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The apron isn’t even his. His dad had given it to Steve’s mom when he was in grade school as a joke. Cooking was a rare affair in the Harrington household, but when the nanny was out sick or unavailable due to prior commitments, Mrs. Harrington would muster the will to prepare a bowl of cereal or a plate of scrambled eggs and toast for her son before he ran out the door to catch the bus. Regardless of the dish's simplicity, she was adamant about wearing an apron to avoid staining her fancy silk shirts or lace-adorned blouses. Up until a certain point, before Steve was deemed old enough to use a stove or face a full day of school on a single granola bar, she would entertain his insistence at planting a boyish peck on the apple of her cheek when she hooked the apron on her neck and secured the strings around her fine waist. As Steve grew in age, height, and ability, those light and heartwarming moments between mother and son became less and less frequent. By high school, he was relying on chalky protein bars in the morning, school lunches, and cold pizza or TV dinners that required a microwave and a quick stir.
Things are different now. Hawkins is different. Steve is different.
The town, while no longer the gateway to hell, borders on desolation. Those wealthy enough to vacate put their houses on the market or took the hit and fled within days and even hours of the supposed earthquake—including Steve’s parents. He came home one day following a shift at Family Video to find a FOR SALE sign pitched in the front yard without a word from his parents. Robin helped him box his belongings and Eddie offered the wide belly of his van to transport his things to a two-bedroom apartment in his price range.
So while many have retreated to supposed greener pastures, The Party remains. Steve’s not certain Hawkins will be his home forever, but for now, it’s where he needs and wants to be. The determination to see Dustin, Max, Lucas, and even Mike fucking Wheeler survive high school and live out their weird, awkward, and nerdy teenage years with some semblance of peace keeps him steady and focused. And the distraction of caring keeps the pain that nips at his heels from rising any higher.
That’s why tonight, on New Year’s Eve, he isn’t getting blasted at a bar or cozying up with some stranger at a house party. Instead, he’s in his cramped apartment kitchen managing a nearly full stove and a blistering oven while “Manic Monday” by The Bangles plays on the radio. Sweat is beading at his temples along his hairline from the forced warmth the appliances are emitting. He uses the tea towel draped across his broad shoulder to dab the moisture up before snatching the wooden spoon that’s laying across the bubbling water to stir the softening pasta. He’s not sure if everyone even likes chicken alfredo or what teen will stomach a side of roasted broccoli, but he knows Max is hardpressed for a homecooked meal, Robin likes to consider herself cultured and will force down anything, and there’s nothing a quick swat to the side of Dustin’s big head can’t cure. As for Eddie, he seems content to scarf down whatever he happens upon—dry cereal, lukewarm beer, a gourmet meal, a can of cold beans. The guy eats like he’s not sure when the opportunity will present itself again—and doesn’t that make Steve’s insides twist and his heart clench.
They arrive in a flurry. Cold air from the hallway rushes into the kitchen every time the door is shoved open without a knock. At this point, they all have keys, Steve both desperate to avoid silence and eager to give them all a getaway when needed. Sure, he regrets the decision on the occasion that Dustin uses it to host a game of Dungeons and Dragons without warning, but he doesn’t mind when those impromptu game nights lead to Eddie playing a new record for Steve in the living room after the campaign comes to a close. In those instances, it’s common for Steve and Eddie to doze off on the blue plaid couch given to him by Robin’s parents until one of them jerks awake from a nightmare or a neighbor slamming a door shut. More often than not, Steve is the one to wake, and after he chugs a glass of water in hopes of settling his nerves, he grabs the sherpa blanket from the hall closet and drapes it across Eddie’s prone form.
He doesn’t know who will stay tonight, but he used what was left of his last paycheck to buy a few more blankets and pillows just in case he has a full house of drowsy kids and friends.
They all greet Steve in their own unique and annoying ways.
“Is that broccoli I smell? Steve, my mom feeds me enough vegetables, dude.” Dustin complains with a whiny tone.
Lucas tells him about what basketball skill he’s on the verge of mastering; Erica rolls her eyes with so much piss and vinegar that it has him questioning how she hasn’t lost an eyeball yet.
Max grunts out a “hey” as she uses a cane to maneuver the small space.
The carpool crowd of the Wheeler siblings, Byers siblings, El, and Argyle patter in with such a subdued and quiet energy that he barely notices until Jonathan’s pat on the back causes him to crane his neck around.
