Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Her dirty paws and furry coat

She ran down the forest slope

The forest of talking trees

They used to sing about the birds and the bees

The bees had declared a war

The sky wasn’t big enough for them all

The birds they got help from below

From dirty paws and the creatures of snow”

- Dirty Paws, Of Monsters & Men

“The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell. 

Unfortunately we don’t have that kind of time. 

Forget the dragon, leave the gun on the table, this has nothing to do with happiness.

Let’s jump ahead to the moment of epiphany, 

in gold light as the camera pans to where the action is, 

lakeside and backlit, and it all falls into frame, close enough to see

the blue rings of my eyes as I say something ugly

I never liked that ending either.” 

- Litany in which Certain things are Crossed Out (Crush), Richard Siken

“Forgive me Lord, forgive me Lord, forgive me Lord…”

-Joe Keery as Gabe, Henry Gamble’s Birthday Party (2015)

Steve Harrington has never uttered a curse word. 

Not fuck. 

Not shit. 

Not crap.

Not bitch. 

Not damn.  

Not asshole. 

Hell is spelled out the long way ‘round as ‘H–E–double hockey sticks’ and only spoken aloud to warn against dissolution or read from a passage at the lectern to the Sunday crowd. In neat slacks and squeaky loafers. Glasses wiped clean like the soul he’s been conditioned to cleanse ad nauseam. 

You can never be too careful. 

At Bible study.

In the back of his father’s office when he’s behaved immorally and deserves a stern talking to. Sodden eyes trained on the crucifix as the belt or paddle land on his sullied skin. Violet bruises burning shame into the backs of his knees. Welts rising like crested ocean waves crashing against a ship that’s bound to go down without a fight. 

Nobody sees. 

Punishment is silent. 

Punishment is the common thread woven around the congregation in a binding knot. 

The avoidance of it. 

The habit. 

Quiet acts of betrayal met with ordained violence. It’s his parent’s God given right to love their son through the virtue of discipline. No matter how bloody. No matter how much it wounds him beyond repair. 

Slaps to his cheeks. Cigarette burns on his spine. Time spent in isolation to mimic the empty void of purgatory. Classroom rulers swatting his wrists. 

Committing casual assault to his mind, body, and soul, and then, they sit down to dinner like one big happy family. Pass the mashed potatoes, salt the Earth, thank God for the meal on the table. 

Anything appears normal in the right environment. 

Anything. 

If you haven’t been beaten into submission then you aren’t truly loved. At least, that’s what they teach him and his peers. 

The elders. The doctrine. The father who snores down the hall from him. 

Clean up. Get dressed. Go to church. Greet everyone with a smile. Go home. Repent. Pray. Bleed. 

When he cries out in pain, his parents tell him he deserves it. 

He’s been bad. He’s misbehaved. He’s a sinner. He’s a coward. He’s useless if he’s not covered in purple, red, green, and yellow. 

How else is he to make up for his wrongdoings? 

Steve’s mouth tastes like a mean bar of soap whenever he accidentally hears someone swear in passing. 

He cringes, sighs heavily, twists his purity ring where it reverently sits on his left hand. Stringent silver engraved with Matthew 5:8 ‘ Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God .’ 

One day he’ll marry a girl from the church and replace it with a proper wedding band. Gold. Simple. Tasteful. Nothing fancy. 

They’ll move into a house down the block from his parents’ at the end of the cul-de-sac where the weeping willows grow. 

It will be quaint, free from vanity, a retreat from the modern flashy decorum that so many fall prey to. A quiet, orderly life for his wife and children. 

Hopefully, a son. Perhaps, a daughter. Two and a half kids or however many God grants, but two and a half is mandatory. 

Repentance is an avid part of Steve’s daily routine.

Like brushing his teeth in the morning, kneeling for the hour of family prayer that proceeds dinner, stumbling into the ensuite bathroom in the middle of the night when the Harrington house is coldest and shrouded in shadow. Haunted and vacant. 

He falls to his knees, clasps his palms together, prays that God may cure the world of such evils and swigs mouthwash to cleanse the dirt from his own tongue. A diligent and vicarious process. God forgives those who atone with sincerity in their hearts and fear in their veins. 

Rapture is coming. 

Steve thinks about rapture a lot. 

The end of days. The second coming. 

It is said in Thessalonians. 

It is the very truth Steve clings to when his mind starts to wander to unsound places like those of a broken compass. 

South to North. 

East to West.

Is there a world that exists beyond the boundaries of Hawkins and the church? Has anyone gone to discover it? 

North to East. 

West to South. 

End times are nearer than anyone could possibly imagine. 

There’s a vial of holy water in his pocket tucked safely behind his field guide pamphlet and pocket knife. Each morning he refills it and each evening he gives it to his father to bless for absolving tomorrow’s sins. 

For sin envelops him in a violent torrent of lapsed judgment, low hanging fruit, and coalescing transgression. Sin is inherent ,inevitable, as much a part of his form as the limbs that stem from his aching body. 

And, oh, do they ache. 

Religiosity bleeds over into all that Steve Harrington does. 

He grows up homeschooled by his mother at their kitchen table. Each lesson begins and ends with a prayer, a Bible verse, a song. No matter how irrelevant that may be. No matter how loose the connection. She finds a way. 

Celia Harrington always finds a way. 

The chapter on evolution is torn out of his tenth grade biology textbook. 

The chapter on the human reproductive system is lost in translation. 

The chapter on the Big Bang theory is extracted with a pair of kitchen scissors. 

He doesn’t know why. 

He doesn’t know what’s missing. 

He just knows something should be there and it isn’t. 

Celia skips past it without a word. 

Onto the next. 

He doesn’t have many friends, but those he does have are from the church or Scouts. 

They are the brainwashed children of choir singers, ushers, and Sunday school teachers. They break bread. They talk about Jesus. They share stories of religious experience—their encounters with the Holy Spirit. 

They’re nice, but that’s it. 

Steve isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to talk about with them other than God. He’s not sure what else he’s supposed to be interested in. 

When you grow up in a bubble, there’s no reason to question anything. This is the world as he knows it. As they all know it. Him and his friends that know nothing about him. 

Steve Harrington has never had sex. 

Steve Harrington has never had an orgasm. 

The ring on his finger means everything to him or so he thinks. 

Steve Harrington has been kissed once, close-mouthed, and never again. By a girl his parents selected for him. By a girl he felt no tangible attraction towards. Arranged together like the thorny floral centerpieces that his mother stages the dining table with whenever his father hosts Bible study. 

The girl– MaryAnne –accompanied him to a church dance put on for the middle and high schoolers. All homeschooled children taught by their mothers. Shy. Quiet. Awkward. 

Steve wore his father’s navy dress shirt, a stark white tie to signify his innocence, a green tinged bruise on his hip where he’d been hit with the belt for forgetting to pray before grabbing a granola bar for snack earlier. Patent leather loafers and gel slicked hair that his mother insisted was necessary. A crucifix pinned to his lapel—passed down by his grandfather and rusting around the edges.  

He didn’t look in the mirror before leaving the house. Afraid to indulge in the beauty that may be reflected back at him. A beauty that has not yet been realized by its beholder. Tawny hair, amber eyes, soft full lips, moles that connect in delicate constellations across his torso and thighs. 

The dance itself was drab, gothic, and stuffy. 

Party balloons drooped to the floor before the kids arrived. Streamers unfurled quickly as if absorbing the sterile energy in the room. The punch had a powdery aftertaste and the cookies were clearly store bought despite MaryAnne’s mother claiming they were ‘homemade.’ The air reeked of artificial experience; plastic tablecloths, linoleum, single use cups that would pile up in the landfill and pollute the Earth. Leading to great demise. 

Even then, Steve saw a crack in the illusion. 

Everything felt apocalyptic. Everything felt on the verge of breaking. 

The chaperones—parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, older siblings—circled the adolescents like guiding shepherds herding their lost sheep. The music was performed live by the choir and the floor became sticky with a substance no one wanted to stop to identify. 

MaryAnne kissed Steve on the mouth during a slow song about the miracle of Lazarus. The woman playing the tambourine was off-tune. He caught his father’s disapproving eye over the girl’s shoulder and saw him shake his head back and forth in boot-faced criticism. 

Be a man. 

Steve tried to do better. Tried to figure out where his hands should go, but figured he’d do something wrong so he left them hanging at his sides in limp indecision. To touch or be touched gently made his stomach sick. Like the aftermath of a dizzying carnival ride and one too many corn dogs. 

Undeserving. Unworthy. Sinner. Impure. Filthy. 

The kiss was dry. Lonely despite the fact that not an inch of space existed between their lips. 

The kiss was supposed to seal their fate. 

To bind them together as a couple. To act as the prelude to marriage, vows, family, children, the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. 

It didn’t. 

The girl reached out to squeeze his hand and he froze. Excused himself to vomit in the dusty boy’s bathroom. Remained in the stall until nothing but bile and hot air came out of his mouth. Knees bruised from the amount of time he spent heaving and questioning everything he’d ever been told about love. 

MaryAnne cried afterwards, ran to her mother and hid behind her floor length skirt. 

In front of Steve’s eyes, she transformed from a budding wife to a thirteen year-old girl who was far from ready to agree to that special promise at the altar. Her mother slapped her wrists, tugged her out the door by the ear, and glared at Steve like he was truly something rotten. 

On the other side of the assembly room, Steve felt like a monster. Like he’d violated her. Like he’d done something unforgivable. Mouth hinged open to catch flies. No amount of punch could rid him of the bitter guilt swirling in his gut. 

He went to his parents. He went to God. He begged for forgiveness. He confessed his sins. 

No one explained anything. No one answered his questions. God didn’t send him a sign despite his many requests. 

The girl wallowed on the dew damp front lawn and the night went on. Uninterrupted. Unscathed. He drank another glass of powdery punch. Danced alone. Stayed well past his usual bedtime to clean up the mess. His father beat him in the chapel. Bent him over a pew and brought the paddle down on his thighs until he’d prayed his way to forgiveness. His mother sat in the back row with her nose in the Bible and let it happen. 

Time goes on. 

Steve Harrington is eighteen years-old. 

Taller. Covered in sunshine and moles and freckles. Broad shouldered. Strong and muscled. Trained to inherit his father’s small town empire. 

Plenty of girls like him. 

Plenty of girls whisper about taking his hand in marriage and daydream about becoming his doting wife someday. 

He’s handsome. He’s important. He’s God fearing. 

What else could they want in a husband? 

He doesn’t talk to them. He avoids them. He keeps to himself as much as he can. Spends time out on the lawn watching the clouds, dreaming of imaginary places, and dreading the moment he’s inevitably called back inside to repent. 

Steve Harrington is freshly graduated from high school. Top of his class of one. 

He can’t tell you why the DNA of monkeys and humans is so closely related, but he can lecture you for hours on original sin, the second coming, and the words of Leviticus. 

There are angel wings on his shoulder blades. A pair of scars that his father, the well-respected local Pastor, once gave him as penance. 

To teach him the value of suffering. To teach him the value of pain. 

He doesn’t like to think about why or how he got them, but they serve as a constant reminder to be obedient to the Lord, the good book, the Scouts. 

Joining the Hawkins, Indiana scouting troop was never an option. 

Steve was born into it.  

Thrust into it as soon as his tenth birthday arrived. 

Candles blown out, party favors dispersed, and his only gift from his parents was his first of many khaki colored uniforms. Complete with the BSA (Boy Scouts of America) insignia proudly patched over the left shoulder, an untouched merit sash patiently awaiting proof of accomplishment in the form of badges, and a bloodred neckerchief. 

History ready to be made. He had no choice but to agree with a winning smile. 

Notably, Steve was never to smile too big for that would have made him a narcissist, a glutton, a heathen. 

Modesty, humility, integrity; important in all aspects of life. 

These are the values that keep him safe. 

These are the values that will one day earn him a seat in Heaven. 

These are the values that shelter him from temptation in all its devilish forms. 

Bad apples, wandering hands, lingering stares, teeth sinking into softness, flesh upon flesh, liquor, cigarettes, whispered words that raise goosebumps, gossip, false idols. 

Though not technically associated with any particular religious denomination, the BSA moral code heavily reflects those preached about in the Bible. Born from a long-line of God fearing, small town living, sermonizing men and women; Steve’s fate was decided for him decades before he officially entered the world. 

His father was a Scout. 

His grandfather was a Scout. 

His great-grandfather was a founding member of one of the first Scout troops in the U.S.A. 

Steve stood no chance. 

The story of his life was a book written with divine clarity. 

A book absent of choice, feeling, rage, love, pleasure , independence. 

A book dated, signed, and bound by Pastor Harrington, himself. 

Steve Harrington is never supposed to leave Hawkins, Indiana. 

Steve Harrington is never supposed to explore. 

Steve Harrington is never supposed to dance in a gay club with all the lights off. 

Steve Harrington is never supposed to find pleasure. 

Steve Harrington is never supposed to fall in love. 

Steve Harrington is never supposed to get what he wants. 

Everything changes the day he meets Eddie Munson. 

Everything. 

❋

It’s hot as absolute fuck in Hawkins. 

Spring usually provides a slow and steady progression into the blinding heat of summer, but, for whatever reason, Indiana is hellbent on inflicting premature torture onto its people this year. 

The AC’s shot to shit so Eddie’s eggs are all in one basket that rests upon a finicky box fan. 

A box fan that insists on throwing in the towel every few hours and sparking up dangerously in protest. Like a tantruming toddler who just got denied a second cookie. Eddie’s jar is well past empty and he has nothing to sacrifice on the altar in exchange for cool air. Nothing to slaughter for relief. 

Eddie’s impatient. Notoriously so. 

It’s a poor gamble, but it’s all he’s got until Mark—his shady landlord who never remembers his name and most often calls him Edwin—decides to actually send someone by to fix the problem. 

Given his track record, it’s likely to be months before anyone shows up. At least, that’s what happened with the roaches, the leaky faucet, and the busted pipe—which was really the worst of them all since Eddie had to shit in a bucket or run to the neighbor’s place until the plumber dealt with it. 

If Nancy was still around, he’d be relaxing poolside at the Wheeler’s house in that giant ass backyard of theirs. He can practically feel the water around him. Temperate. Not too hot. Not too cold. Heated year ‘round, because Karen Wheeler actually loves her kids and wants them to experience things like circumstantial happiness and friendship. 

Go fucking figure. 

He’d be sharing a joint with Nancy on one of the many lounge chairs if her mom was out for the afternoon, stealing white cheddar popcorn from one of Mike’s Scout tins in the basement, and chatting his best friend’s ear off about the new Metallica album that dropped last week or the guy that won’t call him back. 

She’d pop open the umbrella, flip through yesterday’s paper, and point out the seemingly unimportant local events as Eddie snoozed beneath the sun’s rays wearing a pair of her sunglasses. Oversized, blackened like midnight, perfect for feigning attention. 

She’d drop an ice cube down his swim trunks when she finally realized he wasn’t listening anymore. Caught in plain sight. Chasing each other around the deck of the pool until they fell in and officially declared war. 

By the time the sun went down, Eddie’s skin would be burnt, he’d be high as the moon, and giggling maniacally at Nancy’s weird obsession with drinking pickle juice after smoking a joint. 

“It’s not funny,” she’d say, laughing anyways and spitting pickle juice onto the floor, “Why can’t you just accept me for the way I am? You’re so judgemental. Jesus Christ, Fox.” 

Fox. 

Only in his dreams does she still call him that. Tinged in a sepia glow. Molding, rotting, decaying; as the number of days without her accumulate like cigarette butts. 

“If I didn’t make fun of you, we wouldn’t be friends,” he’d say, like he always says. 

“You look like a lobster! I warned you!” 

Point taken. 

She’d force him to slather on aloe vera gel and promise to call in the morning to recap the day’s events. 

He’d pull her in for a hug, say goodnight, and then end up sticking around for another hour to talk to Mike about D&D lore while Nancy snacked on potato chips and a mason jar of pickle juice, because she’s a fucking heathen. 

By the time Karen got home from the mall or dinner or a date with some guy she met at work, the three of them would be asleep in a dogpile on the lofty sofa. Assorted infomercials and Eddie’s whistling snore acting as their soundtrack while they dreamed of lives bigger and better than the ones they lived out in Hawkins. 

Quaint. Drop in the bucket. Nothing much to write home about. But, they had each other and they were family. 

There used to be three of them. 

Fox, Owl, and Hare. 

Nancy was just about the only good thing in his life anymore. 

Thinking about her in the past tense is easier than thinking about her in the present. 

She’s not dead or anything, which is a nightmare he constantly wakes up from in a cold sweat and tears. 

They’re still best friends. They still call each other three times a week to catch up. Nance visits for practically every major holiday, Eddie’s birthday, her own birthday, her brother’s birthday, her sister’s birthday, and occasional weekends. 

She flies home. Eddie picks her up from the airport in his beat up van and they belt showtunes until they arrive at Wayne’s condo for dinner. 

Laughing and joking like nothing bad has ever happened to them. Like life is an easy sitcom in which every problem is resolved by the end of a thirty minute episode cut with commercial breaks. He and his sister. The sister he never had. The sister he made out of imagination, fear, loneliness, dread, a treehouse taller than the moon, and something great. Something irreplaceable. 

But it’s different now. 

They’re different. 

It took Eddie five days to process her announcement. Tuesday through Saturday. Some of the worst days of his life besides the obvious. 

Nancy leaving left him with nothing. 

Nancy leaving left him cold, scared, alone in the woods with no one else to hold onto. 

“She’s part of me, but living here—it’s too much. I see her everywhere I turn. Down by the lake, on Strawberry Hill, outside the mall,” she’d said remorsefully on his front porch looking as young as she was when they’d originally adopted each other like stray cats in the fourth grade, “It’s an opportunity I have to take. I’d be writing for a real publication like I’ve always dreamed of. But, more than that, I need a fresh start. I need to get away from here—at least for a little while. It’s not goodbye,” she forced a smile, “You can visit me! We can go to Central Park and I’ve heard the nightlife there is insane. Like, way crazier than anything they have in Indy. There’s drag shows and BDSM clubs and themed bars and no one cares about who you go home with at the end of the night. Boy or girl—”

Unable to say anything else, blinded by the agony of repetitive loss, Eddie got up and slammed the door in her face. It broke him in half to shut her out. 

“Fuck you,” he’d murmured as the lock clicked shut. 

Deep down, he knew why she had to leave. He understood—more than anyone—Eddie understood what it was like to see ghosts in the places you used to love. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Wild daisies woven into his hair and hers because it helped if she had something to do with her hands. 

They’d loved her. 

They’d loved her so damn much. 

New York offered a life Eddie was never going to be able to give Nancy. A life he couldn’t follow. A life curated by new experiences, flashing lights, people who didn’t know the tragedies lurking in her past, the hustle and bustle of the big city. Plentiful distraction. Color. A life in bold. 

There, she could rename herself. There, she could forget. There, she didn’t have to be Nancy Wheeler. 

There, she didn’t have to be haunted by the girl with strawberry stained sneakers and a promise she couldn’t keep. 

Murdered in cold blood right outside the pristine walls of Hawkins’ New Beginning’s Church. For being different. For loving someone who loved her back. For daydreaming about a magic school bus and a one-way ticket out of town. 

Losing Chrissy broke Nancy. 

Made her heart raw and open to a whole world of pain she didn’t know how to cope with. 

Losing Chrissy numbed Eddie. 

Made him callus, desperate, strange. People stayed away from him for more reasons than one. 

He’d been furious and couldn’t help but tear open old wounds. Drank to the bottom of the bottle night after night. Smoked his way through packs of cigarettes and extra ounces of skunk weed—samples Rick let him try out before releasing them to their local clientele. Left blundering, hurtful voicemails on Nancy’s answering system at odd hours while trying to keep his balance. 

It’s not a time he’s proud of. 

It’s not a time he likes to talk about. 

The court house. The handcuffs biting his wrists. The accusations. 

He would never have hurt Chrissy. He would never have done a thing like that. 

One evening, Karen picked up the phone and talked Eddie down, let him cry, dropped off a casserole the next day to help him move through the period of mourning. 

She hugged him, came in and started cleaning up the empty bottles of liquor without judgment. Tossed them in the garbage while trying her best to cheer him up. Sunny disposition no matter how many clouds hung in the sky. 

“This is good for her. I know it hurts. We’re all gonna miss her like hell, but Nancy’s happiest in motion. She needs the change. New York’s gonna kick some life back into her. You’ll see. She loves you, honey. She needs you just as much as you need her. Always has.” 

Her hair was in rollers and Eddie smiled at the grays sprouting near her temples in the nest of dyed blonde.

Karen was like that. Treated him like a fourth kid. The mother he’d yearned for until she came along. His left when he was two years-old to overdose on opiates somewhere along the West Coast. Shortly after, his father followed in her footsteps. 

“You’ll be okay, baby dove. And if you think I’m not going to expect you to come by for Shabbat dinner every Friday you’ve got another thing coming. Just because Ms. Fancy Nancy’s moving ‘cross country doesn’t mean you aren’t part of the family anymore,” Karen ruffled his curls and kissed his forehead like a real mother would do, “It’ll all work out. Time heals.” 

That was her motto. 

Time heals all wounds.  

Eddie liked the sentiment. He just wasn’t sure he believed in the power of it when it came to someone as fucked up as he was. 

He and Nancy made up the next day. 

❋

“Why is looking at dicks all day so exhausting?” Nancy sighs into the phone, crunching her way through a chopped salad, “I feel like I ran a fucking marathon when all I did was wander around an exhibit and daydream about gauging my eyes out. I never need to see a dick again. Ever.” 

Eddie can practically smell the lemony vinaigrette she just finished whipping up in her pint-sized kitchen. Karen's recipe passed down the family tree like a ripe apple tumbling its way to new soil. 

Eddie has it committed to memory: two lemons from the tree down the street, ¼ cup olive oil, minced garlic, tablespoon of dijon mustard, few sprigs of thyme, salt and pepper to taste. Pairs well over fish which Eddie, again, only learned because Karen took him on as one of her own children from the time he was nine years-old. 

“It’s not exhausting. Quite the opposite. I’d say it’s rather—” 

He fishes around for the right word and gets lost in the rich current of his imagination. Zones in on a dirty black-book of stored images—moments of past exploration; hairy thighs, deep ‘v’s leading to angry looking cockheads that leak prettily for him, cum coated stomachs, tear stained faces begging for release. 

Eddie’s been around the block. 

He knows what he likes and that’s torturing beautiful boys under the toes of his platform boots, spitting down the gutter of their wanton throats, and folding them up for his sick pleasure like origami swans. 

“Invigorating,” Eddie settles upon with a snap of his fingers, “It’s invigorating, Nance.” 

Nancy makes a noise of disgust and Eddie hears the fork clink against the inside of her bowl. Probably one that Mike made to earn his pottery badge in Boy Scouts a couple years back. 

Every single solitary bowl, plate, and platter came out wildly crooked, dented, or smushed; but Nancy loved them. Stocked her cabinets in New York full of Mike’s abstract art and refused to eat from anything else. 

“Please don’t make me hang up on you,” she grumbles, but there’s no malice behind it. 

“I’m a homosexual, Nancy! Sue me! You can’t talk about dick and expect me not to react. I’m only human.”

“An incredibly horny one,” Nancy counters and Eddie mumbles his way through a ‘touche.’

“If I told you I visited the big fat pussy exhibit, you’d be foaming at the mouth to get your rocks off, too. Admit it.” 

“Quit your yapping, I’m trying to complain about the misfortunes of my life. This isn’t about you. I know that may be hard to believe.” 

“Your suffering should go down in the history books.” 

“Like of all people—they sent me to MoMA to take notes on Archipenko’s interpretation of the phallus? Make that make sense!” 

“It doesn’t. I can’t. You’re a raging lesbian who gets a lady boner over even the slightest implication of tits. If the mountains look too boobish you’re automatically horny,” Eddie smirks at his joke and Nancy growls out something unintelligible, because he’s being an unhelpful dipshit.

“I’ll be sure to include that in the article. Thanks. Making that my byline as we speak.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

“Too late.” 

“How much you got written?” 

“Three hundred words which is nothing. The article’s supposed to be five thousand words. I’m in such deep shit.” 

“Hmm. Sounds like it’s time to take a break, buy a plane ticket, and come home to see your best friend,” Eddie flips upside down on the sofa and lets his curls dangle towards the carpet like a human mop. Phone cradled between his shoulder and pierced ear. 

“You are the clingiest girlfriend I’ve ever had,” she laughs and it’s painfully true, “I already told you—I’m coming home for Mike’s Boy Scout thing at the end of the month. Isn’t that soon enough? Have you no patience?” 

“I stopped listening after you mentioned Boy Scouts. I’m fresh out of caramel corn and itching for a fix. Tell Mike he better keep his stash well hidden this time.” 

“Oh my god. You’re ridiculous! I’m hanging up! I mean it!” Nancy threatens, though Eddie knows she never would without saying a proper goodbye. It’s not in her nature. 

She’s an angel. 

The only good thing in his life. 

“Love you, Wheely.”

“Love you more, Eds.” 

❋

Capture the flag is all fun and games until it’s time to clean up the equipment and Steve is wandering through the woods trying not to infect himself with poison ivy like the better half of his troop did an hour ago. Now being treated by their resident Scoutmaster/Chief of Police–Jim Hopper with calamine lotion and an eye roll. 

He’s out on his own.

Strategically voyaging through the underbrush in search of the blue team’s flag. It’s the last one on his list and he’s dying to get back to basecamp to snag a refreshing post-win lemonade with the rest of the troop. Already salivating from the promise of tangy sweetness. 

The sun is about to set. Sky blushing pink while the owls hoot from the branches of pine trees. Calling out to each other in harmonious song as the day comes to a close. 

Steve’s back is sticky and warm from directing the game. His cheeks are flushed, exposed thighs bitten up by mosquitoes despite multiple reapplications of Deet, and his glasses keep slipping down the bridge of his nose from the slick sweat coating his brow bone. 

To be honest, despite the itchy heat and craving for something ice cold down his throat, Steve looks forward to rare moments like this one. 

In which he can breathe easily in the reverie of temporary independence. No one to perform for. No one to stop him from humming a tune under his breath and stopping every so often to investigate a patch of blooming elderberries. No one to chastise him for plopping an unwashed piece of fruit under his tongue and taking his time to savor the sweetness. No one to point fingers and accuse him of gluttony. 

Out here in the quiet, Steve can pretend all that exists are the mourning doves, rabbits running from foxes, and the subtle breeze kissing the lakeshore. 

He’s content. 

He’s at peace. 

He’s—

He’s choking on his spit at the sight of the terrible scene in front of him—two men dancing with Satan beside a picnic table. 

Two men entangled in an inconceivable fashion. 

Two men running their hands over each other’s skin; half naked. 

Two men—

Together. 

Together in the way that only a man and his wife are supposed to be once they’ve married in the church, sworn vows, and moved into the modest house at the end of the cul-de-sac beneath the weeping willows. 

Steve racks his brain. Unfolds the information—the proof from the good book—that every belief he holds relies on. 

The verse, he thinks—thoughts spiraling out of control, ingrained savior complex kicking in, What about the verse? Don’t they know it? Didn’t their parents warn them? It’s—Hebrews 13:4; ‘Let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled for God will judge the sexually immoral and adulterous.’

They’ve yet to notice him. As if he’s camouflaged amongst the pine trees. Khaki blending in seamlessly like he’s just another part of the natural landscape. 

In a sense, he is. 

The first of the two men sinks to his knees like he’s praying for mercy as Steve has done all his life in the back of the chapel. 

He gazes up at the other man like he is God. Like he alone holds the divine power to cleanse sin, turn water to wine, and carve Eve from Adam’s rib. 

Except, Eve doesn’t exist in this version of the story. 

Eve is nowhere to be found and Steve feels like he’s entered a parallel universe where none of the former rules apply. Where this strange subset of humanity has scorched the Earth, burned the devoted ones at the stake, and anarchy now reigns. 

The second stands above him in the widened prideful stance of a known pariah who foolishly believes he can outrun impending rapture and escape eternal damnation if he is clever and quick enough on his feet. 

Steve can’t see his face, because similarly to the vile act he’s committing, the man is concealed by a vexing darkness. Curly tendrils of wild hair obscure his identity. 

It’s odd. Unlike anyone else Steve’s ever known. Overgrown and hanging well past his shoulders. It doesn’t make sense. Only girls are allowed to wear their hair like that. Boys like this—boys like him get sent away for such infractions. Excommunicated for their betrayal to patriarchal norms. Men are supposed to look like men. 

This man does not. 

This man seems to toe and test every line and boundary like nothing can touch him. 

Steve tries to get his feet to move so he can turn and run and disappear into the forest like the rest of God’s innocent creatures—the field mice, the deer, the fish in the pond—find somewhere hidden to seek asylum and preserve his fragile righteousness. 

But latent curiosity slithers around him like a serpent with a fatal bite. 

No cure. No remedy. Steve has no choice. All logical thought abandons him and perhaps for the first time in his life, he allows himself to simply watch and feel. 

The man who doesn’t look all that much like a man leans a ring-covered hand back onto the rickety table like it's his personal throne and feeds his—his—genitals to the parted lips of the first. 

Steve brings a hand to his own gawking mouth, ducks behind a tree to better shield himself, and tries to stall his racing heart. 

“Lemme fuck your throat, baby. Open wide—wider. C’mon now play nice for me. If you’re not gagging on my cock then you can take it deeper,” the man rasps out as he thrusts his hips forwards and ensnares his black tipped nails into the hair of the kneeling man like vicious talons, “Good boy—there we go. Someone’s learned their lesson since last time, haven’t they? Stay open for me, sweetheart—keep that tongue nice and relaxed.” 

Easily coerced like a puppet on a string, there is no fear in the eyes of the man on his knees. Steve expects him to put up a fight—to bite down in refusal, to beg, argue, or—at the very least—shake his head ‘no’. 

Instead, he follows the instructions given to him. Opens his mouth as wide as possible like he’s about to have a root canal at the dentist and engulfs the other man’s genitals until nothing can be seen but his bobbing head and twitching jaw. 

Steve wonders if he should step in. If he should preach to these men about their wrongdoings and lead them back to the church so they can properly atone. 

“Such a sloppy fucking mouth—Jesus Christ—being such a good boy for me.” 

Two things of immense prominence crash into each other like a junebug to a windshield in the middle of a record breaking heat wave. 

Eddie Munson—Steve recognizes him the second this first event occurs—throws his head back in a whiplashed motion and reveals his familiar face to the forest. 

And as for the second event, well, Steve hadn’t realized he’d stepped out from behind the tree as his curiosity about the two men rose. 

So, when Eddie—the town’s known Satanist, petty criminal, cult leader, nearly condemned killer, drug dealer, and all around villain—meets Steve’s unsuspecting gaze and winks while licking over the sharp edges of his canine teeth; a mysterious warmth spreads through Steve’s lower belly and everything turns upside down. 

The man on his knees either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that Eddie’s focus is lasered in on something else entirely. 

Someone else entirely. 

Steve squirms, toes his hiking boot into the dirt, tries to silently pray for wisdom. 

But, he can’t.

Can’t run. 

Can’t hide. 

Eddie Munson has him—suddenly and completely—trapped beneath the pad of his thumb. 

When he moans, it seems to act as a seismic shockwave that Steve can only prevent from coming out of his own body by biting down so hard on the corner of his bottom lip that he tastes iron on his tongue. 

When his chest heaves, Steve’s does too. Rises, falls, collapses like a burning building. His ears, fingertips, cheeks, genitals; all aflame. 

“You poor thing,” Eddie says without breaking eye contact, but Steve knows he’s not talking to him—he’s talking to the man on his knees, “So needy and helpless and only I can save you.” 

Steve’s purity ring must be the wrong size, because it’s too tight. Constricts and pinches at his skin in a way it’s never done before—perhaps, his hands have gotten bigger. 

When he goes to twist it and whispers the inscription to himself; Eddie tilts his head and almost frowns. Lips tugged downwards for a fraction of a second. 

“Get yourself off on my boot,” Eddie orders and the language—the way he employs it—is foreign to Steve, “Just my boot,” he warns when the man reaches out to grab for him, “And keep your dick in your pants. I don’t want you cumming on the leather like last time.” 

Like last time—

Eddie’s done this before. The man on his knees has too. Which explains why he didn’t fight back—he’s choosing to be here. To do this. To be together like husband and wife. 

“And none of that spitting shit either. When I cum, you swallow,” Eddie hits the man with the back of his ringed hand which he groans at as a red mark forms on his cheek, “Or there’ll be no more party favors for you. Understood, slut?” 

The man does his best to nod and then, Eddie unleashes something wholly erratic. 

His expression goes slack as his hips stutter forward into the boundless, unknowable tunnel of the stranger’s throat. 

His hair mimics that of a lion’s mane; shaken out behind him as he shudders, rocks, and moans these deep gravelly sounds that Steve’s only ever previously associated with devastating pain and suffering. 

A stream of expletives explode out of him and he won’t stop using that phrase—

“Good boy, ” Eddie rolls his hips forwards and tugs on the mussed blond hair of the man on his knees like he means to cause him great harm and maybe he does, “That’s a good boy. I’m so proud of you. Taking my fat cock like a goddamn champ. If only your little girlfriend could see you now—I’m sure she’d be very impressed. Don’t ya’ think? Oh fuck, baby—I’m gonna cum—”

As he says it, Eddie becomes truly possessed. 

His allegiance with Satan readily on display for Steve and the birds and the breeze and lake that’s gone still. 

Eddie writhes, grips onto the table, and thrashes hysterically while a thick, milky white substance paints the obedient lips of the blond man. 

The man continues desperately grinding his pelvis into the laces of Eddie’s platform leather boot. Gasping for air when Eddie finally cleans himself off with a black handkerchief and zips up his pants. 

He abruptly draws his stare away from Steve to gruffly address the man in the dirt. 

“Alright, time’s up,” Eddie taps his watch dramatically and drops a baggie of—what Steve assumes is—drugs in front of him, pulling his foot back and laughing darkly when the man slumps forwards onto his hands and knees, “Don’t give me that look. We had an agreement—get outta here.” 

Despite deferring to Eddie’s wants and wishes throughout the interaction, the blond man grumbles defiantly over this request. Rubbing a palm over his jeans and glaring at Eddie with resentment. 

“Fuck off, Munson. Just let me cum, I’ll be quick,” he whines, but Eddie dusts his hands off and cackles wickedly—lighting a cigarette with a lighter that materializes out of nowhere. 

The sun disappears behind the trees as blue dusk settles over the area. Sky changing with Eddie Munson’s mood. Commanded by him. Darkening with the hurried snap of his black tipped fingers and exhale of thick smoke between his ruddy lips. 

Looking at him hurts. 

Looking at him makes Steve ache between his legs and he doesn’t yet know why. 

But he wants to—

“I’ve got business to take care of. Places to be, people to see and unfortunately, you’re no longer one of them,” Eddie smirks, kicks dirt in the guy’s face and steps on his fingers which he cries out at, “I’d say you could just go home and fuck your girlfriend, but—oh that’s right—you can’t get hard for her, can you?”

The man continues to protest, scrambles around in the dirt like a confused ant sprayed with repellent–meek, useless, destroyed by a poison designed to isolate and rot him alone. 

Eddie Munson is poison. 

Eddie Munson is venom, heat, itchy warmth, heady darkness. 

Steve’s body and mind tardily communicate. Finally allow him to move. To hurdle back towards reality. Leaving deformity, sickness, and squalor behind. 

He needs to strip down, shower, bathe in the hottest water possible, and burn the sin out of his skin. Apply calamine lotion to his wounds. Rinse and repeat. 

As he turns to run, tastes bile and pennies in the back of his throat, he swears he hears Eddie Munson’s silver tongue flick out one final time. 

“See you around, Church Mouse. ” 

❋

Eddie is Fox.

Nancy is Owl. 

Chrissy is Hare. 

At school, they fulfill their necessary roles as freak, teacher’s pet, and princess; respectively. Staying inside the carefully drawn lines of their designated peer groups because it is safest and best for survival. 

Meanwhile, they strain to ignore the muffled symphony drumming within each of them—the symphony that calls upon them to join hands and dance beneath the light of the fullest moon. Alleviating pain, restoring broken energy, fitting their missing pieces together like that of a sardonic jigsaw puzzle. 

No one knows how beloved they are to each other.

No one knows how much magic they’ve stirred up and stored inside each other’s veins. Like lightning bugs in a cracked mason jar—ebbing and flowing with a flickering golden light. Ephemeral in essence. Disappearing in the blink of an eye. 

Fox, Owl, and Hare. 

The forest’s best kept secret. 

No one knows, and this is the trick of it, that their locker combinations are each other’s birthdays. June 23 for Eddie, September 2 for Nancy, October 13 for Chrissy. When they entered junior high, they wrote the dates on strips of lined notebook paper, crumpled them up, tossed them into Eddie’s baseball cap and assigned their individual fates. Cast spells and made promises. 

No one knows that on the way home from a day spent hiding in plain sight; the three meet up on the path behind Chrissy’s house in Loch Nora, bump shoulders whilst still carrying their lumpy backpacks, and erupt with gleeful laughter at the fact that they’ve once again convinced their peers they have human hearts beating inside their chests. Instead of the animal ones they know to be true. 

Only in the treehouse—the dilapidated castle they found and repaired years prior—do they shed their skin, abandon reality, and divvy up whatever treasures they’ve discovered along the way. 

Sometimes, it’s nothing more than a candybar Chrissy’s purchased from the supermarket with spare change or extra lunch money that her parent’s hand her without another word as she makes her way down the street to catch the bus. A Snickers or Hershey’s bar—which is preferable because it’s easiest to break into thirds. 

Often, it’s a bag of Cracker Jack’s Eddie’s stolen from the school’s vending machine with a simple trick he learned from his older cousins. They take turns searching for the charmed toy buried beneath the avalanche of sticky caramel and peanuts. Whooping and howling like wolves when the chosen one—whoever it may be on a given day—unveils the prize. Passes it around for all to see and wonder at. 

Other times, it’s one of Nancy’s mom’s erotic romance novels—'borrowed’ from her bedside table—that the three squeal over, turn tomato red at, discussing classroom crushes and what it would be like to embrace them in the way the beefy man on the cover holds the scantily clad woman. 

Eddie’s eyes linger on the man’s muscles. The way he seems to possess an almost superhuman level of strength. The prominent bulge between his thighs. The smirk playing out over his lips. 

Chrissy and Nancy’s eyes linger on the woman’s softness. The swell of her corsetted breasts. The artful curvature of her fleshy hips. The smoothness of her long legs. The delicate jewelry adorning her hands. 

They admit these fascinations to each other long before they grow brave enough to admit them to anyone else. For the world is cruel and callous to those who are different. To those who dare desire what is branded as grotesque, unorthodox, and diseased. 

On weekends and in the summer months—when days feel simultaneously longer and shorter—the three meet early in the morning and stay out until well past dinnertime. 

They clamber over fences, embellish each other’s natural features with cheap watercolors from the craft store, paint their initials onto the wood plank walls, race down to the lake to wash away the mess, and go stargazing at the top of the hill where the strawberries grow. Collapsing in a heap of hyena-like laughter when they inevitably smush red berry juice under their backs. Staining their clothes or bathing suits and snacking on unwashed fruit until they are groaning from bellyaches and the hilarity of the situation. 

Fox is fastest. Clever. Bold. Quick on his feet. Able to shift and change and distract like no other. Stealthy, musical, protector. He concocts schemes. Pulls wool over the eyes of the unsuspecting. Cuts deals, locates loopholes, bares his canine teeth at anyone who poses a threat. Outcast from the crowd once they finally realize he’s a cunning vagrant from the other side of the tracks. Dirty pawed and blue collar. 

He wears an old pair of green swim trunks with a hole in the knee. A black bandana secures his rebellious curls and allows the sweat to drip off his neck. There are many days where he is barefoot—ornamented only by a stick-n-poke tattoo of a lavender sprig and the braided anklet Nancy wove for him while she was away at summer camp in July. 

Owl is smartest. Intelligent. Perceptive. Sharp as the knives she throws. Wise beyond her years. Lover, fighter, origin of logic and reason. She makes plans the others cannot conceive of. She organizes, delineates, and leads with an iron fist. Shoved into a box by her teachers and peers because they fear her potential. Her masterful wit. Her imagination and the places it leads. 

She carries a checkered picnic blanket under her bony arm. Prepared for anything. She smells of sunscreen, hairspray, and boy’s deodorant—it makes her feel more real. More alive. A faded, threadbare pink scrunchie encircles her wrist. It’s Chrissy’s. One she leant her years ago during a sleepover and never asked for it back. 

Hare is loveliest. Adored. Cherished. Sweet as pie. Coated in honey. To know her is to love her. But to love her is not to know her. On the outside, she is perfect teeth, hair the color of spun gold, charm, grace, and elegance. She is captain of the cheer team. All American beauty. She kisses her boyfriend goodbye in her driveway and dashes upstairs to open the window for the girl trying to crawl through it. Kisses her too. Everything becomes complicated. 

She sings made up songs while Eddie plays the guitar. Humming and giggling lyrics that don’t make sense to anyone but the three of them. She wears cutoff denim shorts, a heart shaped locket around her neck that claims devotion in the form of two tiny photographs, and white sneakers tarnished by splotches of strawberry juice. There is a wildness in her green eyes that only seems to find peace when Fox and Owl are next to her. 

It’s a gorgeous day in the middle of August. 

Just past Eddie’s eighteenth birthday on which he got his first real tattoos. Chrissy and Nancy pooled their hard earned money together to drive Eddie into the city for the surprise. 

With tears of gratitude in his eyes, he’d told the artist to draw up designs of two animals—an owl and hare. They each held one of his hands as the man inked the images onto the insides of either wrist. 

He’s careful not to let the artwork dip below the line of the water. Nancy plays at splashing him and Eddie growls at her as Fox comes alive in the stillness of the forest. Chrissy smiles and leans over to kiss her girlfriend on the forehead. Taming the beast at last. 

The lake water feels crisp and cool like the first bite of a green apple. There’s a mess of paint surrounding their bobbing innertubes. Sunset orange, burgundy red, yellow of the mustard weed on the shore. They’ve floated down to a place where they can be alone. Drifted off from the hoard of screaming children, sunstroked parents, and classmates who weaponize sticks, stones, and words. 

Here, they can be honest. 

Here, they can escape for a little while. 

“We’ll travel the country in an old school bus or something,” Hare dreams aloud, romantically, as she is prone to doing, “And then, when we make it to San Francisco—we’ll find a place with a treehouse in the backyard and that’ll be it. We can live in the damn treehouse if we want. Who’s gonna tell us not to?” 

Owl draws shapes in the water with the tips of her fingers as if she’s taking notes. 

“It sounds great in theory, but do you really think your parents would let you do a thing like that? Your mom hardly lets you out past ten o’clock anymore. I highly doubt she’d be okay with you moving across the country with the two of us. Especially since she started going to that new church and getting all holier than thou’,” Owl sighs, unable to blind herself from the confines of rational thought. Staring into the sun with her big doe eyes and identifying every last flaw in creation. She’s not a pessimist, but she is a realist. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference. 

“It’s not—the people there are nice. They mean well,” Hare corrects, quietly confronting Owl’s criticism. 

“Nice?” Owl folds her arms over her chest and peers judgmentally over her bulletproof sunglasses, “The Pastor's a total fucking prick. Like, a scam artist type prick. How else do you think they afford that McMansion? I’m telling you he definitely steals from the congregation.”

He's never seen the Pastor or cared enough to ask for his name. Stays as far as way as possible from Bible thumpers and their places of worship.

But, Fox sees through her rage. He knows Owl’s temperament like the back of his hand. She’s hurting—has been hurting—for the past year. Hare can’t bring herself to tell the truth. While, Owl’s told everyone close to her. Everyone important. Karen knows. Mike knows. Wayne knows. Even, Holly—the littlest—knows. Hare swears she’ll do the same some day, but as the months pass and she and her boyfriend—Jason—stay together, it’s harder and harder to believe her. 

“You’re being mean, Nance,” she whispers as if she’s afraid to be caught saying it, but can’t quite hold it in. 

“What’s mean is the fact that Jason Carver is still—for all intents and purposes—your ‘boyfriend’,” Owl huffs, cheeks flushed with rising frustration,“He gets to have dinner with your parents every week at the club. He gets to walk in through your front door like an actual guest. He gets to call you on the house phone. The actual fucking landline. And, why’s that? Because he’s a boy and he’s exactly what your parents want for you. God fearing, religious as shit, blond, Republican asshole. So, sorry if I don’t feel like participating in your little fairytale, today.” 

Hare frowns. Tucks her chin low. Sniffles. Fidgets with the locket around her neck like it's an ancient amulet and can give her all the answers she’s desperately looking for. She looks small. Doll-like and pale. 

“Hold on a second,” Fox hastily intrudes on a conversation that shouldn’t concern him, but does because watching either girl in pain makes his heart bleed, “We can figure this out. It’s a lot. It’s been a lot for both of you.” 

“You have a magic wand you’re gonna wave and make it all better?” Owl snarks. 

“No, but—” 

Fox pivots. Swerves. Dodges tragedy. 

Trying to make light and hold strong to the dreamy days of their youth, he does what he does best. Distracts. Plays out a scene that will make the group laugh and forget their woes.

“How ‘bout this—the day I fall in love and find someone to bring along with me is the day we go to San Francisco in Chris’s magic school bus, because I am not third wheeling with you two for the rest of my fucking life. As much as I love you, I’d rather die,” Fox darts his gaze between them in an accusatory way and dips his hair back into the water to cool off—shaking his curls out like a wet dog,“Besides, imagine being trapped with me for hours on the open road in an enclosed space. One or both of you would kill me. No question. In fact, you’d probably team up, murder me, and drop me over some cliffside never to be found.” 

Owl snorts. Covers her nose, adjusts the little hoop of silver that Eddie pierced for her the previous summer. He’d done it in the treehouse. She’d sat in Chrissy’s lap and iced it afterwards with a bag of frozen peas. It made her look badass, harsher around the edges, multidimensional like he knew her to be, but other people often questioned. 

Karen smacked him over the head for doing it. Only to follow up the punishment with a motherly kiss to the cheek and a cut of brisket she’d been slow cooking since the wee hours of the morning. After a glass of white wine and a round of cards, she was pinching Nancy’s cheeks and telling her she looked beautiful. 

“Oh, fuck you! That’s such an exaggeration. I wouldn’t murder you. I’d just duct tape your mouth shut and tie you to the top of the bus for the duration of our trip. I’m a bitch, but I’m not evil,” Owl grins deviously and flips Fox the bird with her chipped blue nail polish on display. 

“You’re gonna regret that, Wheely!” 

Fox paddles his feet to get closer to her tube. Bites her finger and dunks her underwater in the same instant. Feeling brutish, potent, and playful as he basks in the illusion of a carefree life. In which hiding isn’t necessary. In which they can dance and howl and tumble and burn recklessly. In which the forest usurps established society and everything is shaded in vibrant green and fresh air. 

Such a place doesn’t exist. Not in Hawkins. Not even in San Francisco. But when they’re together, anything feels possible. 

At least, until Fox realizes—always the most aware of his surroundings—that Hare is toweling off on the sand and slipping on her mucked up sneakers. Socks tragically dampened which nobody likes squishing around in. 

“Chris! Where are you going? Sun’s still gonna be out for at least the next few hours.”

He cocks his head to the side in genuine confusion, because he can’t remember a time when Hare walked away from them of her own accord. Any excuse to be free of her mother’s lecturing, ridiculing, and nitpicking was one she promptly took. 

“Nowhere special,” she says as if they’d ever accept such a vague and elusive answer. 

Fox is concerned. Anxiety spiking beneath the pleasurable waves licking at his back. There’s a strange look to her that he won’t soon forget. A sureness settles over her face. Certainty, courage, and a hint of mischief. 

She smiles—brilliantly, blindingly. 

Her bikini is patterned with blood-red cherries. Her hair is wrapped in a striped towel. The gold of her locket is starting to tarnish from too much time spent splashing and skinny dipping in the lake, but she refuses to ever go without it. Swears she’ll wear it until it snaps in half and even then, she’ll simply string the pendant onto a new chain. 

Owl moves towards the shore languidly like they have all the time in the world to mend and heal and recover, but softens her tone—which tells Fox—she sees it, too. 

“I fucked up. I got mad. I’m sorry—you don’t have to leave. We were having fun. We can have fun again. Please, babe? I miss you, already,” Owl’s speaking in that rare, saccharine way that only comes out around the love of her life. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Eddie jumps on the bandwagon and squints in the sun—his sunglasses broke when he was running from the cops a few weeks ago, after a risky deal and he’s yet to buy a new pair, “If I pushed it too far with the jokes. I know I can do that, sometimes. I know I can be mean when I’m trying too hard to be funny.” 

Hare smiles, shrugs her shoulders, and picks at a scab on her knee, before slinging her backpack over her shoulders. Embroidered with her initials—'C.C.’ and a tiny white rabbit. 

“I’m not angry. I promise. But, I do have to go,” she says, eerily calm. 

Neither of them know that it’s the last time they’ll see her smile. 

Neither of them know that their trio is destined to become a duo. Written in the stars. Out of their slippery hands. 

The forest is calm. The water trickles slowly downstream. No hint of violence on the horizon. The world—as they know it—was made for them to inherit and shape in their gentle paws. Related by way of shared treasures, ink, secrets, smushed strawberries, and love. 

Neither of them see it coming—not for a damn second. 

“I love you both,” she admits as she spins towards the treeline like a dancing ballerina in a jewelry box, “I’ll meet you at the treehouse tonight at seven and then, we’ll find Eddie a boyfriend and figure out where to buy a magic school bus!” 

They wait up all night. Haunting the treehouse like ghosts. 

Hare never shows. 

The next morning, hand in hand, they find out she’s dead. 

❋

Popcorn and poison ivy season unfortunately overlap. 

And, while Steve has been able to avoid the latter, the former has become a sort of default responsibility on his lengthy Assistant Scoutmaster’s to-do list. Except, unlike leaves of three, he can’t quite avoid this one. 

This is supposed to be Mike Wheeler’s route. 

Up Kerley, across Heraty Bridge, make a right on Mirkwood, the Byers’ house is the last stop. 

But, Mike’s currently at home itching up a storm. Calamine lotion’s only capable of doing so much to soothe the irritating reaction. 

He’ll likely have to tough out another week of ice baths and ointment before his skin is back to normal and clear of angry splotches. 

