Chapter Text
MONDAY, NOV 14, 1983.
On November 12, 1983, Jonathan Byers shattered Steve Harrington’s nose.
If the rumours were to be believed, he then slammed his knee into Harrington’s ribs hard enough to splinter, shoved Harrington’s kisser to gravel, and smeared blood and dirt across the King’s cheeks. He left Harrington for dead and pulled a knife on Tommy Hagan, poor Nancy Wheeler realising she’d opened her legs to the wrong guy. If the rumours were to be believed, he ended up in the back of a police cruiser, wild-eyed and foaming, promising to kill everyone else’s siblings the same way he killed his brother.
If the rumours were to be believed, Steve Harrington was the victim of a senseless attack.
Eddie Munson knew plenty about rumours. He knew about satanism and hedonism and all other -isms placed upon the Hawkins pike of displeasure and disgrace. He knew about trailer park trash and druggie freaks and other Fs born of eyes darting across bared chests and firm thighs and sloping, carved jaws. From the moment his feet hit the gravel outside of Uncle Wayne’s trailer, a backpack of meagre belongings slung over the scrawny hunch of his shoulders, Eddie knew what it was like to be shunned.
Eddie also knew plenty about Steve Harrington. Grade A asshole, cocky and arrogant, with a head so full of hot air it was a surprise he was still on the ground. Harrington was the ringleader of a particularly vapid and cruel circus. Tommy H and Carol were the leading act; their little kiss-ass lackeys the clowns. An entire tent of hopefuls salivated at Harrington’s feet, and he regarded them all with dead eyes.
Harrington wasn’t harmless, but he was more bark than bite. Most of the shoving and spitting came from Hagan, and whilst Harrington couldn’t string together an essay for the life of him, he was devastatingly good at spewing a precise torrent of vitriol. Outside of the occasional basketball court tussle, Harrington hadn’t ever been involved in a fight. He sat in his ivory castle on a throne of gold and rose thorns, and watched his knights run amok.
For three years, Eddie occupied the halls of Hawkins High alongside Harrington. For two, alongside Jonathan Byers.
Byers was weird. He had a camera he treated like an extra limb, eyes that were hooded and serious, and a permanent washed-out face like he’d seen a ghost one night and never recovered. He was quiet and twitchy and listened to indie shit that Eddie couldn’t stand.
They got on. If, of course, by ‘got on’ one meant ‘nodded to each other in the halls’. Byers lived most of his life in the art room and Eddie, atop cafeteria tables. There wasn’t much they had in common. Regardless, there was a sense of camaraderie between the geeks, freaks, and any and all who’d been singled out by the popular crowd. Byers wasn’t a bad guy. He’d even sat at the back of Hellfire club one evening just to hide from Hagan’s ire.
Eddie supposed you never really knew a person completely, but the thought of little Jonny Byers slamming his fists into King Steve’s face didn’t make any sense. It was a satisfying thought — only because Harrington deserved to be taken down a peg — but it wasn’t likely.
Then again, Byers' brother had gone missing. Sure, he’d been found, but the in-between period would have been enough to send anyone out of orbit. So, there was that to consider.
What was even less likely was the Terrible Trio splitting. Hagan, Perkins, and Harrington were attached at the hip, a fucked up set of triplets with too-big egos and too-little morals. They didn’t go anywhere without each other. Their Halloween outfits had coordinated for the past three years straight, not that they were particularly creative, any of them. There were only so many times you could wear leather and call yourself Greasers before it became a cry for help.
Eddie had moved to Hawkins in ‘78, and by then the Three Musketeers had been a long-established group. Course, he’d been mostly free of their harassment because he was older — Harrington didn’t care enough to call the shots and Tommy wasn't brave enough to punch up. Age didn’t stop them from ruling the school, however.
It was all bullshit anyway. A perpetual pissing contest of who was better because you had to be better to survive. Weakest link and all that.
Eddie had seen the way Hagan lapped at Harrington’s heels, bursting at the seams for a shred of Harrington’s time or affection. For all the slurs he shouted at people, Eddie thought the most pathetic part was that they were clearly internalised. Hagan and he shared one similarity beyond what was in their pants: they both wanted into another boy’s.
So, nothing made sense about the rumours. Then, Monday rolled around, and with it, the mill exploded.
“Apparently it was in an alleyway,” Gareth said. He was a pimply junior and one of Hagan and co’s favourite targets. “Byers used a crowbar.”
“Nah,” Jeff, a smiley, reserved sophomore, said. “Wasn’t the alley. Was up near Loch Nora. Round the bend from Harrington’s after a party went wrong.”
Eddie dropped his chin to his palm and observed the cafeteria. He picked at his sandwich idly, catching sight of the basketball team. They were rowdy as usual, catcalling the cheerleaders a table over, and sticking their feet out to occasionally trip a freshman.
Harrington was nowhere to be seen.
“Gentlemen,” Eddie murmured, splaying his fingers. He turned to his fellow senior, Clarissa, “And esteemed Lady. Are we a bunch to believe in senseless rumours? Have we not learnt the gossip of high schoolers is little more than drivel?”
“Can the theatrics,” Clarissa snorted. “That doesn’t look much like a rumour to me. Jesus.”
