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Pressure. There’s a pressure between his legs, what-?
“Eddie,” begging, pleading, big brown eyes, that stare. Heart at a hundred miles a minute - we’ve been here before.
“Eds, please, is this okay?”
Eddie glances down, his legs dangling off the side of the bed. That stupid cream carpet that blends into the wallpaper too much is soft between his toes. Steve Harrington is between his legs - hair too long, flicking over his shoulders, and Eddie’s too dizzy to see straight but those eyes are clear.
He nods, the movement sluggish, and Steve moves upwards, from the floor between Eddie’s legs to his face, carefully placing his hands on Eddie- one on the back of his neck, one on his cheek. Steve kisses him.
Everything is swaying like he’s on some kind of ship - but Steve’s anchoring him, gripping him, stopping him from tumbling off the edge of the bed. Eddie’s heart is jackrabbiting, bursting out of his chest, and he’ll be damned if Steve can’t feel it with how close he is. The kiss is brief, but Eddie’s face is on fire – and Steve's back down between Eddie’s legs again; he goes to push the hair out of Steve’s face and there’s a tug on his zipper, shifting of clothes and warm hands, and oh god-
It’s gone. A moment passes. There’s soft sound, cotton sheets against cold feet.
He dreads opening his eyes. He does, inevitably. And oh, look, who’s there other than Steve Harrington. If Eddie wasn’t so starkly awake (and consequently horrified), you could convince him this is the morning after.
Filtered sunlight paints the walls, the blinds flutter with the wind. Steve looks so comfortable – plush white covers pulled high and hair sticking in odd directions. Peaceful. There’s quiet snoring from him, face pushed into the much too soft pillow, sunk into his cloud of a mattress. Blue light blinks at 6:24 am, and that’s a socially acceptable time to get up, right? Because Eddie can’t stay here any longer, Steve’s pretty face is haunting him and the guilt is pulling Eddie’s chest into itself like a collapsing star, crushing his ribcage like a corset, daring him to breathe, to reveal himself. I had a sex dream about Steve Harrington, and oh god, now there’s a problem to take care of.
But… Steve’s so distracting. The morning sun favours him, making him glow from behind like some sort of angel. Nobody sleeps like that anymore, so light, as if they’re on cloud nine - it’s all dead weight and forced slumber for maintenance of life, and inconvenience. Eddie envies him for this, before realizing, due to the distracting qualities of his questionable dream, he doesn’t recall any nightmares. He tries not to think about it.
It’s an almost impossible task, to leave this haven of comfort and warmth, but he does, slinking across that damned cream carpet into the hallway. He claims dexterity points for not waking Steve, nor any of the gremlins cramped onto the double bed next door, snoring in an out-of-time chorus. It’s objectively too many teenage boys to be sleeping on one bed, crammed like sardines. Whatever fends off the nightmares, I suppose.
Stairs creak under his feet, and he cringes at the intrusion of the silence. I know the girls were sleeping in the living room, I wonder if-
“Good morning, Eddie.” -they’re awake. Nancy looks like she’s been up for a while, her mane of hair semi-tamed and hints of makeup here and there, cradling an old, over-decorated teacup. A brief but hidden panic burns its way through Eddie’s lungs and settles in his chest. God, why did it have to be you?
“Mornin’ Nancy.” His gravelly response is followed by coughing. He’s aware of his appearance - joggers (Steve's, too short), the oldest shirt he owns (lots of holes), no socks (the floor is cold), and he’s not even looked in the mirror.
You might ask, since when did Eddie care about what Nancy Wheeler thought of him? Well, ever since he started having sex dreams about her ex, is the short answer.
Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that? This isn’t the first. When these mass sleepovers happen (about every two weeks,) it happens. It’s like Steve has a forcefield around him - if Eddie falls asleep within 6 feet of him... well. He’s used to this routine, what he’s not used to is the extra kids - the Byers, and therefore Nancy Wheeler, who often sits this out. He prays his shirt is long enough, and she doesn’t look down. I should’ve waited!
“The kettle should still be hot if you want a coffee or anything.” Her voice is light and sweet, always followed by a polite little smile. He wonders how her hands aren’t burning against that cup.
She nods to a selection of perfectly matching mugs, instant coffee and tea bags. The smell of jasmine floats through the polished kitchen. There’s no jasmine tea. Did she bring her own? Did she leave some here, after they broke up? Had she stayed over before? Did she sleep in Steve’s bed, in Eddie’s place?
“Thank you.” Eddie pretends his hands aren’t shaking and so does she. Mugs clink against marble countertops. He thinks of times when this house was flooding with partygoers, when beer bottles and red cups would litter these surfaces, blunts being rolled, tapes being switched out. That was a while ago.
