Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Metal Edge Magazine - 16th April 1986
New Shreds - Corroded Coffin

In a tiny basement bar in downtown Indianapolis, Corroded Coffin exit the stage having played their first intimate show since their debut album release. The vocalist and lead guitarist showers the audience with branded guitar picks and words of gratitude, performed as if the speech were a Shakespearian soliloquy. He joins me backstage, drenched in sweat and grinning from ear to ear, shaking my hand firmly and introducing himself as Eddie Fucking Munson. Munson lights up a pre-rolled cigarette before he’s even fully sat down, and I notice that his eyes are bright, manic, still very much riding the high that comes with conquering a crowd. It quickly becomes clear that that’s not the only high Munson will be riding tonight.

Oh, this? Munson holds up the rollie. Just a little post-show relaxant. Can’t sleep without it, you know? Too much adrenaline.

So, your album, Corroded Coffin, was released today. Do you feel like the songs on this album differ a lot from your early demos?

Well, yea. The quality is very much improved. Those piece of shit demos were recorded in Gareth’s mom’s garage. The acoustics were atrocious. You should’ve seen me man, when we first got to that recording studio…It was like fucking Christmas. There’s only one song from those early demos that made it onto the album practically unchanged, and that’s My Throat Hurts When I Sing. We were out of our fucking minds blazed when we wrote that, and at seventeen, we thought we were musical geniuses. There’s a few lines and melodies from those demos which we adapted into other, better shit, but we just couldn’t leave My Throat Hurts behind.

Lyrically, you make a lot of references to your childhood and teenage years. How was growing up in small-town Indiana?

How long is this interview? Because I could write a fucking book, hell, a whole trilogy on how much that shithole fucked me up. The guys too. They say that you should never forget where you’ve come from, go back to your roots and all that shit. But I can safely say that I’d feel no remorse watching everything, and everyone in that town burn to ashes.

September 1989

Usually, Steve Harrington loves to party.

It’s all parties; parties after press conferences, parties after signing a new sponsorship deal, parties after every game regardless of whether it’s a win or a loss. It feels sometimes like his life is just one big party.

Steve has worked for his lifestyle. He was picked up by the Chicago Bulls pretty much fresh out of college, and is about to start his first season in the NBA alongside some of the best professional basketball players in the US. His time not spent partying is spent training, or just generally living and breathing all things basketball. It can be gruelling, and he knows the pressure on him to perform will be astronomical, but it’s what he’s been dreaming about his entire life.

The parties are ridiculous. Free booze, free drugs and girls throwing themselves at him left, right and centre. It’s still mind blowing to Steve, that this kid from a small town in Indiana can experience such things. Most of the people he went to high school with stayed in Hawkins, started working for their parents, or at whatever new shop or gym opened at Starcourt or, at a stretch, moved to Indianapolis for a taste of big city life.

Steve spends most of his time pinching himself that this is his life.

So, Steve usually loves to party. He throws himself straight in and barely comes up for air, ending up just the wrong side of intoxicated and going to bed with one or more of the various girls who make their interest known. It’s second nature to him by now.

But. He is not loving this particular after party.

It’s in some ridiculous mansion in Brooklyn with a pool so big it pretty much fills the backyard.

His old roommate from college, Jonathan, invited him out to New York for his exhibition opening. It’s not at all Steve’s scene, but Jonathan has always been there for him. He’d gone to nearly every one of Steve’s college games, had gone to find him at the gym in the middle of the night to drag him to bed so he didn’t miss his early class, had helped him write his drafting eligibility letter to the NBA every year since he’d turned nineteen.

The gallery where the exhibition is being held is in Manhattan, and Steve has never actually been to New York before, so he jumped at the chance to go. But now, he’s facing the reality that he doesn’t know anyone, and the place is full of entitled, rich, arty types who turn their noses up at Steve as soon as he walks in. They’re all sipping champagne and talking about things that go straight over Steve’s head. Jonathan gets swept up in it all, nodding eagerly and laughing along with every conversation he’s dragged into, and Steve doesn’t want to take his attention when he’s trying to make a name for himself.