Eddie glanced at where she pointed and froze. Harrington had snuck into the cafeteria. He looked rough. There was no other word for it. His face looked like it had lost a fight to a meat grinder, both eyes black, and his arm in a sling. He wore a pressed sweater he was almost drowning in, and his hair was deflated. Irritatingly, despite its smashed status, Harrington's face remained handsome. Only Harrington could pull off an ass beating like make-up on a GQ model.
“Well,” Eddie said. Then he stopped. He tracked Harrington’s slow pace across the cafeteria. “How the mighty have fallen.”
Harrington tucked himself into a corner table. He didn’t have any food and he looked very alone. It was justice served at its finest, until Wheeler slid into place next to him, fingers curling around Harrington’s wrist. She smiled, said something to him, and he leaned into her with pursed lips and lidded eyes.
Eddie looked away.
“What do you think actually happened?” Gareth asked.
“Lost a fight to an orc,” Jeff snorted. He sucked ketchup off his fingers. “Hey, are we still on for this Friday’s campaign? I’ve got a test during the fifth period so I might be late.”
The table stared at him like he was an idiot. Eddie sighed, shoving his egg salad sandwich into his mouth.
“I should kick you outta the party,” he mused, but they knew he was joking.
Players were in short supply, considering most of their group had graduated the year prior. There weren’t very many freshmen interested in ostracising themselves, either. Eddie swallowed a mouthful of sandwich, chewing bitterly. He was supposed to be graduating himself this summer, and so far there was no one to leave the club to. That was another problem, one which needed to be rectified sooner rather than later, but between essays and the homebrew he was cooking up, there wasn't a lot of time Eddie had left over. Oh well. They'd figure it out, even if he needed to break in through some dingey back window on Friday evenings to run it himself. He fancied himself a bard, not a rogue, but what was a little bit of multiclassing between friends?
"Eddie?"
“Two sharp. We’re skipping the pep rally. Be there on time or I’ll make you roll with disadvantage on everything.”
This time, they knew he wasn’t kidding.
The party fell back into conversation, postulating what Eddie would throw at them next, and whether the split between Hagan and Harrington would give Hawkins High a few weeks of peace. It was doubtful. Hagan would be in a worse mood than usual, now that he was feeling the sting of rejection. Eddie pitied the kid he’d take that hurt out on. Not enough to step in, of course — he was a coward to his core, even if Hagan wasn't particularly intimidating. He might've been out of Hagan's current scope, but there was no telling where his anger would drive him. Hagan had a lot to prove now, with Harrington out of the picture. More importantly, he had an entire group of idiots to back him, and there was plenty enough ammuniation against Eddie if needed.
Eddie picked at his apple, trying to skin the slices with his teeth, and considered Harrington from the corner of his eye. He and Wheeler bowed their heads together, murmuring to each other. Even with the tired and listless twist to his expression, Harrington looked more alive and awake than he ever had.
Eddie turned his head back to his food. There was more to concern himself with than the all-too-deserved isolation of an usurped king.
FRIDAY, NOV 18, 1983.
The rest of the week passed the way the weeks always did: a monotonous, slow drag where Eddie spent more time cataloguing the seconds ticking by than he did course content. He handed in a passable English assignment last minute, slept through history and chemistry, and hid beneath the bleachers Thursday afternoon to get high. With the promise of Hellfire in the evening, Friday passed in a blur.
Eddie was lost to the roll of dice and pantomime villain monologues before he knew it. By the time it hit five, Clarissa’s half-orc was dying, faced with the choice of succumbing to her werewolf bites or letting them take ahold of her. Eddie knew what she’d pick and was excited to see the party’s reactions the following week. He packed his books and dice with a purposeful air of aloofness, biting hard on his bottom lip to stop from grinning.
Harrington and his Beemer were still in the carpark when Hellfire dispersed. Gareth and Jeff were now thirty-minutes deep into an argument about dustdiggers, and how they would escape the shifting sands their characters were trapped in. Eddie spared them no thought as he hauled his shit into the back of his van.
Clarissa waved at him. “See you in biology Monday,” she said. “Don’t forget we have test prep. You’ll wanna be on time.”
Eddie nodded. He didn't bother lying to her; they both knew he would swan in the door twenty minutes late. Mrs O’Reilly had long since given up on assigning him detention for it.
Eddie slammed the back door to his van shut. He stretched his arms up, back popping satisfactorily. He swivelled from side to side to work out the kinks along his spine and clambered into the passenger’s seat with a groan. The sun cut across the horizon and shone directly into his eyes, a beautiful balayage of red-orange-pink cast across the sky. Movement from his left caught his eye.
Harrington dithered in front of his car, alternating between rubbing his fingers against his temple, carding them through his hair, or drumming them atop the car bonnet. Eddie wondered what he was doing. The parking lot was empty, now that Gareth had peeled out with Jeff, and Clarissa had mounted her bike.
Eddie dug through his glove box and procured a baggie. He set about rolling a joint as he watched the slope of Harrington’s shoulders. Harrington wasn’t facing him, so whatever expression he was making was hidden, but Eddie heard his frustrated shout when he lashed out and kicked one of the Beemer’s tires.
“Jeez,” he muttered. “What did the car do to you, huh, Harrington?”
