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Eddie Munson has always felt alien. Other. When he was a kid, he used to have this recurring dream of a UFO landing in his backyard, manned by little green men and women. They would knock on his window, pull aside the blinds, and whisk him away to a far away planet. They would take him home. Wherever that was.
He doesn’t dream much these days– working full time at twenty-one doesn’t really allow for many luxuries, especially not sleep. When his head does finally hit the pillow at four thirty in the morning, he’s met with a pleasantly empty void. And then he wakes up at 10am to the blaring alarm on his bedside table, ready to do it all again.
Living in the city both is and isn’t as exciting as Eddie had thought it would be. He gigs a lot with his band– and, hey, they’re doing pretty good: meeting the right people, booking bigger venues, selling t-shirts after shows.
Shit, Eddie met Lars Ulrich one time. That was pretty cool. He talked smack about Dave Mustaine the whole time, which Eddie thought was kind of crazy, but whatever. Lars Ulrich thought he played well, and that’s what matters. He warned him about the drugs, too, right after calling Mustaine a hot-headed bull on speed, which Eddie thought was an unsubtle segway, but he took it to heart. He has since taken it upon himself to steer his band members clear of the harder shit.
The bar he works at is pretty popular, too. Fortunately, because he makes hella tips. Unfortunately, because once he’s clocked in, he doesn’t stop moving until closing time. He can’t really afford to take any nights off, so on the days he’s got a gig booked, he wraps things up, dumps his gear in the back of his van, and goes to work. He kind of hates it, but he needs the cash to make rent and to, like, eat, so. Bartending it is, until the music starts paying better.
The sing-alongs are the bane of his existence. Every once in a while, someone covers Tom Waits, and he has to focus hard on swallowing down the lump in his throat. His mom, despite the whole being dead thing, follows him even now. But it's getting easier. Wayne's only a call away, when he needs him.
Now, with Christmas just around the corner, Eddie’s got an entire two weeks off. He’s not sure how he swung that, but Lenny, the bar’s owner, likes him, so. He’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.
Which brings him here: glaring at his steering wheel, angrily mumbling along to Scorpions while his van stubbornly refuses to start.
It was lucky, he supposes, that the van decided to crap out on an empty highway. But that’s about as far as his luck stretches– he has no idea where the nearest payphone might be, nor town, nor person. The two cars that have driven by since he pulled over didn’t stop for him, despite his desperate waving, and it’s getting cold.
He could just sit here until the van’s battery dies and pray that someone stops to investigate the beat-up van on the side of the road. Or he could get off his ass and start trekking.
He treks.
Ten minutes into the walk, he regrets it. He’s only wearing a leather jacket over a t-shirt, and it’s fucking snowing. He can’t feel his toes. God, Wayne's gonna kill him if he dies trying to walk back to Hawkins.
At a particularly strong gust of wind, a full-body shudder wracks through him. Jesus, what was he thinking? He should’ve stayed put.
“Fuckin’ idiot,” he mumbles to himself, teeth chattering.
Just as he’s about to bite the bullet and turn back around, he hears it: the rumbling of a car. He whirls and raises his arms, squinting at the headlights.
Please, please, please.
He nearly cries when the car slows, pulling up just ahead of him. Half-jogging, he makes it to the driver’s side just as the window rolls down.
“Jesus, you okay?” the guy asks, and Eddie stops short.
Steve Harrington’s looking at him with wide eyes, dressed in the cosiest maroon sweater Eddie’s ever seen.
Does he recognise him? Will he recognise him?
Heart in his throat, Eddie manages a weak laugh. “Freezing my balls off, b-but I’m alive, so.”
Steve looks at him for another moment, eyes flickering between Eddie’s before he nods his head at the empty passenger seat. “C’mon, get in.”
Eddie thanks him under his breath before rushing to the other side of the car. By the time he’s shut the door behind him and collapsed into the seat, Steve’s put the heat on blast.
Mouth pinched with concern, Steve watches him hug his jacket closer to himself.
Eddie shoots him a small smile to ease the tension, flexing his fingers and wiggling his toes to regain some feeling in them.
“How long were you out there?” Steve asks, flicking his blinkers on as he shifts gears, pulling back onto the highway smoothly.