The only other person Steve knows here is Jonathan’s fiancé, Nancy. And that’s all different shades of awkward considering she and Steve used to date at the very start of college. He isn’t exactly eager to seek her out, not that they ended on bad terms, but Steve hasn’t properly dated anyone since her, and talking to her will certainly remind him of that fact.

After his second glass of—frankly awful—champagne, Steve decides to say fuck it and head outside. It’s cooler out there, and he slides the glass door shut to block out the ridiculous elevator-style music they’re playing throughout the house. The pool is huge, and Steve finds himself sitting on the edge, just watching the lights from the house twinkling on the surface of the water, barely even buzzed and pretty pissed about it.

Steve had passed up going to the pre-seasons at Coach's house to be here. He would've liked nothing more than to be six beers deep, slurping liquor from some drunk-ass cheerleader's belly button.

Steve really doesn't like being alone—especially not alone and sober. It gives him too much of an opportunity to think.

He reaches out, hand hovering over the water, thinking about how no one will even notice if he just tips forward and falls right in. He could do it easily. Just fall face first and float there until his lungs burn with the effort not to let any water in. No one here will notice, no one here will care.

He’s broken out of his thoughts when the glass door slides open, bringing with it a brief burst of that god awful music and tinny, fake laughter that Steve is trying to escape from. Steve looks up to see a guy with a shock of long, curly hair wearing a denim jacket and black jeans slamming the door closed, his back turned.

From what Steve can see from his vantage point across the pool, the guy rests his forehead on the glass for a few seconds before practically throwing himself away from it, arms waving dramatically as he rants about stuck up, rich assholes.

Steve's eyes widen when he catches a better look at the guy, instantly recognising him from posters and magazine covers, as well as Jonathan's photography portfolio.

It’s goddamn Eddie Munson.

Eddie Munson. Lead singer and guitarist of one of the most up and coming, breakthrough metal bands of the decade—Corroded Coffin. Steve only really knows of him and the band because he's had to listen to Jonathan wax poetic about how the guy is a genius with a guitar. About how when he'd photographed him, Eddie had so blatantly refused to take any direction from Jonathan whatsoever, even going as far as to rip up Jonathan's call sheet, put the pieces in his mouth, chew them up and spit them out right at Jonathan's feet and demand that they go with his ideas. Even that hadn't put Jonathan off; he still practically worships the guy.

What the hell is Eddie Munson doing here?

Probably for the same reason Steve is.

"—how many times I've said that I will not be conforming to society's bullshit expectations of—oh." Eddie cuts himself off when he notices Steve sitting criss-cross by the pool.

He eyes Steve carefully before moving closer, head tilted and dark eyes narrowed. Steve swallows, feeling suddenly uncomfortable under the weight of what feels like intense scrutiny. Eddie is apparently notorious for being hot-headed, a complete maniac, a freak. Steve isn't sure how any interaction between the two of them will go, what with them being complete polar opposites.

"What is a pretty boy like you doing out here all alone?" Eddie asks.

Steve finds himself flushing at the comment. Eddie is closer now, still looking at him intently, and Steve pulls his eyes away, staring at the water rippling underneath his palm.

"Party blows."

Eddie lets out a short bark of a laugh, sinking down next to Steve on the patio, folding his legs underneath him so he’s mirroring Steve.

"Ain't that the truth," Eddie agrees, pulling out some rolling papers, a couple of filters and what looks like a bag of weed from his jacket pocket. "What kind of party doesn't have beer? It's all martinis and French champagne," he says in an exaggerated accent, gesturing wildly.

For some reason, Steve can’t look away.

Doesn’t know why, but Eddie is…kinda intriguing.

"Isn't all champagne French?" Steve says, for lack of anything else to say.

