Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He's sat on the school steps scratching at a mosquito bite on his ankle when it happens.

It's taking Wayne too long to pick him up and he's seriously considering walking home. The air is all warm and sticky and it makes his bangs stick to his forehead in the way he hates.

The sun is just setting over the empty parking lot, turning the sky a dark shade of purple and masking the trees lining the lot in pitch black. It's like nighttime kickstarts after that. Immediately, the crickets start chirping, fireflies start to flicker in an out, and the dirty street lamps blink back in hazy yellows and pinks.

It could’ve been nice—peaceful, even—if not for the pounding music behind him and the sharp, artificial glow spilling from the metal doors of the building.

He didn’t want to be here. It was the stupid end-of-year school dance, the one he’d made very clear he wasn’t going to. But Wayne hadn’t listened, got his ticket anonymously comped, pulled out their nicest flannel, tied Eddie’s hair back with care, and said, “Just try, kid. You might surprise yourself.”

Wayne wasn’t trying to change him, Eddie knew that. He just worried. Thought maybe if Eddie went to more school events, joined a club, played a little ball, he’d have an easier time. Make a friend or two. Feel like he belonged.

Eddie stopped believing that back in sixth grade. But Wayne hadn’t.

Now he's sitting here on the steps of Hawkins Middle School only twenty minutes after the party started. His mosquito bite fucking hurts and he thinks it's started to bleed. The fireflies and street lamps flicker and shine like they're laughing at him and Eddie scowls back. The bugs freeze when the doors to the school suddenly slam open, shining fluorescent school hallway light into the parking lot.

"Eddie."

He thinks he'd recognize that voice in every lifetime. Wonders if it would make his chest feel warm in all of them, too.

Steve's leaning against the opened door to the building, letting all the cheesy music and and too-bright lighting leak out onto the pavement. He's all dressed up in a white button-up and slacks that fit like a glove. Distantly Eddie wonders how his parents manage to find such perfectly-sized adult clothes for their son, thinks about how all of Steve's clothes must fit him right.

Despite his mini-lawyer get up, Steve still has those big, brown cow eyes that always look a little lonely, and Eddie softens immediately.

They haven't really talked much the past two years, didn't even see each other over the summer. Steve started middle school this year, joined Eddie in the big leagues. But they didn't talk. Eddie tried. He’d smile in the halls, lift his chin when they passed in gym or offer up some dumb comment about the cafeteria pizza tasting like cardboard. But Steve stopped lingering, like all of a sudden Eddie wasn't good enough for him anymore. He still doesn't know what he did, why his best friend abandoned him.

For a little while, Eddie had other friends. Troy, mostly. But then Troy moved to Michigan, and the reality of middle school settled in like a cold front. He thought that maybe once Steve came everything would all piece itself back together again. But then Steve got all his shiny, new friends and suddenly it was embarrassing to have ever known Eddie.

"Can I uh-" Steve starts, pulling the cuffs of his button-up down over his palms. "Can I sit?"

Eddie nods, because of course. Because no matter how weird things got, no matter how long it’s been, this is still Steve. His Steve. Sort of.

The omega abandons the doors and lowers himself next to Eddie, drowning out all outside interference, just the fireflies and streetlamps watching them. 

For a moment they just sit like that—shoulders not quite touching, knees bent, summer air thick around them, warm and humming. His mosquito bite starts itching again. But he ignores it, would rather trace his gaze along the slope of Steve's nose and connect the three moles just under his jaw with his eyes. Their fingers are almost touching where they rest on the pavement. Eddie's hands are little bigger and longer than Steve's, who still has a little baby fat hanging onto his bones.

He wonders if Steve will also have his growth spurt when he turns twelve like Eddie did. He also wonders what Steve's hand would look like in his, but that's not important.

"I think Derek's going to kiss me tonight." Steve breaks the silence, eyes flicking up to Eddie's. 

Eddie just blinks. Heart stutters once, twice, before diving straight into his stomach.

"Oh," he says. Like an idiot. Like he's not about to throw up.

"Yeah and I dunno', I've never done it before," Steve whispers, still fiddling with the cuff of his shirt. "I don't wanna mess it up."

Eddie swallows hard, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He wants to say a million things. That Derek's an idiot. That Steve shouldn’t let someone like that kiss him. Shouldn't let anyone kiss him for that matter.

Instead, he says, “It’s not that hard.”

Steve glances at him sideways. "You've done it?"

He shrugs. "Yeah, once."

Liar.

“Did you, um,” Steve starts, twisting the hem of his shirt, the parking lot is completely dark now. “Did you like it?”

Eddie blinks. “It was fine.”

“Oh,” Steve says. Then, after a beat: “I don’t wanna be bad at it. I think Derek’ll tell people if I’m weird or something.”

