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The call comes in late one Tuesday night, while Steve is baking snickerdoodles and Eddie is trying (and only mostly failing) to distract him with increasingly objectionable opinions on which movies he thinks are overrated.
“The Karate Kid,” Eddie says, lazily kicking his legs against the folded-up oven door. Steve had tried to shoo him off the stovetop, threatening to turn on a burner, light his ass on fire. But Eddie just looked at him with those big, brown eyes, positively sparkling in the dim light of the trailer, like he was some kind of magical Disney animal companion— my kitchen, my rules, Stevie .
“No.” The noise Steve lets out is low, wounded. He points his rubber spatula at Eddie, jerkily enough that a glob of cookie dough sloughs off the flat side, landing wetly on the counter. “Take it back.”
Eddie shakes his head, solemn. He tugs a piece of hair over his mouth, but it doesn’t hide the amused quirk of his lips. “No can do.”
“But—it’s iconic,” Steve argues, weak. “The crane kick? No can defense?”
“Yes can defense, easy can defense,” Eddie insists. He leans forward, gets right up in Steve’s space, eyes narrowing like he’s about to put the killing blow in Steve’s very solid defense of a very solid movie. His hair smells like smoke and honey melon shampoo. “You just… step back.”
It’s strange—outside of Dustin, and sometimes Robin, Steve’s never had this much fun just arguing with someone. There’s no bitter edge to it, no concern of worsening any underlying resentment. Eddie pokes at him because he likes to poke, likes the faces Steve makes when he’s pushed. It’s just that simple.
A lot of things are simple, with Eddie. After Vecna was defeated and his name cleared, Eddie slotted into their little monster-killing group like he’d always been there. He helped shuttle the kids around, studied with Nancy, learned to skateboard with Max, and showed up to Family Video every other day to keep Steve and Robin company, under the guise of bugging them for free rentals for movie night. He graduated with the rest of the class of ‘86—they all showed up to watch him flip Higgins the bird, and then sweep Dustin into a spinning hug that landed them both face-down in the grass.
He’d slotted into Steve’s life, too, easy as a fresh cassette tape. Afternoons smoking and learning to tolerate each other’s music turned into nights talking about any stupid thing that crossed their minds, turned to mornings waking up six inches apart, because they were both big enough to admit they slept worse alone. Eddie just—he walks into a room, and something inside him lights the whole place up, dread and dirt and grime flaking off in the wind. Even when he’s knocking on Steve’s door, freaked out and trembling, eyes wet in the early hours of the morning, his presence does something to Steve’s lungs. Lets him breathe a little easier.
Steve maybe, possibly, has a little bit of a crush. It’s fine. It’s something he’s working on.
“Johnny did kinda walk right into it,” Steve admits.
“Exactly!” Eddie leans back, wiggling his pointer finger, coated in cookie dough—he must have scooped some from the bowl while Steve was having a very reasonable crisis about how good he smells—grin stretching wide and pleased. Steve lunges forward, but before he can get a hand around his wrist, Eddie pops the finger in his mouth, cackling wildly.
“You are a menace,” Steve intones, every cell in his body folding into little origami butterflies at the sight of Eddie’s delighted smile, the little shimmy his shoulders do as he hops off the stovetop, dances out of Steve’s grasp. “A real hazard to society, you know that, Munson?”
Eddie opens his mouth to respond, but before he can say anything, the phone starts to ring. He gives Steve an apologetic half-smile, sauntering over to the wall like gravity is just a rule he’s entertaining for everyone else’s benefit. Long fingers wrap around the cord, twirling absentmindedly as he brings the phone to his ear. “Munson residence.”
Steve’s watching closely, because he’s absolutely and pathetically enamored, but you wouldn’t have to be to see the change that comes over Eddie as whoever’s on the other side of the phone responds. His posture straightens, hunches against the wall. His lips purse in a stilted frown. He blinks twice. His eyes shutter, go flat.
Steve raises a concerned eyebrow at him, but Eddie isn’t looking at him. Eddie isn’t looking anywhere.
