Chapter Text

It’s about a half hour from midnight when the phone goes off, erupting with a sudden, rude brrring! from Steve’s nightstand. He jolts where he’s been sprawled uselessly across the bed, catches his breath, and groans.

He’d been caught up between two measly dead-of-night ideas, wondering whether he wanted to jack off or to possibly try reading again — like, as a concept. He doesn’t even have a book picked out. 

In the interest of being twenty-two years old, though, he’s figured he should work on becoming a more “well-rounded person.” Eddie had scoffed when Steve mentioned it aloud a few days back — told him to save it for his thirties, or something — and Steve had scoffed right back at him, shot something fiendish like what the hell do you know? As if the year and a half-or-so Eddie has over Steve grants him any additional depth of wisdom. If Eddie does possess such a thing, anyway, he rarely seems to use it.

But the phone’s ringing again, and snatching Steve away from the metaphorical fork in the road. He grabs the phone with a huff. “Wh—”

“You with somebody?” goes the speaker, immediately, in a drunken rattle that sounds something like Eddie’s voice. 

“Eddie?” Steve says. I was just thinking about you. It makes him wince. He lies back against the headboard for half a second; then sits up again, scowling. “Am I with— You mean, am I busy?”

“I assume if Steve Harrington is busy on a Friday night it’s because Steve Harrington is with somebody,” Eddie drawls. 

Steve can picture his mouth dropping around the vowels, with all the extravagance he affords even the most mundane conversations. Especially if he’s wasted, or headed that way; that’s when the words really start to stretch and sway and roll into each other, Steve’s noticed. A decent chunk of Hawkins still spend their free time theorizing which circle of hell Eddie Munson crawled out of, but Steve thinks it’s more likely he came from Tennessee or something. Robin would say — same difference.

“No, I am not with somebody,” Steve says, enunciating so Eddie can hear how he’s rolling his eyes. He scoots back into the bed, lying against the headboard again, knowing it’ll put an awful twinge in his spine. “But I could still be busy. I have a rich inner life.”

“I dunno what that means,” Eddie tells him. There’s a distant, clattering sound, like glass against metal. “Don’t think you do, either.”

“I was about to read a book,” Steve argues.

“What book?”

He steps aside from that one. “Why did you call?” 

“Oh,” Eddie hums. “I need you to pick me up. I’m a little drunk and somebody stabbed — stabbed? Stabbed my tires? That doesn’t sound right.”

Steve starts up again, hunching into the receiver. The phone cord tightens around his fingers where he’d idly looped it. A vision flashes in the back of his mind, something vague and violent — he blinks, trying to keep it from taking full shape. “Somebody slashed your tires?” 

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s it,” Eddie yelps, and he’s probably snapping his fingers excitedly, jabbing at the air like he does when they’ve got Wheel of Fortune on. The image almost outweighs that thick sense of worry building at the base of Steve’s skull. “Somebody slashed my tires,” Eddie repeats back to him, sounding all too unbothered. “And they say I’m a menace.”

“Jesus, Eddie— Are you serious?” He scrubs a hand over his face, before muttering, “The fuck is wrong with people.” Holding the phone in the crook of his shoulder, he slips out of bed, checking his watch as he grabs it from the nightstand. 11:37. He steals a glance in the standing mirror across the room. At least he’s, like, half-presentable. There are worse pajamas to leave the house in than sweatpants and an old T-shirt. He’s not really looking to impress anybody at the Hideout anyway — if anything, he’d rather be scaring them off. Eddie’s not as good at that as he thinks he is. “I’ll be there in—”

“Dead serious, Steve, I’m essentially shipwrecked,” Eddie says, loudly and about two seconds behind. “And Ryan took pity on my poor soul and let me order something, uh, on the house, which was really nice of him. And then, y’know. I kept going.” 

Steve half-listens — thinking, that sounds a little irresponsible on Ryan’s part — as the rest of him dances awkwardly with the telephone cord, searching for abandoned socks across the carpet. He nearly yanks the phone cradle off the nightstand when he grabs for some Nikes by his desk. 

“Ryan’s the bartender,” Eddie adds. 

“I know,” Steve says, patiently. He grunts as he lands on the floor. 

“He’s, like, the second straightest guy in Hawkins but sometimes I think he wants to fuck me,” Eddie also adds. 

