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Things have been weird in Hawkins lately. It’s a statement Eddie never would’ve thought he’d get the chance to say truthfully, no matter how much he deeply ached to live somewhere exciting like the fictional towns of sci-fi anomalies or fantasy magic he’s been reading about since he could tackle chapter books.
Part of him feels a little guilty about it now. Like, would he have laid awake at night hoping for something exciting to happen in town if he had known that it would get people killed? Real people, not just imagined characters who were loosely inspired by real classmates but without families or pets or things that made them human? No, of course he wouldn’t. Contrary to popular belief, Eddie Munson is not a murderer. He’s been glued to the television for the last five days alongside Wayne and the rest of the county, watching the same footage of the smoldering mall and reading the names scrolling along the bottom of the screen with sympathy. More sympathy for some than for others, perhaps. If he isn’t exactly torn up over Billy Hargrove dying, sue him.
But Eddie was never picturing this when he asked for something page-turner worthy to happen in Hawkins. Missing kids, chemical leaks that kill Barbara Holland from seventh grade art class, the entire mall burning down–absolutely none of it instilled the cool, mysterious atmosphere fit for a protagonist such as himself that he’d always hoped for. Really, it just means a lot of looking over your shoulder when you’re walking home late at night. A lot of wondering if each random event will be the last.
Eddie thought that surely the mall would be the last. Now, only five days later, Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley are standing at his front door. Clearly he was wrong.
“Hi Eddie.” Robin Buckley greets after a few seconds of mutual silence when he first opens the door. She says his name so casually, as though they’re friends or something, and Eddie tries to recall if he’s ever actually talked to Robin Buckley in his life.
He knows her name because she’s in approximately one billion activities at school. Every time he attended a play or musical for extra credit in English, Robin Buckley’s name appeared in the playbill, slowly climbing each year from ensembles to minor roles to the lead in Oklahoma! He heard her name over the microphone during pep rallies when the girl’s soccer team lined up, wispy and nervous compared to her teammates. He listened to congratulations for her science fair wins over the morning announcements. She’s probably going to graduate at the very top of her class this year, attend an Ivy League, and maybe have her first experience with drugs in a dorm room. That’s what he would’ve assumed until now, anyways.
The shock of Robin Buckley talking to him is nothing compared to Steve Harrington’s mere presence at Forest Hills. His face is mottled with cuts and bruises, his left eye so swollen and purple it almost hurts to look at, and the apparent beating he’s undergone only serves to make him look more out of place. Makes him look less like Steve Harrington.
Steve Harrington whose name Eddie has heard even more than Buckley’s, but for reasons drastically separate from her accolades and community involvement. You can count prom king as an accolade, Eddie figures, and maybe whatever pointless superlative he won in the spring. Best hair, if Eddie were forced to take a guess, although those awards are remnants of a different time. Eddie’s sophomore year, which would’ve been Steve’s freshman year, he witnessed the practical birth of a new prophet among those who subscribed to the Hawkins High social order. Suddenly he heard Steve Harrington’s name dropped more than any freshman in the history of public school, cited as a source of good parties and the shining hope of their basketball and swim teams making it to State. Eddie learned to tune it out, and he did, until his second junior year when Steve Harrington’s name was suddenly spoken with a different tone. More hushed, more scandalous. Gasps in the hallway the day he showed up with a black eye and split lip, even more when the same thing happened the following year at the hands of Billy Hargrove.
If Eddie thinks about it, the sudden turning of the tides against Steve Harrington’s popularity lined up pretty perfectly with all the weird shit beginning in town. Count that as another anomaly, Eddie figures.
“Hi Robin Buckley.” Eddie responds, glancing over her shoulder at Steve. “Steve Harrington. Are you two here to fundraise? Collecting donations for the Association of Weird and Random Friendships?”
Robin Buckley looks a little lost, searching his face with wide brown eyes. Steve Harrington just looks pained. He’s squinting like the sun is hurting his eyes despite a rare July overcast. Eddie remembers what Wayne told him after news about Barbara Holland broke. If anything ever feels weird, he’d said over dinner, pointing his fork in Eddie’s direction, don’t hesitate to get the fuck out of there.
But that would be rude at the moment. More importantly, it might make Eddie miss out on some much needed summer cashflow. They need groceries pretty bad.
