hopper stared down at Steve for a long while, frowning thoughtfully in that way that scrunched up his whole face. Then he sighed through his nose. “You’re a good kid, Harrington. I thought you were a snotty little prick like your old man—”

“Wow, thanks—?”

“But I was wrong. Munson’s a good kid, too, but he’s on a track that doesn’t look great. People in this town will talk,” Hopper said very deliberately. “You should be ready to deal with that if you’re gonna be running around with him.”

Steve stared at him, and he knew Hopper was right. What if word somehow got back to his parents that he had been in the local drug dealer’s van and trailer, and that drug dealer was at their house? Was that a fight he wanted to deal with while he was still firmly under his parents’ thumbs? He thought back to the argument Eddie got into with the cashier at Melvald’s and cringed. He’d be lucky if he didn’t get a “concerned” phone call from his mother within the week.

“I’m not running around with him, Chief. He was just helping me out today, okay? We go to school together, so we’re friendly,” Steve said, shrugging under Hopper’s hard stare.

“Good talk,” Hopper said before glancing around one more time. “Put your shoes on and grab a coat. You’re coming to dinner with me and El.”

“I’m not really up to going to a restaurant,” Steve declined, making a face up at Hopper.

“You need a proper meal, and I already told El you were coming,” Hopper replied, shrugging at Steve’s puzzled look.

“I don’t even—why would that matter to me?” Steve asked, even though he already felt his resolve to say no waning. He had a soft-spot for all of the kids, but especially the quieter ones like Will and Eleven. It was baffling though that him not going would possibly disappoint her. “Why would that matter to her? I’ve only really been around her like, three times, and I don’t think I’ve spoken to her once.”

“Listen, I make it a point to avoid understanding what teenage girls think about, kid,” Hopper sighed tiredly. “I told her I had to come by your place and make sure you weren’t dying on our way to dinner, and she asked if you were coming.”

“And you just told her yes?” Steve asked incredulously, even as he stood up to collect his shoes and coat.

“Of course I did,” Hopper replied, snorting. “I mean, it wasn’t like it was that hard to convince you anyway.”

“Where are we even going? Is it okay for her to be out?” Steve pushed, frowning.

For the first time since the conversation started, Hopper faltered and Steve glared. “We aren’t going to a restaurant,” Hopper admitted after a moment. “We’re going to the Byers’ house for dinner.”

Steve groaned, imagining his evening sitting at dinner with a cop, a girl with psychic powers, a boy they just barely saved from possession, his ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend, and Joyce Byers. Who would take one look at him and freak out completely. After everything that had happened and between them all splitting up, Joyce hadn’t actually seen Steve after all was said and done. Come to think of it, neither had Jonathan. Nancy only knew how messed up he was because she came to his house after school on Monday when he didn’t show up.

“You said if I agreed—” Steve started to argue and Hopper shook his head sharply.

“I said I wouldn’t tell Joyce you’re home alone with a head injury,” Hopper replied, crossing his arms. “And I won’t tell her.”

“She’ll figure it out, though. She’s not stupid,” Steve snapped, and Hopper just shrugged at that.

“I didn’t say I would hide that you’re home alone with a head injury either,” he stated flatly and Steve groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Fine, I’ll go,” he finally conceded. He knew he was resigning himself to weeks of being fussed over by Joyce, but he was too tired to keep arguing in circles and he was getting hungry.

Steve pointedly ignored the way a very small part of himself that ached constantly went quiet for once.

Chapter Six: Bonus Track

Hopper groaned when the phone on his desk rang, spiking his headache to an entirely new level. He was exhausted, still recovering from everything that happened over the weekend, particularly the way he very nearly died in the tunnels.

“Yes, Flo?” he greeted as pleasantly as he could manage as he picked up the receiver.

“Incoming, Chief.”

“Wha—?” Hopper started to ask just as his office door slammed open and in came Eddie Munson like a force of nature.

“Heya, Chief,” Eddie greeted loudly with a grin when Hopper flinched at the volume. He threw himself into the chair opposite Hopper and threw his feet up on the desk. “How’s it going?”

“What do you want, Munson?” Hopper asked flatly, eying the dirty shoes on top of his desk with disdain.

