1. Before

Hawkins, Indiana. October, 1985.

Hawkins at night used to feel different, Steve finds himself thinking as he kicks at a discarded coke can in the street, hands shoved deep in his jean pockets and shoulders hunched against the crisp air. It used to mean parties at his house, the moon reflected in the ripples of pool water; a giggling girl tucked under his arm while he played with her hair and drank his parents liquor because they were never home long enough to notice. For a while, it meant curling up on the couch beside Nancy, cracking jokes with her parents over the dinner table and holding her hand in his own. Talking quietly about their future.

It's been a long time since nights in Hawkins felt the same.

Now it means checking under his bed every night to make sure his bat full of nails is easy to reach. He checks every lock on every window and door at least twice; pulls drapes closed regardless of the temperature because he can't stand to see the way the shadows throw nightmares across his walls. All things considered, it's better now than it has been. He used to not sleep, not after the first encounter. The demo dogs had been the worst, keeping him awake for days until he would finally collapse with exhaustion and sleep until he woke up, screaming himself hoarse. They had only begun creeping away when he started at Scoops, started talking with someone normal on a regular basis, trading jokes and insults like a normal guy with normal friends.

And then the Russians had gone and fucked that up too. Now he sits up sometimes, waiting for Robin's hesitant phone call. He had noticed almost immediately, seen the deep bags under her eyes when he picked her up for work, watched as she flinched at loud noises. It hadn't taken much for her to confess that she was finding it hard to go back to "normal" after Starcourt. Sometimes she still called in the middle of the night, her voice hushed from where she was curled up by her phone, just needing to hear someone tell her she made it out of there alive and it wasn't a dream.

Some nights Steve stares out at the horizon from his parents balcony, watching as the sky bleaches away the darkness into the pale pink glow of the morning and he can finally breathe again. Some nights he sleeps on the couch in the living room, clears the route to each exit and walks the paths to make sure he knows them by heart before curling up in a tight ball and hoping exhaustion takes him before he can dream.

Some nights the time gets away from him and he finds himself sitting in the glow of early morning with no memory of how he spent the last few hours. Those nights are the worst, sometimes.

A raccoon darts out into the street and Steve stumbles backwards, heart in his throat and blood pumping. It peers at him with big, wide eyes before scurrying away into the dark woods. He doesn't remember deciding to leave his house tonight- not really. Only the suffocating walls inching in around him, the sound of the pool water lapping against the ledge in the breeze because his parents had been home for three days and insisted the pool be refilled, even though they hadn't used it. He should, really, know better than to be out here. The gate might have been closed, but it had been closed before. The Russians were dead, but were they really? Hawkins was safe. For now.

Hopper was dead. Hopper who cuffed Steve around the back of the head the first time he caught him with beer down by the quarry, but let him keep it. Hopper, who pulled Steve over one night after that first year with the Demogorgon, clocked him doing 60 in a 40 zone and quietly told him to go home and get some sleep and sent him on his way. Good, kind Hopper was fucking dead.

Billy was dead. Asshole fucking Billy who was all bite along with his bark but didn't deserve to die like that. Didn't deserve to be possessed by the Mindflayer, and used his last moments to protect people and do something good. Steve had seen Max a handful of times since the funeral, her eyes dull and shoulders dropped with the weight of everything she'd been through. Steve doesn't know what to say to her that could help, but he tries.

Steve ducks his head and picks up the pace, no destination in mind but needing to keep moving. It isn't until he reaches the chain link of a fence that he pauses, squinting at the graffitied sign. Land development. Beyond the fence he sees the ghost of an old playground, an overgrown garden and a haphazard crop of trees. It takes a moment to realize where he is and turns his head, seeing the burnt out husk of Starcourt Mall in the distance. This has been one of the parks closed down for the "Starcourt Experience", hard as the town had lobbied for it to remain open. Steve remembered the advertisements for it, boasting about a roller rink and a new bowling alley, all linked to Starcourt. Now, Steve thinks with a snort, it was probably a ploy to keep the underground lab expanding. But even with the "accident" at Starcourt, the park hadn't been reopened. It's easy to find a break in the chain link, climbing through the mesh and wandering into the desolate park. He played here when he was younger, there'd been a swing set and he had tried every day to swing high enough to wrap around the top of it. When had he stopped coming here?

