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Getting high, Steve decided, kind of fucking sucked.
His head hurt, his words slurred, and when he looked over at Eddie, his heart pounded way too hard.
He was starting to think that wasn’t the weeds' fault.
“So,” he declared, a little too loud, wincing slightly when Eddie jumped. “This is just. Something you do?”
Steve was sprawled out on Eddies’ bed, legs dangling off the side while he spread his arms wide as if in prayer, taking up most of the space. Eddie stayed curled up close to the edge, his back against the headboard.
Steve wanted to tell him that he would fall off if he stayed like that. That he could move closer.
Then again, that would require Eddie getting closer. And as much as Steve (in his cannabis jumbled brain) wanted that, he didn’t know what he’d do — what he’d feel.
Because Eddie Munson was so fucking pretty, and Steve couldn’t handle it. Even when he was sober.
He was brought (a little too slowly) out of his head when Eddie responded to his previous question.
“I guess,” he shrugged, and a smile pulled at the corners of his lips. His cheeks dimpled and his eyes crinkled. Steve breathed. Eddie continued. “I don’t do it all the time, but. It’s fun, sometimes. Relaxing.”
At Steve’s disbelieving stare, Eddie finally laughs, low and clear. “When you’re used to it.” His eyes roam over Steve’s body, a small, understanding grimace on his face. “Which I’m assuming you’re not.”
“I’ve smoked before,” Steve starts, defensively, causing Eddie to laugh harder. Steve finds himself smiling, too, just at the sound, not even bothering to feel offended anymore. “I’m serious,” he continues, letting out his own laugh at how Eddie chokes on some of the smoke he had previously puffed out, coughing, the joint dangling between his fingers — long and thin, black polish chipping at the edges, rings on almost every knuckle. Eddie only laughs harder, pressing his face into the mattress his head had been laying on, shoulders shaking.
“Stop laughing!” Steve can barely get the words out, he can barely breathe. Eddie has the most incredible laugh, and Steve was the one to make him laugh, and God, isn’t that something?
“Sorry,” Eddie chuckles, muffled from the cushion, taking a deep breath, his chest jumping up and down as he moves his head back to lying horizontally, facing Steve. He passes the joint over to him, and he grins. “I believe you, Harrington.”
Steve takes the joint, he brings it to his lips, and before taking another hit says, “Only like one other time.”
Eddie snorts. Steve smiles.
The room grows quiet as Steve finishes off the joint and stubs it on the windowsill behind him. The cold night air feels orgasmic on his skin and he finds himself leaning into it, pushing himself up with his hands on either side of the frame.
“Don’t fall,” Eddie warns him, amusement clear in his tone as he picks himself up, sitting vertically with his back against the wall.
“I’m not stupid.” Steve rolls his eyes, moving to look at him. And then his arm slips from the ledge, and his torso is halfway out of Eddie's room, and he’s peering down the side of the trailer, about six feet off the ground.
There’s roses down there, he thinks, stupidly, before gaining enough wits to move.
Steve pulls himself back in, his heart panging in panic at how close that was and how much he smoked and how goddamn gorgeous Eddie is.
Once he’s (safely) back inside the room, he risks a glance over at Eddie.
It’s wishful thinking to believe that he hadn’t seen.
His arms are crossed against his chest as he presses his lips together, shoulders shaking. He brings his hand up to cover his mouth, laughing into it.
“Yeah, alright,” Steve groans, flopping back onto the bed, slinging his arms up over his eyes, listening to Eddie try to cover up his amusement.
“Not stupid at all,” Eddie repeats, sarcastically.
“Shut up, man,” Steve sighs, but he’s smiling too.
Eddie leans his head back against the headboard, baring his throat, finally letting his laugh tumble from his mouth. Steve watches the lines of his neck shift, the jump of his Adam’s apple, the way his hair falls forward onto his face.
Eddie opens his eyes, and Steve turns away, feeling caught.
“So you’ve never been high?” Eddie questions, and Steve isn’t that stupid — he can hear the surprise in Eddie’s tone.
