Chapter Text
They're halfway through practice when the usual jibes start up.
"Look, guys. It's lover boy."
"The Freak himself."
"So sweet that he comes to every practice, isn't it?"
"He's keeping the bench warm for Harrington." Billy Hargrove turns his sneer toward Steve. "Don't worry, Hair. You'll have plenty of time to sit beside your boyfriend this season."
"Oh, fuck off, Hargrove," Steve sighs, combing fingers through his sweaty hair.
But his eyes dart toward the bleachers, where Eddie has indeed taken residence. He's sitting sprawled out near the top row, half of his freshman geek-squad around him. Black jeans, leather jacket, big smile, sneakers kicked up and sunglasses still on. He sends Steve a cheeky little wave. Steve smiles despite himself, waving back.
When Steve turns back around, the rest of the team is wearing mixed faces of disgust and judgement.
"God, you are so hot-for-homo," Tommy jeers, mocking his shy little wave.
Steve drops his hand.
"It's not like that," It really isn't. "He’s just giving me a lift."
Jason curls a lip. "Weird choice in friends."
“Oh?” Steve comments innocently. “And here I was thinking you were friends with Eddie yourself, Jason.”
Jason’s face pales.
“Is that right?” Hargrove laughs.
“Careful, man. He’ll turn you,” Tommy says.
“As if,” Jason finally manages, spitting. “I’m no fairy.”
"Yeah, whatever,” Steve’s patience is starting to thin. “We gonna play some ball, or what?"
"What, Munson's aren't enough for you, Harrington?"
The rest of the team laughs, with the exception of Sinclair and Steve himself. He chucks the ball at Hargrove's head extra hard for that.
-
The thing is, Jason's not wrong. On paper, Steve definitely shouldn't be friends with someone like Eddie Munson.
Steve's popular. He's co-captain of the basketball team. He has a part-time job and a beautiful, intelligent girlfriend a thousand times too good for him. He's on the right track, as his father likes to tell him. Steve doesn't know where he's going, post high school, but apparently, he's on the right track to get there.
But Eddie?
Eddie is...
Not.
He's rough around the edges. Goofy, not house-trained, his elbows on the table as he eats, as he talks with his mouth full. Unkempt and motherless, a wild thing— wild hair; wild eyes; wild, waving hands, caught in perpetual motion.
Eddie's the type of person who takes up a lot of space.
It's hard for some people to understand why Steve always makes room for him, but. They'd been best friends since their very first day of kindergarten. They're closer than Steve's actual family. He doesn't care when Eddie climbs on lunch tables, ranting and raving about consumerism and 'the man.' Doesn't mind that Eddie's only extracurricular activity involves dragons or mermaids or whatever. Hell, he doesn't even care that Eddie's gay. And kind of a slut.
At the end of the day, Eddie’s always there.
Steve's so attuned with Eddie's big presence, at this point, he can tell when he's near. It's almost a superpower. Even fresh out of the locker room, bone tired and hair still shower-damp, he feels a familiar shadow fall over him and knows without turning around who it is.
"Hey, boy-wonder."
Steve looks up from where he's stuffing textbooks into his backpack. Sees Eddie's wide, curling smile as he leans into the lockers beside him. His sunglasses are up on his forehead now, eyes twinkling at Steve.
"Hey yourself, prince of darkness," Steve says.
"Ooh, I like that one. That video store has been good to you.” A deep sigh, dramatic and put-on. “Oh, but I do miss when you made time for your old pal Eddie… don’t remember you working this hard at the ice cream joint.”
“Maybe because it was summer?” Steve laughs, before adding, “And I do too make time for you.”
“Do not. You’ve replaced me— you spend all weekend working with Buckley now. Did our Saturday sleepover tradition mean nothing to you, Stevie?” Eddie smirks. “Do I have to smoke you out just to get you in bed with me again?”
Steve coughs, ignoring the suggestive curve of Eddie's words, the flash of memories, late nights and ‘accidental’ cuddling.
Flirting is Eddie's default setting. It's part of his charm— and the reason every other man in their school couldn't stand him. But Steve knows he doesn't mean anything.
That's just... Eddie.
"Depends on how much weed you bring. You're a blanket-hog."
