Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts like this: Steve is in Los Angeles. He’s just began shooting his new period drama show and the first round of promotion is starting as well.

Personally, Steve doesn’t like this part of his job very much. It’s tiring, and also kinda boring, talking to the press. They’re always asking the same questions, always trying to make Steve give out more information about his personal life or trying to get on his good graces by flattering him in the most obvious ways. If he could, Steve would stick to just acting, but he’s still not famous enough to skip talking to the press and going to events if he wants his shows and movies to catch the public’s attention. So, he sucks it up and tells Robin she can let the reporter in so Steve can start his sixth(?) interview of the day.

The woman is nice enough, he guesses. She asks about the show, what Steve can share with his fans, what his fans can expect of this new role. Then, of course, just like every single reporter that came before her, she asks how Steve felt about working with Nancy Wheeler for the first time since they broke up. It’s so predictable that Steve would roll his eyes if he could. Sadly, he can’t. It wouldn’t be polite of him; it wouldn’t look good. So Steve plasters one of his trademark smiles and says the same thing he did to the other reporters.

“Nancy is a great actress and one of the best friends I have. Working with her is always a joy.”

And it’s not even a lie. Nancy is great and she is one of his best friends. Their relationship ended, yes, but it was a mutual understanding, and they parted in good terms, with no bad blood between them. They broke up almost two years ago, there’s no reason for things between them to be weird anymore.

That’s not what the press wants to know, though. They just want Steve to let something slip so they can explore it, distort it and publish it as truth. Steve’s been in this industry for enough time to know how it works.

The reporter seems unimpressed by his mild answer. She insists, mentioning Jonathan Byers, Nancy’s new boyfriend (fianceé, actually, but that information is not public knowledge yet) just to see if she can get a reaction out of him. Poor woman, she’s gonna have to do better than that.

When she realizes Steve’s not going to give her anything, the woman deflates. She moves on to other topics, prods Steve a little about his personal life, but her heart is not there anymore, Steve can see it.

“Alright, Steve, we’re almost done here, I promise,” the reporter (Anna? Anne?) says. “We asked your fans to send us questions on our Twitter page and selected a few.”

“Okay.”

The woman takes a minute to go over her notes.

“Okay,” she says, straightening her posture on the armchair she’s sitting. Steve does the same, more out of respect than anything. “@lysa_07 asks: did you always want to become an actor, or did you think about following a different career?”

“When I was in school, I played basketball and wanted to go pro. I was pretty good, actually, some universities offered me a scholarship and everything, but I got injured when I was in my senior year. Had to go through knee surgery and eight months of PT just to be able to walk by myself again.”

“So acting was your second choice?”

“At first, yes. But looking back I think I’m better off where I am right now. I loved playing basketball when I was a kid, but by the time I got injured it was more about winning than anything else. The fun I used to feel when I was playing was not there anymore because I was always worried about failing and letting my team and coach down. So, I guess even if I didn’t get injured, I would eventually have given up on basketball anyway. Living under that kind of stress is not for me.”

Nodding, Anne(?) types something on her tablet. “Yeah, I get that. I was on the soccer team in high school, the pressure really is crazy,” she agrees. “Okay, second question. @harringtons_fan_5_ever: What do you like to do in your free time?”

Steve chuckles. “Call me lame, but all I want to do when I have free time is go home, see my dogs and sleep as much as I can. There’s nothing better than that.”

“They don’t travel with you? Must be hard being away from them for so long.”

“They’re old dogs, travelling is too stressful for them now. And, yes, I miss them like crazy, they’ve been with me for over ten years.”

“Oh, I see. I hope you get to see them soon, then.”

Another pause as the reporter types something else on her tablet. Steve takes the water bottle on the small table beside him and takes a sip, his throat a little parched after talking for so long. He hopes the woman is being honest and they are almost done, because Steve can’t wait to get the hell out of here.

“Last question is from @justaccoffingirlie,” she says. “It’s two questions, actually. First, she asks: In terms of music, what are your favorite genres? And follows with: what do you think about Corroded Coffin’s last album?”

“I guess pop and classic rock are my main choices when I’m making a playlist,” Steve answers, thoughtful. “Sorry, but what was that second question?”

“What do you think about Corroded Coffin’s last album?”

“Is that a band?” he asks, a small frown forming on his face as he tries to make sense of whatever the woman expects him to answer. “I’ve never heard of them before.”

“Yes, it’s a metal band. They’re very popular, their new tour has been sold out for months. They released their third album a couple of months ago.”

“Seriously? People listen to a band named Corroded Coffin? Wow, I had no idea.”

For the first time since the interview started, the reporter smiles brightly, nodding once again, this time with more enthusiasm.

“Yeah, they’re pretty big, you know!?” she says. “Their fans are very passionate.”

“Oh, good for them, I guess.”

“It sure is. Thank you very much for your time, Steve. We should publish this interview in two weeks. We’ll send all the details to your team when the article comes out.”

“Sure. It was great talking to you.”

In retrospect, Steve should have suspected something was not right. Anna had looked too satisfied by the end of their little chat. But he suspected nothing. After almost two hours, Steve just wanted to go back to his hotel room. He had a plane to catch that night and an eight-hour flight to Europe awaiting him.

-

-

Two weeks later, that interview he’s given is the last thing on Steve’s mind.

The make up team is working their magic on him whilst Steve reads for the last time his lines for the scene they’re about to start shooting that morning. Nancy is in the chair beside him, chatting with the hairdresser as the woman works on her as well. It’s all a little chaotic, but familiar enough for it to be relaxing in a way.

That is, until the door to the make-up room is slammed open and a pissed off Robin shows up on the threshold.

“Robin? What happen—” Steve begins to say but stops when Robin starts beating him with what seems to be a rolled-up magazine.

“You are a dumbass!!” she says, hitting him with no mercy. “Why do you do this? Do you fucking hate me, Harrington?!”

“What the hell, Robin!? Stop!”

The make-up artists scramble away from the woman, letting Steve all by himself to deal with her. Traitors!

“You. Are. An. Idiot!” she says, furious.

Steve grabs her wrist when she tries to hit him again and takes the fucking magazine out of her hands. That doesn’t stop her; Robin just starts slapping him with her bare hands.

“Hey, Robin, come on, stop hitting him,” Nancy, beautiful, sweet Nancy says, coming to Steve’s rescue. She grabs Robin’s arm and pulls the other woman away from Steve, forcing her to sit down on the chair she had previously been using. “Breathe, Buckley, you’re not making any sense.”

“You want me to make sense? I’ll make sense. I’m gonna kill this fucking idiot!!”

Steve gets up from the chair before Robin can reach him again. “You’re crazy!”

“Of course I am! You’re always trying to make my life difficult by opening your big, fat mouth. Why can’t you shut up, Harrington? Why?”

“What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, you did!”

“What did he do, Robin?” Nancy asks, just as confused as everyone else in the room.

Robin takes a deep breath, massaging her temples.

“Look at the fucking magazine, Steve,” she hisses.

Still lost, Steve unrolls the magazine and looks at its cover. It’s him. It’s a picture from a photoshoot he did a month ago, his name printed in big yellow letters announcing his interview on page 17.

“They published my interview, so what? Why are you pissed at me?” he asks, staring at the flattering picture with narrowing eyes. There’s no mention of Nancy on the cover, which is good in his humble opinion.

“I’m pissed at you because you are a dumbass who doesn’t know how or when to shut up. Why did you have to mock Corroded Coffin? Have you lost your mind?”

“I did what?”

“Oh, Steve,” Nancy says, mournful. “Tell me you didn’t do that.”

“I have no idea what she’s talking about, Nance, I didn’t mock anyone.”

Nancy grabs the magazine from his hands and opens it, flipping pages until she finds Steve’s interview. Her eyes roam over the page for a moment, then she lets out a small sigh.

“’When asked about Corroded Coffin’s new album, Steve Harrington claimed he has never heard of the band before and found funny the idea of a band with such a silly name being so famous,’” Nancy reads aloud, whilst Robin glares daggers at him. “’Seriously? People listen to a band named Corroded Coffin? Wow, I had no idea.’”

“I never said their name was silly!” Steve defends himself.

“But you implied it, that’s more than enough for these people, you know that,” Robin says. “What were you thinking, Steve?”

“Oh, come on. You’re overreacting, Robin. No one’s gonna care if I find a band name funny or not. Relax, woman.”

“Sorry, Steve, but Robin is right,” Nancy says, closing the magazine and giving it back to Robin. “Corroded Coffin’s fans are crazy loyal. They’re gonna go nuts when they read this.”

“Not you too, Nance.”

“But it’s true, Steve. Seriously. Corroded Coffin has one of the biggest fanbases I’ve ever seen. Their concerts are always packed. I went to one of their concerts with Jonathan last month and the crowd was insane; they screamed so loud my ears were ringing for hours after the show.”

“If they’re so famous, why haven’t I heard of them before?”

“Because you’ve been listening to the same ten artists since High School, that’s why,” Robin says, flicking him on the forehead. “Pray to God that their fans don’t take this shit to heart, Harrington. Because if they do, they’re gonna make your life, and by extension my life, a living hell.”

“At least he didn’t say anything about Munson,” Nancy laughs. “Now that would be a bad call.”

“Who?”

“Oh my God, you’re hopeless,” Robin groans, throwing her hands up in the air in frustration.

She throws the magazine at Steve, then storms out of the room, slamming the door shut and without looking back.

Steve frowns at the magazine in his hands, his own face looking back at him from the cover as if mocking him somehow.

Robin was just overreacting, right?

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

‘His opinion is irrelevant,’ Eddie Munson answers Steve Harrington’s latest interview

It looks like Eddie Munson, lead singer of Corroded Coffin, is not happy with the news concerning Steve Harrington’s latest interview and his commentaries mocking Munson’s band and work.

The matter was addressed during an exclusive interview Munson gave to our reporters last Friday, after their concert in Albuquerque. When asked about the Steve Harrington incident, Munson first affirmed he didn’t know who Harrington was, then proceeded to ironically ask his assistant if he should know.

He also deemed Harrington’s opinion on Corroded Coffin’s latest album as irrelevant and refused to talk further about anything else; a sign that perhaps the topic is still a sore spot for him? Our sources believe this could be the case. Read the full interview with Eddie Munson on our website.

-

-

It’s Gareth who sees the article first.

The band is gathered at the venue they are supposed to perform that night, waiting to start their afternoon practice. They should be practicing already but, being the diva that he is, Eddie’s late as usual.

Jeff and Frank are testing the equipment with their staff, as Chrissy tries to call Eddie for the eight-hundredth time in ten minutes. Gareth refuses to join any of them because, one, Eddie’s gonna join them when he wants to and, two, he’s gonna make them test the equipment all over again when he finally shows up so doing it now is a waste of time. Instead, Gareth uses this time to do what he likes best; absolutely nothing.

