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It’s more than a little weird, being asked out by Nancy Wheeler two or three years after their (undeniably quite violent) breakup. Steve still counted it as his least favorite breakup to date, and he’d had more than a few less than ideal ones in his life. But Wheeler’s was the only one in which he somehow ended up becoming the bad guy—plus, the whole child-kidnapping, teen-murdering, other-dimension-belonging monster situation hasn’t exactly aged well in his memory.
At first, the breakup was nothing but a welt on the belt where there should have been a notch like any other fling. Where the neat pinprick hole was intended to be instead grew inflamed and rough; a sore reminder of the parts of Steve that he hated the most. It was embarrassing. And made him the laughingstock among the people he considered to be his friends at the time, just because he had the modicum of self-awareness necessary to feel a little guilty about the whole thing. The guilt got bigger. He graduated, and suddenly there were no more so-called friends to tease him about it all, let alone offer him a little support. To be fair, though—no one in high school had ever even thought of doing the latter even before Nancy.
Wheeler’s welt turned into a scar that summer, healed over and hidden—finally—by the prospect of something new. But then it turned out Robin liked girls, and, well, then it seemed like the only option Steve had left was the toss out the belt altogether. Notches and nuptials seemed off the cards for him, and every time he and Nancy passed each other by the memories of why exactly that was bristled across his skin like a rash.
Which is why, yes, it is a little awkward to be asked out by Nancy again. Discomforting, if you will. An experience sprinkled with a heaping tablespoon of nostalgic affection and a deep, deep unwillingness to say yes.
“Which—uh, I mean. Can I just ask why? I guess. Not in a weird way, though?” Steve asked at the time of Nancy’s query. She showed up at the rental shop without so much as a phone call first, still dressed to the nines after what Steve could only assume was a part-time job or internship at one of the offices further downtown. Her soft brown halo of curls was piled on top of her head in an attempt to look older, probably. To Steve it made her look like she was still a teenager playing dress-up on her way to save the world.
She rubbed a hand across her forehead, collecting beads of sweat and covering it up with a quick, tight smile. At the time it seemed like she couldn’t bear to stand still, and her eyes darted around the small video shop like she was afraid of being watched. Admittedly a little hurtful, if in fact she was that embarrassed about being seen flirting (?) with Steve Harrington.
“I’d just like to talk, okay?” She replied on the edge of terseness, “Is that a no, then? You don’t have to agree if you’re not—”
“No! I mean, no, it’s totally cool. I’m down.” And he cursed himself for interrupting her because it infused the conversation with a sudden enthusiasm on his part that he by no means felt.
It wasn’t Nancy’s fault, of course, and it still isn’t. Nancy never did or does anything wrong, as far as Steve is concerned. He actually, genuinely does like her. In school, he liked her for months longer than he let on because of all the stupid high school factors that restrict one from doing or saying what they really want when they want to. But that didn’t mean the feelings weren’t there. Steve thought Nancy was incredibly smart, and still does. He thought she was beautiful in a quiet, unassuming way, and he still does, though he’s pretty sure he got the quiet part wrong when he was younger. He thinks she’s frighteningly gutsy in a way that just works, and he’s never seen a person who cares about the state of the world more than her. And all of that is extremely likable to him. It’s just that none of it adds up to being lovable to him anymore.
Coming up with a last-minute cancellation excuse has never seemed so incredibly enticing to Steve before, not even when he was forced to go out with Melinda Brown in seventh grade on a dare. But he's not in seventh grade anymore, or eighth, or twelfth, for that matter. High school was eons ago, and Steve Harrington is a capable, confident young man who is perfectly assured in his own ability to turn down the ex-girlfriend he utterly fucked over three years ago for no good reason. And he’s also most definitely not washed up, as much as a certain long-haired D&D-playing maniac might claim otherwise.
As far as Eddie is concerned, Steve is making either a huge mistake or a huge deal out of nothing at all. In Eddie’s opinion—which Steve never asks for but is somehow always getting to hear regardless—Nancy either, “A. Is a catch who you used to be obsessed with and therefore have no reason to turn down. Or B. Isn’t even asking you out and just wants to talk about something. Maybe, I don’t know, the fucking almost-apocalypse we just faced together? Honestly, Steven, it amazes me how you’re able to make even something that huge about your romantic issues. Has she even broken up with what’s-his-name?”