"I miss the old uniform, too," Eddie says with another longing sigh, as if he didn't hear Steve.
"The sailor uniform?" Steve snorts. "I set that thing on fire the moment I quit."
"Stop, you're going to make me tear up," Eddie sniffs. "At least whoever designed your basketball uniform was as big a perv as your old boss."
Steve pauses, eyebrow raising in question.
Eddie leans in close, too close. Steve's hand instinctually goes to the center of Eddie's chest, stopping him short. Eddie grins.
"Stevie. You think I'd still be in this hell-hole this late if you didn't look so good in your little short-shorts? Puh-lease."
Steve's face heats. "Shut up, man."
"You know they ride up when you jump? Make sure to shoot lots of hoops for me next time—"
"God, you’re annoying," Steve groans, properly embarrassed now.
It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean anything. Steve knows that.
"Too far? Sorry," Eddie laughs, not very sorry-sounding. "Promise I'll stop if you come out with me tonight."
Steve takes a steadying breath, pushing away from Eddie's chest. Eddie steps back willingly, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Tonight? What's tonight?" Steve asks.
"Low Shoulder's playing at Melody Lane tonight. They're this really cool metal band—" Steve winces, and Eddie switches gears, "That I've been obsessed with for years. Like, literally, I've been listening to their EP releases since freshman year, and now they're about to play on the same stage my band plays on. Crazy, right?"
"Crazy," Steve agrees, smile twitching at the fan-reverent glow of Eddie's eyes.
"Not to mention, the lead singer? Fucking A."
Steve's stomach clenches. "Is he... gay?"
Eddie shrugs. "Dunno, but he's from the city and he wears eyeliner, so I'd say there's a fifty-fifty chance. And I like those odds." Eddie nudges his shoulder. "I'm sure there'll be plenty of cute straight girls there, too, trying to get his attention. Plenty leftovers for Stevie, yeah?"
Steve gives him a pointed look and begins the long trek to Eddie’s van. "I have plans with Nancy tonight. I told her I'd make dinner."
Eddie falls in line beside him, throwing an arm over his shoulder and pulling Steve in to his body.
"Boo. Come on, Stevie, where's my good boy? My yes man?"
Steve bites his lip. He lasts about three seconds before, "What time is the show?"
"Atta boy. Pick you up at 9?" Eddie pats his ass twice before releasing him to unlock his car. Steve stumbles.
"'Kay," Steve says, righting himself.
"And Steve?” Eddie says, before opening the passenger door for him with an exaggerated bow. “Wear something cute, yeah?"
-
'Wear something cute' means something very specific in Eddie-speak. It means wear something Eddie had accidentally left at Steve's house, something metal-concert approved. Definitely no polo shirts, no Calvin Klein, no oxfords— but his white socks and Nike's are fine, as are his washed-out jeans as long as he cuffed them at the ankle, wore a black belt, and paired them with the right shirt. Eddie likes it when Steve looks a little sweet and a little mean at the same time.
Nancy watches him tug at Eddie's Dio shirt, adjusting the way it falls loose around his shoulders and tight around his biceps.
"Gosh, how old is that thing? There's so many holes in it," she says, a high-strung stress in her voice.
They had just finished their romantic carbonara dinner not too long ago, and while normally Steve would be nervous having her alone in his room, he isn't bothered right then. Eddie would be there soon.
"It's distressed, I think. It's the style."
"I can see your whole left nipple, Steve..." She says flatly.
Oof. "It's Eddie's."
"I can tell," Nancy sighs, back straight and prim from her spot on his bed. "I don't understand why you're going along with this. I've never even heard of Low Shoulder."
"They're a metal band. One of Eddie's favorite."
She rolls her eyes. "Of course they are."
Steve turns to her, abandoning the mirror to sit beside her.
"Come on, don't be like that, Nance. Eddie's got the hots for the lead singer, he just wants me to be his wingman tonight." Well. That's not exactly what he said, but what Nancy doesn't know won't hurt her. "What was I supposed to do, say no? You know how he is."
She softens slightly, finally meeting his gaze. Steve leans in to kiss her lightly on the cheek.
