Archive of Our Own

“Dustin isn’t coming.”

“What?” Eddie says, all frantic and jovial movements freezing instantly.

His eyes narrow on Lucas--the bearer of bad news. “Why?”

“Family emergency.”

Mike makes a face. “I saw his mom yesterday and she was fine, so is this a…?”

He makes a gesture that is entirely incomprehensible to anyone who isn’t Sinclair and his terrifying girlfriend.

(At least, Eddie thinks Max is Lucas’s girlfriend this week. It got a little hard to keep up after the third break-up-make-up marathon, and he frankly, stopped bothering to try.

It helped that she barely spoke--The only time notable being when Eddie had mockingly asked Sinclair if he needed a cheerleader when she’d first sat in, upon which she’d asked Eddie if he needed new kneecaps with a look in her eye that said she was serious.)

Wheeler Jr.’s gesture however, made her put her book down.

“You think Steve's having migraines again?” She not so much asked as demanded, which had Mike shrugging.

“Dunno." Lucas says. "Dustin didn’t say.”

“Gotta be, if he called Dustin.” Mike mutters, Lucas shuffling his papers about as he begins to set up for Hellfire. He was the last in the room, practically late, which Eddie had planned on harassing him for had he not announced Henderson’s absence.

(Fucking freshmen. They just weren’t terrified of Eddie like they used to be.)

“Robin must be sick or something, otherwise he’d call her.” Lucas finishes as he finally sits down.

“Didn’t the Marching Band go on some trip?” Mike turns to address the rest of the table, and gets nods from Jeff and Gareth both.

“Yeah they’re marching in some parade in Indianapolis.” Jeff confirms.

“So his last resort was Dustin?” Max is getting that tone in her voice, the one that makes everyone at Hellfire very uncomfortable. “Typical.”

She pushes away from the table, making a show of gathering up her things before rising easily to her feet.

Eddie trades looks with the elder Hellfire members as she makes her exit--the kind that says they’re all going to be talking about this later.

They knew their freshmen had some weird obsession with the former King, of course, but Mayfield too?

What the hell was up with that guy?

At least Eddie thinks, right before things are once again shot to shit, they can go back to playing the game.

He can make it work this early into things, and if Henderson isn't’ a fan of what he’s about to do to the kid’s character in his absence, well.

Maybe he shouldn’t be fucking absent then.

“So what, Max, you're gonna go over there and make it worse?” Mike snorts.

Fatal mistake.

Eddie almost strangles him for it, if only because it prolongs this entire unnecessary conversation.

Max performs a military perfect heel turn, coming straight back for Wheeler Jr., which makes him right about fall out of his seat in panic.

“What was that, Wheeler?”

“I’m just saying--!”

“We don’t know Steve’s having migraines.” Lucas reiterates, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Maybe it’s something else.”

“Does Steve get migraines a lot?” Grant asks, because despite all appearances he’s a terrible gossip and gets sucked in far too easily.

Eddie throws a pencil at him for it.

“Hel-looo, we have a game!?” He thunders, but unfortunately for him, precious Stevie-Weavies headache now has everyone’s attention.

“Yeah, though he’s really good at pretending he doesn’t.” Lucas answers with a put upon sigh.

“There’s a whole pattern--he ignores it until it gets super bad, then he has to call Robin or Dustin to come get him when he inevitably gets stranded at work or the like, grocery store.”

“Well who else do you think he’d call?” Mike scoffs again. He does a lot of that, when discussing Harrington. “It’s not like his parents are--Ow, Max!”

“Close your mouth before I close it for you.” She hisses and Mike, shockingly, does just that.

To Eddie, she says;

“Your ass isn’t any better, or did you forget I live across from you?”

Eddie--who had an insult primed and ready--promptly shuts his mouth.

(Fucking! Asshole! Freshmen!)

“Maybe I should go too.” Lucas says, hedging a look between his girlfriend and his DM.

“No.” She snaps, pointing a finger at him.

“If you go, then this idiot,” she flicks her finger to Mike, “will go and then we really will make it worse. Stay here before your bichon frise has a fit about all his sheep abandoning him.”

Then she’s turning on her heel again, storming out.

“What the hell’s a bichon frisé?” Gareth asks in the aftermath, frowning.

“It’s a type of ahhhh--” Jeff clearly thinks better of the explanation, eyes sliding to Eddie.

Who’s scowling.

“I know what a bichon frisé is, Jeff.” He snaps.

“I don’t.” Grant loudly complains.

Jeff attempts to both calm Eddie and explain while Mike and Lucas spend far too many minutes looking after Max.

“Enough!” Eddie howls, temper finally getting the best of him. “Are we playing or do you also need to go sit by the King’s bedside?”

“Thank you,” Mike says, like he wasn’t a third of the entire problem. “Let’s play!”

They make it about fifteen entire minutes before getting knocked off track again.

In fairness, not that Eddie would ever admit it--the second meltdown is his own fault.

xXx

Hellfire is Eddie’s domain.

It’s one of the few places where he could relax without getting harassed or hounded, and having his freshmen--his!--abandon him for King Fucking Steve had set him off.

So he’d made a few comments about it.

Maybe introduced an NPC who sounded suspiciously similar to Harrington, only to instantly kill him off.

Made another couple of nasty comments.

Who cares? It worked him through his snit rather nicely, and his boys all knew to leave him be.

Except, apparently, for Lucas.

“Dude, would you lay off?” The kid finally snaps, pencil slamming down on the table.

Which is the most backbone-like thing anyone has ever heard Sinclair say, and he gets far more whistles for it than he should.

Eddie pins him in place with a glare.

“What was that Sinclair?” He snarls, voice as menacing as he can make it.

(It’s pretty terrifying, he’s practiced quite a bit with it.)

Sinclair flinches, but doesn’t back down.

“I said lay off. Steve has migraines because of--” He stops, before seeming to come to a decision. “Because of me. He took a hit for me, and I owe him a life debt for it.”

To Eddie, he says; “You get what those are, right?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t just for you--”

“That time with Billy was!” Lucas is quick to snarl. “But you know what Mike, you’re right. It wasn’t just for me. He T-boned a car for all of us!”

Sinclair is on his feet now, which is the unfortunate moment that Eddie realizes he has once again lost control of the room.

A situation he firmly blames on Steve Harrington, because he’s petty.

“Or did you forget that part? That’s you, me, Will, Nancy and Jonathan right there! Nevermind the tunnel. Or the junkyard!

“We had the junkyard handled--”

Lucas scoffs.

“We absolutely did not.”

“I don’t get why you’re all making such a big deal out of this. He’s the fighter. That’s what he does. That’s why we brought him to the tunnel.”

“You recall what happened at Starcourt, right?” Lucas challenges, furious. “You did see him after, right?”

This, finally, seems to shut Mike up.

“Shouldn’t you be mad at him for that?” He says after a moment, and the rest of Hellfire has completely put aside all actual gaming to watch this play out with a morbid sort of fascination.

Eddie allows it, only because he’s trying to breathe the way Wayne taught him to before he loses it entirely and throws both of the idiot kids out of the drama room.

“He pulled your sister into it.”

“Have you met Erica!? You can’t pull her into shit!” Lucas spits furiously. “That wasn’t D&D, Mike. It was the Upsi--real life.”

Lucas is quick to correct himself, even in the heat of the moment--as all the kids are, like the entire school hasn’t clocked that they have some weird ass secret they’re terrible at hiding.

“And if we’re playing those games, then who pulled him into the tunnels? Who made him come to the junkyard?”

“Dustin.” Mike says snidely.

“You don’t get to blame Dustin when Steve was the only person around.”

“There were people around! They just weren’t people who--weren’t--who couldn’t--”

“Finish that sentence.” Lucas demands

“Be trusted.” Mike spits out, like it hurts him.

“Exactly.”

“El went through way more than Steve ever has! El--”

“El was using her po--doing mage things! And also, she shouldn’t have had to go through all this shit either! We can’t rely on her to save the day every single time, Mike--and look at how hurt she gets!”

“She--”

“She hides it from you, you know. How bad she hurts. Cause she wants to put your feelings first.”

“I--”

“Will does too.” Is Lucas’s parting shot. His backpack is in his hands in a blink, papers and character figure shoved wildly into it, before he’s storming out the door in a poor mimicry of Mayfield.

“Harrington T-Boned a car?” Grant says, in the resounding silence.

“That BMW of his hasn’t had a scratch on it--” Jeff says, with an inquisitive tilt to his head.

“He didn’t use the Beamer.” Mike interrupts, angry and sulking. “Are we playing or not?”

“I’m gonna say not, given we are down two players.’ Eddie tells him through clenched teeth.

“I’m going to be so mad if Steve doesn’t have a migraine.” Mike grumbles, as he begins packing up his stuff.

The rest of Hellfire follow his lead, after one look at Eddie’s face convince the lot of them that it’s best to flee now, before Eddie unleashes all his pent up rage.

“Not as mad as I’ll be, Wheeler.” Eddie promises darkly.

And it is a promise--because now, he’s going to follow all his stupid (sans Mike, who isn’t in his good graces either but at least stayed) freshmen--and go visit one fallen King.

If Harrington doesn’t have a headache now, he will when Eddie’s done with him.

xXx

Eddie is good.

