Archive of Our Own ^beta

.

Steve has never been to the bar on the outskirts of Hawkins and, in the dark, he almost misses his turn.

"Shit," he curses as it pops up. He hits his brakes, jerks his steering wheel to the left. The car bounces as it goes over the edge of the paved road. "Shit—!"

His tires kick up gravel as he drives down a short incline towards the bar. There's a slab of cracked concrete jutting out from the front, a parking lot in name only; it is unable to accommodate more than six cars, and Steve ends up parking further away on a patch of packed dirt, between a pickup and a rusty Chevelle.

"Shit," Steve mutters a third time. His fingers flex off the steering wheel, white-knuckled. He's been distracted all day, thinking of this moment, thoughts circling around what he might find inside the bar. To himself he says, "Focus, Steve. Get your head in the game."

Taking a deep steadying breath, Steve unbuckles his seatbelt. Gets out of the car. Closes his eyes and briefly tilts his head towards the waxing gibbous moon. The crisp October air and the silver moonlight caress his cheeks, dual sensations that help center him. He doesn't know why his nerves are frayed; he's lived through three separate almost-apocalypses, and he's stronger and scarier than anything in the bar.

Well, probably. Steve is probably stronger and scarier than anything in the bar. Neither El nor Will have mentioned sensing anything strange since the gates to the Upside Down were closed months ago, but... that smell...

And now Steve's here. Following his instincts, for better or worse.

Double checking that he has his keys and wallet tucked into his back pocket, Steve shuts the car door. Steps out of the shadows and into the faint circle of light blooming from the entrance, a caged lightbulb above a rusted aluminum door. Two women—older than Steve by several years—watch quietly as he approaches the building. Their eyes scrape down his body, taking in his styled hair and expensive watch.

Subtly, Steve tilts his chin upwards and scents the air. Breathes in and in and in until his lungs push the limits of his ribs, a stretch of muscle and bone that aches and assures. He smells everything: the decaying leaves and rich petrichor of the forest, the astringent linger of rubber and gasoline from the cars, the sweat and oil of bodies. Nothing out of place or unfamiliar or wrong. Steve's shoulders relax as he exhales with the knowledge that these women are both human. Wearing a lot of rose-rot perfume, but human.

"Lost, handsome?" one of the women asks. She has a cigarette tucked between two fingers and a leer curling the edge of her lipsticked mouth.

"I don't think so." Steve's smile is easy, loose and confident and a little dumb. It's the smile he gave to teachers when he was barely passing his classes in high school; the smile he gave to businessmen when his parents tried to show him off; the smile he gave to hospital workers who frowned at his lack of bruises and police officers who asked leading questions and government officials who had him sign the dotted line for his silence. "Corroded Coffin's playing tonight, yeah?"

"Sure," the woman says with a shrug.

The other woman's eyes flicker down his body again, taking his measure. She asks, "That your thing?" and the words are gentle in a way that could be genial or mocking.

"Sure," Steve says with a shrug.

Both of them laugh at being mimicked. Bring their cigarettes to their mouths. Give him one more long look. Steve doesn't know who or what he's here for, but it's not them. They know it too, and neither speaks again as Steve slips past them and through the entrance.

Inside, the bar is as Steve imagined. Moody lighting, air hazy with smoke, floor riddled with cracked open peanut shells and spat out popcorn kernels. Everyone is dressed in ripped denim and black leather. Steve had put on a dark green polo in a vague attempt to blend in, but his crisp Nikes and light wash jeans are too new, too clean, and he gets a few raised eyebrows from nearby patrons.

Steve understands the scrutiny. The bar caters to a different crowd of outcasts than the band of weirdos Steve runs with and—up until two days ago—he never imagined he'd be here, alone on a Saturday night.

Hell, he still doesn't know why he's here. Not exactly. He had just caught a trace of that smell in the diner, lingering strong in the corner of a torn vinyl booth. Then he caught that smell again on a flyer stapled to a telephone pole outside and down the block. Unthinkingly, he had lifted his hand and ran his palm slowly down the flimsy piece of paper, as though that smell would seep out of the flyer and into his skin.

It didn't, though. When Steve brought his hand back up to his nose and inhaled deeply, he had barely caught the traces. A huff of disappointment escaped his throat—rumbling at the top like a growl—and he turned to walk away, agitated, when he remembered words, dumbass.

There had been words on that flyer, bold white on black. Words he read carefully, silently mouthing each syllable, trying hard not to let the letters shuffle.

CORRODED COFFIN was printed at the top. Below was a demonic graphic of a man with horns and red eyes and fangs and—beneath that—was a date and a time and a place. Steve touched the paper again, this time with his fingertips.

There, Steve's instincts had howled, a klaxon of impatience and surety. There, there, there.

Now. Here.

Ignoring the half-curious, half-wary glances upon entering, Steve walks over to the bar with practiced nonchalance, the false disinterest a worn mask from his days as high school royalty. He nods at the bartender and exchanges a couple bucks for a pint. Beer doesn't do much for him, not anymore, but it's good to have something in his hand.

Drinking gives him something to do. Drinking allows him to blend in. Drinking makes him look normal.

Normal. Steve mentally scoffs as he brings the pint glass up to his mouth. The taste isn't bad—not like the cheap shit Tommy used to procure for house parties in beat-up kegs—and the glass is cold against his palm. Yeah right.

Licking the foam from his upper lip, Steve makes his way to an unoccupied table. Most of the people in the bar are crowded around the empty stage towards the back or lingering in the booths; fewer are by the high-top tables pushed to the edges of the room. Steve finds one that hasn't been staked out, moving the barstool so he remains standing and putting his back to the wall.

Minutes pass. People glance at Steve less and less until he fades into the background of their minds. He's alone, they rationalize. Not one of them, not a part of the crowd—but not causing any trouble either.

Idly, Steve drinks his beer. Keeps it in his hand as condensation pearls on the outside of the glass. It's hot inside this squat ugly building, unventilated and filled with bodies, and the air is thick with cigarette smoke and sweat and the artificial chemicals. Steve's nose twitches at the heaviness of it. He wants to sneeze. Wants to put his beer down, wants to sprint back out into the night. The forest tangled just off the old highway smells so much better than the confines of the bar: the loamy rain-drenched soil, the sweetness of decaying organic matter, the last green of a fading summer.

But Steve doesn't leave. The memory of that smell and the cagey anticipation that has been building in his bones keep him rooted. So instead of escaping out into the night, Steve takes deep breaths. He acclimates to the layers of scents trapped in the bar and, slowly, he sifts through the mess of it, trying to find that smell in the chaos.