Steve is kind of rushing, so he doesn’t freeze or even pause, really; but there’s a momentary stutter in his hands as he laces his shoes. Flattened music from the bar threads into the phone static, rough like a needle through denim. A guitar or a voice or an angry cat in the distance goes: yeoww.

“You gonna ask me who the straightest guy in Hawkins is?” Eddie murmurs. 

It’s a joke he’s been trying to make for a while now. Another question Steve neatly steps away from. He licks his lips, lifting himself off the floor and scowling at his watch again. 11:38.

“Are you in— like, danger?” he says.

“No, it’s all cool. And Ryan’s cool,” he explains. Steve hadn’t really considered Ryan might be not cool, but now he can throw that in with the rest of his concerns. “And I’m— the band’s still here.” 

Stuck there, Steve thinks, with a small grimace. Until Eddie’s been dealt with.

Corroded Coffin is really more of a revolving door than a final resting place — there’s members off to college or dropping out of high school or otherwise busy being adult-adjacent as the years have passed; there’s old friends brave enough to join the Eddie Munson on stage again, after everything, showing up to fill the gaps. They all get along well enough, Steve thinks — but as far as he can tell, Eddie’s not too keen on staying the night at any of their places. Or maybe they’re not too keen on hosting him. Not so many times in a month.

And Eddie hates going home drunk if Wayne’ll be there to look at him all— what does he call it? Worried-eyes.

Steve doesn’t have to think about all of this; it’s grown familiar. Just a shade off from comfortable. He’s terrified, actually, of the way he kind of savors this — the calls, the spontaneous getaways, the measures of trust. Eddie dials his number, crashes in his room. There’s a stingy kind of satisfaction about the whole thing. 

It’s been a while since somebody pulled a stunt like slashed tires, though. No comfort in that.

“Actually yes, I’m in danger,” Eddie prattles on, voice rising with restlessness, “I’m in danger of sleeping in my busted-up van tonight if you don’t come and rescue my ass. So— No, Jeff—” and his voice goes a little distant, whiny as he shouts somewhere— “I can’t fit Sweetheart safely in your fucking matchbox car. I told you I’m not leaving her behind! There are ruffians afoot—”

“Eddie,” Steve urges.

“Listen— Steve will be here in— Steve? Steve, when will you be here?”

Steve bites back a smirk, or anything else as affectionate. It doesn’t taste any good. “Twelve minutes,” he says, clearing his throat. “Stay with Jeff, right?”

“Of course,” Eddie trills. “I love Jeff. Jeff, Steve said twelve minutes. He didn’t say hi to you, though, which strikes me as a little rude.” He makes sure to say this part directly into the receiver.

“I’ll say hi when I get there, okay, just stay put.” Steve lowers the phone. Brings it up again. “Sorry about your tires, Eddie. And just— just be careful.”

Eddie says something that could be sure whatever or motherfucker, or perhaps some garbled combination of the two, and hangs up.

❧

Steve gets there in fourteen. He’s only human. He’d needed to run back inside for a jacket before peeling out the driveway — April still has its bite, once the sun goes down, and his shrunken tee had proven a size too cold. Speeding down the streets of Hawkins didn’t accomplish much beyond reassuring himself that he’d tried. 

The parking lot at the Hideout is only half as deserted as it usually is (an observation that makes less sense, mathematically, the more Steve turns it over in his head). The place can get pretty busy for Eddie and company’s shows, hence the move to Fridays; accusations of occult-related serial murder kind of do it for metal fans, apparently. So Steve’s not surprised to spot a few extra cars lingering around the dim streetlights as he pulls in. Not exactly put at ease, though, either.

The trepidation doubles when he catches Eddie’s van, a glint in the shadows, haphazardly parked in the corner of the lot. He tries squinting at the tires, but it’s too dark to make out any details and get appropriately upset about them. 

Then, in the opposite direction, he catches Eddie flying out the entrance of the bar. For a second it looks like he’s being thrown out — kicking Steve’s heart into his throat, his foot slamming on the brake pedal in the middle of the parking lot — but leave it to Eddie to toss himself around like the bottom of somebody’s shoe is making friends with his spine. Jeff is trailing him, body language all tired and concerned and, in the furrow of his brow as he shouts after Eddie, just a little pissed off. 

Good for him, Steve muses. It’s crazy to think these kids used to be scared of Eddie. Jesus, it’s crazy to think they used to be kids. Isn’t Jeff in college, now? Closing out freshman year, due back somewhere northeast when his spring break wraps up this weekend? 