It doesn't take long to find the swing set, nestled amid overgrown grass and invasive weeds. It looks smaller than Steve remembers, rusted to hell and back, lopsided and littered around the base with crumpled beer cans, cigarette butts and, Steve rolls his eyes, condom wrappers.

The swing gives an indignant screech when he drops into it, but holds. He's so tired. More tired than he has been in so long. He just wants to sleep, to not dream for even five minutes of pure bliss. He doesn't know how long he sits there, the gentle rock of the swing doing nothing to lull him into calmness. He's so tired.

"Well well, if it isn't King Steve,"

Steve jerks on the swing, the resulting scream of rusty chains making the boy behind him scrunch his nose in distaste. Steve's heart is slamming into his ribs, adrenaline skyrocketing as his skin itches with the urge to run. There's a squeal and Eddie "the Freak" Munson drops into the swing beside Steve.

"Bit far from your kingdom, no?"

"Munson," Steve responds tiredly, "I'm not really in the mood."

Eddie rolls his eyes and let's the swing rock back and forth, Steve gritting his teeth at the noise.

"Lovely evening for a stroll." Eddie offers conversationally, tipping back on the swing as though it isn't dangerously close to falling apart at any moment.

"What part of not really in the mood wasn't clear, Munson?'

"Gosh, I don't know," he flips back up. One long arm wraps easily around the rusty chain and another tapping idly on his thigh, "I'm just surprised that Steve Harrington of all people would be out in this part of Hawkins at this time of the evening."

"What's wrong with this part of Hawkins?"

Eddie raises an eyebrow and gestures an arm broadly across the empty park, Steve's eyes following the theatrical movement to take in the burned out car in the distance, the tireless bikes, the stacks of trash and detritus littered across the field. Admittedly, even before the land had been sold to be developed, this hadn't exactly been the nicest neighbourhood in Hawkins. His nanny had been the one to being him here, at least until his mother had caught wind of it and immediately put a stop to it. After that, his mother had enrolled him in as many sports as she could cram into his afternoons, all of them at 'respectable' establishments and clubs within the town. Steve never got to find out if he could make it over the swing set.

Eddie seems to sense Steve's feelings and laughs humorlessly.

"Mmm that's what I thought."

Steve tenses at the tone, his hackles already half raised from the moment the phrase "King Steve" had left Eddie's lips. He'd shed that title a long time ago, though he can never bring himself to blame a lot of the people who still see him that way. He might not have been on the same asshole level as some others, but he never did anything to defend the people who were suffering. There would always be people who only knew him as the preppy asshole from high school, who didn't give a shit about anyone or anything other than himself. He doesn't remember doing anything specifically to Eddie, but that doesn't mean he hadn't been there for something that did happen. He relaxes his shoulders and shakes his head.

"Look man, I was out for a walk and I ended up here, okay. It's not a thing," Steve says, unable to fully remove the bite from his tone and immediately feeling guilty when he sees the hint of a smirk drop from Eddie's face. Instead, there's... Concern?

"You walked here? Harrington, we are easily seven miles from your house. It's October."

Eddie's hand darts out and Steve feels the touch of warm skin against his arm, almost burning for how cold his own skin is.

"Jesus, you're freezing. What the hell, dude?"

The jacket is dumped on his shoulders before he notices Eddie even removed it, the warm leather soaking into his bones as he instinctively grips it tight. How long had he been walking before he got to the park? How long had he been sitting here in the darkness, lost in his own thoughts?

"I don't-"

He doesn't know how to finish the sentence once he starts it. How can you explain to someone who has *no idea* what is actually going on; that you can't sleep anymore, or calm down anymore, or feel settled in your own skin because there's a whole other universe out there? He doesn't bother finishing his sentence, let's it hang with a half shrug of his shoulder instead.

Eddie is staring at him now, brows furrowed and scuffing his beaten up shoes into the dirt.

"Are you, like... Good?"