The task is difficult but, oddly, it soothes Steve. Some of the scents he unravels are sharply unpleasant, like the nearby bathrooms or the bleach bucket under the bar counter, while other scents are unexpected: a burst of peppermint gum and a drooping lilac soap, the cologne his dad wears and the detergent Robin uses.

Nothing unusual though.

Nothing... not human.

None of that smell.

Frustrated, Steve opens his eyes. He must have closed them at some point during his concentrated scent-sleuthing, and the unchanged landscape of the bar greets him. A sound escapes him, neither sigh nor scoff; it's deeper, down in his chest rather than in his throat.

Whoever—whatever—left that smell behind in the diner, on the flyer, isn't here.

Disappointment rolls through Steve. He makes another one of those sounds, barely audible, then tilts his head back and chugs the last third of his beer. As he used to be a keg-stand legend—a king among peasants and sycophants—muscle memory takes over and it goes down easy. When drained, Steve sets the glass back down on the high table. Looks at the traces of white foam clinging to the insides and weighs his options.

He could get another beer and stay.

He could wipe his damp hands on his jeans and leave.

Both feel depressingly like giving up.

Maybe that smell that was smeared on the CORRODED COFFIN flyer was coincidental, Steve thinks as his thumb presses against the empty glass. Maybe whoever—whatever—had sat in the diner had also accidentally brushed against the telephone pole. Maybe there is no connection between an amateur metal band and the awareness clawing out of Steve's hindbrain. Maybe Steve had just made another incorrect assumption and is wasting a precious Saturday off because of it.

Stupid. It's stupid. He should have talked to Robin, or Nancy, or one of the kids instead of keeping the discovery of that smell to himself. Someone else would have come up with a better plan than him, something other than the half-formed idea that led him to this dead-end.

Running a hand absently over his hair, Steve decides not to waste any more time or money. It will look weird, leaving after one beer and ten minutes, not even waiting for the band to begin, but Steve's used to odd looks. There's something not right about him after being transformed by the Upside Down. People can tell he's different, even if he still looks the same most of the time—sans the full moon and those terrifying berserker moments when his friends are threatened.

And no matter what Dustin claims, he definitely does not look like Steve Harrington when he goes full werewolf.

Stepping away from his table, Steve puts his hands in his pockets and turns towards the front door. His instincts snap restlessly, caged by absence and logic. He wants to find the source of that smell, wants to bury his nose in it, wants to breathe it in and in and in until his lungs hurt. It isn't that weird of an urge to him—he scents everyone he cares for, to different degrees—but it is weird that he doesn't know what that smell is attached to.

It could be anyone. It could be anything. It could be—

The entrance door swings open.

The hairs on the back of Steve's neck stand on end.

Four men walk in. The missing band, with their wild hair and leather jackets. The stench of weed hits Steve like a wall and he reaches up to rub at his nose when—

That smell.

Beneath the rank, overpowering scent of a recently finished joint, that smell lies quiet and still. It does not remind Steve of one thing in particular, but of many: an empty night sky, a metal necklace worn too long, freshly tilled cold earth and the first brittle frost. It has the edge of something chemical, though not as pungent or off-putting. It is something organic, something natural, like sweat dried to salt in the recessed hollows of cool skin.

The scent makes Steve's head swim. He feels simultaneously weightless and heavy, and his instincts are howling, a cacophony drowning out all rational thought. His gums itch. His bones ache. His flesh prickles. The transformation wants to take hold of him so he can bare his sharp teeth and show his soft stomach. He's never felt like this before. The monster within him is eager to be known, eager to please. That smell is worse than life-threatening danger or the pull of the full moon.

Roughly, Steve scrubs the back of his hand over his nose to block the scent. Sucks a breath in through his mouth and shakes his head to clear it of fogginess. He can't just shift into a werewolf in the middle of a crowded bar, no matter how used to the strange and inexplicable Hawkins has become.

"Hey," someone says in an unfamiliar baritone. "Are you...?"

Steve looks up.

The world narrows.

Standing in front of him is one of the band members. His long hair is a wild halo around his moon-pale face and heavy bangs fall into his night-dark eyes. Silver studs run up his earlobes; silver chains drip in layers from his neck; silver rings rest heavy on his fingers. He isn't wearing a shirt underneath his leather jacket, and Steve's eyes get stuck on the smudge of multiple tattoos and the sweet divot of his belly button.

"Well, fuck me," the guy says. Steve drags his eyes back up and sees a grin, wide and easy, and dimpled cheeks. "You're Steve Harrington."

That smell is coming from him. It rests peacefully beneath the herbal dank of weed smoke and hairspray and off-brand cologne, and Steve sways where he stands. Even breathing through his slack-jawed mouth, knuckles pressed hard against his nose, that smell batters Steve's senses. It demands attention and praise and weak-kneed worship.

"You—" Steve chokes. He wants to put his face in the hollow of that naked throat, his nose behind that pierced ear. It takes all of his willpower to do neither. "You're—"

"It's okay if you don't remember me, dude. We moved in completely separate social circles. Separate social galaxies really. And I moved away like, three years ago? Four?" The guy shrugs, quick and quirky. "Eddie Munson. I was a grade above you."

Eddie Munson. It doesn't ring with any familiarity in Steve's cloudy brain. Given how drawn Steve is to the scent rising from Eddie's skin, he feels like he should remember—like some memory should emerge from his buried subconscious—but nothing does. He has no recollection of Eddie at all.

"Eddie," Steve says aloud. His eyes skitter over the angles of Eddie's face. "You're..."

The grin on Eddie's face wanes slightly, the friendliness bending to caution. Steve hates it. He remembers what he was like in high school—before all his transformations, physical and emotional and mental—and winces internally. He might not remember Eddie Munson, but Eddie Munson certainly remembers who he used to be.

"Sorry," Steve blurts, pulling his hand away from his nose. "You just—"

Steve bites off the end of that sentence. 'You just smell really good' is not something a normal person would say—not that Steve is normal, not anymore—and silence limps awkwardly behind the unfinished sentence. It trails on, and on, and Eddie's smile becomes even more wary, even more brittle.

"I'm just... what?" Eddie asks softly as he moves a step closer into Steve's space. He reaches up with one hand and hooks a finger through the buttons on Steve's polo, knuckles against Steve's chest, then drops his chin and looks at Steve from under his mascara heavy eyelashes. His face is inches away. "Tell me, Harrington. I'm just... what?"

I am really fucking this up, Steve thinks. Eddie's lowered voice and his closeness aren't flirtations; they're threats. Eddie is getting ready for a fight while Steve struggles not to reach out and burrow his face into Eddie's neck.

