Chapter Text
The bathroom smelled like bleach and cigarette smoke, the kind of sterile sharpness that stung the back of Steve’s throat. One of the flickering fluorescents overhead buzzed like a mosquito in his ear. His cheek throbbed. So did his ribs.
He sat on the edge of the sink, shoulders curled in like he could somehow disappear into himself, eyes red from more than just the hit he’d taken to the face.
Billy had a good right hook. That asshole always smiled after he landed one.
The tile was cold beneath his palms. White grout, pink with rust in the corners. Hawkins High was falling apart at the edges, kind of like Steve. And nobody seemed to notice either of them.
He tried not to think about how low it had gotten. About how quiet it was now at lunch. No Nancy, no basketball team, no crowd of people pretending to be friends. Just stares. Whispers. Someone had sharpied King Nothing across his locker last week.
He scrubbed his sleeve across his face. It didn’t help.
And then the door creaked open.
Steve stiffened. He didn’t want another round—not here, not now.
But it wasn’t Billy.
"Whoa," came a voice. A familiar voice. Too loud for a bathroom. Too alive.
“Shit, Harrington?” Eddie Munson stood in the doorway, freezing mid-step, a pack of Marlboros still halfway out of his denim vest pocket. “You look like the back end of a van wreck.”
Steve flinched, automatically defensive. “Just leave me alone, Munson.”
Eddie blinked, then raised both hands in exaggerated surrender. “Okay, okay. No need to bite my head off, man. I was just trying to pee in peace.”
Steve looked away, jaw tight.
There was a pause. No footsteps. Just the buzz of the light and the scratch of cardboard as Eddie slid a cigarette free and tucked it behind his ear instead of lighting it.
“…He do that to you?” Eddie asked, voice lower now. Less flippant.
Steve didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Eddie exhaled through his nose. “Hargrove’s a walking testosterone leak. I keep telling the underclassmen not to make eye contact. He smells fear.”
Steve gave a broken sort of laugh. “Guess I reek.”
“Nah,” Eddie said, leaning against the sink beside him. “You smell like Aqua Net and broken dreams. Very high school prom king chic.”
That earned a ghost of a smile. Barely there.
They sat in silence for a moment. It wasn’t awkward. Not quite.
“You eating lunch in here?” Eddie asked eventually.
Steve shrugged. “Better than the cafeteria.”
“You know,” Eddie said slowly, “my table’s got space. Well. Technically Gareth sits there, but he double-dips his nuggets in ketchup and ranch, so I’m pretty sure that’s grounds for exile.”
Steve frowned. “Why?”
Eddie smirked. “Why not?”
“I’m not exactly… Hellfire material.”
Eddie made a show of looking Steve up and down. “Hmm. You do lack a leather trench coat and an overabundance of dice-related vocabulary. But you’ve got the tragic eyes and the self-loathing thing going for you.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” Eddie said, like he meant it. Then: “Look, man. You don’t have to be anything. Not for us. Not anymore. You wanna sit with us, you sit. No audition required.”
Steve glanced at him, wary.
Eddie held his gaze. Not challenging, not mocking. Just... honest. A little raw around the edges.
Something twisted in Steve’s chest.
“…Okay,” he said quietly. “Maybe.”
Eddie grinned. It lit up his whole face.
“Cool. Don’t worry. We don’t bite.” A pause. “Unless you roll a nat 1. Then all bets are off.”
Steve didn’t know what that meant, but for the first time in a while, he felt something like warmth slip into his ribs.
Maybe lunch wouldn’t suck so bad tomorrow.