“How did you sleep?”
Nancy’s eyes are perpetually wide; a cocktail of politeness, care, with a shot of sorrow and a dash of pity. No salt. He stands in the corner, brewing a response. Catching his reflection in the fractured glass of a cabinet door, he notes the sunken darkness around his eyes, complemented by pasty skin and chapped lips. Living dead. Great. “I slept alright. A surprising lack of nightmares.”
Her smile when the cup lowers is more genuine this time. “I know it’s not for me to comment, but you seem to be coping really well. I could never get away from the nightmares.”
Neither could I, until I started sharing a bed with your ex, who I actually advised to try and win you back. Tricky situation, huh, Nance?
He drinks his coffee to prolong the amount of time he has to create a response. It’s bitter, old and stale. Burns his tongue. Reminds him of home. “Guess I’m lucky.”
Shit response, but she shows a polite smile. Eddie begs she doesn’t try to make further conversation. But when has he ever been lucky?
“Does he kick you?” She says, an unsure smile settling at the edge of her teacup.
Eddie almost inhales his coffee. He plays it off. “What?”
“Oh, sorry.” Her smile only grows more uneasy. “Steve used to kick me when we shared a bed. He could never stay still. Chronic duvet-stealer too, I was just wondering if that’s why you were up so early.”
There’s your answer. Eddie laughs, shallow and hoarse. Hearing tales of King Steve is like hearing about someone else. “No, he hasn’t been kicking me or anything. It was the snoring.” He pulls a face, drawing a chuckle from Nancy, a small smile with glassy eyes, and she slowly disappears into her daydreams. It’s probably about Steve. Everything about her is about Steve-
Don’t say that. Birds are singing, gathering on the edge of the drained pool outside, bickering over scattered seeds.
He thinks about Robin. Robin, who is so overtly yet somehow completely obliviously falling head over heels for Nancy Wheeler that Eddie wants to draw her a diagram or something, something to make her understand, so he has someone to go through it with - loving unrequitedly, with no chance of return. Robin, who, despite being utterly oblivious about her own love life, is intelligent enough to cause problems. She looks at Eddie like she knows. She probably does - takes one to know one and all that. Steve and Robin are like psychic twins, able to have an entire conversation through a few motions; eyebrow-raising, head tilting, hand gesturing, and it’s all over. What are they saying about me? Eddie thinks, I know it’s about me.
Steve stares. He sits on that old sunken couch in Wheeler’s basement or stands in the corner of his dining room with Robin draped on him like a scarf - wherever they are, he stares. Wonder, concentration, hunger, all balled into one long stare. Eddie falters, sometimes. Burning on his temple, his hands, his eyes - wherever Steve’s staring, Eddie can feel it like a cigarette on his skin. It’s impossible to ignore. His entire body burns, and he wonders if he’s turning red, but he’s mid-campaign and I can’t let it go down just because Steve’s looking at me- looking at his soul. He tries to hide the shaking of his hands, but the kids give him worried looks. Does Steve see him, faltering? Does he know the effect he has? Robin certainly knows, but when doesn’t she?
Do you know, Nancy? Do you have anything to say? I wonder if your nails tapping against your teacup spell anything in Morse code. FREAK. QUEER. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Steam rises from the coffee, hot against Eddie’s chin where he holds the mug at his chest. A small red box catches his eye, discarded on the table near the back door.
In a stroke of luck, there are six Marlboros left, and a lighter jammed inside; an excuse to leave. And, breakfast.
The floor outside is cold on Eddie’s bare feet, tiny stones pushing into his heels as he gingerly sits on the step. September holds a harsh breeze that makes him hold his arms close and appreciate his bitter coffee a little more.
“Oh- for fuck’s sake, come on.” He hisses, trying to convince the lighter the breeze isn’t that bad. On the most successful attempt to get a steady (but small) flame, the door behind Eddie clicks open. Leaning forward, he hums a satisfied noise with a smile, trying not to get ash in the coffee between his feet, and whoever it is steps past and onto the floor beside him.
Pristine white socks and shorts that are too short to wear in public, and oh god it’s Steve. Eddie’s satisfied smile falters.
Do you know? Did you hear me, saying your name in my sleep? Maybe you saw me, leaving with my shirt pulled down so far. Maybe you rolled over and I wasn’t there. Maybe the bed went cold. Maybe. Maybe.
“G’mornin’.” Steve mumbles, stretching the sleeves of his sweater and wrapping his arms around his legs. It must have been minutes since he woke up - eyes barely open, and god he even has glasses on.