“Yeah, same place,” Eddie says, quieter than Steve’s ever heard him be. “No, it’s—yeah.”
Dull fear forms a pit in Steve’s stomach. The possibilities fly through his mind—something’s happened to Wayne, or one of the kids. But Eddie gets louder and bigger when he’s scared for the people he cares about, not—not whatever this is. It’s Owens, then, or the police, someone calling to tell them that Jason Carver has escaped from jail and revived his mob, stalking through Hawkins with pitchforks ablaze—
“Carmack’s, at seven?” Eddie is saying. “Yeah, I’ll—I’ll see you there.”
And then he’s putting the phone back in its holder, so softly Steve can barely hear the click.
“Who was that?” Steve asks, dread coiling serpentine around his throat.
Eddie sighs, long and low. He slumps against the wall, sinks down onto the floor like a deflated balloon. “My dad’s in town,” he says. Eyebrows raised in a resigned sort of surprise.
“Oh,” Steve says. He sets the spatula back down in the cookie dough bowl, makes his way over to Eddie slowly, trying not to spook him. Sits down, close enough that their shoulders brush. “What does—do you know what he wants?”
“No idea,” Eddie says, purposefully knocking his arm into Steve’s, a little sigh of breath escaping his mouth. He’s always doing that—little moments of contact. Steve isn’t sure who’s benefit they’re for, but the warm press always manages to calm something inside him, anyways, skin singing static beneath the fabric of his shirt. “He said something about being in a better place, and reconnecting, which—” Eddie laughs, derisively, shaking his head. “I mean, why now? Right?”
He’s looking at Steve with those wide brown eyes, like he really wants an answer. So Steve scrambles for something to say. “Maybe it’s true,” he says, after a moment. “Like, maybe he’s really trying.”
Steve doesn’t know much about Eddie’s dad, aside from the fact that he taught his son to hotwire. They don’t talk about him, like they don’t talk about Steve’s perpetually empty house, like they don’t talk about the stiff line of Robin’s shoulders on Sundays where her parents drag her to church. It’s probably irresponsible to say shit like that—give Eddie false hope, or something.
Steve’s not sure where his own parents are. They haven’t called in weeks.
Eddie frowns, jaw shifting, like he’s chewing on the thought. “Maybe,” he echoes, looking unconvinced. He stares at a spot on the floor, setting his shoulders in the way that lets Steve know he’s gearing up to ask a favor. “Do you think you could—I’m supposed to meet him, tomorrow. Could you come with me?”
“‘Course I will,” Steve says, immediately. He doesn’t even have to think about it.
“Thanks,” Eddie mumbles, chewing absently on his thumbnail. There’s an anxious furrow in the middle of his brow that Steve wants to smooth over with his mouth. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet, holding a hand out to help Eddie up. Eddie looks at him for a moment, dark eyelashes fluttering as he blinks, before he lets Steve tug him off the floor. And then he shakes his hair out, and Steve watches as a bit of his energy returns, hands flexing around nothing, wry grin making its home on his stupid beautiful face. “Oven’s probably ready, now,” he says.
Steve nods, elbows him away from the bowl as he steals another fingerful of cookie dough. Thinks, a little dizzily, that he would follow Eddie anywhere, if he asked. And won’t that revelation be something to unpack with Robin, later.
The oven beeps. Steve slides the first tray of cookies in, setting a timer for ten minutes, as Eddie watches from his new perch atop the counter. Feeling brave, Steve tosses a towel over his shoulder, wiggles his eyebrows. “See something you like, Eds?”
Eddie laughs, throwing his head back, the last of that smallness bleeding out of him. Steve tries and fails not to feel victorious at the sight. “You know, I think Wayne’s got an apron stashed around here somewhere,” Eddie says, eyes crinkled in delight.
Steve grips the handle on the oven door, so he doesn’t do something colossally stupid, like kiss Eddie directly on the mouth. “Anything for you, honey bunches,” he says, a little too much genuine fondness bleeding through.