“Steve!” Eddie hollers from the sidewalk, stumbling forward — and stumbling again when Jeff grabs at his shoulder, lightly tugging him back. Steve sees his voice more than he can hear it, just a flash of teeth from the other side of the windshield; he shuts off the radio with an exasperated grunt and waves a hand as he pulls forward, hopefully signaling both hello and don’t fucking run towards a moving vehicle. Eddie seems to get the message, nodding at the ground as Jeff coaxes him back from the edge of the parking lot. 

He’s slouched against a wooden pole by the time Steve is out of the car and half-jogging up to the entrance. There’s an OPEN sign flickering a few feet away, casting a hazy, blueish light over the left side of him. His hands flex where they’re curled around the strap of his guitar.  

“Right on time,” he grins, flushed cheek pressed to the wood. 

Steve doesn’t correct him. He pretends not to see him at all, for a moment; not the electric shade of blue reflecting in his rings, nor the momentary shine of black nail polish as he shifts his fingers, nor the warmth in his face and down into the shadows of his neck.

“Hi, Jeff,” he says instead, as promised, and he returns the strange little salute Jeff gives him with amicable awkwardness. “How’s, uh, school?”

“Good, it’s good,” Jeff nods. “Uh, yeah. Headed back on Sunday.”

“Don’t remind me,” Eddie whines, ducking dramatically into the pole. He mimes crying against it, flicks an imaginary tear. “So hard to watch’em leave the nest…”

Jesus, he’s always after somebody’s attention, Steve thinks, in an irritable little voice. Another voice indulgently suggests whose attention Eddie might be after, but he tries not to let it do so in full sentences. 

“Hey, you,” he says, scowling as he cuts his gaze back to Eddie. “Thought I told you to stay put.”

And he’s gone and put his hands on his hips — one of those things he doesn’t notice doing until he’s done it. He’d never noticed doing it in the first place until the shrimps and their rascal leader started giving him shit about it. But Eddie seems uninterested in crudely imitating him this time; he seems far more interested in sweeping his dark gaze over him, instead. 

Down and up. 

“I did stay put,” Eddie says when he meets Steve’s eyes again, shrugging, like the last second hadn’t stretched out between them, a rubber band about to snap. Maybe it hadn’t. “And then I saw your car pulling in. Felt it— like— psychically connected.” He bounces up from the pole, tapping at his head and raising his brow. “Turned my head and there you were.”

His hair is all wild, probably from whipping his head around on the Hideout’s slapped-together stage like a mental patient. There’s frizzy curls in almost every direction, framing his face in a dark, scribbly haze. Any second now he’ll be pulling at a few strands, stretching them across his cheek. 

“So you went bolting out the door?” Steve counters, remembering to speak. “I thought somebody was kicking you out. I mean, physically. With their foot.”

“He’s lucky somebody wasn’t,” Jeff adds. Eddie whips his head to send a glare his way, face falling flat so suddenly it makes Steve snort. Jeff doesn’t bother meeting Eddie’s unimpressed gaze, just shakes his head at Steve as he continues — “He kept knocking shit over. Any other time I’d be laughing my ass off.”

“Yeah, sounds like fun,” Steve says, folding his arms and raising a brow in Eddie’s direction. Then he sighs, sends a somewhat apologetic smile towards Jeff. “Thanks for keeping an eye on him.”

Eddie makes a shrill sound, an aborted sentence that begins with the word stop—! and could end up followed by probably anything. Stop talking about me like I’m not here, stop treating me like a toddler, stop pretending either of you are any good at small talk. Or something just completely incomprehensible, maybe. Dealer’s choice.

Yanking a lock of his hair towards his lips, he spins back to Steve, who figures he should try and steel himself for whatever’s actually about to tumble out of Eddie’s mouth. 

“What,” he bites, “you upset I didn’t stay inside ‘cause then you don’t get to steal me away in front of everybody like usual?”

It lands like a punch straight to the forehead — sudden and kind of bizarre, and it sends Steve reeling. He can feel himself going red in record time, can hear Jeff cough around a stifled laugh; he opens his mouth to fight back, but not before Eddie clicks his tongue and throws another hit with a grin. “Bet you were practicing that scowl of yours on the way over.”