"Well?" Eddie murmurs as the white sclera of his eyes flood liquid black. There is no sheen to them in the dim light, the surface as depthless as shadow. "What do you wanna say to me, big boy?"

The words are special. The words are strange. The words bounce around in Steve's brain like ping-pong balls in a box—but instead of losing momentum, they pick up speed and knock the truth out of him. It's easy to explain now that Eddie's asked in his special and strange way.

"You smelled good," Steve murmurs honestly. With no hesitation or any other input from the rational portion of his brain, both of his hands come up to rest on Eddie's leather-wrapped forearm. Steve's nails are starting to sharpen into claws and his jaw aches as it shifts to accommodate his lengthening teeth. "Smelled you in the diner. Smelled you on the flyer." Steve inhales through his nose, eyelids fluttering shut as he pulls in Eddie's irresistible scent. "Smell you now." Steve opens his eyes. "Wanna bite you."

"What?" says Eddie.

"Wanna put my teeth in you," Steve clarifies. Then, because Eddie asked in his special and strange way, Steve adds, "Want you to bite me too."

Eddie's jaw drops and the hand at Steve's sternum twitches. His blackened eyes widen. He takes in Steve's claws and fangs and crimson-stained irises. He swallows, throat bobbing, and murmurs, fascinated, "You're like me."

They stare at each other, two monsters in a bar crowded with humans.

"Yeah," Steve whispers. "I'm like you."

Eddie's fingers slip from Steve's shirt. Steve lets go of Eddie's forearm. Neither of them steps away, however, and the scant space between their bodies remains as present as a physical touch. They feel connected in a way Steve cannot explain; he thinks that even if he tried, the right words to describe their connection do not exist.

"Well fuck." Eddie barks out a laugh. He runs a ring-clad hand through the mane of his hair and blinks the inky shadows from his eyes. Steve watches, mesmerized. "Holy shit, dude."

"Yeah," Steve breathes.

"Like—holy shit." Eddie laughs again. It's a little high-pitched, a little forced, but Steve understands. He had burst into hysterical giggles the first time Dustin used the word 'werewolf', even though nothing about being transformed into a monster at seventeen was remotely funny. "I've never—I've never met anyone else who was—" Eddie cuts himself off. Untangles his fingers from his curls. Takes a deep breath and says, "I have like, so many questions. So, so many."

"Okay." Steve nods eagerly, wanting to please. "We can talk."

"Talk. Yeah. I'd... like that." Eddie grins, cheeks dimpling, eyes glinting. "You'll stay until the set's done?"

The set is a foreign concept that sits ill in Steve's brain, and it takes several long seconds for Steve to process them. For him to remember that Eddie is here for different reasons than he is. That Eddie wasn't driven to the bar by bizarre instinct. That Eddie is supposed to get on stage and perform, not be whisked away without notice.

"Right," Steve murmurs, thinking again of the flyer he read so carefully. "Corroded Coffin."

"That's us." Eddie's teeth dig into his lower lip. "So? You're staying?"

Steve blinks. It's only been a few minutes since Eddie appeared, but the agitation he's felt for the past two days has finally settled. He's found the source of that smell. He's found Eddie. Short of another almost-apocalypse, Steve knows that little could make him leave the bar alone.

"Yeah," Steve promises. "I'll stay."

.

.

Secure in the promise of later, Eddie leaves Steve with a wink and a swagger. He heads to the bar where his bandmates wait, and Steve's eyes unconsciously follow, watching as Eddie loops a long arm around one set of shoulders and claps the flat of his palm against another's skinny back. Two of the band members dart curious glances at Steve, while the third downs a shot before he jabs Eddie in the chest with his elbow.

Shot Guy says something.

Eddie throws back his head and barks a laugh. His long curly hair cascades down his back, a dark river that stops halfway down his spine; it is only a few shades lighter than his black leather jacket, shadow upon shadow. Steve wonders what made Eddie laugh like that—if he could make Eddie laugh like that—and unintentionally focuses on the conversation.

"—here for a metal cover band? I mean, he's wearing a polo for chrissakes," Shot Guy continues. A normal person wouldn't be able to hear their conversation from across the bar, but Steve can understand Shot Guy as though they were standing side by side. "Doesn't seem like his kind of thing."

"Can't say," Eddie replies easily. "I'll ask him after."

"After?" snorts the band member who Eddie clapped on the back. "Seriously?"

"What can I say? The polo really does it for me." Eddie flashes a sharp grin and takes a step away, his arms falling back to his sides. "Now, do you losers want to stay here and keep gossiping, or do you want to go play some fucking music?"

His bandmates grumble and roll their eyes, but follow Eddie as he winds his way through the bar toward the stage. As he moves, people step aside, creating a temporary chasm in the crowd. Steve wonders if they move so easily because Eddie is a part of the band or because they can tell Eddie's not completely human. Perhaps they can see the subtle grace to his movements that hint at the monster beneath. Perhaps they can sense the predatory tension curled in every muscle fiber. Or perhaps it's something else entirely, an otherness they're familiar with and know to avoid.

This is Hawkins, after all. A town that was cracked open to let another dimension bleed through. A town that survived the strange horrors of the Upside Down but was left with deep scars. A town that was forced to know and could not forget, as much as it pretended otherwise.

Hell, there was still construction on some of the rift-damaged roads. Steve passed them nearly every day on his way to and from work.

Stepping onto the stage—a plain, wooden platform rising a couple feet from the floor—Steve watches Eddie crouch down and pull a guitar out of a scuffed and sticker-covered case. The guitar is shaped oddly, like a fat, warped 'X', and is painted a gleaming cherry red. There's a thick strap clipped to the body—plain black and worn leather—that Eddie pulls smoothly over his shoulder, before letting the guitar settle naturally against one bony hip.

Steve's mouth goes dry. He's transfixed by the way Eddie flips his long, long hair over his shoulder and moves into the spotlight; the way he leans into the main microphone and folds both hands over the body; the way he gets close, lips against the mesh grille, and purrs, "Testing, testing, one two three! How's it sounding, hometown Indiana?"

A roar from the crowd. Arms in the air, energy already building. Eddie smirks, the lights overhead glinting in his dark liquid eyes.

"Come on, man, that was weak." Behind Eddie, the other members of the band take their places. Another guitarist, a bassist, a drummer. They all test their instruments at once, a minor cacophony that blends in with the second roar of the crowd, a discordant amalgamation of noise that grates against Steve's sensitive ears. Eddie laughs again—an exhalation of air over the microphone—and says, "Better, Hawkins. Better."

There is a hint of praise in Eddie's voice. It isn't directed at Steve, but he feels the approval curl inside him anyway, faint but undeniable, like an echo of starlight in the velvet night.

