Chapter Text
Eddie doesn't particularly like the smell of blood.
However, he's growing awfully used to it.
It’s what he’s choosing to focus on. The smell of it. How it burns his nose. Clings heavy in his throat and fills his lungs with its thick, metallic haze.
That is, when he can breathe.
It’s awful hard to breathe.
But he’s trying. God fucking damn it, he’s trying. And it hurts worse than anything, worse than the bites or the torn flesh or the aching all over. It burns worse than the smell does. He can’t tell if it’d be easier to breathe through his nose or his mouth, so he just sort of heaves with his mouth open and hopes that air gets in somehow.
He might be dying.
Steve says he’s not dying, very insistent on that, in fact, but Eddie’s not sure if he believes him.
He’s pretty sure it’s all his blood that he’s smelling, anyways. Maybe some of Steve’s. He’s pretty close to him, putting pressure on his wounds and “trying to stabilize him, Nancy get help, get help now!”
There’s a flash of something. White or brown or some other color. And then the very last part of Eddie’s brain that isn’t trying to shut down because of how much everything fucking hurts realizes it’s probably all of those, blurring together. It’s Wheeler dashing away to do exactly what Steve asked. Sweet of her, really.
“Eddie. Eddie! Listen to me, man. We’re gonna get you out of this. You’ll be just fine.”
Steve is talking to him. Voice breaking a little because his hands are red and it’s probably Eddie’s fault. God it...looks like cherry syrup. Sticky and sweet. Now all they need is some ice cream.
Eddie laughs. It’s hilarious, isn’t it? And then it really, really hurts to laugh, so he stops doing that. Tries to blink away the tears that keep pooling in his eyes but he’s not really sure he’s moving his face the right way for that.
Steve has a hand inside him. No, not in that way. If only. It’s just like, in his gut, basically. Sitting on probably raw muscle and getting covered a little thicker in that syrupy blood stuff. Pressing hard into his abdomen like the shreds of cloth he’s pressing into there, into him, are gonna help anything.
Eddie tries laughing again. Gives up.
Steve wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “C’mon, c’mon, dude. Fuckin’...stay with me. Please.”
“‘M here.” Eddie manages. God, his voice is so fucked up. There’s probably blood in his throat.
“Yeah. And you’re gonna be fine, yeah? We’ll uh. We’ll fix you up, ‘kay?”
“Sure,” Eddie says, and he’s at least aware enough of the fact that he’s saying it for Steve’s benefit more than his own. Eddie’s pretty sure he’ll be gone before they get a chance to. It just hurts a whole lot. All over.
Steve’s an actual wreck about this. Eddie would find it charming if his lungs didn’t hurt so bad. His hands shake a little as he keeps trying to apply pressure and it kind of feels like drowning. In blood and in Steve.
He’s crying, too. Steve is. Keeps wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and smearing thick red on his face. He looks pretty like that, in a deadly sort of way.
“You’re...you’re okay, man. Look there’s Nancy! She’s gotta have something for you. See? Everything is fine.”
Eddie coughs. And regrets it when he spits up blood onto Steve’s pretty, deadly face.
But Steve doesn’t blink. Just starts following orders from Nancy when she hits the ground hard with her knees on the other side of him, arms full of first aid supplies.
“Stole these from a gas station,” she says, half-laughing at the hilarity of it. And she shoves a wad of gauze at Steve and instructs him on how to “plug him up” and Eddie’s not dead enough yet to not smile at that.
“Dumbass,” Steve breathes, and his hands hurt where they’re shoving cotton into him. “God, Eddie.”
Eddie just blinks away tears. He’s trying pretty damn hard to stay conscious, but that’s hard too. So he just tries to separate himself from the pain, and that works a little bit. He keeps his eyes open and focused on the pretty face all bloodied up for him, screwed up in concentration as he does his very best to save Eddie’s life.
And Eddie stays alive.
At some point he must’ve passed out. Probably from like, all the blood loss, right? That’ll definitely make a guy pass out.
It turns out that he doesn’t see daylight for another forty-eight hours. Because daylight doesn’t exist in the Upside Down and because Steve sweetly closes the blinds in his room for him. Lets him sleep. Which is very sweet. Steve is sweet, Eddie’s learning. Sweet and pretty, but he was already aware of that last part.
Oh, yeah. He’s in Steve’s room, he realizes. After the forty-eight dark hours have passed and he’s officially awake. Officially not dead.
At least, Eddie thinks he’s in Steve’s room. Judging by the sports trophies and the cute little tacked up bulletin board on the far wall covered in pictures of him and Robin and the kids. It’s an ugly mass of plaid, but Eddie doesn’t focus too much on that. Focuses a little more on the various tubes and things he’s hooked up to. On the rhythmic beeping of machines around him.
