Chapter Text
After it’s all over, Steve goes out and gets drunk. Several times over, in fact.
It doesn’t matter that he’s not twenty-one yet, because a bit of charm and an extra five bucks takes care of that. It doesn’t matter that he’s all alone, either, because he doesn’t come here to talk. It doesn’t matter that, according to some, he’s got a face that screams “punch me” because, well. At least that’s something.
It’s just been - there’s been nothing. Robin has moved halfway across the country for college, Jonathan and Nancy too. The kids don’t - fuck it - they’re not kids anyway, and they don’t need him anymore. Sure, Dustin offers to hang out. Like he’s taking pity on him or something. Same with the others. But he knows he’s too old for their bullshit, and they don't need him in their lives anymore.
So, he gets drunk. And he gets into fights. And he gets punched.
It’s good that Keith couldn’t care less if he comes into work looking beat and broken. No one looks twice at him, not really, if they just come to get a movie they don't need to worry about a black eye or busted up knuckles. Long as he doesn't bleed on the video cases, it doesn't matter.
He doesn't. Matter. See, before, when they were fighting for their lives at the turn of every corner, where every flickering light or noise in the darkness was enough to set alarm bells ringing - at least he was there for a reason. Now he's retained all of that amped up instinct to turn and fight, to protect, and none of the fucking purpose.
So when a fist slams into his face, it just feels kinda. Reassuring.
He knows it's fucked up, it doesn't fucking matter.
He's in the alley behind a bar, not cowering, exactly, but at least recuperating. Behind a dumpster, so as not to draw too much attention.
"Well, Harrington," a voice, agonisingly familiar, says from further back in the shadows. "I know I told you all that it'd be better if we didn't cross paths again, but I feel honour-bound to help you out here."
Steve snaps his head up and focuses in on the source of the voice. It makes his head swim, but he has to know - he has to be sure.
Eddie Munson steps forward, pulling a raggy piece of cloth out from his pocket, and bends down to one knee in front of Steve, offering it to him.
"For the blood," he says with a half smile. "You sure like ending up covered in it."
Steve lets out a shaky breath. "Eddie," he says. "Hi."
"See, what you really wanna be saying is" - he takes on an affected voice - "'should I really be putting that near my face?' and the answer is, of course, probably not, but what options do you have?"
"How are you?" Steve opts to say instead of replying. "No one heard from you in -"
"God, you're difficult," Eddie replies, taking it upon himself then to brush Steve's hair out of his eyes with one dangerously gentle hand, and hold up the cloth to the gash at his temple with the other. "The fuck did you even say to those guys?"
Steve tries not to wince from the pain. "Wanted to give you space," he says, by way of an excuse, verging on an apology, but he's not quite decided whether he wants to give one, or if he's half expecting one. "After everything that happened -"
Eddie hasn't actually caught his eye until this point, but now he does, stilling his hand in Steve's hair and on his face, deep wide eyes catching his.
"I told you," he says. "It'd be better if we didn't cross paths again."
"But-"
"I'm not going to leave you here," Eddie hastens to add, sighing in frustration as he looks away and resumes his fruitless attempts to clean the blood from Steve's face. "I mean, jesus, look at you. Someone has to get you home. But I meant what I said. You don't need to ask me how I am. I won't ask you, either."
"But-" he tries again.
"I'll give you a ride home. Still in the same old Harrington mansion, yeah?"
"I drove here."
"Well, screw that, Harrington. You're not driving home like this. You even sober?"
He. Kind of hadn't even stopped to think about that. Kind of never does. If it does occur to him, he just sleeps in his car.
Eddie huffs out a laugh. "I'll drive you back here in the morning if I have to. Can't lose your precious BMW like this."
"I don't - I don't -" I don't care about the car, he wants to say. But he doesn't really know how to say it. Shit, he really is drunk.
"Come on," Eddie unthreads his fingers from Steve's hair, tosses the useless cloth into the dumpster, and it's only then, when Eddie isn't touching him, that Steve realises how fucking nice it had been, to have someone fucking touch him. And not - not one of the girls that he ends up taking home if he doesn't end up bloody on nights like this. Just like -
Like -
Softly. Carefully. Like he fucking matters.
