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Steve's nightmares were never about him.
Well, they were, sort of, in a backwards sort of way. But it was never HIM getting dragged into the underbrush by the demogorgon's long, slick claws, stomach crackling on a bed of dead leaves as he screamed for help. It was never him feeling the resonating crack of each bone in his body breaking, blood surging up his throat. And it was never him feeling his intestines being pulled apart like overcooked spaghetti by a swarm of chittering mutated bats. Instead, it was Dustin. Or Will, or Mike, or El or Lucas or Max. It was Nancy, Eddie, or Robin. It was as if a scrap of the Upside-Down still lingered in his brain, and that's what he sank into whilst he slept - a dark place full of lurking things, just like Hawkins if you turned all the lights off. There was a tunnel of dread that burrowed in him when these nightmares happened. He wondered sometimes - how many times could you watch the people you care about the most die before it drives you insane?
Not to mention the...other ones. The more realistic ones, one might say, which involved Steve's parents and Dwayne and boys like angry Jason Carver, and the things they'd do if they figured out what Steve really was. That he had no plans on getting back together with Nancy. That he was so much more complicated then anything they could expect from him. Now the tension from THAT could drive him crazy.
And the absolute last thing Steve Harrington needed was being admitted to Pennhurst. With his luck, he'd probably be roomies with Victor Creel.
The thought would make him laugh if it wasn't so desperately pathetic.
Tonight was like most nights, even though he'd somewhat foolishly wished it wouldn't be. He'd fallen asleep, and the gray murk in his mind enveloped him like a thick fog. From it formed the crooked silhouettes of dead, black trees, clawing at the sky like zombies out of their graves. Scraggly bushes tangled and wove on the forest bed, dangerously thorny. Steve was walking through this, his shoes occasionally coming down in sticky, greenish puddles - the substance was oozing from hollows and crevices in the trees. It was cold. Steve wished he was wearing a jacket as the mist wettened his hair and bare arms.
At first, all was silent. One might even think he was just taking a nice stroll, if you could ignore the goop on the ground and the shadows that liked to move in Steve's periphery. Low-lingering dread was quickly rising, like a poison in his stomach.
"Hello?" he called out tentavily, though he seemed to be alone. His own voice ping-ponged through the trees and echoed back to him. The effect was eery.
Steve begrudgingly treaded onward.
And then:
"Steve?"
It was distant, but the voice was immediately recognizable. Fear began to bubble in him.
It was Eddie.
He cupped his hands around his lips and shouted, "Where are you?!"
There was a beat of silence, and then, from afar: "Steve!"
Steve's heart was throbbing like a drum in his ears. "What the hell, Munson? Stop playing games!"
When he was met with nothing but silence, he started to walk again. This time, a little faster. "Munson, I swear, if you're fucking with me right now I'm gonna beat your ass!"
Clots of - something were starting to drift by him. Like lost stars. Spores. The trees started to groan and creak in a damp breeze.
"Steve!" Eddie's voice, still so terribly far away, now sounded afraid. His voice cracked, as if he were calling out - calling out for help.
Steve's walk became a jog, and when he heard the first scream, a full-on sprint. "Eddie!"
He'd only ever heard that sound in real life a few times before, and each time it felt as if it froze his blood right in his veins. You could take his heart out - a cold, hard chunk - and smash it on the floor. He felt lucky that fear came to him like pure adrenaline.
He flew through the forest, leaping over roots and felled logs, some so steeped with rot they broke or fell away beneath the brushing of his toes. Spores stuck to his cheeks and hair; willowy branches whipped at his face and tore at his arms. "Eddie!" he called again, secretly begging the universe for a response, just so he knew that he was okay - still breathing, still alive. All he could do was just keep running in a straight line, hoping he ran into him, hoping -
What was that? On the tree he'd passed? A smear of something dark and shiny.
Soon it started to speckle the ground under his feet, a trail of glistening red. It was undoubtedly blood.
