Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This side of town's a wasteland after ten-thirty, even on a Saturday night; after one it's the pock-marked, demon-haunted surface of the moon. The Texaco on Crittenden doubly so. When you touch the Doritos bags they—scream a bit. Should probably be sold in pairs.

“Sorry,” Eddie murmurs. Somebody else in this same aisle seems to be giggling uncontrollably. “Sorry, sorry. Shh. It’ll be over soon.”

“Hell are you doing back there,” Hargrove mutters.

Now the word DORITOS has started crawling around spider-legged. Eddie’s thumb squishes the R but it crinkles right back to life. Not optimal. He’ll tell the… NASA? No, sweet fuck, they have enough problems. Reconsider the moon as cheese, though, and somewhat soft, and fecundly round. It reminds him of something. But what. “Buy something or leave,” Hargrove calls.

Eddie cranes his neck backwards. Chin up. Blinks.

“Invisible Hargrove,” he says. "That's some trick."

“What?”

“So fucking unfair,” Eddie mutters.

There's stomping.

Hargrove appears at the end of the aisle, looming in front of the stacked-up antifreeze jugs. He watches Eddie for a minute, eyes narrowed. His nametag, from here, looks like FILLY. Imagine.

“You're tripping balls,” Hargrove says.

“Am I?”

“Jesus Christ,” Hargrove says.

Gone again.

“Neigh,” Eddie says. He paws the ground a couple of times, tosses his mane insultingly. If Hargrove’s nametag isn't a lie he'll get the gist.

At the counter, Hargrove stares impassively while Eddie counts coins out for cigarettes. Several times. “Eighty-one, eighty-two, and not a penny less!” Eddie says, and slaps the last one down. “My good fellow. Barkeep. A pleasure doing—”

“Get out,” Hargrove says.

Eddie gets out.

An empty parking lot’s a great place to have a good long stare up, and up, and up. It’s free. He picks the plastic off the pack and picks one out and lets his eyes adjust. There are desiccated cornfields all around, bubbles in his lungs. Laughing again lets them slide up like a burp into the vertiginous cold October sky, with all its lickable little bejeweled silmarils. Eddie soaks in the black. Mother’s night. But then there’s something in the distance that’s suddenly pressing him flat. Like the R. He’s being—ensmallened. An unfunny sensation.

“Fuck,” Eddie mutters. “Quit it.”

The stars immediately get him for that. He hears a noise and jerks his head and he’s blinded completely, one white laser-cut flare of agony. Eddie staggers backwards several feet and sits down on top of a newspaper box. “Fuck!” he repeats, eyes over his hands. No, other way around. His heels kick the box and make startling gunshot noises.

The blinding solar frenzy pulls into a parking space, shuts the engine off.

“Eddie?” somebody says. Not Chrissy; his own imagination wouldn’t have to ask.

Eddie blinks.

It’s Harrington, surrounded by miniature floating cartoon halos, which—of course. Bastard. He’s half out of the driver’s side, elbow leaned on his hood. Handsome face crinkled up. Looking at it makes a spark of memory flicker, briefly, in Eddie’s internal combustion. Some kind of—nope, goodbye. “Doing alright?” Harrington says. “You look kinda…”

“He’s fucking tripping,” Hargrove says, standing in the doorway. He’s propped the glass door open with the toe of his boot.

Harrington looks between the two of them.

“Ed, you walking?” Harrington calls.

“I don’t think so,” Eddie says. He glances down to be sure.

“Told you,” Hargrove grunts.

“Come on,” Harrington says. His keys rattle. “I’ll take you home.”

“A fellow sits down abruptly out of necessity one time,” Eddie says, holding a finger up and a cigarette in his teeth, “once, and you leap to naive—assumptions. I could run a marathon right now.”

“Get in the car,” Harrington says, unmoved.

Eddie gets in the car. Harrington doesn’t, immediately; he stands in his open door for another little while, says something that Eddie doesn’t catch, and then Hargrove says something inane about cleaning out the slushie machine. “Okay,” Harrington says. “So… maybe later.”

“Whatever, yeah,” Hargrove says.

The door jingles shut.

Harrington starts the car, pulls them out a little faster than one might do, reasonably; Eddie’s eyes are half-lidded, but he can see FILLY standing at the window while the beamer pulls away. Like a dog watching a schoolbus steal its boy.

Crazy.

Eddie lies back in the passenger seat. Flicks his lighter. Cigarette’s getting mushy, stuck into his lips this long.

“Not in here,” Harrington says.

“What?” Eddie blinks. “Since when?”

“Since I said so,” Harrington shrugs. It hunches his shoulders up tensely. “It’s like, eight minutes. Just hold your horses.”

“Hold yours,” Eddie mutters. And whinnies again.

Harrington isn't fluent, clearly. He rolls his eyes and makes a jerk-off motion. Eddie ignores him. Sinks lower, watches branches and wires swim by in dark tangles of octopus limbs. Maybe it’d be better to shut his eyes, but it’s all red in there. So. Eddie taps his rings against the window. Harrington breaks the speed limit when the road flattens out, easy, like it’s a habit. Bummm, tat-ta-tat, bummm, tat-ta-tat. Running, scrambling, flyinggg—

“Are you trying to crack the glass?” Harrington says, bitchily.

“I really wonder about people who can operate a motor vehicle in total silence,” Eddie muses. “What a unique type of psychosis.”

“Just ask for the radio, Christ,” Harrington mutters.

Eddie fucks around with the dials so much that Harrington slaps his hands a couple of times in frustration. But then he gives up anyway like a pushover, a marshmallow man. A man of sugar. Sweet-as-pie is Harrington, inside. Outside, too. It’s ludicrous. “Whatever you’re on,” Harrington snorts at that, somehow judgmentally reading his mind, hearing his thoughts, “next time, take a little less.”

“Where’s the fun in that,” Eddie sulks. He slides even lower in his seat. His knees become mountains in the sea, in bathwater. Rounded rises of a lagoon. Oh, he remembers again. “So, wow,” Eddie says. “You’re really knocked up.”

The beamer swerves.

“What?”

“Papa don’t preach,” Eddie hums, over the Dio on the stereo. “I've been losing sleep—”

“Shut up,” Harrington hisses.

“Come on,” Eddie says. “Like it’s a bad thing. The miracle of life, right? The reason for the season! Baby on board.” He rolls his heavy head sideways, looks at Harrington’s tensed jaw. The line of his nose in the dark. “I can… stop,” Eddie says, feeling like an asshole, and Harrington’s throat bobs up and down.

He’s silent for a long, long minute.

“Where’d you hear it,” Harrington says, finally.

Eddie gestures up. Around in a circle. Then just watches his hand travel in the air, distracted by his own rings. “Thanks man, yeah, that helps so much,” Harrington says, meanly, when the pause stretches on. “Great fucking talking to you.”

“Does it matter where?”

“Kind of why I asked,” Harrington says.

Eddie pushes himself upright.

“Your—young squire,” he says. “Has a lot of—biology homework. Of late.”

“Fuck,” Harrington says.

It’s soft and startled. He’s silent again for a whole tinny verse of The Last in Line. And then his hand suddenly pounds the steering wheel three times, four times, loud and hard enough to hurt. Eddie yelps and clings to the passenger door, loses his poor fucking uncooked cigarette somewhere, but the car doesn’t cross the yellow line again. Much. “God fucking damnit!” Harrington says, furiously.

“Harrington,” Eddie says.

“God fucking damnit,” Harrington’s repeating to himself, under his breath.

“Harrington.”

“Please, just—shut the fuck up,” Harrington says, “and let me fucking think.”

“Yessir,” Eddie says.

He salutes and slides back down. At this low angle you can see stars out of the car window, between the light poles and those denuded, black-spired trees. Without the golden leaves, they're too… it's Halloween tomorrow. So many ghosts. It’d be a gift to go to bed tonight and sleep all the way until spring.

Maybe Harrington would agree. He seems to be thinking hard all the way to Kerley, staring out the windshield like Eddie’s not there at all. Eddie has to nudge him, when the car turns left instead of right, towards the old, empty lot. Cleared by the county, on account of the... fucked up evil miasma, etcetera. Condemned. What a word! Funny to think of Harrington forgetting, when Eddie spent the whole summer bumming around his big house, waiting while the insurance dragged hooved corporate feet. Harrington had acted put-upon about it sometimes, hogged the remote and muttered, slammed the door on the fridge. But he didn't say get out. He’d carried furniture for Wayne when they got the new trailer. Given Eddie a boombox, since the old one got trashed. Rest in pieces. Eddie repaid the favor by jerking off about him in Casa Harrington’s delightful shower, in Casa Harrington’s fabric-softener-scented guest room, and then later in the presence of the boombox, many times. Probably where tonight’s headed.

“Shit,” Harrington says, slowing down and sighing, glancing back over the seat to make a K-turn and take them back the right way through the loop. “Sorry,” he adds, low-voiced. Tired.

“No worries,” Eddie says. “I do it, too.”

Hunched over, desperate, quaking in silence, collar of a borrowed sweatshirt between his teeth. Remembering the way Harrington spit blood, the hair on the arm that dragged Eddie out of a bat-pile twenty deep and then—held on. Eddie’s going dizzy just thinking about thinking about it.

Thankfully, Harrington’s pulling over.

“Can you,” he says, before Eddie gets out. “Do me a favor—”

Eddie puts two fingers up. Then reconsiders. Three.

“Scout’s honor,” he says, and mimes zipping his mouth. “I’m a steel vault with an adamantium lock. They couldn’t torture it out of me.”

Harrington makes a thin smile.

“You, maybe not,” he says, bizarrely. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, dollface,” Eddie says. He slides out of the door, backs up, and takes a long, exceptionally gracious bow into a dried-out bush. Harrington’s smile looks like it’s on life support now, getting faintly oxygenated. “What’s some… light secrecy,” Eddie says, picking a leaf off. “Between—we happy few. We band of brothers.”

“Sure,” Harrington says.

“What the hell, man!” Dustin yells on Tuesday, about oh, eight hasty minutes after the last bell. He must've treated it like a starting pistol. He whips his bookbag down against the picnic table like he’s trying to club one or both of those things to death. Eddie would love to say that he doesn’t startle at the impact, but, well. Coward’s reflexes are good for lots of things. “What the hell!”

“Jesus, indoor voice,” Max snorts, trailing him.

“We’re outside!” Dustin hollers.

“He’s been like this all day,” Max says, jerking her thumb. She props herself up on the table, dangles one foot. “Did you like, threaten to banish his dumbass bard?”

“Moi?” Eddie says, blinking, hand to heart.

“He knows what he did,” Dustin fumes.

“No, you’re going to have to enlighten me, Henderson,” Eddie says. “I’ve been a very bad boy for a very long time, it’s hard to keep track of it all.”

“About the—thing, you know what,” Dustin huffs. He lowers his voice about half a notch and says, “The thing! I didn’t—why would you do that? You told him I told you? Are you trying to get me—”

Max jolts.

“Hey, shut up,” she says, alarmed.

Eddie glances between them. Dustin’s face has started turning colors, maybe with the effort of keeping his mouth closed.

“Welllll, well, well,” Eddie says.

“You fucking TOLD him?” Max hisses.

“I very absolutely did not!” Dustin explodes, and points. “But for some crazy reason, he lied and told Steve I did! And now I’m in all kinds of shit for no—”

“Wait, this is about Steve?” Eddie says, solely to be a dick. They make it too fucking easy.

Max’s eyebrows shoot to her hairline.

“Oh my fucking god!” she yells, and smacks Dustin in the arm. “He didn’t know anything, and you just ran your—”

“Kidding,” Eddie cuts in. “I did.”

“Fuck you both!” Max says, and throws herself down on a bench seat. Glares daggers at them. “It’s not funny!”

“Am I missing something?” Eddie says. He cocks his head, and Max glares even harder. Christ, it’s crazy that she’s not a Hargrove by blood. Make that make sense. “You two trade brains?” he says, gesturing left and right. “Since when are you Harrington’s little watchdog?”

“I’m not,” Max blusters. “You guys are just acting like dickbags. It’s not your business.”

“Steve is my best friend,” Dustin says, so earnestly that it actually makes Eddie’s stomach hurt with sympathetic embarrassment for a second. “It is so my business. I’m just trying to help!”

“By telling the whole town?!”

“I didn’t tell ANYONE!” Dustin hollers. “Literally not even one person! Not even my mom! Not Lucas, not Will, not Mike, not El, not any—”

Dustin pauses.

Max’s jaw twitches.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Eddie muses.

“How,” Dustin says, “did—”

“He drops me off,” Max says, in a rush. “Sometimes. In the morning. If my mom’s—when I don’t have a ride.”

“He drops you off?” Dustin says. He sounds affronted. “Like at school?”

“No, on Jupiter, keep up,” Max snaps. “It’s—only sometimes. If Billy's worked a double, and my mom can’t—it’s just once in a while.”

“Steve told me if I ever called before eight am, and nobody was dying, he’d come to school and tape my baby pictures to my locker and ruin my life,” Dustin says, wretchedly. “And he picks you up in the morning?”

Max bites her cheek.

“So what gave it away?” Eddie says. He drums his fingers, considers the options. Harrington’s not a blabbermouth, actually. Much less of one than he looks. “He blow chunks in front of you?”

Max makes a startled face again. And then nods, tightly.

“Shit,” Dustin breathes.

“He was all… weird and pale,” Max says. Her hands are coiled to fists in her jacket pockets. “I tried to make him go to the hospital and he wouldn’t. He promised he was fine, and then he, like—pulled over and puked some more. And… cried. But just for like a second,” she adds, defensively.

“Poor Steve,” Dustin says, watery-voiced, like he’s about to do the same thing. Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. How Harrington manages this, why Harrington fucking manages this, is anyone’s guess.

“Okay, so,” he says. “Crisis over? Peace returns to the land? Nobody’s mad at Eddie the Innocent anymore, correct? May I please be excused from… whatever this is?”

“But what are we going to do?” Dustin says. “He needs our help.”

“Help with what?” Max says, dubiously.

“With, you know, all the… stuff that’s—happening,” Dustin says.

“Oh my god, dorkus, you can’t even say it.”

“I can so! I’m taking advanced human biology right now,” Dustin says, hands on hips. Monkey see, etcetera. Looks like a home-court advantage to nurture. “I just got a ninety-nine on my secondary sexes anatomy quiz. Ask me anything.”

“Yeah, perfect, I bet that’s what he really needs, you to draw him a diagram,” Max snorts.

“He might,” Dustin huffs.

“He say what he's going to do?” Eddie says, wondering why his mouth would open, why that would come out of it.

“Do?” Dustin says.

“Like, if he's going to get an abortion?” Max says, brows furrowed.

“MAX,” Dustin gasps.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Max says. “It’s normal, lots of people have them. And he's like, nineteen. Why would he want a baby?” She scrunches her nose up. “Why would anyone?”

“Excellent question,” Eddie says.

“But Steve would be a great dad,” Dustin protests. “Maybe the best!”

“Yeah, but,” Max says. “It’s just him. He wouldn't have…”

And then she abruptly stops talking. Fists still wadded in her pockets, leg bouncing, Max looks out at the woods. “Whatever,” she says, distantly. “It's not up to us.”

Eddie watches her for a minute. And then gets up.

“Alright,” he says, and slaps his hands together. “Fun as this wasn't, you're in my place of business, and it's opening time. Scram.”

“Eddie,” Dustin pleads. “You're his friend, too.”

“Vile rumors,” Eddie says.

“Give it up, Dustin,” Max says. She yanks her bag off the table. “He doesn't give a shit.”

“Sure he does!” Dustin says, loyally.

“No, I don't,” Eddie says. “Beat it, freshmeats.”

“Come on, man!” Dustin says. “We're sophomores!”

“Then beat it, sophmorons!” Eddie roars. “Begone!”

Dustin gives him a betrayed look as he's dragged away. Eddie gives him a jaunty little wave. When they're gone Eddie sits still for a second, and then collapses back on top of the table, exhales. Contemplates the gap above in the trees of the clearing. The sky's a thin, anemically cloudless blue. Indiana winter slinks in early and then lasts forever, wringing all the life out of the days like see-through dishrags. Lately Wayne’s talking longingly about Florida. Wakulla County, freshwater springs, an old buddy’s fishing boat. Wayne’s getting old, been getting old, waiting. Eddie’s fault. Are there gators in the upside-down, one wonders. One wonders how they could be any worse than the usual kind. Florida’s a shithole, too, and a trailer park’s a trailer park, but you could grow a mango tree, couldn’t you? Mango, orange, pineapple. Something round and bright. “Harrington, Harrington, Harrington,” Eddie murmurs, drumming fingers on his stomach. “What were you thinking.”

“No, no, it's terrific,” Harrington's saying, three aisles over. “Like, the… performances.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Harrington says. “Oscar-worthy.”

“Did it get an Oscar?”

“Uh, no. But—”

“It looks kind of silly to me. I’m not in the mood for silly.”

“It’s, uh, look,” Harrington says. “Says right here. Feel-good hit of the summer. Can't go wrong with that.”

“It’s November third, young man.”

“Right,” Harrington says. “Yeah, of course. Right. How about—”

Fucking unbelievable.

“Might I have a little help in comedies, dearrrr boy?” Eddie calls, in what Lucas has shudderingly titled cronevoice. Harrington’s head bobs up like a cork and cranes over the shelves. He makes a sour face, and then a different, more hilarious face.

“Excuse me,” Harrington says, quickly, “I have to help another customer. So sorry. I’m—really sure this is the one for you, ma’am. Give it a try.” He scoots into Eddie’s row. Slumps down in relief, presses his forehead to the edge of a shelf. “Forty fucking minutes,” he mutters, under his breath. “Just pick something. Anything. Practically be done watching it by now.”

“Tough day at the mines?” Eddie says.

“Eat me,” Harrington sighs.

“Anytime, anyplace,” Eddie mutters. Harrington snorts, out of lamentable ignorance. He lifts his head, cracks his neck out side-to-side.

“You… good?” he says.

“Why,” Eddie says, warily, turning in a circle. “What am I giving off?”

“It’s before noon, man,” Harrington says. “I thought you had, like, a feud going. With the sun.”

“What sun, look outside,” Eddie scoffs. “Maybe I simply require a feel-good hit.”

“I bet,” Harrington says. He scans the shelf for a second, nods, picks up Meatballs Part II and smacks the case into Eddie’s chest. “There you go.”

“I look like a PG-13 guy to you?”

“Wouldn't want to shock you,” Harrington grins. “That's PG.”

“Says here,” Eddie says, and flips it around, smacks it back against Harrington, “rated D for dogshit.”

Harrington laughs.

He takes it back. Looks across the opposite row.

“You ever see this?” he says, tapping Metropolis. “It’s old, but not, like, bad. Kind of trippy."

“Foundational mythology,” Eddie nods. “Flesh and machine, baby. Without it there’s no Blade Runner.”

“Huh,” Harrington says, studying the cover. Eddie blinks.

“Sorry, rewind. You’ve seen it?”

“I watch a lot of movies,” Harrington says, defensively.

“Buckley made you,” Eddie guesses.

“So?”

“Young man!”

“Fuck,” Harrington mutters. “Coming in just one second, ma’am!” He runs a hand roughly through his hair, presumably unconsciously; if it’s not unconscious, he ought to be more fucking careful with that thing. “Hey, I’m—taking lunch in like, fifteen,” Harrington says, awkwardly, the way a lonely person might. Don’t ask Eddie how he knows. “If you want—”

“I’m not in a hurry,” Eddie says. “It’s the lord’s day, is it not?”

“Cool,” Harrington says. “I’ll—”

The lady at the counter rings the bell. For one second there’s genuine murder in Harrington’s eyes, and then it’s gone again. Submerged in resignation. He ducks his head while he walks like he’s jogging onto a basketball court. Eddie pretends not to watch him go.

They eat lunch at the Pizza Barn, which used to be a Red Barn; only so many things you can name a business when your location’s shaped like that. Maybe that’s all predestination is. Eddie gets two hot and greasy slices of pepperoni, but Harrington hems and haws at the menu for maybe three straight minutes and then gets a limp-lettuced roast beef sub that he eats less than half of.

“Not hungry?”

“Starving,” Harrington says. He sighs and puts one of the stray sweet peppers in his mouth, chews it like he’s angry. “I was. I’ll just,” he says, and lowers his voice. “Probably yak, if I push it.”

“Oh,” Eddie says.

He sticks the end of his crust into a grease stain; extra flavor. Chews and thinks. “Everything going pretty… normal, otherwise?” Eddie says, gesturing vaguely. Harrington blinks those huge doll’s eyes for a second, and then turns them down to the tabletop. “No… chanting at night? No chalky taste in your chocolate mousse?”

“Are those serious questions?”

“Buckley’s never made you watch Rosemary’s Baby?”

“No,” Harrington says, the perfect innocent. Eddie shivers. “I’ve been… fine, I guess.”

“You guess,” Eddie repeats. “Is that a medical opinion?”

“No?” Harrington says.

I, Eddie thinks, for once with certainty, should drop it. Thank god for clear and rational thinking.

“A doctor, man,” Eddie whispers, leaning closer. “Have you seen a doctor? And, no,” he says, pointing a finger at Harrington’s opening mouth, “if you dare say you are getting advice from Henderson and his textbooks, I will scream bloody murder right here in this barn. Hand to god.” Harrington looks cornered. “You are a lunatic,” Eddie hisses. “How are you alive?”

“Great, yeah, thanks, you and Robin can start a club,” Harrington snarls back, wadding his sandwich up. “I don’t need any more—”

Jesus, the whole town does know.

“What if it’s… what if it’s, I don’t know, stomach cancer!” Eddie says. “Or a tapeworm.”

“It’s not a tapeworm,” Harrington says, clearly offended. “I’m not a complete moron. Do you know how many fucking tests I’ve—”

He glances around. It’s still pretty empty for a Sunday; the bible-thumpers must be lingering in the pews or skipping. Great day for hypocrisy, really. The weather’s grey as shit, threatening sleet. Give thanks and praise. “Not here,” Harrington grits out, anyway, like he’s gone paranoid. He stuffs the rest of his sub into his puffer-jacket pocket, grabs his empty cup and chucks it into the trash bin by the door. Eddie follows him while he stalks to a dilapidated picnic bench back on the Family Video side of the lot. “I’ve got vitamins, I’m hitting all the food groups,” Harrington busts out, when they get there. It’s cold enough that his breath huffs away in a cloud. He’s ticking off the list on his fingers. “I’ve been taking fucking naps, I would kill somebody for a fucking cigarette, like seriously, to death! I don’t know what you guys want from me. I’m—it’s fucking—natural, it’s normal, people go through this without—”

“Chill, chill, chill, whoa,” Eddie says, hands up. “Fucking—alright. Don’t kill the—nonmessenger. The innocent bystander. Mercy, prithee. I yield.”

“My dad cannot find out,” Harrington snaps.

He sits down on the bench, looking winded. And then, slowly, Harrington folds over in half. Digs his hands into his hair and keeps them there. The pepperoni in Eddie’s stomach does a nauseous little backflip.

“Your old man’s not a… raging tyrant, right?” Eddie hedges.

“I’m starting school at the end of January,” Harrington says, muffled in his own arms.

“Hooray?”

“Yeah, hooray,” Harrington echoes. He sits up pale-cheeked, like the blood’s drained somewhere. “It’s just—community college. It’s no big. But he’s—he’ll pay for it, everything, even gas and groceries, as long as I, you know. Perform. Prove it’s—worth it. The investment.”

“Okay,” Eddie says. Harrington looks at him. His leg is doing the same thing as Max’s, bouncing like a rubber ball. Eddie does some quick math. “Harrington,” he says, slowly. “When are you due?”

“Um,” Harrington says. “Early… June? I think?” he says. He winces visibly when Eddie does. “I fucking know,” he says, miserably.

“Do a paternity deferral,” Eddie says. “School can’t punish you, right? That's illegal as shit.” He nudges Harrington’s foot with his own, then swings a mock punch in midair. “Your folks could get a fancy lawyer, feed them their teeth.”

“My folks will fucking disown me,” Harrington snaps.

“A…h,” Eddie says.

And sits down.

Harrington rubs his hands across his knees a few times, absently, like his body can’t think of anything better to do. Or maybe he’s cold. Maybe growing something takes up all your blood. Eddie’s taken human biology three times, but didn’t retain a thing. Nothing important. Non-carrier’s privilege, to think wrap it is all you’d ever need to know. Strange. That the ignorance would feel suddenly—painful.

Something’s happening, isn’t it.

Eddie stares out across the parking lot in a brief daze, watching old people put shopping bags in their cars. It’s not that he felt like—it’s not that he’s felt like a child in a long time. Maybe not ever, that he can remember. But there’s a difference between not feeling like a child and suddenly realizing you can't be one anymore, that any sweet oblivion’s passed by forever. Maybe that’s the spot Harrington’s in. It’s not pleasant. The unceremonious, cold-water birth of… just another unprepared adult. Maybe that’s all Eddie’s dad was, when he left Eddie's little suitcase and his school bag on Wayne’s sofa and fucked back off to Kentucky.

Well, this is cheerful. Eddie’s fingers are itching.

“You can smoke,” Harrington says, like teen pregnancy’s making him psychic. “It’s just—in the car.”

Eddie would love to be the kind of guy who’d say, no, I won’t if you can’t, darling, we’re in this together, but he’s not, he’s a twitching weak-willed nicotine junkie, so he lights up, slides down to the other end of the bench, and sucks his Winston like a pacifier.

“Thanks,” Eddie says, eventually.

Harrington nods. Hangdog, like his head weighs a ton. “So,” Eddie says. “You have some kind of… plan?”

Harrington nods again.

“Deposit’s due November thirtieth,” he says, grimly. “If I can… get through the spring, keep my grades up—”

“You’ll be gourd-sized by April,” Eddie says.

“No shit,” Harrington says. “I’m going to move out before then. I gave them some bullshit already, managing a household, learning responsibility, whatever. They’re always up at the lake by May, anyway.”

“You're going to hide a baby?”

“Just until midterm grades are out,” Harrington says. “Hopefully.”

Buckley's right, he is insane.

“And what about… after,” Eddie says.

“I’ll have the summer, and then I’ll—push hard, you know?” Harrington says. “They’ll be pissed, but if I still pass everything, keep up my end, they’ll have to keep—”

“I don’t mean—I mean with the, you’re—cooking up a whole entire human being, man!” Eddie says. “On your own! What’s your big plan for that?”

Something kind of—devastatingly empty passes across Harrington’s face, even though he's visibly trying not to let it. Maybe it’s happened before, but Eddie hasn’t seen it. Not when they were getting ripped bloody in a dry lake, not later when they really faced the devil. Not even that horrible moment in between, when Wheeler’s eyes rolled back in her head and the pigs busted in, bullishly incompetent, to try and handcuff them and shove their faces into that wrecked mattress. Sometimes it’s hard to square it: this Harrington, in his polyester uniform vest, and that Harrington, shirtless and bloodied, screaming to get to her, wrestling a cop so Eddie and Buckley could run.

Maybe Eddie’s gut is wrong, and it’s Wheeler’s baby, after all. She has come home for a couple of holiday weekends. This universe has got a fucked-up sense of humor.

“I don’t know,” Harrington says. It’s a real answer, the way he says it; not a plea for anything.

Eddie leans back against the table. Blows smoke straight up.

“Christ alive,” he says.

And then, with doom curdling in his stomach, Eddie says, “You, uh—need a roommate?”

“Huh?”

“Split the rent,” Eddie says. His mouth tastes like heartburn. May Bahamut, lord of the north wind, smite the Pizza Barn. “Would that—help?”

“Ed,” Harrington frowns. “I don’t—”

“Yes or no,” Eddie says, more quickly than he should. And at a higher pitch. This is a casual question. Meant to be.

“Well, yeah,” Harrington says. “But you—got the new place, you guys’ve barely—”

“Wayne retired in September,” Eddie says. “And he’s tired of the fucking cold. He’s going to move to Florida. He keeps saying he’s going to stick around, you know, wait until I get that god-damned GED, but that’s—I made him wait an extra year already. So. He’ll probably sell the trailer, rent it out. Maybe rent it to me, if you’d—”

“Seriously?” Harrington gapes.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “It’d be cheap. Just gotta cover the lot fees. And, you know. He’s a sucker, thinks you're the second coming. Assuming you're, uh, not too good for—good ol’ Forest Hills.”

“You’d be saving my fucking life,” Harrington says, breathlessly, instead of the other dozen more likely things he might’ve said. Maybe this is a dream.

“I play—loud,” Eddie says, like he’s pulling a grenade pin on himself. “Real loud. And I don’t—sleep great. Can’t keep a job, absolute shit for brains in the kitchen. Just so you know. And there’s the, uh—demon worshipping, odd blood rite now and again. Animal mutilation, mostly full moons, I'm traditional like that. You might’ve heard.”

“How do you feel about screaming babies?” Harrington says, raising his eyebrows.

“Sounds metal,” Eddie says, and Harrington laughs for real. Some of the color’s come back into his cheeks. “I can—talk to him,” Eddie says.

“Shit,” Harrington says, with feeling. “Yeah. Great. Let me know—”

“I’ll let you know,” Eddie says. “I should probably—”

“Okay, yeah,” Harrington nods.

They both stand up. Eddie stubs his cigarette out.

“I’ll… see you,” he says, pathetically.

Harrington nods.

Eddie turns his back, tries hard not to break into a skittering run.

“Ed,” Harrington calls, behind him. When Eddie turns, Harrington’s mouth makes a weird hound-doggish wrinkle, like it doesn’t want to open up, but then it does, and Harrington says, “You haven’t—um. Ever asked who.”

Eddie swallows.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Eddie says. “Should it?”

Harrington looks at him for a long second. He’s still not smiling, but he seems close again. Like it's a close thing.

“See you,” Harrington says.

He strides off towards the Family Video with almost a spring in his step. Eddie strides off, too, to go have the largest imaginable nervous breakdown. He should pick somewhere quiet and appropriate, like the inside of a dumpster. A padded room. He’ll probably have to make do with the woods out behind Melvald’s, again.

Doesn’t matter to me, Christ. Ha ha! It’s going to matter. It’s going to matter a lot when Hargrove finds out, and smashes his only face in.

Eddie is not an idiot. A fool, but not an idiot. He's aware that someday soon Hargrove is going to use Eddie’s own arms and legs like clubs, to beat his poor limbless body to death. There'll be separate half-size coffins for each piece of him. This awareness doesn't change the fact that the Texaco is the only retailer remotely within walking distance that’s still open in the witching hours.

“Eighty-two cents,” Hargrove says. Eddie digs in his pockets. “Swear to god, you pay in pennies,” Hargrove warns.

“You’ll what, accept it?” Eddie says. “It’s legal tender, my good man.”

Hargrove’s eyebrows go up, like he’s unused to backtalk. That is probably true. At least he doesn’t threaten mutilation. Maybe just implies it, in the way his neck muscles bunch. There are maybe fewer of those than Eddie remembers, from the halcyon days when he still participated in an occasional ritual gym humiliation, long before Hargrove’s six-month stint being institutionalized. But still far more than Eddie’s ever going to intentionally cultivate. And they're very... firm.

Eddie averts his eyes. Gives him a crumpled dollar.

Hargrove gives him back… all pennies. Slowly, like he may in fact have a sense of humor. When it's over Eddie sits on the curb outside, smokes the first cigarette nervously in about two minutes flat. Hargrove comes out in time to watch the last fifteen awful seconds.

“Jesus,” he says, disdainfully.

Eddie squints up. Hargrove’s right in front of the beer sign; the froth on top of the mug makes him a sudsy false halo. Hargrove lights his own cigarette, leaning against the brick, and blows a slow mist out of his nose like a showboater.

“You know, I could do that,” Eddie says, “but I choose not to.”

Hargrove’s mouth twitches.

“That so,” he says.

A truck pulls up to the far pump, and a guy gets out; Hargrove douses the end of his cigarette carefully against the wall and leaves it sitting on the edge of the brick. Goes inside to the register. He’s gone a little while, and then the guy leaves, and Hargrove comes back, and picks up where he left off.

“You smoke like a peasant,” Eddie says.

“Oh, do I,” Hargrove says, tersely.

“Harrington just… throws the whole thing away, if another thought occurs to him,” Eddie says, walking the ledge. Testing, testing. Anybody home. “He’ll waste like half a fucking Red for no reason.”

Hargrove’s exceptionally silent for a moment.

“Rich boy,” he agrees, after a while. He sucks the end of his cigarette, blows it from his mouth with less patience than before. He looks down at Eddie again. “So what’s below a peasant,” he says, not very pleasantly.

Eddie pretends to experience rapid-onset rigor mortis. Getting some practice in.

“Plague victim,” he croaks.

Hargrove actually laughs. It’s unfairly cute, how much it changes his face. Eddie could—pinch it. If that wouldn't result in an ambulance ride.

“Quick answer,” Hargrove says, oblivious, grinning and pointing with the end of his cigarette. “You've given it some thought.”

“The food chain will do that to you,” Eddie says.

“For fucking sure,” Hargrove nods.

Eddie tries not to bristle at his tone. Feels a bit like hearing a shark complain. But then, pollution exists. Commercial fishing. Eddie's dad at least had the courtesy not to obviously beat his face in before leaving town. Hargrove doesn't appear to clock any irony in commiserating with the likes of Eddie; he's just staring off, watching the star flicker in the Texaco sign. Maybe not graduating on account of murder accusations is a unique social equalizer.

“I remember you, you know,” Eddie says, stupidly.

Now Hargrove stares at him. “Not just… the summer,” Eddie says, picturing himself with a little shovel, digging and digging and digging. Because Hargrove had indeed mysteriously appeared a few times at Casa Harrington, back in July, while Eddie was taking advantage of the hospitality; he’d drunk through some 30-racks with them and floated companionably if fairly silently in the pool, and then he’d just as mysteriously stopped doing that, ever. “From before then,” Eddie says. “At the Hideout. Thursdays, once in a while. You played darts. If Dougie was behind the bar, it’d be Iron Maiden back-to-back—”

“I don’t have amnesia,” Hargrove says, slow and somewhat dangerously. “You have amnesia, Munson?”

“No?”

“Then why are we talking about this,” Hargrove says.

“I don’t know,” Eddie says, like he's becoming Harrington. Just… flying in the wind. Following a feeling.

Hargrove’s vibrating with something for a second. His hand twitches, and little bits of the ash fly off; the bigger bits fall, and the smaller bits float. Eddie has to blink a tingly shiver away. Fear, maybe. Not of Hargrove, per se. Just a general, ambient sensation, familiar as an old coat. Why is it, exactly, that he keeps fucking walking out here in the middle of the night. He could ration a pack like a normal jackass, couldn't he?

“Did—Steve—put you up to this,” Hargrove says, suddenly, tight as a wire.

“Huh?” Eddie says, blankly.

“Did he say, to fucking… come talk to me?”

“No,” Eddie says, baffled.

“I know you—hang out,” Hargrove says, like someone’s using pliers to force him to. Like they're still practically strangers. Like he didn't carry a crowbar to battle with the rest of them in March, bloodshot-eyed and still barely verbal, snapping like a dog if anybody besides Lucas offered to watch Max for him for even a minute. Amnesia would be a gentler explanation for what's wrong with him. “If he’s got some fucking—head, idea, in his head,” Hargrove fumes, almost stuttering it, “he can come and say it to—”

“No, man, no,” Eddie says. “No, non, nyet, uh-uh. Hello, nobody told me anything. Why the hell would he?”

Hargrove’s jaw grinds.

“Fuck should I know,” he says, and stomps off. The door jingles, undercutting the menace a little. Glutton for punishment? Eddie wonders about himself, sometimes. Other times there's no question.