Steve inhales. Puts his impatient, aching hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Later, he tells himself. Later.

The band has already set up. Their instruments are in place, cables criss-crossing over the stage like the ordered chaos of veins and arteries in a body. The drummer taps the high hat; the bassist warbles a deep note; the other guitarist strums a chord. Eddie's hands fall from the microphone and rest on his own guitar, his ring-studded fingers coaxing an unfamiliar melody from the strings.

"Thought we'd start out with a little Ozzy tonight," Eddie says as he plays. One corner of his mouth pulls higher than the other. "Usually, I only like to play this on full moons—I like to set the scene you know—but I'm feeling inspired since Halloween is right around the corner. So..."

The notes Eddie had been plucking out become knifelike. The other guitarist picks it up and—at the same time—the drummer hits both the crash cymbal and snare drum.

Steve flinches back. He had not been expecting the sudden influx of noise, and his ears need a second to adjust to the change in volume. One hand reaches up to rub at his temple and—

"Screams break the silence, waking from the dead of night," Eddie begins to sing after the short musical intro. "Vengeance is boiling, he's returned to kill the light."

Eddie's voice is wildly different from anything Steve listens to on the radio. It sounds stretched, as though Eddie is about to start screaming at any moment, but is still low and clean. While he sings, his mouth moves like an exaggeration against the microphone, as though every word is too big for his tongue and teeth to bite into smaller pieces.

Steve likes it. Eddie's voice, Eddie's mouth. He likes how Eddie's bottom lip stays pressed to the mesh grille in a long honeyed kiss.

"Then when he's found who he's looking for," Eddie continues, unaware of how his presence burrows deeper and deeper into the marrow of Steve's bones. "Listen in awe and you'll hear him—bark at the moon!"

A short instrumental break. Eddie's fingers fly over the strings of his guitar, never once losing their rhythm, and he sways as he plays, hips sinuous, weight shifting from one booted foot to the other. The lights pointed at the stage bleach his skin of what little color it has and make him glow, a luminous moon Steve cannot look away from.

"Years spent in torment. Buried in a nameless grave. Now he is risen, miracles would have to save those that the beast is looking for."

So close to the microphone, every breath Eddie sucks in between each line becomes audible. It gives the song an added pulse—a heartbeat—life. Something only Eddie can give it. It's like the special and strange way Eddie coaxed the truth from Steve earlier, making Steve lean involuntarily forward, wanting to get closer.

"Listen in awe and you'll hear him—bark at the moon! He~ey, ye~ah—bark at the moon!"

Eddie pulls back from the microphone. Looks over the already writhing mass of limbs packed in front of him and to Steve, still standing where Eddie left him. Their eyes meet over the many heads of the crowd. Eddie pulls his lips back from his teeth in an exaggerated snarl and gnashes his spit-slick canines, glittering ivory in the bright lights.

Werewolf, Steve realizes.

The song is about a werewolf.

Music fast-paced and unrelenting, Eddie sings about a demonic and twisted creature bent on revenge. Steve isn't any of those things—not really—but that doesn't stop him from pressing a helpless smile into the back of his hand. Because Eddie is serenading him. Sure, he's serenading him with a metal song about a bloodthirsty monster, but it's cute.

A little odd, but cute.

"Howling in shadows, living in a lunar spell," sings Eddie as one hand flys up and down the neck of his guitar. He keeps up with the other guitarist, not missing a single note. "He finds his heaven, spewing from the mouth of hell. Those that the beast is looking for! Listen in awe and you'll hear him—bark at the moon!"

Eddie's voice gets more tense, tilting further and further to a scream as he belts out the final round of the chorus. The drums hit harder; the bass digs lower; the guitars wail.

Then—

After the last refrain—

Eddie tilts his head back and howls. The length of his throat gleams with sweat, errant curls of his wild hair stuck to his moonpale skin. His tendons and the bump of his Adam's apple stand out. Steve's eyes are drawn down the long, medial line of his body, from the tip of his chin to the flat of his naked belly, where his leather pants ride low, flesh stretched taut over the bony crests of his hips.

Steve's gums ache as his teeth grow at the sight. He wants to bite Eddie so badly he takes an unconscious step forward.

But he can't. Not here, not now.

So instead of pushing through the crowd and making his determined way to Eddie, Steve shoves a hand over his drooling mouth and forces his gaze down to his white Nikes. He concentrates on the broken peanut shells and discarded popcorn kernels, and imagines that the world around him is shrinking; imagines that he can't see better or hear better or smell better than he used to; imagines that his senses are muffled.

It's difficult. More difficult than it's been since those first several months, when every upset had him shaking and snapping and flashing the warning red of his monstrous eyes. If it hadn't have been for Dustin and the kids stumbling to teach him control—well. Steve still doesn't like to think about it. His senior year of high school was bad in nearly every conceivable way, from his messy break-up with Nancy, to getting his ass kicked by Billy, to the unexpected way the Upside Down transformed him.

Fucking demodogs. Fucking Dart.

On stage, the wild music of the song comes to an abrupt halt. The small crowd howls—weak imitations of what Eddie has done, of what Steve can do—and Eddie laughs, delighted.

"Thank you, Hawkins!" he crows. "Now, for our next song..."

The drummer starts tapping rhythmically on the high hat. The bassist follows almost immediately, and then the guitarist. The energy from the last song carries easily into this one, even though it's vaguely slower; somehow, the low notes grinding out of the amp are a complement to the previous wail, not a juxtaposition.

"I want to reach out, and touch the sky," Eddie begins. His voice is an octave higher and it skirts the edge of strained, pushed expertly to the upper portion of his range. "I want to touch the sun but I don't need to fly."

Steve wants to watch Eddie again. Wants to watch his long fingers scrape down the strings of his strange electric guitar, wants to watch his throat struggle to stay on pitch.

"I'm gonna climb up every mountain on the moon," sings Eddie, "—and find the dish that ran away with the spoon."

The instincts Steve has spent the last two years fighting with once again lash at his control, a powerful feeling that is something new and unexpected. Steve has never wanted to bite someone the way that he wants to bite Eddie. Not in a feral hurtful way—like when he tore up demobats in the Upside Down, black gore viscous on his tongue and wedged stringy between his molars—or in the weird, affectionate way he sometimes nibbles Robin's arm.

No. This is different. He needs his hand in Eddie's hair, holding the thick mane of curls aside as he digs his teeth into the meat of Eddie's shoulder. Needs to break the skin and sink into the muscle. Needs to get in so deep that Eddie will scar and bear Steve's mark for the rest of his life.

Mine, Steve thinks. Need to make him mine.