The breeze calms down as if it knows Steve’s here. Eddie’s feeling the opposite of calm. He takes one of the biggest drags he’s ever had in his life. Steve’s shoulder bumps against his, knees knocking, and hey, get your own- but the mug is gone, cradled in Steve’s cold fingers, steaming up his glasses. Eddie imagines drawing little hearts in them.
He knows what to expect. As per routine, Steve groans, putting the mug down on the broken tile with the crunch of small stones. “Black coffee is terrible,” he complains, smiling, defying all odds and bringing his knees even closer to his chest. Eddie’s too busy listening to the blood rushing through his ears, deep breaths between drags to calm the heartbeat that threatens to give him away. He hopes he can play off the pink on his cheeks as being caused by the wind.
“Maybe you should make your own.” He says, grinning, but his voice feels far, like he’s hearing it in the next room. Breathe, Eddie. Steve glares playfully. “Maybe you should just make good coffee. Did you sleep okay?”
Do I really look that bad? “Yeah, fine. What about you?”
Steve ignores the question, pushing the crumbling stone at the edge of the step. “No bad dreams?”
Hands pulling his hair, hot kisses over his collarbone, pressure on his thighs-
“No bad dreams.” Eddie grins shakily, quirking his head to the side a little. Steve seems convinced, nodding slightly.
“So, are you gonna host a new campaign now all the kids are in town?” Steve asks, voice soft against the background of the quiet morning.
“I suppose so,” Eddie says, sighing with some kind of false pretence that any of what he does is possibly inconvenient or even tiring, when in reality the new campaign has been taking up at least half of his headspace for about a fortnight.
“Tell me about it,” Steve says quickly, sternly, and Eddie doesn’t want to look. He takes another drag, looking at anything - the falling leaves, the skittering birds, the crumbling concrete, anything except him-
He’s doing it. I fucking know it! He’s staring-
Eddie clears his throat, smiling at the awkwardness, face hot, voice caught in his throat. “I- uh- I don’t know where to start.” Another drag, and he’s at the filter. He could do with another, but Steve would lecture him for chain smoking. He drops the end into a cracked plant pot, designated years ago for cigarette ends, little hand-painted designs of lavender, bleached in the sun.
“Start anywhere.” His voice is quieter, face slightly mushed into his knees, and he can hear the crumbling of stone so maybe Steve’s not looking anymore? Eddie chances a look and god I knew it-!
“I can’t,” Eddie confesses all too quickly, nervous laughter underneath. “You have a- a very strong stare. It’s distracting.”
Steve scoffs like he doesn’t know what Eddie’s talking about. He breaks eye contact though, so Eddie classes it as a minor win. “I- a strong stare? What the hell does that mean?”
Maybe not a win.
“Not- not in a bad way!” Eddie pulls blanks, staring at Steve, desperately looking for any signs of offence, and the trembling of his hands must be obvious now. Jeez man say something!
“Uh- good distracting.”
Fuck.
“Good distracting?”
If they were in a room, Steve’s ego would fill it, pour out of the windows and burst the hinges on the doors. Clearly, Steve is awake enough to identify when Eddie has fucked up, and clearly, Eddie is still asleep enough to let something like that slip. He’s smirking, Eddie’s smiling and laughing but it’s nerves, gripping round his throat and invading his thoughts, repeating you fucked up, you fucked up! Nothing you can do now!
Fuck it, let’s use some good old charm and play it off as a joke, typical Munson behaviour. He’ll think nothing of it, and it’ll go away.
“Yes, Harrington, you’re ‘good distracting’. The kind of distracting that makes a man want to start the war of a decade.” It’s routine - reference something nerdy, grin, look away, and find something to do with your hands.
It doesn’t work when the person doesn’t understand the reference. Steve cocks his head, stare reading as confused and interested. Oh, come on-
“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Not at all.” Steve grins.
Eddie sighs, a smile rising to mirror Steve’s. The cold air makes him too aware of the lungs in his body. He stares at the coffee, probably stone cold. There’s a leaf in it now.
“You’ve read the Iliad? Odyssey?”
“No.”
“How do you not know the Iliad?”
“I didn’t say I don’t know it.” Steve sasses, grinning at Eddie, an eyebrow raised. “I said I haven’t read it.”
“Alright, smart-ass.” Eddie chuckles. “Do you know what it’s about?”
“Yeah, war.”
“What war?”
Steve cocks his head. He’s not trying to remember anything, he’s just waiting.
“Steve, I’m the one who was failing English, what-?”