Before he can turn back to the simmering alfredo sauce, Robin is lifting herself onto the only space of open, clean countertop next to him. She gives his shoulder a flick, sticks a finger in the sauce, offers a nod of approval, and starts yammering about her day with more details than his brain can compute. Regardless, he does his best to keep up and nods when he loses track of the narrative.
Eddie is the last to arrive, and Steve certainly notices enough to turn around and away from the steaming stove. The metalhead shoots through the door like a loose canon, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he kicks off his weathered sneakers. They land half on the mat and half on the tiled floor as he announces his presence with an abundance of zest and enthusiasm. Nancy catches sight and bends down to shift them over. Steve laughs and turns back to the sink where he needs to drain the industrial-size amount of fettuccine.
“Hold up,” Robin quips, voice a whisper but tone alarmed. Against his better judgment, Steve freezes when he realizes that what he’s wearing is the catalyst for her surprise. When he has anyone over for dinner, he typically finishes cooking prior to them entering the apartment.
Shit, he thinks, glancing down at the apron with a grimace.
Everyone erupts into either howls of laughter or fake gags. He flicks Dustin’s hat off of his head and scowls at Mike. His middle finger is raising on its own accord, but El shifts into his line of vision and pushes onto her toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. His hand drops and he smiles at the genuine sweetness he discovers on El’s face.
“Thank you for cooking for us, Steve,” she says without preamble.
“Yeah, my perfect-haired dude,” comes Argyle’s deep, drawn-out voice as he steps forward and into Steve’s space. “Many thanks for opening your humble abode up to us.” The kiss lacks the gentleness of El’s, but it’s full of unhindered appreciation. The shock of it brings a warmth to the apples of Steve’s cheeks.
No one else seems to be getting in line so Steve coughs to clear his head and the air. “Right, uh,” he mumbles out. “Food should be done shortly, so grab a drink and sit the hell down—and try not to break anything,” he finishes with a pointed look at Mike and Dustin.
Before he can spin on his heels and hide his face from view, Eddie’s doe eyes latch on to his. His usual pale skin has a dusting of color that mirrors the blush wine Nancy is uncorking and he’s tugging at the cuffs of his jacket sleeves. The thing that really makes Steve’s stomach swoop, however, is the intensity that’s swirling in the metalhead’s brown irises. They both swallow and drop one another’s gazes.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Robin’s mouth is slightly ajar. “Jeez, Steve,” she grits out, this time actually in a whisper just for their ears. “Here I am still working on getting my first kiss from a girl, and you’ve got a freakin’ queue going. Step right up! Take your pick! Come one, come all! The boy wonder is awaiting with his pouty lips and brooding stare.”
Steve chuckles and shakes his head at her antics but his face turns a little sour after a moment. “There’s only one person I’m hoping will be in that line at midnight, Robs.”
“I know, I know,” she acknowledges. “Don’t play dumb though. Did you see his face? I’m surprised he didn’t lunge like a rabid dog or melt into the floor and become a permanent fixture," she comments. “By the way, very tactile selection of cooking attire.”
Steve scoffs in disbelief. “I didn’t wear this on purpose!”
“Sure, you didn’t,” she quips with an exasperated eye roll. “I believe you.”
“Screw you, Robs!”
Before sitting down at the table, Steve makes sure to shuck off the apron and hang it on the handle of the oven.
Dinner involves a cacophony of slurping, happy hums of contentment, and the boys discussing what movies they want to see next year and complaining about their fast-approaching return to the halls of Hawkins High with irritated digs from Max and Erica sprinkled in. Throughout most of it, Steve finds himself observing. Robin talks between bites of food to a smirking Nancy. Jonathan and Argyle are looking longingly at the food and savoring each bite—a telling glaze clouding their respective eyes. Eddie seems to be doing the same as Steve. Taking it all in. He knows the metalhead has his bandmates, but this mismatched, makeshift gang takes the cake. Steve doesn’t try to even understand it. He doesn’t know why but it works. They work.
From across the table, their eyes cross paths once again and pause. It’s always hard to peel his gaze away from Eddie—especially as of late. They’ve grown closer. Spending more and more time in each other’s atmospheres. Sometimes with no real reason aside from having nowhere else to go or not wanting to be anywhere else. Steve’s had friends, mates he’d throw parties with, toss a football around with, grab a burger and fries with. But this is something all its own.
