Archive of Our Own

“The offer’s still open,” the Mayor says, his voice low, too. “I’m quite serious. You have power. I could teach you how to use it. You could rule this land by my side.”

I am the Circle and the Circle is me, I hear.

“That’s the source,” he says. “Control your Noise and you control yourself. Control yourself,” he lowers his chin, “and you control the world.”

- The Ask and the Answer, Patrick Ness

Steve thinks he’s survived the night and he’s entirely wrong.

He watches Eddie and his friends tear away in an unfamiliar car and the adrenaline coursing through Steve’s whole body ebbs and disappears, replaced by a wash of relief that leaves him weak at the knees. He listens as the car engine disappears into the night, and waits, a minute, two minutes, before he tears away at a sprint. He rushes to the exit, stumbling over trash as he goes, tripping over the messy remains of the video store. His car keys are in his back pocket and he fishes them out as he runs, gripping them tight in his fingers.

He reaches the front door, shoves his way outside, uncaring of anything but getting as far away from here as possible, turns towards where his car is parked in the back of the lot and –

And Gareth is sitting on the back of Steve’s car, a twisted chunk of metal gripped tight in his fist, the hood of Steve’s car hanging open.

‘Hope this wasn’t important,’ says Gareth, grinning like a shark.

Steve skids to a stop. Gareth laughs, a dark, taunting chuckle. Steve’s automatic reaction is to take a step back, heart in his throat. His body collides with something solid – and it shouldn’t, Steve is stood in the middle of the empty parking lot. He turns, and of course, of course, it’s Eddie. Eyes big and manic, grinning, looking for all the world like this is the funniest prank that’s ever been played on Steve.

So funny. Steve dying is just hilarious, it’s a big old joke.

‘Boo!’ says Eddie.

Steve turns and runs.

He doesn’t even know where he’s going, he just takes off like a shot, turns and sprints away from the gang of fucking vampires that were waiting for him in the wings. But it’s pointless. It’s pointless trying to run, because these are inhuman creatures, and they’re fast, faster even than Steve with all his natural athleticism. They have supernatural strength and speed on their side, and within a handful of seconds Eddie is on him, launches at Steve from behind and gets his arm around Steve’s middle, tackles him to the concrete roughly. Steve lands hard on his knees, his hands, pain jolting up his arms before he’s shoved all the way down onto his front. He twists in Eddie’s hold, fighting back, elbows directed behind him like maybe it will help. It does nothing.

Eddie pins Steve’s legs with his knees, wrenches one of Steve’s arms behind his back until is screams in protest, until Steve thinks his shoulder is going to rip out of the joint. With his other hand Eddie grabs a handful of hair from the crown of Steve’s head, uses it to jerk Steve’s head where he wants it, arching sideways. And then he bites down.

Steve’s first thought is just pain. Just so much pain he can barely tell where each point starts and ends. His arm feels like it’s on fire, the ache so sharp. The point where each of Eddie’s sharp knees are dug into his thighs feel like his bones are being crushed, the muscles in his legs compressing tightly and bruising. His hair feels like it’s being ripped out by the root, his over-extended neck crying out. Eddie’s hand on his wrist is like a steel bar, tight and crushing. The bite on his throat is the worst though – hot and cold at once, sharp like needles and burning, shivery, along his shoulder, up his neck to his ear and jaw. Steve feels like he’s dying, but it’s slow, it’s never-ending, agony, and agony, and agony.

Despite how he’s pinned to the ground his second thought is still to fight his way out. If he can buck Eddie off, or overpower him somehow, he might stand a sliver of a chance at running, maybe back to the Family Video, back to the safety of the break room until the sun comes up.

He tries. Claws at Eddie with his one free hand, over Eddie’s ribs, his arm at an odd angle. He tries shoving at him, forcing his way up to his knees, thumping Eddie with a closed fist, but it does nothing. Eddie’s harsh grip only tightens fractionally, and Steve moans raggedly from pain. God, he wants it to stop, it needs to stop, he can’t take it.

It’s maybe a miracle and maybe a curse when Eddie detaches his mouth from the side of Steve’s neck, the slick, graphic sound of his wet mouth and Steve’s hot blood loud in Steve’s ears. Eddie releases Steve’s hair first, patting Steve patronisingly on the shoulder. Then he climbs up and off, leaving Steve panting, face first on the ground.

Steve gets as far as onto his hands and knees before he’s overcome with a wave of dizziness, spots in his vision. He pitches sideways, lands hard on his arm with a grunt. He has enough foresight to clap a hand over his throat to staunch the bleeding as he lies there and the whole band starts to draw near like they’re sharks smelling blood in the water. Steve’s skin is sticky and slick, the wound oozing sluggishly. Steve clamps his palm over the jagged flesh, hisses through the pain.

‘God, finally,’ says Jeff, coming shoulder to shoulder with Eddie to look down at Steve. ‘I don’t know why you’ve gotta be so dramatic about eating people, Eddie. You keep dragging this shit out.’

Eddie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smears blood up his wrist, over his fingers. ‘Give me a break, man,’ he grouses. ‘I couldn’t get in the god damn door.’

‘What?’ asks Ray, over Steve’s shoulder. ‘Like he wouldn’t open it?’

‘No, he opened it,’ replies Eddie, smug. ‘Apparently I needed an invitation.’

Ray snorts a surprised laugh.

‘It’s bullshit,’ says Eddie, but he sounds amused. He nudges Steve’s leg with the edge of his boot. ‘Lucky King Steve’s got nothing going on between his ears, huh, guys? Fell right in our trap.’

‘Fuck you,’ slurs Steve, and finds just enough in him to sit up. He feels light headed, groggy.

Eddie smiles, slow, the promise of something truly horrible behind his eyes. He crouches, squatting so his face is level with Steve’s, and Steve scowls at him. It just makes that smile sharper, brighter.

‘Gotta ask nice if you want that, big boy,’ he says, voice dropping an octave. Steve is caught, stunned, his brain scratching like a record. Eddie looks up at his friends though, doesn’t let the moment linger. ‘Get him in the car,’ he says. ‘His bites are healed, so I don’t know if it’s going to work here or if we have to be back at the Palace.’

‘It’s only a four-seater,’ says Gareth.

‘I didn’t say give him a seat,’ snaps Eddie, standing again.

But that means – nope. No way in hell.

There are rough hands on Steve a moment later, tugging, not waiting for him to get his feet underneath him before they’re dragging him up. Ray has one hand around his arm, Gareth fisting his polo shirt just under the back of his collar. Steve feels the fabric strain.

‘Get off!’ insists Steve and tries desperately to twist free. He starts to panic, knowing that if they cram him in the back of the car he’s never going to make it out alive. Flashes of his gruesome end come to him with varying degrees of Steve’s body bloodied and shredded, withered away from starvation and dehydration in the trunk of a stolen car, body snapped piece by piece and his eyes sucked back into his skull. It’s all it takes for Steve to drop the brave act, throw his head back, and start to scream.

‘HELP!’ he howls, voice scraping with the strain from the top of his lungs. ‘HELP!’

‘Heeelp!’ comes Eddie’s singsong mocking from where he’s watching, arms folded, hip cocked. His friends chuckle along with him and then Eddie nods towards the side of the building. ‘Let’s move, gentlemen, we’re running low on moonlight.’

‘Whose fault is that?’ snarks Jeff, and Eddie parrots him back, but then they’re all moving, Steve frog marched along against his will. He still feels nauseous, dizzy from all the blood he’s lost, still has his hand putting pressure on the bite.

They round the corner behind the shopping strip where their car is parked and Jeff trots ahead of the rest, keys in his fist, to open the car. He pops the trunk open and leans against the side of it, grinning with manic energy. Grinning at Steve. Steve who’s going to go in there.

He stops walking. As a kid, Steve used to walk the neighbour’s dog – a grumpy old beast that would often decide when they were at the furthest point from home that walking was just too hard. It would stand on the edge of the road and stop moving and Steve would be forced to pick it up because no amount of dragging it or tugging at the leash or trying to coax it forward would convince the dog to move. Steve is going to be that dog. Steve isn’t getting in the trunk, and so he’s not taking another step.

He uses what’s left of his strength to make himself as heavy and immovable as possible. He plants his feet, leans backwards, and it costs him his shirt collar, the tearing sound loud in the empty street. Gareth snarls and lets go, takes hold of Steve’s other arm, and he and Ray start dragging Steve across the pavement, his feet skidding. The only get so far, Steve completely unyielding against them, his legs stiff, knees locked.

At long, horrible last Eddie heaves a put-upon sigh and invites himself into the fray. ‘Guys,’ he says, ‘seriously – he’s an athlete. He’s strong and fucking stubborn, believe me. I watched him walk away from a demo-bat attack, kill one of them by ripping it’s head off. You gotta think outside the box.’ And then he reaches out, quick and deadly, and wraps his hand around Steve’s throat and squeezes.