If he closes his eyes—which he does, because it’s an awful weird adjustment to be not dead now—Eddie can delude himself into believing the beeping machines sync up enough to drone out the rhythm of Another One Bites the Dust.
It doesn’t take long after that. After the initial waking-up and seeing the sun fight its way through the cracks in the blinds, after he was so sure he’d never see it again. Not long of him struggling to hum along to the machines, harmonize with them, even.
For Steve to walk in the doorway, grin bright at Eddie when he sees him blinking and rush over to give him a hug that would hurt if his whole body didn’t feel like pudding.
“You’re awake,” Steve breathes, and the words tangle themselves in Eddie’s hair.
“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” Eddie says, but his voice is raw from lack of use and it’s all gritty-sounding,
“Fuckin’ hell, Eddie. Thought we were gonna lose you.”
Eddie nods, and Steve sits on the edge of the bed and it bows under his weight and makes Eddie feel stupid.
“So what happened?” Eddie asks. His voice is just slightly less gritty now.
Steve fiddles with an edge of the bedsheet, twisting it between his fingers. Eddie watches him do it, and takes notice of how pretty his fingers are. Long and slender and Eddie bets they’d look real nice all wet.
“Well, Nance got you stable enough. And I carried you out of there. We went to Owens as soon as we figured out where he was. Which was only thanks to El—the supergirl Dustin told you about. He actually fixed you up and got you official healing shit,” Steve gestures to the little grouping of beeping machines, “and you’ve been knocked out since.”
The blanket’s got an indent of his fingers when he lets go. Twisted up in the shape of them, and Eddie decides that he’ll just leave that corner alone for now. Let it keep the cast of Steve’s hands, the ones that carried him out of that awful place.
Steve’s hands are clean, now. No longer covered in Eddie’s sticky blood. And Steve’s fingers twist over themselves instead of the blanket.
Eddie clears his throat. Looks up from Steve’s hands to his eyes, except that’s not good for him either. Steve’s eyes are big and brown and a little wet and like, stupid fucking pretty.
“Ah,” Eddie says, and he can feel the stupid fucking blush creep up his neck. “So uh...why your bed, Harrington?”
Steve screws his eyes shut, nose wrinkling up cutely at the question. “We figured my house was the best place for you to stay. And when we finally got here, I was sort of on autopilot after everything. Went to my room out of instinct and Owens has forbidden us from moving you, so.”
“Am I that bad?” Eddie asks. He doesn’t feel any pain, but he doesn’t feel much of anything, really.
“Yeah, man. You almost died like, ten times over. Owens has got you on a million different drugs right now. Says he doesn’t wanna risk moving you and opening up your stitches. So you’re here, for the time being. At least for a few days. I can walk around with mine but yours were so much worse, dude.” Steve blinks at him, and his brow furrows a little bit. Makes his big eyes go all squinty. “Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking, letting them attack you like that?”
Eddie tries for a shrug, but finds that his range of movement isn’t all that great right now. “Wanted to help, I guess. Buy you more time.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Steve says, and he chuckles and Eddie can hear the lump in his throat. It makes his own heart squeeze.
Eddie laughs, and then he gasps because there’s that pain he remembers, hollowing him from the inside out.
“Easy, easy,” Steve says, splaying a hand over his chest to soothe him.
“Fuck,” Eddie breathes, sinking a little heavier into the pillows. “‘M a mess, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, man.” There’s little pinpoints of pressure on his chest. Steve’s pressing harder than he needs to, and then he realizes and jerks his hand away. “Sorry,” he says, and the word feels charged.
“You hungry?” Steve asks after a beat. Eddies eyes flick up from his hands to his face again.
“Um. Yeah, actually.”
“Great,” Steve says, and he seems a little over eager about it. “Let me go make you something real quick. You okay if I go do that?”
Eddie nods, and Steve squeezes his shoulder, once, twice, like a heartbeat. “Be right back,” he says, softly closing the door behind him.
Eddie’s head is swimming, a little. His stupid fucking crush on Steve isn’t getting any easier with this sudden proximity with him. He closes his eyes, in an effort to make sense of things, but he’s fucking exhausted, even after his brief little coma thing. So he collects himself with his eyes closed for about ten minutes, until his breathing slows and sleep takes over. And Eddie doesn’t dream, but the last thing he thinks about is a pair of strong hands wrapped around him, bloody and sweet.
♡
Steve makes soup. Chicken noodle, because that’s what you’re supposed to give sick people, right? Eddie isn’t exactly sick, but he’s bedridden and healing so like. Same thing.
He likes cooking, actually. Learned how a few years ago when his parents started traveling more and it became a kind of necessity. But he found comfort and independence in it, and it’s actually kind of fun.