"I'll make it up to you next Friday," he murmurs. "Promise."
She presses her mouth against him. It's soft, sticky with lipgloss and as alien as always. Steve has never been a huge fan of kissing, but he knows the motions, know how to open his mouth and gently nibble at her bottom lip. Nancy and him had been dating for more than three months.
A familiar sensation curls over his shoulders like a shawl.
He pulls back. "Eddie's here."
Nancy blinks at him, pupils blown. "What? How do you know?"
"Stevie-boy!" A voice calls from downstairs. Steve smiles.
"That's so weird," Nancy shakes her head.
"We better get down there before he gets bored."
Steve doesn't have to tell her that a bored Eddie is a dangerous Eddie. Still, she huffs.
"Why do you always do whatever Eddie tells you to?"
"I don't," Steve lies readily. "He just... likes the same things that I do. We have a lot in common. That's why we've been friends for so long."
"You two have nothing in common."
Steve waits until he's turned away from her to roll his eyes. Yeah, okay.
As soon as they reach the bottom of the stairs, Steve's smile comes back in full force. Eddie's dressed to the nines, all big, clunky boots and silver rings and piercings shining from his ears, black hanky hanging from his pocket. His shirt is cut along the sides, the dark lines of tattoos up and down his torso. Another Dio shirt. They're matching.
Steve flashes Eddie his own outfit.
"Nice shirt," Eddie raises a brow, giving him a smirk of approval. "Do a little spin for me?"
Steve rolls his eyes. "You wish."
"Do I ever," Eddie says and tugs Steve toward him the rest of the way by the open line of his puffy jacket. Steve laughs, going willingly.
Nancy stays on the stairs.
"Oh. Hi, Nancy," Eddie adds, dry and belated.
"Munson," she says, jaw slightly clenched.
"Don't worry, I promise I'll have your son home by eleven, ma'am."
Steve blushes to his roots, giving Eddie a little shove. "You're so not funny, Eddie."
Eddie doesn't move from his side, but his hand squeezes hard against the back of Steve's neck. Steve freezes.
"I'm hilarious, and you know it," Eddie declares loudly, letting go to pull on Steve's carefully styled hair instead. Steve lets out a startled little squeak, moving forward a step toward the front door before he recovers and swats Eddie away. "Come on, enough chit-chat. Let's go to the club."
"Melody Lane is not a club," Nancy sniffs. "At best it's a bar. A dingy, dirty bar. Everyone there has a mustache and a shotgun."
"Watch it. That's the Corroded Coffin fan-base you're talking about," Eddie laughs. "But yeah. Apt enough."
"Are you sure you don't want a lift home, Nance?"
Nancy shakes her head. "It's just down the street. It's fine."
Steve knows he's supposed to insist. Or, at the very least, offer to walk her home. It's the proper boyfriend thing to do. The words are right there, on the tip of his tongue—
Then Eddie says, "Well, you heard the lady. Ms. Independent's got it under control. Let's kick off, yeah?"
Nancy face falls slightly. Steve squeezes her hand in passing as they leave the house.
"Next Friday," he reminds her.
She nods, letting go when Eddie slings an arm over Steve's shoulder.
The move jostles Steve, and he looks up at Eddie. Sees that goofy grin, lets the warmth of it unfurl in his chest as they walk, side-by-side, to Eddie's van. Neither look back.
-
Nancy is right about one thing. Melody Lane is definitely not a club.
Clubs are for attractive people in densely populated, urban areas. Clubs have DJs and champagne, cool lighting and cocktails.
All they have is a beat-up jukebox and a bathroom stall full of graffiti to shit and smoke pot in.
"God, you smell that, Stevie?" Eddie pretends to waft the air in front of his face as they walk in.
"What? Mildew? Body odor?"
"Nah. Smells like I'm getting lucky tonight," Eddie grins, winking at the bouncer as he walks right past him and turns around to face Steve. "It's in the air, I'm telling you."
Steve fights his frown as the bouncer stops only Steve, drawing an X on his hand.
"Hey, Bernard," Eddie says. "Doing the lord’s work, I see."
"You know the rules, Munson. Three drink maximum, got it?"