Eddie is kind.

Eddie does not run over Henderson’s bike, laying haphazardly in Harrington’s pristine driveway, even if it would make him feel better.

He does slam his van into park with enough force to make the brakes squeal, which he decides is an excellent way to announce his appearance to the entire neighborhood.

It’s a move he’s pulled countless times. Charging in and making a scene meant people forgot that he couldn’t actually fight for shit, and equally, took their attention off whatever their original target was.

Which in this case, was Eddie’s too fucking nice freshman.

The rage pulsing through him is white hot and all encompassing, and it’ll get him through a lot--but the switchblade he carries ensures everyone’s safety in these little matters.

It makes him brave.

Braver than he should be really, but Eddie spent the entire drive over here chain smoking out the window while prepping for this little confrontation and the more he’d thought it all over, the madder he got.

That a washed up jock thought he could still take advantage of actual children.

Nevermind Hellfire, or Henderson ditching, or Sinclair’s ranting.

This was about their relationship with Harrington.

A picture has been building in Eddie’s head. One that’s only gotten clearer after today, and one he will be putting an end to, because he doesn’t believe for a second Harrington has a headache.

Henderson might always be the smartest person in the room, but he’s dumb as hell socially. Too honest, too blunt, and frankly, too goodhearted.

That makes him easy to take advantage of.

Sinclair was worse--the guy was too easy to guilt trip.

It was a noted issue with his ranger, and apparently, himself, and Eddie could easily see how Harrington could have twisted the idea of some ridiculous life-debt to keep Lucas in his clutches.

Even Mayfield, Billy Hargrove’s former stepsister, was wrapped up in Harrington enough to have a go at her own friends over him!

She wasn’t even one of his flock, but Eddie was her neighbor. Saw how her mom was barely home. How she was practically raising herself, head down, doing her best not to ever let people see her cry.

Yeah.

Wouldn’t exactly be difficult for a guy like Steve Harrington to swoop in and take advantage there.

Wheeler clearly wasn’t a fan and Eddie can only come up with reason after reason as to why--King Jackass had the poor kid’s entire friend group under some kind of--of sick spell.

Well.

Eddie was here to break it.

Even if it meant storming into the King’s castle by himself and calling him out on his shit.

Nobody fucked with his people. Especially not douchebag, washed up jocks.

He’s up to Harringotn’s ridiculous double doors in a flash, banging hard on the wood with a closed fist, positively fuming and uncaring of who sees.

Surprise, surprise, it’s Henderson who opens it.

“Eddie?” He says, blinking up at him like he’s not sure of what he’s seeing. “What are you--hey!”

Hey, because Eddie’s pushed past him, storming into the house.

“This has gone on long enough.” He announces, loud as he ever has been. “Where the hell’s Harrington?”

Henderson, frustratingly, does not weep or throw his hands up in celebration of Eddie’s incoming rescue.

Which is fine--Eddie hasn’t broken the spell yet.

Unfortunately he is bitching, in that infamously annoying tone of his.

“Dude, shut up, Steve’s pills really only work for like, an hour--”

“Fantastic, he’ll be clear headed for our little talk.” Eddie tells him, head sweeping left and right as he looks for his target. He’s been in Casa de Harrington a few times before to deal, but it was always at night.

He can now say with perfect honesty that the place looks worse in the bright light of the day.

“Was that Eddie?” Sinclair calls, and Eddie orients towards him instantly, storming down the hall.

It doesn’t take long to find the kid.

Lucas is standing in a kitchen larger than Eddie’s entire trailer, a too-large pink apron drowning his frame.

He turns, revealing the front of the thing has ‘Whisk Taker’ written on it in syrupy white font.

(Baking puns. Disgusting.)

“Are you cooking?” Eddie accuses with a sneer, though his disgust isn’t aimed at the freshmen.

This is exactly what he was afraid of finding.

Lucas just stares at him. “Uh--yeah?”

“What did I say about too many people, Munson?” Mayfield spits angrily. It takes a second to locate her--the kitchen is enormous and far too white--but eventually Eddie realizes she’s perched up on a counter next to the largest sink he’s ever seen.

For a second, Eddie thinks that’s just where she’s chosen to sit. Then she moves, and he realizes she’s washing and drying a series of water bottles.

He never in his life thought he’d witness Maxine Mayfield willingly do someone else's dishes.

“Someone get me Harrington.” He’s not trying for anything dramatic, but his voice must sound dangerous because all three freshmen stop dead, eyes wide as if he's just spoken in tongues.

He zeroes in on Dustin with a glare. “Now.”

Who huffs, throwing his hands up in the air like Eddie’s the one being unreasonable here.

“Absolutely not--we just got Steve to sit down. He’s been following me around the house insisting I’m causing more problems than I’m fixing!”

“Because you are.” Steve says, voice dripping with calm condescension as he appears like a wraith in the doorway. “And I know you’re all into the whole dungeon game, Munson, but this is a little dramatic, even for you.”

Eddie whirls to face him, already vibrating with fury. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from the guy who’s treating them like his personal minions. What’s next, Harrington? Gonna make them re-shingle the roof? Paint your house? Wax your car?”

Steve gives him a flat, almost disbelieving stare. “Do you seriously think I had Henderson miss your game just so I could lounge around while he’s doing chores?”

Eddie doesn’t bite, too busy unloading. “Oh we can both see it’s more than that.”

He doesn’t notice the way Steve’s jaw tenses, or how his hand creeps up to the side of his head, rubbing at his temple.

“Anything else you want done, Harrington? Maybe make ‘em mow the lawn?” Eddie sneers. “Or teach ‘em to plump your pillows just the way you like—”

Steve finally snaps, pushing himself upright. “You know what Munson, you're right,” he says, voice tight with barely-contained frustration. “I’m clearly a terrible person they need to be rescued from so--”

He cuts himself off with a hiss, eyes squeezing shut as his hand goes to the side of his head, and spits out his next words like they hurt.

“You can play the good guy and take them all home.”

Dustin, with an exasperated sigh, steps between them. “No,” he tells Steve sternly, as if managing an unruly child, before spinning on his heel to say the exact same thing, in the exact same tone--to Eddie.

(Jackass freshman can’t even appreciate when they’re being actively rescued!)

“Eddie, I promise that this isn’t what it looks like.”

For anyone else it would sound like a plea, but Henderson somehow makes it condescending.

“We can explain, alright?” Dustin says, raising his hands as though coaxing a skittish animal. “Will you let us explain? Please?”

Eddie glowers.

“You clearly do not, in fact, know what this looks like. Because if you did,”

Eddie can make himself menacing and he does so now, pulling on every single year of drama and theatrics and lying to cops he’s had, pushing his shoulders back and making his body tall.

“You would know that it looks like a guy who peaked in high school is forcing a bunch of fourteen year old's to do his bidding.”

He takes an aggressive step towards Steve, boots thunking hard on the floor. “And that isn’t happening on my watch.”

“Aren’t you like an extra super senior?” Mayfield says, arms crossed over her chest.

“Irrelevant!” Eddie swats the air in her direction, as if to physically bat away her words. “I’m still in high school and I’m not emotionally blackmailing a bunch of kids into waiting on me hand and foot while I fake a headache!”

“Oh ew.” Max’s nose scrunches in disgust, a mixture of disbelief and fury warring on her face. “That is not what’s happening here.”

“Were you even listening earlier?!” Lucas says, like he can’t quite believe Eddie is this dumb.

(His character will be the next to die, so Eddie swears.)

“I did.” Eddie points a finger at him, triumphant. “I heard all about how he’s tricked you into thinking you owe him a life-debt!”

“A what?” Harrington’s squinting, like he’s struggling to follow along what is happening. It’s a halfway decent sick act, Eddie will give it to him, but he knows the facade will drop in a moment.

As soon as the asshole loses his temper and decides to try and throw Eddie out, he’ll switch from the Poor Me act into the usual pompous, rich dick on a rampage persona.

“How he’s saved you all, convinced you and Henderson that you’re in debt to him.”

“Could we just---please stop yelling?” Steve says in the background, heel pressing hard against his eyes.

Then winces like his own voice hurts his head.

“What the hell, Eddie?!” Dustin’s cut across the room, stepping in between the two older teens. “Where did this even come from!?”

“Guys.”

“The mouths of babes, Henderson. Which you would know if you witnessed Sinclair’s rant instead of missing out because King Dickhead demanded your presence at his castle!”

“Guys.” Steve’s voice abruptly takes on a weird tone, and it’s only Mayfield’s eyes popping wide that has Eddie realizing something is wrong--right before Harrington shoots past him, noisily hurling in the sink.

“Gross!” Max shrieks, throwing herself off the counter.

Harrington aims a shaky middle finger in her direction.

“I just washed those bottles Steve, I'm not washing them again!” Mayfield rants, but she’s not fooling anyone. Not with the way she’s already edging back towards him, like she’s afraid he might fall over.

(Worse, like she might try to catch him, as if Harrington’s broad, barbarian-like shoulders wouldn’t flatten her instantly.)

“Al-’right.” Harrington slurs a moment later, still panting over the sink. “Everyone--out. Now.”

“Steve--”

“Nope. Making it worse. Out.”