And Steve likes to keep his fridge pretty stocked, so he’s got no issue pulling everything he needs out onto the counter—frozen carrots and celery, broth from a carton, spaghetti noodles and pre-cut chicken thighs.
Then Steve pauses.
“Hey Munson!” he yells up the stairs. “Got any allergies?”
“Just pollen!” Eddie says, and his voice sounds all raspy. Steve’s fingers flex on the banister. He yells back up his thanks, and tries to lose himself in the ritual of cooking.
He cuts up an onion first. It makes his eyes sting and water, and he sniffs but that only makes it worse. So he shoves the stupid vegetable in a pot with some olive oil and covers it with a lid. And somehow that makes him out of breath, so while his kitchen fills with the smell of simmering onion, he leans on the counter and breathes deep and even.
It’s been a fucked past few days. Almost dying a hundred different times. Having to carry his friend out of an alternate dimension, covered in his blood and deathly worried he’d die on the way. Turning his room into a makeshift hospital. Checking on the guy in his bed every twenty minutes, that first night. Making sure he was still breathing. Then every hour, as his condition stabilized and Steve’s anxiety began to ebb away.
He’s not slept very much. Even with Robin staying over the past few nights, because she knows he doesn’t like sleeping alone. Especially right after this shit. He’s been restless. Guilt-ridden, even though he knows Eddie’s choice to fucking...sacrifice himself was purely his own.
Steve pours broth in the onion pot after a few minutes. Lets everything simmer for a bit before adding the other veggies and noodles and chicken. He salts it, stirs it, covers it with the lid again and then sits down at the kitchen island while everything cooks. He can move with his injuries, but it’s difficult. Can’t keep it up for long.
Now that Eddie’s awake, though, he feels a whole lot better. More at ease. He should call Owens and let him know, probably. And the kids and Robin and hell, even Nancy, too. Everyone’s been worried sick, and he and Rob had to physically pry Dustin away from his bedside and force the kid to go home. Since his mom was probably worried sick about him.
So Steve calls the doc first, asks if there’s anything he should give him now that he’s awake and Owens tells him he’ll be over in a couple hours to check in on him, that food and water is all he needs right now. And there’s a big sleepover going on at the Wheeler house today, so he dials them while he fills up a glass at the sink. Mike picks up and he tells him the good news, but Steve makes him promise that everyone will come visit tomorrow morning, after Eddie’s had a little more rest. Mike relays it to the others while Steve’s still on the line, shouting at the top of his lungs. Steve winces and hangs up, shaking his head at the kid.
Then the soup is ready. Noodles fully cooked and everything, so Steve ladles some into a bowl, finds a tray under the counter and arranges it, the water, napkins, a spoon, and a straw on it and carries everything upstairs.
“Room service,” Steve says, tapping the door lightly with his food as a way of knocking. There’s a muffled little groan from the other side like Eddie has just woken up, so Steve pushes inside.
Eddie’s blinking a little blearily. Probably did just wake up, then. He gets this sweet little smile on his face when he sees the tray and Steve, and in turn, Steve has to look away from his sweet face and focus on where his feet are so he doesn’t trip and spill broth everywhere.
“Made you soup,” Steve says, when he’s successfully made it to the bed and deposited the tray on the nightstand.
“‘S nice of you,” Eddie says, slowly sitting up in the bed. Steve’s bed. Steve leans over him to adjust the pillows behind his back and make the action a little more comfortable, and then he’s just sort of weirdly hovering over him, crowding the guy against the headboard.
“Sorry,” Steve says, and Eddie’s big eyes are probably like, looking into his skull or something. Eddie laughs a little, at his weirdness, and the awkward feeling dissipates. Steve leans away, sitting on the edge of the bed again.
“You’re something else, Harrington,” Eddie says, shaking his head a bit, making his dark curls bounce around his face.
“Maybe,” Steve says, because he doesn’t really know what Eddie means by that. “Can you...I mean, are you strong enough to eat on your own?”
Eddie tilts his head, considering. “I can’t feel much of anything, honestly, so...uh. Might spill your soup everywhere if I tried.”
“Right,” Steve says, and he’s not sure why but he whispers the word. Something about being alone with Eddie, it’s weird. Throwing him off, somehow. His best guess is that they just don’t know each other that well, even though they’re like, bonded for life now. Can’t save the world together and save each other without coming through it all joined at the hip. So it’s just a bit weird, Steve figures, as they go from strangers in high school to now...whatever this is.
Friends, at least.
Steve rolls his shoulders, shaking off that weird feeling he’s got because of the dumb metalhead in his bed. Then he carefully maneuvers the tray onto Eddie’s lap, sitting a little closer to him.
“Water or soup first?”