Eddie’s chest burns. “You won’t be.”

"Can you show me?" Steve asks, voice barely louder than the crickets.

Eddie's head snaps up, a few curls springing free from his ponytail. The words knock the wind right out of him and he has to swallow around the lump rising in his throat.

"You want me to-?"

"Just so I know what I'm doing," Steve interrupts quickly, reassuring.

"Okay," he says, because of course. He would give this boy the sun. "Okay, yeah I can show you."

They shift awkwardly, facing each other. Steve's knees knock into his, and Eddie's palms are sweaty where they press onto the pavement.

Steve looks up at him through his lashes. "Should I just-"

"I'll do it," he offers, a little breathless and eyes locked onto Steve's plush lips.

Then he leans in gently. Slowly. Waits for Steve to pull away.

But Steve doesn’t. He stays still, waiting, lips parted just slightly and tiny hand clutching the sleeve of Eddie's flannel like a lifeline.

And when he presses their mouths together, it's soft. Careful. Their noses bump a little because Eddie doesn't know what the hell he's doing. It's clumsy and childish and purely based off of what he's seen in movies, but it's perfect. Steve tastes like the mixed-fruit punch they're serving at the dance and vanilla chapstick. Eddie will remember it forever.

Their lips stay there for a while, firm and soft and warm against each other, eyes fluttered closed. 

Then, Eddie pulls away just a little, leaving only an inch between their lips, breaths mixing. 

Steve opens his eyes slowly. He looks dazed. Pink-cheeked. Small. Eddie's sure he looks the same.

"Oh," Steve says, blinking, releasing Eddie's sleeve. "That didn't feel weird."

Eddie shrugs, moving back to his seat on the concrete where he had lifted a little to kiss Steve. He plays it cool, even though his heart is pounding in his ears and his lips are on fire. "Yeah. Told you. Not that big of a deal."

Steve watches him for a few seconds longer, looks like he's about to say something, but stops himself. Then he hops up to his knees, grinning. "Thanks Eddie."

He just nods, trying not show how bad his hands are shaking. 

For a second Eddie feels like he's back to two summers ago, when the two of them would spend every waking hour laying under the sun, skin hot and pinkies interlocked. He feels the warmth from that summer defrosting slowly, melting down from his lips to the ends of his fingers and waking him up.

All of a sudden, everything seems so obvious now. They were never meant to be apart. These last two years were a mistake, a glitch, an error in the universe. Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson weren't supposed to be strangers. They were supposed to grow up together, not away from each other. They were supposed to share a locker in middle school and get in trouble for passing notes in class. Steve was supposed to come over after dinner and stay too late playing games in Eddie's room, and Wayne was supposed to pretend it bothered him. They were supposed to carve their initials somewhere stupid and secret and return thirty years later with their kids to tell the story. They were supposed to have each other, that's just how it was written.

And suddenly it all makes sense that they kissed tonight. The universe was bringing them together again, stitching the seam that split two summers ago, correcting its path and rerecording over the little blip they had.

But when he turns to tell Steve all of this, the boy's long gone, metal door rattling behind him, no trace left behind.

And something in Eddie shatters at the emptiness. It happens quick and hollows him out immediately. For a few seconds he just sits there—head twisted towards the door, eyes widened slightly, and mouth parted. Like he's still processing it, Steve being there one second and then gone the other. 

Then the tears come. Hot, angry, and humiliating. They tumble down his cheeks and don't stop, no matter how many times he blinks. He scrubs at them with the heels of his hands furiously, but they keep coming, dripping onto his jeans and soaking through. His chest hurts. His throat hurts. His stupid mosquito bite hurts. And he doesn't even really know why he's crying. If it's the the party, Wayne being late, the kiss, the rejection, the hope. Maybe all of it. Or maybe the fact that he'd started planning what to say before Steve even walked away. Or maybe how easy it was for Steve to leave after taking that moment from him. Doesn't matter.

Eddie is twelve years old, crying in the dark at a party he never wanted to go to, when Steve Harrington breaks his heart for the first time. His jaw is clenched and his nails dig into the concrete, breaking the skin in a way that he'll probably remember for the rest of his life. 

When Wayne pulls up in the truck, headlights washing over him, Eddie wipes his cheeks with the sleeve of his flannel and pretends he wasn't crying.

Wayne doesn't ask, just pulls a tissue from the glove box and plays the stereo on low the whole way home.

Tomorrow Derek will tell everyone at school that he kissed Steve Harrington, the Steve Harrington. And the two will become an item by the end of the week, whatever that means for middle school couples. Steve won't tell anyone (especially not Derek) who he really lost his first kiss to. They'll break up by the end of seventh grade. But Steve will keep moving forward, kiss whoever he wants at parties, have whichever alpha, eventually get that growth spurt and lose all his baby fat. The world will forget all about Derek Whitlock but not Steve Harrington. Never Steve Harrington.