“I— what? No,” Steve flounders. “No, I’m— I’m upset ‘cause somebody slashed your tires, Eddie, right over there.” He throws a hand toward Eddie’s van, voice growing clear and harsh. The frustration kicks in swiftly —  frustration at Hawkins, at the Hideout, and, yes, at Eddie; at least it knocks the stammer from his voice. “So I don’t think your scampering around out here is a fantastic idea.”

“Then what are we still doing here?” Eddie yelps, pushing off from the pole and shaking out his arms. There’s a thin sheen of sweat across the pale lines of them, scratched up with ink and highlighted by that hazy blue light. He’s got one of those ratty homemade tanks on, dark and loose, the armholes cut low enough to bare a glimpse of his upper torso. “I’m fucking freezing,” he mumbles.

Steve is growing warmer by the second. He slides off his jacket, holds it out for Eddie as the latter passes by, shuffling towards the car with a lingering frown. It’s a wordless exchange, his fingers brushing roughly against Steve’s hand. 

“Thanks again, Jeff,” Steve says, with another wince of a smile as he turns back halfway, wondering if they should’ve, like, shaken hands or something. Eddie echoes him, a loud THANK YOU JEFF. He’s trying to get the jacket on with the guitar still strapped to his back, when Steve sends a quick glance back at him; he laughs under his breath, facing Jeff again. “You’ll get home okay?”

“Yeah, thanks, Steve,” Jeff nods, biting back a smirk. Then, after Eddie: “See you Sunday? I don’t fly out ‘til later that night.”

Eddie doesn’t turn, just nods — it’s more of a short, sudden headbanging — and throws a thumbs-up over his shoulder. Jeff smiles after him, a real, that’s my friend and I still like him even when he’s drunk and annoying and a general liability kind of smile. 

It’s sweet. A bit relieving, too, though Steve hadn’t really feared for otherwise. Eddie’s friends are obviously enamored with him, even if they can find it in themselves now to get a little angry at him too. The party’s no less obsessed, either, regardless of the attitude he might throw them or the incidents he stirs up. When Steve’s in a worse mood — mostly just tired — he wonders if they’re all giving him a little more patience than he’s earned. 

But they’ve just crossed their second year into the afterward, all shades of trauma still rattling around in everybody’s skulls. Steve could’ve probably done with some extra understanding in the year or two after his first apocalypse, and he’d never had to deal with manhunts or reconstructive surgeries, or bodies snapping like matchsticks right in front of him. Never had to deal with slashed tires.

Eddie’s probably earned all the patience in the world. Steve tries to keep this in mind when Eddie swings the passenger door open with enough force to make the thing crunch on its hinges. 

All the patience, he repeats, clicking his teeth.

Eddie tries swinging himself into the seat, next, but Steve hollers at him before he can send the neck of his guitar cracking against the roof. “Oh shit,” Eddie swerves backward, stumbling away by a step or two. “Oh shit I nearly killed her.”

Steve snorts. “Hold on,” he says, jogging to meet him; he wrestles off the half of the jacket Eddie had managed to drag up his arm, before tugging on the guitar strap. 

“Manhandling me,” Eddie observes, disdainful, his face scrunched as he ducks around in Steve’s hands. Then, under his breath: “Bitch.”

“Quit it,” Steve says, lifting the strap over Eddie’s head. “Robin says we can’t say bitch anymore.”

“Bitch,” Eddie repeats pointedly.

Steve kicks at his heels as he pulls away; Eddie hops around, shouting a laugh. Dick, Steve thinks. He stows the guitar in the backseat, makes his way back to the driver side after watching Eddie successfully — and without much grace — dive into his own seat. He wonders how much of all this is the alcohol or whatever else Eddie’s got in his system, and how much of it might be happening regardless. Symptoms of post-show weirdness, as Eddie refers to it. He’s described it a handful of times, other Friday nights that had gone about this way or the dingy-feeling mornings that follow. Makes your head kinda feel like a balloon whirling around under a ceiling fan. 

One time Steve had asked him, teasing: Aren’t you always like that?

Eddie had laughed, and chewed on his lip afterward. The picture’s burned into Steve’s memory, probably until the end of time, alongside the easy scratch of his voice — even though the exchange wasn’t all that spectacular. Just a roll of his eyes and a low, Yeah, whatever.

The door slams shut — it must’ve been Steve pulling at the handle, landing in his seat as he did so, but he hadn’t really been there for it — and the world quiets down a bit. He huffs, feels a belated chill on the surface of his skin even with his face and all his insides still overheating. 