Steve can't remember the last time someone asked him that. And now here he is, well past midnight in an abandoned park, being asked by Eddie The Freak Munson, who just gave Steve his jacket because he was cold. There's an entire universe out here full of monsters and somehow this still makes the list of weirdest things that have ever happened to him. Eddie makes a face.

"Okay, you're smiling kind of weird and it's freaking me out."

Steve smiles wider and Eddie chuckles, shaking his head and kicking his feet into the dirt again, sending an empty beer can skittering into the weeds.

Steve sees the black lunchbox at Eddie's feet and remembers Tommy, who always purchased their more illicit partakings, telling him how fucking weird it was buying drugs out of a lunchbox. Steve hadn't understood at the time, but everyone at Hawkins High knew Eddie Munson was the man to see if you needed something a little stronger than booze. Or a lot stronger, Steve had also heard. He'd never tried anything stronger than the occasional joint, at least until Starcourt, but that hardly counted. He knew some guys on the basketball team would occasionally bump lines of coke after a game, but it had never been his thing. He had also never done the actual purchasing, instead shoving wads of cash into Tommy's hand and getting him to handle it.

"You selling?" He says before he can help himself. He tries to stay away from things these days, the sensation of not being in control of his body causing him to flood with panic, his chest to seize in terror and leave him gasping for air. But he's so tired. It's been days since he slept more than an hour at a time and his brain won't stop racing and he just wants a moment of peace.

Eddie's dark eyes flick down to the box, then back to Steve.

"Depends."

Steve sighs, already hating wherever this conversation was about to go.

"On?"

Eddie twists the swing set chains so he's facing Steve, head tilted to the side and one eyebrow raised. Steve doesn't move, still staring out to the empty, overgrown field.

"I make a habit of not dealing to people who are already on something,"

That gets Steve's attention. He bristles at the accusation, swinging his feet so he's facing Munson and resisting the urge to grab him by the fabric of his shirt. He's not that guy anymore, he doesn't make those kind of threats.

"I'm not on anything!" He snaps, watching as Eddie leans back and puts some distance between them. He raises his hands in mock surrender, lowering them almost into a bow and Steve rethinks his earlier stance on not grabbing him by the shirt and shaking him senseless.

"My humble apologies, Harrington. But you'll have to excuse my asking cause see; I'm not the one of the opposite side of Hawkins after midnight, not wearing a jacket in the middle of October, and looking like," Eddie waves a hand in front of his face absently, "that."

Steve grits his teeth and hates that Eddie fucking Munson, of all people, is right. He shuffles on the swing set and pinches the bridge of his nose, taking three deep breaths before replying. Hawkins might be small, but it isn't like he's going to see Eddie all that much. Their paths hardly crossed when they went to the same high school, he doubts they're going to be seeing much of one another again, so what would the harm be, really?

"I haven't slept more than an hour at a time in three days. Maybe four." He says honestly, focusing on the ripped cuffs of Eddie's jeans as he speaks.

"I've got some prescribed shit, but it just makes it worse. The dreams are-"

Deep. Terrifying. Like crawling through molasses as he tries to wake up, only to find his dreams and reality bleeding together for what feels like eternity. He doesn't finish his thought, just ploughs right into the next one.

"Do you ever just feel like you fuck things up by existing? There's people... People who wouldn't be having a rough time if they'd never met me."

Robin would sleep soundly in her bed, dreaming of Tammy Thompson instead of Russians and secret messages.

"There's so much..."

Bullshit

"Stuff. So much stuff that's just wrong and I can't change it and sometimes I wish I could go back before everything happened but I know if I had the choice I'd make the same one because it was the right one. I just didn't think doing the right thing would suck so much."

He finally tears his eyes away from the bare patch of skin above Eddie's knee and finds him staring. Steve lets the silence lapse between them for as long as he can take, never once letting his gaze leave Eddie's.

"What?"

"Nothin', man. That was just.... Deeper shit than I expected from a guy known for his hair."

There's a twinkle of amusement in Eddie's eyes as he says it, long fingers drumming on the rusted chains as he seems to regard Steve with a different level of curiosity than before. The levity eases the weight in Steve's chest, if only a little.