Eddie cackles. Steve takes a moment just to watch him, to soak it all in. Pink cheeks, soft hair pulled into a loose bun at the back of his head, chipped black nails on a hand curled in front of his mouth, like that’ll hide his grin as he honest-to-god giggles. Small sliver of scarred skin, where his shirt rides up whenever he leans too far back. Steve watches and thinks, and sends a prayer to whoever makes the choices in this stupid world that he’s right about Eddie’s dad.
Eddie’s sitting on the front stoop of the trailer when Steve swings the Beemer around, the following night. His hair is damp, freshly washed, curling soft around his shoulders, and he’s wearing a navy blue t-shirt and jeans—his most inoffensive outfit, he once proclaimed. Without any of his rings and chains, without the battle jacket they trade between them, he looks—different. Younger, and not in the same way that sleep and laughter and relaxation make him look younger. Hunched over his knees, hands wrapped around his torso, he reminds Steve of a kid sitting outside the principal’s office, awaiting his certain doom.
Steve’s not sure what he can do to get that look off of Eddie’s face, other than to be here for him. He gives the horn two light taps, a quick hello . Eddie’s head shoots up, and as his eyes meet Steve’s, a real grin forms on his lips, eyes crinkling. He pushes himself off of the steps, jogs lightly over to the Beemer, leans against the open passenger side window.
His eyes scan over Steve’s outfit, appraising. “Going somewhere fancy?” he asks, smirking.
Steve narrows his eyes, avoids the urge to pick at his button-down shirt. “I didn’t know there was a dress code for the bar by the gas station.”
What he doesn’t say: I want to make a good impression. This is the only way I know how to do that. If his parents taught him anything, it’s how to present himself as someone worth something. Still, he feels a little strange in his skin, the ice-cold importance of tonight hanging heavy in the air.
Eddie’s gaze tracks over Steve’s expression for one, two more seconds. Then he apparently decides to cut Steve some slack, pulling the passenger side door open and sprawling out across the seat. Long fingers fiddle with the seatbelt, clicking it into place. “Onwards,” Eddie demands dramatically, voice taking on a deep British affectation.
“Yes sir,” Steve bites, and if Eddie notices the flush that burns at his ears, he doesn’t say anything.
It’s a short drive to Carmack’s, but Eddie insists on playing music anyway. The mixtape they’d constructed together is still lodged in the tape deck, and a pleased little smile twitches at his mouth when he realizes. Fight from the Inside plays soft through the speakers. Steve watches Eddie bop his head to the music through the corner of his eye, finds himself humming along.
Eddie’s nervous. Obviously—Steve had seen it in the hunch of his back, on the steps of the trailer. Steve had seen it last night, the way his hand froze around the telephone cord. But it still sucks. Steve wants a number of things, all incredibly selfish—wants to wrap Eddie’s tapping fingers around his own, wants to run his hands through the hair he keeps anxiously twisting, wants to drive them right back to the trailer and put a movie on and stand guard with his nail bat until all of the things that make Eddie afraid have fled into the night.
Instead, he pulls into the parking lot behind Carmack’s. Turns the key, slaps his hands down on his thighs in a movement so reminiscent of his own father that a piece of his heart stings. “Ready?”
“No.” Eddie breathes a flat laugh. He opens the door and climbs out, anyway.
Steve follows.
Carmack’s is a smaller place on the edge of the middle of town, scratched wood table tops, faded Happy Hour Special Deal! posters, black and white tiled floors that stick to the treads on Steve’s shoes. Fluorescent ceiling lights cast a hazy yellow glow over the plastic mounted deer head and assortment of sports posters and photographs on the wall behind the bar. A raucous yell comes from the pool table in the back, though it’s too crowded for Steve to be able to tell what’s going on. The air is thick with the scent of fried food and beer. Not the cheap shit Steve used to shotgun on the edge of his pool, but nothing fancy, either.
The bar is pretty crowded for a Tuesday. Steve recognizes some of the faces he sees, but can’t match any names. Something about standing amongst the company here—tired factory workers, gossiping cops, other people with mortgages—makes Steve feel like a kid. Dressing up at maturity, teetering on the edge of something real and dangerous. He shakes himself off. It doesn’t matter what the patrons of Carmack’s think about him, and his clumsily ironed button-down. He’s here for Eddie.
