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Eddie only catches a glimpse because instead of being inside surrounded by the likes of Dustin Henderson, Mike Wheeler, and the rest of the Hellfire Club, he’s outside having a cigarette when Steve arrives for pick-up duty. The former jock parks his well-known burgundy BMW against the curb adjacent to the Wheeler’s driveway and turns off the ignition. Eddie watches from under his lashes and takes another drag, hoping the nicotine will calm the flame inside his belly that seems to grow whenever he and Steve come into one another’s orbit. A piece of Eddie is screaming at him to either take his smoke break to the side of the two-story house near the hedges or deem it a lost cause and retreat to the basement before he gets spotted staring and potentially labeled a creep. Sure, they’ve been through hell and back together, Steve quite literally carrying him back to the land of the living all those months ago, and Dustin is a solid judge of character, but who can really blame Eddie for having the urge to hide certain things from the once king of Hawkins High? He’s still a freak and Steve’s still from a royal bloodline.
The Metalhead lingers long enough for his curiosity to win out though when he gets a closer look at Steve’s face as he sits in the driver’s seat for longer than necessary and notices something unfamiliar adorning the other man’s face: glasses.
The frames are dark brown or maybe even black and somewhat square. Steve’s chestnut hair hides the parts that curl around his ears. When Steve turns, rummaging around in the compartments on the side of the driver’s side door with a frustrated scowl, Eddie takes note of how the frames all but disappear when they reach the apples of the man’s cheeks and the sides of his nose. His already prominent nose looks even sharper and more defined, drawing attention to the strong bridge and angular slope. And his eyes, even with the distance limiting Eddie’s visual appraisal, appear both bigger and deeper set. Unfortunately for Eddie, the flame burning in his gut seems to be fueled by the sight. His insides churn with regret, suspecting, knowing, his affections are futile and so he shakes himself from his stupor, stubs out the forgotten cigarette, and makes a calculated dash for the door.
When Steve enters the Wheeler’s basement about two minutes later, alerting Dustin that it’s time to pack up his nerd shit and go, his face is bare.
Eddie wonders sourly if he wears them only to drive, but all but debunks that theory when he spots Steve squinting at the character sheet Dustin is shoving in his face as he vents his frustrations about how Eddie is simultaneously pure evil and mad genius with his riddle-laden campaigns.
When Steve throws a look at him, Eddie knows he should grin wide or let out a devilish cackle, but his expression remains focused as he studies the jock’s face and tries not to think too hard about how much he appreciates the other man's jaw, eyes, and nose both with and without the glasses.
It’s Friday night and Eddie’s plans are bordering on lame, still, he does have some. Wayne is working the overnight shift which means he’ll have the government-refurbished trailer to himself. He doesn’t like being alone per se, but he does bask in the glory of having the small space all to himself. So tonight it’ll include one or two freshly rolled blunts, some dollar snacks, Labyrinth on VHS, and a six-pack of beer that’s cheap but decent—a favorite combination of the Munsons. The last two things, the movie and the beer, unfortunately, hang in balance, depending on who’s manning Family Video and the corner gas station. He hopes for friends or at least friendly acquaintances to be found at each establishment.
As the metalhead pulls into Family Video, van lurching to a halt when he slams on the breaks and puts the vehicle into park, he spots that burgundy Beemer he’s grown to associate with good things rather than annoyance and rage.
At this point, he considers Steve to be a friend, but he isn’t above buttering him up with an offer or two of taking over chauffeuring duties for a week. He won’t show his hand right away though. Maybe Steve will be in a giving mood. Maybe he’s got a date on the horizon and won’t give a shit about Eddie’s late fees, more focused on making it through the day and clocking out. And doesn’t that possibility just twist at Eddie’s insides a tad too much to be acceptable.