Eddie’s pulling Steve’s jacket over his shoulders again, thudding back against the seat when he’s finally got it on. Huffs a breath of his own, possibly imitating Steve. Possibly not. He seems a little far back in his own head, squinting slightly as he stares down the dashboard. He could be playing at something, faking obliviousness; or he could be a thousand miles away.

Steve lets the car idle as they resettle, watching Eddie with a tinge of concern. Something compels him to check in — not just the slashed tires sitting on the other side of the parking lot or the alcohol-weirdness lingering in his loose frame. Something in his eyes, picking apart that one spot on the dashboard. 

“You alright?" he offers.

Nothing happens for the space of a second. Then Eddie sighs. Nods his head and lands it softly against the headrest, breathing, “Yeah.” 

He swallows visibly, roughly, and Steve has his answer. Eddie’s way out in the distance. The words have a long way to go before they make it past his lips, and they come out in a somber, almost guilty tone, “I think it’s ‘cause it’s almost… Y’know. The anniversary. It’s just, uh, making things hard, again.”

Steve knows he’s talking about more than the tires, and the good people of Hawkins still cruel and confused enough to stick a knife in them. “Yeah,” he says, swiping a knuckle under his nose. Everything he wants to say has been said before. He can’t imagine it’ll land any differently tonight.

So, for now, he just sighs. “Yeah, that happens.”

Eddie hums. 

“We’re going to my place?” Steve says, gently. The words are practiced, comfortable; something between a suggestion and an assumption. A signal, so Eddie only has to answer.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. He sounds a bit closer to himself already. Still, he asks, “Could we drive around for a little while, first?”

Steve’s already putting the car in reverse, twisting to check the lot behind him. He checks more thoroughly than he needs to, keeps his hand on the shoulder of Eddie’s seat. Sometimes he catches Eddie’s eyes on him when he turns back around, and he’s always had a knack for being selfish and self-destructive all at once.

“Sure,” he says, pleased when he spots Eddie’s eyes flickering away from him. It’s a quiet, fleeting satisfaction; any longer and something rotten would float up alongside it like a dead fish. He shifts gears. “Radio’s all yours.”

Eddie fiddles with the station as they pull out from the lot, keeping the volume a bit low even when he lands on something metal enough to sate him. Steve’s got a route in mind — one that loops through downtown, because Eddie likes seeing the storefronts in various states of undress. He’s resting his head against the window, now, watching the glass near his lips fog up as he breathes out. 

Steve should have his eyes on the road. It’d be fucked if he crashed straight into some lone driver or wayward deer, all because he was thinking about tucking Eddie’s hair behind his ear.

Once they make it to Oak Street, Eddie perks up a bit in his seat, staring out the window as they pass a few stores and eventually the theater. The signs at the Hawk are all lit up, a few showings still running late into the night; teens and young adults are scattered around, whooping indecipherably. Repeating lines from whatever blockbuster they’d caught, maybe — Steve thinks he hears something like I’m too old for this shit!

“There’s another Evil Dead, you hear about that?” Eddie asks. It takes Steve a second to pick the words apart from each other, but that might not be all Eddie’s fault.

“I haven’t seen the first one,” Steve admits, winding them through the lines of stores and small offices. Pretty much everything besides the Hawk is closed, this late, save the Hideaway and a pharmacy or two. A couple signs still buzz anyway. Somebody’s dragging trash bags out from the back of a restaurant, trudging towards the dumpster by the parking lot; a couple janitorial-looking guys are smoking outside the library. “Is it good?”

“It’s fun. I couldn’t sleep for like a week after seeing it,” Eddie says. “But I was, like…” he trails off, counting on his fingers. “Sixteen? We had to sneak into the theater— Ooh, there’s a cat over there.”

Steve slows, in case the thing had been about to jump in front of the car or something. But Eddie’s jerked his head towards an alley on their right. “Steve, there’s a cat over there,” he repeats urgently.

Nobody else is on the road, so he stalls the car as he glances over, eyes landing on the stray. It darts between dumpsters and AC units and other inhabitants of the alleyway, tail flicking. Eddie’s watching intently, blocking most of the window. 

“Your big head’s in the way,” Steve says, trying to peer around him and get a better look, but Eddie doesn’t budge.

“It’s cement-colored,” he observes.

Steve laughs. “Camouflage.”