Eddie drops what he’s holding and claps loudly, pointing at Steve and smiling. "I think you're right, man. Can you tell I didn't finish high school?"

Steve feels his mouth turn up at the corners. "Who needs high school when you can become a rock star?"

Eddie's eyes widen until they’re so big Steve thinks they might just fall out of his head. "You know who I am?" Steve nods, and Eddie blows out a breath. "Never thought that would be something I'd ever say. It's not quite 'don't you know who I am' but it's pretty close. I'll take it as a win."

A waft of the strong, unmistakable smell of weed hits Steve's nostrils when Eddie opens the baggie. He starts rolling a joint in record time, licking at the paper and smoothing it down effortlessly.

"You want one?" Eddie asks after a moment, looking up from his task and catching Steve looking. "I wasn't even gonna bring it because I was convinced that this would be the kind of pretentious, rich-folk party where there would be coke aplenty but alas,"—he gestures wildly towards the house—"they're all champagne-sipping squares."

"Nice alliteration."

"I think you'll find that's sibilance, my friend."

Steve shrugs, but he can't help letting his mouth stretch into a grin. “You’re not really doing anything to dispel the rumours about rock stars, y’know?”

Eddie shoots him a look, but it’s not unkind. “Because I do coke? Everyone does coke these days. Weed is my preferred choice, but sometimes you just need something with a little more…pzazz.” He finishes off the sentence by shaking his hands in the air, before returning back to his rolling.

“Did you really just say pzazz?” Steve laughs.

There’s this preconception that Eddie Munson is a complete headcase. Rumour has it that he’s the type of rock star that has a shrine to Ozzy Ozbourne and gets a kick out of satanic rituals involving the sacrifices of small animals or babies or whatever. Some say he has a drug problem, some say he has an alcohol problem, some say he has both–which Steve can actually believe, considering. In interviews he answers questions in a roundabout way before launching himself onto whatever piece of furniture happens to be in the room while theatrically performing some kind of monologue that nobody can ever understand but sounds clever anyway.

Steve would describe him as eccentric, from what little he's seen and heard, but watching Eddie now—calm and focused on rolling a meticulously neat joint—is like seeing a completely different person. It makes Steve wonder just how much of it is for show, to get a rise out of people. To make people say how crazy is that Eddie Munson? When it’s just a persona, a mask he wears to hide the real him. Rock stars are seen as gods—not a vulnerable bone in their bodies.

For some reason having the juxtaposition of the Eddie from TV and this Eddie right in front of him makes Steve want to find out which one is real, wants to know exactly when and in what situation Eddie feels like he needs to hide.

Steve knows all about hiding—he has some skeletons hidden deep inside his closet, tucked way back behind his Bulls uniform, varsity letterman jackets and the button-up shirts his mom used to make him wear to church on Sundays.

Eddie finishes rolling the second joint and plucks a small box of matches out of another one of his pockets, making a big show of placing the joint between his lips, striking the match and shielding the flame from the light breeze as he lights up the joint. He takes such a deep first inhale that Steve's lungs burn in sympathy, all while he watches the flame dance along the wood of the match.

"There's something so powerful about fire," Eddie says, his voice distorted by the smoke he holds in his lungs. He exhales, the plume escaping his mouth and nose, leaving behind the harsh burnt-rope smell of tobacco and weed as it dissipates into the night air. "This tiny little flame could take down a building in less than an hour. I could just walk over there and flick this match through an open window and it would catch pretty much instantly. This tiny little flame, growing bigger and bigger by tearing up all the beautiful, million dollar artwork and handcrafted furniture, just eating away at it all until there's nothing but ash and soot. Everything just black."

He waits until the flame has taken nearly all of the match before flicking it away. It lands in the pool with a quiet sizzle before it’s no more. "And just like that. It's gone. And water is king."