And no one will know that at twelve and eleven years old, with only fireflies and street lamps watching, Eddie Munson had him first.

Chapter Text

The party is fucking dead.

It's that weird hour after midnight where everything's kind of gone to hell but no one will remember it the next morning.

Carol has already counted three girls crying in the upstairs bathroom and one dude passed out hugging a blender. Which means, statistically, someone's about to puke on the carpet and she really doesn't want to be around for it.

She needs to find Steve and get the hell out of here. It's all his fault they're at this godforsaken party, drinking shitty beers and fighting of handsy alphas with too much Axe and not enough brain cells.

Steve had practically begged her to come. Said he needed backup. Said if she came, he'd owe her, and Carol always collects her debts. And really, how could she say no?

The three of them — her, Steve, Tommy — have been a trio since eighth grade. Before Steve got hot, before Tommy got mean, and before Carol learned how to bite back harder than anyone else at school. It was just the three of them.

They were stupid and loud and inseparable back then, orbiting each other in that messy way that kids who grew up in empty houses like them do when they don't know how to say you're my person. Steve used to sit between them on the bleachers, always peeling the crust of his sandwiches like a brat, kicking Carol's ankle whenever she got too quiet.

And even as things shifted, after the trio fractured into this cooler and uglier and more performative thing, they still stayed tight in a way that no outsider could ever really understand. Not really.

Except Carol always knew that it was different with her and Steve.

Tommy could always clown around and call her princess and joke about Steve's heats, but there were lines he didn't cross. Lines he couldn't. Because Steve wouldn't let him.

But Carol?

It was this unspoken thing, their bond. It wasn't romantic, god no, and it wasn't that weird closeness of siblings either. It was just... them. She knew things. Got under Steve's skin and made herself comfortable there. He was this rare kind of golden boy who still let her braid his hair when they got high and always texted to make sure she made it home safe. Carol acted like she couldn't stand it but anyone with eyes would know that she'd walk through fire for him. He was hers and she was his in everything but blood but in all the ways that mattered. He calls her bitch and she'll call him slut right back.

So if Steve thinks he can just disappear for half an hour at a party crawling with slimy upperclassmen and not text her back, he's got another thing coming. 

She shoulders her way past a couple grinding against each other on the stairs and heads towards the back of the house, already pulling out her phone to light they way — because God forbid any of these idiots turn on a light.

“Move,” she snaps at someone blocking the kitchen doorway. Probably a sophomore. Probably not worth the heel she almost just snapped on his big dumb shoe. 

Steve better not be upstairs. If he's passed out next to one of the crying girls, she's going to kill him. Slowly.

But then she sees it — movement through the grimy screen door leading out onto the back porch. Two silhouettes. One familiar, one tall.

The porch light is busted, casting everything in a weird twilight glow, and the hatched screen is distracting. But the light shifts and she makes out who it is. Steve and Munson. Eddie fucking Munson.

Of course it's Munson. Of course the freak's still lurking around the party even though he ran out of weed and pills an hour ago. Of course he's lingering, looking around for scraps and vulnerable, drunk omegas. And of course he's zeroed in on Steve — because everyone wants a taste of Steve.

Steve's perfect. He's an omega with the jawline of a Calvin Klein model and a scent like summer and sin. He's everything that losers like Munson dream about when they're jerking off alone in their shitty beds.

And Munson? Munson is scum. He's older, taller, slimier, an alpha with a rap sheet of locker room rumors longer than the Nile. He's a drug dealer for god's sake.

And she knows Steve, knows the difference between Steve with his walls up, and Steve undone.

And right now? Outside on the back porch, bathed in the wash of fireflies and cheap Christmas lights, standing way too close to that sketchball Eddie Munson?

Steve is absolutely fucking undone.

She eyes the way he smiles up at Munson, all loose and syrupy and soft. The way he leans against the porch railing with this glossy, half-lidded look in his eyes, a look she's never seen before. The way his head tilts back, a laugh spilling out of him, easy and unashamed. 

And Munson. Munson is close. Has the audacity to lean in closer to her clearly inebriated best friend, also smiling something gentle. One hand on the railing besides Steve's. One knee brushing his. One dark curl slipping onto his cheek, right as Steve reaches up to tuck it back behind his ear. Carol thinks she throws up in her mouth a little.

But then Steve's fingers linger on the side of Munson's face, tentative. And then suddenly he's leaning in, pressing his lips against Munson's softly. And that rat-haired, predatory, creep doesn't let a second pass before he's kissing him back, surging in desperately.

Carol sees red.

Her heels are already clacking against the wooden floor of the living room before she realizes she's moving. Her teeth snap together and her fingers curl like claws at her sides, nostrils flaring with rage in that way her mother always says looks 'savage and un-lady-like'.