Oddly, the thought grounds him. It should be too big, too permanent, too soon, but the idea of making Eddie his carries a comfort. It was the same with Eddie's scent. The search for the source of that smell had made Steve cagey and restless until he found Eddie and, likewise, this instinct to bite only becomes manageable once Steve realizes that it is a claim. A declaration. Eddie is his, and Steve himself will put that truth into Eddie's skin, as bold and as visible as any of his tattoos.

The urgency Steve felt a moment ago settles. His gums stop aching and he feels the slippery retraction of his teeth. Steve lets the shield of his hand fall away from his mouth, and lets himself look back at the stage where Eddie sings beneath the lights, otherworldly.

So? Eddie had asked, as drawn to Steve as Steve was to him. You're staying?

Turning away from Eddie, Steve unroots his feet from the dirty floor and heads to the bar. He buys another beer from the bartender, then returns to the same table as before, his previous pint whisked away by one of the barbacks. Most of the people have condensed around the stage, drinks and cigarettes in hand. There is no one nearby to notice how Steve props one elbow up on the high top and stares unabashedly at the way Eddie moves.

Later. Steve will have Eddie to himself later.

For now, he waits.

.

Song follows song follows song. Steve doesn't recognize any of them. It's all loud and fast, and the lyrics aren't the straightforward love letters written for the top forty radio. There's not a synth in sight and the music screams darkly from the stage, overlaid by Eddie's mesmerizing voice.

Steve is surprised to find that he likes most of what is played. There's an explosive, frenetic energy to it that builds beneath the sternum, begging to be let out, begging to be expressed. It's probably why some of the crowd throws up their arms and dances around, elbows knocking together violently. Steve himself is more sedate, occasionally tapping a beat against the tabletop or bopping his head.

For the next hour, Steve barely blinks. Eddie has a unique gravity to him that demands attention then keeps it. Even if Steve wasn't preternaturally drawn to him, Steve believes his reaction would still be the same, that he would be helpless to do little more than watch Eddie. It's hard not to. Eddie is magnetic. He prowls the small wooden stage during instrumental breaks, moving between the other guitarist and the bassist like he couldn't possibly keep still. Then, when he's inevitably drawn back to the microphone, he moves some other part of his body to let the energy out: dramatic sweeping arcs of an arm, sensuous rolls of his pelvis, high kicks that go over his head.

At some point, Eddie pauses to tie a black bandana over his hair. At another point, he takes off his leather jacket and tosses it carelessly into his guitar case. Steve nearly whines as Eddie struts around half-naked. Eddie is covered in tattoos and there's a flash of silver speared through both nipples. His arms and chest have a rangy definition, and his stomach is lean, but there's an overall softness to him that Steve can't wait to dig his fingers into.

It's sweet, Steve thinks. A tenderness that Eddie can't hide, no matter how much leather he wears or jewelry he dons, no matter how long he grows his hair or what kinds of ink he pokes into his skin.

Eventually, the set ends. Eddie gleams with sweat and his chest heaves with exertion. But he's smiling so widely, as though the excitement he feels is too big for his face, and he shouts, "We're Corroded Coffin! Remember it, Hawkins!" before sticking out his tongue and making devil horns.

He looks ridiculous. Steve laughs.

And maybe Eddie can hear like Steve can, or maybe he's just as eager as Steve is to reunite, because his chin lifts and he's looking at Steve over the crowd. His hands fall away from his temples and he holds up his pointer finger, mouthing 'one minute'.

One minute. One minute in which Eddie taps the other guitarist on the shoulder, motioning to the microphone so the other guitarist can take over for him; one minute in which Eddie unplugs his guitar, takes the leather jacket out of its case, and gently lays the instrument down; one minute in which Eddie says something to the drummer that makes the drummer roll his eyes. But the drummer makes a short 'go ahead' gesture with his hands, and Eddie—still shirtless, still sweaty, still grinning—hops off the side of the stage to skirt the crowd, leather jacket in the crook of his elbow. The other guitarist is saying something about original LPs for sale, but Steve's attention is wholly on Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

"Hey," Eddie says, stopping in front of Steve, leaving little space between them. His top teeth dig into his bottom lip, corners of his mouth still curled upwards, and he rocks up and down on the balls of his feet. "So, you uh—you stayed."

"Yeah," Steve answers. "You were amazing, and it was a really cool show. Real, um... metal?"

Eddie's scent is thick in the air. It makes Steve's head feel like it is stuffed with cotton, and he can't think beyond it. Eddie doesn't seem to mind. His front teeth release the swell of his bottom lip and he looks pleased, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his dimples deepening.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Harrington." Eddie sets his weight back down on his heels and turns his still bubbling energy to his heavy rings, twisting them. "Anyway, the guys said they'll take care of everything—clean up, my van, blah blah blah—so I'm yours for the rest of the night. You drove here, yeah? If I remember right, there's a twenty-four hour diner up the road, and I'll totally treat you if you get us there. We can talk? About—well. You know."

About monsters, about smells, about biting. About liquid dark eyes and the undeniable instinct to be closer. Steve's insides twist in excited anticipation just thinking about it.

"Dana's?" Steve croaks.

Eddie snaps his fingers. "That's the one."

Plan made, Steve and Eddie leave the bar together. They don't touch as they go through the aluminum door and walk towards Steve's car, and the short distance drives Steve crazy. All he can think about are the unmarked planes of Eddie's skin and—as strange as he knows it is—he knows he can't be stuck in the car with Eddie for fifteen minutes without doing something to curb the baseness of his instincts. He pauses after he takes his keys out of his back pocket and turns them thoughtfully in his hands.

"Steve?" Eddie says gently. "What is it?"

"This is going to sound so fucking weird," Steve mutters, shifting his eyes back to Eddie. Eddie looks beautiful in the moonlight, a creature made of pale and shadow, with the only splash of color on him being the rosy pink of his mouth. "But—your smell. Can I...?"

Eddie stares at him. His eyes are so big, so dark. Not entirely black like they were before the set but just as captivating.

"Yeah," Eddie murmurs. "Whatever you need, big boy."

Without conscious thought, Steve sets his keys on the roof of his car. Turns to face Eddie fully and steps right into his space. Steve's sneakers knock against Eddie's boots and the lines of their bodies match up, from knee to hip to shoulder. Steve puts one hand on Eddie's bicep—thumb to the muscle—and his other hand gets Eddie's curls off his neck, exposing the shallow divot behind Eddie's ear.

Slowly, Steve leans in, and puts his nose into the dip of Eddie's skin.

Slowly, Steve breathes in, and lets that smell overtake his senses.