He follows Hargrove in.

Even Hargrove seems shocked by this. “Take a hike,” Hargrove says, once he's recovered.

“You worry me,” Eddie says, and hops onto the counter. “Haven’t we been in the trenches together, comrade? What's all this tough talk?”

“Fuck off,” Hargrove says.

“Perfect example,” Eddie says. “Let me offer a suggestion. You could say, for example, dear Munson, old boy, how glad I am for the pleasure of your sparkling company, here at nowhere o’clock in the ass end of Fuckstickville—”

“Sure sounds like me,” Hargrove muses, instead of killing him.

Eddie points an outraged finger.

“How dare you be fucking funny, too,” Eddie scowls. Hargrove sits on the stool behind the counter. Props his boot on a box.

“What do you really want, Munson,” he says, but in a surprisingly reasonable tone of voice, like it's a real question.

“Nothing,” Eddie says. “Thought we'd hang out someday.”

“Hang out,” Hargrove repeats.

“Yeah, obviously,” Eddie says. “What am I supposed to do, find new buddies who aren't fucked in the head in our very specific Rod Serling way? Harrington’s munchkins are alright, but only in contained doses.”

“Amen,” Hargrove murmurs.

“And I am never,” Eddie says, “going to get along with Wheeler.”

Hargrove snorts.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he says. He stretches his arms over his head, leans back. And then he hesitates, chewing on a sentence inside his cheek just the way his sister does. “You can… send a postcard, I guess. If you're that hard up.”

“Oh?” Eddie says.

“Don’t expect anything,” Hargrove says. “I'm not a pen pal guy.”

“You're…”

Eek! Does not compute. Eddie can't quite get any intelligible words out for a second. Something's crowding up his throat that feels suspiciously like his traitor's heart.

“Leaving,” Hargrove says. “Yeah. Way past time. Always… planned on it.”

Then he drops his arms awkwardly and picks at the outer seam of his jeans and glances away, like he's distracted. Like there's anything in here he won’t have already stared at for hours.

“When?”

“Max’s birthday is in a few weeks,” Hargrove says. “I’ll stick around for that. She'll finally get her permit, so. Whenever that's… done.”

“Where you headed?”

“Maybe San Diego,” Hargrove shrugs. “Somewhere on the coast. Figure it out when I get—”

“You selfish son of a bitch,” Eddie blurts, in amazement, before he can stop himself. Hargrove stares at him. Eddie's hands grip themselves so hard it's incredible his fingers don't crack right off. Cool it, cool it, cool it. “That's—it, huh?” he tries, and fumbles and feigns blowing his nose into an invisible hankie. “Just going to… break my heart and swan into the sunset? How dare you, sir.”

Hargrove's giving him a funny look. An unfooled look.

“I do something to you?” he says.

“Just dropped me like a hot potato, right when things were getting good,” Eddie says, and slides down. Away. Hargrove's eyes are like glue, like nailguns. Lasers. Like a pair of fucking bluebird-colored palantir. Eddie can actually taste the hot coppery possibility of death in the back of his throat. “Guess I'll see you around, huh Slim?” Eddie says, desperately. “Happy trails!”

Eddie escapes.

He chain-smokes all the way home. Then lies awake in his bed, drumming Hit the Lights like machine-gun fire on his tummy.

Wondering if—

Okay, two possibilities.

Alright, three. One, Hargrove's in denial. Head in the sand, panicking. Who wouldn't. Two, Hargrove's decided to go the deadbeat piece of shit route; maybe he's already told Harrington as much. Have a nice life, smell you later.

Number three’s—Jesus fuck, number three's a doozy.

Eddie groans. Kicks his feet in helpless rage. “Urrrrggghhhhggggg,” he moans, and rolls over to smother himself. “I fucking hate you sometimes," he mutters. Really could apply to anybody.

Chapter Text

Eddie is not built for secrecy. Max Mayfield, though.

A troll’s just hammered Dustin half to death, while Lucas nearly coughed up a Sprite yelling advice over the table, and Eddie can’t even relish it. Too preoccupied. He calls a fifteen-minute break, then sprints up the stairs to the Wheeler's kitchen and taps his foot impatiently, hovering while Max fills her water glass. No, it doesn't burn and bubble that he only really plays games with children anymore, thanks on one hand to out-of-state tertiary education, and on the other to the… accusations of child sacrifice. Ironic, truly.

Children and Gareth, okay. Yes.

“What?” Max demands, suspiciously.

“Got a hypothetical question for you,” Eddie says. He glances over at Ted Wheeler, who seems lightly comatose in front of Murder She Wrote. Some people have all the luck. “Hypothetically, I'd like to ask it outside.”

“Whatever,” Max says.

In the yard under the porch light, Eddie lights up. “Gross,” Max says. “You're going to make my clothes stink.”

“You… live with the Marlboro Man,” Eddie says, blankly.

“Billy doesn't smoke around me anymore,” Max says, little bit of a belligerent preen in her voice. Great, Eddie thinks. Fantastic. Everybody's a quitter.

“So,” Eddie says. “Speaking of your brother.”

Max tenses up.

“He do something?”

“More of a question of what he's, uh, going to do,” Eddie says. “Little birdie tells me he's moving to California. Imminently.”

Max’s mouth thins out.

“Yeah,” she says. “So he says.”

“Does he,” Eddie says, sweating. “Does he not—know?”

Max bites her cheek.

Not answering, the Mayfield-Hargrove joint fiduciary corporation tell. Eddie slaps a hand over his eyes. Thankfully not the one with the cigarette in it. “Christ,” Eddie says. “What the fuck.”

“You have no idea how much I want to say something!” Max says, and yanks at her own face for a second, cheeks smushed, practically growling. “Everrrrry time he fucking talks about California I want to club him with the fucking phone book!”

“Why don't you?”

Max huffs. A huge one, with a lifetime's worth of exasperation in it. She's young, but it's all in there.

“It’s not my… Steve probably thinks I don't know… whose,” she says, haltingly.

“What!”

“They weren't, like… I think it was kind of a secret,” Max says. “Billy didn't even tell me. I figured it out myself.”

“Did they break up?” Eddie says, not altruistically.

“I don't know,” Max says. “I’m not sure they were… together together.”

“So how do you know—”

“I just do,” Max says. Her shoulders draw in. “He acted—really happy. All summer. He made me pancakes with a… he put blueberries in them, like,” and then, devastatingly, Max makes a big fake smile and draws her finger up along it.

“You’re joking,” Eddie breathes, cigarette dangling off his lip.

“Shut up,” Max scowls. “He's not an asshole all the time.”

She stomps inside.

Eddie finishes his cigarette slowly. Counts what's left. If he ends up back at the Texaco tonight there's going to be a dismemberment.

When he comes into the kitchen, Lucas is standing alone in the back hall with his hands on his hips, looking mediumly shellshocked. Not hard to guess why. His eyes blink mournfully towards the basement staircase, and then zero in on Eddie.

“Hey,” Lucas huffs. “Did you say something weird to her?”

Perception check, passed! Maybe Eddie should just know dumber kids.

“Oh, blame me!” Eddie says. “Have you ever considered that girl might just enjoy biting human heads off for sport?”

“What? No,” Lucas says. And then, entirely too tenderly for an infant, “She’s not really like that.”

“Young love,” Eddie snarls.

Later, in Gareth's car, the club’s only remaining legal adults hotbox to pea-soup levels and eat an ungodly amount of Burger King. Eddie should be satisfied, should practically be anesthetized, but instead he's still twitching, impatient, hands fiddly. He goes and wastes two remaining cigarettes, one right after the other. His last chicken sandwich tastes uncomfortably like tar.

“Felt kind of mean,” Gareth ventures, having visibly worked himself up to it, chewing and rustling and clearing his throat. Gareth the Guarded, Gareth the Grudging. Grrr. Eddie’s out of line, isn't he. Should have called in sick. Battling a bout of dickbaggery. “That thing with the trapdoor.”

“It's not Dungeons and Delights,” Eddie says, blowing smoke pointlessly out of the top of the window.

“Yeah,” Gareth says, easily. “You know what I mean, though.”

“Fuck off, yes,” Eddie huffs.

Gareth gives him some remaining french fries, and also a handmade sweater from his mom that's been waiting in the trunk since Eddie's birthday. Black and green stripes. A kinder, color-blinder lady couldn't be found. Eddie pulls it on anyway, feeling like a piece of shit. One person in Hawkins remembers what kind of middle-schooler he was.

“Come for dinner, man,” Gareth says. “She's bugging me.”

“Chicken parm?” Eddie hedges.

“Of course, man, of course,” Gareth says.

Wayne's in his room, asleep, when Eddie gets in late. There's still one light left on over the stove for him. Eddie stares dazedly at it a little while, and then brushes his teeth and pisses and staggers to bed to put his hands down his pants and bury his face in the sweatshirt he stole in August. It doesn't smell like anything but cigarettes and weed and Eddie's bed anymore.

Steve.

Dunking Eddie in the pool, handing over a beer, a clean towel, grinning, bitching about hating Hell Awaits and somebody eating all the fucking tomatoes. Killing things that got between them. Loaning clothes freely and nagging to get them back later like a prick, so graceless that it was gracious enough to take your breath away. So natural and plain and stupid that you can’t help knowing it's a real human heart you’re looking at, held out carelessly in those big hands. Eddie grips himself and thinks about crawling in, tonguing deep, upstairs or downstairs, about being the rotten lucky dumbfuck who got to stick that baby inside him, and comes so hard his ears ring.

When the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers are eaten—even the extra ones that Gareth's mom shoves into Eddie’s hands on Friday, in mismatched margarine containers—Wayne packs the truck.

“I’ll come visit in June, huh?” he says, patting Eddie's shoulder, and then, after a pause, Harrington's. “Swing around, see how you boys are doing.”

“Uhhhh,” Eddie says.

Harrington doesn't exactly—elbow him. But also doesn't not elbow him.

“Yeah, of course, sir, we’ll be looking forward to it,” Harrington says, shaking Wayne's hand like a youth pastor. “I hope it's nice and warm for Christmas in Crawford, uh, Crawfordville? Eddie said it doesn't really get below fifty, like, ever.”

Wayne laughs, crosses his fingers.

Lingering by the truck, he gives Eddie a long hug. Disconcertingly long; Eddie squirms in it and then at last relaxes, goes limp. Rests his face into Wayne’s duffel coat. Sees Wayne scrubbing his nails every night with a bristle brush in the sink before dinner, clean raw puckered fingers passing little Eddie the Stouffer's; dishsoap, cigarettes, Irish Spring. How you know you're—fine, safe. Somebody’ll handle it. Christ, forget everything. He is a child still. What's he going to do.

Eddie's hands tighten against Wayne’s back.

“Alright now,” Wayne says, gentle, like Eddie’s a colt he can’t startle. He pats Eddie’s shoulder. “Alright. You know it ain’t goodbye for you and me. Miles don't mean a thing. Call when you need to.”

Eddie makes an—embarrassing noise, into Wayne’s shoulder. Thankfully Harrington’s fucked off to the porch already, probably on purpose to give them some privacy; he’s pretending to take in the view. He looks like a jackass.

“Get going, old fart,” Eddie huffs.

“Yep, I better,” Wayne says.

He’s still slow to let go. His hand hesitates on Eddie’s arm, and then Wayne says, “You know you can… tell me anything, Ed. Always.”

“Huh?”

Wayne’s eyes flick to the porch and back again. “Uh,” Eddie says. “That’s… what?”

“Your daddy had it hard, on his own,” Wayne says, evenly. “Real hard. I never wanted you to hate him. But I always did hope you’d be the kind of man to… take responsibility, if the day came. So I’m glad to see you—stepping up.”

Eddie’s body produces some sort of horrible, avant-garde laugh.

“Oh, I’m—we’re, that isn’t,” his mouth says, stumbling in circles and rhetorically collapsing. Wayne makes a confused little frown. “It’s, he’s not…”

“Oh?”

“I mean, he is,” Eddie says. And then, hastily, “Fuck, please don’t tell anybody, oh my god. He’ll kill me. If he—gets to me first. It really isn’t my business.”

“Not your business?”

“Not my—monkey, not my circus, uh, genetically, logistically, not even a little bit,” Eddie says. Something throbs in his chest region. Probably lung disease. “He’s just my—friend.”

“Oh,” Wayne says. He looks at Eddie for a while. “I’ll stand by what I said, anyway,” Wayne shrugs, at last. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you. Like I been lucky. You’re a better kid than I deserved. Oh, now, don’t make that face, it’ll freeze that way,” Wayne grins. “Then you’ll have to join the sideshow, bunk up with snake ladies and sword-swallowers and shit. Eddie the Stink-Faced Boy.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Eddie mutters. “Hey, uh. How’d you…”

“You been talking on the phone about hy-po-thetical measurements for baby furniture,” Wayne says. “Trailer’s insulated, but it ain’t that insulated.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie says.

Wayne laughs. Then he chucks knuckles to Eddie’s jaw, like he’s eight. “Stop it, Jesus, hurry up. There’s not going to be any Florida left by the time you get there,” Eddie complains.

“Then I’ll help myself to some Louisiana,” Wayne says, easily. “Be good, kid.”

“No,” Eddie says, sullenly.

He does not—cry, when the truck pulls onto Kerley and out of sight. Just wipes his eyes a bunch of times for no real reason. There’s all kinds of stuff in the air, according to the news. Acid rain, irritants, pollen.

“Lots of pollen, this time of year,” Harrington agrees, hanging off the porch rail. Surveying their dusting of snow.

His shit-eating grin makes Eddie want to murder him.

“Oh thanks uncle Wayne, see you in May uncle Wayne, god bless and keep ye, uncle Wayne, gentlesir,” Eddie says, in falsetto, batting his lashes. “Going to name your baby after him?”

“Maybe I should,” Harrington muses, and then he stretches and sighs and says, “Fuck, I want a pizza, you want pizza?” and Eddie’s in love with him again, easy as that.

Harrington drops a trunkload of stuff at the trailer a couple of days later, late after his shift, and then comes back on Saturday with Dustin and Lucas and a few more boxes and a suitcase and a gigantic nearly-new television liberated from the family den.

“My television wasn’t good enough for you, Lord Fancypants?” Eddie demands.

Harrington laughs in his face. Dustin and Lucas, perhaps out of a commendable sense of loyalty to their dungeonmaster, nearly drop it down the stairs while they’re bringing it in. And then he and Harrington—live together. It’s bizarre how okay it is, after the first few confused days of bumping around, finding new places for stuff, having minor arguments about said places. Maybe because it isn’t the first time they’ve ever tried it. And Harrington’s more focused than he was in that long drifting summer; he’s trying hard to bank money before he switches over to part-time for school at the end of January, so he’s gone until at least nine, Tuesdays to Saturdays. He comes home dead on his feet sometimes, microwaves canned soup and then shuffles right into his own room, but other times he wants to hang out and eat junk food and stretch his long legs nearly across the whole sofa, complaining about Eddie’s fucked-up taste in movies. Suspiria goes over like a lead balloon.

“You said this was a fucking… hot chicks boarding school mystery!” Harrington hollers, half-laughing. He punctuates the sentence by kicking Eddie’s thigh with the sole of his socked foot. Not softly, but also less hard than he might. “I'm going to have nightmares for a week, asshole,” he says, like they don't both already. Eddie's heard him yelp awake, from another room. He's surely heard Eddie.

“I really can’t believe Buckley didn’t show you this yet,” Eddie marvels. “There’s no way she hasn’t seen it.”

“Robin has good taste in movies,” Harrington says, even though he said literally the opposite to her only days ago, hogging the phone for a pricey long-distance gossip summit. Harrington had also said the phrase you-know-who at least twice, in a low hesitant tone, but Eddie didn't actually hear the context; just catching that much had made him regret eavesdropping and homicidally crave a cigarette, so he'd gone outside to shiver and sulk like a fucking overgrown baby.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Eddie mutters.

Despite still being plagued by rolling nausea, Harrington tries to put together a real dinner on that first Sunday night, with an air of grim determination that Eddie doesn't needle him overmuch about. It's homemade hamburgers cooked in a skillet, with slabs of hothouse tomato and a macaroni salad from the deli; the next Sunday night he makes spaghetti with jarred sauce and frozen meatballs, and hums to the thrice-cursed Huey Lewis on the radio while he does it. He burns the burgers, yes. The spaghetti mostly tastes like salt. He also sticks a big garden salad on the counter in front of Eddie, iceberg with carrots and even fucking croutons in it, like he thinks that’s something Eddie might have had much personal experience with or interest in.

“It won’t kill you,” Harrington says, in a tone that suggests he's saying it to himself, too. And it doesn’t. Eddie barely has taste buds anymore, and watching Harrington frown at pasta boxes gets him surprisingly hot, so by the third Sunday of December he starts salivating around four o’clock like a trained labrador. It's five days to Christmas, at that point; Harrington goes to his parents’ house and takes some of their spare tinsel and string lights out of the basement, puts the tinsel up around the porch railing and the lights in the window, like he thinks they're in Leave it to Beaver. When it snows heavy on Tuesday, overnight, Harrington goes out first thing and shovels a path to the porch, and then, maybe possessed by generations of dead Indiana boy scouts, clears paths to three more porches in their row. Their baffled next-door neighbor comes by to drop a tin of cookies off. The cookies are storebought, and not from a nice store, but Harrington accepts them like they’re an engraved watch. Lots of shouldn't haves, so kind of yous. Later he sits at the kitchen table with a fucking checkbook out, painstakingly doing up a grocery budget. He doesn’t seem very good at it, but it doesn’t matter: the old gang at the Hideout would be laughing themselves sick. It's amazing Eddie still has customers. Though, honestly, most people looking for ketamine aren't worrying about Eddie's home life.

“My rep is ruined,” Eddie says, biting a gingerbread man's legs off. “I used to be an unapproachable servant of darkness, you know.”

“You were never a devil-worshipper for one second,” Harrington scoffs.

“Who says?”

“Gareth's mom,” Harrington says, like it's reasonable for him to suddenly know fucking everyone that Eddie knows.

“Busted,” Eddie grimaces. “Open up.”

“Hm?”

Eddie holds another gingerbread man out, waves it in front of Harrington’s nose. Harrington goes a little cross-eyed and then he catches up and parts his lips. Eddie puts the cookie between them.

“Got hands,” Harrington grumbles, chewing.

“Hey, you’ve earned a little pampering, royal shovelmaster,” Eddie says. He offers another cookie. “And look, I know I got a good thing going here, I better treat you right, huh beautiful? Here comes the sugar.”

Harrington rolls his eyes. But accepts it. This time a little color goes across his cheeks. Maybe it’s Eddie’s delusional imagination.

Sometimes at night, making as little noise as possible, Eddie fucks his fist and huffs his stale-smelling purloined sweatshirt and considers how different it is, really, from a marriage. From being—married to him, to all his ill-hidden weird fears, his stuck-up middle-class griping, married to his thoughtless tendernesses, his warm body that's growing a child down the hall while they sleep. It hasn't even been a full month of this, but sometimes after he comes Eddie lies there goopy-handed and panting and insane and pictures himself really losing it, trying to hand Steve some kind of skull-emblazoned ring someday. Would he take it? Or would he look at it and say to you??? in appropriate horror, finally showing some fucking self-preservation instincts.

Putting these impulses into verse and chorus is probably inevitable. Shaming, but inevitable.

Eddie's never liked to play straight into headphones, unamplified; the sound's different, doesn't waver in the air like humming wings, fill his bones. And screw Forest Hills and its draconian noise curfew. But Steve needs to get as much rest as he can. So when he can't sleep, when the screaming’s got to be drowned out, Eddie wears the headphones, jams in silence, scribbles mortifying lyrics he can't possibly perform in public, for the band he already lost.

Harrington has a solo Christmas Eve obligation with his stupid parents, but the two of them are free to go to Joyce Byers’ house for Christmas day lunch, to play sardines in her living room around three card tables. Harrington wears a bulky sweater and hugs people around the shoulders, stepping sideways into the hold. It has to be on purpose. Eddie's seen him shirtless, going back and forth from the bathroom, and there’s truly nothing to see yet, at least nothing that couldn't be explained away with a story about finally getting out of his parents' house and enjoying some beer bloat. But maybe Harrington's just practicing, getting used to the things he should and shouldn't do, if he really wants to work this crazy scheme to the end. It's strange to see him being this careful. Or maybe this—scared.

Dustin's the one who'll fuck it up, the weak fucking link in the chain.

“Oh, Steve's not drinking!” Dustin blurts, jerking a hand out to physically cover Harrington's wine glass, when Joyce leans over innocently with the box. “He's, uh, early new year's resolution! Willpower!”

“Dorkwad,” Max mutters.

“Are dorkwad and dorkus the same?” Jane wonders.

“Yeah, they both mean Dustin.”

“—just so attached to him,” Dustin’s mom is busy nodding at Joyce. “Honestly, he sets such a good example for—”

“Ha ha,” Harrington says, glaring across the table. “I said that as a joke, Henderson.”

“Oh,” Dustin says. “Ha ha! Ha! You really fooled me!”

“What's going on,” Will says, warily.

Joyce pours a big glass of boxed red for Harrington, and Harrington smiles and thanks her, and under the table his foot kicks Eddie's.

“Subtle,” Eddie murmurs.

While they're all eating, Eddie fumbles around and picks up Harrington's glass by accident a few times. The food is too good and the conversation’s too loud for anyone to really pay attention. Soon everybody's getting seconds, arguing over the last Pillsbury roll, groaning in agony and discussing how best to finish killing themselves with dessert. Lucas and Erica and their parents come by later for pie and coffee, and then the second-mouthiest Wheeler child appears, along with his hot mother; the legal minors rip open more presents in a huddle for a while, shrieking with laughter and smacking each other, while Eddie is somehow unwillingly hypnotized into standing around in a kitchen and talking with half a dozen parents over thirty-five who possess mortgages and-or actual standings in the community. And Harrington, who fucking fits right in.

“The interest rates are crazy,” Harrington's nodding. “My dad’s—”

Yeah, Eddie can't even pretend to care about this. He escapes out the back door, finds the Byers' fancy college-attender huddled like a refugee at the side of the house, joint in hand.

“Hey!” Eddie says.

Jonathan makes the sign of surrender.

“I brought it with me from New York,” he says, apologetically.

“You're on thin ice,” Eddie says, and holds out a hand. Jonathan sighs and passes the joint; Eddie sucks on it, raises his eyebrows, thinks it over for a while. “It's alright,” he concedes. Good as fuck is what it is, this shit’s finally going to give him real chest hair. Lush, hedgy shit. What the fuck are they doing with weed technology in the Empire State? Is there some kind of evil Hawkins lab out there innovating in super-reefer? Goddamn. “You run out on break, you come to me only,” Eddie warns. “Shop small. You're one of my regulars, man, I got your photo pasted in the lid of the lunchbox. Don't break my heart.”

Jonathan laughs. Takes his joint back.

“So, you and Steve,” he says. Eddie's pulse jumps like he's been electroshocked, but it's just his own anxiety. Jonathan's face is easy, relaxed; his eyes aren't boring in, the way they can.

“Yep, look at me now, shacked up with local royalty,” Eddie says. He scrapes together a goofy little bow. “I'm getting properly educated on all the different kinds of dinner forks that exist, in preparation for my debutante ball.”

“I can't imagine Steve knowing about that,” Jonathan muses.

Eddie is rescued from agreeing—possibly in an incriminating manner—by the unmistakable rumble of his own imminent death.

From what Eddie's heard, Harrington killed the Camaro in one stroke like Siegfried cutting down a wyrm; the engine of the Ford pickup that Hargrove drives now doesn't sound remotely the same. And yet. Eddie's spine goes automatically numb, and then the sound cuts out and Hargrove comes up the driveway with a half-finished cigarette in his hand. He nods to Jonathan, almost friendly, and then he looks at Eddie and smokes for a long moment, and very clearly and specifically does not nod. At all. Then he drops the cigarette, stubs it out, and goes into the house through the front door. “What's that about,” Jonathan says, because of course he noticed. He's undoubtedly also noticing the uncontrollable tremor in Eddie's face and the sudden total freezing of his limbs. Prey animal behavior. Gazelle stuff. Thirteen surefire ways to attract a lion's attention and keep it.

“Who knows,” Eddie says, “that guy's… always, something!”

“You alright?” Jonathan says.

Harrington's inside. Eddie should absolutely leave him in there. It's his bonkers decision, decisions, to live with. Eddie would just love to continue living at all.

“Yeah, fine,” Eddie says, and then he hops up the back steps.

Harrington is still in the kitchen, but now he's alone with Joyce, hand-drying a fancy platter with a towel, bobbing his head and smiling about something. Harrington has a disturbingly sweet face when he’s not griping. The kind of face that makes you constantly worry about it, what’ll happen when someone else sees.

“Yeah, like it's not the only reason, but it's really nice it worked out the way it… has, hey,” Harrington says, glancing up, meeting Eddie's strained eyes. “You okay?”

“Um,” Eddie says. “Incoming.”

“Eddie, honey, is… oh, Billy, welcome,” Joyce says.

Harrington's hand fumbles. Eddie looks down at it, and then at Harrington's face again, but Harrington just looks resolutely at the dish he's drying off. “Hope you're hungry, we have a mountain of leftovers,” Joyce is busy telling Hargrove, behind them. “How do you feel about marshmallows on sweet potatoes? This is a divided house.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Hargrove says. “Just here for Max.”

“Did Susan come with? I have cookbooks for her.”

“No, she's,” Hargrove says, and hesitates. “Home. Putting some… supper together.”

It's a good euphemism for sobering up. Eddie might use it someday.

“Next time,” Joyce says, gently. “Take them with you, tell her I said not to be a stranger.” She puts a hand on Hargrove's arm. Unafraid of lions, yeah. Joyce Byers might be. “If you do grab some cookies I'll just look the other way. Keep it between you and me and Santa, huh?” Hargrove ducks his head in a weirdly childish nod. And then Will says something in the hall, and Joyce says, “Coming!” and makes a frazzled look, and goes out.

“Hey,” Hargrove says, as soon as she's gone.

It's not said to Eddie. But Eddie glances at him anyway; it's almost shocking that Hargrove spoke first, and so quickly. Harrington somehow ignores it for a couple of heartbeats. And then he sets that bone-dry dish down, turns around, leans against the sink.

“Hey yourself,” Harrington says, breezily. “Merry Christmas, huh?”

It's—twenty dead, fifteen injured. A slaughter. Eddie almost pities Hargrove. If Harrington used that tone on Eddie, Eddie would faint.

Hargrove's eyes flicker.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” Hargrove says, like Eddie's not there.

“Sure. Shoot,” Harrington says. Hargrove's mouth flattens out all the way.

“Outside?” Hargrove says.

“Don't mind me,” Eddie mutters, suicidally.

“I don't have shoes on,” Harrington says. “And I told Joyce I’d finish this.”

All of Hargrove tightens, briefly, and then it looks like he makes himself relax, one muscle group at a time. Maybe this is something they teach you after extensive reconstructive surgery.

“I'm,” Hargrove tries.

“Leaving, I know,” Harrington says. “You said. After Max passes her test. She’s raring to go, I don’t think you’ll have to wait very long.”

Hargrove winces.

“Listen,” he says, “if we could just—talk.”

“I don’t know what else you want me to say about it, man,” Harrington says, but Eddie glances down, and then he sees something that Hargrove can't, from where he's standing by the doorway. Harrington's hand is wrapped around the edge of the counter behind him, white-knuckled. There's no plausible way that what he’s doing, how he's holding it, isn't hurting him. Eddie's eyes go unfocused, seeing and not fully understanding it. Trying to make sense of—anything. Everything. He probably thinks Eddie can’t see him doing it, either. Harrington makes a crooked one-shoulder shrug. “Good luck, or… safe travels, or something? I feel like we covered it all last time.”

“Steve,” Hargrove says, almost in disbelief.

Harrington says—nothing.

Hargrove's eyes flick to Eddie, finally, full of undisguised simmering resentment, and for an instant Eddie sees his own headstone floating in midair. But Hargrove doesn't do or say anything to him. He just looks like he's making up his mind. Hargrove grits his teeth, and a truly terrible Christmas miracle occurs: Hargrove looks back at Harrington and inhales and says, “Please,” plain and urgently. It's the most humiliating single-word sentence Eddie's ever seen delivered in his life. Probably owing to the fact that he's getting to see it at all. Hidden behind Harrington's hip, Harrington’s fingernails shear even more violently into the counter edge. “I'm asking,” Hargrove says.

Harrington takes a breath, then, too, as if to steady himself for something awful. A shot in the arm, a bat bite. Or maybe to do something—well, fuck. Eddie grits his teeth. Curtain time! A strutting, fretting player like him ought to know a sinking fucking performance when he sees one.

What the fuck’s a fool for.

“Santa, baby! Do I ever need a cigarette!” Eddie announces.

Harrington's head swivels. Hargrove's eyes make the same startled movement. “Ho ho hold me over the open fire and roast me like a goose!” Eddie laughs, and gives them double-barrelled finger guns. “I'm taking a walk. Call me when this snoozefest is over and you're ready to sacrificially butcher Charles Dickens!”

“Are you on something?” Hargrove says.

“Don't talk to him like that,” Harrington frowns.

“Dude’s... fucked up on Christmas day, and you're pissed at me?”

“I'm only fucked up emotionally, big boy,” Eddie says, and then remembers that is not in fact true. “Except for—stop the presses, back up, have you had the latest imported New York herb? I didn't think Byers could tell from schwag, but hoo, daisy.”

“College boy’s holding out?” Hargrove muses. “Ballsy.”

“Great idea. I'll go rob him!” Eddie says. “Won't be a sec.”

“Eddie,” Harrington frowns, harder.

Eddie—leaves them to it.

It's hard to do. But then it's done. And then he's alone behind the house, smoking and watching the cold red sunset through the trees.

When he looks back up at the kitchen window, the light's changed; now it's vastly brighter inside than outside, illuminated like a television screen. They could probably still see him, out here in the half-dark. Could certainly see the glow of his second cigarette. But they don't look out. They're looking at each other, talking back and forth intently like a silent movie, from Eddie's point of view.

At some point, Jonathan brings another spliff and a whole bottle of wine outside.

“Thank fuck,” Eddie says, gulping right from the neck. “Want to be best friends?”

“Haven’t you got one?” Jonathan says, infuriatingly kindly. Eddie could kick him in the ribs for that. Could shake his hand for noticing.

Eddie wakes up in the backseat of the beamer, stretched across it, mouth like a cotton ball, brain mildly throbbing. Fucking Jonathan. Merry Christsgiving. Happy spew year.

“Blerp,” he says.

“Oh, a sign of life,” Harrington says. Eddie blinks at his voice about forty times and then successfully meets his even gaze in the rearview mirror. “How's your head?”

“Did it fall off?” Eddie says. “Harrington, honey, shit, we have to go back and get it.” He glances hopefully into the closest footwell. Might've rolled under the seat. “Oh, fuck,” he says, and squeezes his eyes shut. “Don't let me ever look down again.”

“If you puke in here I'll make you detail it tomorrow,” Harrington warns, “in our old gym uniform.”

“It's four below,” Eddie begs.

“Keep moving and you’ll stay warm,” Harrington says, pitilessly, like his track coaches must’ve said to him. Fucking sadistic jock. “High knees, Ed.”

Eddie knows it’s all a joke, but his bait and tackle don’t, and there’s a stressful moment while they war with his common sense.

“You want me in threadbare knickers, all you have to do is ask,” Eddie says, like he wants to be caught. Harrington laughs. It’s easy and friendly and not cutting. He's driving slow, cautious in the turns, probably because the roads are shitty. Eddie's heart swells anyway, considering the other possible reason. “Already squiring me home from the ball in your carriage,” he sighs. “Keep it up, I’ll lift these knees. All the way.”

“If you're Cinderella, I kind of worry where the story is going,” Harrington says.

“Right to feet stuff, yeah,” Eddie agrees. Harrington laughs really hard.

At the trailer, Harrington puts an arm around his waist, partly hauls him up the steps. Eddie leans into it shamelessly, droops his head on his sturdy shoulder. Steve, Steve, Steve. “You run so fucking warm,” Eddie murmurs. “You're… heat lamp. Fireplace. Thermonuclear reactor.”

“Yeah, now I sweat like one, too,” Steve grumbles.

“It's not bad, it's nice,” Eddie insists. Steve gets them inside, shuts the door, props Eddie against the wall and helps him slide out of his boots one foot at a time. “Holy shit, I am Cinderella,” Eddie says, and then because his body hates and disrespects him, actual tears start to fill his eyes. His mouth makes an incongruous giggle. “Thanks Steve,” he says, body useless like a drunk doll’s, jelly-legged, trembling with absurdist impulses. “You’re a real prince.”

“Boy, we gotta get you to bed,” Steve laughs, soft and sort of ruefully. His head’s turned away, but his cheeks suddenly seem flushed. Maybe that’s Eddie’s dog-dumb lying eyes again, hoping so hard they hallucinate. “You're turning into a pumpkin.”

“Abracadabra,” Eddie says, but that's not the right spell.

Steve even walks him into his room. Eddie manages to pull his own jeans off without spraining anything, and when he turns around, Steve's handing him a clean henley from a laundry pile. Steve’s been trying to make him fold his clean clothes instead of just—it’s probably best not to ever mention the old system again.

“Here, you reek like a garage,” Steve nods, at Eddie's sweater.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. He drops the henley on his bed. “Steve?” Eddie says.

“Hm?”

It's dark in here. Not as dark as a womb, nor as dark as a tunnel. Dark like a regular shadow on an apple or a pear or warm weak coffee in a cup, like the evening cast of Steve's autumn-colored eyes. If Eddie thinks about it anymore, even for one moment, he'll never ever do it. So he doesn't think at all. He puts his hands on Steve's face and presses their mouths together. Steve startles loose. “Ed,” he says, shakily, and Eddie shifts and tries it again, turned close against his warm lips. And Steve—eases. His mouth parts, and Eddie tastes mint candy, traces of the sparkling cider the kids all drank. Eddie licks his bottom lip, and Steve tenses, and then grips Eddie's arm, and for a second he pushes back, pushes in, too, and pushes them closer together. Then he pushes away. “Not—like, let’s, um, just,” Steve says, stumblingly, as if he were the one who’d done something to be embarrassed about. “Go to bed, Eddie.”

“Lay down with me,” Eddie says, feeling like he's a thousand years old. Like he's the moon, trying to take a rest in a clear bowl of water. An elf in a glade who can't face the setting sun. All of him aches so badly. “Just—sleep here. Steve, I won't go anywhere. I won't leave.”

Steve jerks like he's touched a hot lighter.

And then he wipes his face with a shaking hand and leaves Eddie there. He closes all the doors between their rooms as he goes, but Wayne was right about this place: it's still easy to hear it when Steve gives up and starts to angrily, boyishly cry.

Eddie still sleeps, somehow. After doing that.

Sometimes when there aren't dreams it's worse. Waking from a crazy nightmare is unpleasant, but it’s nothing compared to blinking into unconsciousness and out again without seeing a trace of the seams in between, wondering if the waking’s not true. Evil sorcerers don't have this much patience, though. It's unlikely one would bother keeping Eddie the Ratfuck alive in some fantasyland for a year for fun; Chrissy was an angel and she barely got a week. Feeling just so very comforted by this train of thought, Eddie gets up and staggers to the toilet, pisses for eons. Then splashes water on his face, ties his hair back, brushes his fuzzy disgusting teeth. Too bad. Harrington’s tongue was in his mouth last night, at least a little bit, and he can’t even savor it.