He manages to stand and turn, leaning hard against the counter and for the first time since this all started, Eddie looks at him.

Properly, and not through the lens of righteous fury.

Harrington’s pale.

The shirt he’s wearing is stained with sweat marks, his sweatpants clearly old and worn for comfort rather than style.

His hair…

Eddie has never seen Harrington without his infamously perfect hairdo, and the messy, slick waves plastered to his forehead is more of a shock then him vomiting in the sink.

He’s got his hands pressed hard against his eyes again, and there’s a slight tremble in his fingers that belay he’s likely in a lot more pain than he’s letting on.

In short, Harrington looks like absolute shit, and Eddie, maybe, possibly, the tiniest bit believes he actually has a migraine.

Well, it was that or he was really committed to the bit…

The tense silence that has befallen them all is ruined when Harrington makes a ‘hurk.’ noise.

“I’m going to throw up again.” He decides after a moment of contemplation, before whipping back around to the sink and doing just that.

“Steve’s right.” Mayfield decides suddenly, over all the nasty noises. “We should leave.”

“I’m almost done cooking!” Sinclair protests, as if Harrington isn’t presently throwing up the contents of his stomach.

“You’re almost done burning things, you mean.” Max mutters, but her words can’t hide the blatant concern written all over his face. “I don’t think he’s going to keep anything down.”

“He needs us to finish what we started.” Dustin argues passionately. “You know how bad he gets, he’s not gonna be able to get up in an hour!”

(A clear exaggeration, because Harrington looks like he’s not gonna make it across the kitchen unassisted.)

“What I need is for everyone to stop talking so fucking loud.” Harrington moans, before appearing to give up on life entirely.

He sort of sags against the counter, resting his head against his arms while bent double, as if that would help things.

It was at this point that Eddie had the most unfortunate realization that he might be the asshole here.

Because Harrington looks rough--and if he actually does in fact, have a migraine, then Eddie has done nothing but make it worse.

(Very likely the freshmen have as well, given Dustin is incapable of talking in anything other than a loud yell, and the smell of Lucas’s burnt food has permeated the air.

Mayfield seemed to have accomplished a small amount of actual work, at least.

…If Harrington managed to miss throwing up on the water bottles.)

“Look,” Harrington interrupts with an audible, thick swallow. “You guys did great, and I appreciate the uh, help. I’m fine, I promise, you can all go home. Munson,”

He doesn’t turn, but his voice does change into something that’s half pleading, half demanding.

“Can we please fight about this tomorrow? Or next week?”

“No fighting!” Dustin shrieks, which has the effect of making Harrington cringe into the counter--and that is what finally kicks Eddie over.

Bows to the instincts that now want to wrap up Harrington in a blanket over the ones that want to strangle him, (though both are very much at odds in his head with each other.)

“We can put a pin in it.” He says, all the venom dropping out of his voice, already knowing what’s going to happen next and hating himself for it.

Even at his absolute worst, Eddie has never been able to resist trying to fix a problem he’s been presented with--or turn down someone who needs help.

Harrington, clearly, needs help.

“You heard him.” He tells his freshman, then immediately holds up a hand when all three try to protest at once.

“Ah-ah, inside voices.” He himself uses a harsh whisper, and then has to fight not to laugh aloud when all three abruptly eye him like he’s lost his head.

He probably has.

(Fucking King Steve.

No one who is that much of a douchebag should ever look that pathetic without deserving it, it’s against the Munson doctrine.)

“Henderson, have you done anything actually useful while you’ve been here? Like, say, getting a warm washcloth?”

“I--oh.” Dustin’s on the defense instantly, but for once actually listens before he finishes his sentence. “Uh. No.”

“Go do that then.” Eddie instructs, making sure to keep his voice quiet and even.

“Sinclair, toss out the eggs, then take the garbage out so it’ll stop stinking up the place. Mayfield, see if these windows open. Harrington…”

He pauses, watching as Harrington tries to gather himself, moving slowly and deliberately like even breathing hurts. His entire appearance is grating Eddie’s nerves—not because he doesn’t care, but because he does, and that’s infuriating.

“Go lay down, man.” He finishes lamely.

He expects the freshmen to listen to him. Knows they will, in his heart of hearts, even if they bitch back, because that’s just how things are when he decides to take charge. So few people truly want to, that others are often relieved when he does.

Steve Harrington is not most people.

If he argues, he could very well tip things out of control again, which means Eddie is likely going to have to force the trio of fourteen year old's out of the house.

Henderson and Sinclair he can manage but Mayfield…

Thankfully, Steve pushes off the counter with a groan, muttering something under his breath, but slowly making his way toward the couch without any other protest.

The freshmen exchange glances, all of them looking just as unsure as Eddie feels. Like they’re waiting for instructions now that their default leader is down for the count.

He clears his throat pointedly.

“Hello? Did I not give you marching orders?” He bats his hands at them. “Go march!”

Mayfield mutters something that sounds an awful lot like “hypocrite” but thankfully, does as asked.

“Are you gonna give us a ride home?” Henderson asks as he finally starts moving around--hopefully to get a damn washcloth.

“You got yourself here, you can get yourself home.” Eddie scoffs back, taking stock of Harrington’s kitchen.

He eyes the line of pain pills laid out on the counter, quickly noting not one of them is anything that would help with a sneeze let alone a migraine.

Typical.

“Why not?” Dustin disappeared down a hallway, but the fact Eddie can still hear him plain as day speaks to his ability to keep quiet. “You have your van, don’t you?”

“Because I’m not leaving when you three are leaving.”

It’s an absentminded comment, given his mind is elsewhere.

Weed may be his bread and butter but he does have a handful of more serious things on offer.

Of those things, one or two have some fun little unexpected side effects, and if Eddie recalls Rick’s yapping right, one of said things was stopping headaches.

Said magic little mushrooms might even be in a pocket or two, here, if he remembers right…

“Wait, you're staying here?” Lucas protests, far too loudly.

"Ssszzhh!" Eddie hisses, drawing out the sound dramatically, mostly for the sake of cutting off whatever protests were coming his way.

“No arguing. Your beloved King clearly needs a nap, and that means you’re all off duty. Unless," he adds with a raised eyebrow, "you intend to watch him sleep?"

Dustin looks torn, but mutters a quiet, "No," his eyes shifting sideways like he's weighing the logic.

"Good. Then if you’re all finished…?”

He waits for the nods he knows are coming.

“Excellent. Now leave." Eddie says, pointing towards the door.

They hesitate for a second, but then finally begin to shuffle out, the door clicking quietly behind them.

And just like that, Eddie’s left standing there, watching Steve breathe shallowly on the couch--with a washrag over his eyes.

(At least Dustin managed that.)

He could leave now.

Should leave, really. Giving out drugs for free is not exactly a good business move and Steve will no doubt sleep the headache off without it. But Eddie’s feet don't seem to agree with him, rooted in place as his gaze lingers on the sharp line of Steve's jaw, the slight twitch of his brow every time a muscle aches.

Feels the pull, deep in his gut, to provide the relief he knows he can give.

Before he knows what’s happening, he’s moving, crossing the room toward him.

“Munson?” Harrington squints up at him as he registers his presence, washcloth nudged upwards by shaky fingers. “Why’r you still ‘ere?”

“Because I’m stupid.” Eddie mutters, right before realizing he actually said that outloud.

“What?”

Thank God for Harrington’s headache.

“You look terrible, man.” Eddie says slightly louder. “That hair of yours is so flat I think your crown’s gonna fall right off.”

He’d meant it as a joke--spoke it like one, but it seems to snap Harrington out of his pity party.

The sigh that blasts out of him is a whole body affair, and gets his feelings across better than his words do. “I get it. You thought this was something else and it wasn’t. Not the first time that’s happened.”

He turns, cheek scraping against the fabric of his shirt, red rimmed eyes squinting against the light to look at Eddie.

“You got your laugh in, so you can go.”

There’s defeat in his voice. Like he’s accepted this might as well have happened.

(Like he’s just as beaten down as anyone Eddie has ever saved.)

“I didn’t stick around to laugh.” Eddie keeps his voice soft, and that somehow, makes the next part easier to say.

“I honestly thought you were messing around with Henderson and Sinclair, and I uh, I’m used to being the only person who gives a shit. When that kind of thing happens.”

Harrington grimaces.

“It’s okay.” he mutters, eyes sliding closed once more. “Most people still think I’m an asshole.”

His tone has gone odd again, wrecked and rasping, migraine clearly trumping whatever strong feelings he had on the matter.

And the stupid thing was, Harrington himself was never really an asshole.

Sure he went along with the assholes, and he definitely egged them on if not outright participated in some of the lower tier shitty activities, but he wasn’t the guy slamming people into lockers.

(Eddie, in fact, has a hazy memory of Steve telling off Hagan for doing said locker slamming.)

It didn’t make him a good guy--he’d had slung too many insults around to get that label--but in the rankings of assholery, his was of the average variety.

Which means that Eddie cannot logic himself out of his own stupid desire to help.

Even if he really, really wants to.

“Yeah well, even assholes need assistance sometimes, and since I kicked your help out, it’s on to make up for it.”

“No offense,” Steve slurs tiredly, “but I don’t think you’re any quieter than Dustin.”

