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Eddie wakes up to a throbbing ache between his eyes. The night returns to him in stages: the bar, Steve’s arm around him, a jarringly accurate impression of Kermit the Frog, and– blank. Groaning, Eddie rolls over, fumbling for his phone, and groans again when he realises it’s dead.
He takes a few moments just to lie very still and focus on not throwing up. Hello ceiling, he thinks, head mushy. Thank God it’s a Sunday. If he had to drag his ass out of bed all the way to a lecture he’d probably die. Of dehydration or embarrassment, he's not sure. Both are equally as likely.
And then he sits bolt upright.
The phone. The voicemail. Steve.
Fuck. Oh, fuck.
Eddie’s out of bed and barreling down the hallway before he’s even realised the extent of his fuck up. Heart hammering, he throws himself into Steve’s room. His bed is empty. Oh, this is bad. Goddamnit.
Running shaky hands down his face, Eddie makes for the bathroom. He can shower while he thinks– can wash yesterday’s sweat off while he plans the easiest way to disappear forever. He's got connections. A fake passport can't be that hard to come by.
Okay, maybe it’s not… The end of the world, he reasons. Steve’s probably not awake yet, wherever he is. He has time to get rid of the evidence. He just needs to find Steve. Eddie makes a beeline for his bedroom again, and plugs the charger into his phone. He'll call Robin if he needs to. If he can reach her, he can reach Steve.
With that problem’s solution in the works, he heads towards the bathroom. Showering will make him feel better. Maybe the hot water will shock the nausea out of his system, if he's lucky.
Except, when he tries the door, he finds it locked. A chill runs down his spine, because– shit, what if Steve did wake up? What if he’s in there right now hiding from his crazy best friend slash maybe-possibly-soon-to-be-ex roommate?
Taking a shaky breath, Eddie knocks on the door.
“Steve? You in there?”
Muffled as it is through the door, he hears a groan. Proof of life! Success.
"You okay, Steve?"
“Fuck,” Steve says, voice rough even through the door. “‘M alive.”
Eddie laughs, shuffling nervously on his feet. “You sleep in there?”
Steve shuffles around on the other side of the door. After a moment he sighs. “Yeah.”
“How’s your back?”
“What do you think?” Steve snarks.
Eddie laughs, digging his nails into his hands. It’s now or never.
“Hey, so,” Eddie starts. “You got your phone in there?”
“Yep. Yours dead?”
“Uh, yeah, but– look,” he sighs, pressing his thumbs into his eyes. “I did something fucking stupid, and I need you not to ask any probing, uh, questions until I’ve fixed it.”
“What did you do?”
Eddie shuts his eyes. “Steve.”
“Eddie.”
“I can’t tell you,” Eddie says slowly. “It’s– Jesus, it’s so stupid, please just. Give me your phone.”
“Fine.” he shuffles around. “Oh, hey,” Steve's voice picks up. “I have a voicemail from you.”
Eddie slams his head against the door. “Please don’t listen to it.”
“What? Why not?”
“Steve,” Eddie pleads. "I'm serious."
“Whoops, my finger slipped.”
And the voice message starts playing.
“Heeeeeeey. What’s up, Stevie? Steve. Steve Harrington. What is up. Sooo…” past-him hiccups, a giggle bursting free. “I’m drunk as fuck, man— and, uh, my inhibitions are lower. Lowered. Low. Which means I can talk to you, ‘cause sober me’s a total coward. Like, charged as a wuss and arrested on the spot. And, uh… I suck. ‘Cause I’m so fucked up over you, man.”
Eddie squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden burn in his eyes. He leans his head against the door.
“It’s like— you’re the sun, man. You’re everything. I’m just— the rest of us, we’re just here to… To bask in your light. Like otters on, like, warm rocks.” Past-him hiccups again. It sounds like he's shuffling to get comfy. He must've called Steve right before he fell asleep last night. “Sorry, I’m not making any sense. What I’m trying to say is— I love you, man. Like, a lot. I think about kissing you all the damn time. So, uh. Call me back when you get this. Where… Where the fuck are you, even? We live toge—“
The voicemail cuts off, and Eddie wants to die.
He can't play this off as a joke. Everyone knows how disgustingly genuine Eddie gets when he's drunk. There's no hiding how mushy Eddie Munson really is if you get a couple shots down his throat.
On the other side of the door, Steve doesn’t make a noise. Doesn’t move, doesn’t react, doesn’t even breathe loud enough for Eddie to hear.
Voice wet and small, Eddie says, “Steve?”
He almost falls over when the door suddenly swings open.
He’s met with a wide-eyed, sleep-scruffy Steve. The guy's still wearing yesterday's polo, but has somehow managed to find pajama pants, slung low on his hips. He’s not sure what Steve reads on his face, his eyes flickering between Eddie’s too fast.