Harrington bent at the waist until his forehead kissed the Beemer. His hands were careful against the paint. At least he respected his car, Eddie thought. Harrington was an ass but he knew how to treat his Beemer right. Steve promptly proved him wrong by planting a foot on the front of the car and scrambling up on the bonnet.
With Harrington no longer blocking the view, Eddie could see why he was marooned in the carpark.
Harrington’s tire was bust. The front left was completely deflated. Eddie’s van was close enough that he could see the way the material warped. It looked like it had been slashed, the offending weapon sliding up and across the rubber in a deliberate, thorough drag.
Eddie ran his tongue along the paper and contemplated the situation. The list of people who hated Harrington was probably scrawled across a scroll, it was that lengthy. Eddie wondered which of them would have had the guts to slash Harrington’s tire.
Eddie considered the rumours. There was no way Byers was at fault; he hadn’t been in school all week, bar today, and had spent the morning huddled around the furthest lunch table with Wheeler and Harrington. It had been a tense affair. Eddie thought about Hagan shoulder-slamming Harrington on the way to the cafeteria in fourth period, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
“Hope you have a good weekend, Harrington,” he’d drawled acidicly. “You won’t be pulling outta any car parks the way you did last Saturday.”
Eddie hadn’t been the only one confused by the statement. Harrington’s brow had furrowed, vapid head scrambling desperately for clues.
“Sorry to hear your date went sour,” Eddie had muttered, unable to help himself. “Can you get the fuck outta the doorway?”
Hagan had rounded on him with a hiss, gaze so dark it looked black and bottomless. His freckles burned unattractively against the scalding red of his humiliation. Eddie avoided the elbow aimed at his gut and side stepped the two of them to slip into the cafeteria with rolled eyes. His resolution to stay off Hagan's radar, just in case, was off to a wonderful start. Hagan was more than a little unhinged, but he was also about 5’7”, a pipsqueak next to Eddie’s gangly limbs. He also hadn't amassed as much of a following as Eddie had expected.
In fact, Hagan had skipped Monday, probably crying into his pillow because his precious Steve no longer wanted him. The thought was amusing.
Looking now at the destroyed tire, Eddie supposed Hagan’s threat made sense. Eddie took a drag from his joint, lips pursed as he debated offering help. Harrington was an asshole, but right now he mostly just seemed pathetic.
Eddie wondered if Harrington had a spare tire, or if he’d even know how to change it. He lived on the other side of town, where the houses were two floors at minimum, if you wanted a dip you had to specify if you meant spa or pool, and the hedges were trimmed like safari animals. He probably had a maintenance man for every part of the house. A walk home would take him at least an hour, but then there was always his girlfriend, except Eddie wasn’t even sure she could drive yet.
Harrington dragged his knees up to his chest, chin pillowed atop his folded arms. The afternoon sun had almost disappeared beneath the distant hills. It cast a red-gold glow around Harrington that lit up his profile like a halo and highlighted the sour, tired twist of his mouth. He looked lost and exhausted. Eddie couldn’t fathom why. Maybe something in Harrington had ruptured after his fall from grace, leaving him bereft and hurting. Eddie didn’t particularly care; Harrington wouldn’t be the first tyrant toppled, and he wouldn’t be the last. Eddie couldn’t say he was exactly looking forward to whomever would take the throne next.
Eddie blew a cloud of smoke out of the window and dug around through his tapes. Led Zeppelin, Slayer, Metallica, more Metallica, Black Sabbath, Metallica again, ABBA — not that anyone was allowed to see that — and AC/DC. He shoved one in at random and wound down his window, the cold evening breeze trickling into the van. T.N.T exploded out of the speakers and Eddie reached a lazy hand over to turn it down. When he glanced up, Harrington was looking his way.
For no particular reason, Eddie’s stomach swooped.
He waited for a sneer or a middle-finger or a shouted slur, but Harrington said nothing. His face was still a mess, left eye still puffy and lip split. There were bruises across his cheeks and little cuts against his skin. He was wearing long-sleeves, but Eddie spotted the cream-white hint of bandages wrapped around his wrist as he shifted. Jonathan Byers could pack one hell of a punch, Eddie thought, if the rumours were true. The knife story seemed less unrealistic now.
Harrington held Eddie’s gaze for a long moment, eyes swimming with something Eddie couldn’t name. Eventually, he turned away. He rested his cheek on his knee, jerked like he’d forgotten how tender the wounds still were, and settled for pressing his hands into his face. Then, before Eddie could so much as open his door, Harrington slid off the hood of his car and wandered towards the distant payphone.
Eddie watched him for a moment, cataloguing the slight limp and the way his fingers flexed and hand fluttered over his side. He walked like he had cracked ribs. Eddie was, unfortunately, all-too familiar with that specific brand of pain, and the metallic red spittle that would coat the lips on every sharp, cough-like exhale. He wondered if Harrington had been to the hospital and what had really happened with Byers, because there was no way Byers had done all that. Eddie could imagine him snapping, sure, but Harrington didn’t seem like the type of guy to hover near anyone who hurt him.
Eddie tore his eyes from Harrington’s broad shoulders and the way he slumped against the payphone, device cradled in his palm. There was no use speculating. By next week, Harrington’s wounds would be mostly healed and life would go on. December was around the corner and with it, winter break. Then there would be their final semester and Eddie would either graduate, (he wasn’t hopeful but God was he begging for it), or get ready to rinse and fucking repeat. Next year, Harrington and Hagan would be seniors too.