A smile ghosts over Eddie’s face.

“I live in a tiny ass trailer, Harrington. Trust me, I know how to be quiet. I simply choose not to be.” He moves, slow and careful, until he’s seated next to the fallen King on his stupidly huge (and very uncomfortable) couch.

Steve’s eye follows him over, staring up as he white knuckles his sweatpants, washrag sitting crooked on his forehead.

“I’m not sure I’m not gonna throw up again.” He admits after a moment.

“And that right there is one of the things I can help with. Provided,” Eddie waggles his eyebrows, “that you don’t mind taking a more recreational route for your recovery?”

“....are you offering me drugs?”

“I am indeed.” Eddie confirms with a real smile, plucking the offending baggie out of a pocket.

“You ever done shrooms, your majesty?”

Steve huffs a quiet noise that might have been a snort, had he put any effort behind it.

“How is that going to help?”

“Be-cauuuuuse,” Eddie draws the words out, still a showman even if he is doing his level best to talk as quietly as possible, “shrooms are what we call a psychedelic, and those are pretty well known among certain circles as the headache healer.”

Provided one took the medicinal amount and not the down-the-rabbit-hole amount.

Harrington’s eyes are back open, only this time they’re looking at Eddie’s fingers the same way a dog looks at a nail trimmer: concerned and not entirely unsure it wasn’t going to bite him.

“I’m not…” He cuts himself off, frowning.

“You’ve bought plenty of my weed, Harrington. Trust me this isn’t any different.” Eddie tells him.

Isn’t offended in the slightest--this reaction is pretty typical for people who have only smoked the ganja.

Even the ones who asked to try for something with a little more ‘umph.’

“S’not that.”Steve admits quietly. “I uh. Had a bad trip. While back.”

“Ah, gunshy.” Eddie says it without a lick of judgment, because Eddie’s been there.

Or rather in the shower, at two am because he accidentally spilled LSD on his hand and promptly tripped balls for 48 hours after.

“I’ll hang around a bit, if you like.” He offers casually. “Make sure things don’t go sideways.”

He gets another huff-snort as Harrington’s watery eyes return their attention to him.

“And what are you going to do if they do go sideways?”

“Put you back together again.”

Eddie knows his grin is crooked, but can’t help it. He’s thinking about Humpty Dumpty and the King’s Men.

Somehow he doesn’t see Steve Harrington cracking that easily—at least, not without putting up a good fight—but drugs did worse things to better people.

“It really helps?” Steve asks, voice quiet. Doubtful.

Eddie presses his hands to his chest. “Scouts honor.”

“You were not a boy scout.” Steve tells him, but he’s struggling to sit up anyway, looking game.

“Alright, so how do I do this?” He asks, though he’s already halfway down again, propped up on his elbows.

“First, you lay back down, and I’ll brew it into tea,” Eddie explains.

“Tea?”

“Well, you could eat them straight, but I don’t think they’d taste too great. Not that I wouldn’t mind watching you try.”

Steve scowls. “Sadist.”

“Guilty,” Eddie replies, biting back the urge to sing-song it, keeping his voice down and steady. “Just a heads-up: they kick in fast, but I’ll go light on you—nothing like the ‘fun’ dose for the usual crowd.”

Which is how he ends up back in the kitchen, this time making tea and humming to himself, before offering the final brewed concoction to Harrington.

Who downs it like a shot, because he’s a fucking frat-bro at heart.

“I didn’t find a teacup for you to do that.”

Between a full-body shudder and a dramatic grimace, Steve chokes out “Not gonna lie I didn’t think we owned a teacup.”

“What, do you think I just have them in my van?”

“Honestly? Yeah.”

Which is kind of hysterical, and something Eddie may be doing--not that he’s telling Harrington that.

“And now we wait!” He announces instead of rambling about teacups, nearly clapping his hands together before he remembers the migraine Steve is soldiering through with surprising grit.

Eddie himself would have turned into a whiny mess, so he can’t help but admire the guy’s restraint.

“Waiting to see if I hurl again, you mean?” Steve mutters, flopping backward onto the couch. “That tasted like battery acid.”

“Think it’s coming back up?”

“No clue.”

They sit in silence for a second, then Eddie pokes, “Maybe it’s best if you crash in your room, man. You look like death warmed over, and this couch sucks.”

An understatement, if there ever was one. The fucking thing didn’t seem to be made for people to actually sit on.

Reluctantly, Steve pulls himself up, heading toward his room. Eddie tags along, snarky grin covering the way he holds his hands out in case the jock ahead of him slips on the stairs and takes them both out.

(Unlike Mayfield, Eddie does not pretend Steve doesn’t outclass him weight wise. The man was built like a brickhouse, and he has to fight to keep his eyes up toward Steve’s hair instead of on his ass.)

Thankfully, he’s saved from all R-rated thoughts by the sheer horror of Harrington’s bedroom.

“Harrington, I’ve found the source of all your migraines.” Eddie tells him, tone as serious as he’s ever been.

“Ha-ha.” Steve deadpans, stepping into his plaid fucking room.

“I’m not kidding, I’m getting a headache and I’ve been here less than five seconds.”

The whole place truly is a nightmare--like someone took one of those plaid hunting jackets and themed an entire room around it.

Fucking rich people.

“Trust me, it’s not the wallpaper.”

“Given how you’re weaving on your feet, I think it’s safe to say I don’t trust you at all.” Eddie tells him, half helping half dragging Steve towards the bed.

It’s a comfy looking thing and Harrington falls into it gratefully, immediately crawling under the covers.

“You know where to find me?” Eddie asks him, refusing to think Harrington snuggling up in his bed is something cute.

“Yeah?”

“Good. Hit me up next time your head gets bad. I’ll make sure to keep some of this,” He shakes the little baggie, “on hand.”

Steve’s pulled the covers all the way up past his chin, but he moves it down a little to properly cock an eye at Eddie.

“Dare I ask what you're gonna charge for that?”

“Let’s call it a fair trade for all those times you’ve driven the freshman home from Hellfire.”

If Steve even recalls this conversation, that is. Eddie hadn’t exactly given him the “fun” kind of dose, but then, he himself has never tested out what dose is needed to cure headaches rather than simply having fun destroying one's own ego.

He supposes that’s something he and Harrington both will have to test, between them--because Eddie meant it when he offered the drugs for free.

No one deserves to suffer from the kind of migraine Harrington clearly had.

“Think you’re good to drop off.” Eddie tells him, after making sure Steve is happily content in his bed.

Checks his watch to make sure enough time has passed to safely call it, before beginning to attempt his way out of Steve’s god-awful bedroom.

Which of course, is when Harrington reaches out, looping his fingers around Eddie’s wrist.

It freezes him in place.

In a moment that is so utterly selfish and stupid that Eddie will loudly insist it was a hallucination should Harrington ever dare ask about it, he turns his palm and moves so that he’s clasping Steve’s fingers with his own.

“Thanks. For all this.” Steve whispers, as they hold hands for a moment.

Eddie squeezes his fingers against the younger man’s before he moves to make his retreat, flashing a peace sign over his shoulder as he goes.

“Anytime, big boy.”

Anytime.

xXx

The thing no one tells you about creating a doctrine, is that at some point or another, someone’s going to hold you to it.

In Eddie’s case it’s four very pissed off teenagers.

He has a gold medal in mental gymnastics and a silver in denial. Left on his own devices he could easily excuse everything that happened yesterday.

Reclassify the fallen King as pathetic, and the kids' weird loyalty to him as a holdover from his babysitting days.

Blame their nosy-ness on them being involved in Harrington’s life, and happily go back to mocking their relationship with renewed vigor because now he’s not going to handwave their behavior as being afraid of Harrington.

Nope, they clearly and willingly, have attached themselves to the King, which means Eddie gets to make fun of them for life.

Pity they don’t leave Eddie to his own devices.

In fact, the little shits hit him up first thing in the morning, early enough that he's’ a little suspicious that the boys slept over at Max’s trailer.

“We’re not done talking about Steve.” Mayfield tells him and given the determined (Henderson) angry (Sinclair) and put out (Wheeler Jr.) faces glaring at him from over her shoulder, Eddie figures his chances for getting out of this conversation are slim to none.

“Good morning to you too.” He snarks, voice gravel-deep with sleep. “What do you little shits want?”

“I literally just said.” Max rolls her eyes so hard he thinks about commenting that they may stick back there, only to decide that makes him sound too much like a teacher for his liking.

(Besides if they get stuck, he’ll have an excuse to whack her on the back of her head without getting murdered for it.

…well.

An attempt at an excuse, anyway.)

“And who says I have anything I want to talk about?” He fires back, leaning a shoulder against the old metal doorframe.

Just because he understood what they wanted didn’t mean he was going to make it easy.

“Would you just let us in?”

“No.”

“Eddie.” Dustin whines, and Eddie redirects his frown his way. “Come on.”

“Well I suppose if you say it that way,” Eddie hums thoughtfully. “No.”

“Steve’s sick, you asswipe.” Max snaps angrily.

“I know,” He volleys back, brightly sarcastic. “I saw him yesterday.”

Because it’s Mayfield, she matches him tit for tat, a mimicry of his sarcastic drawl entering her voice. “Good! You get to see him today too.”