Eddie, who’s gone suddenly stiff at his side. Steve knocks their arms together, and when he doesn’t get a response, follows Eddie’s gaze.
Sitting at the edge of the bar is a man in his early fifties, neatly dressed. He’s got close-cropped curly hair, flecked with salt and pepper, square jaw, lips pursed in contemplation. It’s only when he looks over to them that Steve feels his stomach do a little flip—he’s got Eddie’s eyes. Dark, wide, shining plaintive in the dim orange light.
Steve glances at Eddie, who might be turning to stone. His face is frozen in that look of fear and hope—and surprise , like after all this there had been a part of him that didn’t think his dad would show.
“I’ve got you,” Steve mumbles in his ear, and it might be a useless assurance, but it’s all he fucking has.
Regardless, his words get Eddie moving again, blinking like he’s just come out of a trance. He shoots Steve a quick smile, accompanied with a raised eyebrow. “Wait here a minute?” His voice wavers slightly, but when Steve nods, he turns, walks forward with purposeful strides.
Into Mondor , Steve remembers him saying. Nothing’s burning, these days, but maybe it’s easier the second time. Maybe Eddie just wanted to see if he could stomach it. Or maybe this flame has been crackling inside his chest for years and years, and he finally has a chance to put it out.
Steve’s sort of losing the metaphor, so he grabs them a table within Eddie’s line of sight, and tries not to stare. Given the fact that most of his existence these days is spent trying not to stare at Eddie Munson, he thinks he should probably be better at it. Eddie’s expression isn’t clear from this far away, but Steve clocks his other nonverbal tells—the way he fiddles with the empty space on his fingers, the hunch of his shoulders, the occasional scuff of his sneakers against the floor. Nervous, but not panicked, not afraid.
A good sign, if Steve feels like tempting fate.
After a couple minutes, the duo approach Steve at the table—Eddie slides in next to him, bumps their thighs together before settling a conscientious half foot away. Eddie’s dad sits down across from them, gaze flickering between Steve and a sizable dent in the table, like he’s trying to size him up without being obvious. Close up, Steve can see the slight patchiness of his shave, the crooked notch in the bridge of his nose, the weathered lines of his skin.
“Steve,” Eddie introduces, giving a halfway flourish. “Meet James Munson. James, this is my friend Steve.”
Steve reaches out for a handshake, because this , he can do. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Munson,” he says.
Mr. Munson’s handshake is firm, and a little clammy. He lets out a short, surprised laugh. “James, please,” he says. “A friend of Eddie’s—” he stumbles, eyes cutting over to Eddie and back. “You can call me James.”
“We look like a pair of twins, don’t we, Steve?” Eddie asks, gesturing to the man across the table. There’s something cold and sharp in his voice, but his face is still shining hope, like a great big lamp.
“Yeah, you kinda do,” Steve says, unsure if it’s the right thing to say. If there even is a right thing to say. The well-tread ground of introductions is quickly crumbling beneath him.
“People used to call him my mini-me,” James adds, a cautious sort of fondness in his slight smile.
“My hair was shorter back then,” Eddie informs, tapping his knuckles against the table.
“Could always take a razor to it for you,” James offers, grin widening a little crookedly.
His tone’s joking, but Eddie tenses up all the same, digs his nails into Steve’s knee for a millisecond before retracting his hand, clutching it to his chest. There’s an apology in the knock of his foot against Steve’s, which is stupid, because he hasn’t done anything wrong. Steve wants to grab his hand, even if that means Eddie’s nails will be digging into his palm, even if he’ll leave crescent moon bruises.
“Nah, Eddie’s hair is basically famous,” Steve says, aiming for casual. “You should grow yours out.”
That gets a laugh out of James, but more importantly, it gets him Eddie’s slow, amused shake of the head. That head shake is one of Steve’s favorite Eddie Reactions. There’s always a part of him that expects “You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington,” to follow it. But Eddie, for all his teasing about Steve’s basic music taste and preppy clothes and lack of weed tolerance, never calls Steve stupid, even as a joke. Steve’s not quite sure what to make of that, but it always makes his chest hurt.
