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“Steve.”
Steve sits, back to the stairs, tools scattered across the makeshift workbench he’d cobbled together out of the kids’ old game table and a few empty milk crates.
“Steve – c’mon, man.”
“No.”
“You need to take a break.”
Steve scoffs.
Mike sighs, the sound heavy and dripping with annoyance. His fingers rap against the handrail.
Three weeks.
Three weeks Steve has spent holed up in Mike’s basement at every free moment.
Three weeks Mike has had to listen to Steve working away.
Three weeks Mike has had to deal with Eddie pulling away from their group.
Three weeks of this asinine bullshit and Mike has had enough.
He clambers back up the stairs, slamming the door to the basement behind him. Nancy’s already there, perched against the counter, brows raised.
Mike says nothing – just grabs his jacket and is out the door, Nancy hot on his heels.
*3 weeks earlier*
“Stevie, baby, love of my life–”
“Oh my god, don’t–”
“ – apple of my eye, my sweet dumpling – “
“Ew, who eats sweet dumplings?"
“ – beautiful ass-having hunk of a man –”
“Okay, now you’re just objectifying me.”
“ – pure kind-hearted soul –”
“Pure?” Mike snorts in the corner.
Steve doesn’t even glance at him – just points a finger in his direction. “You stay out of this, asshole.”
“How am I the asshole?” Mike frowns, drapes his arm across his guitar. “I’m literally just sitting here.”
“It’s because of you that–”
“It’s not my fault that you’re an idiot.”
“Jesus – just, shut up, go away.”
“Hello, can we get back to me?” Eddie bounces on his heels, waves his arms around. “Kind of having a moment here where my boyfriend is clearly out to break my heart!”
Steve sighs, turns back to Eddie. “Look, Eddie, I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal. We can just go buy a new one.”
“How could you say that to me, Stevie?” Eddie full on grasps his chest, takes a stumbling step backwards. “How dare you speak ill of the dead?”
“The d– Eddie, it’s just a guitar. We can –”
Eddie’s whole body freezes, big brown eyes staring back at Steve, the slightest pinch in his brows.
With a huff, Eddie turns on his heel, stalks down the hall to their bedroom. Steve stares after him. The door slams, making him jump a step back. He drags a hand through his hair and groans. “Well, fuck.”
“Still can’t believe you said that, man. I didn’t peg you as that stupid.”
Steve flinches, turns his glare on Mike. “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. Always love having you around.”
Damn Wheelers are not known for their empathy or delicacy in social situations. Never ones to mince words, which Steve knows all too well. And right now, he has no idea why he’s even let Mike into his goddamn apartment.
Mike carefully sets his guitar on its stand. “Do you really not get it? Or are you just playing some dumb jock machismo thing?”
“Excuse me?” Steve blinks, a scoff falling from his lips.
The biggest sigh falls out of Mike. Like, category 5 level sigh. “Jesus. How were you ever,” he gestures up and down, “you know, like, top dog at Hawkins?”
Steve points at the door. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”
Mike rolls his eyes, walks over to one of the bookshelves-turned-everything-shelf.
Before Steve can even stop him, Mike has his hand gripped tight around a baseball, tosses it between his hands. “How much is this worth?”
“Fucking–” Steve is across the room in an instant, snatching it away. “Literally, what the fuck is your deal?”
Anger boils beneath his skin as Mike laughs, an all-too-smug look on his face as Steve sets the ball carefully back on its stand.
“You just proved my point without me even having to say it, idiot.”
“I’ll give you one more chance to get out of my fucking apartment before you regret it.”
“We both know you don’t mean that.”
The fucking ego on this kid. Jesus.
The shit part is the kid isn’t a kid anymore. They’re the same height, so Mike is eye level with him, fixing him with the bitchiest glare. One to rival Steve’s own, he’s sure.
Fuck, did Mike pick that up from him? There’s no way.
A single brow raises over Mike’s glare, his arms now crossed firmly across his chest.
