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Eddie stands on the step outside the trailer, cold burning into his bare feet, watching Steve walk to his car. Like always, Steve pauses and waves before he gets in, and, like always, Eddie waves back, waiting until Steve pulls away—the stark beam of the car’s headlights dragging over the trailer park—before he goes inside.
He shuts the door firmly against the cold and slopes to his room, flopping onto his bed with a sigh, arms spread to either side. It’s kind of pathetic that he misses Steve already, but what’s more pathetic is he wonders if Steve misses him too. If he does, it’s probably not the same way Eddie misses him.
Ugh. Eddie scrubs his hands over his face, hoping it might scrub away this stupid crush. And if he knows, deep down, it’s more than a crush, he’s just going to ignore that knowledge as long as he can.
He groans and rolls onto his side, burying his face in his covers. Except it doesn’t feel like his covers. It’s something soft in a different way. And it smells like…
“Steve.”
Eddie pushes himself onto his hands, coming face to face with Steve’s dark green sweater. The one that brings out the green in Steve’s eyes. He took it off when they were horsing around earlier—Eddie takes a moment to relish the memory of Steve’s shirt going along with it before he pulled it down—and obviously forgot about it.
Eddie picks up the sweater, cradling it in his hands. It’s soft, and Eddie already knows it smells like Steve, but he brings it to his face and inhales anyway. Fuck, it smells good. Steve smells good. A wave of heat washes through Eddie, and he flops back again, face still covered by the sweater. What is he doing?
He’s never been like this before. He’s never felt like this before.
And why did it have to be Steve, of all people? Grumpy, beautiful, preppy, awesome, confusing, brave, amazing Steve. Making Eddie crazy and lovesick and stupid.
He pushes the sweater off his face, bites his lip, and sits up. It’s a little cold in the trailer, so he slips it on, but only because it’s cold. He ignores the sweatshirts spilling accusingly out of his opened drawers and hugs his arms around himself. He’s definitely not imagining Steve hugging him because he’s not some kid, pining after his out-of-reach crush. He’s just…cold.
Any further thoughts skitter to the recesses of his mind when there’s a knock at the door. He didn’t put any music on, so it can’t be a neighbor coming to tell him to turn it down, it won’t be his uncle, and it doesn’t occur to him that it might be Steve, back for his sweater, until his hand is on the handle and he’s pulling the door open.
And, yeah, it’s Steve. Of course it is. Back for the sweater which Eddie is currently wearing like some lovelorn schoolgirl.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Steve’s brow furrows as his gaze drops from Eddie’s face to his chest. A little color comes into his cheeks, and his eyes widen, something indescribable crossing his face, before the corner of his mouth ticks up. “I think I left my sweater here?”
“Huh”—Eddie shifts—“did you?”
“Yeah, pretty sure…” Steve bites his lips. “Any idea where it might be?”
Eddie shrugs. “Guess we should look for it.”
“Okay.” Steve shakes his head and steps over the threshold when Eddie moves aside. “So, you think it’ll take us long to find it, or…” He trails off, eyes twinkling.
And Eddie knows that Steve doesn’t know why he’s wearing the sweater, but he feels like an idiot, and— No, he feels exposed, like all the feelings he shouldn’t feel because Steve is his friend, and that’s all, are tattooed on his face. So, he starts taking it off, saying, “Sorry, man, I was cold and—”
Steve’s hand lands on his arm, fingers gently curling over his elbow. “Hey, it’s fine.” He squeezes. “Keep it on.”
Eddie pauses. “You sure?”
“It’s a good color on you.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, you look—” Steve cuts himself off, finally drawing his hand away.
“Dashing. I look dashing, right?”
The corner of Steve’s mouth lifts. “Sure.” He runs a hand over his face, opens his mouth, then sighs. “Look, I’ll get the sweater tomorrow,” he says, “or whenever we hang out next, it doesn’t matter,” starting to turn away.
“Aw, and I thought you left it here on purpose just to come see me again.”
“No…”
“Right,” Eddie says, “because that would be weird.” When Steve doesn’t say anything, Eddie adds, “Like wearing your friend’s sweater when he leaves it on your bed,” needing to fill the silence in a way he almost never feels, especially not with Steve.
Steve’s brows raise. He looks at Eddie for a long moment, then says, “I did think it was a good excuse to come back, though.” He swallows thickly. “Once I realized.”
