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He brushes away a stray hair from Eddie’s face and wonders, not for the first time, when they got so close on the couch.
Steve knows that he’s doomed. There’s something in his relationship with Eddie that’s new, unspoken, treacherous. And he suspects that it started with the gentle touches. The way his fingers move over the frizz on Eddie’s curls and how he can map all the scars on their torsos. He’s aware of all the noises Eddie makes in his sleep and how their legs lock into each other under his comforter. He knows where Eddie is, based solely on the echoing steps his feet make. If they move soft, he’s in his socks, moving through the hallways to avoid waking Steve up.
There a lot of things he knows about Eddie, in fact.
Coffee with three teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk. All laundry dried, except for his jeans; and he’s allergic to the Tide, but not Gain. He brushes his teeth with Arm & Hammer, flosses twice a day, and uses spearmint mouthwash only at night. Every Tuesday between 7pm-9pm, he allots time in his schedule just for campaign planning; he needs to be reminded to eat dinner on those days, so Steve always makes something and sits with him until he’s done. Sometimes they hold each other’s hands, a reminder, Steve supposes. Eddie enjoys pepperoni and olives on his pizza, and will gladly take Steve’s olives. He takes his eggs scrambled with cheese, but colby jack, not the Kraft American slices. Bees are his mortal enemy and just one sting would upend him in the hospital. His skin burns easy in the summer, so he applies double the sunscreen, and Steve has done this all before. He has freckles on his back, over his shoulders, up the sides of his neck, on his face. Steve likes to try and count them, but loses track the moment Eddie giggles or smiles.
When he comes over to watch a movie, he always slouches on the right cushion and lets Steve wrap around his left side. He prefers sci-fi over action, but action over romance, but romance over sad dramas. His favorite animals are cats and will adamantly refuse to watch or listen to anything involving that said animal dying. If silences stretch for too long, Eddie taps his fingers over the shapes of his rings, though never slides them off his fingers. He tapes his rings because they’re too big to fit naturally—they were hand-me-downs from his grandpa on his mom’s side, a last gift given before he passed. His mom smelt like Love’s Baby Soft, so when he’s having a particularly bad day, he sprays his pillows with an old bottle he kept. (It’s almost empty and Steve already bought a new one for when it runs out, he just has to have the gall to give it to him.)
Eddie runs cold. Eddie wears three layers all the time—at least. Eddie speaks softly when it’s just the two of them. Eddie always looks at him. Eddie listens to him. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
That’s all Steve’s brain is.
And he knows that it’s too much for them to just be friends. But that’s all they are.
He doesn’t want that to be the case, but when he gets the chance to open his mouth and finally say something, it’s like the words die half-way out of his chest. Because Eddie’s like him, in some ways, trying to find the right person, not finding that person, going out and trying again. He hooks-up with girls on the weekdays and goes out to seedy bars on the weekends. His collarbones are sometimes riddled with hickeys; when Steve chances a glance at him, when he’s shirtless and getting ready to share the bed, before he gets in the pool, when he’s a little too warm, when he wants Steve to apply the sunscreen, when he wants fingers tracing the edges of his scars—when he wants to talk about something that went wrong with the girl.
Like tonight.
Eddie’s on his couch. Hair in his face. Shirt off.
He leans too far into Steve’s side, even if it means nothing. He laughs and places a palm on the center of Steve’s back. He shoves his cheek against the side of Steve’s face and whispers hot and harsh on his ear, wet and warm and soothing, all too close—and Steve can smell him. Musk and sweat and Love’s Baby Soft and citrus and Irish Spring and a little like marijuana. He laughs again and stumbles into Steve’s side and places his head on the nook of his shoulder. He calls Steve sweetheart and squeezes his hand.
He always does, though. All of this. He always is this. Too much and too affectionate and too sweet and too ‘Steve’s type.’
Steve can’t take his eyes off of Eddie. Wondering, not for the first time, when he’ll just say what he needs to.