God, wasn’t that a delightful thought.
Eddie pulled out of the parking lot of Hawkins High. He sucked on his joint and blew the smoke at the windscreen, watching the way it dispersed before it hit the glass. He glanced in the rearview and caught sight of Harrington mid-gesticulation, nothing more than a wilted puddle of blue and yellow against the brown brick wall. It was rapidly approaching snowfall in Hawkins. Eddie wondered if Harrington was cold. He wondered how long Harrington would hunker in the Beemer, heater blasting, before his ride arrived. In another life, maybe he would have been that ride. He snorted.
In this life, Eddie turned onto the main road with his windows down, Harrington and his Beemer left in the dust.
SATURDAY, NOV 19, 1983.
The following morning, Eddie peeled his eyes open to the discordant melody of birdsong and Wayne pounding on his bedroom door.
His arm hung over the bed, numb in the way that threatened a torrent of pins and needles when moved. He was missing a sock and his shirt was rucked halfway up his chest, uncomfortable against his ribs. Eddie smeared his wrist across his mouth, unbothered with the damp patch of drool that transferred to his skin, and dug his palms into his eyes until he saw stars.
“Pancakes,” Wayne hollered.
The shadow beneath the door disappeared.
Eddie tipped his head back and tried not to slump back into the sheets. If he did, he knew he wouldn’t get up again. Dragging himself out of bed was always a challenge, Eddie’s insomnia leading him to toss and turn until the witching hour, eyes burning with the desperation to close but mind never settling enough to allow it. The past few weeks had been particularly rough. The woods surrounding the trailer park were dark and dense, the porch light of their trailer blocked by the thick thatch of pine before it could get more than a few trees in.
Normally, the woods were quiet, peaceful. Eddie was no stranger to them. He’d had plenty of deals, back before Chief Hopper had tugged him aside and politely reminded Eddie that there were better choices he could be making if he needed cash — as if Hopper knew what it was like to live in a too-small trailer, scrounging for money, desperate to contribute to the only person who gave a fuck about you, who’d been lumped with you, and who gave up everything to keep you.
Things had changed with the disappearance of Will Byers and Barbara Holland.
Ever since that night they’d pulled that kid from the lake, the woods had felt like a stranger to Eddie. Sometimes, he swore he could hear noises from the forest. Odd, lumbering footsteps, or the distant cry of something not quite human. It was just his exhausted mind playing tricks, compounded by the monster manuals he read to lure himself to sleep, but it unnerved him all the same.
The blackout curtains that faced the woods had been permanently drawn shut for a fortnight, now.
“Ed, you’ll be late!”
Eddie jerked his gaze away from the dust-ridden curtains. Wayne was right; he couldn’t afford to be daydreaming about things going bump in the night. Eddie ripped off his pyjama top and dropped his pants as he rummaged around in his drawers. He nearly brained himself on the cabinet as he scrambled for his bandana and shoes. He ran his fingers over his guitar, silently greeting her a good morning.
Wayne was sitting on the couch when Eddie appeared in the hallway, hopping on one leg to tug his ripped jeans up his thighs. They were so tight they were practically a second skin, having now survived two of Eddie’s growth spurts. Eddie didn’t exactly have money to throw around, so as much as he’d have liked something roomier, he was stuck with what he had. He smoothed his hands over his grey and black baseball shirt, the J of its proclaimed Judas Priest peeling. That was annoying. At least his jacket covered the patchiness, he thought, tugging it further across his chest.
He dithered about in the kitchen, stacking pancakes into a bowl so that he could properly drown them in syrup. There was a single can of Coke laying morosely in the empty cheese drawer of the fridge, so Eddie pinched that too. Only once he’d perfected the delicious breakfast of early on-set heart disease and obscenely high blood pressure, did he mosey his way on over to the couch. Wayne was watching sports, the volume low. It looked like football but Eddie didn’t pay much attention, too busy juggling his pancakes and Coke to care.
Wayne looked up from his coffee as Eddie settled in beside him. His lips quirked at the corners, weathered lines of his face softening. He reached over and tugged at the hem of the jacket, ignoring Eddie’s put-out sigh.
“Didn’t think you’d ever grow into this,” Wayne laughed, fingers pinching the leather. “I remember when it used to slide off your shoulders.”
Eddie deposited the Coke on the stained coffee table. “I’m almost taller than you now, old man.” He sucked syrup off his fingers and leaned a little further into Wayne’s side. “Looks better on me than it ever did you,” he continued, stabbing at his pancakes with his fork.
“Gonna look great on your corpse when you die of a heart attack,” Wayne snorted. “Christ, kid. Next time, don’t bother spooning out the syrup, just empty the container.”
“Okay. If you insist, Uncle Wayne.” Eddie grinned, shovelling food into his mouth.
He avoided Wayne’s half-hearted swat with a grin and spun so that his legs hung over the couch’s worn armrest. Wayne always sat on the furthest left side of the couch, shoulder angled to make the perfect backrest. This, much like the pancakes, was another routine of theirs. Eddie sat sideways, back at an angle that resembled a prawn, and went to town on his breakfast.