Steve goes stock still. The pressure on his larynx is enough for him to feel it but not enough to hurt. He struggles to swallow though, feels his Adam’s apple jammed up against Eddie’s rigid fingers, and it makes his mind go paralyzingly blank, like static clouding across his vision. Without his permission his throat makes an alarmed gurgle, and Eddie’s smirk widens, teethteethteeth, and the pressure of his fist gets tighter for three long, horrific seconds before he relaxes his hold.

‘Now Steve,’ says Eddie, voice dark, ‘be a good boy and get in the trunk.’

He starts leading Steve, guiding him with his hand still fisted around Steve’s neck. He can probably feel the way Steve’s pulse is raging right now, beating so hard Steve’s worried about losing more blood. He’s still lightheaded, vaguely nauseous, although the dizziness has mostly faded, but he can’t stop the way his heart is racing in terror. He stumbles backwards, Eddie’s hand forcing him back until his legs press up against the bumper bar.

‘In,’ says Eddie sharply, and Steve has no choice but to comply, legs going gummy. He climbs in backwards, curling himself up to fit, and then Eddie lowers him down, fingers still clenched tight until Steve’s limbs are all inside.

‘Now stay,’ says Eddie, and the trunk lid swings shut.

They drive for a long time, the engine and the chatter all muffled – but Steve can’t tell if it’s from being locked in a box or him slowly bleeding to death. He’s not sure the wound is that bad that he could bleed out from it, but shut up in the dark with nothing else to focus on makes his mind play tricks, makes him focus on every little hurt, every little fear in the back of his head.

After a while the car slows down, and Steve has no idea where they are, panic having made it too hard to concentrate on how far they’ve gone, how long he’s been lying there. He waits, tensed for something, as the sound of voices moves closer.

The trunk opens and before Steve can even react he’s being hauled out by one arm by Ray. He falls forward, unable to catch his balance, and Ray just yanks at him like he thinks it’ll help. It does, sort of, because now instead of his chest being caught over the edge of the car it’s his hips. He has to kick out to give himself momentum, get his legs out. It’s only then that he gets to look around, realise where he is.

The Munson trailer. Or what’s left of it, anyway. It’s a deep, ugly gouge in the trailer park, charred and jagged. As Steve is half walked, half dragged towards it, Jeff waltzes up to the gate, a plastic bag in one hand and a six pack of beer in the other, and then drops right in.

Steve stops walking and Eddie, who’s behind him, takes a step forward and then slings his arm over Steve’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Stevie,’ he taunts, ‘don’t chicken out on me now. We’re so close.’

Close to what, Steve wants to ask, but he thinks he knows the answer already and he doesn’t want to be proved right. He has no choice but to keep walking, Eddie’s arm around him a brand and a guide to follow along and throw himself back into the Upside Down.

It feels wrong. Just like last time, the wonky physics of everything flipping over leaves Steve reeling. But one minute he’s stepping into the gap, and he gets that jerk in his stomach you get when you walk downstairs and miss a step, and then he’s somehow sliding feet-first out of the gate on the other side and onto the cracked, parched earth of an alternate dimension.

Eddie is already on his feet, already leaning down and offering Steve a hand. He doesn’t want to take it, but at this stage he has no other choice. If he doesn’t walk they seem content to drag him – so if he doesn’t stand, he’ll probably end up with something equivalent to road rash. He takes the hand offered and lets Eddie pull him up, and he tries not to hurt at the sight of his own blood stained black down the front of Eddie’s t-shirt, caught in the red half-light.

Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin have clearly been making use of the bikes they used their first trip across Upside Down Hawkins. They’re parked near a dark spot in the earth that Steve instantly recognises. He’s stunned to see Eddie walk right over his own final resting place to kick off the brakes of the closest bike. Steve stares, mouth a thin line.

‘Two options, Harrington,’ says Gareth. He’s mounting his own bike still with its brakes on. ‘Get on the back of one of our bikes or we’ll just chase you in the right direction.’

Jeff snickers. Ray grins toothily. Steve walks to Eddie out of habit, and Eddie smiles widely at him. ‘Boys,’ he crows, voice high and girlish, ‘I’ve been chosen! What an honour.’ And then, to Steve, replacing the high voice with his dramatic dungeon master’s drawl, ‘Your steed, my liege.’

Eddie’s bike has bike pegs, which means Steve can ride behind, his hands on Eddie’s shoulders. It’s way more preferable than sitting on the handlebars, so as soon as Eddie is situated Steve climbs up behind him, hands on Eddie’s shoulders. In sync, Eddie’s band mates take off at once, but then something weird happens. The others take off, and Eddie doesn’t move. Instead he makes a soft noise at the contact between the two of them, a little punched out sound, almost a whine. His shoulders go tight and tense under Steve, and when Steve glances down, Eddie’s hands are white-knuckled on the handlebars.

‘Run,’ spits Eddie.

‘What?’

Eddie makes another noise, like he’s hurting, head down, whole body shaking and hunched. ‘Steve,’ he chokes out, ‘I can’t – you have to run.’

Oh god. It’s – it’s Eddie. Not just Eddie in appearance, the thing that woke up wearing his face, but actual human being Eddie Munson. Like with Will when the Mindflayer was possessing him and he was trapped in his own head. It’s not that something killed Eddie and has decided to go around wearing him like a coat, killing people in his name. It killed him and trapped Eddie in there with it, is making him kill people, kill Keith, kill Steve if he doesn’t get away fast enough.

Eddie freezes, panting, and then it’s like it never happened. He straightens up, unwinding all his muscles, hands relaxing on the bike. He kicks off, rolling the bike forward smoothly. But Steve is an athlete – he’s all quick reaction. So he doesn’t even have to think before he’s following Eddie’s instruction, taking a chance head start to the others and try again for an escape. He shoves himself backwards, using all his leg strength to launch himself off the back of the bike, sending it careening sideways, Eddie skidding away with an animal snarl. Steve lands on his feet, heart pounding, and then turns and runs.

The gate is in sight. It’s so close, and with every foot fall Steve gets closer, closing in on freedom. He can make it, he thinks, pumping his arms and running as hard as he knows how. He can do it, he can do it. He’s going to make it.

But he doesn’t.

But Eddie leaps at him from behind and catches Steve by the shoulder.

But they both go down, Steve twisting so he lands on his back, his head cracking painfully against the ground. It stuns him for long enough for Eddie to fully take the upper hand, and Steve is pinned again, his arms by Eddie’s hands, his legs by Eddie’s knees, Eddie making ugly, inhuman noises above him. He can’t see the gate anymore. All hope is lost.

Eddie buries his teeth in Steve’s neck again, and Steve screams, thrashing in Eddie’s hold but pinned so effectively that he can barely lift himself from the dirt. Eddie feeds, and feeds, the icy burn of the bite turning slow and numb, minutes ticking by until Steve starts losing track and he discovers that he can’t feel his extremities, that the sky is spinning even from flat on his back.

When Eddie finally stops, he raises himself over Steve, drooling blood into Steve’s face, and Steve is too weak to even flinch, turn his face away, do anything more than blink. He’s gasping for breath but it feels like his lungs can’t get enough air. He’s so tired, the call of sleep drawing closer. He’s dying, he knows it.

‘Fine then,’ growls Eddie to Steve, ‘have it your way.’ He gets up, leaving Steve behind on the ground, and calls to his friends. ‘Hey guys!’ he shouts, and the others are parked a ways away, waiting for Steve’s end. But they roll forwards, circling Steve’s death like vultures.

‘Our friend here didn’t want to die in a bed,’ says Eddie. ‘He’s decided to die in the dirt like an animal.’

Steve turns his face away, sees the dark patch of earth where Eddie died, and wonders if his own body is going to leave a stain, a post-mortem smear that sinks into the cracks of the earth like that.

The others climb off their bikes, gather around Steve in a loose circle. They crane their heads up to the sky. One of them – Steve isn’t watching who, he can’t find the strength to turn his head again – lifts a hand to their mouth and whistles, long and high pitched and shrill. Steve hears the screams of demo-bats, summoned to feed, the flapping of their wings, their swarm collecting numbers. He can’t move, can barely catch his breath. He lies and waits for the first bat to swoop down and claim a pound of flesh.

It feels like it felt last time. The only difference is that Steve is too drained to fight back, just lies in the dust as lets it happen, lets the bats and the blood loss kill him. He’s already dead, he was the second Eddie walked into Family Video this evening. He hopes he never wakes up again, that there’s not enough of him left to come back from the dead like Eddie did.

He shuts his eyes. He can’t remember anything after that.