When he comes out, he expects Harrington to already be gone somewhere. That's what Eddie would do: fucking hightail it. It’s the only sensible approach. Eddie’s so sure of it, or so hungover, that nothing else occurs to him. This is probably why he startles and freezes at the entry to the living room, one foot in midair, hands yanked up to his chest like a tyrannosaurus rex’s wee vestigial baby arms.

Harrington isn’t gone.

Harrington’s sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee, rumpled and miserable-looking and obviously waiting, one ankle crossed over his knee. He’s got striped sweatsocks on, clean sweatpants, and a richly brown cableknit sweater that makes him look like a hot JC Penney’s model. Fuck him for wearing it, if he did it on purpose, to look—handsome, better than. Would he? The very thought makes Eddie’s stomach curdle, first with fear and then with the sensation of deep disloyalty. Harrington knows what he looks like, of course he does. But he's never once given an indication that he knows how to play the game so unfairly. “Did you… book a Sears campaign?” Eddie wonders, anyway. “Or did J. Crew nab you first?”

“Watch it,” Harrington says. He glances down, picks at his front, like now he's afraid it doesn’t suit him. Eddie should keep a tennis ball safely stuffed in his own mouth at all times. “It’s from my mom.”

There’s coffee in the pot. Eddie drinks some. Harrington waits until he doesn’t have a mouthful of it and then says, “What were you doing last night,” testily, but also surprisingly seriously. Like he isn’t literally pregnant, doesn’t have the faintest idea why people put their mouths on each other.

“Gardening,” Eddie says back, daring him. “Electrical contracting.”

“Okay,” Harrington says. He glances in the opposite direction, jaw stiff. “Fine. Why were you doing it.”

This would be a spectacularly great opportunity to lie. And there are so many options! I was playing Cinderella, getting into the bit. Just trying to have a little fun, Steve-o. Jonathan’s big-boy weed made me mega-horny and you were there. Eddie could even backpedal to the classic I barely remember, what did I do, oh, doesn’t sound like me, crazy, ha ha, wow, and then maybe Harrington would forget about it in a couple of weeks and Eddie could go on—

Eddie the Coward.

“Because I’ve wanted to for half a year,” Eddie says.

Harrington’s eyes lift to his so slowly it’s like they’re being winched up. Maybe by little animated Ray Harryhausen skeletons. There’s a kind of shock in them, and it hurts. Suddenly it hurts. Harrington not reciprocating, that’s the way of the world. Harrington not even seeing—that kind of bruise sickens you when you press it. Churns your innards into puke. “Have I not been painfully fucking obvious?” Eddie says, feeling mean as a snake. “I have to draw some kind of elaborate map with climate zones and obstacles, personally walk you through it? Or maybe I should just grow a shitty little mustache and start knocking people around for you to notice me?”

Harrington's eyes widen, at that last bit. And then go flinty.

They use that term in books, but now for the first time Eddie knows what it means. If you struck bits of that expression together it would indeed start a fire.

“Don’t go there,” Harrington says, very clearly, like he needs Eddie to know it’s a warning. The threat in it is entirely unlike Hargrove’s; Hargrove might hit you, hurt you, which sucks, but Eddie’s hit people, too. Sometimes people who've only half-deserved it. He knows about bloodied knuckles, rattled teeth. The horrific way skin bursts the seam when it's popped too hard. Most of them know about that. The things they've killed together were evil, barely even animal, but they still bled and screamed while they were beaten to death.

Harrington, though. Harrington won't hit him. Whatever he does will feel worse. Eddie got a glimpse of that yesterday, on Jesus Christ’s actual birthday: Merry Christmas, huh?

Eddie gives a bitter salute.

“Aye aye,” he says. “Permission to take a long walk off a short pier, captain?”

Harrington’s rigid jaw works itself around for a second again. He looks at his coffee cup, grips the handle. His eyes look like they're threatening to get shiny.

“Whatever,” Harrington says, clearly trying to keep his voice steady. “Do whatever you fucking want.”

Eddie stalks back to his room.

And then shoves himself face-first into a pillow and screams inaudibly.

“Stupid fucking moron asshole piece of shit,” Eddie hisses to himself, into the pillow stuffing, lying flat. “Put your fucking pants on. Put your fucking pants on and get in back there right this second! I will kill you, you weak-willed little shrunken eyeless cave goblin motherfucker, I will send you straight to hell, get up.”

Eddie gets up.

Pulls cleanish jeans on over yesterday’s boxers. Takes deep breaths. Coughs. The cigarettes are probably shriveling him. For morale Eddie glances at the replica sword hung on the wall, but decides against actually like, taking it down to hold it. Despite how things seem, he has an unfortunate amount of self-awareness.

Harrington still hasn’t beaten a retreat. Mounted an escape. Maybe he doesn’t know he’s supposed to, or that he can. He’s just leaned over the kitchen counter, head hidden in his arms. “Okay, take two, everybody but you thinks I’m a cannibal,” Eddie says, to his back. Harrington huffs. A laugh, or maybe outraged disagreement. That’d be nice. “I can’t do this with you,” Eddie says, desperately. “I can’t—fuck this up with you. I am but I wasn’t trying. I’ll swear to that on a bible. You’ll have to put me out, after, okay, and don't use flour, ever, it's salt for a grease fire, okay? If I smell like bacon when I’m burning just—don’t tell me. Speaking of cannibalism. Which, for some reason I… am.”

Harrington lifts his head, but keeps his elbows on the counter. He exhales and runs both hands through his hair, fucking it up. He doesn’t look especially furious. Just—sad. “I’m sorry,” Eddie says.

“Okay,” Harrington says, surprisingly fast. “Um. Me too.”

“You want to smack me?” Eddie says.

“No,” Harrington says.

“So, kill me, hide my body in a snowdrift, got it,” Eddie ventures. “I’ll get boots on.”

Harrington makes an exasperated sound, like he doesn’t think Eddie is funny at all, like Eddie is being terrible, but his mouth goes wry. He looks like a movie star who’s trying not to laugh at an interview question. Then he wipes his nose with the back of his hand like a kid.

“You… seriously?” he says.

“Yeah?” Eddie says.

And then Harrington says, “Why?” like a fucking moron. Eddie stares at him incredulously, for far too long, realizing he means it.

“What,” Eddie says, “is—where did your brain go.”

“Huh?”

“Why the fuck not,” Eddie says.

Harrington wilts a little under the scrutiny. And then at last in broad daylight, with no more than the usual mind-altering substances in Eddie’s bloodstream, Eddie does in fact verifiably see a faint flush creep up in Harrington’s cheeks. Huzzah.

“I thought you’d,” Harrington says, “I don’t know. Somebody more—metal.”

“You’ve decapitated a sorcerer,” Eddie says, flabbergasted.

“Yeah, but after he was dead,” Harrington shrugs, like it wasn’t much of an achievement. “That’s kinda like, just… cleaning up.”

“It really is not,” Eddie says.

“Why are we talking about this?” Harrington huffs.

Eddie barely knows. And he can’t stand up anymore. He’s dehydrated, the caffeine is kicking him in the temples, he probably should have puked last night and didn’t, because he was too busy hurting Harrington’s feelings. Eddie groans, pitches himself dramatically onto the sofa, and lies there like a sack of cornmeal, trying to figure out how to say—anything. Anything right. There’s silence in the room, except for the ambient hiss of the heating system. It’s snowed enough that the world outside is dampened, and it’s the morning after Christmas, so everybody can sleep in, and rest, and shut up. If only he was capable of it.

After a while Harrington’s socked feet cross the floor. His hand touches the back of Eddie’s head, and Harrington mutters, “Dipshit.” Then he says, “You want some Tylenol?” and Eddie rolls over, aching with the need to look at him. Harrington’s crouched down, so now they’re almost at the same level. The only sense in which that could be true.

“I am sorry,” Eddie says.

“You said so.”

“I know you—I know you’re back together,” Eddie says, hot with genuine shame. “It was fucked up to try—”

“Together?” Harrington says. His brows pinch.

“With—him.”

Harrington’s eyes dip down for a second, and then he says, in a strange voice, “I’m not,” like Eddie didn't witness him going to pieces yesterday night just because Hargrove entered a room.

“It’s okay,” Eddie says. “I know. I won’t—I mean, I can’t get in the way. I know I can’t. I shouldn’t have tried.”

“Is that why?” Harrington says. “Because you thought—”

“No,” Eddie says, hastily.

Maybe. Christ.

“Well, we’re not,” Harrington says.

“I saw you talking,” Eddie says. “I’m telling you I understand.”

“And I'm telling you you're wrong,” Harrington says. “How many times do I have to repeat myself?”

“He's, but,” Eddie says, baffled. “It's… his.”

“Don't,” Harrington says, through clenched teeth, “ever repeat that in front of him.”

“What?” Eddie blinks. “Why?”

“I'm dead fucking serious,” Harrington says, looking it. “Don't. Promise me, Ed. Look me in the eyes right now and say you won't.”

“Did he do something?” Eddie says. He jerks up. “Did he—”

It didn't occur to him before. But now it does, and Eddie’s whole body feels briefly consumed with boiling, frightened rage. There are—other places babies come from. Eddie will actually murder Hargove in the street if—

“Jesus, no,” Harrington says, horrified. “No. Absolutely—not.” Eddie flops back. Rubs his temples with one hand. “He'd never,” Harrington says, like he's talking to himself. He sounds like Lucas.

“If he's such a prince, what's the problem,” Eddie mutters.

“It just… can’t go anywhere,” Harrington says. “I don’t want him to…”

Harrington cuts himself off. Gets up. Eddie watches him cross the room, pick up his coffee mug, put it in the sink, stare out the narrow kitchen window. “It’s been over for a while,” Harrington says, more firmly. “He knows it and I know it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Yeah, Eddie neither.

“Alright, fuck it,” Eddie sighs, and then he slaps himself lightly in the face with both palms a few times. Not enough to fix the fuzzy reception on his antenna, but oh, well.

“What are you doing,” Harrington mutters.

“Put your dancing shoes on,” Eddie says, and rolls himself up. “Shitshow’s over, I’m going to buy you breakfast. No buts.” Harrington’s eyes flick curiously over to the microwave clock. “All day breakfast,” Eddie concedes. “A pancake is a pancake is a pancake.”

“Nobody’s open.”

“Ronnie’s is open, you know it is,” Eddie says. “Ronnie’s was probably open in the fucking upside-down.” Harrington’s mouth twitches. “You’re picturing it, right?” Eddie grins. “Ronnie with that little notepad, squinting, going, jumping jiminy, how come everybody in here is so fuck-ugly. Get that dog off the table, peckerwood! This ain’t a zoo!"

Harrington laughs a little bit.

“I’m starving,” he admits.

“Well shit, hurry up,” Eddie says. He heads for the hall. “Wear that sweater!” he yells. “Makes you look like a big-city babe from a coffee commercial!”

“Fuck off,” Harrington calls. But he leaves it on.

Ronnie’s is lively, day after Christmas, filled with seniors and shrieking spoiled kids; it takes thirty minutes of waiting to get a two-seater booth. Harrington gets steak and eggs over-easy and successfully eats most of it. Cheered by his own appetite, he wages a land war on Eddie’s home fries. Eddie slathers his scrambled eggs in too much hot sauce and sucks them down yelping. “Kind of unseasonal,” Harrington says, elbow on the table, smiling with his sleeves rolled up to show his forearms, like he wants Eddie to choke. “People usually only dye eggs for Easter.”

“It’s,” Eddie gasps, “delicious this way.”

Later Harrington drives to the plaza on Clark Street, loops around past the Pizza Barn like he’s going to work. “Earth to Harrington, come in Harrington,” Eddie says. “Did you engage the autopilot?”

“No,” Harrington says. “I want to get a movie.”

“Aren’t you closed?”

“What’s a locked door to a man with a key,” Harrington says, surprisingly philosophically. Eddie hoots. Harrington breaks them into the Family Video.

“Incredible,” Eddie murmurs, wandering the silent, darkened aisles. It’s the same store, covered in the same sagging tinsel as yesterday, but it isn’t. The lightboxes are off, so the shiny display posters are more like mirrors, reflecting movement in watery lines. It’s oddly restful to be in the world, observing but unobserved. This is vaguely what that book by… Basil E. Frankwater or whoever was saying; Eddie only barely skimmed it, was already precociously failing fifth grade, letting the school district know what they could look forward to. Maybe he'd like it better now. “I guess I finally get it,” Eddie says.

“Get what?”

“My dad was super into crime,” Eddie muses. “Maybe it was fun like this sometimes.”

“Is your dad…”

“Alive?” Eddie says. “Dunno.”

“Can I ask,” Harrington says, “was it always… just you two?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Never met the sperm donor. Jesse something? I don’t know his last name. Dad might.” Eddie picks up a copy of Snoopy Come Home and sets it down again. Might be worth the two ninety-nine, if you were high as fuck and open to crying about your childhood. “Then again, dad might not.”

Harrington’s quiet for a bit.

Eddie goes hunting for him, eventually. Finds him a row down, reading the back of Blue City. “Not that one, pretty please,” Eddie says.

“Did you see it?”

“I smelt it,” Eddie says. Harrington snorts and sets it back. “What are you in the mood for?”

“I don’t know,” Harrington says. He tilts his head back, looks up at nothing. Maybe he’s just really digging the late fee warning signs. It’s only dim in here, at midday; the light from the front windows is enough to silhouette Harrington like an arty director might.

Eddie’s heart pounds.

“How about a romance?” Eddie says, because he is a hopeless busted cassette of a man, just spinning and spinning. But Harrington doesn’t snort and punch him in the shoulder. He looks cautiously sideways, like he’s checking whether or not he’s being made fun of. “Cheesy plot,” Eddie says, faintly. “Dipshit lead. Lots of bad jokes.”

Steve’s big beautiful sun-flecked eyes study him.

“Maybe, yeah,” he says, very quietly.

“Cover art’s misleading,” Eddie says. “Doesn’t make a good impression. Kind of an… airbrushed wizard thing on it, maybe you wouldn’t normally pick it up.”

“I might,” Steve says.

“Five ninety-nine for new releases,” Eddie says. “Steep.”

“I don’t pay for anything in here,” Steve says. Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Who’s going to catch me? Me?”

“Don’t try to make me laugh right now,” Eddie begs.

Steve doesn’t push away this time. He lets Eddie come in, opens his arms and lets Eddie lean him into the shelf. Their bodies meet in the kiss, and Eddie angles his head, touches the warm lingeringly peppery inside of Steve’s mouth with the tip of a tongue, slides it against Steve’s tongue when it comes. Steve takes everything, sweet and easy, and then he just as easily takes it over, cupping a hand behind Eddie’s neck, stroking Eddie’s throat with a thumb. “Jesus fuck,” Eddie sighs, and Steve puts teeth perfectly against his lips, liquifies Eddie’s knees. “You fucking kiss like this?” Eddie demands, sticking his hands up Steve’s sweater.

“How'd you think I'd kiss,” Steve says. His voice has dropped lower, hotter than melted glass, and he's breathing it right into Eddie's mouth.

“I don't know,” Eddie wobbles. “Help.”

“I’ve got you,” Steve says.

Chapter Text

They kiss at a stoplight for a second. Against the inside of the trailer’s front door. In the kitchen and then in the living room and then in the kitchen again until the popcorn burns. Steve opens the window over the sink and they flap smoke out with a towel.

“What are you doing, don’t throw it out,” Eddie says.

“You can’t eat this!”

“I can eat anything.”

“You taste like burnt plastic,” Steve murmurs, a few minutes later. And then, laughing, says, “Fuck off, I’m kidding. Come back.”

They lie across the couch, ignoring Highlander, which is sort of a crime. Steve kisses like he’s ignored a lot of movies. Hands in Eddie’s hair, gripped in the back of his shirt. He works his way down and slides one into the back of Eddie’s jeans pocket, gives Eddie’s ass a squeeze. Eddie’s been trying not to grind his erection into Steve’s hip like some sort of untrained dog, but he really can’t help it now.

“Just my, uh, pet rock,” Eddie murmurs, nibbling under Steve’s ear. “Can’t bring him anywhere.”

Steve laughs. Then uses the grip in Eddie’s pocket to push Eddie up and closer, until his thigh’s between Steve’s legs.

“Yeah,” Steve says, dryly, “I can tell he’s a handful.”

“Two-hander,” Eddie says. “Broadsword.”

“If you get dice out,” Steve says, grinding up, “this is never happening again.”

“Is this happening?” Eddie pants. “Fuck, yeah. Ride my thigh. Come on. You’re so warm down here, you feel so good.”

He is, through jeans and underwear. He’s a furnace. He’s rubbing off intently against Eddie’s leg, biting his lip shut. “I’m going to make you come if it kills me,” Eddie swears, hitching their hips harder together.

“Why would it—why would it kill you,” Steve says, now shaking a little with laughter. “Ed, what.”

“Your fucking pussy’s so hot, I’m going to melt,” Eddie pants, “come on, honey. Hell yeah, come on.”

Steve’s head leans back, and his hand clenches into Eddie’s asscheek. And then he shudders and shudders, and his thighs wrap around Eddie’s, and he comes with a cry. Eddie’s gut swoops. His cock throbs. And then it abruptly gives up and spills, like it doesn’t care what that does to his self-esteem. “Fffffffffuck me,” Eddie gasps, smearing into his own damp warmth, inside his underwear. Steve pants. Eddie rests his head on Steve’s shoulder. Steve squirms slightly, and then less slightly. “Did you… not?” Eddie manages, feeling creeping mortification set in.

“Once isn’t, like—enough,” Steve mutters. “You have no idea how—lately it's all the time, I’m like—wet, at work, for no fucking—”

“Holy fuck, keep talking,” Eddie breathes. He squishes a hand between them, to shove his palm over Steve’s zipper, and Steve swears at him and then makes him do it more. “Fuck, yes,” Eddie says. “I'm gonna make you—”

For the next one, Steve unzips and lets Eddie slide his fingers inside. Feeling his heat from the outside is nothing in comparison; Eddie’s fingers are scalded off. It’s like putting a hand into a soaking-wet toaster. Steve comes on Eddie that time. Wearing him. Eddie’s cock revives midway through and stands at attention like a third wheel. “Pretty good, huh?” Eddie murmurs, after, while they take slow kisses off each other. “It’s the… wizard powers.”

“Maybe don’t,” Steve advises.

“No?” Eddie says. “They’re not working?” He kisses Steve’s collarbone. What he can get to, past that goody two-shoes sweater. “Bippity boppity boo,” he says, for the sake of completion. Or maybe parity. “Working now?”

“Jackass,” Steve says.

“Mm,” Eddie agrees. But Steve hasn’t kicked him off yet. Maybe a cloud of bats did kill Eddie, but there was a paperwork mixup, and Eddie went to heaven.

“You have nice hands,” Steve murmurs.

“I’ve been training all my life for this moment,” Eddie says. “Megadeth’s a great way to better your fingerfucking. They don't teach you the real shit in school.”

Steve laughs.

Eddie keeps his mouth shut. It’s too early to say I love you, like a fucking dweeb. It hasn’t even been five hours. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after, or—pushing it—Wednesday. Something reasonable like that.

“I am not answering that question!” Steve says.

“Steve, I am literally just doing the checklist,” Dustin says, patiently. “You agreed to this. So, increased chest tissue tenderness?”

“I am in hell,” Steve mutters. “Fucking—no.”

“No, like none of my business, or no like no?”

“NO,” Steve says, head covered by both his arms. He’s slumped down onto the kitchen table like he wishes he could press a button and be absorbed by the floor. “Not really,” Steve mutters.

“Wait, no, or not really?” Dustin says. “It’s important you answer honestly.”

“I take back my agreement,” Steve says, sitting up. He points to the front door. “Cancelled. Void. Go home, or go… play a board game.” He looks desperately in Eddie’s direction. “Ed, get the dice.”

“Board game?” Eddie repeats. “Henderson, I think this man is accusing us of Chutes with intent to Ladder.”

“It’s called tabletop gaming,” Dustin says, the little darling piece of shit. Eddie cackles at the face Steve makes, and then thinks about ever kissing it again.

“Let him be, Henderson,” Eddie says, nervously.

Steve gives him a knowing look.

“I can skip to the next question,” Dustin offers.

“Fine,” Steve says.

“Vaginal discharge, color and consistency thereof?”

Steve pushes the chair back, stands up, and stalks out of the room. His bedroom door slams. “Steve, this is about your health!” Dustin calls, desperately. He looks at Eddie. “Are you going to talk to him?”

“I've said what I think,” Eddie says. He tips the bag up and shakes the last chip crumbs into his mouth, only chokes on them a little bit. “Short of hogtying him and dragging his ass to Methodist General in the dead of night, I dunno.”

“And we… can't do that,” Dustin says, speculatively.

“Dial it back,” Eddie suggests.

Steve doesn't come out again for a while. Eddie turns the stereo on and makes Dustin listen to the first side of Reign in Blood. It's kind of a lost cause; the kid's not a square and he fucking worships Dave Lombardo, all good there, but he's too easily distracted. Eddie would love to introduce him to mellowing the fuck out, but Steve does still own that specific sorcerer-stained axe.

“And that's only, like, in the new Immortals rules,” Dustin says, crossing off part of the diagram he's been scribbling, “where the astral plane is more of a… you know, there’s kind of a contradiction with Death’s Ride, isn’t there? In the—”

“Yeah, the Sphere of Death, that part’s been kind of continuity-fucked,” Eddie agrees. “Hey, man, just… one second.”

Eddie slinks down the hall. Taps on Steve's door. “Hey, uh. You in there,” Eddie says. “I don't want to step on your toes as earth's mightiest babysitter, but I think I gotta feed this kid something. Okay?”

There's rustling.

Steve opens the door. His eyes are kind of red, but he's pulling himself together already, nodding his head.

“Yeah,” Steve says, “I've got, uh, there's leftover turkey for sandwiches.”

“Yeah, no,” Eddie says. “I'll take him out. You can just…”

“Sulk in my room like a fuckhead?” Steve says, wryly. “No. I'm coming.”

Dustin makes an awful crestfallen face when he catches sight of Steve's, and Steve flinches, but then he just sticks knuckles against Dustin's head and fucks his hair up as he passes to the fridge.

“Steve,” Dustin says, plaintively. “I didn't mean—”

“You didn't do anything,” Steve says, all business. He grabs the bread and pops it into the toaster, rummages around for the mustard. “I'm the dumbass who doesn't know what he's doing, and instead of acting like an adult about it, I put it on you, even though it's not remotely your problem, and even though you are literally a child, so,” he concludes, and then he turns around and holds out a butterknife threateningly. “Stow the apology and eat a sandwich. Capisce?”

“Can I have two?” Dustin ventures.

“Jesus, house and home,” Steve says.

Dustin’s meeting everybody at the dollar movies that night, for a rerun double feature of Indiana Jones, so Steve drives him over. Dustin rides shotgun, Eddie gets to stretch out in the back and watch Steve make offended faces as Dustin tries to explain, again, the unappreciated cinematic masterpiece that was Howard the Duck. “It’s a duck,” Steve keeps saying. “You’re telling me that Lea Thompson would have sex with a duck. No, uh-uh. I don’t buy it. If it’s that… suspended belief thing, well, it totally suspends mine.”

“Beverly Switzler,” Dustin corrects.

“Who the hell is Beverly Swizzler?”

“It’s the character!” Dustin says. “And it’s not about looks, Steve. Unlike some people, she can see Howard’s heart.”

“A duck’s heart!” Steve says, tapping the wheel for emphasis. “She could cook him!”

“You can cook anyone,” Dustin says, helpfully. Eddie cackles.

“Oh my god, you are not helping,” Steve says.

Steve pulls in front.

“You sure you guys don’t want to come?” Dustin says. “Mike said he filled his entire backpack with rice krispie treats. It’s going to be a blast.”

“That’ll end well,” Steve mutters.

“Yeah, Stevie boy, ol’ buddy ol’ pal,” Eddie says, leaning over the seat. “You want to catch a flick? I’m game. Real game.”

Steve eyes him. Eddie wiggles his eyebrows.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says.

Steve puts the car in gear again, swings around to find a spot.

“Woohoo!” Dustin crows. “The party riiiiiides!”

Steve buys popcorn and sodas for him and Eddie, and then also for Dustin, and then a box of Milk Duds each for Will and Jane, at which point Eddie starts shooing children off him like he’s swatting goats away at a petting zoo. The only one who smugly doesn’t try to get anything is Max, because Lucas has already gotten her a fountain drink and a hot dog.

“You guys are moochers,” Max says, looping her elbow through Jane’s.

“Am I a moocher?” Jane wonders.

“You?” Max says. “Are you crazy? You deserve like, three thousand boxes of Milk Duds. These guys love to blow their allowances and cry about it.”

“Yeah, get a job, peasants,” Eddie says.

“You get a job,” Wheeler says, because he’s a shithead. “Didn’t Steve buy yours?”

“I’m in the king’s favor,” Eddie grins.

“More like the king’s jester,” Wheeler says, under his breath, like he’s really hoping his character will be struck by several pestilent curses next week. Wish granted.

“Where are you going?” Dustin hisses, when they all creep in late, during a trailer, and Steve heads in the opposite direction.

“Back row, for cool kids,” Steve whispers. “Later, gator.”

They park themselves in the back under the projector; the rows around them are surprisingly empty, like maybe tonight’s crowd for Raiders isn’t the necking type. Steve is, though. He runs a hand teasingly up Eddie’s leg and leans over the armrest before Indy’s even swapped the golden idol out. Steve had a serious rep in high school, Hawkins’ number-one crush with a bullet, and it’s becoming obvious how close to reality the hottest rumors hewed. Eddie’s back-row days were mostly in sophomore year, back before he'd ever experienced the dubious glory of the Hideout bathrooms; if he's remembering it right, the last attempt ended badly. Not everybody likes their earlobes bitten. “Wow,” Steve murmurs, when his hand connects to Eddie’s lap. “You sure love Indiana Jones.”

“I have a note from the nurse for this,” Eddie protests.

“Doctor Steve’s on it,” Steve says, which would be a terrible line, the kind of thing your boner deflates for, if it didn’t sound the way it does coming from Steve’s mouth. And then Steve undoes Eddie’s button and sticks his fucking hand right down Eddie’s jeans.

Eddie thumps his head back onto the seat and—dies. The rest’s probably a dream.

After the quick start, though, Steve takes his time, rubbing Eddie unhurriedly through the bar scene, just touching him over his underwear, fondling like he doesn’t have much of a goal in mind. The warm pressure of his hand is incredible but also not quite enough to get Eddie over the edge. Eddie bucks into it a little, and Steve—presses him down. Extras scream, Marion’s bar bursts into flames.

“Steve,” Eddie gasps.

“Got you,” Steve whispers in his ear. He gives Eddie a good squeeze, rough cotton against Eddie’s dick, and Eddie squirms in his seat and feels his balls finally drawing up like a bowstring. Indy and Marion arrive in Cairo. “Unzip,” Steve murmurs.

“Hurgh?” Eddie says.

“Unless you like coming in your pants,” Steve warns. Eddie blinks for a second, wondering what the alternative is. And then he remembers all those napkins that Steve took from the snack counter, vastly more napkins than two guys willing to wipe their greasy hands on their jeans would probably need for popcorn butter.

“I've been seduced,” Eddie accuses.

Steve grins. Even in the dark, you can see how handsome it makes him. Eddie unzips as slowly and quietly as he can, and digs himself out, holding the popcorn bucket in front of his lap for the thinnest possible plausible deniability. Steve licks his hand and takes over. He strokes Eddie about ten times, tight and slow and mean and expertly, and Eddie bites the inside of his cheeks and comes into a wad of cheap paper napkins, shaking like a leaf. Their texture against his dick is... not pleasant. Eddie stuffs the napkins into one of their empty fountain drinks, and goes back to kissing Steve, fumbling his own hand down between Steve’s legs, where it remains for most of the rest of the movie.

At the break between features they slip out of the back service door, where Eddie used to sneak in, and Eddie has a cigarette. Steve rambles around in the alleyway practicing cracking an imaginary whip.

“I feel like you’d get yourself in the eye,” Steve says, and flicks his wrist. “Like, bam, when it comes around—”

“Then you get a sexy eyepatch.”

“Yeah, smart guy, what happens the second time,” Steve says, hand on his cocked hip.

Unbelievable. Eddie stubs the cigarette out. Takes Steve by the shoulders, walks him to the cinderblock wall and presses his back to it. Sticks his leg between Steve’s. “Hm,” Steve says, considering him, eyes half-lidded. Body surrendering to the show of force, or graciously pretending to be. “Going to show me how it’s done, huh,” he says, so Eddie shuts him up for a little bit. Kisses hungrily, tasting salt and oil. Holds his wrist against the brick. Steve humps Eddie's thigh and clutches his arm.

“You think,” Eddie says, “because you’re the hottest ass in Indiana, you can just—”

“That’s pretty much what I think, yeah,” Steve says, breathlessly. Eddie grinds in. “Fuck yes,” Steve pants, “fuck yes, fuck me, come on.”

He comes shuddering on Eddie’s leg. Rests his cheek on Eddie’s shoulder. He’s boneless for a couple of minutes, extra cute. He laughs when Eddie presses a cold nose into his neck, bats at him, calls him a dick. They go back inside holding hands like a couple of fucking middle-schoolers, and Steve buys another Coke and a thing of gummy worms, and lets Eddie feed him one right there in the lobby. “The green tastes better,” Steve says, wrinkling his nose.

“They all taste exactly the same.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” Steve says. “Green’s always the best. Green Skittles, green M&Ms...”

“There’s something really wrong with you,” Eddie says, “thank fuck,” and lifts Steve’s hand to showily, stupidly kiss the back of it.

“Cheeseball,” Steve says.

Steve falls asleep for half of Temple of Doom, and is maybe the only person who could. Cultists shriek, and the soundtrack blares, and Steve rubs his face with one hand and huffs and settles again. By the time he wakes up, Indy and Willie are getting a faceful of water from an elephant. “I really have to piss,” Steve mutters.

They wait for the kids by the parking lot, perched on a bollard at the edge of the curb, Eddie smoking again, Steve swirling his keys on one finger, around and around and around. The kids come out in a gaggle, yelling at each other, pushing Wheeler when he opens his mouth. Jane’s hand in hand with him, no accounting for taste. “Hey, okay,” Steve says, interrupting their high-pitched imitations of Willie. “Who needs a—”

“Me!” Dustin says.

“Me,” Wheeler says, and nods at Will and Jane. “Us.”

“Everybody?” Steve sighs. “Great. Max and Lucas, what about—”

Max was a few steps behind everyone else. Now she storms right past Steve, up to Eddie, and before Eddie can correctly register the murderous look on her face, Max punches Eddie in the arm so hard that his cigarette flies through the air.

“The—fuck?” Eddie says, baffled, stung.

“Whoa!” Lucas says.

“You fucking ASSHOLE,” Max hisses, face the color of her hair. And then she punches Eddie again. Eddie stumbles backwards off the bollard, almost tripping and eating sidewalk. Holy shit, can she hit. But why is he surprised.

“Max, what the hell!” Steve gapes.

“Fight, fight, fight!” Wheeler says.

Max doesn’t need the encouragement; she squares up to Eddie again and shoves at him with both arms this time. He holds her off, barely, by dancing away like a jerked puppet. This is, wow. Humiliating.

“What did I do?” Eddie yelps. “Hey!”

“Max, don’t,” Lucas says, trying to grab her arm. Jane and Will look panicked, and Dustin’s just standing there with his hands on top of his hat, turned into a statue, like he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. Eddie sympathizes. “Max, come on!”

“Break it up!” Steve says, trying to push between everybody. “Break it the—”

“Asshole,” Max seethes, “I saw you—”

“MAXINE,” somebody booms.

Max jerks to a stop. Her fists ball up, but she keeps them to herself. Her eyes bore furiously into Eddie’s. There are—unshed tears in them. Jesus Christ, Eddie thinks, with his stomach in his knees. Jesus fucking Christ. She was in the lobby, too. By the popcorn machine.

“Are you okay?” Lucas says, tugging Max’s sleeve.

“I hate you,” Max whispers, to Eddie.

Eddie swallows. He glances at Steve, but Steve’s looking over Eddie’s shoulder now, looking right past him. And then everyone is. Hargrove is stalking up from the parking lot, face rigid. A couple of people coming out of the theater stopped nearby, to enjoy watching a girl wail on a theoretically grown man, but they scramble away when Hargrove passes by like a locomotive with cartoon steam hissing out of it.

“The hell it—fuck’re you doing,” Hargrove thunders, like he's too enraged to make sense. “Outside the fucking dollar movies? You want the cops?”

Max lifts her chin.

“Stay out of it,” she warns.

“You hit your friends?” Hargrove says, in a strange voice. “That’s how—you wanna fucking be?”

“He’s not my friend!” Max snaps. “He’s a shithead!”

She shoves her way past Hargrove. Sprints away, through the people and the parked cars.

“Max!” Lucas calls. He looks expectantly at Hargrove.

“I’ll drop you home,” Hargrove nods.

Lucas runs after Max.

“What was that about?” Steve demands. Eddie glances up, meets his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Eddie lies.

“You say something to her?” Hargrove says.

“Hey,” Steve says.

“It's a fair question,” Hargrove says, slowly, to Steve. “That’s my fucking sister. I want to know if he said something.”

“You know he wouldn’t,” Steve says back, like Eddie’s not there.

“Hi,” Eddie cuts in. They both look at him. “Hello. Hi, yeah, still alive over here? Able to speak for myself? As a punching bag I'd like to state, for the record, that I did not, and would not, ever, say anything untoward to Miss Mayfield, that would make her, or—you, for that matter, punch my lights out.”

“He didn’t even talk to Max tonight,” Dustin interrupts, bravely. “He and Steve didn’t sit with us.”

Hargrove’s face doesn’t do anything. Just his fingers, which curl up at his sides, into his coat sleeves. Hargrove isn’t an idiot. Maybe Eddie is, has been. Maybe he’s been having too much fun to fucking think.

“Okay,” Hargrove says. He glances at Eddie, chewing a thought in his mouth. It turns out to be, improbably, “Sorry,” delivered with a flat and perfunctory haste. “She’s been…”

“Training with Rocky Marciano?” Eddie wonders.

Hargrove’s mouth twitches.

“Something like that,” he says. Hargrove looks at Steve and the gaggle around him, and hesitates, and says, “You… good? With all of them?”

“We’ll squish,” Will pipes up.

“Alright,” Hargrove says, bemused. But he still looks at Steve one more time, waiting for something.

“I hope Max is—okay,” Steve says. His face is intent; Eddie knows him well enough to know that he means it. Hargrove must, too, because his shoulders relax, and he nods, and then he finally takes a step off the curb.

“Yeah,” Hargrove says. “See you.”

Eddie still doesn’t exhale until Hargrove’s disappeared behind a Volvo.

“I thought she was going to kill you,” Dustin says, patting his shoulders. “You really can’t piss her off, buddy. She’s the scariest Hargrove now.”

“Well,” Eddie says.

“She really is,” Steve murmurs. He looks around. Visibly gathers himself. “Alright, enough of this. Wheels up, shitheads.”

They pile into the car. Wheeler tries to convince Jane to sit on his lap, and receives a series of devastating eyerolls that she could’ve only learned from Max.

“I’m sitting next to Eddie,” Jane says, primly, and does it. On the ride she stares at him a lot. Eddie pops his collar up, attempts to hide his face in it. It would feel like peek–a-boo, if she didn’t have patiently condescending, ancient eyes. She wouldn’t be playing the baby, in other words. “You didn’t mean to hurt her feelings,” Jane says, thoughtfully, while they’re stopped at a light.

Eddie looks back, caught.