"So do I pass your sobriety test?" He asks, nodding to the lunchbox, "cause if not I don't know how else to convince you,"

"You pass," Eddie replies easily, "but you're not getting anything out of there. Not tonight, anyway."

He ignores to the lunchbox and dips into his jacket instead, removing a perfectly rolled joint with a smile. Steve reaches out, only for Eddie to be faster, the joint pulled from Steve's reach and caught in Eddie's ring adorned hands.

"Ah ah ah," he chides, "there's some conditions."

"You've got to be fucking with me."

Eddie smiles again and Steve scrubs a hand down his face, knowing he isn't likely to find anyone else at this time of night who would be willing to offer him anything. Besides, he just kind of poured his heart out to the guy, he didn't want it to be for nothing. He takes a steadying breath and offers Eddie a tight smile.

"And they are?"

"One," Eddie raises a single finger, "you're going to come with me to my van, I'm not leaving you out here to smoke alone."

"I don't-"

"Two." A second finger, cutting Steve off unapologetically, "you let me drive you home after. It's freezing out here, dude."

Steve frowns, waiting for the punchline, or the rest of the requirements. Instead he finds himself staring at the long line of Eddie's fingers until they drop down and Eddie scoffs.

"Geez. Come on."

Eddie is up off the swing and heading across the field before Steve's brain catches up, forcing Eddie to twirl in a circle, arms out as he calls back, "Hurry up, Harrington! I'm not chasing you if you get lost,"

Steve follows behind, because what else is he going to do? He wants the joint now that he's thought about it, and if all he has to do to get it is sit in the back of Munson's van for a bit and then get a free ride home, so be it. Now that he's warmer, and the constant chatter of thoughts in his head has died down, his feet fucking ache. He catches up to Eddie easily, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans as he falls into step with him.

"How far's your van?"

"Not far. I was headed back when I saw you sitting there looking like a lost puppy."

"I didn't look like a-" Steve bites his tongue and shakes his head, focusing on a different part of that answer. "Heading back from where?"

Eddie raises the black lunchbox and wiggles it pointedly, not offering any other response. They walk in silence until the reach another stretch of chain link fence, without the helpfully cut hole Steve had found on the other side. Eddie grips his hands into it and vaults over with practiced ease, landing with a solid thump on the other side and looking back expectantly. Steve's scaling of the fence is significantly less graceful, but he lands on his feet and not his ass so he'd consider it a win.

He can see Eddie's van now, nestled innocently between some trees. You'd only really notice it if you were looking for it, which was probably what a clandestine drug dealer would want. Eddie yanks the back doors to the van open and gestures for Steve to hop in. It's full of junk, multiple boxes and some mismatched cushions, a few heavier blankets and some scattered cassette tapes. There's a lingering smell of weed that Steve doesn't mind, remembering how the trunk of Tommy's car always smelled of sweaty gym clothes and forgotten lunches.

"Deals a deal," Eddie says as he climbs into the back of the van, joint perched between his outstretched fingers. Steve takes it, moving aside so Eddie can get in behind him to rummage through a pile of random boxes. Steve has the joint between his lips before he realised he doesn't have a lighter.

"Left pocket," Eddie supplies from somewhere behind him, closer than Steve was expecting. He'd forgotten he was still wearing Eddie's leather jacket, the warmth of it an easy weight on his shoulders. He fishes in the pocket and removes a heavy silver lighter with a flaming skull detail. The letters E.M. are haphazardly scratched into the lid and Steve brings the flame to the end of the joint, taking as deep of a breath as he can manage and letting his head fall back. The burn in his lungs makes him cough once, then twice, then a third and fourth for good measure. He's bringing it back to his mouth before the last coughs even fully subside.

"Jesus, Harrington. Don't hurt yourself."

Steve doesn't think before offering out the joint. He'd offered to share one with Tommy once, only to be met with a sneer and a sharp rebuff. That's some queer shit, dude. You've put your fucking mouth on that he tries to cover the movement, to make an excuse but Eddie is already plucking the joint from his fingers and bringing it to his mouth, lips easily wrapping around the end right where Steve's had been only seconds before.