And just like that their little ambush makes sense.

(He’s got to find a new way to get the damn kids to fear him, clearly his usual menacingness just isn’t cutting it anymore.)

“And why would I do that?”

He’s done his good deed. He helped Harrington out, and even offered free drugs to help him get his migraines under control.

Checking up on the guy was overkill.

“We were gonna do it, but someone let it slip that Steve was sick.” A cutting glance is given to Henderson, who makes a face but otherwise holds his ground.

“And his mom called everyone else's parents with instructions that we leave him alone until he feels better.”

“So now if we go over there,” Sinclair finishes for his girlfriend, “we get grounded.”

Which neatly answers every question that just popped into Eddie’s head.

The threat makes sense for the boys--Eddie’s met Claudia Henderson and though she has that bubbly, easy to confuse nature of suburbanites everywhere, there was an undercurrent in her eyes of someone who knew more than she was letting on.

Or perhaps, someone who simply knew what they wanted, and was happy to settle and wait for it.

Likewise the Sinclair and Wheeler parental units seem to want to keep in her--and Steve’s, no doubt, given he carts their kids around--good graces.

Given Mayfield’s mom wasn’t even home last night, her participation in this farce does not make sense and Eddie narrows his eyes at her in warning.

“I fail to see how this is my problem.” He says instead of directly calling her out.

She knows he knows, and he’s smart enough to figure out how to relay that without saying it directly.

(An action taken out of respect for surviving a bad home life, and absolutely not because he’s terrified she’ll crawl through his window to enact revenge in the middle of the night.)

“It’s your problem because you owe him one.” she tells him firmly. “And us.”

Oh no he does not.

“How so?” He challenges with a snorted laugh.

“You did kind of storm into his house and yell a lot.” Sinclair points out. He’s doing better at speaking up, Eddie realizes with a twisted sense of pride and dread.

Not quite so easy to steamroll after his outburst yesterday.

A part of him hopes that sticks around--Sinclair needs a spine, and not just because Mayfield will keep running circles around him until he grows one.

The rest of Eddie is pissed off that he decided to get one now, when it directly impacted Eddie’s Saturday morning sleeping plans.

Leave it to these dickheads to use a good deed against him.

“Look--we can’t make sure he’s okay. You can.” Mayfield steps up to jam a painted fingernail in Eddie’s chest. “He won’t let us do anything that will actually help him. You, he can't stop.”

He does not take a step backward and thus lose all the cool points he has left in the eyes of the younger Hellfire members, but only because he’s already leaned up against the doorframe.

He bares his teeth at her in a silent snarl instead.

“We made it worse.” She admits, voice sharp. “And I don’t know how to make it better, but you seem to be able to, so congrats Munson--you get to go again!”

Which gets Eddie’s back right up.

He pushes off the doorframe, ready to tell Mayfield--and all his little dipshits--right off, except this is when Wheeler Jr., of all people, decides to add in his two cents.

“If you don’t go, no one else will.” He looks off to the side while he says it, arms crossed tight across his chest and spitting the words out like he's admitting to a crime. “Robin’s not coming back until Monday and Nancy's got some stupid thing, so you’re literally the only person who can go.”

Well just stab him in the heart, why don’t you.

“What are the chances of you fucking back off to whatever hole you crawled out of if I refuse?” He asks, already knowing that he’s done for.

Accepted his fate, because he knows what it’s like not to have someone to rely on, when you need them the most.

“Zero.” Sinclair and Henderson chant as one.

“Well then.” He tells them with the biggest, most put upon sigh he can manage. “Guess you got me in a box here.”

Mayfield grins at him.

It reminds him vaguely of a shark.

A bloodthirsty, slightly demonic, mean shark.

“Good. Go get dressed.”

“Oh I’m doing this right now, am I?” He complains, but he’s already moving to go back into his trailer.

“We’re not leaving until you do!” Mayfield yells at him.

Eddie slams the door in her face.

(He’s never adopting freshmen again, as long as he fucking lives.)

xXx 

“Munson?” Steve asks, blatantly confused as Eddie waltzes on by. “Why are you here?”

“You didn’t lock your door.” Eddie says instead of answering, holding muffins that he absolutely didn’t steal from the corner store in hand.

Harrington trails him into the kitchen, looking lost as he does so.

“You didn’t need to come back.” He protests, running a hand through his hair.

It doesn’t look as terrible as it did yesterday, but it still isn’t back to its full shining glory, either.

“Dude I watched you vomit four different times last night, I was half terrified I was going to come in and find you dead on the floor.”

Which isn’t exactly a lie but he’s sure as shit not telling Steve he got told off and then guilted into this by the damn children.

Steve grunts, like the caveman jock he is.

“I also brought some more of this,” Nimble fingers dip into his jacket pocket, returning with a flourish to show the little baggie he’s brought. “In case it was needed.”

Relief washes over Harrington’s face.

“You’re a lifesaver.” He moans, reaching for it.

Memories--or rather a lack thereof, has Eddie pulling it out of reach.

For all the parties King Steve threw, and all the ones they’d been mutually invited to, there was not a single time Eddie could recall him purchasing anything else. Normally he’d simply assume Hagan or some other douchebag had done it on his behalf, he also can’t recall Steve ever really letting himself go with anything other than alcohol.

Which meant there was a solid chance Steve had no idea what he was doing with the shrooms.

“Nope. You do not know how to properly dose this. I do. I’ll make tea again.”

A grimace. “Does it have to be tea? Can’t it be like--hot chocolate, or something?”

Harrington sounds so childlike about it that it startles a laugh out of Eddie.

“Yeah big guy, I can put it in hot chocolate.”

He flaps a hand at one of the chairs. “Go sit down before you fall over.”

“Not gonna fall over.” Harrington complains under his breath, but complies anyway.

The thrill of King Steve obeying him makes a shiver run down his spine, but Eddie combats it with a harsh shake of his head.

Now is not the time for that.

(There will never be a time for that, because Eddie likes living too much to try to commit suicide via ex-jock.)

He throws himself into making one edible drink to get rid of the very idea, doing his best to balance out the taste of chocolate and mushroom without accidentally dosing himself.

There’s no real help for it--the concoction is gonna taste a little weird, no matter what he does to it--unless, of course, Harrington happens to have cinnamon somewhere around here…

“What’d Sinclair say yesterday?” The man himself says.

“Which time?” Eddie says, just to be cheeky.

“You said something about Lucas thinking he owes me a life debt?”

Steve’s scrubbing his hands over his face, elbows heavy on the counter. He’s definitely better in that he no longer sounds like he has rocks in his mouth, but Eddie doesn’t exactly trust it just yet.

Not when Harrington still hasn't fixed his hair.

“Yawp. Kid lost it during Hellfire. Said you took a punch meant for him, among some other things. Got into an argument with Wheeler Jr. about it.”

Steve snorts into his palms before dropping his hands back to the counter.

“What was Mike arguing about?”

“Some shit about how they didn't need you at the junkyard? Bunch of other stuff too, they had a proper old school showdown. I’ll give it to Sinclair, he steamrolled right over Wheeler.”

Unspoken was that he had rarely seen Lucas actually stand up for himself like that.

Complained sure, and bitched at his friends a plenty, but it was plain as day that Sinclair took others opinions to heart more than Dustin and Mike did--and that it took something big to make him go against not just Hellfire, but the two people he was closest to.

(Steve apparently, qualified as “something big.”)

Mike wasn’t even at the junkyard?” Harrington protests, looking adorably puzzled.

It makes Eddie want to bite him.

“How did you get involved with them anyway?” He asks, because the brats themselves have only ever been forthcoming in confusing and frankly argumentative ways and well. If he’s ever going to get a clear answer, it’s here and now.

“It’s a long story.” Harrington mumbles.

“Oh I’m sorry, did you think I was leaving anytime soon?”

That wins him something of a smile. “Kind of, yeah.”

“Then that story is my price for getting back out of your hair.”

“You’re not in my hair.” Harrington tells him and it’s sweet, how he says it.

Too sweet.

Like he’s happy someone’s here, that someone actually cared, and that makes Eddie’s back teeth start to itch again.

(No biting the not-quite-douchebag jock, dammit!)

“You are also giving me free drugs.” Steve adds, which did make more sense than Harrington being nice out of his own free will.

Not that he’d been a dick since Eddie had inserted himself into this whole mess, but then, Harrington had the excuse of a migraine to hide behind.

A migraine that Eddie is once again fixing, though he had cut the dose down even more than he had before.

As much fun as Steve Harrington experiencing ego death might be to witness, Eddie respected the boundaries he was given. The guy had a bad experience with drugs, and the one he was taking now wasn’t intended to get him anywhere near high.

“Bottoms up, milord!” He declared as he finished his second little drink mix, presenting it to Steve with a little bow.

Who once again downed the whole thing instead of bothering to taste it.

“Okay, there’s no way you found this teacup in my house.” He says right after, staring hard at the teacup. “This has dicks drawn on it.”

Eddie clutches his heart in mock outrage. “Excuse me, those are artfully stylized flowers.”

“Flower-shaped dicks,” Steve deadpans, making him snicker.

“I’m afraid I simply can’t see it.”

