Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steve hadn’t really believed Eddie when he said he was going to woo him. But man, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Eddie starts almost immediately. He gives Steve just one night to brace himself: leaves him with a lingering brush over his knuckles and a glance so heavy it follows him into his dreams. Steve spends the entire night turning over every interaction they’ve ever had, looking for clues he missed.

His crush on Eddie is still too new, honestly. He isn’t even sure if Eddie’s I’m fond of you shit is genuine, and how long Eddie’s been carrying this for him. For Steve, it’s only been a few weeks since the mess in his head suddenly clicked into place and spelled Eddie.

During the whole Vecna-end-of-the-world nightmare, Steve never let himself think about him. He’d been disciplined, laser-focused on saving whoever he could. And it worked, sort of. Eddie was still hated across Hawkins, Max would never walk properly again, and everyone carried scars inside and out. But they survived. No funerals this time (well, except Chrissy’s, Fred’s, and… yeah). Still, by their standards, it was a miracle. Hopper even came back from the dead. Their win-loss ratio had never looked so good.

When things settled, Eddie just… stayed. He became this constant presence, persistent and oddly comforting to Steve. He even came out to them in a way that made Robin and Steve weirdly nostalgic- slumped on a bathroom floor, reeking of puke and sweat, mumbling the words drunkenly. Robin had assured him that it was okay, that she was too, and Steve had stayed supportive, not quite sure what to do-

Steve didn’t know what to do with any of it, to be honest. Sure, Eddie was gay. Robin was a lesbian. And him, well, he was bi, even if no one else knew at that time (well, except Jonathan and Billy, odd little group of people). It was like its own secret club in his head.

They fell into a rhythm. Family Video shifts, Friday night movies after band practice and D&D, study sessions where Robin wrangled Eddie’s math and Nancy helped with his English. Steve tagged along for basketball games, babysitting shifts, and late-night burger runs in Eddie’s van. Weeks blurred together in this weird, messy, happy routine.

And then, two things happened when Robin, Nancy and Eddie finally graduated:

1. His terrible, very schoolgirl crush on Eddie

It hit him one day when Eddie dropped by Family Video while Robin was off. He spent hours loudly trashing movies he hadn’t even seen and pocketing the free candy from the counter, and Steve realized midway through one of his extra-dramatics critics of the educational system in Hawkins High that he very much would like to kiss his pink and plush lips, just to shup him up for a second.

Then he noticed the toned arms, the tattoos, the curls he wanted to sink his hands into, and- oh. Oh. He almost gasped out loud when he realized just how badly he wanted him.

Cue one sleepless night staring at the ceiling and a chewing-out from Keith the next morning for messing up simple rentals.

2. Eddie and Robin were excluding him

This one came too late. Maybe it was Steve forcing himself to deny it, acting like he didn’t notice, or maybe he genuinely was more oblivious than he thought, but when he noticed it, it was impossible to ignore.

They would talk in hushed whispers. Meet up without him. Lie to his face. Sometimes, Eddie would come to pick up Robin, and they would be oh so sweet and gentle with Steve, promising him that they’d get together the following week, or day, or month, and Steve would nod and tell them no problem guys, have fun.

Except they never fucking did get together afterwards.

And the moments would pill up. Making fun of him, excluding him from conversations because they were just so sure he was straight. It wasn’t like they meant to be cruel. Steve knew he looked the part: the clothes, the Top 40 tapes, the long string of girlfriends. He’d never given them reason to think otherwise.

But it still stung. Worse when it got sharper, when their jokes landed just a little too hard, when they brushed off his opinions like they were worthless: because in their heads, he was just the dumb straight friend.

So he blew up. Told them to fuck off, spent the night regretting everything, and spilled over his weird affair with one Billy Hargrove to Robin the following day.

And now, Eddie was wooing him.

Chapter Text

It starts right on Thursday.

Steve is yanked out of sleep by heavy knocking on his front door- 7:30 in the morning, a solid half hour before his alarm usually goes off. He shuffles downstairs, bleary-eyed, and of fucking course he finds Eddie, standing on his doorstep. He looks wrecked, dark circles under his eyes, clutching a crumpled paper bag.

“Rise and shine,” Eddie says, though he looks like he hasn’t closed his eyes all night.  

Steve suddenly feels absurdly self-conscious, his hair mashed flat against the back of his head, wearing the ridiculous pinkish pajamas Robin got him last Christmas. (She has the exact same pair, but in purple blue; they’d thought it was funny. Now, not so much.)

“Uh,” Steve manages.

Eddie thrusts the bag at him. “Breakfast. Bon appétit.”

And before Steve can even peek inside, Eddie’s already striding back to his van, climbing in and peeling away like delivering fast food at dawn is a perfectly normal thing to do.

That morning is just the slow start of a very intentional and very non-subtle wooing campaign from Eddie Munson. Steve knows what he’s signed up for: he’s seen Eddie at full volume before, all long limbs and righteous speeches, standing on cafeteria tables and railing against the system. Back then, Eddie’s fire had been aimed right at him- the jocks, the kings of Hawkins High.

But Eddie doesn’t do things halfway, not when he’s sure of himself. When he knows basketball is bullshit, he says it. When he knows bullies are pussies, he says that too.

And now, when he knows his flirting won’t be met with a fist or worse, he’s all in; dramatic, relentless, Eddie.

He drops into Family Video almost daily, lingering around the counter, flirting shamelessly whenever there aren’t any customers wandering in earshot. Robin witnesses it all, jaw slack the first time Eddie calls Steve baby while sliding him a pack of Twizzlers like it’s contraband.

The wooing doesn’t stop at the store, either.

Steve’s phone rings late at night, Eddie’s voice spilling through the receiver: How was your day? Need me to grab Dustin tomorrow? Want me to swing by with food, drinks, smokes? Steve says no to almost everything, but the fact that he could say yes, that he has someone to lean on if he wants, is new. Relaxing. Maybe even a little dangerous.

Barely a week into their so-called agreement for Eddie to romance the fuck out of him, Steve is slouched behind the counter of Family Video, bored enough to flip through some dog-eared magazine Robin left lying around. It’s barely more entertaining than just staring out in the distance.

“Your knight’s coming,” Robin mutters as she sprays streaks off the glass.

Steve looks up just as Eddie bursts through the door.

“My two favorite people,” Eddie announces, like he’s surprised to see them there.

He sweeps Robin into a hug before she can dodge, spinning her clean off her feet. She shrieks with laughter, shoving at his shoulders when he finally sets her down.

“Leave me alone,” she pants, grinning. “Go waste your charm on him instead.”

“On it.”

Steve doesn’t even pretend he’s not staring as Eddie approaches the counter, an easy flex in his walk. He’s so nerdy and lanky, but it suits him, makes him seem confident.

“Hi, love,” Eddie mutters, plopping his elbows on the counter.

The word lands soft, casual, but Steve feels it like a spark straight to the chest. He snorts, trying to play it cool, flipping his magazine shut.

“Came to bother me again?”

Eddie snorts. “Yeah, because you’re drowning in work.”

Steve shrugs, doesn’t really have any counter argument. The store is quiet, save for the low crackle of the radio and Robin humming along to Glory Days, probably more to protect herself from their flirting than out of any real love for Springsteen.

“I actually have something to ask you.”

Steve perks up at that, magazine forgotten, brows knitting in faint curiosity. “Shoot.”

“What are you doing on Friday evening?”

“Probably movie night with the brats,” Steve replies with a confused frown. “Like every Friday. Well, not like you two would know. Been avoiding it for weeks.”

Eddie bites down on his lip, nodding like he deserves that hit. He does, kind of. They’ve been skipping out on the kids’ nights, holed up together instead, their little queer club. He thinks Steve deserves to throw it back at his face a few times more, just to make himself feel better.

Eddie drums his rings on the counter, looking at Steve with a crooked grin. “Okay,” he says. “So cancel with the brats. You’ve got a date with me.”

A date.

Steve blinks.

It shouldn’t be surprising- hell, it’s practically scripted, the next logical step after Eddie’s breakfast deliveries and midnight calls, but somehow it still knocks the air right out of him.

“I, uh…” Steve glances up, then back down again.