Steve’s not paying attention; Dustin’s up front again, somehow. Eddie was too distracted to realize the usurpation. It’s possible they’re still arguing about the fucking duck thing.

“No,” Eddie admits.

“Will you try to fix it?” Jane says.

“Don’t know that I can,” Eddie says.

“You probably can,” Jane says, and then she leans forward and says, “Steve, are we going to pass Mac Donald’s?” and the car erupts in begging.

Eddie waits for the other, larger, adult man-sized shoe to drop.

It doesn’t, yet. The Wheelers host a huge New Year’s Eve party, with lots of drunk parents and a few somewhat drunk kids. Jonathan brings his atomic reefer and the three of them, Eddie and Jonathan and Steve, huddle out on the Wheelers’ deck together. Nancy Wheeler peers out of the curtain from time to time and frowns in their direction, but she doesn’t come out and say anything, which Eddie supposes is her way of being nice.

“I just want to smell it,” Steve says. “I’m, you know. Driving.”

“You love driving stoned,” Jonathan squints.

“Not with kids in the car, come on, man,” Steve says. “I gotta take Dustin home.”

“You’re going to be a really good dad someday, Steve,” Jonathan says, innocently, sincerely, maybe because he was out here first, started without them.

Steve shivers. Rubs his hands up and down his own arms, laughs like he’s just cold and being awkward about the praise, but—Eddie can see it happening, the brief inward collapse. Eddie would do fucking anything to put an arm around him right now, in a way that wouldn’t give the game away. All the fucking games. They haven’t made out much since the movies, mostly because Steve’s been back to work and the weather's got him borderline hibernating at home. But also because Eddie keeps picturing Max’s eyes filling up. He didn’t know what she’d been hoping, and even if he had… it wouldn’t have stopped him from trying. Eddie the Son of a Bitch.

The back door opens.

“I’m sorry, I must’ve gotten lost,” Buckley says, hanging out of it. “Looks like I found the kids’ table.”

Steve’s head jerks up. Buckley laughs, and stumbles down the stairs, and Steve catches her right off the last step and swings her around in midair, clutching her tight. “Oh my god oh my god, put me down, put me down, put me down!” Buckley shrieks, laughing. Steve sets her down and then grabs her head and kisses the top of it. Buckley beams up at him. “Nerd, sucker, you missed me,” she says, with delight. "Told you I'd make it."

“When the hell—”

“Literally just yesterday night, my flight to Chicago—oh by the way, don’t ever book on United, they literally want to kill you—”

“You said no connection! You were going straight to—”

“Yeah, I was supposed to, and then, disaster, okay, picture this, mechanical issue, quote-unquote, I am trapped in Logan for seven hours—”

“What!” Steve says. “I could’ve driven—”

Jonathan passes the joint over. Eddie takes it, gratefully. Steve shivers again, and Buckley tries to give him her coat, which Steve categorically rejects. Somehow this results in Steve just wrapping his arms all the way around her and sticking his hands into her pockets. “See, this works fine,” Steve says, against her back, chin on her shoulder. “Nice and toasty.”

“Yeah, unless I want to move one centimeter to the left or right or wipe my nose or do—anything?” Buckley says. Steve takes a hand out of Buckley’s pocket and tries to wipe her face for her. “Gross, gross, you, gross, no, absolutely not,” she laughs. She looks at Jonathan and Eddie and says, “Please gang up on him with me.”

“I don’t know, this is a good look,” Jonathan says.

“Yeah, I feel like four arms is an improvement,” Eddie nods.

“For me or for him?” Buckley says, raising her eyebrows. “No, I don’t want that answered, I have gotten my fill of constructive criticism from my mother already, in the—twenty-four hours I have been here, okay? Steve? Steve, focus for me. When I say left, we take a step left, okay? And it’s on left. Not left-and-pause-go. You with me?”

“What’s our destination?”

“I need one of those big mugs of cider, and therefore you need one of those big mugs of cider, since we are one symbiotic organism now, so… shit. Wait. How are we going to do the stairs?”

Giggling the entire time, it turns out. Eddie watches them struggle into the house, and takes a drink from the fifth of whiskey that he brought out in his jacket. Tries to identify the feeling he's having, which he hesitates to call jealousy, since that would kinda imply that he's a fuckstick. It's just… maybe it's easier. It seems easier. To love somebody without wanting—everything, like some covetous little magpie. Maybe that's the best way to do it.

“I don’t want to be an asshole,” Jonathan says, into the quiet. “But.”

“Go ahead,” Eddie says. He gestures out at the Wheelers’ snow-capped backyard, the deep blue twilight over the tops of the other little suburban breadboxes. “Look around, it’s all assholes in this wasteland, man. Far as the eye can see.”

“Are you guys a thing now?” Jonathan says.

“Or am I acting out Wuthering Heights?” Eddie says. “Good question.” He digs his lighter out, flicks it to life, sucks the end of a cigarette. “There’s… something,” he admits.

“Cool,” Jonathan nods.

For a while they don't talk. The party inside is loud enough that the noise carries through. Past the trees there's the occasional rustle as the leafless trees knock together, and once or twice a faint uncanny animal cry. Eddie tries not to tense at it. But he must, because Jonathan says, “Just a fox,” low and calmly, when it happens again.

“Hm?”

“It’s just a fox,” Jonathan repeats. “They go into heat this time of year.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “Hop said it was a normal sound. Nothing to be scared of.” He takes a puff. “Well, Hop told Jane. And Jane told Will. And Will told me.”

Eddie mulls it.

“How’s, uh. Your mom… doing with that?”

“Still pretty bad,” Jonathan says. He stretches a hand out. Eddie puts the whiskey into it, and Jonathan takes a swig.

“She doesn’t act like it.”

“My mom doesn’t act,” Jonathan shrugs. “She just is the way she is. She’s sad, a lot, but she doesn’t take it out on us. Will’s like her. And I wish I was."

"Oh, yeah, because you're a real prick," Eddie snorts. "Genuine neanderthal. I'm always saying that about you, man."

Jonathan smiles, faintly.

"I spent a lot more time with my dad than Will did," he shrugs. "I do kind of... have that voice in my head."

"If you didn't hear voices, I'm not sure we could hang out," Eddie says.

"Ha,” Jonathan says.

He takes another drink from Eddie's bottle. Then hands it back over. Gives Eddie a thoughtful look. "You know what is funny, though?" Jonathan says. "I think Steve and Nancy are a lot alike.” Eddie makes an offended noise. And then remembers who he’s talking to. But Jonathan just smiles at him some more. “I don’t think they can ever get used to disappointment,” Jonathan says. “So when they screw up, or something happens, it’s… you remember that egg toss thing, in science class?”

“Egg toss?”

“You put the egg in bubble wrap, and you throw it off—”

“Egg drop,” Eddie says. “Egg drop. Yeah. Wait, what?”

“I remember opening mine up, and it was like… a milkshake inside, even though the outside wasn’t dented,” Jonathan says. “I think it’s kind of like that.”

“Whereas,” Eddie considers, “for trailer-trash like me, fucking up just means it's Tuesday.”

“I was thinking about me,” Jonathan says, mildly.

“Did you know,” Eddie says, because he is a piece of shit, because that’s true, “about him and…”

Jonathan’s silent for a second.

“Yeah,” he says.

“How?” Eddie says, wretchedly.

Jonathan ashes the joint, which is mostly only ashes now.

“It wasn’t Steve who gave it away,” Jonathan says. “But, you know, Nancy can… put stuff in a little box, and only open it when she thinks she’s alone. She thinks if she’s not doing everything right nobody will love her.”

Eddie swallows.

“What do you tell her?”

“Tell her?” Jonathan’s brown furrows up. “Man, I can’t tell her shit,” he says, and then he laughs, oddly happily.

The back door slams open.

“Fucking, one, count of one, where are you going,” Steve is saying. He and Buckley burst out of the doorway together, still making some kind of embarrassing octopus out of themselves. Buckley trips and they almost go down the stairs in a tangle, but Steve grabs the rail and throws his weight to the side, grabs her waist, swings her out and lands her on her feet like he’s spotting a cheerleader.

“Nice save,” Jonathan says.

“Hoooly shit,” Buckley laughs. “Holy shit, that was cool!”

Yes, Eddie’s dick agrees.

“Good, I’m never doing it again,” Steve grouses. “Do you own any shoes with tread on them? You’re fucking ice-skating around in those things.” Buckley lifts one foot to examine her sole and nearly falls over again. “Robin, quit it! I’m tying you to the railing!”

“I need a refill,” Jonathan says, and tosses his empty can into the bucket by the back door. “Anybody want anything?”

“I’m good for now,” Steve says.

“Turkey leg, flagon of mead?” Eddie says.

“Oh, in that case, uh, any busty wenches you spot?” Buckley says. “And also some mead, please and thank you!”

Jonathan laughs. The door swings shut after him. Eddie looks at Buckley, and Buckley looks at him, and then they both look at Steve.

“Come on,” Steve frowns.

“Okay, do not say no right away,” Buckley says, and Steve’s frown becomes a glower. “My aunt Laura, I mean technically my aunt Elizabeth’s wife, Laura, who is also my aunt, obviously—”

“Fast-forward,” Eddie says, gesturing like he's waving traffic though.

“Works at this clinic in Michaelsville?” Buckley says, in a rush. “And I talked to her, I mean hypothetically, I hypothetically talked to her about a hypothetical situation, and she says the hypothetical you wouldn’t even have to make an appointment yourself, I can call her, and set it up under my name, because honestly I call aunt Laura for everything already, like every bump and bruise, I’m like, hello, me again, and nobody will bat an eye.”

Steve’s gone rigid. He’s wearing his own coat, at least, over his beautiful Christmas sweater; his shoulders hunch up to his ears.

“You’re not going to stop, are you,” Steve says, finally. Buckley must recognize the worn-down weakness in it, because her face lights up, and she grabs Steve by both his arms like she’s going to shake him with excitement.

“Never,” Buckley says. “Never ever ever. Please.”

Steve ducks his head.

“I’ll take you,” Eddie says. Steve gives him a look. God, what a hypocrite. Like he doesn't do eighty-four on the county road when he feels like it. “I'll ride shotgun,” Eddie concedes.

“Damn,” Buckley says, crestfallen. “I'm never fast enough.”

“Oh, a road trip,” Steve mutters.

“Hell yeah!” Eddie says. “I think the Clarks have a Roadmaster, the steering column on those is so easy to bust out. Candy from a retiree.”

“Fantastic,” Steve says. “I can be knocked up and arrested.”

“Don't make that face, c’mere,” Eddie says. “I can swing you to the great ball of twine on the way, kitten. Wait, no, better idea,” Eddie says, and snaps his fingers. Goes for the kill. “Diner pie grand tour.” Steve looks… marginally less dour. “Apple, cherry, blueberry, chocolate mousse, banana, all the way to… huh,” Eddie says, and pauses. “Buckley, what’s that park with the canyon in it?”

“The Grand Canyon?” Steve says, like Eddie’s insane.

“No, the one in—”

“Turkey Run!” Buckley says, pointing at Eddie. “Yes! Turkey Run! We used to camp there, and I hated it! And—OH,” Buckley yells, bouncing up and down. She slips again, and recovers, and says, “The Great Mound! The, the earthworks! Where they found those stolen chimpanzee skeletons!”

“The what?” Steve says.

“Not even you can say no to stolen monkey bones!” Eddie says.

Buckley is half-hysterical.

“Fine,” Steve sighs. “Okay.”

Buckley crows to the sky like she’s won a battle; she loops an arm around Steve’s neck and kisses his cheek, a big hearty smack, and Steve huffs and pretends he doesn’t like it. Then his eyes dart hesitantly to Eddie’s, and they’re—Christ, he’s the sweetest fucking thing. Eddie pulls him in. Kisses his mouth. Steve puts his face into Eddie’s neck, after, and breathes out in a shudder. Buckley rubs Steve’s back. Squishes them all together. “You guys suck,” Steve says, muffled, watery.

“Yeah, we’re the worst, and you hate us,” Buckley says, unimpressed. Steve lifts his head. Smiles crookedly. Eddie cups a hand to his cheek, leans in to kiss him again. And of course that’s the moment that Hargrove finds them.

Buckley notices first.

She freezes. Tugs Steve’s sleeve. Steve turns and squints, and Eddie turns, and then it’s just the three of them in shocked-stiff silence, looking down at Hargrove, who’s standing in the dark in the Wheelers’ yard in snow that goes to his calves. He doesn’t have a hat or a coat on, just jeans and a loose-necked Hoosiers sweatshirt. His face is pale and his eyes are red and swollen. There are a few floating snowflakes in the air, pure-white and feathery like on a greeting card, and they make him seem like a hallucination. For a single frozen moment, Eddie wonders if Hargrove's real. Maybe none of this has been.

He looks like he came here to kill somebody, or to die. Max must've finally cracked.

“It’s true,” Hargrove croaks. “Isn't it.”

Steve’s throat bobs.

Hargrove takes a couple of difficult steps forward, through the piled snow, and Eddie takes a heartpounding step in front of Steve.

But then, very gently, Steve pushes Eddie off.

“Don’t,” Steve says.

“Steve,” Buckley murmurs.

“He’s not a fucking wild animal,” Steve says, tightly.

“I am,” Hargrove says, from the yard, and makes a weird, awful laugh. “I must be.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Steve says, with surprising sharpness, down at him. “Do you even have shoes on? Why would you go out like this?”

“I fucking asked you a question!" Hargrove says.

“You want to talk, get a coat,” Steve says.

Hargrove doesn’t move.

“You hate me this much?” he says, unsteadily.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steve hisses. And then he strips his own fucking coat off, and starts stomping down the porch stairs into the snow.

“Steve!” Buckley says, but Steve ignores her. He makes it a couple of yards through the drifts and then he throws his coat violently at Hargrove’s face. Hargrove catches it. He mangles it in his hands instead of putting it on. Looks close to losing it.

“Put the coat on,” Steve demands.

“Why,” Hargrove says.

“Put it on!” Steve yells. And then he lurches forward and prods Hargrove hard in the chest, like he’s lost his mind, wants his clock cleaned. But Hargrove just takes it, rocking like a Bozo the Clown punching bag. His face is—crumpling. “I fucking said put it on!”

“Fuck, Steve, enough,” Eddie says.

Steve glances up.

He looks warily at Eddie and Buckley, standing on the porch, and blinks. “Fucking—look at him,” Eddie says, because he can’t take it anymore. Beside him, Buckley’s hand slips around Eddie’s wrist and squeezes it hard, like she might fall again if she doesn't. “He’s down,” Eddie says, thickly. “Stop.”

Steve blinks harder. He wipes his wet eyes with his hands.

Then he looks at Hargrove, and Hargrove looks back. From this angle, Eddie can’t see Steve’s expression at all.

Steve gets into Hargrove’s truck. In the driver’s seat, because it turns out that Hargrove’s had about half of a bottle of whiskey and was only wearing bedroom slippers.

Steve cranks the window down when Eddie taps on it. Heat pours out of the truck cab; Steve must be trying to roast Hargrove alive.

“I’ll follow you,” Eddie says.

“Slowly,” Steve warns. “You fuck my suspension on ice, you’re pulling me to work in a sleigh.”

“Jesus, aye aye,” Eddie mutters. He looks over at Hargrove, who’s silent in the passenger seat, bundled into Steve’s preppy striped puffer coat. He looks like a sick dog in a blanket. “Well,” Eddie says, stupidly, selfishly, “guess we missed midnight.”

Steve huffs.

Then he cranks the window down further and reaches for Eddie’s jacket front. They meet in the middle, in the window. Steve kisses him hard at first, and then less hard, like he’s remembering Eddie’s not the one he’s pissed at. His mouth tastes like cider, and his tongue’s firm and then tender. Eddie hangs onto the side of the door.

Hargrove says nothing at all.

“Happy new year,” Steve sighs. Eddie kisses the corner of his mouth, lets him go.

“What just happened,” Buckley says, faintly, when the truck pulls out of the Wheelers’ driveway and chugs down the block. Eddie looks at her. “Rhetorical question,” Buckley says. “Although I might have—left my body for a little bit in the middle there.”

“You too?” Eddie mutters.

Eddie drives the beamer home.

He knocks the snow off his boots on the front stoop, loudly, before he comes in. But Hargrove is alone in the living room, wearing borrowed sweatpants, sitting with his feet in a bucket of hot water. “Wow, you’re getting the full treatment,” Eddie says, because he can’t help himself. “Tip your manicurist, doll.”

Hargrove’s eyes bore in.

Eddie gets out of there in a hurry. Steve’s in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of their dinky tub with his head in his hands. “You okay?” Eddie says.

“Yeah, I’m just great,” Steve says, flatly.

“You want me to fuck off, or fuck off and die, or all of the above,” Eddie says. Steve scrubs at his hair irritably with his fingernails and then lifts his head. “Shit,” Eddie says, automatically, looking at his unhappy eyes. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize, all of this is my fault,” Steve says. Before Eddie can argue, he stands up. “I have to talk to him,” Steve says. “And I think he probably has to… sleep it off here.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, warily.

“I’ll give him my room,” Steve says. “Can I—”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, in a tired voice, like it’s going to be a favor to him to have his warm beautiful body in Eddie’s bed.

Steve takes a towel into the living room. Eddie crosses through, past the kitchen, into his own room, and closes the door. Mostly. For a long time there’s no sound at all, besides brief slaps of water that must be Hargrove lifting his feet out of the bucket. “Do they hurt?” Steve says, voice muted through the wall.

“No,” Hargrove says.

“If they turn colors—”

“They’re fine,” Hargrove says.

More silence. And then the sound of Steve turning the sink on, doing something with the stove. Mugs clinking. “What did you... think I’d do,” Hargrove says, in a sluggish, deadened voice.

“It isn’t like that.”

“Tell me what it’s like.”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. From the tone, his hands must be on his hips. “Maybe you should tell me why you stopped speaking to me in September.”

“I… didn’t,” Hargrove says, unconvincingly.

“Yeah?” Steve says. “How many times did we talk between Columbus Day and Halloween?”

“A few times?”

“Once, when I picked Max up,” Steve says, “and once at the station, because I came to see you.”

“It—more than that, Jesus,” Hargrove says. “That explains why you—”

“No,” Steve says.

Eddie rolls over in bed. Scrubs hands over his face, tries not to breathe too loud. He should turn music on, let them know he’s not listening in, but that’ll make it obvious that he’s been listening in.

“If you hate me, why keep it,” Hargrove says.

“Who the hell said I hated you?” Steve demands. “Can you stop it? Stop saying that.”

“You were never going to tell me,” Hargrove says, hollowly. “Because I’m… you think I’d…”

“What?”

“I wouldn’t,” Hargrove says. Now he sounds—damp. “My… own kid.”

“What? Bill, fuck, no,” Steve says. But now Hargrove’s really crying. “Don’t,” Steve says, and then Hargrove’s sobs are muffled, like Steve’s put a pillow over his face. Or like Steve’s holding him.

“I wouldn't,” Hargrove chokes.

“Stop it,” Steve says. “Stop. I never fucking thought that for a second.”

Eddie—shouldn’t. Not this.

He sticks a cassette into the deck and winces at how loud the click is. He pushes his door shut, turns on Houses of the Holy.

The tape’s run out, and Eddie’s dozing under the comforter in the dark, when Steve finally creeps in. He crawls into bed next to Eddie, and Eddie mashes his face into Steve’s shoulder, slides an arm around his waist. Steve lets him do it, but he doesn’t really do anything about it, or turn around to kiss.

“You mmkay?” Eddie manages.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Go to sleep.”

Eddie dreams about Nancy Wheeler, of all people. Picking miniature versions of everyone up in her gigantic spindly fingers and putting them into music boxes, the kind with little ballerinas. Her hand plucks Steve up, dangling him in midair, and puts him into one, and then she puts Eddie in another. She closes the lid on top of him like a coffin, and then Eddie’s in the dark with a little plastic mirror over his head, pounding to be let out.

Steve sleeps late.

And heavily, almost like he’s sick. His mouth hangs open and he snores steadily, not especially cutely, except for how much it makes him look like a child. Eddie watches him for a while, thinking about how few times he’s watched Steve sleeping. He moves around in the daylight constantly, working, carting kids around, dealing with his parents, getting the groceries, all that mysterious normal shit that Eddie barely concerns himself with. Eddie sees him at night, on the weekends. Eddie thinks about that and then pulls the comforter higher over Steve's shoulder, goes out pathetically determined to get coffee started. But Hargrove is already there, holding a fresh pot. Sober and still looking like shit in that threadbare Hoosiers sweatshirt.

Hargrove holds the pot out. Pours Eddie a cup.

“Don’t want to roll something?” Hargrove says, when Eddie takes a swig. "Check for poison?"

“Why would you need to poison me,” Eddie says, peevishly. If he were a cat he'd be trying to put teeth into Hargrove's arm. Not that he enjoys knowing why. “We’ve got plates.”

Hargrove sets the coffee pot down.

“Yeah,” Hargrove says. “You get to say that to me once.”

He sits on the sofa.

“Your truck’s outside,” Eddie suggests. Hargrove gives him a bone-dry look. “You can borrow shoes if you need them.”

“I bet I can,” Hargrove says.

“You’re going to sit around and wait for him?”

“Yes,” Hargrove says.

“You looked like a lunatic yesterday,” Eddie offers.

“I get you’re pissed,” Hargrove says, bizarrely calmly, unhurried. Letting every word settle. “If I were you I’d want to kill me. But you should know I’m not going anywhere. Maybe start figuring out how you’ll deal."

Eddie flushes.

“What does that mean,” Steve says, from the doorway.

Hargrove startles too, gratifyingly. Eddie spills coffee on his hand and bites his lip to keep from yelping. Steve’s got the comforter wrapped around him like a cape, and his hair is unspeakably ridiculous. “What does that mean,” Steve repeats, rough-throated, “you’re not going anywhere?”

“Where would I go,” Hargrove says. “When you’re having—”

Steve’s eyes well up. Instantly, like Hargrove jerked a string or hit him in the face. Hargrove looks as baffled as Eddie suddenly feels.

“Fuck off,” Steve says, abruptly, “who asked.”

“Steve—”

“Like I want to be your boat anchor,” Steve says. “You hate this town, and it almost killed you, so go. You said you’d go, so go. I’m not actually trying to stop you.”

“You think I’d leave my—”

“No, not your kid!” Steve says, and then he laughs, and somehow it’s even worse than Hargrove’s was last night. “Not your kid, of course you’ll stay for your kid. I fucking always knew you would, asshole!” he yells, suddenly. His voice cracks in the middle. “I was trying so hard not to ruin your life!”

Hargrove’s mouth literally drops open.

“Wait, fuck,” Eddie says.

“Stay out of it,” Steve says, eyes burning. He looks back at Hargrove. “This is great, right?” he says, acidly. “Really great. Glad we finally all know the plan! I’m the stupid fucking babytrapper who’s going to chain you down for the next two decades, and you’re the guy who’s going to fucking resent me for living, just like my fucking da—”

Steve’s face pales.

He drops the comforter, and then the door to the bathroom slams shut so hard it rattles the entire building. Eddie looks at Hargrove. Hargrove looks at him. Together in silence, they listen to Steve throwing up.

Chapter Text

Hargrove leaves.

Steve takes a long shower. Eddie doesn't see him sneak out again, but at some point the door to the bathroom's been cracked open and the door to Steve's room is shut. For lack of anything to do, Eddie makes toast and eats half of it alone. Waits. Thumbs uselessly up his ass, or might as well be.

Steve doesn't come out.

In a few hours, Hargrove's truck pulls up in front of the trailer. Eddie catches sight of it through his bedroom window, fumbles the guitar off his lap, almost trips and brains himself. But only Buckley stumbles out of the truck cab, looking utterly bewildered. Eddie opens the door for her and watches Hargrove pull away. Wonders if he’s technically witnessed a kidnapping. Then he stops wondering anything and runs out to catch her before she slides down their icy steps in her fucking little suede boots. Steve should put her into snow tires.

“Uh, hi?” Buckley says, and laughs nervously. “I think I am… some kind of, um, human greeting card? It’s not entirely clear. To me. Hello!”

She knocks on Steve's door. Whispers a couple of things. Steve lets her in. Eddie tries and fails not to feel slighted by this. He hangs around the stoop for a while, hungry and chain-smoking to quell it. He thinks about ordering pizzas, and then remembers it is New Year's fucking Day. Christ, what are they going to eat? If only Steve believed in Wayne's approach to nutrition and kept a freezer full of pot pies.

Eddie goes back in. Rummages around the fridge and discovers some lettuce and tomatoes and half a carrot, which is… practically, if not comprehensively, a salad. The cupboard yields several boxes of store-brand macaroni and cheese, and there are hot dogs in the freezer, so hey, covering all the bases. Eddie stupidly fills a pot to the top with water, sets it to boil, and then remembers why not to do that when it boils right over the side. He pours half the water out into the sink and goes again. He nukes the hot dogs, cuts them up, dumps the pasta into the pot and narrowly rescues the cheese packet from going in with it, because he was distracted thinking about how to cut the carrots. Rounds, half-moons, little… sticks? Arts and fucking crafts.

“Dumbass,” Eddie mutters at himself.

Somehow, he manages to get mac and cheese and an ugly salad made. He knocks on Steve's door and Buckley answers. “Dinner is served,” Eddie bows. “Ring the royal gong.”

“You cooked?” Buckley says.

“Who cooked,” Steve says, skeptically, from somewhere behind her.

“Your Master of Puppets,” Buckley says. “Come on, it smells good.”

“Smells like microwaved hot dogs,” Steve mutters. Poser. Like he doesn’t love those.

Buckley comes out, heads for the kitchen. Steve hangs back in the hall, looking like he wants to say something. He digs his hand around nervously in his big nonsensical hair for a second, then makes a grim, fake smile. “Boy,” he says. “You must be glad you let this bullshit into your house.”

“Hey,” Eddie says, wounded. “What the hell.”

Steve's eyes drop.

“Out of line?”

“Just eat something,” Eddie says, because he can't figure out what the fuck else to say. Thank Bahamut for Buckley, who launches right into a five-minute improvisational comedy set on the concept of brand-name mac and cheese and the idea of noodle-specific copyright infringement. Steve laughs a few times. Finishes his bowl.

“My god, what is this shape,” Buckley says, awed, holding up a carrot. “I’m not sure even mathematicians know about this.”

“We can't all be Julia Child,” Eddie says.

“Well, you're certainly not Julia Adult,” Buckley says, and Steve snorts. Then he nudges his foot hopefully against Eddie's, hooks their ankles together under the table. Eddie nudges back, heart hammering a little. “I'd stick to shredding,” Buckley is saying. “Not literally! Because this is also shredding, I guess. As in, to shreds.”

Buckley puts Fast Times on, later.

“Now I really know I'm being patronized,” Steve huffs. But he gets into it, eventually, laughing under his breath. His head sinks lower and lower until it's in Buckley's lap. And then he's asleep again. Buckley pets his hair, and Steve just shifts and sighs and snores faintly through his mouth.

“Was it… this bad?” Buckley says, quietly.

Steve's making the same slow wheezes as he did last night in bed, so it's probably not fake. They can probably dissect his life in front of him. Sure.

“He didn't tell you?”

“He tells me a lot,” Buckley says, “but not everything.”

“What’s,” Eddie says, “your deal, exactly?”

“Well, you know the gist, right? Boy meets girl,” Buckley says. “Boy and girl get trapped in a secret underground base, play involuntary truth and dare… did he ever tell you—much?”

“I got the Dustin’s Notes version,” Eddie says. “Steve’s never brought it up.”

“Funny thing, yeah,” Buckley muses. “He has such a big mouth and also such a… not so big mouth, and they’re the same mouth, which is… it’s an interesting trick. I only have the one, as you know,” she says, wry. “So first I was like, whatever, I get it, you’re god’s gift to the suburbs, save it for somebody who cares. But then I’m strapped to a chair, very this-is-it, and… every time they started talking to me, he’d do something to piss them off. So they'd go right back to him. I sat there thinking… what the hell, why won't this stupid idiot shut up? And then it happened—over, and over, and over. He looked like this… giant mashed grape.”

Steve snorts in his sleep.

Buckley looks down at her lap, combs a few stray hairs back into the thicket, makes a rueful smile. “I think he has a deviated septum,” she says, like she’s apologizing for him.

“Fuck me,” Eddie murmurs. “Dustin tells it—differently.”

“You were right,” Buckley says. “Calling him off. I was completely useless. I don't think I've ever seen him, um. Lose it that hard.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “He used to be more of a prick. Not, you know, an asshole. A regular prick.”

“Really?”

“You remember him from your freshman year?”

“No, just later,” Buckley says. “You do?”

“A bit,” Eddie says. “He and I were the same year, but then I repeated, and… oh, what fun it all was, living in beautiful, exotic Forest Hills, not having parents, being dropped down. Cherry on top. Really made life exciting for a while. I was super popular, as you can imagine. Special treatment.”

“Oh my god,” Buckley says. “Did he beat you up?”

“Excuse me, maybe I beat him up,” Eddie frowns. “I had—arms. Manly, tatted arms.” Buckley doesn’t look convinced. “I don't think he ever looked at me twice,” Eddie admits. “He was just… around. Part of that crowd.”

“Bully boy,” Buckley says, reprovingly, towards Steve's slack face. “Should’ve been nice.”

If Steve Harrington had been nice to Eddie, Eddie's dick would have fallen off from persistent self-abuse sometime around the middle of sophomore year.

“Yeah, you jerk,” Eddie says, dishonestly.

“Hm,” Buckley says.

“I still don’t really get what happened there,” Eddie wonders.

“You don’t?”

“People don't change,” Eddie says. “Look at the rest of our graduating class. Excuse me, your graduating class. Remember Mitch Meyer? Mitch Peterson?”

“Oh god,” Buckley breathes. “There were two of them. Um, Jeopardy question! These two… animate Chia Pets are known for their uh, ruthless domination of the back seats of any schoolbus, and their pathological inability to manipulate simple human tools.” Eddie cracks up. Silently, smacking his leg. Buckley looks pensive. “Munson,” she says. “How come we didn't hang out? I feel like we should've been comparing notes.”

“Uhhhhhhh, gee, band geek, I wonder,” Eddie says, raising his eyebrows. “You weren't terrified of my ominous van and goat horns, were you?”

Buckley laughs. Looks shamefaced, when Steve stirs and mumbles.

“No, shh, don't put your shoes on, we're not at grandma's yet,” Buckley murmurs. Steve mushes his face into her thigh. Rips another, louder snore. “Maybe a little, okay, just a teeny tiny bit,” Buckley admits. She pauses, and blinks towards the front door, and then says, “Wait. What happened to your ominous van? Did I… please tell me it's just, um, much much smaller, for some reason? Maybe because it has—chameleon powers?”

“I'd love to live in your reality for a couple weeks out of the year, Buckley,” Eddie says. “Like a timeshare.” Buckley squints. “No such luck. Somebody took it for a spin and burned it up by the lake. Taught me a valuable lesson about, you know. Feeding souls to the dark one.”

“Seriously?”

Eddie shrugs.

“Tipper Gore’s America,” he says.

“We could've let Billy break a couple more arms,” Buckley says, thinly.

She's probably remembering Carver stumbling across the yard in his pissed-through jeans, stammering apologies to Lucas. Trying to get away from them. Hargrove probably remembers that a lot, too. Eddie used to wonder if he’d savored it. Now that seems like a stupid thought.

“Bad year for the Tigers,” Eddie says.

“Je-sus,” Buckley huffs.

They watch Steve sleep for a while. Following the little restless movements of his fingertips, the wrinkle in his brow. Like the parents of a baby might. “He really likes you,” Buckley says, eventually, softly. “Really, really, really likes you.”

“He's got fucked taste,” Eddie says.

“Shut up, dork,” Buckley says.

Steve goes back to work.

Eddie has a superlative week, financially, with so many college kids at home. Going back to your wallpapered childhood bedroom in midwinter is best experienced with chemical assistance, or so he imagines. His original childhood bedroom probably isn’t locatable; he vaguely remembers that it involved a folding cot and towering crates of safecracking tools. Well, maybe just one crate. Everything’s huge when you’re three.

“How do you get around and make… deliveries?” Buckley wonders.

“Easy mistake to make, what with the spreading of happiness and satisfaction,” Eddie says, “but I am not in fact a pizza guy?”

“Okay, kingpin, you got me, I don't know how it works,” Buckley says. She props her chin on her hands. “Walk me through your routine, then. Let me ride along. Show me the magic.”

“Wow,” Eddie says. “Your worst idea of the day.”

“Oh, shit, right,” Buckley says, wide-eyed. “The—laws.” Eddie gives her a finger-gun salute. She pops a french fry into her mouth. Chews. “Worst idea of the day, so far.”

“Touché.”

“But seriously, do you, like, walk?”

Eddie sighs.

“I’ve been taking Gareth’s car,” he says. “He’s driving his mom’s to work, she’s got his granddad’s car for errands, it’s a whole fucking thing, musical chairs, don’t ask me to explain it, it'll take longer than we have.”

“Wow,” Buckley says. “Glamorous.”

They’re sitting in a window booth at the Pizza Barn, waiting for Steve to take a dinner break. Buckley’s picking at chicken tenders, Eddie’s still considering where the muse of appetite will lead him. Probably to whatever’s cheapest and hottest. Another fucking negative three windchill. “Oh, um,” Buckley says, suddenly, glancing out into the lot. Hargrove's truck is pulling into a spot by the door. When the headlights shut off, Max and Lucas hop out, and Hargrove ambles after them. Eddie winces. But heroically decides against locking himself into Pizza Barn’s grimy single bathroom until they're gone. A godlike Viking warrior wouldn't try that, would they? Maybe they would, if they saw a bear they'd been provoking. “Try to be cool,” Buckley whispers, catastrophically undercutting his resolve. “Like a cucumber.”

“I am cool,” Eddie hisses back.

“Hey, guys,” Lucas says. Eddie jumps. Then leans back into his side of the booth, arm over the seat. Gives Lucas a lordly nod.

“If it isn't Sundar, back from the realms of mist,” Eddie says. “Well met, traveler.”

“Hey, Robin,” Max says, around Lucas's shoulder. And then she narrows her eyes. “And asshole.”

Fuck, she's scary.

“Max, come on,” Lucas says.

It's said in Eddie's defense. So Max hasn't—told him. Not everything. Eddie feels a rush of relief, maybe gratitude, but then it's gone again, replaced with a much worse sensation. Yes, very delightful that a kid with hurt feelings thinks she can’t tell anyone about them. Fantastic. Eddie can feel his facial expression sliding down, just the same way his body’s going to slide into hell. One big greasy egg dripping off god’s spatula.

Maybe he ought to get smacked again.

But Max doesn’t offer. She doesn't do anything but shrug Lucas’s plea away and go stalk off to stand at the counter next to Hargrove, who's getting money out of his wallet, nodding slowly while the cashier impatiently repeats back their order. Max tugs his arm and says something to him, inaudibly, and Hargrove turns his head and looks at the booth. And then he looks back at the cashier and counts out bills. No pennies for the daytime hours, for the normals, Eddie thinks, warmly amused at the memory, and then wonders why he would be. “Are we playing tomorrow night?” Lucas says. “Erica's bugging me nonstop about the catacombs of the berserkers. She has a bloodlust, man.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. He clears his throat. “Yeah, it's on.”

“Cool,” Lucas says. He glances across the restaurant at Max, and then back to Buckley. “Hey, Robin? Um, she did want to ask you something about school,” Lucas says.

“Me?”

“Yeah, is that okay? Just… chill a second, I'll get her?”

“Me?” Buckley repeats, and then she shakes herself and smiles. “Yeah, of course.”

