Chapter Text
It starts out with a little bit of jealousy. Healthy. Steve doesn't like sharing. Typical only child. And every second word out of Dustin's mouth is Eddie Munson. Eddie Munson this, Eddie Munson that. Eddie thinks, Eddie said, Eddie doesn't like.
Eddie Munson's name has become synonymous with the incessant buzzing of a fly. Steve wants to crush it and watch its green blood coat his finger, mixing with the red from its squashed eyes.
Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
Freak.
It's only natural to do a little background check. You wouldn't just let anyone babysit your kids.
It starts with a lie. Simple. Easy. Believable. He tells Dustin he can't come pick him up after their little dorks and dweebs session. He has a date.
Dustin grumbles, but it is only this one time and it's for his own good. Steve is just looking out for him.
He still drives to Hawkins High on Friday night. Parks in one of the side streets leading to the parking lot. Turns off the lights. Then he waits.
They are running late. Of course they are. It's not like Steve is a Swiss cuckoo clock but it annoys him. He's spent too many minutes in the parking lot, waiting for Dustin and the other gremlins to come out. It's starting to feel deliberate at this point.
Eventually, the doors to the auditorium swing open though and one by one Munson's little ducklings come out. Mike and Lucas go for their bikes and Steve ducks as they drive past him. The older two guys head to the fat one's car, the kid that can't be much older than the freshmen gets picked up by his mom.
Dustin and Munson remain outside the building. Munson looks around, like he is searching for something. Then Dustin says something and a frown spreads on Munson's face. Steve would love to be able to hear what they are talking about. But he stays hidden in the shadows.
Munson moves towards his van and Dustin hops excitedly alongside him, hands and arms waving in the air as he keeps talking.
Oh Eddie, you're so smart. Oh Eddie, you're so cool. Oh Eddie, you're the biggest badass ever.
Steve grinds his teeth. His knuckles around the steering wheel turn white.
Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
He watches them both get into the van and drive east. Steve doesn't tail them. Dustin has two modes: Either oblivious like hell or observant like hell. Chances are 50/50 that he would spot Steve's car and Steve knows not to mess with odds like this. He is smarter than that.
Instead he starts his car and drives an alternate route to Dustin's house. He arrives just in time to see Dustin climb up the porch and walk through the front door.
Munson's van is still running, but he is waiting until Dustin has closed the front door before he starts driving again.
Steve waits. Breathes in. Breathes out. Breathes in. Breathes out. Feels like a hound picking up a scent. Only once Eddie's van has started to round the next corner he starts his engine again.
It's not easy following Eddie. He drives like traffic laws are mere suggestions, like stop signs are simply decoration and speed limits meant to be broken.
Steve clicks his tongue. Eddie Munson doesn't care about being on time and he doesn't care about driving safely. Steve doesn't get the hype.
He knew about Munson before this. It's hard to ignore the screaming satanist when he steps on your lunch every day for four years. And it doesn't hurt to know the name of the guy who sells the only decent weed in town. But apart from that Munson has always struck Steve as one thing: fully unremarkable.
He is a loser. A nerd. A freak.
Munson doesn't use the turn signal and Steve only notices too late that he is driving to the gas station. He lets out a quiet curse and rounds the next corner. He can see Munson refueling his car from here at least.
A queer.
Steve ignores that little voice in the back of his head, even though it's ever so insistent like tinnitus. Instead he rolls down the window on the passenger side and listens.
Munson is whistling while he is waiting for his tank to fill. Maybe he is trying to win the award for most annoying human alive. He's got Steve's vote.
Unremarkable and annoying.
Steve feels like he has swallowed nettles. Can feel them irritating his throat and itching in his stomach. Feels like he is about to break out in hives.
Munson finished up, hangs the pump back and goes inside to pay. When he comes back out a few minutes later he doesn't get straight back into his van. He ventures around the gas station and walks down the little hill towards Steve.
For a horrible second Steve thinks he has been caught. But then Munson stops in front of a tree. From this angle Steve can only see Munson's face. He hears the sound of a zipper being pulled, followed by the splatter of Munson's piss hitting bark. His face goes lax, his eyes close, his mouth opens slightly, blissful relaxation takes over his features.
Steve doesn't look away. He listens to Munson piss and focuses on his face. Studies it. Once more comes to the conclusion that it's unremarkable.
He almost startles when the stream of piss stops and Munson opens his eyes again. In the darkness of the night they seem black like charcoal. He shakes his dick, hops quickly up and down, then he pulls his zipper up again. Steve watches him walk back to his van.
Tailing Eddie after the little gas station stop doesn't become easier. Steve hasn't done this in a while. He drives Robin everywhere. If she goes anywhere else without him she walks and Steve blends into her shadow. Everything before that was a long time ago.
So he is a bit rusty. Still Munson doesn't discover him. Just keeps driving until they reach Forrest Hills. Steve parks his car on a path just outside the trailer park.
He tries not to wrinkle his nose, Max lives here now after all. Not for the first time he thinks she'd be better off staying in his guest room. Susan Mayfield can stay here. Rot between her bottles of bourbon and cans of Coors Light.
He makes his way through the park on foot. That's how he knows his way around best. Avoids the too lit paths and moves without drawing attention to himself. Automatically, his feet carry him to the Mayfield trailer, even though Max is not the one he is looking out for tonight.