Eddie’s not looking at him. He’s got a strand of hair twisted around his finger, lip caught between his teeth, eyes glued stubbornly to the cover of Steve’s abandoned magazine. Like asking him out is the scariest thing he’s ever done.

And it’s…endearing as fuck.

“I’ll have to warn Dustin,” Steve blurts, because his brain is both useless and on fire.

Eddie’s head snaps up, curls bouncing, expression caught between outrage and laughter.

“Warn Dustin?”

“Yeah.” Steve shrugs, trying to sound casual. “That he needs to figure out another place to host movie night for this week.”

The relief on Eddie’s face is instant, obvious: his shoulders drop, his grin splits wide and boyish.

“S’that a yes?” he asks, voice soft but hopeful.

“Dunno,” Steve teases, leaning in just enough to blur the space between them. “Is it?”

Their faces are suddenly close, Eddie’s wide eyes locked on his, the kind of look that makes the rest of the world fall away. For a moment they almost forget they’re in Family Video, with Robin nearby, with the bell above the door ready to announce any nosy Hawkins costumer.

Almost.

“You guys.” Robin’s voice cuts through, and they both jerk back like guilty teenagers.

She sidles up to the counter, propping herself against it, grinning like she’s been waiting all day for this.

“You’re disgusting,” she says, though her squeal gives her away. “And adorable. I expect a phone call from both of you after that date.”

As soon as Eddie leaves, after a verbal confirmation that yes, it’s a date, yes, Steve will be there, and another too-long, pointed look, Steve grabs Robin’s forearm.

“You gotta help me,” he whispers, leaning in. “What should I wear? Where is he gonna take me?”

Robin pulls her arm free easily, arching an eyebrow. “Okay. Relax. First.”

Steve lets out a dramatic sigh, shoulders slumping. Robin smiles, amused.

“I’ll come by after your shift. Get you all pretty.”

“Not too much,” he mutters, still flustered.

“Not too much,” she nods. “Just enough to make him lose his mind. Shit, man,” she snorts, shaking her head. “Can’t believe you two are gonna, like… smooch and have babies and leave me in the dust.”

Steve hums, pacing a small circle behind the counter. He does feel a tiny bit bad that they’re moving so fast, while Robin had been crushing on Vickie for fucking ever and is getting basically nothing but a trusting friendship.

He perks up after a second. “You’ll come to mine, then call Vickie and tell her your plans got cancelled. Trust me.”

“What?”

“Trust me,” he repeats, trying to sound casual. “It’s like giving her a last chance. Either she jumps on the occasion, or she’ll just say aw, sucks and bring you back to your place. And you’ll know.”

Robin stares at him for a beat too long, unmoving, and Steve braces himself, half-expecting an insult.

Instead, she moves around the counter, grabbing his shoulders, nails digging through his shirt.

“Steve Harrington,” she deadpans, voice low and sharp. “You keep surprising me. I’m so fucking glad I found you.”

Steve smirks, leaning just a little into her grip. “Yeah. You should be.”

----

Friday

They're supposed to meet at 8 pm, at Eddie’s trailer. Eddie had offered to come pick him up like a true gentleman, but Steve had refused.

“I’ll just follow you with my car,” he’d said. “So I can leave anytime I want.”

A big, fat lie. He’d probably stay until the end of the date, but he wanted to keep Eddie on his toes. Didn’t want to jump into what Eddie offered, as if nothing had happened, as if everything was forgotten and forgiven.

He’s currently all dolled up. Not too much, just like Robin promised, but he’d got his tightest shirt on, his battle leather jacket because Robin swore he looked smoking hot in it, and the dark blue jeans he’d picked up at Gap that one time. Robin had even applied a light sweep of highlighter to his cheekbones and some shiny lip balm; barely make-up, but enough to make his features pop and, as she’d said, make the boy crumble.

It's 7:55pm. He’s not leaving until 8:10- just to be a little fashionably late. Keep Eddie on his toes, he’d told himself. Not seem too eager.

Robin paces on the phone. “Yeah, great! You know where it is, right?... Yeah… Okay, perfect… I’ll see you! Bye.”

She hangs up with a little shriek and flops herself across his lap. Steve barely reacts.

“She’s coming, then?”

“Fuck, man. I’ll name my dog after you,” she grumbles into his stomach. “All my fucking kids too. Steve, Stephania, Stephen, I don’t care.”

Steve snorts, hand quick to find its way into her hair and scratching at her scalp. They spend the next few minutes just like this, cuddling and fidgeting in hope of keeping both their nerves in check. Steve feels like he might die without Robin in his life; he’s so used to the shape of her body against him, to her perfume, her voice, the sheer comfort all of this brings him. In moments like this, it’s very needed.

Eventually, Robin untangles herself, shooting him a wink. “Go get him, Harrington. Don’t let him fuck it up.”

Steve swallows, trying to look confident. “He gets one chance. Vickie too.”

“One,” Robin agrees, shaking his hand like a business deal. “Call me anytime, yeah?”

Steve grabs his keys from the little table by the entryway. A pang of guilt hits leaving Robin to wait alone, but he starts the car, drives off, and forces himself to not give her lonely silhouette a second glance. 

The drive to Eddie’s trailer is short but feels endless. Addicted to Love plays twice, and by the third time it starts over, Steve is shutting off the engine as gravel crunches under his wheels. The trailer sits quietly beneath the dim evening sky, windows glowing softly.

He pauses, inhaling, trying to steady his racing heart.

Okay. You can do this. It’s just Eddie. You survived hell together; he literally saw you get choked and eaten like a roasted pig by a bunch of bats.

Eddie opens the door before Steve even reaches it, smiling big and toothy. “Thought you weren’t gonna come,” he says, climbing down the steps. “Wouldn’t have been surprised. Revenge and all that.”

Eddie looks casual, like usual: leather jacket, dark pants, band shirt. Steve feels a pang of disappointment. Even his hair looks wild and untamed, and the lack of effort makes Steve grimace: he feels silly with Robin's highlighter and his jacket. He needs to stop expecting too much from people, he thinks.

“Let’s just go,” he says.

His tone (or maybe his face) must betray him, because Eddie is quick to grab his wrist and pull him towards himself, gentle and soft.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Everything,” Eddie sighs. “I’m… being an ass right now. And I know I’m already on thin ice.”

Steve tilts his head. “You are, yeah.”

“Okay… Let’s just go?” Eddie gestures to himself. “I promise I’m not taking you to get high in a parking lot. And, uh… I know I don’t look particularly good or any different when you’re… really fucking cute.”

Ah. There it is.

Steve’s face goes pink, skin warm all the way down to his chest. He yanks his wrist away.

“Drive, Munson. Unless… is the date here?” He glances around the dark and a little bit sad trailer park.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Follow me, pretty boy.” He opens the van door and climbs into it.

They drive for about twenty-five minutes, long enough to leave Hawkins behind in the dust, and when Eddie suddenly veers off onto a dirt track and stops in the middle of it, Steve vaguely wonders if this is how he dies.

Eddie hops out of the van and jogs toward Steve’s car, a nervous pep in his step. It’s endearing, almost cute, but also strengthens Steve’s fear that he’s about to be stabbed and buried in some nameless field.

“So,” Eddie says, rocking on his heels as Steve steps out. “I wanted to start small. And, uh… well. Let’s just walk. You’ll see.”

He grabs a large sports bag from his van, and Steve blinks. “You work out?”

It looks almost identical to the one Steve used back in his basketball days. And forgive him, but Eddie doesn’t exactly give off varsity athlete vibes. His only cardio, as far as Steve knows, involves getting out of bed and running from monsters.

“It’s just a big bag,” Eddie says. “More practical than a backpack. I, Eddie Munson,” he points to himself, “have rarely partaken in the torture of sports.”

“And that’s why you’ll have bad knees and back problems by thirty.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because running does wonders for your knees.”

They start walking down the road, toward a clearing surrounded by tall trees.

“I have to ask,” Steve finally says, “am I about to get murdered?”

Eddie shoots him a disbelieving look, then laughs when Steve stares back wide-eyed.