Lucas nods and jogs off. Lately he does the same little unconscious head-duck that Steve does, loping out onto an imaginary court.

“I should,” Eddie says, and scoots to the edge of the booth seat. “Go smoke. Demon calls. Be right back.”

“Oh? Uh, oh,” Buckley says. “Okay.”

He goes out of the glass doors, down a little ways from the entrance. Lights up, burns his lungs to a welcome crisp. His fingers start itching with the cold immediately, but he ignores them. Watches the cars crawl through the lot. Looks off at the illuminated front of the Family Video like a creep. It's almost dark already, that uncanny long and blue part of the evening when lightbulbs seem like warm candles glimpsed across a wood; there's still tinsel in the store windows, big fake marquee bulbs around the posters, he can't tear his eyes away. There's nothing nice about the place, really. It only seems to glow like this when Eddie's lonely.

The door to the Pizza Barn opens and shuts.

Hargrove comes out and lights up, and stands about eight feet away from Eddie, which is maybe the perfect distance for total unadulterated discomfort. Maybe Hargrove’s measured it. He smokes in silence and looks at Eddie, and then doesn't look at him. No surprise, the Family Video is right there.

Eddie's hands twitch.

“It was my fault,” he blurts out.

And then hastily adds, “With Max,” in case Hargrove thinks it's the other thing. Fucking hell. Honestly he shouldn't say anything, either way, he should leave it where it is, leave the mess as he found it, but he—can't. He can't, and not because—

Maybe he should've died a hero, is something he thinks sometimes. Very rarely. Eddie's not a psychoanalyst, he's a rat that's glad it lived. He’s glad about a lot of things. Glad to get another slice of pizza, to get his hand around a guitar neck, to feel the wind. But maybe he should have died and gotten to be something. An important memory, an example that wasn't cautionary. Somebody whose picture could be hung up without WANTED or MUNSON THE DEVIL or, deeper cut, hello fourth grade, WETTY MUNSON EATS CAT FOOD underneath it. Instead he's a yipping dog crawling up people's legs for attention, a guy with—no fucking plan. Less than a plan. All that’s pulling him along is his twitching inherited thief’s fingers, some pathological compulsion to poke at things. When Hargrove said I’m not going anywhere in that steady voice, something in Eddie's chest broke. Maybe it was a heart, whatever rat-sized heart he has. Imagine not only knowing you have a future filled with debt and diapers and probably screaming arguments, but then not even acting rationally, traditionally terrified about it. From on high at the peak of his coward's tower Eddie can't even glimpse that place.

Eddie ignores the rumbling in his chest, maybe a clairvoyant awareness of future pizza heartburn, and sucks it the fuck up. Eddie the Mediumly Bold. “She saw us,” Eddie confesses. “At the movies. I think she’s been hoping—and maybe she thought I was, uh. Rooting for… that,” he concludes, excruciatingly. Hargrove drags silently on his cigarette, doesn't do anything showy with the smoke. Small mercies. “I kinda fucked her over,” Eddie says, not knowing how else to say it. “It wasn’t her fault.”

“Taking a swing’s her fault,” Hargrove says, bafflingly.

“What are you, her fucking guidance counselor?” Eddie huffs, irrationally mad at him for saying something Eddie agrees with. “She's your sister, Gandhi! Just take her side and put a fist in my teeth already. Come on, man, time’s a-wasting.”

“She knows where it ends,” Hargrove says. “She treats her buddies—”

“I'm not her buddy,” Eddie says.

Hargrove’s eyes flick over.

“She thinks you are,” Hargrove says, now much more warningly.

“Well, fuck!” Eddie says. “That's worse!” He slumps against the brick. Hargrove's still looking at him. “How the fuck should I know,” Eddie complains. “These fucking—hopeless babies. Are they unaware that I'm a tainted burnout? What are they thinking?”

“Real burden to be liked,” Hargrove says.

“Oh, come the fuck on,” Eddie huffs. “I just make them laugh. I'm a Saturday morning cartoon that's going to crack and buy them beer eventually. You're fucking thinking of somebody else.”

Hargrove exhales.

“Yeah,” Hargrove says. “He did fuck up.”

“Huh?”

“He made them kinda stupid,” Hargrove says. “They look at anybody around and just assume they'll give a shit.”

“They're… kids, though,” Eddie says.

“I wasn’t that kind,” Hargrove says. “You’re not.”

“Oh, past tense for you, present tense for me, I see how it is, asshole. You know I’m older than you?” Eddie says. Hargrove looks grudgingly amused by that. “How are you so stoic about any of this,” Eddie grits out. “One big freakout and now you're fucking Hawkins Jesus, dispensing your fucking wisdom. You're so fucking calm I want to knock your head off. Quit it.”

“I'm not calm,” Hargrove says.

“Fucking—that right there!” Eddie snaps. “Listen to yourself. Did you take an acting class? Are you possessed again? You used to be a motormouth prick, too, and now you sound like John Wayne!”

Now Hargrove really is going to break his nose. Maybe that's actually what Eddie is trying for. It occurs to him belatedly, having let that last sentence flap out. And then he suddenly, desperately, wishes for it.

But Hargrove still just—doesn't take the bait.

“It's not a bit,” Hargrove says. “I'm not you.”

“Yeah, okay, pilgrim,” Eddie scoffs. “Eat shit.”

“Look,” Hargrove says, closer, and now unfortunately he does seem upset, teeth gritted, body vibrating menacingly, like Eddie's touched one of his old live-wire feelings. The back of Eddie's neck starts to prickle with instinctual cringery. “I’ll explain is—this, once, and if you repeat it around, I will knock you through—drywall. Understood?”

“You can do that if you feel like it anyway,” Eddie mutters.

“The slower I talk,” Hargrove says, even more excruciatingly carefully, “the less obvious the fucking—brain damage is.”

“Screw you, that's my joke,” Eddie huffs.

Hargrove doesn't laugh. Nor does he tear off any limbs. He just grimaces, waits like he's expecting Eddie to say more stupid shit. Bracing himself for it. Or maybe readying his punching stance.

Eddie freezes.

Hargrove sucks his cigarette and blows smoke out in a narrow, hard stream. “What, like,” Eddie says. “Really?”

“Owens called it—something,” Hargrove says. “With an A. Fucked if I remember.”

“What?”

“You’ve fucking seen me, I can't always… put shit in order,” Hargrove says, grimacing harder. “Foot-in-mouth disease.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie says. “Because of the—”

“Yes, that is a theory,” Hargrove says, tightly.

“Jesus Christ, man,” Eddie repeats. “I'm—”

“Don't,” Hargrove warns. Eddie nods rapidly. Keeps his mouth closed. For at least twenty full seconds.

“Wait, shit,” Eddie says. “Does Will—”

“Don't think so.”

“Oh. So, uh. Did they. Explain that, or… like, why…”

Hargrove taps his cigarette.

“I don't think it made him drink bleach and beat his head against the wall,” Hargrove says, finally.

“Mother of—fuck!” Eddie says. “Why on earth did you stay here? You could be in fucking Mexico right now! Drinking fucking margaritas the size of your head!”

“That sounds good,” Hargrove muses.

“Fuck me,” Eddie says, still feeling winded. “Does anyone else—”

Hargrove nods.

“Max… Lucas, I guess. Susan. And,” Hargrove says, and then he visibly bites his tongue.

Both of them must be hopeless as fuck, just unbelievable dogshit, because they both look around awkwardly and then end up looking over at the Family Video again. At roughly the same exact instant.

“Christ, we're stupid,” Eddie mutters.

Hargrove makes a soft, mirthless laugh.

Eddie’s cigarette is finished; if he wants more he’ll have to just eat it. He drops what’s left off the icy curb, where it barely sizzles out. There are lots of butts mashed into the slush, dropped by lots of sad shitheads. Not quite a whole town’s worth.

“He brought movies to the—center,” Hargrove says, unexpectedly.

“Oh?”

“Doing the dialogue, kinda… works. Especially stuff I know,” Hargrove says. He hesitates and then confesses, “I did watch a lot of westerns.”

“See, I knew it,” Eddie says, and snaps his fingers. “That’s too fucking cool to be an accident.”

“Yeah, real fucking cool,” Hargrove murmurs.

Max and Lucas come outside, carrying a pizza and an overladen plastic bag.

“Are we going?” Max snarls.

Hargrove nods. Drops and stomps the end of his cigarette. Nods at Eddie. And then they all pile in the truck and go.

Buckley’s followed them out. She shivers at Eddie’s shoulder.

“That looked friendly,” Buckley says, optimistically.

“What’d Max want?”

“Oh, she’s, uh, thinking about adding a language? She’s taken Spanish this whole time… do you know how good her Spanish is? Like good good, I mean, sostenga el teléfono, this girl has skills! So she was thinking French, which makes perfect sense, but there’s also German, which, to be honest, gesundheit, I actually suck at. So I asked if there was still a Latin club—do you remember Mrs. Crimbie?”

“From A Wrinkle In Time?” Eddie says, even though he does.

Buckley laughs.

“She ran Latin club,” Buckley says. “Max says she’s dead. Died. Normal, um, kind of dead, normal death, I mean. I guess. If it’s ever normal. Breast cancer.” Buckley’s silent for a minute after she says it. Then she scuffs her toe on the rock salt that’s all over the sidewalk. “You think he’s coming over for dinner or do you think he forgot?”

“Probably sick of us,” Eddie says.

He says it like a joke. Ha ha ha. Buckley eyes him. And then visibly chooses mercy. Like he’s a second-grader, or a bedraggled sidewalk worm.

“He’s probably explaining the concept of a prequel to somebody born in the McKinley administration,” Buckley shrugs. “He’s really not great at walking away. Should we go get him? I’d go alone, but,” she says, and lifts one ridiculous boot.

There are ice floes in the parking lot, pushed into looming dirty mountains by the plows. Barren. But circled by dangerous Oldsmobiles with gnarl-fingered wizards squinting behind their wheels. On the other end, treasure.

Eddie flips his collar up.

“Prepare yourself,” Eddie says, “for a voyage across the wastes.”

“Ahoy!” Buckley says. Eddie gives her a look. She loops an arm into his elbow. “It was all I could think of. Tally… ho? Cripes. I’ll start over. Lead on, adventurer!”

“I’m going to sell you for a potion,” Eddie warns, “that makes me forget everything you’ve ever said.”

“God, I would love to drink that potion,” Buckley breathes. “Wait, do you usually drink potions? Or are they, like, topical?”

“You’re killing me, Buckley,” Eddie says. “You’re killing me.”

“To dinner,” Steve says, flatly.

“Not like, to dinner,” Eddie says.

“So we wouldn’t eat dinner.”

“No, we’d eat dinner, shit,” Eddie says. “I’m saying you usually make dinner on Sundays, and if they didn’t replace all his insides with fucking—clock parts, then he could theoretically eat dinner. Here.”

“Here,” Steve repeats. “Okay.”

Eddie flops backwards onto the sofa again and puts a pillow over his face. But it’s no use; the second he presses hard enough to suffocate himself for real, he’ll pass out and drop the pillow and have to live. Catch fucking twenty-two. When he gets tired of overwarm cheeks and lifts it off, Steve’s still sitting slumped at the kitchen table, head propped on one hand. Not looking at Eddie, just into the distance. His leg’s started joggling side to side. “So, if,” Steve says, in a very distant voice, “you want to… call it off, or whatever, that’s—understandable. Considering how much baggage—”

“What! No,” Eddie says, in a panic.

Steve grimaces.

“You’re trying to set me back up with him,” Steve says, “for other reasons. Got it.”

“Fuck no,” Eddie says. “I’m not trying to third-wheel you! He’d be the third wheel! Big huge fucking third wheel!”

“It’s starting to sound like I would be,” Steve says, shittily.

“Stop it, I’m not—I don’t know what I’m doing, and I sure don’t know why!” Eddie huffs. “Thought you’d want to.”

“You thought I’d want to invite him to Sunday dinner, so we can all sit around this table like jackasses, for fun,” Steve says, incredulously.

“Fine, forget it,” Eddie says. “We’ll just keep meeting in snowdrifts.”

Steve puts his head down on the table.

“Good point,” he mutters.

It’s pretty wretched. He stays like that for a while, head down. Maybe sulking. Or maybe he's just tired, which he always lately seems to be.

“Look,” Eddie says. He drums his fingers on his stomach. Tries not to let his voice sound—irritated. He's not irritated and doesn't want to be. It's just not clear what other serious options there are. He’d love to see the catalogue page, various… color treatments, patterns, curtains, drapes. Shit. “It’s… not really my rodeo,” Eddie hedges. “I know. And it's not like I can tell you what to do, or like I would, hell, I don't know what people do, my family tree's a fucking poison ivy bush. I just thought, maybe, you know. A—conversation. I'll make myself scarce, if you want.”

Steve sighs.

“You don’t have to,” he says.

“It’s… whatever,” Eddie says. “We can get along.”

“Right, you're best pals again,” Steve mutters, revealing the trapdoor, the pit of spikes below it.

“Jesus,” Eddie says, amazed. “Is there anything I can say that won't get me axe-murdered? Make up your mind.”

“About what?” Steve says, tightly. “It’s my bullshit to fix, not yours."

“Well, okay, there we go!” Eddie says. His body's starting to jitter. He swings his legs up, sits up, smacks his hands on his knees. “I'm just the fucking roommate, so how about I get my pushy good-for-nothing nose out of your life?”

“I didn't say that,” Steve says.

“Yeah, you did, though, you told me to stay out of it, but I can’t fucking listen, I guess,” Eddie says. He gets up. Starts to shove his feet into his boots.

“Ed,” Steve says, behind him.

“I'm gonna take a walk,” Eddie says, and does it.

Immediate regret. Which tastes sort of like inhaling an abrupt lungful of agonizingly dry, cold wind in the middle of the night. Eddie coughs in a sickly, consumptive-child fashion and tromps down the road anyway, naked hands in his coat pockets. At least he remembered a beanie. Fucking Steve. No. Fucking Hargrove? Fucking Eddie, really. The fucking worst offender of them all. Can't not open his mouth, can't take responsibility for what comes out of it. He should keep walking until he falls off the edge of the earth. While he's on his way down he'll at least get to see that giant turtle. Har har.

He’s looped all the way around the park and gone left on Kerley already, walking towards the Texaco, by the time he realizes that’s what he’s started to do.

Eddie pauses on the side of the road, boots in the grey slush past the white line, wondering at himself. The impulse was so strong he didn’t even question it. Left, right, left. He’s not—out of cigarettes. Can’t use that excuse. Maybe he's cruising for a bruising.

Or—

Maybe it’s pity. Maybe he pities Hargrove. To be that close to somebody, and then so far away.

Somewhere in the dark there’s a faint fox-cry. They have hard miserable lives, probably; fighting and killing, dragging raw pigeons home by the neck. Fucking and biting each other. Maybe they love every minute. Eddie doesn’t have an explanation for why he can’t stop thinking about Hargrove’s face, staring out across the lot towards the video store. Everything’s colorless this time of year, but his hair was still golden under his hat, curled around his collar. It's gotten long again, like it used to be. His eyes were very blue.

Eddie wonders—

It’s shitty, isn’t it. To wonder what it was like. A gawker, a fucking greedy pig. How hard or how rough, how soft and how slow. How many times, and where: in the dark of Steve’s childhood bedroom, when his parents were at the lake, or out back in the faint alien glow of the pool. In the beamer, stuffed into the backseat, Steve’s knees knocking into everything. Did they fuck silently in the house while Eddie was still crashing there? Or when he was over at Gareth’s, or guzzling coffee at Ronnie’s, or drinking alone on the slide at the old playground? Tapping his fingers, waiting for somebody to show up and pay him what they owe. Eddie’s curious about all of it, every bit, the taste of the sweat and the laughter, if there was any. The noises. The way Hargrove would look when Steve rolled grinning over him, the faces they’d both make as he went inside. Maybe it was a couple of fumbles, a true accident. Maybe they screwed like the foxes do, intent. Brains off, bodies knowing what would happen, instinct wanting it. Fucking something to life in the bed.

Eddie needs to leave it alone.

The universe agrees. When he walks out to the Texaco anyway, like a man who can't admit he wants to jump off something, Hargrove’s not even there. Another guy sells him cigarettes, somebody he doesn’t know. The nametag says KEITH but it’s not that one. Other Keith. This one’s got to be at least fifty-five.

“Fucking nickels?” the guy complains. Eddie doesn’t say anything. The guy sighs and counts Eddie his pennies back. “Hate the fucking night shift,” he mutters, looking at Eddie’s sleeve patches and shaking his head. “Fuckin’ freak show.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Eddie says. “Hey, any chance you know a quick way to the cemetery? I gotta meet my coven.”

“What!”

“I’m super late,” Eddie says. “Your wife usually gives me a ride, but—”

The guy misses. His cup of coffee explodes against the front window. “Wow, just say you don’t know,” Eddie chides, skittering around the endcap, shoving the door open. “I’m switching to Shell!”

He jogs down the road for a while and then stops, hands on his knees, lungs burning. Laughing. It kind of hurts to do it. When he’s done he straightens up again, stares at the sky, which is all clouds. A blanket of them. There’s nowhere else to walk now, really. Just back. When he gets there Eddie has one more cigarette outside, leaning on the porch. Watching television lights flicker in other trailers, watching the leftover Christmas decorations glow steadily: red-hatted Santas, orangey stars. Some people won't take them down until February, like that makes it last.

Inside, Steve’s asleep on the sofa. Curled into himself with his arms around his stomach; the tv’s quietly playing a rerun of Lawrence Welk. Eddie turns it off. Turns all the lights off, except for the ones still hung in the windows, the strings of them Steve brought home. Eddie leaves those on, and then kneels by the sofa and looks at Steve’s face in the dark. He won't want Eddie to do anything, to act like… he’ll want to be left alone. My bullshit, Steve keeps saying. All his. He's consistent, at least; Eddie knows he's got a catalogue of baby crap that he's started looking at, but he doesn't even bring it out of his room. All of five people know what's happening. And not one of them is an adult. Not the real kind. Sometimes Steve goes over to his parents' house, to get something he left there: forgotten clothes, a bowl for the kitchen. A couple of times he's stayed to eat lunch. But that's it. He doesn't ever ask Eddie to go with him, and he doesn't come back any happier than usual, nor usually that much worse-off. He never comes back with anything besides stuff. If Eddie were the knocked-up one, through some unlikely demonic intervention, he'd be calling Wayne daily to bitch about it. Just to hear his voice. To know somebody—

Eddie touches Steve’s cheek with the back of his knuckles. Then with his lips.

Steve wakes groggily, blinks his eyes open. First he looks so surprised. A child's reaction. Then he covers it up like he’s filling in a little hole with dirt. Maybe he doesn't even have a box, like Wheeler does; maybe it's a divot in the yard like a dog would make. Maybe Eddie hasn't been paying as much attention as he thought. “Come on,” Eddie says, around a lump in his throat. “It’s late.”

Steve stares at him for a second. Then takes Eddie's hand. He’s slow and sleepy, but he still realizes immediately which direction they’re going; he hesitates at the threshold, then yields in silence. In Eddie’s room, Eddie gives him a clean sweatshirt to tug on, pushes two of the pillows onto the other side for him. Steve crawls into bed, and Eddie leaves his freezing jeans on the floor and crawls in after him, curls behind him, puts his face against the back of Steve’s shoulders. “I was being a shithead,” Eddie says. “I just don’t know what you need from me.”

Steve exhales, slowly.

“It wasn’t what I meant,” he says.

“Yeah, I know,” Eddie says.

“You just don’t… have to.”

“Maybe I want to,” Eddie says. Steve snorts. “Can you not do that, for a second?” Eddie says. “Can you hear me?”

Steve’s quiet again for a long time.

“I never do this part right,” he says.

“What part?”

“I always ruin it,” Steve says. “Every time. I'm really sorry.”

“Hey,” Eddie says. Steve’s burying himself in the pillow. “Come on.”

“Why the fuck would you want that,” Steve says, morosely, muffled almost to incomprehension. “Why the fuck would you want anything to fucking do with—some fuckup slut who couldn’t even get into the worst col—”

“What!” Eddie says, in alarm. “Steve—”

“I know I’m dumb as shit,” Steve says. “I probably shouldn’t even have a kid.”

“Fucking hell, roll over!” Eddie says. “Lunatic! No, stay, I’m coming.”

Eddie rolls right over him. Steve grunts in protest. But it’s too late, Eddie’s got arms around him now. Steve grabs onto his back, forehead pressed into Eddie's sweatshirt front. He clings on. Maybe just so he can hide his face. “Stop it,” Eddie says, furiously. “What the hell!”

“Forget it,” Steve mutters. He sounds embarrassed now. “I’ll shut up.”

“You are fucking insane if you think I think that. Nuts!” Eddie says, cheek to Steve’s head. Angrily squeezing his shoulders. “You—cuckoo JFK bigfoot tabloid! You're a maniac.”

Steve’s breath shudders against Eddie’s sweatshirt. Hot, and close, and sad.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says.

“Does anybody?”

“God, I hope so,” Steve mutters.

“Think about it tomorrow,” Eddie says.

“I don’t want to think anymore, ever,” Steve says. “I want to like… wake up a month from now. Maybe two months. Maybe next year.”

“A coma does sound relaxing,” Eddie muses. “Maybe they can hook our brains together like a party line.”

Steve huffs a laugh. Settles a little closer. He rubs thoughtless gentle fingertips along Eddie's back. Over his sweatshirt, up and down his spine. His hand slows down after a few passes, like he’s easing closer to sleep.

“Bill was in a coma,” he murmurs. “Guess it wasn't fun.”

“You call him Bill?”

“Yeah?” Steve says. “I don't know if he minds.”

Probably not.

“He told me about his speech thing,” Eddie says.

“Did he?” Steve says, curiously. Then he yawns. “It’s gotten a lot better.”

“He said that was you,” Eddie says.

“No, it wasn't,” Steve says. “He did it himself.”

“Steve,” Eddie says.

But then his throat fails him for a moment. Chokes him, bottlenecks the words, desperate to keep them. If a question like that comes out, it can't go back. Do you still—

“Mm?”

You ever wish—

“Get some rest,” Eddie says. He sets his lips to Steve's forehead, brief and soft. It feels a little bit like stealing something might. Pocketing jewels and scurrying away. Thanks for everything, dad.

Chapter Text

Steve doesn’t go back to his own room the next night. He wears Eddie’s sweatshirt again, falls dead asleep while Eddie’s still got the bedside light on, eight chapters into The Master Mind of Mars. Eddie’s tucked in close against Steve’s back in the morning. His dick’s clearly been up a while, chugging coffee, acting real fucking chipper about the upgrade in circumstances.

“He’s a go-getter,” Eddie slurs. “Scuse me.”

He tries to detach himself.

“Mm,” Steve says. “Where you headed?"

His ass shifts backwards. Eddie rests his face between Steve’s shoulderblades, tries to breathe slow and count to fucking—five. Maybe he’ll make it to three and a half.

“Honey,” Eddie says. “You—in the mood?”

“Come find out,” Steve grins, lazily, and just props his right knee up. The leg of his shorts slips down his lean thigh. Eddie’s going to come against his fucking back in a second if he keeps doing shit like that.

He’s wet. So wet he's already dampened his underwear. “I dreamed we were doing it,” Steve says, semi-breathlessly, while Eddie rubs fingers over the cotton.

“Dreams can come true,” Eddie says. “Fuck, come here.”

Steve rolls over. Eddie sticks a hand up his sweatshirt, kisses his neck and strokes his faintly scarred sides, the irregular pale latticework of healed bite ridges that are just like Eddie’s. He avoids Steve’s stomach, at first, and then cringes at himself and course-corrects awkwardly; it feels just slightly different from the last time Eddie had hands on him. Rounder, firmer. There's just starting to be a—distinct shape to him. Steve watches Eddie’s face while he gets felt up, but if he minds it, he doesn’t say anything. He pulls Eddie down by the chin to get a kiss and then keeps him there for a while. “Condoms are in the shoebox,” Eddie murmurs, hand in Steve’s shorts, working middle fingers into his pussy, trying to find what makes him shiver the most. “On your side.”

“Do we need one?”

Eddie’s brain briefly stalls; bits of the gears fall behind into the road. Goodbye, suckers!

“Uh,” he flounders. Is he also dreaming? Hopefully he’s not about to blink and suddenly be on an Olympic podium between Dejah Thoris and his dead grandmother. “Don’t—we?”

“Are you gonna give me gonorrhea?” Steve says, raising his eyebrows.

“No!”

“Great,” Steve says.

They pull their underwear down, kick it off. Steve leaves Eddie’s sweatshirt on, so maybe he did mind being pawed. Or maybe he’s cold. He tugs Eddie closer by his guitar-pick necklace, runs a fingernail across Eddie’s nipples to make Eddie hiss and get harder, like that’s a thing he was going to have trouble with. “I like his attitude,” Steve murmurs, wrapping a dry hand around Eddie's cock; it jumps in his palm like an eager puppy. “Been thinking about this a lot.”

“A lot?” Eddie says. Praying his doofus eyes didn't bug out.

He’s already too excited. Leaking. There’s a wet thread of moisture at his tip; Steve runs his thumb through it, and then casually brings his thumb to his mouth like he’s going to suck it off. Eddie’s whole groin throbs like an overloaded speaker. He rolls fully on top, presses Steve down into the bed, rutting against his mound, between the humid tops of his thighs, like he's going to just thrust right in, fucking take him, fuck him as senseless as Eddie feels. Steve groans and grabs everywhere, and Eddie holds one of Steve’s strong coarse-furred calves up behind his hip so he can really grind them together. Farewell, dignity and restraint, so long hobbies, Eddie’s just going to be a pussy-hypnotized thrall from now on. Finally! “I want to fuck you, want your fucking pussy so bad,” Eddie pants, against his mouth. “You’re turning me inside-out, you drive me fucking crazy—”

“Come on, do it,” Steve says. "Just the tip, though."

"What?"

Steve’s grinning wider, biting the corner of his mouth. Dick. “Oh, just the tip,” Eddie murmurs. “Classic. Yeah. I'd love to screw you one inch at a time.”

Eddie slides in.

Out a little. Then—in, deep.

“Oh fuck you, yeah, do it,” Steve says, with a punched-out exhale that turns into a moan. Eddie sort of hears it, over the pounding of his own blood in his ears. Steve’s slippery, so tight. “Fuck yes, gimme your cock.”

Steve puts a hand against the wall. Pushes back, rolling hips to hips, all his jock muscles at work. Eddie makes a—very embarrassing noise.

“Going to make it fucking good,” Eddie grits.

“Yeah, show me,” Steve says.

He is cute when he comes hard. He pulls on his own wrecked hair at the root, like he needs everything at once and more of it. He mutters hell yeah, don't stop like Eddie's a teammate who needs pep-talking, and pants with his mouth open, and lets Eddie bite his chin and ram him deep with his knee bent up, and it’s fucking crazy that Wheeler ever traded this away, that Hargrove didn’t immediately crawl on his hands and knees after it the instant he felt it slipping loose. Maybe everyone in town is a fucking idiot but Eddie. It kind of feels that way, when Steve bites Eddie’s ear and murmurs, “You don't have to pull out," and laughs like it's just a joke between the two of them. Eddie’s gut and head spin apart in different cross-eyed directions like an exploding Tilt-o-Whirl.

Steve rolls a thigh over Eddie's legs and holds him, after. It shouldn't be a surprise, and it isn't, it's just a surprise that Eddie doesn't squirm around. Much. He's always restless when the deed's done. Always has been. Maybe it's the awareness of how close he is to chattering out absurdities at any given time, the countdown clock of being—still welcome. But Steve's warm, solid, kind of hairy arms wrap around him and weigh him down, and for a while it's… quiet. Steve has a really steady heartbeat.

It's Steve who shifts first. “Have to piss,” he mutters.

Eddie lets go, props up on one elbow. But that means he gets a look at Steve while Steve sits up, so he also gets a look at the line of come that's slid out of him and down his thigh. “Um, okay there,” Steve laughs, when Eddie makes a breathless noise and paws at him like a fascinated monkey. “It’s just jizz, weirdo,” but then Eddie's fingers walk further up, inside, and Steve pauses mid-sentence like he’s very distracted. The inner muscles of his thighs twitch.

“I fucking came in you,” Eddie says, wonderingly.

Come’s not this fun when you’re just putting it in a rubber or a sock, holy hell. It's nice on a face, for sure. Fuck, imagine Steve letting him do that. Eddie can almost hear the riff from Hit the Lights starting to play in the distance again.

“You want a medal?” Steve snorts. “Jesus, you two can start a clu…”

Steve abruptly stops talking.

“You—let him?” Eddie blurts out. Maybe because he’s gone insane. The narrow look Steve gives him confirms it.

“Smart guy like you oughta know where babies come from,” Steve says, in a voice that should be a flashing warning sign, and would easily be recognized as such, by anyone with a functioning sense of social awareness. Unfortunately—

“Were you trying?” Eddie says, thoughtlessly.

Steve flushes scarlet.

“Fuck off,” Steve says, and pushes Eddie's hand away. “We were drunk. I told you I was a moron, don't act surpri—”

“Hey, shit, no, I'm not—making fun of you. Fuck,” Eddie says, scrambling to follow him. “Hey, I take it back, stop.” But Steve ignores the pleading. Stalks to the bathroom. Eddie sticks his foot into the door as it's closing, to keep it from doing that, and then yelps when it rams his toes. “Ouch, fuck, Steve, let me—”

“Why would you put your foot there!” Steve says, upset. "Did I just break your damn toe?"

“Forget it, it's fine, I'm sorry, okay?” Eddie says, in a rush.

“Why be sorry,” Steve mutters. “Logical fucking question. I’m just overreacting like an asshole, you don’t have to apologize a million times.”

“No, it’s—forget it, forget I ever said it,” Eddie says. “Just—come on. Steve.” Steve's eyes lift from Eddie's banged-up foot, finally. “Don't listen to me, my big flappity-flapping mouth,” Eddie says.

“Stop,” Steve sighs. “It's... whatever.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel—”

“Yeah, I don't really need help with that,” Steve says. "My track record's kinda shit."

“Okay, agree to disagree, I think you're doing pretty fucking good,” Eddie says. He reaches up, pets Steve’s cheek with a clean thumb. “I mean, today alone... standing ovation. Bravissimo.”

Steve’s mouth quirks up.

“Well,” he says, “maybe I'm on a roll,” and then he lets Eddie kiss him.

“Another solid choice,” Eddie says, still pressed to his mouth. Steve’s hands have crept around his waist. “Come back to bed.”

“I have to go to work,” Steve murmurs, but it’s reluctant.

“Fucking bastards,” Eddie mutters. “Corporate shitweasels. I’m going to burn that fucking building down.”

“Please don’t,” Steve laughs.

“A fucking lich?” Wheeler cries. “Shit, just kill me!”

“Oh, it's about to,” Lucas mutters.

“Guys, focus,” Dustin says. “We can do this. There are only three wights left. Sundar, you’ve still got the silvered sword—”

“I’m on it,” Lucas nods. “For the glory of the mistwood!”

“Mike, your paladin—”

“Your paladin can get behind me,” Erica huffs. “This lich’s ass is mine.”

“Unless you can suddenly fly, forget it,” Wheeler says, intently. “He’s on a thirty–foot balcony over the temple hall. Will can—”

“I’ll try a counterspell,” Will nods. “And Hippolyta could hit him with… sunbeam?”

“Hell yeah, roast him!”

“Remember what I said about fudging the dice,” Eddie warns.

Jane gives him a narrowed look.

“The queen of the Amazons,” she says, with regal calm, “does not need to fudge the dice.” And then in a minute she says, morosely, "Crapola.” Huh. Max can't have taught her that one, there's a distinct lack of filth and-or blasphemy.

“That would’ve gone so much better with our swiftfoot,” Dustin sighs, later, draped over the side of Wheeler’s sofa, polishing off a two-litre of ginger ale with the air of an old wino.

“Family night,” Lucas shrugs. He frowns when Wheeler snorts. “She’s not ditching, it’s family dinner, man.”

“Which they could have literally any other night?”

“Her brother got a new job,” Lucas says. “She made brownies and everything. Can you like, think about somebody else for two minutes?”

“New job where?” Eddie says.

“McQuik’s,” Lucas says. “The one that just opened.”

“Yeah, big whoop, he's gonna lube cars,” Wheeler says, mockingly, under his breath. Lucas rolls his eyes.

“Sundar the slow and busted!” Erica yells down the stairs. “We're leaving without you in one minute!”

“Shit,” Lucas says.

Eddie drives Dustin home in Gareth's car; they make an ill-advised pit stop at McDonald's and argue for thirty minutes about whether the Shannara trilogy is a delightful, rollicking homage or a trite mercenary ripoff.

“He's a druid,” Dustin keeps repeating. “And it's technically set in the future!”

“I can't talk to you about this,” Eddie says. “I’m fucking talking about artistry and poetry. I'm talking about the fucking soul of the thing. I'm talking about Maiden versus fucking Poison, man!”

“But Poison's kind of cool,” Dustin says.

“It is taking everything in me,” Eddie says, “not to leave you in this parking lot.”

He blasts Invaders while he backs out of the Hendersons’ driveway, to teach Dustin a lesson, but Dustin just throws horns and waves cheerfully, loving the attention. Fucking kids. Eddie finally rolls the window down, has an overdue cigarette. Steve's secondhand-smoke shit is rubbing off on him.

God, if only Steve were here, rubbing off on him.

He's doing an easy, responsible fifty-five on the county road, distracted by thoughts of Steve's sweetest thigh mole, when a cruiser pulls behind him. He turns the music down a little, eyes the car in the rearview. Doesn't slow down, doesn't speed up. But it doesn't turn off the road again, and after another half-mile it turns its lights on, so it must be fucking personal. Eddie swears and grits his teeth, pulls over in front of the next lit house. Kills the engine, rolls the window down. Keeps his hands at ten and two. Doesn't let his leg shake overly much. It's close to midnight; the wind’s bitter, and the sky is blue-black. Instinct makes him want to slam the door open and run for it, bad experience makes him want to grovel and whine or cock a fist, so frankly he can't trust either of those bitches. Be cool.

It's Powell, at least. Callahan makes Eddie itch powerfully for the nailbat. “Evening, Chief,” Eddie says, pleasant as apple pie.

Powell nods. Glances around the front seat, then the back.

“Evening, Eddie,” he says. “On your way home, son?”

“Unless I'm being detained, sir,” Eddie says, earnestly, switching over to cherry pie, peaches and cream, whatever the fuck.

Powell sighs.

“No, Eddie, you are not being detained,” he says. “But I would like a moment of your time, as a courtesy. I have a young man in the hospital—”

Eddie's—everything seizes up.

“Who?” he demands, jerking halfway out of the window.

Powell frowns.

“Grady Wiedrick,” Powell says. “You know him?”

Eddie's heart and lungs and guts all lurch back safely into his body at once, rolling and thumping inside him like a bunch of circus tumblers. The wave of relief is almost as strong as nausea.

“No,” Eddie says.

“You attended the same high school,” Powell says.

“Me and two hundred other dipshits,” Eddie shrugs. “I said no.”

“Well, I guess that would put my mind at ease,” Powell says, “because I was under the impression you had certain limits, Eddie. Certain lines you did not cross.”

“Is this a riddle?” Eddie says, trying to keep his leg still. And his mouth. The longer this interaction goes on, the more likely it is one of those motherfuckers betrays him. “You ought to bring a second guy, so you can do that thing where one of you only lies and the other one only tells the truth.”

“Grady's had a heart attack,” Powell says. “After taking quite a considerable dose of cocaine. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Eddie?”

“Absolutely the fuck not,” Eddie says, flatly.