“Fucking– fine, okay, what?” Steve groans, plops on the back of the couch, rolling unceremoniously onto the cushions in one lanky, frustrated heap.
“You’re so dramatic, dude.”
Steve flips him off, grumbles into the cushions.
“Alright, sit up.” Mike yanks at Steve’s ankle, to which Steve kicks in retaliation, connecting firmly against Mike’s hip. “Okay, ow. Do you want my help or not?”
Steve ponders for a moment, considers telling Mike to fuck off again. He rolls on his back, stares up at where Mike is holding his ankle still, for some reason. “In what world do I need your help with my relationship? Isn’t this supposed to be the other way around? The younger coming to the older for advice and shit?”
“Well, when the older is a complete bonehead, sometimes the younger has to step in to save the relationship.” Mike pushes Steve’s leg off the arm of the couch, perches himself there instead, legs thrown over on the cushions so he can prop his elbows on them. He nudges Steve’s hip with his foot.
Steve reluctantly rights himself, throws his head back against the back of the couch. “What wisdom does Mike Wheeler have for me?”
“How much is that baseball worth?”
“What?” Steve rolls his head to look at Mike. “What does that have to do with Eddie?”
“Just answer the question.”
Steve sighs, closes his eyes for the briefest of seconds, the catalogue of memorabilia he’s accrued over the years shuffling through his mind. “Depends on the collector. To the right person, like a super big Reds fan, it’s basically priceless. Mario Soto is a legend of a pitcher.”
“Okay, and what if I took that ball right now and threw it, I don’t know, into a portal to the Upside Down, or down the garbage disposal, or – or I gave it Holly and her friends to play with in the backyard?”
Steve sits up fully, angles himself toward Mike. “I’d be really fucking pissed and probably never talk to you again if I knew you deliberately destroyed it.”
“Sure, okay. But, why?” Mike raises his brows.
“Uh, because it’s valuable.”
“Right, well, couldn’t you just,” he shrugs, “get another ball? It’s just a baseball with some writing on it.”
“Some writing? Did you not hear me? Mario Soto is a legend, okay. I can’t get that again, I can’t replace that. It’s not the same. It’s–”
Steve stops, arms hung limp in the air in front of him from where he’d been gesturing animatedly at Mike. His face drops. “Oh.”
Mike grins, kicks against Steve’s shin. “There he is, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Fuck. Is it really Mario Soto level bad?”
“I’m not a jock so there is no way for me to even begin to guess the value there. That’s a Lucas question. What I can say is that, yeah, it’s pretty fucking bad, man. That guitar is everything to him.” Mike pauses, worries a lip between his teeth.
“God, yeah, okay. How do I fix it? How do I– do I replace it or make it better?”
“You could buy him the same exact guitar and it wouldn’t be the same as the one he lost.”
“I can’t – there’s nothing?”
“I mean, you know the story behind it, right?”
Steve hesitates, eyes flickering to the blank face of the TV, his own warped image staring back at him with disdain, suddenly incredibly self-conscious about his knowledge of his own boyfriend’s life. “It’s…from Wayne, right?”
“Well, yes and no.”
“What does that even mean?”
Mike sighs. “Yes, it’s from Wayne, and no, it isn’t from Wayne.”
“Gee, thanks, asshole. That’s so helpful.” Steve deadpans, about three seconds from kicking Mike out after all.
“Wayne gave it to him, but–” Mike hesitates, eyes shifting nervously across Steve’s face, his expression a bit regretful for once. “It, uh, it was his mom’s.”
Steve’s entire body freezes, eyes going wide.
Mike nods. “Yeah. So. Not exactly replaceable.”
“Fuck.” The silence stretches thick between them, Steve hearing the hammering of his heart loud in his skull. “Oh god, I fucked up.”
“Yep.”
“Fuck.” Steve groans, presses the heels of his palms harshly against his eyes.