“Can’t a guy catch up with his favourite cop?” Eddie asked, batting his eyes innocently at Hopper as he fished out a cigarette and lit it.

“Cut the crap, Munson. Give me one of those if you’re going to sit here wasting my time,” Hopper demanded, and Eddie tossed him the pack. With a huff, Hopper took one of the three remaining cigarettes then pocketed the carton.

“Is it so hard to believe I just wanted to say hi?” Eddie pouted before taking a drag from his cigarette, and the effort it took for Hopper to not roll his eyes was tremendous.

Hopper lit his cigarette and willed the nicotine to calm his steadily fraying nerves. “Why would a drug dealer—”

“Alleged drug dealer,” Eddie interrupted pointedly. “Never been caught and convicted, and you know how it is, innocent until—”

“I will search you right here and now, Munson,” Hopper threatened half-heartedly and Eddie got a mischievous look on his face.

“Hop, I’m annoying, not stupid. You wouldn’t find a damn thing on me or in my van,” he said with a teasing tilt to his head and Hopper took a deep breath in through his nose and held it for five seconds. Releasing that breath, he took a drag off of his cigarette on the next one.

He would not let Eddie Munson get under his skin when his day was so close to being over. He only had to make it through two more hours until he could go home and pick El up for dinner at the Byers’.

“How. Can I. Help you. Munson?” Hopper asked slowly and deliberately before reaching over to shove Eddie’s feet off his desk.

Eddie had apparently been supporting most of his weight that way and yelped as he nearly fell out of his chair completely. Hopper couldn’t deny how much that alone raised his spirits.

“Shit, Hopper, you made me drop my smoke,” Eddie complained, picking the cigarette up and tossing it into the ashtray on the desk to burn out.

“Munson, either get to the point of your visit or leave,” Hopper pushed, and maybe something in his tone finally got through to the kid. Eddie righted himself in his chair properly before reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket. After a moment, he frowned and stood up to dig in his other pockets.

Hopper studied the kid a bit now that he was distracted, and his eyes focused on the dark stains on his shoulder. “Munson, is that blood?” he asked, alarm overtaking his annoyance as he stood up and came around the desk to look closer.

“Oh, yeah,” Eddie said as he glanced down at his denim vest, shrugging. “Yeah, it is. Not mine though.”

Hopper stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate. Eddie just continued digging in his pockets until he pulled out two sets of car keys and sat back down. Blinking up at Hopper, Eddie asked, “What?”

“Whose blood is on your vest, Munson?” Hopper said in a low voice, and for the first time since Eddie entered the room, he looked a bit less cocky.

“Steve Harrington’s,” Eddie replied, and Hopper stared at him for several long seconds, again waiting for him to elaborate. Eddie just raised his eyebrows up at Hopper before the corner of his mouth quirked upward into a little smirk.

“Edward Munson, you have five seconds—”

“I ran into him on the street, he ate shit, and had a massive bleeding wound where Billy Hargrove broke a plate over his head, so I took him to my uncle,” Eddie said in a tight tone, and Hopper realized that the kid was angry now. More than that, the kid was angry at him for some reason. Was he pissed the whole time and Hopper was only just figuring that out?

“Christ, Munson,” Hopper grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose as his headache throbbed behind his eyes. How did Wayne live with this kid and his moods?

“Steve claims you know about the fight,” Eddie said, and it was said like a statement, but it was clearly more of a question, like he didn’t quite buy Steve’s story.

“Yes, I do. He declined pressing charges,” Hopper replied, crossing his arms and leaning back against the desk.

“Did you know about his head?” Eddie asked, and Hopper sucked his teeth. Steve had, predictably, played down his injuries when Hopper got back from the lab with El, and all of that hair of his helped hide the alleged open wound.

“Where is Harrington now?” Hopper asked instead of answering Eddie’s question, looking around for his truck keys and hat.

Eddie huffed. “Don’t worry, I made sure he got home alright. He asked me to give you these,” he said, holding up the keys for Steve’s Beemer. “It’s parked in the alley around the corner from Melvald’s.”

Hopper took the keys, a flash of anger spiking through him that the kid was stupid enough to drive with a concussion at all. When he glanced down at Eddie, he could see he was still pissed off. “What, Munson?”