"Eddie!" he called with a hoarse voice. "C'mon, man, answer me!"
His foot hooked on a root arching out of the ground and sent him sprawling. He barely caught himself, the skin on the palms of his hands peeling against sticks and pebbles.
"Shit," he panted, stumbling to his feet and wiping blood onto the thighs of his jeans.
"Steve!"
And - there he was. Eddie, on the ground, in his leather jacket with his wild, unkempt hair, clawing at the dirt with his fingers. Steve's heart stuttered - there was a massive maw in the earth, like it was cracking open, and beyond it was nothing but pure, pitch darkness. And it was sucking Eddie up like a hole with it's own gravity, gnawing on him. His big brown eyes were wide and terrified, fresh blood smearing his face.
Steve staggered forward and fell to his knees, grabbing the other man's wrists.
Eddie's breathing was labored. "Took you long enough, Harrington."
"Shut up," Steve grunted, starting to pull.
Eddie immediately cried out in pain.
"Sorry! Sorry." Steve's knuckles turned white from how hard he was gripping him. "Jesus."
Blood was starting to trickle from Eddie's mouth, staining his teeth a dark, gruesome crimson. "It hurts," he panted.
"I know, I know," Steve responded shakily, "you're okay."
Eddie shook his head and smiled wryly.
"Just hold onto me." Steve steadied himself on the ground and started to pull again. The darkness in the hole was like tar - he could see it visibly snaking tighter around Eddie's torso. But he couldn't stop, even if it hurt him - Steve had to get him out. He couldn't leave the Upside-Down without him.
Eddie started to make noises again, trying to stifle his grunts. To Steve's horror, an expanding pool of blood blossomed from underneath Eddie, and those dark eyes of his were starting to flatten.
"Come on, come on," he muttered to himself, chest on fire. "Stay the fuck awake, Munson."
Eddie muttered something incomprehensable, his eyelids growing heavy. Steve felt like screaming.
There was something - something far behind them, running quickly, bounding over bushes and flitting in between tree trunks. Eddie slurred something again. Steve could feel his pulse jumping.
"Come on," he hissed between his teeth as he tugged.
"It's coming," managed Eddie.
Steve thought he could hear it's rapid breathing, and smell the marshy stink it excreted. It's long talons were slicing through the earth with each leap that sent it closer and closer to it's prey. It was hungry.
The darkness was swallowing Eddie, inching up his chest. Steve was desperate.
But it was no use - his hands were slipping.
"Steve," Eddie pleaded. And then his hands slipped free and he disappeared into the darkness.
"No!" Steve lunged forward, grasping for the other man, but it was too late. He fell with a whumph onto the forest floor, empty-handed and alone. Eddie's blood streaked the front of his shirt.
Whatever it was bounded into the glade. Steve whirled around, and the demogorgon pounced. The last thing he saw was it's gaping face as it flowered open, a red, fleshy, pulsating hole crowned with rows and rows of tiny, razor-sharp teeth.
And then he woke up.
But wherever he was, it was dark - his surroundings fuzzy and confusing. The air was slightly warmer, staler, but Steve still felt as if he could feel the wet blood all down his front, Eddie's clammy hands slipping away from his own, and the hot spittle of the demogorgon as it came in for the kill. Steve never had a chance, and the terror was still chugging through his veins.
He grappled for the sheets, breathing heavily, hoping he could find something to ground him to reality.
And then there was a voice in his ear.
"Shhh. You're okay, man. You're okay."
Steve stilled, his chest still heaving. He finally registered the firm arms that were locked around him, a steady hand supporting the side of his face. A welcoming smell enveloped him; that of pot, cigarette smoke, and sweat. There was the familiar undertone of his own oakmoss cologne. He looked up, the fear ebbing, and found himself met with a pair of big brown eyes. His view was partially obscured by a curtain of wavy brown hair.