A million scenarios shoot off in her head, all worse than the last. What if Munson put something in Steve's drink? What if she hadn't seen them? Would Steve had ended up in the back of some van, half-conscious, with no one knowing where he went? Would he have woken up somewhere he didn’t recognize, with his shirt inside out and that dazed, hollow look she’d seen on other girls’ faces before — girls who never said what happened out loud but never came back quite the same? 

She's ready to scream. Ready to tear Munson's greasy fucking head clean off, scream at him to get the hell away from her clearly drunk friend, shove him down the stairs if she has to. Because she's done this before, dragged handsy creeps off her friends, thrown drinks in their faces. Because that's what this is right? Another skeevy alpha getting too touchy with her friends, thinking they have a chance with anything better than their fist. No one touches her pack, her trio, her family. Especially not some burnout, trailer trash, grabby alpha.

Except-

Except Munson doesn't grab. And she stops short, halfway across the living room, nails biting into her fists, stomach still turning, only a few feet away from the screen door. She stops short.

Because Munson's hand has reached up to Steve's jaw gently, like he's something precious, like Steve might shatter. His thumb strokes the hinge of Steve's jaw like he's memorizing the shape of him. The kiss is soft, reverent, not slimy or scummy or all those other things she called Munson. Because she knows handsy. She's been fighting off drunk football players and frat boys since eighth grade.

This?

This might be worse. 

This is tender and devoted and warm and so, so, so much worse.

Because Steve doesn't let anyone touch him. Not like this.

She's seen him flirt, seen him drag boys into rooms and shove them back out fifteen minutes later, blank-eyed and bored. She's seen him roll eyes at comments in the hallway, shut down grabby hands with a single, scathing glance.

Steve doesn't let people have him. He's the prettiest boy to have ever slipped into a Lacoste polo and he doesn't let people touch him like that.

And now he's just giving it away?

To Eddie Munson of all people.

The way they hold each other is like worship — Munson cupping Steve's face like he's holding the world in his hands, something sacred, and Steve's clinging back just as hard, one hand splayed over the alpha’s chest, the other curled around his neck, fingers buried in those wild curls.

It makes Carol sick. Not because it's unnatural, not because she's jealous Tommy's never held her like that. It's because of how familiar this looks, maybe not the kiss, but the two of them together. It makes her sick to think of a part of Steve she's never seen, a part he never let her see.

Steve, who walks around the world like every touch might break him, who never lets his guard down to anyone outside of their trio, her pack, looks peaceful in Eddie Munson's arms.

She wants to say something. Wants to rip the stupid screen door off its hinges. Drag Steve away by the collar like she always does when things start to get too real. But she doesn't.

Because this isn't some random hookup. This isn't Steve making a bad decision.

The way they cradle each other, it's bone-deep. Like this is supposed to happen, like their skin was never meant to ever part.

Carol stares, gut twisting. Not with anger, but with slow and heavy realization that she missed it.

Something big. Something quiet and massive. Because this isn't new. Maybe the kiss is. Maybe the porch is. But the look on Steve's face? That wholly unburdened and safe look? That didn't come out of nowhere.

And somehow, somehow, Carol missed it. Never noticed the way he glanced at Munson in the halls, or the weird pause that always hung in the air whenever she'd go to Munson to buy weed for Steve. Never though to ask why Steve never called Munson a freak with the rest of them, or why he'd never rolled his eyes at the alpha's long tirades in the lunch room.

She thought she knew him. Inside out. Knew every button, every tell, every piece of armor and every crack it in. But there was a whole other version of himself that Steve never shared with Carol. There were whole chapters written in the margins she never got to read. 

And Eddie Munson, that scrappy, loud-mouthed freak with a heart he pretends not to have?

He's been reading them like scripture.

She's not sure if she should walk away, give them privacy to continue whatever the hell this is. But she can't. She's rooted to the floor, fists no longer clenched, just hanging loosely at her sides, watching the death of a Steve she thought only she got to keep. Her pack, her equal, her other half. The one who came to her when his scent got too sharp, when her parents left her alone on her birthdays. The one who crashes at her house every Christmas so they can pretend it isn't just another empty house. The one who taught her how to French braid and held her hair back when she got too drunk at homecoming sophomore year.

But before she loses herself, they slowly break the kiss.

Not all at once. Just a breath apart like they don't want to part. And they rest there, foreheads pressed together and eyelashes almost touching, like the whole world doesn't exist outside of this porch, outside of the Christmas lights and the fireflies and the porch holding them up.

Carol watches the way Steve's eyes flutter shut. Sees the way the older boy's hand curves around his neck, thumb brushing the mole just under his ear. 