Robin is his best friend. Someone he spills his guts to on the daily. Eddie is on the cusp of that, but there’s another layer there that Steve is working through at a rate and ease he never expected. He hates Eddie’s taste in music. He hates the volume at which he listens to it. He hates how much his energy never seems to wane. But he also likes Eddie. A lot.
When the realization made itself known, it slammed into his chest and clobbered him upside the head. Another theoretical concussion to really scramble his brain and tear through every belief he had about himself. Robin was there to help him through it. Determined to convince Steve that the same instant acceptance he offered her was what he deserved too. The uncertainty still appears from time to time, but he’s proud of himself. He feels as though the hard edges crafted by his parents and his former coaches and the Country Club of Hawkins have been all but chipped away to reveal someone he recognizes and wants to get to know better. And that someone appreciates and longs for the companionship of a woman or a guy—or at least Eddie Munson.
He knows he’s about to trip face-first over the line between what’s an OK amount of time to hold someone’s stare, but Eddie has resorted to sticking his tongue out in a messy attempt to catch a noodle that’s dangling from his fork. Steve decides it's gross and endearing. He keeps his responding smile small and feels child-like joy blossom in his chest. It begs him to snatch a piece of broccoli from his plate and throw it at the other man. Against his well-trained judgment, he does just that. The floret gets caught in a frizzy curl and hangs mid-air. The look of feigned offense that blooms on the metalhead’s face ignites a choked-out laugh in Steve’s throat. It’s loud enough to catch the attention of everyone at the table. Moments later, broccoli is catapulting in all directions. It lands on plates, in the sink, down shirts, and on the floor. Steve puts a stop to the chaos when he spots Mike grabbing for a noodle coated in alfredo sauce.
During clean-up efforts, Eddie saddles up behind a kneeling Steve to pluck a piece of food from his chestnut mane and pops it in his mouth. “I’ll give it to you, Harrington,” he comments with a playful husk to his voice, “You make food that’s good enough to eat and wear.”
“Gross, Eddie!” hollers Mike at the interaction. “You probably just consumed at least half of a can of hairspray!”
Eddie shrugs and says, “I’ve eaten worse,” and saunters into the living room.
They’ve been doing this for a few months now. Engaging in exchanges that border on innocent and flirtatious. Eddie gives just as good as Steve, if not better if the former jock tallies the number of times he’s left sputtering or with a warmth seeping across the surface of his skin. Steve knows Eddie is gay. Eddie is smart about not letting that flag fly in the “real” world—he has to be in Hawkins—but in the safe confines of The Party or even at The Hideout, Eddie allows it to wave with ease.
At first, Steve suspected that the metalhead was just a flirt or found joy in making other people squirm. But Robin was quick to correct his thinking. Noting how there was a clear difference. While Argyle loved up on each and every person willing to receive his affections, Eddie reserved his heated lines, looks, and touches for Steve and Steve only. After a while, the former jock couldn’t deny Robin’s observations. And yet, there’s still a doubtful piece of him that wonders if it’s all a joke. A means to an easy laugh at the expense of Steve’s forgotten macho persona. And the thing is, Steve wouldn’t blame Eddie. He gets that he was an entitled, hotshot asshole. But the hurt and disappointment that bubble beneath the surface at the possibility are so very real.
For the remainder of the night, the group plays board games in the living room, using the wobbly coffee table to roll dice and move pawns. There isn’t enough space for everyone to gather around it, so they team up and take turns. Eventually, Steve exits to the kitchen with Robin and Nancy. They sit at the table, Nancy telling Robin about what classes she’s taking next term at Emerson. Steve tries to listen, but he notices the pile of dirty plates in the sink and the urge to not wake up to them in the morning is enough to pull him away from the conversation. He lets the water heat up and reaches for the apron. He’s taking a chance at being the butt of another joke, but he’s ruined one too many shirts to questionable stains at this point for his minimum wage job to handle. He’s halfway through the stack of dishes when the music sounding from the radio comes to a halt and he hears a cassette being clicked into the tape player. The chords, the bass, the beat—everything is heavy from the start. Steve guesses it’s Metallica, but he knows it’s Eddie at the helm.
He wants to yell at him to turn it down, fearful of his ancient neighbors, but Dustin’s joyous hoot at the song choice drags the demand back down his throat. It’s New Year’s Eve, he thinks—they can suffer for one night.