Steve tries not to let the unfairness of that get to him, but Eddie must see the slight annoyance on his face when he turns back from the bar, because he offers Steve one of the beers in his hand.
"Aw, don't frown, pretty boy. Bernard's got a thing for high school sports, you know? Wants y'all in tip top shape for that homecoming game. Look, he X-iled Choir Boy over there, too."
Steve follows his gaze to Jason, tucked into a side table with his girlfriend Chrissy, an X boldly drawn against both their hands.
Jason catches Eddie's eye, scowls hard, and looks away.
"Look at that," Eddie whispers right into Steve's ear. "That's the face of a man pretending I didn't suck his dick at last year's New Year's party."
Steve spits up his drink slightly, cup jumping in his hands.
"You're foul," he tells Eddie. Eddie only grins.
And that's just the thing, isn't it? That's the reason Steve doesn't let his teammates teasing get to him.
All the ones with the most to say about Eddie have already fucked him.
They'd probably be furious if they knew Steve knew that, though. There's a level of expected discretion to the whole thing, the reason why Eddie usually has an easy time pulling even the most heinous of homophobes; Eddie knows how to keep his mouth shut.
Except with Steve.
Because, after all. What kind of best friends keep secrets from one another?
"Look, the band," Eddie chirps up from beside him, leaning against the bar. "God fuck, look at the ass on that guy. You can so tell they're from the city."
"Yeah, 'cause they're wearing skinny jeans," comes a snort from behind them. "They look like a bunch of faygos."
Jim Hopper. Chief of Police. Steve feels his eyes widen, the incriminating beer in his hands almost slipping from his grip. He ducks slightly behind Eddie.
Eddie just takes another sip of his drink, unmoved.
"Yeah, you would think that, Hop. Small time gomer that you are."
"Watch it, Munson."
"Or what? You gonna take me down to the station, Officer?" Eddie laughs meanly. "You can hardly stand."
Hopper lets out something close to a snarl, but he only waves a hand and ambles further down the bar, away from them.
"What's wrong with you, man?" Steve hisses as soon as he's out of earshot, grabbing hard at Eddie's sleeve. "You've got an eighth on you right now, don't you? Are you trying to get another possession misdemeanor?"
"What's wrong with me? He's a drunk. Not to mention a hypocrite. Just like everyone else is this fucking town," Eddie's brows furrow. He tugs away, only to fold his hand into Steve's instead, looking back at the band with a scolded pout. "I wish we had more guys like them in Hawkins. All stylish and shit."
They look pretty ratty, in Steve's opinion. Grungy and greasy, all eyeliner and black clothes. It's Eddie's style, all right, but they lack his sparkling eyes, his fast hands— their own gazes dull and lifeless.
"They're okay," Steve lies. They aren't. They kind of give him the creeps, actually.
"I think they need two groupies," Eddie says so sweetly it takes Steve a second too long to understand what he means.
He flushes. "What? No, no. I'm— I'm straight, Eddie."
But Eddie's already pulling him in.
"Come on, Steven, don't be so J.V. They're just boys."
"But— I d-don't like boys."
Steve's face burns brighter at the words. Eddie scoffs.
"Okay," he says slowly, then pats Steve's cheek. "But I'm not telling you to sleep with them, baby. All you gotta do is point those big eyes their way and look pretty. Seriously, those things might as well be weapons of mass destruction. I'll do all the talking."
Eddie continues on without him, all the way to the stage, leaving Steve to trail after him. The band stops shuffling around as they approach.
"Hi," Eddie says, voice low. He offers up a hand to the main singer.
"Hi," the guy says, chewing his gum. He shakes Eddie's hand.
Eddie's touch lingers in his.
"Wow, um. We just wanted to come and introduce ourselves." He giggles a bit, twirling a strand of his hair with his other hand like a schoolgirl. "I'm Eddie Munson, and this is my friend."
"I'm Nicolai." The guy lets go finally, gesturing behind him. "These guys are— This is my band."
"Low Shoulder? I know," Eddie says quickly. "I'm a huge fan."
Nicolai seems surprised. He scans Eddie up and down. "Are you now?"
"Oh, yeah. Been following you guys since Rusted Bucket. You have such a... unique sound."