“No, we’re here to ask you something.” Robin says, regaining her shaky but forceful confidence. “Um, you’re over eighteen, right?”
“Uh, is this like…a Mormon thing?” Eddie asks warily, already reaching back for the doorknob. Don’t those guys go on mission trips or something at a certain age? He’s pretty sure that’s why Cody Rollins went directly to Europe after graduating, to spread the word of the Latter Day Saints or whatever the fuck. He’s so glad Wayne is an atheist.
Steve and Robin look to each other, consulting, then burst into hysterical giggles that remind Eddie of those news stories about cougars and bunnies becoming friends in the wild. You look at them together and your brain can’t quite process the pairing it’s seeing. But they’re there, frolicking around for National Geographic, and Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley are laughing and standing way too close together at his doorstep.
Are they dating? Eddie is going to be pretty disappointed if they are, because it’ll mean he’s once again failed at detecting one of his own. It’s embarrassing, really, to be gay but severely incapable of figuring out who else is gay. One more misread and he’s going to just give up entirely, wait for the day when they can all be a little more open about it.
Maybe it’s a naive hope, but he doesn’t think a romantic relationship is going on here. He’s had couples come to him before, usually for shrooms, clutching at each others hands and telling him with wide dopey smiles that they just can’t wait to embark on this experience together. Steve and Robin aren’t touching anywhere except at the shoulders, and the laughter reminds him more of giddy childhood water balloon fights than anything intimate. So that’s a relief. They also don’t seem Mormon, from their reactions.
“No, we’re just asking because we need, um, services,” Steve says, regarding Eddie with a sincere look in his good eye, “and we thought of you.”
“Huh?” Eddie has sold drugs to Steve before. Many times, actually, and made pretty good cash out of each transaction because he always made Steve unknowingly pay the Asshole Tax. Never did Steve seem nervous or jumpy during each deal, never enough to dance around the topic and refer to it as services. Usually he barely even looked at Eddie, giving him cash and taking the baggies as a side-task while he focused most of his attention on talking to Tommy Hagan or Carol Perkins. “Help me out here. You came to my private domicile in the middle of the summer to ask for my assistance with…what, exactly?”
“We want tattoos.” Robin blurts, expression earnest. “Matching ones. I’m not eighteen yet so I can’t legally get one, but we really want them.”
“We really want them.” Steve echoes, nodding. Like the twins from The Shining.
If Eddie really looks at them, focuses on the way they appear now rather than all the things he remembers from the past, he realizes Steve and Robin don’t look so good. Apart from the obvious bruising on Steve, and the less severe yellowish mark on Robin’s cheek, there’s a distinct sickly sheen to both of their faces. It’s July, one of the hottest and sunniest on record, and they’re both paler than Eddie himself despite the long stretches of days where he doesn’t leave the trailer at all. There are purplish half-moons under Robin’s eyes, easier to see on her unmarred skin but likely on Steve too, and he swears he can detect a slight shake in her hands as she wrings them together.
If Eddie were to read the descriptions he’s now taking inventory of in a book, he’d will the protagonist to understand that they’re currently in a zombie story. Maybe an alien story, a pod person type situation. But Eddie’s tendency to superimpose a fake narrative onto his own boring life has failed enough times, and he really needs cash. So he shrugs and invites them inside.
“Who even told you I give tats?” Eddie asks them, picking up the abandoned bowl of cereal Wayne left behind before work and taking it to the sink. Steve and Robin position themselves on the couch, once again touching shoulders instead of taking advantage of the abundant space to either side of them. Eddie sits across from them, scooting Wayne’s recliner forward until they’re in a more professional arrangement with the coffee table between them. There’s a folded newspaper with a half-done crossword folded on the arm of the chair. Good enough to scribble a rough sketch on.
“Scott Larson told me you had a tattoo gun.” Steve says, hands balled into fists on his knees. “But we figured if you don’t, you’d know how to do stick and pokes.”
“Scott Larson…?” Eddie briefly looks up towards the ceiling, thinking. He’s never been good with names. Or rather, he might be good with names but he never really prioritized memorizing the names of random classmates who only spoke to him when they wanted something. He has a hazy memory of breaking out his pawn shop acquired tattoo gun at the first opportunity, asking around for voluntary practice canvases until some guy from the soccer team offered up his arm. “Yeah, I think I gave him a lightning bolt. A pretty impressive one for my first attempt, might I add.”