“Murdered by my charm, maybe,” he teases, grabbing Steve’s hand in one smooth motion. His palm is warm, soft, the cold rings a nice contrast. “No, Steve. Contrary to popular beliefs, I’m not actually a cold-blooded killer.”

Right. Chrissy. The whole…wanted for murder thing. Steve had kind of forgotten about all that. He suddenly feels like a bit of a jerk.

He squeezes Eddie’s hand once. Twice.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories. I’m just…are we picking mushrooms or something?”

“Mushrooms?” Eddie snorts. “I thought you only did weed.”

He really has a comeback for everything. It’s almost annoying.

“You’ll see,” Eddie adds when he understands that he won’t get any smartass reply. “Patience, sweetheart, is a virtue.”

Steve tries. He really does. He keeps quiet and lets Eddie lead him by the hand.

It’s surprisingly easy to follow him, to trust him. And Steve does trust people: Robin, Hopper, Dustin, even Nancy, who once stomped on his heart. But being led through trees at dusk, with no one around and God-knows-what lurking nearby? Yeah. He’s really trying not to bolt.

“Okay, close your eyes,” Eddie says. “I promise you’re not getting jumped. Or tormented by some asshole flesh monster. Or anything else you may be imagining that I really don’t want to know about.”

It’s not exactly reassuring, but Steve closes his eyes anyway.

What follows is a slow, shaky walk- his grip tight around Eddie’s hand as he’s led blindly over uneven ground. Then, all at once, they stop and Steve stumbles right into Eddie’s back. He’s warm, solid. For a second, Steve thinks about staying there, just breathing against him for the rest of the night.

“Okay,” Eddie murmurs. “Open.”

Steve does.

And…Jesus. It’s sappy. Painfully, heart-squeezingly sappy. The kind of thing Eddie Munson, self-proclaimed romance hater, should be violently allergic to.

But there it is: strings of lights hanging between trees, a blanket spread across the grass, a handful of cushions thrown down, soft and low, like he’d thought about Steve’s bad joints.

“Uh,” Steve says brilliantly.

Not the right reaction. Eddie’s frown says as much.

“Uh?”

Steve blinks, stepping closer, finally letting go of Eddie’s hand. “I mean, this is incredible. Just… not what I expected. Not very you.”

Eddie snorts. “Yeah, well. I also know you’re a giant, hopeless romantic.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Your favorite movie is Romancing the Stone, Steve. And you know every meaning behind flowers.”

Steve hums, trying -and failing- to look unimpressed. Maybe he does keep up with every new release in the Romance section. Maybe he is less interested in a book or movie if there’s no love story involved. Maybe…okay, fine. He's a romantic. Nothing wrong with that. 

He just didn't know this was common knowledge. 

“Whatever,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “I’m a sap. You did all this because you thought I’d like it?”

“That’s how wooing works, sweetheart.” Eddie’s grin softens. “And for the record, I like it too.”

Steve stares at him, then crouches to brush his fingers across the blanket. “You, Eddie Munson, like forest picnics with fairy lights and a purple, and -wow, extremely soft blanket?”

Eddie shrugs, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Figured a night away from Hawkins might do us some good. You know, being outside without looking over our shoulders for once.”

He crouches, fumbling with the zipper on his bag.

“And, uh… if you get cold, I brought another blanket. Plus food, obviously. Fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, right?”

He holds the blanket out toward him, and that’s when Steve sees it: Eddie’s fingers, trembling just a little. The first real sign of nerves he’s ever caught from him.

Fuck.

----

Eddie Munson is anything but a chef. Everyone knows that the man’s pantry consists of canned chili, half-empty sauce packets from old takeout, beer, and on ambitious days, Wayne’s mac and cheese.

So it’s a genuine surprise when Steve takes in the spread laid out across the blanket. There’s a lot: way more than he expected. Simple stuff, sure, but clearly made with care: bowls of fruit, a potato salad, a stack of pancakes (a few suspiciously raw, but points for effort), and even chocolate-covered strawberries. Beside those sit a collection of premade snacks in every category imaginable- sweet, salty, junky, and borderline healthy. Enough food to feed their whole little army of kids, probably twice over.

Steve has no idea how Eddie managed to carry all of it here without dislocating a shoulder.

They end up having a genuinely nice evening.

Steve tries to keep up his whole meh, whatever attitude, but it doesn’t stand a chance against Eddie’s jittery charm. He’s so endearingly nervous- constantly asking if Steve likes the food, if he’s cold, if he has any secret allergies he’s suddenly remembered.

At one point, Eddie even offers to feed him a strawberry, and that’s where Steve draws the line. Eddie looks almost relieved when he refuses. They’re not about to turn into one of those cringe, love-drunk couples. Not yet, anyway.

After a while, with the sun bleeding orange and pink through the trees, Steve leans back on his hands and glances over. It’s stupidly beautiful, so perfect he half-wonders if Eddie made some satanic deal to get the sunset this cinematic.

“You didn’t bring your guitar?” Steve asks.

Eddie pauses mid-chew, a piece of pancake halfway to his mouth. “No. Why?”

Steve shrugs, bumping their shoulders together. “Just saying… forest picnic, sunset, cute little lights. You could’ve strummed a little Berlin, really kept the mood going.”

Eddie grimaces, and Steve grins.

“Might’ve taken my panties off,” he adds, deadpan.

“Wow,” Eddie almost throws his pancake on the ground. “I’m only like, fifteen minutes away from my trailer if I drive a little over the limit.”

Steve shakes his head. “You put out on the first date?”

“With you, sweetheart? I’d put out at the first word.”

It makes Steve blush -red, crimson red, something that hasn’t happened in years. Not since that disastrous History presentation where he mixed up Vietnam and Venezuela. But this isn’t that kind of humiliation; it’s not the I-want-to-die kind. No, this is worse. It makes him want to jump Eddie. Plain and simple.

Instead, he rolls his eyes.

“You’re easy,” he says with disdain.

It doesn’t have any effect since he’s red as a tomato and his voice is weak, but that’s not his problem. Thankfully, Eddie doesn’t push it. He just grins and lets Steve sit there, miserably blushing in peace.

They keep eating, conversation easy and light -movies, books, dumb trivia, until the sky deepens to black and the first constellations start winking overhead.

“I almost brought my little book about constellations,” Eddie says. “Would that have impressed you? Be honest.”

“Maybe,” Steve says, keeping his tone flat -keep him on his toes, he remembers.

Eddie pouts. “This is a trial date, okay? I’ll sweep you right off your Nikes next time.”

Steve’s wearing Adidas, but he lets it go and just smirks. “And what makes you think you’re getting a next time?”

He doesn’t mean it to sound harsh, but Eddie’s face falls anyway.

“I…yeah. That’s fair,” he mumbles.

And Steve feels a pang of guilt, because, really, this date’s been nice. Romantic, even. Eddie remembered his favorite Strawberry Laffy Taffy, even if it’s everyone’s favorite. Made fruit salad without kiwi because he knows Steve hates it. He’s been funny, warm, trying.

And Steve’s having a good time; trash talking about the kids (mostly Mike because, c’mon, the attitude), watching Eddie demolish pancakes with little to no elegance and listen to him talk about Tears for Fears without a hint of mockery. Eddie’s been putting in the effort.

But Steve Harrington is, by nature, a little bit of a Mean Girl. Everyone knows that. And Eddie did hurt him. For weeks.

So he gets to be a little petty.

“Ask me for a second date when you’re ready,” Steve says as he stands, brushing crumbs from his jeans. A clear sign that they’re done for tonight. “And I’ll tell you if it’s a yes or a no. Thanks for tonight.”

He’s not a total monster, though: he gives Eddie’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before turning and walking away.

And if he gets lost on his way back through the clearing, wandering thirty minutes to find his car with Eddie’s blanket still draped over his shoulders, well. Nobody needs to know.

Chapter Text

Robin calls him right at 8am, and Steve has to drag himself down the stairs and listen to the phone rings for fucking ever before he picks it up.

That’s where Eddie finally draws the line.

"I like you a whole lot, darling," he says, putting the polo gently back on the rack, "but no way in hell."