W̸͇̤̯͖͉̬͖͚͎̼̬̱̭̩͌̆̇̈́̒̇̂̾́̈͜ȁ̴̡̨̡̨̜̟̞̻̰͕̩̦͎̾͂͋̑̾͑̇̒͘ͅk̵̦͍̓̒̑̐͒̎͆͌͘ḝ̷̭̥̟͇̞͉̼̳̂̃͌́͂́́͌͛͜͝͝͠ͅ ̴̙̦̪̮͕̼͓̠̬̈́͂͛͒ư̵̧͖͎̮͎̫̫͖̖̱͍̲̾̈́̈́̔̀̐̎̊̀͝p̶̧͚̗̯̗̳̣̦̰̬̘̣̒͆̅͂͗͒,̷̤̰̠̯̭̿̏̍̂͋͊̌̕ ̸̡̧̛͚̲͉̰͈̭̬̱̹͙̪̼̼̀̒̿̍̀͘S̶̮͔̠̖̘͔͖̱̫̠̦̤̰͂̀̄͋̓͗͜͝t̶̳͓̂́͐̂͂͒̓̌ë̸̹̗͙͖̥̭͍̪͔̪̩́̉̎̈́͊̑̒̚͜ͅv̷͙̭̐e̷̩̣̤̟̫̣͖̣̥̥̩͔͊̅̌̄̆̊͠.̵̡̡͇̠̰̜͖̲̲̥̲͍͍̙͌̌̑̇̇́̍͜

O̸̧̧̼̦̣̝̜̜̖̻̥̱͕͇̭̲̬̙̱̯̠͛̋̇̈͌̇͌̽̆͝p̵̢̤̩͇̯̝͖͆͂͑̍͋̄̐͊̂̅̏̆̓͂͆̓͘̚ę̸̣͔̯͍̥̏n̶͕̼͍̣̝͔̬͎̰̖̥͉̐̄̓́̿́͆̿̍̇̽͆̕̕͘͝͝ ̶̛̞̙̫̮͍̳̱̳̱̀̅̎̓͆͜͜͜ͅŷ̵̦o̶̢̢̯͙̗̯͈͇̩͒͐̐͐̒̋̓̉̀̀̓̋͘͠u̵͈̲͙̞̤̱̱̩̮̞̮͙̅͌̿͗̾̄̋̂̔̅̈̉͛͘͘̕͜͝ṟ̶̢͇͇̖̻͈͈͈͍̤̻̻͉͊̈̈́̈͑̂͗͆̓̌͆̏̾͐̕ ̶̦̠̥̙͕̭̮͙͍̩̼̭̺̜̠̒͛̈́̐́͛̄̽̐̒̓̓̒̄́̽͜͠ͅe̴̲̜̱̥̝͇̙̬̼̩̯̺̺̋̀͂̒͑̇̽̕̚͝͝y̷͙̖̬̲̙̔͠e̷̱͔͓͉̖͓͉̤̙͍̠̓͋́̌̒̎́̂̀̚͜͠s̴̹͎͚̝͓̺̥͈͔̾.̶͉́̄̏̐̎͋̇̐́

Ẃ̵̺̣̞̥̬̇͑̇̀͋̌̏̊͒͘̚a̷̻͚̜̱̅͗̈́̎́̉̀̒̔͆̌̾̍̅̏̿̈̅͒͌̚̚͠͝k̷̺͚̹͙̩̤̘̼͖̊̏̾̇͛͋̈́̉̅̏͒̚ȅ̴̡̢̞̗͖̮̼̰͇̗̠̭̼̓̈́̈́̃̆͌̈́̄̔͑͑̈́̂̓̌́̎͂͆͊͘̕͘̚͠ ̷̢̢̖͚̩͓̠̹̼̝̺͔̥̊̈́͗̈́̈́̿̐̓̀̂ȕ̶̼̥̤͇̞͎͖̟̬̭̝̣̜̭̞̝̭̼͉̭̥̖̫̋͊̔͘͠ͅp̴̧͈̫͚͕̹̞̰̳̩̗͙̜̗͕̪̫̹̲̝͕̟̮̖̙̯̣͉̅̒͋̓̓̇͆́́̏̈́͊̈́̈́̒͝͠!̴̢̢̛̗͇͓̻̥̦̯͇̪̹͎̥̮̖̟̖̙̜͎͔͔͈̰̩̹̹̪̋̈́̍̄̍̌̅͂̀̃̉̿̎̓́̀̈́̇̂̈́̿̂͂͠͝͝͝ͅ

Steve opens his eyes. He doesn’t want to be awake – he doesn’t know how he is, doesn’t know why his eyes are snapping open on command. There’s a buzz in his head, constant and jarring, but it’s not a sound from his surroundings. It’s in his brain, in the back of his skull, rippling down his spine like sparks, like pins and needles.

He can’t move for a long minute. It takes him longer to realise that it’s because he’s wrapped up in vines, around his wrists, his ankles, his torso, his throat, like when he’d been trapped against the wall in the Creel house. It doesn’t feel dangerous now, though. He’s not panicking, not concerned. The buzz in his head is soothing, the hold of the vines like a comfort.

There’s a vine in his mouth. He feels it, the length of it pulsing in his throat, wet and alive. It should be alarming too, but he waits, unbothered, while it slithers out of his stomach or his lungs, around his unbeating heart, wherever it was buried, up and out, leaving a trail of slime and saliva running down Steve’s chin.

The vines withdraw, and Steve breathes for the first time since he woke up. How bizarre.

He looks sideways, back away from the gate, back towards the place where Eddie died. Gareth and Jeff and Ray are gone, their bikes with them. But Eddie is crouched over that dark spot, sitting on his haunches, picking at his fingernails. He looks up when Steve moves, looks at Steve, considering.

‘You look okay for a dead guy,’ he says at last.

Steve blinks, and horror bubbles from somewhere in him, at the edges, creeping in. But the buzzing gets louder, fizzles in Steve’s brain, bats it away. He blinks again. ‘Am I dead?’

‘Yeah,’ says Eddie. He stands up, wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans. ‘It’s not so bad though,’ he says. ‘There’s no heavenly chorus or pearly gates, but we have weed and beer.’ He offers Steve a hand, hangs over him like a shadow, like a memory. Steve takes what’s offered, lets himself be pulled up.

‘Not sure I have much interest in pearly gates,’ replies Steve.

Eddie grins at him, bright and charming. ‘Drinking blood is so much more fun anyway.’ He pats Steve on the chest, heads off for his bike parked a handful of feet away. ‘We’ll get you your own wheels, Stevie, but for now jump on, and I’ll take your back to the Palace, get you settled in.’

‘Palace?’ asks Steve.

Eddie’s grin gets brighter, more mischievous. ‘Yeah, man, you’re gonna love it.’

Steve climbs on the back of Eddie’s bike, and they’re off, riding through Hawkins of the Upside Down. It’s not quite a ghost town, but it’s teeming with the ghosts of human existence, the odd feeling of humans never living in a place shaped by their own hands. The buildings stand, overrun with vines, and as they ride through Steve spots life – an errant demo-dog here and there, what might be a demogorgon through the window of a shop, feeding. It is quiet and dusty, the air thick with spores, and everything feels sort of brittle. The asphalt streets are cracked, long, crooked gashes crumbling at the edges, the buildings chipping away, paint flaking, wooden beams rotting. Steve remembers being told at one point that the air here is toxic to humans, and he wonders if perhaps it’s acidic, eating away at everything slowly but surely.

The only regular sounds are the ticking of the bike spokes, gravel crunching underneath them, and the wash of white noise that’s planted itself inside of Steve. He finds himself parsing over it, like on object flipped over and over in his hand. The buzz is part of him, a hum, a drawl in the marrow of his bones, in every vein and artery, trapped like bubbles between his joins. He can’t name it, can’t place it, doesn’t really understand it. It sounds like words sometimes but mostly it just sounds like a rush, more a feeling than anything else. It’s compelling, he knows that much. It’s safe, comforting. It will protect him from danger, will guide him to salvation.

‘Quit doing that,’ calls Eddie over his shoulder.

‘Doing what?’ asks Steve.

‘Poking at the hive mind, it’s really fucking loud.’

Steve frowns. ‘Wait, what?’

Eddie slows to a stop, puts his feet on the ground and twists around to look up at Steve. ‘The noise in your head? That’s always there? That’s the hive mind. I can hear you trying to suss it out and from right next to you it’s like you’re screaming.’

‘Sorry,’ says Steve. ‘It’s – it feels like –’

‘Like nothing matters,’ says Eddie. ‘Yeah. Nothing matters once you let Henry in. The rest gets fed to you, real easy.’

And it is, it’s easy. Because Steve shouldn’t be fine with this. He should be freaking out, screaming and crying, fighting with all of his strength. He didn’t want to die, didn’t want to come back. But the humming in his mind soothes him from wanting that, makes it easy to just follow Eddie’s lead. Eddie’s been dead for six weeks and he’s okay, he’s let the hive mind guide him and start to build something. The hive mind tells Steve that it’s what he wants too – to build, to trust, to let it happen. And so he does, he can.

It can’t be all that bad if Eddie’s okay.

-

Steve knows where they’re going long before they turn down the echo of the street he grew up on. It makes sense in some twisted way – Eddie grew up in a trailer park with nothing. Here he’s amongst the only people around and there’s nothing stopping him from finding one of the nicest houses in not-quite Hawkins and squatting there in a parody of luxury.