“How many have you done?” Robin asks.
“I wanna say…four.” Eddie recounts. “Scott Larson, my buddy Gareth, and two on myself.”
He rolls up the left leg of his jeans, taking a second to locate the now-faded and very wobbly two inch line of what was supposed to be barbed wire wrapping around his ankle. He’d given up after realizing that his lines were exceptionally uneven and the little X’s didn’t really look like barbs at all. The look on Steve and Robin’s faces confirm that giving up was the right decision.
“The other’s up here.” Eddie taps the general area of the more successful self ink above his right knee. “It’s my uncle’s initials.”
“That’s sweet.” Robin says faintly, looking vaguely unwell as she leans back. Steve is still leaning forward, eyebrows scrunched as he continues to stare at the failed ankle tat.
“I only did it to try to get him to forgive me for breaking his lawnmower.” Eddie shrugs. It hadn’t worked, but since Eddie sometimes looks down at the faint W.M. on his knee and feels an immediate sense of reassurance, he figures it was worth it. “I can do stick and pokes too, though, so I guess it’s up to you.”
Steve and Robin look at each other again, wordlessly consulting. Whenever he sold weed to Steve in years past, he always had to stand there waiting for a solid five minutes listening to the bickering and disagreements within the guy’s posse of fellow assholes who couldn’t sort out how much to buy. Somehow, now, Steve is able to reach a quick conclusion with Robin Buckley of all people, all without saying a word.
“We think the gun would be better.” Steve decides. Robin nods. “It’s quicker that way, right? Stick and pokes take longer?”
“Yeah, for sure.” Eddie probably should’ve checked the long-forgotten tattoo supplies shoved in a shoebox in the back of his closet before agreeing to this. He decides to do that now, getting up with the promise to return quickly. His customers look nervous as he’s heading out of the living room for some reason, like he’s leaving them alone in the middle of the woods at midnight rather than on a lumpy sofa in broad daylight.
The second round of doubt sets in as Eddie rummages through pairs of shoes and clothes fallen from hangers to find the tattoo gun. Something undoubtedly weird is going on. Not just Steve and Robin together, suddenly the best of friends despite being on stark opposites of the social hierarchy and general personality spectrum, but the situation itself. Eddie finds the shoebox, taking stock of the few brand new needles he has left in the little ziplock bag and unused canisters of black ink. There’s even some gauze.
He could very well shove these supplies back into the closet, re-emerge into the living room and sorrowfully inform them that he doesn’t have what he needs after all. Save himself from the trouble of Steve Harrington deciding to sue him with his daddy’s money if he doesn’t like the final result or Robin Buckley blaming him if she doesn’t pass her Harvard interview or some shit. Or maybe, if Eddie’s honest with himself, decide against overlooking all the red flags.
But who is he to judge, really? Why is he sketched out at all? Because Steve and Robin don’t seem like the type of people to ask for tattoos? If Eddie gave any credit to the idea that some people are just born to be conventional, he’d be forsaking his moral code. Anyone can be cool, even if they’ve been uncool their entire sheeple life. And really, isn’t it partially Eddie’s job to help them attain that?
“Good news!” He returns to find them with their heads bent together, whispering something that dies out the moment he’s crossed over from the kitchen’s linoleum to the living room’s carpet. “We have everything we need. Except a sketch, that is, so just tell me what you’re thinking and I’ll give you some rough drafts.”
“Ice cream cones.” Robin says before Eddie can even sit down. He pauses in midair, half in the action of falling back into the recliner, and feels a laugh bubbling up before he can help himself.
“Sorry.” He half-heartedly tries to smother his laughter before realizing it can’t be done, fully allowing himself to cackle at the thought. “Ice cream…cones. You came to me to get ice cream cone tattoos? Like permanent ones? Not the little washcloth type you get out of those quarter prize machines at arcades?”