It ends up being a good evening after all. They get slushies because apparently they’re fourteen, and spend way too long in the massive bookstore in the middle of the mall. Eddie reads random lines out loud in ridiculous voices just to make Steve laugh. They leave with nothing but a glare from the cashier, but Eddie doesn’t care; he just tugs Steve into the music store next door.

"So, Steve," he starts as they walk in, "what’s your favorite song of all time? Like, your Vecna song."

Steve snorts.

"You’re gonna make fun of me," he warns, but says it anyway, because screw it. "It’s This Must Be the Place. Talking Heads."

Eddie hums. "Alright. Never heard of it."

Steve’s almost relieved he hasn’t. It’s a hell of a song to admit to: it basically outs him as this sentimental loser who just wants a home and a little peace. He’s got his own shit, and he’s not quite ready to let Eddie all the way in yet.

"What about you?"

They’re wandering through the Classical section, pretending to browse but clearly not looking at anything.

"Rainbow in the Dark," Eddie answers immediately, smirking. "Even the title’s fitting, right, Steve?"

There aren’t many customers around, but Steve still leans in a little closer. "Was that a gay joke?" he whispers.

Eddie just shrugs, that huge, knowing grin giving him away.

"Come on," Eddie says, bumping their hips together. "It’s almost eleven. We’ve got somewhere to be in, like, thirty minutes. Grab yourself a nice little Blondie tape and we’re out of here."

Chapter Text

The next time Eddie asks Steve out, it happens in the most normal, predictable way possible. Nothing like that scribbled note slipped to him by a paid off, and possibly corrupted, Max Mayfield.

Eddie calls him on Sunday morning, barely ten hours after they’ve parted, and Steve practically launches himself at the phone. It’s got to be Eddie or Robin; the kids still insist on using those clunky walkies, and Steve’s parents don’t care enough to check in on him at eleven am on a random August morning.

So. He’s 99% sure it’s either Robin or Eddie. 

“Harrington,” he says flatly into the receiver.

“Munson,” comes the reply, deep and amused and just a little smug.

Steve grins before he can stop himself. He knows Eddie can hear it, too, because his voice is lighter when he fires back, “Wow. How’s it going, Wayne?”

Eddie snorts. “Fuck off.”

It’s so easy. Steve’s not used to easy. Every other time, every date and flirt, he’s had to think about what to say, how to say it, how to sound interested but not desperate, charming but not creepy. Nancy had been the only exception; she’d thrown him off balance by never blushing or stuttering when he laid it on thick. But otherwise? It was always work.

But now there’s Eddie. Loud, rude, ridiculous Eddie, who tells him fuck off, and somehow that just makes Steve want to teleport through the phone and kiss him stupid.

“So,” Eddie continues, confident. “Yesterday. Out of ten.”

Steve hums, pretending to think. “A solid eight,” he announces in a serious voice after a second, and immediately keeps going, all while ignoring the dramatic gasp from Eddie. “Would be higher if you didn’t mention fucking centipedes, you freak.”  

“My bad,” Eddie mumbles.  

The conversation drifts into an easy back-and-forth, teasing and effortless. Steve leans against the counter, tangled up in the phone cord like some lovesick idiot, and doesn’t even care.

They talk about the movie. About when they watched it for the first time (Steve was sixteen, Eddie seventeen, and it takes about three whole minutes for Steve to remind Eddie that they’re one year apart and they actually watched it around the same time- Eddie isn’t happy about that fact). 

Eddie even confesses he tried to dress up as Frank once, still has the make-up and the clothes somewhere around, and it wakes something Steve didn’t even know he had in him. 

Eventually, Eddie sighs loudly, like a pouting kid. 

“As much as I’d love to keep talking and double my phone bill,” he says, “we both have things to do.”

Steve raises one eyebrow to the wall, as if Eddie could see it. 

“I know I have work, but what do you, little unemployed graduated dude, have to do?”

“Uh, plan a third date if the hot dude I’m courting says yes.”

There’s a beat of silence, them just listening to their loud breathing through the line, and Steve can imagine Eddie’s wide eyes and proud smirk. 

He sighs. “Is this how you usually ask people out? I liked the note better.”

“I usually don’t ask people out, Steve,” Eddie says, voice soft now. “You’re dating a loser, remember?”

And for some reason, that makes Steve proud, like, hell yeah, I’m dating a loser. Back off; this one’s mine.

“When?” Is what he asks instead of bloating to Eddie that he likes him being in that freak, loser category. He doesn’t need him to be more confident (and over the top) than he already is.

Eddie hums thoughtfully. “You’re off tomorrow, right?”

Steve frowns, not sure how Eddie knows that: but he is, in fact, off this Monday.

“Perfect,” Eddie says. “I’ll pick you up at ten?”

Steve grips the phone tighter, heartbeat skipping.

“I’ll see you then,” he says before hanging up because 1, he needs to stay in control and not just blurt out that he wants to see Eddie sooner and 2, he does actually need to get ready for work like, twenty minutes ago, if he doesn’t want Keith to rip his ass to sheds. 

—— 

Monday, 9 am finds Steve lying flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his brain utterly void of constructive thought.

Monday, 9 am also finds Robin absolutely annihilating his wardrobe, tossing polos and pants left and right, occasionally pausing to inspect a sweater before placing it neatly in a little pile beside her.

“He didn’t tell you anything?” she asks, holding up a dark blue t-shirt with a thicker collar. “No dress code? Nothing to bring?”

Steve shakes his head. “Nah. Nothing.”

“He’s no help,” she sighs.

He’s no help, sure-  but she is, Steve thinks. She’d made Vickie (because that’s apparently a thing now) drop her off at eight-thirty in the morning just to help him get ready, and she’s been on a mission to find the perfect outfit (that sweet spot between slutty and put together) all while managing his spiral of what if he doesn’t actually like me anymore and what if he regrets asking me out and-

“I love you so fucking much,” he blurts into the quiet.

Robin freezes mid-fold, then promptly gets up and all but collapses onto the bed, half sprawled across him.

“Dingus,” she says because she’s the only person in America still saying that, “it’s gonna be fine, okay? You could show up dressed as, I don’t know, fucking Vecna, and he’d still drop to his knees.”

Steve grimaces. “Vecna?”

“Consider it for next Halloween.”

He doesn’t tell her he hasn’t dressed up for Halloween in years. He just hums, because it’s easier.

“So,” he says instead, changing the subject easily, “can I ask what’s up with Vickie dropping you off? Is she picking you up after Eddie comes by?”

Robin’s grin flickers into something sheepish, her face turning bright red, an ugly contrast against her blonde hair.

“Uhm…” She bites her lip, and Steve tries not to look as smug as he feels. “Yeah. Things are just… going really well. You know, hand-holding and all that.”

He does know. She’d practically tackled him at work yesterday, both of them taking a slightly too long lunch break because they’d been too busy swapping stories about their silly homosexual dates. About how Steve kissed Eddie on the cheek and how Vickie constantly popped mint into her mouth as if waiting for something to happen. 

And Robin and Vickie were well on their way: hand-holding, hair-tucking, blushing like schoolgirls. Sharing little secret glances every time Bowie plays or is mentioned somewhere which is, a lot. 

Vickie has even been promoted to Robin’s official chauffeur, replacing Steve without so much as a vote. It only hurts his feelings a little bit. 

“I’m trying not to blurt out to her I’m, like, seventy-five percent in love,” Robin admits. “I want her to be the one who kisses me, or asks me to be her girlfriend, or something. Not always me.”

Steve coos, bringing his hands up to squish her face. Her lips purse automatically, and she glares up at him over her mashed cheeks.

“I know this guy in Hawkins,” he says with mock seriousness. “Huge house, nice pool. And, crazy coincidence, he’s going on a date today. So he won’t be around. You could totally invite Vickie over, use the pool, maybe, I don’t know, touch boobies or something.”

Robin slaps the back of his neck, right on his faint pink scar, and mumbles through his hands, “Stop saying boobies!”

“Wow,” Steve drops his hands, feigning offense. “You offer someone your whole house so she can make out with her crush, and this is the thanks you get.”

Robin rolls her eyes but she’s still smiling, that soft, fond kind of smile that always manages to make Steve feel a little steadier.