For a reason Mike does not wholly understand, and will refuse to reflect on or talk about after the moment passes, he sympathizes with Steve.
Enough so that he decides then and there to not let this become the catastrophe that he can already see it becoming.
Steve groans, runs a hand through his hair, gripping tight at the roots. “So, I’m just fucked, then?”
Mike sighs, the sound heavy and exhausted in the way only Mike Wheeler can manage. “There is one way.”
Which leads to Mike now sat in the passenger seat of the station wagon, three weeks into his plan to repair the relationship of two guys who have risked their lives to save his own – one of which has done it multiple times, harming himself more and more each time in the process.
It’s the least Mike can do.
Not that he’ll ever let them know that.
It’s a short drive to the trailer park. Made even shorter by Nancy Wheeler on a mission.
Mike does not understand the relationship that Nancy and Steve have now, and he’s long since given up trying to understand it.
Just like he’s not even trying to understand what Eddie and Steve have, or, really, what Eddie sees in Steve. But, he knows Steve makes Eddie happy – happier than quite literally anyone or anything else.
And Mike has spent the last three weeks watching Eddie turn into a shell of a person, Steve the matching piece.
And, yeah, he’s honestly sick of it. He mostly just wants Steve out of his fucking basement.
(And, maybe, just maybe, he wants Eddie and Steve to be all grossly happy again. But that’s a thought that will never make it past his tongue.)
“You or me?” Nancy questions, eyes sharp as they cut to Mike.
Mike looks up. Sees the van parked haphazardly beside the trailer. The screen door to the trailer propped open. Ashtray on the table by the couch full.
Eddie Munson staring back at them, cigarette perched between his teeth, hair pulled back in what could loosely be called a bun, but more resembles a tangled ball of yarn.
Mike sighs. “I’ve got it.”
Nancy nods. Checks her watch. “5 minutes, then I’m –”
“I know."
Mike gets out of the car, walks up to Eddie.
Takes a seat beside him.
Takes one of his cigarettes.
Lights it.
Gets it between his teeth before Eddie snatches it away, brows furrowed in disdain.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“I was smoking.” Mike bitches. He yanks the cigarette back, manages to get a single drag before Eddie rips it away again.
“You can’t – dude, what –” Eddie looks up helplessly at the station wagon. “Your sister is right there. She’d kill me if I let you smoke.”
“She’s fine.”
“No. Nuh uh.” Eddie shakes his head, gestures at the car with both cigarettes in hand. “No. I saw her rip a bat in half with her bare hands. I am not letting her little brother smoke. Least not in front of her.”
Mike rolls his eyes. “Okay, Upside Down stuff aside, she’s really not–”
“Mike, she has guns. Guns. In her underwear drawer.”
“And?” Mike questions with the same intonation as if Eddie’d just told him that the grass is green.
Eddie just blinks at him. Mutters under his breath as he hits both cigarettes at once. Smoke billows out from Eddie’s mouth, curls around the two of them as Eddie bounces his feet erratically.
Nancy taps her watch, eyes glaring hard at Mike.
Mike leans forward, elbows propped on his knees, hands wringing together. “Look, Eddie – “
“Don’t even start, man.”
Eddie stubs out his cigarette, takes to finishing the one Mike started. He avoids looking at either of the Wheelers, feels their hard gazes trying to pierce through the mess and grime that vaguely resembles who he is.
“Just listen to me.”
Eddie shakes his head. “I’m not in the mood to rehash this bullshit.”
“Eddie, I promise you it’s not bullshit.”
“Yeah, well. Why’s it you here tryin’ to do the talking, then, huh?” Eddie cuts a hard glare at Mike. The sight shoots straight to Mike’s heart, makes him curl in on himself in the slightest. Eddie scoffs, the sound wholly mirthless. “Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought.”
Mike swallows down the anxiety and pain billowing in his chest from Eddie snapping at him. Knows it’s all unwarranted. But, still.