Powell stares at him for a long minute. Eddie stares back.

“Would you,” Powell says, “mind if I—”

“I do not consent to a search,” Eddie says, through his teeth.

“I’d like you to think carefully, Eddie,” Powell says, “about the kind of situation you might find yourself in, if any connection between you two was brought to light later on.”

“I'm not in any situations,” Eddie says. “Except maybe the situation where as soon as there's a fucking hangnail in this town, everybody starts eyeing the pitchforks and staring longingly at my old mugshots! Which, thanks again for that. Really got my best angle. Sir.”

Powell sighs again.

“Alright, well,” he says, tiredly. “You have yourself a good night.”

“You too, Chief, take it easy,” Eddie says. He leans out to wave. “I'm sure you'll find another convenient degenerate to pin it on!”

Then he slides low in his seat, holds his breath, wonders if Powell's going to turn around, drag him out, and mash his face against the windshield to prove a point. Is it that he's literally incapable of learning a lesson until there's an abrupt, direct, physically unpleasant repercussion? What would you call that, a lack of imagination? All his fucking dragon-based wargaming and he can't picture the outcome of antagonizing a cop on a rural road in the dark? Somebody ought to mercy-kill him.

Powell just gets back in his car and drives away.

Eddie sits for a little while longer, breathing slowly and trying not to nervously laugh about the cash and baggies stuffed into his spare tire in the trunk. Ha ha! Our hero escapes! Well, it's Gareth's spare tire, anyway. Christ, Gareth's mom would roll him up and beat him like a rug if he got the car impounded. Maybe he—

And this is a painful thought, agonizing, like outgrowing your own bones. Maybe Eddie, too, should find a—line of work.

New line would sort of imply he already has one. He worked half a summer at Arby's, bar-backed intermittently for one fall, got summarily fired from a yardwork crew after about six hours. Wayne always said he'd put in a good word for Eddie at the shop, if he wanted, because they always needed janitorial staff and guys to do packing and inventory, and you didn't need a machinists’ certification for that… but he’d definitely be expecting Eddie to be as good as that given word once he got into uniform, so. The money would've been shit, too, so that was a factor, but the money's shit everywhere. Unless you're fucking selling drugs. And it's not like he can walk into Sears and start pushing back-to-school sneakers and washing machines, who the fuck is going to buy anything from a guy who's been on tv with a blanket over their head, getting hauled in for three murders? He'd have to cut his hair, hide the ink, keep himself from throttling everybody in the store and putting one of their top-selling rifles in his mouth. But maybe that's how it's going to go anyway, maybe that's the only way it can go, because it can't fucking—

It can't happen again.

It can't happen, Eddie won't make it through. The fucking bats were bad enough, but at least he could've gone down fighting. Pure adrenaline, all for one and one for all. And it fucking meant something. He can't do jail again, can't have the cuffs on while the blank walls close in and in and in and his head pounds for nicotine, while they ram him facefirst into the table and tell him he's a kid-killer. This time nobody will stop it, because it won't be monsters and military-grade weaponry and NDAs, it'll just be him and a bunch of hick cops’ boots in his stomach; Owens sure won't stop it, Owens won't bother this time, probably not even Murray would stick his neck out twice. Nobody will be coming, nobody will make it—

Eddie rests his head on the steering wheel. Then starts the car and drives home.

Steve's dozing on the sofa. He rubs his eyes and smiles when Eddie comes in, and the sight of him waiting up makes something in Eddie’s chest squeeze like a fist. Eddie kicks his boots off and goes right into his arms without bothering to take his coat off; he kneels on the floor by Steve's legs and sticks his head into Steve's chest, curls half in his lap like a stupid little kid. For a couple of seconds he can’t even breathe right.

“Hey,” Steve says, worried. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Eddie lies. “Just… smelling you.”

“Smelling me?”

“Yeah, think I got turned into a werewolf,” Eddie says. “Tail, ears, ravenous hunger, all of it. Kind of a whole thing.”

“Ah,” Steve says. "Makes sense."

Steve's sweater smells faintly like microwave popcorn. He must've wiped his buttery hands on it. One of them’s currently resting on the back of Eddie's head. Eddie can smell like butter, too. It sounds kind of nice somehow. “You're freezing,” Steve says, stroking him. “You didn't wear a hat?”

“I have a luxurious mane like a lion's,” Eddie says, sulkily.

“I can't argue with that,” Steve says. “Seriously, what's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Ed,” Steve says.

“Got pulled over,” Eddie admits.

“For speeding?” Steve says, judgementally. Oh, the hypocrisy burns.

“You know anybody named Grady?” Eddie says.

“Grady?” Steve repeats. “Uh… Grady Wiedrick?”

“Powell says he snorted himself to a heart attack,” Eddie says.

“Jesus,” Steve says. “Well, that was bound to happen.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he's a lunatic,” Steve says. “His older brother is worse. That guy would walk around parties like he'd rubbed his face in powdered donuts.”

“You know where they get their stuff?”

“No,” Steve says. “Well. Maybe Tina's cousin, she's got somebody in… wait, does Powell think it's you? Ed—”

“He was fishing,” Eddie says. “He doesn't have anything.”

“You should call your lawyer tomorrow, just in case,” Steve says, urgently. “Where's his number?”

“I don't have a lawyer,” Eddie huffs.

“Uh, yes you do,” Steve says. “Let me up. Do you still have his card somewhere? Is he in your address book?”

Steve pushes him off, fairly gently. Goes to the phone in the kitchen and rifles around in the drawer, the pile of spare receipts, the few notes and menus they've pinned up. Eddie doesn't have an address book, which is something Steve should have realized by now. Sometimes it feels like there are certain things Steve can't see even if he's looking right at them, like he’s imagining the things he thinks should be there instead. Maybe that's why he moved to a trailer park so readily in the first place; maybe he thinks Eddie has a second garage and a pool out back, too. Maybe he thinks Eddie wears a tie to work, that he's a productive member of society and not a piece of fucking roadkill. “You have it somewhere, right?” Steve is saying. “If you can't find it, I'll call Murray. It was Garrow and… Sachs? Do you remember that other guy's name?”

“Can you relax?” Eddie says. “Powell was just yanking my chain, wanted to see if I’d flinch.”

“You have rights,” Steve says, hands on his hips. “They can’t harass you with no consequences.”

“Yeah, they can,” Eddie says, sharply. “Get real, Steve.”

Eddie gets up. Strips his coat off, hangs it up, goes into his room. Scrubs at his face, tries not to be pointlessly irritated with Steve for believing in the fucking… American way, or whatever. He doesn't know why he's so mad, suddenly. It feels horrible. It feels wrong; unfair, and itchy, and tight. If he were examining it closely he might realize it feels more like—fear. But he's not fucking going to, thanks. Save it for Sally Jessy Raphael.

“Hey,” Steve says, cautiously, silhouetted in the doorway.

“Leave it,” Eddie says.

“They should know better,” Steve says. “Murray’s guy handed them their ass last time. Just call him and see what he says.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Eddie says. “I'm gonna go to bed.”

He strips his jeans off, crawls under the covers, turns his back to the door.

Steve's silent for a little while. Then he shuts Eddie's door halfway. Eddie listens to him moving through the kitchen, putting a dish in the sink. The tv volume shuts off, and then the living-room light. Eddie waits in the bed, hardly breathing, wondering if he fucked it. Wondering if Steve will go sleep in his own… but then Steve comes in, wearing worn-out basketball shorts and one of Eddie's henleys, and Eddie's eyes well up without him having any fucking clue why. It's dark, and Steve's doing something with the alarm clock, so he won't see Eddie wipe his hot, wet face on the comforter.

Steve lies down and rolls against his back. He wraps an arm around Eddie's waist, rubs his nose on the back of Eddie's head. Then he moves his head around like he's trying to get hair out of his mouth. It’s a very distinct gesture. “Sorry, can't contain the pelt… I'm a sexy barbarian,” Eddie murmurs. His voice sounds embarrassingly rough. Steve just makes a soft, affirmative noise. Picks his arm up, fumbles around, settles back down.

“You are,” Steve says, and yawns. “Eddie the… Strong.”

“Ha,” Eddie says, bitterly.

“You are,” Steve murmurs. And then he falls asleep and snores in Eddie's ear.

Eddie lies awake.

A marriage, ha. You can’t get hitched to Peter Pan. If you want someone to marry you, you probably have to want to grow up.

The phone rings on Wednesday night.

“Munson-Harrington residence,” Steve says, like a dweeb. God, Eddie is getting absolutely nowhere on training him out of doing that. They're going to start getting membership mailers from the country club.

After a second Steve says, “Oh… hey,” in a subdued tone of voice.

Hargrove, then. Right on time. Eddie tries not to break into a guilty sweat about it.

For a while Hargrove must be doing the talking; Steve nods to nobody, turns around and faces the kitchen wall, leans a palm onto it, and pushes himself up and down against it restlessly like he suddenly needs a workout. “No,” he says. “Yeah, it's fine. Kinda better. Nothing like… no, it's been okay. Uh-huh. It probably sounded bad.” Another long pause. “That's because I haven’t yet. I've been… yeah, hello, I'm aware. No shit. I do have an appointment.” On the television Johnny Carson is laughing so hard he's slapping his desk. Eddie tries to make himself pay attention to it. “Actually... I am,” Steve says, cautiously. “I’m going tomorrow morning. I can let you know how it…”

Steve pauses. Exhales. Pushes off the wall, then stands straight like a post. Stares up at the ceiling. “You don't have to do that,” Steve says. The cord's looped around and around in his fingers. “No, I'm not saying… I just mean, it’s like half an hour. I can get myself there. Obviously.” He pauses again. “If you… really want to,” he says, finally. “Uh… eight-thirty? Yeah. I'll… okay. Bye.”

Steve hangs up. Eddie stuffs a large handful of chips into his mouth, to avoid even the possibility of talking first. Strategy. “Um,” Steve says, unusually warily. He stares at Eddie for a long minute, and then says, “So… my appointment, in the morning?”

“Hm?”

“Bill… says he wants to drive me.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. Hopefully in a sufficiently surprised tone. Steve frowns.

“Are you cool with that?”

Christ, who actually knows.

“Yeah, of course,” Eddie says.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Because if you're not—”

“You know I don't have a problem opening my mouth, physiologically or morally,” Eddie says, doing it.

“Maybe finish chewing next time,” Steve suggests.

“Blehhhh,” Eddie says, showing his tongue.

“So hot,” Steve says.

On Thursday Eddie lies around in bed for hours after Steve’s gotten up and gone. Wallowing is probably the technical term. He plays a little guitar, smokes a little weed, eats three store-brand twinkies. They don’t normally get the newspaper, so if he wants to read the Help Wanted, he’ll have to go out and procure a newspaper specifically for that purpose. Fucking soul-crushing. Why couldn't he have made the band happen? Should've pushed harder when he still had it. They should have moved up to playing Friday nights, gotten some of the door take. Made a fucking cassette, at least. Maybe it's some kinda generational curse. Wayne used to be in a bar band, too. Kind of bluesy, so he tells it. They probably also broke up because of Eddie's shitty existence. Fuck. Maybe he can bribe himself into action with pancakes from Ronnie’s. What do you think, buddy? Some nice hot silver-dollar pancakes, nice fresh classified section, end of your pathetic prolonged adolescence? Gonna get your pants on and be a big boy about it?

“Fuck you, no,” Eddie mutters, and rolls over.

At noon, somebody bangs on the front door.

Eddie startles out of dozing, rolls onto the floor. Gets up, pulls on the closest sweater—oh, it’s the black and green monstrosity, great—looks at his pasty naked legs, decides to yank jeans on. Whoever’s out there hammers the door again. What an impatient piece of shit. “Give it a rest, I’m coming!” Eddie hollers.

It’s—Hargrove.

“Hi,” Hargrove says, tersely.

Eddie cranes a befuddled look around his big shoulders. But there’s nobody else; the truck’s parked in front next to the beamer. “I dropped him at work,” Hargrove frowns. “Can I come in or what?”

Hargrove comes in.

Eddie drops on the sofa, eyes him warily. Hargrove looks around the trailer like he’s trying and failing not to look around it; he glances at the piled mishmash of shoes by the door, Steve’s folded laundry still sitting in the basket by the television set. He chews the inside of his cheek and then says, gruffly, “Got something for you.”

It’s a wrinkled mailing envelope.

“Whoa, the fuck?” Eddie says, when he’s opened it. “You’re barking up the wrong pusher, man. I don’t even have this much product.”

“What?” Hargrove says. “I’m not—”

“Is this a sting?” Eddie says, suspiciously. “You turning rat?”

“Fuck you,” Hargrove says, clearly offended. “Shut up and take it.”

“How much is this?” Eddie says. He pulls out a handful of hundred-dollar bills. There are… a lot of them. “Did you rob a bank?”

“What kinda rinky-dink bank you go to,” Hargrove says. “It’s twenty-four hundred bucks.”

“What the hell is it for?”

“Just take it,” Hargrove insists. “Use it for groceries, or… like, a crib, and stuff.”

Eddie stares at him.

Hargrove looks uncharacteristically nervous.

“Did you,” Eddie says, slowly, “try to fucking—give this to Steve?”

“Do you want it or not?” Hargrove says, rigidly.

“Is this your fucking California stash!?” Eddie demands. Hargrove’s nostrils flare, like he’s picturing smacking Eddie’s head against the nearest hard surface. Well, this time it's mutual! “You tried to give Steve your fucking—how are you not dead?!”

“It was close,” Hargrove mutters.

“Take it back!” Eddie says. “He’ll kill us both!”

“I’m not—fucking taking it back,” Hargrove says. “You keep it. Just shit you—pay for shit and keep your mouth shut!”

“Oh my god,” Eddie moans. “I didn’t want to die this young.”

He slides backwards. The envelope of money sits like lead on top of his chest. Hargrove huffs loudly, and then sits down at the other end of the couch and stares sullenly at his own boots. Steve must’ve put him through the wringer the whole way back. He looks so extremely yelled-at. “He’s going to know,” Eddie says. “Soon as I start pulling wads of cash out.”

“That’s your problem,” Hargrove says. “I won’t be—a deadbeat. I don’t give a shit how mad it makes him.”

You don’t have to live with him, Eddie almost says.

But his brain catches his mouth just in time, for once. That’s a sentiment too cruel to be let out. Eddie’s not stupid enough to misunderstand the way Hargrove just looked at that laundry basket. And he’s also not stupid enough to think Hargrove bought himself that faded old Hoosiers sweatshirt he was wearing on new year’s eve; one clothing-thief can recognize another. Eddie the Merciful. Eddie the Usurper.

“You want to get ripped?” Eddie says, instead. Hargrove eyes him. “My personal stash is kinda dried-out, but it does the job.”

“Sweet-talker,” Hargrove frowns.

“Come on, I’m not opening a new bag for nada,” Eddie says. “I keep it vacuum sealed. You want fresh, you gotta pony up.”

“I just gave you two thousand dollars,” Hargrove says, petulantly.

“Shit, you’re right!” Eddie says.

Hargrove smokes like a guy who’s trying to forget going to war. Maybe he is. A cloud rolls over his head, and he sinks further and further into the cushions. Eddie opens a bag of Doritos and mindlessly pops them into his mouth one by one by one. The television’s showing a muted infomercial that’s frightening as shit, some kind of new vacuum attachment that sucks the hair right off your head. And people think he’s a deviant.

“Why’d you ask me,” Hargrove murmurs, at some point.

“Huh?”

“Why,” Hargrove says, slowly, “would you ask. Me. To take him.”

Eddie chews for a while.

Another thing Steve will be incredibly fucking pissed about, if he finds out. Hopefully he won't. Eddie stopped by the McQuik’s on Tuesday, gave Hargrove the… what's a basketball term? A layup? Laydown? A thin shiny dime? How should he know. It seemed like a good thing to do, somehow, setting them up for a clinic date like a peace-maker, maybe some kind of demented trashy fairy godmother. Hargrove had heard him out and then looked at him like Eddie had three heads, but he'd made the phone call, hadn't he? And hadn't Steve accepted the ride? So Eddie was right to do it. And now here they are.

“Dunno,” Eddie lies.

“Bullshit,” Hargrove says.

“Hargrove,” Eddie says, “you’re not… reading my thoughts, right?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Eddie mutters. “That’s crazy.”

“Why, though,” Hargrove says.

“It’s your fucking kid,” Eddie says, irritably. “He should fucking go with you. What the fuck would he go with me for.”

Hargrove’s silent again for a long time.

“Might—be a girl,” he says, finally.

It's so quiet that Eddie almost doesn’t understand what he said at first. He looks at Hargrove, and Hargrove swallows and says, painstakingly, “Not… for sure. Obviously. Like, until she expresses. But they think… maybe.”

“Fuck,” Eddie says, feeling winded. “That’s, congratulations, man.”

Hargrove suddenly looks like he might cry.

“Steve said—Joanne,” he says, thick-voiced. “If—she’s.”

“Nice,” Eddie nods. “Kinda classy.”

“My—mom’s,” Hargrove says, and then he looks like he can’t say anything else at all, even if he might want to. He swallows again, and turns to look at the television, blinking hard.

“I was a girl for years,” Eddie blurts out. “Legally.” Hargrove gives him a blurry, weirdly vulnerable look. He’s wiping a cheek with one of his big palms. “My dad was so sure he just turned the forms in early, and then he forgot,” Eddie says. He braces himself, takes a breath. “Edwina.”

Hargrove squints.

“You’re full of shit.”

“Nope.”

“Edwina,” Hargrove repeats. “That's rough.”

“You’re one to talk, Billford!”

“My name's not fucking Billford,” Hargrove snorts.

“I've seen your driver's license,” Eddie says. “Billford Bartholomew Bargrove. Of the Shire.”

Hargrove laughs.

“Shut the fuck,” he says, pleasantly. He smacks Eddie's arm, but his aim is loose and soft, probably because he's been smoking like Cheech Marin for the last two hours. “Bartholomew Bargrove,” he huffs, and then he cackles again. “You're a dipshit.”

“This dipshit’s going to order a pizza,” Eddie decides. “Hey, you. Important question. Do you like black olives?”

“Fucking love them.”

“Fuck!” Eddie says. “I knew it! Everybody but fucking Steve!”

“Jesus Christ,” Hargrove says. “No fucking tastebuds. No olives AND no onions?”

“Yes!” Eddie says. “Fucking thank you! Anchovies?”

“Double fucking anchovies,” Hargrove mutters.

“I'm going to kiss you on the mouth,” Eddie warns.

“Do it, cocktease,” Hargrove laughs. He laughs harder when Eddie kicks him.

The pizza, when it arrives, is a monstrosity. Eddie's never loved anything more. Well. “And I don't even care,” Hargrove's rambling, leaning almost into his side. Eddie can't remember how they got here. Hargrove’s kind of adorable when he’s this high. “I don't give a shit. Like, who cares. Boy, girl. I just than, fuckin’, hope she’s smarter. Than me.”

“God, shut up,” Eddie says, and kicks him again. More like knees him, at this angle. “You and Steve. Oh, I'm so dumb, I'm so stupid. Like either of you even are!”

“He still says that shit?”

“All the fucking time,” Eddie gripes. “Calls himself a moron—”

“I'd knock the… teeth. Out of his dad,” Hargrove muses. “I would. I think about it sometimes.”

“His dad?” Eddie says, under his breath.

“So fucked that he looks like Steve,” Hargrove says. Eddie gives him a bemused glance. “Don't,” Hargrove frowns. “I know about genes. I mean just like Steve, if Steve were… something. Old. Forty-five.”

“Holy crap, are you hot for Harrington Senior?” Eddie barks, delighted.

“Eat shit, no!”

“He's a complete dog,” Eddie says. “Steve told me he's fucked like… four secretaries in a row. His poor mom has this crazy sex toy drawer with—”

“The fuck is the matter with you!” Hargrove says. “How would you know!”

“I lived there all summer,” Eddie shrugs. “There's not a drawer I didn't open.”

“You’re really something else,” Hargrove says. Eddie's going to choose to read his tone as admiring. “What… kinda stuff?”

“Hm?”

“In the drawer?”

“Okay there, pervert,” Eddie grins. He leans in. “There was this huge pink dildo… super realistic, veins and everything.”

Hargrove unexpectedly makes a very, very amused face. He opens his mouth and then visibly thinks better of it and shuts it again. With a snap. “Come on,” Eddie says, sourly. “Give me a break with the prude act, you're literally about to be—”

“I'm not,” Hargrove says. “Just…”

“Just what?”

“You've… seen his, right?”

“Whose what?” Eddie says, stupidly, and then blinks. “I… you've seen—it?”

“Yeah,” Hargrove says, meaningfully.

“Did he let you—with it?” Eddie blurts out.

“I let him,” Hargrove says. And then his face colors. “I'll beat your ass if you repeat that.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Eddie breathes, dizzily picturing it. The way Hargrove would sweat, god, Steve's wrist working it in, his big confident—stop, no, down boy. “Fucking Christ, I'd take out a billboard if I were you! Big picture of my face, doing this,” Eddie says, and makes two enthusiastic thumbs-up. “You wish you were me, motherfuckers! 1-800-eat your heart out!”

Hargrove breaks and giggles childishly, kind of resentfully.

“Shut up,” he says.

“You lucky son of a bitch,” Eddie says, and then winces at himself.

Hargrove looks away.

“Super fuckin’ lucky,” he says.

Eddie can’t stand it anymore.

“Alright, I can’t fucking stand it anymore,” Eddie says. “What the hell happened? Why the fuck are you sitting here, why the fuck is he—wherever the fuck he is! How did I even get a shot with him at all, when you had it in the palm of your fucking hand, man! What the fuck! The two of you are driving me up the fucking wall, pretending like you don’t still want to screw each other’s brains out and ride into the sunset! I fucking hate both of your guts sometimes!”

Hargrove stares at him.

“Huh?” Hargrove says.

“You and him,” Eddie hisses, horribly aware that he is ruining his own life in real time. Aware and still incapable of stopping. Because maybe he shouldn’t stop. Maybe this shouldn’t go on like it has, not an inch further. Maybe it’s better that he rips this festering thing open, lets it bleed clean. And maybe it's up to him, somehow, maybe it has been this whole time, Jesus! Any genuine fool knows, the real purpose of a fool is to tell the truth! “You’re still fucknuts for each other!” Eddie yells. “Maybe you guys think I don’t know! But I fucking do! I’m not blind!”

Hargrove’s eyes dip lower, maybe involuntarily. To Eddie’s horrible sweater. “My eyes are up here, shithead,” Eddie seethes.

“Steve… doesn’t,” Hargrove says. “Even—like me. Anymore.”

“Yes he fucking does,” Eddie says. “Jesus, read the room! What the fuck did you idiots do?”

Hargrove swallows.

“I,” he says. “He—wants an… RV.”

“Then steal him a fucking RV!” Eddie says, incredulously. “Fuck, forget it, I'll steal it! Small potatoes! Is that all?!”

“No, he's… got this, idea,” Hargrove says, struggling to sit up. He really is blasted. “Like… family vacation. He wants—six. Fucking—kids.”

“What,” Eddie says.

“Right?” Hargrove says.

“But he'd be… making them,” Eddie says, blankly.

“That's what I fucking said,” Hargrove said, pointing at Eddie. “He—laughed. Said he could do—four, which is—still kinda—”

“Oh, he's insane insane,” Eddie muses.

“Dealbreaker?” Hargrove says, almost hopefully.

“Fuck off, no,” Eddie glares. “Okay, so, you freaked out.”

“No!” Hargrove says. “I just—”

“You what?”

“I started… thinking, okay, overnight's fifty cents more an hour—”

“Are you joking?” Eddie says.

“Keep interrupting me,” Hargrove says, stiffly, “if you want to wear that pizza box like a necklace.”

“Oh, you can hit your buddies,” Eddie huffs.

Hargrove pauses. He glares at Eddie, and then he huffs, too, and tucks his head to the side to hide what his mouth is doing; he looks like something kind of nice happened that he didn't expect. When he does that it's easy to imagine why Steve kissed him, if Steve kissed him first. Which sort of seems likely, now that Eddie knows more about Steve's moves. It's not hard for Eddie to picture Steve leaning over, pressing his mouth to that tucked-away one, drawing it out, smiling against it. Waiting for it to warm up, tilt up, to return the gift. Eddie can imagine exactly how it'd be, how it'd—feel. “I won't interrupt,” Eddie says, too softly, a mistake. “Tell me.”

Hargrove looks at him sideways.

“I didn't say anything,” he admits. “I just changed shifts, but… then I was sleeping all day, and I didn't, fucking…”

He stops talking.

“So you did freak out,” Eddie says.

“He didn't ever say—with me,” Hargrove says, heavily. “I don't know…”

Hargrove looks away again. “He was just talking,” he says, empty-voiced, into the distance, towards the wall. “It wasn't like he really—I’m the one who fucking… went crazy, for no… nothing.” His throat bobs. “Then I said… I don't know why. I thought he'd say… when I told him, I’d… go to Cali.”

“Fuck a doodle doo,” Eddie sighs.

He slides down, too. Now he and Hargrove are level, squashed on the sofa with their chins to their chests, like two fucking melted candy bars.

“Yeah,” Hargrove says, hollowly.

“Why the fuck are we talking about this sober,” Eddie says.

“We've smoked… two joints,” Hargrove says, clearly forgetting they started a third a while ago. Probably means they need to finish it.

“You want some shitty rum or not,” Eddie says.

“God, please,” Hargrove says.

Chapter Text

“That’s nothing,” Hargrove says, lifting his shirt higher. “Look. Fuckin’ splatter paint.”

“Did it go right through you?” Eddie breathes.

He touches Hargrove’s chest with a fingertip. No wonder Hargrove stopped going shirtless everywhere, it currently being January notwithstanding; there’s a frighteningly big knot of whitened scars and then a faintly pinker line down the middle, surgical, like he was fucking autopsied. He wore a tank top in the pool in the summer, so Eddie stupidly thought the worst injuries were on his arms. Eddie squints to focus on all the webby lines. He should get it inked. He’d look like thrash album art.

“Broke my sternum,” Hargrove says.

“Unbelievably hardcore,” Eddie whispers.

“Stop it,” Hargrove says.

“What?”

“Fucking tickles,” Hargrove says. Eddie laughs. Pokes him in one of his two basically undamaged nipples, to be a prick. Then drops back onto his end of the sofa. “Watch it with—that,” Hargrove says. “Unless s’fucking… you'll fucking put out.”

“You wish,” Eddie snorts.

“You’ve—done it,” Hargrove says. “Right? With—”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Eddie protests. “None of your business.”

“Right,” Hargrove repeats, unsteadily.

“He’s, so fucking,” Eddie says.

“Jesus Christ,” Hargrove says. “Fucking—ruined me. Can’t even—fucking porn sucks, can’t get—”

“Fucks like a jock,” Eddie says. “Eggs you on, like—he’s gonna win—”

“Jesus, stop,” Hargrove groans. He lies backwards, hangs his head off the arm of the sofa. The Hostess wrappers crinkle beneath him. “Fucking hate you.”

“I hate you,” Eddie says. “Give me a cupcake.”

There are footsteps on the porch.

“Hey,” Hargrove says. “What time is it?”

“Huh?”

“I gotta,” Hargove says. “Get—Steve? From work?”

“What,” Eddie says.

The front door opens.

Ice-cold wind blows in. Steve kicks the slush off his boots, steps onto the mat, shuts the door and then stands there glaring at the two of them like he’s deciding who to dismember first, which of their heads to start with.

“What the hell,” Steve says. Eddie quivers like a scolded animal. Beside him, Hargrove’s actually just fallen off the couch.

“Fuck,” Hargrove mutters.

“Thanks for the lift!” Steve says.

“Sorry,” Hargrove says. “Lost track—”

“No, it’s good you didn’t come out,” Steve says. He looks at Eddie. “Or answer the phone. Saved me a lot of trouble. I would’ve had to identify your bodies when you wrapped around a pole!”

“But I didn’t… answer the phone,” Eddie protests. “Wait, fuck, the phone—rang.”

“Dipshits,” Steve mutters.

He toes his boots off. Disappears into his room.

“Asshole,” Eddie says, to Hargrove. He whacks Hargrove in the arm. Hargrove whacks back cruelly. “Cripes,” Eddie yelps. He staggers upright, somehow, and follows Steve down the hall. “Hey, how… did you get home?”

“Jon’s still in town,” Steve bites out.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Eddie says. “Listen—”

“What is that?” Steve says, turning to face him, gesturing angrily towards the living room. “What are you two—what’s going on right now?”

“Nothing?” Eddie says. “He’s—fucking lonely, I think.”

“Are you guys, like,” Steve says, and then he closes his mouth, like he doesn’t want to say the sentence he’s just thought of. Eddie’s brain is working at quarter-speed, dragging a bunch of fucking tin cans behind it, so he doesn’t really get why he’s watching Steve breathe anxiously and shallowly like this, as if Steve were trying to hold pain in.

“I’m just—I’m trying to be his friend,” Eddie fumbles. “For—you.”

“Me?”

“He’s,” Eddie tries. “Not so bad. He’s—alright.”

“You have lots in common,” Steve says, only semi-sarcastically.

“Oh come on,” Eddie says. “Who—it’s only okay for me to be fucking friends with high-schoolers?”

“I didn’t say—”

“Look around, man,” Eddie says. “We’re the fucking—leftovers! You and me and him. We’re in this together! Aren’t we? And he’s not just yours, you don’t own him, you gave him—up.”

Oops. Christ.

“I didn’t—you don’t know anything,” Steve says, wounded.

“What are you really so worried about,” Eddie says, wishing he weren’t. There's a festering feeling in him, down deep, that shouldn't be given air. "That he’s going to be... hanging around, that you’ll look at him and—”

“And see what?” Steve says. “Yet another person who fucking dumped me because of what a delusional sad-sack I can be? Yeah, great! Now he’s your best friend, so I’m sure he’s been letting you know exactly what you’re in for.”

“Steve,” Eddie blinks.

“Why don’t you call Nancy, while you’re at it,” Steve says, “you can all have a good laugh.”

“Steve, he didn’t,” Eddie says. “He didn’t—dump you. Not… he didn't mean to. He told me, he’s—Steve, he’s still fucking—gone on you, he’s—”

“What are you talking about?” Steve says, startling out of Eddie’s reach. “What the hell?”

“You should talk to him,” Eddie says, against the ache in his chest, “just ask him,” but then Steve takes a step back, and his face cracks a little, like he can’t keep it whole anymore. Eddie didn’t even realize he was making such an effort. “Steve?”

“Why would you,” Steve rasps. “Want me to. You keep trying to put us…”

He sits down on the bed. Drops his head into his hands.

“Honey?” Eddie says.

“Please stop trying to return me,” Steve says, brokenly, still bent in half. “I’m not a shelter dog. If you don't want to do this anymore—"

“I’m not!” Eddie says. “Steve, no. I fucking lo—”

“You told him to take me instead, right?” Steve says. He lifts his head, and his red, hurt eyes go into Eddie’s like drill bits. “What a coincidence, him calling just before my appointment. Did you make him do it? You could’ve just said you didn’t want to! I don’t need a fucking pity assist, or his guilt money, Jesus, you both think I'm that pathetic?!”

Eddie wobbles in place. All of him feels—disintegrated.

“Steve,” he tries.

But Steve’s grabbing clothes off the floor. Stuffing them into a backpack. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand any of it, he’s read it all wrong. “No, don’t, please,” Eddie fumbles, trying to take a shirt out of his hands. Steve yanks it away. Grabs a notebook from his bedside, another sweater, and then he shoves past Eddie to leave. Eddie stumbles into the doorframe, trips on his own fucking stupid feet. Steve’s putting his better-coordinated feet into his boots, and oh, fuck no! Motherfuck, Eddie should have tied Hargrove to a chair!

Shit.

“Just take it,” Hargrove’s saying, swaying side to side. Holding the fucking envelope out. God damn. “Please.”

Steve looks at him, and then looks at the envelope. He takes it, and Hargrove opens his mouth to say some other doomed sentence. But then Steve just whips the envelope across the room overhand like a big-league pitcher, and it knocks a fucking lamp off the table. Busts it into pieces. Steve looks wet-eyed, shocked at himself for a second. Ashamed. And then he stumbles outside and slams the door.

Hargrove blinks.

Eddie sits down right where he is, onto the hallway rug. “Where’s he going,” Hargrove says, blankly, after a minute. But Eddie doesn’t say a thing.

Eddie wakes up—dead.

“Fuck,” Hargrove mutters, at some point, from the living room. “Fucking… fuck, Max!”

The door bangs shut a couple of minutes later. The truck revs and pulls away. Eddie stays where he is, at long last decomposing into a skeleton.

But even skeletons don’t like wetting the bed, so. Eventually he gets up to piss. While he’s there he splashes water on his face, and then drinks some of it out of his cupped hand. It marginally relieves the throbbing self-hatred in his forehead.

When he’s sure he can speak human words, he calls Buckley.

“Yell-o,” Buckley says.

“Hey,” Eddie croaks. “Is Steve—”

“Hello, great-aunt Margie,” Buckley says, theatrically. “Did you and uncle Allen make it to Denver okay? Not yet? Almost? Do you think you’ll be there around noon?”

“Excuse—the fuck?” Eddie says.

“I said, do you think you’ll be there around noon?” Buckley repeats, in that same chipper voice. “Oh, okay! Well, I’m having a late breakfast right now, maybe you could call me back then? And let me know alllll about your drive?”

“Oh,” Eddie says. “Yeah.”

“Dillweed,” Buckley whispers.

Eddie hangs up.

He eats a stale, crushed Hostess cupcake off the sofa. Then surveys the room. Slowly and painfully, he picks up the pieces of the lamp, bags the glass without cutting himself. Then he trashes all the wrappers and the empty bottle, takes the ashtray back outside to the porch. Has an incredibly miserable wet cigarette; it’s sleeting rain today. When he goes inside he sweeps the kitchen, takes all the overabundant wrinkled papers off the fridge and goes through them a little bit. Throws the old receipts away, lingers on reading Steve's school forms kind of pathetically. Then, out of sheer desperation, he gets the vacuum out. The room looks pretty nice when he’s finished. If he kills himself right now, they’ll say stuff like, gee, what a baffling mystery, why would somebody tidy up first. What an enterprising young fellow, probably had so much to look forward to.

Well, then they’d see his room. So forget about that. Maybe he’d better live another twenty minutes, at least. It’s only eleven forty-six.

He redials Buckley when the microwave clock, which is two minutes fast, says twelve-o-one.

“Hey,” Eddie tries, again.

“I’m going to need you to punch yourself a little bit,” Buckley says, briskly. “Can you do that first? I’ll wait.” Eddie—punches himself in the tummy. Not hard, he’s playing for both sides on this one. “Wait,” Buckely says. “Did you actually just—”

“Just tell me he’s there,” Eddie interrupts.

“He slept here,” Buckley says. “He’s at work. Hey, don’t hang up! Hey! Eddie, listen to me, and listen good! If you show up at his work I will cut your dick off with scissors! I will find a way! Are you listening?”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie says, and rubs his face. “I hear you.”

“Okay, good,” Buckley says. “So. Number one. Do not go to his place of business. Number two, I’m leaving for school on Monday afternoon, so I have to send him back to you before then, because honest to god, I would not leave a gerbil with my mother, unless I wanted it to develop terrible coping mechanisms. And he can’t go back to his—”

“No,” Eddie says. “He’s—I’ll clear out, if he wants. Tell him that. I’ll go somewhere else. He needs to—come home.”

“I am definitely not going to tell him that?” Buckley says. “He’s going to think all you want is to avoid him.”