“Thank you,” she says, and rolls off him to rejoin the pile of clothes next to his wardrobe. “Okay, this one. It says I’m hot but I didn’t try too hard. Which, honestly is a lie, because you’ve been agonizing over this since, like, last week.”

“Since yesterday,” Steve corrects, sitting up to take the shirt. “When he actually asked me.”

“Same difference,” she says. “Now go shower. You smell like stress.”

“I am stress,” he mutters, but he gets up anyway.

By the time he’s back, his hair is dampand his cheeks pink. He’s in the blue t-shirt and dark jeans Robin picked up, and she herself is sitting cross-legged on his bed, drinking a Coke like she owns the place.

“You look good,” she says when he emerges. 

He snorts. “You look smug.”

“Yeah, because I did that.” She gestures vaguely at him. “That’s my handiwork.”

He can’t argue with that, so he just points at the pile of discarded clothes still covering his floor. “And the disaster zone?”

“Artistic process,” she says solemnly.

Steve chuckles, shaking his head, and flops down beside her on the bed again, careful not to wrinkle the shirt or flatten his hair too much.

“You nervous?” she asks softly.

He hesitates. “Yeah. I mean… kind of.”

Robin tilts her head. “Kind of? It’s your third date already.”

He picks at a loose thread on his jeans. “It’s just… I really like him, Rob. Like, really. And I keep thinking maybe he’s gonna wake up and realize he doesn’t actually want this. That I’m just…” He gestures vaguely. “Me.”

Robin stares at him for a long moment, then flicks his forehead.

“Ow! What the hell?”

“You’re so stupid sometimes,” she says fondly. “You know that, right? Eddie Munson worships the ground you walk on. You went on two dates already, and he called you the next day to ask for a third date.”

He chuckles again, quieter this time, the sound breaking up the knot of nerves in his chest.

“Thanks, Rob.”

“Anytime, loser.” She leans against him, bumping her shoulder to his. “Now, are you gonna tell me where he’s taking you, or is that classified information?”

“He didn’t say,” Steve admits. “Just told me he’d come at ten.”

“Ooh, mysterious.”

“Or chaotic,” he counters. “Could be anything with him.”

Robin makes a face. “Yeah. Maybe he’ll bring you to a DnD session.” 

“Yeah,” Steve says, grimacing. “I’m not above killing myself if he does that.”

She hums. “Freaky. Just his type.”

“Absolutely.”

There’s a beat of comfortable silence before she sighs dramatically. 

“Okay. You’ve got fifteen minutes. Go brush your teeth again or do something about your hair. Electrocuted puppy is not the look we’re going for.”

He shoves her shoulder lightly. “Don’t be jealous.”

“Please. I got a hot girl coming up and a big pool to play hottie lifeguard by.”

Steve rolls his eyes. So she is taking up his pool. Great to know. 

(Gosh, if his parents chose today to come home and find two little lesbians making out in their pool, all hell would break loose.)

Steve stands, glancing in the mirror and trying his best to somehow both tame and fluff his hair into a respectable cut. 

Fuck, he could use a cigarette right now, but he’s not too sure of ruining his body wash and cologne smell with cold tobacco one. 

“Wish me luck?”, he says instead, grabbing the lip balm Robin is extending towards him.

She salutes him with the Coke can. “You don’t need luck, babe.”

Steve grins, grabs his keys, and heads for the door: pulse thrumming, nerves fluttering, and the faint echo of Robin’s voice following him out:

“Please haunt me if he murders you!”

He’s still smiling when the door shuts behind him.

——

Eddie shows up just as Steve’s lowering himself onto the front steps, and what happens next can only be described as a half–panic-squat when he tries to get up from a non-sitting position.

It’s silly from the get-go.

“Wow,” Eddie whistles from the driver seat. “Fantastic greeting.”

“Shut it,” Steve mutters. 

He ignores Eddie’s know-it-all grin and just shuffles in his van, turning to face him- and freezing in his movements.

Because Eddie’s wearing bright blue swim trunks.

“Uh,” Steve says eloquently, blinking.

Eddie catches his stare immediately. “Trying a new style,” he says, winking as he throws the van into reverse. “It’s a swimsuit.”

Steve frowns. “A swimsuit?”

“Do not worry, Stevie,” Eddie sing-songs, way too delighted with himself. “I got you one too.”

“You’re not taking me to the pool,” Steve states because, no way.

No fucking way Eddie Munson, ex wanted murderer and all-black wearing metalhead, is taking him to Hawkins community pool. No way their date is going to be paddling in the water next to housewives and annoying kids and probably an even more annoying lifeguard. 

“I am not,” Eddie snorts. “Buckle up, sweetheart, we’ve got a bit of a drive.”

That, as it turns out, is the understatement of the century.

Because they easily make it through the entire Unforgettable Fire album (Steve’s pick)  and then Seventh Star (Eddie’s, naturally) before the van finally slows down, the hum of the engine fading into the sound of cicadas and far-off water.

Steve leans forward, squinting through the windshield. They’re rolling down a quiet road flanked by tall trees and sunlight, a sign up ahead pointing toward Fairfax Beach – Public Access.

He turns to Eddie. “Are we- are we at a lake?”

Eddie keeps his eyes on the road, but there’s no hiding his grin. “Maybe.”

“Eddie.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” he says quickly, flicking his third cigarette out the window. “But I thought this’d be perfect for Steve Captain of the Swim Team Harrington. You know, natural habitat and all.”

Steve stares at him, torn between laughing and groaning. “You brought me to a lake.”

“Correction,” Eddie says, pulling the van into a gravel lot and killing the engine. “I brought you to the best swimming spot in all of Indiana. And before you say anything, yes, there’s food. And music. And beer. I’m not an animal.”

“You’re insane.” Steve’s lips twitch, fighting a smile. “I can’t wait to see you swim.”

“Fuck you.” Eddie snorts, already hopping out of the van and rounding to the back. 

Steve follows too easily, enthralled by the promise of spending an afternoon goofing around in the water with music and good food. With Eddie Munson half naked. 

Eddie swings open the doors to reveal a small cooler, two old towels, and, sure enough, a neatly folded green pair of swim trunks sitting right on top.

Steve climbs in the van because well, he still needs to change. Preferably not in front of shocked middle-aged parents.

“You planned all this?”

Eddie shrugs, grabbing the cooler. “I like to think of it as divine inspiration. You, me, a lake, no lifeguards telling us not to make out in the deep end-”

“Eddie.”

“Right, right,” he says with a grin. “Too soon. Come on, Harrington. Get cozy. Hope I didn’t take a size too small.”

And because he’s a fucking heathen, he winks before slamming the van door shut in Steve’s face, leaving him alone with a pair of bright green swim trunks and a heart doing backflips.

Steve stares down at them, his face burning.

Well. 

——

The trunks fit perfectly, of course they do, which somehow makes it worse.

When Steve steps out of the van, Eddie’s already standing there barefoot in the dirt, curls haloed by sunlight, and he stares. There’s no attempt at subtlety. His gaze drags over Steve from head to toe, and the warmth that flares in Steve’s chest doesn’t fade, not even as they walk the short trail down to the water.

They pick a quiet corner of the lake. It’s late August: school’s back, college kids are gone, and the families are mostly back to their nine-to-fives, so it’s just a handful of people scattered along the shore. Eddie still insists on the farthest possible spot, tucked under a half-fallen tree and a strip of shadow.

And, somehow, he’s prepared.

There’s a cooler with sandwiches, chips and cheese dip, beers and soft drinks, because they have a two hour drive back to Hawkins and getting drunk next to a large body of water is just, a bad idea. 

“Alright,” Steve claps his hands as soon as Eddie is done setting up, the cooler all the way in the shade. He even brought that ridiculously soft blanket from their picnic. “Let’s hit the water.”

They take a long time to actually get into the water, because it’s cold and Eddie is dramatic and squealing too high-pitched when the water gets too close to his balls. It’s annoying but Steve smiles like a love struck fool the whole time, until they’re finally completely engulfed in the lake.

And if he wasn’t so dumbly enamoured by Eddie, he probably would’ve gotten an insane ick from the way the older just, flops around in the water like a puppy, splashing and sputtering, wet hair flat on his head.