“What are you going to do about Hargrove?” Eddie asked, his tone low. “Steve said he was going to kill the kids he was supposedly babysitting.”

“He was babysitting,” Hopper said, almost defensively, on Steve’s behalf and Eddie reared back.

“That’s the part of my sentence you focus on?” he asked and Hopper held a hand up.

“First of all, I will remind you that Steve declined pressing charges—”

“Why does that matter?” Eddie interjected angrily. “Does attempted murder need the victim to press charges?”

Hopper dropped what was left of his cigarette into the ashtray as he pushed off the desk to go shut the door of his office. Once he was back at the desk, half sitting on it and looming over Eddie, he said slowly, “There were extenuating circumstances surrounding the bullshit with Hargrove that you are not, and cannot be privy to, Munson. So yes, while I would love to do something about that little shit, I can’t about this incident because Steve. Is not. Pressing charges.”

Eddie glared up at him, crossing his arms over his chest and jutting his chin out defiantly. Hopper immediately thought of the day he met Eddie, and despite his generalized annoyance with the kid, he felt a sad sort of fondness.

“Why do you even care this much about it, Munson?” Hopper asked, trying to return his focus to their conversation. But when Eddie immediately looked away nervously, his face turning pink under Hopper’s stare, Hopper heaved a huge sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face.

It was about a week after Hopper returned to Hawkins to take up his post as chief of police when he met Eddie. The kid’s hair was a lot shorter, still growing out an unfortunate buzz cut, and he was skinny in a way that spoke of the neglect he dealt with before the system dropped him onto his uncle’s doorstep. Hopper had been driving around, reacquainting himself with his hometown after years away, when he happened upon a group of young men jumping Eddie. The cowards had bolted before Hopper’s truck came to a complete stop.

He could still remember the conversation they had while Hopper took the kid’s statement at the hospital.

“What started the fight?”

“I’m a faggot.” Tone sharp, full of venom.

“Is that what they said?”

“Yeah, that’s what they said, but they’re right.” Conviction, even as his eyes were full of tears, that defiant tilt of his wobbling chin. Waiting for Hopper to hit him, too. “I am a faggot.”

Hopper tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Eddie,” he sighed and Eddie huffed.

“You can’t say shit to me I haven’t already said to myself, Chief,” Eddie grumbled miserably, his crossed arms squeezing himself tighter as he folded in on himself.

“Harrington, though?” Hopper asked him, trying to keep his tone light, teasing almost. “Of all the boys to be all… hormonal and mushy about, it had to be a Harrington?”

“Again, Chief, I’ve already said all of that to myself. Repeatedly,” Eddie said with a shrug. “And Uncle Wayne said it all in even more colourful terms.”

Hopper heaved another sigh. “He wants you to be careful, stay safe. Hell, that’s what I want too,” he said.

“Yeah, whatever,” Eddie replied, and he slouched in his chair. “Steve’s a lot nicer now.”

“That’s true,” Hopper agreed flatly as he crouched to better meet Eddie’s eyes. Heaving a big sigh, he added, “you should still remember who his father is, and that Steve might still follow in his footsteps.”

Hopper went to high school with Richard Harrington, had been on the receiving end of his fists more times than he could count, and he knew how Richard felt about gay people. He knew how much more brutal his fists could get if he thought someone was queer. Hopper did not want Richard Harrington to find out about Eddie at all, which would be easier if the kid stayed away from Steve.

Eddie sighed and looked away from Hopper, spinning the rings on his fingers around nervously. “Yeah, I know,” he agreed reluctantly.

“Okay, good talk,” Hopper said, standing back up and returning to his chair. “Now get out of my office.”

“That’s it? You’re not going to try and tell me to stay away from him?” Eddie asked skeptically.

“I’m not your parent, Munson. Be careful, though,” Hopper replied, shrugging. “Even if Steve isn’t a problem, he’s still living with his parents.”

“We’re not even friends, Chief. You don’t have to worry about that shit,” Eddie said as he stood up and started for the door.

Hopper nodded and then he asked, “were Steve’s parents’ home when you dropped him off?”