The pancakes were still warm and delightfully fluffy. They were one of the few foods Wayne had perfected with Eddie under the roof. Stir fry, hot dogs, lasagne, omelettes — anything that took less than ten steps and didn’t involve suggestions like julienning or coulis or flambéing. Eddie still remembered, gleefully, the first Christmas he’d lived with Wayne. The turkey had cremated in the oven, the milk had overboiled on the stove, and Eddie had accidentally sprayed fly repellant on the cookie tray instead of cooking spray. They’d ended the night with overpriced pizza and Wayne’s fingers smoothing across Eddie’s buzzed head. The Christmas Specials had been a quiet hum as Eddie dozed off.
“Long shift?”
Eddie spoke around a mouth full of pancakes. “Nah, ‘s not bad.” He swallowed, licking maple syrup from his lips. “It’s only ‘til two,” he continued. “I start in about an hour, so it’s like … four hours. Not much.”
“It’s better than nothing,” Wayne said.
Wayne slumped against the couch backrest and slung his legs up onto the coffee table with a quiet grunt, rubbing at his bum knee. It acted up in winter, joint stiffening in the cold.
“Proud of you. Know it’s tough working and studying.”
Wayne couldn’t see Eddie’s face, thankfully. He missed the wince and the way Eddie’s mouth pursed. Studying was a polite term for what Eddie had been doing. It was a gross overstatement, even. Eddie attended class physically, but his mind never quite tuned in. It was hard; numbers were easy and English was fun, but when it came to doing the work, well, there were much more interesting ways to spend his time. Then, by the time he remembered he had an assessment to do, it was already due and far too late. Most of his assignments were last minute and lacking.
Eddie wondered how Wayne would take the news Eddie would be repeating a year. It hadn’t been confirmed, but the stack of F’s were building. It was only a matter of time.
“Yeah,” he settled on saying. “It helps pay the bills, so.”
“You ain’t need to worry about the bills,” Wayne chastised.
He moved like he wanted to face Eddie, but Eddie slid up and off the couch before it could become Deep and Meaningful. It was barely nine in the morning. Eddie wasn’t equipped to handle conversations like that with Wayne in the first place, unwilling to admit that, even now, he still felt like a burden some days.
Wayne worked long hours and took the shifts no one else wanted, late evening to early morning, just to pay to keep the roof above their head. He slept on the fold-out couch, having forced Eddie to take the sole bedroom. The least Eddie could do was get a part-time job, and Hawkins Garage wasn’t so bad. Plus, thanks to dear old daddy — may he rot in his cell — Eddie had basic experience with cars. Or, breaking into and hotwiring them, anyway.
“I’ll remember that next time I’m using up all the hot water,” Eddie grinned. “Thanks for breakfast, Uncle Wayne. Think I’m gonna leave early so I can stop by the junkyard. Wanna see if I can find anything good for the van. See you at two?”
Wayne let him get away with the change in topic. “I’ll be sleeping, Ed. Can’t afford to mess up the schedule.” He seemed apologetic. “I’ll be up in time for dinner, kid. Hey, you want lasagne?”
Eddie grinned. “Six cheese?”
“How rich do you think we are? Christ. Six cheeses… lucky to get two …”
Eddie left Wayne to grumble on the couch as he slipped into the bathroom. He ran a hand through the tangled mop of curls atop his head, rich brown and oily. He’d have to wash his hair tonight, he thought. For now, however, he shoved his bandana up and over his head, pulling it back from his face. He slid a hairband on his wrist, knowing a ponytail was in his imminent future. It might be winter but fixing cars was sweaty work.
Satisfied with how he looked — wired, bags a deep purple beneath his eyes, last night’s liner slightly smudged — he wandered towards the door, scooped up his keys, and stepped into the crisp, November air.
“See you tonight, Uncle Wayne! Love you.”
“Bye, kid. Love you too.”
Hawkins Garage was quiet when Eddie pulled in. Jules was bustling around in the back, wrench in her mouth, shoulder already grease-slicked. She was mean, pushing fifty, but as limber as any teen. Christ, Eddie was pretty sure she could lift a car without a jack. Jules spared him a glance and a two-fingered salute, disappearing behind the bonnet of a car.
Eddie left her to it. He knew the routine by now and slid into the tiny backroom so that he could retrieve his overalls. He left his jacket strewn over the couch and shivered against a bracing breeze as he moved back into the yard. A familiar burgundy Beemer had rolled into the lot. Eddie hesitated, hand still against the door to the office, and then set one foot in front of the other until he was about a yard or so away from Harrington’s car.
Up close, Harrington looked like ass. In fact, he looked somehow worse than he had a week prior. The red-purple bruises had shifted sickly yellow and puke-green, and were deep and ugly. Harrington’s lip had scabbed over but still appeared raw. He probably couldn’t keep from prodding at it, Eddie thought. Harrington’s nose looked better, at least. His eyes weren't bloodshot any longer, either.
Despite having gone to school with him for years, he and Harrington hadn’t really held a single conversation. Eddie waited for him to say something. Harrington didn’t disappoint.
“Hey, man. Think I can buy a spare tire?”
Eddie couldn’t help himself. He said, “We’re a car garage, so yes.” Then, because he wanted to know if Harrington recognised him, and because he was nosy, “What happened to your last one?”