In the meantime, Wheeler can take small consolation in the opportunity to commiserate and empathize with his fellow troop members. Henderson, Sinclair, and Byers stumbled upon similar patches of ‘three.’ Similarly afflicted by prickling blisters, an itch they can’t seem to scratch, and parents who’ve forced their grimy hands into oven mitts to prevent scarring. 

Which is how Steve ended up pulling Mike’s weight—literally pulling his weight in the form of a little red wagon full of hefty popcorn tins in assorted flavors—traipsing around town in his BSA uniform which the locals love to openly laugh at for some reason. 

They find it hilarious. 

Steve finds it sweaty, exhausting, and gross.  

Especially, because time alone with his thoughts is typically spent praying, atoning, or offering up his suffering for the souls stuck in purgatory. Ensuring his entrance to the pearly gates. Preparing himself for the dignified position of eventual pastorhood like his father and his father’s father. 

Faith is to be at the center of his life. Even when it comes to the most mundane, drab, or innocuous everyday tasks. Faith is a lived experience. A journey that should be deepened with every additional step he takes—whether that be in hiking boots, BSA standard loafers, or barefoot in the shower. As a disciple of Jesus Christ, he is to spread his savior’s teachings to all those who have yet to enter under the shelter of his grace. 

It is to be his supreme focus. Singular mission. Sole purpose. The reason he wakes and sleeps is only to rise, again, and spread the message to a broader audience than the day prior. 

But, the problem is Steve can’t quite focus on his spiritual practices. 

Steve can’t quite focus on anything of substance. 

It’s kind of impossible, actually, when Eddie Munson’s genitals have overwhelmed and consumed his brain like swarms of locusts are said to do at the end of days. Buzzing and whirring around his mind in an annoying hive. Louder and louder. Nothing to quiet them. 

For the past week, Steve has fitfully fallen asleep replaying the scene in the woods on a sickening loop. Lies face down and screams into his pillow in the wee hours of the morning, because Eddie Munson has cursed him or vexed him with an incurable evil. 

It takes everything in him not to ask his father to perform an exorcism on his soul, because he can’t stop thinking about Eddie Munson. 

He can’t stop thinking about the man on his knees for Eddie Munson like a peasant at the throne of a King. Gazing up at him beatifically. Lovingly. As if they were hosting a beautiful wedding ceremony where all the flowers grow in neat little rows and everything turns out wonderfully. Bride and groom and their house down the street. 

Constant. Monotonous. Sacred. 

He can’t stop thinking about the monster lurking in the woods. Ivory fangs stapled to the insides of his hollowed cheeks as he bit back wounded groans. The thicket of dark hair sprouting around his pelvis. The wild curls haloing his head and sheltering him from eternal damnation. Hidden from the world’s judgment like a fallen angel protected by Satan. Sold his soul at a staggering price. 

His hands.  

Like a fruit fly in a spider’s web, Steve gets caught in the grasp of those hands more often than he cares to admit to himself. Planetary orbit thrown sideways by the sudden concentration of fine silk spun around his head. No longer lucid. No longer human. Plans to do good, be good; apprehended by another’s hungry belly. 

Eddie’s hands aren’t too far off from an arachnid’s spindly legs if he thinks about it. 

Long painted fingers reaching backwards to grasp onto the edge of the table. Knuckles whitening. Silver rings catching in the light. Tempting lowly creatures—moths, gnats, and mosquitoes to fly closer and get snagged in his menacing clutches. 

He’d probably bite their heads off, suck the marrow from their bones, slurp out their innards and flash that terrifying smirk while doing it. He might even laugh. Bloodthirsty tendencies staining and dripping from his soft lips as his head tipped back in euphoric celebration. Reaching an obscure and unsettling crescendo. 

Violin with snapped strings. 

It’s the infected part of Steve’s brain that whispers in foreign tongues and confesses the secret belief that those hands are beautiful. That those hands might look nice resting around his waist or roughly combing through the sandy locks of his hair like he’d done to the man on his knees. 

His voice. 

Steve hears the purr of it seeping in through the cracks in his bedroom walls. Slithering beneath the doorframe and softly caressing the shell of his ear. A warm breath that tickles the junction between his throat and jaw. Makes him hollow—carves out space to chant and relentlessly echo that wretched phrase, now, pitted inside his chest like the core of Eve’s infamous apple.

Good boy. That’s a good boy. Such a good boy for me…

Raspy. Low. Rough as sandpaper; the memory of it smooths out Steve’s edges and prods at his weak spots. The equivalent of his Achilles heel. 

Buried deep within this illness is the faintest idea that Steve might want to be good for Eddie Munson. Whatever that means.

When he squirms around in bed, tosses back and forth beneath the condemnation of the crucifix hung up across from his headboard, it’s Eddie’s voice that drives his hips into the mattress. 

It’s Eddie’s voice that detestably possesses him and guides him towards Hell. Hand in hand. Fist curling around fist. These are the shackles he wears. Clanging heavily against his, previously indisputable, morality. 

He never lets it go as far as the Devil wants it to. He’s still strong enough to fight back. To flip onto his back, twitching and warm all over; dousing himself in holy water and shame. 

Most of all though, Steve fixates on Eddie’s cruelty. 

His sense of command. The way he elicited submission, reaction, and desperation from the man on his knees. 

The way he grabbed him by the jaw and forced his mouth to open impossibly wider with a carefully placed hand. 

The way he slapped him across the face and seemed not to fear retaliation for even the briefest of moments. 

The way the man begged and pleaded for something that Eddie ultimately refused. Walking off without an apology. Walking off without a hint of regret. He’d cleaned himself up, lit a cigarette, and rolled his shoulders back with the utmost confidence. Nothing bothered him. Nothing plagued him. Immune to the powerless cries of those below him. 

Like a God.

❋

When Eddie begrudgingly gets up to answer the door, there’s a half-second in which the small shred of optimism—that’s somehow survived in his body after all this time—thinks it might be the AC repair guy standing on the other side. Tote of tools in hand, written report as is mandated by his landlord, and the solution to his suffering. Prayers answered. Problem solved. Nirvana achieved. All that religious shit. 

In fact he’s so fucking mindlessly hopeful that there’s a smile—an actual smile—on his face when he unlatches the lock and flings the thing open. Sun blinding him instantly. 

“Munson residence, how can I help y—” he stutters, halts full stop, and slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle the gritty moan threatening to exit his esophagus. 

Church Mouse stands in front of him with a little red wagon of popcorn tins in tow and order sheets in hand. Not a hair out of place. He looks like a Disney princess ready to corral sheep. 

The last person he’d ever dream would come knocking at his place of residence. 

And, to make matters worse, the kid’s decked out in his dorky ass uniform just like he was the first time Eddie officially crossed paths with him. 

Khaki shorts so tight his toned thighs must chafe if he wears them for too long. Matching shirt busting at the seams as the buttons fight desperately not to reveal too much skin. Merit sash slung over his torso and loudly promoting all of his ‘wilderness accomplishments.’ 

Navy blue knee-high socks pinching the widest part of his hairy legs and squeezing the fat in a way that Eddie can’t help but want to sink his teeth into and draw blood. A stupid little red bandana knotted tightly around his pretty throat that Eddie—Lord, forgive him for fuck’s sake—is dying to gag him with until it’s soaked through with drool and several loads of the sweet boy’s virgin cum. 

The utilitarian outfit clings to Church Mouse’s body in a way that probably slashes right through whatever vows he’s sworn in that fucking assbackwards church Eddie knows he's a part of. 

But, it’s more than the outfit. 

It’s a lot more. 

It’s the smattering of moles decorating his cheeks, jaw, neck, arms, and legs. Eddie yearns to trace them with his tongue, to connect them like constellations, to make him howl towards the moon while he comes undone and loses control. 

It’s the outline of his thick cock which he likely has no idea is visible to the public, but it’s so painfully obvious and Eddie can’t tear his eyes away. Kid probably wears tighty fucking whities and his balls probably sit so pink and perky and heavy in the cotton fabric. Begging to be sucked, teased, and flicked with the piercing on Eddie’s tongue. Big dick dripping above the perfect pair of them. It’s a fantasy for now, sure, but Eddie would bet good money he’s right. 

It’s the cleancut, never been touched, goody two shoes gleam this kid has about him. The wire-rimmed glasses sitting high on the bridge of his nose and the way Eddie could definitely make them fog up with filthy desire if he ever got the chance to bounce Church Mouse up and down on his dick like a common fucking whore. 

The kid eyes him quizzically and fans his baby face with the stack of order sheets. 

It’s hot as shit out and he’s drenched in sweat which probably smells fucking fantastic. Eddie would give up pretty much anything to have the opportunity to pin the Pastor's infamous prodigal son face down onto his dirty mattress. He’d sit on the backs of his meaty thighs and inhale the, no doubt, pungent musk saturating his clothes. 

“Oh, um, hi,” the kid shifts the weight between his feet and avoids direct eye contact with Eddie, which shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does, “Sorry. Is now a bad time? I can head on over to the next place on my list if you’d rather not be bothered,” he scrambles and almost drops the pamphlets in his hands. Ducking his head to retreat the way he came. Loafers squeaking on the aluminum stairs. 

“You’re not bothering me. Pardon my surprise,” he drops a demure hand over his heart and wiggles his painted fingers, “I’ve just never been lucky enough to have a man in uniform show up on my doorstep. It’s like waking up from a wet dream. Like I’m pinching myself, but, damn, I don’t think I wanna wake up. That ever happen to you? Wake up all horny with nowhere pretty to stick your cock? Fucking tragic, if you ask me.” 

Church Mouse blanches. Coughs into his elbow. 

There’s a rawness to him. 

Void of exposure to reality—far beyond the obtuse degree Eddie had already conceptualized. It’s like he’s trying to comprehend an alien dialect. Nothing in his expression points to the acknowledgment of shared experience. There’s no laughter. No hint of understanding. Everything flies high over his head and combusts into futile shrapnel. Lost in translation. 

“So, you want—you want me to tell you about the popcorn, sir?” 

Jesus, fuck. I’m gonna cum in front of the entire neighborhood, aren’t I?  Eddie thinks to himself; trying and failing to sober up from the intoxicating rush that word has flooded his senses with. 

Sir. 

Listen. Eddie will take what he can get, but, in a perfect world, like to fuck that word into and out of this kid until he’s shooting blanks into his virgin hole. 

“Uh. Put the popcorn on the backburner for a second,” Eddie smacks the top of one of the tins to punctuate his request which Church Mouse launches into the air at, “Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart. But, lemme ask you something—were you expecting someone else?” He’s shameless about the way he drags his insatiable gaze over Steve’s figure like an artist studying his muse for creation, “Or, am I just not your type?” 

“Ex–excuse me ?” 

It comes out as a squeak.

 Eddie’s a dead man. 

“You’re excused. Thanks for asking so politely,” Eddie winks and revels in the pink flush that starts at his neck and blooms upwards to the tips of his cute ears. 

It’s adorable to watch him stammer, fluster, and fidget under the blasphemous microscope of Eddie’s stare. Taking him apart like a favorite toy and slowly, mercilessly putting him back together. 

“I’m—I don’t usually do this. My troops got poison ivy last week. I’m just filling in for one of the younger Scouts,” he explains unnecessarily as if truth serum has been forcibly poured down his gullet, “I’m the Assistant Scoutmaster which is an entirely different role–” 

“Ah. That explains the slutty little uniform. Got it,” Eddie blows a mouthful of smoke—from his forgotten joint—into the kid’s confused face, which makes him automatically hold his breath and wave an annoyed hand through the resulting cloud. 

The urge to play comes about so naturally. Like late spring rain or biting into the last slice of cake. Eddie can’t resist. Dips his dirty paws in, because there’s no one else around to stop him from ruining such a pretty thing. 

A pretty thing who clearly has no idea how pretty he is. 

Moles. Tanlines. Curved hips. Thighs. Those damn knee socks and coiffed hair. Amber eyes that twinkle with naivety and wonder. 

If he didn’t have such a stick up his tight ass, he’d be the fantasy of anyone with a pulse and working vision. 

He’s got an attitude, though. Kind of a bitch. Thinks his shit doesn’t stink, because his Daddy blessed it to be so. 

“There a problem, Scoutmaster?” Eddie taunts when he doesn’t respond, taking another elongated hit. 

The kid exhales loudly and rolls his eyes. Huffs and puffs. Still won’t look Eddie in the eye as if he’ll be made into a statue like a victim of Medusa. 

“Don’t want to get contact high. That’s a thing y’know,” Harrington stamps his feet into the ground which is not nearly as threatening as he likely intends for it to be, “And I’m not the Scoutmaster. Jim Hopper, the Chief of Police, is the Scoutmaster,” Eddie resists the urge to ‘oink,’ “I’m not even old enough to be the Scoutmaster, yet. I’m Assistant Scoutmaster. There’s a huge difference. You wouldn’t understand. It’s much more complicated than—” 

Eddie doesn’t really give a shit about the ins and outs of the Scouting hierarchy. 

“Oh, yeah? Interesting. Super interesting. And, how old are you, Mr. Assistant Scoutmaster?” 

“Why do you care? I’m not—I’m just trying to help sell enough popcorn so my troop can afford to go on their end of summer adventure trip at Philmont Ranch. It’s the largest Scout base in the nation. If you’re interested in buying, great. If not, I have plenty more houses to hit before my route’s done with and I’d rather you not waste my time. It’s a very busy season and I have to stay on schedule.” 

Eddie’s not an idiot. Well, okay, maybe he is, to an extent, but he’s clever enough to recognize when he’s pushing someone’s buttons with such a frequency that they’re moments away from sticking it to him. 

And, if there’s one thing he really doesn’t want, it’s the Assistant Scoutmaster leaving. 

Because, as much as he hates to admit it, he can’t get the little shit out of his head and he’s made himself sick with it over the last seven days. 

Nervous butterflies. Skip in his step. Daydreaming in the midst of conducting business with miscellaneous buyers. Twirling curls around the ends of his fingers. Flipping through the local paper in case there happens to be a feature on the local Scout troop so he can jack himself to Church Mouse’s picture or frame it for his bedroom wall. 

He needs to know what’s awaiting him underneath all those carefully constructed layers of khaki, chastity, and Bible thumping. 

It’s been a long time—too long—since he’s found someone worth chasing after and Church Mouse makes the perfect, most appetizing, prey. 

“Hey!” Eddie calls out after him, as Church Mouse starts to tug his rattling wagon in the opposite direction, “I was curious! That’s all! Don’t have a lot of friends left around here, so I thought maybe—”

Turning on his heels, Church Mouse cocks an eyebrow, pushes his nerdy glasses up with one finger—Lord have fucking mercy—and when, Eddie sees the swell of his ass accentuated by the small pockets on the back of his shorts—he knows he’s absolutely, completely, head over heels, fucked. 

He’s never going to recover. 

This is it. 

This is it.  

“I’m eighteen. Graduated high school in December. My name’s Steve—Steve Harrington,” he mirrors Eddie’s stance and crosses his arms over his chest which illuminates the full roundness of his biceps—bronzed and glistening with even more of that delicious sweat that Eddie craves on his tongue, “Do you want the popcorn or not? Because I really need to get going and I’m not supposed to be out past sundown. My parents are strict and they won’t be happy if I’m not home in time for dinner to say grace.” 

Eddie’s hardly listening, because he’s now earned himself two essential pieces of information. 

The very two pieces of information he’s been wondering about since he first found Steve watching him in the woods while Paul sucked him off in exchange for coke and degradation. 

Eighteen. 

Steve—Steve Harrington. 

Eighteen. 

Legal. Just old enough to be fingered, kissed, fisted, fucked, and sucked into oblivion. 

Eddie’s twenty-five. A whopping seven years older than Steve Harrington. His sweet, sweet Church Mouse. 

He’s robbing the damn cradle. He’s gnawing on innocence like a tasty chicken bone. 

He’s got his jaw locked around purity and he’s going to shred it into unrecognizable filth. 

“My parents also don’t like me hanging out with strangers,” Steve says with a grave seriousness plastered across his face and it takes Eddie a second to realize he isn’t kidding—there’s no zesty punchline at the end of the joke, because this is no joke, “Last chance. Popcorn or not? Like I said, I—” 

“Kinda rude to blow me off like that. Don’t y’think?”  

“Huh?” Steve narrows his honey colored eyes, “Blow you off like, what? I don’t understand. I’m still offering you the popcorn.” 

Eddie shakes his head and twists the skull ring sitting on his middle finger as if deep in thought. 

“Not what I meant. Calling me a stranger’s what I was referring to,” he watches Steve gulp—Adam’s apple bobbing nervously, “I’m Eddie. Eddie Munson and according to my calculations—” he pretends to count on his fingers, tapping obnoxiously on each ring, “You and I have met before.” 

“N-no,” Steve vehemently denies, but the hitch in his breath communicates everything Eddie’s suspected from the start, “I–I don’t know you. We’ve never met. You must have me confused with someone else. Perhaps, another Scout. Same uniform. It can’t have been me.” 

“Maybe, so—you’re right. Forget it. I’m probably confused,” Eddie smacks a palm to the center of his forehead to display his faux idiocy and Steve flinches at the motion—scared, so Eddie softens his tone and rewinds, “Say, about that popcorn though, looks like you’ve got quite the variety of flavors in there,” Eddie kicks the wagon with the toe of his boot, “What are my options?” 

Like he doesn’t have them all memorized from the countless nights spent in Nancy’s basement. Hurling fistfuls of popcorn at each other to see how many kernels they could catch in their mouths. Nancy—far more coordinated than Eddie since birth—remained the reigning champion. 

“You’re serious? You actually want me to tell you?” 

Eddie leans against the doorway to highlight the length of his limbs. The desire he has to wrap them all around Steve Harrington like a black widow going in for the kill. 

“Popcorn’s not gonna sell itself without you. Go on. I’m listening.” 

“Are you a former customer or is this your first time purchasing BSA popcorn?” Steve adjusts the knot on his neck bandana thing and finally looks Eddie in the eye like it’s company policy. 

“It’s my first time,” the opportunity for an innuendo is not missed by him, “I’m afraid I’m a Boy Scout virgin. How do you feel about popping my cherry? You nervous, sweetheart?” 

Again, it’s like a key isn’t quite fitting into the lock it was made for. Steve doesn’t react. Almost as if he doesn’t hear Eddie. Almost as if his brain filters out any sacrilegious content and replaces it with elevator music until appropriate conversation resumes. 

Eddie’s being a stupid prick, but it’s locker room talk. It’s high school. Homophobic as they were, many of his male classmates—no matter what group they belonged to—made sexual jokes at each other’s expenses. It was commonplace. A strange way of showing affection, because kissing and hugging were too taboo and threatening to their masculinity. 

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Steve speaks up, at last, “Because, I really don’t care to investigate that with you. It’s very unbecoming if you’re trying to go to Heaven.” 

“I gave up on that dream twenty-five years ago.” 

“Going to Heaven?” 

“I don’t meet the qualifications. Highly doubt they're going to waive the hefty entrance fee for a guy like me.”

Eddie’s highly aware of his reputation around town. It’s impossible not to be. He wonders what Steve knows. What he’s heard through the pearl clutching grapevine. 

“Jesus died for our sins. He could heal you. I’ve seen it happen—” Steve starts proselytizing.

“It’s cool. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, ‘kay?” Eddie shuts him up quickly before he cries or holds a prayer circle or sends him a burning bush or whatever the fuck, “Let’s cut to the chase. You have popcorn to sell. I’m a potential buyer. You need my money. So, sell it to me, sweetheart. Convince me that I need that popcorn more than I need oxygen to breathe,” he flicks ash at the ground, which Steve frowns at, “I’d expect the Assistant Scoutmaster to be pretty damn good at his job. I’m sure the other kids worship you like you walk on water or something.” 

“Not a kid. I’m eighteen,” it’s a useless argument, “That’s the beginning of legal adulthood—for your information.” 

He’s such a bitch. 

“Oh, I’m very aware you’re legal, but thanks for the reminder,” Eddie snarks back—two can play at this game, “Now, are we gonna stand here chit chatting ‘til the cows come home or are you gonna make yourself some money?” 

Steve straightens up, puts on a professional smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and taps the tops of the tins with blunt fingernails as he delivers his commercialized spiel. Designed to lure in customers by pandering to their gluttonous appetites. Nobody on God’s green Earth needs to consume that much popcorn—let alone multiple flavors of it. One tin is enough to feed a family of five for a month and give them the wherewithal to survive the zombie apocalypse. 

Which is why, when Mike used to bitch and moan about Eddie and Nancy snacking on his stash, Eddie would shrewdly reassure him that it was for a good cause—that he was feeding the needy; aka Eddie and Nancy. He figured spewing a little bullshit every once in a while didn’t hurt anybody. Mike could dish it—did dish it all the time. It was only fair. 

“We offer a total of six tasty flavors, but our best seller is, a fan favorite and timeless classic, caramel corn. It’s crunchy, sweet, and always hits the spot at the end of a long day. Great for a quick and easy midnight snack,” he pauses to yawn and wipe a smudge from his glasses—Eddie imagines cumming on them and making him lick it off like a treat. He’d make such a cute puppy. 

Steve sounds bored. 

Steve sounds like he’s repeated this same speech a thousand times and the performance is slowly rotting his soul from the inside out. 

“Additional options for those with a bit of a sweet tooth are white chocolate and kettle corn—both of which taste amazing. However, if that’s not your thing, no problem. For our savory lovers, we have buffalo cheddar cheese, white cheddar, and the standard; unbelievable butter. But the best part is, each tin is reasonably priced at seven-dollars-and-fifty-cents, which means you can try as many flavors as you please without too much harm coming to your wallet! Remember, every penny spent is a penny you’re contributing to furthering the exploration and development of Hawkins’ local Scout troop.”

Steve sounds like he’d rather be brutally tortured as a prisoner of war trapped in a far off country than participate in this bullshit for the next however many years of his life. 

He’s eighteen. 

He’s still doing this. 

If you think about it, Eddie’s being rather charitable by making this little interaction all the more interesting for him. Breaking up the routine. Throwing a wrench in perfection and demolishing it. 

“Bravo. That was certainly something,” Eddie golf claps in slow motion, “Do you give out samples to good boys with lots of money in their wallets?” Eddie purrs, half-chub swelling in the front of his ripped jeans.

His joint is nothing but stubby ash at this point so he drops it to grind into the ground under his foot—looking up at Steve while he does so.

“Don’t worry, junior ranger. I’m responsible. I know my place. Wouldn’t want to start a forest fire. Arson’s not one of my vices, you’re in luck. You won’t have to tattle on me to Chief Hopper. I’ll behave.” 

Steve scrunches his nose up incredulously and smacks his lips together, hands coming to rest on his hips. 

Pissy asshole. He’s probably never had a genuinely good time in the whole of his eighteen years. 

“Great. Which flavor would you like to try?” he sighs exasperatedly, lifting the lids of the sample tins and gathering a couple of paper cups. As if this is the single worst possible way he could be spending the end of a spring afternoon. 

“Just one?” 

“It’s protocol. Two samples, max. Anything over that and I could get in serious trouble,” he whines. 

“Well, we definitely wouldn’t want that.” 

“I’m going to pray for you. I hope you know.” 

“You should. Someone should. Nobody ever prays for Satan and he's the one who needs it most," Eddie says, "Though as I said, I fear I may be a lost cause.” 

“Prayers are only lost on those who don’t believe in the goodness of the Lord,” Steve says earnestly, “If you’re a believer, you can be saved. Only Jesus holds the power to absolve you of your sins.” 

Another thing that really shouldn’t turn Eddie on, but here he stands adjusting his cock in his jeans as subtly as possible. Arousal pumping through his veins like molten lava all headed in the same southern direction. 

“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Eddie tuts, “Didn’t mean to get you all hot and bothered.” 

The phrase is lost on Steve, of course. 

“It’s ninety-five degrees out today and I’ve walked over three miles in the heat,” he responds, plainly. Factual. To the point. 

“Oh. Well, I was—that’s not—did you want to come in? I have the fan going. AC’s broken, but it’s definitely cooler than out here. We could pop open some sodas while I make my selection?” 

“I don’t drink caffeine. Thanks, anyway.” 

Of fucking course, you don’t—

“Water, then! How’s a nice cool glass of water and a spot on my couch?” He tries not to sound too glaringly desperate, but his tone pitches significantly higher as the proposition tumbles out, “You’ve gotta be exhausted after towing that thing around all afternoon. Three miles would practically put me into cardiac arrest. Especially in this weather. Why not take a short break? Surely, the Scouts would support that after all you’ve done for them.” 

He’s talking straight out of his ass. 

Steve hesitates. Shifts. Appears to be assessing the potential for danger in Eddie’s stance. Eddie knows he must look crazed behind the eyes. He must look dejected, at his wits end, burdened by the deep, unhinged desire to touch and be touched by this boy. A drowning man. A scoundrel. The big bad wolf with rows upon rows of deadly teeth. 

“I suppose, a short break can’t hurt,” Church Mouse agrees—whether pulled to the decision by curiosity, the need to please, or genuine thirst; Eddie’s not sure for the time being, but he aims to find out. 

“I won’t tell, if you don’t. Scout’s honor, sweetheart.” 

And, down the rabbit hole, they go. 

❋

They’re seated beside each other on the small, paisley print sofa. 

The trailer stinks of marijuana—which Eddie seems keen on smoking at an alarmingly constant rate—and inescapable humidity. The box fan in the corner does next to nothing to prevent the heat from acting as a second skin. The trailer isn’t exactly paradise compared to the sweltering conditions outside, but Steve’s innate curiosity has gotten the best of him just like it did in the woods. 

Eddie’s decorated the space with a unique flair—boisterous, demanding attention, and unapologetically cluttered. Quite like the man, himself. 

Yet, despite the obvious mess, everything seems to have a place. 

When he goes looking for a pair of glasses to fill with tap water and a few cubes from the tray of ice he keeps stashed in the freezer; he doesn’t wander over to the set of cupboards above the stove like Steve assumes he will. 

Instead, he unhooks two novelty mugs from the rack of odds and ends hanging in the entryway. Hops over a pile of laundry to reach the sink and prepares the drinks as such. 

It’s unlike anywhere Steve’s been before. 

Profane posters cover the walls. Offensive art pieces—if you can call them that—litter the space as if aimed to convert the viewer to Satanism. Themes of death, nudity, drugs, and sensationalism spread like wildfire across the front room. Clouding Steve’s vision and giving him little else to look at, but his own lap. 

There are animal skulls, raw crystals, bundles of dried flowers. The head of a rat acts as the centerpiece to the three-legged kitchen table. 

Records and cassette tapes are stacked amongst fantasy novels and pornographic magazines like Eddie’s spent years collecting banned media as a side hobby.

A tattoo gun rests on the counter, which Eddie assures him isn’t a ‘real’ gun and won’t grow legs to tattoo him without consent. Apparently, in his free time he likes to give the neighbors illegal ink for a low rate. Great. Just great. 

Needless to say, choosing to sit amongst the disorder feels like an act of sin, in and of itself. His father would kick him out if he knew. On the street with a sack of clothes and five bucks in his pocket—seated miserably on the next bus to nowhere. The backs of his thighs surge with phantom pain; the memory of past infractions. Hard to forget when there are frequent scars and bruises to reconcile. 

“Do you live alone?” Steve asks timidly—raking a hand through his hair to push it out of his face and bouncing his knee. 

He’s not sure what he wants the answer to be. Whether he’d feel better about this whole situation knowing Eddie had a roommate or not. Whether he’d breathe easier with the knowledge of a secret girlfriend or wife. 

“Not entirely.”

He joins Steve, passing him a Garfield mug, and settles comfortably onto the couch with his knees spread wide. 

It’s as if he wants to take up as much space as possible to intentionally pester Steve who has one leg crossed neatly over the other. The guy lives to stir up trouble. To break norms, bash tradition, and violate the righteous. 

“Do you have a roommate or something?” 

A moment passes with Eddie circling the rim of his own mug with a ringed finger. Silver pig making tiny sounds against the ceramic. Steve wishes he wasn’t so hypnotized by it. Those fingers have haunted him for a week and seeing them again isn’t helping his situation. 

“Well, Agatha’s my part-time roommate, but she tends to use and abuse me without much thanks. She doesn’t have any manners,” Steve doesn’t say what he’s thinking which is ‘kind of like you,' “She comes by whenever she feels like it, steals my food, scratches the fuck out of my arms when I don’t give her what she wants. Total asshole. Mostly I’m alone. Yeah. But, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate the company every once in a while. Contrary to popular belief, I am human and I do get lonely.” 

“Agatha?” Steve arches an eyebrow in question and chokes on the feminine name; mind a blur of paranoia and envy, “Is she—is she your girlfriend?” 

There’s a thunderous emotion rising up in his belly, but it’s distinctly separate from how he’d felt watching Eddie berate and intimidate the man in the woods. 

This feeling isn’t one that sends blood rushing below the line of his khaki shorts. 

This feeling is nameless to Steve. Undefinable. It tastes bitter and vengeful. Substantial. Something he’ll have to pray about, later. 

This whole afternoon is turning out to be something he’ll have to spend weeks—maybe, even months—praying about, later. Repenting in the chapel. Burying his head between his elbows and making peace with God. Forgiveness is a road laden with obstacles and Steve’s never been good at looking himself in the mirror. He’d prefer to be two-dimensional, flat, and stagnant. Unafraid of change, because it was never going to come to someone with a story set in stone. 

“Girlfriend?” Eddie grins, laughs along to a joke only he’s aware of and Steve flushes crimson at the flash of silver jewelry on his tongue—worn like a regular snake charmer, “She’d definitely resent you saying that,” he pulls his hair up off his neck and into a low bun which shows off the additional piercing—a small silver hoop—hanging from his right ear which seems like a significant choice,“No, ‘fraid not. Nothing of the sort. She’s this stray cat living in the neighborhood. I’ve been taking care of her for the past few years, but it’s always on her terms and she doesn’t like staying indoors for more than two hours. After that, she’s scratching and screaming at the door to demand escape. Hence, why she’s only a ‘part-time’ resident of the Munson household.” 

Steve’s not sure why that makes his heart ache. Why his pulse accelerates at the gentle implication that Eddie Munson contains multitudes he’s only just beginning to understand. 

“Agatha. I like—I mean—I’ve always really liked animals,” he says softly, as Eddie scoots closer to him on the couch so the outer edges of their knees are bracketing each other like parentheses. 

Even in the pews at church, nobody sits this close to each other. The husbands and wives keep a Bible between them to keep up modest appearances around the rest of the congregation. 

Eddie’s skin is ghostly pale beneath his virtueless clothing. An ivory canvas destroyed by shameless ink. There are scattered images lining his lanky arms, poking through the shredded places in his black jeans, creeping up the side of his neck and wrapping around the decorated shell of his ear. 

Fangs of a succubus above his collarbone. Salivating at the base of his throat. It’s enchanted by the abiding nature of the permanent ink to want for him endlessly. Insatiable hunger that shall never know relief. 

A heart shot by an arrow surrounds the name ‘ Wayne ’ and rests on the outside of his tricep. 

Steve wonders, pointlessly, who Wayne is. If Wayne is the name of the boy, Eddie vacillates between praising with showered affection and slapping across the face. The boy kneeling in the dirt who looked up at Eddie Munson like the church congregation looks at the eight-foot tall crucifix mounted above the altar. 

Impassioned. Subservient. Profound. 

Divine. 

An owl and rabbit on the delicate insides of his wrists—gorgeously detailed and accompanied by miniature, illegible inscriptions. 

“I like animals, too,” he strokes over the creatures surrounded by thin blue veins, “I get along with them better than I do with people. People don’t—uh—don’t tend to flock to me.” 

“Me too,” he doesn’t admit the fact that his Scout troops—the kids—are his only friends outside of the people he distantly mingles with on Sundays. 

“I’m sweet, though,” he extends his middle finger in Steve’s direction to display a pair of cherries that sit on the knuckle of his middle finger, “Some might disagree, but the proof is permanent.”

Supple. Ripe. Good enough to eat. Summer fruit that stays fresh all year ‘round. 

Steve wonders what it would taste like to have Eddie’s finger on his tongue. He’s never wanted anyone’s finger on his tongue. He’s never even bitten his own nails for fear of germs and contamination. 

“I don’t know you well enough to say one way or the other. It wouldn’t be fair—”

Eddie drops his voice to a whisper as if anyone, but the finnicky cat will be at risk of hearing them. 

“Shh. I’ve been sweet to you. Don’t deny it,” he breathes a mouthful of smoke onto the shell of Steve’s ear while he speaks smoothly; dripping syrupy heat as he continues,“And, I think, deep down beneath all that khaki and your goody two shoes image—I think—you want to be sweet to me, too.” 

A tortured whine tries to emerge from the new part of himself. Though, he can’t seem to find the capacity to name it. 

Despite dissociating it from his true identity, he knows he wants to sing for Eddie. That much is clear. He yearns to caw and purr and growl like an untamed thing. Take off his clothes and show him all the places where wreckage hides. The evidence of sin. The disillusion of grace. 

But, he snaps out of it quickly. Reminds himself that this man is a criminal.  

This man is a bandit on the run. This man should be publicly condemned for the things he’s done. This man dances with the Devil and brings others to their knees to do his bidding. This man speaks with an unholy tongue, willingly damns himself, and walks in Satan’s shadow.

This man is cruel. This man is sinister. This man is evil incarnate. 

There’s insurmountable blood on his hands. There are skeletons in his closet. There is a malevolent current running through his veins. 

Forbidden. 

Steve is forbidden to get any closer.

He tells himself this over and over. 

His father would not approve. His mother would not approve. The congregation would not approve. God would not approve. Accepting this fate would mean the execution of a comfortable life. A life he knows and believes he loves. 

For now. 

Even as Eddie wraps an arm around the back of his couch—mere inches from resting across Steve’s broad shoulders. 

Even as Eddie rambles on about Agatha, the cat and his unconditional love for her. 

Even as Eddie’s thumb tenderly brushes the back of Steve’s sweaty neck in a singular, smooth circle before retreating back to the cushion. 

This has to end. 

He should never have followed Eddie in through the door. He should never have agreed to leap into the lion’s den knowing there would be consequences. 

Steve Harrington is pure. 

Steve Harrington is a child of Christ.

Steve Harrington is the Pastor’s son. 

Steve Harrington should not want the things he wants. 

But, oh, he does. 

❋

Eddie’s dick is harder than a fucking rock.

Scratch that— Eddie’s dick is harder than a fucking boulder tumbling its’ way down from the tippy top of the summit on Mount Fucking Everest. 

He’s hornier than he’s been in a goddamn century and it’s crazy, because this kid—Steve—is fully clothed next to him. 

In head to toe khaki, no less. 

There has to be something seriously wrong with him. Maybe Nancy's right. Maybe he should pay a visit to the local shrink—if only he could afford it; shit’s expensive. 

Usually, Eddie gets off once or twice a day—depending on his work schedule, how much weed he’s smoked, if he’s been able to convince one of his devoted patrons to suck his cock for a discount on the high-quality goods Rick provides him to sell or not—but, right now, after ‘accidentally ’ brushing the flat part of his thumb across the nape of Harrington’s neck; a cool breeze could probably make him jizz his pants like he did a handful of times as a teenager. 

And, yeah, Eddie’s not an arsonist, but that’s not to say he doesn’t like lighting things on fire. Like algebra textbooks, cigarettes, and pretty boys who are far too young and naive to spell anything but trouble for him. 

“That’s the last one,” Steve says, stacking up the six empty sample cups on the coffee table—Eddie convinced him to let him try all of them—when he bends forward his shirt rucks up and Eddie’s both disappointed and aroused by the fact that he has a crisp white undershirt tucked into the high waistband of his shorts, “Which flavors would you like to order and how many of each? They’ll be delivered to your door within the next two weeks or so.” 

“Does that mean I get to see you again as my delivery boy?” 

“That’s the troops’ job. Let me remind you, I’m not a troop. I’m the—”

“Assistant Scoutmaster. I get it. You’ve tattooed it inside my brain. I’m fucking around.” 

“You’re difficult to read. I don’t typically interact with people who joke around the way you do,” Steve shuffles in his seat and when his hip bumps into Eddie’s so they’re pressed side to side, he doesn’t move away which has to be on purpose, “Nevermind. What’ll it be?” 

Steve’s eyebrows are raised as he waits for Eddie’s answer. Ticonderoga poised over the form to tally up his bill and take down his address for future delivery. The pencil’s missing its eraser, so Eddie really needs to think this through. 

This is permanent. This is terminal. As enduring as the thick black ink lining his pale skin. As immortal as grief, guilt, and a little thing called—love. 

Fucking popcorn. 

“I’ll take—”

Eddie pauses. 

He’s barely scraping by as is. Business hasn’t exactly been great lately, not with Hawkins PD’s increasing suspicion around Rick’s operation. Money’s tight. Tighter than it’s been since he was a kid and Wayne was working daily doubles to keep the lights on and the fridge cold. 

Unfortunately, Eddie’s also a sucker for pouty lips, overripe fruit, and apparently, boys named Steve Harrington in fucking khaki. 

“Um, wait. How much popcorn did you say you still needed to sell for your ‘adventure palooza super extravaganza’ thing?” 

“It’s the end of summer adventure trip, not extravaganza,” Steve amends in his bitchy little tone that makes Eddie want to strangle him. Gag him on his tighty whities until he’s red in the face. 

“My apologies, didn’t mean to offend your people,” Eddie rolls his eyes and messes with a strand of hair that the fan keeps blowing too close to his mouth, “How many for the adventure trip ? What’s left—another, five or six tins? With that speech you gave earlier, I’m sure this shit’s selling like Wonder Bread.” 

He chews on the side of his thumb. Bad habit. Thin skin. Spit slick and rude with a guest around. 

He doesn’t care. 

He wants Steve and he wants him to know how wanted he is. He wants him to know much he wants to stick his long, musical fingers in his mouth so his pretty baby has something nice to suck on while he gets deflowered. 

“Oh, gosh no,” who the fuck says ‘gosh,’ “The troop needs to sell at least fifty more tins, but this year, it’s seeming like we might have to dig into our own pockets to make that happen,” Steve frowns in genuine disappointment over the fucking popcorn, “People aren’t buying as much as they normally do. Can’t figure out why. Maybe we’d have better luck with ice cream. It’s been so hot out,” Steve rambles and Eddie can tell this shit actually means something to him—it matters, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to ramble. That was probably way more information than you wanted.” 

“Why wouldn’t I want you to ramble? You have a pretty voice, Steve.” 

Compliments hit him like a shot of whiskey and, for a boy who probably doesn’t drink much, the reaction is strong. Potent. Gets him fuzzy and porous. Anything could slip in and convince him to overthrow that lengthy list of morals he sits high and mighty upon. 

“Pretty—um. Boys can’t be—boys aren’t pretty. That word is for girls and boys aren’t supposed to say it to other boys. Just, um, so you know. In case you didn’t—” 

“Aw, that’s cute. You’re trying to save me,” Eddie postures as a damsel in distress; batting his lashes in Steve’s direction, “Haven’t been struck down yet, have I?”

“Um—”

A vein pops on the side of Steve’s neck. Pulsing with life and fear. Eddie, preemptively, decides that he has to lick it or he’s going to die. 

Around Steve Harrington, Assistant Scoutmaster Extraordinaire; his inhibitions are scaleless, his natural affinity for flirtatious banter escalates past a reasonable boiling point, the motivation to toy and tease informs every decision he makes. He’s volatile. Destructive. Bull in a chinashop. 

“Baby, how badly do you wanna sell those fifty tins?” 

He thumbs over Steve’s nape, again. Imagines sucking the finger into his mouth to taste and then rubbing it over the kid’s full bottom lip. He’s soft. Sweat slick. The tendrils of his hair tickle the back of Eddie’s wrist. 

He doesn’t flinch away. And, perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but Eddie swears he leans back into the touch. Asking for more. 

“Really badly. I want my kids to have the opportunity to go to Philmont—it’s the coolest place. There’s a zipline course and nightly campfires and canoe racing. It’s like something out of a dream,” he says, and oh—Eddie’s such an asshole. Identifying Steve Harrington’s weak spot like a splotch of dried blood on crisp white linens.

“Then, how’s this? I will buy every last tin—all fifty, in cash. That’s three-hundred-and-seventy-five dollars,” Steve’s eyes practically pop out of his skull at the utterance of the number and Eddie thinks the kid might break down in tears over a small town dream come true, so he cuts to the chase, “If and only if, you give me something in return. A favor for a favor, let’s say.” 

Steve leans into him. Fully presses his weight into Eddie’s side and turns to face him with a dopey look. It’s like he’s smoked too much and now everything’s making him giddy except the only thing that’s entered his body since he arrived on the porch is tap water and Eddie’s filthy words. 

Yet, he bounces on the couch in childlike excitement which makes his perky tits jiggle beneath the khaki and Eddie openly stares without remorse. Gravitating towards him like a swinging pendulum. He keeps the pad of his thumb pressed to the nape of his neck and inhales, oh fuck, his natural scent. As musky and humid as suspected. 

“You’d—you’d do that for the Scouts? Are you serious? That would, like, that would be incredibly generous of you. Thank you so m—” he glazes over and forgets the fact that he hasn’t heard the stipulations of their agreement. 

“Woah, woah, woah. Slow down. I’m not a saint,” Eddie pinches the back of his neck between two fingers to get his attention and Steve flat out yelps like a wounded animal—glasses askew on his face, “An eye for an eye, right? That’s what they say in that holy book of yours. You have to do your part to earn your reward, Little Lamb. Sacrifice for the greater good.” 

“And, what’s—what’s that? What do I have to do for you, Mr. Munson?” 

“Dude, chill. I’m only a few years older than you. Mr. Munson makes me sound old as shit. Eddie’s fine. I’m not a fucking dinosaur—”

 A few years, seven years—same difference.

“—and, oh, it’s simple, really. Nothing crazy,” Steve tenses up and Eddie hushes him which really isn’t helping the whole age gap issue, “Don’t worry, I’ll play fair. No tricks up these sleeves. All you have to do is answer three questions while I rub out this big knot out of your neck,” he presses down on the spot with a trio of fingers to emphasize his point and rubs in a circular motion like he’s working at a girl’s clit, “You seem stressed and I just, I’d feel like a real asshole if I sent you on your merry way without helping you relax. I know I can be kind of—oh, what’s the word—intimidating? I can’t blame you for getting worked up. And, once I’m done here, you’ll have all the cash you need riding along in your little red wagon. Philips Ranch, here you come.” 

“Philmont Ranch. And, that’s—that’s really all I have to do? I don’t see what could possibly be in it for you.” 

“Therein lies the magic, Steve Harrington. Let the mystery remain a mystery.” 

❋

Three questions for three-hundred-and-seventy-five dollars.

And, a...neck massage? 

The rules of the game seem suspiciously stacked in Steve’s favor. Unfairly so. Especially for a guy like Eddie who is scarily fluent in the languages of conning, scheming, and fraudulent behavior. 

But, he’d have to be an actual idiot to pass up the opportunity to award the Scouts with that much money for their upcoming trip to Philmont Ranch. 

Dustin, Mike, Lucas, and Will cross his mind. 

Their smiling faces. The laughs they’d share. Late nights by the campfire spent stargazing and roasting s’mores. Rehashing the events of the day—hikes to waterfalls, tree climbing accomplishments, cabin shenanigans, and inside jokes. Sipping apple juice and passing around the banjo which none of them play very well, but the fun is in trying to make music that sounds even halfway decent.  

Eddie Munson is willing to give him that.

To give his troops that. 

So, Steve listens. Obeys. Lays back against Eddie’s couch and assumes the position as he gets up to stand behind him. 

Because, if there’s one thing he’d never do, it’s deny his Scouts—the best and only friends he’d ever had—the experience of a lifetime. Whatever he has to suffer through in the meantime is worth it. 

Maybe, suffer, isn’t the right word—

Maybe, suffer, isn’t entirely the truth—

Eddie’s hands are tentative, at first. Gentle. Like the wings of a moth landing on his chest. Candenced. Deliberate. Hardly noticeable if he weren’t breathing hotly against Steve’s hair. Maneuvering with a certain surgical precision that transports Steve to the waiting room of a doctor’s office. Visit for a routine check-up. Due for maintenance. It happens all the time. There’s nothing to be afraid of here. 

“Shirt’s too tight,” Eddie runs his fingers under the collar and wiggles them to examine the fit—barely able to move which apparently isn’t suitable for a massage of this fashion, “Gonna have to loosen you up so I can get my hands inside where I need them.” 

“I’m not taking my shirt off—” Steve protectively jerks away from Eddie who pulls him back in a furtive game of cat and mouse. 

“Stop bratting out. Nobody said anything about making you strip down to your tighty fucking whities, sweetheart. Lighten up and c’mere.” 

Now overly aware of the exact style and color of his underwear, Steve glances to his lower half to make sure his clothes are still on, because how else should Eddie know what type of underwear his mom keeps stocked in his top drawer. 

Steve leans back into the sofa, sucks a breath in helplessly, and focuses on the sound of the fan whirring pitifully on its last leg. 

“Mmm,” his captor hums, “Good boy. Scouts taught you well.” 

Steve’s body goes slack. 

Like a ragdoll. Like a puppet for Eddie to necromance and fill with nightmares. 

His eyes roll back. There’s a rush of heat to his core—flooding with abundant warmth and innate thirst for more. 

He takes on an identity of longing.

Shapeshifts into a creature of ceaseless want. Tucks his lip into his teeth and bites down to prevent the shock of a scream. In a sprawling fantasy Steve envisions things he’s only heard whispered about by folks that never stuck around long as members of the congregation. Banished. Rumored to be perverts, pedophiles, and addicts. 

“Good boy? Your good boy?” he’s uncharacteristically sleepy for an hour as early as this; yawning into the crook of an elbow. 

“I thought I was the one asking questions, today, Harrington.” 

There’s a velvet drawl hugging his tone. It wraps Steve up in a warm embrace and shoves a spoonful of sugar under his tongue to make the medicine easier to swallow. 

“Sorry, sir.” 

Eddie doesn’t correct his manners. Makes a thoughtful little ‘hm’ and continues on like nothing out of the ordinary happened. 

“Let’s keep that anxious mind occupied while I do this. Otherwise, I’m going to have to tie you up and—as skilled as I’m sure you are at knots—I doubt you’d be very happy with me–”

“I have the expert level badge for knot tying,” Steve interrupts and locates it on his merit sash in hopes that Eddie will tell him how good he is again—maybe even say that magic phrase, “ ‘s this one. Worked hard for it.” 

Tongue tied, Eddie sputters. Leans over Steve’s shoulder to investigate the badge, but doesn’t touch the way Steve kind of wants him to. Remedies the moment by patting the couch next to his shoulder and muttering a ‘congrats.’ 

The longer Steve hangs around, the more light is shed on Eddie’s mercurial attitude. The ups and downs. Highs and lows. As varied and maladapt as the temperament of a tropical storm. Completely unpredictable. A punch or a kiss are just as likely. 

Not that Steve would kiss him. 

“First question. Has anyone ever seen you naked?” as Steve opens his mouth to answer, Eddie amends, “Besides the obvious; parents, doctors, other guys in the locker room at school. Those don’t count.” 

Eddie doesn’t know Steve was homeschooled, but he doesn’t want to hear an earful about how strange that is compared to the mainstream kids who followed the bus route to and from Hawkins High for four years. 

“What does count?” 

“You really need me to spell it out for you?” 

Eddie sighs, ignores Steve’s panicked silence, and runs his thumbs over that spot on Steve’s neck that he seems a bit too fond of. 

“Getting naked for sexual purposes, Steve. Getting naked to fuck or grind or stare at each other’s parts because you got curious. Hell—I’d even say skinny dipping counts. Ever done a thing like that?” 

“No. I’m saving myself for marriage,” Steve holds up his left hand for Eddie to see the ring. 

“Of course you are, sweetheart. That’s what makes you so good.” 

The fuzzy feeling spreads throughout Steve’s body at the additional praise. Remedies his fears. Gets in deep between his tensing muscles and Eddie hasn’t even started properly rubbing out his neck. A domino falls somewhere deep within him and triggers a satisfying catastrophe. 

His eyes go heavy. His arms tingle pleasantly. The room is lit only by a couple of candles on the mantle and the dying sun. 

“Thank you for answering honestly. Only two more questions and I’ll let you go.” 

“Mhmm. Yes, sir.” 

Any remaining opposition disappears the moment Eddie reaches around to undo the top two buttons on Steve’s uniform shirt like he’s a mother helping her child get dressed for Sunday school. 

That’s what Steve’s mom did until he was fourteen or fifteen and she, finally, gave into the idea of her son picking out his own outfits for church. In place of dressing him herself, she analyzed him for error before allowing him to step out the front door. Kept a keen eye out for wrinkles, creases, lint, stray threads, mismatched socks. 

Suffice it to say, Steve learned quickly that it was best to color inside the lines where his parents were involved. 

When Eddie’s hands start working at the taut muscles along Steve’s neck and shoulders, his mind fully drifts. 

He loses sense of time, space, reason. 

“You’re so tight, baby boy,” the pet name sends electricity below Steve’s navel as Eddie’s thumbs rub deeper, “Need someone to take care of you more often. You got a girlfriend over at that church of yours? Hm?” 

“Is that the second question?” 

It’s hard to keep track. Hard to remember a lick of information with Eddie’s palms kneading at his skin and persuading an unexpected moan to purr out from the base of his throat. He makes a squeak of embarrassment. 

“Shh. It’s okay. It feels nice, sweetheart. Why shouldn’t it? Make all the noise you need,” Eddie digs in and Steve physically feels himself unwind like a spool of tangled yarn, “Yes. That’s your second question.” 

“No girlfriend. I’ve been on a f-few dates, but they were chaperoned by my parents. Never had a girlfriend.”

Eddie’s giving him vertigo. Whiplash. Uses his well-intentioned hands as a sedative to keep Steve’s mind off of the growing erection in his khaki shorts. The swell of it. The ache. How all consuming the urge to find friction becomes. 

“Would you look at that—we have something in common,” he creates a false sense of closeness between them and Steve forces himself to remember whose fingers are actively memorizing the map of constellations on his neck—Eddie Munson; criminal, thief, liar, Satanist, “I’ve never had a girlfriend, either. Go figure. The freak and the Scout aren’t so different after all.” 

The caveat of the man on his knees doesn’t help Steve’s surprise. Certainly, a man as handsome and domineering as Eddie, would have won a girl over by now. If not by charm, then by force or threat. 