Eddie looked back at him from the door and shook his head. “The house seemed empty. And I mean, he had to get his own—oh yeah!” he said excitedly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of painkillers. “He forgot this in my van. Can you get it to him?”

Hopper took the bottle of pills and nodded. “Yeah, I’ll get it to him, kid. Now fuck off,” he barked and Eddie snorted as he left his office with just as much noise as he arrived.

“Hey, Callahan! Love what you’re trying with the mustache, man, really distracts the eye from just… the rest of your face. Yeugh.”

Hopper snorted, allowing himself one moment to be amused by Eddie Munson’s nonsense.

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#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie fic #stranger things fic #gerry writes #i could be human fic

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shotmrmiller · 2 months

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Can’t stop thinking of sexist Simon who becomes a girl dad. He gets a one night stand pregnant (lord knows no one’s marrying his sexist ass right about now) and for the entire pregnancy she doesn’t tell him, just drops the baby on his doorstep the second she’s out of the hospital and dips. So Simon’s stuck with this kid who he did want and on top of that is a girl. Do you think he’s still just as sexist? Leading his kid on the path to blow loads of money on therapy in the future? Or do you think he becomes one of those girl dads who adapts? Sure he was a sexist piece of shit before but his own flesh and blood is an extension of him and goddamn anyone who insults that. Maybe it’s for all the wrong reasons, sees his kid more as property. But that doesn’t mean she’s treated like shit because she’s his property and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take care of his shit. And can you imagine this kid wants to join the military? In a combat role nonetheless? Does he shoot it down? Or does he know his child is just as stubborn as him? Does he train them up to become the best female combatant there is? Ugh the possibilities. Somewhat comparing him to my own dad, my dad came from a super rural Texas town and went straight to the marines after. While he wasn’t sexist, he was certainly homophobic and after meeting my mom he did in fact have two bi daughters he had to adapt to (which he did). Just makes me wanna put these little mw guys in these situations, you feel me? 😩

simon isn't a misogynist, he just thinks that there are better suited careers for women that aren't putting their life in danger all day every day, going against men who will always be bigger than them. because sure, sniping is more than fitting but there's never a guarantee that shit will go tits up and then you're in danger. and you can best believe that the mission will almost always take precedence over someone who SHOULD be able to fight off grown men.

anyway, no. he'd do his sloppy best to raise the kid. (truthfully he gives kratos with loki fatherhood vibes)

calls her kid too. teaches her how to live off the land, how to tell which direction she's facing by looking at the sky.

honestly, teaches her how to handle guns at a young age too. He's a notorious name, and if someone finds out about her, she's probably dead.

and about the combat role, he'd probably go over shit, graphically so.

the stuff he's done, he's survived. none of it is heroic.

it's ugly, it's war. and he'd definitely tell her that she's gonna get broken by literally anyone who wants to get rid of her. if HE was SA'd and he's a big, ugly brute of a man, imagine her if she falls into the claws of the enemies.

scare tactics cuz he really doesn't want any of that to happen, there's a bright sparkle in her eyes that he lost long ago, if he ever even had it in the first place due to his shit childhood.

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virgo-dream · 11 months

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One of Their Own 🏳️‍🌈✨

dreamling / queer joy / fluff / first kiss / 3,6k words

summary: Hob Gadling invites Dream to a meeting of the uni's queer clubs at the New Inn. Dream learns more about his own gender identity, and that he's very much in love with his best friend.

author’s note: this fic, this pairing and this fandom all mean the world to me, so I thought it was fitting to bring it back for pride month!

I’m incredibly thankful for finding Sandman when I did. Since joining this fandom, I’ve made wonderful friends and became part of a community of bright, kind, loving and loyal queer people that I would not trade for anything. I’ve learned more about my community and about myself, and I wave my ace/agender flag proudly now. This fic was written in a moment in my life where I felt hopeless and alone. Now, things couldn’t be more different. Happy pride sandfam! 🏳️‍🌈✨

read here or on ao3

Dream doesn’t get it at first. He never really did get it, but only attributed it to the need humanity had for labels, for packing things into boxes and saying this goes here and that goes there. Sometimes, it leads to this goes to heaven and you go to hell. It seemed to be a very common one, too. He was beyond that; his name said it all, Dream was endless. Not he nor she, not man nor creature, he was all there was to be and the nothingness beyond it. Gender and sexuality need not apply.