Steve narrows his eyes, instantly silencing any present or future jeering. Eddie isn’t stupid. He understands self-preservation, maybe even a little too well after a long and dreary childhood until he arrived to Wayne’s care and didn’t need it anymore. He knows that you don’t pick fights with people who can and will beat the shit out of you. High school, all glorious five with an upcoming six years of it, has helped him narrow down which people are fine to fuck with and which will potentially get him in the hospital. Steve Harrington, until two years ago, seemed like someone who wouldn’t beat his ass. Then he showed up with bruises and accompanying rumors of a fight with Jonathan Byers, and it became a question of if he could take Eddie, not if he would. Honestly, the three consecutive years of heavier and heavier facial injuries suggests that maybe Steve isn’t the most capable of using his fists, but Eddie isn’t willing to roll the dice.
He’s probably even less capable. So he really shouldn’t be laughing in the guy’s face.
“Do you want to make eighty bucks or not?” Steve asks, and eighty bucks was honestly more than Eddie was planning on charging so he really should shut the fuck up. “It’s better than a stick bug.”
“What?”
“On your ankle.” Steve nods downwards.
“It’s not a stick bug.” Eddie says defensively, opting not to enlighten them on what it was actually supposed to be. “But fine, fine, I respect it. Nothing wrong with a little whimsy, right? So just a cone, a little blob of ice cream, maybe a cherry?”
Steve and Robin share another glance before Robin resolutely shakes her head. “No cherry.”
“No cherry, got it.” Eddie clicks the pen Wayne was using for his crossword, utilizing the curling corner of the newspaper to start sketching. Really, he could do this freehanded. Just a triangle and half-circle, nothing too challenging for Eddie’s decent artistic abilities. He’s been working on anatomy recently, trying to bridge the gap in his understanding of the human form to more monstrous bodies. With August approaching, he really needs to kick planning for Hellfire into high gear. If they want to persuade any incoming freshmen to join and continue attending, they’ll need a strong opening to the campaign. Eddie is torn on the main villain, dickering between Tharizdun and Lord Vecna. He thinks he’s gonna stick with Lord Vecna. More dramatic, more appeal to the freshmen.
They sit in awkward silence while Eddie tries to appear more professional by doing multiple sketches, although there aren’t that many different ways to draw an ice cream cone. He does one with just a little half-circle of ice cream, the classic way, and one that takes on more of a soft-serve double scoop type structure. He thinks back to his first tattoo parlor appointment, to the older lady who did his bats and chatted with him the whole time.
“So, uh, why ice cream?” Eddie asks, sparing a glance up at Steve and Robin. She’s biting her thumb nail. He’s bouncing his leg.
“We worked at Scoops Ahoy.” Robin finally says after a moment of what appeared to be quiet deliberation. Eddie nods, wonders if he can pull off enough tiny straight lines to make the cone appear waffled, and then registers what she just said. He looks up.
“Like at Starcourt?”
They both give him impressively matching smile-grimaces. “That’s the one.”
“Shit.” Eddie hastily looks back down, trying not to give into his rubber-necking tendencies. Whenever they pass a wreck and Eddie turns to stare, Wayne snarkily suggests rolling down the window and asking what happened while he’s at it. He holds those same sentiments towards the evening news, especially in the past week, what with all the zoomed in footage on crying faces in the Starcourt parking lot and interviews with people claiming to have known and loved Chief Hopper. Making it all a spectacle, Wayne grumbles. “Uh, well, sorry. It’s good that you’re both okay and everything.”
Idiot, Eddie scolds himself. Do they look okay? This could explain perfectly well the shakiness, the pale faces, the way they’re practically glued together. He imagines that’ll happen if you and your coworker have to escape an inferno together. Does it explain Steve’s face? It must. Those bruises are fresh, only a few days old, and the chances of his workplace burning to the ground and another fight occurring at the same time are low. Eddie wonders how it happened. A falling support beam nailing him in the face, maybe? But he looks like he’s taken more than one hit.
“Thanks.” Robin nods a few times in rapid succession. “Yeah, we’re fine. We just figured, y’know, once in a lifetime crazy major life event. Like, my first summer job and it ends in a major news story for the entire week. Not that–I mean, it’s not all about us, obviously.”
“No.” Steve echoes, shaking his head.
“It was just crazy and we went through it together and we figured we’d get these tattoos to make it like, real and permanent so we never forget. Not that we would forget and not that we’re like, celebrating it. I guess it’s a little morbid but we, uh, we thought…”
She trails off. Eddie grins down at his sketch. Maybe they should’ve just put Robin Buckley up on that stage without a script, let her talk for however long she wanted and had her name be the only one in the playbill. Would’ve been more entertaining than Oklahoma!