“Oh, come on!” Laughter, contagious. Did the sun just come out? “It’s not my fault if I’m not caught up on my Greek myths, okay?”
“Myth? Lord give me strength,” Eddie shakes his head, unable to hide his grin. “Never mind then.”
“No, tell me about the war,” Steve says, soft, eyebrows furrowed, resting his chin on his knees. When Eddie looks at him, he looks away. He’s nervous. Just tell the man a story, Munson.
“Okay okay- Hera, Athena and Aphrodite were fighting over this golden apple that was supposedly for the fairest goddess, all claiming to be so.” He keeps his gaze steadily downwards; on the bare feet he shouldn’t be outside with and the threads in the pants Steve gave him. Anywhere else but him. “The Trojan Prince Paris is the one who gets to decide, for some reason. They all offer different gifts if he is to choose them- power, wisdom, love. Young Paris chooses to love and gives the apple to Aphrodite.
“She chooses her fairest - Helen, Queen of Sparta, to fall for him. When Helen abandons the King of Sparta for this Prince, the King, Menelaus, declares war.
He’s staring. Can he tell what you think about him? You can’t let him look too closely.
He clears his throat. “They surrounded the city for ten years, fought fight after fight. A ton of well-known heroes died - Achilles, Ajax, Hector - and eventually, Troy fell prey to the Trojan horse. Spartans got inside and kill them all. All for Helen.”
It’s silent. Eddie feels like prey, in the eyes of its predator, too scared to move. His breathing is shallow, and he doesn’t dare to look away from the dirt under his nails.
Burning, again, on his temple. Steve’s willing Eddie to look at him but he knows he can’t without doing anything stupid-
“You’re staring.” He grins. Steve smiles, he can see it from the corner of his eye.
“You know so much.”
“It’s really not that much.”
“So, I’m Helen?” He asks, a string of disbelief wrapping around his voice. “I’m that kind of distracting?”
Way to give yourself away, Eddie. He knows, he has to.
“Maybe.” His voice is as stable as he can will it to be, which isn’t very. Still, he tries to maintain dignity. He wonders if the birds by the pool can feel his own stare burning holes into them.
It’s quiet, for a second. Eddie’s about to apologise, but-
“So, you’re Paris? Or are you the King?”
He thinks. “The King, if I’m the one starting the war.”
“Romantic,” Steve says. Eddie can bet it’s followed by a grin, maintaining that ego boost, but he wouldn’t know, because he refuses to look. Burning - eyes, face, hands, does he ever stop staring? Eddie wants to look - god does he want to look - but eyes are the windows to the soul, and would Steve ever forgive him if he knew?
“Robin’s been telling me stuff, y’know.”
“Stories of Greek heroes?” Eddie mutters, half-smiling, and Steve scoffs, playful.
“Talking about how you get all clammy, all nervous when I watch you. I never noticed before she mentioned it.”
Shit.
It was a trap. It was all a trap. He needed me to talk so he could see my reaction. Did I pass? Does he know?
Does he know?
“It’s okay. I know you know about Robin.” The tone is different, now - Steve’s trying to keep it casual but even he sounds tense
“It’s different,” Eddie whispers, forcing his eyes closed, willing calmness. It’s done, now, said - a smart man would take it for a confession. Eddie would take it for a death sentence.
“It’s not,” He says, quick, reassuring - “Hell, even Achilles and Patroclus had something going on. People have been gay forever, Eds, it doesn’t bother me.
Eyes meet - he’s taken aback, but that harsh stare isn’t there anymore. It’s softness, kindness, sorrow; the kind of face you’d expect someone to make when you tell them your dog died or something. Not a face anyone has ever made to Eddie, and especially never in reaction to this kind of news.
But wait a minute-
“You have read the Iliad.” Eddie’s eyes narrow, head tilting - accusatory, playful.
Steve exhales, grins, “That’s not what you’re supposed to focus on.”
“But you have!”
“I like watching you tell stories.” It’s honest and raw, and Eddie finds himself unable to look once again.
“Give me a break.” He croaks, eyes fleeting, grinning like a madman.
Behind them there’s muttering, mugs clinking on counters, whistling kettles and rifling in cupboards. They both turn to the door, open an inch – they listen to Robin’s half-awake mood, her whining voice: “There’re too many children.” Nancy’s giggling. “How long have you been awake?” “A few hours now.” “You’re crazy.”
They’re both smiling. Grateful.
Steve stands, sighing, shaking stones from his shorts. Offering a hand, his eyes hold heat, but it’s different, warm. Like the sun.
“Come on then Menelaus.” He grins, close to mirth. “We have Spartans to feed.”