“Water,” Eddie says immediately, with this weird little smack of his lips that makes Steve laugh. So he holds the glass up for him, tilting the straw so Eddie can get it in his mouth.
Eddie’s fucking weird. He’s just like, strange. Odd. Sticks out a lot. With his hair and his rings and his music and his clothes and mannerisms and everything. Never does anything the normal way.
Not even drinking water.
Steve isn’t sure what the normal way to drink water is. But it’s sure as hell not what Eddie does. No, Eddie uses his fucking tongue to get the straw in his mouth. Sucks on it first with his lips parted so Steve can see his teeth, and then he realizes that’s a dumb way to do it because water starts to dribble out the side of his mouth so he closes his lips fully.
And he doesn’t break eye contact with Steve either. His cheeks hollow out when he finally closes his mouth around the blue plastic straw and his lips form this nice little circle around it and his eyes just stay there, looking right at him. His huge fucking brown eyes. Doe eyes, even. They’re massive.
Eddie’s pretty. Which is...fine. Guys can be pretty and have big brown doe eyes like Eddie and suck down water from a straw like a girl in a porno.
Eddie’s weird. That’s all it is. So so weird.
Then the glass is empty. Eddie’s just sucking air from the straw, and he spits it out of his mouth like it personally offended him. The end of it looks chewed on. Weird fucking guy, Eddie Munson.
“Thanks,” Eddie says, and one of his hands comes up to jerkily wipe at his mouth. “Needed that.”
“‘Course,” Steve says, setting the glass back down with a thud.
Steve pauses for a second, considering how best to feed him the soup. He should use his right hand, since he’s right handed and also still a little weak from his injuries. Except he’s sitting on the wrong side of the bed for that. So then he brings one leg up underneath him, letting the other dangle off the edge of the bed. It gives him a little better balance for leaning over Eddie, supporting himself with his left hand, palm flat on the mattress on the other side of Eddie’s hip.
There. Now he can comfortably stir the soup around and bring the spoon to Eddie’s (pretty) mouth.
Eddie blows on it first, cracking a grin at Steve as they both watch the steam dissipate.
And he’s slurping the broth up, because of course he eats soup weirdly, too. It makes this wet noise that Steve feels in his gut. Somewhere between his spine and the bottom of his stomach.
“That’s good,” Eddie says, as Steve’s preparing another spoonful for him. “Can’t believe you made me soup, Harrington. And that it tastes amazing.”
“Shut up,” Steve says, blowing on the broth himself before offering it to Eddie. Eddie quirks his eyebrows at him, but he’s a little quieter about this mouthful.
“Sick people get chicken noodle. Just how it is,” Steve says, blowing on the steaming piece of chicken on the spoon again before pressing it to Eddie’s red mouth.
“You’re not exactly the picture of health right now, either, Steve. Do you get soup, too?”
Steve shrugs. “Not that hungry, really. Never am after these things.”
“Right,” Eddie says, and he really draws out the ‘i’ sound when he says it. “You’ve done all this before, yeah?”
Steve nods.
“So you should know by now that you heal faster with actual energy.” He jerks his chin at the bowl in his lap. “Have some.”
“But...there’s only one spoon,” Steve says, and it’s a lame fucking excuse.
“I’m not afraid of your germs, Harrington. Have some. It’s really good. I think I feel better already.”
“You’re full of shit,” Steve says, but he takes the next mouthful, anyways, sticking the spoon that’s been in Eddie’s mouth into his own. It is good. Salty and hearty.
“Yeah?” Eddie says, watching him take another mouthful.
“It’s good,” Steve says, but he makes Eddie eat the next spoonful.
“Knew you’d like it,” Eddie says around the spoon in his mouth, doing this weird happy wiggle thing with his head like he’s the one who made it and was waiting on Steve’s approval.
He’s so fucking weird.
They share the rest of the soup, with their one spoon, two mouth system thing. Steve asks, after all the broth is gone, if Eddie wants any more, and Eddie says no, then he asks if he wants anything else, food, blankets, more water, anything, and Eddie laughs and tells him he’s fine, really. Kind of just wants to sleep again.
“Sure,” Steve says. “But I’m waking you up before I go to bed so we can change your bandages. And no offense, man, but you really should shower, too. Your hair’s a wreck.”
Eddie sticks his tongue out at him, but he agrees. “See you in a few hours, King Steve.”
“Shut up,” Steve says, leaving Eddie to sleep again. He closes the door behind him, leaning against the wood like the whole interaction took something out of him. Which is fucking strange, right?
Maybe Eddie’s not even the weird one. Maybe it’s just him, and Eddie’s actually perfectly normal and Steve’s just losing his mind. Maybe everyone drinks water like that, always staring at the person holding the glass for them like they’re trying to see inside their brain.
Huh, Steve thinks.
Weird.