It is just as intoxicating as it had been in the diner, on the flyer, in the bar. Steve's eyes flutter shut, and he is distantly aware of the way Eddie gasps, going rigid under his hands. One of Eddie's palms finds Steve's hip and squeezes, keeping himself grounded, and he arches his back just enough so more of their bodies touch: thigh to thigh, belly to belly.

"Oh," Eddie sighs. "Oh."

Steve burrows closer. He feels both disconnected and hyperaware, his world narrowed down to Eddie's scent and the restrictive cage of his own body. He is so loose and content that he does not feel the urge to transform at all. He thinks he could stay wrapped up in Eddie like this forever, dragging in lungfuls of his smell, and be happy.

"Holy shit," Eddie says, his voice weak with surprise, the words floating passively into Steve's ears. "This is—wow. Okay. I am really glad that we're on the same page here and—fuck, Steve, why do you feel like that? You're not even like, doing anything but sniffing me like a creep—"

"M'not a creep," Steve slurs.

"Of course not baby, your nose is just attached to my neck." The hand Eddie had on Steve's jean-covered hip drags upwards a few inches to Steve's waist. Steve can feel the hard press of fingertips into the flesh as Eddie tries to anchor himself. "Fuck. You're so..."

Steve hums. Rubs his nose against the thin, fragile skin behind the hinge of Eddie's jaw, and manages to pull back. Eddie stares at Steve's slack mouth with an intensity that matches Steve's.

"I've never felt like this before," Steve whispers. "It feels..."

"Inevitable?"

"Yeah."

Eddie's eyes flicker upwards to meet Steve's. The intensity in them has turned predatory, like acknowledging like, and Steve knows—with perfect clarity—that Eddie feels this bizarre pull as fully as he does. That the strong attraction between them will keep, whether they act on it now or later.

Later.

The word sinks through the fog in Steve's brain and gives him a moment to think. A part of him still wants to give into the instincts pulsing through his blood, wants to let the scant inches between him and Eddie disappear, but his rational mind knows that they should talk before this goes any further. Not because he thinks that talking will change how this night will end, but because he wants to talk, because he wants to listen, because he wants to know and be known.

So instead of tipping right away into the inevitable, in the dinky parking lot of a rundown bar, Steve rubs the tip of his nose against Eddie's. Savors the cold moonlight smell of him, then lets go. His hands feel empty without Eddie underneath them, but he still smiles as he says, "Dana's?"

The reminder quietly pulls Eddie into the present with him. His hand tightens fleetingly against Steve's waist and he blinks a few times, syrupy slow—then he follows Steve's lead, stepping back and grinning and easily agreeing, "Dana's."

Steve plucks his keys off the roof of the car and unlocks the door. Eddie follows suit, rounding the car to the other side; he slides into the passenger seat with an artificial bounce, all bony knees and elbows, graceless. He immediately starts to futz with the radio, loudly decrying the station Steve was tuned into as drivel. It's as though he's been in Steve's car a thousand times instead of it being his first—and Steve knows, as he puts the car in reverse and pretends to be offended, that someday, it will be.

.

.

Dana's is an old retro-futuristic themed diner that was built in the mid-sixties. It is a narrow building on the east side of Hawkins, all chrome and curved lines, and the sign out front has a wacky boomerang shape that always reminds Steve of 'The Jetsons'.

"Wow," Eddie breathes as he hops out of Steve's car, leather jacket clutched in one hand. His dark eyes reflect the bright lights of the diner and his sardonic mouth curls at the corners. "This place is exactly like I remember. Nothing in Hawkins ever changes, does it?"

Locking the car, Steve rounds the trunk and shrugs. He used to come to Dana's all the time. Since the food was relatively cheap, and since it was one of the few places in town open past ten, it was a popular spot for high school students to aggregate after extracurricular events. Win or lose, Steve had come to Dana's after nearly every swim meet and baseball game and basketball semi-final.

But that was before. Before the Upside Down, before his transformation, before Main Street was split down the middle by an interdimensional rift. All of it is proof enough that things in Hawkins do change, though not in the half nostalgic, half bitter way Eddie means.

"Still probably requires a shirt." Steve rakes his eyes down Eddie's naked torso, and adds, "Not that I'm complaining, but I'm kinda hungry and you might distract the waitress."

Eddie clicks his tongue in fake annoyance, but slips his leather jacket back on and zips it up to his solar plexus. He takes a moment to carefully tug at his long, long hair, making sure that none of the strands are trapped beneath the collar, that all the wild curls are free and falling down his spine.

"Well?" Eddie asks, spreading his arms out wide, as though presenting himself for inspection. "Am I decent?"

There is nothing decent about Eddie's obvious lack of shirt, or the loops of his silver necklaces against his pale skin, or the small patch of downy hair on his sternum. There is nothing decent about the way his dimples deepen, or the way his tongue wets his bottom lip. There is nothing decent about the way he smiles, his fangs pricking the corners.

Pursing his mouth, Steve tries not to be affected by Eddie's coy posing. The details of Eddie's body and the way Eddie moves are so deeply alluring to Steve that Steve knows it would take very little to get lost in him. Perhaps if they weren't in front of Dana's—if they were still back in the shadow outside the bar—Steve would let himself crowd Eddie against the car, let himself bury his face in the curve of Eddie's sharp collarbones.

But they aren't at the bar. They're in a well-lit parking lot where anyone driving by could see them. Steve has to be careful.

"Decent?" Steve parrots. He brings a thoughtful hand to his chin and pretends to contemplate Eddie's appearance. "Maybe..."

Steve won't let himself take it too far. He won't. But he does step forward into Eddie's space—grabs the battered metal tab of his jacket—and drags it slowly upwards, tooth by tooth, until the zipper closes in the hollow of Eddie's throat. He lets his hand linger for a second longer than necessary as he meets Eddie's eyes, smirking.

"There," Steve whispers teasingly. "Now you're decent."

The little punched out noise Eddie makes when Steve pulls away is incredibly satisfying. It's been awhile since Steve flirted with someone and meant it the way he means it with Eddie. Sure, he had fallen on old habits when he worked at Scoops and at Family Video, but those exchanges had been half-hearted. Empty. Flirting with Eddie is so markedly different from the last few years that Steve practically skips into the diner, hips swaying just enough so Eddie's stare will follow.

These are some of his nicest, tightest jeans, after all, and he isn't above a little revenge.

Inside, Dana's is an eyesore. It glows with neon pink accent lighting, blooming garish against bright red walls, and the booths and round stools are upholstered in teal vinyl. The floors are black and white check. More clocks than necessary hang on the walls, next to old movie posters of Jane Fonda as Barbarella and vintage records. Steve is assaulted by the smell of fried food and PineSol as he and Eddie come through the front door, and he absently scrubs a hand over his nose.