The porch light was glowing dimly through the red sheet Eddie had nailed over his window. It illuminated the clothing on his floor, tapestries and heavy metal posters on the yellowing walls, his guitar amp, and stacks of vinyl records. The round eyes of his silver boombox glistened in the sparse lighting, and the strings of his electric guitar looked like strands of gold in the darkness. Steve blinked rapidly to stave off the remaining anxiety and took a shaky breath.
Eddie Munson was holding him, in his bed, in his trailer, in Forest Hills, Hawkins, Indiana. And he was safe.
Eddie's fingers carded through Steve's hair. His voice was nothing but a murmur. "You're alright, Stevie."
Back before Eddie Munson was framed for the murder of Chrissy Cunningham in the very trailer they slept in now, Steve never would've considered even interacting with the infamous Eddie. While attending the same high school, they may as well have been worlds apart. Popular pretty-boy Harrington was too busy hosting parties and kissing girls to interact with the school's renowned, tattooed, drug-dealing metalhead. While Eddie was hosting D&D campaigns and busting out guitar solos in a garage, Steve was getting drunk, swimming in his clothes, and partying like the world was going to end. Except it wasn't, not then; Steve Harrington was invincible. And, eventually, when he graduated, Eddie stayed behind, his grades running ruts into the ground. Steve did what he did best, and he ran away; Eddie did what HE did best: he got stuck. But either way, their paths never meant to cross. It just wasn't the way things worked.
Until pretty Chrissy went to Eddie for pot and was found the next day by Uncle Dwayne, twisted like a crude pretzel.
Everything was different after Vecna was gone. The world HAD ended - but a new one sprouted in its place, one Steve didn't how to navigate. What he wanted, what to do about it. He just wasn't invincible anymore. And Eddie Munson wasn't just the freak, the eccentric, unpredictable outcast. He was - something. Something more. In some ways, to Steve, it was terrifying. But he also knew what he wanted, and this time, it wasn't Nancy Wheeler.
One thing led to another, and now Steve wakes up from his nightmares in Forest Hills, holding onto a man he was supposed to hate.
"Bad dreams?" Eddie's voice was low and quiet in Steve's ear.
Steve gulped and nodded, running a hand over his face. It was slick with a cold sweat. He cringed.
"Mmm." Eddie brought his face down beneath Steve's jaw, nestling into Steve's neck and bringing with it the smell of his three-in-one men's shampoo. Steve could feel his whole body relaxing, and he brought his arm up beneath Eddie's body to touch his back. He held onto the fabric of his Hellfire Club T-shirt, feeling the other man's heart thud against his own.
Eventually, Eddie slowly sat up.
"Where are you going?" asked Steve groggily.
Eddie stood up, running his fingers through his hair. His black boxers hung off his hips, exposing a strip of skin on his thighs and the soft curly hair on his calves. "You're telling me you're going back to sleep?" he asked, then grinned and walked out. He left the door open, evidently wanting Steve to follow.
He rolled over, groaned into his pillow, then eased himself up. The nightmare was still vivid in his head - the look and smell of blood, the atmosphere of the lurking woods around him, the sight of Eddie disappearing forever, his big eyes begging the question: Why did you let me die?
And then the demogorgons open, glistening face before it's toothy mouth closes over his head.
Sitting on the edge of Eddie's mattress, Steve roughly dragged his hands over his eyes, trying to knuckle the visions away. Then he stood and walked down the hall.
The kitchen was lit by the flickering yellow light fixture, and the countertops were covered in odds and ends. Keychains, lighters, unopened envelopes, old cigarette boxes, half-eaten baggies of candy, a Walkman, stacks of cassette tapes. Eddie was digging around in a coffee tin, looking for something.
"Gotta get more creative with my stash these days," he muttered as he pulled out a small plastic bag. "Cops been up my ass lately." He fit the lid back on then wagged the bag at Steve, grinning.
Steve rolled his eyes then opened the refridgerator, taking out two bottles of beer with his fingers. He needed something to clear his head. Wake him up.