Eddie takes another long drag of the joint before he holds it out to Steve wordlessly. They look at each other, Eddie's expression unreadable until it slides into expectant as his eyes flick between the joint and Steve until he takes it, trying not to burn his fingers.

"You know I have no idea how to reply to anything you just said," Steve tells him before he takes a long drag on the joint. He doesn’t want to exhale until he feels the rush of it inside his skull. By the time he does, his vision is fuzzy around the edges.

Eddie snorts. "I have that effect on people. I appreciate your honesty, though. Most people just smile, a little manic in the eyes, like they're terrified that if they say the wrong thing I'll kidnap them and use them as a blood sacrifice for my satanic cult, or whatever."

"I knew the rumours were true."

Eddie's face splits into a wide grin, which Steve returns before taking another drag. Eddie motions for him to pass it back, then plucks it out of Steve's hand with his long fingers.

"What?" Steve asks, because Eddie’s looking at him curiously, smile still curving his lips even with the joint between them.

"Just find it hard to believe that a pretty little preppy boy like you even knows who I am. Aren't we like, seven social circles removed or something?"

"Clearly not," Steve says, gesturing towards the house where their mutual friend is undoubtedly stuck in a conversation about whether Robert Mapplethorpe's photographs are really art or just pornography, or some shit. "Otherwise we both wouldn't be here."

Eddie hmm’s and passes the joint—now half-smoked and harsh—back to Steve's waiting fingers. Steve’s starting to feel the pull of weed, enjoying the way his body has started to feel heavy, his brain processing everything that little bit slower.

"How do you know Jonny?" Eddie asks.

"Who?" Steve says, before his brain catches up. "Oh, Jonathan. We were roommates. In college."

A look of recognition passes over Eddie's face and he claps again, making Steve jump and almost drop the joint onto the patio tiles. "You're Steve."

The way Eddie says his name, so forcefully and drawn out, makes something stir in Steve's stomach. Plenty of people have said his name; his parents with an air of annoyance, coach with admiration or admonishment depending on the time, and many women either whispering or screaming it in the middle of sex. But none of them have ever said it in the way that Eddie just did.

"Guilty," Steve says.

"I should've known," Eddie says, making a sweeping gesture with his hand in reference to Steve's person. Steve sucks hard on the joint to distract himself from the way Eddie’s looking at him is making him feel. "The jock and the outcast, sharing a smoke and having a conversation not born of malice. I bet our high school selves would be so confused to see us right now.

"So I'm guessing you had the same thought as me coming here," Eddie continues, taking the joint from Steve. "After party in the fanciest area of Brooklyn, all the rich types going wild doing blow and god knows what else? I mean, I was under no illusion that it would be dancing on tables and doing keg stands or whatever, but honestly? This is the shittiest party I've ever had the displeasure of attending."

Steve watches as Eddie manoeuvres the joint into an easier position so that he can smoke the rest of it down. It’s nearly down to the filter, and Steve feels disappointed by that for some reason.

"It's not so bad," Steve says with a shrug.

Eddie flicks the end uncaringly into the pool, blowing a plume of smoke up into the air as he does so. Steve looks away, focusing instead on the end of the joint floating on the water. In his periphery, Eddie edges closer to Steve, knocking their shoulders together.

"Are you saying you're enjoying my company, pretty boy?"

Steve rolls his eyes. "That's the third time you've called me that."

"Flattery always works," Eddie says with a shrug and a wink. "Besides, it's not like you don’t know it's true. It's also thrilling to me that you've been counting. Most people stop listening when I start talking. They only listen to what I have to say when I'm screaming into a microphone."

"I don't think that's true." Steve frowns, thinking about how plenty of Eddie's monologues in his interviews have been reported on. Granted, his words always seem to get twisted and he’s then painted to be a bit of a nutcase, but people are listening.

"It's whatever," Eddie says, clapping yet again and making Steve jump, yet again. He can definitely feel the effects of the weed now, his tolerance being pretty low since he gave up smoking when he joined the Bulls.