“Then what the fuck am I supposed to do?” Eddie says. “Everything I fucking try, he doesn’t understand! He thinks I’m trying to fucking get rid of him! I’d rather cut my fucking arms off, I’d rather drop dead, Buckley, I’m going crazy over—”

“Hey, whoa,” Buckley says. “It’s okay. I think it’s… fixable. I do. I have some… thoughts, maybe. Opinions.”

“I’m all ears,” Eddie huffs.

“And… just out of curiosity, um. Did Billy really say he’s—not, like, over Steve?”

“Over Steve?” Eddie repeats, flatly. He rubs circles on his forehead again. “Okay. You know why he switched to overnights in September?”

“No?”

“He was trying to make more money,” Eddie says, “to pay for Steve’s fucking—four to six future fantasy-league children.”

Buckley’s silent for a moment.

“No,” she breathes.

“Yes,” Eddie says.

“Oh my god,” Buckley says.

“For the record, I’m not rooting for him,” Eddie says, sourly. “I’m fucking rooting for me. I just—if Steve wants to have a—rejection complex over being too much for somebody, maybe he can go have it about some other fucking guys, because from where I’m standing—”

“Yeah, no,” Buckley says, “yeah, okay. Yikes.”

“But just to be clear, I don’t have any pride, either, okay?” Eddie says. “That shit’ll kill you. If he’s got some broken glass he wants me to crawl through, you have him name the place and the time. Alright?”

“I should have recorded this,” Buckley huffs. “Also, no? That’s crazy. Let’s not… start there. I’m going to kick his butt a little, tonight, okay? Let me um, soften him up for you. I’ll do my best. Pep talk, um, slash, semi-realistic re-appraisal of the—situation? Maybe you should talk to—”

“Ugh,” Eddie says. But it’s not a bad idea. The last thing he needs is for Hargrove to wander around waving more envelopes. “Yeah. I will.”

“Go—team?” Buckley tries.

“Rah rah,” Eddie says.

He hangs up. Sits down on the kitchen floor, because his hangover told him to. But then the phone rings. Eddie swears and crawls up the front of the cabinet. “Fucking what else, Buckley!” he says, into the handset.

“Excuse me?” an affronted stranger says.

“Shit, sorry. Uh. Ed—Munson… Harrington residence,” Eddie says, and winces.

“May I speak with Mr. Harrington?”

“Uh, who’s… may I say is calling?”

“Franklin Township Family Clinic,” the voice says, brisk and clipped. He’d guess older lady, grey bun, perpetually peeved expression. “Is Mr. Harrington there, please?”

“He’s at work,” Eddie says, “is it something—urgent? I’m his—”

Fuck.

“I’m calling about the results of his blood tests,” the lady says, like he didn’t pause limply mid-sentence and trail away in misery. “Please tell him he can return my call at—”

“Blood tests?” Eddie blurts out. “Is he fucking sick?”

“Young man,” the lady says.

“Please, I’m his—uh, is he okay? Does he need—I can go get him, it’s not an emergency, is it? Is it an emergency?”

“Your first child?” the lady says, kind of dryly. “No, young man, he’s—and what is your name?”

“Eddie,” Eddie says. “Uh, Edward? Munson?”

“Well, Eddie Edward-Munson,” the lady says, “he’s in quite good health. Except for some mild anemia—”

“Is that dangerous?” Eddie says.

“—which is very common, and nothing to fuss overmuch about,” she concludes. “It’s likely to blame for the lethargy he mentioned. The doctor’s recommended iron supplements.”

“Yeah, sure,” Eddie says. “I’ll get, yeah, okay. Definitely. Like, pills?”

“Yes, like pills.”

“And I can get them at the… pharmacy?”

“It would be preferable to the feed store,” the lady mutters, like he’s hopeless.

After she hangs up, Eddie slides down to the linoleum again. Rests his head back against the cabinet door. Lethargy. It’s a great word. You could call a band that, write the name in gothic lettering. Umlauts over the a.

Buckley didn’t tell him not to visit Hargrove at work, so off Eddie goes. Once he’s showered and puked and brushed his teeth.

Hargove looks—just so very pleased to get a visitor. He’s hiding fairly greasy hair under a hat, and his complexion looks seasick, but the dark-blue canvas coveralls they make him wear in the garage actually fucking suit him, so he doesn’t look as corpsey as Eddie still feels. This is what happens when god packs your stats into your shoulders.

“He’s at Buckley’s?” Hargrove guesses, before Eddie’s told him anything. He looks sullen about it. “Probably ought to shack up with her for good. Put us out of our fucking misery.”

“Speak for yourself, quitter,” Eddie says.

“You come here to tell me your big plan?” Hargrove frowns. “You think I’ll, what? Help? Go screw.”

“No, yeah, fair, may the best me win,” Eddie says. “Just… maybe cool it, with the cash and prizes for a while, okay? He thinks it’s a fucking pity party. And he’s pretty seriously riled about it.”

“I’m just trying to do—right by—them,” Hargrove says, fists clenched. “What the fuck doesn’t he get—”

Maybe Eddie should let him dangle.

“My guess? He thinks he scared you off, and now you just feel like a dirtbag,” Eddie says. He hops onto the desk, eyes Hargrove’s weak smushed-looking peanut-butter sandwich. Two guesses as to which member of the family lovingly punished him with that, and they both rhyme with hacks. “In his version, he poured his little heart out about his dune-buggy full of half-Hargrove babies, and you realized he was a psycho basketcase and immediately ran for the hills. Hey, do not make that crazy face at me, I didn’t fucking do it, I wasn’t even fucking there! I’m just trying to get a grip on the fucking scenario!”

Hargrove sits down in a chair and rests his face against the desk. The brim of his hat knocks into some piled papers and pushes it backwards off his head.

“Gonna kill myself,” Hargrove mutters.

“That option’s not going anywhere,” Eddie says. “Put a pin in it. Maybe we try, uh, literally anything else first?”

“Like what,” Hargrove says, without looking up even slightly. “Fucking… jousting? You gonna buy some fucking costumes?”

“Wait, that’s good,” Eddie says. “Better than my idea. Shit.”

“Changed my mind, gonna kill you,” Hargrove says.

“I mean, kinda, sure,” Eddie says. “We can try last man standing.”

Hargrove turns his head.

“What?”

“I think we all gotta talk,” Eddie says. “I say lots of shit, so maybe he doesn't believe me. And sometimes you don't fucking say enough, no offense. Maybe if we're in the same room, he'll... I don't know. Be able to... make sense?”

“Or we both blow it,” Hargrove muses.

“We'll still have to try and, you know. Be civil,” Eddie says. “Whatever happens.”

“Like—step aside?” Hargrove says. “I’m not stepping anywhere. That’s my fucking kid.”

“Obviously that’s not what I mean,” Eddie says. “Just—maybe that’s all he thinks we’re thinking about? Like, only what’s right for the kid?”

“I’m not,” Hargrove says, bullishly.

“Yeah, me neither, I’m talking about his fucking warped perception?” Eddie frowns. “He thinks he’s dragging you along for the kid’s sake, and he thinks I’m trying to pawn him off on you for the kid’s sake, and—”

“Jesus,” Hargrove says. “He would.”

“I just don’t fucking get it,” Eddie says. “Like, I think I’m shit, but that’s because I am shit. You know you’re shit, too, obviously,” he says, gesturing, and Hargrove’s mouth flattens to a line, but he doesn't dispute it. “So what the fuck is his problem? Should we slash his dad’s tires? How long is your lunch break?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Hargrove says. “When?”

“We could do it tonight,” Eddie says. “I got a ski mask I can wear.”

“I mean, when do we… talk.”

“Uh,” Eddie says. “Tomorrow night? He closes at nine. I can ask. I have to drop his meds at Buckley’s anyway.”

“Meds?” Hargrove says, jerking upright.

“Calm down, they’re just iron pills,” Eddie says, condescendingly. “It’s mild anemia, very common. Read a textbook.”

“Oh,” Hargrove says. Then he scowls. “You’re going to fucking sneak over there and talk to him first.”

Well.

“I am not,” Eddie says, only... semi-dishonestly. "I mean, but—just for like a second."

“You’re so full of shit,” Hargrove says. He gets up, shoves Eddie right off the desk. “Oh, fair and square, huh? Cards on the table? Get the fuck out.”

“Hey, hey, easy,” Eddie huffs.

“It’s all a fucking game to you, it’s so fucking fun,” Hargrove hisses. “You wanna fucking play, good luck, you son of a bitch! Could've,” he says, and his voice breaks for a second. Snaps like a twig. Hargrove pounds a frustrated fist against his own chest, hard, and Eddie takes an automatic step back. “My—fucking,” Hargrove says, with horrible difficulty, forcing it out. “Fucking—family.”

“Hey, man,” Eddie says, blankly.

“Get out,” Hargrove says, and then he kicks the chair at Eddie to make sure he’s doing it.

Eddie skedaddles.

He drives to the pharmacy without really thinking about the turns. Gets some iron supplements, has the pharmacist repeat the instructions like five times. Some of it will probably stick. Outside the pharmacy, there's a newspaper box. Eddie stares at it for a while, and then digs in his jean pockets and produces a quarter. He reads the classifieds in the car, sort of. The words all feel jumbled.

Wanted, wanted. Help.

He can't make sense of it. Of anything. They sell flowers at the grocery store, so he goes there next. They have pretty cheap arrangements, yellow roses and red ones, baby's breath, some fading daisies and still-unblooming bunches of lilies. It isn’t anywhere near Valentine’s Day yet, so everything’s still limp and leftover from the previous holidays, all spent out. Eddie doesn't know anything about flowers, doesn't know what Steve would like, if Steve would like an apology that looks like this. A movie apology, a romantic comedy forgive-me-baby. Being swept dramatically into Eddie’s arms. Are they in a comedy anymore? Maybe a farce. Eddie shouldn’t have tried to get cute with the script, move actual people around like little model figurines, players on a grid. Maybe they're not even in a story at all, which is a terrible thought. If it's not a story, and there's no theme, no arc, no witty metaphor for the narrator to circle back on, then what the fuck is there? Who the fuck is he, then, some guy? Crawling a dungeon with no exit, following a bunch of doors that let you keep going and going forever, until you're just—somewhere else. Alive, and tired, and older.

“Boy, you must be in trouble,” Joyce says.

Eddie blinks. Turns and looks at her. She's pushing a cart with a loaf of bread and a jug of milk and another of orange juice in it, and her purse perched in the kiddie seat next to a family-sized box of frozen waffles. When she sees Eddie's face, hers falls. She was smiling before, only teasing him. “Oh, Eddie, sweetheart, what's the matter?” Joyce says, dismayed.

“Nothing,” Eddie tries.

“Crapola,” she says, tenderly. Well, that explains that. She takes Eddie by both arms. “Are you alright? What's going on?”

“I fucked up,” Eddie says.

“Oh, kiddo, geez,” Joyce says. “Who hasn't.”

She buys her stuff and carries the paper bag out to her station wagon, and lets Eddie just follow her around like he’s tied to her apron strings. Then she leans against the car and has a cigarette with him, not really prodding him for anything. Just smoking and smiling and acting like she's the whole world's mom, like Eddie's not a fucking inconvenience. “Don't tell Jonny,” she says, guiltily ashing her cigarette. “I promised I'd cut back, and I am cutting back. But boy oh boy, some days.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says.

“Is Steve feeling okay?” Joyce says. “He looked pretty tired-out on Tuesday.” Eddie glances at her. “Movie night,” she says. “Will and Jane and I started a new tradition. Sometimes we even try and watch what Jonny's watching for his classes. Some real weirdo stuff. And some nice stuff, too.”

“That sounds cool,” Eddie says.

“You ever want to watch with us, you come on over,” Joyce says. “They’d love to see more of you. How's Wayne been keeping himself?”

“He's doing good,” Eddie says. “He's got a regular poker night, you know. And there’s… big talk about some kind of cover band? I think the working name is, uh, Just For the Halibuts.”

“Ha,” Joyce says. “It’ll make a great shirt.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Course you can,” Joyce says.

“What's the—hardest part?” Eddie says. “Of, um. Raising kids? I mean—the normal hardest part, obviously not—shit, I'm sorry. I’d kick my mouth if my feet could get that far. Can’t do anything with ‘em.”

Joyce makes a wry face.

“It’s a good question,” she says. She drags on her cigarette, puffs the smoke out of the corner of her mouth, crookedly. It’s kinda charming. Probably broke a lot of hearts in high school. “Well, it used to be… worrying. About everything. Money, and food in the cupboard. School supplies. Can I feed them, can I keep them in shoes. Can I do it myself without begging and borrowing. Worry, worry, worry. But now,” she says, and then she stares out across the parking lot. Watches the cars drive up the lanes. “I wonder if I gave them anything, you know? I worried so much that sometimes I forgot to even pay attention. They're both so—good. I don't know how that happened. They did it without me, I think. I think they did that together, for each other. I just wonder if I ever gave them what they needed. To be—happy people. To live happy lives.”

“What would you need for that,” Eddie says, stupidly. “Like, hypothetically.”

Joyce gives him a long look.

“I don’t know, honey,” Joyce says. “It’s probably different for everybody.”

“Right.”

“I need my kids, all my kids, to be okay,” Joyce says. “I need… a little wine with a nice dinner, and I need a rotten old cigarette sometimes, and I need to see real stars out back when it’s dark. And I need to think… that it was worth it,” she says, in a voice that doesn’t quite waver. “I need to think it’s been worth it, the things we did, the people—I need to think it was right, to do what we did, how we did it. And maybe it wasn’t. But I’ve gotta think so.”

Eddie sucks his cigarette. Stares at his feet. “I’ve gotta get that stuff home,” Joyce says, apologetically. “Are you going to be okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Eddie nods. “I’ll be fine.”

After Steve yanked Eddie up off the ground, gave the broken spear back to Dustin, and half-dragged them all under a trailer porch, Eddie had tried to make him let go. Had tried to make him see that Eddie would slow them down, that Eddie’s legs wouldn’t carry him much further. That Eddie was really only bait, now. Be sensible, Eddie had said. Steve had said to shut the fuck up and run when he was told to. Idiot’s luck, Steve called it later, thumping him on the back, apologizing when Eddie coughed a little more blood. Eddie hadn’t ever realized before that he’d meant himself. That he’d thought it was stupid, and not dizzyingly, inconceivably heroic, to decide to stay and maybe get torn to pieces, just so that Eddie wouldn’t die alone for his own mistake. If Eddie had realized that sooner, maybe things would’ve gone differently than they have. Speaking of understanding a theme.

It’s nine-forty at night when Buckley opens the door. She startles and then glances behind herself into the hall, and makes a threatening cut-throat gesture at Eddie. Eddie holds the little paper bag up.

“His doc called,” Eddie says. “I picked these up for him. Five minutes?”

Buckley chews her lip.

“I’ll go ask,” she says. And then she lurches forward and gives Eddie a tight hug. “Jerkwad,” she whispers. “Good luck.”

She disappears inside. Eddie waits on the front walk, kicking idly at the bottom step, mashing the toe of his boot around on a big chunk of ice that nobody must be worried about. You’d think with Buckley’s proclivities they’d have more railings around. Orange cones, a big slippery-when-wet sign.

Steve comes out in another minute, in a heavy hooded sweatshirt that says HAWKINS ATHLETICS on it. His hair’s screwy, so he’s been ruminating, but his face isn’t angry, just kind of surprised. He’s always surprised when Eddie does something for him, and it always hurts Eddie’s feelings. Eddie holds the bag out and tries not to make a sulky face about it for once. He doesn't have the time to waste on that right now.

“Clinic called,” Eddie says. “I wrote the number down, but… Buckley’s probably got it, anyway. They said it’s anemia, but not really serious, and you should take these.” Steve takes the bag. Stuffs it into his hoodie pocket. “It can fuck with your stomach, so one every other day, until it’s not messing with you, and then one every day. And, you know. Eat some hamburgers, too. Good excuse.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, quietly.

“I didn’t even know you were feeling that shitty,” Eddie says. “I should've asked.”

“I’ve just been tired,” Steve says. He combs his hair back. Steels himself. It's really obvious when he does it, so it's a good thing he doesn't play anything for money. “Look," he says. "I'm sorry I lost it. I was pissed about getting stranded, but I didn't have to, like... blow it up into some huge thing. To be honest, I think I was kinda, uh. Jealous.”

Eddie's stomach does a weird trick.

“Jeal... ous?” Eddie says. Why would he say it like that. What's wrong with him. "Steve, no, we—"

“I haven't had a drink or a smoke in fucking months,” Steve goes on saying, and Eddie blinks at him. "I'm no... fuckin' fun anymore. I know I'm not."

“Oh,” Eddie says. "No, that's... yeah you are."

“You guys should hang," Steve shrugs. "It's, I'll deal."

“Steve,” Eddie tries.

“Did you eat dinner?” Steve says, awkwardly, clearly wishing this part of the conversation would end. “Robin’s mom keeps saying she’s on a diet, but she made about four thousand pieces of chicken. There's a ton left.”

“I’m good,” Eddie says.

“Okay,” Steve says. But then he doesn’t go back in. Doesn’t slam the door. He just stands and looks at Eddie, eyes lingering over him, like somebody who misses something. Imagine.

"That's not all I want," Eddie says.

"Dinner?" Steve says, brows furrowed.

"A—good time," Eddie says. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah," Steve says, slowly. "I wasn't—"

"I know I act like a dumbass kid ninety percent of my waking hours," Eddie says, kicking the ice a little bit harder, "so maybe it's not, like, apparent. But I didn't just—it wasn't just for fun, I mean it is fun, you are fun, I'm having fun, but it's not the only—I could, uh, do more. I could be more than that. If you—"

"Ed, whoa, it's... okay," Steve says. "I was just mad for like a second."

"I can get a job," Eddie says, and swallows against the knot of anxiety that produces. "A real one. I can—get it together. If Hargrove can do it, I mean, I... probably can."

"Why... would you say that?" Steve wonders.

"I could try," Eddie says.

"Can you quit it?" Steve says. "Why are you always bringing him—"

"Because I knew," Eddie blurts.

His gut roils. Oh, there it is.

"What?"

"I knew," Eddie says. "You and him. I acted like I didn't. But I did. And I didn't... care."

"So what," Steve says, cautiously. Eddie swallows.

"So, I... saw you. That party you had, after the fourth. Almost everybody else was gone when he showed, and you—sprayed him with the hose—”

“Why would you start this again,” Steve says, starting to look pissed. "What do you want me to do? Go screw him?"

"No?" Eddie says. "No."

"Then what does it—”

"Do you get it?" Eddie interrupts. "I'm saying I didn't care. If you were happy with him, if it was—real, or not. I didn't give a shit. All I wanted was to take it, so I could have it instead, and fuck, look at me," Eddie laughs. "Look." He puts his hands on top of his head. His belly shakes with it, the suddenly bubbling, mildly hysterical feeling of being a—massive piece of shit. "I'm actually trying. I said I wouldn't, but I'm fucking here doing it right now."

"Ed," Steve says. "Please tell me what the fuck is going—"

"He took nights to make more money, because you talked about kids," Eddie says. "He didn't think it was crazy. Or he's way crazier! I don't know." The words are just coming and coming, and he can't stop them. He's been bashed on the head, too, maybe he got whatever the opposite of Hargrove's thing is. Maybe that means something. Maybe it means nothing. "That's what he was doing. He didn't tell you, because he's fucking nuts, but that asshole just—he heard what you wanted and he got right in his little truck and tootled out to the mines to make your fucking dreams come true, and I'm here fucking trying to steal you off him like you're a pack of cigarettes. And I want to! I want to put you over my shoulder and fucking run for it! Jesus Christ, I want to be the one for you so fucking bad I can taste it in my mouth. I want to give you fucking everything," Eddie says, cracking on it a little bit. "I just don't know how I could. I've got nothing going for me. Less than zero." His cheeks feel humiliatingly wet. Steve's staring at him wide-eyed, face blank and startled. Stricken. "I love you, Steve. But that's—it's no excuse to keep getting in your fucking way. I'm sorry."

Eddie turns to go. Jerkily, like his body doesn't like what he's done. Wants him to back up and fix it. Steve grabs his sleeve.

"Where are you going?" Steve demands. "You can't say that and just—"

"I have to," Eddie says, pathetically. His wet eyes are so cold out here. God, it really sucks balls to cry. "I'm not, I'm not returning you, Steve, I never should've—I just can't—I can't fuck up your life any more than—I have."

"It's my fucking life," Steve says. "I can fuck it up myself however I want! Eddie—"

"Please go be happy," Eddie says. He tries to peel out of Steve's grip. Avoids his eyes. "Just go be happy again. I know you were."

"Can you stop it?" Steve says. "Can you look at—"

“I didn’t even know you were gonna do elementary ed!” Eddie says. “Your class registration shit's been on the fridge since December, and I just noticed it today, and I didn’t fucking ask you about it once! Let me fucking go, Steve!”

“It’s not your—”

“I'm supposed to know, I'm supposed to want the—fucking best for you!” Eddie says, and pries Steve's hand off, finally. Jams his own hands into his pockets, hunches up. "That's what fucking love is! I just fucking suck at it!"

"No, you don't, shut up!" Steve says. "Ed, please—"

“You've got work tomorrow, go inside,” Eddie says.

And then he flees like a coward. He has to. Or Steve will try and fucking rescue him again.

The old trailer's still at the junkyard, collapsed on itself, propped against a pile of crushed cars. Eddie went once before, to snag a couple of things out of it, even though it felt like rummaging in a biohazard. The vines withered to nothing as soon as the gate shut, but they left weird streaks on the ceiling, smears that smelled and stained like blood. A whole succession of people from the county had grimaced at it, and then Owens’ people had taken swabs, and then it was over, and Eddie was technically homeless for about thirteen weeks.

He pops the screen door open, and it comes off in his hand. He really should've worn gloves. It would be crazy if tetanus is what actually gets him.

“Yikes,” Eddie mutters.

He stands in what used to be the living room, bandanna over his face. The whole place has sagged so bad that it's like standing on a see-saw with one leg bent and one straight. Right there is where their chipped table used to be; there was a time when he and Wayne used to do puzzles on it together. Then Eddie used to paint figurines there, and copy pages from comic books. Unlike Will he never got good enough at that to stop tracing directly; all he did was follow the lines and then add a few things, belt pouches, different hairdos, stupid improbable weapons, and then color them in. Wayne didn't keep the pictures, wasn't sentimental like that. But he always kept buying Eddie paper, all the paper he wanted, so he could make absolute crap over and over and over. There's the depressed spot on the carpet where the TV stand permanently sat, a rectangle that directed the course of Eddie's days and nights. Fantasy films full of bad wigs, cartoons, old Marx brothers stuff, midday mystery movies in black-and-white. It used to stay on all day when Wayne was at work, keeping Eddie company. He's still in the habit of talking to it.

Eddie crouches down. The floor's too gross to fully sit on.

When he was nine, he'd started tentatively having friends. One of them was Gareth; that’s gone pretty well. One of them was a kid called Andy, whose mother apparently had mistaken Forest Hills for Forest Meadows, a new development on the other side of town. The first time she'd come to pick Andy up herself, because it was raining and he couldn't ride his bike, was the last time Andy came over. Eddie could still come and play at his house, in his fenced backyard, or at the park by school, but Andy couldn't come to Eddie's, lest he catch poverty, a serious and communicable condition. When they were ten Andy got new friends and spread a rumor that Eddie had canned Friskies in his sandwiches, because Wayne was too cheap and nasty to buy lunchmeat, and Eddie had beaten the living shit out of him. Gotten suspended. Every teacher he's had since then has eyed him suspiciously from the minute he walked in the door. His reputation precedeth. It nearly always has.

Gareth got into metal first, actually, despite what everybody assumes; it's always the quiet ones.

What's supposed to happen to you, Eddie wonders. What's supposed to flip over, that switch that makes you turn into a person, into a man, out of a furious, pasty, Monty-Python-reciting child? What puts you on track for living? Isn't there a moment? Shouldn't it be like pulling the sword from the stone, discovering hey, the feather was in you all along? Instead there's nothing. No glorious halo descending, no trumpets of glory, no warning. Just some slow montage. Here's you walking out of high school with a paper in your hand, here's you tying a tie, here's you walking down the street with a resume and a good haircut and hope in your steps. Here's you sitting at some shitty fiberboard desk, stamping papers, here's you arguing with your kids, here's you drinking too much at a barbecue, vacation to your in-laws' once a year. Here's you in retirement, parked in the Barcalounger, here's you when you die. And that’s all if you’re lucky. There's no quest at all, is there. You never get to save a princess, fight a terrible dragon. Or if you do, it kinda… sucks horrific ass.

He wanted to be a rockstar. A bard. Wanted to be in a tale of olde, and it was fun, is fun, to pretend. The most fun he knows how to have. Maybe that in itself is the problem. Nothing else feels the way escaping does. Look at him now: crouched in a junkyard, digging around for something. Some message. Inspiration, maybe. Some kind of sign that he missed. A token, a glowing ember? A note in a shoebox, a mystical clue that'll lead him onward; see, he's not just another arrested development case, he's a wizard from a long line of wizards, waiting to be discovered. Gadzooks! He only flunked algebra so hard because there was so… much elder magic in him!

Eddie laughs.

Laughs so hard he wobbles and his ass actually does touch the cold, disgusting carpet. Wheeler barfed somewhere around here last March, the instant she woke up from that trance. It's hard to tell the exact spot, because it's all so fucking wrecked. He should probably either get his GED and get real with himself, or jump into the quarry. Maybe he should work at the video store, too. Be a professional snob. Maybe he should start another band and push harder, play more gigs, throw the bottles back into the crowd. Maybe he should accept that he's going to have to do it all alone, make his own shambling way through the wreckage, because he's sure as fuck not cut out to be anyone's—

Man, fuck you.

He isn't, though. Imagine him, trying to be a... serious boyfriend. A husband. A stepdad? Whatever it is he might've been. Steve and maybe-Joanne-to-be really dodged a bullet there. Ha ha ha. Shut up, loser, stop laughing. It isn't funny.

Eddie sits down all the way. Sprawls his legs out, wipes his face gingerly with the bandanna, which is super gross already, because he's still fucking leaking. He cried in the car until he had to blow his nose and cough, and now he's at it again. Sad as hell. He looks at the ceiling, sniffling. It looks burnt to a crisp. Picture trying to raise a baby here, he thinks, but oh, that's ironic. Somebody already did. Not a baby baby. But what was he? Six and a half? Practically fetal. Jesus, picture being Wayne. All the shit he had to put up with. Eddie used to take his nice hollow-body electric guitar down and clunk around on it like a little bastard. Another guy probably would have yelled at him for that, or maybe taught him how to play it, given him instructions. Wayne just let him fumble. Didn't tell him he was special, didn't tell him he was stupid. Just kept him around. There are scraped-off Yogi Bear stickers at one corner of the kitchen window; nobody else would be able to tell from the shape anymore, but Eddie remembers putting them there, remembers Wayne's sigh at the long convoluted explanation he'd offered. Friskies. Fuck. Eddie would hit that fucking twerp kid again right now.

Dad, Eddie thinks, lonesomely. This time he knows who he means.

Wayne would know what to do. He'd… open the classifieds back up. Pound the pavement. Wayne would smack the alarm clock and go to work every day, even when he was exhausted and his feet ached. He was probably all grown up at fourteen. He'd do his job and shut up and… but then again, he didn't ever make Eddie do that. He offered, but he didn't insist. He didn't even tell him it was inevitable. Maybe because he didn't think it was his place to. Or maybe... maybe he also secretly thinks being an adult blows. Wayne used to joke a lot about joining the circus, in fact. And what the hell's wrong with the circus? Those are specialized skills. Eddie could've been a lion-tamer’s assistant.

Wow, it never stops.

But really, truly… what the fuck's so good about a suit and tie? Did a fucking suit and tie walk into shit incarnate with a trashcan lid and try to save the world? All Eddie really did was make a lot of noise and then earn severe blood loss, but—still. What the fuck's so wrong with that? Eddie the, uh, Attempter? Eddie's not even the worst guy in town, let alone on earth. Right?

Like a job matters. Steve's still not going to...

Shut up, Eddie thinks, at himself. Stop thinking about it. It's—done. A closed tome. Next chapter. Someday he'll take a breath and it won't feel like he's dying. That probably has to be true.

Eddie considers lying down flat, but that seems like more trouble than it's worth. He picks at the tips of the carpet fibers for a little while, thinking. Outside it's night, but he can't hear anything alive, no owls, no foxes. Just the sluggish whine of somebody's drill. Working late. Maybe he could get a job here, bashing shit apart, crushing it, scrapping stuff. It's probably less fun than it sounds. Plus, the tetanus. Isn't there anything out there that doesn't fill him with despair? How come everybody else can seem to make themselves fit somewhere, can find something they give a shit about? There's got to be a place for him. There has to be. And not in a cell, or pancaked at the bottom of a cliff. Come on. Fucking think, Munson. Everybody assumes you're a failure, you gonna prove them right? Gonna lie down and cry about it? What kind of shitty fucking wizard are you? Fuck the pigs and fuck the suits. “Fuck you, too,” Eddie says, at that morbid ceiling hole. It doesn't do a damn thing back. Better not, Eddie thinks, puffing his chest out. "I'll fucking do it my way,” he mutters.

Eddie smacks himself in the cheek. And then gets off his ass.

“Hey, shithead!” somebody yells, while Eddie climbs down his own old torn-off front steps and then hops around, detangling his foot from a plastic hose. A guy in a headlamp pops out of the shed and throws a bottle in his direction. “I told you before, this place ain't a public park!”

Eddie flips him the bird. Then runs. Gareth's car starts on the first try, for once.

Chapter Text

“If you don’t give me a job,” Eddie says, “I will make your life a living hell.”

“You’re doing that now for free,” Dougie mutters.

Eddie lies forward, flat, forearms and forehead against the bar top. It’s only slightly rancid. Must’ve gotten a rag wiped across it this month.

“I’ll off myself right here,” Eddie warns.

“Some of these assholes would probably love it,” Dougie says. “Pay to sit on your fucking haunted stool.”

Eddie snaps his fingers.

“I’ll fake it,” he says, “and we split the take seventy-thirty.”

“Eddie, man,” Dougie sighs.

“Don’t Eddie, man, me, you son of a bitch,” Eddie says. He lifts his empty glass. “Refill this and give me a fucking job. I’ll stick socks in your tailpipe. I’ll marry your fucking dad and give you brothers.”

“My stepmom would knock your teeth out,” Dougie says. Eddie makes a noise of fury and lies down again. Dougie brings him another pint of Stroh's with too much fucking foam on top.

“How do you still suck at that,” Eddie complains.

“How do you still think I’m gonna let you run a tab,” Dougie frowns. “I think you got kind of a bad view up there on your high horse, dude.”

“Fuck,” Eddie says.

He turns around on his barstool. Surveys the room. It’s Monday night, late, fucking ghost town. Stragglers only. “Anybody hiring?” he says. A guy in the far corner laughs. “Not you, Johnny, fuck off,” Eddie says. He nods to the two tattooed women in their fifties who’ve been slowly ambling around the pool table, teasing each other. “Ladies, what’s your field of work?”

“I’m a school librarian,” one of them says.

“Really?”

“Fuck no,” she laughs. “Idiot.”

“Come on,” Eddie says. “It was a serious question.”

“What kind of work you looking for?” a guy calls, from the other end of the bar.

“He don’t know,” Dougie says.

“I’ll try anything that doesn’t involve… insurance adjustment?” Eddie says. Whatever the fuck that is. “Or, uh. Doesn’t require a diploma.”

“There’s whoring,” one of the women says. The other one dissolves into giggles against her shoulder.

“I’d be a great hooker,” Eddie says.

“No, you wouldn’t, cutie,” she says. “I think you probably fall in love a lot.”

“How dare you,” Eddie mutters.

“Don’t listen to her,” the other woman says, and rolls her eyes. “Minored in psych for one whole semester and she thinks she’s Dr. Ruth.”

“I sell vacuum cleaners door to door, ever thought about that?” the guy at the end of the bar says, optimistically. Eddie winces. The two women avert their eyes from that direction, and Dougie clears his throat. The guy goes back to drinking his beer in chastised silence.

“You still have bands on the weekend, right?” Eddie says. “You need a sound guy? Roadie?”

“We got Carl,” Dougie says.

“Fucking Carl?” Eddie says. “That fucking scumbag? I can take Carl. Fire him, I’ll start Friday.”

“Ahem,” Carl says.

“Oh, hey, Carl,” Eddie says. He cranes his neck. Below the bar, on the short staircase that leads to the basement and the keg hookups, Carl is standing and staring at him with his shitweasel eyes and his fucked-up curled mustache. “How’ve you been, man?” Carl flicks a switchblade out and goes on staring. “Fuck you,” Eddie says, incensed. “I’m going to take your job and stick that right up your—”

“Eddie, I can’t hire you,” Dougie says. “Not again. I’ll get myself canned.”

“I’m serious this time,” Eddie says. “I’ll work.”

“You can’t sell here,” Dougie says. Eddie gives him a speechless look. “Unless you cut me in,” Dougie concedes.

“I’m turning over a new leaf,” Eddie says. “The fire’s in me, man, I got a burning need to prove myself. Who’s going to be the lucky investor who gets in on the ground floor of Munson and Munson global enterprises, huh? Is it gonna be you? Is it gonna be you? Carl, put that away, or so help me god, I’m going to floss you with it.”

“Munson?” somebody says.

“Yeah, that’s my name,” Eddie says, warily. A guy in a corner booth gestures for him to come over. He’s white-haired, but not especially old. He’s just got that kind of narrow build that looks like leather wrapped around twigs. And two braids like Willie Nelson’s.

“You Wayne’s boy?”

“Yes,” Eddie says.

“Well, damn,” the guy muses. “Thought you was a girl.”

“I’m… updated,” Eddie says.

“Good for you, son,” the guy says. “Come and sit with me. I knew Wayne when we were kids together. Little Alan, too. Ain’t seen either of them in a long time.”

“Wayne’s in Florida now,” Eddie says, sliding into a seat. “Near Tallahassee.”

“Oh, that right?” the guy says. “That’s good. Their momma grew up in Jacksonville, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Eddie says, surprised. The guy nods. “I think she died when I was… five, maybe? I don’t remember much about her.”

“She was a good lady,” the guy says. “Tough as a boot. Their daddy worked the railroad, he was gone half the time. I don’t think they missed him much. Wayne… oh, Wayne, he was just a momma’s boy through and through. He wouldn’t do nothing without asking her first.”

“Ha,” Eddie says. “Really?”

“One time I stole my daddy’s cigarettes, and I gave Wayne one, and what did he do?” the guy says. “Little prick biked himself right home and asked her if it was okay to try it. We both got a hiding.”

“Jesus, what a snitch,” Eddie says. The guy laughs hard. “I guess he grew out of it.”

“Oh, yeah, he did,” the guy says. “You know, I almost married him?”

There is a—pause.

“What the fuck!” Dougie complains, hurrying over with a rag to wipe the table up. “Keep it together, dude!”

“Sorry,” Eddie gasps. “Just had to—cough. Beer out of my—eyes.”

“I guess that was a surprise,” the guy says.

“Tell me literally and absolutely everything?” Eddie says. He refrains from grabbing the guy’s hands and wringing them, solely through reserves of insane willpower he didn’t realize he possessed. God, he’s acting like Buckley.

The guy laughs.

“I don’t think so, son,” he says. “It’s not much of a story. Times were a little different. My daddy… he was a real god-botherer. You know. Thou shalt not lie sire to sire, nor carrier to carrier, the barren soil is to be cursed, old testament horseshit. Made it clear if I went I’d never be coming back. And I said I didn’t care. But Wayne… he loved my mama, too. Knew I loved my little sisters. He knew it’d be hard on me, hard on them. And hell, we didn’t have any money anyway. We were kids, not too smart. That’s all,” the guy says. He takes a drink, and smiles. “Long time ago.”