“I think you’re beautiful,” Steve wants to say, “I think you’re kind. I think you’d look good underneath me on my bed. I think I like when you wear my clothes whenever you stay over. I think I’d make you breakfast forever if it meant you’d sit at my table. I think I love you, Eddie. Eddie, god, I think I love you.”
They’re just friends, though. Nothing less.
Nothing more.
And Steve’s afraid of the nuance of this friendship he has. Is it better to never say a thing? Or should he rip the bandaid off and eventually plaster it over his broken heart the moment Eddie rejects him?
Because, as is, all Eddie talks about is girls. Girls with tattoos. Girls with nerd interests. Girls with wild makeup. Girls.
And Steve, noticeably, is not a girl.
He’s none of what Eddie is seeking. Nothing of what he wants. What he desires.
“I don’t know,” Eddie sighs, “she just isn’t the one.”
Steve grunts. “That makes no sense,” he softly exclaims, elbowing Eddie. Washing in the hiss and smirk that Eddie gives him. He’d bathe in whatever Eddie handed to him, if only to have him here, like this, all the time. “It just…You say she’s perfect under you. You say she’s funny and sweet and beautiful. You say all these nice things about this girl, but she isn’t the one? None of that makes sense to me, Eds.”
Eddie’s gaze on him shifts then, something more distant and pained. His fingers splayed over Steve’s thighs, they flex and flatten and tickle. He twists his mouth. And swallows hard, enough to flex the muscles of his neck. “Yeah, I guess I did,” he murmurs. Then, he leans in further. Further, somehow, always further.
And something in Steve wilts. Because, “This isn’t fair.”
“What?” Eddie mutters, brows furrowing. “What’s not fair, Stevie?” He blinks and Steve’s immediately in a daze. His eyelashes are long and dark and creating soft shadow under his eyes. His cheeks are flushed with rosacea pink blush. And has an overwhelming amount of sweet, sugary softness in his stare—enough that Steve’s stomach stirs nauseously.
“This,” Steve whispers. He wrenches his hand away from where it, on an automatic shift, went to trace Eddie’s scars—especially the one closest to him, a wide and silvery one over his left ribs. The one that’s smooth under Steve’s touch.
Nervously, Eddie chuckles. His hand instinctively tightens over Steve’s leg. “Sweetheart, I don’t—“
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Steve exclaims, finally jumping apart. He stands shakily from his couch and faces where he sat, towering over Eddie’s stupidly big, soft eyes and his gentle scowl and the flush of his pale skin. His shadow draws his attention towards the highlights over Eddie, the light yellow on his irises and the glint of scars and that shiny silver of his decade old rings. “This thing you’re doing. The—The—Flirting!”
“Flirting?” Eddie innocently asks. He blinks again, owlishly this time.
“Yes, Eddie! Flirting! You do it all the time…You—You always call me sweetheart and you’re always touching me and…” But he takes in Eddie’s face again. How pretty he is. How stupidly endearing every aspect of him is. And he—
God, Steve can’t do this. He can’t ruin this.
“…Never mind,” he mutters, “don’t worry about it.” And he sits back down. A noticeable gap between them.
“Steve?”
He shakes his head. But otherwise remains silent.
“Steve,” Eddie calls again, softly. So small that it could’ve been lost inside the couch cushions. “Do you not like when I do those things?”
“I like them,” Steve can at least admit. “I don’t mind.”
But Eddie doesn’t touch him again. He looks away, Steve can sense it, even with his own eyes facing forward. His t-shirt is put back on, Steve can see every movement Eddie makes and knows exactly what part of his body he’s using and what exactly he’s doing.
And then they’re just silent.
Maybe he’s already ruined it. He always knew that everything would fall through the moment he admitted anything. The moment he made some sort of realization. And it’s not like the crush was unprecedented. It was slow. Small things, at first. Other things, when time gave way to them. He catalogued everything. And he knew, the moment he learned to touch Eddie where it mattered most—over his scalp and the scars and down the slope of his nose—he was already falling in love.
Of course he’s in love with one of his best friends.