Eddie starts rolling another joint and Steve can’t help but be entranced by the movement, the light from the house glinting off his rings and making his fingers look sinister, dangerous somehow. Steve supposes they are, to an extent. He thinks Eddie probably has more musical talent in those fingers than most people have in their whole bodies.

“What’s with the rings?” Steve blurts, then shrugs lazily when Eddie looks at him questioningly. Steve feels his cheeks start to colour. “I mean, isn’t it hard to play guitar with all that metal getting in the way?”

“Metal is metal,” Eddie says nonsensically, then he starts laughing at Steve’s bewildered expression. “I’ve never seen anyone look so confused, like, all the time. Everything okay up there, buddy?” Eddie reaches up and taps a knuckle against Steve’s temple. “Is it the weed or are you just this adorably clueless-looking as a default?”

A slow smile spreads across Steve’s face, and oh yeah, he’s definitely high. “So I’m adorable now? What happened to pretty?”

He can feel himself pouting, he just can’t stop himself.

“You’re pretty adorable,” Eddie says. He licks at the paper of the joint before handing it and the box of matches over to Steve. “Now stop fishing for compliments you don’t need to fish for, and smoke up.”

“It sure looks like you’re trying to get me high, Munson.” Steve lights the joint between his lips and inhales deeply, not feeling the urge to cough as much this time. He decides to show off a little bit—and he isn’t really sure why—by blowing smoke rings across the water.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” Eddie asks, looking at him with an expression that Steve can’t discern. It makes him feel warm, though. Like both the smoke and Eddie’s gaze are lighting him up from the inside where the loneliness of this evening has made him dark.

Steve lifts one shoulder. “Let’s just say I’m a man of many talents.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Eddie says with a wide grin, plucking the joint from Steve’s fingers and taking a long drag. When he speaks, his voice sounds strange, distorted by the smoke in his lungs. “I’m just wondering how many joints it’ll take for you to show me some of them.”

Steve may be high, and he may be in a state of disbelief that he’s sitting here in some rich dude’s backyard with Eddie Freaking Munson, and he may have been considered on many occasions not to be the sharpest tool in the box, but it sure as hell sounds like Eddie is flirting with him.

Steve takes a deep breath before he lets himself fall backwards, arm pillowing his head as he looks up towards the night sky, the burning sensation in his gut making his limbs feel heavy.

“I guess we’ll just have to find out.”

Steve’s not aware how much time has passed since Eddie left the party inside and joined him by the pool. He is aware of a few things though, like how his right side is warm where Eddie’s pressed tight against him, how the yellow of the light pollution overhead reminds him of being home in Chicago, how much his sides ache from laughing—unsure whether it’s the weed making everything seem hilarious or whether Eddie is just that funny.

They talk for what feels like hours, and Eddie’s telling him about the first time one of the guys in Corroded Coffin’s support band got blackout drunk—which was entirely Eddie’s fault—and Steve doesn’t really know why, but he has tears in his eyes and his head hurts from laughing so much.

“—so they have a phone backstage for, like, emergencies. In case there’s a fire and they need to evacuate, or whatever. And Henderson was so fucking out of his mind, screaming that he needed to call his girlfriend and tell her he loved her and shit. Just strode up to this phone and started slapping at the numbers. Me and his band were just, beside ourselves watching this little fucker making an ass out of himself being an absolute mess. But it gets better, my friend, oh it gets better.”

Eddie pauses dramatically, taking a few breaths like he’s trying to compose himself enough to continue the story. “Ever since they were kids and started dating, he and his girlfriend sing the song from The Never Ending Story. You know the one…written on the pages, is the answer to a neverending story,” Eddie sings in an exaggerated operatic-style, making Steve burst into more giggles. “So he’s just warbling it drunkenly into the receiver, and he doesn’t…he doesn’t realise that he’s pressed the button which turns the tannoy on. So everyone in the whole venue can hear him.”