He picks a spot on the stage away from where his friends are working, throws his backpack on the floor and lays down, using the bag as a makeshift pillow; not exactly comfortable but it’s far better than wasting his energy waiting for Eddie to grace them with his presence.

With nothing else to do, Gareth fishes his phone out of his pocket and scrolls around his social media. Why not? It’s not like he has anything better to do right now. Gareth’s scrolling down his Instagram feed when he sees it.

On a fan page —because, yes, Gareth loves following these fan pages so he can watch all the cool videos and edits they make and interact with their fans— he sees a post about Eddie’s interview from last week. The page used on the post a black and white picture of Eddie from the photoshoot they did to promote their last album; he’s in full Eddie Munson persona, leather pants and chains and rings, his hair a crazy mess of curls as he gives his best manic smile and shows both his middle fingers to the camera.

Gareth’s seen this picture before; it became a special card on their Deluxe Edition. But the original picture did not have the bold red ‘IRRELEVANT’ written under Eddie’s rude gestures.

“What are they talking about?” he mutters to himself as he rolls down the post to read the text.

It doesn’t say much, just the usual fan rage about that Harrington guy. It’s not the first time this guy’s mentioned; Corroded Coffin fans have been saying a lot of shit about him since he made the rookie mistake of saying he didn’t know who the band was. Now he’s facing a backlash Gareth does not envy, but it’s still very entertaining to follow on social media.

When the post doesn’t explain much, just says how proud they are about Eddie’s not taking shit from that posh idiot Harrington, Gareth goes to the profile tagged at the end. It’s a magazine’s official page; apparently, the one that published Eddie’s interview.

It’s easy for Gareth to find the article. They used the same picture the fan page did, sans the red “IRRELEVANT” added by the fan post. Halfway through it, Gareth already knows they’re gonna have a long day ahead of them; Eddie’s gonna be pissed when he hears about this crap.

“Chrissy!” Gareth yells, standing up from his resting spot to go look for their manager. She’s close to where the staff put the drums, still on her phone even as she gives directions to the staff. “Chrissy!!”

The woman turns, phone still pressed to her ear. “What? Have you heard from Eddie yet?”

Gareth gives her a flat look. “He’s not even picking up your calls, what makes you think he’d pick up mine?”

“Then what?”

“You need to see this.” He hands her his phone without another word of explanation and just waits.

It’s impressive how Chrissy’s face can go from confused, to baffled and then to really fucking angry in less than thirty seconds.

“Are they fucking kidding me?” she groans, finally putting her phone in her pocket so she can focus on the more urgent matter. “They didn’t tell me the interview had been published. How did you find this?”

“On a fan page. It just popped up on my feed.”

“Oh, that’s just great, the fans are already spreading this everywhere.” She takes back her phone and opens her own Instagram app to check if what Gareth’s saying is true. It is. Every fan page on her feed is talking about Eddie’s interview and mocking Harrington somehow. Fantastic. “And the fuckers called me Eddie’s assistant, what the hell? Almost ten years managing your careers and working my ass off to make you guys one of the most successful bands out there and they call me an assistant. I’m calling these fucking assholes right now.”

Is her fury justified? Fuck yes. Even Gareth is insulted by how dismissive people usually are of Chrissy’s importance in their band’s success, but she’s not paying attention to what’s more pressing there.

“Chrissy, focus,” he calls, snapping his fingers in front of her face. “If you didn’t know the interview was out, Eddie doesn’t know the interview is out. He’s not gonna be happy when he sees they’re taking his words out of context.”

“Who’s not gonna be happy?” Frank asks, joining the conversation and trying to peer into Chrissy’s phone to see what the deal is.

Chrissy shows him her phone screen. “Eddie. They published his interview and are framing his answers as if he was responding to that Steve Harrington thing.”

“Oh, he’s definitely not gonna like it,” Frank grimaces as he reads the article. “They called you an assistant, what the fuck?”

“Thank you!”

“We can’t let Eddie know about this shit before the show tonight,” Gareth says. “He’s gonna get all moody and probably say something in between songs that will only make things worse.”

“He barely uses social media. The only way he’s gonna know about this is if someone tells him.”

“Then you guys talk to the staff,” Chrissy says. “Gather everyone before Eddie gets here and explain what’s happening. Inform them they’re not supposed to mention any of this until after the show or else I’ll be forced to do something about it. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“We’re on it, Chriss.”

“Great,” she nods. “Now you guys excuse me, but I have some phone calls to make.”

-

-

As annoying as they can be, Steve is forced to admit Corroded Coffin fans are impressively loyal to their idols, especially to Munson. It’s been two weeks since his interview came out and they are still sending him hate and making posts calling him some very creative names; he’s never seen a fanbase this dedicated before. It’s kind of amusing, if he’s being honest.

“You laugh because it’s not you that has to deal with the PR team,” Robin hisses when he mentions it.

Filming was brutal that day; they started early and spent seven hours filming the confession scene for episode six. The director kept interrupting Steve and Nancy all the fucking time to make adjustments and to give them directions about where to look and how much feeling they needed to show. The man claimed it was because they needed the scene to be perfect, but Steve thinks he’s just a perfectionist freak who’s never satisfied with anything. Not that Steve’s ever gonna say that to the man’s face; he likes having a job.

But now they have wrapped up for the day and Steve just wants to drink his beer, eat his pizza and catch up with the latest episode of Yellowjackets. He refuses to leave his trailer for the rest of the night; he’s earned these few hours of rest.

“What did I tell you? Tell them to fuck off, this is just fans being fans and getting emotional over their idols. They’re gonna forget all about me soon enough.”

With an annoyed exhale, Robin takes a seat next to Steve on the couch and steals a slice of pizza from his plate. “I hope so, because I can’t take one more week of these pricks pestering me about bad publicity and how the studio might be affected by this shit.”

“Bad publicity is still publicity,” Steve says with his mouth full of pizza, earning a disgusted sneer from Robin. “Did my numbers drop these past weeks?”

“Not really. Your name has been trending along with Corroded Coffin’s, and you’ve gained a lot of followers on every social media. I thought you’d lose followers, but it seems like you and Corroded Coffin have very different audiences, which, fair, not many people are into sappy period dramas and heavy metal at the same time.”

“Hey! My shows are not sappy, they are romances. You’d know the difference if you had a single romantic bone in your body.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that,” Robin says dismissively.

She munches on her pizza, but she’s clearly not happy. Steve gets it; dealing with the studios’ higher-ups and PR teams is not an easy task. They tend to make a big deal out of things that shouldn’t be important at all, like his last interview for instance. He’d be in a bad mood too if he spent so much time hearing people complain non-stop about stupid things.

“Come on, Robs, stop with the grumpy face,” Steve tries to cheer her up, bumping their shoulders together. “It’s been two weeks already; sooner or later people are gonna get tired of talking about my interview and move on to the next gossip. They always do.”

“Maybe,” Robin concedes, even if a little reluctant. She polishes off the pizza, then lets her head fall back on the couch rest with a deep sigh. “I guess all these meetings with the PR team these past weeks wore me out more than I thought. I’m so fucking tired I’m really considering crashing on this couch instead of going back to my hotel.”

“You can, you know. We can watch Yellowjackets together, then the couch is all yours.”

“Noooo, you’re way ahead of me. I’m still in episode four, I don’t want spoilers.”

They end up watching The Bear because neither of them has watched it yet and they can start from the very beginning. It’s nice having Robin around like this; off the clock in a makeshift sleepover not that different from what they used to do when they were teenagers. Steve loves working with his best friend, he really does, but sometimes he feels like working together is all they do nowadays. They’re always so busy that these quiet moments of companionship are getting rarer and rarer.

After the first episode ends, Steve gets up to grab them fresh beers and more snacks as Robin goes through his things in search of a change of clothes she can use to sleep. Steve is contemplating if the bag of chips he has is going to be enough for a whole episode, or if he should order something else to go along with it, when Robin calls him from his bedroom.

“Dingus, Dustin is calling you!”

He instantly forgets about the food. “What? Why?”

“I don’t know, he’s not telling me.”

Steve tries not to think the worst, but it’s hard not to. Dustin hardly ever calls him; they text each other all the time and Dustin loves dumping tons of random information he learns from the six hundred documentaries he watches every week, but they almost never call. Calling is for special occasions like birthdays and Christmas and for emergencies, and Steve is sure he’s not forgetting any special occasions.

He leaves the beer and snacks on the counter and crosses the trailer towards the bedroom just in time to hear Robin chiding at Dustin over the phone.

“Calm the fuck down, Henderson, he’s coming. Jesus!”

“Gimme here,” Steve says. He doesn’t even wait for Robin to pass him the phone; he just grabs it from her hands. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

Steve doesn’t know what he had expected when he asked that question; nothing good, that’s for sure, but he had not expected Dustin to completely ignore his worries and ask, “Why are you publicly fighting with Eddie Munson?”

Two weeks ago, he wouldn’t have recognized the name. A lot has changed in these past two weeks, though, so of course Steve now knows exactly who Dustin is talking about.

“Uh? I’m not publicly fighting with Eddie Munson.”

“What!?” Robin startles, but Steve ignores her.

“Yes, you kinda are,” Dustin insists. Steve can hear a faint noise in the background, someone singing a song he recognizes from one of the dozen musicals Robin’s forced Steve to watch when they were in school. Dustin must be at Suzie’s. “You said that shit about his band to the press a few weeks ago and now he’s saying shit about you to the press too. It’s all over the internet, dude.”

“The hell is he saying about me?”

“Some shit about yo—”

“Put Henderson on speaker, for fuck’s sake!” Robin says, slapping her friend hard on the arm. “I need to hear this too, you idiot.”

“Okay, okay! You don’t need to hit me,” Steve glares at Robin just to earn a glare back as he taps on his phone and puts the call on speaker. “Okay, Dustin, Robin’s listening too. Spill.”

“Munson gave an interview to some magazine,” Dustin explains. “One of the reporters asked him about your interview and he said, ‘Why does this shit matter? His opinion is irrelevant.’ The journalist said Munson got so angry that he refused to answer anything else after that question.”

“Bullshit.” Because it has to be, no one would seriously get offended by something so stupid like that article; at least not offended enough to respond to it publicly.

“It’s not bullshit, everyone is talking about it online. Your name and Munson’s have been trending for the past three hours. Like, every Corroded Coffin fan page is posting about it and making edits mocking you. How the hell aren’t you seeing this?”

“I was shooting all day with Nance, I didn’t have time to check anything today,” Steve groans at the same time as Robin lets out a nervous laugh.

“That’s fantastic!” She says, voice tight with anxiety. She buries her hands in her hair, just to let go a second later and start pacing around Steve’s tiny room. “That’s so fucking great. That’s exactly what we fucking needed right now.”

“Is Robin okay?” Dustin asks warily.