"Been a while?" Eddie asks conversationally, leaning back against the wall of the van and throwing his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle but spread at the knees, bumping ever so slightly against Steve's own.

"What makes you ask?"

"You've had two tokes and you already look less like a scared rabbit."

Maybe it's because he hasn't slept in forever, maybe not smoking weed in over a year lowered his tolerance, or maybe Munson just has better shit than Steve remembers because he's right- only a few hits into the joint and the tight line of his shoulders are relaxing, the race of his heart lowering to a steady thrum.

"What's with the animal comparisons," Steve mutters, "first a puppy and now a rabbit?"

Eddie blows a steady stream of smoke out the open door of the van and shrugs, "seems fitting is all."

"What? No. If I'm an animal I'm a- a..." He comes up empty on cool animals and sighs as Eddie laughs, "I'm something way cooler than a puppy or a rabbit."

"I'm sure you are, dude," Eddie offers.

They lapse into silence, trading the joint back and forth between them until Steve feels every inch of himself floating, his head lolled lazily back on the van wall as he stares up at the ceiling. His brain is calm for the first time in what feels like forever. The glow of the moon no longer seems eerie; the occasional hoot of an owl or scuffle of nightlife not sending his adrenaline skyrocketing and heart to his throat. He feels like breaking the silence but can't think of anything to say, so he settles for the only proper thought he can process right now.

"God I'm so high."

Eddie snorts, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter as he claps Steve on the shoulder, "Feeling better?"

Steve turns his head, chin to his shoulder as he watches Eddie take another drag, limned in the white-blue glow of the moon. There's a beer in his hand, which he had firmly informed Steve he was not going to be sharing. Steve didn't mind, the weed was doing enough for him right now.

Maybe too much, he found himself thinking as he watched Eddie's adams apple bop as he swallowed, tongue swiping out to catch a stray drop of cheap beer. He knows he should stop staring but he's too high at this point to care.

Steve would never have admitted it to anyone if he'd never met Robin. Hell, he'd barely admitted it to himself until a month ago. Any time the thought had appeared he'd squashed it down as far as he could, threw himself into flirting and dating pretty girls with pretty eyes and soft skin and curvy chests. He'd barely been able to tell Robin, the words sticking in his throat like ashes as he stumbled his way through a half formed confession one night as they lay tip and toe on his bed, a shitty old movie Robin insisted was a classic playing on the television.

"I-just- not all the time. Definitely not all the time. But sometimes, you know? But girls are great, I- I just-"

Robin had gripped his hand so hard and smiled so bright that Steve had to look away, almost ashamed of how he had felt about everything.

"Thank you for telling me, Steve," she whispered to him, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles while he hung his head. Their conversations about it had been sporadic, Robin never pushing too hard or too fast, letting Steve come to her with the eclectic mismatch of information he felt ready enough to share. Sometimes Steve even made brave commentary at the movie of the week playing on the television at work, eyes sliding over Han Solo with an appreciation he would have originally never allowed himself to acknowledge.

Eddie isn't bad looking, by any means. His reputation proceeds him a little; but beyond the devil worship, freak of nature, burn out metal head vibe he has going... he's not the worst to look at. A blend of pretty and handsome that Steve hadn't considered a guy could pull off. The dark doe eyes and the curly hair, the pink lips- that was pretty. But the long fingers with the chunky rings, the flex of his biceps and the cut of his jaw with the haze of stubble-

Steve's eyes trail to the tattoo peeking out from the collar of his shirt, barely visible but tinted red around the edges. He can see Eddie breathing, the rise and fall of his black shirt under the vest.

"You done staring, Harrington?" An amused voice cuts off his thoughts. He flicks his eyes up, caught and guilty to find Eddie's lips curled into a smile.

"Sorry," he says, trying to play it off cool, "just admiring your tattoo. Looks fresh."

God he hopes it's fresh or he's going to sound like an idiot. The red around the edges seems like it would mean it was fresh. The only other person he knows with a tattoo is El and that's not a conversation he's ever going to have with her.

