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Steve moves to Forest Hills because he promised Dustin, and soon thereafter promised himself, that he'd keep both an eye and in touch with Wayne Munson.
It may have been awkward at first, but he comes around to thinking of Wayne as a sort of stand-in dad. One he never really had. And through time, lots of long late night conversations, a few mishaps with the plumbing in his trailer, and some casseroles homemade, Steve comes to think very deeply about one late Eddie Munson.
It's the stories. How lively Wayne animates Eddie in them. It's the few things that Wayne still has of Eddie's, things that weren't lost to the gates or given to Dustin already—he proudly shows off Eddie's homemade ceramic projects from elementary school, he bashfully accepts picture frames that Steve gifts for Eddie's old and yellowed childhood drawings, he offers to make his homemade hot chocolate recipe and hands it over to Steve in Eddie's favorite cocoa mug, the Garfield one.
And somewhere in it all, between Wayne and Dustin and the few days he and Eddie shared and all the preconceived ideas they had of each other and the banter from school he never knew was banter (but instead thought it was teasing; he still took it all to heart anyway because Eddie didn't touch on sore subjects, he just brought Steve down a little from the clouds), somewhere in it all—
Steve realizes he fell in love. It's not love like he had with Nancy, or love Nancy had with Jonathan, or love that Lucas and Max share, or the love Hopper has with Joyce. It's not love that he got to hold and nurture and brag about, because it was never truly his, and also because the connections all came too late. But it was—is—still love in all the ways that matter. He plays back Wayne's stories as he drifts off to sleep, hoping that they'll wrap around him and cocoon him from nightmares—they do. He runs his thumbs along the bulging shapes of Garfield's face on that stupid little mug, always wondering if Eddie laughed at the comic strips, and if he did, what his laugh even sounded like; not his laughter when he was panicked, not his laughter when he was relieved, just laughter. He exists in a present where Eddie is a past, somebody he lingers on in what-ifs and what could've beens, but most importantly somebody he lingers on just to appreciate; I hate that you're gone and you took away something good we could've shared, but I'm glad I got to see you for just a little bit. I saw you in a way I could've never fathomed. Thank you for existing at one point. Thank you for what you've changed in my life.
In August, 1992, a late hour in the middle of a Wednesday, Wayne approaches Steve with news. "I think I'm ready to leave," he says.
"Yeah?"
"Mhm." Wayne nods his head. Lips rolled to his teeth. Something fresh shining in his eyes. "You know," he recounts, "Eddie was only outside of Indiana once. Long time ago. His mama took him to New York for a weekend, went on a little tourist trap vacation. He didn't shut up about it, never. It was somewhere he wanted to go."
Steve hums. "You moving to New York, then?"
"No, nah," he drawls. "He saw it. A portion of it. And as much as I'd like to see what he was missing out on, I'm not a city boy. But...I figured, y'know, what other parts of the world would he have found fascinating?" Wayne runs a hand over his wiry facial hair, makes direct eye contact with Steve, and smirks. "I bought myself a camper. Gonna go sniff out some tourist traps. Take the pictures he couldn't. See a world that he couldn't."
"Good idea," he returns. "I've always wanted to, uh, travel the country. In a Winnebago. Just sorta...drive around, I guess. See where I can go."
Wayne tilts his head at Steve. Taking him in curiously for a moment. "There's enough space for two, kid. You wanna get up to no good with me?"
"Um..." Steve darts his eyes away for a moment, looking out beyond Wayne's shoulders at the rest of the trailer park. At the vacant residence where the Mayfields once resided. At the empty space where they stole that damn Winnebago, the people still roaring indignantly in the back of his head. And then...the dead grass where the Munsons found comfort.
He could go.
Something had always pulled him to leave. That senioritis during his last year at Hawkins High. The minimum wage jobs that he hated with every fiber of his being. Every time his parents made him feel too little. His friends are gone, but friends going their own ways is a common thing, and he still sees them, still speaks to them, still arranges with them.
He could go. If he wanted.
But he likes his job. But he likes his home. But he likes his peace.
Staying behind in Hawkins wasn't really about keeping an eye out for suspicious activity. He watched the Upside Down close. He watched...Jane.
Jane gets him thinking again.
Jane who lived a sheltered, fearful life. Jane who hid in a cabin. Jane who only updated her wardrobe once with stuff she likes. Jane who went to the mall once for ice cream, and never again. Jane who he heard had been relentlessly bullied and had felt terribly out of place.
Jane who died eternally sixteen and couldn't be a little girl, or an angsty teenager, or an excited college-bound kid.
And Barb who never went home that night.