“What do you th—” Robin starts to say only to get interrupted by Steve.

“She’s gonna be fine, Dustin,” he says loud and a little nervous too. But Dustin doesn’t need to be aware of everything happening in his life right now, especially not about how Robin’s probably gonna bite his head off in, like, two minutes probably. He takes the call off speaker quickly. “Thanks for the heads up, man, but I gotta go. Talk to you later?”

“Sure.” The little shit is laughing. “Good luck dealing with Robin, I think you’re gonna need it.”

“Yeah, thank you very fucking much.”

“Bye, Steve!”

When the call ends, the room is dead silent and that is what makes Steve nervous. Because Robin is loud most of the time, but when she gets quiet like that it’s a sign she’s not just mad, she’s livid.

“You know, it might not be that bad,” Steve tries. Does he firmly believe it? Nopes. But one can try, right?

“Not that bad? Really, Steve? Right now?”

“Robs—”

“No, do not Robs me,” she finally snaps. “This is exactly what I was trying to avoid when I told you you should make an official statement and clear things out, but no, you had to be stubborn about this. Now congratulations, you managed to piss off a man whose fanbase is just feral and won’t leave this shit alone for God knows how long. And all of this because you just don’t listen to me! Are you proud of yourself, Steve?”

Robin is panting heavily by the time she finishes, her face beet red and fists balled tight beside her body.

“Do you feel better now?” Steve asks softly when his friend’s done, and the words seem to drain all the anger out of her small body.

Robin lets herself fall seated on the bed with a tired sigh. “Actually, yes,” she admits, hiding her face in her hands for a moment. “What are we gonna do, Dingus? I don’t wanna deal with those PR pricks anymore, they are driving me crazy.”

Steve joins her on the bed, draping an arm over her shoulders in a half-hug. The fact that Robin doesn’t swat him away and just leans against him instead is proof of how tired she really is.

“Well, I think we can first check out if what Dustin said is true or in the press is just making things up again,” he suggests. “For all we know, they can be getting Munson’s words out of context just to stir things up. You know they love doing that.”

“I guess. But what if Dustin is right and Munson really is mad at all this mess? I know you’re not very familiar with him, but that man is unpredictable. He can just say some shit about you and be done with it, but he can also hold a grudge and get his fans even more feral. There’s no way of knowing what his reaction’s gonna be.”

Steve might not be familiar with Munson or his apparently bad temper, but he is familiar with how the press loves twisting things to make a profit out of it. They can’t blindly trust anything they publish just because it’s trending.

“If this is the case and Munson really is pissed about what I said, then I promise you I’ll make that official statement to clear things out,” he says, even though the idea still doesn’t sit right with him. “Maybe you can contact Munson’s manager and see if I can talk to him and explain everything?”

“Hm, I don’t know if he’d agree, but I can try if it comes to it,” Robin replies, deep in thought. “I think Jonathan must have Cunningham’s number, he worked with Corroded Coffin last year when they started promoting their tour. Worth asking him at least.”

“That’s settled, then. First, we check what’s really happening. If it’s bad, you talk to Jonathan and get this Cunningham guy—”

“She’s a woman.”

“Fuck, sorry. You ask Jonathan for Cunningham’s number and see if she can convince Munson to hear what I have to say. Sounds good?”

“Good is a strong word. But I think it’s something, which is better than nothing.” Taking a deep breath, Robin frees herself from Steve’s hold and stands. “I’m gonna go get my iPad so we can take a better look at this whole mess. Can you order more pizza? If we have to do this right now, we’re gonna need the calories.”

“Extra cheese?” Steve asks, already looking for the pizza place’s number.

“Definitely.”

-

-

They spend two hours going through hundreds of posts and they still don’t cover even half of it. Dustin really wasn’t kidding when he said it was all over the internet.

They’re in opposite sides of the couch, each one with an iPad as they thoroughly search every social media platform they can. The empty pizza box is abandoned on the coffee table, along with a bunch of beer bottles and the bag of chips from earlier. The TV is still on, but just for the sake of background noise; neither one of them has looked at it for the past hour.

“Did you find anything about any band member liking or sharing this stuff?” Robin asks, though her eyes don’t leave the screen.

“No, it’s just fan accounts and gossip pages. Munson follows, like, eight people and his last post is from a month ago. The others are more active, but it’s all work related; just their concerts and stuff.”

The longer they look into it, the more convinced Steve gets that the press is making shit up; at least most of it. Steve’s read the original article, published on the magazine’s official page, then went to their website and read the whole interview just to make sure. The only offensive thing he found there was the blatant lie the journalist told Munson when they mentioned his own interview; he did not mock the guy’s band and he’s definitely not been talking badly about their work, Steve’s never even heard their songs!

“Robin, I think it’s safe to say they are twisting the man’s words,” Steve says, putting down his iPad in order to look at his friend. “If this was serious, they’d have shared something about it, but there’s nothing. Other than crazy fans and gossip pages, there’s nothing much.”

“Yeah, I can’t find anything either.” She groans, putting down her own iPad and resting her head on a hand. “Why are they doing this? I know you and Munson are famous and this shit sells, but you guys don’t even know each other. Your audiences are completely different, it makes no sense.”

“But it does, Rob. If we have different audiences, then something like this is gonna reach a lot more people than if I was fighting with someone from my line of work, or if Munson was fighting someone from another metal band. They get a lot more money this way.”

Because, at the end of the day, that’s all this is about, isn’t it? Money. These journalists and gossip pages are using his name and Munson’s to make as much money as they can, doesn’t matter if they’re clearly taking things out of context or making things up; if it’s making their profits grow, it’s all justified.

“Fuck, what are we gonna do, then? You’re not gonna make that official statement, are you?”

“No fucking way.”

“Yeah, thought so,” Robin makes a face. “This might die down after a while if neither you nor Munson say anything else, but I wouldn’t count on it. Someone can easily make something else up and post it just to keep the gossip going. Especially if they’re getting money out of it.”

That is the main problem; neither Steve nor Munson has any control over what’s being published. As big as their platforms are, there’s no way they can fight against big-ass corporations who’ve been controlling the media’s narratives for decades. If Steve stays silent, the press can keep making things up to milk this story for a long time; if he publicly apologizes, the press can easily say he’s only doing so to avoid losing fans and contracts, even though Robin says his numbers have been steadily growing since…

Steve turns his head so fast to face Robin that his neck makes a loud cracking noise. “Robin, are my numbers still growing?” he asks.

“Uhm, wait a sec,” she says, typing on her iPad for a moment before nodding. “Yep. Still growing. You got almost 30k new followers on Instagram alone since this afternoon. Why do you ask?”

“Okay, this may sound crazy, but what if we give them what they want?”

Robin frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Bear with me, alright?” Steve says. He abandons his side of the couch and gathers closer to Robin, so she can see his tablet’s screen. “You said so yourself, my numbers are growing since this whole thing started, right? Guess what, so are Corroded Coffin’s and Munson’s.” He hands her the tablet. “Their main account got 15k new followers in the last two hours and Munson’s is getting even more than that. And all of this thanks to the shit ton of posts mentioning both of us.”

“So? What does this have to do with anything?”

“If we keep the gossip going, we can increase our platforms. Meaning, we can use it to try to get better contracts. You told me once studios won’t give me serious roles in drama shows or thriller movies because these kinds of roles don’t fit with my branding, right? But what if we change that? What if I’m publicly fighting with the leader of a famous metal band? That doesn’t fit with my branding either but it’s happening anyways. Playing our cards right, we can get a bigger platform than we already have and the chance to prove to all those studios that have turned me down that I’m not just a pretty face with really good hair.”

Robin’s face lights up in realization, her eyes widening as she stares at Steve in disbelief. “Are you seriously saying you want to use the press to provoke Munson on purpose so you can get more followers and influence? Have you lost your mind?”

“No, Robin, you’re not getting it.” He takes the tablet out of her hands and puts it down on the coffee table, grabbing his friend’s hands and pulling her until they are face to face. “The press is going to keep talking about this regardless of what I say or not, you said so yourself. They’re gonna milk this for as long as they can to get as much profit as they can, you know they will. I can’t control if they are gonna publish shit about me or not, but this way I can control what they are gonna publish about me. It’s not about provoking Munson, it’s about provoking the press into publishing what I want.”

He pauses and gives Robin a moment to absorb everything he’s just said. Steve admits this may sound a little crazy, but it makes perfect sense. The gossip pages, the fans, the press, everybody is going to keep talking about him and Munson anyways, at least this way he can have a little bit of control over what’s being said; at least this way Steve’s not going to be caught by surprise the same way he was two weeks ago.

“If we’re doing this,” Robin starts, crossing her arms. “And I’m saying if, okay? What are we gonna do about the PR team? They’re not gonna be happy.”

“They will be happy when you show them with a bunch of those graphics of yours how much my platform is growing and how much influence and attention I’m getting with this whole thing. Meaning, every one of my following projects are going to get even more publicity. Come on, Robin, you know the PR team is just like these gossip magazines. If you show them this story with Munson is capable of increasing the studio’s profit somehow, they’re not gonna care about what we’re doing anymore. They’re finally gonna get off your back.”

And that is what convinces Robin. Not the idea of pranking the press or using this story to their advantage, no. What convinces Robin is the idea of being free of the PR team for good.

“Okaaay, this might not be so crazy,” she says, finally relaxing. “We can try doing it your way, but if the PR team isn’t convinced after I talk to them, you’re making that official statement and you’re calling Munson to apologize.”

Fair enough.

“Fine,” Steve agrees.

“Thank you. So how are we gonna do this? You said you’re not gonna insult Munson directly or whatever, so what’s the plan?” Robin squints suspiciously at him. “Do you even have a plan, Dingus?”

“Oh, I have a plan,” he laughs. “And you gotta help me with it. We’re shooting tomorrow in the city, there’s gonna be a lot of paparazzi there waiting to get a good picture of me.”

“And?”

“And I need you to find a place where we can get a custom shirt made so I can wear it tomorrow morning. We just have to work on the design first.”

Chapter Text

Steve sees the paparazzi before he even leaves the car. There’s at least a dozen of them gathered behind the barriers security put up to separate the location they’d be using for that day’s shooting. There are also dozens of fans, posters and magazines in their hands and cellphones out and ready to take pictures as soon as any of the actors show up. The usual crowd you’d expect to find when there’s an outdoors shooting about to happen in a city as big as Los Angeles.

Perfect, that’s exactly what Steve wants.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Robin chuckles from the passenger seat, as the drivers starts to pull over. She turns to look at him, amusement all over her face. “I can't believe I agreed with your idea. Why did I agree with your idea?”

“So you can get rid of the PR team,” Steve reminds her, flicking her forehead.

“Ouch!”

“Stop worrying, it’s gonna be fine. I’m not offending anyone this time, I’m just giving those poor paparazzi what they came here for. Think about this as my good deed of the day. They’re definitely gonna get paid for these pictures.”