Steve continues to squint doubtfully. “Did you even put anything in this? I couldn’t taste it.”

“Microdose.” Eddie explains, with yet another wave of his hand. “Ideally you don’t actually get high, though we may have to play around to see what kills the headache and what makes you see pretty colors.”

“Oh, speaking of taste—I need you to take something back to Dustin. He left a bunch of tapes up in my room.”

There’s an unspoken “again” there that Eddie knows all too well.

He lets out a groan, making a show of rolling his eyes. “Kid’s got this magical ability to make everything everyone else’s problem. Last week he left a stash of his D&D books at my place, and I only realized it after I almost broke my neck tripping over them.”

Nevermind that he hadn’t actually let Henderson in to begin with. The brat had broken into the trailer and kept insisting they had “made plans.”

(Eddie’s memory was shit, but he knew a lie when he smelled one.)

Steve snorts. “Well, add personal radio DJ to the list, because Dustin made me listen to this ridiculous metal mixtape he swore would ‘change my life.’”

“Was it full of metal?”

Steve doesn’t have to respond, his face does for him.

Eddie cackles.

“Please tell me you gave it a chance. Henderson’ mixing skills need work but he’s got taste.”

“Oh, I gave it a chance,” Steve says, rubbing his temples. “How do you think I got the damn migraine in the first place? He had the volume cranked as high as my speakers can go, and he made me sit through every single song.”

A shudder. “Don’t tell him I said that, though.”

“What I’m hearing saying is that you can’t handle metal.” Eddie teases, delighted. “Or maybe it was a perfectly curated masterpiece, and you’re just too mainstream for it.”

“I am definitely too mainstream for it.” Steve mutters, pushing himself to his feet. “Come on, the tape’s in my room.”

“I don’t know if I can survive another trip to plaidland, Stevie.” Eddie tuts, following him anyway. “I swear I was breaking out in hives last night.”

Steve huffs a laugh as they head upstairs. “Yeah, yeah, suffer for the cause, Munson. Just grab the tape and run.”

They step into Steve’s room, Eddie immediately wincing as he’s confronted by the wall-to-wall plaid. Steve, unbothered, heads over to a drawer and pulls out a small stack of tapes, one clearly marked with Dustin’s unmistakable scrawl. With a dramatic flourish, he hands it over.

“This one. Get it out of my house.”

Eddie takes the tape with a grin.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Dustin knows it’s in safe hands. And I swear not to tell him his mixing is what benched you this weekend.

Steve ignores him to instead paw through his tapes.

“Hold on, this one doesn’t look like mine either. That little shit might have snuck in a few more…”

It is here that Eddie fucks up.

He’s never been one to just exist in a room. No he has to interact with it, use it to glean every piece of information he can about the person who occupies it.

For the most part, the chamber of King Steven is exactly as expected (eye bleeding wallpaper aside.)

There’s a picture of a sports car, a handful of sportsball trophies, clothes peeking out of a hamper. Papers litter his desk, sitting atop a calendar with a number of X’s marked across various dates. Sports equipment seems to act like the remaining decor, but there’s one thing that instantly sticks out and Eddie spots it immediately.

Women, Race & Class it says in massive block lettering.

Eddie’s eyebrows find themselves practically on top of his head of their own accord.

Either Harrington is full of far more surprises than Eddie’s ever expected--or there’s a story here.

“Where’d you get this?” He asks, staring down at the very out of place book.

Steve glances over, and seems to instantly spot what’s caught Eddie’s attention.

“Robin. She’s always leaving her shit around.” Steve complains. “Apparently my room is now everyone’s storage space.”

Eddie would buy it--did buy it, until he spotted the item being used as a bookmark.

Pulls it out and looks it over, and feels a smirk grow on his face.

“You sure it’s not yours?” Eddie asks teasingly, before turning the paper that fell out of it around.

The one that has Vickie’s name all over it, with hearts.

(Eddie may only know her in that ‘we both go to the same small town high school’ kind of way but he can definitely see her being into this kind of shit.

Worse, he can see her falling for Harrington carrying it around.)

Harrington squints at the folded up paper for a moment, then moves so fucking fast Eddie instinctively jerks back.

“Munson, give it.” He orders, trying to snatch it out of Eddie’s hands.

Who holds it up and away, tauntingly.

“Mmmn--nope.” He says, dancing out of reach. “Is this, dare I say, a lovenote!?”

He hadn’t ever thought of Harrington--or any jock really, as a romantic. Had always assumed the teddy bears and ridiculous, hallway serenades were a part of his whole charismatic schtick. A way to get into a ladies pants and nothing more.

Never had he assumed there’d be something honest behind it--and absolutely nothing as schoolgirl as writing out little hearts. 

“No.” Harrington grits out, crowding up against Eddie’s back as the elder ducks and weaves around him, unfolding the paper as he goes.

“Are you su~ure?” Eddie coos, as he unveils more and more hearts with each little fold he undoes. Knows he only has an edge here due to the drugs and Harrington’s headache, and given one was meant to counteract the other, he likely doesn’t have long until Steve’s got the upperhand.

“Fuck it, you got me, I am hardcore crushing on Vickie.’ Steve admits in a rush. “Now give it.”

That sounds fake as hell, and thus, has Eddie ignores him entirely.

“Munson--!” That is practically a desperate shriek and Eddie doesn’t even bother to hide his grin.

It’s not until he finally fully opens the paper up does he realize that it doesn’t say V+S inside the little hearts, or even H+...whatever Vicky's last name is, but instead variations of R+V.

Which makes absolutely no sense, and neither does the neat handwriting he knows does not belong to the jock presently trying to grab the paper.

What had Harrington said earlier?

It wasn’t his book, it was…

Robin’s.

Steve tackles him.

Full body tackle, the hard kind that takes them both straight to the floor.

Eddie’ wheezes as the wind is knocked out of his lungs, teeth rattling angrily about as his head hits the floor.

Steve’s on top of him in an instant, and Eddie kind of can’t breathe, but it's too late to pretend he hasn’t read the stupid paper.

There’s hands at the back of his neck and he can’t see Harrington, but he can definitely feel how tense the dude is--and oh, he’s in danger right now, isn’t he?

(His pants grow uncomfortably tight at the thought, because Eddie Jr is a fucking traitor.)

The paper flutters uselessly next to Eddie’s head, a little paper butterfly intruding peacefully on a crime scene, as neither of them do anything.

Steve’s breathing harder and briefly, Eddie connects that it’s out of panic, not exertion, or whatever remains of his migraine.

Panic because…because…

Because Eddie knows that Robin Buckley is in love with a girl.

(Holy shit.)

“It’s okay.” He says to the floor.

Harrington takes a moment to respond, seated firmly on Eddie’s ass (which absolutely is not something that will feature in Eddie’s fantasies later, no sir!)

“I know you’re smart.” He says finally, in a dark, low voice Eddie has never heard come out of him. “I know you understood what you just read.”

For the first time since Eddie’s known him, he actually finds himself a little frightened of King Steve.

Steve palms the back of Eddie’s head (holy shit) and grips it, hard (holy shit) before wrenching him so that he’s facing the closet.

Or rather, he realizes what's in the closet--which is a baseball bat with nails hammered into it.

(Holy. Fucking. Shit!)

“Here’s what's going to happen.” Steve tells him, bending down to whisper in Eddie’s ear.

He has to fight the shiver that wants to overtake his entire body, dick all too aware of what Harrington is and what he’s doing.

(‘NOT the time, Edward Jr., Not the time!’)

“If you ever tell another living soul anything about what you just saw, I will kill you.”

Harrington’s serious.

Eddie knows he is--he’s been around enough people to know when someones serious and when they’re bluffing and there’s zero doubt on which one this is.

“Harrington--” He tries, wishing his brain would work (and his dick would knock it off.)

“Shut up.” Steve orders, and Eddie has always fancied himself the person on top if you will, but this?

This is making him rapidly re-evaluate his entire life.

“Robin is my family, and I will never allow her to get hurt on my watch again. Got it?”

“Steve--” Eddie tries a second time, and is forced to shut his mouth when Steve yanks at his hair.

(No moaning, no moaning, no moaning--)

“Say it.” Steve growls.

Honest to God growls, like the dark hero of every bodice ripper romance ever.

“I’m gay.” Eddie blurts out, because all the blood in his brain has fled elsewhere.

He regrets it immediately but, fuck, what else is he supposed to do here!? Pinky promise he won’t out Buckley and hope Harrington won’t kill him with the bat for being an ass?

Yeah, no.

“What?” Steve says, and he’s clearly thrown, because he’s dropped the crazy (hot) serial killer voice to talk in his usual, albeit confused one.

“Too. I’m gay too.” Eddie’s panting and not at all for the reason he hope’s Harrington thinks he is.

“I won’t out Buckley, but now if I ever do, you can out me right back.” He continues, praying this will work, that Steve isn’t one of those people who accept lesbians but think the gay men should still get the torch. “Mutually assured destruction.”

Harrington does not move.

“...do you think I’m going to buy that?” He says, as if Eddie would lie about this.

“I think you’re going to have to,” Eddie admits in a strangled voice. “And if you’d like me to get up anytime soon, you’re going to need to get off me.”