Barb who just wanted Nancy to be careful. Barb who disappeared because his attention tunneled. Barb who cared a lot.
Barb who also died eternally sixteen, never got to graduate, never got to grow up with Nancy, never got her bandage, never made it out of Hawkins.
And Eddie...
Eddie who lived also terribly afraid most of his life. Eddie who didn't feel an ounce of peace a singular moment of his life. Eddie who loved his uncle, who loved his friends, who loved too much and too hard. Eddie who wanted the best for others. Eddie who never graduated. Eddie who never fell in love.
Eddie who died under Steve's firm directions. Eddie who never got to leave Hawkins the way he wanted to.
It all makes his chest tight, but Wayne's soft gaze alleviates the ache.
"It's alright," Wayne soothes, "if you're not ready to leave. From what I heard, from what Dustin told me and from what I saw, you went through a lot here. Peace looks different for everybody, and if your peace stays here, that's okay."
Steve sniffles. His throat is heavy with a sour lump. And something wavers in his voice, teetering. "I'm happy," he says.
"That's good, kid. And you can stay happy right here. You don't have to change a damn thing about your life. I just wanted to check-in with you, tell you my plans." Wayne pauses. He lets out a deep breath. His mouth opens. Closes. Contemplates. Then, "I've enjoyed the time I've spent with you, Steve. And if I'm being honest, I guess I've grown a little attached. Started to think of you as...as a kid of my own, I suppose.
"But like I said, peace and happiness looks different for everybody. Eddie thought his was in the form of leaving his hometown. And it would've been. And for you, Steve, yours is here in Hawkins. That's been fitting you.
"Don't try and fit yourself into shoes too small or pants too big just for the sake of my old, soft heart." Gently, Wayne reaches out and pats Steve's shoulder. His grip remains firm, yet tender. Thumb sweeping over the soft fabric of Steve's t-shirt. "I don't need an answer right now. Just think about what I said, alright? I'm not gonna be offended if you say no."
Within one wet blink and the next, Wayne's turning and walking away from Steve. His head has less hair these days. And his shoulders are curling in just slightly, like his bones are revolting against his age. And his clothes are worn-in from years of love. Years of love that he somehow still carries and embraces and tends to, as if the Munsons didn't have a messy, terrible history of dying or disappearing. Yet here Wayne is despite everything.
"Mr. Munson," Steve calls out, "wait."
Wayne stops. He looks back over his shoulder.
For some reason, Steve stays rooted to his spot. He feels as if he should chase after, follow him along the slightly dusty gravel path. But he stays.
"I don't know how much my company would be worth," Steve eventually says, "but it'd be nice to go with you. Not sure I wanna stay away from Hawkins forever, but getting some air might be nice."
A crooked grin worms over Wayne's face. His eyes still soft and bright, like the glow of Christmas lights Steve can finally put on his tree without making his hands shake. He chuckles gently under his breath. "Yeah, kid," he calls back, "it really would be nice."
"I just...I was also thinking," Steve continues, "it'd be nice to see what all my, um, missing friends are...missing, y'know? I've been here in Hawkins my whole life, too. Almost same as Eddie. And I just...just...I've never seen the world either. It wouldn't hurt to expand horizons, I guess."
Wayne turns back. His hands are stuffed in the front pockets of his washed out, worn, blue Levis jeans. Soft amusement takes over his face, it's an expression so Eddie that Steve's chest chokes for a moment. "Sounds great, kiddo," Wayne says, "I was thinking we could leave Saturday. Come back before the start of your new school year."
"August 29th," Steve states.
"August 29th," Wayne echoes, an agreement. "We probably won't see too much," he says, "but we could get out to Yellowstone. Maybe take a lap in a few cities along the way."
Steve nods once. "Sounds great!"
"Sounds great," he parrots again.
He makes to turn and go back to his trailer, but—
"Hey, Steve?" He stops. Wayne takes a deep breath. "I'm having Eddie's favorite tonight. Shepherd's pie. And I rented a Clint Eastwood film from Family Video. Thinking you could come over tonight, I'll make you a hot chocolate."
Instead of continuing back to his place, Steve quickly reroutes to catch up to Wayne. "In the Garfield mug?" he asks, only slightly hopeful.
Wayne chuckles deep under his breath. "In the Garfield mug."
Steve pumps his fist at his side. Drinks in the quiet laughter that erupts from Wayne. "You know, I was always wondering...what was Eddie's favorite Garfield strip?"
"Oh..." Wayne smiles big and bright, eyes crinkling tight around it. "He actually hated those strips. Found 'em pretty dull. I liked them, actually. Kid just happened to love me more."