The door of the van creaks open, noise interrupting what appears to be a rather dull evening in Hawkins. And sure, it makes sense—more than half of the town left after the “earthquake”—but it still causes the metalhead to flinch at the possibility of drawing attention to himself. He’d been cleared of the murders, some guy named Owens had pulled a few strings on behalf of Jim Hopper, but an accusation like murder didn’t leave even the innocent unscathed, especially not an outcast.
When he reaches the glass door to the store, Eddie peers inside and finds Steve behind the counter entering data into the computer. He’s in his usual uniform, vest and all, but the suave-haired, broad-shouldered man is wearing the glasses again. Eddie feels like he’s seeing something he’s not supposed to. The retired king resembles more of a nerd with spectacles on—or at least that’s what his former friends, fans, and followers would categorize him as in this state. Eddie, however, is enamored more than usual. He’s surprised that a string of drool hasn't made its way out of his mouth yet, insides boiling with attraction and frustration.
The retired jock has yet to notice Eddie, leaving him to gaze freely for a bit longer at the endearing display of Steve Harrington appearing more human and flawed than god-like. But Eddie has enough sense to realize that he’s got about twenty more seconds before this crosses the line into weird and invasive territory. Reluctantly, he shoves the door in with his shoulder, and the bell above clangs violently against the frame.
Eddie’s just about to greet Steve when the other man’s eyes flash up in a panic at the presence of another soul, another set of eyes. He hears him mutter out a “shit” before he spins on his heels, rips the glasses from his face, and shoves them somewhere behind the counter. Eddie hopes he didn’t scratch or crack them in his haste—for self-indulgent and considerate reasons. Steve obviously needs them more than he’s willing to let on.
“Uh, hey, Munson.”
Eddie waves, trying to play it cool. He wants to tell Steve to put the glasses back on, reassure him that they don’t look bad and that there’s nothing wrong with needing a little help to function. But he notes the scarlet blush that’s gaining traction on the man’s face and pities him.
Don’t push, Munson. Don’t push.
“Just you here?” he asks plainly.
Steve nods and swallows, face morphing into a somewhat relieved expression.
“So you won’t mind turning a blind eye to some temporarily missing late rentals for a friend?”
Steve scoffs but it comes out more merry. “Friend, huh?”
Eddie tries but fails to keep his face from falling at the implication that Steve doesn’t consider them friends. His heart aches and his brain threatens to spiral even at the chance he’s still just a blip on Harrington’s radar.
Steve must catch on because he shakes his head and elaborates with an eager tone, “I mean, we are friends. How can we not be after everything? But, uh…”
Eddie’s head and heart need to know how that sentence is intended to end, so he presses forward. “But what?”
Steve cocks his head and sighs, shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, and shrugs. “Friends hang out, don’t they?”
Although he’s internally wondering if this is all a joke, Eddie’s responding grin is feral and thrilled. “Shit, Steve. If you wanted to spend quality time with me, all you had to do was ask.”
He expects the jock to scoff and tell him to fuck off, but he does the opposite, leaving Eddie once again surprised by the man who’s worming his way into the metalhead’s heart at an alarming rate.
“Consider this me asking then.”
Jesus H Christ. He’s for real. Steve wants to spend time with me. This isn’t Gareth or Jeff or Dustin. It’s Steve Harrington requesting my time and attention.
Eddie wants to throw up and scream in victory at the absurdity of it all.
“All right,” he comments, schooling his voice into nonchalance as his hands twitch at his sides. “Tonight then. You, me, and Bowie.”
“Bowie?”
“Oh, right!” Eddie exclaims, dashing toward the new rentals and snatching Labyrinth from the shelf. He returns to his spot in front of Steve and shakes the case for him to see. “Bowie!”
Steve hums. Eddie can’t tell if it’s a good or a bad hum—or maybe a confused hum as he realizes that the jock is scrunching his eyes at the cover. He quells the urge to bring up the glasses and decides to tease Steve for his taste instead, not wanting to chance ruining their hang out before it’s even happened.