The cat slips out of sight, and they start moving again. “There’s this stray around the trailer park that almost likes me,” Eddie says. He leans back into his seat, head lolling towards Steve, all lazy. Steve has to fight not to meet his eyes. From the rearview mirror he can see he’s got one scrunched shut. “She’s got one eye,” he explains.

“I think you’ve told me about her,” Steve says, turning out of the downtown area. Figures they’re good to head back home, if he takes the longer way there.

“Yeah probably. It’s been a whole saga. But one day she’s gonna be mine.” He turns back toward the windshield, tilting his head as he watches the road reach out ahead of them. “Believe you me.”

Steve believes him.

By the time they’re out of the busier streets — slugging through this country road kind of thing that eventually hooks back towards Loch Nora, nothing but woods and plains stretching out on either side — Eddie’s getting a bit restless again. He’s unlatched the glovebox, sifted through cassettes and inspected the tracklists; he’s scratched at his jaw a while and picked at his seatbelt. Eventually his hand wanders into the side compartment, hunching against the door as he pokes around. His chain bracelets have been clinking against just about everything. Steve tries to ground himself. All the patience.

“Are you looking for something?” he says, briskly.

“Oh,” Eddie says, fishing out a small, plastic tube. He pulls it open with a small and immensely satisfying sound, kind of like — thup. It’s an eyeliner pen. “Hm. Which lucky lady might this belong to?” he asks.

His tone is odd, alongside the face he’s directing at the stick — eyes wide, a slight twist in his brow. The thing seems to entrance him. It almost seems to upset him. 

“Robin,” Steve says flatly. And if he sounds a little defensive, he thinks that’s fair; the idea of Robin being confused with one of Steve’s lucky ladies throws him a deep, icky feeling. He’s sure Robin would actually gag. “She’s always doing her makeup in here and then leaving stuff behind.”

“Oh,” Eddie says again, and the shift is immediate; voice gone dull, bored, but at least he doesn’t sound half pissed off anymore. He slides the cap back into place. Slides it off again. Thup, click, thup, click, for a little while. 

“You ever tried any on?” he asks.

“Makeup?” Steve says, a little incredulous. The thought had never really crossed his mind; it mostly seems like a chore and God knows he gives himself enough of those. Unless tinted chapstick counts, but he picks those out mostly for the flavors. So long as the shade compliments his face. Obviously.

“No— Well, I guess. I meant eyeliner, specifically,” Eddie says. He twists in his seat, tapping the tube against his chin. Steve can feel him analyzing the side of his face, and tries to send him a scowl without having to turn his head for too long. 

Eddie doesn’t seem deterred. He’s up to something, and it’s difficult to deter him once he’s up to something. 

“Have you?” he repeats. 

Thup.

He reaches haphazardly over the center console before Steve can answer, grabbing at Steve’s shoulder and jabbing the wand around near his face. “Eddie— Jesus!” Steve squawks, shoving at him with one hand and fighting to keep the other steady on the wheel. The car swerves. Wayward deer are in danger.

“It’d look good on you!” Eddie argues as Steve wrestles him away.

“I’m driving! Are you nuts?” he shouts, holding him back again with the side of his forearm. “You’re gonna get us both killed!”

“Whatever,” Eddie huffs, plopping clumsily back into his seat. He caps the eyeliner, stewing like a toddler. There’s a little smile etched into his face, of course, probably for the fact he even tried. And the fact he made Steve’s life difficult, which he generally seems to enjoy doing. He snatches up at the sun visor, flipping it downward and squinting into the mirror. “You’re gonna be so jealous,” he trills.

Yeah right, Steve thinks, as Eddie tilts his head back and forth in the mirror, uncapping the eyeliner once more. There’s a number of emotions he might be fast approaching but jealousy is not one of them.

“I’m gonna have to tell her you used it, you know,” he says, searching for a distraction. Already a sort of dread is winding its way towards him. “I’m gonna have to warn her about all your eye germs.”

“Just tell her I’ll buy her a new one,” Eddie says. He glances cheekily at Steve, throws up an air quote as he repeats, “Buy.”

“Unbelievable,” Steve scolds, and Eddie just grins, returning to the mirror and sidling up a bit closer, tugging at his seatbelt as he does so. Steve keeps his hands tight on the wheel. Only glances over out of curiosity and nothing else.

