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He hates this. It.
Which is—rich coming from him, considering. He should be relieved. Or something. Because at least—at least—it means he's actually just like everybody else. Not a white noise in the dull humming of the Midwest suburbs, or a rash itching under the skin of the locals. Not a hole in the wall you probe to find your way in the dark anymore. Ha.
And, sure. He's used to that—being the odd one out. Used to playing with this image he projects, adding fuel to the fire, even, because jumping on tables is somehow easier than curling in on himself and admitting all of this makes him feel kind of shitty.
Still, there's only so much he can put up with. Like—the staring and pointed fingers had been fine. But having the police sent after him, and then a mob, all because he'd rather roll some dice instead of a Spalding? Less so.
So. Blending in, for once. A very much welcome rest in this existence made of broken strings and dust on window sills.
“Can't you just move, like, literally anywhere else?”
“Nope.”
“You're insufferable, you know that?”
Eddie only slightly falters under the gaze of the man above him, annoyance melting into something akin to—what, exactly? Amusement? Affection? Even more annoyance? The uncertainty of it all is getting to him more than it should. Must be a side effect of being normal.
The thing is—he didn't expect his ticket to normality to be Steve fucking Harrington of all people. And yet. Here he is, having a crush on the most crushed-on dude of Hawkins. Just. Fabulous.
So maybe he's lying on the table that Steve needs just to punish him. After all, it's not fair that the guy can go on with his life without having to face any obstacle while he's been stuck in the same pitfall for weeks.
“If I lose my job because you keep interfering with my work, I swear—”
Steve doesn't finish his sentence, lets out a puff instead. He's holding a box of about thirty vinyls, the letter R hanging above saturated, glossy covers, and it's obvious that it's heavy and that he's trying hard to pretend it's not.
Eddie makes no move to get out of his way, though. Can't. He's become—transfixed by the sight suddenly unfolding in front of him; a leg placed under the box to alleviate its weight, the knee bared, a bit redder than the rest of the skin, brown hair scattering the exposed surface. He hates these stupid shorts Steve's decided to wear, and, above all, he hates how much he wants to touch.
He rolls on his side.
“Won't be my fault if you're fired,” he points out. “'Cause—you know. Water's wet. The Pope's Catholic. Steve and Robin can't keep a job for more than three months. It's a universal truth. So, I don't interfere. I'm only a mere clog in the infernal machine that is your destiny.”
“You were a theater kid, weren't you?” Steve quips.
And, ah—annoyance.
Even now, Eddie can't fully comprehend why he likes him. It can't be because of the hair, surely. Too much hair spray and grooming. Doesn't matter if it is carefully—and very obviously—considered so that only a single strand falls on his forehead to lure people into wanting to tuck it back into place. Not that he wants to. This trick doesn't work on him. Usually.
He gets on his feet to abort any other thought. Can't risk sealing his demise. But something must have crept its way up to his eyes—a glimpse of the two of them, Steve's face safe in his mental place—, because Steve catches him looking, and wavers.
“Please stop looking at me like that,” he scoffs, finally putting the box on the table.
“Like what?”
“I don't know. Like—like you're mocking me, or something.”
Or something. A raised eyebrow, this time, as Eddie leans against the wall. Sometimes, it amazes him how unaware Steve can be. Can't see what's right before him. Hadn't even figured it out, Robin, that is, until he spilled his feelings all over her. Bit embarrassing, to be honest.
Which means—he doesn't know about him. Probably. Most certainly. And it's not like Eddie's actively hiding it. He does have a black bandana in his back pocket.
Oh, well. Maybe he should retreat before he sinks too deep. Abandon the ship, wave a white flag. Or a white hanky, for that matters—but this would send a very contradictory message. Not that Steve would get it anyway.
Still, something's pulling him towards the guy. A kick he gets when he riles him up. Or self-sabotage.
“I'm not mocking you,” is the closest thing to the truth that he's ready to admit. “You're not even funny.”
“Okay, rude.”
Steve seems offended at first, but then he chuckles lightly, and he scrunches his nose, and Eddie's stomach turns cold and empty. Oh, God, is it the face? Has he fallen just for a pretty face? He can't have that. He's just accepted he's more conventional than he thought, he can't already be leaning on the superficial side.
Plus, it's insulting. He knows Steve better now. Knows that he's more than nice eyes. And a nice smile. And a nice chin. Fuck.
“You know, I was gonna be nice to you”, Steve says. “I have two tickets for a gig on Saturday night. A metal thing. Thought you would want to come.” He retrieves another box from behind the counter, places it next to the first one. “But I changed my mind, you don't deserve it.”
Eddie folds his arms; now this got his attention. Because—a concert. Just the two of them? A gush of excitement shoots up to his brain and he can't bring himself to simmer it down. Steve rarely asks him to hang out. Sometimes he knocks on the door of his trailer and they just smoke for a couple of hours without really talking. Or he invites him to one of his parties when his parents are out of town, or he joins a D&D session because the kids begged him to drive them home afterwards. But there are always other people around.
Mostly, it's Eddie who has to come all the way to the shop at ass o'clock to have him all to himself. Just like today.
Perhaps it's already too late to think about retreating.
His voice's a giddy little electron running down slippery stairs when he says, “Did the frontman pay you to come?”