Steve can barely see he’s crying with laughter so much, but he can make out the vague shape of Eddie looking over at him. When he blinks the moisture out of his eyes, Eddie’s own are crinkled at the corners, his smile wide.

“Honestly, man. I wish we’d had a film crew there to catch the whole thing. I thought Sinclair was gonna piss his pants, he was laughing so hard.”

Steve blows out a shaky breath, trying to control his breathing so he doesn't start laughing again. He doesn’t even know these kids, but the way Eddie speaks about them, he can picture them and the whole story unfolding so clearly in his mind. But that’s Eddie all over, isn’t it? He’s a storyteller.

Steve feels like he could just lay there and listen to him talk all night. Just lay there and laugh with him until the sun comes up and they get chased off the property. It’s a jarring feeling, and it affords him a moment of sober clarity.

Eddie’s still looking at him, head turned and in line with Steve’s own as they lay on the hard patio. He feels impossibly close, and their eyes meet. Steve can’t help but stare, because Eddie’s are so big and brown and up close, Steve can see the remnants of eyeliner smudged under his bottom lashes. He swallows against the dryness in his mouth, his breath becoming laboured under the weight of Eddie’s heavy gaze.

“You’ve got a…” Eddie turns so that he’s on his side, propping himself up on one elbow before he reaches out and brushes his thumb gently over Steve’s temple. Steve can feel Eddie’s thumb tracking through the tacky wetness brought on by his laughter.

Steve’s breath hitches at the tenderness of the touch, his stomach swooping and that burning sensation returning. He knows then that it has nothing to do with the weed and everything to do with Eddie.

“You are so—”

Eddie’s cut off by the sound of the sliding door opening, and Eddie rips his hand away from Steve’s cheek like he’s been burned, the moment broken.

“I’ve been looking for you two.” Jonathan’s voice comes from the direction of the house. He sounds like a harried mother who’s misplaced her children; a tone which Steve normally would have teased him for, but can’t bring himself to now, suddenly feeling exhausted and confused. “Party’s over.”

“And it was just getting good,” Eddie says, sitting up, holding out a hand to Steve. Steve takes it and lets himself be pulled up to sitting. He blinks, trying to get his bearings and float back down to reality before he mirrors Eddie and stands up.

Jonathan’s standing by the door, tie loosened and hands on his hips. He’s looking between the two of them with a curious expression. Jonathan raises an eyebrow at Steve, who just shrugs, walking away from Eddie, who’s gathering his smokes, matches and the bag of weed from the patio.

“Come on,” Jonathan says, turning to head back into the house. “We can all share a cab.”

“Eddie, seriously?” Nancy says from the front seat of the cab as Eddie lights up a cigarette. Steve, Eddie and Jonathan are all crammed together in the back. “Can you at least crack a window?”

Eddie leans forward and blows smoke straight into Nancy’s face, making her cough. Steve stifles a laugh, still feeling the effects of the weed a little.

“Hey!” Jonathan admonishes, leaning over Steve and Eddie to roll the window down on Eddie’s side of the car. “Not cool, dude.”

“Can I ask you something, Jonny?” Eddie asks, blowing smoke sideways from his mouth and out of the window. “Did you tell Miss Prissy here that she couldn’t drink tonight or is there another reason she’s been laying off the alcohol and is fighting the urge to barf right now?”

The colour drains from Jonathan’s face.

“How did you—” he says.

“No puking in my cab!” the driver says at the same time.

“Eddie,” Nancy says, voice dangerous. She has sweat beading on her forehead, her bangs sticking to the skin there and at her temples.

“Relax,” Eddie says. “I’m not gonna tell anyone. I’m just wondering what the lovely Mr and Mrs Wheeler would say if they knew. No wonder you’re planning to put a rock on her finger, Jonny-boy.”

“Eddie,” Jonathan says, tone dangerous in the same way Nancy’s had been.