Steve’s joke has successfully broken the tension, and aside from that initial slip-up, James seems to be doing pretty well with Eddie. When the waitress comes over to take their orders, he declines a drink, sticking with his glass of ice water. Something in Eddie’s face flickers, eyebrows furrowing in pleased confusion. “I told you I was cutting down,” James says in response to Eddie’s pointed look, amused.
“Yeah, well.” Eddie pauses, and then seems to give up altogether.
They order a plate of nachos, which come out sort of soggy—Steve’s anxiety has given way to hunger, though, and so has Eddie’s, so they eat anyways. James is a little more reserved, but he takes his fair share, watches with a smile as Steve and Eddie bicker over the last of the refried beans.
Obviously, there’s a lot for Eddie to catch his dad up on. He moves at his own pace, sharing details about Corroded Coffin and the Hellfire Club with a hesitance that Steve eventually labels shy , hidden as it is behind bluster and gesticulation. As the night progresses without any more accidental antagonism, Steve watches Eddie slowly relax, movements becoming looser, more genuine.
James shares stuff about his life, too—the work he did in prison, his process towards sobriety, the music he’s been listening to. Their tastes aren’t perfectly compatible, but he’s a better case than Steve was, when Eddie started indoctrinating him into heavy metal.
“Parole ended a couple weeks ago,” James says, after they’ve demolished the plate of mediocre nachos. He waves Steve and Eddie off when they try to pay, a no-nonsense glare that sort of reminds Steve of Wayne. “I’ve been looking for places near here—not in town, mind. I don’t wanna overstep, or insert myself where I’m not welcome.” He runs a napkin over his mouth. “But someplace close. Applying for jobs, too. Not a lot of places will take a guy with my resume, but they’re always looking for extra hands in manufacturing. Don’t mind too much where those hands have come from.”
“That’s—that’s good,” Eddie says, softer, seemingly stunned out of the last of whatever front he’s been hiding behind.
“Yeah?” James grins, and there’s a bit of Eddie there, too. “I meant what I said, Eddie. I want to try and be in your life. Is that something you’d—something you’d be okay with?"
Steve looks over to Eddie, lock of hair tugged thoughtfully across his mouth. He’s really thinking about it, Steve realizes. He tries to think about it, too, though the only images that comes to mind are stupid—Eddie and his dad playing catch, or going fishing, even though Eddie’s hand eye coordination is shit and he hates the open water almost as much as Steve does.
“Yeah,” Eddie says, finally, voice rough. “I—that’d be fine, I guess.”
James smiles that smile again, sighs, relieved. But Steve catches a touch of something else—a flash of his dad, the glint of silver wrapping paper before he left for a month-long business trip. Something’s wrong. “There’s just a couple things I need to sort out, first,” he says. “Stuff from before. So I can start on a clean slate.” Eddie doesn’t ask, but he keeps talking. “Couple people I owe some money to, y’know. Some bad decisions I made, back when your mama was sick.”
Eddie's breath hitches. Steve's entire brain sticks on that one sound among the clamor around them, that sandpaper rasp of air.
“It's about five thousand,” James continues, gaze locked on Eddie. “And you’ve gotta know, Eddie, I’ve called around, I've talked to your mom’s folks, but none of them will give me the time of day. I've got no one, no one but you and Wayne, kid.”
It takes Steve a moment to recognize the white-hot fire behind his eyes as anger—that’s how strong and visceral the feeling comes on. Blood rushes audible in his ears, and he lets it drown out the words of the man sitting across from him, because if he has to hear James Munson say another word he might do something really fucking stupid.
It’s not fair . Steve clenches his jaw. Tucks his hands beneath his thighs so they don’t curl into fists. Thinks about how god damned fucking unfair this shit is. The universe has dealt Eddie so much garbage, and this could have been a good thing—was almost a good thing. Or maybe it was never going to be a good thing, and that’s why Steve is so angry.