“Threatened to sing all the tracks of his album every night under my window until I gave in. Much more effective.”
“And metal is not exactly fit for lullabies, is it?” Eddie jokes, a giggle pulsating between his ribs. (Steve sends him another of his funny looks that he can't decipher.)
Apparently, it's not rare for aspiring rock stars to come to the shop and ask the employees if they can sell their CDs here in exchange for an admission to their shows. The music's often more unlistenable than not, but you can't say no to a free concert after a stressful day. Eddie once tried to get Robin to put a poster for his band up on the storefront, which she outrightly refused. Said his Sauron outfit would scare the customers, but what does she know.
Besides, he's still a bit skepitcal about this whole thing—Steve and Robin working at a record shop, that is. He'd expected them to choose something movie-related, just like before, but Steve had only shrugged.
“Cinema, music—it's all about one thing, really.”
“Creation?”
“Escapism.”
Perhaps Eddie likes him because of this level of understanding that they share, the deep night terrors and the crippling feeling inside their chests that they have to contain the morning after.
“Robin's not free?”
“She'd punch me if I dared to bring her in a basement full of sweaty dudes. And she only listens to Joan Jett anyway.”
“What about Nancy?”
Steve fetches another box. “Why would I ask Nancy?”
The nonchalance in his answer is genuine, and Eddie grins. He thinks of the time he tried to set him up with the girl, back there in the Upside Down. When he was just starting to acknowledge the whole “Steve-is-not-a-douchebag-after-all” thing while pretending there wasn't a latent thought there—that fuck, the guy looked good in his jacket.
“No luck with any other girl either?” he pushes.
Steve tucks Hyæna between Nocturne and Tinderbox. Picks the sleeve up again, puts it back into place. His silence stretches beyond minutes. He's not looking at Eddie, but at the Siouxsie cover. There's a crease on his forehead.
“I asked you. Why so many questions? If you don't want to come, just say it.”
Eddie runs a hand through his hair, slightly taken aback by how serious this has become. “I don't know, man, it's just—I don't get it. Do you even listen to metal?”
“Not really. But you like it, so—I thought it could be a nice way to spend more time together.”
And. Hum. Together. The adrenaline recedes, liquefies into a pool of nervousness. Because—this doesn't sound like just hanging out. Doesn't sound like what Eddie's pictured at all.
In his plan, he was going to annoy Steve during the whole set, maybe explain some metal stuff he wouldn't care about and force him to headbang just to see how effective his hair spray actually is. They'd part ways after the concert, of course, and Eddie would go back to his trailer, and scream into his pillow because obviously Steve's hair would still look good, just like the rest of him.
But now there's another perspective; there's a dark backyard, and a conversation away from the noise. There's, maybe—a hand sneaking up those shorts.
Does Steve know what he's implying here?
Eddie gazes at him. Steve seems detached as he goes on with his job, storing one box after the other, which would suggest the opposite. He's acting casually, except—
Oh, God. Eddie wants to yelp.
He wants to bite his nails and break a vinyl or two. Then yelp some more. Because. Because. He's just spotted a faint blush rising up Steve's right ear. Also, the cheek; bitten from the inside.
Shit.
Maybe Eddie's the one who's been very much unaware of everything.
Something unfamiliar settles inside him, then—a pressure; a density. Not a fleeting sensation, like the one he experienced a few minutes ago, but a pleasing, persistant warmness in the hollow of his chest. It's the first time he feels this way—feels somehow right and stable when he's only ever been skipping sideways.
There's confidence in his steps as he approaches Steve next. “Just the two of us?” he muses, hopping from one foot to the other, his hands behind his back. He's so delighted he starts humming the tune, which—well, is not very metal of him, but Grover Washington Jr rocks, so he gets a pass.
Steve hides his face behind the Pet Shop Boys album he's holding. His laugh's a bit strangled. “Jeez, you're so embarrassing.”
Eyes wide open, open-mouthed smile and wriggling eyebrows, Eddie's enjoying it now that there's a chance his attraction might not be a one-sided pity party after all. Plus, Steve's so fucking pretty when he's flustered, dawn-colored cheeks and shit. Which is great. Eddie can't be the only one losing his mind here.
“But—yeah,” Steve says, and it's impossible to ignore the rosy tint infusing all his face now, even if he's still not looking at him.
What Eddie doesn't miss either is the way the last word is hushed, like a plea and a confession at the same time. He thinks he could write a song about this; about how the pit of his stomach's tightened a bit at that, and how much he wants to kiss Steve.
But he doesn't say any of this. Not yet. Steve's probably as incredulous about this whole situation as he is, if not more. He doesn't want to ruin everything.
“Well, Steve, I'd love to go on a date with you,” he says instead, all serious.
This, he hopes, will leave no room for ambiguity. It's—a last attempt at clearing the air. A door left open, an opportunity to pretend it was just a stupid joke (“What are you saying, man? I didn't mean it like that.”) and run away.
Steve doesn't run away.
Doesn't laugh it off, either. Instead, he pauses and turns to Eddie. A tentative smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but the look he gives him is far more suggestive. (Definitely not annoyance, then.)
“So, when should I pick you up?” Steve asks.
And, fuck—Eddie is so going to slip his hands under his shorts.