Then Munson says something. Carol almost misses it, the whisper, the barely-there movement of freshly-kissed lips. But she sees it, the shift in his brow, the shape of his mouth. It's quiet. She'd never be able to hear it even without the shitty music buzzing behind her. But she can tell it's careful, like it hurts to say.

Whatever it is, it guts Steve. She sees the moment the words reach his ears, the way he practically crumples, arms falling away from Munson in a second and eyes blinking open. She's seen this look before. Hell she saw it tonight when she counted those three girls crying in the bathroom. But she's never seen it on Steve, never seen his shoulders slump and eyes dim in heartbreak before.

Munson whispers something else, shorter, like an apology but not quite. Then his hands also slide away like they were never meant to stay in the first place. He steps back with one last look, and then he's gone, bounding down the porch steps and into the night, leaving Steve on the porch, blinking against the sudden chill.

That soft look is gone now, tucked away behind that careful expression he wears when he doesn't want anyone to ask how he is.

Carol finally breathes. Forces herself to.

She should probably go out there, say something sharp and teasing like always. Make a joke. Call him a slut. Pretend she didn't just watch the most intimate moment of his entire life unfold while standing in a sticky living room with Four Loko soaking into her shoe.

She watches Steve close his eyes and tilt his face up toward the sky like he's hoping it'll rain and give him an excuse to cry.

Carol doesn't let him have it. She finally gets her feet to move again, heels clacking that final stretch across the room she couldn't cross earlier. Pushing the screen door open, she steps out onto the porch, wood creaking under her presence.

"You look like shit," she murmurs, crossing over to him.

Steve lets out a breath that might be a laugh. Maybe relief. And then he leans into her shoulder without a word.

They don't talk. She doesn't say anything clever, doesn't tease. Just slips her hand into his like it's the most natural thing in the world, because it is. Because this is Steve. Her Steve, even if not only hers anymore.

Chapter Text

It's been exactly ten minutes by now. The sun is setting just below the tree line of the Speedway and it's making the sky look like a melted creamsicle.

Steve presses his temple against the van's window and waits. Cool summer air slips in through the inch-wide gap at the top and brushes his cheeks and the tip of his nose. The rest of him feels sticky, sweat beading behind his knees and under the collar of his shirt. Somewhere nearby, a cicada screams like it's dying.

In the side mirror, he can see Eddie's silhouette. Still talking to the guy in the ballcap.

Steve's not supposed to be here.

He's supposed to be at home, finishing up his English essay and pretending he still only sees Eddie at school. Pretending he doesn't know what’s zipped into the duffel bag under Eddie’s arm right now. Honestly, he's been pretending a lot lately. 

He shifts in his seat, adjusts the gold necklace around his neck so the clasp sits on his nape again. Habit.

He's memorizing the way Eddie's standing, slouched and casual but jaw tight. Always is, during these things. He wonders if Wayne would recognize this version of him. Both of them.

It's been twelve minutes now. That's another thing he's been doing lately: counting.

Six pump bays in the lot.

Two cicadas, though maybe it's just one echoing.

Four cracks fanning out across the windshield like a firework.

Five bullets in the revolver they've been keeping in the glovebox. Well, Eddie's been keeping in the glovebox. But Steve likes to think that now that he knows about it, he's kind of responsible for it too.

Thirteen minutes now. The air smells like hot asphalt, engine grease, and something sweet — probably cotton candy from the carnival. But the chill in the breeze gets stronger now and suddenly Steve's wishing he brought his hoodie.

Twisting in his seat, he reaches over to the flannel Eddie flung to the backseat earlier in the day. The fabric is soft and still a little warm from sitting under the window. Without thinking twice, Steve pulls it on and sits back down in his seat. It probably looks ridiculous on him, the flannel-polo combo. His mother would definitely pretend not to know him if she saw. But it's comfortable and shields him from the weird warm-cold August weather, so he doesn't really care. It also smells like Eddie. That weird smoke and pomander smell, like someone tried to burn cinnamon into corduroy. Steve tries not to breathe it in too deep, but he kind of does anyways.

At fifteen minutes the driver's side door creaks open. Eddie throws the duffel bag in the backseat with a thud and plops down next to him, flushed and triumphant. His hair's tied back in a bun tonight, a few curls still breaking loose near his ears. 

"Miss me, princess?"

Steve rolls his eyes but it doesn't have any heat. "You were supposed to be five minutes."

Eddie grins and jams the keys into the ignition. "Yeah, well. You know how I get when people try to haggle."

It's casual, like they've been doing this for years and not just these past few months.

"I've decided we're doing something fun tonight."

Steve raises an eyebrow, tilting his head just enough to give him that mock-skeptical look he saves for Eddie and Eddie only.

"Define fun."

