Chapter Text
JUNE 28, 1985
Eddie’s not a pushover. A coward, maybe, but at least he’s got a backbone; jumps off cafeteria tables and spreads the word of sin and sodomy like there’s no tomorrow while the rest of bible-thumping Hawkins snarl at him, pitchforks raised. Just the way he likes it. No one knows Eddie Munson for his lack of temerity, is all he’s saying. And yet, here he stands; a shell of a man as he adjusts his sailor hat and stares at Steve Harrington’s ass in the hellscape that is Scoops Ahoy.
Like most things in his sorry life, this is all for Wayne and the growing pile of bills on the kitchen table. Eddie's first choice was Camelot Music across the mall next to the Karmelkorn, far away from this purgatory of an ice cream parlor, but all of his so-called friends had filled the shop’s maximum employment amount like flies to sweet honey and left him to suffer. Pricks.
The job itself isn't great, at all. Every morning since the end of yet another failed senior year, he’s been forced to shed his band shirts and ripped jeans in lieu of an itchy sailor’s uniform that exposes his string bean legs and bony knees. He’s also had to face more sticky children and crotchety adults who have no sympathy for the younger generation than ever before in his life. But the freezing air-con is, like, orgasmic compared to the suffocating temperatures outside, so it’s not all bad. A positive attitude, Wayne loves to say, will get Eddie everywhere in life. Eddie wonders if a positive attitude will help him overdose on cherry garcia and fentanyl.
But it’s fine, honestly. Three dollars an hour is worth it to help his uncle, even just fractionally. And what else was Eddie supposed to do with his summer, anyway? Get high, play guitar? He did that last summer, the summer before, and the summer before that. 86’ is gonna be his year, he can feel it, way deep in his bones. Why not get a head start?
Eddie’s vision has blurred over with thought staring unfocused at Steve in those stupid blue shorts that do wonders for his legs. The former king is scooping heavy portions of mint chip and butter pecan into waffle cones for the customers in front of him. They’re pretty girls, as pretty to a pathetic homosexual like Eddie as they can be. One of them — a blonde that kind of looks like Cindy Crawford with big hoops in her ears — is really catching Steve’s attention. His arm stretches out with catlike laxity as he hands her a cone, and even from behind, Eddie can see the dazzling, sun-sparked grin on his face. He must say something stupid, though, because the poor maiden grimaces and chuckles awkwardly at what must’ve been a nauseating pickup line. If he’s a little delighted at Steve’s misfire, that’s just for him to know.
Eddie Munson is no stranger to the cursèd straight crush. He can't remember any of his hopeless desires not being towards a witless jock so far out of his league it's embarrassing. He seems to have a type; tall, tan, clean and freckled. Strong enough to, like, pick him up. Oh, does he dream of being lifted into the air like one of those cheerleaders. Basically, he’s bound to fall for anyone who’ll give him a swirly in the bathroom and call him a fag. It’s far from a blessing, but at least he’s not unrealistic about it. They’re all just eye candy for when he’s bored in class and needs to combine the syllables of his last name with ‘Harrington’. Call him a perv, but at least he’s not expecting to hear wedding bells anytime soon.
But Steve is just — god, but he’s actually kind of nice now? Which is crazy , he knows. He means — Steve Harrington ? Steve Harrington, who stood back with a pleased smile like a rotten-rich cat who owns the cream as his friends called Eddie a trailer trash freak? That dude? Karma’s damn good at her job, though, because Steve's popularity has been declining at a steady rate ever since. It seems, unlike his immaculate hair, that any sense of faith has despaired for King Steve. For some reason, he’s still dawning that all-American townie with a pretty face — not a fucking blemish in sight, Eddie swears to christ — persona to attempt scoring a date, and if Robin Buckley’s — a snarky junior with tousled curls and a surplus of sarcastic sneers towards Steve himself — You Rule/You Suck scoreboard is anything to go by, all efforts have been proven futile.
The question of why Steve is so — well, lame now has yet to be answered. It’s one of Earth’s greatest mysteries, like how the moon was formed or what caused the Cambrian explosion, or why Indiana gets so damn hot in the summer. Blame it on the money-hungry manufacturers and greenhouse gasses that rule the world, he thinks. Anyway, Eddie’s just grateful the hurtful comments once thrown at him during school hours have retired along with Steve’s juvenile callousness. Lucky him.
Eddie is stirred from his musings at the sound of the man of the hour dropping a handful of change on the counter. As he fumbles for loose quarters and splutters to save face, Robin slides up next to him at the bi-parting window and gives him her half-empty cup of fountain soda.
“Don’t you think it’s a little funny?” Robin asks as Eddie mixes the ice around in his cup, the straw squeaking against the lid.
“What is?” He hums his curiosity, raising an eyebrow at her. Robin’s been blessed with a splattering of freckles across her face, eyes glacier-blue and sharpened with black mascara. If he were into girls, he’s pretty sure she’d be his type, what with her chain necklaces, messy makeup, and screw-high society vibe. She's cool. Ruthless, but cool. Like the younger sister he never had who’s much more talented than him who he’ll hold a grudge against for the rest of their lives after their parents die in a tragic car accident. Jesus , he’s weird. Maybe all the ice cream he's eaten this month has crisscrossed the wires in his brain or something.
“Y’know, how we’re watching the Steve Harrington fail at life?” Robin continues, both of them now watching as, like she said, the Steve Harrington fails at life; telling the prioritized victim of his choice that he’s free this weekend, then telling her he’s also free next weekend. Crawford-lookalike giggles to her friend at Steve's poorly disguised desperation, leaving Eddie unimpressed with her lunacy. If Steve had asked him on a date, Eddie’s pretty sure he’d trip over his own feet to say yes. The lucky fools will get theirs, he hopes.