And, then, it occurs to him—lines crossing, points connecting, everything converging in a backlit flash—

“What about Chrissy Cunningham? She was your girlfriend, wasn’t she?” 

Steve hears the old rumors in his ear. Distant and garbled. 

Chrissy’s parents sat in the front row—mourning in all black. Mrs. Cunningham’s face was veiled. Mr. Cunningham blew his nose into a floral handkerchief found in his daughter’s bedroom. He said it smelled like her perfume. 

Steve’s father reverently blessed the closed casket. Speaking in tongues, channeling the Holy Spirit as he put her to rest. 

Her body was too broken, too gory, too unrecognizable to be viewed by the already, disturbed, public. 

Memories of protest, rage, tragedy, and Jason Carver sobbing at the altar. Blonde hair sticking straight up, eyes rimmed red, and burning with hatred as he passed the blame to a boy Chrissy had been seen with down by the lake—

Eddie Munson. 

It was during the eulogy that Steve heard his name for the first time. 

It was during the eulogy that Steve started associating evil with the boy who was said to leave Hell in his wake. 

Lover’s Lake.

The spot Hawkins’ residents went to escape the heat, find respite on the shoreline with their toes in the sand, and eat sub sandwiches from picnic baskets. 

That’s where Chrissy was said to have ran off to on the scorching afternoon that preluded her death. 

With Eddie Munson—

Had he kissed her? Touched her? Stolen her purity like everyone claimed? Performed a Satanic ritual to lead her away from God and into the arms of something far more sinister? 

The trial took months.

People spoke in hushed tones. Paranoia spread like a disease. Doors were locked. Security alarms purchased in bulk. No one felt safe anymore. The church was at capacity. Standing room only. Fuller than it was on Christmas and Easter which Steve had never dreamed possible. 

Jason Carver was the last person anyone suspected. 

The doting boyfriend.

The future husband. 

The town hero. 

Until, after hours and hours of deliberation and evidence and woeful testimony, Eddie Munson walked free. 

No handcuffs. Clean slate. Out of the courthouse and back into society without so much as a mark on his record. 

And, Jason—

Jason’s dirty fingerprints sent him to prison for the rest of his life. 

The congregation was none too happy about that. 

“Don’t talk about her. She’s off limits.” 

It’s less a request than an order. 

He’s struck a nerve. It makes him feel guilty. 

Worse though, he’s blundered the opportunity to get Eddie to talk about something real. Something honest. 

To bypass his antics, theatrics, and melodrama and locate the missing piece of the story. The missing piece to who this man really is beneath the curls, silver, and inky distraction. 

“Eddie,” his name tastes sour and gaunt—past the expiration date, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep—” 

“You should leave. It’s late. The sun’s about to set. I’ll get you the money and you can go. I shouldn’t have fucked around with you in the first place.” 

The absence of his touch is as startling as its initial presence. 

Steve doesn’t want to leave. 

He wants to bang his fists against the shoddy coffee table and beg Eddie to let him stay a little longer. To chat face to face like real people. Like real friends. To get answers and meet in the middle. 

Eddie’s standing in front of him. Pulling him to his feet. Frantically buttoning up his shirt and dusting lint off his shoulders in lieu of explanation. He pushes his glasses up on his nose for him and tucks a thick wad of cash into the pocket of his shorts without counting the bills. 

“Eddie—”

“Look, I’m trying to be as cordial about this as I can be, but I’ve—you gotta go. This isn’t up for debate,” he hurries Steve along. 

“It was a mistake. I didn’t know—”

“Steve,” he grabs him by the shoulders, “Go home. ” 

“But, you never asked me the third question.” 

Steve needs a nap. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to sleep on Eddie’s paisley couch or the stained carpet in front of the failing box fan. 

“Safe travels. Stay out of trouble,” Eddie ignores him; blankly staring, “Good luck, Church Mouse. Don’t come back here.” 

The door slams shut. 

Steve Harrington walks home alone. 

Sun at his back. Knife in his side. 

❋

“Are you ill? You look ill, Eddie,” Karen hovers over him with the absolute love and terrifying affection only a mother could possess, “Do you think it was the chicken? The green beans? You don’t eat enough vegetables—I keep telling you, your body is going to go into shock one of these days—”

“Dinner was delicious. It’s not the food and I’m not sick. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.” 

Karen doesn’t take that statement lightly. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake! Who’d you knock up? Or, is it drugs? Did someone overdose? Don’t tell me—did Mike get a cucumber stuck up his ass, again? I refuse to pay another one of those hospital bills—”

“Mom! Please! My friends are here!” 

“Keep the produce section out of your orifices, son!” 

Mike groans as the rest of The Party snickers and jokes at his expense. 

They all know the story. They were there—crowded together in the back of Eddie’s van trying to calm the cucumber victim down—when he picked up the little shits from Dustin’s house, because an ‘unspeakable emergency’ needed to be taken care of by a ‘responsible adult’ and Mike was hellbent on not telling Karen. 

She found out anyway, because the hospital needed to inform a legal guardian of the incident for billing purposes. 

“One, I didn’t knock anyone up. Two, no drugs were involved. And, three, if Mike gets a cucumber stuck up his ass again, that’s his own damn fault and I’m not playing ‘ER rescue mission’ to get him out of it like last time,” Eddie snacks on a piece of homemade challah and dips it in a vat of hummus. 

“I offered to drive,” Max says, like it was ever a feasible option. 

“Then we really would’ve needed an ambulance,” Lucas quips through a mouthful of vanilla pudding. 

“You’re going to need one if you keep up the attitude, Sinclair,” Max swats him like a mosquito. 

“Quit it! You sound like Steve. I don’t need two babysitters. One is more than enough.”

It was bound to come up sooner rather than later. Eddie just didn’t expect to feel so gutted at the sound of his name. 

“Steve’s cute,” Max is obviously trying to get a rise out of Lucas who has been her off and on boyfriend for the past six months—currently off.  

“Harrington ?” Dustin gawks in defense of his friend, “No way! Steve Harrington is the opposite of cute.” 

“I agree with Max. He’s handsome. I like his smile,” El rushes to pledge her allegiance, because Mike’s been a dick about making their relationship ‘official’ despite Eddie’s best efforts to counsel him on the matter. 

Karen clinks her fork against her wine glass and sloshes a bit onto her plate which she mutters, "Christ on a Cross" at, before addressing the table. 

“Ladies, that boy is way too old for you and trust me—you don’t want to get anywhere near that church his Daddy runs,” she eyes them with a warning and notably, doesn’t mention Chrissy’s name though it sits between them like an elephant, “and, gentlemen,” she glares through the dramatic lens of false eyelashes and fire engine red lipstick, “treat your ladies with respect, or they might just leave you for the sexy plumber with a Brooklyn accent.” 

“What the shit, Mom? Did you have to go there?” Mike again slams his head into the safe haven of his elbows. 

“I’m teaching you all an important lesson, Michael,” he hates when she uses his full name, “No son of mine is going to be a lousy ass cheater and that includes my adopted sons. Watch it,” she finishes her glass of wine. 

Karen, of course, is referencing the end of her own marriage. 

Ted was out of town on business. Mike clogged the toilet. Nancy called a random plumber from the Yellow Pages and, by the time Ted arrived home, Karen had his stuff all boxed up and put out on the lawn. 

Which, really, Ted should have seen coming, since he’d been cheating on Karen with his executive assistant for the better part of a year. 

“Now, go play downstairs. I need to have an adults only conversation with Eddie,” Karen throws a piece of challah at Mike’s head as the kids get up in a flurry to clean their plates and disappear down to the basement, “and make sure to include Holly!” she calls after them, “I don’t want her getting left out! Assholes don’t get into Heaven!” 

“I thought Jews didn’t believe in Heaven?” Will asks as he passes the table; also having grown up Jewish. 

“We don’t, sugar, but Mike doesn’t know that. I’ve been borrowing that one from the Christians since he was little to scare him into behaving.” 

“Got it!” Will scurries after his friends, yelling, “Mike—we have to get into Heaven! Go find Holly for game night!”

Karen swivels around in her chair. Passes Eddie a cigarette after lighting her own. The kids' voices can be heard faintly roaring with laughter and ill timed jokes. Dustin and Lucas are arguing about which movie they want to watch later on in the evening and everything should feel perfectly fine. 

This is his home away from home. This is his family, for better or worse. Chosen, instead of given to him by blood. The Wheelers, Mike’s misfit friends, and Uncle Wayne. 

“Okay. What gives? You’ve been pouting since you got here. Don’t make me pull teeth. I’m your mother—I know when something’s bothering one of my babies,” she cups his face and blows smoke over her left shoulder. 

Eddie wishes he could tell her the truth, but that would involve discussing how Steve ended up on his couch in the first place and that’s not a conversation he’s willing to delve into at the moment. 

Especially not when it makes him sound like a total perv and weirdo—which, maybe he is. 

He never claimed to be an angel. That said, confessing one’s sins to their maker—aka, Karen, who basically raised him alongside Wayne—isn’t always easy. 

“It’s Chrissy shit,” he takes a long drag off his cigarette and coughs to give himself time to think about what he wants to say next, “Someone asked me about her the other day.” 

Karen wears a strong poker face, but there’s a gleam in her eyes that conveys how she really feels—devastated, heartbroken, still just as shocked and confused as the day it happened. 

“Were they asking about your involvement with the trial?” 

She navigates carefully. 

“No,” Eddie says solemnly; playing with his rings to process the rigid anxiety paralyzing his body, “They wanted to know if I ever dated her. If she was my girlfriend,” Karen inhales sharply, “I freaked out. I started panicking. Y’know. It was an innocent question—I don’t think the person meant to hurt me, but—”

He trails off. 

Steve’s perplexed expression is taxidermied inside his brain. Haunts him like a ghost. Frozen and stuck in subspace as Eddie pushed him out the door with little purpose, explanation, or formality.

He couldn’t stand it. 

He couldn’t allow Steve to witness him at his worst. They hardly knew each other—mere acquaintances who stumbled upon each other at the wrong place and time. 

“Baby dove,” Karen stills his hands with hers across the table and leads him through a few deep breaths, “Grief takes time. You have nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“I was cruel. I shouldn’t have been so cruel.” 

She lowers her voice conspiratorially and squeezes. 

“Have you ever heard of second chances?” 

❋

Steve goes back to Eddie’s trailer. 

He waits four days. It almost kills him. He’s a nervous wreck. Impatient. Snaps at his parents. Gets the belt across his thighs. Presses on the resulting bruises when he’s alone, because if he can’t touch himself where he wants to—where he wants Eddie to—then this will have to do. 

Steve thinks of Eddie when his father hits him. 

While the leather stings his tender skin. 

Thinks of Eddie’s sharp teeth and the bite marks they’d leave behind. Imagines Eddie holding him down for punishment and whispering that idyllic phrase—good boy—into his reddening ears. 

How much more beautiful that would be than his torturous reality. 

The Devil has taken over—that’s why Steve wants these things. 

That’s why he craves destruction and casual massacre. His blood on another man’s teeth like a sugar coated delicacy. To be won at the fair, savored, and exuberant under the twinkling ferris wheel lights. 

The Devil’s name is Eddie Munson and his hands were crafted in Heaven. 

The Devil owns his body and Steve’s hopes to perform exorcism via method of dedicated prayer is proving futile. Virtually useless as the arousing virus continues to swell between his legs. Thick and pulsating with a pain unlike any other. 

Erection; that’s what the older Scouts used to call it. 

This disease. This incurable sickness. 

Steve’s pajama pants won’t stop tenting with an erection—stiff, hot, uncomfortable—whenever the intrusive thoughts win and he envisions the lurid details of a certain man’s cocky attitude. 

He knows what happens if he touches himself down there. Below the starched cotton of his plain white briefs. Through the thicket of soft brown hair. 

He knows it’s an agreement to walk with Satan. 

To join him like a thief in the night, raping and pillaging his own innocence. Purity forgotten under the impulse to stroke and burn. 

His parents sat him down the day he turned twelve. Told him that his body would change and that there would be temptations to touch and that he must fight against them or there would be serious consequences like eternal damnation and a one way ticket to Hell:

“When you marry, you will consummate the holy union with your wife. Only then, once you’ve been properly wed in the church, should she touch you there—so you may impregnate her with children under His divine guidance and blessing.”

Steve remembers his father sitting tall at the kitchen table; remembers how afraid he was to do wrong in front of the most devout man in town. 

Remembers thinking about getting his future wife pregnant and vomiting birthday sprinkles into the sink. Not understanding the connection at the time. Reciting psalms as the paddle came down on his backside and his father counted to twenty. Starting from the top whenever Steve faltered. 

Bile still around his mouth from retching out the secrets he couldn’t admit to himself. 

Secrets he was able to keep until he wandered into the woods by fate or chance. 

❋

It’s a smoother trip, this time. 

There’s no hefty wagon to haul with him. No popcorn to sell or samples to pass out in tiny paper cups. No fake smile to employ for prospective buyers. No volcanic blisters on his heels to slow his pace. 

Steve drives which alleviates the potential for heatstroke and exhaustion. Freshly showered and clean and smelling far less like B.O. A spritz of his dad’s cologne on his collarbones. 

He hopes Eddie will notice the difference—the efforts he’s made to be presentable. 

Steve tells his parents he’s attending a last minute Scout meeting. Fabricates a story about Hopper coming down with a nasty cold and needing to fill in as ‘Acting Scoutmaster’ for the better part of the afternoon. 

They don’t question the legitimacy of his claims. His mother keeps her eyes on the stew she’s preparing and his father doesn’t look up from the local paper. Steve’s not the type to sneak out, deceive, or get involved with the ‘wrong’ crowd. 

He’s a God fearing boy from a God fearing family. He knows the rules and follows them in a straight, perfect line. There’s no reason for his parents to assume he’s going to fail them now. 

Little do they know…

Steve promises to be back before dinner. The guilt makes him nauseous. He’s never done anything like this. 

Steve wears his uniform. 

Partly, because it’s much more convincing if he’s allegedly headed to the campsite for official business—dressing to code is mandated for all Scouts, but especially those in leadership roles, like Steve. 

Mostly, because Eddie complimented his uniform—or at least, he thinks he did, he’d called it ‘slutty’—and glued his eyes to Steve’s khaki shorts like they were made of designer silk. Something to be coveted. 

Eddie told him not to come back. 

Eddie told him to stay out of trouble and this is the very definition of it. 

When Steve pulls up outside his place and turns the key to remove it from the ignition, he’s taking out the trash on the side of the trailer. Where weeds grow in dying patches as if the sheer proximity to the home of unapologetic sin is killing them. Spoiled rotten by Eddie’s shameless irreverence. 

His curls are piled in a messy bun; a few hanging loose around the tops of his cheekbones. Tied up like a ballerina that woke up late for practice and didn’t have time to bother with the formalities of hairspray and intricate bobby pins. 

In threadbare sweatpants and a white tank top—that’s incredibly see through in the sun—Eddie appears relaxed. Casual if not a bit downtrodden. Lacking the telltale arrogance that usually trails him like big city smog. 

Steve tries not to look at Eddie’s nipples, but they’re pierced with silver barbells that beg for attention and naturally, he’s curious—

He wonders if it hurts to have fabric brushing against them. If it makes him shiver and whine like Steve sometimes does when he soaps up his chest in the shower. He wonders where one would even go to get a thing like that done. Why it would be necessary. 

Eddie’s halfway up the stairs to the front door when Steve staggers back to life, jumps out of the car, and calls his name. 

No turning back now. 

Shielding his eyes with one hand and pinching a cigarette between two fingers of the other, Eddie turns to face the guest he didn’t invite. Impossible to read. Stoic as a statue. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” he leans against the railing of the porch stairs, “I thought you were an undercover cop.” 

Steve doesn’t ask why an undercover cop would have any interest in staking out Eddie’s trailer, but it definitely comes to mind. 

“Doesn’t look like it. You hardly flinched.”

He wanders over to stand in front of him—leaving several feet between them, because if he stands any closer he fears he’ll fall under that hazy spell again. The one that made his head feel full of cotton and his body obey Eddie’s every command. 

The one that made him ache for Eddie to claim him as his good boy.

“What are you doing here, Harrington?” His name is spoken like an insult, “Come back to save my soul? I told you to stay away, didn’t I?” 

A muscle in Eddie’s jaw twitches. He sucks in smoke and blows a cloud of it into Steve’s face as if he’s about to perform a vanishing act. 

It’s mean. It’s a trick a bully would pull. 

Steve likes it. 

Steve leans into it—lets the smoke fill his nose and tickle his lungs. Sees through the facade. Opens his eyes and Eddie’s still standing there. Pissed off. Hip cocked to the side. Nails chipping black. 

“Kinda rude to blow me off like that. Don’t y’think?”

 Steve impersonates Eddie; reckoning back to their last meeting when the roles had been reversed. 

There’s a curious smile on Eddie’s face. It’s subtle, but it’s something. 

It’s an in. 

“Well played. I’ll give you that,” there’s a distracted sense to the way he says it; like Steve’s an out of focus figure on his list of priorities, “you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here, though.” 

“You never asked me the third question,” Steve kicks a rock with his shoe and lies through his teeth, “I was on my way home from a Scouts thing and thought I’d stop by.” 

“I gave you the money, Harrington. You got what you came for. I’m not really in the mood to fuck around right now,” he frowns, “I’ve got shit to do.” 

“I won’t bother you for long. Give me five minutes, ask me the question—I’ll answer, and then, I’ll be out of your hair!” 

“My end of the deal’s been taken care of.”

He stubbornly shakes his head at the ground causing a couple more curls to come loose and Steve’s automatically compelled by the trepidatious desire to tuck the orphaned strands behind his pierced ear. 

“Sure—"

The particular angle of the sun, at this hour, overlaps their shadows in the dirt—like the scene before a shootout in an old western movie. Tension at its peak. Laced with romantic violence and concluding with a bullet lodged in the antagonist’s heart. 

“—but, you didn’t. Fair is fair. Three questions for three-hundred-and-seventy-five dollars. I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking what I didn’t rightfully earn. That’s not how my parents raised me. It would be a—a sin.” 

Eddie drags his free hand over his face and Steve notices black makeup ringing his eyes.

 It’s smudged out. Smoky like the dying embers of a late night campfire. Like the campfires his troops will get to have at Philmont Ranch thanks to the Devil, himself. 

An homage to his morosity. Eddie exudes messy elegance, an undead beauty, and muted gore. 

He’d fit right in at a cemetery. 

Boys aren’t supposed to wear makeup. 

Boys aren’t supposed to do any of the things Eddie Munson does, but as he’d said, days ago, he’s ‘yet to be struck down.’

“This really isn’t the place for someone like you,” he raps his knuckles against the railing as a scrappy dog howls in the distance, “I’m not good company to keep.”

“What’s that mean—someone like me ?” Steve implores, feeling a bit silly in the uniform he’d worn just to impress someone who doesn’t look all that impressed or interested in the slightest. 

“You know exactly what it means,” Eddie impolitely spits phlegm over the porch and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth while maintaining stringent eye contact, “You’re the Pastor’s son. You’re a fucking prude. You’re waiting for marriage, sweetheart. You’re the little Prince of Hawkins, Indiana,” Steve’s khakis fit tighter as Eddie continues—reacting too easily to the name calling which doesn’t make a lick of sense, “People like you and I don’t stay friends for long.”

“But, you said you needed a friend—” Steve tries to climb the stairs to reach him; to grab his hand and draw a line of connection. To make nice and play. 

“I changed my mind,” Eddie puts his hands up to form an imaginary barrier and Steve wonders if he’d actually shove him if he stepped any closer, but he keeps his feet planted—too afraid to find out, “so, you can quit throwing yourself a pity party and move along to the next victim.” 

It’s eating him alive. 

Steve has to find out what would have happened had he not brought up Chrissy Cunningham and the rumors that used to swirl around her name and Eddie’s or he’ll never get a normal night of sleep, again. 

“Question number three. What was it? What were you going to ask me? You don’t have to be my friend, but can’t you give me that?” 

“Steve—I’m not—I’m not doing this, man. I’m not. I don’t even remember—” 

“No, Eddie! You do remember! I know you do! You just don’t want to ask me, because I said her name,” he doesn’t dare make the same mistake twice, “and I don’t know what happened between you two, but—”

Eddie straightens, stalks up the last step and tightens a fist at his side. Cigarette burning into nothing but a dead end in his opposite hand. 

For a half second, Steve thinks he’s going to punch him. 

“I said I was sorry and I am, Eddie! I wasn’t thinking. My head was all fuzzy and weird from the massage—I–I can’t explain it—”

Upon mention of the massage, Eddie’s face crumbles, softens, and it’s evident in the crease between his brows that there’s something he wants to say, but can’t quite find the words for. Unable to articulate the thing decomposing inside of him before it’s a lost cause. Swallowed up by ash and dust and impending moonlight. 

“I don’t want to be your enemy,” Steve pleads in an attempt to remedy the damage he’s done. 

“You’re not my enemy, Steve,” Eddie says as the door creaks open; a deep sorrow emanates from him as he tosses Steve to the wind and her unlikely currents, “but, I’m asking you to let me play the good guy for once.” 

For the second time that week, Eddie’s door slams shut. 

❋

Eddie breaks his own rule, which is just about some of the dumbest shit he’s ever done. 

Because, like, he knows better than to think he can simply waltz on into Steve Harrington’s stomping grounds without reinstating his perverted fascination to the max. 

He absolutely knows better than to agree to be Nancy’s plus one to Mike’s Star Scout ceremony, which Steve is not only in attendance for, but stands center stage for the entire duration of—helping pass out merit badges and tediously relighting the seven candles that represent truth and knowledge and honor and other useless bullshit that Eddie’s not paying one iota of attention to. 

It’s been half a month of, essentially, edging himself to the point of near tears over his sick daydreams—most of which involve permanently staining a cute pair of khaki shorts with two or three loads of hot cum. 

The modest amphitheater is filled by parents dressed in formal attire snapping blurry photos for their scrapbooks, a few screaming babies who play siblings to a handful of Scouts, and friends who somehow had nothing better to do than watch Jim Hopper lead a cult-like initiation process on a Saturday morning. 

Eddie’s hungover, half-asleep, and, wearing a pair of sunglasses that really shouldn't have ever left that drawer in the very back of his closet, but he was desperate. They’re obnoxiously oversized and pinch his temples like a bitch, but it’s worth it to deal with the massive headache that's currently plaguing him. 

“You look like such a dick,” she said to him when she picked him up with coffee and egg sandwiches from their favorite deli an hour earlier. 

“I am a dick, Nance,” he kissed the top of her head, murmured a ‘thank you,’ and through a mouthful of sandwich said, “Mike better pay me for waking up at the asscrack of dawn for this. I expect free popcorn for life.” 

He left out the fact that he already acquired enough Scout popcorn to last a lifetime or two, but Nancy really doesn’t need to know the details on that one. 

Popping a boner before lunch in a room full of WASPy elitists feels remotely illegal. 

And, with the Chief of Police, valiantly leading the whole shebang—in addition to being sandwiched between his best friend/sister and adoptive mother/guardian angel—Eddie would literally never live it down if he got ‘cuffed for wanting to fuck one of Jesus’ disciples and being stupidly obvious about it. 

His caveman brain simply cannot be in charge right now or he’ll die of embarrassment. 

Too late, Nancy’s elbowing him in the side. 

“Ow.”

“Why are you being weird?” she says through a tight smile, spoken out of the side of her mouth. 

“Huh—what—I’m not being weird,” and then to drive it home with all the emotional intelligence and maturity of the children on stage, “You’re being weird, weirdo.” 

“Eds, you’re, like, blushing and you’ve been antsy since we got here.” 

“Have you ever considered that maybe—”

It’s no use defending himself, because Jim Hopper is signaling for Steve to pin the Star Scout rank badge onto Mike’s merit stash and Karen is holding up her homemade sign—‘Proud Mom of a Hawkins Star Scout’—sucking all the attention in the room towards Steve Harrington and his stupid coif. 

Nancy groans and stands up with her polaroid camera to capture the big moment, whispering to Eddie, “We aren’t finished with this conversation, FYI.” 

“Shh. I’m trying to focus,” Eddie pushes the sunglasses up his nose dramatically and points to the stage. 

“We are honored to present Michael R. Wheeler with his Star badge,” Hopper booms over the mic, “By accepting the rank of Star Scout, you are officially taking on more responsibilities to this troop and its many successes. As a Star Scout, you’ll be looked upon as a role model for younger Scouts—a difficult role, but an incredibly important one—”

Karen’s voice in his ear makes him almost jump out of his skin and sprint off into the surrounding woods. 

“He’s kinda hot, isn’t he?” 

Oh, no.

No. No. No. 

“Notmytype,” Eddie blurts out while his heart rate skyrockets. 

She totally caught him openly staring at Steve’s bulge. 

Karen, his adoptive mother, caught him being a creepy fucking weirdo and it’s written all over his face. 

She can always read him, he should have known she’d catch on. He’s wearing sunglasses for a reason—and not just because he’s hungover—but now his cover’s been blown and she’s never gonna let a freak like him come over for Shabbat dinner, again, which fucking sucks because there’s, like, a whopping total of three Jewish families in Hawkins and his is one of them and—

“I’m sorry,” he tacks on as an afterthought as if it’s going to save him from the consequences of his disgusting actions. 

Yeah, the kid’s legal, but, for fuck’s sake, he’s only eighteen. 

Freshly eighteen and—those shorts of his have definitely shrunken in the wash. Was his dick that big the last time Eddie saw him? He looks good. The veins in his hands are so pretty and his eyes are practically sparkling. Look at that cute little purity ring, as if that would stop Eddie from railing him against a tree outside while he prayed for forgiveness—

Karen and Nancy sit back down as the final Scout gets initiated into the fold and Steve pats him on the shoulder. 

“It makes sense you’re not attracted to him,” Karen claps absentmindedly, “He’s way too old for you. Now, me, on the other hand, I love that whole rugged thing he’s got going on—looks like he could kill a bear with one punch. Ted had no paternal instincts, whatsoever. When our house got burglarized, it was up to me and my garden shears to save us—fuckin’ moron.” 

Too old for him? In what world is Steve Harrington too old for him? And, now, Karen’s interested—

“Gross, Mom. Hopper’s literally dating Joyce and she’s your best friend,” Nancy clears up the confusion, leaning over to snap her fingers in her mom’s face, “Stop eye fucking him—I’ll throw up.” 

The dominoes keep tipping and Eddie can hardly keep up. 

His head’s screwed on backwards and, for someone who normally thrives on being the center of attention, today he wants nothing more than to shrink down to microscopic levels and disappear into the grass. Hidden amongst parasites, amoebas, and the like. 

Steve lines the Scouts up for a celebratory salute and catches Eddie’s gaze across the room as he shuffles the kids into place. Will’s laughing about something Lucas said and Dustin can’t seem to figure out how to knot his red neckerchief. 

There’s no way Eddie can be normal about him. 

There’s no way Eddie can suppress the arousal sending electric shocks to his twitching cock. 

Steve’s eyes are hazel. Accentuated by a set of lashes that flutter delicately like gossamer tulle in the breeze. There’s desire in them, petulant need. 

Eddie yearns to wrap a hand around his throat, to watch those eyes widen with betrayal of innocence, to meanly squeeze the length of his shaft through his khakis. Ruin him for anyone else.

But, then, he thinks about Chrissy and the fact that she’d still be alive if she’d never gotten involved with him and Nancy—

They were supposed to go to San Francisco in a magic school bus. 

They were supposed to set her free. 

She was supposed to live forever or as long as mortality allowed. 

She wasn’t supposed to die before the age of twenty. That’s for sure. 

So, as much as Eddie wants Steve, he can’t be selfish. 

He can’t let that happen again—be the cause of it. 

“Joyce says Jim’s a real tiger in bed,” Karen taps him on the shoulder, makes a claw with her hand, and he stifles a choked sound into his elbow. 

“I’m going to have Eddie take me out back and shoot me, but it was nice knowing you!” Nancy gestures with an imaginary gun to her head as the ceremony wraps up and a final applause is carried out by the audience. 

Steve’s watching him. Steve doesn’t understand. Steve thinks Eddie’s an asshole who likes to play with pretty boys in his free time and, while that’s true, there’s more to the story. 

He’s a Grade A idiot for agreeing to come to this. Nancy should take him out back with the gun. 

She’s always been the better shot anyway. 

❋

If God’s out there, then he’s clearly got a serious bone to pick with Eddie Munson. 

There’s no good reason why a snot-nosed group of dorky fourteen and fifteen year-olds should require a post-Star Scout ceremony brunch in Eddie’s humble opinion, but the amphitheater patio appears to think otherwise. 

So, this is where my popcorn money went. Cool. Fucking fantastic. 

He’s not that hungry, but the compulsive urge not to walk around empty handed at a social event is rather high due to his inability to be around Steve Harrington without spontaneously combusting. 

His internal monologue, as he takes stress driven bites of fruit salad and finger foods, is something along the lines of: 

Fuck me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m so royally fucked. Kill me. Don’t get a boner in front of all of these people. Shut the fuck. Don’t be a creep, Munson. Oh my God. I’m so dead. Fuckkkk. 

He stands on the outskirts. Half listening as Nancy complains about her co-worker who won’t stop leaving rotten egg salad sandwiches in the break room fridge. 

Eddie goes through the motions; smiling, nodding, copycating phrases to make it seems like he has any idea what’s going on. 

“—and then, Candice, my boss—you remember Candice, right? Red hair, squeaky voice?” Nancy tugs on his sleeve, “Earth to Eddie Munson, are you listening?” 

“Candice,” he barely saves his own ass, “She’s—your boss. I—yeah—I remember.” 

“Are you on drugs?” 

“No. Are you?” 

“Don’t play games with me, Eddie.” 

Dustin Henderson bulldozes into him and spills punch down his jeans which has the unfortunate effect of making it look like Eddie’s pissed himself. 

“Shit! Sorry, man,” he clumsily stumbles, “Are those expensive?” 

“No, they’re not, Henderson,” Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose while Nancy laughs hysterically, “How may I help you?” 

Dustin’s rosy cheeks are covered in cookie crumbs and pizza sauce. There’s a bouncing excitement to him like he’s about to announce a lottery win. 

“I want you to meet Steve! He’s the Assistant Scoutmaster who pinned our new badges on,” Dustin proudly displays his with a puffed out chest, “Pretty neat, if I do say so myself.” 

Okay, listen. 

Eddie’s a decent actor, but he’s certainly not the type of guy Hollywood execs would be dying to cast in a feature film. 

Though, years of swindling and dealing for Rick have given him the practical skill of bullshitting his way out of anything and putting on a damn good poker face. 

No pressure. 

He just has to use those skills to pull off the performance of a lifetime. 

“Yeah. Sure—sounds cool. Which one is he?” Eddie wonders if the assortment of parents would find him smoking a nervous cigarette offensive; probably . 

“Dude,” Dustin looks at him funny, “he’s the guy that wasn’t Hopper. Literally the only other adult up there.” 

“Mmm. Didn’t notice him, sorry. Guess he blended in with the rest of you rugrats.” 

Parents mingle around them. Chatting amongst themselves about the amazing accomplishment of their little nature darlings. The reception may be outside, but Eddie’s feeling immensely claustrophobic. 

“Whatever. Eddie was hardly alive when I picked him up this morning. He’s not really a morning person,” Nancy comments and Eddie could kiss her for covering for him, “Lead the way, Dustin. Let’s meet this Scoutmaster Mike won’t shut the fuck up about.” 

Dustin grabs each of them by the hand and drags Eddie to sudden death. 

“By the way, Nancy,” he says over his shoulder, “Steve’s Assistant Scoutmaster. There’s a huge difference.” 

Eddie bites his tongue. 

❋

When Eddie walks over with his arm around Mike Wheeler’s older sister, Steve panics. Tosses his full plate of food into the trash and readies to excuse himself to go to the bathroom. 

It doesn’t work. 

“Wait! Steve!” Henderson calls after him, waving his arms unnecessarily—he’s mere feet away from the table Steve’s been chatting at with the rest of his troops, “Hold on! I want to introduce you to my friends!” 

Hmm. Maybe he isn’t so lame for hanging out with fourteen year-olds all the time if Eddie apparently does it too—apparently with the same fourteen year-olds which makes this whole thing even weirder. 

Eddie’s standoffish, wearing giant sunglasses, and visibly tense when Steve turns to greet him. In place of the silver hoop is a silver snake that dangles from his ear. Creator of original sin. 

Mike’s sister leans into his side and rests her head on his shoulder like they’re an old married couple. Tired and bored of the day. 

It makes Steve see red. 

“Hi,” he manages a tight smile, “I’m Steve Harrington—the troop's Assistant Scoutmaster. Nice to meet you and thanks for coming to the ceremony. Always nice for the Scouts to have family and friends in the audience on their big day.” 

Dustin pulls Eddie forward and almost sends him flying into Steve’s chest. 

“This is Eddie and this is Mike’s sister, Nancy!” He introduces the two enthusiastically. 

“Great,” Steve drums his knuckles on the back of his chair, “It’s a—it’s a real pleasure to meet you both.” 

In actuality, he’d like to throw Eddie into the mud and demand answers, but Steve’s pious morality has a tight hold around his neck for the moment. 

“I assure you,” Eddie shakes free of Dustin’s grip to outstretch his hand, ripping the sunglasses down so there's nothing obstructing Steve’s view when he winks, “the pleasure is all mine, Sam.” 

Wow. Eddie can’t even be bothered to remember his first name. Awesome. 

“Sam?” Nancy remarks, “You already forgot his name? It’s Steve. You sure a meteor didn’t fall out of the sky and give you permanent brain damage this morning?"

“Ah. Technicalities,” Eddie shrugs and keeps his gaze on Steve.

“Not really, asshole,” she snaps, “Anyways, Steve,” she stresses his name so Eddie won’t have as easy of a time ‘forgetting,’ “It’s nice to finally meet you, too. Mike talks about you like you hung the moon. You must be a pretty stand-up Assistant Scoutmaster.” 

Steve blushes. Posy pink like the budding petals that bloom around the lake. 

Not because he’s attracted to her, but because Eddie’s cologne is smacking him in the face and he can see down the front of his billowy shirt—which is more akin to a women’s blouse than a men’s button down and entirely sheer, and accepting compliments without feeling instant guilt for indulging in vanity is not his strong suit. 

“Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you from your brother—all good things,” he smiles tightly, envy still rimming his view despite how nice Nancy seems. 

“Speaking of Mike,” Dustin pipes up, scanning the patio area and darting his head back and forth like a chicken, “Where is he? He, like, totally disappeared after the ceremony ended.” 

“He’s with Will. He’s fine. They went over there,” she indicates in the general direction of the tree-line, “to go test out their model boats or something on the lake, but there’s no way I’m leaving my mom here with Chief Hopper to go looking for him. I don’t trust her to not to try to fuck him in the bathroom,” she slaps a hand over her mouth, “Sorry. Shit. Language. I—my bad—my mom’s, uh, kinda wild.” 

It’s then that Steve finds the golden excuse he’s been looking for to leave the premises. To get out of dodge as fast as possible and escape Eddie Munson’s looming presence. 

Steve turns on the charm and wrings sweat from his hands on the hem of his shirt, “No problem. I completely understand,” he really doesn’t, because his parents would never do a thing like that, “It’s my job as Assistant Scoutmaster to keep all the ducklings in a row, so I’ll go look for them and make sure they get back safely. Lovely to meet you, Nancy.” 

Eddie glares at him. Steve imagines talons popping out of his fists. He postures like a killer. There’s smeared gold beneath his eyes. Makeup or metamorphic tendencies—Steve’s unsure which. 

“I’ll join you,” Eddie says parasitically; attaching himself to Steve’s side and looping their arms together, “You wouldn’t believe the rumors I’ve heard about the monsters that hide in the woods.” 

Somehow, Steve thinks he just might. 

❋

“Did you pee your pants?” Steve asks childishly as Eddie pushes them past the tree-line. 

“Henderson spilled punch on me. Don’t be a dick. Keep it moving.” 

There’s lavender in the air. Birds nesting in the trees. A calm breeze relieving the sticky heat beneath his clothes. 

It soothes the ache in Eddie’s heart. Reminds him of Chrissy’s softness, the honeyed tone of her voice, the flowers she’d braid into his curls as they lounged on stolen rafts in the lake water. The cherry print bikini she wore the last time he saw her. The little trinkets they’d exchange in the treehouse before dinnertime. The light at the end of the tunnel. 

It’s this ethereal montage of her—filtering through his indecent behavior—that gives him reason not to bend Steve Harrington over the picnic bench like he so desperately wants to. 

“Are you going to explain what’s going on or are you going to keep up the guessing game until I’ve officially lost my mind?” Steve bitches. 

They’re at a crossroads of sorts. 

Not physically—physically they’re in the middle of the woods with the birds, bees, mice, and deer. 

But, when it comes to the nature of their relationship, Eddie realizes the ball is burning a hole in the center of his court and if he doesn’t do something about it he’ll have nothing left to stand on. Not a leg, not a shoe, not a square inch of flooring to support his questionable urges. Nothing. 

And, Steve Harrington? 

Well, Steve Harrington, is kind of—everything. 

“Eddie,” he complains; accompanied by a sniffle produced by spring allergies, “I’m not getting any younger.” 

Thank God, you’re not getting any younger, he thinks, or I’d be in solitary confinement for looking at you the way I do. 

Eddie doesn’t have a middle name. 

His parents didn’t think it was important enough to give him one. They also did a shit ton of drugs, got pregnant with him accidentally, and missed the abortion appointment, so, yeah, he wasn’t top of the priority list. 

But, if he did have a middle name it would be ‘impulsive,’ because not a day in his life has he really thought things through before throwing himself straight into the fire. 

Steve’s knee socks are pinching his pretty thighs and rolling down so frequently that he’s going to have a hunch in his spine by the time he’s Eddie’s age from bending over to roll them up over and over. 

The natural solution to this problem would be the addition of a garter belt to his little uniform, but Eddie really doesn’t see Steve Harrington being all that open to the prospect of men’s lingerie. 

“You’re killing me, Harrington.”

Steve’s ass is pointed to the air—perfect, round, looks like it would reverberate from a well placed slap. He’s tugging at the socks and grunting with frustration at how quickly they roll back down his thighs and Eddie is, well and truly, foaming at the mouth. 

“You’re the one who made me follow you into the middle of the woods after ignoring me for weeks and slamming the door in my face,” he dusts his hands off on his knees, “which, really,” Eddie’s wants to rip his heart out and kiss everything better—violent and crazed with a hint of wicked romance, “wasn’t cool, man. I tried to apologize and then, you asked me to let you ‘be the good guy’ and that’s funny—y’know, because—in my experience, ‘good guys’ don’t ban innocent people from their property without any explanation.” 

If he keeps grunting and groaning over those socks, this conversation isn’t going to go anywhere good. Truthfully, there might not be much talking going on at all if Steve Fucking Harrington doesn’t stop pushing his ass out like a dumb slut who has no idea what he’s doing to Eddie’s straining cock. It kicks up in his pants, begging to be touched. 

He’s beautiful. He’s so fucking beautiful and Eddie’s never been a strong man. 

“Son of a bitch—I can’t fucking focus. You and those stupid socks. Hands above your head,” Eddie can’t stand still, he’s fucking humming with agony and need and he’s supposed to be good—he’s supposed to leave the slutty Pastor’s son alone, “go stand in front of that tree,” he points to the one nearest to the bench, “and stop touching those fucking socks or this is gonna go downhill fast.” 

Steve scoffs, but doesn’t question the command. Well adapted to the idea of following orders blindly after years of praying to a God that may or may not be listening. 

He walks up to the intended pine tree, lines his spine up with the trunk, and rolls his hips back to meet the bark. Like a sultry nymph posed for an upcoming issue of Heavy Metal magazine. In Eddie’s hands, those pages would be crusted over with layers of cum and torturous fantasies. 

“You win, man,” Steve’s shirt isn’t tucked in like usual so it rucks up as he pins his fists above his head like the great martyr from the Holy book he lives by; exposing a soft stomach peppered with moles, delicious hair, and the waistband of his underwear, “What are you gonna do now? Tie me to the tree and cover me in honey for the bears to come eat? Is that how much you hate me? Certainly feels like it.” 

“Goddamnit! I don’t hate you, Steve!” Eddie pivots on his heel to face Steve and stalks towards the tree, closing the gap, blood running hot in his veins, “I’m trying to protect you! Don’t you get that? I’m trying not to be the monster I know I can be.” 

They’re practically nose to nose. 

Close enough that Eddie can feel and smell Steve’s minty breath on his cheek and it’s deja vu.

It’s his living room and the popcorn samples and Steve’s sweaty skin beneath his fingers; rubbing out knots and desire and everything Eddie couldn’t have. 

Time warps. Stands still, hurtles back, and speeds up to meet them in the jarring notion of the present, again. Bending, breaking, reinventing truth. 

“You followed me out here for a reason,” Steve sneers and bares his throat for the taking, “What. Do. You. Want.” 

“Wow, Church Mouse,” Eddie bends towards his ear, scenting his sweet musk, “Didn’t think Heaven’s favorite angel had it in him.”

“You’re not the only one with secrets.” 

“Oh, please. What are yours? Drinking communion wine when your Daddy’s not looking? Using the Lord’s name in vain?” 

It’s quiet.

A tree could fall and drown out the near silent void of their alternating breaths and conflicted heartbeats. Playing tug-of-war with each other’s emotions, because neither wants to be the first to give in—to accept the blame. 

“You forgot my name,” Steve’s voice cracks like a teenager in the peak of puberty. 

Developing, changing, constantly lost in the unfamiliarity of one’s own body. Unrecognizable in the mirror. 

“You really believe that?” 

Eddie gently presses the pads of two fingers under his chin and guides him back to sincere eye contact. 

Steve nods cautiously and Eddie’s heart stings like the fabled wasps that buzz around the lake in the summer. 

“Steve Harrington,” it’s a breathy release, “Your name’s the only thing I’ve been thinking about. Half the time, I don’t even remember my own, but I don’t fucking care, because yours is so much prettier. So much lovelier.” 

“Liar. You’re messing with me, again. Quit it and go home, already.” 

“Why would I lie about that? Why would I go out of my way, follow you into the middle of the woods, and make you stand against a tree if it wasn’t true?” Eddie spits harshly. 

“I–I don’t know.” 

“Maybe, I like you, Steve. Maybe, I’m mean to you, because I don’t know how to be nice without breaking my own heart. Maybe that’s the problem, here. Maybe, just maybe, that’s why I can’t leave you alone!” 

Steve’s chest rises and falls. His mouth hangs open. The disbelief that was painted there is absolved and evaporates into the thin breeze on the horizon. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to break your heart,” Steve’s expression is glazed over and glowing with red warmth. The sun lives inside him, “Just like my name better the way you say it.” 

“Steve Harrington,” Eddie pants against his neck, careful not to touch because he’s terrified of breaking him—fragile, pretty thing, “Steve. Steve. Steve.” 

“Yeah. Like that,” he shudders and when he jerks his head back to smack against the tree, Eddie’s lips accidentally brush skin. 

He waits for a noble bystander or undercover cop to take him away for the crime he’s committed. 

Like an art thief in the Louvre—touching what doesn’t belong to him, getting his dirty fingerprints in the acrylic paint and permanently altering a world renowned masterpiece. 

“I knew her,” Steve doesn’t elaborate on who the ‘her’ is, but Eddie instinctively knows—blonde waves, heart of gold, white sneakers stained by strawberry juice and bad decisions, “She—she wanted to leave the church. There were rumors,” Eddie doesn’t stop him even though it hurts, “rumors about her and another girl being in love the way a husband and wife are. I never believed them, but—but now I think I might.” 

“Steve—”

“Eddie. I want you to teach me.” 

“Teach you what, Steve?” 

“How to be a good boy for you,” he looks up towards his wrists that are bound by nothing but the need to behave for Eddie—freely submitting to a man he hardly knows, “How to get out of Hawkins alive like she dreamed of. Without you, I don’t stand a chance. Please? I can’t stay here forever. I can’t.” 

Eddie grimaces. Steve’s begging is lyrical, vigorous, and echoes percussive need. As difficult to ignore as a deafening orchestra. 

It’s the offer of a Pyrrhic victory, casualties unknown. An honest gamble. 

“Wanna be good for you, Eddie. Really wanna,” Steve whines and it’s his breaking point. 

Eddie moans in the back of his throat—an untoward symphony. Growls, claws at his jeans, conflates arousal and impulse. 

No matter how much he loves Chrissy Cunningham, no matter how much he wants to do better by her memory—and save himself from making the same careless mistakes, no matter how much the scent of lavender fuels his head with velveteen dreams—Steve Harrington’s jumping pulse and sanguine obedience is driving Eddie off a steep, winding cliff and there’s nothing he can do, but relinquish himself to freefall. 

“Answer this for me—the third question. Fair’s fair,” and, this is the road to ruin, “Why didn’t you leave, Church Mouse? That day. I was right there by the picnic table and Paul was sucking me off. Why’d you stick around if everything I am goes against everything you are? Why watch?” 

Steve blinks in slow motion. Licks over his bubblegum lips. Gasps this short, sweet thing that could kill a man quicker than a bullet to the heart. Could obliterate a legion of trained soldiers within mere moments. 

This boy is lethal. 

“Because, I’m sick like you,” he swallows softly like the dulcet angel he is, but Eddie’s learning—finally starting to understand—there are layers, “Like Chrissy and the girl she loved.” 

“You’re nothing like me.” 

Unconvincingly, Eddie attempts to be the antichrist, the nemesis, the frontman of the devil’s hegemony. Bares his teeth, rattles the cage, tries to instill a fear wretched enough that Steve will run and hide and decide this isn’t at all what he thought it was. 

But, Eddie Munson has always been a penumbra of his own creation. 

A lunar eclipse—the edge of the Earth’s shadow; light and dark at the same time. 

For what Steve lacks in worldly experience, he makes up for in persuasion. 

“That’s not true.” 

Steve can’t use his hands, but he has teeth. 

Pearly white like the gates to Heaven and when he bites down on the hinge of Eddie’s jaw; Eddie knows he’s wild too. 

Wild like the three of them used to be. 

Dancing, frolicking, sharing loot, protecting, mending wounds. 

Licking sweat and blood and tears and nightmares. 

Seeking shade beside the bramble bushes and flicking thorns at those who dared try to tear them apart. Sticky fingers looped together to forge unrealized promises. 

“Do you believe me, now?” 

Steve illustrates a bloody line across Eddie’s cheek to the corner of his lip with the tip of his pinky. Face tucked into his shoulder. 

It’s a mean bite. Ivory pinpricks subduing doubt the moment they break skin. The kind a mother wolf enacts on her worst enemies. Meant to kill and mark and defend territory. Protect the pack at all costs. 

Eddie’s natural inclination is to hit him or choke him out for misbehaving, for acting like an animal, but he can’t. 

Instead, he trembles, off balance, and lost in a daze. Aware, distantly, that this may be a dream within a dream. Nothing feels real. 

When Steve draws back, there’s blood on his tongue. 

Eddie’s face throbs where a trickle of red rains down to stain his chest and shirt. 

“You wanna know why I stayed? Why I didn’t sound the alarm back at camp? I liked watching you, Eddie. I liked seeing you get mean. I liked the way it made me feel—I didn’t know I was capable of feeling so much, but now—now, I know.” 

Steve suckles at the wound with rounded lips like he’s licking up a cherry flavored lollipop at the candy store and Eddie presses a hand to the middle of his chest. Breaking the trance and returning to the vacant shell of his body. 

“Don’t—”

It’s the exact opposite of what he wants to say; ‘keep going,’ ‘let me make you mine,’ ‘I’ll ruin you if you let me.’ 

“What do you want to do to me, Eddie? What would you do if you found me out here, all alone in my uniform?” 

Steve rolls his hips forward and Eddie feels it. 

“You watched me. You could have watched Paul, but you kept looking at me. What did you want from me? What would you have done if Paul hadn’t been there?” 

The hard line of his dick stretches beneath thick khaki material. The perfect head of Steve’s untouched cock swelling in his shorts and pulsing against Eddie’s upper thigh. 

A shiver travels through his body and he loses control. Loses everything that’s kept him sane and unleashes pandemonium. Hairline trigger. 

“I would’ve taken this,” Eddie glides his fingers over the loop of Steve’s red neckerchief—tied expertly, because he’s been doing it for years,“and gagged you on it—would’ve shoved it into your bitchy mouth and kept you quiet so nobody could come rescue you. So no one could hear your pathetic screams.” 

Steve keens. Pure pleasure forcing his hips forward, but Eddie taps his cheek in warning. Lightly, curiously, but clearly deliberate in the message it carries. 

“If you’re gonna be my toy, you’re gonna have to learn how to play by my rules,” Eddie darkens his gaze and presses a hand to the side of Steve’s head on the tree bark, “If you cum, it’ll be from my words. Nothing else.” 

Steve nods. Eddie bleeds. Jaw dripping crimson onto his chest in a slowing stream like the pond behind Chrissy’s old house. 

There’s no way he’s getting that stain out of his shirt; not that he really wants to. He likes the thought of Steve’s impetuous violence sticking around. Imagines he might need it as a tangible reminder when he wakes up tomorrow and struggles to differentiate between reality and fantasy. 

“You wouldn’t stop there. I’ve seen you,” Steve whimsically compels him and Eddie’s cock might actually break the zipper of his jeans if he keeps up the innocent, lost little boy in the forest act, “You would’ve stuffed this in my mouth and then, what?” 

“I would’ve been selfish. I would’ve been mean,” Eddie gasps for oxygen, losing it too quickly in the mirage and Steve moans salaciously. 

“Yeah?” Steve’s confidence blossoms and it’s a gorgeous thing to watch, bottom lip chewed up and marred by the very idea of being touched and undone, “How mean?” 

“Oh, baby boy, my Little Lamb ,” Eddie itches to grab him by the throat and bite everywhere like a wayward demon—callous and demoralizing, “I would’ve teased you so bad. I would’ve whispered the filthiest things in your ear,” he brushes Steve’s hair back to show him, “I would’ve told you all about my plans to turn Pastor Harrington’s adored son into a needy, sloppy slut. ” 

“W-what else?” Steve’s glasses are foggy from the way he’s panting like a bitch in heat. 

“I would’ve made you take me with no prep, no warning,” Eddie moans disgustingly and drool comes out of his mouth at the end of it, but Steve doesn’t seem any less interested.