Still, it meant so much to Hob, that he’d have dreams about it. Nightmares too, for nights on end, and even if Dream begged Hob to allow him to take them away, Hob always declined, always braving through them. “If you take them, I’ll forget how much it all means. I’ll forget why I’m still fighting.”

They sat at the New Inn one afternoon, while Hob graded papers and Dream had a cup of chamomile tea, but his eyes couldn’t help but focus on a shiny pin on Hob’s jumper shaped like a flag, the shades of pink, purple and blue a spot of proud colour in Hob’s otherwise earthy colour palette.

“It’s the bisexual pride flag.”

“Hm?” Dream’s eyes darted up to meet Hob’s, tilting his head slightly. He wasn’t sure if he should feel bad for being caught, because he wasn’t sure what he was looking at in the first place.

“The pin. I wear it for my students, but also for myself. The kids feel safer I guess, knowing they have at least one of their own in the faculty. Can’t say it doesn’t make me feel good too.”

Hob has a particular tone to his voice that makes Dream’s heart sing in tune to its melody. It’s a fuller sense of self, maybe more than Dream ever had in regards to his own identity. “…one of their own?”

“Oh, I– Sorry, those are pretty recent.” Hob straightened himself up (ha) on the chair, his lecturing posture taking over. Dream liked when he did that. He liked to hear Hob speak of things he had deep knowledge of and passion for. “This one was created in 1988 by a queer activist called Michael Page. Had the pleasure of being there when it was first unveiled, but clearly it took a long time until I was able to wear something like this out in public and not be decked by some bloody homophobe.”

It was starting to sink in.

“…I’m afraid I was not present for these developments.” Dream saw the look on Hob’s face, like he was ready to apologise. He raised a hand to stop him, waving his concern away. “As far as I can remember, queer was not a form of self identification, but only a way to shun out those outside the established norm.”

“Ah, yes. We reclaimed it, though. Or are reclaiming it. The 80s were crazy. All of them were, for me.” Hob smiled at Dream, at their shared secret and at their years of now reestablished friendship.

“I think you’re lonely.”

Could it have been….? Could he have meant…?

“What does it mean for you, then?” Dream asks in a way he hopes sounds inconspicuous, pointing at the pin. He was hesitant to ask, afraid to be getting it all wrong.

“For me? It means I love whoever I love. Man, woman, either or neither.”

The pride coming from Hob’s words filled Dream with hope, something he had not felt in a long, long time. The look in his face then shifted onto something else, something he didn’t quite understand. “…what about you? That is, if you’re okay with talking about that. I don’t want to overstep. Last thing I want is for you to walk out–”

“I won’t, Hob.” Dream knew Hob had reason for feeling that way. “I don’t believe the terminology you have could define my experience. I have laid with mortals and gods alike, and have worn many faces and names. It is beyond human comprehension.”

Hob seems to take a moment to think about what he’d just heard. Dream feels like he might have thrown too much at his human friend. “…I think I get it. But, and tell me to bugger off I’m wrong, do you prefer to be a particular way? To be with a particular sort of being?”

Dream. Didn’t have an answer.

He never thought of what he preferred. He’d never felt in need of any sort of outside validation, but. That was a lie. He needed it. He just never cared to look for it.

Hob’s smile was what broke him out of the spell of his own self doubt. “It’s okay if you don’t have an answer. It takes people a long time to get it, it took me nearly 600 years! Ah! You know what? I’ve got an idea–” He reached inside his brown messenger bag, pulling out a colourful piece of paper, handing it over to Dream. A pamphlet for a meeting. “We’re having a meeting for the uni’s LGBT clubs here at the Inn. I want this to be a safe space for the kids, and to get them to connect with other folks in the community, share their experiences. It’s tomorrow, and I’d love it if you could make it. I’m sure they would too.”

Dream took the pamphlet in hands, looking at the bright colours and bold fonts, taking in every bit of information Hob was giving him and trying to fill in the gaps of the questions he wouldn’t dare ask. After a moment, he looked up at Hob, allowing himself a small smile. “I shall be in attendance, then.”