Harrington regarded him with a twisted brow. It looked like it pulled at the cut he had across the middle of his forehead. “Busted,” he said, after a minute. “Popped it. Had to get Hop to tow the car home. Luckily I had a spare in the garage.”
“Right.”
Eddie shoved his hands into the pockets of his overalls. That didn’t answer whether or not Harrington recognised him. He supposed he looked different with his hair up and a uniform on.
He and Harrington regarded each other for a moment. Eddie thought about Tommy Hagan, the viscous, smug twist of his lips and the nasty glint in his eyes. He thought about him foaming like a cage dog when Byers had made Harrington laugh on Friday, about the way Harrington hadn't so much as glanced in Hagan's direction all week.
“You expecting to have another one stabbed?”
Harrington jerked. He stared at Eddie with abject confusion and then, like the clouds had parted, realisation brightened his face.
“You! You’re uh, you’re that guy from the carpark. From school.”
“Wow,” said Eddie, flatly. “You spend years building up a reputation as a deadbeat, pothead satanist just to be labelled ‘that guy’.”
Harrington squinted. “Are you?”
“Am I what? A satanist?”
Harrington, miraculously, looked chagrined. “No, I mean, are you the guy? With the van.”
Harrington was an atrocious conversationalist. He went to shove his hands in his pockets, missed, and ended up crossing his arms across his chest, cheeks washed an abashed, faint pink. He seemed nothing like the King Eddie had seen at parties and in the halls. He just looked like a teen boy — awkward, pimpled, embarrassed.
“Munson,” Eddie said. “That’s me.”
“Munson.” The lights clicked on in the empty cavern of Harrington’s head. “Eddie. You’re Tommy’s dealer.”
“Was,” Eddie corrected. “Got a different gig now.” He gestured to his overalls. “How many tires do you want?”
Harrington pursed his lips. “Just the one.” He started chewing at his cuticles. “Better to be safer than sorry.”
“Sure. Hagan’s a dick.”
Harrington wasn’t fast enough to hide his snort. His fingers twisted to press across his mouth like he could hold his amusement in. He soon gave up, however, when Eddie shook his head with a theatrical sigh. He and Eddie grinned at each other for a moment, before they both seemed to realise who they were: toppled tyrant and druggie freak.
“Right,” Eddie muttered, feeling off-beat. “Let me get the spare, Harrington.”
Harrington watched him as he left. Eddie knew because he could feel that sharp gaze digging into the back of his head.
In the shed, Jules was waist deep in an engine. He side-stepped her to the tire wall as he wondered what the fuck he was doing. Acting chummy with the exact breed of individual he hated went against his doctrine. Harrington might be treating him nice enough, but Eddie was no idiot. He remembered the scorn of the basketball team and knew the way they treated the younger members of Hellfire or other losers. Give Harrington an inch of vulnerability and he’d take a mile. Eddie was sure he hadn’t undergone a personality change overnight.
Eddie waddled the tire over, grease smearing across his fingers. Harrington glanced up from where he was watching a cluster of ants surround a cigarette butt. He wiggled his fingers in a little wave as if he and Eddie hadn’t just seen each other. God, of course he did. The Harrington Charm was clearly a farce; the girls must’ve thought him pitiable enough to be sexy. Maybe they thought they could fix him.
“You can just leave the tire there,” Harrington said, face suddenly pinched. His eyes darted nervously as he tried for a smile. It came out more of a thin grimace. “I got it.”
“Apparently Byers beat the snot outta you,” Eddie said, slowly. “I’m willing to bet the awkward hunch against your car has something to do with your ribs hurting.”
Harrington’s jaw loosened as his eyes went a little round. He swallowed and cleared his throat, absently tugging his arms further around his waist. Yeah, he was definitely hiding something beneath that bright, purple sweater. Eddie was willing to bet the green-yellow splotches on Harrington’s face mirrored the bruises across his chest.
“Leave Byers— Jonathan, leave Jonathan outta this,” Steve snapped.
Eddie rolled his eyes. He didn’t care much for Steve’s snippy little defences. If he wanted to protect the guy who knocked his brains out, then he could go crazy. Eddie couldn’t help but wonder, though, just what had happened between them to take them from strangers to enemies to almost-friends in a weekend.
“Pop the boot, Harrington. Tire’s heavy.”
“I said you could leave it.”
For a second, Eddie was tempted to. He didn’t get paid to argue with rich kids over their machismo, but Harrington’s tone had softened despite the demand, his eyes pinching as he stared down at the tire. Eddie thought about Harrington alone in the carpark, and the familiar white-hot pain that lanced across ribs when they healed and you so much as breathed the wrong way.
“Pop the boot.”
Harrington did.
“Don’t look in it,” he said, voice thick with resignation.
“I don’t give a shit if you keep your porn stash in the car,” Eddie snorted. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve seen.”
He bent at the knees and scooped the tire into Harrington’s boot. It took a bit of wriggling because of the gym bags and umbrella and blankets, but it eventually sat in place.
“I don’t think you can say that to a customer,” Harrington said.