Eddie pulls out of the lot with a dramatic spin of the wheel that doesn't impress the van's steering much. "Cotton candy, puking on a tilt-a-whirl, getting scammed by carnies. Wholesome county fair shit."

Steve snorts, resting his elbow on the windowsill. "You didn't even ask if I wanted to go."

Eddie glances at him sideways, grin still tugging at his lips and fingers drumming on the steering wheel. "Didn't have to. You're wearing sneakers instead of your fancy loafers. And you stole my flannel. That's carnival attire."

Steve doesn't answer right away. He's stuck between tracing the slope of Eddie's profile with his eyes and watching the dark trees blur past. But he can feel the older boy giving up and getting ready to drive back home, so he caves quickly.

"One ride," he finally says. "No haunted house shit."

Eddie's face lights up in his peripheral and he twists the radio on in celebration. Fleetwood Mac filters out of the van's speakers and spins into the silence between them like it's always been part of the drive. The golden light is just now disappearing, casting everything in that syrupy, late-summer hue. Steve watches Eddie — how his eyes have softened since they left the Speedway, how his mouth curls around the lyrics like he doesn't even know he's singing. He's so stupidly beautiful it makes his chest ache. But Steve doesn't say anything, just rolls his window down a little more and lets the wind swallow the thought whole.

When they pull into the fairgrounds, the carnival is at its peak. The grassy parking lot is at capacity, and little kids are zipping past the van with various balloon animals and cotton-candy-fueled laughs. It's dark now, but the neon blues and reds from the carnival rides and tents are enough to light up the whole fairground. When they finally find a parking space, Eddie tells him to wait in the car and that he'll be back before you notice I'm gone.

So Steve starts counting again: one ferris wheel, three milkshakes spilled on the floor, eight different corndog tents, five bullets, a million stars.

When he was younger, his mom told him that the sky didn't have enough room for the stars so some of them had to live on his skin — because he was an angel. Then she would kiss each mole and count them until he got too ticklish. A new one formed under his chin this summer. He thinks it's the kind she would've kissed twice. 

Suddenly, Eddie slams himself against Steve's window like a maniac, holding a roll of tickets and practically vibrating out of his skin. He's mouthing something like let's go and yanking the door open before Steve can process anything.

"Where the hell did you get all of those?" Steve asks, voice catching as Eddie drags him through the crowd and towards the chaos.

"Don't worry about it Harrington, you worry to much." He shoves some of the tickets into Steve's hand and comes to a stop at some stupidly overpriced ring toss game. The carnie is already smiling at them predatorially and Eddie's long gone into the fantasy of winning one of the big bananas wearing a rastacap tied to the top of the tent.

The carnie hands them a handful of rings like he already knows they're about to lose spectacularly. Eddie just cracks his knuckles like he's stepping into a fight.

"Watch and learn."

He misses the first one by a long shot. The second one ricochets off one of the glasses and falls to the grass. The third one just barely makes it then slips off the top of the bottle at the last second. The fourth one was definitely just aimed at the carnie.

But Steve's smiling so hard it hurts and Eddie's grinning too, under his mock-defeat, so none of it matters. "Yeah, you really showed them."

Eddie glares at him. "This game is rigged. Physics is fake."

But there's a flush on his cheeks and a sparkle in his eye like the point isn't the game at all.

When it's Steve's turn, he lands a ring on his first try. Dumb luck, but he shrugs coolly when Eddie sputters in confusion.

He takes one of the smallest prizes available: a keychain shaped like a rubber chicken. He tosses it to Eddie, casual. "For your collection."

Eddie stares at it for longer than he should. Then shoves it in his pocket and grins wildly at him.

And from there, the night tumbles forward in bright lights and sugar crashes.

Steve somehow wins a mood ring after a round of darts (which Eddie had failed previously). He slips it on Eddie's finger without thinking, but keeps the tiny mood tracking chart in his pocket for no reason whatsoever.

At a prize wheel near the lemon shake stand, Steve wins (again) them two sparkly temporary tattoos. They end up with pink and purple butterflies on their wrists for the rest of the night.

Eddie finally beats him at the water-gun shooting booth and wins them a glowing yo-yo that neither of them know how to use properly but are determined to figure out. Eventually though, they fling it at some little girls face and have to flee the scene, leaving it behind (well, wedged in that girls eye socket).

They also almost get kicked out of the mirror maze. Eddie slams head-first into a mirror and Steve holds up the line, keeled over laughing and cradling Eddie's steadily bruising forehead. It takes them an embarrassing amount of time to figure out which way the exit is but Steve honestly couldn't care less, thinks he would've stayed trapped there forever with Eddie.

When they make it back out into the fresh air, Eddie's already clasping his hand and dragging him to the next booth that will surely scam them of all their tickets once and for all. Steve's cheeks hurt from smiling so much and he's stumbling after Eddie like a little kid, grasping onto the older boy's bicep for the remainder of the journey to the next booth.