Eddie is, like, his big brother. He hates the feeling of Eddie being actually upset at him.
But, the feeling of hating Eddie being heartbroken is stronger.
So, Mike steels his resolve and pushes forward.
“Because I actually give a shit about you both, believe it or not.”
“Yeah, right.” Eddie chuckles. “Me, I believe. Ste –” His voice chokes on Steve’s name. He shakes his head. “You know.”
“And I want you guys to stop this and actually –”
“Wheeler, I’m warning you.”
“Look, you just have to–”
“I don’t have to do anything.”
Mike sighs. Catches Nancy’s eye through the windshield. They nod.
“Alright, that’s it.” Mike stands, grabs Eddie by the hood of his jacket. “Come on.”
Eddie stumbles up, purely out of shock at Mike manhandling him. It takes him a full 3 seconds to start trying to resist, hands reaching out to grab the railing of the stairs. “The fuck are you doing, Wheeler?”
“I’m fixing this. I’m sick of seeing you both acting like dumbasses.”
Nancy meets him at the bottom of the stairs. She grips Eddie’s arm tight, starts bodily pulling him to the car.
“Not you too, Nance.”
Nancy at least offers a small smile as she shoves him into the backseat. “It’s for your own good, Eddie.”
She yanks the half-finished cigarette from his hand, takes a drag before stubbing it out.
Mike drops into the passenger seat, throws a glance over his shoulder as Nancy slides back behind the wheel. “You’re gonna want to put your seatbelt on.”
“What–”
Eddie is slammed against the seat as Nancy throws the car into reverse, and then to drive, in the span of, like 1.5 seconds.
“What – what is this?” Eddie’s voice catches in his throat. He clings to the railing of the stairs like it’s the only thing holding him up.
Steve blinks, mouth stammering as he looks at Eddie. He scrambles, shifting things around the makeshift workbench, stray parts clattering to the floor. “Shit – fuck– fucking hell, god, okay–”
Steve steadies himself against the table, slowly pulls his gaze to the stairs. His sweats hang loose on his body, his normally coiffed hair sticking out in every direction, his glasses, smudged and askew on his nose.
He runs a shaky hand through his already fucked up hair. “Eds, what – how–”
Mike pushes Eddie down the last step into the basement. “I’m sick of you two doing whatever this is. So, talk. Be adults. Fix this so I can get some sleep. And so Steve gets the fuck out of my basement.”
Mike then turns and storms up the stairs, slamming the door behind him.
Steve and Eddie both stare at the door, mouths hanging open in similar shock.
Eddie cracks first, a small chuckle falling from his lips. “You know, he gets it from you.”
“He absolutely does not.” Steve shakes his head. “It’s all you. You and your,” he waves his hands, “your cafeteria speeches and – and theater performances and stuff.”
Eddie smiles, the slightest curve of his lips.
But, it’s enough.
Enough for Steve to stop and stare. To drink in the sweetness and warmth that smile brings to his heart. To share a smile of his own.
Steve sighs, wrings his hands together. “Look, Eds. I’m sorry–"
“I’m sorry–”
They stop, share a smile before chuckling together. Eddie takes the smallest step forward.
“Stevie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have – I should have just talked to you instead of shutting you out.”
“No, Eds, I’m sorry. I know how important this is to you and I – I just said the stupidest shit like I always do. I don’t actually think that. I know it’s–”
“Stevie, hey, no, you don’t always say the stupidest shit. Sweetheart, it’s okay.”
Tears brim Steve’s eyes. “No. It’s not. I know how important music is to you. I know that it’s more than just music. It’s – it’s you.”
Eddie laughs, the sound wet and throaty. “Yeah?”
“God, yeah. You are music. I feel like I’ve been going crazy the last few weeks. I never realized how quiet things were before I met you. I have to loop a fucking walkman or hope to whatever that I fall asleep before a record ends or I just can’t sleep. I just – I’m so sorry, Eds.”