Because Eddie deserves good things. Eddie, who sews patches on Max’s jacket, who drives Erica around when Lucas’ mom is away at his track meets, who picks up the radio at three in the morning because Dustin’s had a nightmare and can’t sleep until he knows Eddie is okay. Eddie, who gives and gives and gives, who nearly gave his life for this town that still shoots him dirty looks, who wakes Steve with a gentle hand on his shoulder when he tosses around in this sleep.
The conversation continues—shifts, presumably, but Steve can barely focus for how angry he is. James is still looking at Eddie with those big, dark eyes, betraying nothing. Steve, in a moment of furious hysteria, imagines getting his thumbs on those irises, pressing hard—
And then he’s thinking of eyes popped in and broken limbs, and the sick shame that courses through him is enough to suck all the fury out.
“We should get going,” Steve says, once the waitress has dropped the check off. He sounds short, he knows, and any chance of leaving a good first impression has flown out the window. He can’t bring himself to care.
“Steve’s got a morning shift,” Eddie adds, grinning dryly, impossibly.
“Need a ride?” James offers, clicking the pen, scrawling his signature over the receipt.
“That’s alright,” Steve says. Now that he can think straight, all he wants is to get Eddie out.
They’re silent on the walk towards the front, silent through the door, silent down the sidewalk. Steve only speaks up when he sees Eddie start walking in the wrong direction. “Parking lot’s this way,” he says, surprised by how rough his voice sounds.
“I know,” Eddie mumbles, gaze cutting to the side. “I don’t want him to know what your car looks like.”
“Oh,” Steve says, throat going dry.
Eddie turns back. His hands are shaking.
It’s about a mile and a half back to Forest Hills, and Steve takes the walk to focus on settling himself back into his body. The summer air has cooled as the sun set, and each calm breath in and out feels almost cleansing. Like Steve can inhale and exhale until none of the air from Carmack’s is left in his lungs.
He doesn’t not look at Eddie, but he doesn’t watch him, either. Eddie’s working up the words to something, and as Steve has come to learn, he’ll tell him when he’s ready.
When he’s ready turns out to be the moment they arrive back at the trailer, lock clicking behind them with a cold finality. “Steve,” Eddie says, a little weakly, leaning back against the closed door.
“Yeah,” Steve says, settling just outside of his space.
Eddie looks— tired , mostly, eyes hooded and a little red. His teeth worry at his bottom lip. He stares out at something on the opposite wall, or maybe out at nothing. “Did I make a mistake?” he asks.
Steve swallows. Tries not to focus on how unqualified he is for every single part of this conversation. Tries not to think about how he’d pushed Eddie into this, in the first place. “With—with what part?”
Eddie scoffs. “I mean, all of it, I guess.” He pauses. “But—I don’t know, there’s a part of me that feels like—we’ve got the rest of that hush money from Owens, right? And if he really did mean that other stuff—he’s my dad , Steve, and—”
“ No ,” Steve says, a little sharper than he intended. Eddie flinches back, just slightly, and before Steve realizes he’s doing it, his hands have come up to cup Eddie’s cheeks, bring him in close. He’s not enough of an asshole to tell Eddie what to do with his money, but something about Eddie letting that guy use him, even if he is his dad—it turns Steve’s stomach sour. “You don’t owe him anything , Eddie, fucking nothing . He should be so lucky to—to even get to be in your life.”
“Steve,” Eddie says, soft.
But Steve’s sort of on a roll, now, and it’s like all of these swirling feelings that have been building up since Eddie got that phone call—since Eddie lifted that broken bottle to Steve’s neck, honestly—are tumbling out in one grand avalanche. He’s been moving slow, not sure of Eddie’s feelings, not wanting to scare him off, but—it’s become necessary that Eddie hears this, that he understands. “Because you’re fantastic, really, you’re smart and kind and insanely creative, and so funny it drives me up the wall sometimes, and the kids fucking adore you—”
“Steve,” Eddie tries, again.