“Not- not long.” Eddie heaves a sigh, trying to ignore the soft scent of Steve’s cologne, warming his ice-cold nose. “But, uh. Long enough, I guess.”
Steve hums.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, giving Eddie a curious look. “You’re not running away from home, right?”
Eddie huffs a laugh in the passenger seat. “I’m twenty-one. I think at this point it’d count as moving out. Not that I am,” he adds. “Just, uh. Hitching a ride.”
Steve nods, but doesn’t say anything. After a moment, he inhales. “So… Why’d you need to hitch a ride?”
“Van broke down,” Eddie admits.
“Oh, shit. Where?”
“Not sure. Not far from where you, uh, rescued me.”
Steve hums, flickering his eyes to Eddie’s momentarily. “Where are you heading?”
What's with the twenty questions, man? he doesn't say. Instead, he says, “Hawkins.”
Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “No shit? Me too.”
Snorting, Eddie says, “Figured.”
“What?” Steve glances at him. “How?”
Right. Shit, how would some random guy know Steve Harrington’s heading back to Hawkins? Wayne always said the best way to lie is to stay as close to the truth as possible, and, well. He had a point.
“Just, uh,” Eddie hesitates. “I’ve seen you around. There. In Hawkins.”
“Wait, so—“ Steve frowns. “You’re from Hawkins?”
“Guilty.”
“I haven’t…” Steve sneaks another glance at Eddie. “I mean— I guess you’re kinda familiar, but I don’t— have we met?”
“Uh—“ Eddie wiggles in his seat. “Kinda? We went to high school together.” He pauses. “Or, well, not together. We never spoke, or anything. I kinda flew under the radar.”
He hadn’t. He’d been loud-mouthed and bratty and miserable— even after disappearing for a year before returning with a new name and new clothes. Even after getting away with it, somehow.
Only Gareth knew Eddie before and after. He understood, the same way Wayne had. Neither of them ever tried to tell Eddie he wasn’t a boy, or that he was wrong, somehow.
“Huh.” Steve’s frowning, eyebrows pinched together. “I don’t— sorry, man. I don’t remember you.”
It shouldn’t sting to hear— it should be a good thing, actually. Being unrecognisable means he’s safe. And yet—
And yet, a small part of Eddie wants Steve to remember him.
Huffing a laugh, he folds his arms over his chest. “Yeah, uh. I get it. I wouldn’t remember me either.”
“No, I—“ Steve starts to say, voice oddly panicked, before glancing over and catching Eddie’s cartoonish pout. “Oh, fuck you, man.”
Eddie snickers. “Sorry.”
Smiling, Steve shakes his head, before squinting, pushing the breaks lightly. Turning his attention back to the road, Eddie realises the snowstorm has gotten considerably more… snowy.
Fuck.
“Can’t see anything through this shit,” Steve says under his breath. The engine rumbles softly as they keep cruising, but the visibility gets worse and worse.
“Pull over?” Eddie suggests weakly.
Steve doesn’t reply, but the car slows anyway. He pulls the car over to the side of the road before parking and shutting off the engine.
“Okay.” Eddie claps his hands together. “What now?”
“We… Wait?” Steve says, finally looking over at Eddie with his big doe eyes.
Eddie nods, slowly at first and then resolutely. “We wait.”
It's quiet for a long moment, and Eddie lets the enormity of the situation settle in him. Yeah, he's stuck in a car with Steve Harrington. Steve Harrington who doesn't remember him, which is good. The snow will let up eventually, and he'll come home to an empty trailer and wait for Wayne to get back from work. All is well.
“So.” Steve clears his throat, turning fully in his seat. “What were you like? In high school?”
“Uh.” Eddie ducks his head. He slips his hand into his pocket to retrieve his cigarettes, needing something to do. “Weird, I guess?”
Steve arches an eyebrow, before flicking the cigarette out of Eddie’s hand.
“Hey!”
“My car, my rules,” Steve says.
Glaring at him, Eddie leans down to grab the cigarette off the floor. Leaning away from Steve as he tries to snatch it from him, he lights it quickly.
“Dude,” Steve says, disbelieving. “We can’t, like, hotbox my car. It’s too cold to crack a window.”
Eddie pauses. Steve’s right, but Eddie hates admitting he’s wrong. Heaving a great sigh, he puts the cigarette out on the packet, before slotting it back into it. He didn’t even get one pull of it. Evil.