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Well,” Steve clears his throat, flustered punch-pink as the women turn away, their heels clicking on the blue checkered linoleum floor. “Tell your — your boyfriend we have a great banana split —”
And that's all Robin needs to hear to grab a marker and draw a big red strike across the You Suck section of her whiteboard, joining five other humiliating tallies. Eddie finishes his Coke noisily as Steve hangs his head in shame, a loud sigh accompanying the dramatic slouch of his shoulders.
“Another one bites the dust,” Robin says after Steve spins on his heels to face them, crossing his arms and looking oh, so dejected. “You are oh-for-six, Popeye.”
“Yeah, yeah, I can count.” Steve scoffs, mouth pulled into a thin line of chagrin.
“You know that means you suck ?”
“I hate this job,” Steve groans, disregarding Robin’s unsparing remark, walking up to lean his elbows on the back counter and almost knocking over a jar of maraschino cherries in the process. He gestures to his locks trapped underneath his sailor hat stiffly as he huffs and puffs, “It takes half an hour to curate this beauty in the morning, and it’s squashed down by this goddamn hat.”
“I’d love to see the inner workings of your brain if you think the hat is what’s keeping the ladies astray.” Eddie teases lightly, resting his chin on his palm. From this angle, he has a flawless view of the long stretch of Steve’s throat, the boxy squareness of his jaw and his golden bronze skin dotted artistically with moles. The dark hair that sweeps across his chest poking out from the gap in his shirt. Eddie presses the cup of ice onto his forehead to cool himself down. Eru Ilúvatar have mercy.
“Have you ever thought about, I dunno, being yourself?” Robin asks, stretching over the counter to grab a Twizzler and hold it between her index and middle fingers like a cigarette.
“ Being myself ,” Steve scoffs, shaking his head. “That’s rich. I’m sure the ladies would love to know I make the most minimum of minimum wages, I couldn't even make it into Ball State, my dad thinks I’m a disappointment to the Harrington bloodline, and I have no future. Does that sound like a real charmer to you?”
“Look, man,” Eddie says, tired of hearing the guy beat himself up. Steve used to be an A-grade asshole, yeah, but that doesn't mean he deserves any more than what he’s already been served. Old things have passed away, all things have become new and shit, whatever the old saying is. “There are probably tons of girls who are into the whole douchebag jock-turned-ice cream scooper type. Plenty of fish in the sea for you, Captain.”
“Speaking of little guppies.” Robin sighs, tilting her chin forward. When Steve looks back, all three of their gazes land on a gaggle of familiar kids storming in. Their loud squabbling overpowers the song that plays on the mall’s sound system — thank god, Eddie hates Bananarama — and has a few heads of disgruntled customers turning.
“Care to extend your VIP privileges to teens in need?” Redhead says once they reach the counter. Next to her stands Lucas Sinclair, Bowlcut, and Mini Byers. All four stare expectantly and impatiently at Steve like hawks. Creepy.
“Um, why?” Steve asks, already an exasperated knit in his brows.
Lucas sticks his hands in the pockets of his jean shorts and starts to explain, “Because Day of the Dead is playing and —”
“And we’re missing the opening !” One of the two squirts with awful mushroom haircuts cries. In Eddie’s limited experience, he much prefers the nicer, quieter one that stands behind him. His name might be Will, but Eddie’s encountered too many runts to even try and keep track. He just knows it's Jonathan Byers’ brother who went missing — Zombie Boy , was it? Poor kid.
“Yeah, because you were too busy swapping spit with El.”
“Shut up, Lucas!”
“Jesus Christ, fine! Anything to stop you brats from whining .” Steve snaps. He drags a tired, distressed palm down his face and leads the smug mini-hellions toward the back corridor that connects to the movie theater. Mary Poppins — Eddie’s in love with a blonde-highlighted Mary fucking Poppins in a sailor suit. Shit, Sara Dallin was right, it is a cruel summer.
“I think we should be compensated more for our babysitting troubles. They aren’t even tipping us.” Robin mutters, nudging Eddie out of the way to push herself up and slide her legs through the window. She lands on her feet and faces Eddie with outstretched arms and an accomplished smile. Eddie tries to do the same, but the heels of his Reeboks catch on the window’s edge and he tumbles into Robin, yelping and almost knocking both of them over right as Steve returns.
“I’ve dealt with an immoderate amount of toddlers today. Please don’t add yourselves to the list of things that are driving me to suicide.” He pleads, pulling his scooper out of his front pocket, twirling it perfectly like an asshole, and dropping it into the hot water container.
“That’s a ten-dollar word, Steve-O. Ever considered joining the spelling bee?” Eddie grins, slightly out of breath and smoothing out his uniform. He takes the hint that it's either his or Robin’s turn at the dreaded register, and they break out into an intense game of rock paper scissors that takes a little too long to conclude. Ultimately, Robin wins, and she has to slap a hand over his mouth before Eddie shouts an obscenity that would make the old woman and the little girl in a nearby booth gasp. He gets a scowl from the lady and Robin mouths her apologies on his behalf. No way in hell is he apologizing for his use of free speech.
But even as Eddie slugs to open the register and start counting the many crumpled fives in his grip, he can't seem to wipe the smile off his face. He hears Steve and Robin bickering in the back room, and thinks maybe capitalism has its perks.