“You’re having way too much fun with this, Dingus. But, fine, do what you want. Just remember that if this blows up in your face—”

“I’ll have to apologize to Munson myself and them release that official statement,” Steve completes, rolling his eyes. “I know, Robin, you’ve already told me this a million times.”

“Just making sure we’re still on the same page.”  

The driver finally finds a good parking spot, outside the shooting location like Steve asked for, and pulls over. Steve takes a last look in the hand mirror Robin always carries in her purse –specifically for him, of course– before giving it back to her when he deems his appearance good enough.

“Okay, Robs, it’s show time,” he says. “See you inside in a few minutes.”

“Sure.” Robin gives him an encouraging thumbs up. “And good luck. Go give the press something to write about.”

“I sure will,” Steve laughs. He opens the door and steps out of the car and into the bright sunlight. The first clicks of cameras start almost immediately.

-

-

Tension escalates between period drama actor Steve Harrington and Corroded Coffin’s lead singer Eddie Munson

Just one day after the release of Eddie Munson’s new interview, the war between the metal singer and Steve Harrington gets a brand-new chapter.

Harrington was spotted this morning near the shooting location for his new show wearing a black t-shirt with the caption ‘Don’t mind me, my opinion is irrelevant’ printed in bold red letters over his chest. He smiled and waved to the paparazzi, stopped to talk and take pictures with his fans but refused to talk to the press. His message, however, was very clear.

The war between Harrington and Munson started after the actor publicly mocked Corroded Coffin’s name during an interview. Yesterday, Munson responded to it, stating the actor’s opinion is irrelevant since he has no real knowledge about their music and can’t be taken seriously. Now, this story gets a new chapter with Harrington mocking Munson’s words.

We tried to contact both Harrington and Munson, but neither of them wanted to talk. Click here to see more.

-

-

Chrissy has been weirdly snappy the whole day. Actually, if Eddie stops to really think about it, she’s been like that since the day before. He guesses she had reason to talk his ear off yesterday; he got distracted reading House of Chains back in his hotel room and almost missed their afternoon practice before the concert, but Chrissy’s anger never lasts more than a few hours when something like this happens. Her sour mood is very weird, to say the least. There has to be something else going on.

“What the hell is going on with Chrissy?” Eddie whispers to Jeff, as they watch their manager yell at someone over the phone on the bus sitting area. It’s the fourth time just this morning, and it’s barely even past 10 a.m.

“She has a lot on her plate right now, man,” Jeff whispers back, shaking his head. “Just let her be.”

Oh, Eddie definitely will; he’s not in the mood to be yelled at so early in the morning, especially since he only got five hours of shut-eye before they had to go back to the bus if they wanted to reach their next destination in time.

“Whatever, I’m gonna go back to sleep,” he yawns, kicking his friend on his way out of the kitchen booth. “Wake me up when we get to Phoenix.”

Jeff kicks him back. “Fuck you, Munson.”

“Nah, too much history between us, babe.”

He ducks down just in time, and the magazine Jeff had been reading hits the bus window instead of Eddie’s head. Eddie flips him the bird, cackling, and makes his way to the bedroom before the other man can find something else to throw at him.

Gareth is already there, sprawled on the massive bed, laughing at something on his phone as usual. How his friend can waste so much time on that thing is beyond Eddie. Especially these past few days, Gareth has been concerningly glued to his phone at all times; it’s getting out of hand, in Eddie’s humble opinion.

“Make room, idiot, you’re not the only one tired here.”

Gareth sneers at him. “Fuck off,” he says, but scoots a little to the side to let Eddie lay down anyway.

Eddie is out the moment his head touches the pillow. He’s woken a few hours later by someone shaking his leg, Gareth nowhere to be seen anymore.

“I’m up, I’m up,” Eddie groans, smushing his face against the pillow.

“Come on, Eddie, we’re almost at the hotel.” It’s Frank, the man now pulling on his leg as if ready to drag him out of bed if needed. “The manager there called Chrissy and said there’s a lot of fans waiting for us, so get the fuck up and make yourself presentable; Chrissy’s orders.”

“Let go of my leg, dickhead!”

“Then get up!”

“Fine! I’m up!” Eddie pushes himself to a sitting position, rubbing his eyes as he tries to clear his still sleep fogged brain. When he finally blinks his eyes open, Frank is still very much there by the door, staring at him. “What? I said I’m up. Get out, or I’m gonna start stripping right here and force you to watch it.”

“God, no, thanks,” Frank gags, making a face. “I don’t wanna lose my breakfast.”

“Then scram.” Frank does without much protest.

Eddie allows himself a moment to sulk before getting out of bed and rummaging his bags in search of something to wear. If there’s gonna be fans waiting for them, his ratty Metallica t-shirt and loose grey sweatpants won’t cut it. There’s a certain look Chrissy expects them to maintain when out in public, and Eddie’s current disheveled state is definitely not it.

When he gets back to the bus lounge area to join the rest of the band, Eddie has already put on his official Eddie Munson attire –black pants, black devil shirt and combat boots—and is trying to tame his hair into a bun.

“How are we gonna do this?” Eddie asks as he takes a seat next to Jeff.

“Chrissy is trying to convince hotel security to take the reporters out of the crowd,” his friend says, handing Eddie a half-smoked joint, which he gladly accepts and takes a hit. “She says we have fifteen minutes to sign things and take pictures with fans, no talking to the press.”

“Oh, yeah, because talking to those vultures is something I’m always dying to do.” Eddie takes another hit, then gives the joint back to Jeff.

Signing things and taking pictures, huh? Fine, he can do that; better than being forced to answer the most boring questions for a whole hour straight, that’s for sure.

-

-

There’s a lot more people at their hotel than Eddie expected it would. Sure, there’s always a small crowd waiting for them when they get to a new city, but there’s nothing small about the crowd waiting for them this time; security is having a hard time keeping all those people behind the crowd control barriers.

“Holy shit!” Frank mutters under his breath.

Eddie gets Frank’s awe, he really does. Almost ten years in this business, six years of life altering success, and Eddie is still floored sometimes by how many people follow their work, by how many people are willing to leave their real-life responsibilities behind just to gather in front of a hotel and wait for Eddie and his boys to show up and just wave at them. As aware as they are of their own success, there are times when the real magnitude of it hits them and it’s just… Holy shit indeed.

Their driver stops right in front of the building, so they can meet the fans. Chrissy gives them a couple of pens each, tells them to avoid any reporter that might have escaped the security check, then sends them on their way with words of encouragement, promising to meet them inside later.

The crowd was already screaming when the bus stopped, but when the doors open and Gareth, always the first one in these scenarios, steps out of it? It’s pure madness.

Eddie leaves the bus last, putting on his sunglasses and taking a deep breath before opening the best showman grin he can muster and joining his friends. By now, after such a long time together, they already have a system to deal with these fan meetings. They split, each one of them taking care of a section of the crowd so they can reach as many fans as possible.

This part is easy. With security right behind him, Eddie signs albums, magazines, posters, arms, a woman’s cleavage. He takes cellphones and snaps selfies with the fans, accepts gifts and thanks them for being there. Then he changes places with Frank and starts all over again.

Chrissy told them fifteen minutes, but with the number of fans there, it’s impossible to leave so quickly. It’s not fair to the fans; they’ve been waiting for them for God knows how long, they can’t just leave all those people to go back home with nothing after so much effort.

The security guard following him approaches Eddie a while later and tells him Chrissy is asking for them to go meet her in the lobby. That’s his cue to finish signing the last items and taking the last selfies with his fans.

He's signing yet another arm, this time a guy’s, when someone basically shoves a magazine in his face. Out of reflex, Eddie leans back, cursing.

“Eddie, your interview was so metal,” a woman, probably in her early 20s, says. She’s still extending the magazine towards Eddie, so he can sign it. “Harrington is a dumb bitch, and he can’t appreciate real music. You were right to say that shit about him.”

The other fans close to the woman yell their agreement, joining in and calling that Harrington guy some colorful names. That catches Eddie’s attention; Chrissy never mentioned if that interview he gave got published or not. Apparently, it had. And, apparently, they had included that last question about Harrington.

“You guys liked it that much, huh?” he asks, signing the woman’s magazine, then another one’s album.

More yells of agreement, more curses at Harrington’s name and his lame movies and shows. It’s kinda funny how these people can get feral about such silly things.

“Don’t let that idiot mock you again, Eddie,” another fan shouts. “Bitch thinks he’s so funny with that stunt he pulled this morning.”

Eddie has no idea what stunt they are talking about, so he just nods, smiles and finishes signing a few more items; he can ask Chrissy later. When the security guard approaches yet again, Eddie thanks the crowd for coming to meet him and finally follows the man into the hotel lobby. The silence there is a stark contrast to the madness outside; the only ones in the room are hotel employees or their band staff.

Jeff and Frank are already there talking to Chrissy at the front desk, while Gareth is still with the fans. Eddie joins his friends, waving at the receptionists and offering them a smile.

“All your things are already in your rooms,” Chrissy says. She hands a key card to each one of them. When Eddie tries to snatch his from her hands, though, she pulls it away and gives him a serious look. “For the love of God, Eddie, don’t destroy anything this time.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “It was an accident, Chriss, I told you that. There was a fucking cockroach in the bathroom.”

“Then call security and ask them to take care of it. I don’t wanna have to pay extra again because you broke a mirror and a shower box trying to kill a roach.”

“Fine, okay, gee. Stop talking about this.”

His friends, being the assholes they are, take the opportunity to mock Eddie all over again for the cockroach incident, before leaving to their rooms. Eddie curses at them as they go, not really caring that the hotel staff is probably gonna gossip about it as soon as he turns his back.

He keeps Chrissy company as they wait for Gareth. Luckly, they don’t have to wait too long; their friend soon shows up, with the last security guard following close behind. Chrissy gives Gareth his key card, then, and they can finally go to their rooms and sleep.

At least, that’s what Eddie is planning to do, as he takes the elevator with Chrissy and Gareth, the man talking non-stop about this fan that tried to kiss him right before he got inside the lobby.

“She pulled my hair so hard I think I lost some of it,” he chuckles, massaging the back of his head.

“Tell me security didn’t beat this woman up,” Chrissy sighs. “I just know there were reporters hiding in the crowd, and we really don’t need this kind of publicity right now.”

“Relax, Chriss, I got her to let go before anyone could do anything.”

It’s the mention of reporters that brings to Eddie’s mind the interview that fan was gushing about earlier.

“Hey, Chriss, did my interview get published?” he asks, as they exit the elevator and make their way down the hall. “The fans were talking about it, but you never told me anything.”