—————

Dream stood outside the New Inn, hands tucked safely inside the pockets of his coat jacket. He watched as groups of young adults arrived, greeting each other cheerfully. The hair colours and outfits reminded him of his sister, Delirium, but they all seemed to be more in line with her previous self; delighted to be there, happy to meet their friends. A flag danced in the light summer breeze on a pole next to the window, the stripes of colours brightening up the already lively scene. A rainbow, Hob had told him the day before, was the most recognizable symbol of the queer community. It now was accompanied by stripes of light pink and blue, white, black and brown. Dream enjoyed good symbolism, and he could feel the meaning of those colours to all who were present from their daydreams alone.

He, however, still felt like an outsider. Like he wasn't really meant to be there, save for Hob's generous invite. Dream was not defined by the same standards humanity aligned itself with; in fact, he wasn't defined by anything at all. He was not an individual, but the safe arms in which those dreamers rested every night, the common thread in their hopes, in their restful slumber. It would be silly to think that he'd need to identify as one thing or another, really. He was there for Hob . Because Hob invited him. Because he wanted to know more about the everyday life of his dearest friend. Because he wanted to hear him talk, see him inspire others with his tales, wanted to hear the sound of his voice, the gentle way in which he made people feel welcome, cared for, loved, he wanted–

Dream thought it best to wait it out, at least until most people had already arrived, until he had an idea of just how many young, hopeful minds would be in the vicinity. After escaping the Burgess Manor, Dream was faced with a considerable raise in the amount of dreamers under his care. He would not admit it to anyone but himself, but at times, it became too much even for him to bear. The idea of willingly walking into a space with so many people was daunting, to say the least. So he waited, watched as the New Inn became packed with dreamers, feeling his palms dampen inside the pockets of his coat.

Taking the first step towards the door was difficult. Pushing it open was even harder. Dream stepped in, careful not to bump into anyone or to even get too close. The sound of the little bell that was supposed to announce his arrival had no effect, as it was overtaken by the sound of chatter inside the Inn. It was better that way, Dream thought. Not having Hob rush to greet him. That way he could take a moment to adjust to his surroundings, maybe even blend in, become invisible. In hindsight, his usual choice of attire did anything but blend in there. He was a dark little cloud in a sky full of bright colours, like a multi-coloured sunset on a tropical beach. And of course, every sunset had its monarch, shining brightly, commanding the attention. That, of course, was Hob.

"Hello there, kids! Glad to see most of you could make it!" The cheerful, gentle register of Hob's voice filled the room, filtered by the small but potent speaker he'd rented just for the occasion. Dream could hear his voice clearly, and it helped him tune out everything else that wasn't his beloved friend. "This is the first of hopefully many meetings of our beloved Queer Clubs here at my beloved New Inn. I want you all to know this is a safe space for you all no matter what part of the gender and sexuality spectrums you fall on. The only things I won't accept here are discrimination of any kind, and anyone that thinks Lawrence Cheney shouldn't have won season 2 of Drag Race UK. Are we clear on that one?"

Laughter filled the room, and Dream couldn't help but allow his lips a small smile. Hob truly was a marvel. How anyone could shine so brightly was beyond even the dream lord's knowledge, but he was glad to be able to bask in that glow from time to time. He wished he could do it more often.

Hob was saying other things, Dream thought. Instructions on seating arrangements, subjects to be discussed, discounts on food and drinks. All Dream could do was watch as Hob did more than just make everyone feel welcome, but inspired them with hope and joy, a gentle breeze of acceptance, the embrace of a parent, the empathy of an equal. There was much to work with here, much to inspire new dreams. Dreams of comfort and love, of community and pride.

"Dream? You in there, love?"

Hob's voice broke the spell he himself had cast over Dream, who could now see his friend's palm waving in front of his eyes. He'd become lost in thought, it seemed. Dream's nose scrunched up at the interruption, looking at Hob with his usual look of curiosity. There was still much he needed to catch up on when it came to non verbal communication. "Aye. I'm here. Have I not fully manifested my presence?"