“I would’ve sliced open these little shorts with my pocket knife and stolen your tighty whities for later before fucking you like a whore and filling you up with my cum. I would’ve made you thank me for it. I would’ve stopped you up with a plug and sent you off to do all your dignified, Scout duties.”

Steve sobs beautifully as his eyes roll back in his head—overtaken by want.

“And, no one would’ve known,” Eddie cups his face delicately and rubs over his wet lips with his thumb, “No one would’ve known that you’d just finished taking rough cock from the freak in the woods. No one, but you and me, angel. Meanwhile, you’d be squelching and sticky and praying for forgiveness, but do you wanna know what the worst part is?” 

He uses his free hand to apply the lightest, faintest trail of pressure up and down Steve’s side—practically nonexistent touches to his stomach, chest, arms, and inner thighs. 

“What’s the worst part?” 

He slurs, quivering as Eddie torments him further, using the blunt edges of his nails to trace Steve’s collarbones. He licks the beaded sweat off his thumb and moans at the divine taste. Drunk and spinning. 

“The worst part is,” Eddie pulls him in by the belt loop and finalizes the torture with the simple tip of his ring finger skating over the stiff swell of Steve’s clothed cock, “You’d feel gross, corrupted, fucking tainted by my hands. It would keep you up at night—”

He speaks the last words against his mouth in complete mockery of the way Steve purses his ruddy lips to posture a kiss. Doesn’t give it to him. Refuses. 

“—you’d burn from the shame. You’d be eaten alive by the fact that it was me who did this to you. You wouldn’t even be able to look your Daddy in the eyes and yet—”

“And, yet?” Steve repeats, dumbly. 

Fucked out like he’s taken multiple rounds of Eddie’s cock and his hole is stretched wide and puffy from overuse. 

“And, yet, you’d still come knocking at my door begging me to use you however I want the very next day. You see? That’s the sad part, Church Mouse. You’d let it happen again and again and again until I’d broken you. All because nobody’s ever told a sweet thing like you what a good fucking boy you are, but I would. Oh god, baby, I would. ” 

Eddie drags the very tip of his tongue over Steve’s mouth and feels him melt into a puddle of golden ichor and degradation. 

Tears staining his sweat stained shirt as something deep within him dissolves, cracks open, and wreaks havoc on his soul. 

Abruptly, Steve sinks to his knees.

He shakes violently. Hands still clasped above his head as he whimpers, bucks his pretty hips, and releases a shriek that causes the birds to evacuate from the branches. 

“Holy fuck,” Eddie’s so stunned, he can’t even confront the urgency of his own cock’s need for release, “Go ahead, baby. Go ahead. It’s normal, honey—what you’re feeling. It’s healthy. You’re such a good boy. Perfect boy. Never met anyone so good. So beautiful like this—”

It’s no surprise when he slumps against the stump of the tree and sobs maddeningly as a damp patch spreads across the front of his shorts. 

“What’s—what’s happening to me, Eddie?” 

Steve seizes, groans, twitches through the aftershocks and splatters more cum along the inseam of the khaki. He’s drenched in it—the cum that Eddie coaxed out of him with gentle fingers and foul words. Hasn’t even seen him naked. Hasn’t even held his thick cock in his hands. 

“You’re okay, sweet boy. I’m here. I’m right here,” he kneels in front of him and rakes a hand through Steve’s soft brown hair, “You came, Little Lamb. That’s cum in your pants—the sticky, warm stuff. It means I made you feel good. It means your body likes those dirty words. Nothing to be ashamed of. You’re so good. So very good for me—” 

He babbles praise to try to neutralize the situation, because even Eddie Munson—heathen, devil, killer, criminal, liar, fox—isn’t prepared for the immaculate, religious experience—the fucking miracle—of making Steve Harrington cum for the first time in his eighteen years. 

It scares the shit out of him. 

“I can’t go home like this. Need you—need you to help me—”

And, it’s only the beginning.

Chapter Text

"Last year I abstained, this year I devour without guilt which is also an art…

Moon snakes, tongues of the dark speak like bones unlocking, leaves falling of a future you won’t believe in."

— You Are Happy (1974), Margaret Atwood 

"Have you found honey? Eat only enough for you, Lest you have more than your fill and vomit it."

— Proverbs 25:16

"At the outset, it is permitted to engage in sexual relations with a virgin on the Sabbath."

— Mishneh Torah, Sabbath 30:14

"‘Even a worm will turn’: an expression used to convey the message that even the meekest or most docile of creatures will retaliate or seek revenge if pushed too far."

— ‘Even a worm will turn,’ Wikipedia

Consubstantiation calls upon the divine. 

Steve Harrington is, notably, not divine, but he is determined to commune with those who are—

The moral. 

The just. 

The virtuous. 

His neighbors and ‘friends’ dressed in fine silks, button down linens, dry-cleaned slacks, and ridiculous floral hats placed beside them in the pews. 

On Sundays, he joins them to consume divinity in tiny neat parcels which cleanse sin from the inside out. Which are said to make one whole again, new, reborn. Forgiven. 

Steve follows the line forward—one member in a herd of merciful ducklings. Mindless and desperate to be told what to do, how to believe, why there are miracles and mysteries. 

He’s never understood, but he follows nonetheless. 

He’s never known how to phrase the questions that toil in the back of his brain and burn holes through his skull. Empty and loose, where anything could fall through. Where anyone could get lost in the confusion and slip through the cracks. 

It started out as a hairline fracture at an age in which he couldn’t yet tie his shoes by himself. Small. Imperceptible. Easy enough to hide his wandering eyes under the guise of a child’s short attention span. 

It’s been happening more and more lately. Each Sunday raises new doubts, new questions. The world out there is jumbled through the lens of stained glass, but Steve’s been venturing further. Getting braver. He’s seen things no one else can explain. 

For now, he follows and bends at the knee to pay his respects. He follows and tries to ignore the ache in his soul that protests against the nauseating idea that he contains an odious and unforgivable sin. One even Christ would deem too heinous, too damning. A one-way ticket to Hell. 

How is Steve supposed to take communion when such an ugly secret is stuck in his throat? Surely, his father will notice it when he sticks out his tongue to accept the body of Christ. Intruder. Liar. Traitor. 

‘Peace be with you’ is whispered to him over his shoulder in quick successive handshakes. Sweaty palmed and garish. It’s all for show, anyway. 

He’s starting to realize that, too. 

There’s irony in the shared sentiment. There’s a loss of sanity which builds and mutates as Steve shakes hands with the same hundred people he’s been shaking hands with since he was a small child and baby fat still clung to his cheeks. 

They can see through him. They know he’s sick. They can smell it on his skin. They’ll tear him limb from limb if given the chance. 

‘Peace be with you,’ he says the right thing while thinking the wrong one, ‘God bless you.’ 

His secrets make his stomach churn. Nauseated and disgusted with the enormity of his desire. With his inability to snap its neck—cut it off at the source. 

He thinks of the farm, again. 

He hates the farm. 

He hates what they do to the animals there; the lack of care—

‘Peace be with you,’ he says, again and again and again; until his voice starts to give out and go hoarse, ‘Peace be with you. Happy Sunday. God bless you and your family. Peace be—’ 

The women smile, nod, wave titillating hands with newborn babies perched upon their hips. Fulfilling God’s will to inherit the Earth with their ever constant creation of miniature disciples. Tin soldiers in a post-modern war. Fighting against blasphemy, exposed shoulders, and parties that last until the early hours of the morning—the important issues. 

The men lead, speak louder than they should in anticipation of Monday night football, and scold their daughters for skirts that ride up over their knees when they kneel to pray. 

Too scandalous. Too whorish. Condemnable. 

It’ll be a beating at home. A bloodbath. It’s for their own good. Lust kills. Worse than cigarettes and drunk driving and heart disease combined. The casualties begin at the age of ten or eleven and, from then on, it's a lazy, redundant crime—

Steve shudders. Traces the dangerous path and fights it. Tries to stay still. Tries not to squirm in his seat while the thoughts infect him. His collar is too tight. Palms leaving damp imprints on his slacks—indisputable proof for the coroner. 

He’s bored. He can’t avoid it. He can only fight it off for so long.

Temperature rising, cheeks ruddy, sweat sticky on the back of his neck. Knees exposed, lust, and a beating—his mind is a vicious, unrelenting tornado. Catches and destroys. There is no rebirth or salvation for people like him. No anointing of the sick. This illness is terminal. 

‘The body of Christ.’

Steve’s father displays the eucharist for the congregation to see, enchants the moment, and captures the attention of everyone in the audience except for Steve—his own son—because his head is elsewhere. Distracted. 

He’s living in a memory and has been since the day he happened upon the person who spread the disease to him. Didn’t even have to touch hands to get it in his system and now, he’s sick too. 

He’s thinking of Eddie Munson—

Eddie in a state of undress in the middle of the woods. Curls brushing past the midpoint of his spine like they aimed to meet the dirt and spread roots underground—build him a palace to rule and laugh and talk in that liquifying tone. Cool smile. Sharp grin. Cutting edge. Delicately encompassed by those poetic lines of black ink. Wearing rings that sting and leave behind little bite marks from the Devil. Blooming red reminders that he’s here to stay. He and Steve are bound at the center by the virus coursing through their blood. 

Steve’s stomach flips and there’s that newly familiar pull in his gut and the ensuing spread of warmth. His slacks suddenly fit tighter. The material stretches to accommodate what’s happening below his Sunday best. And all Steve can think to do is clutch his Bible in front of his zipper and say a silent Hail Mary while the miracle takes place upon the altar. 

It can’t happen again—not here. 

Not with his father solemnly praying over the Lord’s precious gifts. Consecrating and catching his gaze through the crowd like a warning. Not with the growing lump in his throat that seems like it can only be resolved by Eddie’s fingers splaying out around it. Squeezing and taunting and humiliating his contrition until it dissipates. Swallowed into the deep black of his eyes. The midnight haze. 

Venomous. 

Steve makes every conscious effort not to choke on his own spit. Not to bite off his lower lip in the midst of the choir’s screeching crescendo. They’re off-tune and stumbling through Latin. 

He’s sweaty and awkward and grasping at his tie, because the air is too thin, the incense are too strong, and he’s going to be dead on the floor in less than a minute if they don’t open a window. 

The panic rises so he shuts his eyes to avoid his father’s hateful glare. Pretends to be in prayer while his mind drifts. Attempting to calm his racing heart alongside the mortifying situation in his pants. He repeats the Hail Mary. Twists the purity ring on his finger to help himself concentrate. 

It’s no use—

Because, in an act of utter defiance, a phantom version of Eddie rips Steve from the pew and yanks him away from the present. Though, he’s not putting up much of a fight. He’s curious, needy, and ready to try his hand at new games.

In Steve’s wildest dreams, he and Eddie coil around each other, chase, and wrestle in the dirt. The air tickles his nose. Lavender grows all around his feet. Eddie dances and sways and reaches for Steve over and over again. Only ever brushing his fingertips, but somehow drawing him closer on each pass. 

In Steve’s wildest dreams, Eddie whistles the tune of the birds like he wrote it himself and, thus, knows it by heart. The animals flock to him—sparrows, bees, spiders, worms, foxes, rabbits, owls, deer. It’s as if Eddie sprouted from the soil like one of the old oak trees so they inherently trust him. 

Unfortunately, happy as Steve is in this land that transcends time and space—-reality isn’t content letting him stay in his delusions for very long. 

One of the docents taps Steve on the shoulder to let him know that he’s next in line. 

The woods become background noise. His father looks down at him in judgment like a mirror of the man on the cross. His father knows—can see it bubbling up beneath his humanity. His mouth twitches in dissatisfaction and Steve prepares to lose. 

He closes his eyes in front of his captive audience, whispers the words that were written thousands of years before, and opens his mouth for the moment of communion. To be saved. To be healed. To be forgiven. 

Steve receives the sacrament and pretends it’s going to work. Pretends it can slay the beast and leave him whole. Have his cake and eat it, too—lick the pretty mess off his frosting coated fingers. Sprinkle candied confetti over the carnage and, somehow, not dissolve into guilty ruin. 

When Steve’s father places it between his teeth, he stifles a scream. Quiets the addiction, the obsession, the infestation striking nutrient rich gold in the labyrinth of his fear. The bird song gets drowned out by the useless chamber choir. Clambering against his ribs to get free. Wings slapping hard enough to bruise. 

One startled heartbeat later and the blessed flesh makes contact with his tongue. Melts into a sticky, gummy regret. He adheres to the routine like he always has. Swallows a subsequent swig of burgundy wine, made almost black where it sloshes in the ornate chalice. 

Made for a King. 

The King of Kings. 

It's lukewarm and languid in his throat. Tastes bitter and bloodied and it vaguely chills him to think that every pair of lips in the congregation—youngest children and expectant mothers excluded—will press themselves along the seam. Never stopping to really consider the implications of such a ritual. The common thread woven between all of them. 

There’s a split second, fragmented into crooked shards, in which he considers the fact that the son of God is really and truly inside of him. Filling his soul. Turning him belly up and meek. Renouncing Satan. Finding the cracks in his tainted purity, in his poisoned humanity and trying to undo his mistakes. Time is running out. Time might not even exist. 

 He delivers himself back to the pew like a little lost boy separated from his mother at the convenience store. Reunited with the savior, creator, Hero. Eyes wide and empty. 

Cleansed, at last. 

If only, it wasn’t a lie. 

❋

His methodology is not traditional, nor righteous. Water—hot as fire and brimstone—heats his skin to nearly unbearable temperatures.

It’s the poor man’s sacrament. 

It’s a haphazard evangelical ritual. 

Steve doesn’t move. Refuses to run and duck and hide despite the fact that the small space has begun to overwhelm his body with steam and punishment. This is what he deserves. He repeats it over and over in his head like a fool’s mantra. Repetition breeds reality. Practice makes perfect. 

Let Hell become him. 

Let Hell feed into his veins like a saline bag. Drip, drip, drip. If he can’t wash it out, then it’s imperative he let it in. The inevitable inferno. The sinner’s paradise. 

He brought this upon himself.

It would be so easy to duck into the opposite corner. To avoid God’s wrath under the guise of chilled tile and stained grout. He envies it— the grout —gray, placid muck, totally unconscious to the karmic evils that lay between this world and the next. Immune to temptation and lust. 

He wishes he could evaporate, bury himself six feet under prematurely, or mount his buzzing limbs to the four posts of the cross where he would wait for the sun to set one last time. 

That’s all Steve would really need to go peacefully. Cotton candy clouds, cartoon colors, the same old story told day after day. To rise and fall and rise again . No worries. No fears. Fiercely constant until inevitable implosion. 

Steve isn’t as fortunate as the sun.

Doesn’t have her luck or tenacity or shameless light. 

Steve is catatonic. 

Steve is shivering despite the scorch of the shower. 

Steve is purposely ignoring the dried layer of sticky ‘cum’ —that’s what Eddie called it in the woods as he’d erupted into another universe of sensation and emotion—on his inner thighs and the way it’s mangled the soft tuft of hair beneath his belly. Crusted onto his skin. 

He shifts his focus to what he can handle without too much concern. Starting slow. Cautiously attentive to his arms, legs, and chest with the gentle lather of Eddie’s Irish Spring soap. His mother doesn’t buy that brand. It’s unfamiliar in Steve’s hands like everything else has been since he first met Eddie Munson, but he leans into the scent of bergamot and ripe citrus rather quickly. 

He’s afraid to touch too much or too low. 

He’s afraid that stuff will come leaking out of him again if he’s not entirely pragmatic about the process. 

Eddie barely laid a finger on him so there’s no telling what sweeping his own palms across bare skin will do. Fingers spread fully. Coming into direct contact with the parts of his body he was taught should only ever be touched by his wife in the interest of childbearing. 

There’s no way to avoid the consequences. It’s in him now. Steve has shed his morals in reptilian fashion and had them replaced by the tempting scales of Eden’s serpent. Shimmering green and wet beneath the cloak he wears of lifelong purity. 

What will they think? His family? His community? The Scouts? 

They’ll see him and run to the other side of the street. They’ll close their doors to him—slam them shut in his tear stained face. They’ll call him names, taunt him, banish him, cast stones at his feet in the center of town. They’ll poke and prod at his lesions and vomit up their disgust onto his clothes. 

Is this how Lucifer felt? 

Cast out of Heaven for his aberrant indignity. Spiraling into unknown depths with shame cementing the blackened wings to his back where Steve wears his scars. A tacky sort of glue—sticky and lethal dripping down to the insides of his naked thighs—from which he could not absolve himself. And, everybody knew, everybody watched his fall from grace. Labeled his expulsion as pure evil. The battle of two violent extremes. Permanently marked as a naysayer, wrongdoer, cursed one, a hoax. 

Just like Eddie Munson. 

How has Steve let himself become the thing he fears most? 

There’s a knock three times on the creaky bathroom door. Satan’s arrived early with plans to abduct Steve into the cruel night. Leave no trace. He’ll feed him to the wolves and the moon and the red foxes that hunt beneath the underbrush of the brambleberries. Wild little things that tear into flesh like it’s their God given right. 

“You alive in there, Scoutmaster or do I need to call the troops for backup?” 

Eddie’s voice rumbles through the room, bounces off the walls in a ruthless percussion, and tingles Steve’s spine in tiny electric shocks. 

Good boy, he hears instead, There’s my sweet lamb, open wide—

“I’m fine,” Steve grumbles, “Be out in a few! Don’t call anyone!” 

It’s not what he wants to say. 

It’s quite possibly the furthest thing from it. 

No.  

What he wants to say is: come in, teach me, show me, don’t leave me alone, touch me like that again so the bad thoughts stay away, make my skin burn better, brighter—

“Alright, Church Mouse. Nothing to be ashamed of,” Eddie snorts through the nickname and it floods Steve’s cheeks with a fresh fire that he can’t yet explain, “I’ve got urges, too. Lemme know if you need any, uh, reading material and don’t jerk your dick for too much longer or it might fall off!”

Steve wonders if that’s possible or if Eddie’s joking. It’s hard to tell with him. This man who laughs in the face of condemnation and rubs salt into wounds as a display of his gentle affection. Trying to understand him is like flipping a book upside down, tearing out the center, and, then, being asked to explain the plot.  

He’s a menacing riptide that will suck your soul out to sea where Steve is a stagnant pond—uninhabitable to most anything with a thinking brain. Only able to support the likes of simple amoebas, single celled organisms, and bumpy spined toads with a death wish.  

Perhaps, that’s the singular thing they have in common, Steve and Eddie, their tendency to rot flesh and hollow out wayward patrons. ‘Til the company they keep is reduced to fossilized failures and the words they spoke too soon. Graveyard of sunken remorse. An ending in which they drown chest to chest or hand in hand. Suffocating from the cemented weight of their conjoined sins. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

Steve jumps. Almost slips and cracks his head open. Stands there naked with his hand frozen where he was scrubbing under his armpits. The door between them makes it no less embarrassing. 

“Hey, uh, me again! Sorry to interrupt! Your dick’s not gonna fall off—I was only kidding. If that wasn’t, y’know, clear. Jerk it to your heart’s content, Harrington! Don’t let me stop you! My offer on the reading material still stands by the way! You’re missing out on some great issues of Heavy Metal!” 

Steve doesn’t know what Heavy Metal is. Nor, is he sure, he wants to know, because where Eddie is concerned things are never quite what they seem. And, practically speaking, reading in the shower doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. 

“Oh! Before I forget,” Eddie shouts, “if you blow your load in my shower and it clogs the drain, you owe me however much popcorn money it’ll take to fix it!” 

“Is that even possible?” Steve yells over the water, because he’s working off of a very limited framework. 

“I have no fucking clue, but just in case it is—I thought I’d better mention it! Have fun, but not too much fun without me!” 

Eddie raps his knuckles against the door once as a means of signaling his departure and Steve aches everywhere he shouldn’t. Between his legs, in the swell of his genitals, in the back of his throat like he needs to open it wide to accept a sudden gruff intrusion—as he saw Paul do, kneeling upon the gritty soil of the forest floor. 

Soap fails him. Slips from his fingertips and knicks itself on the edge of the tub. Another loss, another regret. Treason against his best intentions to follow the rules and behave. 

This is who he is, now. 

Everything he touches breaks . There is an incurable illness coagulating around his heart. Gangrene and weakening his organs to the stuff of meadow pansies and fragile dandelions. Whimsy snuffed out by heavy boots, chronicity, and silver tongued serpents feasting their jaws on innocent field mice.

It’s a slow, languid bend at the waist to grab the soap which feels wrongful and dirty and scarcely pleasant as the water drips down the curve of his backside. Steve leans into the accidental moment of targeted pressure against the place Eddie threatened to bully his way into.

He holds onto the wall with one hand as he begins to stand and keeps his legs spread. The spray of the water presses a curious button inside him as it trickles between his cheeks. The sensation is inviting, warm, and further stiffens his erection.

If Eddie’s hands had gone there, what would have happened? Could he cum from a thing like that? Is it even possible? 

A dictionary full of new words scatter across the barely lucid parts of his mind like a bag of Scrabble tiles. He can recall the terms, sees them in big blocky letters when he closes his eyes, and hears them illustriously repeated in Eddie’s distinctive purr. Blown into his red-tipped ears like curlicue smoke rings. Like the ones Eddie blew in his face when Steve showed up at the trailer to beg for the third question. 

The definitions are lost upon him— ‘slut,’ ‘whore,’ ‘plug,’ ‘cock,’ ‘ no prep,’ ‘Little Lamb.’ 

Foggy and abysmal as the marijuana Eddie employs to poison his lungs. Hazard to the general population and himself. 

Still, Steve’s desperate to understand . To see through the lens of terror and violence and stake his claim on the right to something more. Whatever that might be. 

He doesn’t deserve it. 

It’ll bring so much shame to his family name, but he can’t deny the fascination he has with Eddie and the way he wears blasphemy like a casual badge of honor. Like he’s proud of it. Like he earned it fair and square on his first day at a BSA meeting. That type of thing always made the rest of the boys jealous.

He needs to stop thinking about Eddie, but it's hard when he’s right outside the bathroom door. Which is why completing this task, cleansing himself literally and figuratively, proves difficult. Exceedingly so. Steve can’t scrub the dirt from his limbs without falling prey to the wormhole trap of his fantasies. Shredding his unstable beliefs into space junk and meteorite dust. Collateral damage swirling around him. 

Until all that’s left is Eddie Munson and the thought of his arms reaching around Steve’s middle to scrub teasingly at the hypersensitive tip of his— his —

Steve scrunches his nose up in agonized frustration and shivers despite the damning heat. He doesn’t remember the word Eddie used for it, but his hands tremble as he skates them over the angry looking thing hardening against his tummy and sighs out a shaky groan. Blisters at the inhuman sound that’s pulled from his pouting lips. Half-animal. 

“Eddie,” he whispers to the shadow monsters, Lucifer, and the bar of Irish Spring soap, “Please, Eddie. Please.” 

What he’s pleading for is right outside the door. Indescribable and fractured into moonlit beams that possess the power to make Steve feel utterly transparent. Stretched thin like a spider’s silk webs. No one’s ever really seen him. 

Not like Eddie. 

To get clean, Steve has to touch that sacred part of himself. He has to wrap a hand around the flushed pink length and spread the soap around. This is what he tells himself as his hips buck nervously into his shallow fist. It’s necessary. It’s practical. It’s absolving him of his recent transgressions. Cleansing. Purifying. Washing away the Devil—

“Eddie,” he whimpers, again. This time, he’s louder, more certain. Bullseye smack dab in the center of the board. It’s a word he’s beginning to comprehend. To grasp in his slippery fingers. This one, he knows—

Eddie (noun): origin of want, desire, curiosity, and truth . 

He’ll write it in fine print along the margins of his scouting handbook when he’s back home and out of this ridiculous mirage. 

In the meantime, Steve flexes his fingers around his erection and strokes past the lies he’s been fed. He’s not sure what he’s doing, but it feels good. So good. To touch and explore and trail his hands over velvety hard skin. Pretending the tepid grip doesn’t belong to him, but someone else entirely. Halo of curls, flashes of silver, smoke and mirrors, blue dusk incarnate. That wicked laugh in his ear telling him exactly what to do. 

Eddie made him cum with a singular touch over his shorts and Steve can’t help but wonder what magic he might work if given the chance to touch him all over. 

“Eddie, need you to make it better—need you to tell me ‘s okay to do this. Show me how. Teach me,” Steve curls his tongue around the letters of his name and rolls his eyes back—helpless to the destitute twitch that occurs as he runs a thumb over the pearlescent tip.

It nearly brings him to his knees. He reaches out for the wall again with his opposite hand to stabilize himself. 

The touch from his thumb spreads and slithers throughout his body. Wraps around his nerves and caresses them. Strokes them evenly and makes his head feel like it could float right off. He flattens his palm and creates a smooth surface to rub against. Wanting more. Needing it. 

There’s a real chance he might cum on the walls of Eddie’s shower and have to rinse it down like he’d told him to. 

Something about the possibility makes Steve feel powerful and brave. He thinks with enough time, he might be able to master the skill and use it on Eddie. He’s a fast learner—you have to be if you’re an Eagle Scout. 

But then, he remembers the look on his father’s face when he offered him communion a few weeks ago. He remembers that boys like Eddie don’t go to Heaven. Rather, they dive into pleasure and pain and forget trepidation. Forget consequence. What comes after means nothing to them. They don’t fall to their knees to the point of bruising in the same way Steve does. They don’t kneel to a higher power.

And Eddie warned him—‘ If you cum, it’ll be from my words. Nothing else.’

Going against both God and Eddie would send Steve to an eternal purgatory. Unwanted by even the Devil. 

Steve turns the water cold. Reaches behind himself and adjusts the knob as far as it will go in the opposite direction. Decided. 

He’ll freeze himself out of damnation if he has to. Teeth chattering, body a tender blur of soft sounds and grimaces, Steve retreats and clasps routine between two pruning palms. Carefully, he lowers himself to kneel upon the merciless porcelain and prays beneath the frigid spray. 

“I am sinful by nature and unworthy of you and your grace. Forgive me, Lord, and purify my spirit. Forgive me, Lord, and purify my heart. Forgive me, Lord, and purify my body . Forgive me, Lord, and purify my soul. Forgive me Lord, forgive me Lord, forgive me Lord—”

Guilt. Hate. Fear. Punishment. 

These are the words he knows best. These are the words that keep him pure—

for now.

When Steve gets out of the shower, he doesn’t look in the mirror. 

❋

Eddie’s never been any good at self-control. Hence, the myriad stick-and-pokes, drunken nipple piercings, and useless blips spent behind bars. 

Okay, no—

It’s a bit more serious than that.      

Eddie kind of fucking sucks at utilizing any sort of restraint. 

He’s like fucking Houdini when it comes to getting himself out of a set of handcuffs, a firm ‘not happening,’ or a hundred dollar parking ticket. The normal rules and laws of the universe don’t apply to him—never have. Eddie’s world is ungovernable, anarchic, built to crumble and burn.

It starts the day he takes his skateboard to the top of the steepest hill in Hawkins. None of the other boys are brave enough to try it. Tommy C. told everyone at school that he had done it once over the summer, but there weren’t any witnesses and he was a known exaggerator. 

To Eddie, it sounds like the perfect challenge. 

It sounds like a great way to earn the approval of his peers—to be someone noteworthy in the sea of flopping fish. 

He daydreams about making Tommy C. follow him to the hill after school and showing off. Wonders if he might win a kiss from one of the most popular boys at Hawkins Middle if he actually sees it through. 

Eddie’s only kissed girls before and it’s fine enough, but he’s long since been captivated by the thought that kissing a boy would be a million times better. He’s not sure why and he’s careful to keep his mouth shut about it around anyone that isn’t Nancy Wheeler. He knows better. 

When the day comes, he goes to the hill alone. 

No Tommy C. or big cheering crowd. It’s just Eddie and his impulsivity. He hadn’t found the courage to invite anyone else for fear of being rejected.

He’s thirteen. He’s determined to ride to the bottom at the speed of light. Like an astronaut on a trip to Mars in a doomed rocketship constructed by impish gremlins. To prove something. 

No helmet, no knee-pads, no elbow-pads. This tour de force is based on sheer luck and adolescent stupidity and maybe—a little bit of weed, but who’s counting? 

His only goal is to fly, and fly, he does. 

Eddie flies like a baby duck diving after a tadpole over the side of the largest waterfall on Earth. 

He flies so fast and carelessly that he leaves the bottom of the hill in the back of an ambulance. 

A pedestrian walking her labrador down the same street runs home to call for help, because Eddie’s left leg definitely isn’t supposed to bend at that angle and his face is covered in blood. Nose crooked, lip busted open, crimson painting a crime scene in which he plays all the parts—thief, killer, savior, etc. 

In a sense, he’s relieved—knowing the pain will end as soon as the EMT’s get him hooked up to a saline bag with magical moon juice dripping into his throbbing limbs. It sparkles in the light like there’s glitter glue or alien spit in there or both. They tell him what’s actually in it, but none of the names of the drugs stick and since it all sounds like shit from an alien planet anyway, Eddie settles on the fact that he’s been abducted into a real spaceship. The aliens tell him the moon juice is going to heal him so he might as well accept it and be grateful. He closes his eyes and dreams of kisses on a big red planet. 

When he wakes up in a stark white room and scratchy paper gown a few hours later, he overhears a blonde nurse conveying the hefty price tag for his assorted damages and repairs to Uncle Wayne. 

It baffles Eddie—everything costs money. 

More than a pretty penny, too. The list is idiotically extensive. Includes every bandage on his banged up body, the plentiful amount of moon juice they’ve allotted him to ease his pain, stitches charged by the thread, and the fucking paper gown which is the most uncomfortable thing he’s ever worn. 

In slow motion, Eddie watches as Wayne nods, takes responsibility like a man, and signs the bill in jagged cursive. 

The number is absurd. Astronomical. It isn’t fair. It’s Eddie’s fault, not his uncle’s. He’s the one who decided to fly. The EMT’s should’ve left him for dead at the bottom of the hill. Let him limp home and feel every ounce of the consequences in his shattered bones. Would’ve served him right and saved Wayne quite a few bucks. 

“Don’t do it!” Eddie cries out, tears flooding his bloodshot eyes—guilt like a knife in his gut—focusing in on the drag of the pen across the official paperwork, “Wayne, stop! They’re fucking liars! They said they’d help me! They said they’d make me feel better! They’re stealing your money! They’re fucking frauds! They can take their shit back and I’ll get better on my own! I don't need their fancy moon juice! Take me home!” 

He starts thrashing in the bed, shouting expletives about the greedy nature of the American healthcare system, and refuses to listen when the blonde nurse runs over making shushing noises like he’s a sickly infant in the NICU. She probably charges by the ‘shush.’ He shushes her back, but he does it louder and more obnoxiously. This is her fault. She’s trying to kill him and his uncle with her stupid bills. 

“You’re not done here, boy. You’ve got another surgery in an hour,” Wayne nudges the nurse out of the way, as if to say ‘I’ll handle it from here,’ and takes a seat in the chair beside Eddie’s bed, “We’ll be okay. Money’ll be tight for a little while, but that’s nothing for you to worry about. You’re the kid. I’m the adult. Your daddy never seemed real clear about how those roles were supposed to work, but I know the difference.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Eddie sniffles, wipes his wet nose on the edge of the paper gown, and huffs in exasperation when it tears from trying to handle the simplest task, “I got bored. I wanted to have fun. I didn’t think about what would happen if things went wrong.” 

Wayne hands Eddie his embroidered handkerchief, which is a kindness he knows he doesn’t deserve, but is too exhausted to protest. He blows green alien snot into it and his uncle’s smile doesn’t falter despite the big, ugly boogers. He must really love him. 

“You’ve always been an impulsive one—it’s not a bad thing to be, son. You’re a man of action. You’ve got guts. It’s admirable, but you have to be more careful,” Wayne drops his voice so only Eddie can hear the next part—a secret for the two of them to keep,“The important thing is knowing the difference between when the risk is worth it and when the risk is going to put you in an early grave. That’s how you decide whether to stay home or go out to play ball with the big kids.” 

Eddie spends the next month on crutches. Paying his dues in repetitive apologies which his uncle graciously declines. 

“No need for apologies, boy,” he says in that gruff, tough-loving tone of his, “Apologies ain’t gonna fix your leg, but restin’ up and quieten’ down will do wonders for the both of us. Remember what I told you about risk. Learn the lesson and you’ll be better for it. That’s all I ask.” 

Eddie has every intention of doing right by his uncle. 

He respects him, loves him, thinks the world of him. He tries to forcibly mature his still developing brain and process the wisdom like a level-headed machine should. Cogs and gears working to correct his past mistakes so he doesn’t end up in a similar predicament ever again. 

The only problem is, Eddie isn’t a machine. 

He’s a teenager and he doesn’t quite master Wayne’s lesson the first time around. Can’t seem to fully integrate it into his already warped code. A series of zeros and ones that malfunction and send error messages throughout his broken brain. That lead him to fail tests in school, end up in the principal’s office, and get suspended on multiple occasions. 

He thinks he’s got a handle on it for a little while. Thinks he’s got everything under control and has the capacity to weigh his options before acting, but that doesn’t hold strong for very long. 

Though the pain fades and his bones heal, Eddie’s impulsivity spikes like the seven-year itch. Sends tingles down his spine whenever he walks the route home from school which takes him directly past that infamous hill. A demonic whisper in his ear tells him he should do it again—go faster, stick the landing this time, invite Tommy C. to see it happen. Prove to himself that he can accomplish the forbidden feat without coming to the unfortunate conclusion of another set of broken bones and brutal embarrassment. That stupid hefty bill and that evil nurse who shushed him. 

 Disappointing his uncle is one of his worst fears and, yet, he can’t shake the growing urge to risk everything in the face of boredom, self-hatred, and a newfound understanding of his own queerness. 

It continues, this need to completely lose control, the night of Eddie’s eighteenth birthday. 

He’d fought off the hill. Ignored the petulant voices in his head. Told them to fuck off and let him be. Prevents himself from losing Wayne’s respect for several years, before he missteps again. 

The club is dingy, drab, and located in a bereft little spot off the I-90. He’s been here a few times, but mostly stuck to hiding away in the back corners and observing the glittering debauchery from afar.

It scares him—the want to participate, to bask in the limelight of a stranger’s lingering kiss, his brazen curiosity about what it might be like to dance in that sultry way with someone. To grind his hips back against some older guy’s cock and feel the music in his core or, hopefully, beyond it. 

In the past, Eddie never let himself have more than one drink, so he could make it home before Wayne got off his shift at the power plant. His uncle worked nights which was horribly convenient for Eddie to get up to mischief once the sun went down. 

Still, he was cautious. 

Danced timidly for a few hours whenever he frequented the club and left long before last call. Steeped himself in the distant familiarity of the observer—not allowed to become anything more. Active participation would make him a liability, so Eddie stayed calm, cool, collected. Swayed his hips by the ‘Exit’ sign until the clock struck eleven or twelve and drove the familiar route back to Hawkins in silence. Comforted by the crackling radio. 

The night of his eighteenth birthday, that all goes out the window. 

He’s lonely, confused, and desperate for someone to tell him who he is and where he belongs in this mess of bodies, heat, and alcohol. This thing he’s been swallowing down and trying to keep secret has officially outgrown him. Makes him feel more reptile than human most days. It’s reached a morbid expiration date like bruised produce—stinking up the whole kitchen and starting to mold; attracting loathsome fruit flies and infestation. It can no longer sit quietly in the background—refuses to be resigned to a life spent on a shelf where no one can ever contemplate what it would be like to touch and feel the weight of it beneath their hands. To circle its middle, blow smoke in its face, swap spit. 

This part of Eddie is bored, ready to explore—overripe and festering. Just like it was the day he went flying down the hill and broke his leg. 

The queer population of Hawkins, Indiana isn’t abundant. There are no elder mentors to seek out in the suburbs. There are no pamphlets to read or information to discover in the bookstacks at the library. To find any semblance of community, Eddie has to go, more or less, underground. 

He has to shove past the thick of it, stew in the discomfort, and writhe amongst the greased-up bodies of men who seek affection from other men. They are his teachers, confidants, and counselors on the matter.

 It’s not the safest thing, but it’s what he’s got. 

Some of them kiss him. Some of them make him feel special. Some of them call him ‘pretty’ and ‘good.’ Some of them don’t ever lay a finger on him—just make casual conversation, give him tips on where to find more people like him, and ask him questions about school or his band. Some of them tell him he’s far too young to be in a place like this, but Eddie can only ever answer the concerned ones with an eye-roll and a laugh. 

They’re playing nice, but they all know how this works. 

The reality is you don’t get to be a guy like Eddie and be your fullest self in plain sight. You can have your cake, sure, but you have to eat it in the pitch dark and be ready to defend yourself with the likes of a plastic fork and knife if necessary. You might even have to stab someone to death in order to get out alive and that’s a tough call to make on a moment’s notice, especially if you’re drunk. 

Tonight is the first time Eddie drinks with the intention of blacking out. 

Spinning drunkenly off cranberry juice and bitter stuff, he pisses his pants like a little kid—unable to make it to the bathroom. 

With wet denim chafing painfully against his thighs, he weaves his way off the dance floor and avoids the hands that reach for his belt loops and whisper lowly in his ears. He’s wearing all black so it’s easy enough to hide the stains, but the smell is another story. 

Shameful the moment it hits his nose—the scent of piss convinces him to take another round of shots, accept a lukewarm beer from a shirtless guy with white powder rimming his nostrils, and dance with a stranger who frustratingly won’t kiss him back. Just grovels and grabs and pushes him away when he’s done.

It isn’t exactly celebratory.

It isn’t exactly blown out candles, party balloons, and roaring applause to honor another year of life surrounded by his loved ones. 

He’s alone at midnight. Wishes himself a slurred ‘happy birthday’ in the bathroom mirror. It’s dirty. Hard to make out his reflection. Harder yet to figure out where he begins and ends. 

This thing, queerness, is wrapped around his head like a big ugly squid. Camouflaging well enough until he’s in a place like this. It’s impossible to go out without people staring and making comments and trying to touch without asking. 

Eddie feels paralyzed as he gawks at the tentacles suctioning onto his skull. His reflection rotates and tilts like an infinite blackhole. No heart, no head—he’s all limbs, a light dusting of hair over his upper lip. A boy not yet a man. 

Then, there’s the sudden presence of another body behind him and the tentacles—fuck them—don’t even try to help. 

Too close in proximity for it to be an accident. Hot breath on his neck. A hacking smoker’s cough echoing throughout the bathroom which has definitely seen better days. Brought to sticky ruin by its slithering, slimy acquaintances. 

The guy is burly, muscular, and, sort of, reminds him of a fairytale lumberjack. No longer alone, but distantly afraid—Eddie welcomes the warmth and the break in the silence. Happy enough just to have a friend to celebrate with. To have a little bit of company. It’s not so dark and the squid’s noticeable—sure that can’t be avoided, but the guy’s polite enough not to mention its presence in the room. 

“Hey, what’s your name? I’m Eddie. Nice to meet ‘ya, pal,” he charms, twisting a curl around his middle finger as he bats his lashes like a girl. 

Whatever he’s expecting in response, he certainly doesn’t get it. 

Talk is useless to this man which he makes clear by shoving Eddie to his knees—the squid diving after—with a rough grip on his narrow shoulders. Pressed down into the Earth like he’s a sapling being planted in an industrial parking lot. Making roots somewhere he doesn’t belong and being forced to stay regardless. 

“Are we gonna have an underwater tea party? You gonna join me down here and fill up my cup? Let’s play together. C’mon. It’ll be cute,” Eddie slurs. 

He mimes sipping from fine china and smiles dumbly at the man who—he can see from this new angle—is seriously balding. 

It kinda grosses him out to be honest, but that could also very well be the absurd amount of liquor sloshing around in his stomach. Gin or was it whiskey? Maybe, tequila? He has no idea how much or what kind he consumed, only that it all tasted like some brand of poison. 

The squid on Eddie’s head seems to like the guy just fine so Eddie doesn’t try to run out the door or anything. He’s a people pleaser or animal pleaser or whatever—does that even make sense? What the fuck is an animal pleaser? 

“Shut the fuck up. Open wide. I didn’t come in here to babysit,” Lumberjack slaps his thick cock against Eddie’s cheek like he’s knocking on a neighbor’s front door and preparing for entry. He smells like piss. Everything smells like piss. Eddie and the squid, included. 

The fantasy of a new friend, of gentle touch, of safety—evaporates into thin air. 

Dread fills his chest like thick molasses and his breathing turns manual. In and out. In and out. A constant effort to maintain. 

He misses Nance. He misses Chrissy. He desperately wants to be huddled between the two of them in the tops of the whispering willow trees. Limbs tangled together like the tattered knots of the friendship bracelets Nancy made at summer camp. Sunflower seed shells spat into a shared mason jar. Passing around cigarettes and funny stories. Sheltered from danger and men who don’t bother asking his age before starting something ugly. 

Eddie falls forward and holds tight onto the man’s hairy thighs to survive the possibility of a broken nose. 

He finds his mouth incredibly dry—so much for a superstar blowjob. He’d read in Karen Wheeler’s Cosmos that it’s best to approach the task with a full mouth of spit. 

Oh well. 

“It’s my birthday. ‘m eighteen. Aren’t ‘ya gonna sing me ‘happy birthday’? That’s what you’re supposed to do, fucker.” 

The fact that it’s his birthday means nothing to Lumberjack who pinches the sides of Eddie’s face, grumbles a few cruel words, and bullies his way past his glaring inexperience. It hurts. 

 He wants to be done. He wants to go home.

“You’re fuckin’ awful at this,” Lumberjack spits a mouthful of chewing tobacco and grotesque DNA onto his face, “Would’ve been better off shoving my dick into a lawnmower. You young ones are so hard to train. Got the worst fuckin’ gag reflex I’ve ever seen—you’d probably puke sucking on a lollipop.”

The twinkly club lights make Eddie dizzy as he laughs crookedly around the dick of a guy who is probably old enough to be his father. 

Laughing because it’s better than the alternative—sobbing, breaking, shattering.

Laughing because he can’t figure out where to put his teeth or how to bob his head at the right pace and his jaw fucking hurts. 

Laughing because he recognizes the only way out is through and that’s an awful, awful feeling. 

He’s still laughing when another man enters the bathroom. 

This guy is dressed up. Cleaner cut than the one forcing his dick down Eddie’s throat. This man is sharp—wears slacks, a dark blue button-down, and a pair of oversized sunglasses like he’s a Hollywood hotshot on the set of an Oscar-winning movie. 

The shades are too dark for Eddie to see his pupils. Which makes it impossible to humanize the man being that the eyes are allegedly the ‘window to the soul.’ He could be soulless, could have nothing of substance to show, and Eddie wouldn’t know it until it was far too late. 

For a moment, Eddie thinks he might save him from this nightmare. 

There’s the chance that Sunglasses will take pity on him, be disgusted by the revolting actions of this obviously older guy, and throw a stunt punch before transporting him to a high-class getaway car. Something fancy like a Porsche 911 with real leather seats. Zooming away from the horrors of a night gone very, very wrong. 

That’s not what happens—this isn’t the movies. 

This isn't’t fucking Hollywood. 

This is a scummy bar off the I-90 where dreams go to die and people overdose behind the dumpster. There’s no glitz or glamor about it. Eddie has a goddamn squid suctioned to his head. 

Nobody saves the guy with the squid on his head. Everyone knows that. 

“Oh, shit,” Lumberjack sputters, but makes no effort to cover himself or stop what he’s doing, “Surprised you’re here. It’s crowded tonight. Didn’t think you’d show face. Bold move—you must want it bad.” 

Sunglasses doesn’t waver. His chin is tipped to the ceiling like he really is someone of great importance. Like he’s God. 

He seems to tolerate Lumberjack, but doesn’t laugh at his joking tone or contribute to his shoddy attempt at banter. He’s all business. 

“Lonnie called and said you had your eye on someone special—said he was my type, and, boy,” the man kneels down to flash a chilling smile at Eddie, wrapping a hand around the painful bulge in his throat and squeezing to make his eyes water, “I’m glad I didn’t ignore that call.” 

“You want a turn? His throat’s real tight. Hard to fuck deep, but it works well enough I ‘spose if you wanna get your dick wet. He’s drunk as fuck too, so he’s easy to knock around,” Lumberjack grunts, grabbing a fistful of Eddie’s hair so he has no choice but to gaze up at Sunglasses. 

If there’s a hierarchy at play, it’s evident that Sunglasses is in charge of whatever crime ring or human trafficking bullshit they’ve got going on behind the scenes. Lumberjack defers to his better judgment, sweats profusely under his close observation, and squirms like a cockroach who’s been sprayed by insecticide—not quite dead, not quite alive. 

Sunglasses ducks into the shadows, leans against the grimy wall opposite Eddie and Lumberjack, and sticks a cigarette in his mouth. Eddie tries to make out the brand, but he’s still too dizzy from the alcohol. 

What would it matter anyway? He might die here. 

“Finish up and then, I’ll decide how I want him. Pretend I’m not even here. Let me see what he can do. Let him have some fun choking on it,” Sunglasses grins. 

“You’re the boss.” 

There’s nothing fun about it. Eddie doesn’t feel brave or mature or sexy for being forced onto his knees. He feels small, weak, and lied to. He feels cursed. Numb. 

“Open wider, bitch. If I feel your teeth one more time, I’m gonna yank ‘em out of your head one by one.” 

“You heard him,” Sunglasses snaps his fingers from the corner—so much for being able to pretend he isn’t there, “Open up, slut.” 

Eddie tries to listen, because he doesn’t want to lose his teeth and, at some point, he realizes he’s crying. Sniffling as tears roll down his cheeks and stain his shirt. 

This is worse than being at the dentist and Eddie fucking hates the dentist, but at least he gives him a break when the pain escalates beyond what he can handle. At least, he tells him he’s ‘sorry it hurts’ and brings him ice for his jaw when he’s finished filling his cavities. 

“Such a stupid whore,” he slaps Eddie across the face and his ears ring like the bells of that culty church in town. 

He’s in so much pain he can hardly see straight, so when Sunglasses starts talking again, he hardly registers what he’s saying. 

“Hit him harder. He can take it. I’ve done worse and I need to know what I’m working with.”  

Sunglasses shoves the shades up his nose when they start to slip—just before Eddie’s able to see what hides beneath. Devil or human or some warped mix of the two. 

Lumberjack obeys. The slap cracks like lightning over Eddie’s other cheek and he hurts all over. Feels the ache of it in his bones. 

He slumps down, forces his jaw to stay open, and cries.

 The squid sobs with him. They share their grief. They cling to each other and black ink drenches Eddie’s skin as he counts his blessings and silently says his goodbyes. 

Lumberjack won’t stop fucking into his throat with enough force to knock the wind out of him. It’s brutal, unforgivable, and Eddie’s only option is to pretend he’s not really there.

Instead, he imagines he’s on-stage playing guitar, laying on his bed listening to a new record, and shooting the shit in Nancy’s bedroom. Plays the same scenes over and over just to survive. Just to travel from one second into the next. 

Fuck, he wishes Nance was here. 

She’d beat the fuck out of both of these guys—devise some evil plan to kill them for their wrongdoings. Get justice, payback, revenge. She’d tell him it’s okay that sometimes he listens to the squid on his head. 

There’s nothing he can do about it. 

He’s going to die here. 

This is the end. 

“He’s fuckin’ crying,” Lumberjack says like he expects his friend to step in and shut Eddie up. 

Sunglasses steps forward, moving back into his line of sight. 

“If he thinks he’s crying now,” he jerks Eddie’s chin towards him, “He’s not gonna know what fuckin’ hit him when I’m done with him.” 

❋

Eddie’s lack of self-control doubles in size and swallows itself whole like a narcissistic viper the moment Steve exits the bathroom. His bathroom. 

Hair dripping wet after a rinse with Eddie’s two-in-one shampoo and conditioner, red-cheeked from prolonged exposure to the heat, and his fractured innocence filling the space between them. 

Everything is palpably better and worse. 

An iridescent spectrum spreads from one edge of the carpet to the other as the fading sunlight cascades in through the window and thaws the weighted tension responsible for their inability to speak to one another about the earlier events of the afternoon. Neither able to acknowledge the truth. 

“Hi.” 

It’s a fair place to start. 

Steve doesn’t make eye contact, looks anywhere else as he utters the casual greeting—studies the graying carpet, Wayne’s retired novelty mug collection mounted above the T.V., watches the spider making a web by the windowsill. Eddie won’t kill it even though it’s been there since the start of the summer. It’s a hardwired rule of his. He won’t kill any innocent creature until proven guilty. That rule extends to plants, animals, insects, and, yes, people. 

“Uh. Hey. Shower, okay? Have everything you needed?” 

Eddie erases the last thirty minutes with a snap of his fingers. Acts like he’s completely oblivious to the crass comments he made right outside the bathroom door, to how he’d lingered there to listen to the whiny sounds Steve failed to hide—the teasing and the taunting that went along with it. 

Eddie rewinds even further to a point that exists long before the two of them met in the woods after the ceremony and hashed out their differences with feverish touches and burning stares. Talking about a thing like that makes it real and Eddie hasn’t felt real since Chrissy died or maybe it was the night at the club. Regardless, he’s not sure he wants to feel real . If he can erase it, he figures he can clear his conscience and keep them both out of trouble. 

“Yeah, it was fine. Not much different from the one we have at home, so, y’know–’’ 

“Shower’s a shower, I guess.”

Eddie shrugs, shoves his hands deep into his pockets, brushing the edge of the knife he keeps there to stop himself from drifting. He’s afraid of what he’ll do with his ten fingers and the flats of his palms if he keeps them hanging loosely and available at his sides. He rocks back and forth on his heels just to put that energy somewhere , because putting it inside Steve isn’t an option. No matter how badly he wants to. 

“Water was warm, though. That was nice. Felt good,” he and Eddie look at each other with the benign knowledge that the water wasn’t the only part that ‘felt good,’ but neither expands on the topic. 

“Last winter, the water heater broke so I took cold showers for two months until they got it fixed. Summer gets here and the AC breathes its last? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was cursed,” he says with a quick laugh. 

Eddie’s fishing for his attention. Thinks Steve won’t be able to hold back his beliefs about demonic possession or that he might try to heal Eddie with a hand on his forehead, but Steve doesn’t bite the line he’s dangling into the depths below. 

He just wants to touch him. Get closer. Feel. 

“It’s hot out,” Steve says, plainly— they’re back to talking about the weather which is definitely a step in the wrong direction , “Hard to think straight when it’s this hot out. Hard to do much of anything.” 