Steve’s so confused, looking between the three of them in quick succession in a way which makes his head spin. It’s no use, he’s completely lost.

Eddie must catch his confused look because he pats Steve’s thigh, looking almost sympathetic.

“What’s going on?” he asks, feeling stupid and out of the loop.

Eddie bumps their shoulders together. He has a strange look on his face, a mix between mischievous and mean, and Steve really doesn’t want to unpack just how much that look is making him feel, despite it not even being directed at him.

“Nance here,” Eddie says, taking a long drag of his cigarette and exhaling it extra slowly, as if he’s trying to build the tension, which works, “is pregnant.”

Jonathan sighs, turning his head to look out the window and muttering about how goddamn fucking observant Eddie is, while Nancy dabs at her brow with a handkerchief.

Steve knows it’s stupid, but his stomach drops. He and Nancy had dated for nearly the entirety of their college freshman year. They had discussed what they wanted for their futures at length, and the vast differences in their visions had been what had forced them into the decision to break up in the end.

Steve has always wanted the 2.4 kids and picket-fence American Dream house with a yard big enough for a hoop so he can teach his sons—and daughters—to play ball. He remembers the way Nancy literally recoiled at the admission, before pasting on a false smile and patting Steve’s arm. “That’s nice,” she had said, in a way which had given Steve the impression that she thought it was anything but.

And then she had met Jonathan, who wanted a career in photography just as much as Nancy wanted one in journalism. Not much room for babies there, Steve thought at the time, desperately trying to be happy for his friends and definitely not thinking about how he was desperate to retire at thirty-five and settle down.

So colour him surprised at this news, which by all accounts should be happy news—there should be hugs and back-slaps and congratulations—but all Steve can think about is how betrayed he feels. The betrayal quickly turns to guilt, settling heavy in his gut, because he has no right to feel the way he does right then.

“Hey, Steve, you okay?” Eddie’s voice is soft, concerned in a way that brings him back to reality. “You kinda look like you wanna barf now too.”

“No. Puking.”

Eddie waves a hand dismissively in the direction of the cab driver before he flicks his half-smoked cigarette out of the window.

“I’m good.” Steve swallows, ignoring the sour taste in his mouth. “I just, really need some water.”

“That dry-mouth getting to you, huh?”

Steve nods dumbly, staring straight ahead. It’s quiet in the cab for a few minutes, nothing but the soft rumble of the wheels moving against the asphalt as the car meanders through the New York streets. Steve closes his eyes tight against a sting that shouldn’t have taken him by surprise.

He feels the car start to slow after a few more minutes and he blinks his eyes open again, thanking god when they remain dry. The cab pulls up outside a large apartment building, and Steve feels his face twist into confusion again.

“Well, this is me,” Eddie says. He pats at his pockets, his fingers brushing Steve’s thigh. It gives him something to think about besides the sadness filling him up. “Nancy, Jonny, I’ll catch you guys later.” Nancy doesn’t turn around or reply, and Jonathan just huffs and raises his hand in farewell. “Steve, it’s been a pleasure.”

Eddie pops the door open and slides out before Steve can reply. Steve moves over into Eddie’s vacated seat, wanting to put some distance between him and Jonathan. Eddie closes the door but turns around to lean through the open window. Steve looks up at him, breath hitching at how the streetlight is backlighting him, a halo of orange shining behind him. He passes Steve a cigarette, and Steve reaches up to take it from him, movements slow and questioning.

“One for the road,” Eddie tells him, grinning. And then he’s gone, disappearing up the stone steps and into the apartment building. The cab begins to move, heading in the direction of the skyscrapers of Manhattan in the distance.

Steve looks down at the cigarette in his hand, bringing it closer to his face when he notices that it’s covered in black smudges. They’re numbers, Steve realises after a moment, and the realisation makes his heart pound in his chest.

“I’m telling you, Jonathan,” Nancy says, her voice hard as steel. “That boy is bad news.”

Steve really, really hopes not.