“Thank you,” Steve says, lips twitching up. The little shit. “Anyway, weird how? Were you, like, a stoner or something?”
Choking on a laugh, Eddie admits, “I mean, kinda? More like, I’d be doing the supplying. But I also smoked, yeah. Still do.”
Steve blinks slowly. Haltingly, he says, “Wait, you were— dude.”
“What?”
“You were loud, man,” Steve exclaims, hands flying up. “You, like- the lunch tables. Your speeches.”
Eddie doesn’t say anything for a moment, studying Steve. He doesn’t look weirded out, or particularly angry— surprised, sure, but there’s no malice in the disbelieving smile on his face.
“Maybe,” Eddie allows. He holds up a hand. “But let it be known, I talked out of my ass most of the time.”
“Oh, I know.” Steve leans back. “Lotta talk about death bands, right?”
Eddie squawks. “You wound me. What are they telling the masses? Death bands?”
“Yeah, like,” Steve shrugs, the movement fluid. He looks relaxed, like Eddie’s company isn't putting him off. “Fuck the big man, worship Satan… you know.”
Eddie blinks at him. “No, I don’t know. Jesus.”
“I like Judas Priest,” Steve adds out of nowhere, and Eddie only barely manages not to squawk again.
“What.”
Steve shrugs. “They’re pretty cool. My friend dragged me along to one of their concerts last year, so. Had to get educated.”
“This is not real,” Eddie breathes, but the thing is, he can imagine it all too clearly: Harrington sprawled on his bed, arms folded underneath his head, eyes closed as he soaks up the sweet, hard music.
Fuck!
“What, you really think all I listen to is Duran Duran?” Steve asks, amused.
“Yes,” Eddie says. “No. Kind of?” He exhales, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. Mumbling, he says, “I’ve gotta put you on Megadeth, or something. If you let your mane grow out, you’d fit right in.”
Steve snorts, hand coming up to touch his hair almost absentmindedly. “Sure.”
They’re quiet for a moment. Eddie wonders what it is about Harrington that makes him so… gravitational. It’s impossible not to look at him– and Eddie knows he’s not the only one who feels it. High school was proof of that: people would flock to him, would vie for his attention. Steve was everything Eddie was not (popular, handsome, appealing) but that white-hot jealousy Eddie had to grow used to during his high school career was never entirely borne out of resentment. No, no, no– the truth is simple: the sky is blue, and Eddie Munson is gay. And, well. Steve Harrington is a specimen.
“So, um,” Steve says, clearing his throat. “What’s so special about Big Death?”
Eddie narrows his eyes, hoping his whole… everything isn’t betraying how pretty he thinks Steve is.
“I know you’re doing that on purpose, but I’ll let it slide because you literally saved my life. And I’m a very generous person.” Eddie bats his eyelashes at him. “Megadeth is special because they’re fuckin’— I don’t know, man. They’re kind of a miracle, you know? From the shit I’ve heard, they’re all on something all the time, and they— Jesus, have you heard Rust In Peace? It’s a masterpiece. Like, fuckin’ incredible. And they just— what, got drunk and wrote it? Three beers in, I can’t solo for shit. How did—“
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Steve says, laughing under his breath. “They’re super geniuses and we should be, like, kissing their feet about it. Right?”
Eddie snaps his fingers. “Correctomundo.”
“Awesome,” Steve says flatly. A moment passes, before they both crack up, damn near giggling.
Outside, the wind howls, like it wants to join in. A shiver wracks through Eddie, and he wonders how he ever considered cracking the window open to smoke earlier. It’s cold as shit, even with the heat on.
“Cold?” Steve asks, voice softer than before.
“Yeah,” Eddie admits.
“You wanna move this to the back?”
“Uh.” Eddie swallows, heart kicking up a notch. “For what purpose?”
“To keep warm,” Steve says, lips twitching. “I’ve got, like, blankets and shit back there.”
“‘Course you do,” Eddie mutters, before hauling himself out of his seat. Crouched like Gollum, he looks at Steve questioningly, before proceeding to dive into the backseat.
Steve joins him equally as gracelessly. Eddie kind of wants to bite him. He watches Steve reach under one of the seats, unearthing a blanket. Frowning, he unwraps it, eyebrows flying up when something falls into his lap.