“Yeah. Well, the good news is I’m almost positive I was a nudist in a past life so if you wanna strip off the extra layers—be my guest.” 

“After hiking across the Appalachians with thirty pounds on my back, this is nothing,” Steve boasts, raking a hand through his wet hair, “And, you’re gonna have to try a bit harder than that to convince me to take my clothes off in the middle of your living room. ‘Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body.’” 

Eddie’s facing off with Steve’s purity ring and biting back choice words. The silver band gleams at him, sneers, and brags about the close level of intimacy it has with Steve’s skin. A level of intimacy which Eddie may only ever get to experience in his most base fantasies with a too-familiar hand pumping over his cock. 

“You’ve got your wires crossed if you think my body is a temple of the Holy Spirit.” 

“Everyone’s is. God created us all in his image—”

Steve’s staring at him with this earnest little expression. He’s flippant. Running back and forth between the idea he needs to save Eddie and the notion that he needs Eddie to save him from the heavy constraints of a very backwards tradition. Operating from a decisively split consciousness. Two halves that no longer quite fit together. 

“Would now be a good time to tell you I’m Jewish or should I wait until after you’re done preaching?” Eddie says, grabbing himself a glass of tap water from the kitchen and chugging it all down in one go while Steve gawks. 

“But—”

“But, what?” He says, rounding the corner, “You got a problem with that, sweetheart? I regret to inform you if this is your first time hearing it, but your savior was Jewish. King of the Jews, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“I thought you worshiped Satan? That’s what everyone says.” 

“Oh believe me, I know what they say about me. I’ve heard all the rumors. I’ve even spread a few myself just to keep it interesting.” 

“So, you, um, don’t worship Satan?” Steve asks as politely as one can when inquiring about someone’s close, personal relationship with the Devil. 

“While I’ve been known to dabble in the macabre, I can’t say Satan and I are all that intimate. I’m nowhere near as interesting as the good townsfolk of Hawkins might want you to believe,” Eddie crosses his arms over his chest—feeling a bit protective of his family’s reputation as he explains, “My uncle’s Jewish. He raised me. I’m not the greatest at following through on all the fasting and such, but I never decline an invitation to Shabbat dinner at the Wheeler’s house. My Friday nights have been reserved to braid challah for Karen Wheeler for as long as I can remember,” and, because he’s Eddie and can’t behave himself for longer than a few minutes at a time, he adds, “So if you wanna schedule a date night just make sure it doesn’t interfere with the Sabbath and we should be just peachy. Getting on Karen’s bad side is not a place you ever want to be.” 

“You’d want to go on a date with me?” 

“Depends. Will your mommy & daddy be escorting us?” Eddie says. 

“I wouldn’t tell them,” he stumbles as he takes a step closer, “Oops.”

Perfect. 

There’s a sense of urgency bleeding into the room and Steve’s not helping the matter by standing there all bright-eyed & bushy-tailed in clothes that don’t belong to him. Clothes that make Eddie believe for half a second that Steve does belong to him. That Steve is his to care for, nurture, save. 

He’s wearing Eddie’s t-shirt. Frayed at the collar, well worn-in, featuring a faded Judas Priest graphic which is a boldly ironic choice on Eddie’s part. Judas Priest for the Pastor’s son couldn’t be more on the nose, but he’s never been great at subtlety. 

 The material hangs loosely off Steve’s shoulders in the most adorable way—exposing his sharp collarbones. Making him look much smaller and more delicate than he really is. Like he could easily replace the poised ballerina which stands inside Nancy’s wind-up music box from when she was a kid and had dreams of going on pointe. Like a bubblegum pink courtesan outfitted in lycra and tulle. 

Steve’s also wearing the shirt inside out, which seems like a genuine oversight, until Eddie clarifies. 

“There a reason you decided to hide a perfectly good graphic from the light of day? That shirt’s from their first tour. You’ve got major bragging rights walking around with it on—could pawn it for a good twenty bucks, even, if you’re smart.” 

Steve’s glasses are slipping. He nervously pushes them up the bridge of his nose and over a smattering of sunshiney freckles before figuring out how to get his lips to move and answer the question. God, he’s cute. 

“You’re gonna think it’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

“The words ‘Judas’ and ‘Priest’ sitting next to each other didn’t feel right to me. I thought wearing it inside out might count as less of a sin. Like, I’d be diluting the blasphemy,” Steve thumbs at the fabric.

“I hear ‘ya,” he nods, “but, they’re just words. They aren’t gonna bite. It’s a band-tee not a tiger shark. You’re safe.” 

Steve doesn’t seem so sure. 

“Don’t you know the story of Judas? You don’t know how he became possessed by Satan? I thought everyone knew that story.”

 Eddie has a hunch that Steve is about to start reciting a Bible verse, because he gets that tell-tale crease between his brows like he’s tapping into his photographic memory of the scripture and selecting the proper quotation. It’s super fucking annoying and it makes him want to put a piece of ducttape over his mouth before he gets the chance to preach. It’s all bullshit. 

“‘How much will you pay me to betray Jesus to you?’ And they gave him thirty pieces of silver. From that time on, Judas began looking for an opportunity to betray Jesus.’ That’s from Matthew 26:16. Judas denied him three times and that’s how Jesus knew he was the traitor amongst The Twelve Apostles,” he says. 

Eddie presses him, because he can—because this may be the last time he gets lucky enough to have Steve Harrington in his living room and that’s too generous of an opportunity to waste. Like washing five-hundred dollar champagne down the sink, blowing your nose into a couture gown, or ignoring the fact that you have the winning lottery numbers on your ticket. 

“Ahh, that’s right. That’s when Judas kisses Jesus. I always found that part fascinating —a personal favorite of mine. I love the way they swap spit in the middle of the desert. Talk about a steamy makeout session,” Eddie quips.  

“You make it sound like a sweeping romance,” Steve scoffs in disbelief and adjusts his glasses again, “Judas betrayed Jesus. He kissed him so his enemies would be able to identify and arrest him. He was crucified, because of that kiss.” 

Snarky and a bit hungover, Eddie’s inhibitions aren’t operating as they should, which leads him to make his next snide suggestion. He’s low on dopamine and high on the return of Steve Harrington to his humble abode. Red wagon and cheddar popcorn samples, unfortunately , excluded this time around. 

“I learn by doing. Otherwise information tends to go in one ear and out the other. It’s a real problem. Teachers used to dread having me in class, because I could never remember anything,” he explains.

“Yeah, I bet,” Steve jeers. 

“So care to show me how this backstabbing kiss went down for Jesus and his boy-toy? You can peck me on the cheek if you want. It doesn’t have to be full-on tonsil hockey. I’m just curious—could never really picture that scene in my head, don’t know why. Probably something wrong with my brain chemistry,” he taps the side of his temple.

Anticipating Steve’s next move is what Eddie’s good at. It’s why Nancy and Chrissy nicknamed him Fox all those years ago. He plays every interaction like a chessboard, acts before he thinks, asserts his dominance via quick wit and sardonic banter. 

There’s no way Steve is going to kiss him . No fucking way. He’s timid and awkward and Eddie’s not being serious. Not really. This is an artform, cheap entertainment, it’s not supposed to end in anything life altering. Certainly not a crucifixion. 

Eddie becomes distracted by his own game as he babbles on and on in an attempt to make Steve squirm where he’s standing across the room. 

“It’s just so obviously gay. I mean—if the church is gonna make Jesus have all this homoerotic tension with his ‘sworn enemy,’ then they might as well allow queer people to fuck whoever the hell they want and mind their own damn business when it comes to–” 

Eddie’s trailer is bathed in the softest hue of orange, the bold afternoon fading into blushing evening, and Steve’s lips are brushing the corner of his. 

“I think it happened like this,” he whispers, and, he’s suddenly so close Eddie can feel his heart frantically thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings. Buzzed from a languid sip of sugar water, unable to control his body. 

Steve’s standing in front of him, breathing quiet as a mouse, and leaning his weight into Eddie’s chest as he pokes his tongue out to taste his skin. Eddie groans, fucking yelps in surprise, because he didn’t predict this. Couldn’t have. He’s not one step ahead or two or three like he’s comfortable being on the chessboard. 

No. 

He’s fallen behind. He’s lost in the clumsy accident of Steve’s mouth making contact with his own and letting his lashes flutter shut to deepen the kiss. 

But, his hesitation costs him. 

Before Eddie can ask for more, crack an edgy joke, wrap an arm around Steve’s middle to trap him there—he retreats back to his side of the room. Arms folded, barefeet padding on the carpet, and Eddie’s inclined to believe he’s high as a kite and imagined the whole damn thing. 

It’s not dark enough to warrant turning on the main lamp, but seeing Steve basked in the tangerine splendor is going to destroy Eddie—no, it’s going to lead Eddie to destroy him —so he flicks the switch and finally exhales for the first time in, what feels like, minutes as the orange becomes absorbed by the fluorescent white bulb. 

“Okay–”

Eddie’s hard. He’s so fucking hard and Steve barely touched him. It wasn’t even a complete kiss and, yet, he’s aching to get a hand around his cock and fuck his fist right there in front of Steve. Spill onto the carpet and lick it clean just to get a rise out of him. Be as filthy and gut wrenching as possible, because Eddie can’t stand losing. 

Steve’s got an arrogant shine in his hazel eyes and Eddie’s a dead man walking. If he’s not careful, Steve will own him and beat him at the game. There won’t be a second round. It won’t be best two out of three. It’s getting more and more dangerous as the seconds tick by on the clock. As the orange afternoon darkens with the suggestion of evening. 

“That’s not how they describe the kiss in the Bible. Judas kisses Jesus on the cheek, but in some of the related artwork that I’ve seen, it looks like Judas slips up and lands his kiss on the corner of Jesus’ mouth. I thought you’d be a bigger fan of that version, what with your theories and all,” Steve banters. 

“No shit.” 

He blinks awake, finds Steve hasn’t moved from the trailer, and blinks again. Even though the lamp has faded the effects of the tangerine sunset, Steve still manages to glow beneath what little of it remains. 

“Should I have asked your permission before doing that? I’m sorry if I made anything weird–” 

“Shh. No, baby,” Eddie is disgusting for wanting to lick those words out of Steve’s mouth until he’s dripping spit and precum, “There’s nothing wrong with what you did. Felt good,” he parrots Steve’s comment about the warm shower back at him, “Nice to see you making a decision for yourself, actually. It’s refreshing. I’m weirdly...proud of you.” 

Steve folds his arms over his chest and Eddie gets a peek at the hair sprouting there. It’s dark and thick and appears soft to the touch. 

“Thanks. Uh. I just did what I wanted to, I guess?”

“Thinking for yourself is one of life’s greatest pleasures. You should try it more often,” he says, not even trying to hide how out of breath he is. 

“Maybe, I will—now that I know it’s well received.” 

Eddie kind of wants to wrap him up and hang him out to dry beside his dumb khaki uniform. Tie him in place and let the breeze tickle him, bring goosebumps to the insides of his thighs where he’s never been touched before. Blow kisses at him while he basks in the sun. 

Fully naked, tan lines disappearing as it moves from east to west, new freckles forming in a cute little pattern of constellations on his chest. Make him blush that guilty red color from head to toe for all to see. Go public with his revolting affection. Call him every pet name in the book. Take him inside the moment the moon appears in the sky and fuck him beneath the sheets until daylight makes her appearance again. Flush that stupid ring and its false piety down the toilet. Start anew. 

Eddie wants to keep him. 

Steve is not his to keep. 

So, instead, he says with a patient smile on his face, “You should listen to Rocka Rolla—that’s what Judas Priest was touring at the time. It’s a bitchin’ record.” 

I could play it for you, he almost says, but thinks that might be pushing it. 

Thinks he won’t be able to recover if Steve gets comfortable on the couch next to him, settles into domesticity, and taps his foot along to Eddie’s favorite songs—if he has the audacity to do something diabolical like lay his head on Eddie’s shoulder and yawn. Fall asleep there, because something about Eddie makes him feel safe and seen and heard. 

That would be a death trap. He can’t get attached. Can’t claim Steve as one of his favorite toys when he’s never going to choose to stay on his own accord. They had a nice moment together. An almost kiss, but that’s all this can be. 

Steve sees Eddie as a tool, a vessel, a stepping stone to freedom. 

Eddie can be that for him, turn his emotions bulletproof, and get him to the other side of the wall. Pay his dues. 

He doesn’t want Steve to seek out help in dangerous places like Eddie did when he was younger and trying to figure himself out. Doesn’t want anyone to ever treat this beautiful, naive boy like that. Like he’s disposable . 

“I kinda thought you were gonna leave me with a towel and nothing else, y’know, but you surprised me. You’re not all that bad,” Steve admits—breaking Eddie’s already derailed train of thought—as if he didn’t intentionally give him the tightest pair of boxers he owns to parade around the living room for his personal enjoyment. 

Eddie may not be all that bad of a guy, but he certainly isn’t the posterboy for good Christian values. His code of ethics are gray, at best, if not a bit blackened by this point in his life. 

Charred, even. 

“As long as you’re comfortable,” he comments, fanning his face with the back of a nearby copy of Heavy Metal magazine. From the way he reacted in the shower, Steve clearly isn’t a subscriber. 

“I am. They’re tight the way I like them. Kinda makes me feel held.” 

Eddie can’t even begin to unpack what he means by that right now, because he’s got enough on his plate. The boxers are squeezing around Steve’s middle. Bound to leave a little indent on his soft tummy. The waistband’s folded over like it’s hiding a secret. 

Eddie wants to bite him. Eddie wants to nibble on his lower belly and leave a line of inky purple hickeys around his waist where the khaki usually sits. 

Calm the fuck down. Keep it together. 

“They’re a shit pair. I should get rid of ‘em. Dunno why I’ve kept ‘em for so many years.”

“Oh.” 

It’s a lie, of course, meant to make his sanity seem far more intact than it actually is. Eddie’s thanking his lucky stars he never tossed them out with the garbage, because Steve’s soft cock is nestled inside those very boxers— Eddie’s fucking boxers —and they’re going to smell like him. Taste like him.

Eddie has delusions of dragging his tongue across the blessed fabric—turned holy by simple virtue of their direct contact with Steve’s virginal body. 

Yeah. Eddie’s self-control is lacking. You could say that. 

As in, he embodies the absent discretion of a rabid fox with a hunk of bloodied meat dangling in front of his chinny, chin, chin. Saliva slick. Hunger begetting nature’s own violence. Foaming. Stalking. Preying on the meek and mild and boys with glasses fogged up from shower steam. 

As in, he’d readily gnaw off his own arm— both of them, even —for the fleeting chance to watch Steve Harrington’s perky little ass bouncing up and down on his cock right about now. Imagines his claws fitting like daggers into Steve’s sides as he guides him. Trains him. Forces him to learn a thing or two about daring to become the pet of a man— animal, fox, antihero, cryptid loser —with the worst intentions. 

The ending is ugly. 

The ending is nirvana. 

Cum, sweat, tears, and Eddie’s whimpering Little Lamb twitching and trying his hardest to form words. Hickeys in the shape of the cross on his chest. A lesson in worship—in how to properly pray to a false idol. 

Hands pressed obediently behind his head. Eyes rolling back in sheer pleasure. 

Fuck. Not all that bad of a guy. Sure, not as bad as some of the guys Eddie got involved with at too young of an age, but still—

He digests the rest of what Steve said and forces his head out of the gutter, “Has that happened to you—a group of guys steal your clothes at the gym showers or something?” 

Sounds like the intro to a porno. 

“It’s never happened to me, no. I heard stories, though, from some of the older scouts at camp when I was younger. It’s a public school thing, I think. Doesn’t really happen without a locker room.” 

It dawns on Eddie that Steve’s never mentioned anything about Hawkins High. If he’d been a student there, his four years wouldn’t have overlapped with Eddie’s. He’d just kind of assumed— 

“You didn’t go to Hawkins High, did you?” 

He’s not going to mock him, but the way Steve stiffens communicates that he’s preparing to be bullied and taunted for growing up differently than the rest of the kids in town. Used to people pointing fingers and making fun. 

Eddie’s not going to be one of those people. Not now. He likes to mess with Steve. He likes it when it means giving him pleasure and making him fall apart at his fingertips. He doesn’t like it when it cuts past the surface and drains Steve of his sense of self-worth. There’s no excuse for that. 

That fucks with you—that fucks with the way you look at yourself in the mirror, Eddie knows from his own experiences. He’d never do that to Steve. 

“I was homeschooled. My mom taught me kindergarten through twelfth grade. When I graduated, it was with the rest of the homeschool kids at my church. It was a small thing, congregation only, didn’t make it in the paper or get to wear a fancy cap and gown,” he says with a hint of regret—like donning a fancy cap and gown might fix the parts of himself that he believes to be broken. 

Which explains why Steve sees the world through such a specific lens—why he’s never had the opportunity to think for himself. Why he cocks his head to the side like a dumb little puppy trying to learn a new trick whenever Eddie talks about music, art, sex, or slang. 

School and peers shaped most of who Eddie became. Without them, he’d probably have met the same end his dad did. Probably would’ve become a junkie, been out on the streets, gotten involved in some real bad shit and spent the rest of his days locked up in prison. 

He wasn’t the best student. Earned himself mostly C’s and D’s with a few F’s sprinkled in the mix, but he had a handful of teachers who really gave a shit about him, beyond test scores and pointless memorized facts. Teachers who took him under their wing, referred him to books and movies that helped the world make sense. Provided advice and encouragement when stuff at home got worse. 

And, it was because of his friendships with Chrissy and Nancy that he was exposed to queerness at such a young age and had a chance to make peace with his identity before it swallowed him whole. He was there to hear all the mushy gushy details of their first kiss, the intricacies of their crushes on each other, the rollercoaster in her stomach feeling that Nancy talked about getting whenever Chrissy complimented her. 

It was because of them that he developed an identity, at all. Started to question who he was attracted to and why he felt the things he did. Felt brave enough to grow his hair out past his shoulders because his two best friends told him it looked ‘cool.’ Learned about eyeliner and how to apply it when Chrissy spontaneously asked if she could practice on him.  

‘You look like a rockstar. You could be on the cover of a magazine,’ she’d said dreamily as they drove to get ice cream afterwards. 

The sun was in her eyes. Her hair shone like spun gold. He’d always thought she’d be the one to be famous. Never fathoming what she’d actually become locally infamous for. 

‘I think you’re going blind. Do you need me to schedule you an appointment with Dr. Preston? I’m concerned.’

Eddie took compliments like insults, warded them off as soon as they showed up on his radar. 

Chrissy was smart, though. 

Chrissy understood what it was like to live in the shadows of childhood trauma, bad luck, and misfortune. 

‘It’s not my eyesight that needs fixing, it’s yours,’ she smacked him playfully on the arm and they both laughed until their stomachs hurt. 

She ordered two scoops of strawberry sorbet. He stole bites when she wasn’t looking. 

The next day, he found a mystery box outside his front door. 

It contained eyeliner. Three different colors, brand new, and still in the packaging. Attached to each was a note with miniscule handwriting. 

They read: 

Black for when you decide to accept your destiny. 

Blue for when you want to impress someone new. 

Purple for when you don’t feel like being brave, but you have to be. 

Eddie wishes he could apply some of the purple right about now. 

Maybe, a hint of blue . 

Steve surprises him when he keeps talking, and shares without being asked to elaborate. He’s not used to him being such an open book or wanting to keep the conversation about himself going. 

“That’s part of it, it has to be,” he says in a lightbulb moment kind of way. 

“What is?” 

Eddie nods at him curiously, listening as he flips his hair over to knot into a bun. The breeze coming through the open window is minimal and does little to cool him down without the help of the AC. 

“Chrissy went to Hawkins High, right?” Steve questions, an odd look on his face. 

“Yeah. She did. Why do you ask? ” 

Eddie’s jaw automatically tightens up in defense at the sound of her name, but he’s adamant about not snapping at Steve. He doesn’t deserve it. Like the spider, he won’t harm him. Wants him to keep going—wants to know where this is headed. Dead end street or into the darkest depths of the ocean. He’ll follow him anywhere he wants to go, but it doesn’t mean he’ll always like it. 

“She was one of three,” Steve holds up his fingers, “Did you know that? Chrissy and these two other kids—a set of twins that moved out of state a few years back to Oklahoma or Ohio. Something with an ‘O.’No one else from the church goes to public school. They taught us it was evil there—that they teach the type of stuff you get sent to Hell for learning. That’s why none of us go.” 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, chem sucked total ass, but I think it’s a bit of stretch to dub stoichiometry as evil ,” Eddie jokes. 

Steve throws him a look that’s clearly supposed to cause Eddie to have some sort of ‘a-ha’ moment, but he’s not making the connection. Slow to recover. 

“What?” He asks, feeling like he bit off more than he can potentially chew with Steve Harrington—taking off in a full sprint before he’s learned how to walk, “You want me to enroll you in public school? You’re eighteen. You can take community college classes.” 

“No, Eddie. That’s not what I mean,” Steve bites his lip nervously.

“You’re gonna have to connect the dots for me, Church Mouse. I’m not stupid, but I’m not seeing the big picture. Yeah, Chrissy went to public school with the rest of us. She also went to church. What’s your point?” 

There’s a hint of exasperation in the sigh Steve huffs out. He shifts his weight between his feet and murmurs something to himself, before answering. 

“My point is, I want you to be my teacher,” he runs a hand through his honey colored hair and Eddie licks his lips at the way it falls back over his eyes— cute, “When you talk, it’s like you’re speaking an entirely different language. It’s like you’ve seen places, done things that I don’t even have the words for. If you can give me the words, I might have a better shot at getting out of here and surviving on my own. I’ve learned more from you in the past few weeks than I’ve ever learned going to church with my parents. I don’t wanna stop. Not when I know there’s so many other experiences to have.” 

Eddie’s quiet. 

He’s rarely rendered speechless, but this is one of those times where he just can’t quite figure out what to say. He’d rather sleep on it, forget about today, and smoke a joint with Nancy on the roof of his car down by the lake. Reminisce, because there’s no good answer to Steve’s question. He just doesn’t get it. 

It’s not his fault. He wasn’t there . He doesn’t know about San Francisco, the magic school bus, the treehouse. 

He has no idea what it was like for Eddie and Nancy to hear the news. To stand up after an entirely sleepless night— the worst of their lives —and not jump out the goddamn window. 

There’s camaraderie in grief. Devotion. An unbreakable thread between the dead and the living. Mourners flock together like wounded birds and compare broken wings in their funeral attire. They wear black and it’s not a conscious decision, it’s a barefaced reflection of the holes in their hearts—of the irreplaceable pieces of their souls that have gone to fill the greedy guts of worms. 

They commiserate . 

They talk to the deceased and see phantoms of those they’ve lost around every corner—at the grocery store by the asparagus, in the local mall behind the silk slip dresses, reflected in the mirror like they’re trapped in another dimension and need someone to free them by breaking the glass. 

In the aftermath, Eddie shattered his bathroom mirror with a sledgehammer, much to Wayne’s dismay, because he was erroneously convinced Chrissy’s soul had gotten stuck there. That her ghost had no choice but to observe as he took a piss, scrubbed his tongue, spat toothpaste into the sink, and dried his curls with a towel. 

He didn’t sleep for three whole days after Chrissy died—refused to leave Nancy’s side. Only crashing and passing out on the Wheeler’s basement couch once Karen promised she wouldn’t leave Nancy alone for even a second while he was out of commission. 

Everything else in his life was indefinitely on hold. He canceled trips, cleared his calendar to make room for sobbing on the bathroom floor, dropped whatever career plans he might have otherwise considered. 

If he fails Steve, it’ll fucking kill him. He’ll throw himself on that grave and never get back up. He’ll bury himself alive. Once was hardly survivable. 

“Aren’t you gonna say something?” Steve steps towards him again, but this time, Eddie mixes his message by stepping back—bumping into the beat up La-Z-Boy, “Eddie? What’s wrong? You look scared.” 

I am scared. I’m fucking terrified of you. I thought you’d be a fun distraction. I thought I’d have the upperhand. I thought I’d win. 

There’s not enough air in the room. The heat’s getting to him. He’s dizzy and deranged and undone by grief. His lungs are too small for his chest. His head’s about to explode. He needs to jerk off or die or run ten miles into the woods. 

“We don’t have to talk about it. I can just go home if that’s better–” Steve’s gentle with Eddie. He has no reason to be. Treats him like he’s afraid he’ll break which makes everything hurt even more. 

Eddie takes a nonexistent breath, uses all he has left to suck in oxygen, because he needs Steve to understand and to do that—he has to get the rest of the story out. Expel the spores clogging his airways. Microscopic pieces of dread and his lacking ability to filter them through a stable consciousness. 

“She’s dead, Steve. I didn’t save her. I only made things worse. She was way smarter than me, knew way more than I did—had bigger dreams, too,” Eddie says. 

The problem is Chrissy wasn’t a prototype for an industrial machine. When she broke down, there weren’t any spare parts to get her back in working order. She wasn’t treated with love or respect. The route to failure was quick and narrow and Jason Carver had a loaded gun in the back of his pickup truck. 

Advising Steve to follow in her footsteps would be completely reckless and irresponsible on Eddie’s part. It would be the total absence of care. And, if there’s anything Eddie’s learning about his feelings for Steve Harrington—it’s that he cares for him on a frighteningly categoric level. 

He digs his nails into the insides of his fists to fight back the tears. Talking about her is the fastest way to drown. 

“I don’t need much—” 

“Chrissy would have been content living in a treehouse for the rest of her life. It still didn’t work out in her favor. It’s not about how much or little she wanted for herself. She’s gone and there’s no getting her back,” Eddie narrows his eyes, “What makes you think I’m some kind of hero? What makes you think your fate is any different than hers?”  

If Eddie helps Steve get out of Hawkins and away from the church, part of him believes he’ll be betraying Chrissy. Giving her a Judas kiss, if you will. Doing for someone else what he was never brave enough to do for her—at least not to completion. 

The lightbulb in the lamp is on its last leg. It can’t do the job Eddie’s entrusted it with. Can’t block out Steve’s beauty, the halo around his head, or the horns sprouting in short little nubs just beneath his chestnut hair. 

He clears his throat, cracks his knuckles, spins the stupid fucking purity ring. 

“That day—when I saw you in the woods and that guy was—” he starts and stops like a car with a bad engine. 

It’s like you’ve seen places, done things that I don’t even have the words for. 

Steve doesn’t know the words. He’s hit capacity. Now, it’s up to Eddie to let him flounder or to draw a line between one point and the next. He exhales, mentally apologizes to his dead best friend, and has the urge to throw handfuls of salt over his tattooed shoulders. He needs luck and he’s never had much of it. 

“Sucking my cock, blowing me, stretching his throat around my dick, getting face fucked. Colloquially, any of those should do. It’s most commonly referred to as a ‘blowjob’ in layman’s terms, but feel free to pick your poison,” he smirks. 

This is, more or less, a test. 

This is, more or less, Eddie trying to see if Steve means it or if he’ll run when pushed an inch too far. If he does, Eddie will have no choice, but to let him go. Like all the other woodland creatures who can before him. 

It can’t be easy for Steve to say it out loud, but he impresses Eddie with how quickly it comes out of his mouth. How little time he spends weighing the pros and cons. Lighting a stick of dynamite at the end of everything that’s familiar to him—religion, scripture, rapture, faith, his daddy’s mean words. 

“When I saw you in the woods and that guy was sucking your cock…I thought you were brave.” 

Eddie almost cackles, because what the fuck ? Did Steve Harrington, Assistant Scoutmaster, just call him brave for face fucking Paul in the woods? 

“Me? Brave? Stupid and careless, sure, but I’m the last person you should be calling brave. I let Paul Langley suck my dick to pay the rest of what he owed me for an eight-ball. I don’t think Reagan’s about to award me a National Medal of Honor,” Eddie swallows, because that fucking lump in his throat is back like chronic tonsilitis, “Chrissy was brave. Chrissy had a plan for us. I just followed her lead. Turns out, I would’ve followed her off a fuckin’ cliff. I don’t think that makes me the best candidate for your salvation. I could just as easily get you killed, Harrington. You should think about that instead.”

“But, I’d be careful! I’d—” 

“She thought she was being careful. She was wrong. She wasn’t careful enough.” 

Eddie learned how to hit back at a young age. He was seven or eight years-old when his dad threw a punch at him in the parking lot of some abandoned plaza and instructed him on how to throw one back. 

Hot tears blurred his vision from the shock of his creator landing a blow with no remorse. His skin stung, but the pain seeped to subcutaneous levels. Reaching his cells, tainting them, multiplying until Eddie was overcome by the loveless nature of his father’s hands. Until an adult was born of the broken child. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. Even as a kid, he held the awareness that one’s parents had no place mindlessly beating them without the slightest explanation. No cause, catalyst, or reason other than he’d had a bad day and wanted Eddie to suffer the consequences. 

Not long after the initial incident, Eddie started wandering off into the woods when he managed to wake up early enough before school. He went in search of goldfinch fledglings that had been pushed out of the nest too soon, fox pups who’d strayed from the pack, and bumblebees drowning on the crystal blue surface of Lover’s Lake. Nursed them back to health and gave them the care and concern they hadn’t received from their parents. 

He found family in them—these lost animals who didn’t know where else to go. 

Eddie walked beside them, spoke their language, wrapped mud-caked paws in spools of gauze he stole from the corner store, and taught the ones with wings how to fly again. It made the loneliness dull to a tolerable ache when he was among his animals. He was happiest when the morning fog hadn’t yet cleared and it appeared like the town that sat past the tree-line had all but vanished. 

Steve’s eyes are watering like he’s fallen from the nest and doesn’t know if he’ll ever see the sky again. If he’ll soar to the heights he was promised. His teeth are chattering. He looks numb, like if Eddie grabbed him gruffly by the shoulders he wouldn’t necessarily react. 

It’s a scary state to be in. It’s one Eddie knows well. To be so distant from your own body that someone could slap you across the face and you might not feel a thing. You might even read it as a means of affection. It’s twisted. 

“Eddie, please,” Steve begs, searching the room for safety, “I need you. I can’t do it alone and I don’t know anyone else who would even think about helping me.” 

Eddie spies the spider—the one he’ll never kill—spinning her web along the windowsill. Winding gossamer threads around her lesser victims. Pests who can’t possibly see it coming until they’ve been punctured by her murderous fangs. 

If Eddie hadn’t taken the spider in—if he was an arachnophobe with a violent streak—she’d probably have been dead ages ago. Smashed beneath a paper towel, fed to a hawk, had the life stamped out of her by the heel of a shoe. 

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he keeps his tone level, doesn’t want to escalate a situation that’s already too far gone. 

“I don’t, but I want to. Isn’t that enough?”

It’s not. 

The spider’s curiosity—her desperation to cool off inside someone’s house—may have been her downfall. Had she crawled into his neighbor’s trailer next door, she might have lived a minute or two before they’d found her out and sought to destroy her by any means necessary. 

“No. See, I don’t think it is. I helped you out today. I did your laundry. I bought your fucking popcorn two weeks ago—more than I’ll ever need, but that’s not a binding contract, Harrington. I can’t get involved. Last time I ended up on trial. I’m too old for that shit—can’t throw my whole life away over some kid who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s getting himself into.”  

The first punch Eddie ever threw was weak. 

He loved his dad. No matter how fucked up the man was. No matter how lacking his parental instincts were. Eddie loved him. 

He tried to make him proud, but he swung with an abundance of caution. Afraid to be the cause of his father’s pain. His dad laughed as his son’s tiny fist met his cheek, and, then, he punched him twice as hard moments later just to make a point. 

‘If anyone has the balls to hit you, you hit ‘em back—twice as hard.’

Steve leans against the wall, gazes longingly at the door like he wishes he could find it in him to leave, and hits Eddie where it hurts. 

Twice as hard. 

“Some kid?” He moves his hands down to his hips, stands up taller, rolls his shoulders to loosen the tension, and embodies someone Eddie doesn’t think he’s met before—a stranger wearing Steve Harrington’s meek and mild form, “That’s all I am to you? That’s all it boils down to after you did what you did this afternoon—really? I don’t believe you. I think you’re scared and trying to run away instead of facing how you actually feel about what’s going on here. How’s that for you, Mr. Munson?” 

What do I have to do for you, Mr. Munson? He’d said on the porch. 

Steve can’t talk like that. 

Eddie can’t fucking handle him talking like that without any prior warning. He’ll cum on the spot, scoop it from his boxers, fuck it back into Steve’s virgin hole, and he’ll make promises he can’t keep. 

Eddie growls low in the back of his throat like a starved wolf. Aches in his jeans, throbs against the denim, and yearns to sink his teeth into the pretty nape of Steve’s neck until he goes slack and learns his lesson. 

“I thought I told you not to call me that.” 

His palm twitches next to the prominent line of his cock.

“You said it yourself. You said you’re ‘too old’ to throw your life away over ‘some kid,’” Steve air quotes the phrase with a melodramatic roll of his eyes, “If that’s the case, then I’ll do my best to follow orders, sir. I’ll figure it out on my own and keep my distance. I won’t bother you anymore.” 

Steve’s braver than Eddie ever thought he’d be. 

The important thing is knowing the difference between when the risk is worth it and when the risk is going to put you in an early grave. That’s how you decide whether to stay home or go out to play ball with the big kids , Wayne’s wisdom from the hospital room echoes in his head. 

“So, what? You’re gonna leave? Gonna run home to daddy dearest and pretend we never met?” he jabs. 

Steve’s packing up his things. Unzipping his bag and rummaging around to make everything fit. 

“As soon as my uniform dries, yeah, that’s the plan,” he won’t look up and that drives Eddie mad, “I’ll find someone else to teach me.”  

“Fuck,” Eddie mutters under his breath—pulling at his hair, “No—actually, no, you can’t fucking do that. I won’t let you. You’re not allowed to—” 

The club. The motel room. He’d almost died that night. He’d almost lost everything to curiosity. 

“I don’t remember asking for your permission, Munson.” 

“This isn’t up for discussion.” 

“Now you really sound like my dad,” Steve snaps. 

The thought of anyone else putting their hands on Steve, showing him how to touch himself, or lovingly washing the cum stains out of his BSA uniform is unacceptable. 

Eddie’s never been any good at loving something— someone— halfway. He’s incapable. Lives his life in selfish extremes and devours every last crumb on his plate. Leaves nothing behind. Sucks his fingers clean. Drains the marrow from the bones. 

Not that he’s in love with Steve Harrington. 

Bible thumping, goody fucking two shoes, Church Mouse, came in his pants like the pathetic little virgin he is —Steve Harrington. 

It’s not that, of course, because Eddie’s only capable of forming heedless attachments that are quickly soiled, tainted, and colored black with soot from his own fingertips. 

The moment Eddie chooses to be intimate with someone is the moment the connection starts to rot. The moment the ticking time bomb starts counting down and the shelflife of the thing curdles up like a carton of milk left out in the middle of a heatwave. 

This summer—this scorching sun—is no exception.

Steve’s uniform is in the dryer. It’s tumbling through the gentle cycle. Beating like a low drum or a mother’s heartbeat in the background of this absurd experience. Claps of thunder before a storm. The aftermath no one saw coming. 

Once it’s done, he plans to head out the door. Eddie has half a mind to damage it beyond repair, so he can’t ever go home—so he has to stay. 

“Look, it’s fine. You don’t have to help me. You don’t have to agree to do anything more than what you’ve already done, but I do have to be home by dinner. That’s my parents’ rule. If I break it—” 

He trails off. Lost at sea. Fidgeting with the band on his ring finger. Eddie can’t read the inscription, but he knows there’s a Bible verse there. Whenever Steve references the place he unaffectionately calls ‘home,’ he reaches for the silver reminder. Like Dorothy with her ruby red slippers. As if touching it will wake him from the nightmare.

“No. Hang on. Don’t stop there. What happens if you break it? A rule?” He demands. 

Under his dad’s roof, rules didn’t exist. He was far too strung out to create or consider them. Forgot he had a kid most days. Backhanded Eddie whenever he sobered up and remembered he was supposed to be a parent. As if that would be enough to teach him discipline. Sharp slap, lights out, bag of frozen peas unequipped for the bruises that extended past the surface. 

Under Wayne’s roof, during his teenage years, a broken rule meant; extra chores, a stern talking to, losing car privileges for the weekend. Though irritated by his uncle’s rigidity at the time, Eddie understood the value in it now. How he brought about structure, routine, and care to a thoughtless high schooler who’d practically been raised by wolves. 

What Steve faces behind closed doors is a mystery to him, but the way he freezes at the question tells Eddie it’s not necessarily wonderland living at the Harrington residence. He needs to know more. Needs to unlock the truth. Get Steve talking. It’s not easy, especially after the conversation they’ve just had. 

“Doesn’t matter what happens–” 

It does. 

“Your old man hits you, is that it? Mine did the same to me when I was a kid. Motherfucker used to punch me so hard it would sting like crazy for days,” he laughs good-naturedly, which comes out psychopathic where it was supposed to be endearing, “Even when he was drunk off his ass, he could land a solid punch. What’s your pops get up to when he’s in a bad mood? I don’t judge. I won’t tell anyone.”

Eddie’s relying on familiarity, likeness, and common experience. 

He talks about his childhood with an overly lax tone like everything was a walk in the damn park—sun shining, birds chirping, crisp newspaper on the lawn in the morning. Mr. Roger’s wet dream. It’s excessive. It’s not helping his case. Steve doesn’t laugh. 

He shrugs. Looks starkly naked and damp despite the fact that he’s technically fully dressed. 

“I shouldn’t answer that,” he shakes his head, blinking rapidly, “I don’t think my father would be very happy with me if I did, and, like I said, I should get going. Sun’s gonna set soon.” 

Eddie doesn’t like the sound of that. Eddie doesn’t like the implications it leaves floating around the room. 

What happens when the sun sets? 

What happens when the sky goes from tangerine to black? 

What happens when Steve’s left alone with his father—when the congregation’s emptied out into the streets and God is their only witness? 

Eddie knows it’s stupid even as he does it. He knows it’s fucking careless, because he can’t control himself when he’s standing this close to Steve Harrington. He almost tackled Steve to the ground for kissing him on the corner of his stupid lips. 

He does it anyway. Ignores the alarms, bells, whistles, and warning signs. 

“I don’t think your father would be very happy with a lot things you’ve been doing lately,” he saunters over to him, closes the distance, and is pleased when he willingly backs himself up against the wall— here we are, again, Eddie thinks, “but, why, ever, should that mean you shouldn’t do them?” 

“Because,” Steve gulps, shaky breath coming loose as he gazes up at Eddie and reddens to the tips of his ears, “it’s wrong to want the things I want. I know it is. There’s no changing that, Eddie.” 

He groans at the sound of his name spoken in Steve’s voice. 

“There could be, though,” he noses along Steve’s jaw, breathing heavy as beads of sweat drip down his forehead, “I’m a stubborn guy. I never let anyone change my mind once I’ve made a decision, but there’s something special about you. There’s something I can’t stay away from even though I know I should. That means something, baby.” 

Steve can’t stay still, so Eddie reaches a hand down to his hip and squeezes twice, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton of his boxers. 

“I’m sorry I was mean,” he whispers, lips pressing softly at the hinge of his jaw as Steve’s mouth falls open in the most beautiful moan he’s ever heard, “I don’t know how to behave myself around you—end up saying hurtful shit, because it scares me to want you this bad. Keeps me up at night. Can’t stand the thought of anyone else having you the way I did today. Hate it.” 

“Really?” He whines, “You mean it? Don’t lie to me, please. I’ve had too many people lie to me before.” 

“Of course, baby. I’m fucking crazy about you. It’s my fault if I ever made you think otherwise. Know I need to control myself, but you make it impossible,” Eddie says, dragging his lips over Steve’s facial hair, “I’m sorry I’m such a monster. So, so sorry.” 

Every nerve in his body is on fire when Steve whimpers against him, burying his face in the crook of Eddie’s neck like he can’t possibly hold himself up a moment longer—the pleasure taking over. 

He turns and presses his equally hard cock against Eddie’s upper thigh, crying out as soon as his hips make contact. If Eddie didn’t know any better, he’d think Steve was in genuine agony. 

“Forgive you,” he presses a hand to Eddie’s chest and bucks against him, grinding in tight circles against his side, heat radiating off of him,“ ‘m sorry too—hard to want you when I know it’s wrong. Makes everything so much more— ah, mmm —confusing. Don’t know how to feel. Don’t know what to do with it. That’s why I need a good teacher.” 

They’re toeing a fine line. Giving and taking. Pausing and waiting for response—for confirmation that the universe might be conspiring in their favor. That God’s on their side. 

But, the thing is Eddie’s never been any good at holding back. At keeping quiet. At not being the obnoxious, strange, offensive guy that people cross the street to get away from. Give him space. Let him make his weird animal sacrifices in private or whatever the fuck it is his neighbors think he gets up to in his freetime. 

They don’t know him. They don’t know what he’s seen. They don’t know the shit he’s been through to get here, to stay alive. 

He leans in. Brushes his lips along the shell of Steve’s ear, flicks his tongue piercing against the lobe, and, fuck, Steve’s just as responsive as he was in the woods. Even more so. Goosebumps rising on his soft skin—baby soft and not a blemish to be found. 

“Eddie,” Steve breathes the shape of his name like it’s criminal. Flawless in every sense of the word. He’s fucking perfect. 

“Hmm. Did it feel wrong, baby? Did it feel wrong when I touched you and made your pretty cock all hard in your shorts—hard like you are right now? I can feel you, Little Lamb. I can feel everything.”

Steve makes a gritty sound in the back of his throat and Eddie trails a finger across his exposed collarbone. Carnivorous. He yearns to sink his teeth in deep. To cling to the bone and gnaw on the parts of Steve that are supple and fleshy and make Eddie hard in his jeans.

“I—I don’t know. It all happened so fast. I’m—it’s a lot. Need to think about it—just need a second to catch my breath.” 

He looks like he’s run a marathon. Chest rising and falling in rapid succession. 

“You sure? You seem like you already know the answer, but let me rephrase the question and we’ll see if that clears things up for you.” 

Eddie coaxes him into his hands. It’s no easy task. If he moves too quickly, he’ll scare Steve off. Like a foolish hunter stepping on a branch right as he’s aimed his gun at an unsuspecting deer. 

He reaches his fingers around Steve’s jaw, strokes the line of it. Turns his head this way and that just to get a better look at him. Then, cruelly, dances his hand down the front of Steve’s shirt to flatten his palm over his heartbeat—feeling it accelerate as Eddie leans closer. 

“Does it feel wrong now? Does this feel wrong to you, sweetheart?” 

He purrs in his ear and smiles to himself when Steve moans as his fingers brush over his pebbling nipples. 

“Feels fine,” he gasps, “I thought you didn’t want to help me. I thought you wanted me to leave. I thought I made you mad.” 

“Just fine? Don’t lie to me, Stevie. You’re not any good at it, and, besides,” he tilts Steve’s chin up so they’re practically nose to nose—sharing breath which is somehow the most intimate part of this whole thing, “I heard your little moans in the shower. Such pretty noises from such a pretty boy. Couldn’t possibly ignore you—had to jerk myself off right outside the door. Better than watching any porno. Better than any skin magazine.” 

It’s true. Eddie hasn’t cum that hard in years. Fucking his fist and dirtying his hands. Licking them clean, because he refused to leave the room and grab a rag. 

He refused to walk away from Steve until he’d heard every last whimper fall from his lips. Muffled by the flow of the shower, but so beyond worth it to stick around for. To commit to memory for all the nights Steve won’t be spending beside him in bed. 

 It’s a miracle he didn’t kick down the door. 

“I didn’t—I didn’t do what I did in the woods. Just touched myself a little bit, but I stopped! Not like when I ruined my shorts. Didn’t make a mess.”

Oh, he’s so good. Readily confessing when Eddie hardly has a hand on him. Doesn’t take much to get him to come clean. 

“You didn’t cum? I think that’s the word you’re missing there, sweet boy. One of those special words you want to learn so badly. Say it for me, use it in a sentence so I know you understand.” 

“ I didn’t cum, ” Steve repeats almost robotically. Stumbles. Fidgets. Eyes locked on Eddie while the word takes shape in his pretty pink mouth for the first time. 

It’s monumental. 

Should be documented on film, used in a song, shouted from the rooftops, snorted in neat snow capped lines from a junkie’s busted coffee table. 

If Eddie didn’t want to keep him, he’d risk shoving a camera in his face. Use the few inches of height he has on him to intimidate, manipulate, contort the situation into one that serves him and his vile needs. 

Say it one more time for me. Don’t move. C’mon. Say it pretty. Cum. That’s it. That’s right. Nothing to be scared of, babydoll—

He imagines snapping the shot in the brief second that Steve’s pouty lips would meet to form the vibrating hymn of the ‘M.’ Disrupting world order, inflicting chaos, scales tipping. 

Eddie can’t lose him. 

Eddie hardly has him. 

It’ll have to wait. 

In the meantime, there are other ways he can slither in through the cracks. Snake his body inside Steve’s and flick his tongue against the sensitive places he hasn’t yet learned exist. 

“But, you want to? Don’t you? You wanna cum even though you know your daddy would hate it—even though he’d put your head on a stake and strip you of the family name? Even though he’d strap a chastity belt on you and let your cock get all red and angry from those dirty thoughts you can’t stop thinking?” 

“Eddie, I told you. It’s almost dinner. I have to get going. Can’t stay here,” he clasps his hands together in, what might be, prayer, “Wanna, but I can’t.” 

His lips move in silent incantations. Fear and longing merging into a bastard child. Eddie can only imagine what he’s asking God for. What horrors he thinks he needs to beg forgiveness for. 

The woods. The pleasure. Eddie’s finger tracing the outline of his hollow bones. If he’d ever perfected the practice of necromancy, he’d uncap the ends of them—tibia, fibula, clavicle, the list goes on to number two-hundred-and-six—pack them full of saccharine kisses, the afterglow of neurotic sex, the ability to cum without guilt. Smoke him out. Sew everything back up with a needle and thread and stems of lavender to calm the ache. 

It’s systematic. Methodical. If Eddie can flip the script—rewrite the story of Steve Harrington’s life into a parody of Us Versus Them —he might be able to save him from a fate as cruel as Chrissy’s. 

He might be able to borrow time from the present, step into the past, and undo the hurt. 

Chrissy’s gone, but part of her seems to live on in Steve. 

Eddie can’t quite explain it, but he seems to reflect her old soul and the barricaded loveshack she dreamed of in San Francisco. The hopeless mirage in which the three of them could escape and live happily ever after in the treehouse. Surrounded by all that greenery where anything is possible on a foggy morning. Discover a portal to another world—the underworld —where Eddie can be the hero. Where he can dust off her broken heart, polish her emerald green eyes, and deliver her back into the arms of the girl she dared to love. 

He smells strawberries. He tastes their fresh juice on his tongue—vibrant and ripe. His ribs collapse to shelter her. But, when he looks down, his knees are free of grass stains and it’s the ugliest thing he’s ever seen. She’s gone. Magic doesn’t exist. 

“Gotta go home. Can’t put it off any longer. Sorry.” 

Steve collects himself, shoulders past Eddie, and slips into the laundry room to change. 

Eddie can’t follow. Can’t move. Can’t breathe. Within and without. Stuck between one timeline and the next. The lines blur. 

He’s not a good man—

But he’s spent an awful long time trying to pave a path to redemption. Sat around waiting for the right time. The right opportunity. 

Dressed in khaki, merit sash slung across his middle, glasses wiped clean of steam, half-hard in his shorts; Steve Harrington is the perfect victim and he’s—

on his way out the door. 

Mumbling his gratitude. Going home to burgeoning unkindness, lies, hatred, and two people who will always love God more than they love their own flesh and blood. 

He’s a soldier in an army. Reduced to a number, to his capacity to convert those who don’t buy into a singular divine power, to a gospel that will never extend a helping hand to him or give him a seat at the last supper. 

Eddie’s seen it all before.

Deja fuckin’ vu.  

His old friend. 

He’s not about to let it happen again—

“Steve!” 

The sun’s setting. The light’s dying. The bats, cicadas, crickets, and vicious predators will be coming out soon. Nightcrawling creatures who look for revenge when the moon is highest. They pray to Her while taking snaggletoothed bites out of the ordinary. It’s no wonder Eddie’s always felt safest in the protective circle of their claws, wings, and talons. 

Steve has no idea what the animal world is capable of doing to a terribly naive boy like him. 

“Let me at least drive you home, man,” Eddie scratches the back of his neck awkwardly—like a teenager asking a girl way out of his league to dance with him at the senior prom. 

There’s a sense of internal struggle behind Steve’s eyes. Between the version of himself who fantasizes about a life outside of Hawkins and the version of himself who inherits the church and gets buried in the small town cemetery without ever having learned how to be loved. An eye for an eye and he’ll go blind before he ever gets the chance to see the world for what it is. 

I’ll meet you at the treehouse tonight at seven and then, we’ll find Eddie a boyfriend and figure out where to buy a magic school bus!

“I–I can’t. They’d know. They always know. Not worth the risk, I’ll walk. I know the route like the back of my hand.” 

He quits easily. Won’t fight. Welcomes the bullet into his skull. Fertilizes the Earth with what could have been. Lets himself be torn apart while wearing a polite smile. 

Eddie wonders who they are.  

Steve’s parents? 

The congregation? 

God and his battalion of tattle-taling angels? 

“You said you’re sick like me, but you’re not sick, Steve. You’re just waking up to your potential,” Eddie brushes a thumb over his cheek and breaks when a tear falls to dampen the pad of his finger—like collecting stardust off a meteorite, “Can I see you again? Will you let me teach you?”

Steve doesn’t answer and Eddie thinks he’s hit rock bottom—

Until, the red bandana he wears around his neck is coming off. 

Until, Steve's not asking for permission—simply taking what he wants.

Until, he strokes the blue veins on the inside of Eddie’s wrist and makes his knees buckle from hideous desire. 

Until, he expertly knots the fabric with his teeth like a wild thing. 

Until, he’s nothing more than an illusion in the distance and the moon rises while Eddie dries his tears on something that was never supposed to belong to him. 

❋

Mike, Will, Lucas, and Dustin are oddly quiet on the four-mile hike around Lover’s Lake. 

There’s barely any incline to the trail which would typically prompt the boys to talk Steve’s ear off for the entire duration of their journey. 

Usually, they’d be gabbing about their crushes, trading shifts to be the butt of the joke, and grumbling about the heat. Running the motor into the ground, so to speak, and pedaling nonsense as their feet passed the ostensible finish line back at camp. 