He tossed one to Eddie, who only barely caught it. "What time is it?"
"Early." Eddie jumped the counter then threw himself onto the sofa. "Or late."
Steve followed, cracking his beer open on the corner of the counter first. "Dwayne's not back?"
Eddie shook his head, making his crazy hair waver. "Graveyard shift. Won't be back until the sun rises."
Steve leaned on the bar and crossed his arms, watching Eddie put his elbows on his knees as he rolled a joint on the countertop. He had to sweep all of it's contents aside to do so; Rolling Stone mags, a frosted glass ashtray, and a leather wallet.
Steve stared at the shoulderblades moving beneath Eddie's shirt, the muscles in his upper arms pulling at the fabric. This was what he meant when he said the world had ended, that nobody knew who he really was anymore. Because he never thought that he would look at a man this way - never. Not in the same way he'd looked at Nancy when she'd pulled her sweater over her head and exposed her lacy bra. Or in the same way he'd looked at the numerous other girls who'd caught his eye - sweet, pretty, soft-haired, sticky lips. Even Robin and her witty charm. That was how you looked at girls - not boys.
But here he was. How did he get here? And why would he do absolutely anything to make sure he'd never have to leave?
To try and chase off the thoughts, he took a swig of beer. It was sort of bad, but it was cold. Sharp.
Eddie drummed on the table then leaned over to sift around for a lighter. When he found one, he tucked his hair behind his ear and stuck the joint in between his teeth. Steve watched him lean back, boxers inching up his thighs, cupping the butt of the joint with one hand. The orange light of the flame danced on his face for a moment before it went out, and he took a deep breath. When he let it go, he took it out of his mouth and leaned his head back, exhaling smoke towards the ceiling.
They'd hung a tapestry over the crack in the ceiling where Chrissy had died. Rugs had been thrown over the part of the carpet where her body had been, and the blood had seeped in. That way it was easier to pretend that it had never happened. Eddie didn't like to talk about it, anyways.
Steve took another drink and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on.
Eddie looked at him upside down. "Get over here."
Steve rolled his eyes and pushed himself away from the counter, hopping over the back of the sofa and landing beside him. He sipped his beer then set it down on a coaster on the coffee tables' edge. He leaned back, rubbing his temple, but the headache was persistent. Like a dog with blunt teeth chewing on his brain.
He and Eddie were close enough that their knees were knocking together. Eddie was smoking, the sweet skunky smell permeating the air, jiggling one leg while he stared contemplatively across the room. He abruptly looked Steve with those intense, unblinking eyes of his; others had called it unsettling before. Steve didn't think it was. He thought it was nice. Eddie wasn't hiding anything with his eyes.
Eddie scooched closer to him until their thighs were touching. Something panged up Steve's body like electricity through a lightning rod, sending the fuzz on the back of his neck on end. Eddie brought the joint up and touched it to Steve's lips; Steve took a drag, and Eddie watched him.
It filled up Steve's chest. Burned in his throat. When he let it out, he could taste it on the top of his tongue.
"Not bad, Harrington."
When Steve looked down at him, Eddie was grinning. Then he took a drag and leaned back again, not so close to Steve's face. Steve found himself feeling disappointed.
"Thanks," he said dryly.
Eddie laughed.
There was a beat of silence. Outside, frogs and crickets were chirruping in the grass. It smelled like summer, Steve thought. Heat, dew. Mosquitos and moths. Everything would be so perfect if there wasn't something so wrong with him.
The beer wasn't making him feel anything yet, and he'd need a few more hits to get buzzed. If he wasn't worrying about Eddie, he was worrying about Robin. Or Nancy and Jonathan - hell, even Argyle. Or the kids. Especially the kids. He was so TIRED of worrying.
As if reading his mind, Eddie nudged Steve's shoulder and held out the joint again.
Murmuring thanks, Steve took it.