“Oh, hey,” Steve says, grabbing the bottle. “Whiskey.”
“Give me that.”
Steve flickers his eyes up. “Uh, no.”
“C’mon,” Eddie wheedles, looking at the bottle meaningfully. Whiskey might be able to slow his already concerningly fast heartbeat.
“We’re in the middle of a snowstorm,” Steve says. “And I’ve gotta drive, man. It’s unfair if you get to go crazy all alone.”
Eddie pouts.
Steve sighs. “Why do you even– what’s the occasion?”
“Oh, Harrington,” Eddie croons. “There are people out there who give you reason to drink— whether that be in celebration or contempt.”
Steve raises one eyebrow. “Is that right?”
“Mhm.” Eddie carefully scoots closer. He’s always been like this– driven by instinct. He sees, he wants, he conquers. It’s how he got the job at the bar– he simply showed up and helped out until they gave him a uniform.
Fast as lighting, Eddie tries to grab the bottle, but Steve’s got reflexes like a cat. He raises the bottle above his head, and Eddie makes a mournful noise.
Eddie’s scrappy, though. He’s not afraid of fighting dirty. So, smiling a little too wide, he launches himself at Steve.
He manages to grab the bottle, but his victory is short-lived. Laughing, Steve slips further down the seats until he’s lying down. Eddie’s eyes widen the second he realises what’s about to happen.
“Wait–”
Steve jams his fingers into Eddie’s sides, and Eddie yells.
The bottle lands somewhere on the car floor as Eddie tries to curl into a ball, which doesn’t really work since he’s sitting on top of Steve, legs splayed haphazardly to accommodate the breadth of him.
“Stop–” Eddie cackles wildly, trying to bat Steve’s hands away. It’s embarrassing, being this ticklish.
“If you don’t drink my whiskey,” Steve grins, not letting up.
“Aw, c’mon, man–”
In a last ditch effort to stop him, Eddie twists out of his way. Unfortunately, he overbalances and has to plant a hasty hand back on Steve.
Riiight over his crotch. Naturally.
Steve makes a pathetic sound, hands stilling instantly.
Oh, fuck, Eddie thinks distantly.
He has — quite literally — got him by the balls.
“Fuck—“ Steve chokes, and Eddie snatches his hand back, eyes wide with horror.
Oh, God. He totally just grabbed Steve Harrington’s balls. Jesus Christ.
“Shit,” Eddie breathes. “Fuck, sorry—“
“It’s fine,” Steve moans, eyes squeezed shut. Slowly, like every movement hurts, he relaxes.
Eddie tries to roll off of him, but Steve grabs his hips. “Don’t move. Please.”
Swallowing, Eddie settles back into place.
“Sorry.”
“‘S okay,” Steve says, bringing his arm up to rest over his face.
Eddie pokes him delicately. Steve moans.
Voice muffled against his arm, Steve says, “Watch it, or I’ll return the favour.”
Eddie snorts. “You couldn’t even if you tried, big boy.”
“Uh,” Steve moves his arm, blinking. “Expand.”
Aw, fuck. If Eddie could just– stop putting his mammoth-sized foot in his mouth, that would be great.
“Contract,” Eddie says emphatically.
They stare at each other for a long moment, eyes flickering back and forth.
It would be monumentally stupid to tell Steve, especially while literally sitting on top of him. Possibly world-endingly stupid. And yet– yet! He wants to. It is right there in Eddie’s doctrine, rule number 13: LYFFF. Let Your Freak Flag Fly.
He thinks about his mom, wishing now more than ever that she's watching over him. She might be dead now, but it's no small comfort to imagine she had been alive once. Eddie’s mom had been a complicated woman- unfailingly kind, but also desperately lonely. She hadn't trusted Eddie's father after he got his ass thrown in jail the first time, because she believed bad things only happened to bad people. So when she got cancer— well. She thought she might be the devil.
Eddie's not much like his mom, but her philosophy's stuck with him. It's misguided and - at best - harmful, but he's never been able to shake it. That the world's treated him the way it has because he's fundamentally bad. That he's wrong, somehow. That he was born under a bad sign.