Jonathan Byers is his name, and yes, actually, was the answer to that question, though Eddie didn’t seem to care much either way. Steve only knows this—the fact of the breakup, not Jonathan’s name—through Robin, who is so wrapped up in her new friendship with Nancy it’s impressive she even found the time to relay that much information to Steve in one sitting.
“Which is also perfectly fine, by the way,” he relayed to a disinterested, unconvinced Eddie. “I want her to—I’m glad she has other friends, female friends. She needs that, definitely. I’m happy for them. Little weird for me, but that’s beside the point. See? I don’t make everything about my romantic issues.”
“Very impressive, Harrington. I guess you proved me wrong,” Eddie replied with a grin that tugged at Steve’s stomach.
Enough of that, Steve scolds himself, you’re driving. Jesus, Harrington, it’s a wonder you haven’t gotten your posse of kid friends killed on the road. And he doesn’t realize he’s referring to himself in his own head the way that Eddie calls him now.
When Steve pulls up to the high school parking lot, he can already see Nancy sitting on the scattering of outdoor tables outside the cafeteria; just visible from where he sits in his car, definitely not prolonging this meeting for every possible second he still can. She looks lovely, of course, even in jeans and a t-shirt. Less like she’s trying to be someone she’s not for the sake of getting her foot in the door. It’s slightly relieving to see her jogging her knees at the kind of voracious speed that can only mean she’s as nervous as he is. It reminds Steve that it’s on him to make the first move, even if the first move is turning her down once and for all.
He ruffles a hand through his hair, checks his teeth in the rearview mirror, and gets out of the car. He can practically hear Eddie giving him grief about this last little preening, but now more than ever is the time to put Eddie Munson out of his head.
“Hey, Nance.” Good. Cool. No voice crack, nothing to indicate his trepidation in the slightest. He offers a wave as he reaches her and meets her gaze, then regrets it, then decides it was the right choice when she waves back with a wan smile. Huh, he realizes when he gets close enough to make out the Pink Floyd logo on her shirt, Robin has one just like that.
“Hey,” Nancy responds. She’s sitting on the only table that isn’t still soaked from the morning drizzle, her shoes braced on the bench, and she scoots to the side to make room for Steve.
He hesitates, then pokes his thumb back towards his car. “I thought we were gonna get something to eat? Talk in the car, maybe?” It’s not what he wants to do, not under these circumstances, but her lack of enthusiasm has him a little taken aback all the same.
Nancy blinks roundly and sweetly, like Steve has just offered something utterly ridiculous that she had never thought to ask for in the first place. Then her face crumples into a cross between embarrassment, regret, and a little dash of guilt, and before Steve can get a word of clarification in she blurts out, “I’m sorry! Steve, I’m really, really sorry, but I just don’t feel that way about you anymore. I really think you’re great, but I actually—”
“Nancy, whoa, I wasn’t saying—I’m not—” It is bitterly frustrating to have her think he’s the one whose been pining after her all these years, “I didn’t think that—”
She talks over him, hands coming up around herself in a shield of an embrace, “—I just needed some advice!”
“—I don’t even like—wait, what?”
They both stop talking (finally) and start staring at each other instead. Steve asks again, “You want advice? From me?”
It is a little odd, or it would be if anyone gave it a second thought. After all, this was Nancy Wheeler he was talking to. Steve might not be washed-up, but he certainly isn't headed to any Ivy Leagues or anything even remotely near that anytime soon. Nancy has always been the smartest person Steve knew, and she’s only gotten smarter with time. Unless…
“Uh…are you asking me for…dating advice, or…?” He tries, very, very carefully, since if he’s wrong it’ll probably be the most embarrassing assumption he’s made since he thought Robin was into him.
As it turns out, he’s not wrong; a fact which will bring him immense vindication later on. For now, it just makes Nancy’s entire face turn red, and Steve, for a reason he wishes he could figure out, feels the back of his neck start to get hot as well.