There’s a swarm of demo-bats gathered in clusters on the street, perching on house tops, nesting in the corpses of trees. As they ride past the bats take off, following at a distance like an army gathering behind them, ominous, blacking out the sky. Steve knows they’re no danger to him, are picking up into the air in a frothing frenzy at evidence one of their own has come home. Steve was chosen when he survived the first attack, when he was dragged through the water gate by a vine and lived beyond the guardians’ attempts at ripping him apart.

Eddie parks the bike on the front lawn of the Harrington house and Steve looks up at the mass of it, crawling with squirming, wild, animal life. The roof is overcrowded, the bats there a seething, writhing mass.

‘Welcome to Castle Harrington, King Steve,’ says Eddie.

‘The Palace,’ says Steve in understanding.

Eddie throws out an arm towards the door, offering Steve to take the lead. ‘Your majesty,’ he says, voice put-upon like he’s playing a character.

Steve rolls his eyes but marches towards the front door, which hangs open, the doorway dark. ‘Have you guys got food?’ he asks as he moves through the thoroughfare, Eddie on his heels. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘Not the kind of food you want to eat,’ replies Eddie. ‘But we’ll get you something, don’t worry.’ He claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder and then moves past him and through a doorway to Steve’s left. Steve follows and finds the members of Corroded Coffin lounging on the suite Steve’s mother replaced in ’85. They’ve transformed the family living room into something almost unrecognisable, the sheen of middle class taste muddied by a hellscape, made grungy by undead teenagers.

There’s a bong and empty beer cans on the coffee table, the television has been smashed, the screen now a hollow with wires spewing out of it, ripped out carelessly. There are muddy boot prints on the cream carpet and the fireplace is full of singed family photos, a poster of a bikini clad model draped over a motorcycle pinned above the mantel in pride of place. Lit candles of different sizes and shapes dot almost every available surface, bleeding wax as they burn. Across one wall, in thick, crudely drawn spray paint, are the words “Drink the Kool-Aid”.

‘Ah, the prodigal son returns,’ says Jeff from where he’s sprawled sideways over one chintzy, over-stuffed sofa chair. He’s reading a book, some paperback novel, spine folded over on itself, and his eyes flick from Eddie back down to it after a short, unimpressed glance. ‘Took him long enough.’

‘He was only dead two days,’ says Eddie, picking his way through junk on the floor. Empty bottles, fast food containers, a half caved-in boom box lying sideways, cassettes spilling around it with all their tapes pulled out like long strings of tangled party streamers. He gets to the sofa and nudges at Gareth. Gareth is stretched across the whole thing like a cat dozing in a sun spot. He snarls unhappily at being jostled but lifts his legs in vague permission for Eddie to sit. Once Eddie is situated Gareth drops his legs again, feet in Eddie’s lap. Eddie throws an arm over the back of the sofa, seemingly unbothered.

‘I was dead for two days?’ asks Steve, still hovering in the doorway.

‘Sure, man,’ says Ray from the other sofa chair. He’s wearing dark sunglasses, knock off Wayfarers by the look of it, a half-smoked cigarette in his fingers. When Steve looks at him he blows a steady stream of smoke out of his nose like a dragon. Ray flicks ash on the carpet, leans backwards to better lift his legs and put his feet on the edge of the coffee table. Steve’s mother hated that, used to smack Steve when he tried it as a kid. She’d hate what they’ve done to her formal living room too. It’s sort of vindicating.

‘And what do dead guys do for fun around here?’ asks Steve. He leans against the doorway, folds his arm, cocks his head. He looks at Eddie. Eddie’s eyes are trained on him, are taking in the long lines of him hungrily. Steve’s seen girls do that to him before, used to like to stand back sometimes so a girl could openly ogle him. He knows what he looks like, even drained of blood and festering and filthy. His jeans are torn in places, wounds beneath stitching back together, his polo shirt with one sleeve completely torn away, fabric split open and exposing most of his midsection on one side, almost all the way to the middle of his ribcage. He still looks pretty good though – Eddie said so himself.

‘Whatever the fuck you want,’ says Gareth from his sprawl. ‘Party all night, sleep all day – I’d say get laid, but Jeff is the only one who’s any good at that.’

‘Oh yeah,’ drawls Eddie, ‘if Henderson is to be believed even Steve is useless in that department.’

Steve grins. ‘Hey, fuck you man!’ he laughs, and Eddie just looks at him, grinning, full of promise.

‘We could take him hunting,’ suggests Ray. He takes a long, drawn-out drag of his cigarette. ‘Y’know, show him the ropes?’

‘Oh, we’re totally doing that,’ says Eddie. ‘But sundown isn’t for another few hours –’ He stops, and then his eyes light up. ‘Gareth,’ he says ‘do we have any of those blood bags left from the hospital?’

‘In the kitchen maybe,’ says Gareth.

‘Help yourself,’ says Eddie to Steve, and Steve pushes off the doorway and back into the hall, curious. He knows what blood tastes like, he’s been punched in the mouth before, split his lip, cut his own flesh on the sharp edge of his teeth. The thought of drinking blood is a little sick, a little wrong, but thinking too hard about that makes the buzzing get louder. So he focuses on his hunger, on the way his mouth is starting to water, his stomach tightening in anticipation.

When he reaches the kitchen he’s not sure where to check. The pantry has cans of food covered in dust. There’s empty Chinese takeaway containers on one side of the counter, and several empty beer bottles crowded by the sink, but not much else. He goes to the fridge out of habit, despite knowing that it won’t be on. When he opens the door he finds more beer, two pizza boxes, both with half-eaten pizza, and then, in the crisper at the bottom, jackpot. There’s three PVC bags of blood, each marked with the date collected, the blood type, the hospital. Steve takes out one, nudges the drawer closed with the toe of his sneaker and then shuts the door.

Eddie is stood just inside the doorway. Steve holds up the bag. ‘Is this still going to be good?’

‘Well it hasn’t coagulated yet, has it?’ asks Eddie. He tips his head back a little, chin pointed up with his eyes Still on Steve, hands in his pockets. ‘Go on, give it a taste. You’re either gonna love it or hate it.’

Steve rolls his eyes, mucks around with the closures on the top of the bag until he can get one open and stick his mouth over it. He squeezes the back and cool liquid floods his mouth, metallic and – and wrong. Steve makes a little noise of alarm, mouth full, and turns on his heel to spit the blood into the sink. It sits there, a dark splash on shiny metal, unmoving.

‘I guess it is just Gareth, then,’ says Eddie to himself, and saunters forward to clap a hand on Steve’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, bud, looks like it’s live victims only for you too.’

Steve sends a sharp look Eddie’s way, and Eddie’s leaning towards him, arm still around Steve, face full of mirth. The fucker is finding this amusing. Steve spits into the sink again. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘I don’t know,’ admits Eddie, smirking. ‘Needed a laugh, I guess. You died, it was a tragic loss. I’ve been crying all weekend.’

Steve scoffs at that, but freezes when Eddie reaches up to wipe at the corner of his mouth. The moment is still between them, Eddie’s eyes narrow in his task, his thumb sure and gentle along Steve’s bottom lip. Steve stands stock still, unbreathing and watchful. Like this, wild, carefree, a little monstrous, Eddie Munson is sort of breathtaking. Sort of beautiful, dark and daring. Steve thinks about reaching out and touching him, putting his hands on Eddie’s sides, sliding them into his hair, and the buzz gets a little quiet.

Eddie puts his thumb in his mouth, licking the blood off. There’s something intense about watching him do it. Steve still has messy, unhealed wounds on his throat and they throb like day old bruises, like hickies high on his neck. Steve always used to press his thumb into the bruises Nancy would give him when they were still together. She’d hide them under his collar so he wouldn’t have to cover them up and Steve would stand in front of his bathroom mirror shirtless and dig his fingers into them to make them sting, watch them heal over days, red, then purple, green, yellow. The one time she let him give her a hickie high up on her neck, just under the curve of her jaw, her ear, she’d groused about it later, spent long minutes layering over it with makeup to hide it until it went away. But in the privacy of her bedroom or his, with the concealer washed away, Steve was obsessed with watching the rainbow colours it produced as it healed into her pale neck.

It occurs to him that he wants to bite Eddie Munson. He wants to bite Eddie and watch his mark fade into Eddie’s skin.

-

He cleans up in the ensuite bathroom with nothing more than a bottle of water and his ruined polo shirt because the pipes don’t work here either. He finds replacement clothes in his Upside Down bedroom wardrobe – his taste has only shifted slightly in three years and he’s mostly only grown taller, not much wider across the shoulders, so it all still fits well enough. His jeans have a tear in one knee and are scuffed badly on the other, but Steve can’t find it in himself to care all that much. The shirt he puts on is a non-descript t-shirt. He thinks it might be the one he wore when he fought the demo-dogs in ’84, because he hasn’t seen it in his wardrobe in a fair while.