Eddie looks down and nods, pulling the neckline of his shirt to expose the design, "had it done a few days ago. Once it's healed I've got some stuff I want to add. Kind of like this one."

He pulls up the hem of his shirt to expose the v of his hips, the pattern of hair below his navel, and another design inked at the jut of his hipbone. Steve nods absently, dragging his eyes away from the expanse of skin and hoping his hands aren't shaking as he reaches for the joint.

"I like the bats," he offers once he's taken a hit, the weed making him loose and brave as he reaches out to brush his thumb over one of the bats in question. Eddie raises an eyebrow but doesn't stop him as Steve drags his finger around to the other side, finding the skeleton tattoo as well.

"Not sure about this guy though," Steve teases, "seems kind of creepy."

Eddie chuckles, scooting closer to take back the joint and setting it between his lips. Steve didn't remember them being so close when they first started, who had moved first? Had it been him? Eddie is watching him from under his lashes, Steve's fingers still lingering on the tattoo.

"That was the goal."

There's a moment, brief and terrifying, where Steve thinks that if Eddie Munson were a girl he would be kissing her by now. He was flirting. Flirting just like he did in high school, or at Scoops. Only this time Robin isn't loitering behind him with a "You Suck" scoreboard, and this isn't some girl. He's never flirted with a guy before.

He drags his gaze from Eddie's dark eyes down to his lips, soft and pink and still wrapped around the very end of the joint, glowing in the shitty moonlight in the van.

"Don't think too hard Harrington," Eddie rumbles quietly, the smoke spilling from his lips so close that Steve could breathe it in if he wanted. Steve could kiss him, right now in this van and nobody would ever know. Eddie wouldn't tell anyone, and neither would Steve. He'd just have to lean in, just a little more-

"I might not be thinking hard enough, actually," he replies stupidly, watching as Eddie's lips curl up into a smile before he pulls his eyes away and clears his throat. The last dregs of the joint are always shit, but when Eddie holds it out he takes it, feeling the soft touch of skin as it passes from hand to hand.

"Let's get you home," Eddie offers quietly, tilting his head to front seat, "maybe you can get some sleep."

Home. Right. That was part of the deal. Eddie jumps easily out of the van, as though the joint they had shared hadn't affected him at all. Steve, on the other hand, scoots to the edge on his ass before letting his legs dangle in the air.

"God. What exactly was in that joint?"

"High quality marijuana, Harrington. No more freebies though, next time you pay like the rest of my happy customers."

He's holding out his arm and Steve appreciates the steadying grip as his heavy legs hit the dirt. Eddie steers him easily to the passenger side door, opening it wide and waiting until Steve is settled in the seat before taking his own.

"I live-"

"I know where you live." Eddie says with a smile, tapping one finger on the seatbelt with a raised eyebrow. "Safety first."

"You know where I live?"

"You're Steve Harrington, dude. Everyone knows where you live."

That's... Honestly not something Steve has ever considered. He's too high to worry about it now though, and the way Eddie's ringed hands are wrapped easily around the steering wheel are drawing his thoughts elsewhere. Something unintelligible and aggressive is playing on the radio, volume too low for Steve to make it out. Eddie can though, judging by the way his lips move soundlessly to the lyrics, fingers curling on the wheel and head bopping every so often.

The roads are empty, the moon so bright Steve squints as he looks at it, so huge and close that he feels like he could reach out and grab it in his hand. It's like the ceiling of Starcourt, only so much better.

"This is way better than the last time I was high." He says after a moment.

"Well I can't say I've ever sold to you specifically, so if someone was doing a better job I'd like to know who. Shit weed? Cause there's a lot of that around here."

"No, not weed. Something stronger." Steve says softly, remembering the sharp burn in his mouth of whatever the Russians had given him. "I've smoked your stuff before though. Not for a while. Used to make Tommy buy it."

"Tommy H?"

Steve nods and Eddie laughs, "He was an ass. I used to charge him double just because I could. Sorry man."

Steve smiles, not even mad that he had been shelling out more than he should have. Tommy H was an asshole. He was probably more an asshole to Eddie.