"Thank you," the guy says with a smarmy grin. "We are professionals, you know."
Eddie might as well have stars in his eyes. "Right. I kinda— well, I have a band myself. Corroded Coffin. We're nowhere near you guys, yet, but I'm hoping one day, with enough practice..."
The words hang between them for a moment, loaded. Steve squints between the two of them, before landing on Nicolai.
"Hey. Sorry," Steve interrupts, irritation itching just beneath his skin. "Can I ask you something? What are you doing playing all the way out here in Hawkins? You’re from the city, right?"
"Oh," the guy pops the bubble he's blowing. "Yeah, we are. It's just that... well. We think it's, like, really important sometimes to try and connect with our fans in the shitty areas, too."
Steve's frown morphs into an incredulous smile. What?
"That's amazing," Eddie says dreamily. "So cool that you guys are giving back to the community like that."
What the fuck?
Steve clears his throat, and Eddie seems to snap out of it, his face going a little red.
"Can I— could I buy you a drink?" The metalhead asks shyly. It's disturbing. Eddie isn't shy.
Nicolai steps down off the stage, coming up beside them. "Sure. What are we having?"
Steve watches as Eddie blushes and stammers and rambles on about the 9/11 tribute drink, the one Steve knows first hand tastes like sweetened hand sanitizer. Watches them get off topic as Eddie gets distracted by their equipment, talking on and on about sound production and Gibson vs. Fender or whatever the fuck. Something about the whole thing makes his stomach hurt. Steve can hardly keep up.
Instead, he wanders off to the pin ball machines in the corner.
He's not planning to eavesdrop. It's just...
The band members have voices that carry.
"What about that one?" He hears Nicolai murmur as soon as Eddie's scampered back to the bar.
"Who, the '05 prom queen?"
"No." A scoff. "Man, fuck you, no. I meant young Marilyn Manson over there."
Eddie. He means Eddie.
Steve's head tilts up, but he doesn't turn around, interested in where this is going.
The other guy seems to hesitate. "I don't know, Nick. You really think that guys is—"
"Him? Oh, yeah." Nicolai laughs. "Listen, I grew up in a town like this, and I know a small-town fag when I see one. No queer is getting laid in a place like this. I doubt he's even been kissed. Trust me, man."
Steve feels his whole body go tight as a drum. He turns to face them, see the dubious look on the drummer's face.
"I thought you were from Boston, man?"
"Whatever." Nicolai keeps talking, "Virgins are easy to trick, anyways. All we gotta do is get him in the van, and the rest is history. Yeah?"
That sounds...
Wrong.
They want to get Eddie into their van? And do what?
Hurt him?
Steve's feet are moving before his brain can catch up. There's fury, fury and disgust, hot along his shoulders, sour in his mouth.
"Hey!" He says, catching their attention. The drummer immediately steps back, disengages, but Nicolai meets his eyes. Steve zeroes in on him.
"What the hell, man? That's my best friend you're talking about," Steve continues hotly. "And for your information, he's not gay," A lie. "And even if he was, he is a virgin. By choice." Such a fucking lie. "Which is way better than messing around creeps like you."
Nicolai looks unaffected, just the slightest rise of his eyebrows. Steve sends him one last scowl and turns away.
Eddie's not hard to find. He's already walking back towards Steve, a tray in his hands. Two red, white, and blue shots sit atop it.
Eddie hands the tray to Steve, who takes it without question. The taller boy runs a scrutinizing gaze over the drinks.
"Dammit," he says. "I knew it. Tower one isn't full enough."
Steve sets the drinks down on a random table beside them. "Who cares? Those guys are weird, Eddie. I want to go home."
"Home? But we just got here," Eddie grins, toothy and a touch feral. "Besides, I think the lead singer wants me."
"Yeah, because he thinks you're some easily manipulated virgin, Eds. I overheard them talking."
Eddie gapes.
"What? I haven't been a virgin since I let Tommy Hagan hit it after his seventh grade pool party, dude," Eddie sobers, looking suddenly serious. "Which fucking hurt, okay? Don't assume doing it in a hot tub means you can go in bare, you hear me? Chlorinated water is not a replacement for lube."