"Ok you need to be good at this." Eddie says pointing to the basketball hoop. He's all hyped up on the sugar from the slushy they shared and the adrenaline from the rollercoaster they almost puked on. "Fuck, there's no banana, maybe it's not worth it." 

"Oh my god, the banana is a lost cause, get over it. I'll win you this octopus instead." Steve smiles, ripping five tickets from their roll and handing it to the carnie.

The hoop is crooked and the balls are either overinflated or weirdly lumpy, which means this game was rigged to lose, but damn it if he’s not willing to try. Eddie hovers behind him, arms crossed but clearly invested. 

And honestly you couldn't ask Steve what happens next after that, because he wouldn't know. It blurred by all too fast and with way too much color.

One second, Steve's lining up for the shot with this pink, sticky basketball. The next, he's sunk three of them in and the carnie's sighing like he saw a miracle. And Eddie's whooping and hollering and shaking him like he just shot the game-winning point in the state championship (which he did, last year) and not some rigged carnival game.

And then, all of a sudden, Eddie’s hands are on Steve’s face — warm, a little calloused, rings cold against his cheeks — and he’s surging forward to kiss him. Full on the mouth. No warning, no buildup. Just grabs him and plants one.

Steve doesn't even get the chance to react, to kiss back, to register the blue-razz taste on his lips, before Eddie's yanking back, still grinning from ear-to-ear like he doesn't even realize what he's done, and clapping his shoulder like he's Steve's fucking basketball coach. Like he didn't just mouth-kiss him in front of the whole carnival.

Steve just stands there, lips still tingling, brain catching up to a moment that's already passed him by. He looks over at Eddie, who's already turned to the carnie and collecting his prize. He's drunk, probably. They’ve been sharing sips from the flask Eddie pulled from his jacket after the teacup ride, laughing too loud in line and taking turns trying not to gag on the burn. Still, Steve counts it. Three kisses, nine years, three-thousand two-hundred eighty-seven days.

Eddie cradles the octopus to his chest like it's a newborn and spins around, triumphant. "This," he declares, "is Mr. Octavius!"

Steve blinks. "You kissed me."

Eddie freezes for a fraction of a second, so quick you wouldn't notice it if you blinked, then he barrels straight past the moment and slaps on another childish grin.

"Duh," he says, like Steve's the crazy one. "You sunk three in a row. You're a beast, dude. That was some hero shit."

He says it like they're bros, like they just watched their favorite team score a goal and it was just a celebratory 'guy embrace'. Just dudes being dudes. He says it in a way that Steve suspects is how Eddie thinks guys on the basketball team talk. It’s scarily accurate but sounds unnatural coming from him and after that.

Eddie thrusts the octopus in his arms before he can think too hard about it. "You know what? I think it should be Dr. Octavius. Put some respect in his name, right?”

Then he's already walking backwards into the crowd, waving one arm in grand circle. "Funnel cake, Steve! We ride at dawn!"

Steve just holds the octopus a little tighter and follows anyway.

They get a funnel cake and some greasy fries and sneak them onto the ferris wheel. The guy manning the ride clocks them instantly and sighs like he's seen this movie a hundred times before but lets them through anyway.

They sit side by side, sharing food off a flimsy paper plate balanced between them and laugh at the mess they're making. Powdered sugar coats Eddie's hoodie by the time they reach the top and Steve thinks he feels some on his nose.

The ride creaks to a stop when they're at the peak. It used to scare Steve, when he was younger, to look down and see the drop. But now it's like he's looking into a snow globe. Like everything below — just lights and movement, distant music warped by the wind — is his to shake around in his hands and then keep on a shelf forever. Eddie leans back against the metal bar and closes his eyes, sugar smeared across his cheekbone and arms curled protectively around the octopus in his lap.

Steve picks at a corner of the funnel cake. "You ever think about... stopping?"

Eddie doesn't open his eyes. "Stopping what?"

Steve doesn't answer, knows he doesn't need to.

Eddie shifts, eyes opening lazily. "Yeah. All the time"

"So why don't you? I mean, I know why I'm doing this but-"

“Stop.” Eddie cuts in, soft but certain. Not angry, just tired in some way.

He exhales through his nose and leans his head back again, the lights making little halos on his lashes. “Let’s not talk about it right now.”

Steve glances over. Eddie’s face is unreadable, except for the slight twitch in his jaw.

“It’s a good night,” Eddie says, quieter now. “Can we just… let it be a good night?”

"Yeah. Okay."

