[ STEDDIE ] can you keep me close? (can you love me most?)

Part One

Iosif saluted to Konstantin, mumbling something in Russian, before retreating to where he’d come in. A shiver wracked Steve’s marred back as Konstantin’s gaze shifted back to him. 

“You will pay for wasting my time,” Konstantin said quietly, as though he was making an off-handed comment rather than directly threatening someone. Steve’s bloodshot eye followed Konstantin, watching him roll over a metal cart. His gaze followed Konstantin’s gloved hands to the instruments he was inspecting. His stomach plummeted.

“Please,” Steve croaked, voice spent from his previous screams. “Please, no. Just kill me. Shit, just- please. No one will care to look for me, I promise. I’ll just disappear and you won’t have to worry about anyone fucking up your shit.”

“I know no one cares enough to search for you, Steve Harrington,” Konstantin whispered, eyes trained on the hook-like tool in his grasp. “That is why I will break you apart limb by limb, taking my time doing so. After all…” Konstantin’s voice trailed off, coming to stand in front of Steve once again.

“No one is coming to save you.”

~~~

Six missed calls.

It’d taken Eddie six missed calls before he’d given in to his panic and sped over to Steve Harrington’s house.

For once in his life, his incessant worrying had actually proved helpful.

At first, he’d just rung the doorbell. After a few failed attempts, he’d resorted to slightly aggressive knocking. When both led to no response, Eddie had given up and picked the lock, letting himself in. 

Harrington’s house looked like a fucking crime scene.

The living room was a mess of flung open drawers, knocked-over furniture, and smashed glass. There were books and papers all over the floor, strung about in such a way that it looked like someone had been searching for something.

Jesus Christ, had Steve been robbed?

“Harrington?” Eddie called, trying to stifle the panic in his voice. “Uh, I know I’m not the best when it comes to interior decorating, but this doesn’t really feel like your style.”

Silence.

Eddie shoved his hands in his leather jacket’s pockets, slowly walking through the house. “C’mon, Stevie, I know our friendship has been kinda iffy since the whole Vecna thing, but I just wanted to make sure you-”

Eddie froze. He smelled the blood before he saw it. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Steve? Steve?!” Eddie yelled, breaking into a sprint. The wreckage passed from the living room to the adjacent dining room and kitchen. He followed the metallic scent like a dog on a hunt, eventually leading him to what he could only assume was Harrington Sr.’s office. 

Shit.

Blood stained the expensive carpet like spilled wine, partially covered by even more scattered documents. Eddie’s nose twitched. That blood wasn’t Steve’s. It was unfamiliar and bitter. Eddie’s eyes trailed across the room, finally landing on a stained bat with nails crudely pointing out of it. There was older blood on it, one similar to the Demobats’. That wasn’t what concerned Eddie, however. What got his attention was the fresh blood on it: the blood that was undoubtedly Steve’s.

It took him three minutes to try not to have an anxiety attack. Seven more minutes to try and figure out what happened. Two more to remember the location trackers he’d discreetly put in each of his friends’ walkie-talkies. Eighteen more to track down Steve’s. Twenty-three more to get to the location.