Even stranger though, Steve hasn’t needed to reach for his whistle a single time and they’re already halfway through. He always keeps one around his neck on days like these—anticipating the troop’s parched apathy, unanimous complaints, and their boots dragging in the dreary fashion of soldiers buried in foreign trenches. As if fighting the same bloody wars their grandfathers fought. As if they’ve ever been acquainted with combat anywhere outside their beloved technicolor video games. 

Today, the boys speak in hushed tones, fall back in pairs to investigate anthropomorphic rock formations, and appear deep in thought whenever Steve peers over his shoulder to check on the group. 

Dustin Henderson’s marching along closest to Steve—unfortunately, making him an easy target for interrogation. It feels slightly manipulative. 

Look, Steve doesn’t like to pick favorites. 

He remembers being younger and watching the same few scouts get chosen first for team games, slumbering peacefully in the preferred bunks, and constantly receiving special treatment from their older counterparts. 

He remembers going above and beyond, sticking to the rules while others recklessly broke them. Consistently minding his manners at troop meals, but never really gaining the admiration or respect that the other boys in his troop seemed to. 

All that’s to say, he’d never admit Henderson’s his ‘favorite,’ but he does feel like the closest thing Steve’s ever had to a little brother and that counts for something extra. Steve often wonders if he would have been happier with a sibling in the house. If it would have given him comfort to know he wasn’t alone in his fears. 

“So, are you looking forward to Philmont? It’s coming up fast. I’m gonna have to start making a packing list for you guys soon,” he asks as casually as he can, because any mention of Philmont inevitably brings up thoughts of Eddie Munson. 

His pale fingers cupping Steve’s jaw, the sound of him gasping sharply when Steve caught him by surprise, his blood on Steve’s tongue surrounded by a thicket of oak trees. 

“Sounds fun, yeah. I’m sure it’ll be cool.”

 Henderson swats a junebug out of his face. Barely showing any emotion despite the fact that he’d been practically vibrating out of his skin with excitement about Philmont’s ropes course two weeks ago. 

“You don’t sound so sure,” Steve prompts, because something is definitely up, “Everything alright? Got any pre-ranch worries I can quell? I swear it’s a total blast!” 

Steve spies Mike nudging Lucas in the background like he doesn’t want his friend to miss whatever is about to transpire in this conversation— did Steve forget to put on deodorant this morning ? Is that why they’re avoiding him? 

“I am sure!” He answers a little too enthusiastically, “I just couldn’t believe we sold so much popcorn that quickly. For a while there, I didn’t think we’d get to actually go to Philmont.” 

Out here, Steve can almost pretend his life is normal. He can almost imagine nothing’s changed between this summer and the last. Marginally able to convince himself that Eddie Munson is a distant memory planted in his brain by the Devil just to test him— he’s not real. 

“Guess it’s a good popcorn year,” Steve refutes in a light and easy tone like his head hasn’t been bitterly wrestling against his heart for days, “I think it’s the new flavors—the variety. People seem to really have a taste for it.”

Henderson responds with a muffled comment that Steve can’t quite make out. He laughs anxiously at the end and frantically looks for his friends as if chatting with Steve is the worst possible outcome this morning could’ve had. 

“What was that? Sorry, I didn’t hear you.” 

“Nothing!”

“It didn’t sound like nothing. You definitely said something, man.” 

“I swear it wasn’t important!” 

Mike and Lucas have edged closer, craning their necks like desperate geese in search of sandwich scraps. 

Will is polite enough to act like he doesn’t hear the awkward conversation and instead, investigates his compass. Steve jots down a mental note to nominate him for the good citizenship award later when he sees Hopper back at camp. 

If they weren’t a group of scrawny rising sophomores, Steve might think a mutiny was about to occur. He might think he was about to be forced to walk the plank by his own men—thrown overboard with cement bricks tied to his feet. 

Steve’s paranoia isn’t helped by Henderson’s clear hesitance to speak up. He unleashes an anxiety ridden stream of incoherent noises that don’t add up to much. A lot of ‘um’s,’ ‘well’s,’ and obvious fidgeting with his merit sash. 

“Just spit it out, Henderson,” Steve winces, realizing he’s about to lose his patience with an audience of impressionable youth in tow which is very much against the handbook. 

It’s certainly not the Godly thing to do. 

Proverbs 16:32 rings between his ears in his father’s reverent voice, ‘Better to be patient than a warrior, and better to have self-control than to capture a city.’

“I said, ‘a certain someone clearly has a taste for it!’” Henderson squeaks out, shielding his face in shame, “But, it was a stupid joke! I take it back!” 

Steve stops in his tracks, heart hammering. 

He imagines this is what the deer in the woods must experience when a hunter, just out of their line of sight, cocks a gun. 

Nature’s quiet disrupted by open fire—an unfortunate byproduct of modern civilization and late-stage capitalism. The question of whether to play dead or run for your life chiming like church bells on the eerie morning of a funeral. 

Steve doesn’t play dead, but he does play dumb in hopes that Henderson isn’t alluding to what he thinks he is, or, rather, who he thinks he is.  

“Who has a taste for it?” 

He chugs from his thermos. Wipes what’s leftover on the back of his hand. Keeps walking, eyes on the horizon, blinking past his discomfort. 

 He’s careful not to look for the set of unassuming trees he’d stumbled through and found Eddie Munson with his cock— there’s that new word, again—down Paul Langley’s throat. He can’t go back there. Not mentally or physically. 

“No one in particular! It could have been about anybody—it was an observation, that’s all!” 

“I think what Dustin means to say is,” Lucas sidesteps his friend to directly address Steve with Mike following close behind—there’s a glimmer of mischief in their eyes, “A certain someone clearly has a taste for you, Steve.” 

“Stop speaking in riddles. I’m lost. This isn’t one of your Dungeon games,” Steve says, wondering if he’s already flown too close to the sun, “If you guys have something to say to me, then just say it!” 

He’s barely had the chance to kind-of-kiss Eddie. 

He isn’t ready to lose out on the potential of something more— something impossible to label, because Steve is still on chapter one of Eddie’s lessons. 

He isn’t prepared for the kind of life in which he isn’t allowed to have secrets or embody two conflicting identities—the devout pastor’s son and the excommunicated leper. 

Lucas is the bravest of the bunch. 

Steve can always count on him to climb the tallest tree in the woods like it’s child’s play, eat earthworms when dared by his friends, and wrap up a younger scout’s bloody knee like it’s no big deal. He’s not squeamish about anything. 

Steve doesn’t understand how he walks around with such little concern about damnation, sin, and otherwise. It must be nice to go about your business without the constant worry that you’re going to mess up and wind up in Hell for the rest of eternity.

“Mike says he overheard Eddie Munson asking about you when he was over at the Wheeler’s house for dinner,” Lucas grins ear to ear while Steve goes into a stoic state of cardiac arrest, “Apparently, he was making goo-goo eyes like Dustin does when he talks about Suzie.”

The four walls of the house Steve grew up in are suffocating him as he mechanically puts one foot in front of the other and chokes on his own breath. 

The floorboards are squeezing his organs to a crimson pulp. There’s blood everywhere. Red seeps out the front door, snakes through the rose bushes, and drains into the sewers, as Steve thrashes against a dark, familiar figure pressing his nose down into the Bible. 

The man is taller than him, towering, using alleged wisdom and the word of God to intimidate—to force him into submission. Liturgical robes strangle his vocal chords, rendering them useless. His screams go unheard. 

Would Eddie save him if he knew the truth? Would he run in the opposite direction the second Steve told him? 

“Okay…and?” 

“ And, we checked the order sheets—they’re not hard to find. Eddie bought the last fifty tins. That’s, like,” Lucas counts on his fingers, calculating the price, “Three-hundred dollars in popcorn! Nobody spends that much on popcorn—not even the troop parents! That’s crazy people behavior!” 

It’s easier to bend the truth if he steadies his focus on the lake—the water lapping at the shore, the scent of fresh lavender wafting through the air, the few ducks bobbing along on the surface. 

“Eddie really likes popcorn. A lot of people do. I don’t know why you’re all acting like that’s such a crime. He knew how much that popcorn was going to cost before I filled out the order forms. It’s not like I scammed him.” 

Why are you acting like you know something I don’t? Why are you acting like you understand him better than I do? Why are you acting like he’ll leave if he actually gets to know the real me? 

Henderson sighs in deep exasperation as if he’s working with one of the Sunday school kids who can’t seem to memorize The Lord’s Prayer no matter how many times he practices reciting it with them. Those kids usually ended the class in tears. Steve always felt sorry for them, but the church didn’t condone his natural inclination towards empathy. 

“Eddie likes you, Steve,” Henderson exclaims at a volume way louder than Steve would prefer—anyone could be hiding behind the tree-line, “It’s obvious! Why else would he do something like that? He’s not rich. It’s not like he’s got the money sitting around to spare. Eddie’s never that nice to anyone.” 

“It’s true! My sister is Eddie’s best friend and he’s never paid me for popcorn. Not once,” Mike adds, turning back for a moment to signal for Will to speed up and join in on the conversation with a quick wave of his hand—great, a larger audience for Steve’s downfall, “He steals it from my basement whenever he comes over to our house! He’s a thief! A buttery handed thief!”  

Steve has no trouble imagining Eddie sneaking downstairs to fill his pockets with caramel corn like the cat who got the cream or a cartoon bandit. However, it does catch him off guard when he starts picturing himself sucking the sweet, sticky crumbs from Eddie’s fingertips as if taking communion on his tongue. Consubstantiating the filth beneath his fingernails as it turns to feverish pleasure in the back of his throat. 

That disgusting urge is born of Eddie, lives in him, and builds in Steve like a colony of parasites. 

“You acted like you didn’t know him—”

Henderson looks at Steve quizzically which feels an awful lot like sitting in front of a detective on a murdercase which, apparently, Eddie has done in this lifetime.

“I introduced you at the ceremony and neither of you said anything! You were both being super weird and then you just wandered off into the woods together! I thought you’d been eaten by a bear!” 

“I thought you’d drowned in the lake!” Lucas tacks on. 

“My theory was alien abduction!” Mike joins in. 

“More like Eddie abduction,” Lucas wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and the rest of the boys fall into uncontrollable stitches of laughter. 

“That doesn’t even make sense.” 

Steve’s head might roll off his shoulders. Everything feels so heavy and devoid of meaning. Too much and too little. 

The house is crumbling, the roof’s on fire, and there’s no help for miles and miles. 

Steve Harrington doesn’t know how much longer he can stomach the lies that twist his intestines into knots—making sick balloon animals out of the faith he’s starting to see as nothing more than dead fish on the dock. 

Fish do not multiply by magic or man or miracle. 

A fish is a fish. 

No certain touch may transform it into a bountiful meal. 

How would such a thing even be possible? 

These questions have been coming to mind more and more since he last left Eddie’s trailer and walked home in the dark to meet his father’s retribution in the doorway. He hid the bruises well. 

“I don’t know what you expect me to say—I hardly know him. I met him one time on Mike’s route while you guys were sick and Dustin re-introduced us at the ceremony, because that’s how little of an impression he made on me–”

Mind you, Steve has thought of practically nothing other than Eddie Munson since chance or fate or demons straight out of Hell brought them together beyond the bramble bushes. 

Thickets of green weaving melancholic poetry around his boots—scuffed and damaged. Preaching his hedonistic gospel to Paul who aided in spreading Eddie’s teachings across the forest. 

At the time, Steve had been shocked by the scene. Now, he’s determined to be the replacement for the groaning man at Eddie’s feet. 

“He wasn’t memorable, so I didn’t bring him up,” Steve finishes, “I honestly forgot about him until he was standing in front of me again. It is what it is—I’m not hiding anything. Drop it.” 

It’s a weak argument, full of holes, paper thin. If the kids press hard enough it’ll collapse like a row of dominoes. 

Steve hates the cold edge that encompasses his words in a blizzard of disgruntled irritation. 

Furthermore, he despises the thoughts swimming just beneath the tip of the iceberg like freshly hatched tadpoles. The warm bellied ache which gradually dissolves his ability to resist giving into delusion— temptation . Locked doors he’s supposed to pretend he doesn’t notice down the hall—places and names his father’s outright banned with a slap on the wrist. 

“You forgot the dude who gave you three-hundred dollars in cash for fifty tins of popcorn? How is that even possible? He’s covered in creepy tattoos and wears all that jewelry! It’d be like ignoring Santa Claus in your living room—like everyone knows who he is once they see the big jolly guy in the red suit!” 

Mike isn’t buying Steve’s half-hearted lie. 

None of them are. 

“Did you hit your head after you sold him the popcorn?” Henderson jokes, poking Steve in the side with a finger that jabs at his ribs, “Fall down near the quarry like Max did that one time on her skateboard?” 

“That was hilarious,” Lucas quips. 

“I’m not—I’m not gay if that’s what you’re implying. I’m not like him ,” Steve says. 

Curiously, it’s saying the word out loud and smearing it over a thick slice of myopic denial which causes the seed to mature into a flower. Planted weeks ago, Steve’s been adamant about trying to saw the stem in half. Pouring bleach onto the soil every time he suppresses the truth about himself. Mowing over the budding thing before it gets the chance to breathe above ground where the rest of the people are loving, touching, and seeing stars in their soup. Extraordinary brought out of the ordinary. 

Steve Harrington is gay—

Steve Harrington is gay and it hits him like a bullet train. 

There’s no way to kill the fractured pieces which long for Eddie Munson’s hands around his throat, because those pieces are in every part of him now. 

“We shouldn’t even be talking about this. Homosexuality is a–”

  Say it, Harrington, say it. I know you want to. 

He’s not sure when Eddie’s voice started replacing his own inside his head, but there he is. Low and raspy as ever. 

“Sin! It’s a very bad sin! Okay? I’m not gay. Eddie and I are—we’re very different people. Do we have an understanding about that?” 

“Woah, woah, woah. Nobody said you were gay, dude, and you don’t have to be such a dick about Eddie. He’s kind of an asshole, sure, but he’s like a really great asshole—like a super annoying big brother asshole who doesn’t let anyone else mess with you, because that’s his job. He’s one of those guys,” Mike says. 

He sounds genuinely disappointed in Steve which cuts him to the core, because he’s supposed to be a positive mentor for these kids. 

He’s supposed to lead them through their adolescence with an unbreakable code of morals and ethics at the forefront of their BSA education. 

He’s supposed to be a hero and they’re looking at him like he’s the villain. Like he actually became Judas when he acted out the kiss with Eddie in his living room. 

“I don’t have a problem with Eddie being gay–” Steve tries to remedy the mess he’s made, but only digs a deeper hole. 

“It sure sounds like you do! You called it a sin which means you think it’s wrong—not natural or whatever!” 

When prompted to describe Will Byers for a piece in the local paper last spring, Steve told the interviewer that Byers was a good kid. Good at heart, good at being a scout, good at welcoming newcomers to the troop. He’d said with a warm smile that Byers was essentially a model citizen. Reliable, honest, loyal, stayed on the trail without ever needing an extra reminder, gave his last granola bar to Mike Wheeler when they’d gotten stranded on the bus ride home from a field trip. 

Steve meant it, every last word. They got along great. Byers never annoyed him or got on his nerves like the others had a tendency to do. He was supportive, helpful, a real team player in and out of uniform. First to say ‘thank you,’ and last to leave when a clean-up job was needed after an event. 

Throughout the hike, he’d been quiet. Listening. Jogging closer when Mike waved him over a few minutes prior. Formulating his thoughts and opinions on Steve without him even realizing it was happening. 

He’s angry. He's taking it personally and Steve doesn’t know why, but he’s fuming and everyone’s stopped to stare at him. Fists clenched at his sides, lips trembling, eyes narrowed and locked in on Steve. 

“Listen, Will, I—I misspoke. Homosexuality’s a sin in the Bible. That’s what my father preaches and that’s what I’ve been told my whole life, but that doesn’t mean I believe it anymore! I can change—I am changing! It was a knee-jerk reaction. I’m sorry.”

“So if Eddie was on this hike, you wouldn’t treat him any differently than you treat the rest of us?” Will crosses his arms over his chest defensively. 

If Eddie was on this hike, I wouldn’t be able to breathe, Steve thinks solemnly. 

The sun’s casting gold through the early morning air. It’s a beautiful scene, but it’s also a clear sign to keep moving. To pick up the pace and make it back to camp before he and the kids are sunburnt, distraught, and out of water. 

But, Will won’t budge and the boys surround him like a flock of sheep to their shepherd so Steve eases up to prevent further casualties. Sticks his neck out for the sake of the group. 

“If Eddie was on this hike, I’d pack him a granola bar and make him put on sunscreen before we started. I’d treat him like any other scout. That’s my job.” 

The boys assess him, exchange looks, and debate whether or not to believe Steve in eyebrow raises and shrugs of shoulders. 

It’s Will’s call. If Will forgives him, the rest of them will be able to find it in them to do the same. Fearless leader, guardian angel, respected and fiercely protected by those who love him. 

Steve’s proud of them in this moment, because if nothing else—even if they hate him forever—he respects their morale, the selfless way they care for each other when it comes down to it, and their integrity above all. He’d like to think he had some part in shaping those traits. In the process of making great Scouts. 

He’s not God. 

He’ll never be God. 

But, if he was—if he had a hand in the decision, he’d send them all to Heaven at the end of their lives. Each of them is inherently good. Not just Byers—all of them come to the table willing to sacrifice, mend, and bleed for each other when necessary. 

He thinks he’ll never be as pure of heart as they are, but that’s okay. Witnessing it is enough. 

“Gonna hold you to that,” Will cautiously smiles and the boys nod alongside him like the bobbing ducks floating on the lake. 

But, something about Byers forgiveness instantly curdles like sour milk in his belly. Turns his stomach, coats his esophagus with acid, and, then, he’s excusing himself with a hand over his mouth to silence the pain. Vomiting just beyond the tree-line and laughing bitterly when his eyes land on the vacant picnic table. 

If this is part of God’s plan, he certainly has a twisted sense of humor. 

“ Eddie ,” Steve whispers to the wind when he’s strong enough to stand. 

It’s an admission of guilt. 

It’s the naming of a new God. 

❋

When they were kids, Nancy claimed she could read Eddie’s mind. 

She’d purport to know what he was thinking, twirl her pigtails, because they gave her ‘psychic visions,’ and snap her fingers three times. 

“I’ve got it!” She’d exclaim, a knowing glint in her eyes. Like she suddenly held all the secrets to the universe. 

Eddie would naturally start to panic. 

He’d start to assess whether or not his thoughts were normal and—if he decided they seemed at all strange—he’d do his best to start thinking about something much more mundane. Like the oatmeal shade of the carpet, trees, his favorite number, or the order of the colors in the rainbow. Anything that wouldn’t tip her off to his strangeness. 

While Eddie became increasingly frazzled, Nancy would scrunch up her freckled nose and screech, “Ew! Gross, Fox! Get your head out of the gutter!” 

And, then Eddie would confess. 

He’d stumble over his words, tie his tongue up like a tangled yo-yo, flush deep red, and bury his face in his hands. 

Stay back, he’d urge his subconscious, bury it. 

Nancy knew better. 

She’d lean closer, sniff the air around him, tap her fingers in a lyrical rhythm over her chest. It was terrifying. 

“Fox, you can’t hide from me,” she’d stare at the lines on his palm and mumble gibberish to herself—-which she had Eddie convinced was the language of spirits, “I already know what you’re thinking. You might as well tell me about it. Otherwise you’ll be banished from this planet and sent to one that could be much, much worse than Earth. I don’t want that to happen to you, do you? What would I tell your uncle? God. That would be such a nightmare. I’d never stop crying.” 

That’s all it ever took. 

Eddie would explain why what he was thinking about really wasn’t all that weird—how in a sample size of one hundred strangers, at least half of them would probably have had the same thought at some point in their lives. 

Which inevitably meant telling Nancy exactly which secrets he’d been hiding—telling her about the faded intricacies of the dirty magazine spreads he peeked at, the dreams that made him wet the bed in the wee hours of the morning, and the stories he’d never dare share with another soul. 

It was vicious. 

It was why he’d always liked her.

Nancy had sharp claws and even sharper teeth. She picked at you like a peeling scab until she had dissected your skeleton to the point of total and complete understanding. She wanted to see into you—past your inhibitions, white lies, and friendly smile—to make sure you weren’t hiding anything that could be weaponized against her in the future. She protected herself in a cloak of whispered secrets, latent admissions of guilt, and petty war crimes. 

It was like being best friends with an undercover cop or a prison warden. You never knew when she might decide it was time to investigate again, crack your skull open on a rock, or suck out your entrails to test for psychopathic tendencies. Wipe the blood on the back of her hand like it was spaghetti sauce from a jar. 

Nancy was whip smart too. She was violently intelligent. 

From a young age, she carried a copy of Webster’s Dictionary around in her purple backpack just in case an adult— it was usually an adult —tried to belittle her by using language she hadn’t yet learned in school. 

In those moments, she’d drag out the book which was about half the size of her, hold up a finger, locate the definition she was looking for at an alarmingly fast rate and formulate a ruthless counterargument in a matter of seconds. 

Nancy Wheeler knew more about the world and society and politics than anyone else Eddie had ever known. She was tough as nails. 

What else could he have possibly wanted in a best friend? 

“Nixon’s a total bozo,” she’d commented, sipping on a glass of lemonade in front of the television one day, “you can see it in his eyes. Lights are on, but nobody’s home. And, they have the audacity to act like Watergate is such a big surprise. Can you believe that, Foxy? I saw it coming from miles away. I’ve never trusted him, not since the day he announced he was running for election. He’s a snake in the grass.”

Eddie had no idea what she was talking about. They were eleven. Most eleven year-olds didn’t care about national politics, but Nancy sure did. 

As they grew older, it only became clearer. That girl was meant for something great. That girl was always going to read him like a fucking book, pry him open like a hungry cannibal, and steal the wishbone from inside his chest for good luck. 

So it doesn’t really surprise him when she demands they meet for a chat after not having seen each other for a few days. 

It doesn’t really surprise him when he gets to the treehouse five minutes after the time they’d agreed upon and the lantern lights are already eerily glowing through the open windows. 

Nancy likes to be prepared. 

Nancy likes extensive notes, details, movie trailers, and vacuuming. 

Nancy likes an orderly, tidy, neat life in which time stands still. 

Eddie shakes a nervous breath from his lungs, puts out his cigarette, and approaches the belly of the beast—climbing the rope ladder like it doesn't scare him. Like he hasn’t always wondered what would happen if he let go near the top and granted gravity the permission to take control. 

After Chrissy died, Eddie and Nancy returned the treehouse to its abandoned state. Left it high and dry, hoping a tornado would hit or the city would demolish it for being too much of an eyesore. 

Neither happened. 

Months passed, then years, and the treehouse held strong against all odds. 

Their ramshackle house of dreams fought off codependent weeds, possessive critters, and a nomadic gaggle of termites. The branches extended into past, present, and future—safeguarding whimsically aloof moments and the trio’s collective ephemera from a life cut too short. 

Had things gone differently or occurred out of order, the three of them could have been witches, warlocks, or a triad of moons circulating Saturn’s rings. They could have been neighbors, philanthropists, or royalty. 

Eddie’s bedroom ceiling is painted dramatically with these discarded scenes—vibrant murals of the west coast, childhood, and wrinkles. It’s his secret. Sometimes he writes them down, the dreams he refuses to let go of. The reality he can’t accept. The blonde-haired girl with strawberry stained jeans and a name he can’t put to rest. 

On, what should have been, Chrissy’s twenty-first birthday, Nancy told Eddie there was something she needed to do and that it was up to him to decide whether or not he wanted to join her. 

Of course, he followed, because he thought she sounded a bit out of her mind. She also had car keys in her hands and tears in her eyes and he wasn’t about to let her die on the road. Losing one best friend was enough to make him hypervigilant about Nancy’s safety for a lifetime. 

From that day onward, they reclaimed the treehouse. Putting back breaking work into sweeping away leaves and dust and animal droppings. Keeping everything else virtually the same, because they refused to change in any direction without her. 

If she came back from the dead, she’d need to be able to recognize it—recognize them as the people she left behind—to know she’d shown up at the right place and didn’t have anything to be afraid of. No one was going to find her out here. 

They never admitted it to each other, but whenever they visited, they both kept their ears open. Watching, waiting, and listening for the gentle lilt of her laugh amongst the honeysuckle growing down below. 

Nancy invited him out here to catch up, which Eddie instantly knew meant she intended to rip him a new one for disappearing on her without plausible cause. 

Catch up makes it sound friendly. 

Catch up makes it sound conversational and lighthearted as if they were going to discuss corporate gossip and one night stands. 

Catch up is a lousy excuse for what she really wanted from him—the truth. 

Eddie can’t blame her. 

In her shoes, he’d do the same. 

“Knock, knock,” he says as he swings his long legs through the entrance and finds Nancy already seated in the opposite corner of the little room. 

She’s got a blanket resting over her lap despite the unbearable warmth of July. Her Walkman headphones cradle her ears with the faint extraterrestrial sounds of Bowie. She removes them as he settles into the room. 

“Nice of you to finally show up,” she says.

There’s a bag of convenience store candy at her feet, but she doesn’t offer him any and he doesn’t ask. The boundary is set. 

“Ouch,” he hisses and feigns pain, “you wound me.” 

“Where’d you go after the ceremony, the other day?” 

“Coming right out the gate with the hard hitting questions, Wheely. You don’t mess around.” 

She bites into a Red Vine the way a vulture might tear the head off an unsuspecting squirrel— she means business. Doesn’t leave space to joke around or play fight. 

“I think it’s a pretty fair question after everything we’ve been through. And, you know I hate small talk.” 

Eddie’s right eye twitches and he picks the peeling polish from his fingernails. Careful not to litter by throwing the bigger pieces out the nearest window.

It’s really more of a means to buy himself time than the expectation that Nancy will actually believe him which prompts Eddie to say what he does. 

“Your mom’s room,” he flicks the silver ball between his teeth like a diamond-headed snake, “She was insatiable after seeing Hopper in his Hawaiian shirt at the reception. Someone had to help her out. I was the lucky one.” 

He leans against one of the dusty orange bean bag chairs they got for free at a garage sale years ago when they were originally trying to turn the treehouse into less of a creepy dump. Chrissy had offered the man ten bucks for both, but he’d told her that taking them off his hands was more than enough payment. 

“One, fuck you—that’s disgusting,” Nance tears into the top of a fresh Red Vine, dropping the carcass of the other onto the floor and kicking it to the side with the toe of her sneaker—discarded like it never meant a thing to her, “Two, fuck you again for good measure, because you never learn your lesson the first time around.” 

She knows him better than anyone. 

A moment passes. It’s tense and uncomfortable. Eddie kind of wants to climb back down the ladder and retreat to his van until Nancy’s forgiven him, but that would make him a coward and he didn’t come here to wave a white flag or leave with his tail between his legs. 

“So you’re really not gonna tell me? I can smell it on you, Munson. What gives?” 

This is where their roads diverge. 

Eddie sees his path curve in a direction that Nancy can’t follow. Not because she isn’t bright enough or brave enough or bold enough, but because she’ll lose sight of her own future trying to prevent Eddie from making the same old mistakes he made with Chrissy when they were teenagers. She’ll try to stop him from getting too involved, too attached, from wanting to bandage up the broken wing of a carrier pigeon who's already got one eye shut. 

Nancy’s meant for better. 

Nancy’s going to earn a silver spoon in her mouth. Work her way up the ladder until she’s the fierce giant proudly standing atop the highest cloud in the sky and howling at the moon. Touching the stars. 

Anything else on her plate would simply be a distraction, a detour, a pointless procrastination of her obvious destiny. 

Eddie won’t get in the way even if she begs him to, because part of his guilt surrounds being an indirect catalyst in Chrissy’s death. In cutting her potential short and in playing a role in the destruction of her life. He won’t do that to Nancy. Would rather die. 

“It’s a boring story. Nothing worth recapping. I was hungover. The sun felt good,” he yawns, stretching his arms overhead, “It woke me up a bit so I decided to walk the rest of the way home. It wasn’t that far,” she frowns so he tries to get her to laugh, but ultimately fails, “You should be proud of my commitment to healthy living. You’re the one who’s always telling me I need to exercise more.” 

“You know that’s not what I mean when I say that. You should have told me you weren’t coming back.”

She leaves the Red Vines alone—seeming to have lost her appetite because of Eddie, which makes him feel like a shitty friend. 

There’s a ghost in the room and they both know her name. 

“I–I meant to call. I meant to tell Mike to give you the heads up. Like I said, I was exhausted. I forgot.” 

Eddie wishes Nancy didn’t remind him so much of the worst days of his life. Eddie wishes she only reminded him of the best days, but that’s not realistic. They’re intertwined with their past selves as much as they are with their present. The two are inseparable.

“Exhausted, right? That’s all that happened. You needed a nap? Sure,” Nancy scoffs, “I’m not an idiot.” 

The treehouse is the antithesis to secrecy. It’s ‘come as you are,’ ‘take a load off,’ ‘be your truest and most authentic self,’ ‘have no shame of where you’ve been or where you’ve come from.’ 

Eddie’s breaking the rules, disrespecting the very make-up of this place—the wood, its termites, the low scratched-up coffee table which bears their initials. E.M., C.C., and N.W.

He can’t think straight. He can’t imagine the three of them sitting in the same room and pouring cups of black coffee. They’d need sugar, creamer, and milk to dilute the potency. 

“What about Steve? Where’d he go?” Nancy spits his name like a curse and doesn’t apologize when some of her licorice flavored spit lands on Eddie’s cheek. 

There it is. 

There’s her truth. 

“Who? The assistant scoutmaster?” 

Steve would laugh if he could hear him now. Finally getting his stupid title right after a million fuck-ups. 

Eddie rubs at his chin as if he’s a Greek philosopher coming up with a theory about ethics and the world at large that students will fall asleep listening to for generations to come. Dozing on theory, hypotheticals, and ancient irrelevance. 

“Yeah. He went with you to ‘find Mike & Will,’” she air quotes to express how much she isn’t buying the lie, “except Mike & Will came back, like, five minutes later on their own. Yet, I didn’t see you or Steve all afternoon. You not coming back to the reception I can understand. I can make sense of that. But, him? Seems like it’s kinda his job to be there—to help clean up and chat with the parents and stuff. I just find it odd that he didn’t see any reason to return.” 

Nature can always be blamed. It can’t speak, can’t argue, can’t talk back, and it serves Eddie to rely on the silence of the great outdoors. His manipulation of the truth can beam with opaque legitimacy under the safe haven of the pines and their waving branches. 

“You caught me. He slipped and fell in the mud. I took him back to my place to grab a change of clothes. He was embarrassed—didn’t want everyone to see him looking like such a mess when he’s supposed to have some position of authority. The kids—you know how they are—they’d joke around and he’s a sensitive guy. You can’t really blame him for—” 

“He’s a sensitive guy?” 

“Yeah. He’s emotional—gets nervous easily.” 

There’s dried strawberry juice or blood where Eddie’s feet squirm beneath the coffee table as he tries to complete the memory of what didn’t happen. He and Nancy purposely avoid any discussion which may force them to determine the source. 

“Eddie.”

Nancy never calls him by his real name and it stings his skin like a mosquito bite. He pulls at strings named Fox, Munson, Eds and feels a pang of nostalgia as they slip through his grasp. Is there a way to go back in time?

“Nancy.”

He won’t be outdone or insulted. 

“Are you fucking him?” 

“Am I fucking, who?

He knows who. 

She knows who. 

It’s a question of who can pretend the longest. Like when they were kids and swam down to the bottom of the Hawkins community pool to challenge each other’s lung capacity. Nancy never lost. Eddie never stopped asking her to play—couldn’t accept defeat. 

“Steve Harrington,” his name twists in her mouth, “Are you fucking Steve Harrington?” 

All the air gets sucked out of the room.

A pin could drop. 

Eddie’s not sure he’ll survive the night—doesn’t know if he remembers the way home or who lives there or what brand of milk is in the fridge. He’s not sure how old his reflection will be when he risks everything to look in the mirror. 

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?” 

He grits his teeth, grinds his molars, and freezes in the interim while Nancy throttles his defenses with the blasphemous utterance of his name. 

“Eddie–”

They’re in a holy place. You don’t walk into a church on Easter and flip off the priest to say ‘good morning.’ 

“That’s not my name. Not to you—it never fucking has been. I don’t want to talk about this. Can we stop? Can we call it a night? Let's call it a night.”

Eddie lifts the hair off his neck—too hot, too unwillingly under fire. He didn’t agree to this. He agreed to bags of Cracker Jacks, stolen candy bars, and friends that felt like a family setting the table for Thanksgiving dinner. All these things he wasn’t born with. Had to craft for himself out of trinkets and toys and the borrowed experience of girlhood. Found strands of curled blonde hair in his car months after Chrissy passed. She stayed stuck in the fabric, in the crevices, in the places unsung heroes went to hide. 

“Answer the question and I’ll call you The King of Fucking England if you want,” Nancy stands her ground and this is why he loves her— why he’s always loved her , but it comes at a price and the price is honesty, “I’ll call you God if that’s what you need to get yourself back in line. Just answer the question and we can move on. Are you fucking him?” 

Without realizing it, Nancy’s provided Eddie with the pretext for an escape. A white lie that goes much deeper than what’s about to come out of his mouth, but she doesn’t need to know that. It won’t benefit her to toss and turn and worry and fight. She needs to sleep eight hours and attend her therapy sessions and call her mom twice a week and write news articles about blasé dick sculptures. 

She doesn’t need to suffer the way Eddie suffers. It doesn’t mean they aren’t family—not everything has to be genetically shared.

Bloodlines are finicky. 

Her eyes are green. 

His are brown. 

In his heart of hearts, even this resolution doesn’t sit right with him, but he can stomach the mad dash he’s making through the loophole as long as he makes himself promise to eventually tell her the whole truth. 

“No, Nance! I’m not fucking Steve. Have you met him? He’s super religious and he’s straight and he’s seven years younger than me. That’s probably illegal in some states—” 

“Wowwww,” she draws out the word and laughs coldly under her breath; wholly unconvinced and he knows he’s fucked this one up, “You didn’t even have to count on your fingers. Impressive.” 

“ ‘Scuse me?” 

It’s funny, because he’d rather she didn’t answer that. He’d rather they change the subject and compare mixtapes or talk shit about Nancy’s pretentious boss from New York—the big city where big things occur and no one has time to talk about them, because they’re too busy listening to the rest of the noise. 

Nancy leans back on her elbows. She looks feline. Too intelligent to be considered human. Like she’s lived nine lives and will see a tenth without issue. 

She’s wearing Chrissy’s necklace—a simple gold locket that holds a miniature photograph of the two of them. It was the first photo they ever took together. Eddie’s responsible for its existence—used Wayne’s Polaroid camera to capture it. If he ever noticed the missing film, he didn’t say anything. 

“I just find it interesting that you know the exact amount of years between you two—that you can recall a fact like that so quickly when you ‘allegedly’ had one meaningless interaction at the ceremony. You must be a certifiable genius. We should have you tested. Fuck Albert Einstein. Who needs him when we have Eddie Munson in Hawkins, Indiana! Homegrown like our corn.” 

Nancy isn’t mean or, rather, she doesn’t intend to be, but there’s a sharpness to her. Duplicated blades of silver that run down her sides and cut those who get too close without her outright permission. She’s calculating. She’s shades of forest green and coffee grinds and grit and suburban rage. She’s her mother’s daughter and her own creation. She’s impossible to ignore and Eddie’s always going to get sucked back into her orbit whether he likes it or not. 

“You don’t believe me?” His voice cracks like that of a prepubescent boy—the age at which they fell into this mess together. Cat and mouse and lion and tiger—the whole circus, the whole fucking circus exists between the two of them. 

“I know you, Eddie.”

He notes that she doesn’t pay up. 

She doesn’t give him the satisfaction and easy comfort of one of his old nicknames. She pours ice cold water over his veins. She sticks needles in his ribs. She plucks the hairs from his chin with tweezers and doesn’t apologize when the skin reddens and bleeds. 

Despite what it may look like to an outsider, Nancy doesn’t hate him. Quite the opposite. This is the way she gives love. With a firm hand guiding you in the direction you need to go, but really don’t want to. 

When she doesn’t love you, she treats you like a paying customer—pretty smile, ‘yes’ to every request, impeccable manners. 

When Nancy Wheeler gives you a gentle embrace and a gold star just for showing up—-that’s how you know she’d slit your throat in a second. 

“I know you,” she repeats and there’s something close to tears forming behind her eyes, but of course she doesn’t acknowledge it, “I know when you have a headache after staying up too late. I know when you want to leave a party early just by looking at your face. I know when you’re nervous, scared, confused. I know when your allergies are acting up. I know when you need a hug, but are too fucking stubborn to ask for it because you and I aren’t touchy people like that. I know you and I know when you’re lying. I know when you’re running from something. I know when you’re in love. It’s not hard. I’ve had a lifetime to master it.” 

“This isn’t one of those things, okay? This isn’t everyday shit! It’s worse, it’s darker. I won’t involve you in something when I don’t really understand the scale of it myself,” Eddie traces over Chrissy’s initials on the table with his pinky finger, “You’re my sister,” he holds her gaze when she tries to flit her eyes away, “You’re family, Nance. I love you more than my own flesh and blood save for Wayne and my mom. You know that.” 

“Chris would tell you to stay away from him. She’d tell you anyone in that congregation is dangerous. You can’t trust them. That includes Steve,” Nancy draws her jacket tighter around her shoulders and Eddie catches a whiff of her signature perfume. Orange blossom and vetiver. 

“Are you kidding? Chris was the biggest hopeless romantic in the world,” Eddie hears her sing-songy giggle in the wind as a breeze shakes the foundation of the treehouse ever so slightly, “You’ve got it all wrong. She’d tell me to go for it. She’d tell me to do whatever it takes.” 

“That’s exactly my point,” Nancy’s tone is cold and distant like a dreary autumn day, “She was willing to do whatever it took, Eds, which is why we’re sitting here talking about her in the past tense.” 

They both look pointedly at her empty bean-bag chair. 

“That’s not fair. I haven’t admitted anything.” 

“You don’t have to,” Nancy rises to stand and paces across the floorboards until she’s kneeling beside the dusty old bean bag chair, “I don’t need that from you for us to move forward,” she wraps an arm around him in an awkward half-hug—traditional methods of affection don’t come naturally between them, “All I need is for you to know that I care and that I notice and that I’m not okay with you sacrificing yourself, because you still wish you could change the past. You can’t, Eds. Neither of us can.” 

The breeze blows again, tangling their separate messes of curls into one dark cloud. Nancy’s hair tickles his jaw and there’s a moment where he can’t tell which hairs belong on which head. 

“Have you forgiven yourself for what happened to her?”

He leans his head onto her shoulder and looks up through heavy wet lashes. The moon isn’t quite full. Not yet, but it will be soon. 

Down at the bottom of the pool, they used to have tea parties with bubbles floating up from their nostrils. They used to salute each other as they rose to the surface. They used to shake hands and make deals and run to the treehouse in wet bathing suits—chlorine dripping from their skin. 

They used to sing songs and doodle and stay outside all day until Karen called them in for dinner. They used to trade secrets and braid hair and perform ritual burials for the animals they couldn’t save from the heatwave. 

He won’t lose her. 

She’s too important. 

“Fuck no,” Nancy squeezes him ever closer like they’re two sardines in a metal tin, born there from circumstance and good grace, “but you should.”

❋

Steve is dreaming of music. 

For once, it isn’t the morbid groan of the church’s out-of-tune organ permeating his subconscious mind. The gospel choir is silent. The bells don’t toll to announce death or life or rebirth. The lyrics aren’t mournful or apologetic.

The music is secular, temporal, oozing an electric sort of moroseness. 

As if the song is dissatisfied with its own ending and keeps rewinding the track in hopes of disturbing fate. 

As if there’s another way out, a neon exit sign, a lit corridor that leads to safety. 

He sees himself walking down a long hallway in a house that stretches on forever. 

The lighting is dim—making it so he has to squint as he maneuvers. 

He’s wearing his funeral clothes, the simple black suit and matching tie his parents bought him when Chrissy Cunningham was buried. 

The hallway tilts suddenly, like the room itself isn’t sure of its own purpose. 

Steve stumbles into a cloud of incense, almost like he’s in church—but as it swirls around him, it turns to cigarette smoke. It assaults his senses and travels up his nose, clouds his thoughts with an ashy haze and lyrics swim before his eyes, joining his otherwise scattered thoughts. 

Remember when you held my hand?

He looks down to see his funeral clothes replaced with black bell bottom jazz pants, a canary yellow t-shirt, and a red button down thrown over it. 

The outfit itself is a contradiction—a melding of styles from different eras, conflicting and forming something new—a time out of time. 

As he travels further down the hall, the music gets louder—the walls shake with vibration, there’s a drumbeat in his heart, blood dancing through his body to the rhythm of this familiar yet distant tune. 

The sound doesn’t emulate from one singular point. 

It’s not attached to a radio, television, or record player.

It’s impossible to avoid no matter how many quick steps Steve takes in the opposite direction. It besieges him on all sides—booming and curling around his head to distract from what’s really going on in the foreground. 

Making it harder and harder to focus on the figure in the distance. 

Oh. There’s a figure in the distance—

Walk, talk, in the name of love.

A man in a dark suit and darker sunglasses obscures his identity in the shadows where he dances hysterically behind a single open door. 

He flails his limbs, hops from foot to foot, seems to scream at the ceiling, but Steve can’t hear anything that isn’t the thrum of the song itself. 

The man doesn’t move to the beat. 

He spins and curates an experience outside of what Steve can reach and understand. He’s heavy on his feet. Steve imagines his steps would be loud enough to wake a sleeping child if he were to walk through this house in the real world.

Everybody goes to parties

They dance this mess around.

Steve knows this song, though he can’t quite pin down where he knows it from. 

He smells wine, and as soon as he has the thought, a glass appears in his hand. Sloshing full of burgundy and impulse. 

Steve never does things just because they feel good, but it’s different in this world—so he brings the glass to his lips and drinks, letting the dark liquid flow warm down his throat and into his stomach. 

He feels his mind wander as it creates a scene—lying on the floor with Eddie Munson, lips stained from stolen communion wine, Steve’s mouth opened wide to accept the wafer Eddie places on his tongue, his eyes falling shut as Eddie tells him to swallow and whispers in his ear—

the body, the blood, the beat, the pulse, the flood baby, the goddamn flood.

It’s blasphemous, it’s heady, it’s nonsense—but it makes Steve ache, it makes him burn.  

The scene evaporates, leaving him with nothing but the taste of wine still on his tongue, and Eddie’s words clinging to his skin like drops of sweat. The music breaks through his thoughts and reaches out with dissonant hands to push him further into the abyss before him, closer to the strange figure. 

Why don’t you dance with me?

Steve doesn’t need to look around or crane his neck like a bird to feel certain that he and the man in the sunglasses are the only two present in this liminal vacancy. 

He appears to be a caricature of an attendee at a roaring party.

It’s as if he really believes the house is full of patrons, drifters, grinning argonauts—and all at once, to Steve’s utter astonishment, there they are —

Partygoers in all manner of bizarre garb, floor length dresses and sequined jackets, hats and glasses and gauzy veils obscuring their faces. 

Sparkling like gold and talking amongst themselves about their riches and rewards. 

Drinking from the same cup. 

They are monster and other. 

They are big-haired, long-limbed, and reckless. 

Say, doesn’t that make you feel a lot better?

As Steve inches closer, the lyrics lose their panicked distortion and take on a newfound elegance and clarity. 

They croon and caw to him. 

They rustle his suit jacket and untie the double-knotted laces on his dress shoes until he’s barefoot, sliding across the vinyl floor. Shoes squeaking as he soars. 

It’s with a sudden certainty that Steve realizes the man at the end of the hallway is in charge of the music. 

He controls it. 

The man’s sunglasses perch on the bridge of what should be a nose on a distorted version of a face. 

He looks like a Picasso painting, a portrait of a man from all sides at once—colorful angles and shapes on a chaotic canvas, luring Steve closer and closer as if to say capture me, I dare you to try. You won’t win. 

The glasses are an appendage, sticking out like a glaring stop sign on a hazardous stretch of road. They shield him from reality. Hint at surprise. Conceal secrets and warn Steve not to get any closer unless he thinks he can handle the truth. 

This man is the final boss in a video game. Pixelated and chromatic. Impossible to beat. The sunglasses are his superpower. The music is the distraction. 

Steve tries to stay focused, to get as close as possible, but the roaring party and the communion wine in his system pull him this way and that. Splintering his imagination into subconscious and memory. Traipsing through huddled bodies who reach out to touch and offer him their hands to dance. 

He ignores them. 

The man with the sunglasses is standing on top of the table just beyond the doorway. 

He’s laughing, but there’s no one telling a joke. 

He’s spinning in circles too close to the edge. 

He’s getting on his knees to pray, but the sunglasses never come off which goes against everything Steve’s been taught about paying his respects in a holy place. 

Deliriously, Steve thinks they look like bug eyes. 

Those of locusts or wasps. 

Dangerous. 

Keep back. 

Poison.

The lenses are darker than midnight. 

He’s a stealer of scenes, the ringmaster, the boss, the king of cool himself. 

What you say?

Well I’m just askin’

Come on, shake

The dream scene changes to a half formed memory. 

Steve is in his childhood bedroom with an ear pressed to the barren wall.

Steve’s father is singing. 

He’s humming under his breath while he readies himself for church. He’s tapping out the rhythm like morse code on the topside of his desk. The Holy Bible is never far. Jesus hangs on the wall. 

There’s blood making everything sticky. 

Steve’s father sings behind a closed door—the very door that sits at the end of the hallway. The one that leads to his office for penance and punishment and preparation. Steve’s only allowed in there upon receiving exclusive invitation for bruises and scripture. 

It’s secular music. 

It’s the only secular song he’s ever known all the words to, because his father never stops singing it. 

Especially when he thinks no one else is listening.

Just a limber girl, just a limber girl.

It’s also the song from the record Steve destroyed. 

The one he tried to play in an effort to please his father. 

The one he scratched. 

The one his father cracked in half, throwing the jagged pieces at Steve’s feet. 

Oh Steven, just look at what you’ve done. 

Time bleeds together. 

Steve is 5 years old, smiling with chocolate pudding on his hands. His mother scolds him for eating sugar, for indulging, for leaning into fun. 

He’s 8, standing in his pajamas on his way back from the bathroom, watching as his father comes in with rumpled clothes in the middle of the night. Swaying back and forth to a song that only exists in his head. 

He’s 11, saying his Hail Marys and Our Fathers after confessing to pushing another kid during a game of capture the flag at camp. The pew bench indents his knees with twin frowny faces. Steve isn’t allowed to cry about it. 

He’s 14, sneaking around Bible Camp after hours—eyes flicking from the glittering lake to Tommy Hagan’s freckled skin in the dark. Tearing his eyes away when Tommy starts to lick the stolen buttered popcorn from his fingers. 

A few months later, Tommy gets sent away and doesn't come back. 

Steve never sees him again. 

He’s 18, standing on Eddie Munson’s doorstep—sweaty, nervous, aroused, beguiled, wearing khaki, and the pride of his accomplishments on his merit sash—a  sinner in the making.

The record skips—

dance this mess around, 

‘round, ‘round, ‘round, ‘round, ‘round, ‘round, ‘round, ‘round, ‘round, ‘round…               

❋

When Steve wakes in the middle of the night with a start, he thinks he’s still dreaming. Has to rub stars into his eyes, blink past the whimsical illusion of warm summer air, and pinch the inside of his left arm to confirm his current reality, because it’s not adding up.

Eddie Munson is sitting criss-cross applesauce on the end of his bed. He’s wearing Steve’s hiking headlamp and reading from a novel with a title Steve can’t quite make out in the darkness. 

“W-what are you doing in my room? How’d you get in here?” Steve slurs out and feels drool drying on the side of his cheek as he properly sits up in bed. He must have been out cold for Eddie to have snuck in and not woken him instantly. He’s usually a pretty light sleeper. 

“Hang on,” Eddie doesn’t look up from his book and flips to the next page with a soft yawn, “Let me finish this page. I’m at a really great part. Don’t wanna miss anything. I’ll attend to you as soon as I can, my liege.” 

Steve is, once again, perplexed by how un afraid he feels around Eddie Munson. He thinks he probably should be afraid, given the circumstances, but no part of him is screaming for help, cowering in terror, or yielding to the idea that this man could be dangerous. 

Instead, Steve huffs a little breath, sleepily smiles at Eddie’s intense focus on the words in front of him, and lets the absurdity of the moment take hold. He sits with it. Breathes it in like the earthy incense his father burns at the altar and slumps back against the pillow in a pleasant stupor. 

“You’re lucky my parents are out of town,” Steve mumbles, as he finds his glasses on the bedside table and puts them on. The lenses are fogged up from being so close to the open window. Steve figures that’s how Eddie got in, because he’d shut it before he’d laid down to sleep. 

“It’s very hard to finish what I’m reading when you keep talking. Zip it, Church Mouse. As I said, you’ll have my undivided attention in a second.”

Eddie smirks into the book and Steve’s belly fills with that distinct warmth from before. The nickname raises goosebumps on his thighs and he covers them with the comforter. Feeling starkly naked in only his tighty whities and navy Bible camp t-shirt.

A few minutes tick by on the clock before Eddie dog ears the page and closes the book in his lap. He keeps the headlamp on and almost blinds Steve when he fully lifts his head to address him. 

“Turn that thing off. It’s way too bright. Please. You’re burning my eyes,” Steve groans while Eddie laughs and knees his way up the bed like he’s had much practice at it. Like he’s exceedingly comfortable in this room and aims to claim it as his own. 

He switches the headlamp off and settles in the same criss-crossed position, but this time, the outside of his thigh is pressed against Steve’s through the blanket. Heating him. Warming him. Teaching him that a simple touch from the right person can feel every bit the same as lighting yourself on fire and ingesting liquid gold.

“Why are you here?” Steve reiterates his earlier question and smells the remains of cigarette smoke wafting towards him off of Eddie’s clothes. He’s in jeans, his leather jacket, one of those too-thin white tank-tops that boasts the abundance of black-ink and silver jewelry that lie beneath. 

Steve squirms at the sight of him, clenches his thighs together to alleviate some of the unwarranted pressure building between his legs. He hopes Eddie doesn’t notice, but that’s the thing about Eddie. 

Eddie notices everything. 