“I like morbid.” Eddie reassures them, flipping the newspaper around for them to see the sketches. “Here’s what we got. I’ll have to copy it onto tracing paper, but just to get the general idea of what you want. I also only have black ink so I’m hoping you didn’t want mint or raspberry ice cream.”
“Aw, cute!” Robin smiles down at the drawing, looking to Steve for confirmation. He nods, looking wholly satisfied with the first initial drawing. Eddie shouldn’t be proud of their positive reactions, because it’s the simplest drawing of all time and also because it’s Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley, but he kind of is. There’s something decidedly more rewarding about selling people something that he actually took partial involvement in creating. Even if it’s a drawing that he otherwise would’ve doodled on his desk during class.
“How long do you think it’ll take?” Steve asks, eyes flickering over to the shoebox of materials. “Like, do you have to go over it a bunch of times to make the ink dark enough? We don’t need them that dark.”
“It doesn’t even need to be super straight or even or anything.” Robin adds. “Like don’t worry about making them perfect or anything.”
“Are you guys sure you want tattoos?” Eddie double-checks. He’s never heard of anyone assuring their tattoo artist that they don’t need to take their time with a well-executed tat. These are just verbal confirmations of what he’s already picked up on from their twitchy body language and constant thrum of nervous energy. They’re scared. Which like, fair, because until you actually feel the unique pain of being tattooed your mind tends to run amok with visualizations of how intense it’ll be. But their nervousness gives him pause, makes him wonder why they’re going with commemorative tattoos of all things to remind themselves of the tragic end of their summer jobs.
“Yes!” Steve hastily confirms. “Yes, we do. We’re just nervous.”
“I gathered that.” Eddie pointedly looks down at Steve’s still-bouncing leg, which is rattling the coffee table now. “Look, it shouldn’t take long. But spoken agreements are partially binding in the state of Indiana so even though you aren’t signing any official waivers, just know that I am not to be held responsible if you stop halfway through and have to walk around with an empty cone forever. Got that?”
“We won’t.” Robin promises. “We’ll be able to handle it.”
They’re very determined, apparently. Jaws set in hard lines, eyes glittering, fists clenched. Eddie just has to wonder what’s compelling them to get tattoos they’re apparently terrified of on such short notice. He’s no stranger to impulsive decision making. In fact, Wayne would probably say he’s a close friend of impulsive decision making. But to see Robin Buckley, the girl with the most carefully curated list of good choices he’s ever seen and Steve Harrington, the guy with absolutely no problem doing exactly what he wants at all times, both seemingly forcing themselves to undertake something as permanent as a tattoo is just…weird.
“Is it the needle that’s freaking you out?” Eddie asks, watching Steve tense in a barely perceptible strain of his shoulders. “Because it’s probably not really the way you’re imagining it. Like, if your only experience with needles is getting a flu shot or something then it’s hard to really–”
“Can we just do it?” Robin cuts in, flashing a look in Steve’s direction that’s almost certain pointed at Eddie for his benefit, to understand her reason for interrupting, but unfortunately one that he can’t decipher. How’s he supposed to be able to figure out their whole deal just from a look? Eddie has still barely processed that they’re in his living room right now.
“Yeah.” He raises two hands in surrender. “Who’s up first?”
They have a five minute back-and-forth to determine who goes first. During this time, Eddie copies his original drawing onto the tracing paper, disinfects the skin on the inside of their wrists, muttering an apology when Steve initially flinches away, and places the drawings perfectly. By the time the machine is ready, he’s still sitting and waiting for the decision to be made.
“I just don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to get out of it.” Robin is saying, anxiously tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She’s done that about fifty times since sitting down, untucking and retucking.
“No, no, I don’t.” Steve insists empathetically. He’s reaching over to hold Robin’s hand now. Eddie kind of feels like he’s watching something he shouldn’t be. “I want to do this. It won’t be like…before. I’ll be able to look at you this time.”
The before was said cautiously over a microscopic look in Eddie’s direction. Have they tried getting tattoos before, somewhere else? Aren’t they only getting them because of the mall, which was only four days ago? Robin glances at Eddie too, less subtle than Stever had, before turning back and giving her former co-worker and apparent best friend a watery smile.