Out of habit he goes to check his hair in the mirror. The room looks back at him like Steve isn’t stood there at all, like he’s peering into it from one side, from an angle, his body out of range. It’s just a swathe of check print wallpaper, the matching drapes, the dresser, his desk, the stupid car photo framed above it. Not Steve. But he’s in range – his body is immediately in front of the glass.

Steve swallows uncomfortably. He reaches up one hand and his fingers shake. He presses that hand against the mirror, the glass cold and solid, and none of it casts any reflection – not his body, not his arm, not that hand. It’s like he isn’t even there. Like he doesn’t exist.

He feels his teeth in his mouth. They feel too sharp.

Steve sucks a breath in. It saws back out of his chest and it feels like his lungs are deflated, like he can’t get enough oxygen. His hands escape to the collar of his shirt, gripping it, pulling it away from his throat. He can feel the bite on his neck burning, the wounds from the demo-bats aching, and he wheezes, lungs restricted like someone is squeezing them.

He casts no reflection, so maybe he’s dead.

Maybe he died and this is hell.

Maybe he’s lying on his front in the parking lot outside of Family Video still bleeding to death. Maybe he never got as far as the break room, Eddie’s long claws reaching as he ran away, raking down his spine, paralysing him.

He doesn’t exist. He’s dead, he’s gone, nothing is real, he casts no reflection and –

Ş̶̧̥̤̘̞̰̭̝̗͓̩̩̩̈́̈́͛̾̾͂̄̿́̽̕ứ̸̡̡̤̩͉̠̙͙̩͖͔͎̈́̈́͋̐͛̀̏͒͝b̷̺̪̹̣̯̘̿̾́̀̚m̴͓͂í̴̧͕͚͚͙̦̼̝̬̓̒́̓͗̆̅͗̀̃͐̊̀͝t̷̙̩̜̼̔̓͑͑̿̈́̍͐̓́͘͝͝͝.̸̡͇̮͉̰̬͚̭̰̜͕̺̓ ̴̛̖͓̖̻̪̥̫̩͓̆͊̓̇̌̃̆̓͘S̴̡̜̥̟͔̱̭̞̥͎̼̬̠̫̘̖̀̈́͒̍̓̄̂̋̍̃͘͝͠ư̵͇̣̟̝̟͔͍͈̩̲͖̖͖͑͗͛̑̔͗̊̊̊̋̕͝͝b̵̮̗̎͝m̸̢̧̧͇̲̱͂́į̵̫͙̟̲̳̼̠̤̜̘̩͈̫̈̔̋̈́̅̚ͅt̶̨̛̥̹̞̠̼̟̬̯̯͑̍́͛̀͂͋͘͠͝!̴̧̤̹̪͎̘͈̫̭͖̞̗̤̆̽̃̍͆̈́̀̏̾̊̊̏̚̚ͅ ̴͓̝͙̭͕͈̖̝͆̇̓̍͊S̶̛̛̬̰̱͐̌̀̈́̏̍́̽̽̑̿̕ű̴̡̞̠͕̖̟͒̏͑̚̕b̶̢͎̱̰̖̞͕̙̝̻̓̒͂̇̅̔̒̋̀̎̀̊̀͂͘ͅm̷̡̪͙͖͍͚̋̈́̄ͅȉ̸̧͎̞͍̲͖̳̠̜̟̩̹̰̰̬̝̈́͒̽̆͛́̂̅̓͠͝t̵̡̧̢̩̠̫̝̟̮̘̞͖͖̣̙͑̕͠ͅ!̸̨̡͙̗̰̳̙̖̃̀͛̍̿̑́́̍͆̾̍̿̚ͅ ̴̢̖͕̩̂͂S̴̱͉̻͚͎̙͖̬̫̖̋̈́̋̌͜ǔ̸̦̜͇̰̣̠̰̫̞̟̪̫̩͗̀̄̀̈́̏̓͝b̷̨̹̯͖̱̫̥̒̍́̔̏̽̒͐̉̕m̶̢̮̘̈́͂i̷̧̝̙̼̩̥̗͗̅̍̈͘͜͜t̸̛͙̘̺̭͕͇̟̹̮̼͎̖̝̤͈̋̿̉́̕!̸̝̤͕͖̮̮̹̀̌͊̓̅̔̔̈́̅̈̇͗̚ S̶̳͎̏͂̍u̶̘̜̜̹͇̔̿̋̒͂̾̌̈́̄̒̊͂͠͝b̶̛̛̼̖̣̗̻̣͇̳̩͈̍͌͆̊̇͑̔̇̌͋̽͒m̴̰͛i̸̢̢̻̭͇̻̮̮̫̘̣̰͈͚̠̹̯̇̄̈̒̅͆̄̆̈́͘̕͠ţ̴̺͖̲̖̪̭̮͎͉͔̭͍͍͓̺̰̺̖͉̓̌͋̕͝!̵̙̳̼̰̈́͊̍̄͑̅̆̋̃͑́͝͝ ̶̨̢̧̨̛̦̝͚͇̠̱̻̼̗͍̞̹̅̍̇̑̚͜͝͝Ṡ̸̨̡̙͓̬̥̞̘͙̥̼̰̗̗̠̔͛͌̆͐̄̇̈̕̕ͅü̶͚̈́̂̍͂̒̈́̚͠b̷̢̧̛̘̟͔̩͖̯̠͖͔̹͔̠̟͍̦̟̜͌͊̎̾̾̾͆̈́̎̕͝m̵̧̢̢̯̱̝̘̝̙̼͔̥̔́ͅĩ̸̦͚̪̬̩̪̱͎͙̘͉̼͚̍̒̾̑̉̿́̄̂̔̑͗͐̑͌͘͝͝ͅt̵̠̘̓̀̏͑͊!̷̛̝̣͚́̀̓̈́͛̈́̾̌̈́̑̿̀̃̏͒͒͛̕͝ ̴̙̘̤͈̖͛͐̎̓̈S̶̡͖̥͇̮̗̗̭͚̖̪͎̻͇̘̄̈͋͜͠ư̸̛̹̩͇͈̬̼̪̒̃̀̒͗̀̇̃̽̾̋̿̄b̵̧͍̗͎̻̞̺̹̘̯͔̼͠m̷̛͈̖̬̆̀̎̾̔̓̾́͐͛̈́̃̿̈́͋̈̈̕ḯ̴̙̯͎̗̩̭͌̊̊̓̅̀̑̊̓́͐̕ṭ̵̢̟̠͕͕̩͎̀̓́̽̋̉͋͊̿̈́͝!̸̨̡̨̢̫͎̙̙͙͎̮̘̩̳͙̳̩̃̓̀̌̈́̃̑͐̔̃̃̉̐͆̅́̄͜ S̶̡̨̖̙̯͕̮͙͕̲̝͚̼̭̣̟̲͖͔͉̪̭̮̙̐̇̈̅̽̄͜ų̶̫̺̱͎̪̟̯̇̓͠b̸̖͉͎̝͈̤̗̈́̊m̵̡̛͕̙͈̙͕̼̤̜͌͊̈́͗̾͐̎̈́̆͐̇̓̀̒̅͂̌͋͆̈́͐͘͜i̵̩̻͇̥͙̯̥̞̤͈̦̰̝̫̯͉͍̰̙̮̰͙̳̲̫͎͂̄͂͒̌͑͜͝ţ̷̧̠̱̩̥͚̝̺̙̳̳̭̳͚̱̘̼̲͎͖̹̞̈́̀́͌̂̃̾̓̈́̍̈̉̎͛͘͝͝͠ͅ!̴̣̥̞̇̑̿̽̋̎̇ ̵̢͙̜̦̲̎̆͝͝Š̷̢͚̦̬͇̩̬̫̹͎̮̳̺͍̗͙̳̮̜͙͓̮̰̗̫ừ̵̢̡̛̬͍̮̤̼̘̯͎̙͎̻͕̮̀̊͂͒͂̈́͊̀͘b̷̛͚̙̙̹͚̞̭͉̖̞̼̖̬̼̭̙̮̤̯͈͎͕̋̂̽̂̽̉̈̽̐̇̓̕̚ͅm̵̡̛̤̬̓̂̄̋͋̓̓͆͊͛͂̽̂i̷̼̺͇̰͙͊t̵̢̢̨̛̜̤̤̭͎̟͚̗̞̜̜͔̙̜̥̠͙̙̹̲̜͔͆͐̍́͊̓̌̆̇͋͌̒̃̽̐̽̈́̀͆͒̈̀͘͜͜!̵̦͈͔͚̹̠̹͎͓̪̺̼̫̻̺̥̳̳̻̝̩̠̀̚͘͜͠ ̷̨̡̞̪̬̦̠̥͕̟̯̮̽̉͝Ŝ̶̡̧̢̪̯̱͇̖̯̺̞̯̖͙̋̓̀̒͊̾̈́̊͘͘͜ų̴̢̛͔̳̥͕̭͚̼̤̱͔͖̤͐́̔̈́̿̈̿̿̔̎͘̚̚̕͠͝b̶̳̺̪̮͉͉̰̩̬̂̈́͗͑̊̚͠ͅͅm̵̡̨̢͇͔̺̘̬̳͈̜̼̖͎̩̙̲̙̤͉̥̪͈̿͋͗͛͑̀̆̅̄̾̄͊̂̓̕͜͝ͅi̵̛͚̲̻̙̰̣̬̦̦̩̮͎͗͌̒̔̀̂̂̃̃̃̾̔͐̄̕̚͘͜ṭ̶̛̰̬͇̯͎͕̮̠̦̞͉̳͖̼̈́̅͆̂̌̍̔͗͌̅̀͆̅̓̕̚͜͠͠!̷̭͕̮̮̪̘͂̐̽̀̈͐̂̅͒̄̈̎ S̵̨̛̻͍̭̦̙̘͓̘͓̫͎̞̼͚͕̙͕̖͓̰̰̺͍͑̂̒̐̋̃͛̄̀̅͌̒̎̉̎͂̐́͌̀̎͐͐̊͘͘͜͜͝͝͝ư̴̡̨̢͔̠͈̯̗̮̭̲̹̯͔̮̺̜̙̻̰̝͍̮̼̺̖͉̞͕͓̩͔̬̹̘̹̯͙͕͉̌́̓̇̾̑̿̎͂̒̈́͐̊͐͌͆͂́̽̑̊͋͗̎̚͘͜͜͝ͅḅ̸̧̡̨͎̲̱͍͕̮̘̯̺̩̦͕̆̂̏̊̃̿̆̌̎̅͋̏̈́̄̎̌̌̏̊̕̕͘͜͜͜͜͝͠͝m̷̨̡̛̮̦̱̫̞̰̘̦̪̩͙̭͍̬͈͈͚̻͓̖̲̹̣͚̼̺̟̙̲͍̯͖͓̣̩̜͓̄̆̎͌͒̋͗̇͐̈́̒͑̅̽͆̋̋̐͑̈͘̚͝͝͝͠ī̴̡̛͎̩̞͎̺̪̳̻͖̯͓͖̫̭̪̞̬͈̭̥̯̘̱̫̩͇̱̥̩̮̹̦̯̗͓͓͓̻̦͒͋̍̒̂̔̈́̇́̓͆̆͗̃͋̇͛͒̐͛͜͜͠͠͝͝t̸̢̧̛̳͚̭͔̪͇͖͈̹̠̺͍̟̰̤̜͚̳̳̜́̉̇͌̀̿͗̈́̀͒̈́̓͛͂͋̈́̋̊̆̍̐̍̌̑̃̈́̇̊̓̅̿̅͊͗̋̉̽̈́̈́̕͝͠!̴̧̢̢̛̛̺͔̼̞͉̻̝̗̤̲̳͕̲̟̦̯͕͉͈̞̹̩̙͙͇̙̝̭̠͙̱͇̣̩͖͇͉͕̰͛̊͐͌̇̓̅͋̿̀͗̐̀̉̅͌̌̇̽͘̚͜͝ͅ