“That’s not a very nice way to greet your guest, Stevie boy,” he looks around the room as if noticing where he is for the first time, wide-eyed and full of childlike curiosity. Like he’s watching a classroom display of show-and-tell, “But, uh, like you mentioned—your parents are out of town for the weekend. Of course, I had to find out that sweet little piece of information second-hand from Mike Wheeler, but I’ll try not to hold it against you. We’re here now, aren’t we?” 

The door to Steve’s bedroom is closed, but he has a half a mind to get up and peer down the hallway. He could hold Eddie’s hand, spook the boogeyman, say his prayers in front of the open door. Perform the sign of the cross in rapid repetition until the man in the sunglasses vanishes and the house shrinks back to its usual size. 

He rubs over his eyes again—little universes exploding into dust and ash. Eddie’s leg presses firmly against his; knocking their knees together. They’re sandwiched like bookends. Steve holds steady, tries to forget the nightmare— finally allowing himself to call it that , and demonstrates grave resilience in managing to keep his hands folded politely atop the covers. The need to touch and feel and explore causing his body to throb and writhe and fidget under Eddie’s close watch. 

“You could get me in a lot of trouble. If anyone finds out you’re here—” 

“Stevie, Stevie, Stevie,” Eddie interjects and Steve’s useless against that silky iteration of his name, “When are you going to retire the good boy act? When are you going to quit pretending like you didn’t beg me to put my hands on you and cum in your khakis because of it? I thought you wanted a teacher.” 

Cum. There’s that word again. 

Steve wants to cum for Eddie. 

Steve wants Eddie to slide the sheets away and cup his calloused palm over where he’s currently stiffening up in his thin cotton underwear. 

Steve wants Eddie to hold him there, slip his fingers beneath the waistband, and show him what to do, how to make it feel good, where to hold—how to coerce his body into pleasure. How to flay himself open with mortal hands. Flesh upon flesh. Steve wants to be renamed and reborn by Eddie’s touch. Wants his silver rings to snag in his hair. For his lips to leave magenta marks like a girl’s would so he can see where he was kissed when he looks in the mirror and use it as a guide to memory when the compass inevitably breaks. 

So he can finally be blessed by bruises that don’t spell hatred like the ones he’s been given for years as penance. 

The seam of his tight briefs sparks something feverish and disease ridden within him. Steve crosses his legs beneath the sheets and the drag of the fabric hits just right. He bites the inside of his cheek and wriggles his hips back and forth for a fractional moment while Eddie completes his visual tour of the bedroom. 

It’s a large, but impersonal room. Nothing like Eddie’s candid mess of vulgar magazines, posters featuring half-naked musicians, cigarette butts, eclectic mugs, and sci-fi novels. He can’t imagine what it must look like through his eyes. How blank and impassive he must appear to Eddie.  

The walls are a sterile hospital white. They’d actually been a deep crimson when Steve’s parents initially bought the house, but they’d hastily renovated it. Wouldn’t let Steve sleep in there until the painters had finished the job. Purifying and sanitizing so as to not accidentally inspire his curiosity about a life lived in color. 

Steve never saw any problem with it. He never considered that other people decorated with things that reminded them of the people they loved, their favorite bands, kitschy knick-knacks, and hand-me-downs. 

All were foreign in concept. 

All were forbidden—taught to be distractions from what mattered most. Worship, repentance, and preparing one’s self for the second coming. Caring about material wealth only amounted to suffering after you died. 

‘It could be tomorrow. It could be today. It could be this minute or the next and you’ll never know, so you must always be prepared,’ Steve’s father would say as he slapped his wrists with the backend of a ruler and turned them red, ‘That’s why we do this. If it were to be today, you’d have cleansed yourself of your sins and be granted a seat at the Lord’s feet in Heaven. As long as you’re really sorry for what you’ve done. As long as you accept your punishment knowing you deserve it.’ 

If he had the choice now and his parents were out of the picture, Steve isn’t even sure he’d want to be in charge of selecting a fresh shade of paint for his bedroom from an actual color wheel. 

Steve isn’t even sure he has a favorite color. He’d never really been permitted the space to think on it; such a thought was frivolous. 

It seems like it all comes so easily to Eddie. Choice, identity, personality, decisiveness. As if he came into this world with an inherent understanding of what he liked and disliked without ever really having to try to figure it out. As if he rose up from the gangly awkwardness of childhood with the self-assured belief that his opinions mattered and his voice should be heard in a room full of people. 

“Usually guests wait for an invitation before they come over,” Steve assumes an attitude that doesn’t at all mesh with the swollen, desperate thrum of his heart, “at the very least, they have the decency to knock.” 

Eddie laughs into his elbow—

Eddie’s laugh has always reminded Steve of the Devil. 

He remembers standing beneath the boiling sun on his porch, wagon full of popcorn behind him, head pounding from hours spent parading around town in his unforgiving BSA uniform. He remembers thinking he might pass out and then hearing that painfully distinct laugh for the second time in his life as the door swung open. It obliterated the heat, acted as a cool mirage at the lowest point in the desert, and Steve was tempted. Agonizingly tempted by the trickling lilt of Eddie’s ensuing barrage of ill-natured jokes and chortled laughter. 

A verse had come to mind instantly: ‘For even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light,’ Corinthians 11:14. 

It felt fitting at the time—Steve’s initial impression of Eddie had been of someone vindictive, two-faced, dancing in the Devil’s shoes, but the boundaries of black and white have since been muddled into a pool of celestial gray matter. The spectrum of good and evil no longer remains a straight and narrow line. There are loopholes, switchbacks, pivots, and sideswept presumptions. 

Perhaps, Eddie is best defined as a soul trapped in the great in-between. A shapeshifter who adapts in the face of hardship. A man more interested in living authentically while on Earth than he is in gaining the postmortem approval of the divine. 

Steve can’t tell him any of these things, of course. 

Steve can’t get himself to open his mouth past the stunned expression it's settled into—lips parted like he might scream, but no sound coming out. He’s never been one to scream, make noise, or draw too much attention to himself. 

He remembers visiting his grandparents’ farm in the country when he was a little boy. He remembers the soft smile his grandmother maintained when she grabbed the chickens by the neck and strangled them with her bare hands. Steve always chose to focus on her face—thinking it might save him from potential nightmares featuring headless fowl—but, all these years later, he thinks he might have been less haunted if he’d just been brave enough to look at the chickens as they breathed their last. 

His grandmother taught him to keep his mouth shut after the first time he screamed while assisting her on the farm. 

She taught him by backhanding him across the face and wrapping her cold, veiny fingers around his neck. Toying with him cruelly when she said, ‘Make another sound and I might have to do the same thing to you. You’re not a girl, Steven. You don’t get to cry. Pipe down and grab the next one for me—by the neck, not the body. They don’t know any different. They don’t have feelings.’

She taught him by smiling brightly beneath red lipstick as the headless chickens were overtaken by madness and ran themselves into the ground. 

She taught him by serving chicken in various forms for dinner every night that week and making Steve stay seated at the table until he’d cleared his plate of every last morsel. She always undercooked it, always made sure the meat sat in a pool of bloody remnants as if she wanted it to stain his insides so the memory had no chance of ever leaving him. 

Steve can’t scream or laugh or cry. He can hardly get himself to move—not out of fear of what Eddie will do to him, but rather what he’ll do to Eddie if left to his own devices. 

Intuitively, Eddie sees him floundering for his words and prompts him with the reminder that there is a decision on the table. 

“You know, you’re not a damsel in distress here, Church Mouse. If you want me to leave, all you have to do is ask. I have some morals, y’know, and I don’t like to stay where I’m not wanted.” 

Eddie taps his fingers across the spine of his book and Steve wonders what it would be like to listen to him play the secular music he likes so much. What it would be like to see him in his element, uninterrupted, and to observe as a fly on the wall. What it would be like to see his hands work in quick succession over the strings of a guitar, to hear him sing with all that rasp, verve, and blasphemous language. 

‘When a young person listens to rock music, they give Satan a little square of their soul,’ Steve’s father had been known to preach to the Youth Group attendees when he stopped by as a ‘special guest.’ 

Meanwhile, behind closed doors—in his office when he thought the house was empty or Steve was asleep—he listened to that vulgar song about dancing for pleasure and losing control. The one Steve had heard pieces of in his dream and throughout his childhood. 

For the first time, Steve thinks about what type of music he might like if allowed to explore all the genres and rhythms of secular bands. If he browsed the record store with Eddie at his side and flipped through the vinyls without fear of damnation. If he indulged in movement, tapping his feet to the beat, getting carried away on waves of sound and sheer enthusiasm. 

Maybe he’ll ask Eddie to show him some time—

He really can’t tell Eddie these things. He can’t ask about the title of the book in his lap or the songs in his head or what it feels like to get a tattoo on untouched skin. 

Steve’s flippancy is giving him vertigo. The thrashing whiplash. The constant back and forth. He sighs, sees Eddie looking at him expectantly—awaiting an answer, and frowns as he says exactly what he doesn’t mean, “Why are you here? I told you they always know. They always find out. They’re always watching even when they aren’t around to see it with their own eyes,” Chrissy Cunningham’s face flashes in his periphery and he watches Eddie swallow—knows he sees her too, “It’s never safe. It never has been. You’re going to get yourself killed. Do you have a death wish? They don’t take these things lightly. I keep trying to tell you that, but you don’t seem to be hearing me. How can I explain it to you so you understand?”

“Alright, alright. You can stop with the theatrics,” Eddie holds his hands up to quiet Steve’s rambling, “That’s fair. Understandable, even. Wouldn’t wanna fuck up your nice, clean, Jesus-loving image. Go ahead, use your words. Tell me to get out. Hit me with it if that’s what you really want—if you’re so concerned about my safety.” 

Steve’s not sure what comes over him, but he’s uncharacteristically angry and his anger has a tendency to be volatile. Usually, he fights it off. Usually, he prays his way through it and asks God to give him the patience to ‘ accept the things he cannot change.’ 

Tonight, in the liberating impermanence of the time that exists between one day and the next, Steve untethers himself from his morality and lets that anger burn wildly. 

“You’re going to Hell, Eddie,” he spits, “People like you are sick. They’re—they’re disgusting. I don’t—I don’t want you anywhere near me. It makes me sick just looking at you.” 

And, it’s true, in a sense—it does make him sick. 

It makes his heart race like he’s on a speeding rollercoaster. 

It makes his thoughts go in every which way and direction except for the places they should go—their predetermined destinations named ‘prayer,’ ‘virtue,’ and ‘integrity.’

It makes his stomach fill with fluttering wings that swarm and flock in the back of his throat and intend to spite him with their confessions of violent attraction. He swallows them down and hurts because of it. Given nowhere to fly and stretch and flee. Trapped. 

Eddie doesn’t yell or raise his voice, but his canine teeth catch the refracted light of the moon and impolitely display their hunger. 

“Oh? Is that the best you’ve got? Sweetheart, I’ve been to Hell and back. It’s a little warm, but I’ll manage. Nothing new to me,” he leans closer so Steve can smell the smoke on his breath and see the smudging of dark makeup beneath his eyes—it looks to be part of him like one of his inky tattoos, like no amount of soap and water would remove it, “Try again. Ask me to climb back down the side of your roof and send me packing. I can take it. You won’t hurt my feelings, Little Lamb.” 

All his life, Steve has fallen asleep to the sight of the crucifix on his wall. It hangs at eye level, so when he lays his head down on the pillow he has little choice but to stare at it until his eyes fall shut. 

But Eddie’s seated on the bed in a position that blocks Steve from his usual view. He’s never had anyone sit on the edge of his bed like this. His own mother stopped coming in to kneel beside him for nightly prayers by the time he was five and he certainly never got a bedtime story that wasn’t a tale of suffering taken straight from the children’s Bible. 

 “Were you watching me sleep?” 

Eddie leans back on his hands and Steve has to force his body to slump against the pillow when he absentmindedly starts to follow like a mindless lamb to his shepherd.

  Little Lamb —he’s living up to that infuriating nickname. His cheeks feel hot and his head is full of shorn wool. Stuffy and deadly. 

 “Depends on how you define ‘watching,’” he quips and Steve tries not to take it personally when he uncrosses his legs and suddenly their thighs aren’t touching through the comforter anymore, “I can tell you that I glanced up from my book often enough to learn that you, Steve Harrington, drool in your sleep and snore whenever you roll onto your left side. If you call that ‘watching,’ then sure, I was ‘watching’ you sleep. Kinda like a guardian angel.” 

The anger won’t settle. When Steve starts reciting a silent little prayer in his head, it doesn’t do the trick. He doesn’t feel gratitude or forgiveness or regret like he should. He doesn’t feel shame or guilt like he’s been taught to. 

He feels rage and it comes out all wrong. 

“You’re a stalker! Y-you’re stalking me! I could call the police! I could have you arrested for breaking and entering!” 

Steve hears himself as an actor in a ridiculous play—a bad actor who doesn’t have the proper skillset to truly embody the role of someone he no longer personally relates to. He’s not selling it and Eddie’s not buying it which is made obvious by the subtle shake of his head. 

“Phone’s right down the hall if I remember correctly,” Eddie winks and Steve honestly can’t decipher if he’s kidding or not, but discovers that he doesn’t really mind even if that is the truth, “Go ahead. Grab it. I won’t stop you. I’ll mind my business—stay put. I’ll even go as far to put my hands over my head and stand facing the wall like a real criminal,” the way he says real reminds Steve, again, that he was the prime suspect in a first-degree murder case which is becoming all too easy to forget, “if that’s what it takes to make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” 

Steve has no interest in calling the police or getting Eddie arrested. He has no interest in leaving this room, because he’s terrified that Eddie is a dream trapped within a hideous nightmare and that when he comes back to bed—the window will be shut and he’ll be gone. 

“So you just watch people sleep? Is this a hobby of yours? You just sneak into strangers’ houses at night to scare them? Is that what you do?” 

“I’m growing quite tired of us having to reestablish the fact that you and I are far from strangers, Harrington,” Eddie gestures between the two of them with a ringed hand and almost makes contact with the center of Steve’s chest, but just misses it—leaving him with another cut by a bladeless knife, “While I’m flattered you think so highly of my potential for criminal activity, I’m sorry to say this is a first for me. Though, now that I know what you look like when you’re dreaming, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get this peculiar little fantasy out of my head. Gonna be pretty hard to stay in my own bed from now on.” 

Steve’s anger takes a backseat, wanders around in an odd sort of waiting room like that of a doctor’s office, and allows itself to be surgically altered into this desperate need to climb inside Eddie’s skin and feel the collective warmth all around. The antidote and the poison are named the same. 

“You’ve never done this with anyone else?” 

Steve stops searching for the crucifix hidden behind Eddie’s mess of curls. The details overwhelm him and compose a palette of stubborn silver at war with soft hues of pink. There is no point in looking anywhere else or trying to pretend like he isn’t completely enamored with the man in front of him. 

“ ‘fraid not, sweetheart.” 

“Are you going to touch me?” 

Please touch me. 

Please. 

Steve’s dick is fully hard now. The sensory experience alone—characterized by cigarette smoke, the hazy gloom hanging heavily outside the window, chirping cicadas, and the undertone of a growl in Eddie’s voice like he’s really nothing more than a starving animal—have Steve’s hips twitching with arousal.

But rubbing against his mattress and stopping himself right before he cums out of guilt just won’t cut it anymore because Eddie is here —sharing air and space and tension with him—and Steve hasn’t stopped thinking about him since that fateful day in the woods. 

“Do you want me to touch you? A minute ago you told me I was going to Hell. Getting hard to keep up, Church Mouse.” 

There is art across Eddie’s entire body as if he is made of it. As if he is the living muse of every artist and has absorbed their work as time goes on. Each piece holds a story, a secret, a truth that Steve has to uncover. Ink dips below the waistline of his jeans and there’s more that slithers beneath the collar of his tank-top. 

Steve wants Eddie to touch him, yes, but he also wants to touch Eddie. He wants to caress and trace and linger for as long as he likes or until their luck runs out. He wants to get lost in Eddie and never return. 

He just has to find the right way to say it. 

“I don’t know—” 

Steve falters, because how should you put into words the only thing that’s ever really mattered to you? How should you tell someone that if they don’t touch you right this second you’re fairly sure you’ll cease to exist? How should you explain a need of that magnitude without scaring the other person away? 

 “Have you ever been kissed before, Steve?” Eddie runs his fingers over his own lips as he finishes the question; drawing Steve’s attention away from panic and into desire. Heart slowing from a fever pitch to a solid, steady beat. 

 “Once,” Steve doesn’t really want to relive that particular story with Eddie—it’s not his favorite to tell, “but, it didn’t really count. I wanted it to be over the second it started.” 

“And, more importantly, have you ever kissed someone?” Eddie arches an eyebrow at him and moves his rings around—index to thumb, middle to index, pinky to opposite pinky. 

Steve doesn’t want to make him feel stupid, but he’s not understanding why Eddie would ask him the same question twice. 

Wasn’t his answer sufficient enough? 

“You already asked me that,” he says, a bit shy about putting Eddie on the spot. 

“Actually, I didn’t,” Eddie moves off the bed, mystery book in hand, and takes a seat in Steve’s desk chair where he used to do his homework when he was still in school, “The first question I asked you was about being kissed by someone else,” he cracks the spine open and unfolds the previously dogeared page, “This is an entirely different and much more important question, in my opinion.” 

Steve blinks widely at him as his shirt rides up and exposes the beautiful dark line of hair on his pale abdomen. 

“I’m asking you if you’ve ever initiated the kiss,” Eddie licks over his lips slowly, never breaking eye contact and Steve fists the fabric of his white linen sheets on either side of him in an effort to maintain composure, “I’m asking you if you’ve ever wanted it so bad that you acted entirely on impulse, threw caution to the wind, and slammed the person against the wall, because you needed them more than anything in that moment and you couldn’t spend another second not knowing exactly what they tasted like–”

Eddie shudders and Steve’s pleasantly surprised to see that this isn’t only affecting him. His chest rises and falls in a broken rhythm and the book on his lap is conveniently held in a way that prevents Steve from seeing if he’s growing hard in his jeans.

 Steve hopes he is. 

“I don’t know—I don’t think so. The kiss I had—it wasn’t like that—wasn’t like what you’re describing–” 

He imagines what it would feel like to kiss Eddie, how different it would be from the premature, clumsy kiss he’d shared with MaryAnne at the onset of his teenage years. 

Kissing Eddie isn’t the default response. It’s not the right thing to do, the moral thing to do, the key to eternal salvation. 

It’s all sorts of wrong, but it’s what Steve wants.

“Well,” Eddie flips on the desk lamp and resumes reading, “you let me know when you figure it out,” he leans back comfortably like he’s planning on keeping watch over a prisoner, “but, until then, I’ll be right over here waiting for you to make up your mind,” his hands dwarf the book and that almost sends Steve overboard, “the choice is yours.” 

The moment Eddie’s attention shifts back to the book and his chin drops into a focused tilt—Steve’s decision comes to light as a blinding beacon in the darkness. 

As Eddie’s eyes flit across the page like a pair of dragonflies to a pond, Steve self-destructs. 

He loses his head, his logic, his reasoning—kicks them to the side like a banal soccer ball and sends the last remaining shreds of his guilt to go play fetch. 

The other kids got to grow up with trusty golden retrievers and Lassie reruns to keep their beds warm in the dead of winter. Steve had no such companion. No sibling or dog or imaginary friend to turn to and say, ‘these are my dreams’ and ‘these are my nightmares.’  

There was nothing to hold. 

The whole world slipped through his hands over and over while his father preached about damnation and punishment and final resting places. 

And, then, along came Eddie Munson. 

He kept showing up, apologizing, refusing to quit even when Steve told him to get lost and chase after the ball rolling across the lawn. Eddie never stayed gone. Eddie held him, dressed him, gave him a hot shower and soap to scrub off the dirt—to rinse away the cold memories of a lonely childhood and bleak future. 

It’s not a decision. 

It’s his neighbor’s dog barking at the sky as the lightning strikes hot. 

It’s animal instinct. 

To catch his prey by surprise, Steve drops his feet to the floor and ambles around the room while Eddie flips to the start of the next chapter. His brow furrows in concentration; lost to the art of escapism and fiction. 

Steve wears his predation subtly. Flutters his lashes, blankens his innocent expression, softens his pouting lips as he approaches Eddie in the chair. 

He either doesn’t know or doesn’t care that Steve is right in front of him. Eddie keeps his nose pressed to the book and inhales The Shining —Steve’s close enough to decipher the title, now—like the words will leap off the page and leave the story untold if he remembers his surroundings for even half-a-second. 

Steve’s erection visibly jumps beneath the cotton as he appeals to the snarling little beast inside and grips onto Eddie’s shoulders. 

His body leads the way—begetting reflex and impulse. He rubs his thumbs up Eddie’s neck until he finds the tender spot where his pulse point is imprisoned by swirling black ink; interrupting the tail of a snake or a dragon. He watches with rapt attention as the animal comes to life—rising and falling faster when Eddie’s breath hitches. 

Other than the change in his breathing pattern, the only other sign that Eddie recognizes Steve’s presence is the aberrant shift he makes to reading aloud. 

“‘His pictures of Pooh and Eyore and Christopher Robin were tacked neatly to the wall, soon enough to be replaced with pin-ups and photographs of dopesmoking rock singers, she supposed—’” he leans into Steve’s touch as he flicks the dangling silver dagger hanging from his earlobe. 

Steve’s rattling. 

His mouth fills with saliva like he’s a starved mutt, like he hasn’t had a meal in days. He digs his opposite hand into the leather stitching where the sleeves connect to the collar and whines in hopes of dragging Eddie’s eyes up to him, but he just adjusts his seat and keeps on reading. 

“‘Innocence to experience. Human nature, baby—’”

If he could just get Eddie to call him baby, again—

“‘Grab it and growl.’”

As the line slips from his silver tongue, Steve clambers into Eddie’s lap. 

It’s a totally uncoordinated thing. He drives a knee into Eddie’s ribcage earning a pained groan from him. He feels his other socked foot slip out across the floor which prompts Eddie to steady him with a helping hand on his hip—steeling Steve against the unexplainable energy coursing between them. He grimaces as he properly arrives with his arms looped around Eddie’s neck in a death grip and his excessively hairy legs straddling his denim-clad hips.

Eddie’s eyes snap up to him and the feeling it instills in Steve is one so powerful he could overthrow any government, destroy entire planets, scorch his path across crude landscapes and turn his back on tradition. 

He doesn’t think. 

He acts. 

Steve reaches up for Eddie’s jaw and cups the rough edges in the gentle cradle of his fingertips. Eddie blooms—shakes like the willows growing at the end of the cul-de-sac, exhales infectious pollen 

which tickles Steve’s senses, and sprouts pink hydrangea petals over his jutting cheekbones. 

“Eddie Munson.”

Steve names him like God once named the bounty of His young in the enigmatic creation of light, sea, Earth, the stars, forest creatures, and humanity. 

“Take what you need,” he holds back, trembling where his hands hover hesitantly over Steve’s waist—waiting for Steve’s signal, “I won’t touch you again until you show me that you know exactly what you want. If this is going to happen, then it’s going to happen on your terms, Stevie.” 

Steve’s not used to so much choice, so much room for opinion, so much patience given and not weaponized against him. 

It’s hard to trust it, but Eddie’s surprised him on more than one occasion. He likes it when Steve exerts authority. He softens and abandons some of that protective layer of sarcasm when Steve reverts to instinct and yanks control into his own hands. 

Through careful fingers tangled into hair, needy hands wrapping around waists, and hungry mouths smashing against each other—Steve is slowly learning what it means to be cared for by another person. To be seen and heard and told you’re worth a much higher price than you’ve been bargained for by those who wanted nothing more than to laugh as you scraped your knees on cruel pavement. 

Eddie brings The Shining back to the center, cracks the spine, licks over two fingers to separate the pages and Steve knocks it from his hands to dogear the page himself. Cringing inwardly because his mother used to scold him for creasing pages in the Bible whenever he lost his bookmark in the labyrinth of the pews. 

“‘Grab it and growl,’ ” Steve repeats and begins a strange dance, rutting his erection against Eddie’s through their clothing in tight, intentional circles that raise his blood pressure, “That was the line, right? How’d I do, Mr. Munson?”

Eddie nods, mouth agape, and Steve feels vindicated in the fact that Eddie is, finally, the one left speechless. 

He’s finally run out of words. 

“‘ Grab it and growl,’” Steve says again, brushing his nose in a thin line over Eddie’s cheek as he laughs, “Like animals, huh?” 

“Yeah. Like animals,” Eddie confirms in a tight voice like he’s trying not to shatter a room walled in by stained glass. Doesn’t want to be the one screaming in the back of the church. 

Steve doesn’t care anymore, or, perhaps, it’s that he cares more now than he ever has. 

When Steve kisses Eddie, the universe seems to expand, collapse, and divide in one brilliant schismatic explosion. His skin vibrates with life and knowledge and the absence of shame. 

For the majority of the summer, Steve had understood Eddie to be a religious nihilist. Too narcissistic to believe in the existence of a higher power. He’d pitied him. Feared he was a lost cause. 

But as their lips meet and part to meet again, Steve changes his mind. 

Eddie isn’t the absence of religion. 

He is the presence and contemporary innovation of something finally worth worshiping. 

There is hope under Steve’s tongue. He delivers it to Eddie in a sloppy clashing of lips, incubus teeth, heat, and the aftertaste of tart blackberries—consumed in their unwashed form by the kitchen counter. 

They make a bitter mess, tension snapping like a thick rubber band on the inside of their wrists. Eddie tucks sugarcubes behind Steve’s molars to ease the blow when he prods past his lips.

Steve hadn’t known you could kiss this way—that tongues should fumble and wrap around each other like snakes, that painted pale fingers should grip your hip to roll you down against firm lines of pleasure. That the insistent dig of a clanging belt buckle should press against the low part of your belly and spark you back to life. Revived by the sharp hiss of a violet bruise. Like a cat’s claws scraping and removing the wasteland of loneliness from his timid heart. Giving it all the more reason to beat. 

Kissing Eddie is the emergence of a religion Steve would gladly dedicate his life to. 

“Go slow,” Eddie lifts his hips up from the chair to rub against Steve in one elongated drag of scratching fabric against bare skin and bites his lip, “It feels better when you take your time. Draw it out so you remember what it’s like to take what you want. I’ll show you.” 

With one hand Eddie continues to roll Steve’s hips against him in a rhythmic motion. He forces Steve to pace himself—exchanging frantic presses of their hip bones for deliberate, slow rolls that mimic the ocean’s waves following a storm. Calming in steady intervals. Finding balance and breathing in the space that each crest leaves for the next. 

Eddie’s hands are strong, consistent, and searching. 

As Steve kisses him and whines into his mouth, Eddie reaches beneath his shirt, smooths over his stomach with a flattened palm, and circles one of his nipples in a bold move. 

He’d done something similar in the trailer, but the fabric of his shirt had dulled the sensation. With the barrier out of the way now, Steve feels the teasing touch down to his toes. 

Eddie circles his thumb again, cooing at Steve when he sees his involuntary reaction. 

“You like your tits played with, Little Lamb? Such a sensitive boy.” 

“Tits?” Steve tilts his head to the side. 

Eddie’s rings graze his chest and experimentally tug at the hair growing over his sternum. It hurts, but there’s a cushion to the pain where Steve imagines he might curl up and sink into a sweet release. 

“Time for an anatomy lesson,” Eddie passes his hand over each of Steve’s nipples, “These are your ‘tits.’ We can also say ‘chest’ or we don’t have to call them anything if you’d rather I don’t touch you there.” 

“No, I like it—please keep going. Tits is fine. Teach me—”

Steve gasps when Eddie pinches and rolls his nipples between two fingers like he’s seen him do with  a joint. His back arches beyond his control—curving to fit himself against Eddie’s body as he chuckles and nips at Steve’s cheek. 

“You’re going to ruin me,” Eddie growls, “I’m never going to get over you, Steve Harrington. Fuck.” 

“You’ve already ruined me. Can’t take it back.”

“Don’t wanna take it back,” he says, tongue darting out to lick over Steve’s jaw, “When I decide something’s mine, I don’t ever change my mind.” 

Ever. 

The future could be so much brighter with that ever tacked onto it. 

Ducking his head, Eddie rucks Steve’s shirt up higher so the font is illegible. From this angle, it could say anything—Bible camp t-shirt or collector’s merch from the first Judas Priest tour. 

“Do you trust me?” He finds Steve’s heart and presses his fingers into the beat like he wants to memorize the rhythm. 

“Way more than I should, yes.” 

“Good, because I’m about to try something new and I don’t want you to panic when I start sucking on your tits,” he says, “I have a feeling it’ll be up your alley and, selfishly,” he smirks, “I’ve got a thing for chest hair and you happen to have a lot of it.” 

“W-what will it feel like?” 

“Heaven,” Eddie whispers. 

Loosely aware of what to expect, Steve gravitates further into Eddie’s space and trembles through the initial kiss of metal against his nipple. It’s warm and wet. 

Nothing like Heaven—this is better. 

“More. More. Please–”

Eddie alternates between his fingers and his mouth. Laving with flat, broad strokes of the tongue on one side, while flicking and caressing with his pointer finger and thumb on the other. 

Hips lurching out of Eddie’s hold, Steve’s leg slips and suddenly, he’s straddling Eddie’s right thigh. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to do this or if it’s supposed to work this way, but he follows what feels good and grinds against the denim. Forgets to think. Takes what he needs like Eddie told him to. 

“You’ve got such pretty pink nipples, sweetheart,” Eddie licks into his mouth, sucking onto Steve’s tongue and dripping mess down both of their fronts. Steve has no idea if he’s doing this whole ‘kissing’ thing right, but Eddie doesn’t seem to mind his inexperience, “gonna soak straight through these tighty whities if we’re not careful,” he pinches his nipple hard and the kisses Steve’s been returning become breathy moans, “can’t believe I’ve got the prettiest boy in all of Hawkins in my lap and that he climbed up here all by himself looking for something to rub against. I must be fucking dreaming.” 

“Again,” he cries out, “Please. Wanna feel more—” 

“Shh,” Eddie comes up for air and hushes him with a finger pressed between their kiss-bitten lips which Steve licks around in a delirious haze, “What did I say? We’re going slow, baby. There’s no need to rush. Want you to enjoy every little touch. Want you to learn the difference between giving and taking,” Eddie smiles beatifically, pushing Steve’s foggy glasses up the bridge of his nose and kissing the set of moles closest to his lips, “You’re a sweet boy. You’re so fucking good for letting me teach you—my favorite student. So smart, baby.”  

The praise hits Steve’s senses and he’s floating over pillowy clouds, a mattress stuffed with good dreams, and the reassurance that he can and should keep going. 

“Never been anybody’s ‘baby,’ before. I like that. Sounds nice. Wanna be your baby.” 

Steve’s head lulls against Eddie’s chest and his worries are decimated by the enticing aroma of leather and cologne. He’s safe where he can hear Eddie’s heartbeat in his ear. Nothing else matters except the beautiful sensations that coax him into drifting and appreciating the electric current of touch. 

“I’m lucky to be the first,” he runs his fingers through his hair, lightly tugging at the root which makes some distant part of Steve go numb and melt into his hands, “Thank you for letting me stay, baby. I’m happy when I’m near you—haven’t been this happy in a really long time.” 

“Mhmm,” Steve drools onto Eddie’s jacket and works his hips a tad faster, hoping Eddie will continue to let him get away with the increased speed, “Me too, Eds. Me too.” 

“Eds, hm? Am I being given an official pet name by the Steve Harrington? I never thought I’d see the day,” he hums, pleased, “Say it again. Lemme hear you. I’ll let you keep riding my thigh and pretend I don’t even notice. Just wanna hear you say it—”

“You’re beautiful, Eds. So pretty,” Steve holds his face in his hands, “Could stare at you forever.”

He pants against his mouth and pulls at Eddie’s hair. Carefully grabbing at the root and smiling when Eddie wantonly moans in response. 

“Thought boys couldn’t be pretty,” he harkens back to a conversation that feels as distant as ancient history, “Thought that was a compliment reserved for girls.” 

“I was wrong,” he kisses his nose, “wrong about so much, Eds. Can’t believe it.” 

“If I cum in my jeans, it’s because of that fucking nickname.” 

Eddie deftly grabs a full handful of Steve’s ass with one hand. He squeezes, snaps the waistband against his skin, and splinters at the sound. Not even the sky full of stars can pull Steve away from his hands. 

“How does it feel to touch me there? What’s it like for you? I wanna know.” 

Spurred on by Steve’s questions, Eddie illustrates his appreciation by bringing his other hand down to hold as much of Steve’s ass as he possibly can. Squishing the flesh between his fingers. Kneading the taut muscle like dough. Hypnotized. 

“Makes me so fucking hard, Stevie. God, you have no idea how perfect this ass is,” he lightly smacks it, “I wanna bury my face in it. Wanna see you stretched out and dripping with my cum.” 

“You wanna cum inside me? In there?” 

“Does that scare you?” Eddie leans back to meet his eyes. 

“It probably should, but no. Makes me hard too. Don’t know why.” 

“You don’t have to know why,” he kisses Steve’s neck, “If you want it, if it feels good—that can be enough.” 

“Wanna feel you, wanna get closer—” 

Each brush of skin has Steve keening and ripping at Eddie’s clothes. To think that he can feel arousal from so many different kinds of touch. To think that there are so many other ways to be touched that he has yet to experience—that he can’t even conceptualize in this moment. 

“Gonna cum,” Steve’s dick hurts from the lack of direct attention, “Touch me, Eds—” 

“Oh, baby. Poor thing,” he moans and kisses along Steve’s throat, sucking little nibbles here and there as he goes toward his ear, “I told you I’d teach you how to make it feel good, didn’t I?” 

Steve can’t speak. He nods, searches for Eddie’s mouth, and finds fingers pressed to his lips again to prevent another kiss. 

“Then, go sit over on your bed for me and listen closely,” he says with a wink. 

❋

Steve Harrington is officially Eddie’s worst habit. 

He’s the unconscious enabler to his necrophagia. He’s the hunter who pities the decrepit old wolf licking his wounds and thus, doesn’t intervene. He’s the apathetic accessory worn around his neck when he cuts onions without remembering to wear his sunglasses. He’s the dormant obsession that waxes and wanes with the moon’s cycle. He’s nail biting, scab picking, cutting corners, shading in the wrong answer at the bottom of the test just for the hell of it. 

Eddie’s laundry list of former vices have all been simple enough to crack. Resolved by joining a band, giving himself less free time, organizing D&D campaigns for the kids, and reading horror novels which challenge him to pin down the killer before the hotshot detective figures it out first. 

The formula should work on Steve, but it doesn’t. He’s immune to Eddie’s usual failsafe tricks. Eye’s wide, knees spread open, hands quivering at his sides like he wants to touch, but doesn’t know how or where to start. 

Eddie is inexplicably drawn to him. 

“Should I take my clothes off?” 

Steve plays with the hem of his Bible Camp t-shirt and Eddie shakes his head in a firm ‘no,’ because behind his willingness to follow orders and the apparent damp bulge in his briefs—Eddie knows Steve’s afraid.

“Why ruin a good thing?” He kisses the outside of Steve’s knee and smiles into his tan skin, “I like the tighty whities,” he kisses higher, biting Steve’s inner thigh while he moans and squirms around, “Besides, they fit you like a glove. I can already see everything I need to see.” 

The idea of Steve Harrington removing his t-shirt and underwear to show Eddie every inch of his bronzed skin isn’t one lacking in seductive glamor. 

Eddie likes the idea. Hell, he even loves the idea. Would get down on one knee and marry it if he could, but Steve is rawly unaware of how a night like this should unfold and, therein, lies a crucial moral dilemma. 

If Eddie allows him to jump off the high dive without teaching him how to doggy paddle, they’ll both walk away from tonight with more scars than they would have if they’d gone step by step. 

Eddie remembers getting on his knees for the first time at the club. He’d been too young to really process any of it—led by rough hands and filthy instructions while he tried not to cry.

That’s what sticks with him. The burn of holding back tears and the sore throat he woke up with the next morning in a dingy apartment on the wrong side of the city. The man he’d slept with tried to kiss him with coffee breath, but Eddie stopped him with an uppercut to the jaw. Ending the fantasy and rushing out the door. 

“But, isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? Take our clothes off? I—I rented a movie from Family Video last night and the guy took the girl’s clothes off before they–” 

Gesticulating around, accompanied by pink cheeks and rapture-inducing innocence; Steve conveys love making through a series of haphazard movements. Hands flapping around like the wings of a scorned crow fleeing the nest as a larger predator steps into the frame. 

“You rented porn from Family Video?” 

Eddie’s having a hard time imagining Steve pursuing the Adult Film section in his khakis. Though a captivating thought, it doesn’t seem like something he’d get up to on his own. Not without wrongful encouragement from a certain someone. 

“I think so. The couple had sex a few times. Does that make it porn?” 

“Maybe. Depends. I’ve checked out the majority of that section. I’d probably recognize the title. Do you remember what it’s called?” He says. 

Casually discussing porn with Steve wasn’t on his original agenda for tonight, but Eddie certainly wouldn’t mind getting a little insight into what types of dirty scenes he was watching. His luck is off the charts. 

“Sure, I do. Risky Business . Have you seen it?” 

Jesus Christ in Heaven—

Sometimes it really does feel like Steve’s never left the house before. 

“Yes, Steve, yes, I’ve seen Risky Business . It’s a decent movie, but, to be very clear, it’s definitely not a porno.” 

“They had sex though? He took her clothes off and she sat in his lap like I sat in yours and her tits were out—” 

Another thing that wasn’t on Eddie’s agenda for the night, but has occurred as a wonderful happy accident? 

Teaching the Pastor’s son about tits. 

“Nice job using one of your new words in a sentence. That part was correct, but Steve,” Eddie grabs his hands and squeezes to halt his flailing, “Movie sex isn’t real. The actors sign contracts. They wear special garments to protect their junk.”

Steve laughs when Eddie points directly at his clothed dick and wiggles around in a funny dance. 

“They have the luxury of getting to shoot the same scene a million times over before they get it right.”

He tenderly brushes Steve’s hair from his face. Heart tightening when Steve’s eyes go glassy at the slightest implication of care. Eddie needs to do this right. 

“Real life isn’t like the movies. Real sex isn’t either. You don’t get a do-over—can’t just erase it from your memory like a camera reel.” 

“Well, I already know about that stuff,” Steve sits up a bit, “if you choose to become impure before marriage you deal with the consequences by ‘undergoing a punishment of eternal fire.’ It says so in Jude 1:7.” 

“Exactly my point—I’m not going to have sex with you until you understand that it isn’t about any of that,” Eddie says matter-of-factly, “You shouldn’t be wading through a pool of guilt and shame and fear the whole time. Things can and do go wrong. Bad people will push boundaries. They can easily take advantage of you,”  it wasn’t just Eddie’s first experience with sex that left him so scarred—it was the s econd, third, fourth, fifth, and twentieth time that loosened a handful of screws in his head, “It’s supposed to feel good, Stevie. It’s supposed to be soft and gentle until you get the hang of it,” he continues petting through his hair, “It’s supposed to be a slow submersion not an instant deep dive where your lungs have no choice, but to fill up with water. Does that make sense?” 

“You weren’t always this nice, y’know. I’m not stupid. I know you massaged my shoulders that day, because you were attracted to me. You wanted to touch me—” 

“Things changed. A lot changed,” Eddie shrugs noncommittally, “but I also owe you more credit than I’ve ever really given you, at least out loud.”

 Finding the words for this hasn’t been easy and it’s taken Steve calling him out directly for Eddie to finally figure out how to say what he means.

“You’re right. You’re not stupid. I did want to touch you and I still want to touch you,” he swallows and leans forward to brush his lips across Steve’s; barely a kiss, “I’m sorry if I ever crossed the line. I never want to do that again. Like I said, I really would leave—I would stop all of this—if you ever asked me to,” he speaks the truth straight into Steve’s mouth in an active demonstration of restraint—he won’t fully kiss him again until they’ve resolved the issue at hand and arrive on the same page, “And, in the meantime, I’m always watching just in case the words don’t come. If something doesn’t seem right, if you don’t seem interested then—”

“I wanted it, too, Eddie,” Steve says suddenly with more conviction than Eddie’s ever heard in his voice.

“It’s okay if you didn’t, though,” Eddie can’t handle the idea that Steve might be deluding himself to please him—it churns his stomach, “It’s really important, actually, that you tell me if you didn’t want me to touch you. Not just that day in my trailer, but any time I’ve laid my hands on you, including tonight.” 

Steve kisses him. 

It’s not polite or dainty, either. It’s the kiss of someone who knows exactly what they want and is willing to put their life on the line for it. 

Steve kisses Eddie and it’s adorably clumsy. 

He’s still learning where to put his hands, how to use his tongue, the mechanics of push and pull. He holds tight like Eddie’s a balloon on a string at a children’s birthday party. In danger of floating up to space if he doesn’t loop him twice around his wrist and wouldn’t that be a tragedy when they’re just now starting to understand each other? 

“I don’t always have all the words to explain it like you do, but I would’ve fought back or walked out the door if it didn’t feel right—if I was scared. I know how to protect myself. You don’t spend over a decade as a Scout and not learn basic self-defense.” 

“You’re sure?” Eddie strokes over his cheekbones, examining Steve for the smallest hint of doubt, but unable to find it, “I need you to be really, really, really sure, Steve, before we go any further. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You won’t hurt me, but—” 

Eddie’s waiting for the other shoe to drop when Steve tackles him, full force, onto the mattress. Beneath their combined weight, the springs squeak obnoxiously from old age and restless nights of sleep. As if protesting the change to Steve’s regular routine or cheering him on for discovering that there are many ways to rebel against those who try to keep you in line. 

“—I might hurt you if you’re not careful. Being the weird church kid means I had a lot of freetime to work out when I was growing up. It was about the only thing I could do that didn’t bore me to tears,” Steve finishes, huffing a smart-mouthed laugh, and tracking his movements. 

He’s got his knees pinned to Eddie’s sides—digging into his ribcage and sending his heart haywire in response. There’s a lump in his throat. It’s shaped like pride and fear and excitement. A thing of whimsy, delight, and the midnight shadow of love. 

Steve outright growls, grits his teeth like a cannibal, and uses the moment of surprise to get Eddie’s wrists in his hands to hold him in place. He’s breathing hard. His dick is tenting his briefs and there’s sweat dripping from his brow bone. Summer is a relentless thief—stealing from all good patrons in the neighborhood. 

“Fuck. My money’s on you in a fight,” Eddie tries to wriggle his way out from under Steve to get the upper hand, but it’s no use—Steve’s thighs are even stronger than they look, “and for the record, you’re nothing like I thought you’d be, Harrington. I’m sorry for underestimating you. Shoulda known better.” 

“That’s okay,” he turns sheepish; wordlessly relaying a childhood in which genuine apologies were hard to come by (aside from the ones he performed in the confessional booth to one of God’s telephone operators), “ ‘spose I underestimated you, too. I didn’t expect you to be so—”

“Devilishly handsome?” Eddie cuts in. 

Steve playfully shoves at his chest, “I was going to say, kind. ” 

“Oh. I’m all sorts of kind, ” he raises his eyebrows and gives Steve an award-winning smile, “I’m kinda funny, kinda cool, kinda sweet, kinda awesome, kinda genius, kinda hot—shall I continue?” 

“I think I get the point, but, the thing is—” 

Steve trails off again. 

Eddie chooses not to finish his sentence for him with an off-color joke like he usually would. Instead, he lets Steve sit with it, lets him sink his full weight into his lap, and takes comfort in their shared silence. Accepting the reward that comes in learning how to coexist together in this obscure interlude. 

Steve worries his lip between his teeth as if really contemplating whatever he’s about to say. 

He shakes his head back and forth, listening to the little Devil and Angel on either shoulder. Anticipating the pros and cons. Nodding when he comes to a conclusion. 

Eddie studies him closely. He sees the divine light illuminate within Steve when he grabs hold of the answer. It’s a beautiful thing to pay witness to, to be the sole member of this one-man crowd. 

“—but, the thing is, Eds,” he picks up the sentence where he left it, “you’re not just kinda hot.”

Decision made, Steve takes one of Eddie’s trapped hands in his and brings it off the mattress. Eddie’s not sure where he’s going with it, but the way Steve’s reverently looking down at his palm has him curious. 

Eddie assumes he’s going to stop there in an innocent hand-hold like a middle school couple walking to class as the bell rings. 

It’s a nice thought for an alternate universe. 

Eddie should have been the one to walk Steve back and forth from his classes. 

Eddie should have asked him to Prom and kissed him on the dance floor. 

Steve deserved an education in a real classroom with real materials. 

He deserved legitimate teachers, friends, and the opportunity to laugh at the awkwardness of Sex Ed. To learn what a condom is, where to buy a pack, how to use them—shit like that. 

After stroking over the center of his palm a few times with his thumb, Steve tentatively brings Eddie’s fingers to wrap around his length where it begs for attention at the front of his briefs. He pauses, cocks his head at the unfamiliar sight, and then presses the heel of Eddie’s palm into his dick—experimentally rubbing up and down with differing amounts of pressure. 

Eddie lets it all happen. Careful not to make any sudden movements or sounds so he doesn’t scare Steve off. He goes so far as to hold his breath—quieting a whole slew of moans and sharp little noises. He won’t disturb Steve’s pleasure. Nor his peace. 

“Your eyes,” Steve frees his other hand to trace below Eddie’s waterline with his forefinger, “they’re purple,” he hums in contemplation, admiring the makeup, “Pretty boy. Can’t stop thinking about how pretty you are.” 

Purple for when you don’t feel like being brave, but have to be. 

The eyeliner he’s wearing isn’t the original pencil Chrissy gave him. Though, Eddie wishes it was. 

Over the years, he’d used the three colors as sparingly as possible. Feeling a weird twinge of guilt in his chest whenever he’d uncap one and apply it in the bathroom mirror. It was their secret—one of the last remaining vestiges of physical memory he could tie to her—and the smaller the pencil became, the more he felt like he was losing her. It was a quiet goodbye the day he had to drive out to a drugstore in Indianapolis to replenish his supply of magic. It was the same brand, the same shades, but the fact that Chrissy hadn’t been the one to give them to him made all the difference.  

Before he’d set out for the evening, he’d contemplated what he needed most—acceptance, glamor, or courage. 

Sneaking in through Steve Harrington’s window—uninvited and having no idea where things stood—sure called for a hell of a lot of bravery, so purple it was.

“Glad you like it. I was sorta hoping you’d notice,” he says, “Put it on just for you.”

“I notice. I see you, Eds.” 

“I see you, Stevie.” 

Eddie’s too worked up to say anything more. 

Steve’s dick feels stupidly thick in his hand. 

It’s warm, twitching with each buck of his hips, and further dampening the fabric that covers the tip. 

He hadn’t been wrong the first time he’d seen him chubbed up in his khakis; his dick is plenty big. Might be even bigger than Eddie’s from the looks of it. 

“Will you make me cum? Feels so good and I don’t want it to go away before I’ve—ah, ah—had the chance,” Steve begs through dark lashes. 

Eddie can tell he’s almost there. 

Hell, Eddie’s almost there, himself, just from some late night dry humping and sloppy kissing. 

It’s nearly pathetic. He’s twenty-five years-old. He’s had sex with more people than he can count or remember the names of. He’s plenty experienced in the art of edging himself with toys and his own two hands. 

In theory, he should need more direct stimulation to cum, but he thinks the sound of Steve’s needy voice might be enough to make him white out from the sheer thrill of it all. 

“I’ll do you one better,” he says, nudging Steve’s hips with the back of a fist, “Go sit pretty for me at the top of the bed. Show me what a good boy you can be.” 

Steve whines and openly pouts out his disappointment, but follows Eddie’s orders, rolls off his lap, and sits near the headboard with his legs politely crossed in front of him. 

“Nuh, uh,” Eddie corrects, moving up the bed on his knees, “Spread your legs—knees apart. I’m gonna need easier access if you actually wanna cum.” 

“Fine,” Steve sighs, as if parting his legs is an incredibly strenuous task to complete, “Are you happy, now?” 

“Mind the attitude, Harrington.” 

Or, don’t. 

“Whatever you say, Mr. Munson.” 

If the circumstances were different and Steve was more experienced, Eddie would definitely be inclined to put him in his place for bitching and moaning about having to move. He’d fuck his face or bend him over the side of the bed to teach him a different kind of lesson. 

However something continues to tell him that Steve Harrington isn’t all sugar, spice, and everything nice. 

He’s nowhere near as innocent as he seems. He, like everyone, possesses a dark side and part of that dark side is an acute interest in toying with Eddie to get what he wants. 

Eddie’s never been very good at submitting to his partners. 

He feels uncomfortable and squeamish about the whole ordeal in most scenarios. 

But, Steve tackling him to the bed and taking control has started opening his mind to the idea that his preference for dominating his partners may not be as hardwired as he originally thought.

Perhaps, he could be the one stretching his mouth around Steve’s suffocating cock or folding in half to make himself look pretty for the Pastor’s black sheep of a son. 

Who knows what time and practice could bring about? 

Once he’s gotten situated, Eddie moves to sit behind him so Steve’s spine is aligned with his chest and torso. 

He leans back against the pillows that line the headboard and wraps an arm around Steve’s middle to pull him closer so there’s not an inch of available space between them, which means Eddie’s obvious erection is definitely poking Steve in the back—not that he’d be doing himself any favors by trying to hide it.  

“Alright, sweetheart. I’m gonna talk you through this, okay?” He asks, waiting for a verbal response before he continues. 

“Okay.” 

Steve nods, seeming unsure of where to put his hands. He keeps moving them in and out of his lap, but won’t touch himself where he needs it most which prompts Eddie to take further initiative. 

It’s fine.

It’s all part of his plan anyways. 

“Good boy. I love hearing your pretty voice. That’s perfect for what we’re about to do, actually, because I’m gonna need lots of communication from you about what feels good and what doesn’t,” he coos in Steve’s ear, “because I’m gonna teach you how to make yourself cum so you can do it over and over again—even when I’m not here,” he kisses the junction between his neck and jaw, “So you can touch yourself while you’re thinking about me and get all the practice you need before we do the real thing.” 

“Yes, please.”

Steve’s manners shine through like the break of dawn despite how clearly desperate he is for Eddie to cut the preamble and get on with it. 