“Oh! Oh, wow,” he says, and scratches the back of his head in lieu of saying anything else, scanning the courtyard of his old high school in an attempt to understand exactly why and how he got here.
“…Is it too weird?” Nancy asks in a small voice. She hasn’t looked away from him in minutes, even while he does everything in his power to avoid looking at her. She bites her lip and says, “You don’t have to, um, stay, or anything, if it’s too much. Like if you thought this was a date, or—”
“Whoa! Whoa, there, Nance, I’ve been over you for—” Steve stops to tally the months in his head, “—Like, several weeks now, at least. Since before Vecna and everything, even, all right? I came today so I could turn you down! Can we not play the Steve Harrington pity party tape again? No one in this town can seem to fathom the idea of me not being into you anymore, seriously.”
Maybe it’s a little mean, sure, but when he sneaks a peek at Nancy to make sure she isn’t too put out, all he sees is genuine relief in her eyes. Her arms come down from around her torso and her whole body seems to shudder like she’s exhaling for the first time in far too long. And, yeah, Steve is still a little peeved about her lack of clear communication skills, but he knows part of her relief comes from the fact that she doesn’t have to deal with hurting his feelings by turning him down. It’s pretty hard to stay mad at that.
She just keeps staring at him. And he knows she’s only going to keep doing it until he makes a move—it’s always been like that between them. So, after heaving a very long-winded and melodramatic sigh, he kicks his way across the damp grass and takes a seat beside her on the table.
“So,” Steve asks, bracing his elbows on his knees and tilting his head to meet her deer-in-headlights gaze, “Who’s the lucky guy now, huh?”
He can tell it’s going to be one of the biggest confessions in her life before she says the word—before she even thinks of saying it. He can tell by the rasp of a breath that she gathers before speaking; she averts her eyes, at long last, and her hands are white-knuckling it together in her lap as she says, in the mousiest, tiniest of voices:
“Robin.”
If Steve were to describe how he processed this very sudden, rather astonishing piece of news, he would tell someone he felt his mind split into two halves: the jock-ish and admittedly quite intellectually challenged version of Steve, and the practiced, mature, adequately equipped ally-to-all version of Steve. Ally-To-All Steve immediately wanted to say, Nance, that’s great! I’m happy for you! Robin loves girls, you’re both going to be incredibly happy! And while he desperately fought to rise to the surface of Steve’s tongue, all the while he was battling Intellectually Challenged Steve, who couldn’t help but rattle off such beauties as, Fuck, dude! I can’t believe this happened to me twice! Is this my fault, or something? And why didn’t Robin tell me? Wait, that’s definitely Robin’s t-shirt then. Shit. I can’t believe this happened to me twice!
Privately, he recognizes a third voice—as small as he can make it and he stifles it further with every word. Isn’t that funny? It asks him. We’re in the same boat.
“Um…Steve? Hey, you’re scaring me.”
Nancy’s voice is a fishing line; it hooks Steve from the jangling that is his own mind fighting to the death with itself and reels him back to where he is. Sitting with her, on a splintering bench, in the high school courtyard where they used to say they were in love. He looks at her—desperate and vulnerable and smaller than she’s ever seemed—and then he thinks of Robin. And all the things he wishes he said to her back when she admitted something excruciatingly similar to this interaction now.
Steve reaches out and puts an arm around Nancy, pulling her into a side-hug that should be awkward but somehow manages to be warm. “Nance,” he says while he's holding her close, “That’s great. That’s really great. I’m happy for you, okay? Don’t worry about anything else.”
A beat. Then she's shaking, suddenly, soundlessly, and they don't speak another word for a good long while.
Eddie Munson was (and still is, to some extent), to Steve Harrington, a particularly thorough and intense enigma. There are few people Steve can’t (eventually) wear down or impress out of disliking him. It’s not his fault that he was born with good looks and enough charm to sweet-talk his way out of most problems. It’s also not his fault that these attributes are, generally, enough to get the majority of people to like you without any real effort on your part. Plus, it really doesn’t work on everyone. Billy Hargrove was one. Eddie Munson is (was?) another.