It's a delightful surprise when he spots Munson's beat up van right across from their home. All the times he's been here before he never noticed Munson living next door.
Fucking unremarkable.
The porch light is still on and one of the rooms further back is lit too. Carefully, he walks towards it. He can make out the muffled sound of music, screeching and harsh and Steve hates it. Munson is puttering around, the faint sound of steps and movement comes from inside his room.
Steve would love to get a box to stand on and peek inside. But he isn't stupid. He'd be far too easy to spot, even by someone like Munson.
Instead he crouches down, his back pressed to the trailer walls. He can almost feel the vibrations of the music. He is glad Munson's room is facing the woods. He is less likely to be discovered here.
So he sits and waits and listens to Munson in his room. Steve had expected Munson to go out again at some point. Or have friends over. Instead Munson spends his Friday night holed up in his room.
Pathetic.
Munson's not even been invited to a party to deal it seems. Maybe he's lost his touch. Maybe there is a hot new dealer in town. Someone with better manners and better stuff. Steve wouldn't know. He's not been at a party in a while.
Suddenly a window opens and for the second time tonight Steve fears he's been discovered. He holds his breath, presses himself further into the wall of the trailer.
But Munson doesn't spot him. Steve hears the sound of a lighter igniting and a moment later the thick smell of weed bleeds into the cool night air. Whoever Munson lives with probably doesn't appreciate Munson smoking inside the trailer.
Steve watches the air below the trailer window intently. He wants to stretch out his arm and catch the ash falling from Munson's joint in his palm like snowflakes. He doesn't though, too risky.
The window closes again and Steve waits.
By the time Munson turns off his lights, Steve's joints ache and his limbs have grown stiff. He glances at his watch. It's almost one am. He waits another ten minutes before he decides to move.
He walks a bit and drags an old, plastic garden chair that he has been eyeing for about four hours, over to Eddie's window.
He climbs on it and finally looks inside. Even though his eyes have adjusted to the darkness he can't make out much. Not that he expected to. But he can see enough.
Munson is lying on his back, arms on his torso, hands folded over his stomach like fucking Sleeping Beauty or Snow White. His hair is splayed around his head like a halo. He almost looks poised, like someone draped him there to be looked at. Even in his sleep he is fucking weird.
Steve stands outside Munson's window and watches him sleep. Watches his chest rise and fall and matches his breathing. In and out. In and out.
Something inside Steve stirs. Something no longer dormant, something no longer docile. He swallows. He looks at Munson sleeping and it makes his gums itch and his teeth ache, like he is growing another set. Milk teeth, adult teeth, fangs. He can almost taste the blood of white enamel breaking through the vermilion mucous lining of his mouth.
His jaw tenses, joints clicking, and everything inside his mouth feels sore. Growing pains.
He closes his eyes and swallows again. Fuck. He doesn't do this anymore. Not like this anymore.
He takes one last look at the sleeping Munson, then he gets off the chair. He curses quietly when he puts it back where he found it. The four feet of the chair have burrowed into the soil and left their marks.
He sighs, kneels down and digs his fingers into the earth. He digs and digs until his fingers burn and the marks have disappeared. Freshly disturbed earth is a lot less suspicious than chair marks in the ground. If Munson sees this, he'll probably think it was a wild animal. A fox or a stray dog.
Normally, he'd check in on Max since he is here. But not tonight. He sneaks back to his car and drives straight back home, no deviation.
His own house is dark too, his parents somewhere with M. Milwaukee or Milan? Maybe Malta. He isn't sure, he's lost interest in them years ago.
He comes in through the garage and kicks his shoes off there, where no one can see them. They are covered in grass stains and mud. He'll have to wear his Adidas until he's had time to clean his Nikes.
He locks the door from the garage to the house and walks up to his room, his socked feet quiet on the tiled floor.
He kicks his door open and switches on the light with his elbow. His eyes land on his desk. On top of it are a bunch of unused school supplies, the bowling pin he and Tommy stole in sophomore year, his graduation cap and diploma still rolled up. He hasn't touched all that stuff since the beginning of summer.
On top of it all sits what he is looking for though: his yearbook.
Quickly, he crosses the room and takes. His hands are still caked in dirt and earth but he doesn't care. Names he no longer knows and people he no longer talks to have perpetuated them on the front. Some of the earlier pages are stuck together.
Steve opens it relatively in the middle and flicks to the M section. Steve spots him after a while, tucked between Meyers, Jolene and Munster, Tobias. He is wearing that stupid Hellfire shirt of course, devilish smirk on his lips. Steve is almost surprised contrarian, stick it to the man Munson sat for the yearbook.
For a moment Steve just looks.
Then he reaches inside his boxers and pulls out his cock, straining and weeping from how long Steve has ignored it. He starts jerking off, soil on his hands mixing with precum. It's hard and fast, his eyes never leaving Munson's face.
It doesn't take him long to tumble over that edge. With a groan he comes and hot cum splatters over Munson's photo, soaking into the page. His face sullied by soil and Steve's spend.
Steve breathes in. Steve breathes out. Then he slams the book shut, effectively gluing the pages together.
Unremarkable, he thinks once more.
This is how it starts.