“Wait, don’t—don’t tell me you don’t like Bowie?” he cries like a wounded animal, clutching the tape to his chest.
“I didn’t say that!” Steve retorts.
And while that’s true, Eddie is having far too much fun being the catalyst for Steve’s blossoming flustered state.
“Don’t say another word, Harrington,” Eddie counters. “I really don’t want to have to renege on our plans.”
“Well, sorry if I’m just too cool to—”
“Nope. Not listening. Zip it, Steve,” he sing-songs heading toward the exit. “I’ll grab drinks and snacks. Although I’m sure my selections won’t be ‘cool enough’ for you. But former kings can’t be picky, now can they?”
“Wait, Eddie! The movie, you can’t just take it before I scan—”
Eddie wiggles his fingers in Steve’s direction and darts toward his van. Before he hops in and slams the door shut, he yells out, “Bye, Stevie! See you at 8.”
As Eddie heads down the road toward Lou’s corner store and gas station, his gut churns in excitement and disbelief. He thinks about the two of them sitting on the worn couch, maybe side by side, watching Bowie in all his glory on the TV. The TV. The small and already hard-to-see TV. Shit.
Eddie is all but pacing the short space of the trailer’s living room as he waits for Steve’s arrival. Steve Harrington is coming to his house because he wants to spend time with Eddie and like an already lovesick fool, he’s got beer in the fridge and a plethora of snacks on the dented and scratched kitchen counter. At the gas station, he had to talk himself down from having an all-out panic attack because instead of just asking Steve what he liked to eat, he chose to go the playful, put-on careless route which led him to entertaining two stressful guessing games down both the candy and chip aisles. So now he’s got more bags and boxes of sugary, salty, crunchy, and sour treats than his or Steve’s teeth and stomachs can handle. There are Twizzlers, Milk Duds, sour gum drops, plain potato chips, BBQ potato chips, Doritos, nonpareils, Gobstoppers, and those gross waxy rootbeer bottles that are filled with liquid that no one likes—but maybe Steve does? Fortunately for Eddie’s pinballing mind, headlights shine through the window and the metalhead strides toward the door to confirm who it is.
Eddie can’t help the smile that forms on his face as Steve extracts himself from the car and brushes out the imaginary wrinkles in his shirt. His grin, however, falls into a frown rather quickly at the sight of the jock pulling the infamous glasses from the bridge of his nose, shoving them into a soft case, and pocketing them in his Members Only jacket. Eddie sighs at the humanizing display of Steve’s obvious discomfort at needing and wearing something not up to the standards of Hawkins’ royalty. It irks Eddie and he isn’t sure if he wants to shake Steve to knock some sense into him or dismantle all of society’s beauty standards with his chaotic energy and rage.
Steve raps his knuckles against the aluminum door before Eddie can decide which option to dedicate his life to.
“Welcome, my liege!” he says as he swings the door open and bows before the other man.
Steve’s responding scoff is littered with a lightheartedness that makes Eddie want to beam with delight.
“What? Isn’t that how all of the mere and mortal peasants greet Steve ‘The King’ Harrington?” Eddie questions with feigned shock.
The laugh the other man releases is amused. “Nah, just the freaks, it seems.” The supposed dig is becoming a tender nickname lately—especially when Steve uses it. No longer a weaponized or venomous word but an endearing term that Eddie has always worn with a hint of pride that has now doubled in size and continues to grow. It feels good to find people who see and accept him for who he truly is. And Eddie yearns to do the same.
Eddie snags two beers from the fridge and tells Steve to grab whatever snacks tickle his fancy. When he turns back to face the counter, the Milk Duds and wax bottles are missing. He shakes his head, curls bouncing, and snatches the Gobstoppers and nonpareils. And they say I’m the freak?