Steve makes a face. "Not really sure how applicable that is to my own sex life, Eddie."
Eddie sends him a knowing look, but says nothing. He doesn't have to.
Steve's cheeks pinken up again.
Before he can think of another way to say, Eddie, I'm not fucking gay! the sound of feedback fills the room. Eddie straightens his hair, preens slightly, and pushes his way through to the front of the crowd. Reluctantly, Steve follows.
"Hello, Balkins, Indiana!" Nicolai addresses the patrons, wrangling the microphone into place.
"It's Hawkins!" Hopper's voice booms out from the bar, a half slur.
"Hell yeah, it is!" Nicolai agrees, pointing toward the forming crowd. "We're going to start with something a little softer than our usual sound. You guys ready?"
A couple of whoops and hollers, including a loud, drawn-out whistle from Eddie himself, his pinky and pointer fingers framing the soft plump of his mouth. Steve nudges his shoulder to make him stop, but Eddie just uses the opportunity to pull him closer, pushing up behind him as the music starts.
It's horrible. Haunting. Nicolai's mouth opens, releases a deep wailing moan of words over the harsh clatter of an electric guitar. Steve doesn't understand a single lyric, but the hair rises on the back of his neck anyway.
God, Steve hates metal.
And then—
Two big hands, framing his waist. Steve stops wincing. His mind goes completely and utterly
Blank.
Fingers linger in the hook of Steve's hips, Eddie musing up his shirt, his thumb poking through the large hole near the bottom half. He strokes the skin just above Steve's belt, once, twice. Squeezes tight, hard enough to bruise, and then wraps his arms fully around Steve's torso, pulls him in as easy as breathing. Rests his head in the nook of Steve's shoulder, rocking them both back and forth to the beat.
Steve feels every part of his body press against him. Feels every point of contact spark and sting like sparklers as they sway.
Steve feels it all.
It's always like this, when it's just the two of them. Like every touch holds its own gravity... like their universes are centered around each other.
But when Steve cranes his neck to look at him, Eddie's not looking at him.
His eyes are locked on the stage. The lead singer, specifically.
Who's looking right back at Eddie.
Something hits hard against Steve's solar plexus.
He blinks the feeling away, ignoring the sharp twist of pain in his gut when Eddie slowly pulls away, begins swaying on his own. It hurts, though. Steve doesn't fully understand why it hurts, but it. fucking. hurts.
He can't even bring himself to look at Eddie again. Doesn't want to look at the band, either. Instead he watches the other people, watches the equipment, rests his eyes on the far wall.
Which is about when he notices the fire climbing up the stage lights.
It's a small thing, wicked and twitching. Bright orange flames licking a fast path all the way up to the ceiling, catching on one of the many US flags hanging from the rafters, all before Steve can even process what he's seeing. And then another flag catches. And another.
And the flaming fabric begins to fall.
And the fire begins to spread.
Someone screams. The sound is quickly joined by several others. The music doesn't stop.
The music keeps going.
Steve gets knocked hard in the shoulder, almost falls down, as a man rushes past. Another person does fall. Steve watches in real time as a familiar head of blonde hair tumbles to the ground, body slumping. Hears the sick crack of Chrissy Cunningham's bones as people stampede over her, looking for the exit. Jason's screams are lost in the sound of the wooden beam crashing down beside them.
The sound startles Steve out of his stupor. He looks at Eddie, who's still watching the stage, his expression entranced, enraptured.
When Steve looks over at the stage, Nicolai is smiling. A small, dark thing of a smile. People are screaming, and Nicolai is smiling. The music doesn't stop.
The music keeps going.
A jolt of pure fear goes through Steve. It rushes through his blood, bright and cold, even as the heat begins to rise in the room. He shakes Eddie hard, watching as the other boy blinks down at him, as if just waking up.
The music finally stops, ending with the screech of sliding chords.
"Come on! I know a way out!" Steve screams.
He's not sure if Eddie hears him over the hurricane of sound around them, but it doesn't matter. Steve pulls him forward hard, beelining for the bathroom. He slams the toilet shut, climbs on top of it and hefts himself out the bathroom window. Eddie's slow to follow, slow enough that Steve gets impatient and starts tugging him through the open window.