Hob chuckled, and his eyes wrinkled at the corners. "Oh, yes. Physically, at least." Dream's brows furrowed in worry, and he was glad Hob was quick enough to notice when something had gone over his head. "Just a joke– hey, I'm glad you could make it. The kids will love meeting you."

"Meeting me? There are far too many people here for you to make introductions. Besides, I know them all, and they all know me. They just do not remember it during waking hours."

This felt like a plausible enough explanation to keep Hob from actually introducing him to everyone in attendance. But Hob was far too optimistic to be dissuaded so easily. "I'm not talking about introducing them to Morpheus. I'd like them to meet my friend, Dream."

"I do not see the difference." He shouldn't say why he couldn't bear the idea of being introduced to so many people. Shouldn't burden Hob with his problems, that wouldn't exist had he just not been captured in the first place. Dream had been good at hiding his discomfort so far, and he'd continue to do so.

…well, maybe he was not so good at it. Not when Hob's eyes so clearly conveyed the worry that had just settled in his heart. It was difficult to deny Hob the truth when his warm, calloused hands took Dream's into his own so carefully, squeezing gently, as if saying you can trust me. I've got you. "It's okay if you'd rather not. I know it can be overwhelming sometimes."

"...thank you." Dream replied with a murmur. Hob gifted him with a smile. It seemed a lot could be said with just the eyes.

————

Even if Dream didn't intend on actually joining in on the conversations being held, he was glad to follow Hob along and listen to the discussions. It was amazing seeing just how bright the kids really were: they spoke of justice and equality, of inclusivity, of respect and love, of family and religion and sex and responsibility. It was a wider range of topics than he'd expected, an awareness of self he didn't think humans would ever possess, and now, he was glad to be proven wrong. He listened to their shared experiences, to the kindness in their eyes as they lifted each other up, the melody of their laughter and the bravery in their voices as they spoke of injustices they'd lived. It was fascinating, really.

What Dream was truly surprised to find was that people had, after all, an understanding of self that went beyond just physical. Hob brought him closer to a group of kids who were in a long discussion on gender identity. Some of them felt comfortable with the gender they'd been "assigned with at birth", others did not feel any affinity for it. Some of them had changed their bodies to fit with how they felt on the inside, and Dream couldn't help but feel enormous empathy for them, for the way they had to fight to exist in a body that didn't feel like a trap. It was something Dream always took for granted, until he himself felt the horror of having no agency over himself. The pain they went through to guarantee they'd have the right to live authentically. Dream's body had never been limited to an exclusive physical manifestation; he was as he felt like. Fluid , as one of the bright colour haired people had pointed out while explaining their own experience. They reminded Dream of his own sibling, Desire. Someone else brought up how they didn't particularly feel like they had a gender, and that the language surrounding it didn't particularly bother them. Agender, the girl said proudly. Dream wondered if there was any right or wrong way to declare oneself fluid or agender. Then he realised the tightness in his chest when the thought occurred to him.

"Are you alright?" Once again, Hob's voice brought him back to the Waking. Dream could now feel Hob's hand on his own again, but he wasn't sure what exactly had warranted it.

"Your hands were shaking."

Once again, Dream's physical form betrayed him. It was also clear how the conversation surrounding them had gone quiet, and more eyes than he would have liked had landed on their linked hands. He didn't like being watched. Like that.

"Oh, Mr. G, is this your boyfriend?" one of them asked, teasingly. "Would have never guessed you had a thing for goths!"

"Marissa, stop!" someone else said, poking the girl on the shoulder apprehensively. The next thing they said was soft as a whisper. "They are clearly not feeling well."

They.

Dream had never considered himself as they. But this person, whoever they were, preferred "not to assume" his gender. And the empathy displayed for his discomfort was something he wasn't expecting either. Hob seemed to be about to say something, but Dream was quicker.

"There is no need to worry for my well-being, but I thank you for your kindness." Dream allowed himself to smile once again. These children were going places, he knew it. "You may address me as he , if necessary. I would not oppose her or them either." It felt liberating to say it, and Dream didn't really know why. He did know, however, that he suddenly felt brave. "I am not Professor Gadlen's boyfriend , but I am honoured to call him my dearest, most cherished friend."