Steve doesn’t think of himself as a bully, not even in the past tense. He minded his business as long as other people minded theirs. A little peacockery was necessary every now and then to maintain his position as the king of Hawkins High, but no one could blame him for that. It didn’t amount to much in his day-to-day life now, either way, so he’s the one who has to live with those embarrassing memories now. If anyone is traumatized because of it, it’s him. And it's always been Eddie, more than anyone else, who seemed to take the utmost joy in reminding him of the embarrassment of those days—both then and now. They were in the same class while Steve was in school, and though Hellfire was a much smaller and more private event then, Eddie never failed to laud it and his own standing in the club over Steve’s head whenever they were so unfortunate as to encounter one another throughout the school day. Where the rest of the school would have unequivocally agreed that it was Eddie who was the punching bag of teenage society, it seemed that Eddie hadn’t gotten the memo, and it was Steve more than anyone else who he considered to be a laughingstock sheep.
“You might be king,” he told Steve once with a grin that flickered dangerously between glee and spite, “But you’re still king of the herd.”
(It was shortly after this incident that Steve covertly coined the nickname Eddie “The Freak” Munson for his newfound high school nemesis.)
This was essentially the main impression Steve formed of Eddie during their brief interactions: he was a loud and occasionally frighteningly vindictive little freak who liked playing monsters with his friends and acting like he was better than everyone else because he listened to and played headache-inducing music way too loud. If Steve had to guess, he would have said that Eddie’s main impression of him was: a self-absorbed heartbreaker who spent his entire youth caring more about maintaining his image and hairstyle than anything of real importance.
People moved on. People died. An alternate dimension and a little girl with ESP happened, and Steve graduated and Eddie didn’t (ha!) and nothing else ever came of anything between them. It was high school shit. Their rivalry never went beyond petty—unlike someone Steve used to know. This was probably in large part because Steve and Eddie were begrudgingly forced to reconcile the fact that even if they didn’t get along with each other or understand each other’s world views in the slightest, it didn’t mean they were bad people. When someone ‘accidentally’ knocked Eddie clean out with a dodgeball in tenth-grade gym one day, it was Steve who limped him all the way to the nurse’s office, and they bickered all the way there. And the year prior, it was Eddie who came across Steve mourning a dead squirrel and helped him bury it with only several dozen complaints.
And now, Steve and Eddie have somehow ended up becoming all but foster parents to a certain D&D-loving tech freak of a certain kid they know who shall remain anonymous, and they also saved the world together, which, yes, does force you to get to know someone a little bit better than most. A lot better, actually.
It also has to be a byproduct of the fact that Robin has been so wrapped up in Nancy since that pesky apocalypse was over and done with. For the time being, that is, since the Upside Down never seems to stay down for long. Regardless, she has been rather into her new friendship—though, clearly it’s no longer just a friendship, which actually makes Steve feel slightly better—and so Steve has been acutely aware of his own lack of friends beside her. Same-age friends, that is. He really cannot keep hanging out with teenagers. He quite seriously believes it’s taking a toll on his mental health at this point.
It’s therefore both completely logical and totally nonsensical that he and Eddie started hanging out.
Reasons Why It’s Actually Normal For Steve and Eddie to be Friends:
- Amidst everything, Eddie actually, somehow, managed to successfully graduate high school at long last. In need of a new job, he began picking up shifts at the pizza parlor across the street from the video rental store. Steve can literally see him every day, stupid ponytail and all, flipping his stupid pizzas. And vice versa, but with flipping stupid tapes on Steve’s part.
- Eddie likes movies. Steve likes food. They both get discounts at their respective places of business. Why not put two and two together and maintain the fatness of both their wallets without having to sacrifice a thing?
- The aforementioned adoptee, Dustin Henderson. If the kid wasn’t so damn endearing and annoying at the same time, it would be much easier for Steve and Eddie to avoid each other in peace. But the boy needs his father figures in life, right?
- Shared life and death experiences do carry some weight for most reasonably sane people, no matter how much dubious history they may share. They saved each other’s lives, no question about it, and the world too while they were at it. It’s hard for Steve to look at Eddie and see The Freak—and even Eddie would openly admit Steve has matured a little since way back when they only knew each other semi-well and annoyed one another beyond reason.