“I – fuck, how do you always do this?” Eddie wipes at his cheeks.
“What?” Steve’s fingers twitch at his sides, aching to reach out, to wipe the tears from Eddie’s cheeks for him, to pull him in close.
“You always say the sweetest shit. Just, you’re so good. I don’t –”
Steve steps forward, reaches a tentative hand out, fingertips gently brushing across Eddie’s cheek. “You deserve to hear the sweetest shit.”
“Pretty sure there’s a town full of people outside that door that think otherwise.”
“Fuck ‘em.”
Eddie laughs, the sound blooming deep in Steve’s chest, threading through the cracks and caverns the last few weeks had built. He drinks it all in, hoarding it close to his heart.
Steve’s palm rests fully on Eddie’s cheek, Eddie immediately melting into it. “God, I missed you so much, Eds.”
“I missed you too, Stevie.”
Eddie steps forward, wraps his arms tight around Steve, cradles Steve’s head to his chest. His fingers thread through Steve’s hair, rubbing soft, soothing patterns. Steve chokes down a sob as he wraps himself around Eddie.
“I know, baby. I know.”
“Eds, I – fuck, I’m so, so sorry.”
“Shh, sweet boy, I’ve got you.”
“I can’t – I just, fuck –”
“I know. I’m sorry, too, sweetheart.”
Steve’s tears are soaking Eddie’s shirt, his throat growing raw with emotion. He holds Eddie tight to him, as if he could mold their bodies into one, so he’d never have to let Eddie go again.
All the while, Eddie is quietly whispering soft affirmations into Steve’s hair.
It’s a few minutes later, when Steve’s sobs have softened, when Eddie’s gentle loving slows, that Eddie opens his eyes and fully sees the workbench.
When he sees Steve’s project up close.
When he can actually make out more than just the vague shapes.
When he can see the detail work.
“Wait, what is – what the fuck?” Eddie whispers as his eyes go wide, his arms slack around Steve.
Steve takes a step back, scrubs the damp from his face with the edge of his shirt. He perches his glasses back on as he looks between Eddie and the workbench.
“So, it’s, uh – it’s not exactly done yet.” Steve crosses his arms, uncrosses them, starts gesturing vaguely. “But, well – I just – I couldn’t stop thinking about – about our fight. And, like, well, I just wanted to do anything to fix it. And so, I started thinking and doing research and asking questions and –” he starts pacing, hands gesturing between himself and Eddie and the workbench.
“And I know it’s not perfect, I know it’s not the same – nothing could ever replace it, and that’s not what I was trying to do, at all! I swear!” Steve stops, eyes wide as he waves his hands back and forth, before dragging them through his tousled hair. “I just, I genuinely wanted to try to fix things – to, to show you that I get it, that I understand how important music is to you, how important that guitar specifically is to you, and I – fuck, it’s all wrong, isn’t it?”
Steve scrubs his hands down his face, then back up, readjusting his glasses in the process. “Fuck. Fuck. I knew it. I shouldn’t have even tried. I don’t know what I was thinking. I–”
Steve’s nearly incoherent babble is cut short by Eddie’s lips colliding with his own. He takes the briefest moment to be shocked before he’s pressing back hard against Eddie, wrapping his body around Eddie’s, trying to pull him deep into the cavern of his chest.
Steve’s entire heart sings. He’s been aching to feel Eddie against him again, to feel that warmth deep in his bones. The melding of their bodies sings a beautiful harmony, one that instantly blankets their anxieties in a deep calm.
Eddie breaks away first, rests his forehead to Steve’s, slots his palm in the curve of Steve’s cheek. “I can’t believe you did this. You’re – god, you’re perfect. I don’t deserve you.”
Steve shakes his head. “No, I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.”
Eddie threads his fingers through Steve’s hair, fingers folding possessively through the strands, pulling Steve tighter against him. “I love you. So fucking much.”
“I love you so much more.” Steve whispers, eyes cloudy with hot tears.