It’s like they’re frozen here, in this very moment. A moment which Eddie is wholly responsible for because he can't keep his gay little heart on a leash, his liquor-loose lips his own worst enemy once again. Maybe the moment will never end, Eddie thinks. Maybe they’ll just stand here like this forever until one of them drops dead.
“You… You love me?” Steve asks finally, voice so much softer than Eddie had thought it would be.
Eddie swallows around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t think he can speak; doesn’t think he do anything other than nod jerkily.
Voice coming out more like a breath, Steve asks, “How long?”
Eddie might as well bite the bullet. He’s not getting out of this one. At least this’ll make a fun anecdote later, he thinks bitterly, when it no longer hurts so bad.
“High School,” he manages, voice strangled. He doesn’t know what to do with his body, has never been so aware of the fact that he has limbs and bones and muscles and they’re all just, hanging out together, making him a person. It’s not a fun realisation to have when the one-sided love of your life is staring at you like you kicked his puppy.
But Steve's not saying anything. Shit, Eddie wouldn't wanna talk himself either, in Steve's position.
Swallowing down a bout of hysterics, Eddie looses a breath. “So, uh. I can get out of here. If you hate me now. Which, uh, would suck, but I wouldn’t blame you. You’ve put up with my crazy for like, five years now, which is– ha, five years more than most people, and I guess I'm kinda overdue on another life-altering fuck-up, and here it is, signed, sealed, delivered by yours truly-"
Steve’s hand comes up to press against Eddie’s mouth, his gold-speckled eyes flickering between Eddie’s. His eyes are wide, mouth twitching upwards like there's something funny about this. Honestly, fuck Eddie's life.
“Shut up,” Steve says lightly, despite the shaky quality of his voice. “Shut up, man.”
Swallowing, Eddie nods as best he can behind Steve’s hand.
Trusting Eddie to keep quiet, Steve drops his hand, but he doesn’t step away. He’s so close, close to enough for Eddie to feel the phantom wind of his eyelashes when he blinks, which– weird thought, Munson, get it together.
“You know what I was doing, yesterday?” Steve asks, and holy shit, his eyes drop to Eddie’s mouth, what the fuck.
“N-no?”
“I was waiting for you to kiss me.” Steve’s hand comes up to brush over Eddie’s arm, his palm warm, sending a surge of electricity straight to Eddie’s pounding heart. “Like I do every time we go out.”
“What?” Eddie breathes, unable to move. His eyes are so wide he’s sure they must look like dinner plates. Steve just hovers, nodding without looking away from Eddie’s mouth.
Holy fuck.
This is it, isn’t it? Eddie’s allowed to kiss him. Eddie's going to kiss Steve.
Leaning in slowly, hyper-aware of the delicate nature of right now, unwilling to shatter it, Eddie steels himself. Steve’s eyes flutter shut when Eddie’s breath ghosts over his mouth, like he’s relaxing, giving himself to the moment, and God, he’s just– he’s perfect.
At the first brush of lips against his own, Steve’s hand tightens around Eddie’s arm. Eddie presses closer until they’re chest to chest; two warm bodies charged with the rightness of the moment, drunk on the taste of the other.
Eddie touches his tongue hesitantly to Steve’s bottom lip, and is instantly rewarded with a soft groan. Steve opens his mouth up for Eddie, hand coming up to cup the back of Eddie’s neck and woah, okay, Eddie gets it. Eddie gets what the girls were talking about in Hawkins. Steve’s a goddamn prince, a modern Casanova: he might have sunshine coming out of his ass right now - Eddie’s not unconvinced - but he’s also not willing to pull away and turn Steve around to find out.
But, well. Eddie’s a young, relatively healthy man, which means his, uh, dick is desperately trying to salute Steve and his sexiness, which is just a little bit awkward. So.
Bravely, Eddie pulls away. Kisses Steve’s nose for good measure, which earns him an honest-to-God soppy smile.
God, he’s so fucked.
“Like that?” Eddie asks softly.
“Just like that,” Steve murmurs, before tugging Eddie into a hug. He’s hard against Eddie’s thigh, too, which- holy fuck! Jesus Christ! - but there’s no urgency here. Not right now. Not while they're hungover and ratty and happy, and, if he’s understood Steve correctly, requitedly in love. Which, what the fuck.
“Hey,” he says against Steve’s neck. “Pancake date? On me?”
He can feel Steve smile into his shoulder, and he shivers when he kisses him there, featherlight, before saying, “Only if dinner’s on me tomorrow.”
Chest and belly and brain full of butterflies, Eddie laughs. “Sure thing, loverboy.”