– and the buzzing rises in his head. It gets louder and louder, a cresting wave, a wall of white noise, squeezing into every crevice, ever crack in Steve’s mind. Steve clutches his head, eyes scrunched shut. The noise keeps building, so loud Steve thinks his ears might bleed, his head might explode. It feels like fire, white hot and raging, and Steve screams.

A moment later the room is packed with people crowding through the door, Eddie at the forefront. Steve gets jostled backwards as Eddie moves straight into his space, crowds up close, frowning, hands on Steve’s shoulders. Steve blinks up at him but it’s all too much, noise and light overwhelming everything else. He’s talking to Steve, he’s saying something but Steve can’t make it out for the pounding in his skull, the racket of sound muffling everything else.

Eddie starts moving backwards, and Steve goes with him until they’re both sat on the edge of Steve’s bed. Eddie’s talking again, and now Steve can hear him past the rush, talking slow and steady, voice low and gentle.

‘It’s the hive mind, yeah? It’s just the hive mind getting loud, that happens sometimes. Whatever happened, whatever you were thinking, you just have to let it go. Let it go, Steve, and the noise will get quiet. Just breathe and let it go. Breathe and let it go.’

It takes a while, long minutes of agony stretching out forever, but eventually Steve can lift his head, can blink the buzzing away to the back of his mind, and take his surroundings in a little better. Eddie is all but on top of him on the edge of the bed, kneeling over him, hands on Steve’s shoulders. The bed is unmade, bedclothes rumpled in a way that suggests someone has slept in here and merely threw back the covers when they got up last.

Crowded near the doorway are Gareth, Ray and Jeff, watching curiously, Gareth holding a candle in one hand like he dragged it all the way upstairs with him. Likely he did.

Jeff nods at Steve when he looks in their direction. ‘You okay, man?’ he asks.

Steve glances at Eddie, mouth tight. ‘I have no reflection,’ he says.

Ray groans loudly from across the room. ‘You’re a vampire, what the hell do you expect?’

‘Dude,’ snaps Eddie.

Ray rolls his eyes right back, expression mean. He gestures to Steve. ‘This guy is going to be useless to us. Jocks always are. You used to think so yourself. Big, bad Eddie, would rather run his mouth and get his face punched in than let a sporto walk all over him. Now you’re playing mother hen to a washed up prom king in the hopes that he – what – uses his letterman jacket to scare some freshman? This is pathetic.’

‘Does the hive mind think so?’ asks Eddie, his voice dropping an octave, entirely dangerous.

‘The hive mind can suck my dick!’ spits back Ray, and then wavers where he stands, eyes rolling up in his head.

It’s a long, tense moment, Ray with his fingers tight on the edge of Steve’s dresser, blunt teeth grit. No one says anything, no one moves, but Steve intrinsically knows what’s happening, understands exactly the kind of battle he’s witnessing. The others are just as tense, fists clenched, watching on with empathy. They’ve all done this, then. They’ve all been invaded this way for thinking the wrong thing, saying the wrong thing.

At long last Ray pitches forward, panting harshly, and Jeff reaches out to steady him, hand on his arm. Ray looks up, face like thunder, and Eddie just looks back, steely-gazed and unflinching.

‘Whatever,’ grunts Ray. He turns and trudges away, the others trailing him out.

It still leaves Eddie in Steve’s bubble of space, looking down at him, his big doe eyes searching. He drops down to sit on his heels, hands in his lap. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘he’ll like you when he gets to know you.’

Steve just shrugs. He remembers laughing at Tommy for tripping him in the hallways between classes in his junior year. He doesn’t think Ray’s going to get to like him somehow.

‘I’ll lend you some clothes,’ continues Eddie, getting up from the bed. ‘Make you look like one of us. Then he can’t say shit.’ He goes to the end of the bed and plucks something from the floor, throws it at Steve’s chest. Steve catches it, looks down at the denim in his hands. A Dio patch looks up at him.

‘Is this your vest?’ asks Steve, holding it up. ‘I thought we left it in the RV.’

‘You did,’ says Eddie. ‘It was still there. I took it back. There’s blood, sweat and tears in that thing. I’m not just going to give it up.’

‘And yet you given it to me to wear twice now,’ says Steve. He stands, starts to shrug it on over his t-shirt. It still fits the same as last time, loose over his shoulders, hanging at just the right spot on his waist. The denim looks stiff and heavy but it feels soft and well worn.

Eddie shrugs, and Steve watches as his eyeline drops, takes Steve’s whole frame in, works its way back up again. Steve’s teeth ache.

‘Maybe I like seeing it on you,’ says Eddie, smooth, and now Steve knows for sure that he’s flirting.

He grins, the charming King Steve Harrington smile, the one that always makes the ladies weak at the knee, giggling and blushing. He reaches up for the lapels of the vest, holds them, and Eddie snorts, but he’s blushing. Steve didn’t know the dead could blush. It’s adorable.

‘Take a picture,’ says Steve, cocky. ‘It’ll last longer.'

‘Would that I could,’ replies Eddie immediately, and then stops, head cocked. ‘I don’t actually know if I could, though. With the no reflection thing – oh.’ And then he shuffles back over to the mirror in the room, reaches out and taps the glass, a quick pattern with his nail. Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap.

His arm shows no reflection. Huh. Steve feels his shoulders drop a little, easier.

‘One of the great curses of vampire living,’ admits Eddie. ‘I never get to see my luscious mane ever again.’

Steve tuts, disappointed. ‘My hair,’ he mutters, mostly to himself.

‘If you ask nice, maybe I’ll do it for you,’ says Eddie, cheeky, and then turns to waltz away. ‘Come on, man, the sun is setting! Time to roll. We gotta feed you before you start eating the bats.’

Steve’s stomach rolls, twisting with hunger. The thought of eating is appealing. He snatches up the pair of real Ray-Bans sat on top of the dresser and hooks them over his shirt collar, trots out into the hallway to meet the others by the front door. They’re going back up tonight. Steve can feel the hive mind buzzing with excitement at Steve’s first time feeding.