“I’ve been high,” Steve replies, nodding. After a moment, Eddie gives him an expectant stare, raising his eyebrows. Steve chuckles. “It’s a long story.” He remembers stars on the ceiling, Marty McFly, and a girl sitting beside him on the bathroom floor, telling her truth. He smiles a little at the memories. “Very long.”
Eddie hums. “I’ll get you to tell it to me someday.”
“Yeah.” Steve nods, turning back to face Eddie. He was like a moth to the flame, unafraid of the pain, if only to see it glow one more time. Steve clears his throat. “Maybe. Someday.”
Eddie makes a noise of agreement as he pulls his legs up to his chest, leaning his arms on his knees, pressing his cheek against his forearm, letting it rest. He’s smiling still, but it’s different now. Soft and gentle and oh so lovely.
Steve moves away.
He pushes himself up abruptly from the bed, his head feeling the consequence immediately. He grimaces, running a hand through his hair.
“Holy shit.”
Eddie winces in his periphery. “That doesn’t get any easier no matter how much you smoke.”
“Coulda’ warned me, man.”
Eddie grins. “It’s all about the experience, Steve Harrington.”
Steve chuffed, amused. “Yeah, alright.”
After making sure he can stand on his own two feet with some stability, he moves to roam around Eddie's room.
Three of the walls are wrapped head to toe in posters — for movies, video games, bands, what have you — covered so thoroughly Steve couldn’t even tell what color the walls originally were. On the fourth wall, beside Eddie's bed, was a bookshelf, packed with almost everything but books. There were a few paperbacks here and there, but for the most part what took up the space were board games, VHS tapes, little trinkets and souvenirs. Messy in an organized way, with everything in its rightful spot.
Steve noticed the “Dungeons & Dragons” memorabilia shoved onto half of one shelf and he felt something like endearment creep up into his system.
Steve had never really been a fan of the game — the only lore he knew came from Dustin's rants after a meet or before a meet or really just anytime he felt like talking about it.
But then he’d met Eddie.
Eddie, who loved this game more than probably anything else in the entire world. And anytime he talked, enthusiastically, about it to Steve, he found himself hanging onto every word — if only to watch the way he waved his hands, the way his eyes lit up with passion as Steve nodded along, even if he didn’t understand half of what Eddie was saying.
Steve reached out to brush his fingertips against the edge of the box, running them along the letters boldly calling out to him.
He moves away from the shelf, turning to the side of the room opposite to him.
And then he sees it.
Sitting on the desk, pushed up against the wall, is a radio.
He doesn’t know how he hadn’t seen it sooner. He’s been in Eddie's room before, and he can’t exactly use the excuse that he was high — because he wasn’t.
He’d just been too focused on Eddie to really pay attention to anything else.
He moves to the device without really thinking, tinkering with the dials and buttons. There’s a slot for cassettes on one side, the speaker on the other.
“This is nice,” he says, picking the radio up and turning it in his hands, feeling the coolness of the metal on his palms. “Radio Shack?”
Eddie shook his head. “Nah,” he replied, then furrowed his brows, looking away, gaze focused on something Steve couldn’t see. “I don’t know, actually. I’ve had it since I was twelve. My uncle gave it to me. Christmas gift.”
Steve hummed in understanding, placing it back down onto the desk. “It’s nice,” he repeated.
“Turn it on,” Eddie insisted, gesturing to the radio.
“You sure?”
“Why not?” Eddie placed his chin back down onto his arms, shrugging. He smiled. “Everyone likes music.”
Steve grins as he turns back to the radio, powering it on, letting the static fill his ears as he searches for a channel.
He lands right in the middle of a song. It’s slow and sweet and old — from the fifties, he thinks. And it’s about to end.
And he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how, but his head rushes and his heart pounds until suddenly he opens his mouth and says, “Dance with me.”
Not a question, just a suggestion. A statement.
It goes quiet. Quieter than ever. The air turns thick and tense, unfamiliar to how it was just moments before.
Eddie cuts through it with his voice, shattering Steve’s silent panic. “What?”
Steve moves his head back to look at him. He’s picked up his own head from resting on his knees. His shoulders are straight, rigid, and he clutches his hands tightly around his legs. His eyes are wide in what looks to be more confusion than shock.