“Okay, honey,” Eddie rocks against his ass and the plush give of it sends decadent pleasure down the line of his cock—his boxers are going to be quite the sticky wreck by the end of the night if things keep heading in this direction, “Just gonna start by reaching down here,” he somehow keeps his voice steady as he delicately trails his fingers over the waistband of Steve’s underwear, “and pulling these aside. Should give you some relief, but we’ll keep them partially on for the duration of our lesson.” 

Eddie tugs the briefs down and tucks them directly under his perky pink balls—drooling a little as he reveals the full length of Steve’s cock to the both of them. 

Finally. 

“Holy shit, baby,” he moans, unconsciously rutting faster into Steve’s ass for some marginal relief, “Your cock’s fuckin’ huge. Even bigger than I imagined.” 

“D–do you like it? Is it—does it look okay?” 

As expected, Steve’s shyness returns once he’s properly exposed for Eddie to see. 

Not that he has anything to be embarrassed of. 

As mentioned, his dick really is huge . Thicker than should even be possible to fit inside his uniform shorts. 

It’s cut, curves slightly upwards, and is steadily leaking milky pre around the head. The wide base is hidden in a heavenly nest of dark brown curls which Eddie instantly fantasizes about sticking his nose into and inhaling a face full of natural musk and sweat. 

He’s a fucking vision. 

He’s beautiful. 

He’s a God, in his own right, but it takes a second before Eddie finds the ability to speak and offer him reassurance. 

“Stevie, baby, I could write entire albums about your cock and how fucking gorgeous it is,” he grinds, murmurs an abundance of garbled praise, and notices another spurt of pre splashing onto Steve’s soft lower belly— he likes being told how good he is, how worthy , “You have nothing to worry about,” Eddie groans, trailing his hands lower through the thicket of hair, “Prettiest cock I’ve ever seen. Can’t believe I’m the first one who gets to touch you down here where you’re all wet and shiny.”

Steve squirms, presses his ass back to meet Eddie’s dick, and mewls. 

“Please, Eddie. Please. Don’t wanna wait anymore—” he grimaces as if Eddie’s torturing him. 

“Keep it quiet, angel,” he hushes him, reaching to stroke along his jaw, “Your parents might not be home, but you do have neighbors next door. Wouldn’t want them hearing the Pastor’s boy screaming for the town freak, now would we? Think about all the rumors they’d spread about us.” 

“Don’t care what they think,” Steve’s breathing heavy, hips lifting from the bed until Eddie stills them with a flat, but firm palm, “Just wanna cum—never felt so good before. Wanna feel it again. Wanna feel you.” 

“You will, baby. Shh. Gimme your hand,” Steve does so, placing his right hand in Eddie’s, and letting him guide them to his purpling cock, “Wrap it around and follow my lead. I’m gonna be right here the whole time. If you need to slow down or speed up just tell me or squeeze my hand and I’ll pause until you’re ready again. Let it feel good,” Eddie mouths at his neck, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I promise.” 

Together, they begin pumping over Steve’s length from base to tip. Steve’s fingers make direct contact with his shaft while Eddie covers the back of his hand and works to help him build a gradual, rhythmic pace. There just to guide and keep the momentum going. Like training wheels on a bike. 

“Mmm,” Steve moans sweetly, kicking a leg out along the bed, “been dreaming about this,” his head lulls back against Eddie’s shoulder, relaxing deeper into a state of pure bliss, “tried to—to pray it away for so long, but I could never stop,” his breath tickles the underside of Eddie’s chin and smells like a mix of bubblegum toothpaste and morning breath, “ended up rubbing on my mattress most nights when I was supposed to—ah, ah—supposed to be doing my devotionals.” 

“Is that so? Interesting. What exactly were you thinking about, Little Lamb?” 

He hooks his head over Steve’s shoulder to look down at the mess they’re making together. Eddie circles a thumb over his slit, thinking fondly of the first time he’d ever had that done to him, and getting drunk on the delicious cry Steve lets out. 

He circles it again, dipping his thumb in, and urging Steve on. 

“You can confess to me. I won’t tell God. I won’t tell anyone. This, right here, is just for us. No one else.” 

“No. No, I can’t—it’s too—it’s too dirty—” Steve whines, louder. 

The neighbors can spread all the rumors they want. Fuck. It’s more than worth it to hear Steve fall apart the way he’s always wanted to. 

“Lucky for you, I like dirty. Dirty’s my favorite. You’re not gonna make the teacher beg the student, are you?” Eddie tuts.

“But, I don’t know how to say it.” 

“C’mon. I’ll help you if you get stuck. I’m great at turning inches into miles and you certainly have plenty,” he strokes deliberately up one side of Steve’s erection, circLES over the head, and then slowly slides down the other side, “of inches to work with.” 

“I thought about your hands,” Steve groans, tongue stuck between his teeth, thighs shaking relentlessly, “your rings—what they would look like wrapped around my cock—thought about you touching me in the shower when I’m naked and vulnerable and not stopping until you’d—you’d made me cum into your mouth—like Paul did when he sucked your dick in the woods—”

“Look at you using your new words so well. Making me proud, Church Mouse. You’re not so quiet anymore, are you? Wanna hear all the things you want me to do to your cock. Wanna give you everything, baby boy.” 

“Thought about you undressing me like the girl in the movie. Thought about you touching me like he touched her—making me cum in your lap—” 

“Yeah? Would you let me play with your tits again? Suck on ‘em and kiss ‘em?” 

“Yes—all of it. I’d let you do all of it—let you play with my tits again and again–” he moans. 

There’s a bit of a drag to their movements and Eddie knows Steve won’t have lube in his bedside table, because duh so he offers the next best thing on a moment’s notice. Wanting to ensure that Steve doesn’t wake up with a rash and hypersensitive skin that’ll surely chafe inside his khaki shorts. 

“Lemme help. Don’t need you rubbing yourself raw,” Eddie says sternly, “Gonna get you nice and wet like a girl.”

“ ‘m not actually a girl though,” Steve chides.  

“Maybe not, but I guarantee you most of ‘em can’t decide if they’d rather fuck you or be you. Can’t really blame ‘em either. You’re so pretty. You just steal all the attention away from the less shiny ones. Make ‘em look so dull by comparison.” 

Thankfully, his mouth is already full of saliva so when he spits onto Steve’s cock and helps him spread it around, everything gets nice and slick—easing the friction. Steve blanches, spreads his fingers beneath Eddie’s to explore the newfound stickiness, and lets Eddie show him how to twist his hand on the upstroke. 

“There you go. Feels much better, doesn’t it? When you jerk off without me, make sure you spit on your hand or use some lotion to lube yourself up. Otherwise, it’ll hurt and you won’t be able to do it again the next day without fighting through the pain to get your rocks off,” he says, “It’s better to be safe than sorry. Trust me. I learned that one the hard way.” 

“Eddie—” 

“Yes?” 

“Faster,” Steve manages in a choked out whimper, “Keep talking, but need to go—ah—faster.” 

Steve’s been exceptionally patient and Eddie’s reaching the edge of his own orgasm so he’s more than happy to oblige.

 Besides, he’s been fantasizing about Steve cumming for him again since the first time it happened. Hasn’t been able to get it out of his head. 

It’s obsessive, a wicked compulsion, and the only way he’s been able to get off for the past week has been by fucking his fist or humping his pillow to the sepia tinged memory. To the frenzied violence of Steve’s teeth on his jaw and the blood that painted his lips cherry red in the aftermath.

“If only they could see you now, baby. Yeah? None of those girls ever stood a chance with you, did they?”

“Never liked any of them,” he divulges, “Always thought there was something wrong with me, because I didn’t wanna touch them or get near them or ask them on dates—thought I was broken—”

“Baby,” Eddie coddles, kissing everywhere he can currently reach to spread reassurance across Steve’s skin, “You’re not broken. You were never broken,” he suppresses the urge to demolish and destroy all the holy items that Mr. & Mrs. Harrington have used to manipulate their son into thinking this way, “There’s a whole world outside of Hawkins for people like you and me. You won’t have to hide and I’ll show you off to everyone if you’ll let me,” fuck, he’s getting ahead of himself—thinking about kissing Steve in the streets like the famous photo of the sailor and the girl after the war as if he’s some hero , “There’s so much to learn, sweet boy. There’s so much out there for you to see. I’ll show you. I will .” 

He cants his hips up to meet their hands and Eddie’s in no mood to stop him or tease this out any longer—plus, if Steve is going to keep up a regular routine of jacking off then he needs to understand the conditions of his pleasure on his own terms.

“That’s it. There’s my boy. Being so good, Stevie—fuck—so fucking good for me,” Eddie rambles blasphemous nonsense, completely entranced by the sweeping tide of Steve’s hungry moans and desperate strokes, “You’re already getting the hang of it. Keep going—I can tell you’re almost there. Can feel you shaking, sweetheart.” 

 Eddie sneaks his free hand up to Steve’s nipple where he’s particularly sensitive and alternates between gentle flicks and playful pinches. 

They’re this perfect shade of dusky pink like his cock, but they redden quickly under Eddie’s painted fingers like he’s turning water to wine. He would worship and wash the feet of this boy if only he’d let him. He’s far more deserving of worldwide reverence. 

“Didn’t know it could feel like this—they always said it would hurt—they always said Satan would possess me—” 

As Steve’s balls tighten up against his body and his toes begin to curl, Eddie removes his hand—leaving Steve to charter his own destiny. 

“What are you—” 

“They lied to you,” Eddie turns Steve’s face towards him and kisses the truth into him—heart hammering through his chest, “They’re afraid, but that doesn’t mean you have to be. You’re in charge now. You get to decide what feels good and what doesn’t.” 

He sends his plan into the final stage, and bites down onto Steve’s jaw as payback for what he did in the woods. Tasting a hint of iron and adrenaline as he pulls back to admire the work he’s done. 

There’s a mark, it’ll bruise, Steve will have to come up with a lie, but for now nothing else exists and all Eddie sees is the beauty in the chaos. 

“Eddie—gonna—gonna cum–”

“Keep going, angel. There you go. So proud of you, baby. That’s my boy.” 

Steve sobs as the final wave crashes over him and he surrenders to the current. Blissfully whining and crying out. Grabbing onto Eddie’s arm as he pumps himself through eighteen years of discipline, pain, and superstition. 

The only thing left to do is shower him with praise which is exactly what Eddie does—cementing the belief that pleasure isn’t something Steve should be afraid of or spend the rest of his life running from.  

Pleasure is the two of them laid out across Steve’s mattress with the breeze drafting in through the window, rustling the curtains, and drying the puddle of cum on Steve’s belly. 

Pleasure is Eddie tucking Steve’s spent cock back into his tighty whities, righting his glasses on his nose, licking over the column of his throat to clean the salty sweat and tears. 

Pleasure is Steve turning in Eddie’s arms to face him, sucking bruises atop his collarbones, and petting through his curls. 

Pleasure is the small stuff. It’s the way Steve absentmindedly spins Eddie’s skull ring around his finger. It’s the cute fascination he has with trying to perfectly name the shade of purple under Eddie’s eyes. Twisting his tongue on magenta, lavender, plum, mauve, lilac, and indigo. 

Pleasure is Steve insatiably rutting against Eddie’s side in his wet underwear, trailing a hand across his pale stomach, and cupping Eddie’s still hard dick through his jeans; whispering a single word—

“More.” 

❋

Eddie won’t let Steve give him a blowjob and Steve is a bit cantankerous about it.  

“Why not? I don’t understand. I’m perfectly fine and I wanna do it. I really wanna. I’m asking nicely and everything.” 

He’s kneeling on the floor of his bedroom. The cicadas are causing a complete racket which is definitely why it’s so hard for him to think straight—though Eddie insists it’s something else—and his hands are situated on Eddie’s belt buckle to prepare for what’s supposed to happen next. 

But, Eddie won’t budge on the issue and it’s really starting to make Steve lose his temper which is very much not okay if the ten commandments have anything to say about it. Though, Steve’s not really sure he believes in those at the moment. 

In fact, the only thing he's certain he believes in right now is the need to repay Eddie by giving him the best blowjob of his entire life—despite the fact that he’s only observed one blowjob from a distance and has no other prior knowledge to go off of. 

Regardless, Steve’s sure he can figure it out. 

He’ll just ‘learn by doing’ as Eddie once said. 

“Because you’re dropping which means you don’t give a flying shit what I do to you right now and that’s a very scary position to be in, Steve. You could easily wake up tomorrow and regret every decision you make from here on out and I’m not going to be the one who just sat idly by and let that happen to you. I’d have to be a much shittier person than I currently am.” 

Steve’s as frustrated as he is horny. 

The pent up feeling in his gut eats at him, claws up his esophagus, and shows its greedy face in an argumentative flair that has him wanting to tackle Eddie back to the bed to wrestle out the aggression. Until they’re both sweaty and melt into an indecipherable pool of desire. Cumming relentlessly into the sheets and onto each other’s skin. 

It’s not fair and he doesn’t know what dropping means and he can’t imagine why he’d ever regret touching Eddie Munson. His blood is fizzing and popping and it feels like there’s a cotton pad on his tongue which makes it kinda hard to talk, but that doesn’t mean anything. 

“You’re no fun,” Steve lies, because Eddie is the most fun he’s ever had. Eddie is the definition of fun. Eddie is gluttony, greed, lust, and envy. He’s pain and pleasure and the only person capable of convincing Steve that there’s a place for him in this world. That he belongs.

“Yeah, I’ve been told I’m the most boring guy in town. There’s such an oversaturation of queer tattooed drug dealers in Hawkins. They really ought to do something about it. I’m surprised you can even tell me apart from all the other guys to be honest.”

He bends down to Steve’s level, sweeps a pretty hand through his hair, and lets the rings catch on the tawny tendrils that curl around the nape of his neck which makes Steve wince. 

“You’re still not sucking me off, though,” he pats his cheek teasingly with a wink, “nice try, dollface.” 

Eddie is agonizingly beautiful even as he rejects him which is infuriating. 

He’s standing above Steve with those stupidly long fingers framing his hips to assert his dominance. His feet are spread apart and his platform boots are covered in mud from climbing up the trellis outside and stomping through his mother’s roses. His dick forms a protruding shape in his pants and his bangs are sticking to his forehead. The outline of his nipple piercing is fully visible— he might as well be naked. 

“How are you planning on dealing with your dick problem then?” Steve snorts, rolling his eyes in the way that always seems to make Eddie hold his breath, and pointing to it. 

“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I was planning on jerking off in the bathroom once you’d fallen asleep and I knew you were okay,” he clears his throat, looking off into the distance, “That’s another thing—you should never just get up and leave after sex. It’s important to check on each other, make sure you’re both okay with how everything went, and watch for any signs of pain or discomfort.” 

“Like the BSA buddy system for hikes? ‘A scout alone is a scout in danger! Buddies stick together no matter what!’” Steve recites the handbook from memory.

Eddie’s staring down at him like he’s suddenly changed into a clown costume. There’s a hint of a smile and a lot of confusion on his face. As if he’s never heard the buddy oath before— everyone knows the buddy oath. It’s basic Cub Scout stuff. 

“Um. Sorta,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “but what I’m talking about is called ‘aftercare’ and everyone goes about it a little differently. Some people need to cuddle or be held after sex. Some people need a nap. Some people need a snack and some water—that one’s usually a good idea for anyone, actually. Some people need to listen to music, watch a funny movie, or they might wanna be read to. It’s whatever makes you feel calm and safe and at home in your body. Like coming back from a long trip and sleeping in fresh sheets.” 

‘Aftercare’ sounds nice. It sounds like the type of love and affection Steve eventually learned other kids got from their parents in their households. The regular kids. The ones that went to public school and got to watch secular movies from the comfort of their couches with buttered popcorn and candy—treats Steve was never really allowed to have. 

Steve wonders if Eddie got to have those things when he was growing up. If his other family members took care of him like he was someone really, really special. 

“What type of aftercare do you like?” He asks. 

Steve’s still kneeling until Eddie pulls him up from the floor, shakes him out of the haze, and leads him back to the bed so they’re laying next to each other. Face to face on the stack of pillows. 

Eddie draws shapes on Steve’s forearm in the dark as he contemplates his response. 

It’s hard to follow in his current state, but Steve’s coherent enough to recognize the temporary molding of a star, an upside down triangle, and a crescent moon. He thinks he feels letters being formed, too, but his mind is moving at too slow of a pace to decipher anything other than gibberish. 

“Stuff like this—cuddling, kissing, telling stories,” he murmurs and presses his mouth to the backs of Steve’s knuckles, “I’m a softie deep down,” close-up Steve can count the freckles on his nose—faint, but definitely present, “There was a while there, um,” he shuts his eyes tight like he’s trying to prevent a bad memory from surfacing, “There was a time in my life when I didn’t know aftercare existed,” his eyes flutter back open and the purple is smudged further beneath them, but it’s no less of a stunning sight to behold, “someone had to teach it to me and before they did, I thought sex was supposed to be this big ugly secret. Like, I knew everyone did it, but I thought it was strange how no one ever talked about how much it hurt, how deep it could cut you, how afterwards it felt like the wind could blow past you and you’d just shatter on the spot. It fucks you up if you’re not careful—” 

He pulls Steve’s hand to his chest to place it over his heart and Steve wishes he could reach inside to heal whatever’s been broken, “—if the person isn’t careful with you.”

The petty rage of earlier slows to a halt in Steve. He’s still drifting on a cloud, but his head’s more level now. 

This is the most vulnerable he’s ever seen Eddie. It’s a stripped down image of the man who walks and talks like nothing can touch him—like he has a superhuman immunity to despair, grief, and fear. 

But, beyond the mask is an entirely different picture.

“I want to be careful with you,” Steve whispers, because—like Eddie said—this is just for the two of them. No one else, “if you’ll let me.” 

He confidently wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist and strokes along the bare skin of his back where his shirt has ridden up. 

He’s warm—full of a heat that most can’t withstand or won’t tolerate. But, to Steve, it’s the end of a long winter. It’s the sun dawning on a new day and the reminder that he’s not so alone in this town. 

That he never really was. 

“You don’t have to say that—”

“I mean it,” Steve says, “I’m not taking it back. When I decide something’s mine, I don’t ever change my mind.” 

It’s not an inherently sexual or erotic statement, but suddenly they’re kissing again. 

Eddie starts it. 

Fists his hands into Steve’s wrinkled t-shirt, draws him in close, and slots their lips together. His hands wander. He squeezes Steve’s thighs, pets over his ass, snaps the elastic of his underwear against his skin so it stings for a second afterwards. 

Steve is equally culpable. 

He remembers Eddie’s advice from earlier and slows their pace so it’s a lot of sharing breath, teasing brushes, nosing at cheekbones, and whining as their tongues lazily meet in the middle.

It’s tying cherry stems and lapping over ice cream cones and sipping wine from golden chalices on Sundays—little indulgences that slide under the radar if you’re not paying attention. 

“What if we just—” 

“It wouldn’t have to be—I won’t even touch you—we could stop right here—” 

“No—don’t wanna stop—want you—” 

“ —‘s my fault—I should’ve kept my hands to myself—I don’t know what came over me and right after giving you that speech, no less—”

“Eddie, listen to me for a second—” 

“—fuck, Steve. I can sleep on the couch or—” 

“Next to each other,” Steve suggests; out of breath and hard again as he takes Eddie’s face in his hands and thumbs over his sharp cheekbones, “We could do it next to each other and that way we wouldn’t be crossing any lines—I’d be in charge of my body and you’d be in charge of yours—” 

“Steve, I am ridiculously attracted to you for coming up with such a genius idea—you’re so smart, baby, so fucking smart—” 

Eddie kisses him on the tip of his nose which makes him sneeze and then, Eddie’s unbuckling his belt and Steve is pushing down his briefs just like Eddie taught him and the sheets are a mess. 

“This one’s gonna be all you, baby,” Eddie says as he kicks his jeans to the bottom of the bed, not even bothering to kick them to the floor, “but if you get lost—just watch me and I’ll show you what to do. This is one area I’m quite the expert in. I’ve had lots of practice.” 

Cock heavy in his hand, Steve hesitantly strokes himself while Eddie gets situated on the bed. 

At first, he tries to give Eddie privacy by keeping his eyes trained on his own dick, but it’s hard not to get curious once he starts moaning. 

“You can look at me, baby. I don’t mind having an audience,” Eddie says, apparently noticing Steve’s aversion. 

Their shoulders get pressed together which makes Steve feel like their souls are bound, because once Eddie starts moving his hand faster Steve has no choice but to give into temptation and look at him. 

His shirt is still on, but he’s otherwise fully exposed and his gaze is already laser-focused on Steve. Raking over him like he’s a plate of dessert. He holds his cock in front of him like a prize and presents it in his hand for Steve to admire. 

“Like what you see?” 

It’s plenty big—though not as big as his own, surrounded by a thicket of dark hair, and just as beautiful as the rest of him. 

Sure, Steve’s seen it before. 

He’d seen it that fateful day in the woods, but he hadn’t gotten the chance to soak up all the details and he’d been too afraid to really process anything important. But after tonight, he thinks he could sculpt it out of clay from memory alone. Paint a mural of it on his bedroom walls. 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs heavily, “really like it. Wanna taste it—wanna let you fuck my mouth—” 

“Holy shit, Harrington. So you just casually say ‘fuck’ now?” Eddie throws his head back laughing. 

“Guess, I do.” 

“Wow. Can’t believe I get to do the honors of officially corrupting Pastor Harrington’s son,” Eddie grunts, brows knitting together, fist tightening so the pretty blue veins in his arm are visible. 

“Can we not talk about my dad right now?” 

“Noted. My bad— fuck .” 

“Thank you,” Steve says; relieved, “Oh, oh, fuck. ” 

Eddie rolls towards him and Steve mirrors him. They’re face to face again. 

Steve mimics Eddie’s movements—figuring he knows what feels best. He thumbs over the tip in swirling motions so Steve does the same. He rubs against the underside of the head so Steve does that too. He spits onto his hand and spreads it around so Steve follows his lead. 

They are light and dark. Day and night. Where Steve’s hair is trim and cropped close, Eddie’s is left wild and untamed. Where Eddie’s chest rises with a twist of his wrist, Steve’s falls. Where Eddie curses and spews filth, Steve sighs and bites down on the inside of his cheek.

“Look at you touching yourself like you’ve been doing it for years,” he quips, “bet you could keep going all night, huh? Bet you’d rub your pretty cock on just about any surface in this house if it meant you could get off—pillows, corner of the counter, the sofa,” Eddie speeds up and Steve feels himself getting close to that edge again, “Think about it, Stevie. Now, you can fuck yourself stupid. You can do it right here on your bed. You can dress up in your Sunday best and let the cum dry in your tighty whities on the way to church—stop by my house on the way home and I’ll clean you up real nice—”

“Got hard in church the Sunday after I saw you in the woods. Had to hold my Bible in front of my pants to hide it,” he pants, looking directly into Eddie’s blown out pupils, “Ran off to the bathroom after communion and prayed for it to go away, but ended up making it worse because you were all I could think about. I thought I was dying—” 

Eddie’s close enough to rub their noses together. He’s writhing over the sheets. Hand furiously working him towards his release. Steve mirrors him. Rutting up into his fist faster. 

“Gonna give you everything you want, Stevie. Let you rule the fuckin’ world—” 

Steve cums with Eddie’s voice purring in his ear. 

He cums while picturing Eddie’s tongue licking up the underside of his cock. 

He cums and it’s even better than the first time, because Eddie cums right beside him and Steve gets to watch his face twist up in pleasure. 

He gets to hear Eddie moan out his name and learns that Eddie’s hips twitch for a solid thirty seconds after the orgasm’s hit him. 

“Sorry about your bed,” Eddie says when he comes to again. 

They’re holding each other atop sticky sheets. Eddie’s hair is a mess and Steve’s glasses need to be wiped clean and there’s a lot to unpack, but for now, they’re here and they’re together and that’s enough. 

Tomorrow, they can worry about the mundane casualties of showers and laundry and daylight. 

“You’re gonna stay the night, right? Like a sleepover? Is that what this is?” 

Steve never got to have a proper sleepover as a kid. He spent nights away at Bible camp and at BSA retreats, but having a sleepover just for the sake of staying up late with his friends was completely out of the question. The one time he’d asked, his father had bruised the backs of his thighs so hard he couldn’t walk without limping for a week. 

He hopes Eddie will want to stay. 

He hopes Eddie will see something in him that’s worth staying for—not just tonight. 

It’s when Eddie pulls him flush against his chest and starts snoring that Steve gets his answer and drifts off to sleep. 

❋

Daylight arrives, as promised, and Eddie wakes to a topographic map of scars, burns, and bruises. 

Contusions the color of nightshade vegetables raise hills and valleys across Steve’s tanned skin. In lieu of pink cheeks, moles, and gorgeous hair; Eddie’s blurred vision is clouded by untreated wounds, concrete evidence of pain, and a story he doesn’t quite understand. 

At some point in the night, Steve must have gotten too hot and taken off his shirt. 

Eddie traces his fingers over Steve’s spine, light as a feather. The main landmarks of his suffering are concentrated on his upper thighs, along his shoulder blades like angel wings, and surround the fleshy parts of his hips. 

Did I do that? 

That’s his first thought. 

The possibility that he got carried away last night weighs heavily on his heart. Steve slumbers beside him and Eddie starts to picture himself with a murder weapon in hand. 

He starts to lose track of time and forgets what year it is. 

He starts to submit to the all-too-familiar guilt which often tries to convince him that the people of Hawkins were right in convicting him for Chrissy’s death. Static crackles in his ears. He sees the early headlines featuring his name and the local news reporters who spoke about him like he was a cryptid monster on the loose. 

A general unease sets in. Eddie helplessly attempts to recall the events of the evening— The Shining, Steve in his lap, a kiss, another kiss, slipping his underwear aside to teach him how to touch himself, cumming onto the sheets, holding each other, sleep. 

He doesn’t trust himself. 

What if there’s a gap in his memory? 

What if he’s forgotten something integral to the plot, because it’s too painful to remember? 

What if he hurt Steve without meaning to? 

Eddie can’t ever seem to separate public opinion from the person he sees in the mirror. It’s why he drank for so long. It’s why anyone forms a drinking habit for that long—he wanted to forget, escape, be someone else for a little while. 

Because, being Eddie Munson doesn’t grant you the best reputation. 

It’s an often luckless, hopeless, dreary existence. 

It’s folks eyeing you from across the diner like you kick puppies for fun.

It’s your neighbors gossiping about how you’re going to ritually sacrifice the stray cat you recently adopted. 

It’s strangers never trusting your word, store clerks refusing to sell you a pack of cigarettes, and the inability to make any new friends because they already believe they know all there is to know about a guy like you. 

When Steve rolls over, scrunches up his nose at the sunlight, and yawns awake; Eddie’s in the middle of a quiet breakdown. He’s staring at his hands with utter disgust and horror and waiting for Steve to ask him to leave. 

“You weren’t kidding. You really do like to cuddle,” he says. 

Steve scoots closer and buries his face into Eddie’s tattooed chest. Eddie’s arms hover limply around him, unsure if what’s happening is real or not.

Steve nuzzles against him—warm and seemingly unaffected by the horrors Eddie’s certain he’s enacted. 

It’s like he has Stockholm syndrome; mistaking Eddie for a lover instead of the deranged psychopath he actually is. Snuggling up with the enemy, because he’s been manipulated and coerced and feels like it’s the only shot he has at survival—

“Did I do something wrong?” Steve implores, lifting his chin to assess for damages— as if he’s the one who needs to be concerned about hurting me, Eddie thinks, “I really did like the cuddling! Wish you could hold me like that every night. I’d never have any bad dreams.” 

Eddie flips over, lays flat on his back, and speaks directly to the ceiling, because the kindness in Steve’s eyes is making him sick. 

He shouldn’t be this understanding. 

He shouldn’t allow Eddie to stick around for breakfast after whatever transpired last night. 

“Steve, did I hurt you?” 

Eddie hears him sit up. The sheets rustling around his legs as he maneuvers and makes a sound of alarm and confusion. 

“No, no. Of course not. None of what we did was painful. None of it,” Steve assures him, which only twists Eddie’s stomach further. 

“Eddie,” he puts a hand on his arm and gently rubs back and forth across the skin, “Last night was incredible. You made me feel really good. You taught me new things. You didn’t hurt me in the slightest,” Steve wavers for a second before saying, “I–I was kinda hoping you’d want it to happen again. Do you not?” 

“But, I did hurt you. The proof’s all over your body. I left bruises everywhere and I promised I’d take things slow—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” 

Steve climbs on top of Eddie, straddling him in only his underwear, and, finally, Eddie gets up the courage to look at him. 

“My bruises aren’t from you,” he says with grave certainty, “They’re from my dad. I mean—most of them are. A couple are from my mom, but my dad administers the majority of my penance. None of this is your fault,” Steve smiles crookedly at him, “You were more gentle with me than anyone ever has been. I didn’t know people could be so careful with each other,” he relates back to their conversation about aftercare, “but, now I do because of you.” 

Relief floods into him. 

His pulse slows, the gory images fall flat as cardboard spooks, and a level of trust is established between them. Eddie nods. Pokes at Steve’s logic in case there’s any chance he’s lying, but gradually formulates an acceptance of the truth. 

He didn’t hurt Steve. 

He’d never hurt Steve, but now he’d really fucking like to hurt his dad.

“You know that’s not okay, right?” 

Steve sighs. Gazes blankly around the room. As if the answer can be found amongst the barren shelves and religious paraphernalia. It’s even more depressing in the sunlight. 

“I know that my father thinks he’s washing away my sins and helping me get to Heaven,” he shakes his head, “I know that all the other kids I grew up with got the same treatment,” he gets a far-off look in his eyes so Eddie squeezes his hand to ground him in the present, “To me, it’s normal, I guess. My parents used to say that the kids who didn’t receive punishment for their sins weren’t truly loved.” 

“It’s not normal and it’s not love,” Eddie sits up, keeping Steve in his lap, thumbing over his cheekbones once he’s close enough to do so, “I made a joke to you at the trailer the other day about my old man hitting me–”

“I remember,” Steve says softly, squinting to focus on Eddie’s features because his glasses are still waiting for him on the nightstand. 

“I was trying to get you to open up about your own shit. That wasn’t the right way to go about it though,” he swallows, exhales, “My dad did hit me and I shouldn’t have acted like it didn’t fuck me up for years. I have the urge to block my face with my hands every time I accidentally break something or mess up—even if no one else is around, even when I’m alone—I get ready for it. Can’t help the instincts he drilled into me, but that doesn’t mean it was ever okay for him to treat me like an abused circus animal.” 

“Yeah,” Steve loops his arms around Eddie’s neck and leans to kiss his cheek, “I know the feeling. Hard to feel human when someone’s hitting you like you were made to be broken.” 

It breaks Eddie's heart to watch as Steve’s understanding of right and wrong morphs into a new shape, but it’s wholly necessary. Otherwise, he’ll never get out of this house. He’ll spend the rest of his days wandering the halls in search of a place to belong. 

“I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that. You didn’t then and you don’t now,” Eddie kisses his forehead and Steve melts into him, body going slack and a sweet little hum of pleasure coming from his lips. 

“I’m sorry, too,” he mumbles. 

With the assistance of the daylight, Eddie can admire the gold strands of hair woven into the mess of chestnut that sticks up all around Steve’s head—unstyled and fucking perfect. His lips are kiss-bitten and plump from use. There’s a healthy, ruddy color to his cheeks. He’s content in Eddie’s arms. 

Eddie imagines a million myths being told about the boy who swallowed the sun, because that’s how radiant Steve is this morning. Bright, talismanic, fountain of youth and eternal beauty. He glows from within, laughs like God, and warms Eddie’s destitute heart without even trying. 

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” he promises, “Whatever it takes, Steve. No one’s ever gonna hurt you like that again.” 

❋

They creep downstairs like a pair of kids on Christmas. Equal parts eager and afraid to run into ol’ St. Nick in front of the fireplace. 

The house isn’t haunted by friend or foe. The hallways don’t stretch on endlessly like they did in the strange dream Steve had before Eddie showed up in his bedroom. It’s just the two of them and they’re safe. 

There isn’t a jump-scare or a hidden shadowy figure awaiting them when they reach the kitchen. They aren’t struck down by lightning for kissing against the countertop while the pan heats up on the stove. 

It’s the happiest morning of Steve’s life and, notably, the first time he’s ever spent a Sunday in pajamas instead of dress shoes and a tie. 

This is freedom. 

True freedom. 

No one calls him up to the office for penance. 

No one beats him for sleeping in late. 

No one chastises him for not bowing his head to say grace before devouring the indulgent monstrosity Eddie’s crafted upon his plate. It’s an extravagant tower of fluffy pancakes adorned with salted butter, warm syrup, whipped cream, maraschino cherries, chocolate chips, and rainbow sprinkles. 

Steve’s parents keep those ingredients in the basement to avoid temptation, but it took Eddie all of five minutes to dredge up what he needed. 

It’s too much food for anyone to finish on their own so they take turns passing the plate back and forth and, eventually, devolve into feral animals eating the remaining scraps with their hands simply because there’s no one to stop them. Sticky and vulgar. 

“I take it you’re a fan of my cooking,” Eddie gestures at the empty plate once they’ve licked it clean. 

“I’m a fan of most things you do, not just you’re cooking,” Steve says as he sucks the remaining syrup from his fingers. He’s pretty sure he’s going to enter into a sugar-induced coma soon. 

“If only the Assistant Scoutmaster from my front porch could see you now. He’d have a fucking field day,” Eddie nudges him with his shoulder as he picks up their plates and saunters off into the kitchen to wash them. 

“Wow. I can’t believe you actually remembered my title. That’s a first,” Steve snorts, following in after him. He leans against the counter. 

Together they begin working through the stack of dishes. Eddie rinses and Steve dries. 

“Cut me some slack. It’s not every day you get blessed by a literal angel falling from Heaven and landing on your doorstep. I had a lot on my mind.” 

“Very smooth, Munson. I’m sure you did. Hand me the next one?” 

It takes Steve a second to realize that Eddie’s distracted—that he’s not really listening anymore. 

He worries that it has something to do with earlier and Eddie’s fear that he’d pushed Steve too far or been the one to hurt him. 

It hadn’t even crossed Steve’s mind to address the bruises until Eddie had brought them up. He’d forgotten about them, actually. 

That was the thing about being around Eddie—Steve let down his defenses, bared his soul, confessed sins unapologetically, and came out from all his usual hiding places. 

“Who is that?” 

Eddie points to a picture on the windowsill. 

Steve adjusts his glasses as if he doesn’t recognize the people staring back at him as his own family. 

Perhaps his image of them is just beginning to change and so now they don’t quite look as familiar as they once did. To think his own flesh and blood could be made into strangers—there’s something peaceful about it. The idea that he could leave his flock and choose another that suits his needs better. 

He can’t get into that right now though, because Eddie looks panic-stricken and white as a ghost. 

“Those are my parents at some conference they went to last year. My dad was preaching about the dangers of homosexuality and what people can do to prevent the spread of it,” Steve explains, a bit ashamed because he knows it must sound ridiculous to him. 

But all Eddie comes up with is, “That’s your dad? You’re sure?” 

It’s another odd line of questioning. Like Eddie can’t fathom the fact that the man in the photograph is related to Steve. 

He’d spent so much of his childhood wishing he looked more like his dad and less like his mom. 

Adults in the congregation loved to pinch his cheeks, bless him, and say he was the ‘spitting image’ of his mother. 

Steve never wanted to look like his mother. 

He heard those words as an insult. He wanted to look like his father, because he was strong and a respectable leader and everyone admired him. He was a Godly man, a devout follower of Jesus Christ, and his sins were small infractions compared to the rest of the community. If Steve had any hopes of some day filling his shoes, it might help to at least physically resemble the guy a little more. 

“Of course, I’m sure. How could I ever not be sure?” Steve says in a factual and straightforward manner, “Are you feeling alright, Eddie? Is this about the bruises?” 

In an instant, Eddie steps out of his stupor and turns to Steve with a kind smile which seems just a little too good to be true. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

“You didn’t seem fine. You seemed—afraid,” Steve steps in front of him to keep him from walking out of the kitchen, “Maybe we should sit down for a second—get you something to drink?” 

It’s around noon. The plates are sitting in a disorderly arrangement by the sink. There’s still syrup on their fingers. 

Steve spies a rabbit in the backyard, but it gets scared off by the sprinklers turning on. He wonders if he should chase after it—if that would make, whatever’s bothering Eddie, disappear. 

Eddie grins and it’s an ugly thing with too many teeth. 

It’s not real. 

It’s nothing like the real him. 

“I’m okay, Harrington—I promise. Just got kinda dizzy for a second. Go get your swim trunks on. There’s something I need to show you.” 

❋

When hiding from predators in the natural bunkers of rock and coral doesn’t pan out, deep-sea squids have a plethora of other defense mechanisms at their disposal where survival is concerned. 

Octopoteuthis deletron, for example, dramatically distracts its enemies by purposefully severing one of its eight tentacles. Once detached, it will wriggle in the water and conspicuously emit bioluminescent photophores. The dance of light is intriguing enough to divert the attention of the predator so the squid may swim away and find a better hiding spot along the ocean floor. 

Other species of squid, like the humboldt, vampire, common cuttlefish, and sword-tip, protect themselves from harm by moving erratically to confuse the onlooker, fleeing in the opposite direction, and releasing toxic venom into the water—which is the most badass by Eddie’s standards. 

Eddie’s squid is playing dead. 

Sometimes, it’s an incredibly effective tactic. 

Sometimes, it’s a manifestation of the end. Like worrying about getting in a car accident and soon after finding your fender has been bent to shit by a swerving stranger. Prophetic. 

Eddie’s not sure how or when they got to this dump, but he’s had enough cheap tricks for one night and he’s ready to go home. 

Octopoteuthis deletron would be able to get him out of here, but Eddie’s squid isn’t so clever. 

His squid clamps down around his temples and shakes in fear. Suctioning on for dear life. Eddie’s head throbs from the added pressure of eight petrified tentacles and the mix of toxic chemicals slowing his nervous system. Unable to recall how much he drank or where it all went wrong. Everything that happened after Lumberjack left is a violent blur. 

Sunglasses is sitting across the room from him in a busted wicker chair. Rocking back and forth and doing nothing to ease Eddie’s mounting anxiety. 

The squid cowers upon noticing his presence in the room, slackens its body, and tries to look as undesirable as possible to a hungry predator.

‘Don’t eat me,’ it says, ‘I won’t taste any good and I’ll piss venom down your throat.’ Empty threats as a means of attack. Desperate times. 

Unfortunately, Sunglasses seems to think Eddie—and his parasitic squid—are hookers for hire or some shit. Payment is expected, but Eddie doesn’t remember agreeing to give this guy his body in exchange for a wad of cash. 

He’s naked. Doesn’t have any cash on him. Couldn’t buy a bus ticket home even if he was able to fight back, detach an arm as a decoy, and get to the nearest stop. Photophores trailing after him like victorious oceanic breadcrumbs. 

With his vision so blurred by the drugs he assumes Sunglasses must have slipped him back at the bar, it’s difficult to absorb the details of the motel room. Crooked palm trees are painted onto the walls. There’s a framed parrot. The AC is on full-blast, but it doesn’t do anything to quell the fever ravishing Eddie’s body. Sweating buckets into the sheets below. Likely a result of the mysterious party favors. 

Sunglasses is holding a Bible in his hands as if that will undo the damage that’s about to occur in this bleak, tacky room. His lips move along to the words, but no sound comes out. If gaining the Lord’s forgiveness is that easy, Eddie thinks God should reconsider his admissions process. 

“Hey, fuckface,” he slurs, stars spinning above his head where the squid lays limply on the pillow and pretends to decompose, “cut the shit already. I’m not stickin’ around to play house with you. If you’re gonna slit my throat, you can get on with it—I’m tired of laying here with my dick out. My balls are gonna shrivel up and fall off. It’s freezing in here.” 

Sunglasses stands up from the wicker chair which smacks into the nearby wall with a noisy creak. Announcing his departure from the word of the Lord in favor of the temptation spread out in front of him.  

He’s partially dressed. Shirtless with his pants undone and shoved down past the tops of his thighs—like he’s in the middle of something, not yet complete. There’s a blubbery wet finish to his skin. Reminding Eddie of Canola oil and Diesel gasoline. Greasy and untrustworthy. 

His eyes remain infuriatingly covered by the tinted lenses.

When he stalks over to the bed, Sunglasses trails a cold finger down the inside of Eddie’s thigh. 

Up close and personal, Eddie gathers more information about his perpetrator. 

Middle aged. Bit of a beer belly, but fairly fit everywhere else. Looks like he lifts weights several times a week. Gray hair filling in around his forehead—slicked back by gel. A chipped tooth in the front of his mouth ruining perfection. Thin lips like a salamander. Conventionally attractive enough, but not at all Eddie’s type even if he weren’t his kidnapper. Wrinkles here and there. Chest waxed. Expensive watch on his wrist. 

He has money and power. 

Eddie and the squid don’t stand a chance. 

Maybe it is best to play dead. Their limbs don’t work, anyways, and they’re too tired and numb to scream. 

The squid misses the sea. 

Eddie misses the lake. 

"Eddie.”

Sunglasses says his name and it rolls off his tongue, oddly intimate, like they're lovers. A mockery of what Eddie knows to be true. He's just a warm body. He’s just someone to fill space. It doesn’t matter who he is or what he likes or where he’s from. To Sunglasses he’s a number and a temporary purpose. Like the song he keeps singing under his breath—’just a limber girl.’ 

“Please don’t make this out to be something it’s not. I want to spend the night with you and I think you want that, too. I saw the way you were looking at me at the club. Why else do you think I brought you here? I knew you’d never be brave enough to ask for it yourself. You can close your eyes if that helps you relax or I could sing to you.” 

“Why? So you can rape me? I know you drugged me. I feel like fuckin’ dogshit,” Eddie curls his body into the fetal position and the squid goes with him. Shutting down and drawing its tentacles in close. Defeated. All the good hiding spots on the ocean floor have gone to waste. 

He’s nothing and no one to this man. A body to use and abuse. That’s it. 

There’s the rustle of hurried movement behind him—pants dropping to the floor and being kicked aside for the next portion of the play. If Eddie could turn over, he knows he’d find Sunglasses starkly naked and salivating. Gross. 

The bed dips as Sunglasses wraps an arm around Eddie and his touch feels no more comforting than a gun to the head. Ice-cold. Eddie would actually quite prefer a gun to the head in this situation. It would be over quicker that way. 

He slaps his cock against Eddie’s ass while singing on repeat,“‘Before you break my heart, think it over. Roll it over in your mind.’”

It all feels disgusting. 

No part of him can respond other than to shut his eyes and wait for it to be over. He’s lost hope in the squid’s ability to defend him. What a shitshow. Who’s going to tell his uncle? Karen? Nancy? Chrissy? 

“Don’t quit your day job to pursue music,” Eddie groans into the pillow, trying to ignore the whining pitch of his captor’s voice. 

“You’re funny. Listen to the song, Eddie. It’s a beautiful song if you’ll just take a chance to hear the lyrics while I warm you up. It’s my favorite. I want to share it with you.”

Sunglasses pokes and prods and dissects. 

There is a slimy texture expelled between Eddie’s asscheeks and clammy hands rub it all around. It could be lube or cum or spit. Eddie’s too fucked up to decipher which. Regardless, he feels less and less human. More and more animal. Alone and at the mercy of mankind and his garish obsessions. Driven out by pollution, litter, and greed. 

“‘Dance this mess around, dance this mess around, ‘round, ‘round, ‘round, ‘round.’” 

The gangrene glow from the television is making Eddie nauseous and he wishes his bile were composed of inky toxins with which he could protect himself. It’s not. It’s acidic and burpy and awful. It holds no superpower and gives him a stomach ache. If he hurls, it’ll just make a mess. Nothing special. 

“Jesus, dude. You’re such a fuckin’ loser. Got nothing better to do than kidnapping teenagers twenty-years younger than you at the bar? Go fuck yourself, asshole,” Eddie figures those might be some of his last words so they better cut deep. Punch twice as hard, as his dad always said. 

“Look at me. I want to see your face,” Sunglasses places a sticky hand on his jaw and forces Eddie and the squid to turn on the pillow. His head pounds from the quick movement. 

It’s as his body’s being maneuvered across the mattress that Eddie notices a cross necklace on a gold chain resting atop Sunglasses waxed chest. 

He grins, narrowing his eyes—finding a bit of leverage that may not amount to much, but it’s worth a shot, "Oh so you're a man of god, huh? Real Bible thumping type? Saw you over there reading it. Think He’ll forgive you for this?”

Sunglasses glares at him, the muscle in his jaw clenching. 

Eddie continues, leans closer and the squid wakes, jolts, and goes with him—no longer playing dead, "You wanna listen to my confession? Gonna make a man out of me? I'm Jewish, y’know. Pretty rare thing to be out in Hawkins, but here I am. Living proof. Guess what? Your God doesn't give a rat's ass about me and neither do you. You can pray all you want, but I have a good feeling that even if Heaven does exist—you won’t be going there. Piece of shit like you will burn in Hell for all eternity.” 

Sunglasses pinches his arm, roughly shoving him to the side so he lands on the mattress in a boneless heap. 

"That's enough, Eddie. I'm not here to listen to you talk and I'm sure as shit not here to talk about faith with you. Now shut up and stay still. I’m going to fuck you however I want. You don’t get a say in the matter so you can quit trying to argue with me. Don’t waste your breath.” 

He had to try. 

Sunglasses leans over his exhausted form and starts kissing the back of Eddie’s neck. It makes him wish the guy would just kill him already so he wouldn’t have to harbor the memories of whatever else is about to happen in this loveless place. 

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” he spits, but Sunglasses keeps going. Ignores his pleas. Lips dry, cracked, and about as tantalizing as being kissed by a dead fish. It's like he's a vampire—ice cold blood, running stagnant and sluggish in his veins.

“I don’t want to hit you, but I won’t have any other choice if you don’t stop squirming around and fighting me,” Sunglasses snaps, “I just wanted a little company. Just wanted to get my mind off things with a handsome boy pinned under me. Is that so wrong?” 

As he works a few fingers into Eddie’s hole and holds him down with the other hand, Eddie leaves his body and the squid swims off with him to another planet. He’s surrounded by a party of all the people he’s ever loved. Wayne, Karen, Nancy, Chrissy, the kids—his guardian angels will keep him safe as long as he keeps on dancing. 

“‘Walk, talk in the name of love–’” Sunglasses sings while he opens him up. 

It’s okay. Eddie isn’t there anymore. He’s gone now. The moon juice or something like it helps him escape. 

He’s on Mars. 

No, Jupiter. 

No, Venus. 

Yes, of course, Venus—it’s the planet of love where he belongs. 

All Eddie’s ever wanted is to be loved. 

“‘Before you break my heart. Think it over. Roll it over in your mind—’” 

There are cruel hands on his hips pulling him back towards a nightmare. 

He’s trapped. 

He’s going to die here.

Or, so he thinks—

The squid knows what to do. 

It shakes him awake and brings his attention back to the man who’s about to push his way into his body without ever caring if he wants it or not. 

Not all cephalopod ink contains toxins, but there are a few among them with ink that’s strong enough to kill in a confined space. It stuns the victim, impares respiration, and, most importantly, gives the squid a way out. 

“It’s my birthday,” Eddie says as a last ditch effort.

As if Sunglasses gives a fuck when he was born or how high the moon was when he took his first breath. If he was raised by wolves or humans or aliens or a shoal of squids. 

He’s preparing for the worst, but the hands stop moving. They leave his skin and shoot off into space like a UFO and he thinks he's never been so grateful.

“How old are you, Eddie?” Sunglasses flips him over again so they’re face to face. He almost pukes on the bed right then and there. It climbs up his esophagus. 

“Eighteen, as of midnight. I’m legal. You’re fucking welcome, asshole.” 

“No—you can’t be that young,” he says, horrified, “Tell me you aren’t actually that young. Don’t fuck with me!” 

“Thought you liked the young ones. That’s what you said.” 

Eddie doesn’t get to see his reaction, because a stomach full of mixed drinks comes shooting out his mouth. He belches, doubles over, and vomits all over the bed. It sprays from him uncontrollably and some of it lands in Sunglasses’ lap. 

Beside him, the squid releases a stormy, beautiful cloud of black ink from the venomous sac it’s been hiding all along. Waiting for the perfect moment to pounce and attack. Saving Eddie, at last, and giving him a way out. 

“You’re going home, Eddie. You win,” he says, once they're both dressed, pushing him through the door, “Get in the car and don’t tell anyone about tonight.”

The squid grins menacingly atop his skull. Worn like a King’s crown. Proud. 

A few hours later, Eddie’s wobbly on his feet, but he’s home—standing outside the trailer. 

He goes inside, showers under steaming water, lets the squid swim around in the bath for a while to convey his gratitude, and dries off. 

Once safely in his bedroom with the cicadas singing, Eddie places the first birthday gift of his eighteenth year in a drawer at the back of his closet where it’s dark and damp like this memory will always be. 

Sunglasses tossed them to him when he’d helped him out of the truck.

Dark lenses, bluish tint, oversized, and costumey. He doesn’t want to forget, but he’s not quite ready to look at the night head-on. 

“Happy Birthday,” Sunglasses said as he sped off down the road, gold cross swinging around his neck in a ridiculous contradiction. 

Eddie does his best to move on after that. Doesn’t tell anybody, not even Nancy, about what happened. 

And, as time passes, his birthday gift gathers dust in its secluded spot. 

Eddie refuses to look at them, though he never forgets where they are. He feels their presence all around. 

He doesn’t let them see the light of day until many years later when he’s frantically getting ready to attend an early morning Boy Scout ceremony, hungover—

and in desperate need of a pair of sunglasses. 

It tastes something like revenge.

❋

Squid by Michael C. Blumenthal 

So this is love: 

How your grimace at the sight

of these fish; how I pull

(forefinger, then thumb)

the fins and tails from the heads

slice the tentacles from the accusing eyes

And then how I pile the silvery ink sacs

into the sieve like old fillings, heap the entrails and eyes on a towel in the corner;

and how you saute the onions and garlic,

how they turn soft and transparent, lovely

in their own way, and how you turn to me

and say, simply, isn't this fun, isn't it?

And something tells me this all has to do

with love, perhaps even more than lust

or happiness have to do with love:

How the fins slip easily from the tails,

how I peel the membranes from the fins

and cones like a man peeling his body

from a woman after love, how these

ugly squid diminish in grotesqueness

and all nausea reduces, finally, to a hunger

for what is naked and approachable,

tangible and delicious.