He’s always in love with a best friend. Always somebody that becomes unattainable. First, it was Tommy and then Tommy started dating Carol. Then, it was Nancy and they were great, but then she wanted Jonathan. After, it was Robin and he’s fine with not having Robin in that way, thank god not in that way. He should’ve seen it coming when Eddie stuck around.
He should’ve known. Why didn’t he know?
But if he spoke, Eddie would find a reason to not love him back. That was the scary part. Tommy—he couldn’t see it. Nancy—she never loved him, not really. Robin—well, that one goes left unsaid. What would Eddie find? Would he realize how clingy Steve is? Would he become embarrassed by Steve’s romance movie type of love: drive-in dates and sweet kisses on the lips and slow embraces that lasted forever? Would he come to terms with having nothing in common, despite having everything to talk about as friends? Would he get bored? Would he just…fizzle out?
Steve can imagine it all. Becoming boring. Becoming uninteresting. Becoming unlovable.
Not being desirable.
That’s all he wants. To be desired the way he desires. All too much. All at once. Like flames engulfing the world. He wants and he wants and he wants.
But if he spoke, he’d have to continue wanting—though from an arm’s length. Because Eddie would leave, probably. Turn him down. Realize the truth about Steve Harrington.
The boy everybody wants, but nobody loves.
He’d still want Eddie, though, even if he realized.
“I didn’t know—“
“Eddie,” Steve murmurs, “you don’t have to…Don’t do this with me. Just ignore it. Please, Eds, just ignore it.”
Gentle fingers on the back of his hand. Pushing the skin upward, towards his knuckles. “And if I didn’t want to ignore it?” Eddie asks. So soft. So small.
Steve blinks, his eyes wet and his throat burning. “Don’t—“ He takes a shuttering breath as Eddie’s palm wraps around his whole hand. “Eddie, please,” he pleads, “don’t do this if you don’t mean it.”
Eddie’s hand flexes, squeezing. “Steve,” he murmurs, “look at me?”
Hesitantly, and oh so slowly, Steve makes his head move. He catches Eddie’s eyes, the first thing he always notices when they’re together, and melts. They’re like voids, pulling Steve in. A warm void, though. A hot bath. He raises their joined hands to his lips. They’re a little dry, soft and warm over Steve’s skin.
“I want to mean it,” Eddie quietly confesses.
“But,” Steve mutters, “but what about all those girls?”
“They’re not the one,” Eddie says, “they’re not you.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
Eddie gazes at him now. The way love interests do in all the movies Steve’s ever loved. With a softness like that of cat backs, the ones Eddie likes. With warmth like that of Eddie’s dried laundry. With sweetness like that of Eddie’s morning coffee. His lips are pressed into the back of Steve’s hand again.
“They’re not you,” Eddie reiterates. “They aren’t sweet to me, they aren’t gentle or funny in those silent ways you are. And they aren’t handsome with your good hair. Or warm against me. I’m with them and all I can think about is coming back to you, talking to you, holding you, laying next to you. All I think about is you.”
Steve raises his free hand to the right side of Eddie’s face. Cups his cheek, runs his thumb over his cheekbone, tangles his fingers in the hair above his ear. “You’re all I think about, too,” Steve admits. “Even when I’m hanging out with you, I’m still thinking about you.” He smiles back at the received soft one Eddie has. His dimples have never looked this good. And his mouth is plenty kissable. His face is warm and pink under Steve’s hand.
So he leans in, slowly, enough for everything to be taken back. For him to wake up from this possible dream. And when there’s nothing left to do but lean forward that extra millimeter, Steve kisses him.
Eddie tastes like pepperonis and olives and spearmint. He’s focused completely, kissing back with enough force to make Steve nearly fall backwards. His lips move as if devouring. Steve hopes he tastes just as good.
“I love you,” Eddie confesses first. “I’ve loved you for…a fucking long time.”
Steve, the hopelessly hopeful romantic that he is, melts. “I love you, too,” he breathes.
“Boyfriends?” Eddie asks, smirking, but not teasing.
He nods. “Yeah, Eds. Wanna be your boyfriend.” Something more. God, they’re something more.