Steve clears his throat, shaking his head, letting out a nervous laugh.
“I was just — um,” he shakes his head again, looking back down at the radio, fiddling with the handle, the knob. “You know, I just—”
“Steve.”
He clenches his eyes, breathing in deeply. What was happening? Why did he say that? Why did he want that?
What the fuck was happening?
“Sorry,” he breathed, wheezing slightly. He was going to pass out, oh God — Eddie Munson was going to watch him pass out. He practically choked on how much air he inhaled. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I suggested that. It just sounded. Fun? And, we don’t have to, and—”
“Steve.”
He opened his eyes. And he looked over at Eddie.
Eddie who looked back at him gently, kindly.
He had moved to the edge of the bed, his scuffed up sneakers placed firmly down on the ground. His hands pressed down onto the mattress beside him.
“I don’t know why I suggested that,” Steve continued, apologetically, moving his eyes to gaze down at his own feet.
“Maybe because you wanted to,” Eddie suggested, softly. Steve met his eyes. His heart pounded so loudly he was afraid Eddie could hear it.
Eddie looked away before Steve could, leaving him to watch as he stood up from the bed and walked over to him. He stopped in front of him, about two feet away. He nodded at Steve. “Let’s dance, then.”
It was Steve’s turn to be confused.
“I don’t want to pressure you into it—” he started. Eddie cut him off before he could finish.
“You’re not pressuring me into anything,” he assured, smiling slightly. A strand of his hair had fallen forward, brushing against his jaw. Steve practically forced his arm at his side, afraid he’d reach out (stupidly) to move it aside. Eddie continued, his voice as reassuring as Steve had ever heard it. “Steve, it’s okay. I want to. Dance with you, that is.” Eddie’s slight smile turned rueful. “If the offer still stands.”
Steve let out all the air in his lungs, his shoulders untensing at once. He chuckled, relieved. “It still stands,” he responded, and Eddie’s cheeks dimpled.
Steve turned over to the radio, moving the dial up to increase the volume. A new song had begun. Steve listened closely to the rhythmic horns, the gentle keys. Unfamiliar at first.
Then, he heard the lyrics:
Eddie, my love, I love you so
How I wanted for you, you'll never know
Please, Eddie, don't make me wait too long
He turns back to see Eddie watching the radio with wide eyes.
“Ironic,” he muttered, letting out a light laugh.
He looked nervous. He sounded nervous.
Eddie Munson was nervous.
Steve tried not to let the shock overwhelm him — even though all he could think about was how he was making him nervous and how did Steve make Eddie nervous?
Instead he cleared his throat, watching as Eddie's gaze jumped back over to him.
There really wasn’t anything else to do but slowly, ever so slowly, reach out his hands, palms up, like some kind of priest praising a saint, towards Eddie.
It was a question. And Eddie had the answer.
Eddie brought his own hands up to Steve’s, placing them in his awaiting grasp.
Steve almost gasped at how they felt against his.
He curled his fingers around the back of his knuckles, watching as his rings glinted in the low light. Eddie's own fingers gripped his — chipped nail polish and all.
Steve took a deep breath and moved. He swayed their arms back and forth. Then he stopped, furrowing his brows.
“I don’t even know how to dance,” he admitted, looking back up at Eddie.
And Eddie starts laughing again, gripping Steve’s hands in his so hard while he doubles over, wheezing.
Steve cannot stop smiling.
“God, you’re gonna kill me one day, Harrington,” Eddie breathes, his laughter dissipating, his amusement still clear on his face. He squeezes Steve’s hands in his and tugs. “Come on. Before the song ends.”
Steve stumbles slightly, still not entirely sure he’s sober enough to even be dancing, let alone standing. He catches himself and when he looks up, he finds that he’s less than a foot away from Eddie.
“Hi,” he whispers. Way to go, stud, the rational side of his brain pricks in annoyance. That’ll impress him.
The corners of Eddie's eyes crinkle, instead, endearingly. Steve feels everything in him warm even though the window is open, cool night air hitting him repeatedly.
“Hi,” Eddie replies, softly, quietly, “You okay?”
“Fine,” Steve's voice breaks off and he clears his throat. “I’m fine.”