The diner is mostly empty. There's a rail-thin man in a trucker hat and puffer vest sipping coffee at the counter; a trio of pimply middle schoolers tucked into a corner booth; a fry cook puttering around in the kitchen; and a heavily pregnant waitress behind the register. The waitress smiles at them as they approach—barely blinking at Eddie's appearance—and tells them, "Pick a place to sit, boys. I'll bring you a couple menus in a minute."

"Thank you," Steve says. Then, to Eddie, "Pick a spot?"

Eddie beelines towards the back where an obnoxiously lit jukebox is pushed against the wall. Steve huffs a small laugh. Eddie reminds Steve of the kids when they go to the arcade, racing to their favorite consoles even before they buy a can of coke or packet of Red Vines.

"Don't laugh, Harrington," Eddie says, tossing Steve a wink over his shoulder. "I have a pocket full of change and impeccable taste."

Aware that he's grinning like a fool at Eddie's antics, Steve slides into the closest booth and crosses his arms on the speckled formica tabletop. He watches as Eddie quickly and meticulously goes through the available music.

"No, no, no," Eddie murmurs under his breath. "No, no—whoa, absolutely not, no—oh! 'Stairway to Heaven'! Nice."

Eddie is busy pushing buttons and inserting coins when the waitress comes over. She sets a couple of waters, napkin-wrapped utensils, and laminated menus down on the table, then folds both palms over her large, round belly. Sweetly, with the faintest twinge of a Piedmont accent, she asks, "Hey hun. Want anything else to drink?"

"I'll take a coffee, please. With cream and sugar," Steve answers. Then he leans a bit out of the booth and says, "Eds? Coffee or coke?"

"Coffee!" Eddie responds, tossing the response over his leather clad shoulder; he has a finger on the backlit music selection, keeping his place. "Sugar, no cream."

"I'll make a fresh batch for you, then." The waitress grins at Eddie's single-minded focus. "Give you a few minutes to read over the menu. Lloyd's real good with the chicken-fried steak though, if you've got a hankering. Got some house hot sauce too."

Steve doesn't pick up the menu after she walks away. He doubts the food choices have changed much over the past two, three years, and her recommendation sounds good to him. Steve simply continues to watch Eddie at the jukebox, feeding the machine dime after dime after dime.

"Did you come here a lot?" Steve asks when Eddie finally sits down. "When you still lived here?"

"Yeah." Eddie grabs one of the sets of silverware and picks open the red napkin band; not because he needs the fork, or spoon, or knife, but because he seems to need something to fiddle with. "The guys and I used to have a standing gig at the Hideout. Every Tuesday night. We'd come here, afterwards, cause the food at the Hideout was shit."

As he talks, Eddie folds the napkin band into an accordion. His nails—short and blunt—are painted a fresh black, the polish crisp around the edges. Steve is impressed. Whenever Robin bullies him into doing her right hand, Steve has to be very careful not to make a mess.

"You said you moved?" Steve prompts.

"To Indianapolis," Eddie confirms. He sets the napkin band accordion next to his untouched water, then picks up one of the menus. A single, off-white page with print on the front and back. He doesn't read it. Instead, his eyes fix on the small photo of the house burger so he doesn't have to meet Steve's eyes. "It's, uh... it's kind of a long story. Messed up."

Steve hums in acknowledgment. He understands messed up. He's fought monsters and Russian spies, been drugged with a truth serum, and has had the shit kicked out of him multiple times. Sometimes—when he lines up all his memories of terror and pain of the last three years—he thinks that becoming a werewolf is the least emotionally traumatizing experience he's had.

It was just a bite after all. A jagged circle of indents left on his thigh, the scars pink and shiny.

But Eddie doesn't know Steve's story and he seems cagey about his own. Steve wants to reach across the table and take one of Eddie's hands, wants to run his thumbs over those silver rings and pale knuckles—but such a touch is too intimate, too revealing, for a public area. Steve compromises by stretching out one leg and hooking his foot behind Eddie's heel, dragging it forward so they can both sit comfortably.

Eddie's gaze pops up. He looks at Steve with wide doe eyes, his irises oxblood red beneath the fluorescents. He does not shy away from Steve's advance, however, and beneath the table, their legs remain entwined.

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," Steve says gently. "This whole... thing." Steve makes a small, arcing gesture with his hand as though to encompass their mutual monster-ness, the existence of a parallel hell dimension, and all the other miscellaneous supernatural nonsense of Hawkins. "It's a lot. I get it. I've been neck deep in this bullshit since eighty fucking three, and I'm still trying to figure it out."

"Eighty three?" Eddie's eyebrows furrow as he sets the menu back on the table, thinking hard. "Early November? That week the Byers kid went missing?"

"That's when everything started for us," Steve confirms. "You?"

"Yeah. That's when—" Eddie finishes his sentence by gesturing jerkily towards himself. Steve feels a small stab of surprise. Just as he assumed that Eddie was changed by the Upside Down, he had also assumed that Eddie underwent his transformation around the same time Steve did, a full year later in '84. "You know. When I became a vampire."

Vampire.

The word rattles in Steve's brain. Dustin was the one who labeled Steve a werewolf, after that first full moon tore Steve apart and put him back together. It's the closest thing Steve has to the truth and he's learned to embrace it. Joke about it. Accept it. But the way Eddie says vampire...

The waitress returns to their table in the moments after Eddie's comment, breaking the contemplative air that settled over the formica. She sets two thick-walled ceramic mugs down, as well as a full sugar packet caddy and a small jug of creamer.

"You boys decide what you want?" she asks. She settles her hands on her wide hips and doesn't bother to take the notepad from her white half-apron.

"I'll take the chicken fried steak," Steve says. "With the hashbrowns."

"Hot sauce too?"

"On the side, please."

"Not a problem." Her gaze swings from Steve to Eddie. The pinch of consternation around his eyes and mouth have been replaced by an easy smile. A mask, Steve recognizes. "And you, sugar?"

"This is going to sound a bit weird, but can I have the biggest steak you've got, as rare as you can make it. Like, as little cooked as possible without making the chef squeamish." Eddie's grin twists, as though he were sharing a secret. "No butter, either. My stomach's pretty sensitive."

"Still want it to moo when you take a bite?" The waitress says rhetorically. Then, unfazed by Eddie's request, she asks, "Any sides?"

"You have raw carrot sticks? Or a side of fruit, if it's fresh. I can't eat it if it comes from a can."