“Yeah?”
Steve nods.
“You don’t need an excuse. For future reference.”
“Okay.” Steve ducks his head, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “You know I…”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing. But I— I like hanging out with you.”
Eddie’s heart beats hard. He’s pretty sure it’s not what Steve wanted to say, but he says, “Hard to blame you for that.”
Steve rolls his eyes.
Eddie kicks Steve’s foot. “I like hanging out with you too.”
“Good.” Steve clears his throat, rubs his arm.
“Hey, wait here a moment.” Eddie dashes to his room, expertly weaving through the piles of books and cassettes and clothes he hasn’t put away yet, then retraces the path on the way back.
“What’s this?” Steve asks when Eddie thrusts his hand toward Steve.
“A sweatshirt. Thought you might be cold without your sweater.”
Steve stares at it for a moment, looking happier than anyone should at the prospect of wearing someone else’s old sweatshirt, then slips it on. But maybe he gets it. Maybe he feels…
It’s gray—the washed out kind of gray that used to be black—and it fits Steve perfectly.
A warm, possessive feeling weaves through Eddie, curling around his ribs, settling low in his gut. “Looks good,” he says.
“Yeah?”
Eddie nods. He reaches out to straighten the hem, tugging it over the edge of Steve’s shirt that’s sticking out, then takes a chance and slides his hand around to Steve’s hip.
Steve doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t move away—doesn’t move at all, except to look down again—and he doesn’t ask Eddie what the fuck he’s doing, so that’s a good sign. Right? And then he looks up, catching Eddie’s gaze with his own, and says, “Hey, Eddie.”
“Yes, Steve.”
Steve huffs and smiles. It drops a little, and he licks his lips, then says, “You look good in my sweater.”
“Thanks.” Eddie’s heart pounds against his ribs. “And you look pretty good in my sweatshirt.”
Steve smiles, unfettered and gorgeous, and tilts his head to the side. “I know.”
“Hey.” Eddie punches Steve’s shoulder. “We were having a moment.” Shit. Weren’t they?
Something of the question must come through in Eddie’s voice because Steve says, “We were,” fisting his hand in the hem of Eddie’s sweater—Steve’s sweater—and tugging until they’re standing toe to toe. “C’mere.”
“Can’t get any closer.”
“Yeah, you can.” Steve raises his brows, his hand still curled in the sweater.
There’s another step to take, Steve was right, and Eddie thinks it’s his turn to take it. So, he leans in, feeling the warmth radiating from Steve’s skin, and then he leans in some more. And then he’s kissing Steve, and Steve is kissing him. It doesn’t last long, but it sends Eddie’s head spinning and his pulse racing and his blood singing.
They break apart, and Eddie whirls around on his heel with a clap of his hands. He wants to climb up on the roof of the trailer and yell out that Steve Harrington kissed him back, but Steve catches his wrist, pulls him close again, and this is all he wants. To be close to Steve. To kiss him.
But Steve doesn’t kiss him again; he pulls Eddie into a hug, burying his face in Eddie’s neck, hands big and firm over the curve of Eddie’s shoulder blades. It’s so nice and Eddie feels warm and right. Like he belongs here.
“Can we hang out a while longer?” Steve asks.
Eddie breathes in deeply and says, “As long as you want.”
“Thanks.” Steve does what Eddie can only describe as snuggling in close, a dreamy edge to his voice when he says, “I’ll give you your sweatshirt back later.”
“It’s cool,” Eddie says, “you can keep it.”
“Okay. I want my sweater back, though.”
Eddie feels the ghost of a smile against his neck, but he still pulls back and says, “Hey,” giving Steve the slightest shove.
“It’s my favorite!”
“Well, I want my sweatshirt back, too, then.”
“Mm. You can borrow my sweater sometimes, though, if you want.” They’re still standing with their arms around each other, but Steve looks down between them, lips pressed together. When he looks back up, his eyes are darker, and maybe Eddie’s imagining it, but his voice seems lower when he says, “Actually, I’d kinda like it if you did.”
And none of Eddie’s usual quips, or even anything flirty but sincere, come to him, and all he can do is swallow and say, “Yeah, okay.”
But Steve smiles and repeats, “Okay,” and holds Eddie tight.