Reasons Why It’s Actually Insane for Steve and Eddie to be Friends:
- The high school nonsense Steve has repeatedly relived through in his head. Because try as he might, he still can’t understand why Eddie hated him so much. And knowing Eddie better—knowing that his nose crinkles when he laughs and that some of his headache music can actually be quite soothing after a day of not-quite-yelling at customers—means he can’t help but be curious about it. Steve can’t help but want to know more, and relive all those awkward high school days he wishes he could just forget in the process.
- They don’t actually have very much in common, if anything. Sure, they actually enjoy each other’s taste in films, and they both think college is an enormous waste of time, and if they had to be any animal in the world they would both be chameleons but for vastly different reasons; but if he were to be completely honest, Steve wouldn’t be able to explain how or why he knows all of this. Their friendship is untraceable to him. One day he simply looked around and realized he was waking up for the third night in a row in Eddie’s trailer, and Eddie was aggressively singing Metallica lyrics over the morning newsreel with something probably closer to hazardous waste than food hissing away on the stove.
- There’s a third reason, but like that third voice inside Steve’s head, it’s a little bit too terrifying to put into so many words. It’s simpler to explain away as Eddie’s ridiculously curly hair that scratches Steve’s hands whenever he gets lucky enough to brush his hand through it. Eddie’s habit of teasing Steve that bounces from playful to coy to even a little bit mean, but in a skin-tingling, never quite cruel way. Eddie’s fingers that fit in Steve’s like they were made for each other. Eddie’s nose. Eddie’s grin. Eddie’s stupid love for his stupid guitar, and how good he is at playing those strings.
All of this, which is to say, Nancy’s admission isn’t so far off from what Steve has been dealing with for the past handful of weeks that have felt like years.
By the time Nancy stops crying into Steve’s shoulder, the clouds of the bedraggled June day have passed, revealing the kind of sunset that only comes after a rainy day; the oranges dull and burnt, the red a thin line on the tree line as the oaks and maples of Hawkins reach up to collect the last dregs of sunlight before night falls.
The light seems to help Nancy shake off the tsunami of emotions that tend to arise from the kinds of confessions like the one she just made. Slowly, she rights herself, pulling away from Steve and clearing her eyes of their watery film with the collar of Robin’s t-shirt. Steve lets her go without insistence.
“Better?” He asks carefully, trying not to look at her too much, but also not avoiding her entirely. Make her comfortable, he thinks, let her know you’re on her side. I mean, not like that—well, kind of like that, but not to the point where she figures it out!
Nancy takes another deep breath, then glances up and offers him a small smile, a nod of assurance. Her eyes are very red, but clear of all the worry and regret they held before saying what she had. “Mm. It’s just… a lot, you know? I mean, I can’t believe I thought boys were complicated. Everything we went through, everything Jonathan and I went through, it doesn’t compare, honestly.”
“So, you’re—I mean, everything between us, was it…?” It’s not the most sensitive question, but Steve can’t help but want to know. It was real for him, being with Nancy, even if things are different now. That will never change.
But Nancy is already shaking her head. “No way, I liked you. Definitely. And I really loved Jonathan too, but I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. It’s weird.”
“It’s not weird,” Steve says firmly, bordering on defensive. He can’t help it; he doesn’t want Nancy talking about herself like that, and he definitely doesn’t want to hear that kind of thing about himself, either. Even if it's just by proxy, and due to his own insecurities. “It’s not, Nance.”
She seems to hold back a smile and half-shrugs, half ducks her head. “I guess you’re right, huh? It’s not weird. But it is different. And it’s scary to think about how many people expect me to feel one way or another. I mean, even Robin. What if she thinks I’m just—going through a phase, or something? It’s real, Steve. I’ve been in love before, I know what it feels like.”
Steve pauses. Then he lets out a coy grin and elbows her lightly in the ribs, saying, “So you’re in love, huh, Nancy Wheeler? With the Robin Buckley, huh?”
“Please!” Nancy laughs, elbowing him right back. “Yes, okay? Yes! I love her!” Still laughing, happier than Steve has ever seen her, she stands up on the bench beneath their feet and flings out her arms, and shouts into the sunset, “I love Robin Buckley!” She turns back to him, beaming without even a fraction of restraint. “There, are you happy now?”