Eddie nods. “Alright, then.”
And then he brings one of Steve’s hands up and places it on his waist.
“You can lead,” he utters, and before Steve can even process everything — anything else, Eddie lifts his right hand, the one still holding his, between them, his palm sliding against his skin, his thumb resting on his knuckles. He lays his left on Steve’s shoulder — warm and firm and real and holy shit.
He’s dancing with Eddie Munson.
Before he can do anything else, Eddie is swaying slightly, moving to the sound of the song behind them, the smooth woman’s voice going on about loving and leaving and grieving.
Steve finds enough courage in him (shockingly) to begin swaying along. Eddie smiles again, teeth flashing.
“There you go,” he praises, nodding along. “You got it. You’re doing good.”
They move side to side until eventually they’ve moved in a circle a few times. Steve feels himself sink into the song, into Eddie, as they move gently around each other.
But he can’t help but notice the gap between them.
It’s still a bit awkward with all that space as they hold each other, about eleven or so inches separating them.
So. Steve gets closer.
He shuffles forward until his chest brushes against Eddies, his arm caught in between their torsos.
Their faces get closer, too. And how can Steve not notice that?
Eddie’s eyes lock with his, wide and unsure. Steve swallows down the mountains of fear and anxiety bubbling up in his sternum.
“Is this okay?” he questions, quietly, so quietly Eddie wouldn’t have been able to hear him if he wasn’t so close.
Eddie lets out a small breath and Steve can feel it brush against his jaw. After a small hesitation, he nods. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
Steve sighs, relieved, as he slides his hand from Eddie's waist to the small of his back, pulling him in. Eddie moves his hand, the one resting on his shoulder, up. His elbow replaces his hand while his palm comes up to cup the back of his neck. Steve resists the urge to shiver at how close his fingertips are to the hairs at his nape.
Eddie looks at him questioningly. “This good?” he whispers.
Steve can only nod, overwhelmed. By Eddie's eyes and hands, his lips and his chest. They've always been around the same height, but when pushed together like this, Steve can see that Eddie has to move his eyes up slightly to look at him. He feels warmth flood his system all over again.
Steve is the one to initiate the dancing once more. He grips Eddies right hand in his left, flattens the hand at his back, and begins swaying along as the Teen Queens sing to them:
You left me last September
To return to me before long
But all I do is cry myself to sleep
Eddie, since you've been gone
They moved and they swayed and they danced, slowly, around each other — holding each other. It’s not perfect, it’s probably a dance teacher's worst nightmare, but it’s the best thing Steve has ever experienced. They laugh when Steve steps on Eddie's shoes for the tenth time in a row.
“I’m so bad,” Steve wheezes, hanging his head in the space between them as he watches their feet move and shift with every beat.
The grip on his neck tightens and he lifts his head, gazing at Eddie’s face. “You’re doing fine,” Eddie smiles, then he winces again when Steve steps on him one more time. He laughs as Steve stutters out another apology. “Steve,” he chuckles, his shoulders shaking as he leans forward and presses his face into Steve’s sternum.
Steve slows at the feeling of Eddie’s nose digging into the spot between his collarbones, his hair brushing up against his chin. His hand tightens around Eddie’s as he rubs his thumb soothingly against the skin there.
He thinks if he were to die right now, it would be okay. He’d go willingly, with a smile on his face and a new beat to his heart.
Even as his laughter subsides, Eddie doesn’t move away. Instead, he turns his cheek to press into Steve’s chest, head resting in the crook of his neck, relaxing as he leans against him. Steve can feel his body move up and down as he breathes in and out, in and out, in and out.
Steve sinks into this feeling — the song filling the room, the light dimmed low, the moon shining, and Eddie Munson in his arms.
Steve sighs, a relieved breath of air, as he places his head down against Eddie’s, and he doesn’t know what compels him to do it — maybe it’s the weed or how late it was or the high of being this close to Eddie — but he begins to sing. Reciting the lyrics lowly, his voice deep and gravelly, into Eddie’s ear.
“Eddie, my love, I’m sinking fast,” he sings along, way off tune. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything. Only this. Only him. “The very next day might be my last.”