He's better at not thinking like that, these days. But sometimes... Sometimes he wishes it was true. Because then, maybe, if he's good enough, he'll be rewarded.
In a rush, Eddie says, “I don’t have a dick.”
“Oh.” Steve blinks. “Cool.”
“Cool?”
Eddie's not sure whether to be relieved or panicked or what, mind kind of stuck on how warm Steve's thighs are under his.
“I–” Steve’s hand twitches around Eddie’s hip. “Jeez, I suck at this. Um, it’s cool that you– that you don’t have a dick.”
Heart thundering, Eddie scans Steve’s face for any sign of deceit, but all he finds is painfully endearing earnestness.
Quietly, he asks, “How can you be cool about that?”
Beneath him, Steve shrugs, the movement half-aborted. “I know people like you, you know? And– we’re not so different.”
I know people like you.
Eddie can’t look away from Steve. Can’t stop staring. “What do you mean?”
Whispering, Steve says, “I have a third nipple.”
Oh, this fucking guy.
“You do not,” Eddie says.
Steve cracks a boyish grin. “Okay, it might be a freckle, but, like–” he gives Eddie’s hip a squeeze. “I mean it. I get it. I’m not gonna freak out.”
“Okay,” Eddie says quickly. His heart squeezes in his chest. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
They're so close, like this. Steve's not making any move to tip Eddie off of his lap, and Eddie's not about to suggest it. He's selfish, okay? He'll take what he can get. And as unreal as tonight has been so far, he's willing to push his luck a little more.
Quietly, Steve says, “You remind me of my best friend.”
Oh, well, nevermind.
“Tommy Hagan?” Eddie asks, voice pitching high.
“No. Jesus,” Steve laughs breathily. “Robin. Robin Buckley.”
“Oh.”
“She’s like…” Steve smiles. “She’s the best. Huge music nerd. Kinda bitchy. Funny as hell.”
“She sounds like a riot,” Eddie says, and he means it. He remembers Buckley from band, all those years ago. She’d been reserved back then, but he can totally see it: her growing into herself, becoming unafraid. He’d been pretty sure back then that she was like him, that she was queer, and– well. I know people like you. If Steve Harrington is okay in Buckley’s books, then goddamn it, he’s okay in Eddie’s books too.
“She is,” Steve agrees. He snakes a hand up Eddie’s back, touch featherlight. Eddie doesn’t move– doesn’t want to scare him off. He exhales shakily, eyes never leaving Steve’s.
And the thing is, Steve’s looking at Eddie with half-lidded eyes, mouth parted like the words he wants to say are right there, on the tip of his tongue. After an eternity, he murmurs, “Is it crazy that I kinda wanna kiss you right now?”
Oh.
Eddie inhales sharply, eyes flickering between Steve’s. Hoping Steve will ignore the tremor in his voice, he says, “Only kinda?”
“Definitely.” Steve tugs gently at Eddie's hair, and Eddie goes willingly, their noses bumping. “Definitely wanna kiss you.”
Slipping his hand up Steve’s neck to grab at his hair, Eddie leans. Fuck it, he thinks, and closes his eyes.
The first touch of his lips against Steve’s is a barely-there brush- so small, but electric nonetheless. At Steve’s soft inhale, Eddie presses more firmly against him, dizzy with the feeling of Steve, warm and soft and pliable against him.
He feels like a fizzy soda. Pop!
Growing up, Eddie used to think that the time he spent in Hawkins was all he would remember. That his childhood was his life. He hadn't even been out of it yet, and he'd known already what kind of adult he’d be: the kind stuck on sixteen. The kind who wants to go back and fix everything.
Well, fuck you, younger Eddie– this is what he’ll remember. Life didn't end after eighteen, and good things happen because good things happen. He doesn't have to deserve them.
Kissing Steve Harrington reminds him of that. It's kind of like getting drunk- head-spinningly good and heady. He gets lost in it, lost in the slick noises of their mouths colliding, in the soft noises Steve seems unable to stop making, in the way his hands flex on Eddie’s body, like he wants to grab, wants to hold.
It’s revelatory. It’s everything.
So, when Steve finally pulls back with a gasp and says, I think it’s stopped snowing, it’s as easy as breathing to say, take me home, big boy.
Steve's answering grin feels kind of revelatory too. Kind of like the future.