“You look like a wet rat,” Steve calls after a while, grinning.

Eddie musters just enough energy to roll his eyes. “I’m doing this for you, Harrington. I don’t deserve to be mocked.”

It’s not untrue. It’s probably the least Eddie activity ever; sun, heat, being half-naked in dirty water, next to a smirking and smug Steve Harrington. Probably enough to make him gag and perish and fill his nightmares.

But he’s there. No matter if he has any trauma about seeing Patrick get snapped in two at Lover’s Lake. No matter if they have any trauma about diving into it to get through the portal and eventually be attacked by feral bats. 

Eddie’s there. Wet and frowning, but still sarcastic. Still doing his best to brush his legs against Steve every few seconds (his best being accidentally knocking their knees together harshly, because he has the elegance of a newborn deer). 

But Steve is happy. He loves the sun. Loves swimming, tanning, the feeling of his wet hair dripping in his neck, the smell of sunscreen and nature. 

He loves the way Eddie looks in the sun- tattoos gleaming with droplets, hair drying into wild curls, skin flushed pink at the shoulders.

“Thank you,” Steve murmurs once they’ve drifted closer to the edge, where they can stand but the water still brushes their collarbones. “I love this.”

Eddie glances up at him through his lashes.

Slowly, he steps closer, water moving in little waves around him. Steve watches as he closes the distance between them, and his breath stutters when he feels Eddie’s hands find his waist under the water. The touch is hidden but warm, their bodies drawn together. 

“Thank you,” Eddie says, his fingers tracing light, almost reverent circles over the scars on Steve’s ribs.

They match. Eddie’s are bigger, darker, scarier, but they’re born of the same nightmare, the same monsters, the same pain.

And somehow, that makes them easier to carry.

They stay in the water until their fingers wrinkle and the sun burns warm on the back of Steve’s neck. Eddie’s hair has mostly dried in the heat, curling at the ends again, and every time he pushes it out of his face it just falls right back in. It’s stupidly attractive. 

Steve’s grin keeps coming back uninvited. He’s not sure if it’s because of the lake, or the sunlight, or because Eddie Munson keeps floating close enough that their shoulders brush every other second. 

Eventually, Eddie kicks lazily toward the shore. “Okay,” he says, breathless, “as much as I just love boiling alive, I think my skin’s about to peel off.”

Steve is almost relieved, because he can definitely feel the heat evaporating from his shoulders and is sure to catch a sunburn there. 

He follows Eddie out easily, and if he lets his eyes trace the outline of his ass through his wet swim trunk, then it’s nobody’s business but his.

“God, I am so not built for sports,” Eddie sighs and all but drops himself down on the ground.

It only takes a second for a wet spot to grow on the blanket.

“Swimming’s not a sport when you’re doing it like a drowning cat,” Steve says, shaking the water out of his hair.

Eddie glares up at him, one eye squinting against the sun. “You wound me, Stevie. I was graceful.”

“You were,” Steve grimaces, “making whale noises.”

“That was music, actually,” Eddie insists. “Experimental. Of course you don’t get it.”

Steve snorts, dropping down beside him, close enough that their knees bump. The air smells like lake water and Eddie’s cheap shampoo, and his chest feels light in a way it hasn’t in a long time.

Eddie props himself up on his elbows, squinting at him. “You’ve got something on your face.”

Steve raises a hand automatically. “Where?”

“Right there,” Eddie says, gesturing vaguely, then reaches out before Steve can react. 

His thumb brushes the corner of Steve’s brow, soft and clumsy, leaving a smear of water and maybe a bit of sand. Steve is not sure he’s got anything on his face at all, but he still freezes, taken aback. 

Eddie’s hand lingers for half a second too long, thumb brushing down his cheekbone. Then he clears his throat, pulling it back quickly. “There. Got it.”

Steve’s voice comes out a little rough. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Eddie mutters, suddenly very busy opening the cooler. “Sandwich?”

They eat the surprisingly good PBJ sandwiches in companionable quiet for a bit, bare feet brushing against the blanket, the lake glittering just a few yards away. Eddie’s humming under his breath, something that suspiciously sounds like Pride, and Steve catches himself watching his hands, his smile, the small frown he gets when he’s concentrating.

When Eddie glances over, Steve looks away too fast, pretending to focus on his fuzzy lemon drink.

“Hey,” Eddie says softly.

Steve hums, not trusting his voice.

“Thanks for agreeing on a third date,” he smiles, just the tiniest bit. “I was scared the lake would…hit too close.”

Steve looks back at him, and for a second, there’s no teasing, no sarcasm, just quiet understanding.

“I know,” he says. “But you being here kind of makes it okay.”

Eddie blinks, caught off guard. Then he smiles: slow and a little crooked. 

“I like when you say shits like that, Harrington.”

It’s probably the most romantic thing Eddie Munson ever said in his life, ever. It makes Steve proud and giddy and yet; he still rolls his eyes, too used to the banter.

“I like saying shits like that to you, Munson.”

Eddie grins wider, sitting up, eyes bright. “Do you like hearing it too?”

Steve only trusts himself to nod. It makes one last drop of water fall from his hair to his knees, and he focuses on playing with it until it dries out on his skin.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Eddie says finally. 

——

Eddie’s good at this whole thing. That’s the conclusion Steve reaches somewhere along the drive home, Van Halen’s 5150 playing low through the speakers. He’s good at dates, at finding that strange, perfect balance between goofy and disarmingly sincere.

Like when he tackled Steve in the lake, hands steady at his hips, grin too bright for the sun. Or when he’d re-applied sunscreen to Steve’s back, his fingers drawing lazy circles, breath warm against his ear.

Each little touch had made Steve want to melt right there in the sand. But then Eddie would say something; something soft, something real. He’d talk about Wayne, or the kids joining Hellfire, or even the whole Vecna mess and how, somehow, he was thankful for it. Thankful, even after everything, because it gave him another kind of family.

And Steve just thinks: Yeah. I’m done for. I’m absolute putty for this man.

He wants to say something as they pass a cigarette back and forth. Something dumb and sappy, something honest like, thank you for organising this even though you hate swimming. 

Like, I hope you’ll take me on a hundred more dates.

Like, I want to kiss you stupid, you and those pink lips that probably never touched lip balm in their life and are surely chapped and dry. Want to run my hands in your curls. Want to trace those half destroyed tattoos all over your chest. 

Instead, he keeps quiet. He watches the sky bleed orange into pink through the windshield, lets Van Halen fill the silence. The van smells like lake water and smoke and Eddie’s shampoo, and for once, everything feels good.

“It’s late already,” Eddie says as Steve flicks the cigarette out the window.

It’s one of those moments that make Steve wonder if Eddie can read his mind. Maybe he did leave the Upside Down with powers. 

Or maybe they’re more similar than they think.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. It’s almost ten. “You, uh… wanna eat at my place?”

He doesn’t even know why he says it, only that the thought of ending the night now feels wrong. He wants more-  wants to cook, wants to watch Eddie eat, wants to see him soft and sleepy on his couch.

Eddie blinks, surprised. “You sure?”

Steve’s never been surer of anything.

“Yeah,” he says easily. “I’ve got leftovers. And way too many Cokes.”

Eddie grins, that slow, wicked one that always makes Steve’s heart trip. “Well, offered that way.”

The drive back feels longer: maybe it’s the dark pressing in, or maybe it’s Eddie’s gaze flicking over to him every few minutes. 

By the time they pull into Loch Nora, the sky’s gone pitch-black, and the chill in the air has them rushing toward the front door. Vickie’s car is gone, and that’s good: no risk of walking in on Robin and her girlfriend mid–makeout when he’s trying to impress Eddie Munson with reheated lasagna.

“Make yourself at home,” Steve says, waving vaguely at the living room. “There’s clean clothes upstairs if you wanna change. Warmer stuff.”

Eddie looks down at himself, in his still damp swim trunks and smiles. “You’re a saint, Harrington.” Then, softer: “Thanks.”

The smile he gives before heading up the stairs is almost shy, and Steve has to physically exhale once he’s alone.

There’s a sticky note on the fridge. 