He imagines the pair thrashing around the space, throwing their bodies onto the couch. As they get older, Steve feels more and more like a parent to Dustin. Not a babysitter. They joke about him being the “mom” of the group and to be honest, Steve has stopped fighting the label. He kinda is. He’s not sure where that leaves Eddie. Ever wild and whimsical. He supposes he’s the fun guardian. Who keeps watch but not in a meddling manner or worrying way. They’re a good team when he thinks about it.
He must get so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize someone is next to him drying the clean but dripping plates until an elbow is poking into his side.
Eddie grins at him.
“Can’t let you have all the fun.”
Steve rolls his eyes and lets a smirk tug at his lips. “Never.”
They finish the dishes in somewhat silence, Eddie bobbing his head to whatever hellish tune comes on next and flicking drops of water at Steve. The former jock is seconds away from spraying the water flow into his face when Mike’s voice screeches, “Ten minutes and counting! Get in here or you’re gonna miss it, losers.”
El shushes him, and Robin and Nancy grab their glasses of either wine or champagne from the table and head to where the group is quieting down to listen to the news broadcast live from Times Square in New York City. Steve from three years ago might have convinced himself that he liked the noise and the crowds and the flashy outfits and expensive liquor, but now, between his abused skull and his cracked-open heart, he’s confident in his whereabouts.
While Eddie tosses the plates with a carelessness that threatens to make Steve’s eye twitch into the cupboard, Steve dries off his hands and moves to remove the apron. The metalhead reaches out to stop him halfway through, the back undone, but the apron still hanging loosely from his neck. Steve looks down. The hand sprawled out on the center of his chest is adorned with chipped black nail polish and clunky sterling silver rings. The one on his middle finger is of a bat that Dustin and Steve chipped in to get him for a graduation present.
Steve pulls his gaze up to search Eddie’s face for an explanation. The same heat he witnessed in the other’s expression earlier in the evening is back.
“I never got a chance,” Eddie says softly between them.
A chance? A chance to what? To kiss the him?
Steve worries that his own silence is the reason for the hesitation that’s mixing with the heat in Eddie’s eyes now. But what if he’s reading it wrong? The possibility tightens his throat with building pressure. Still, seeing the other man uncertain and unsure reminds him too much of the terrified version he first tangled with in the boat house—so much so that he pushes past it and takes a leap.
“You don’t need the apron’s permission.”
Eddie blinks, the fearful fog lifting from his eyes. “No?”
Steve’s bravery bounds. “I want you to kiss me, Munson.”
Eddie nods as if to confirm he’s gathering and comprehending what’s being communicated. The metalhead’s hand is still on his chest, and Steve feels the need to ground himself, so he grips the edge of the counter with his left hand and wraps the fingers of his right around the other man’s wrist. Eddie bunches the material of the apron at the touch.
“Midnight is,” Eddie breathes out, glancing at the clock on the wall, “eight minutes away. We could wait.”
Steve shakes his head, somewhat disbelieving at his own transparency when he replies, “Don’t want to.”
Their lips meet like a wave crashing along the unsuspecting shore. They move with and against one another, pushing and pulling, trying to claim and be claimed. The heat originally reserved for their gazes has transferred to their mouths and tongues and teeth and hands. Steve releases his hold on the sink and the metalhead's wrist to instead grip Eddie’s hips. Eddie slides his palms and fingers to hook around Steve’s neck and tug at the loop of the apron.
Without much thought, Steve turns and lifts the metalhead up onto the wet counter. Eddie gasps and scowls before diving back in to reconnect their lips. Steve gets a nip to his bottom lip that he suspects is payback. Payback he’s willing and grateful to endure.
By the time they truly separate and break for intakes of air that are longer than two or three seconds, Dustin announces the start of the countdown.
“Eddie! Steve! Get in here!”
Eddie hops down from his perch and grabs Steve’s hand and tugs him to follow.
The kiss that stems from the clock striking twelve is gentle in comparison to their first. It happens on the outskirts of the living room, where the kitchen tile transitions starkly into the plush carpet. Those who aren’t cheering, shaking noise makers, or exchanging platonic embraces or romantic pecks, take note of the two men with squeals of surprise and yips of amusement.
When they pull away from each other, they’re both red in the face and laughing.
“Happy New Year’s, Ed.”
“Happy New Year’s, big boy,” the metalhead replies, grin broad as ever. “Guess ‘86 really was my year.”
It’s Max who gets the last word in though, gritting out a disgruntled “gross.”