It’s really fast. If Eddie hadn’t been looking at Chrissy, he’d never have noticed it, but he was looking at her. The moment the question leaves his lips, Chrissy’s eyes widen the tiniest bit, and she bites the inside of her mouth, her hands curling into fists as her whole body goes rigid with tension. But it’s just for a second. All the tension and surprise are gone in the blink of an eye. Eddie, however, has been best friends with her long enough to know the telltale signs of Chrissy’s anxiety.

Eddie stops in the middle of the hallway, crossing his arms. “Chrissy, did they publish my interview?”

Beside her, Gareth clears his throat, so obviously avoiding Eddie’s gaze that his suspicions only get worse. “Well, I think I’m gonna let you guys—” he starts saying, only to be interrupted.

“Oh, no. You’re not going anywhere, mister. Don’t even think about it,” Chrissy reprimands, gripping Gareth’s wrist tightly and bringing him back to her side before he can escape to his room. She then turns to Eddie. “And I’m not having this conversation in the hallway, Eddie. Too many eyes and ears around for this.”

She basically drags Gareth by the arm the whole way to Eddie’s room, Eddie watching their interaction with a mix of wariness and curiosity. They are hiding something from him; there’s no way they aren’t. The question is what exactly it is that they are hiding to get that kind of reaction out of Gareth? And how does his freaking interview fit in all this?

Once they get inside Eddie’s room, and the door is safely locked, Chrissy lets Gareth go. The room is huge; there’s a living area, with nice leather couches, rugs and armchairs, a desk with a chair and lamp, and floor to ceiling windows to let in natural light. The bedroom and en-suite are separated from the living area by double-doors made of light wood. Usually, Eddie would spend a great deal of time snooping around and going through all the fan gifts their staff piled on the sitting area, along with his bags, but he’s too curious.

“Alright, now spill,” Eddie demands. He sits on the backrest of the couch as he watches his friends fidget awkwardly. “The hell are you two not telling me, huh?”

There’s a silent conversation happening between them as both Chrissy and Gareth exchange a look before joining him in the living area. Gareth takes the desk chair, while Chrissy opts to lean against the backrest beside Eddie. They are trying to look casual and nonchalant, but their posture is too stiff; they’re not fooling Eddie for a second there.

“So, the magazine published your interview,” she starts, voice careful.

“And?”

“And they may have used what you said about Harrington in a way that seemed as if you were responding directly to him,” Chrissy grimaces. “They cut out the part where you said you wouldn’t answer anything because there was no way of knowing if the rumors were true and just used the part where you said his opinion was irrelevant. Made it look like you were mocking Harrington back.”

The idea is so stupidly absurd that Eddie just sits there and waits for the moment Chrissy and Gareth are gonna start laughing at him for even considering it. Except that they don’t; they’re just looking anxiously at Eddie, as if bracing themselves for his reaction.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Eddie inquires, leaning his head a little to the side.

His confusion just seems to make his friends antsier; Gareth can’t stop fiddling with the hem of his shirt, Chrissy is once again biting the inside of her mouth.

“Yeah, we wish it was,” Gareth mourns. “The fans have been going nuts since yesterday because of this interview. I had to turn off my notifications because social media is, like, a war zone right now.”

“Our fans?”

“And Harrington’s too.”

Silence falls in the room, then; heavy, oppressive, like the final quiet moment before a storm breaks loose. Neither Chrissy nor Gareth dare to break it, but Eddie has no qualms about doing so.

“You’re telling me that those journalists straight out lied and distorted all I said in that interview and published it? And that both of you knew about this, all this time, but I had to find out through our fucking fans? Is that what you two are telling me?”

“You see,” Chrissy tries. “When you put it lik—”

“I am asking if that is what you’re telling me. This is a yes or no question, Chrissy, I’m not asking for explanations.”

“Come on, Eddie, don’t be a dick,” Gareth protests.

And Eddie can’t help himself; he laughs. “Oh, I’m being a dick, now?” he asks, getting up from the couch, hands pointing at himself as he steps closer to where Gareth is. “You two lied to me and I’m the dick. Did anyone already tell you to go fuck yourself today, Gareth? Because if no one did, consider it done, then. FUCK. YOU.”

“Eddie, stop,’ Chrissy calls, pulling the back of his shirt to get him off Gareth’s face. “You’re overreacting.”

It’s a good thing Eddie still has enough sense to remind himself it’s Chrissy there, because if it were any of the guys he’d have punched them square in the mouth. He does turn to face her, though, and pulls the fabric off her hands a little too forcefully.

“I am not overreacting, Chrissy,” he growls. “I am fucking pissed. You lied to me! All of you! Because the rest of the band knows too, right? Of course they know, and the staff knows, and the fucking fans know, Chrissy. The fans!! Everybody knew about this shit, except for me!”

“But it’s not as bad as you’re thinking. There was not much they could use, you didn’t give them a lot to work, so it was mostly the irrelevant thing, nothing else.”

“I don’t fucking care!” Eddie yells. “I don’t care if they had or didn’t have anything to work with because I didn’t even want to do that fucking interview to begin with. You made me do that, even though I told you time and time again to send someone else. And this fucking thing with Harrington is exactly why I never want to talk to those fucking assholes, Chrissy. It’s never an innocent interview; there’s always something else.”

“I know, Eddie, I know. But we still need to promote the tour if we want to keep it a success, we need those fucking assholes.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do! Social media can only get us so far. We need the mainstream media talking about the band so we can reach people outside our fanbase. And I know you hate them, believe me, I’m not fond of them either, but dealing with ill-intentioned reporters is a necessary evil in our jobs, you know that.”

Objectively? Yes, he does know, but he doesn’t have to like it. Eddie doesn’t have to like the fact that both his friends kept him in the dark about what was happening either. That is what makes the whole situation worse. Journalists taking his words out of context and using it to get clicks and sell magazines sucks ass, yes, but his friends being aware of what the press was doing and consciously keeping the information from him is what really stings.

A frustrated groan leaves Eddie’s lips as he paces. He can’t trust himself too close to his friends, so he walks to the other side of the room, kicking blindly the first thing that gets in his way; a standing lamp. He curses when the thing shatters against the floor, glass flying everywhere.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!!”

He needs to clean that up. No, he needs to call someone to clean that up. No, no, no, he needs to think. He needs answers. He turns to face Chrissy and Gareth and startles a little when he finds both of them closer to him than they were before, although still safely out of his reach.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? For how long you were planning on keeping me in the dark about this bullshit? Did everyone else in the band really know but me?”

“We were gonna tell you, man.” Gareth aims for reassuring but ends up sounding way too hesitant for that. “We just didn’t find the right time.”

Eddie glares at him. “Are you fucking with me? The right time was the moment you found out those jerks were using my name to publish lies.”

He sees the exact moment Chrissy decides she’s had enough. Her eyes are on fire as she steps around Gareth and crosses the rest of the room until she’s right in Eddie’s face. For someone almost a foot shorter than him, Chrissy does know how to be intimidating, Eddie will give her that.

“Wanna know why we didn’t tell you sooner? Because we know you. We knew you would get angry the moment you found out, we knew you would throw a fit and we couldn’t risk you saying something that would make the situation worse,” she says accusingly, pointing a manicured finger in Eddie’s face.

“Oh, so now it’s my fault my friends were lying to me?”

“Yes!” Chrissy yells, her cheeks red as she gets angrier and angrier. “We had a concert, and we didn’t have time to wait until you calmed down. We needed you on that stage and we did what we knew was best at the time. But if you want to be all mad at us, be my guest.”

“We wanted to tell you,” Gareth adds, in a rush. “But we couldn't. It was too close to the concert when we found out. We had no option.”

“Bullshit.” Eddie spits. Maybe he’s being a little unfair, he tends to do that when he’s hurt. That doesn’t change that fact that he’s fucking hurt and disappointed with his friends. All of them. So excuse him, but he’s going to be fucking unfair if he fucking wants to. “You know what? I think we’re done here. You did what you came here for, I already know about the article. Thank you, Chrissy, Gareth, for finally informing me. Now get the fuck out of my room.”

“Eddie—” Gareth tries to reach for him, but Eddie slaps his hand away.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he hisses. “I said we’re done. Get. Out.”

Gareth clearly wants to argue, to try and make Eddie understand their side of things, but Chrissy is way too smart to even bother with that.

“Let him be, Gare,” she says, her eyes never leaving Eddie as the words leave her mouth. “We’ll try again when he’s not throwing a tantrum anymore.”

Eddie gives them his back before he can say anything else he’s going to end up regretting later, and stomps towards the bedroom, slamming the double door behind him. Moments later, he hears the sitting room door click shut as his friends finally leave.

Letting himself fall to the floor, Eddie hugs his knees close to his chest and rests his head against them as he finally allows himself to take his first real breath since their fight started.

Chapter Text

After his little stunt, Steve gets four days of radio silence from Munson. Definitely not what he expected.

Corroded Coffin fans buy that shit immediately, the press goes nuts and there are articles everywhere; the picture of Steve wearing his mocking t-shirt is not only published by fan pages or gossip mags, but it makes it to the news too. The serious news, that usually only talks about politics and crime.

And, yet there’s nothing from Munson, or from any other member of his band.

It’s a little disappointing if he’s being honest. Everyone spent so long going on and on about how wild and unpredictable Munson was that Steve thought –hoped even— that the guy would use the opportunity to do or say something crazy in answer to his taunting; both their platforms would benefit from it, that’s for sure, and Steve would also have something entertaining to follow online to help keep his stress levels at bay.

Shooting has been getting more demanding as the weeks pass, Steve could really use the distraction to keep himself from going completely nuts.

“Why does he keep making that sour face?” Jonathan's trying to be sneaky by whispering his confusion to Nancy, but Nancy is, like, a foot away from Steve on the cafeteria table, so of course Steve fucking hears him.

The cafeteria isn't even crowded right now; there isn't much noise to muffle their conversation to begin with.

“He's mad because Munson still hasn't answered him,” Nancy whispers back.

“I am not mad!” Steve protests, slapping his hand down on the table. Their plates clink, drinks shake and almost spill in the process. Nancy and Jonathan startle a little, as if they haven't been obvious this whole time they were gossiping about him. “And I'm not making any sour face.”

Jonathan snorts, almost choking on his fries. “Dude, you are,” he coughs out, as Nancy pats his back. “You're frowning so deep your eyebrows are almost touching each other.”

“Yeah, Steve, you kinda are.”

Steve sometimes really misses the time the three of them weren't friends. The short period of time Steve was still bitter about Nancy moving on from their relationship too quickly and finding Jonathan. His life had been so much easier when he only had Robin and Dustin to gang up on him or mock him so openly.

He glares at his friends. “Shut up.”

Nancy and Jonathan share a look, but Steve ignores them. He takes a bite of his burger, munching quietly as he looks around the almost empty cafeteria to see if he can spot Robin anywhere. She should be here by now. She said she would be here by lunch time, but Steve's lunch break is almost over and Robin has yet to show her face.