He gets on the back of Eddie’s bike again, ignoring the shrewd look Jeff shoots him when he sees Eddie’s vest, and the disdain in Ray’s eyes. Gareth seems unbothered, at least.

They ride in a different direction this time, Eddie explaining that the car was hidden after their last trip to the Right Side Up near a different gateway. Like last time they’re all ignored when they ride through Upside Down Hawkins, the monsters that live here going about their lives unbothered. They turn off long before the road leads to the trailer park, take another route back deeper into the older, richer part of town. Steve knows where they’re headed long before they roll up and park, the old, dilapidated Creel house split almost down the middle through the attic.

‘Gonna say hi to the boss man,’ says Gareth to Steve as they all make their way through the house’s creaking front gate and up the front path.

Like last time Steve was here, the Creel house is overrun by vines, crawling with them. He steps between them easily, not even needing to think before he sets a foot down because he already knows where all the vines will be. They make their way upstairs single file, Ray in the lead. By the time Steve is already all the way to the attic entrance Ray is climbing through the gate, all but rushing to get away. Jeff isn’t far behind.

Gareth holds the door open for Steve, and Steve nods at him, but his eyes are already reading over the room, taking it all in. The gate is a living, open wound splitting the room in two. On one side is the door to the room that Steve just entered through, that Eddie is entering through behind him. Hanging from the rafters on the other side, vines a writhing mass around his burned body, a fat, grizzled spider in the web of its own making, is Henry.

He’s significantly more damaged than the first time Steve ever saw him. His body is covered in burns, the wounds sloughing and weeping, grey and open in the toxic air. Steve can’t tell exactly where Nancy’s bullets hit, because the majority of his chest is a gory mess, but it’s clear enough that six weeks of hiding in wait have not been kind to Henry Creel. If he is healing, it is slow.

Steve pauses at the edge of the gate after Gareth climbs through and looks up. He can’t help himself, really. And in the end it’s worth it, because Henry opens his eyes, looks down om Steve like a deity looks down on an ant; benevolent, violent, too bright. Steve has been blessed for staring into the sun.

H̷̖̘̉͌̔͜͝e̵͊̅͜l̸̹͍̲̖͓͈̺͇͙̥̘̊̆ļ̵͚̲̟̝͊̅̽́̄̓̉̈́̔͜o̵̳̳̲̞̅,̴͓̩̰̪̩̦̀͋ͅ ̵̡̨̤͉̘̗̹̘̐̓͐̿̌S̴̟̥̳̖̜̆t̵̡͍̾̃͝ẻ̸̝̯̰̃̉̃v̸͎̎̕ę̵̡̥̥̭̣̖̀͊̈́.̴̺͈̮̃̏̈͂̇

Steve blinks. Eddie, stood just behind him, says, ‘Well, say hello back.’

‘Hello,’ says Steve.

Í̴͎̯́̓̅̓̒̄͘͜ ̵̡̧̛͙͍͖̞͍͌͗̀͋͘w̴̻͇͕̋̈́̔̃ï̵̛͖̹̪̙͕̭̪̊̾̾̀̑͜͝͝l̴̠̀̆͆͆̈̇l̷̛͕̓́̍̾ ̴̻͚͙̲͕̲̐̃͗̂̑̄͆̍̀͠b̶̢̠̫̣̎͒̃͆̐͝ȩ̸̨̩̠̭͙̫͍̬̉̈́̊͌̊̃̎ͅ ̷̦̻̞̰̤͆ẅ̶̨̢͓͉̣͚̣̼͇̘́̏̆̔̎͆͘ͅa̵̡͇̤̼̲̠̥̜͖̠͗͛̈́̑͑̆̄̈́̿͝t̷̹̼͎͙̫̞̭͖͕́̅̈́̿̏̉̎c̷̹̓́̐̌̃́͗͝͝ḩ̸̺̱̫̞̟͕͕͈̏i̷̧̧̯̟̟̮͕̬͒́͘̕n̵̫̝̻̞̮̞̩̣̱̅͌̈͊͛͝g̸̛̜͖̐́͌́̏̒̈́.̴͓̤̜̝̣̝̄̆͌͊̅́͌

Steve nods. Eddie pats his shoulder, steers him forward. ‘We’ll find him someone cute to sink his teeth into, Henry,’ says Eddie cheerfully, ‘just you wait. It’s gonna be so metal.’

-

They drive to the nearest gas station first, the car basically running on fumes. It is stolen, as Steve had suspected when he first saw it on Friday night, but not from Hawkins. From Indianapolis, apparently. Eddie hadn’t even had to hot wire it, just jimmy the window open because the poor fool who owned it had left the keys in the ignition.

‘Like stealing candy from a baby,’ says Eddie, brightly, as they drive back towards town.

They all get out at the gas station, Eddie, Gareth, and Ray going in to grab snacks and beer. Steve used to come to this place to buy alcohol without getting carded all the time, knowing that even though the beer was shitty stuff a) he had never had an employee question him trying to buy it, and b) shitty stuff still gets you drunk.

Jeff is left to pump gas, a fact he doesn’t seem overly bothered with. He glances in Steve’s direction when Steve gets out, but then looks across at the metre when Steve starts to wander towards the edge of the road, not really interested in going inside.

He gets almost to the curb when he feels it. The pull, the call.

Steve turns his head to the right. He’s three streets away from his home. It would be a short walk, really, so simple to just leave and walk away. But he’s so hungry, his stomach tied in angry knots, and he knows he’s not craving food. He can feel the urge for blood burning in the back of his throat and it makes him shivery with want. So he shouldn’t leave the others, shouldn’t go home, shouldn’t even think about it.

And yet.

And yet the hum starts to build again. It raises its ugly head inside him, a discordant buzz, a hint, a stage whisper in his ear. Already it’s so loud, already it feels like pressure building until his joins all pop apart. Steve’s ears are still ringing from the way it rocked him before, the way it bellowed inside of him. And Eddie said to let it show him the way, let it take what it wanted.

Steve shuts his eyes, searches amongst the noise for a voice, for the voice he can always make out through the din. He finds him, lurking somewhere behind his eyeballs, watchful and excited. Steve knows it’s this or agony – and so he lets Henry in and Steve disappears.

The vampire opens its eyes. None of its brothers are paying attention, too caught up in their own bickering, so it’s no trouble to sink into the shadows, to slip away towards its target. It moves swiftly, lets the hive mind teach it flight so that in moments it stands at the end of a familiar street, watching a familiar car pull up to a familiar house.

The Palace of the Right Side Up is large, proud, unsubtle. It is the biggest house on the street and spreads itself out wide, taking up as much space as possible. Inside it is tastefully decorated, but a memory from the body that the vampire is host to considers it barren, impersonal, cold. There is nothing but money to boast about a house like this, nothing but false pride hiding the mountainous shame of a fragile little gaggle of humans who don’t even love each other.

So this will be easy, then.

There are no lights on in the building, or outside, and as the vampire approaches it can hear the woman getting out of the car complaining. She climbs from the passenger seat, eyes on the house’s front door, her mouth a harsh line. Her hair is permed and hairsprayed, her figure incredibly slim. She starts moving towards the entrance even as the man in the driver’s side is still climbing from the vehicle.

‘Well, I don’t know!’ he snaps. ‘Maybe he’s out with those children he always seems to be collecting.’

The woman huffs, scrounging through her purse. She produces a set of keys and unlocks the door, starts flicking on lights as soon as she’s inside. The man has moved the back of the car and opens the trunk, collects bags from inside. He’s just closing the trunk when the vampire moves forward, making itself known at the end of the driveway. It stands in the shadows, its sneakers shifting softly the only hint of its presence, so that there’s time to leech its true face behind something that mimics humanity.

The man turns, jolts slightly. ‘Steve!’ he says. ‘Jesus, boy, you scared me. Where’ve you been?’

‘Out,’ says the vampire.

‘Well you better come inside already, your mother’s already throwing a fit. She’s so afraid of that Munson lunatic, you’d think he personally attacked her.’ He turns and marches to the doorway and the vampire follows, silent, unwilling to say anything to risk being uninvited.

The house is bright now, lit so radiantly that the vampire winces as it steps through the entrance, has to scrounge at the collar of its shirt for the sunglasses sitting there. They help a little, resting on the end of the vampire’s long nose. It gains the attention of the man, who turns to frown, clearly disapproving.

‘Don’t tell me you’re high at this time of night, Steven,’ he scolds. ‘Have you been hanging out with the Byers boy again – Jonathan? That pot head is just like his good for nothing father.’ His eyes flick down to the denim vest then, and the disapproval turns to disdain. ‘What are you wearing?’ he asks.

The woman appears at the end of the hallway, her handbag and shoes removed. ‘Brian who are you – oh, Steve.’ Her eyes narrow, scrutinising. ‘There’s a hole in your jeans,’ she says, and it is somehow even more scrutinising than anything the man has just said. The vampire peers at her, considering.