He can practically feel Harrington’s frown. “I’m barely sitting on you.”

Which is true, Steve has long shifted into doing some sort of--hover-straddle, that somehow lets Eddie still feel his weight without being truly pressed down by it.

(Eddie would very much like to be pressed down by it, which is an unfortunate thought to have when one is trying to get their dick under control.

He has never in his life been more thankful to be face down on a carpet.)

“That is not why I can’t get up, Steve.” Eddie admits quietly.

“....are you saying what I think you are?”

“Shut up, you made the decision to sit on me like Tarzan, this is your fault!” He snaps, before resuming his struggling in Harrington’s grasp.

God if Harrington kills him for this Eddie is going to be fucking furious.

‘See Wayne? This is what happens when a Munson tries to do a good deed! They die!’

“Stop it,” Harrington snaps, but it’s not the same tone as he used earlier. He pushes his full weight back down again, his left hand snatching up one of Eddie’s flying fists to pin him fully to the floor.

It is, without a doubt, the hottest thing Eddie has ever experienced in his life and he kind of wants to kill himself over it.

“I just got rid of the damn migraine and you’re going to make it come back.”

“Good.” Eddie says on instinct.

What the hell was he thinking, giving Harrington shrooms?

The idiot could have been down for the count the entire weekend if Eddie had just kept himself out of it, like any sane person would but noooo, he had a way to actually help, didn’t he?

Just had to play the good guy, even when there wasn’t a soul in Hawkins who saw him as such.

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You do have some hard evidence.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re making a pun right now?”

“Yes, because I use humor as a defense mechanism, now will you get off of me?!?”

“Oh--sorry, yeah.” Steve says, and then proceeds to not move a fucking inch.

“Steve.” And oh okay, he’s apparently just going to plead his case now, voice all high and whiny.

Maybe he’ll get lucky, and a second meteor will hit earth.

Wipe them all out, dinosaur apocalypse style.

“One second.”

“Harrington.”

“Don’t panic.”

“Well I was trying not to!”

“Would you shut up, I’m thinking!”

He seems to reach whatever conclusion he was aiming for, finally dismounting Eddie like he’s a damn bull.

Who, through sheer fucking will, does not spring up to his feet and unveil his boner at large to the room.

Instead wills it back down, biting hard at his lip in hopes the sharp pain will help, until he finally feels safe enough to scramble into a sitting position.

“Congratulations, you are now the secret keeper of the entire population of Hawkins queers. Given it looks like your headache is gone and you’re clearly not tripping balls, I’d like to go home now.”

Embarrassed and aroused and feeling way too many complicated emotions right now, Eddie swipes pretend dirt off the sleeves of his jacket as he--finally!-- stands, making a point of looking anywhere but at Harrington.

Steve rises with him.

“Munson.”

Nope. Eddie’s getting his shit and getting out.

He’s not looking at those huge (mesmerizing, adorable, fucking inhuman) eyes, he outright refuses.

“Eddie.”

“What, Harrington!?”

“It’s--I uh,” The jackass is rubbing the back of his head.

Oh sure, now he decides to be awkward about it.

The younger man takes a deep breath, like he’s about to run a marathon or admit another deep dark secret.

(Surprise, Munson, I’m actually a werewolf!)

“You and Robin are not the entirety of Hawkins queers.”

That’s a very loaded statement but given he highly doubts Harrington also has suspicions about Mr. Clark, it’s a nonstarter.

If Harrington outs one of the kids…

“What are you doing on Friday?” Steve asks instead, interrupting Eddie’s long time worry of someone else clocking Michael Wheeler, pretend California girlfriend aside.

“Ideally not getting murdered. Unless,” Eddie says, voice dripping in disgusted defeat as a realization hits him, “this is the start of some sort of blackmail meeting.”

He can see it plain as day--Harrington holding this over him, to insure he got the shrooms for free.

Then, before Harrington can get mad or think that he’s being fought on it, he adds: “In which case I guess I’m doing that.”

Buckley, he knows, would survive being outed.

Damage control would be a breeze--all it would take would be a few public, fake dates and everyone would assume Eddie was just making shit up if they hadn’t already thought that in the first place.

She would not need to go far to find someone to fake date either, given Harrington’s display.

Eddie, on the other hand, did not have an insanely popular, former prom King willing to publicly date him while loudly announcing that any person saying his girlfriend was a queer was a dirty liar.

(Nevermind that half the town was already primed to burn him at the stake. It wouldn’t exactly take much more to get some of the more zealotry ones there.)

Harrington had him dead in the water here and as much as Eddie hated it, he hated the idea of bailing out on Wayne even more. Of giving up on his Uncle’s one request that he finish high school, no matter how many tries it takes.

He can’t stay if he’s outed though.

Knows he can’t, in the same way he knows exactly who would try to kill him for it.

“No not--okay.” Steve makes a frustrated noise, hands on his hips. “Let me try that again.”

Which made no sense and Eddie was starting to worry that Harrington might have done some kind of permanent damage to his head.

What were the symptoms of brain damage again…?

“Uh…”

“There’s a B-horror marathon playing at the drive in on Friday. The Fly and the Invisible Man and some other film that looked right up your alley.”

“Okay?” Eddie asks, confused. “And you want to--what? Meet me there, make me give you drugs?”

Harrington doesn’t need the cash and he can’t imagine what else the guy would want out of him.

Unless Eddie’s accusation of him using the kids as housemaids had given him ideas.

He gets a frustrated stare in return.

“You know what, that hat was cursed.” Harrington says nonsensically, looking up to the ceiling like this entire situation was its fault.

“I used to be so much better at this before that damn uniform and the shorts were not the problem, I know they weren’t the problem--”

“Little lost here, Harrington.”

“Dude you watched me throw my socks up a bunch and then brought me muffins, I think you can call me Steve.”

“I’m a little lost here, Steve.”

“Thank you.” And oh, Eddie doesn’t like what that tone of voice does to the swoopy feelings in his gut.

(He’s in a bad, bad citation here, he needs to stop thinking gay thoughts dammit.)

“Okay.” Steve runs a hand through his ruined (gorgeous, tugable) hair.

“You came over here to defend the kids. You figured out I was not, in fact, making them be my minions or whatever. You then decided to stay and help me, and then came over again to help me and you’ve been really, really cool about it.”

He pauses, as if to make sure the words are sinking in.

“You and Robin,” He begins again, voice firm, “are not the only queers in Hawkins and I am asking what you are doing Friday night.”

Eddie stares blankly.

Keeps staring, until the point he thinks Steve is trying to make wallops him dead in the face.

No way.

No fucking way.

“Friday is a date night.” Steve clarifies slowly, like Eddie's being stupid on purpose.

“Oh screw you.” He says, eyes saucer wide. “If this is some kind of, of sick joke--”

Steve blinks, like he didn’t expect that reaction.

“It’s not.”

“So you just--what, decided since I’m gay and you’re--” He couldn’t force him to say ‘also gay’ or even ‘queer’ or any other Not Straight label he could think of because this was Steve Harrington here.

Known ladies man and panty dropper. The golden boy of Hawkins, who once had the entire cheer squad covered his entire locker in heart shaped stickers and blew obnoxious kisses to every lady in the football stands, Steve motherfucking Harrington.

The guy could actively have his tongue down a man’s throat and Eddie would still refuse to accept it wasn’t some kind of prank.

“You’re whatever,” Eddie finally lands on, “that we should--hook up!?”

It was outlandish to say the least.

“I wasn’t thinking of a hookup.” Steve responds flatly.

The million thoughts hurtling about Eddie’s head promptly catch fire.

“You want to go out on a date.” He jams a thumb at his own chest. “With me?”

And sure, that sounds dumb. Maybe he’s being dumb right now, because this is so far out of left field that Eddie needs it spoon fed to him immediately or he’s going to assume this is all a dream.

Or a nightmare.

A shitty, shitty, nightmare.

“Yes.” Steve says, with a relieved little smile.

It highlights his dimples.

(Eddie hates them so much he wants to just gnaw them off Steve’s stupid face. And then maybe pepper it with kisses because he doesn’t actually want to be that mean and--no! No, bad thoughts, go away!)

“Why.” He demands instead.

Steve’s a jock. A gross, muscular, migraine suffering, way too nice to freshman, built like a greek god jock.

Harrington’s standards could not be that low. They simply couldn’t be--because gay penis aside, what the hell would he even see in someone like Eddie?

“So this is embarrassing.” Steve interrupts Eddie’s rapid thoughts with another rub to the back of his neck. “But I kind of wanted to take you out before this. We just weren’t sure if you uh, swung that way.”

What.

“What?”

“Yeaaaah, Robin’s been making fun of me for a while about this but ah. You’re like. Really important to The Party? They really like you, and they’re always talking about all the special shit you do for them in, you know, in their dungeon game, and--”

“Are you saying you have a crush on me because I’m good with children?”

“They’re fourteen, they’re not really children,” Steve defends immediately, as if he himself doesn’t constantly make babysitting jokes. “And no? Well yes, but it’s not just that--”

“What is it then?” Eddie finds himself asking.

He immediately and instantly wants to take the words back, but the sheer burning desire to know keeps him from backtracking.