“What's your deal with Munson, anyway?” Jonathan asks a while later, once he's done eating and is now nursing the last of his soda. “I thought you didn't know the guy.”

“I don't,” Steve shrugs. “And there's no deal. The press made up a lot of shit about us, so now I'm using it to my benefit.”

“They distorted that interview Steve gave a while ago, remember?” Nancy says. She grabs a napkin on the dispenser and starts cleaning the grease off her fingers. “Corroded Coffin fans got really upset, but their rage made Steve's name trend so he's been getting a lot of attention.”

“So, what, now you're taunting them on purpose just to get followers and shit?”

Steve nods. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“I honestly don’t know if you’re crazy, or if you’re a genius, Harrington.”

The astonishment on Jonathan's face is a bit comical; Steve can't help but laugh.

“They were gonna keep publishing lies about me anyway, I'm just controlling what they are publishing now. There's nothing crazy about that.”

And the more Steve thinks about the matter, the more convinced he gets that he made the right choice. He's been following the articles about him for the past days. No new lies have been made up; the press is too busy discussing Steve's stunt and spreading his pictures all over the internet and gossip mags. For now, everything is going just the way Steve wants.

Jonathan hums, nodding in understanding and seemingly satisfied with Steve’s answers. They finish off their food, then start the way back to the shooting location for the afternoon.

Luckly, they are shooting indoors scenes that afternoon, so the walk from the cafeteria to the studio is quick. A very good thing, since both Nancy and Steve are still in costume, and walking around in 19^th century clothes is a real bitch, especially under the late summer LA sun. Two minutes walking and Steve can already feel sweat sliding down his back and perspiration gathering on his forehead.

They are reaching the studio’s door when they hear someone yelling just behind them. When they turn, they find Robin running towards them, a clipboard hugged against her chest and her short light brown hair almost golden in the sunlight.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” she yells as she approaches.

Nancy chuckles, hand covering her mouth, while Steve and Jonathan just watch in amusement as Robin finally comes to a halt in front of them, panting and completely out of breath.

“Did someone die?” Steve asks.

Robin gives him an unimpressed look as she wipes her damp forehead with the back of her hand. “Very funny,” she says. “Keep being a smartass and I’m not gonna tell you what I just found out.”

“Do you need us to go—” Jonathan starts, gesturing towards the studio in a silent question if she and Steve need privacy, but Robin dismisses his worries.

“You’re cool, Byers, it’s not some top-secret info or anything.” She then turns to Steve, and he can see that spark of excitement his best friend always has in her eyes every time she’s about to tell him the best gossip. “Do you know why Munson has been radio silent for the past few days?” Robin pauses, to give emphasis to her next words, then continues, “Because, apparently, Corroded Coffin is fighting. Like, fighting bad, and I’ve been told that the fight has something to do with what the press is doing to you and Munson.”

That… is not what Steve was expecting to hear when Robin told him she had something very important to discuss with him.

If fact, it’s so out of what he was expecting that Steve’s only reaction is to stare dumbly at Robin, his brain making a great deal of effort to make sense of her words.

“You know what, I think we should go,” Nancy says, breaking the sudden silence. She doesn’t wait for an answer, just grabs Jonathan’s wrists and drags her fiancé into the studio to give Robin and Steve space to discuss the Munson matter alone, despite Robin’s previous reassurances that it wasn’t necessary.

Smart woman.

“Okay, this is the time that you laugh and say something like, ‘no, shit, Robin!’,” his best friend says, her voice a very poor imitation of his own. She hugs her clipboard closer to her chest, eyebrows deepening in confusion. “You’re scaring me here, Dingus.”

“Oh my god! Is this my fault?” Steve finally exclaims, his stomach dropping to his feet and guilt blooming in his chest with a ferocity that leaves him breathless.

He didn’t mean to cause any real trouble. Steve just wanted to mess with those nosy pricks that had been making things up about him, and maybe benefit from it a little if he could. Causing a fight was never his intention.

His panic must be showing on his face, because Robin is quick to get to his side.

“No, Steve, this has nothing to do with what you did,” she assures, squeezing his arm.

“But you said—”

“Look, the person I spoke to didn’t know all the details of what exactly Corroded Coffin is fighting about. But they said that their source overheard part of what happened between Munson and Cunningham, and it sounded like he was pissed because she lied to him about this thing the press has been doing to you two.”

The new information confuses Steve more than it reassures him. Sources? Since when does Robin have informants?

“How?” he asks, lost. “Who are you even talking to, Robin? How did you find this out?”

“What, you think only the press knows how to dig shit up?” Robin scoffs. “Please, I know a lot of people in this business, Harrington, I know where to look and how to sweettalk people until they give me the info I want. I’m a little offended with your lack of faith in me.”

“You know that’s not it,” he groans, massaging his temples in a useless attempt to clear his head.

Damn, Robin’s gonna give him a headache really soon. Or maybe it’s just the scalding California sun making him airheaded.

Steve huffs out an exasperated breath and pulls his best friend with him when he makes his way inside the studio, only stopping when he finds an empty corner where they can talk without being overheard.

“Please, be kind to me and make me understand what the fuck you’re talking about,” he says. Robin opens her mouth to speak, so Steve adds quickly, “From the beginning.”

“Fine. Remember how I told you that if your little stunt didn’t work out, you’d have to personally apologize to Munson?” Steve nods in agreement. “I never told you this, but I did ask Jonathan for Cunningham’s number. I wanted to be able to talk to her first if the worst happened, you know. This way I could test the waters and find out if Munson was angry about this whole mess or not. Well, you did your thing, the press did theirs, but days passed and there was nothing coming from Munson, or Corroded Coffin, and this felt off, you know, so I called Cuningham.”

“You did?”

“Yep. She didn’t answer, though, so I tried contacting their label, but they informed me that Cunningham and Corroded Coffin weren’t taking calls from anyone except for the people working on their tour.”

That doesn’t make any sense.

“Yeah, I know,” Robin says, as if reading Steve’s mind. “Doesn’t make sense, right? I thought so too, so I started digging deeper. I tracked down the cities they last performed in, until the receptionist from their hotel in Phoenix told me about the fight. She told me Munson’s hotel room was a mess when they left, they paid a lot of extra fees for the destruction.”

“But how do you know this has nothing to do with me taunting Munson?” Steve asks. He’s trying to follow Robin’s logic there, but she’s just giving him more reason to feel guilty.

“Because it was early when you arrived at the shooting location that morning, yeah? The paparazzi and the fans went crazy, and before lunch your pictures were already all over the press and the internet. But!” Robin’s smiling all toothy now, and her eyes are sparkling, and Steve honestly doesn’t know if her clear enthusiasm about the matter is something good or not. “The receptionist told me Corroded Coffin arrived way past noon. They talked to the fans that were waiting for them outside, took pictures, the whole deal, and Munson was acting normal the whole time. She said she saw Munson joking with his friends while Cunnigham was taking care of things at the front desk. If he had been pissed about what you did, there’s no way he’d be friendly with anyone. That man has a temper, everybody knows it. Whatever caused their fight happened after they got to the hotel, so it’s very, very unlikely it has anything to do with you specifically.”

A stranger would never be able to follow the non-stop babbling, but after almost fifteen years of friendship, Steve is more than used to Robin’s frequent info dumps.

The tight ball of guilt in his chest finally eases, and he finds himself capable of breathing again.

“What do we do, then? If Corroded Coffin really is fighting, I doubt Munson’s gonna give my taunting any mind. It’s been four days already, if he was gonna answer me, he’d have done it already.”

Their conversation is briefly interrupted by someone yelling Steve’s name. They look around the studio, until they finally find Nancy, gesticulating wildly to make herself seen in the middle of the crowd of crew members and fellow actors. She points out the director that’s making his way inside the building with his assistants following close behind,

Damn it, couldn’t that guy wait a few more minutes until Steve and Robin were done talking? They’re discussing something serious here, for fuck’s sake.

“Look, I know this sounds messy and not exactly how we thought this whole thing would go, but maybe Munson not replying to you is not a bad thing,” Robin says.

She hands Steve her clipboard, and suddenly Steve finds himself trying to make sense off a bunch of graphics and numbers on a dozen sheets of paper.

“What exactly am I looking at?” he inquires, a little lost.

“I asked the annalists in your agency to make these graphics with all the data from your social medias, and from official media outlets,” Robin explains. She flips a couple of pages, then taps her finger down on the paper to show Steve a particular graphic. “This here is how much your personal page has grown since this whole thing with Munson started. You doubled your platform in a matter of weeks.” She flips another page, points out another graphic. “This here, is the number of times your name has been mentioned in any kind of media. Here the growth is even bigger; you usually only make it to the entertainment pages, but now regular news pages are writing about you and Munson, so your name is reaching a much bigger audience.”

That can’t be right. The graphic says his name has been mentioned over six hundred times in the past week alone, and that’s just ridiculous… right?

“This can’t be right, Robin,” Steve mumbles, squinting at the page as if it would somehow change the number on the page for something more reasonable. “There’s no way this many articles have been written about this shit.”

“It is right, though,” she insists. “The annalists triple-checked everything. I can send you the detailed report if you want to see it for yourself. But what I mean by all this is, even if Munson doesn’t answer you and this eventually dies down, your idea already worked, Steve. Your name is being mentioned not only in the industry, but outside it too. Just this morning, I got two calls from two different studios asking if you’d be interested in auditioning for a role in their movies; one’s a thriller, the second one is a drama.”

It's funny how life’s full of surprises, isn’t it? Because what Robin’s telling him is exactly what Steve had in mind when he came up with the idea of publicly taunting Munson and having fun with the press chaos that would come with it. And, yet, now that it’s happening the only thing Steve feels is this underwhelming sense of achievement, that doesn’t even feel like an achievement at all.

Is this really all that it takes to get what he wants? One stupid t-shirt mocking a rockstar, and suddenly Steve’s the man of the hour, and the studios that have spent years demeaning his acting skills now think he’s actually a good enough actor to star their movies? Seriously?

“Why are you making that face?” Robin asks, clearly concerned as she takes her clipboard back. “I thought you’d like this. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

It is. But it isn’t. Not completely. But how can he explain it to Robin when he can’t fully grasp it himself either?

“It is,” he says instead. “I was just surprised, I guess. I didn’t think it would be so easy.”

She doesn’t believe it, but she also doesn’t try to pry. That’s the good side of having your soulmate and best friend working alongside you every day; they know you so well that they know when questions are welcome and when they’re not.

“Harrington! We start in ten minutes!” the director calls suddenly, using a goddamn megaphone, and not only interrupting their conversation but also making everyone in the studio look at them.

Steve hates that fucking asshole so much. He hates him, and his megaphone, and that stupid beret he thinks it makes him look cool but just makes him look even more like an asshole.

“I’m coming!!” Steve yells back, before turning to face Robin once again. “Can you leave these graphics in my trailer? I wanna take a look on them later tonight.”