"Didn't know you were into the harder stuff though," Eddie continues, "the hell did you take?"

"Didn't take it on purpose." Steve replies before he can stop himself. The Russians never officially existed. Officially, Starcourt burned down. Officially, he and Robin hadn't even be there that night. Eddie hasn't replied and Steve looks over, seeing the frown on his face.

"Someone dosed you?"

"...yeah."

It seems like the best cover story for his loud mouth, though Eddie looks unimpressed. He mutters something under his breath and Steve doesn't catch it, but Eddie is shaking his head.

"That ever happens again... " He trails off, eyes darting between Steve and the road, "let me know. There's not a lot of people who sell around Hawkins but none of us go for that."

The offer is nicer, nicer than Steve deserves considering he was drugged by Russians trying to open the gate into the Upside Down and there's nothing Eddie could have ever done to stop it, but nice all the same.

The van swings into Steve's driveway and the sight of his house, every light glowing in the windows makes him sigh. The weed has loosened him up, carved out a dark part of him he had been struggling with for a while and locked it into a box. He might actually sleep tonight.

"End of the line, Harrington. Your parents going to lose their shit that you're coming home high off your ass at," he glances at the clock on the dash, "two thirty on a Friday?"

"They're in Baltimore. Or Boston. I don't know. It's just me."

Steve unclasps the seatbelt and reaches for the door, frowning when it won't open under his touch.

"Oh, yeah, sorry. It sticks."

Eddie leans over him and reaches for the door, gripping the handle and giving it a solid yank before letting the door swing open with a creak. Steve is... Definitely not thinking about how close Eddie is right now. How he can feel the tickle of his hair on his cheek, can see the shadow of stubble at the curve of his jaw. Eddie's shoulder is brushing Steve's chest and he's not thinking about it. If Eddie turned his head just so-

"Harrington?"

He blinks, pulling himself out of the thoughts to see Eddie's smiling face, curving up his cheeks to the smallest dip in the skin.Eddie had smiled a lot tonight, Steve didn't know if he'd ever seen him smile before. It's a nice smile.

"You've got a dimple." Steve says stupidly, immediately wanting the seat to swallow him whole. If he could just cease to exist at this very moment, that would be great.

Eddie laughs, "I only bring it out for special occasions," he says, "must be your lucky night. Get inside, Harrington. No more late night wandering, okay?"

Steve clambers out of the van before he can say anything else stupid, stuffing his hands into his pockets before realizing he's still wearing Eddie's jacket.

"Shit, here. Thanks."

He slips it off, feeling oddly bereft without it. He lets it drop onto the passenger seat and Eddie shakes his head, "don't thank me dude. Just don't be a dumbass and leave your house without one again. You were freezing, it's meant to be a mean winter this year."

The mid autumn weather is already promising it. Only moments without the jacket and the icy chill is already skating along his back, prickling gooseflesh onto his arms. How in his own thoughts had he been to not even notice?

"Why are you being nice to me?" He finally asks, unable to let the night end without at least trying to get an answer. He doesn't expect one, not really. But Eddie taps his fingers against the steering wheel, brows pulled together and gnawing absently on his lower lip.

"Because you're clearly," he waves his hand up and down Steve's frame, "going through some shit."

Steve snorts at the understatement, not that Eddie would ever know just how much of one it was. The corner of Eddie's mouth curls into a smile and he continues, more lighthearted than he had been, "and I'm not the kind of guy who could just walk away from that. Never have been, much to my detriment sometimes."

Steve wants to ask what he means, but there's something sad in Eddie's eyes that he doesn't want to make worse, so he doesn't. Instead, he leans in the passenger door, arms propped on the roof.

"I was a douchebag to you though."

"Oh you were!" Eddie replies honestly, "but you weren't the worst. Not by a long shot."

Steve tilts his head, catching Eddie's eye to make sure he understands. He's so fucking high right now but he needs to say this shit. Needs to make sure Eddie knows that he's different now.

"That doesn't make it right." He says firmly, "so... Thanks. For not leaving me out there."

Eddie smiles, no dimples this time but it's soft and gentle and Steve feels his stomach burst into flutters.