Steve huffs a short giggle. "'Course he'd turn around and shock me like that. Seems very...Eddie." He comes to the bottom of Wayne's steps, waiting for the door to be opened for them. "Well, I'm glad that he loved you more. Seems like he loved everybody a whole lot more."
It goes quiet very briefly. But then Wayne looks at him again. Stare still impossibly soft. "That boy had a lot of love to give." The screen door creaks open as Wayne steps aside to let him up and through. When he passes by Wayne, stopping right inside the doorway to take his shoes off, Wayne stands and follows with his eyes. His next words stutter Steve's heart. "I think he'd have a lot of love to give to you, too."
He takes a deep breath to keep him upright. Softly, "You think?"
"I know," Wayne murmurs right back. "Eddie was just like that."
Steve's stomach sinks and jumps and sinks again. What he would give to experience the receiving end of Eddie's love. He supposes he sort of did, even in their moment of crisis, the way Eddie had reluctantly followed him into Hell, the teasing way he handed over his vest, the way he talked low into his ear, how he took care of Dustin, how he spoke of Dustin, how he complimented, how he moved. Maybe he really was on the receiving end.
He just didn't have enough time to discover that. Not until now.
Wherever Eddie ended up, spiritually or not, Steve hopes the way he checks on Wayne is seen; it's his own shoddy way of reciprocating. Because that's what he's doing, he supposes. Loving Wayne the way a son does, the way Eddie could no longer. Being loved by Wayne because Eddie can't be.
The love he carries in his chest may have never been his, but he still appreciates it. Admires it. Feels it.
Later that night, when he's being handed his hot chocolate mug, Steve decides to just sink into the full comfort of the moment. Relishing that he chose this life. This peace. That he can do what he pleases now. Going on because a good handful of his friends, even acquaintances that never got to be his friend, couldn't.
Wayne settles into his chair, uses the clicker with a lazy hand, but stops himself from turning up the volume. "Steve?" he calls out.
His head is already turned to the sound of Wayne's voice.
"That mug," Wayne says, "why don't you go ahead and keep it?"
"You sure, Mr. Munson?"
"Mhm. That mug would've collected dust otherwise," Wayne states, his voice somber. "Eddie would've loved to share it with you."
Steve smiles down into the mug. The sweet scent of cocoa coats his nose. His hands are gently warmed. There are marshmallows floating in the liquid. He breathes easily at the thought, sharing things with Eddie.
Sharing with Eddie practically anything.
I think we could've been friends, he wants to share with Eddie, I think we could've been more than that. And you should be sitting in this living room, too. You'd love this.
He sweeps his thumbs over the warm, round sides of his mug. Of Eddie's mug.
I'm falling in love with you, he wants to tell Eddie, I'm not angry anymore. I'm just...homesick for somewhere that was never really home. Sorry.
"I would've loved to share it with him, too, Mr. Munson," Steve eventually murmurs, "thank you for letting me be here."
"Anytime, son. I love having you here." Wayne looks away from him. Sniffs. Turns the volume up just slightly, his voice getting drowned out by the noise. "Eddie would've loved you, too."
Steve huddles deep into the sofa. The thought coats his heart. His eyes burn with the intensity of it, the want in it.
Somewhere, he reasons, in the context of a different world, we could've worked out.
It hurts, and it's terrible, and it feels like a needle through his skin. But Steve's okay with it. The sadness in it. The hurt.
They may have not had the time or the world, but having Eddie briefly was better than nothing. Having Eddie in the context of his emotions, his decisions, his relationships is better than nothing. He's better off having known Eddie, than never having him.
Sometimes, love comes later. It's not strong and foundational, but it's there. And he feels it. And Steve, after bottling so much up over the years, allows himself to feel it. It's warm. Coaxing. Beautiful in its many ways.
He likes being able to feel it. The grief and the subtle bitterness and the sadness and the emptiness; the love with its thorns and the love with its thumbs; the love underwhelming and the love overwhelming. He soaks in it. Prunes in it.
And in the morning, when he's drinking coffee out of his dinky, goofy, ceramic mug, he allows that love to carry him. The time will pass, he'll be a little older and he'll linger in the hold of somebody he couldn't ever have, but he'll still be him. And he'll still appreciate it all.
The littleness of it.
The unexpectedness of it.
The clumsiness of it.
When the time passes, he won't be bitter. Eddie Munson will still be there, warm in stories and coffee and cocoa and spaghetti, and Steve Harrington will linger. For a moment or two. For a moment or more.
He fell in love with Eddie slowly, but surely. It won't go anywhere.
Steve's okay with that. He presses the love to his chest and vows to keep moving. Love becomes grief, he's learned, but grief has a funny way of shifting back.