They stay like that for a few moments, delicate warmth travelling through every point of connection. Their eyes sharing quiet conversations. Their lips stealing soft, sweet kisses.
Eventually, Eddie shifts his eyes back over to the table. He leans back, warm hands still possessively running over Steve’s arms.
“I just – I don’t get it. How did you –” Eddie hesitates. “Can I –?”
Steve steps to the side. Grips the table tight in his fists. “Yeah, ‘course. It’s just not done yet. It’s not perfect, but I – I tried.”
Eddie wraps a shaking hand around the guitar, gently turns it around and around. Looks at it with complete awe and reverence. “Holy shit.”
Steve bites his chapped lips, studies Eddie’s every expression.
“Stevie, I –” his fingers trace over the familiar markings, the carefully etched designs threaded through the body. Designs Eddie had spent most of his life memorizing. Designs that paint the inside of his eyelids. He chuckles, the emotion building too strong for his chest. “Fuck.”
“Like I said, it’s not done yet –”
“Stevie, baby, this is…insane. Just.” Eddie sets the guitar down carefully. “Is this what you’ve been doing the last few weeks?”
“Yeah. I, uh, I really wanted to try to help make things better somehow, to try to show you that I understand how important music is to you. I know it isn’t perfect, like, the design on the back came out all wonky –”
Eddie grabs Steve’s hand, squeezes it tight, threads their fingers together. “Hey, no, this is so much more than I could have ever asked for. You’re amazing.”
Steve ducks his head, blush blooming across his cheeks. “I know that it can’t be replaced. I just, I wanted to give you something as kind of a remember–a memory–no, fuck, what’s the word?”
“A memorial?”
“Yes!” Steve snaps his fingers, points at Eddie. “A memorial. A way to remember it all. There’s still a few parts I want to finish. And I know the designs and engravings are shaky. I practiced for so long, but–”'
Eddie blinks, his eyes shifting between Steve and the guitar. “Wait, did you hand-draw all the art?”
“Uh, well,” Steve hesitates. “I mean, there was a stencil.”
“But you drew it?”
Steve nods, eyes shifting across the body of the guitar. He reaches out and swipes his thumb across the base. “I wanted it to be as close as possible to the one you lost, so I called Wayne and asked if he remembered it or had any photos.” Steve flips the guitar, finger tracing delicately over an etching at the bottom. “He was against it all, but I made him sign it anyway since he helped so much.”
Eddie scans where Steve is pointing, feels the air knocked clean out of his lungs. Because there, in delicate, looping script, is Wayne’s signature.
Beside it, Steve’s.
Below them both, his –
Eddie’s voice breaks. “Is that my mom’s?”
“Yeah. Wayne, uh, he had some old letters of hers. Brought ‘em over. We made a stencil and transferred it over. I tried to trace it on as perfectly as I could.”
Eddie’s whole vision goes cloudy with hot tears. Warmth sparks through every fiber of his being as his eyes shift over the signatures and Steve –
Steve, standing there, folded in on himself ever so slightly, his eyes downcast as they study the guitar.
Steve, who spent the last three weeks recreating the design of Eddie’s mom’s guitar as best as he could by hand.
Steve, who went so far as to transfer Eddie’s mom’s signature onto the guitar.
Steve, who has spent all of his time loudly and completely loving Eddie at every possible moment over the last couple of years.
Eddie wipes his eyes, pulls Steve tight to his chest, kisses the mess of Steve’s hair, and whispers, “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Steve melts into Eddie’s chest, speaks warm promises straight to Eddie’s heart.
It’s in that moment that Eddie knows he’s going to spend the rest of his life with this man. That he’s going to marry Steve the second he gets the chance. He’s gonna spend forever learning everything about Steve and showing him all the love he deserves.
For now, they just stand there holding each other tight in Mike Wheeler’s basement, a sight that makes Mike smile softly when he pokes his head in a few moments later.