“I used to do this for shows,” Eddie says. “A while ago. Then I lost the stupid thing.” He’s closing one eye, pressing on the eyelashes with one hand; going quiet as he draws a shaky line across the lid with the pen, mouth falling open in that oh-shape Nancy would make. 

Actually — Steve’s pretty sure all the girls he’s gone out with made that same sort of face, putting on makeup or plucking their brows. Does it help them, like, focus? 

Eddie lifts his chin, glances toward the windshield a moment as he pulls at the bottom lid. “Slow down a bit.”

Steve listens. Lets up on the gas and compels the car to steady itself; he feels like he’s holding his breath, for some reason. He trains his eyes on the road, only gleaning Eddie’s movements from his periphery. 

Eddie swipes the wand beneath his eye, fast and mostly smooth. He leans back from the mirror, assessing his reflection, and smudges lightly at the ink.

“One down,” he says, mostly to himself. Steve doesn’t say anything.

He’s thinking about girls at their bathroom mirrors and bedroom vanities. Dates or one night stands or whoever else, messing with their hair and poking at their lipstick and making faces. Fixing whatever Steve had made a mess of the night before. 

“Why are you speeding up?” Eddie asks.

Steve startles. He lets his foot off the gas, easing the speedometer back down. “Sorry.”

“You’re trying to sabotage me,” Eddie says. He doesn’t spare Steve a glance — Steve would’ve felt it if Eddie did. He sneaks a look for himself, finds Eddie shifting the pen around in his fingers, trying to find the right angle up against the corner of his left eye. “Fuck, I could never get this one right.”

“Might be easier if you weren’t in a moving vehicle,” Steve says.

“Pull over then,” Eddie bites.

Steve actually turns his head, this time, to frown at him; and Eddie’s beat him to the chase, already facing Steve with narrowed eyes, something testy in the way he’s holding his jaw, the line of his plush mouth. He’s still only got the eyeliner on one eye — his right, smudgy and dark.

Neither of them expect it, probably, but Steve laughs. It bursts out of him quick and incredulous, and maybe a little derisive.  

“Jesus,” he says, turning back to the road ahead. They’re nearing Loch Nora. He’s not pulling over. “You’re ridiculous.”

Eddie twists back toward the mirror, clicking his teeth; moving roughly enough to communicate the same sort of petulant anger as a slammed door. “Shut up,” he mumbles, poking at his eyelid again and fumbling with the pen. 

Something vivid and shockingly brazen flashes in Steve’s mind. It looks like pulling over after all, parking on the edge of the woods beside them, just to make Eddie apologize; it looks like Eddie red-faced, and stubborn, writhing in his seat—

“Shit,” Eddie flinches, then laughs. “Nearly stabbed myself.”

Steve doesn’t look at him. He catches his breath, and tries to focus on the lane ahead of him.

By the time he’s pulling into his driveway a few minutes later, Eddie’s finished with the other eye, having muttered another few curse words under his breath along the way. Steve has been deliberately avoiding his face. He’s got a minor headache — the dull, overwarm kind he sometimes gets when drinking, except he doesn’t even get to be drunk. His vague sense of dread has mostly churned over into quiet, tangible distress. And he’s horny. 

“Thanks by the way for picking me up,” Eddie rushes, in the space between opening his door and hopping out of it. He’s throwing open the back door, next, drawing out his guitar. “And for driving me around. Sorry if you wanted to be asleep by now.”

Steve kills the engine, climbs out of the car with a quiet groan. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m not tired.”

He heads for the door, fiddling with his keys after locking the car. Eddie traipses somewhere behind him, chains clinking; from the sound of it he’s plucking at his guitar, a weird, dampened rhythm jangling on the mute strings. 

“Me neither,” Eddie says, belatedly. 

Once inside, Steve should head for the medicine cabinet, or for a bottle of water at least, but he makes for the fridge and grabs himself a beer. He pauses. Then he returns the beer and grabs the bottle of gin sat on top of the fridge instead.

“I’m drinking,” Steve announces. He thinks Eddie ended up in the living room. “You don’t have to join me but that’s what I’m doing.” 

“Is there anything to eat?” Eddie yells.

“Just come here,” Steve says, leaving the bottle at the counter and turning back, again, for the fridge. There’s not much — some leftover Chinese food he should probably pitch, a couple slices of pizza from a movie night with Robin, miscellaneous vegetables that’ll probably go bad before he even thinks of using them. 