“Yeah, I’ll be right here.”
They act like Eddie is about to take them out back and shoot them. Suddenly he feels the obligation to treat Steve like a wounded cat on the side of the highway who needs to be gently coaxed into a car. He gets his ink set up, makes sure they can both see him thoroughly disinfect the needle and sanitize his hands again before pulling on gloves and getting them into a comfortable position. Steve’s arm rests on the coffee table, palm up, and Eddie leans over to meet him halfway. He flicks the machine on and feels Steve’s hand start to shake.
“Hey man, uh, you really don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” Eddie offers again, trying to elicit eye contact to no avail. “I’m not trying to talk you out of it, but I also don’t want you passing out on me or something.”
“I’m not gonna pass out.” Steve snaps, flexing his shaking hand into a fist in what appears to be an attempt to ward off the tremors. It doesn’t work. “Please just do it, man, I just–I need to just do it.”
“Okay!” Eddie does not want Steve Harrington to start crying the way the wavering of his voice indicates he might. “Okay. You ready?”
Steve squeezes his eyes shut. Robin scoots in every closer to his side, if at all possible, and tightens her grip on his upper arm. “Yeah, go.”
Eddie brings the needle down. Steve remains incredibly still and silent for a solid ten seconds, giving Eddie enough time to make the first two-inches of one side of the cone while Steve watches intently with his head bent over his wrist, before slumping forward entirely.
“Jesus fuck.” Eddie murmurs under the sound of Robin’s gasp, flicking the machine off.
“Steve?” Robin is shaking his shoulder frantically, the horror in her tone matching that of a soldier whose buddy just got taken out on the battlefield. “Steve? Steve?”
“Relax, Buckley, he’s just passed out.” Eddie stands and reaches for Steve’s other shoulder, hauling him upright and letting him slump backwards on the couch. Just as a cautionary measure, he feels for a pulse and finds it hammering away under his touch. “Which, as you might recall, I forewarned could happen. I don’t like to make these judgements typically, but you two are not tattoo people.”
“God, I know.” Robin groans, looking a little lightheaded herself. “This was a stupid idea and we came up with it at like three in the morning which is never good but we just–we haven’t been thinking that clearly and I don’t know why our brains got so fixated on it but they did and we got this stupid notion that if we could just get these tattoos it would be like closure and we’d be able to finally start moving on from–”
She grinds to a stop, looking up at him with big, guilty eyes. Eddie is stuck on one part of that little speech. “Up at three in the morning, huh? I’ve been meaning to ask, but I didn’t want to be rude to paying customers. Now it seems like a moot point. When’s the last time you two wonder twins have slept?
“Uh…” Robin’s eyes flicker upwards as she thinks, revealing even more of the shadows under her eyes. Damn it, Eddie really shouldn’t have even let them past the door. There’s something going on, obviously. Something beyond just pre-tattoo nerves. “Couple days. I can’t even think straight anymore. We can’t sleep, though, we’ve tried and we just both can’t–”
“Is this all because of the mall?” Eddie asks, trying to wrap his brain around it. He doesn’t want to discredit whatever happened to them. He gets it. Seemingly small stuff can fuck you up, stay burned into your brain forever. It’s the reason he’s always failed with finding any relief in the therapy Wayne wanted him to try. It doesn’t sound like much to say your dad broke your record player. Not without all the context and the sound of the smashing and the look on his face while he did it. But he needs clarification, because this is potentially starting to sound like something bigger, and Eddie just put a permanent line on Steve Harrington’s wrist before knocking him the fuck out and the least he can do is offer some semblance of guidance.
“Yeah.” Robin says, but the look on her face doesn’t match. Her wide eyes are practically pleading with him, begging him to pick up on something hidden beneath her assurances and dismissals. Eddie wants to get it, too. Usually he does, when the prompt comes from an English teacher asking the class what the text really means. But here? He has no context clues, no framework to base his guesses off of. He doesn’t know.
“Have you thought about talking to someone?” He offers tentatively. “I don’t mean like therapy necessarily but just someone else who went through it?”