Eddie expected him to look affronted but when he glanced at Harrington, that wasn’t the case. He was amused, the flat brown of his eyes brighter than they had been. His mouth bunched in the corner like he didn’t want to let his smile through. Egos weren’t part of the Munson Doctrine, but Eddie had to admit it gave him a rush to realise Harrington thought he was funny.
“Who the fuck keeps their porn out in the open?” Harrington continued. He picked at his cuticles. “That’s asking for public humiliation.”
There was a bag on the ground that Eddie had removed so that he could fit the tire in the car. “Who knows,” he said, scooping the bag up. “People who do that shit in public probably like the humiliation, Harrington.”
As Eddie manoeuvred the duffle into the car, he realised the zipper was only half done up. Whatever angle he’d tipped the bag on had caused its contents to roll and the weight tugged down on the fabric. Something moved, and then—
“Oh shit,” Harrington said, faintly.
A baseball bat slid out and hit the cement. It was dented, worn, and more pressingly, covered in nails. Like, a metric fuck tonne of them. Eddie stared at the weapon — because what else could it have been? — with a sick sort of fascination.
“Well,” he said, eyes darting from bat to Harrington to bat again. “I’m not sure that’s up to baseball regulations.”
“It’s for a school project.”
Eddie felt his jaw threaten to drop. There was no way Harrington was serious. He stared into Harringon’s eyes, chestnut to mahogany, and took in the purposefully loose way Harrington leant against his Beemer.
“Okay,” Eddie said, slowly. “Want to tell me which class needs a nail bat?” He toed the offending item. There was something that flaked off, dark brown and — “Is that blood?”
Harrington had the nail bat up and shoved into the boot in seconds, hand pressed tight against his side with a wince.
“Art class,” he said, smiling thinly. “It‘s paint. The project is a commentary on… socialism.”
Eddie knew to let it lie, but he couldn’t help himself. “Do you even know what socialism is?”
Harrington ignored him. “How much for the tire?”
“Forty,” Eddie said.
Eddie could see the handle of the nail bat. There was no way it was an art project; Eddie wasn’t an idiot. He let himself fantasise about what it could be, weaving a couple of fun scenarios together in his mind. The nail bat, the sudden fight with Byers, the fall out with Hagan and Perkins, and the nose dive from the top of the social ladder.
Maybe Byers was part of a gang and had initiated Harrington. Maybe it was his father, the sketchy politician hot-shot, and Harrington had besmirched the family name enough to warrant punishment. Hell, maybe Hawkins had a resident Bigfoot and Harrington’s bat was only for defence. Whatever the case, out of sight, out of mind — that was something Eddie was all too good at.
“Keep the change,” Harrington said, smacking a few bills into Eddie’s palm.
“Hush money,” Eddie hummed. “Neat. Don’t faint, Harrington. Your freaky, secret art project is safe with me.”
Harrington sneered, but it was half-hearted at best. Pieces of King Steve flaked like the ‘paint’ had off the bat.
“Shut up,” Harrington grumbled. Then, “See you round.”
“For your sake,” Eddie snorted, brow raised, “I hope not.”
SATURDAY, DEC 3, 1983.
Harrington’s Beemer pulled into the parking lot a fortnight later.
Eddie didn’t see it at first. He was hidden beneath a grasshopper green AMC Gremlin, giving it its third service in the past two months. Today was a routine oil change, but the shakiness of the car betrayed its engine was having problems. Again. Eddie knew people could only afford what they could afford — hell, he was driving a fucking ‘71 Chevy — but still, a Gremlin? It was begging for trouble.
Eddie angled the container beneath the drain plug and scooted the rollboard to the side so that he wouldn’t end up drowning in oil. He took the wrench from his mouth and loosened the plug until it all but popped off. It took a few minutes for the oil to drain, cascading out in a river of glossy brown-black slick. Eddie shoved himself and the container out from beneath the car, annoyed to realise he’d forgotten gloves again, and now had smeared oil across his cheek and hair.
“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered.
He glanced at his reflection in the side mirror of the car and winced. His fringe was looser than usual, the sweat slicking across his brow weighing it down. His ears were pink from winter cold and sure enough, his nose and cheek were coated in grease and oil respectively. Oh well, nothing to be done about it now. He’d fetch a rag later.
Eddie needed to replace the old drain plug but there was someone lingering near the office door. A familiar someone in a bomber jacket Eddie was jealous of. It was big and cosy and a deep burgundy. Harrington’s jacket matched his car, Eddie thought with a snort. Rich kids.
“Hi,” he said, brow raised.
Harrington ran a hand through his hair. It was perfectly coiffed into a little wave, a singular curl falling against the mostly-healed scab on his forehead. His nose was pink and he kept breathing into his hands to warm them. Eddie cocked his hip against the car and waved Harrington over with a little jerk of his head.
“Why are you back?” he asked, not unkindly.
Harrington noticed his weariness. He shifted back and forth on his feet and left some distance between them, like he didn’t want to catch whatever disease Eddie was carrying. Or, a more rational part of Eddie said, because Eddie was covered in car juices and clearly busy. After all, Harrington’s eyes lingered on the grease patch. Were Eddie anyone else, he might have been embarrassed.