My fucking angel, 

I’ll treasure you forever. See u tomorrow at work I have a SHIIIIT ton to tell!!!!!!

(PS: sorry ab the stain on the carpet we tried our best :(((() 

Love u, 

Rob xx (and vickie)

There is indeed a stain on the carpet, dark and suspicious, but Steve doesn’t even care. He just drags a chair over it and moves on, reheating the leftover lasagna (that thankfully the two girls didn’t touch) while smiling like an idiot.

Ten minutes later, Eddie pads back down the stairs. He’s drowning in one of Steve’s old Hawkins Swim Team hoodies and a pair of dark sweatpants. His hair’s brushed out and frizzy and soft-looking, and the sight of him like that -cozy, casual, so boyfriend-like, knocks the air right out of Steve’s lungs.

“Hey,” he says gently, his hand finding Steve’s hip like it’s muscle memory. “I’ll keep an eye on that, make sure it doesn’t burn. Go get changed.”

It’s such a small gesture. Basic, even, but it sends Steve’s heart straight into orbit. He bolts upstairs before he can make a fool of himself by blushing and stuttering. 

He’s so gone, he thinks. Nothing saving him anymore, it’s too late. He’s fallen for the nerdy metalhead and no one can ever pull him out. 

“Pull it together,” he tells his reflection. His cheeks are flushed, freckles blooming across his nose and cheekbones from the sun. He looks happy. Somehow a little bit terrified, but happy.

Downstairs, he can hear Eddie humming off-key, moving around the kitchen like he belongs there.

Steve exhales. He’s about to eat lasagna with Eddie Munson, after a day spent by the lake. After a date. 

Tell that to Steve Harrington from, what, 7 months ago, and he’ll punch you in the face. But tell that to Steve Harrington from a few weeks ago and he’ll burst to tears and ask why are you tormenting me do you hate me why am i so worthy of your bullying- 

But now?

Now he just smiles, combs his fingers through his hair, and lets the sound of Eddie’s humming pull him back downstairs.

——

They end up watching Cagney & Lacey while eating, both of them sitting cross-legged on the couch, their Cokes balanced precariously between their knees. If one spills and stains the cushions, Steve decides he honestly wouldn’t care.

It’s easy and fun. Comfortable in a way that makes it hard to believe he was spiraling upstairs twenty minutes ago. Hard to believe he’s still overthinking the distance between them right now.

“D’you think Robin and Vickie had sex in your pool?” Eddie asks suddenly, once it’s clear neither of them is following the case on TV. The detective show feels ridiculous, anyway (they’ve had enough police and near-death experiences for a lifetime).

Steve’s entire face twists in horror.

“Ew, dude.”

Eddie shrugs, grinning. “It’s a possibility.”

“One that I don’t wanna think about.”

Because, ew. 

Steve may had a small crush on Robin at one point, but that’s far behind. Imagining his dorky best friend having sex in his pool nonetheless, is basically nightmare fuel. 

“Alright,” Eddie says after a sip of his soda. His lips are stained a faint red from the lasagna sauce. “No more mental images of Buckley having nasty lesbian sex.”

“Eddie.”

He’s clearly delighted with himself. He lives to torment people, and apparently dating him just means volunteering as his favorite victim.

“Would you rather,” Eddie teases, turning toward him, “we talk about a different kind of nasty gay sex?”

Steve feels the heat hit his face immediately-  full-on history-presentation level of blushing. But he still rolls his eyes because, of course, this is exactly where Eddie would go.

“You’re not subtle,” Steve says flatly. “You don’t need to drag Robin’s sex life into it just to ask about ours. Our potential one. You’re still on trial, sir.”

Eddie looks wounded, like he genuinely believed he was being slick with it. But that’s another thing about hanging out with Eddie so often: you start to know the guy. How he thinks and operates and, yes, creates nasty diversion just to get what he wants. 

“I was kidding,” Eddie mumbles, voice dropping. “I mean, I know you don’t… y’know, right away. And that’s fine. I’m not dating you for that, I swear. I don’t even know shit about it either. It was just, a joke. Like, haha gay sex, we don’t-”

“You’re rambling,” Steve cuts in.

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut so fast his teeth click.

“I’m embarrassing myself.”

“That too.”

They eat in silence after that, though it’s not exactly awkward. Steve can feel Eddie’s mortification radiating next to him, and he decides to let him stew for a minute. It’s nice, for once, to see Eddie flustered and fidgety instead of the other way around.

“Man,” Steve groans when he finishes his lasagna, leaning back against the couch cushions. “You’ve got a real talent for setting a mood and then absolutely destroying it.”

Eddie groans into his plate. “I hate myself.”

“Don’t,” Steve says easily. “It’s fun.”

And it is. Embarrassing and ridiculous, pure Eddie Munson. The kind of stupid, endearing mess that makes Steve’s chest ache in the best way. You can’t get mad at a guy for being exactly who you fell for.

“Ed,” Steve says when he notices Eddie still staring blankly at the TV, food going cold in his lap. “Please ask about nasty gay sex and talk about centipedes and fucking D&D and Star Wars all you want. I like you. I like your nerdy fucking self.”

That’s a weird confession for sure, but of course Eddie is into it. 

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, eyes going wide and hopeful.

And Steve can’t help it; he laughs. Because this started with Eddie wondering if Robin and Vickie defiled his pool, and somehow now he’s looking at Steve like he just offered him the universe.

“As long as you let me talk about Duran Duran and basketball and rant about Henderson and my old folks.” 

Eddie grins, bright and boyish. “And swimming.”

“And swimming,” Steve agrees. “Especially swimming in lakes with a handsome dude next to me.”

Eddie’s whole face goes pink, smile stretching so wide it looks like it might hurt.

“I’m trying really hard not to say something that’ll freak you out,” he says quietly. “I just-  I like you so, so much.”

Steve gets it. He doesn’t want to freak him out either, even if it sounds like they want to say the same words.

“I like you so, so much too.”

Chapter Text

After their day at the beach, something shifts. Eddie’s suddenly everywhere. And it’s not like he was ever subtle- but now it’s like he took whatever confidence he had before and cranked it up by ten.

He starts dropping by Family Video with breakfast, iced tea, cheeseburgers so often that Robin has to physically yell at him to stop. He calls Steve at random hours just to flirt over the phone, rambling about whatever terrible movie he and Wayne just watched. Sometimes Steve even finds little notes tucked under his windshield, doodles, cheesy lines, sappy nonsense.

And Steve… kind of lives for it.

Call him what you want, but he’s an attention slut. Always has been. There’s a reason he thrived on team sports, on popularity, on throwing parties every weekend; he needs people to look at him.

And Eddie Munson? He’s giving him exactly that. With those heavy-lidded eyes, that smug grin, and that stare that just stays.

“So you’re into stalkers,” Robin nods to herself when he finally dares to admit it to her. 

They’re sitting at one of the few tables in The Palace, sharing a single banana smoothie. The kids are there too, loud, chaotic, impossible to miss. Babysitting duty, as usual.

Steve swats her thigh. “Don’t say that so loud!”

Robin just shrugs. She knows she’s right. And she knows he knows too. 

“I’m gonna tell him to lay it off,” Steve says. “Eventually.”

Robin looks at him for a long second before sighing. “You’re so getting killed by a serial killer one day.”

“D’you think I’d make a cute victim?”

Steve bats his lashes dramatically, fanning himself like some old Hollywood starlet until Robin kicks him under the table, hard enough that he doubles over with a groan.

“Think Eddie would make a cute serial killer?” she deadpans.

Steve rolls his eyes. “I thought you two were, like, best friends. Weird way to speak about your brother in heart.”

Because the whole thing started as Robin and Eddie got so close -giggling, whispering, leaving him out of jokes, and now here she is, calling him a serial killer with a straight face.

None of it makes sense.

“Oh, please,” she snorts. “Love the guy. But you? You’re top of the list. No one above.”

Wow. 

Steve blinks at her; she’s so casual, so unbothered, fingers lazily stirring the straw, eyes flicking around the arcade, probably watching the kids be idiots. Totally calm. Like she didn’t just say something no one else ever has. Maybe no one ever will.

“Rob,” he says quietly. “You know I’d die for you.”