Together, they stumble through the parking lot. They're only half-way to Eddie's van when Eddie collapses, falling to his knees on the hard cement.
"Eddie!" Steve falls beside him, his hands cupping Eddie's face. "Eddie, hey."
Eddie's eyes are glassy and confused. He's not looking at Steve, not really. He's looking past him.
Behind Eddie, Steve can hear the screams. Can smell the smell, the crackling pop of burning flesh, the putrid scent of burning hair. Someone runs out the front door, half their body on fire, the walking dead.
Steve forces himself to focus back on Eddie's face. The dip of his nose, the pink of his lip, the sprinkle of acne scars on his chin. His expression is...
Lost.
Somewhere else.
Steve slides closer, feels Eddie's body trembling.
"Hey, Eds. Eddie? Can you hear me?"
Nothing.
"Oh, thank god you guys are alright," comes a new voice. "I've been looking everywhere for you two."
Nicolai.
He's standing right over them. Steve looks at him, at his black jeans and leather jacket, not a hair out of place. He's sipping on what looks like a jack and coke, nonchalant in a way that Steve's brain simply can't compute.
Steve shakes his head mutely, unable to find the words. His hands drop from Eddie's face.
"Listen, guys," Nicolai says, the sound of a loud explosion just behind him following the words. "It seems pretty dangerous out here," he points out unnecessarily. "You wanna head some place safer, like my van?"
What?
"What?"
His... van? Steve wants to go home. Steve needs to go home—
Nicolai crouches beside them.
"I'm in survival mode right now," he says. His face is one of put-on worry, but his tone his monotone, lacking any real fear. His eyes still dull, colorless like the eyes of a shark. "And I want to get us to a familiar place. Like my van. What do you say?"
"No," Steve anguishes, watching the scene unfold from outside himself. It feels like if he moves too fast, he'll snap the tether between his body and his soul, and so he sits, and he watches, a spectator above, as Nicolai rubs a hand down Eddie's shoulder. Touches his back.
"Okay, this one's in shock, huh?" He hands Eddie his drink. "Here, drink this."
Eddie nods, choking slightly when Nicolai tips the drink higher, forces it down his throat fast.
"No," Steve says again, far away. "Eddie?"
Eddie doesn't seem to hear him at all.
"That's better, right? Okay. Up you go." Nicolai hefts Eddie up, puts Eddie's hand in his. Leads him away from the burning building, away from Steve, and into the darkness of the parking lot. Eddie stumbles, knocking Steve over before he manages to climb to his own feet.
"Eddie! Eddie, stop, let's go," Steve says once he's finally up, panic entering his blood again. A bright white dose of it, frigid in his bloodstream.
Wrong.
"That's right," Nicolai laughs, a twinkling sound. "Let's go to my van!"
Something's wrong.
"I wanna see your van," Eddie mumbles. "I have a van, too. Come on, Stevie, let's compare vans."
Something's very wrong here.
"Why? Why can't we just take yours home, Eddie?" Steve can't let him get in that van, Steve can't— "Please, can't we just go home? Eddie, please?"
"We can play some music together, too," Nicolai promises slyly. "With the whole band. That sounds fun, doesn't it?"
"Fun," Eddie agrees, his voice a dream.
"Eddie—"
"Steve!" Eddie snaps, stumbling again. He didn't drink that much. Steve knows he didn't, they've been together all night. "Stop it, okay? Just... shut up."
Steve's mouth falls open. Eddie's never told him to shut up before.
Never.
He watches in silence as Eddie climbs into the van. There are already three or four figures tucked into the seats, strange shapes, men with dark cloaks over their heads.
Steve and Eddie's eyes meet one last time before Nicolai slides the door closed. It's only then that Steve sees it.
The fear registering in Eddie's eyes.
The confusion.
The door shuts and locks with an audible click. Nicolai looks at Steve. Gives him a winning smile, a what can you do? shrug.
He's evil, Steve knows. Evil and skinny and rotten to the core. Steve can sense the malicious intent radiating off him from five yards away, and he knows, knows something terrible is about to happen, watching Nicolai climb into the driver's seat.
And there's fuck-all Steve can do about it.