Harrington sucked in a deep breath, bottom lip momentarily clamped between his teeth. “Socialism,” he said, back straightening, “is a political and economic theory of social organisation.” His hand jerked like he wanted to point a finger as he spoke. “It, uh, it advocates the … the means of production. And also, distribution.” His eyes darted left as he tried to remember the rest of the memorised definition. “It’s about overthrowing capitalism.”
Eddie stared at him, blankly. “What.” He felt like he’d been hit across the head with Harrington’s bat.
“Socialism. That’s — the, you know. The other week, with the —”
“With the nail bat. Yeah, I know. Hard to forget you’re carrying that around.”
Harrington winced. He rubbed at his elbow, face tilted a little towards the ground. Eddie tried to figure out why Harrington was in Hawkins Garage. There was no way he needed another spare tire; Eddie had surreptitiously checked Harrington’s wheels before leaving the car park every day this week — only because he was kind of interested to see what Hagan would do next.
“Harrington, thank you for the textbook definition. What the fuck does that have to do with the nail bat?”
“Well, the … it’s a commentary on socialism. It’s like, we wanna get rid of capitalism, and the nails represent people who want freedom, but we’re all tied down to this weapon.” The longer he spoke, the more unsure Harrington looked. “Nailed down, really,” he added, with a weak, half-smile. “So.”
Eddie momentarily forgot his skin was grease-slicked. He rested his hand against the hood of the car, streaking slimy fingerprints against the green paint.
“The weapon, the bat itself … it’s capitalism?”
Harrington snapped his fingers, unravelling from where he’d hunched into himself.
“Exactly,” he grinned. “You get it.”
Harrington’s smile was nice. That was an objective fact that Eddie had understood from the second Harrington stepped foot into Hawkins High. He would probably hear it until the day he fled Hawkins for good. Harrington’s nose scrunched when he grinned. His eyes were still a flat brown, his smile not quite reaching them, but he seemed more at peace than he had two weeks ago. He still looked tired.
Eddie tugged his eyes off Harrington’s mouth.
“Did you actually need something or is this some weird, like, thinly-veiled threat about how if I don’t quit my job you’re gonna beat me up with the bat, King Steve?”
Harrington startled. The smile slid from his face faster than the oil had from its receptacle.
“What?”
His mouth opened and closed uselessly. He looked stunned and then ashamed. That was almost enough to have Eddie reflexively apologising, before he remembered who he was talking to.
“No,” Harrington mumbled, “It’s the — I’m talking about the art project.”
“Yeah.” Eddie folded his arms over his chest, the remnants of grease and oil puddling in the bend of his elbow. “Still not buying that. Might need to give me more hush money.”
“Right.”
Harrington floundered. He clearly hadn’t anticipated Eddie to react the way he had. He’d probably expected Eddie to titter or throw himself at Harrington with a, “you’re so funny and clever, Stevie.” Well, tough shit, Eddie thought. I’m not one of your groupies, King Steve, and the only thing I’m throwing at you is a bill.
“Uh, I just — whatever. Doesn’t matter.” Harrington cleared his throat. He wouldn’t meet Eddie’s eyes. “Can you take a look at the engine? It’s making weird sounds.” He rubbed his fingers under his nose, mouth pinched. “Please,” he tacked on, brown eyes darting to meet Eddie’s before they bounced away just as fast.
Eddie glanced at the oil filter he was meant to swap and then back at Harrington, lingering in the garage like a bad smell.
“Sure, Harrington,” he sighed. “Drive her over.”
The check-up was somehow more awkward than it had been a fortnight ago.
Harrington hadn’t so much as glanced at Eddie once during the period in between their meetings, and now he was rocking up and treating Eddie like he wasn’t dirt beneath Harrington’s shoe. It was abnormal behaviour from a jock. He probably wanted a discount, Eddie ruminated, as he wedged the wrench back in between his teeth.
“You might wanna see Jules,” Eddie admitted after a certain point. “I’ve only been here about six months. I don’t know as much about engines as her.”
Harrington leaned out of his open window, sat in the driver’s seat, and pillowed his arms on the sill. Eddie leaned around the side of the hood to make eye contact. Harrington’s cheeks were now just as flushed as his nose, the wind biting at his skin. Eddie felt sticky and sweaty but the breeze was sending uncomfortable goosebumps across his skin.
“Okay.” Harrington tugged his thumb from his mouth, spitting a nail. “D’you have a business card?”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “There’s like, one other garage in Hawkins, man. Just come by tomorrow when she’s on.”
Harrington opened his mouth. He said, “Will you—” before he seemed to think better of it and cut off. He shook his head and smiled thinly, looking over Eddie’s shoulder instead of into his eyes. “Thanks,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”
“Pay tomorrow. I didn’t do shit.”
Harrington blinked. “Do … you don’t want your hush money?”
Christ. He was trying to tell a joke. It was all too much for Eddie.
“Nah,” Eddie said, strangely winded by the conversation. “Get outta here, Harrington. Come back tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks, Eddie.”
Eddie watched him pull out of Hawkins Garage. His tires didn’t squeal and his engine didn’t roar. He drove like a middle-aged soccer mother. Eddie shook his head and watched until Harrington’s car disappeared around the bend. Then he settled underneath the Gremlin and tried to forget the last hour. But, try as he might, Harrington’s awkward, little grin sat embedded, right at the forefront of Eddie’s mind.
Thanks, Eddie.
Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.