And with that, their cart starts moving again, descending back to the real world. They don't really talk for the rest of the ride but it's not weird. Eddie's leaned over the metal door, his chin and mouth buried in his sleeve, looking over Hawkins in this careful way. Steve's looking to the other side, counting the fireflies in the empty part of the fairground where they're hiding all the setup for the carnival, the boring boxes and trucks they don't want anyone to see. He counts twenty-seven when their cart reaches the ground.

Once they've thrown out the last few soggy fries and their paper plates, Eddie's energy is back up and running. He says he spotted a Goldfish Toss at the back of the fair and that it was 'calling' to him.

"Calling to you? Like telepathically?" 

"No," Eddie says, already walking backwards again, arms spread wide. "Spiritually. I was meant to win you a fish."

Steve laughs, but he follows anyway. “You’re gonna traumatize a perfectly innocent animal."

The booth is barely staffed, tucked between a booth of knockoff sunglasses and a popcorn cart. The blue paint is chipping and the creepy cartoon fish painted under the sign looks like its about to peel off any second now. Half the bowls are empty. The other half look like they've already claimed a few victims.

"That one," Eddie says, pointing. "That one's coming home with us."

"You haven't even won him yet."

Eddie grins, takes the first ping pong ball, and throws it wildly wide. "Manifesting."

It takes seven tries, a minor debate with the carnie about the fairness of the water levels, and Steve coaching him like it's the goddamn Olympics, but Eddie eventually sinks one.

He nearly climbs over the counter in victory.

The fish they're given is a messed up little guy, lazy eye and slow tail. But Steve loves him already even if he's doomed. "What do we name him?"

"Hotdog Water," Eddie says immediately, no hesitation.

"What? Hotdog- Ew. No. Absolutely not. No."

Eddie chuckles, smug. "It's already done, that's his name. That name will forever stick and you know it. It's one of those things."

And he's right. It is one of those things. Tommy called his childhood stuffed bunny 'Bertram' one day and Steve could never look at it the same, forgot the original name he'd given it. Some names just imprint themselves on the universe at the weirdest moments. He can tell this is one of those times. It doesn't matter if he chooses a different name, this fish's name is Hotdog Water for the rest of history.

Steve sighs, adjusting the cloudy plastic bag in his hand. The fish inside wiggles weakly like it heard the name and gave up. “He’s gonna die in, like, two days.”

Eddie bends down, face to face with Hotdog Water, all smug affection. "He's got character, you'll see."

"We're counting fungal infections as character now?"

"Bite your tongue. That is our son."

Steve groans, but he’s smiling. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

They make it back to the car with Eddie humming some dumb made-up goldfish theme song under his breath while spinning the keys around his finger. It's so stupid — the fish in his hands, the octopus in Eddie's, the mood ring, the keychain, the matching butterflies on their wrists. It's so stupid and insignificant and so them that he can't breathe. He doesn't want to leave, is scared of what will happen when they do. Like the little bubble, the snow globe that this night lived in is going to burst the moment they leave. It probably will. No, it definitely will. Like all the other moments have these past few months since they 'reconnected'. But Eddie's waiting in the car right now with their firstborn, Dr. Octavius. And so Steve decides to leave it, thinks maybe the magic will stay with him for as long as the fish in his hands can survive. Which is probably going to end up being a couple hours, but it's better than nothing.

The car ride back is silent, save for the tune Eddie's drumming on the steering wheel and the van's busted AC. Hotdog Water sloshes around on his lap and blinks up at him, barely visible in the red glow of the brake lights ahead of them but Steve can make it out.

When they pull up to Loch Nora, neither of them move to say goodbye. It's like they know this is the end, the reset, the subject they won't talk about when Eddie picks him up tomorrow. Because this was weird, it wasn't like them. Tonight was too innocent and too fun. And that's probably why they both stay silent, they both know something's going to change soon, just can't put their finger on it yet. Maybe it'll just be summer ending, August giving way to September. But Steve has a feeling it’s not just that.

Eddie breaks the silence first. Not with a goodbye, but:
“Don’t forget to poke a hole in the bag. Maybe we can find him a tank this week."

They won't, he knows that. In a few days everything will go to shit and Steve will lose count of everything. But it's nice for now, to think about them in the aisles of Petco safe and surrounded by glass and neon gravel.

So Steve smiles and says, "yeah, maybe we could, that'd be fun."

Eddie’s staring ahead, knuckles white around the wheel. The dashboard glow paints shadows under his eyes but he smiles a little at the thought as well.

Steve climbs out, closes the door softly behind him. Walks up the Harrington drive like he’s trying not to wake anything, never looks back. And when he shuts the door, he can hear the van finally rumble down the road and away to the trailer park.

Carefully setting Hotdog Water down on the kitchen island, Steve counts again:

One fish, so stupid.

Three kisses, this one counted.

A million stars, a new one under his chin.

Five bullets in the revolver they keep in the glovebox.