But that's not it, obviously. Eddie doesn't want anything to do with him. He's not doing this for Steve, he's doing this for someone who's injured. Some fucking idiot.
"Come on," Eddie repeats as though he hadn't heard any of the torment in Steve's mind. "It's getting late."
*
The van is the one Steve recognises. The one that Eddie uses to drive like a maniac, according to Max, The one that always ended up parked haphazardly across two bays in the school parking lot, blocking at least one car from leaving and more than once, leaving a dented fence or knocked over sign in its wake.
But Steve doesn't even consider refusing to be driven by Eddie. He follows where Eddie leads, and pulls open the passenger door carefully, only swaying on his feet a little as the door swings. But - it's Eddie, Eddie's here, after - months, six months of radio silence, after he had somehow graduated early, and said that line to all of them, told even Dustin that it'd be better if their paths didn't cross again . And then he had vanished, the wounds on his stomach and neck still fresh.
Steve can see the scars now, looking across at Eddie as he starts the van. It sputters to life, just as Eddie catches him looking, and shifts his collar uncomfortably.
"Do you have to remind me?" he mutters, reversing out of the parking lot, and setting off down the street.
Max is right, he's a reckless driver. And. he doesn't want conversation, either. Just turns up the radio loud enough to drown out both their thoughts.
Eventually, they get far enough down the road that the glances are forgiven, and Eddie turns the music down just a fraction.
"You didn't answer me, anyway," he says. "What did you say to those guys? Must have been real fucked up. I mean, three against one is intense, even for that place."
Steve only answers with a shrug, and Eddie continues anyway, his eyes narrowing now, flickering to Steve instead of the road.
"Come to think of it," he says slowly. "It doesn't seem like your sort of place. Like at all."
It's not a question, so Steve doesn't answer that either. It's not that he doesn't want to speak to Eddie - the opposite, really, there's so much he wants to know and so much he wants to care about and so much he wants to chew Eddie the fuck out for, for leaving like that and for abandoning Dustin and for - for fucking - leaving - for leaving. How could he just leave?
But he's been through all of that already. He knows exactly how he could just leave, and worst of all he understands it. It's so much easier to pretend you're fine when there's nothing there to remind you that you're not. For Eddie, that reminder was the people who were there with him.
To be honest, it was that for Steve, too. But - seeing Eddie doesn't - hurt. It doesn't just make him think of - that. It's, no, it's bigger and more complex than anything like that, it's a bright hot fury at the fact that he left and it's the urge to grab him in a choke hold that could be mistaken for a hug and its grief, just - grief, and longing, longing for a better reason for them to matter to each other.
It's silence as Eddie drives recklessly down the deserted midnight roads, it's Steve's gaze fixed out the window when he wants to fix his eyes to Eddie and drink him in, never look away, it's the emptiness of the moment, of two people that don't know how to speak to each other.
Eddie pulls gracelessly up to the sidewalk in front of Steve's house, and tries to smirk.
"I'll be back in the morning to take you back to your precious car, King Steve," he says, and Steve takes one look at the dark empty house in front of him and wonders if Eddie would stay if he threw up at the thought of going inside. He finds himself unable to get further than a hand on the van door handle.
"There a problem?" Eddie asks, tilting his head.
"Just - don't wanna go in," Steve replies, the first honest answer he's given Eddie all evening. "Y'know."
"Do I know?" Eddie says. "I mean, Christ, Harrington, what I wouldn't give to live in a place like that."
Steve sighs. "Yeah."
Ungrateful. He knows that.
"You can stay," he says, instead of opening the door like he should.
Eddie chuckles. "Not sure that's a good idea, Harrington."
"Why not?"
"You want a list?"
"I just - want -" he exhales, slow and steady, tries to steady his mind so that his words don't come out slurred. "To understand," he says. "Why you disappeared."
There's a beat of silence, and Steve feels Eddie's eyes on him. even while he stays looking out of the window.
"You couldn't work it out?" Eddie asks. "I mean. It's not like we haven't had that conversation before. I run away, it's what I do."