“We need to. We should. It’s just been easier for us to stick with each other because, uh, we were alone together when it happened and Steve’s kind of the only other person in the world who gets what it was like. What our version of it was like. And it was horrible.” Robin’s eyes flicker over to the tattoo gun, to the needle that’s glistening in the light, and swallows thickly. “Eddie?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I’m gonna puke.”
“Oh, shit, okay. Like now?”
“Yeah, I think pretty soon.”
He leads her to the bathroom, once again smugly thankful that he doesn’t live in a big ass house like Steve Harrington who probably has to go on entire hikes to reach his bathroom. Robin shuts the door behind her and Eddie turns on the kitchen faucet for the sake of giving her some white noise to drown out the sound of puking. He stands halfway between the bathroom and the couch, contemplating how he ended up in this position so quickly. Twenty minutes ago he was reading Dune.
Steve rouses before Robin is out, blinking awake so suddenly that he reminds Eddie of a robot being powered back on. He straightens up, looks to his side for Robin, and then looks to Eddie with alarm when he can’t find her.
“She’s in the bathroom.” Eddie informs him, nodding in its direction. “Choosing to deal with this experience in a different, honestly less dramatic way than you did. She’s puking.”
Steve rubs at his forehead and makes a short huffing noise that could either be a laugh or a bark of frustration. “I hate that you were right.”
“Well I’m the experienced seasoned tattoo professional, remember?”
“Yeah, you and your four tattoos.”
“Five.” Eddie corrects. “Take a look at your wrist. You’re the proud owner of a baby stick bug.”
“I should’ve known.” Steve murmurs, examining his wrist. He doesn’t seem too upset by the permanent line. He looks more aggrieved when he glances in the direction of the closed bathroom door, a look that mirrors Robin’s when he was still knocked out. “This was a bad idea. We weren’t–”
“Thinking clearly?” Eddie finishes. “I got the run down from your partner in crime. She wouldn’t tell me, so I’ll try asking you and then I’ll fuck off forever if you don’t want to elaborate. I just feel like–I don’t know, man. She said you guys haven’t been sleeping, and most people don’t pass out unless they’re a little dehydrated or maybe haven’t had enough to eat, and I get that you were part of the mall fire but did anything…else happen?”
Steve is quiet for a long time, long enough for Eddie to know that no matter the answer he gives, the real answer is yes. “No.”
“Okay.” Eddie lets out a breath. “I won’t be pushy. Just, uh, I kinda feel bad about ignoring all the warning signs and going along with your deranged plan anyways so as repentance, you can tell me if something’s up.”
“Nothing’s up.” Steve says again, but when he looks back at Eddie there’s something genuine on his face when he adds, “But thanks.”
Eddie clears away the supplies by the time Robin returns, sweeping it all back into the shoebox and shoving it back into his closet. He thinks maybe he’ll sell the tattoo gun. Too much fucking responsibility. He gets them both a glass of water before they can leave, makes them drink it and choke down some stale saltines from the back of the pantry before he releases them as hostages.
“Hey.” He stops them on their way out the door after a round of awkward mutual apologies and agreements to never speak of this again. Snagging the pen Wayne keeps near the door for addressing mail, Eddie reaches for Steve’s wrist and fills in the rest of the ice cream cone with wobbly, faint black ink. He does the same for Robin, who starts laughing hysterically halfway through until she’s joined by Steve and, like their mutual mania is rubbing off on him, Eddie himself. “There. So you didn’t make the trip for nothing.”
“Looks sick.” Steve appraises.
“Almost as good as the real thing.” Robin adds.
“I hope you guys, uh, feel better.” Eddie says as they descend the steps. “Maybe try eating and sleeping and not making impulsive decisions while you’re deprived of those.”
It’s weird, feeling like a side character. Whenever Eddie wished for something interesting to happen to him, to Hawkins, he pictured himself directly in the center of it. Not only appearing for one chapter as a one-off guy who fails to even offer sage advice before the two characters who clearly know more than him depart again. But if it means he doesn’t have to deal with whatever Steve and Robin are dealing with, he’ll take it.
Eddie just hopes whatever’s going on with them, and with the town, reaches its end soon enough. And if Hawkins insists on continuing to collapse in on itself, he hopes Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley don’t find themselves in the middle of it again. In some ways, it feels like they were trying to spare him by not divulging the full picture.
Maybe they don’t want Eddie in the middle of it, either.