‘Come and eat, Brian,’ says the woman then, dismissing the vampire entirely, and marches back where she came from. The man follows, huffing and puffing as if he’s been asked to do some great feat. The vampire creeps along behind silently.

They are just within the threshold of the kitchen when the woman pauses by the kitchen counter and says, ‘Oh, Brian, be a dear and check the answering machine.’

The man heaves a sigh, throwing his hands into the air. He turns and stalks back out into the hallway, jostling the vampire as he goes. The vampire pays him no heed, stepping forward to watch the woman pulling a bottle of white wine from the fridge. There are two Lean Cuisine meals on the counter, a wine glass sitting between them. The woman opens the bottle and begins to pour.

‘Sunglasses off inside, Steven,’ she says absently, and continues to pour until the glass is most of the way full. The vampire doesn’t move, doesn’t even suggest it will take off the sunglasses, and when the woman finishes she sets down the bottle and turns to it, eyes flashing. ‘Are you deaf? Don’t ignore me, young man. Sunglasses off.’ She holds her hand out, palm up, and the vampire stares at it.

‘I’m hungry,’ it says, voice flat.

‘Are you high right now?’ asks the woman.

It’s at this moment the cassette from the family answering machine finishes rewinding and starts to play. ‘Brian,’ says a man’s, voice, ‘this is Phil Callahan from Hawkins Police. Listen, I don’t want to upset you, but we know you and Linda have been away this weekend so you won’t have heard the news. There was a break in at the Family Video on Friday night, a staff member was killed. We’ve been trying to get in touch with Steve, it – uh – it looks like he was working the closing shift that night, and we want to know if he saw anything. If you could give me a call at the station when you get this – Steve’s not in trouble, we just want to make sure he’s alright.’

The man leans across to click stop of the tape and then silence falls across the house, both the man and woman staring at the vampire.

‘Steven,’ says the man in a low warning.

‘I’m hungry,’ says the vampire again. It turns and assesses the man over its shoulder, deciding where to begin. ‘And now,’ it says, teeth growing in its mouth, ‘I’m bored.’

And it is easy – as easy as breathing, as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. And it is kind of like that, actually, two stupid, insipid little humans in a box they’ve built themselves into, a trap with too many locked doors, too many dead ends. Humans are feeble, fragile creatures, thin-skinned and red-blooded. Their bones are brittle and their hearts are weak. It its barely a stretch for the vampire to kill the first one, barely any effort at all to turn towards the man and shove him against the sideboard, tear open the veins in his throat. The man makes a sickening gurgle, body shaking violently, and the vampire drinks, greedily gulping down the hot, sweet blood that spills free.

The woman is screaming from the kitchen, high-pitched and terrified. The vampire releases the man and lets him slump back against the wall, eyes wide, gripping at his own wounds before sinking to the floor to lie in the sticky pool gathering on the ground.

The vampire raises its head towards the woman, teeth bared, claws long, eyes glinting. The woman turns and runs.

She doesn’t make it far. As far as prey are concerned, humans are slow and stupid. The woman is bare-foot and she runs outside, out onto the deck, but there’s only trees ahead of her, past the swimming pool – if she could make it that far she’d be slowed down from injuries. She won’t though. The vampire isn’t going to let her. It’s still hungry.

It catches her around the middle, drags her back so sharply her little bird body lifts off the ground. She screams again, struggles in the vampire’s grasp. There’s no use. Even as a human the vampire was stronger than this slip of a woman, and no amount of fight will save her. The vampire yanks her head back by her hair and bites down on the throbbing in her throat, drinks and drinks and drinks until it’s sated.

After a while the woman stops struggling, stops mewling in pain. After a while the vampire lays her down on the cold paving tiles, her little body limp in its grasp. She lies on the ground as he drinks her dry, lapping up every last drop until there’s nothing left.

It feels the moment she reaches the brink. It can sense it, her heart slowing, her breathing jerky, her body heavy and unmoving. The vampire draws back to watch, fascinated, curious to see the life leave her eyes.

And in this moment, she reaches up and touches it, her fingers sticky, on its cheek. ‘Steve,’ she says, voice broken and hushed.

A flood of memories crack through the buzzing from the body the vampire is wearing. It sees the woman holding a camera while the body poses next to a teenage girl, the pair of them grinning, the body presenting the girl with a corsage to pin to her dress. It sees a birthday with a maroon BMW, the woman’s smile so wide her face seems to split open with it. It sees the woman in a crowd at a basketball game, cheering. It sees the woman putting a tooth under a pillow and telling the body a story about the tooth fairy. It sees the woman sitting the body on the kitchen counter, the body so small, so young, to watch as the woman makes cookies. It knows the woman is mother. It’s – it’s –

‘Mum?’ gasps Steve. ‘Oh, Jesus, what did I – Mum!’

But it’s too late. She’s gone. Dead, eyes open, mouth slack.

Steve drops her, skittles backwards until he’s pressed against the sliding door. He is covered in his parents’ blood, soaked in it. It’s all over his hands, his face, running down his front, all over Eddie’s denim vest. The corpse of his mother is a pile of meat and bones just feet away, a small pool of red beneath her slowly spreading outwards. Steve can still taste her and he feels sick, he feels alive, he feels sated.

The buzzing is getting loud again.

He hears, somewhere behind him, the front door of the house opening, and a low voice say, ‘Oh shit, wait – does that mean they’re both dead – holy shit –’ and then it peters off into a high pitched, manic chuckle.

‘Oh my god,’ says someone else, ‘shut the hell up, Gareth.’

The buzzing is a cacophony, is an orchestra playing loud and out of tune in Steve’s head. He claps his hands over his ears, slumped against the glass, and a sad little moan chokes out of him.

‘You guys stay here,’ says a third voice, and then louder, footsteps approaching, ‘Stevie?’

It’s Eddie, Steve knows that voice anywhere. But he can’t move, can’t think, his head is full of static turned all the way up, clawing at his insides, making it impossible to even breathe. When he does breathe in he can smell it, the stink of blood on the air, metallic and sharp, all over his hands –

‘Steve,’ says Eddie, and crouches down in front of him. Steve squeezes his eyes closed but he feels when Eddie reaches out, gently, to pry Steve’s fingers loose. Steve sucks in a gasp and Eddie curls forward into him, around him, holding Steve tightly.

‘It’s okay,’ he breathes, and rests his chin on the crown of Steve’s head. ‘You did what you were told.’

‘I don’t want –’ starts Steve, choked out, but the buzz amps up again and his words descend to a pained moan, a wave of agony.

Eddie shushes him, holds him somehow tighter. ‘Don’t fight it,’ he says, ‘just let go. It’s okay, Steve, don’t be brave. Don’t be brave, sweetheart, just let it all go away. It’s okay.’

Steve clutches at Eddie’s sides, face pressed into Eddie’s collarbone, and the buzz is an unending nightmare, an eternal presence screaming in the back of his mind, but Eddie knows, Eddie can feel it. Eddie’s thoughts are simmering inside him like everybody else’s. He can feel Gareth’s excitement, feel how Ray’s impressed, feel how Jeff is hungry. He can feel Henry, ebbing around the corners, satisfied. The hive mind is a wash of it all, too much feeling. But Eddie is here, clutching Steve to him, pressing him close, and his voice is the loudest in the din, in the rush.

L̶̞̪̔͠e̴͓̊̀̀t̸̠̜̐̍̽ͅ ̸̦̻͕͊g̷̮͆ͅō̵̞͉̰̒,̵͎̲͂ ̷̠͖̝̄́S̷̬̖̈́t̷̨̲̙̓̅̀e̷̱̫͗͑v̴̫̟̽̑ę̸̢̐͘.̵̗̯͔͐ ̵̬̇̅̒I̶̢̥͎͊̌t̶̘̳̒’̵͖̕ṣ̵̥̓̈ ̵̨͐ò̸̤̅ḵ̴̩͓̅̆á̷̡̲̾̍y̵͔̽ ̴̯̠̌͗t̴̻̗̘́͑̕ô̷̢̖͇͆͗ ̸̝̝̂̀̎l̷̜̿ė̷̦̚t̷̥̹͇́̋̊ ̶͓̯̮̂́͝g̷̨̥̓õ̸͖͎͔̋́.̴͉̳̈͝

It feels like unclenching his jaw. Like noticing a muscle is pulled tight and releasing it. The noise fizzles, washes over him, wipes the insides of his brain clean. There is nothing left, an echoey cavern between his ears, new and shiny and empty. It is only the hive mind, and that’ s okay. Eddie said so.

Eddie holds him through it all, never wavering, never shying away. He is warm and soothing and good, his arms strong around Steve. His fingers tap a pattern on Steve’s spine and it’s a comfort to be lost inside the rhythm of quick, and slow, and quick again.

Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap.

Steve lets himself be held. And it’s enough, it’s enough. Eddie has him. It’s enough.