"You're welcome, Steve."

His first name on Eddie's lips hit him like a train and he lets his arm drop, stepping back from the van two paces at a time. He offers Eddie a lame wave and a garbled 'goodnight' before fumbling with his keys at the front door. Steve is very aware of the van still stopped behind him, the sound of tires on gravel not reaching his ears until he locks the door behind himself and turns off the porch light.

His house is quiet, but now it feels like a regular kind of quiet and not the haunting, broken emptiness it did before. The stairs prove to be a challenge, Steve eventually taking them one slow step at a time, gripping the railing with one hand and the wall with another. Eddie Munson's weed definitely deserves it's reputation. By the time he reaches his bedroom his eyes are heavier than ever, a yawn cracking at his jaw between every breath.

He reaches for his jeans, stumbling out of them and frowning when a clatter of metal skitters across the floor. Steve states at the offending item, blinking slowly as his inebriated brain tries to make sense of what he's looking at.

A silver lighter, with the letters E.M scratched onto the metal.

"Oops."

Maybe Eddie wouldn't notice it was missing?

Deciding the discarded jeans and pilfered lighter were a problem for his future self, Steve falls face first into the bed and curls up, head buried under the mountain of pillows. He was so tired. So tired.

...

The shrill ring of the telephone wakes him up, flying up in his bed and almost falling onto the floor. The sun is spilling through the open drapes, painting his bedroom in warm yellow light. He trips over his jeans in his haste to reach the phone, hand shoving through his hair as he cradles it between his ear and shoulder.

"Harrington residence, Steve speaking,"

"Oh good, you're alive."

"Robin?"

"Yes, Robin. Robin, your coworker who is about to be a partner in crime to you being late for work because she's been standing on her porch for the last ten minutes waiting for her ride."

Steve's eyes widen, his head snapping to the antique grandfather clock his father hated with a passion but his mother insisted have the house 'character'. It was almost one. He'd slept, uninterrupted, for almost ten hours.

What the hell was in Munson's weed?

"Shit, okay. I'm coming, I'm sorry."

He hangs up before Robin can give him an earful about his tardiness, racing back up the stairs to yank on his jeans and switch out his shirt. Ten hours. Ten whole hours. He rakes a hand through his hair, bringing it down his face to rub at his eyes. Last night is a mess of memories, some of them standing out more than others, he thinks as a flush of embarrassment prickles at his neck.

Jesus, he'd considered kissing Eddie Munson.

Seriously considered.

He could never tell Robin. He'd never hear the end of it.

He speeds out of his driveway, already wincing at the thought of Robin's wrath and Keith's dead eyed stare of disapproval. Whatever. He felt more awake than he had in years. Maybe he'd need to get back into smoking weed, he was sure he could find someone else selling in Hawkins.

Anyone but Eddie, quality be damned.

Steve pulls up in front of the Buckley residence, Robin's bag smacking him in the face as she throws herself into the car.

"Drive drive drive! What the hell happened this morning, Steve?"

"It's kind of a long story," he admits, "you'd really not be interested."

Robin stares him down, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Steve keeps driving, eyes moving from the road to the clock. They'd only be a little late at this point, Keith couldn't be too mad. Robin is still staring, he can feel her gaze burning into his cheek. Does she know? Can she tell he thought about kissing a guy last night? Can she tell that only a few hours ago he was the one sitting in the passenger seat staring at the driver, only for a very different reason?

"You look...good." she says, finally breaking the intensely awkward silence.

"Thanks?"

"No, I..." Robin's voice has gone soft, the way it does when she's being serious and wants him to listen. He keeps his eyes on the road, but feels her gentle hand on his thigh.

"I mean you look better, Steve. Like you actually slept."

"I did," he admits, dropping one hand off the wheel to squeeze hers, "I slept really well for once."

"Good dreams?" She teases, ending their quiet moment of understanding.

Steve thinks, trying to piece together what he'd been dreaming about before the phone had pulled him out of slumber. Soft hair; a dimpled smile. Dark eyes and a warm jacket.

"Yeah. Good dreams."