“Oh, you meant drinking drinking,” Eddie says, catching sight of the gin as he lands unsteadily at the counter, barstool scraping the tile. Steve spins to face him, Ziploc bag of leftover pizza in hand, and then he almost drops it. 

Oh, right.

Eyeliner, Steve is learning, can do a lot. Too much, possibly. He doesn’t think Eddie even used that much of the stuff — he’s not an expert on these things, but it sure doesn’t seem like an obscene amount of ink on Eddie’s face. Maybe it’s the fluorescent light of the kitchen, upping the contrast, drawing out the darkness of Eddie’s gaze. Maybe Eddie’s just got an obscene pair of eyes to begin with. 

He’s assessing the bottle of gin from where he’s sat across the counter, probably calling Steve a wealthy prick somewhere unaloud. Steve tosses the plastic bag onto the counter, ta-da, and starts towards the alcohol. It takes a little work to wrench the cork back out of the bottle. 

Eddie’s assessing Steve, now. The attention makes his skin prickle, the muscle in his arms going tight.

Thup. The thing’s open. Steve gets right to it, brings the bottle straight to his lips for a full swig. It burns — nearly fucking strangles him, it feels like, but he’s not inexperienced. He gasps and then does it again. 

“Surely there’s a better way of doing that,” Eddie says, dragging the bag of pizza across the counter and carefully extracting a piece, like he’s playing Operation. Why does he move so weird? 

Again, Steve knocks back the gin; everything stings when he swallows it down. “Maybe I should get in somebody’s car,” he fires, trying not to cough. The words feel sloppy as they leave his mouth.

Eddie groans, props his head on his palm and cuts Steve an unimpressed, lopsided look. Steve’s jacket hangs off of him, kind of. It’s bigger in the shoulders. “You still on about that?”

“No,” Steve says. “Just thought it’d be funny.”

Eddie looks at him, empty-faced. Then he smiles, all soft and sweet, as if the eyes weren’t enough already. “Right,” he says. He bites into his slice of pizza, tearing at it kind of viciously — reminding Steve of those tiny, carnivorous woodland creatures he once saw at a zoo somewhere. Maybe some sort of meerkat. “Anyway,” he continues, still chewing, “It turned out alright, didn’t it?” 

Yes, Steve thinks, and also You fucked up a little bit on the left, by the outside corner, and It looks like somebody punched you in both your eyes, and God, yes.

“Dude,” he says instead, scowling. “Chew with your mouth closed.”

Eddie’s mouth falls open, like it was the last thing he expected to hear, and it probably was. But then he gets this villainous look about his face, eyes sparkling and the corner of his mouth pulling up. He smacks his mouth closed and then back open, chewing slowly so Steve can see every square inch of food in his mouth. It’s actually disgusting. 

Steve pulls a face, rolling his eyes. He takes another swig — a smaller one, hopefully, but he didn’t really try that hard and it sears through him just the same — but when the bottle comes back down and the grimace leaves his face, Eddie’s still doing it.

“What is wrong with you?” he asks, and Eddie shrugs, grinning as far as he can manage with an open mouth. Steve honestly wants to know, is the thing — if Eddie just has to get under Steve’s skin or else he’ll wither away. 

Steve sets the bottle on the counter and then somehow he’s reaching across the space between them, grabbing Eddie under the jaw and shutting his mouth for him. Eddie’s eyes fly open, bright and dark all at once, and that goddamn makeup— and the way his hair is framing his face, brushing soft and scratchy against Steve’s fingers—

Slowly, like he’s testing it out, Eddie chews. Just once, his mouth shut tight in the palm of Steve’s hand; when Steve does nothing but maintain his grip, he does it again, jaw working stiffly.

“Just swallow it,” Steve tells him.

Eddie’s face is growing very pink. His skin is warm where Steve’s fingers skim the edges of his chin, his jawline. He swallows. Steve can feel his throat move against his fingertips.

He’s glued to the spot for another moment, trapped where Eddie is staring up at him with wide, waiting eyes, looking sweet and uncertain and expectant at the same time. And then he releases him, drawing back to his side of the counter. Eddie follows after him for a moment; it leaves him leaning forward, just slightly, where he’s perched on the stool. 

“Steve,” he starts. His voice is mostly air.

“Let’s go watch TV,” Steve says, tearing his eyes away. He picks a slice out of the bag for himself, grabs the gin, and heads for the living room without another word. 

❧