Eddie pulls away, his eyes soft and round and so brown and Steve never wants to look away. Eddie chuckles softly. “Steve Harrington, the singer. Who would’ve thought?”
Steve huffs his own laugh as he continues on with the lyrics, never breaking away from Eddie's stare.
“You left me last September. To return to me before long…”
He can’t move away from Eddie’s eyes and his nose and his jaw. And his lips. Pulled up gently at the corners, chapped, like he’d been biting them recently, but full and pink. And all Steve wanted was to kiss him.
He must have been staring for too long, because when he glanced back up, Eddie’s jaw was clenched and his brows were furrowed.
He knew.
He knew.
But, before he could even think to stutter out an apology, his eyes — those eyes — were dropping, just like his had, down to Steve’s own mouth.
Down to his own lips.
They were back up before Steve could blink, but it didn’t matter — he’d seen.
They eyed each other for a few moments, still swaying. And Steve was still singing.
“Please, Eddie,” he uttered, softly, gently, pleadingly, “don’t make me wait too long.”
They were close, so close their noses touched.
Steve looked at Eddie’s lips again. Then back up, gazing in his eyes. And he leaned forward.
And Eddie followed.
“Please, Eddie,” the radio sang, “don’t make me wait too long.”
Steve closes the distance and brushes their lips together.
It’s featherlight — a graze, a caress. Not a kiss, nothing like a kiss, but it still leaves Steve’s heart pounding and his face warming.
Before he can move back in — to kiss him, to really kiss him — Eddie pulls back.
His gaze is guarded and hard, like he’s hiding something vulnerable. Protecting it. His hands tighten where they’re placed on Steve’s body.
“You’re not just doing this cause you’re high, are you?” he asks, voice wavering.
And isn’t that the most insane thing that could have ever possibly come from Eddie’s mouth?
There’s a strand of his hair that has fallen forward, the same one from earlier, rubbing against his jaw.
Steve hesitantly lets go of Eddie’s hand and brushes it away, resting his fingertips against his skin. Eddie’s face spasms slightly, his confused expression making way to something else as he breathes and breathes and breathes.
“I would have done this even if I wasn’t,” Steve replied, running his fingers back and forth against Eddie’s jaw and chin and cheek, reverently. “It just took me too long to even realize I wanted it.”
“And now?” Eddie’s hand moved up to mirror his other, finding a place on his nape, the metal of his rings cool to the touch.
He never breaks his eyes away from Steve. And neither does he.
Steve’s fingers stop their caress as he moves them down to Eddie’s chin. Gently, he tilts Eddie’s head up. Eddie goes willingly.
“Now,” Steve whispers, his pulse pounding and head spinning and heart soaring, “now, there’s this.”
And Steve leans forward. And he kisses him.
Eddie lets out a sigh against his mouth as he practically melts into Steve. His arms tighten around his neck as he pulls himself up slightly, pressing himself tighter against Steve.
Steve’s hand goes down to Eddie’s torso, wrapping his arms around the other boy, tightly. Their chests slide together, their noses press into each other’s cheeks. Eddie’s fingers move up into Steve’s hair and Steve lets out a sound from deep within himself. They break away slightly for air, and then they’re back, crashing again and again as they come together with every kiss.
This was the real drug, the real high, the real air that Steve needed to breathe — kissing Eddie Munson was everything good that came out of life.
They stayed that way for minutes — hours, days, years — until Eddie broke away, gasping slightly.
Steve hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes until he opened them again.
Eddie was flushed and breathless and so fucking beautiful Steve couldn’t handle it.
Eddie’s eyes opened to Steve, grinning like some kind of idiot — which he was — staring at him with the most starstruck expression there ever was.
Steve didn’t care. He really didn’t.
Eddie let out a giddy laugh. Steve’s own face hurt from how hard he was smiling. He leaned forward again, kissing the crinkle of Eddie’s eyes, the dimples in both of his cheeks, then moved down to press his face against his neck, dropping a kiss or two there as well.
Eddie’s arms dropped to wrap around Steve’s shoulders, holding him tight.
And there they stayed, curled into one another, melding into one, as they danced and danced and danced.