"No, but -"
"Just go to bed, Steve. Like I said, I'll be back in the morning."
He doesn't leave any room for arguments with his tone. Steve deflates, and finally pulls on the handle, stepping out into the chilly night air.
But the world tips - sitting down for the last twenty minutes in a car had let him forget that, yeah, actually, he really is drunk. He stumbles forward, manages to right himself without hitting the floor. Even so, as he walks carefully forward, reaching out for the rail on the steps and clinging on for dear life, he hears the van door behind him, where he was expecting to hear the engine.
Eddie's hand is at his elbow before Steve's brain catches up to the fact that the van didn’t start, and he flinches, just slightly. Shock, more than anything. And - relief, lurching through his bones. Eddie - cares. Even if it’s just a little.
"Not my fault you can't walk straight," Eddie half laughs, holding tighter now, one hand at the small of Steve's back, now. "Maybe I miss playing the hero, though. Gotta help you out before I run again." he says this almost as if he didnt want Steve to hear it, as if it was just a part of his own thoughts that spilled. Steve doesn't reply to him anyway, too caught up in being touched again. Being someone who matters.
They reach the door, and Steve scrambles in his pocket for his keys. Eddie lets go of him, lounges against the doorframe, and watches him sift through each key until he finds the right one.
"If I leave you here, will you fall over two steps into your house?"
"Yes," Steve replies without thinking it through, his only thought channelled into getting Eddie to stay longer. Getting Eddie to talk to him. Getting Eddie to keep his hands on him.
He puts the key towards the lock, and misses three times before Eddie's careful hands swoop in, and guide the key to the right place.
"Christ, Harrington," he murmurs, a smile playing at his lips. "How much did you drink?"
Steve doesn’t reply to that, pushes open the door, stumbling again, and takes a step into the dark hallway.
This is always where his heart races, in the rush to find the lightswitch, in the anticipation of the flicker as it turns on. But this time Eddie is there with him, his hand on the switch before Steve has even taken his off the door. His eyes find Eddie, and Eddie looks somewhat - embarrassed?
“Don’t like the dark,” he says, as if it’s strange. “Guess that’s why you didn’t wanna come in here. Big house. Too many shadows.”
“Yeah - yeah. Yeah, something like that.”
Eddie nods. “Yeah. Well, light’s on now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wait -”
The way Eddie goes still makes it seem as if he kind of wanted to be stopped. Or maybe that’s just Steve reading into it - that he wanted Eddie to stay, and he wants Eddie to want to stay too.
“We could - watch a movie? We don’t have to talk or anything.”
There’s hesitation all over Eddie’s face, but there’s not a no.
*
True to his word, Steve doesn’t say a word once they get into the lounge. He just holds up a random video to Eddie and waits for a cursory nod before sliding it in, and flopping down onto the opposite end of the sofa from Eddie. He hasn’t turned the lights out, like he normally would. His mind is still hazy, and he kicks the coffee table clumsily as he goes to put his feet on it.
Eddie looks over at him with a teasing expression, and mirrors him from the other end of the couch, feet on the table. There’s a beer in his hand from Steve’s fridge, and a cup of water in Steve’s hand (his own idea, of course, nothing to do with the way Eddie strode into the kitchen, grabbed a glass off the draining board, filled it with water and pressed it into Steve’s hand before he could even remember how to open the fridge. drunk fingers slipping at the edge of it without managing to get a hold of it.
It’s a good thing he’s at that exact level of drunk, where he doesn’t really know how to form a coherent sentence, but he’s not drunk enough to try anyway. Because there’s so much he wants to say to Eddie, but he knows he promised not to. There’s a million miles and two feet of space between them, and Steve is tired as fuck, but at least he can bask in his presence. Because - because - it’s been too fucking long.
He barely pays attention to the movie, doesn’t even get an hour into it before he’s slumped against the arm of the sofa. And somewhere, in the sleep deprived, alcohol soaked corners of his brain, the filter just stops fucking working.
“I missed you.”
He’s asleep before he can gauge a reaction.