“Sure, I made these copies for you anyways.” Robin starts to walk out of the studio but seems to think better of it and comes back. “Look, this doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Maybe it’s even better this way, you know. There’s no way we could be sure Munson would take it as a joke.”

Yeah, having your best friend around really is an amazing thing.

Before Robin can sneak away, Steve throws an arm over her shoulders and brings her closer in a side hug as he gives her a loud kiss on her hair. Her screech of surprise is just priceless.

“Thanks for your hard work, Robs, and for taking care of all this shit for me. I’m lucky to have you.”

“Get off, Harrington,” Robin cries, struggling to escape his hold. “Stop being weird.” When she finally manages to worm her way out, though, she’s smiling. “But good to know you recognize how lost you’d be without me.”

“HARRINGTON!!” the director screams in his megaphone again.

“For fuck’s sake, I SAID I’M COMING!!”

Robin laughs, patting his head in mocking solidarity. “Good luck spending the next five hours with this incredible guy; I really envy you right now.”

She gets out of there before Steve can cuss at her.

-

-

The four days after their fight is one hell of an experience.

Their concert in Phoenix is a disaster because Eddie refuses to talk to his friends, so they are completely lost when he decides to change their setlist on a whim, adding two songs they never rehearsed just to be difficult.

“Are you trying to fuck our tour, Munson?” Chrissy snaps at him when he goes back to his changing room.

The smile he gives her is syrupy sweet, but his voice is cold when he says, “Not your tour, Chrissy, you’re not part of the band. Know your place, manager.”

He’s being a jerk, he knows it. Chrissy is just as much part of the band as any of them, but Eddie still feels her betrayal deep in his core every time he looks at her, and he’s never been good when it comes to dealing with his emotions when he feels like shit. Add to that the fact that he’s barely slept since they fought and you have a recipe for disaster. Eddie feels like a time-bomb, just waiting to blow everything up.

They leave their hotel in Phoenix after paying some thousand dollars to cover all the damage Eddie’s done to his room. Money well spent, in his opinion. He felt a lot better after breaking every single breakable object in that hotel room, so he doesn’t regret it one bit.

Their bus ride to Las Vegas is so fucking fun.

Chrissy won’t even look at him anymore, the guys are too afraid of both of them to even say anything, so they just let them be. Such an amazing atmosphere when you’ll have to spend the next several hours stuck together in a bus, with no way out.

They’re supposed to stay in Las Vegas for a while longer than usual. They have two concerts in the city, plus a bunch of other stuff to do there, from photoshoots to interviews on radio shows. Their schedule is packed, and they aren’t talking and Eddie knows this is gonna be a shitshow if nothing changes soon.

But he refuses to be the first one to apologize.

After four days mulling over what happened, Eddie would be lying if he said he couldn’t see reason behind Chrissy’s actions. She’s their manager, her job is to make sure everything goes smoothly so they can focus only on their music, and she’s pretty fucking great in what she does. The best, honestly. But she’s also Eddie’s best friend, and that’s exactly why it hurt so much when he found out she had been keeping things from him.

People were talking about Eddie behind his back, the press was making things up and publishing lies, and Chrissy’s first instinct was to hide everything from him to keep Eddie from doing something that could jeopardize the band. She acted like a manager, when all Eddie wanted was for her to act like his friend.

As a result, Eddie acted exactly how she thought he would, like an angry child throwing a fit. And isn’t it fucked up? How Eddie just proved Chrissy right by reacting like he did, but still can’t find in himself enough humility to admit that she had had her reasons to do what she did, even if she hurt his feelings in the process?

And more importantly, how do you move on from this kind of fight, where everyone is right, but everyone is also wrong at the same time? How do you move on from this kind of fight when both parties are so fucking stubborn that neither one wants to be the first one to admit their own fault?

By having very good friends to knock some sense into you, that’s how.

It’s their second night in Las Vegas, when Jeff just stomps into Eddie’s hotel room without warning, and without even knocking on the door first.

They just came back from the photoshoot scheduled for that day, and Eddie is in his boxers, relaxing in his comfortable armchair, drinking some whiskey and considering if he still has enough energy to go out and hit some bars that night. He’s spent the last few days holed up in his hotel room, getting wasted and moping, so of course he’s feeling restless. He’s also tired as fuck since he’s not been sleeping well, so getting out might be too strenuous for him right now.

Eddie’s mentally debating his choices, when Jeff shows up, slamming the door behind him.

“The fuck you doing here?” Eddie growls out, a twinge of annoyance already making his eye tick.

But Jeff is having none of his bullshit, apparently, because he pretends not to hear Eddie’s snappy words and flops down on the armchair beside him, then pours himself some whiskey too.

“Hey!”

“Shut up, Eddie, for the love of God,” Jeff says, draining the whiskey in one go before pouring some more. Only then does he finally face Eddie. He doesn’t seem mad, just exhausted, the bags under his eyes deeper than Eddie’s ever seen. “Here’s the thing, you’re acting like a dick, and this needs to stop.”

“Who the fuck do you thin—”

“Nope, quit that,” Jeff cuts him off, points a finger so close to Eddie’s face that he goes a little cross-eyed for a moment there. “That right there is exactly why Chrissy hides things from you, and you know that. You’re a fucking asshole, Eddie, and you overreact for the smallest of things.”

Anger flares inside Eddie’s chest, makes his blood boil and his face burn. He slaps Jeff’s hand away hard enough to make a loud noise that cut through the otherwise silent room.

“I’m an asshole because I hate when people lie to my fucking face?” he spits out, fuming as he puts his glass down on the side table hard enough to crack the bottom of it. “Chrissy lied to me. She knew everyone was spewing shit about me and deliberately kept me in the dark. You all did, you traitors. Kept acting like everything was cool and normal, when the press was publishing lots and lots of shit about me.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jeff concedes, hissing when the strong whiskey burns down his throat. He shakes his head slightly, scrunches his nose a little in disgust. Jeff never liked hard liquor very much, he’s always been a beer type of guy since their high school days. “And it was a fucked-up thing to do, but it was what we thought was best. Doesn’t make it any less fucked up, though, so I think you have some reason to be angry at us.”

The admission disarms Eddie completely, throws him off the loop because it’s the complete opposite from what he thought Jeff would say. He expected way more accusations and judgements, and definitely not that; Jeff admitting they had been wrong and that Eddie’s anger is justified. The list of comebacks he’s been carefully building in his head for the past days becomes completely useless.

“Are you pulling some kind of reverse psychology on me?” he asks, squinting his eyes in suspicion and searching his friend’s face for any traces that he’s trying to trick Eddie somehow. He finds none, but that’s not enough to kill his distrust.

Jeff rolls his eyes, as he kicks his foot up and rests it on the coffee table. “This shit would never work on you, you’re too stubborn,” he huffs out. “And that’s exactly why I’m here, because I know neither you, nor Chrissy, will ever be the ones to take the first step and talk things over, and I’m fucking tired, Eddie.”

“So, what? You doing her dirty work now, Jeff?” Eddie snickered. “Kissing mama’s ass so she’ll like you better? Thought you had stopped trying to get into her pants when she came out to us in high school.”

The glare he gets in response would make a lesser man tremble. Eddie, however, merely crosses his arms over his chest, nose up in a silent, undeniable challenge.

Jeff’s anger doesn’t last.

“I know what you’re doing, and I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction of making me snap at you,” Jeff ends up saying, deflating. He eyes his empty glass for a second, then decides to put it on the coffee table.

“Coward.”

“You call cowardice, I call maturity, but it’s okay. I get it. It’s hard to recognize something you’ve never experienced before.”

Eddie, it turns out, has a lot more self-control than people give him credit for. Because he doesn’t throw his whiskey glass on the wall, nor does he kick the bottle that pretty fucking close to where his foot is. He doesn’t even try to get into a real fight with Jeff, like he would probably have done a few nights ago.

Instead, he grits his teeth until pain starts to irradiate from his jaw and mentally counts to ten. In all honesty, it’s a real testament of how much he’s improved as a person over the years.

“If you’re done, you can leave now,” Eddie forces out, barely opening his mouth as he does so.

Jeff is not even fazed. “Oh, but I’m not done. You’re gonna listen to what I have to say, Munson.” With a sigh, he pulls his foot off the coffee table so he can perch himself on the backrest of his armchair and face Eddie fully. Eddie’s eyes follow him the whole time. “I’m not doing Chrissy’s dirty work because she has no idea I’m here right now. I just want this stupid fight to end, it’s fucking our band up, man.”

“You should’ve thought about that when you decided to lie to me.”

“Fuck, I know, alright? I fucking know that!” Jeff exclaims, his hand running over his face and rubbing his eyes in that same familiar gesture he’s used to do when he’s about to have a headache. “We were wrong to keep things from you; we should have told you about the interview, yes, but can you maybe put yourself in our position for just a second? We were running late for our rehearsal, you took ages to get to the venue that day, and then we find out something that we knew would make you very fucking angry. We had to choose between a bad option and a terrible one, man, there was no right answer to our problem.”

Eddie would be lying if he said hearing those words has no impact at all on him. It does. In a way, it’s what he’s been waiting for all this time; for one of his friends to admit they messed up. Still, it doesn’t make Eddie’s disappointment go away; eases his hurt the tiniest bit, but the hurt is still very much there.

This situation fucking sucks.

“Look,” Jeff continues, when Eddie shows no intention of saying anything. “I’m not asking you to forget what we did, okay? I’m just asking you to be a little more cooperative with us when we’re dealing with band stuff. I know you’re hurt, and you have a right to be, but I also know how fucking hard all of us worked to get the band this far, and we can’t let our disagreements destroy something we worked our asses off to build.”

The worst thing about the whole situation is that, rationally, Eddie agrees with Jeff. He knows he can’t let years of hard work go to waste because his feelings are hurt and he’s not talking to his best friend. He knows he’s got responsibilities, and that he needs to be professional; that they have a lot of people who work for them and depend on them and have nothing to do with their drama.

Eddie knows all that, but when it comes to admitting all that aloud, the words seem stuck in his throat.

“I can’t promise you anything,” he mutters, pursing his lips.

“I’m not asking you to,” Jeff shrugs. “If I get you to at least think about this, I’ll consider it a win.”

The silence that falls between them lacks the tension from before. It’s lighter, not exactly easy, but much better than it has been for the past few days and it seems to be enough for Jeff.

He sticks around just long enough to squeeze Eddie’s shoulder, then leaves without saying a single word more.

Eddie grabs his whiskey and takes a drink straight from the bottle as he stares fixatedly at the closed door from where Jeff just left. Seems like he’s not gonna hit those bars after all; he’s got a lot of things to think about.

-

-

The next day, Eddie catches everyone by surprise by showing up early at the hotel restaurant.