“—seriously, you’re just—so good , from the inside out, and it bleeds into every room you’re in, and I don’t even know how you do it because the world has given you every reason to be mean and jaded but you’re not, you’re—”
“ Steve ,” Eddie says. Eyes so dark and so big, expressive and vulnerable and nothing like his dad’s, after all.
Steve pauses. Realizes he’s still holding Eddie’s face, like a maniac. “Sorry,” he says, barely a whisper, goes to lower his hands.
Eddie kisses him.
It’s easy as breathing. Easier than breathing, even, because Steve has woken up in the middle of the night with a vice around his chest, unable to swallow until he knows the people he loves are alright, and this is—Eddie’s hands curling around his waist, Eddie’s eyelashes brushing against his cheek, Eddie’s mouth soft and warm and sweet against Steve’s. Steve hums, relief and sun-warmed joy rising in his chest, pulls Eddie impossibly closer.
Eddie meets him there, turns the kiss into something firm and wet and heated. His tongue moves with purpose, teeth sinking into Steve’s bottom lip, swallowing the resulting whine. He’s trembling, a little, clutching at the hem of Steve’s shirt. Steve rubs a soothing thumb across his cheekbone, and feels Eddie relax beneath his fingers, feels him smooth a hand down Steve’s lower back. And that’s a heady revelation of its own—that Eddie will let Steve take care of him here.
After a long moment, they pull apart. Not far—Steve nudges Eddie’s nose with his own. “Hi,” he says, grinning like an idiot. He’s—he’s so happy , it’s bordering on delirium.
But Eddie just smiles back at him, wide and sharp-toothed, the most beautiful thing Steve has ever seen in his entire fucking life. “Hi,” he breathes, leaning back in.
Eddie tastes like smoke. The honey melon smell of his shampoo surrounds Steve, and he breathes it in, greedy. They kiss until they’re both grinning so much that their teeth clack together. Steve gasps a laugh into Eddie’s neck, and Eddie snickers into his shoulder, and Steve holds him tight enough to feel his heartbeat racing against his chest
“I think you’re pretty cool, too,” Eddie whispers, soft breath against skin making Steve shiver. “If we’re doing compliments.”
“ Pretty cool ,” Steve mutters, even though his stomach is already lit up, flashing like a bowling alley sign. He kisses Eddie’s cheek, the tip of his nose, drinks in the sound of his laughter.
“High marks, in my book,” Eddie grins, pulls him impossibly closer. His mouth is a little swollen. Steve wants to bite it. “Alright, you’re sweet, and insightful, and devastatingly handsome, is that what you wanted to hear, baby?”
Steve’s knees go just a little bit weak at the pet name. Eddie notices, if his stifled giggle is anything to go by. Steve just kisses him again, holds him tight, vows: I’m gonna give him good things . And then, we’re gonna give each other good things .
Steve wakes up with the sun, stretches lazy and indulgent. The other side of Eddie’s bed is empty, but still warm, so he shuffles into the bathroom to splash some water on his face, and then tugs on a pair of sweatpants he’s stashed in Eddie’s closet, some old t-shirt that might have originally belonged to either of them. Makes his way out into the kitchen.
Wayne and Eddie are hovering over the stove, cracking eggs and sauteing onions. They move around each other easily in the small space, like two arms off one larger body. “—did it go?” Wayne is asking, voice low enough that it wouldn’t wake Steve, but loud enough that he can just make it out, from the doorway.
Steve knocks once on the wall, to announce his presence. It is never a good idea to surprise Eddie in the kitchen—he’d learned that the hard way after he took a spatula to the head. Eddie spins around, and the grin that breaks across his face when he locks eyes with Steve is bright as the sun. “I think I got what I needed out of it,” he says, to both of them.
“Yeah?” Steve asks, leaning against the wall. Wayne gives him a look, eyebrow quirking.
“Yep,” Eddie confirms, gaze skittering between Wayne and Steve and the eggs on the stovetop, the notes on the counter from the kids’ D&D games, one of Robin’s records sat on top like a paperweight. The diploma propped up by the TV. Eddie’s eyes land back on Steve, warming every cell in his body, from his ears to his steady-thumping heart. “Got everything I need right here.”