"We can do carrots. And I'll make sure to tell Lloyd to be careful with that steak. I know what it's like to live with dietary restrictions; my husband's deathly allergic to shellfish, and I've had to Epipen him a few times." Gathering up the menus, the waitress smiles at them one more time. "You boys holler if you need anything else, alright?"

As she walks away, Steve and Eddie turn to their coffees. Steve puts in one sugar and enough cream to turn it beige, while Eddie pours in three raw sugars and no cream. Eddie's spoon hits the sides of his mug as he stirs it with a rhythmic and bell-like clink clink clink.

"So," Steve begins after he's taken a sip. The coffee has that strong, been-on-the-burner-too-long taste to it despite being freshly brewed, but Steve doesn't mind it. "Raw steak and carrots?"

"She wasn't wrong about the dietary restrictions," Eddie answers. "After I... changed, I learned the hard way that I can't eat anything that isn't one step away from the dirt. You have no idea how much I miss PopTarts, man. Or mac n' cheese, or pizza, or that bucket of fried chicken from KFC. Can't have beer either, or pop, or Sunny D. Just—blergh, you know?"

"Sounds awful," Steve commiserates. He didn't have the same symptoms after his transformation. Food was food was food to him, though some things smelled odd enough that he couldn't stand eating them. His usual repertoire of tv dinners—or anything else kept in microwaveable plastic—was given away, but at least he could still have cereal for breakfast.

"It is." Eddie sips at his sweet black coffee. "I mean, it's better than the alternative, but it still sucks."

"Alternative?"

"Classic Dracula dining. You know, like..." Eddie crosses one arm over his nose, covering the bottom half of his face, and raises the other arm high in the air, wrist bent. Then, in a thick accent, he intones, " 'I vant to suck your blood!' "

Steve barks a laugh. He is enamored of Eddie's dramatics, of his expressive eyes and constant movement. Eddie is as magnetic sitting on teal vinyl sipping coffee as he was singing on stage, and Steve finds himself held a willing captive.

"So you don't...?" Steve taps his carotid.

"I mean, yeah. I do. I have to." Eddie lowers his arms and wraps his ring-studded fingers around his mug, staring at the steam that rises from it. "It's a compulsion. Like, I don't need it all the time, but every few days, there's this... need, I guess, that starts to build in my brain and—"

Abruptly, Eddie cuts himself off. His eyes dart to Steve, then back to his coffee. Steve can see the muscle of his jaw jump beneath his pale skin as he grits his teeth.

Another hesitation.

He's working out how much he can trust me, Steve thinks. Despite their instant connection, despite their chemistry, despite their monstrous commonalities, they are still strangers. Steve would be uncomfortable sharing the gory details of his existence too, if it weren't for the constant curl of Eddie's smell in his nose and the inexplicable rightness he feels in Eddie's presence.

"I get it," Steve says gently. Beneath the table, Steve hooks his other foot behind Eddie's heel, so his own feet are crossed at the ankles. Holding Eddie in the only way he can. "That compulsion. That need. Every full moon I just..."

Steve trails off. Closes his eyes and tilts his head back. He doesn't know how to put that feeling he gets when the light of the full moon hits his skin into words. Truthfully, he doesn't think the right words exist—though he did almost fail high school English, so he might not be an authority on that.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that I understand." Steve drops his chin back down and looks back at Eddie. "That we're the same. Not exactly, but enough. In the ways that actually matter. I'm not going to judge you, or think you're weird, or whatever. Honestly, I've probably seen or done worse, so..."

"Doubt it," Eddie mumbles, eyes still averted, hands still gripping his mug. "You're not the one who needs blood to survive."

"No, but I did bite a man's arm off in a mall basement."

Eddie makes a choked noise of surprise. Steve hides a smile behind the lip of his coffee cup.

"You did what now?" Eddie hisses.

"Last summer. Some Russian military guy threatened my friend and—" Steve pointedly gnashes his completely human teeth. "Bam. No arm."

Steve does not explain that he had gone full werewolf when it happened. After being dragged into that small room—after being tied to a chair and drugged—the thing that set Steve off was the gun in Robin's face. He had snarled, more animal than man, and the soldier had gasped at his crimson irises and elongating teeth.

Things were different when Steve was fully transformed. He was more reactive, more driven by instinct and desire, and he didn't think about things in terms of 'right' and 'wrong'. All he knew was that the men in the room were threats to him, to Robin, to Dustin and Erica. He knew what he was doing when he ripped free of his restraints and grabbed the soldier, when he held him up by the wrist and the throat, when he opened his mouth and bit—but he didn't care.

A blood-curdling scream. The crunch of bone, the pop of tearing ligaments. Sharp bangs, the scent of gunsmoke like cracked pepper in his nose. It was the first time Steve had been shot, and the bullets buried in his back had felt no worse than bee stings.

Dropping the soldier and his disconnected arm, Steve had turned, undeterred, to the terrified man in the doorway. Hunched his massive shoulders and roared. Blood dripped thick from his teeth. The other soldier pissed himself. Smelling his fear, Steve took a lurching step forward, ready to pull the man's intestines out with his claws—

But Dustin had dropped out of the ceiling and landed in front of him. Yelled, "Bad Steve!", and bopped Steve on the nose with his hat, like Steve was a misbehaving dog instead of an enraged and fully transformed werewolf.

Next thing Steve knew, he was naked on the floor, completely normal and unharmed. Robin stared at Steve in uncomprehending shock; Erica poked at the severed arm with the rubber toe of her sneaker; and Dustin was ranting, "Where the fuck are we going to find you pants, dude? We're like, a million feet underground, in the middle of a secret Russian military base—it's not like there's a clothes closet we can just raid—"

Steve does not tell Eddie any of this. He will, one day when they aren't in public, and Eddie will laugh himself sick when Steve tells him how he had to hold his ripped shorts together as they made their escape.

Now, Eddie says, "Russians? Inside a mall? You're fucking with me."

"Not yet I'm not." Steve purposefully takes Eddie's remark differently than Eddie intended. "You promised me dinner and conversation first, remember?"

Dropping his gaze to Eddie's mouth—pale pink, chapped, and entirely kissable—Steve drags his own teeth over his bottom lip. Runs his tongue over the swell, then releases it so it shines beneath the fluorescents. A small tease. The underlying possibility of more. It pulls Eddie completely away from the pensive mood he had fallen into, as Steve hoped it would.

"Alright, Harrington." Eddie grins darkly, exposing the knifelike points of his fangs. Steve shivers at the sight. He still wants his teeth in Eddie and Eddie's teeth in him, an ache that gets more unbearably wild each time he sees Eddie's fangs. "I'll show you mine, you show me yours. Deal?"

Eddie raises his coffee mug. Steve lifts his to clink them together.

"Deal," says Steve.

.