All their staff are already there, having breakfast. Chrissy, Jeff and Gareth are sharing a table close to the window, chatting and eating, while Frank is by the buffet table drowning in syrup what looks like a tower of pancakes on his plate.

The chatter in the restaurant dies down once Eddie steps in, but he gives them no mind as he makes his way to the table their bandmates are.

He can’t say Chrissy’s surprised face isn’t a little funny.

“What time do we have to leave for the interview today?” Eddie asks, without smiles or pleasantries, but holding back the snark too.

Gareth almost chokes on his bacon. Jeff, however, gives him the smallest nod of approval. Eddie also gives him no mind because he doesn’t need anyone else’s approval.

“Interview starts at eleven, so we leave nine thirty,” Chrissy answers, slow and careful, her blue eyes measuring and laser-focused on Eddie, as if just waiting for him to do something harsh.

She’s in for a surprise, then.

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

Eddie doesn’t wait for a response. He leaves his bandmates and Chrissy to their breakfast and takes a look at the buffet table. It’s barely even eight in the morning; just the thought of eating anything this early is enough to make Eddie’s stomach turn. He asks the barista for a cup of coffee, then gets out of there. Eddie has a little over one hour to fully wake up and make himself presentable if he wants to be on time for their interview.

After a whole night playing his conversation with Jeff over and over in his head, Eddie’s forced to admit to himself that his friend has a point; they worked too fucking hard to waste everything over one fight.

He can put his feelings aside for a while and be professional about it. He can, even if most people don’t believe it, and Eddie’s gonna prove all of them wrong.

-

-

The interview is alright. All questions were approved by Chrissy before they even got there, so the radio host focuses on their tour and the perspective of a new album; there are no personal questions and no mentions to anything that doesn’t concern their music.

When they are done, Chrissy stays behind to deal with whatever it is that she has to with the radio staff, while Eddie and the guys go talk to their fans outside. There are a lot of fans, and their security team has a hard time containing the crowd, but no one is hurt and they all get into the van half an hour later in one piece.

The usual ruckus they make when in those car rides is absent this time. Jeff is giving Eddie space, Chrissy is still trying to decide what to do with Eddie’s oddly cooperative behavior, while Gareth and Frank peer at them like lost ducklings waiting for their mama to tell them what to do. It’s not ideal, but it’s an improvement to the dead, charged silence from before.

When they get back to the hotel, Eddie goes straight to his room to nap, setting the alarm on his phone so he doesn’t end up oversleeping. At four, he’s already down in the lobby, waiting for the rest of the band so they can go check out the sound system at the venue they’re playing that night.

It’s all very… boring. Go to interviews, check out the sound system, rehearsals; Eddie only ever endured all that because he was with his friends, joking around and being silly together, so doing all this shit while they are still fighting drains all the fun out of the whole process. It’s too stiff, feels too much like work.

But Eddie does it anyway, because he’s being professional there. So they check out the equipment, practice, go over their setlist again to make sure there’s no surprise songs this time around. The guys even entertain Eddie’s stunt from their last concert and agree on adding the songs he forced them to play that other night.

Practice comes to an end a few minutes later, a little past six. The sun has yet to set, and the Las Vegas heat is still stifling, ruthless. Eddie is dripping with sweat, his hair is all sticky and plastered to his neck and back, but he’s satisfied with how their setlist sounds now. He’s sure their crowd here will go insane tonight with the new songs.

When Eddie turns to fetch his guitar case, however, he stops on his tracks for a second.

Chrissy is right there by the speakers on the left side of the stage, where Eddie had stashed his guitar case before they started practicing. She’s talking to someone from the venue, but she has a clean towel in one hand and a water bottle in another.

The conversation ends once Eddie gets closer, the woman Chrissy’s been talking too smiles at Eddie politely before rounding Frank’s drums and disappearing through the partition that separates the stage from the changing rooms and back area. And, suddenly, they’re alone for the first time in days. Or at least as alone as they can be on a corner of the stage, while a dozen staff members are setting up everything for the concert that night and the rest of the band watches them from the other end of the place.

Chrissy’s face is as neutral as it could be, not a single muscle betraying her thoughts or true feelings. She does, however, extend the towel and the water to Eddie, and he sees right away what the gesture means; not an apology, but an olive branch. Chrissy’s way of saying that if Eddie can be mature and do his job, even after the sharp words and the accusations they exchanged, so can she.

After a moment of consideration, Eddie reaches out and accepts her offer.

“There’s something I need to discuss with you,” she says, all polite and proper and so not Eddie’s Chrissy that it makes his teeth hurt.

But Eddie says nothing. He takes his time drying off the sweat from his face and neck, until he doesn’t feel so disgusting anymore, then downs half the water in one go. The cool water is a fucking blessing to his parched throat; he drains the rest of the bottle just as quickly.

“What about?” Eddie asks, as he bends down to pick up the guitar case and place his baby safely inside.

Chrissy waits until he’s done to answer, “I’m gonna assume you haven’t looked at your social media yet,” she says, as she pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Because knowing you, you’d have done or said something already if you had.”

His curiosity is picked instantly. He closes the case; the locks snapping closed with a metallic snap. “Should I have looked?”

“Actually, yes, if you want to be prepared for tomorrow afternoon interview.” Chrissy says, as she types on her phone. “The radio host refused to hand me the questions he’s gonna be asking you, so I have no idea what you should expect there. That being said, you probably should be aware of this, because he might say something about it.”

Without saying much else, Chrissy hands him her phone, and suddenly Eddie finds himself looking at a picture of a gorgeous man. Tanned skin, a sprinkle of moles dotting his beautiful face, neck and arms, perfect styled hair and a smile to die for. This guy might be one of the most beautiful men Eddie has ever seen in his life, and Eddie has seen his fare share of beautiful men.

“Damn, he’s hot,” he mutters, zooming in the picture so he can get a better look at the guy’s face, then down his body. The tight-fitting t-shirt and jeans leave very little to the imagination.

“What?” Chrissy sputters, disconcerted. “That’s not—Eddie, that’s not why I’m showing you this, can you focus?”

“I am focusing.” Eddie’s totally focused, alright. Dear Lord, those jeans are sinful.

He’s completely lost in his own head, looking at that beautiful creature, when Chrissy says, “Please, tell me you at least know who this person is.”

His eyes reluctantly leave the phone in his hands to stare blankly at Chrissy, letting her know that Eddie has no fucking clue of what she’s talking about.

Chrissy takes a very deep breath, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose and eyes closed. “Sometimes I forget how chronically offline you are,” she groans, before she taps a blood red fingernail on her phone screen. “This is Steve Harrington, Eddie. The guy the press keeps trying to frame as your rival, or whatever. The day we arrived in Phoenix, he was spotted wearing this shirt that kind of mocks what the press published in your interview. This picture has been all over the internet and the press since then, I’m actually surprised you didn’t see it sooner.”

There’s an awful lot to unpack right there. The mention of Phoenix still leaves a bitter taste in Eddie’s mouth, but he ignores it for the time being to focus on more pressing matters. Like the hot guy who’s apparently the person the press claims is saying shit about him, and, more importantly, the shirt.

If Chrissy hadn’t mentioned it, Eddie wouldn’t even have noticed, too busy ogling the man to pay attention to anything else. But now Eddie can’t stop looking. Right there, in bright red letters over Harrington’s chest, the black T-shirt says, ‘Don’t mind me, my opinion is irrelevant’.

He can feel Chrissy’s eyes fixed on him, waiting for his reaction, but Eddie’s first instinct is to just look. He takes in the picture, Chrissy’s explanation casting a new light over it and giving it a brand-new meaning. And then Eddie can’t hold it anymore, he laughs. A surprised, delighted snort, that almost makes him choke on his own spit.

“Oh my god, this is amazing,” he says, snorts turning into cackles as Eddie doubles over and leans into his guitar case for support. He peers at Chrissy, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Is this the only one or…”

“No, swipe left. There are a few more.”

Eddie does. Swipes his finger on the screen just to be treated to a collection of candids, probably taken by paps somewhere close to the beach, of Harrington in his tight black T-shirt. There are some of him with fans, some of him walking towards a crowd, some of him just waving at the camera and smiling wide and pretty.

“Man, I fucking love this,” Eddie says. There are tears in his eyes from all the laughter, and he uses the towel over his shoulder to wipe his face once again, a few chuckles still slipping past his lips. “He really doesn’t give a single shit about any of this.”

“That’s not the reaction I was expecting,” Chrissy says, brows pinched together and expression troubled.

“What, wanted me to get mad?” Eddie asks, voice dry and nose scrunched. Chrissy purses her lips, displeasure all over her face even if she doesn’t grant an answer to Eddie’s taunt.

It occurs to him then that he and Chrissy are still fighting. The surprise brought by Harrington’s funny pictures made him forget all about it for a while there, but now the reality of their situation comes back like a bucket of icy water.

It sobers Eddie up. He clears his throat, handing the phone back to Chrissy.

“Why are you showing me this, anyway?” He asks.

“Because it’s been four days of madness since Harrington pulled that stunt, and there’s been no answer to it from us, or from you,” she says, the professionalism back in her voice in full force. “There’s no way the radio host is gonna ignore it, especially since he was adamant about me not having access to the topics he’s planning to discuss in the interview. I’m just giving you a heads up, so you’re aware of what’s going on.”

‘Yeah, you should have done that in Phoenix too,’ the thought comes automatically. It brings a grimace to Eddie’s face, but he manages to keep it locked in the safety of his own mind, instead of throwing another accusation in Chrissy’s face.

And people still believe Eddie has no self-control. Laughable.

“Noted.” He says, as he finally picks up the guitar case so he can go back to the changing room. “Was that all?”

“Yes, that’s all,” Chrissy nods curtly.

“Alright. Since you’re being considerate enough to give me a heads up, I’m gonna be considerate too and give you a heads up. You said the internet and the press have been going crazy about Harrington’s mockery, and about how I’ve still not answered it. Well, they’re getting their answer tonight.”

Eddie still has time to see the blood disappear from Chrissy’s face before he starts heading backstage.

“Eddie! What the hell are you gonna do?” She calls out. She doesn’t follow him, though, so Eddie turns just enough to look at Chrissy over his shoulder.

“Nothing too harsh, relax,” he says, flashing a mocking smile at her. “But if Harrington gets to be a little shit about this whole thing, so can I. Don’t wanna let that pretty boy down, he deserves a proper answer.”

And he means it.

So Harrington thinks he’s funny, right? Acting like a brat and making fun of the press like that. It’s impressive, really, Eddie kinda respects that because it certainly takes some guts to pull that kind of shit so openly. He doesn’t know what Harrington’s intentions are to be doing it; he doesn’t know if the guy is really pissed, or if he just doesn’t fucking care, but, well, Eddie can’t let Harrington have all the fun by himself.

The game is on, and Eddie can’t wait to join it.