Eddie pushed their knees together and said, "So what was it about?"
Steve coughed on smoke, rubbing his chest. "What was what about?"
"I know you pretend to be dense, Harrington," Eddie said amusedly, "but you know what I'm talking about."
"Maybe I am dense," muttered Steve, shaking the end of the joint out onto the ashtray.
"Don't bullshit me." But the tone of Eddie's voice was light-hearted; Steve remembered the time when he used to find that just annoying, and not so incredibly endearing.
Hot smoke unfurled from Steve's nostrils as he handed the joint back to Eddie.
Eddie took it and held it in his fingers, looking down at the cherry end.
Steve drank in the sight of him. The light glinting off the profile of his face, the visibly soft texture to his hair, the broadness of his shoulders even when slouched. How he was starting to smell like Steve - his bodywash, his clothing detergent. Looking at him this way felt wrong, like everyone might be able to see it on his skin - that he's different, that he looks at Eddie Munson the way people tend to look at the moon.
He used to want the world, but now he had it sitting right next to him. Maybe that's why his frequent dreams included losing it in such awful ways.
He didn't want to say it. Didn't want to think about it. Instead, he wanted to put his hand on Eddie's thigh. So that's what he did.
Eddie's eyes darted over to look at him, and a grin started to tug at the corners of his mouth. But then he seemed to see the look on Steve's face and it dissipated. His eyes studied him, question in the creasing of the skin between his eyebrows.
Steve's hand drifted up Eddie's stomach, past his chest, to the skin where his jaw met his neck. It was soft there. Steve pulled him forward and kissed him fervently. Eddie's surprise was short-lived, and he immediately kissed back. His lips were soft and his breath tasted like weed. His mouth was so hot as he threw a leg over Steve's and grabbed Steve's face. The palms of his hands were gentle, despite the callouses guitar strings had cut into his fingertips.
Their bodies were pressed together, and there was warmth and sweat and the sound of one another breathing into the other's mouth. Eddie was there. He was there, right there in Steve's arms, so very alive, so very present. As long as he had him there - as long as he couldn't lose him.
They broke away, and through heavy breath Eddie said, "What is UP with you tonight?"
"You're complaining?"
Eddie grinned again and kissed him.
"Steve effing Harrington," he'd said once, "in MY house kissing ME. Am I dreaming?"
Steve could agree with the sentiment.
Including when Eddie had said to him: "I didn't think you were gay."
And he wasn't. But he certainly wasn't straight. And he certainly knew life was gonna be a hell of a lot harder after realizing that.
Steve slipped his hand beneath Eddie's shirt just to feel the warm skin on his stomach. His thumb brushed the trail of downy hair down his navel. Touching a man was so different from touching a woman. But in a way it was also exactly the same. Steve wished he could explain this to anyone, but nobody seemed to want to listen.
While thinking about this - and how fucking much he liked him - it dawned on Steve that Eddie had been awake when he had woken. So he broke the kiss to say, "Were you having bad dreams?"
Eddie blinked at him.
"You were awake," Steve explained.
Eddie smiled and held onto Steve's chin, keeping him at face level. "I was."
"Watching me like a creep?"
"Ha-ha, Harrington has a sense of humor."
"I was being serious."
Eddie kissed the corner of his mouth. Steve tried to stop his face from flaming.
"I couldn't sleep," Eddie explained into the skin of Steve's cheek. Then his eyes trailed up to meet Steve's - his gaze was so powerful, even when he didn't mean for it to be.
"Because you were scared of nightmares," Steve guessed.
Eddie scoffed and dropped his hand. "Me? Afraid?" He flexed an arm. "Edward Munson isn't afraid of anything."
"Whatever you say, Edward."
Eddie laughed. Steve's heart rung like a bell in his chest.
He kissed Eddie before his laugh ended, and it morphed into a smile against Steve's mouth. They'd long since abandoned the joint onto the ashtray.