They’re thirty minutes into the film, Steve’s arm draped across the back of the couch in an attempt to appear casual, while Eddie taps his fingers against the cardboard candy box where only half of the Gobstoppers remain. Eddie is trying to relax, he really is, but the way Steve is straining and rubbing at his temples every minute or so with his free hand is distracting. His instinct is to yell and go on an oddball rant about how glasses are actually metal as all heck and mainstream’s definition of style is a boring, capitalistic agenda, but he veers into the realm of soft deliveries in hopes of not scaring Steve away. “Hey, man,” Eddie starts, tone low and shaky. He waits until Steve acknowledges him to continue. “C-can you, uh, see the screen?”
“W-what do you mean?” Steve stammers and pinches his brow together. “I mean, of course. It’s right there,” he jokes, fingers pointing at the TV set.
Steve…” Eddie tries.
“Eddie,” Steve parrots back.
So much for the soft delivery, he thinks, standing up and leaning over the former jock to grab his discarded jacket and pull the case from the left-side pocket. He holds it up and declares, “I’m talking about these—” But the look on the other man’s face is embarrassed, maybe even petrified. Shit, no.
Eddie sits back down and tries again, setting the glasses still in the case between their thighs. “I saw you wearing them when you came to pick up Dustin from Wheeler’s house, and then again at Family Video. I wasn’t spying or anything…”
Steve’s exasperated chuckle is dark and quiet but there. “Liked what you saw? The cool kid isn’t so cool anymore, huh?” Steve flops back against the couch and squeezes his eyes shut. “Go ahead, take your shot, Munson. I deserve it.”
“What? You think I’m going to make fun of you?” It’s Eddie’s turn to laugh. “Man, you really don’t trust people, do you?”
Eddie’s verbal attacks are reserved for bullies and authority figures on power trips. And sure, Steve might have fallen into one of those categories in years past, but he no longer does. The metalhead wouldn’t have opened his space to him otherwise.
Steve’s face is now pinched tighter with pain and a weighted sadness. “Sorry, I just—”
“Force of habit? Conditioned to expect the worst in people?” Offers Eddie. Steve’s nod is tired and a little depressed. “Yeah, me too.”
Steve sits up, stares ahead, and starts to pick at the hem of his shirt. “So if you aren’t going to rag on me, what were you going to say?”
Eddie swallows, throat going dry at the sudden fork in the road before him: play it off or be stupidly honest. And the thing is, Eddie isn’t one to run away from much anymore…
“Well,” he blinks. “I was going to say that it makes sense you might need help seeing after all the hits and kicks to the head from the buffoons we once classified as classmates and the interdimensional creatures hellbent on crushing your skull…” He could end it there. Call it a night. Finish the movie and have a chance at doing it again in the future. Or… “I was also going to say that they look good on you.”
Eddie’s not running, but he is afraid to let his gaze meet Steve’s face. He forces his eyes to drag their way over and up until they land on the other man’s now flushed cheeks and wide eyes. The development gives the metalhead a burst of courage and his thin fingers are reaching for the abandoned case from where he retrieves the neglected glasses. He unfolds them with trembling hands and leans forward, knee pressing into the warmth and sturdiness of Steve’s thigh. He places the glasses on the man’s face, the bridge resting on Steve’s defined nose, ends hooked through thick hair and resting on the curve of his ears. He’s pretty sure both he and Steve are holding their breath.
When he returns to his former position on the well-used couch, perhaps an inch or two closer to the jock’s body, it’s Steve who breaks the charged silence.
“Thank you,” he whispers, voice disbelieving.
Eddie’s heart flutters and a rush of air pushes out of his straining lungs. “You’re welcome.”
He’s trying not to grin like a maniac, but he catches a genuine smile tugging at Steve’s lips and takes it as an encouraging sign. “Now, where were we,” he says, turning his attention back to the screen.
If their hands brush once or twice over the course of the next hour and Steve catches Eddie admiring his glasses and blushes under the attention, well that’s something worth investigating at a later date. But for now, Eddie basks in the weirdness and wonder of being actual friends with one Steve Harrington. Glasses included.