Dream looked at Hob, who seemed to be awestruck by his words. It was amusing to see him like that, and it lit something else inside him. This meeting was making Dream experience a range of feelings he'd forgotten about. He showed Hob a smile, and Hob smiled back at him, warm and gentle as ever. Their hands were still linked together. Dream had no intention of letting go. "Ah, yes. This little prick here is indeed my dearest, oldest friend. I did want them to meet you guys. I'm glad I was right about it."

When Hob said it, it made Dream's heart sing.

"...so you're fuckbuddies?"

" Marissa! "

————

After a few hours and many, many rounds of different conversations, Hob gathered the group once again, thanking them for coming and congratulating everyone on the success of their first meeting. Dream couldn't help but notice how Hob seemed unable to stop smiling. He could feel the pride and relief radiating off of his tanned skin and kind eyes. Dream wished he could have it all directed at himself, that gentleness.

Hob's boyfriend. Now that would be something.

Dream sat on the booth table behind the bar where he and Hob usually held their meetings and waited for everyone to leave. He wanted some time alone with Hob, even if just to hear what his beloved friend had to say about what he thought of the meeting, just to hear Hob's voice, the only music suited for Dream's ears.

He also had so many new feelings inside himself to explore. Those he could tend to later.

"Hey there, handsome stranger." Hob said as he sat across from Dream on the table, taking Dream's hand in his as if it was just the way they always did things. Maybe it could be. It wouldn't hurt (too much) to hope, would it? "Come here often?"

"Only when I'm in search of an epiphany." Dream couldn't bother to hide the fondness in his own voice, nor the relief he felt to have Hob's hand cradling his own again. "I am impressed, Professor Gadlen. You have gathered a group of exceptionally bright minds. It gives me hope for a better future for humanity."

"Wow Dream, that is… that is really high praise, especially coming from you." Hob seemed flushed, and Dream wondered what else he could do to cause that reaction, to see Hob shy and pretty like that again and again. "I learned a long time ago that I have to build the future I want to live in. But in all honesty… I'm more interested in the present right now."

"Oh, is that so?" Hob's optimism was infectious, it seemed. Dream too could only focus on the present moment. "I am glad to be able to share it with you."

There was a short silence shared between them after that. It was as if neither of them were ready to say whatever it was they clearly needed. Dream tried to take comfort in the feeling of Hob's hand in his, rubbing the back of Hob's hand with his thumb.

His mistake was looking up to meet Hob's eyes.

"There is much I have learned today." Dream decided he'd be the one to break the silence. He'd be the one to take the leap, because he knew Hob had made sure he'd make a safe landing. He knew that no matter what happened, no matter how much he could get hurt, he was safe. He could trust Hob with his heart, even if there was a chance that he would break it. "I often make the mistake of thinking there is nothing more to my existence than what I have already discovered. I contain all conscious minds throughout the universe, their lives, hopes and dreams. Yet, I forget that the tales of others cannot substitute one's own experience, only enlighten it."

Hob listened to Dream's words attentively. He looked anxious, but would not interrupt. Dream knew he wouldn't. He knew how much Hob cherished the moments where Dream felt ready to share something new. "Today, you have once more shown me there is much I have to learn. For that, I am grateful, Hob Gadling.”

How could Dream not fall in love with someone that treated him like he was the moon? How could the moon not love the sun?

"I'm grateful for you too, you know. The kids loved you. I'm sure I'll be getting asked about you for the rest of the semester. Maybe even longer." Hob's eyes were so fond it made Dream want to cry.

"And how would you like to answer their inquiries?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would you like to tell them of your dearest, oldest friend…" Dream leaned in, bringing Hob's hand to his own cheek. He pressed a soft kiss to Hob's palm, and watched as Hob's eyes followed his every move. There was no turning back from this. "...or would you prefer to tell them about your lover, Hob?"

For a moment, time stopped. Their eyes met, and before Dream could get anxious or regret his words, Hob was already standing and leaning over the table, locking their lips together.

Dream thought he'd heard the sound of people cheering outside one of the windows of the New Inn. Hob would certainly be getting many questions from his students come next monday.

#virgo dream writes #dreamling #the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #hob gadling #dream x Hob #Morpheus x Hob #pride fic #dreamling fic #the sandman fic #remember when I used to write?

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