This was fine to Steve. He was definitely high now, if not only a little bit. He thought he wouldn't be as high if he were smoking alone - something about Eddie's presence made everything seem a little better.
Steve broke the kiss to hug the other man, burying his face in Eddie's shoulder. He could feel Eddie's hands on his back, drifting up and down his yellow shirt. Their knees were knocking together, hair mingling and skin touching. If Steve could sleep at all, it would be in Eddie's arms. He didn't regret Nancy, he didn't regret all the other girls - hell, he didn't even regret what he'd felt for Robin at one point, albeit brief. Because he couldn't risk having done something different and NOT finding himself with Eddie Munson. In some other world, he didn't know who he was yet. Or who he wanted. At least this world could give him that.
"Remember when you took a bite out of that demobat?" Eddie whispered.
Steve felt fondly annoyed. His lips were touching Eddie's neck. "No, I've conveniently forgotten."
Eddie kneed him. "Asshole."
Steve couldn't help but laugh. It was small and short, and it bubbled out of him. But when it died, he knew what he wanted to say. "It was you."
Eddie's hands momentarily stilled. "Hm?"
"In my dream." Steve screwed his eyes shut. "You were...in the Upside-Down."
Eddie's thumb started drifting in circles again. "And what was I doing in the Upside-Down?"
Steve involuntarily shuddered when he thought about it - the death. The blood. The complete loss of control. He didn't know who he was if he couldn't protect the people he loved.
"Stevie." Eddie's voice was so quiet. Steve loved when he called him that, but he wouldn't dare say it; it would get to his head.
He kept his eyes closed. "I keep seeing you...over and over again."
"What, you're getting tired of my ugly mug?"
Steve only held him tighter. "I can't save you, Eddie."
Eddie's grasp on Steve's shirt became just the slightest bit firmer. "What are you on about, Harrington? I'm right here, aren't I?"
Steve said nothing.
Eddie's fingers found the back of Steve's neck and coaxed him up so that their eyes could meet. "It's not gonna be that easy to get rid of me, Stevie."
Steve managed a half-hearted laugh. "It's not...just you. It's..." He looked away, vision blurring. "Robin, sometimes. The kids."
"They're still here, too. You did protect them, dumby."
Steve laughed again, but this time it was a bit more bitter. "Guess my brain doesn't think that."
"Brains are asswipes," Eddie responded, then used his fingers to direct Steve's eyes back to him. "But I'm okay. Rob's okay. The Wheelers and the Byers and Dustin and all of them - we're all okay, aren't we?"
"That feels subject," Steve mumbles.
Eddie barked out a laugh. "Shit, it is. But we're alive."
Steve let his eyes close as their foreheads knocked together, wanting so badly to feel safety in the truth. They were. In some ways, he saved them. In others, they saved him. So why did he feel like he'd lost? Or like, maybe, in the future, he really would lose? The thought made his pulse race.
Eddie's hand cupped the back of Steve's neck again and pulled him closer. His lips brushed Steve's earlobe.
"Steve Harrington, you saved my life."
Steve's heart skipped a few beats. Warmth rose in his chest like smoke from a fire, tinging his face. He wrapped his arms around Eddie and felt gratitude crash through him.
"You're right, though." Eddie laughed lightly. "Edward Munson IS scared of nightmares."
Steve's head rose, and their noses brushed. "So am I."
"King Steve," murmured Eddie. "Scared of dreams."
"Fuck off." Noses touching, foreheads knocking. If anybody saw them now, Steve would obliterate into ashes. This was just them - just theirs. "You saved my life, too, Munson."
Eddie's face broke into a grin. "Really? Describe in detail."
Steve rolled his eyes and sat back. "Whatever."
"It's fine," Eddie laughed. "It probably wasn't as cool as your Ozzy Osbourne moment."
Steve stared at him for a moment, then smiled despite himself. He leaned into Eddie, then they both sunk back into the sofa, wrapped in one another.
"It was, Eddie. It was."