Steve makes a face, but bravely plows forward anyway. “You’re really pretty.”

Eddie’s entire brain slams to a halt.

(Emergency, all systems are down, error, error, error--)

“There’s more!” Steve rushes to say, like he hasn’t murdered every rational thought Eddie possesses.

“You’re funny too, or at least you are when I actually bothered to listen. The stories the kids tell me are hilarious and if they say you’re giving them a ride I know you’ll actually do it. You don’t take things that seriously and lately everything’s been so serious and I already told you you’ve been insanely nice after you realized I wasn’t forcing the little shits to help me--aw fuck, sorry.”

Steve shakes his head, visibly pulling himself back on track.

Gives Eddie another stupid, cute grin, like he’s been caught doing something ridiculous.

“I’ve spent too much time with Robin, I'm rambling.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Eddie doesn’t squeak, that is not what that noise was.

He said that in a very normal tone of voice!

Steve’s grin grows. “That’s what you got from that?”

“Shut the fuck u-uuup.” Eddie drags the last word out, shaking his hair so that it falls in front of his face and hides how neon red it is.

Somewhere in his brain there is a voice screaming victory chants over the population of Hawkins as a whole, and it sounds an awful lot like he’s happy about this instead of horrified.

Steve makes some sort of giggle/snort (which isn’t cute, it isn’t!) before slowly stepping his way into Eddie’s space.

Who, against his better judgment, remains still.

“I get that I picked the absolute worst timing for this.” Steve tells him, and oh God, he’s coming closer, “and I am totally killing it here with the whole throwing up a bunch and being sick thing, but honestly if I don’t do this now I feel like I’ll never have another chance, so…”

Slowly, he puts up a hand to gently move Eddie’s hair out of the way, unveiling one nervous eye.

“Will you, Eddie Munson, go out on a date with me, Steve Harrington?”

“And you swear this isn’t a joke?” Eddie can’t help but sound accusing. Can’t afford to sound anything other than accusing, in case this is, in fact, a joke.

Because he will break, if it is. It will be the cruelest thing anyone has ever done to him, and he knows he won’t survive it.

“I swear on Dustin's mom, that it’s not a joke.” Steve tells him, wrapping a finger lazily in Eddie’s hair.

He makes a rude noise automatically, because really?

Henderson’s mom?

“Fine.” Steve gives a little bitchy eye roll, the smile never leaving his face. “I swear on Robin’s life that it’s not a joke. I don’t joke around when it comes to Robin.”

“No you really don’t.” Eddie says softly, fighting to accept that this might actually be happening.

Is still struggling to find the thread that will unravel it all, reveal it to be the joke Steve swears it isn’t.

Pity Steve still has a finger in his hair and it’s painfully distracting.

“Friday you said?” He says finally, before he combusts.

Steve tucks Eddie’s hair behind his ear, which is somehow the most erotic thing anyone has ever done to him in his entire life.

“Mmhm.”

“If you stand me up…”

It feels like the most dangerous thing he’s ever done. Scarier than running away, to Uncle Wayne.

Worse than helping his piece of shit father in any of his little “outings” or getting caught by Hopper for peddling weed.

This is growing the backbone he’d made fun of Sinclair for not having, and putting it immediately to use.

“I won’t.” Steve tilts his head, examining the part of Eddie’s face he can see. “But I can tell that you still don’t believe me.”

Eddie’s mouth opens and closes again because--no, he doesn’t, but also, he’s frozen in place and is somewhat terrified of ruining whatever’s happening here.

You know, on the off chance it is real.

Steve leans in, smooth as butter, and presses a chaste kiss against Eddie’s cheek.

“There.” He whispers, lips brushing skin. “Does that help?”

Somewhere, someone was making a sort of high pitched “uh-huh” noise.

(Eddie had the worst feeling, it's him.)

“At 8?” He manages a minute later, in a voice that’s not entirely strangled sounding.

Harrington pulls back and nails him with a smile so dazzling Eddie swears he temporarily goes blind. “It’s a date.”

He leaves a short while after that, feeling dazed, and panicky, and a little bit like he both won the lottery and also died.

Steve Harrington had asked him, Eddie Munson, out on a date.

Steve Harrington called him pretty.

Eddie could die. Was going to die. Might die.

Fuck.

xXx

Eddie’s nerves practically eat him alive for the two days it took him to get there, but he does in fact show up to the movies on Friday.

Stands in front of the drive-in, van parked with blankets set up in the back. He’s got his arms crossed against his chest, rocking back on his heels and biting his lip so hard it bleeds, as he fights against every single instinct screaming at him to get up and run.

To get out--of here, of Hawkins, of just--everything.

Holds himself firm and mentally chants that he can do this.

Just this once, he could take this chance.

That it wouldn’t end like these things always ended, be it a date or some stupid crime his father wanted to pull or frankly, anything Eddie had ever wanted.

Truly, deeply, wanted in life, because those things either came at a horrific cost or were otherwise yanked away at the last minute.

(It was a really stupid move, though.

So stupid, so insanely stupid and what is he doing right now, he needs to get out of there-’)

Harrington appears.

He was wearing some stupid white jacket, with red lines that taper his waist into a V, drawing attention to jeans that look practically painted on. He’s put effort into his hair, more so than usual, and Eddie can’t pinpoint exactly how he knows this other than it looks expensive.

He spots Eddie and promptly lights up.

It’s the best/worst thing Eddie has ever witnessed with his own two eyeballs and it makes him want to eat his entire fist.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Steve responds, because he’s an escaped romantic lead from a fucking Disney film.

“For obvious reasons, I couldn’t bring flowers.” He adds, before Eddie does something stupid like calling him Prince Charming. “So I got this instead.”

He holds out his palm like it’s an offering.

Eddie accepts the item Steve holds out, eyeing it as it drops down into his own palm.

It’s a D20. A black one, with white numbers. He rolls it in his hand, feeling the edges, and nearly drops it when a carefully painted flower reveals itself on one of its sides.

He stares at it. At the little perfect rose, and carefully done thorns.

It’s not a masterpiece by any means. Nothing crazy or insanely detailed but it's recognizable in what it is.

“Sorry for how rough it looks. I borrowed Lucas’s brushes and they’re a lot smaller than what I’m used to working with.”

Eddie’s eyes pop wide.

“You painted this!?”

“Yeah.” Steve grins. “Haven’t painted in a while, not since my dad--well. Let’s say it hasn’t been something I’ve touched for a hot minute but I wanted to do this for you.”

Eddie can feel himself practically melt into the floor.

“I didn’t get you anything.” He protests, slightly panicked.

Why hadn’t he got Harrington something!?

“I didn’t expect you to. I asked you out after all.”

“No that’s not how this works, I need an equivalent exchange.”

Steve rolls his eyes, grin widening.

His dimples are showing again.

“Fine. I want one of those ridiculously oversized popcorn buckets.”

“Deal.” Eddie says, hopelessly charmed by those damn dimples. (If one of his end goals for the date was to bite one of those dimples---well, Eddie wasn’t one to nip and tell.)

Bonus:

“Coach is going to tell you to keep your palm off the ball when you’re shooting.” Steve instructs, somehow not looking an ounce out of breath despite Lucas wheezing next to him.

“He’s wrong. I want you to cuddle that thing with your hand.”

“Isn’t that against all advice ever?” Lucas complains back, basketball bouncing rhythmically into the ground.

He wasn’t as dead on his feet as he had been when this all had started four weeks ago, but then Eddie was aware that was only because Lucas had also taken up running with Steve.

(An act he once woke up early to witness, if only because Mayfield insisted the two of them looked like “Two overexcited golden retrievers doing zoomies down the street.”

She wasn’t wrong and Eddie had twice threatened to fly Byers the Elder in to take photos of it.)

“Next time you watch an NBA game I want you to look at the guys getting all the baskets.” Steve retorts. “Then you tell me if it’s against all advice.”

Lucas rolls his eyes, but takes a shot anyway, ball arching through the air.

He misses.

“Okay, this is stupid,” Lucas whines, as the ball rockets away from the backboard. “It’s completely ruining my shots!”

“No, what’s stupid is you thinking you owed me a life debt. Try again.”

Lucas makes an “ughhhh” noise.

“You’re not going to let me live that down are you?” He mutters as he goes to retrieve the ball.

“Never.” Steve says it firmly, and Eddie has to avoid his smirk about it.

His (his!) boyfriend had not taken kindly to the idea of any of the freshman owing him anything, and had made his ire known through copious amounts of teasing insults. “Now--shoot from there, Sinclair!”

Sinclair shot--and this time, got nothing but net.

“Holy shit it went in!” Lucas’s face it up, looking back at Steve (then more surprisingly, Eddie) to verify that they too, just saw the coolest shit.

Eddie couldn’t help but bite back a grin, watching the two jocks celebrate through brotherly shoves, noogies, and whatever the mostly heterosexual male does to bond.

“See, told you it would work. I bet I could even teach Eddie to throw.”

Ah yes, confident Steve. He loved the persona, he did, but how dare he make the suggestion of converting Eddie to the jock serfdom. Simply wouldn’t do.

“Steve, Stevie, you do not need to teach me how to ‘cuddle balls’--”

...Eddie may have deserved that basketball to the face.