Eddie swallows. Then swallows some beer. To keep his mouth occupied. It’s a pretty stupid mouth, as mouths go.

“I have his—new number,” Eddie manages, eventually.

“Nah, it’s alright, life goes on,” the guy says. “We made our peace then. Nice to know he’s flown south. Hoped he would, someday.” He downs the last half-inch of his beer. “You need a job, huh?”

“Very much so,” Eddie says.

“Wayne’s boy,” the guy murmurs. He smiles again. “Any chance you like music?”

Eddie hitches home. Or… fairly closer to home. He stumbles down the loop road and up the muddied walk. It’s thawed a little, the last couple of days. The ice is soaking into the dead grass, turning it into a giant sponge. He kicks his boots off, inside, and then stands in the silence of the living room for a little bit, debating on whether or not to turn the television on. Maybe he should leave it on overnight, quiet, so when he wakes up, it’s not so—still, in here.

Steve’s bedroom door is open.

Eddie shambles into the doorway, eyes adjusting to the dark. It’s still kind of a mess, just how he left it. The bed was made, but the comforter’s rucked up. There’s a pair of jeans flung across the foot. He’s going to be a school teacher, someday. He’ll teach grade school, show kids how to make shit with paper and glue, show them… maps, pictures of the presidents. Help them write their little crooked letters. Make them handle the class turtle gently. He’ll be—Steve about it. Even to the shitty little kids, the freakazoids. And the ones who come in unwashed, or hit each other.

It smells like him in here. His hairspray, faintly. Eddie crawls into his bed and lies facedown, wraps the comforter around himself.

Inside, tucked like a hermit crab, it even smells a little bit like Steve’s body, the vague animal scent of his armpits and his soapy deodorant stink, his skin, the muskiness between his legs. It’s not strong, but it isn’t nothing. Eddie shivers and presses the fabric to his face. He can go live at Rick’s, until Steve tells him… until he decides where he wants to be. Steve can stay here as long as he wants. Rick’s always at his girlfriend’s place, anyway, the cabin’s a fucking dump these days. Eddie can go stomp the roaches for him and make it semi-liveable. Rick owes him. Eddie can make it work. Maybe Hargrove will move in here, instead. He can take over paying the lot fees. They can fuck in this bed and hold each other all night.

Goddamn. Fuck.

“If you cry again, I’ll staple your dick to your leg,” Eddie whispers, and buries his head. Exhales. It’s an empty threat, he doesn’t own a stapler. He—

Eddie pauses. Holds his breath. There’s a faint creaking sound in the hall. He lifts his head, curiously, and a—shadow, no, a real thing, a body, tall but only human-shaped, pads in. Eddie swallows a shriek. Sits up.

It’s—Steve.

“Ed?” Steve says, fuzzily.

He stands in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot like he’s so tired he’s nearly swaying. The bare, pale, hairy legs below his shorts look like lines of moonbeams. Fuck, right. It’s Monday. Well, Tuesday. Just.

“H…ey,” Eddie tries.

“Hey,” Steve echoes.

“Were you,” Eddie says, realizing, “in my—”

“I’ll go,” Steve says.

“Don’t, shit,” Eddie says, in a hurry. He yanks the comforter down so Steve can get in. Heart hammering. “I can just—it’s your, it's not my… mine, I’ll go,” he babbles, ludicrously, even though he doesn’t actually want to get up and leave now. He’d rather scrape a rusty butterknife over himself like a fucked-up piece of human toast. But he gave this up, didn’t he. Tossed a brick right through—

“Don’t have to,” Steve mutters.

And then he just sits down. Pulls his legs up onto the mattress, lies onto his side, giving Eddie his back, not taking up more than his half. His wide shoulders curl in like he’s embarrassed. Eddie hesitates like a dopey, half-drunk statue and then hurries to pull the comforter up over him. Touches his arm. And then stops doing that. Fucking idiot. Dipshit. “Thanks,” Steve says, faintly.

“Steve,” Eddie says. “I…”

“Can you not,” Steve says, less faintly.

“Yeah, sure,” Eddie nods, even though Steve can’t see him. Eddie lies back down. His heart’s still going wildly.

Steve shifts. Settles. Why on earth would he want—maybe he couldn't get himself down tonight. They both dream the same kind of fucked-up stuff, maybe something made him wake up all freaked out. Maybe Eddie's like a… warm throw pillow. It can get too fucking quiet. Whatever. He can't wonder about it or he's gonna go insane and say something out loud again, and then Steve will really be within his rights to kill him. Eddie bites his own mouth shut and stares at the ceiling. After an excruciating, unknown number of minutes or possibly hours, muzzy soft snoring starts up beside him. I am never ever going to fucking fall asleep now, maybe never again, Eddie thinks, morosely, but then he does. Proving for the millionth time that he never actually does know what the fuck is going to happen.

It’s a slow, painful awakening.

Light's coming in around the curtains. Eddie’s head hurts. He did shots with—fuck, what’s his—Dale, after they shook hands. Dale only sipped his whiskey, but he still put away about twice the amount Eddie did, and he’d walked perfectly straight as he was leaving. Never fucking drink with professionals.

Steve’s still in the bed.

Eddie lies very quietly, doesn’t move, until Steve sighs. He’s still in the same position he was last night, wrapped up and sort of buried in the far side of the pillow. Maybe he’s been awake, waiting. Eddie wonders how long.

“I should tell you something,” Steve says, rough-voiced.

“Okay,” Eddie says.

“I kissed him yesterday,” Steve says.

Then he’s quiet again.

“Oh,” Eddie says.

Steve rolls onto his back and glances sideways at Eddie, warily, like he thinks maybe Eddie’s going to get mad. “What?” Eddie says. He went and did pretty much exactly what Eddie encouraged him to do, didn’t he? He should get a fucking attack bonus for initiative. Eddie's really happy for him.

Yeah, and the fucking moon is cheese.

“You’re not mad,” Steve says.

“At you?” Eddie says, dubiously.

Steve looks at him like he’s wondering how he ended up in proximity to such a lunatic. “What?” Eddie wonders, starting to feel like a doll that only has a couple of phrases. “So, you guys… figured it out?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says.

Then inexplicably his big hand comes up and hovers near Eddie’s cheek, like he wants to touch Eddie’s idiot face. Eddie's not a responsible man, he's not smart, he can’t help himself, can’t not turn his cheek right into Steve’s palm and close his eyes against the feel of it. Steve's had his hands tucked in, his fingers are warm. Eddie puts his own hand over them, for good measure, to keep them there, in case it’s—maybe it won’t ever happen again. His eyes feel like they might get hot and weird. It won’t take much more. “I don’t really know what’s going on with you, either,” Steve says.

“Told you, I’m getting out of the way,” Eddie says, sourly, like he isn’t currently rubbing against Steve’s skin like a cat.

“You’re not in the way,” Steve says.

“Am so?”

“Jesus, you’re difficult,” Steve murmurs.

“Kissed him why, then,” Eddie says, helplessly.

“That’s a funny story,” Steve says, in a tone that suggests the opposite. “He came over to Robin’s in the morning. And he wouldn’t come in and eat, either. You know what he said?”

“I can imagine,” Eddie mutters.

“He said he's fucked up, and I should go be happy with you,” Steve says. Eddie blinks.

“Huh?” Eddie says.

“Did you guys, like, plan this?” Steve says, looking genuinely perplexed. “Is it some kind of… scheme? I don’t think I know enough about psychology for it to even work on me.”

“What?” Eddie says. “No!”

“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do,” Steve says, “if both of you want me to date somebody else. Like I guess I can… go fuck myself,” he adds, and then he pulls his hand away and makes a nervous unfunny laugh that fillets Eddie's ribcage, sliding in between every bone. Oh, shit, Eddie's been extra-stupid. Fuck. “But I sort of thought… and maybe I read it wrong,” Steve goes on saying, “and you’re not, like… that into—”

“Fuck, no,” Eddie says, “I am, I just thought—”

“Is it that there’s… too much going on,” Steve says. “Or did I—”

“Jesus fuck, I take it back!” Eddie blurts. “Steve, fuck, can we—I never should’ve opened my stupid fucking mouth, I’m—so fucking sorry. I take it back, fuck, I’m in love with you, I meant that part. I don't take that part back, shit. Just the other parts. Specifically those! Fuck! I’m sorry.”

Steve bites his lip.

“Okay,” he says, but then it looks like he can’t figure out what else to say.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Eddie says. He fumbles an arm out and catches Steve’s hand again; kisses his palm fervently. Steve takes a shaky breath like an engine that’s just cut off. Something shuddering to a stop. “Maybe I didn't say, should have said, note on the fridge, I’m a fucking moron,” Eddie says. “I don’t know what I thought. I thought I was—helping.”

“Helping,” Steve repeats.

“You,” Eddie says. “Helping you. Get what you… want. Who you want. But—fuck him if he's going to be this fucking stupid! Date me. Again. Please?”

“I’ll think about it,” Steve murmurs.

He goes on studying Eddie's face for a while, brows furrowed together, like Eddie's an interesting puzzle and not the most obvious sad little yappy ankle-nibbling creature alive. It's flattering. And criminal, what his attention does to you. If his kid gets those eyes they're all fucked, the whole town's going to be falling over itself.

“Was it, like, a pity kiss?” Eddie says, nervously. Filling the volume of any space like a verbal stream of carbon dioxide. “Because you realized he's insane?”

“He looked miserable,” Steve says.

Eddie’s traitor heart squeezes. Then he tells it to shut up. Doesn't fucking know what team it's on, forgot for a second, thought it was in some great brotherhood of man. But then Steve says, tentatively, “Like… you kinda did.”

“You didn’t kiss me,” Eddie huffs.

“You ran,” Steve says. “Almost literally.”

“Fuck,” Eddie says, ashamed. “You should punch me in the face.”

“I'm not really your guy for that,” Steve says.

“Smack me,” Eddie begs. “Do something. I’m—I fucked up. Let me fix it.”

“I don’t know if I can, like… stand to do a whole back and forth thing, a bunch of times,” Steve says, warningly, “so if you’re not serious—”

“I will tattoo your fucking face across my stomach,” Eddie says. “I’ll take out newspaper ads, I am deadly fucking serious. I’ll fold my laundry. I’ll fold your laundry. You can play my guitar. Fuck, you can break my fucking guitar.”

“Why would I do that?” Steve wonders.

“Let’s go get it,” Eddie says. “You can hit me with it like a club.”

“You said you’d snap Mike's fingers off, at a rate of one per month for the rest of the calendar year, if he ever even touched it again.”

“Wheeler is a human mop head,” Eddie says. “There’s literally no comparison here.”

“Maybe just… say it some more,” Steve says.

“You can hit me with it like a club?” Eddie says, and then his brain connects, and he grabs Steve’s arm. “I love you,” Eddie swears. “Steve, I fucking love you. I’m in—”

Steve rolls over.

His mouth’s hot. A little sour. Really hungry, startlingly hungry, like he’s been starved. Eddie probably did that, too. Motherfuck. Eddie lets him take everything he wants, tries to give it over, let it spill out. He grabs Steve’s hip and hangs on for dear life, grips the thigh that’s rolled over his waist. Steve’s in basketball shorts with no underwear, so Eddie slides his hand right up and gets immediately hard about it. Steve presses his tongue deep into Eddie’s mouth. It’s incredible, they’re both nuts. This is a terrible idea. It’s perfect. “I love you,” Eddie pants, “Steve, I love you, I love—”

“You really,” Steve says.

“Like fucking crazy,” Eddie gasps.

“Can we,” Steve says. His hand rests on Eddie’s chest. Then slides lower. “Show me,” he murmurs. “I wanna feel—”

“Yeah, yes, yes,” Eddie says.

He doesn’t even get to take last night's cruddy jeans off. Steve unzips him, and Eddie pushes them down, and Steve throws the shorts off the bed, and then— “Christ,” Eddie gasps, “oh, Jesus Christ,” because Steve’s sliding down onto him already. He’s so tight, not ready yet, sort of wincing; Eddie kisses his mouth and tries to get a hand between them, but Steve huffs with athletic determination and works his hips, rubs Eddie’s tip in and out, and it gets wetter, smoother. And then Eddie’s shoved up into him all the way, Steve leaning over him, hand braced on the pillow. His hair flops soft over his forehead, and his breath pants out. They're so close to each other.

“God, you feel good inside,” Steve pants. “Just—stay in me, don’t—stop.”

Eddie can barely say anything. He doesn’t know why, where it’s all gone. All he can do is hang onto Steve’s hips and jerk with him, rock with him, one fused body, steaming at the juncture. Eddie bites Steve’s parted lips and kisses them and fucks him in reckless desperation, watches him go sweaty and intent and start to come. Steve rocks back and shudders and shudders. “Oh god,” he says, and he tips his head forward, grinds hard, harder.

“I’m gonna,” Eddie says, voice cracking, “I’ll live in your pussy, I’ll fuck you every day of the week.”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. “Fuckin’ better.”

“Every hour of the day,” Eddie says, “Steve—”

Eddie comes right after him, chasing him. Steve flops over right where he is for a while, breathing hard, face smushed into Eddie’s shoulder. Still hot around him. Eddie doesn't move him, doesn't try to slide out. Just stays where he is and goes soft, slowly. It's different, not driving towards something, moving and grinding… just letting your body settle. Makes you notice things you didn't before. Even relaxed, Steve's pussy has a faint kind of pulsing feeling in it, a movement of blood that must come from his heart, like all of him does.

Steve gets up eventually, pads to the bathroom. Eddie wriggles out of his jeans, wipes himself off with his own underwear. Steve comes back in, bottomless, in his sweatshirt. He lies down and Eddie slings an arm over him, rests a palm on his bare ass.

Drifts.

“Just,” Steve says, quietly, “so you know…”

“Hm?”

“I do want to—see him more,” Steve says. “Like—be friends.”

“Cool,” Eddie says.

“Yeah?”

“That’s up to you,” Eddie says. He cracks an eye open again, and yeah, alright, he deserves that expression. “I mean it. I’m gonna… no more dumbass set-ups. Hand to Bahamut. Scout’s honor.”

“Were you really ever a scout?”

“No,” Eddie says, offended. “They fucking camp.”

“Camping’s fun,” Steve says. Then he makes a face. “Used to be.”

“It’s a sin to reject television and refrigerators, so created by a benevolent god for the purpose of easing our mortal afflictions and cares,” Eddie says.

“I don’t think I could sleep in a tent anymore,” Steve murmurs. Then he rolls over and grimaces. “Shit.”

“What?”

“My alarm,” Steve says.

“What alarm?” Eddie says, which turns out to be the problem.

It’s Steve’s last full week at work. He takes a fast shower, and Eddie sits on the lid of the toilet in his underwear and clips his nails; the polish is wrecked, looks like shit. Practically growing out. He should paint them today. He should tell Steve he’s got a new—but then again, maybe he should wait and see if he gets fired immediately, first. “School starts, uh, next week?” Eddie says, avoidantly.

“Yeah,” Steve says, behind the shower curtain. “I’m in class Tuesday to Thursday.”

“So when are you working?”

“Friday, Saturday, Sunday,” Steve says.

“Fucking slog,” Eddie says.

“I'm going to do my homework at the store and ignore everybody,” Steve says. “Robin told me I can and should.”

Eddie snorts.

“I'll do your homework for you,” he says. “Well. The real easy shit.”

“You guys seriously didn't, like, write some kind of script together?” Steve muses. He doesn't sound mad. The water shuts off, and he pushes the curtain aside. Eddie hands him a towel and he starts vigorously scrubbing himself with it. Christ, his ass looks good. Better than ever, maybe. Eyes up, Eddie the Ogler. “He said the same thing, that he'd help with school if I wanted.”

“What’s he going to do, bang your textbooks with a wrench?” Eddie mutters.

“He got good grades,” Steve says. “They kick you off the basketball team if you actually flunk anything.”

“Guys who look like that are supposed to be sacks of hammers,” Eddie says. “He's not observing the fucking natural order of things.”

Steve snorts.

And then his eyes slide over. He ruffles the towel around in his hair, looking at Eddie curiously. KInd of amused. Shit and also fuck.

“Like that, huh?” Steve says.

“You… know what I meant,” Eddie flounders. “The square… ness. Brick with a mullet.”

“Wow,” Steve says. “Flattering.”

“He’s not my type,” Eddie shrugs.

“Oh, I see,” Steve says.

“Do you, uh,” Eddie says. Clears his throat. “You think it’ll… happen again?”

“What?”

“You and him,” Eddie says. Steve’s facing the mirror; his eyes widen and jerk sideways to meet Eddie’s, and Eddie puts his hands up in instant, prophylactic surrender. “I’m not—that’s neither a suggestion nor a, uh, a non-suggestion, nor a comment of any kind,” Eddie says, quickly. “I’m just asking, if that’s… something you think you’ll, like, want to—do?”

Steve’s jaw goes rigid.

“The fuck, Ed? I’m not a fucking cheater,” he bites out. His face is flushing, and not from the shower anymore. “I only—you’d just fucking broken up with me!”

“Whoa, hey,” Eddie says. “I know, that’s not what I'm—”

“Are you serious?” Steve says. “You just said you wouldn’t try to—”

“Hey, stop,” Eddie says. “For one second, let me finish my fucking thought, okay? Please. I’m really not trying anything. I promise you. No attempts are being made. I’m literally just asking. It's just a question. Do you… would you want to? Is that something you'd—”

“Why,” Steve says, low and hurt and dangerously, “you want to—”

He stops himself in time, clips his mouth shut. But his nostrils flare, and his eyes yank themselves away to glare at the wall, and Eddie realizes what he was just about to—oh, Jesus Christ. Yes, parts of Eddie apparently would like that. Holy fuck. A tingly jolt goes from his head to the soles of his feet. Hold my calls, please. Brain’s not here right now, only dick can come to the phone! Possibly balls.

Holy fuck how come he didn’t think of that bef—

Heel, boy. Sit. Stay.

Eddie tries to—focus.

“Who the fuck cares what I want?” Eddie manages. “Besides me! I’m asking what you want! If you want to fucking kiss him again, I’m saying—yeah, okay, in that case, I’m saying you should! You should fucking kiss him, if you feel like it! Just don’t—fucking stop kissing me!”

Steve’s staring.

“What are you talking about?” he says, slowly.

“I don’t have a fucking clue!” Eddie says. “Not one! Just… please don’t stop kissing me. That’s all I ask. Only thing I need. Okay? Do what you want, I’m not—I’m not gonna get mad, I’m not gonna think—all I’m gonna think about is you,” Eddie says. He scoots forward, tries to get a cajoling arm around Steve’s hips. Mostly gets thighs, since this guy’s so fucking tall. Steve’s face is doing something weird, like he doesn’t understand the conversation, like Eddie’s been speaking Sindarin. Quacking like a duck. Maybe he has been, how would a duck know? “Pretty much all I’m thinking about, any given moment,” Eddie admits.

“You don’t… like, want to… be exclusive?” Steve says, puzzled.

“No, I’m good with that,” Eddie nods. “For me. I mean, there’s nobody… there’s nobody else, period, full stop. Like, I'm giving this right here a hundred out of ten,” Eddie says, and squeezes what's closest. “Sorry. Issue with the judges. Hundred thousand out of ten. Just a base score, remember. We're probably looking at a total in the low millions.”

Steve’s thinned-out mouth moves a little bit. Oh, he hates wanting to laugh when he wants to be mad. Fuck, if he didn’t have to go to work—

Actually, fuck work. Eddie leans forward, sticking his face against the muscly curve of Steve’s thigh where it turns into his hip. Right next to where it turns into his bush. He smells clean and sweet and also a little bit like he’s been fucking, still. Eddie inhales and shudders with pleasure and kisses his bare, damp skin. Thinks about just how fast he could chow down this pussy, if he were really on the clock. Taking your time's better, but a rush job can be its own reward. He's up for it. “You drive me fucking wild, Steve,” he murmurs, and rubs his face in. Then sighs. “I pity that dipshit, okay? Maybe that’s why I keep opening my fucking piehole. If I screw it up again with you I'm gonna be in the same boat, and I know it. Don't know what the fuck I'd do, going… fuckin' cold turkey. Probably drive off a bridge.”

After a minute Steve’s hand comes down, pets against the back of Eddie’s head.

“Don’t say that shit,” Steve says, quietly.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. He kisses Steve’s thigh again. “Sorry.”

“Asshole,” Steve mutters. Eddie looks up. He doesn’t look very mad anymore. Maybe more curious than pissed. He leans his ass back against the sink, lets his knees slip slightly apart, so perhaps he's picked up Eddie's brainwaves again. “I think maybe you owe me an apology.”

“Like, a spoken apology?” Eddie says. “Verbal apology? Uh, oral argument?”

“Eat me, smartass,” Steve says. Oh, now he’s a fucking comedian.

Eddie doesn’t get around to painting his nails until Friday morning. The polish isn’t even dry before he fumbles around in the kitchen and puts a bunch of nicks and smears into it anyway. He is probably incapable of not doing that.

Steve’s already at work, so Eddie hikes over and picks up Gareth’s car, drives to the opposite edge of town, following the directions he half-remembers… until he sees the radio tower, which is pretty fucking hard to mistake. The station drive winds through a field and then up a slope; there are a couple of cars and the WSQK station van parked next to the building, but nothing else around.

Inside there’s a short, balding guy with his feet propped on a desk, smoking and reading Billboard.

“Hi,” Eddie says. The guy looks him up and down. “I’m… Eddie Munson?”

“Kinda sounds like you’re asking me,” the guy says. “You sure?”

“If I’m not, it’s that other dipstick’s problem, isn’t it,” Eddie says.

The guy snorts.

“Wise-ass,” he says. “Okay.” He puts his feet on the floor, briskly slaps the magazine down. “Alright, kid, welcome to the nuthouse.”

He leads Eddie around, pointing. “Bathroom, kitchen, label your shit or the elves spirit it away,” the guy says. “Booth’s that way, editing suite’s that way. Newsroom here,” he says, and knocks on the half-open door. “Rod and Todd, wake up! Just one scoop away from the Pulitzer, these guys.”

“Eat me!” somebody calls. They probably don't mean it the same way.

“That’s the tower control room,” the guy says, ignoring it altogether. He takes Eddie further down the hall. “Stay the fuck out of there unless you want Ramona to break your little fingers.”

“Ramblin’ Ramona?” Eddie says.

“Oh, no, actually we got three whole different Ramonas, it’s real confusing,” the guy says. “Of course it’s fucking Ramblin’ Ramona.”

“Excuse me for living,” Eddie huffs.

“You heard her show?” the guy says. “You look like a metalhead.”

“Yeah, but you can’t trust guys who don’t like Patsy Cline,” Eddie says.

“Huh,” the guy says, less combatively. “Library’s through here.”

“What the fuck,” Eddie says. “Were you… bombed?”

He nudges a record crate with one foot. The room’s an organizational nightmare. The wall shelves are packed with vinyl, and it looks like there’s a semblance of alphabetization going on, but the floor is lined with crates and crates and crates of records, and even more are leaned up against the stacks. It’s like a giant used-vinyl bin exploded all over.

“Used to be in order until a couple years ago,” the guy shrugs. “Bad habits are easy, what do you want?”

“A backhoe,” Eddie mutters.

The guy laughs. Claps him on the shoulder.

“I’ll come get you in a couple hours,” he says. “Teach you to work the phones.”

“The phones?”

“Yeah, you’ll weed the crazies out,” the guy says. “Or pick me some real good ones.”

“You’re Big Mickey,” Eddie says, suddenly. He snaps his fingers. “Breakdown Lane. You do the drive-time—”

“Yeah, I know what the fuck I do,” Mickey snorts. “Get to work, Shelvin’ Eddie.”

When he’s gone, Eddie sits on the floor. Stretches his legs out, leans his back against the uncomfortable line of a metal shelf. Laughs under his breath. Well, he’s really made it. The glamorous world of showbiz! He scrapes a finger over a box and it comes away fuzzy. Should’ve brought one of those masks that people wear when they’re sanding drywall.

Hey, it’s a living.

Working the phones goes—alright. He only accidentally hangs up on two people. Mickey tells him he’s a dumbfuck and then gives him a beer after the show’s done anyway, out of a thirty-rack sitting outside by the back door. The beer’s cold enough. They drink outside in the dark and the quiet, with the tower humming overhead. A van rolls slowly up the hill, and Dale gets out of it.

“Boys,” Dale nods, as he ambles up, even though Mickey’s probably pushing forty. “So how’d he do?”

“He’s alright,” Mickey shrugs. “Got a fuckin’ sense of humor, at least.”

“I’m touched,” Eddie says, honestly.

“Save it for your sweetheart, kid,” Mickey says. “Dale.”

“Night,” Dale says. Mickey crushes his can, lobs it into a bucket by the door. Digs his car keys out of his pockets, goes. Dale turns slow eyes onto Eddie, and Eddie drinks the dregs of his beer. “You think it’ll suit?” Dale says.

“Hell yeah,” Eddie says. “I mean, yes, sir.”

Dale laughs.

“Good,” he says. “Then git. Same time Tuesday.”

Eddie gits.

He drives to the Pizza Barn to get a meatball sub, listening to Sheila cue up some truly execrable pop-rock hits. Nice lady, taste notwithstanding. She took fifteen minutes before her shift to show Eddie around the editing booth, how she cuts tape for the promos. Said he’s got a good voice for ad copy. Imagine, his voice on the fucking radio. Telling people about the commitment to peace of mind they offer at fucking Boltmeyer Insurance, sure, but… on the radio, anyway. If he doesn’t screw up too badly they might let him have a late-night slot. He’ll have to think up a name. Hour of… Ultimate Darkness. Midnight Metalstorm. Yikes, okay, maybe not that.

His fingers drum on the steering wheel. His knee jogs side to side. He is a kid, to the bone.

The fucking radio.

After he gets his sandwich he looks across the lot, squints. The lights are still on at the Family Video. Ten minutes to closing. And Hargrove’s truck is parked out front.

Eddie should… probably go home. He should probably eat dinner in front of the television, wait for Steve to get back, tell him the news that he’s vibrating to tell. But it looks like he’s going to go be a nosy piece of shit instead. Why not? He pulls the car in beside Hargrove’s truck, carries the sub inside. It's warm in the store. Steve’s laughing about something.

“—the whole squirrel’s,” Hargrove is saying, “just—fucking stuffed in there.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve says. “Like, alive?”

“Not recently,” Hargrove says.

“Oh, shit,” Steve says. “Did you have to touch it? To get it out?”

“Yeah, I touched it bare-handed, then I came right over to see you,” Hargrove says. “C’mere.”

“Shut up,” Steve says. Then he says, “Ed,” and he straightens up off the desk. He’d been leaning across it, arms loose and relaxed, hands dangling off the edge. Close to Hargrove. “What’s up?”

Eddie holds the sub up like an Olympic torch.

“Better be meatball,” Hargrove says.

“God, you really are a man of taste,” Eddie sighs. Hargrove snorts. Gives him a wary look, which Eddie’s not really in the mood for. He’s not in the mood for whatever Steve’s suddenly doing with his posture right now, either. “Look, if I'm cramping your style, you say the words, I'll skedaddle,” Eddie says. He plunks his sandwich down on the counter and starts unwrapping it. “I can eat this in the car.”

“You’re not cramping anything,” Steve frowns.

For a second Hargrove looks like he'd love to contradict that. But he keeps his mouth shut. Just gives Eddie a long look. And then he reaches over and filches a fucking piece of meatball right out of the end of the bread.

“What the fuck,” Eddie says. “With your dirty squirrel hands?”

Hargrove laughs. Chokes slightly, chewing. And then laughs again. Steve rolls his eyes at both of them, and then he has to go help one last old lady who’s trying to rent Body Heat and buy three packs of candy.

“I’ve seen it twice,” the old lady stage-whispers. “Kathleen Turner, yowza.”

“Right on,” Eddie whispers back.

The sub’s delicious. Hargrove steals another meatball from the opposite end, while Steve flips the sign around and locks the door, shuts the outside lights off. “Did you eat anything at all today?” Eddie complains. “Are you one of those starving kids in the commercials? Get your own dinner.”

“Tightwad,” Hargrove says, without heat. He looks at Steve. “I was gonna pick something up. What do you want?”

“I’ve got leftover pot roast at home,” Steve says.

“When did you make pot roast?” Eddie wonders.

“Robin’s mom sent me away with all this shit,” Steve says. “Did you look in the freezer? There’s like eight containers.”

“Pot roast?” Hargrove says.

“Take some of it,” Steve says.

And then they both fucking look at Eddie.

“Don’t fucking look at me,” Eddie says, waving them on. “It’s not my tupperware party, Jesus! Go eat some pot roast. It’s a free fucking country.”

“Okay,” Hargrove says.

They all have to drive home separately; Eddie smokes two cigarettes in a row between the plaza and Gareth’s house. He doesn’t technically have to drop the car tonight, he could drop it tomorrow. But he does it anyway. Maybe to make absolutely sure he’s—last. He doesn’t know why. It’s not that he wants—it’s an itchy feeling. Not a test for them, genuinely, he's the one who fucking said he was fine with it! It's just an itch. Alright, maybe it's a test for him, if he were forced to admit it at gunpoint. He's got to find out if it was just big talk or if he can do it. Live with this, with whatever… it’s sort of a grandfathered-in situation, isn’t it? He’s the latecomer to whatever the fuck they have going on, have had going on, will have going on, and he’s only still in position because Steve is a gorgeous, forgiving sucker. It’s just not clear to him what anything is supposed to look like from this point on.

Maybe it isn’t to anybody.

“Yeesh,” Eddie mutters, trudging along the side of the road.

They don’t spring apart, red-faced, when he finally comes in. And it's fucking… uncharitable of him to imagine it. Steve’s in the kitchen putting dishes in the sink, Hargrove’s sitting at the table with a can of beer and a fork still in front of him. Domestic as all hell.

“There’s still a lot left,” Steve says, over his shoulder.

“You should finish it,” Hargrove says.

“I said I’m not that hungry,” Steve says, testily, like he's repeating himself. “Ed, you want it?”

“I’m good,” Eddie says.

“Kind of weird that she puts green beans in it,” Hargrove says.

“Yeah, you try telling her that,” Steve mutters.

Hargrove sips his beer. Eddie gets one out of the fridge and cracks it, and holds it out, and after a second of hesitation Hargrove taps their cans together. “When I can drink again I’m going to get a fucking keg,” Steve says. Hargrove laughs. “Laugh it up,” Steve says. “I’ll beat your record.”

“Oh, will you,” Hargrove says.

“What’s his record?”

“Forty-one seconds,” Steve says.

“Forty-two,” Hargrove corrects.

“Bullshit,” Steve says. “I was there.”

“Yeah, so, you know it was forty-two,” Hargrove says.

“What is it about certain guys,” Steve says, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms, “that they always wanna insist it’s a little bit longer than it was?”

Eddie snorts beer up his nose. Hargrove grins and leans back in his seat. Splays a knee out.

“Maybe I forgot,” Hargrove says, slowly. “Maybe it was a real girthy forty-one. I didn’t hear anybody complaining.”

“Wow,” Steve says.

“You fucking jocks, man,” Eddie says. “Your kegstands and your jungle juice. White lightning in the woods isn’t good enough for you?”

“I’ve done that,” Steve says, thoughtfully.

“Hicksville,” Hargrove says.

“You drive an F-100,” Eddie scoffs. “Shitkicker by proxy. You just need that one piece of wheat stuck in your teeth.”

“Children of the fucking corn,” Hargrove snorts.

“We really should blab the whole story to King,” Eddie muses. “Not that he'd fucking believe us.”

“Ha ha, what a crazy idea that we will definitely never follow through on,” Steve says, towards the ceiling, like he thinks there's a microphone in it.

“Excuse me, I’m the paranoid one,” Eddie says. “Don't think you can go snatching everybody's titles just cause you feel like it, hot stuff.” He leans against the counter next to Steve, and Steve watches him with that little faint smile on his mouth, like he thinks Eddie’s funny. Or just a dillweed. “Hey, so. I’ve got. News. New news.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, uh. Tidings of gainful employment,” Eddie says. Steve’s brow furrows just slightly. Yeah, considering the line of conversation two arguments back, that’s exactly the look Eddie was afraid of getting. “Entirely an accident, right place right time,” Eddie says, quickly. “Serendipity. I met this old-timer at the Hideout, and… turns out he runs WSQK?”

“The Squawk?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “So, I’ll be… there? Looks like, uh, Tuesdays to Thursdays, for now? Dale said they’ll… see how it goes?”

“Whoa, back the hell up, are you going to be on the radio?” Steve says.

“No, I don’t have a show,” Eddie says. “It’s just kind of a… station assistant gig, like I’m—organizing records, doing promos and stuff? I did the phones today, for Breakdown Lane—”

“We put that on in the shop,” Hargrove says, almost sounding mildly impressed.

“Ed,” Steve says, “that’s so fucking cool!”

“It’s—not that cool,” Eddie says, awash with embarrassment. His face feels like it’s under an electric lamp.

“Yeah, it is,” Steve insists.

“Jesus, it blushes,” Hargrove says, dryly. Steve laughs at that, the unrepentant bully.

“Fuck you, I’m cute as hell,” Eddie mutters.

“I should head out,” Hargrove says.

“Wait a sec,” Steve says. He rummages on top of the fridge. Pulls down a tin, opens the lid. It’s full of muffins. “Max likes cornbread, right?”

“Did Buckley throw you a second Thanksgiving?” Hargrove wonders.

“Please get them out of the house,” Steve says. “Do you want the blueberry ones, too?”

“You have to eat,” Hargrove says, in a different tone of voice.

“Don’t start again,” Steve says.

“You said you didn’t have lunch,” Hargrove argues. “And you had like… half a bowl, just now."

“I had some lunch,” Steve says, defensively.

“You feeling okay?” Eddie says.

“Jesus, I feel fine!” Steve says. “Maybe I don’t want to have the fattest fucking ass in Indiana, alright? I ate like a pig at Robin’s, so I’m taking a break. Relax.”

He smacks the tin down on the table.

“Did her mom say something?” Hargrove says. Eddie eyes him; it’s obvious he knows something Eddie doesn’t.

“Oh, did Gloria Buckley ask me a dozen times if I know how many calories are in just one dinner roll? No shit,” Steve says, irritably. “But she’s not wrong. I don’t even fit into—fuck it, I don’t want to talk about it. Take the damn muffins,” he frowns. And then he says, with real feeling, “God, I want a fucking cigarette,” and jams his feet into his boots and goes outside like he’s going to have one. Even though he probably won’t. Their shitty metal door rattles when he shuts it too hard.

“I hate that bitch,” Hargrove mutters.

He picks the tin up, though, and tucks it under his arm.

“Wanna egg her house?” Eddie says. “If we don’t stand up for objectively perfect asses, who will?”

Hargrove snorts.

“Man of taste,” he nods.

He goes outside; Eddie watches from the window while he goes up to Steve. Steve’s got his arms crossed over his chest. Hargove says something about a stick up his ass, Steve snaps something back about Hargrove not being a fucking doctor. Hargrove, improbably, just wiggles his eyebrows and says he's great at playing doctor, and Steve makes a startled laugh and tells him to fuck off. For a second Eddie wonders if they’re going to kiss again. It doesn’t upset him, the thought of it. There’d be something—right about it, wouldn’t there? Something that makes sense. He watches and steels himself for it, to see it. To finally see it. But then, anyway, they don’t.