She is incredibly bright, Steve thinks, with the sunlight picking up all her curls and illuminating them like pieces of gold. Forming a crown around her head as she announces her deepest, most internal truth to the sky. He’s happy for her. He’s acutely aware of the stunning weight of his own burden. He, at that moment, wants more than anything to tell her everything he feels for his own unmentionable, secret person, and to feel the freedom he sees her feeling now.
But telling Nancy won’t unburden him the way he wants it to. At least not yet. He knows there’s only one person he really wants to speak his truth to.
“Nance,” he says, “I’m crazy happy for you, and I want you and Robin to be ridiculously happy forever. But there’s somewhere I’ve got to be, so would you mind asking me for that advice you needed now?”
As it turns out, Nancy needed to know exactly what kind of birthday present would make Robin transcend reality from joy. And even though they were friends for months and girlfriends for going on three weeks, and because Nancy is an avid perfectionist, she still trusts Steve’s opinion on this matter more than her own, because she will die (“Just die, seriously!”) if she messes up Robin’s first birthday as her official first-ever girlfriend.
Steve gives her a handful of ideas, one more hug, and gets the hell into his car as soon as he can. He doesn't think about putting his key in the ignition, pulling out of his parking spot, or turning decidedly left in the opposite direction of his home out of the lot. He’s driving now, and he doesn’t think about the turns he’s making or the thickening of the trees around him as the sun finally sets and he draws ever closer to the trailer park.
He doesn’t think about parking his car haphazardly in front of Eddie’s trailer or the probably-not-great rough scratch of his tires in the dust and gravel as he pulls to a stop. He doesn’t even look around to make sure no one is watching him (partially because he knows most of this particular neighborhood’s inhabitants are scattered throughout Hawkins’ various bars at this time of day, but also in part because he’s being brave for once, damn it!).
Eddie probably knows the sound of Steve’s engine by heart by now, so it’s no surprise that he’s already coming down the front steps of his home as Steve gets out of his car at the same time. He must have been doing the dishes—he’s still holding a glass in one hand, a damp towel in the other, and he’s wearing the biggest, stupidest, best smile Steve has ever seen.
“So,” he says as Steve crosses the distance between them, all relaxation, all luster in the twilight, “I guess your date didn’t go so well?”
Steve comes to a stop just in front of him, sucks in the breath of a lifetime, and says with every ounce of confidence he can muster, “I’m in love with you.”
The squeaking of Eddie drying his glassware comes to a resounding halt. Silence, heavier and thicker than blood, falls.
“I,” Steve continues, pausing only to swallow tightly, “am in love with you. Eddie Munson. In love. I don’t know how it happened, or when, and I’m sorry if this isn’t what you wanted from me, but I…love you. I thought it was just friendship, and then I thought it would just go away if I ignored it, but I’m tired of ignoring it. And I don’t want to not be with you anymore. I want when you kissed me—I want our kiss to have meant something.”
Because, yes, of course, there was a kiss. Without it, Steve doubts he ever would have admitted to himself what he feels in the slightest capacity. Drunk, late at night, in the midst of all their fears and regrets and the horrors they had faced, they kissed, and fell asleep, and told each other the next morning it was meaningless. But Steve had lied. To him, it was the beginning of the rest of his life.
Eddie is watching Steve with the most inscrutable expression on his face. You utter enigma, Steve thinks, probably for the millionth time, staring back with his entire heart on display—ready and willing to be shattered into hundreds of thousands of pieces.
What shatters instead, as it happens, is the glass Eddie was cleaning, because he needs both his hands to reach out and kiss Steven with the force of a punch and all the love he can muster without words.
The drunken kiss was one thing, one very, very good thing. But this kiss is another. It is everything to Steve; it is a man’s lips, with no confusion about it brought on by intoxication or late-night desire. It is the sealing of an open-ended promise, the jumpstart to the life that began when they kissed the first time. Like the world begins spinning again as soon as Eddie holds him. Like his heart is learning to beat with the echoing strength of church bells.
After a sickeningly sweet and enticingly long time, Eddie breaks away and says, “You owe me a glass,” and he’s smiling again, hard and bright and beautiful.
Steve just laughs.