“Oh, come on- ”, Robin starts, but the words get drowned out by Dustin’s yell from across the arcade. 

Something about Lucas cheating, something about the high score, something about how everyone here is a tyrant.

Steve just groans and sinks back in his chair. “A serial killer would be a vacation compared to them.”

Robin laughs, finishing the last of the smoothie before standing and stretching. “Alright, I’m calling it. Babysitting shift’s over.”

That’s why having Robin on babysitting duty is always a good idea; she’s not as close to the kids as Steve is, which means she can actually get them to listen. They’re not brave enough to question her authority yet.

She’s an older girl, after all. Mike crumbles if she so much as raises an eyebrow in his direction, and Dustin can’t handle being faced with someone just as sharp-tongued as he is.

It takes her ten minutes tops to wrangle all the kids into Steve’s car. They’re stacked on top of each other, sulking in perfect sync- they’re not happy about it, sure, but they’re in the car, and that’s what matters.

“Thank God,” Robin mutters as Steve slides into the driver’s seat. “I can actually feel my brain decaying.”

The drive back is the usual mix of chaos; Dustin complaining too much, Lucas trying to one-up him, and Max sitting in the backseat and staring at Robin with those gooey eyes because somehow Robin Buckley is the coolest person to exist in her book. Steve gets it, he feels the same way, but he’s biased- he doesn’t understand how Robin managed to win Max over with her awkward limbs and loser attitude. But sure. 

By the time Steve pulls up in front of Robin’s house, she’s half-asleep against the window, mumbling curses every time he hits a pothole. The only ones left in the back are Max and baby Byers, both quiet and staring out the window in their respective loner wannabe ways.

“See you tomorrow?” Robin says, half-yawning, half-kissing the air somewhere in the direction of his face.

Steve doesn’t even flinch. He’s used to it.

“Bye, losers!”

Steve waits until the door closes behind her before driving off again, and he plays Bronski Beat as he drives down to the Byers house. Will seems to like it, so he indulges in it.

Will is shy: it’s a given. They all know it. He can survive a week in the Upside Down but put him in front of more than three people and he crumbles under the pressure. 

That’s cute. All the older teens love it, truthfully. Eddie loves to dot on him, Nancy likes to burst into his room and sit in silence with him when she needs space from Jonathan, and Steve and Robin always take his sides when the brats argue. 

He’s even shyer when it’s time to thank him for the ride, to nod when Steve tells him to say hi to El for me, and his face is bright red when he gives one last wave before entering his house.

“Best for last,” he says as he backs out of the driveway, glancing at Max through the mirror.

Max is one of his favorites. For some reason he’s not too sure about. 

Dustin’s the one he’s closest to; they’ve been through it all together. Monsters, Russians, curses, you name it. They tousled and fought and Steve spent two hours doing his hair just for him to score a dance with Steve’s very own ex-girlfriend. They’re tight.

There’s Lucas, too, who’s…endearing. He started out as nothing but one of Dustin’s tagalongs, some brat involving himself in things he shouldn’t- but after he’d shown up at Steve’s house about a year back, shyly asking for basketball advice, things changed. Now, Steve goes to every one of his games. They hang out more often than people know (read: Dustin, because the shit is jealous and possessive). It’s their own little secret. 

But Max has no reason being held so high in Steve’s heart, except for the fact that he witnessed her go up in the air with her eyes rolled up her skull a few months back. And of course that would make anyone overprotective of her, but he knows it’s not just that.

Maybe it’s because she’s his ex-hookup’s (is that even a thing?) sister. Maybe because she’s smart and funny and yet so timid. Maybe because she seems so lonely all the time, despite being surrounded by people, and that hits closer to home than Steve dares to admit.

Anyway. Steve loves Max Mayfield. 

He’s not sure she feels the same, especially when she shoots him a flat look through the mirror.

“Will’s practically your neighbor,” she says. “Why didn’t you drop me off first?”

Yeah. She’s smart, as Steve said. He kinda hates this now.

“Uhm,” he says, laughing nervously. “I just-…need to do something after.”

It’s still early. Barely 9pm. It’s not crazy that he, a full on adult with a job, could have errands to run, right? 

It apparently is to Max.

“Something’s just Eddie, right?”, she asks, casual but sharp.

Steve almost chokes- nearly swerves into a mailbox. Wouldn’t that be poetic.

He settles for glaring at her through the rearview mirror. Her smirk is infuriating.

“Mayfield,” he warns.

“I’m not as stupid as the others,” she continues right away. “Like, the dude begs me to deliver you a note, and I’m supposed to think this is a friends thing? Yeah, okay.”

He can’t help it- a small, stupid smile pulls at his mouth. He shouldn’t feel this giggly and excited, but he kind of does. Like when he gossips with Dustin’s mom. Or when Wayne calls him son.

He tries to sound casual. “You watch too many movies.”

Max clicks her tongue. “Yeah, that’s how I recognize this crap so easily.”

They go back and forth like that for a while; Max with her smug grin, Steve trying to deny everything without smiling too wide.

By the time they pull into the trailer park, the sun’s dipping low and the windows of her place are dark.

“Hey, Steve,” Max says, still looking out at the quiet row of trailers.

“Hey, Max,” he echoes.

She’s already got her backpack on, ready to bolt. She stares for another second, then turns back to him, her shoulders slumping.

“It’s really cool, you know,” she says. “Eddie’s cool. You too.”

For a second, Steve wants to cry. He doesn’t know why every girl in his life decided today was the day for heartfelt confessions, but he both hates and loves it.

“Thanks, Mad Max. You’re cool too.”

She gives him a tiny, genuine smile in the mirror before hopping out of the car and disappearing inside.

——

Eddie opens the door almost instantly after Steve knocks, and Steve isn’t surprised.

“Sweetheart,” he grins.

He looks disgustingly cute; soft grey sweatpants, a dark green t-shirt (plain, not even a Metallica logo in sight), and his hair tied up in some kind of intricate bun situation that Steve’s only ever seen on Robin or Nancy. His smile is wide and stupidly bright, and Steve tries not to focus on the tiny chip in his tooth because if he does, he’s going to melt into the floor.

“Were you waiting for someone?” He asks as he refocuses on Eddie’s eyes.

Which is not the brightest idea either. His eyes are big and sparkly thanks to the porch light, and it feels like they’re just inviting Steve to get lost in them. And Steve would be delighted to. 

They crinkle as Eddie smiles even bigger. “Just you, Stevie boy. Come in.”

He gives him his signature dramatic little bow, and Steve brushes past him swiftly, tugging his shoes off on the mat near the door.

“Heard you drop Mayfield off,” Eddie supplies as he beelines for the kitchen.

It isn’t a fancy, modern kitchen like Steve’s at home, but compared to the old trailer they used to have, it’s practically a palace. Bigger for one, actually able to fit more than two people, with a functional stove, shiny cabinets, and enough counter space to prep a meal without having to play Tetris. 

Eddie seems to thrive here. He’s been experimenting since their first date, discovering he actually enjoys cooking when the results are satisfying. 

So Steve is not surprised when he sees the complicated quiche in the oven. 

“You staying over?” Eddie asks, pulling on oven mitts. His tone’s casual, but the sight of him -cozy, flushed, pulling something out of the oven, sends a sharp, traitorous spark right down Steve’s spine. “I got too ambitious.”

“Sure you did,” Steve says, watching him carefully. “Or were you just hoping I’d drop Max off around this time?”

Because they did see each other earlier, when Steve picked up Max in the early afternoon; Eddie on the porch in pajama pants, cigarette dangling, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. It had taken all of Steve’s willpower not to march up and kiss the exhaustion off his face.

And now Eddie looks like he just spent the whole day inside, cooking and apparently cleaning (because the floor looks shiny and smells faintly of lemon), and he’s wearing bright pink socks and cooked a quiche big enough to feed about five people.

“Okay,” Eddie laughs. “Guilty.”

So fucking cute, Steve thinks.

“Set the table?” Eddie says, slicing into the quiche as steam curls up around him.

Steve obeys instantly- plates, drinks, the whole deal. He doesn’t even have to ask which beer’s Wayne’s.

“I didn’t put broccoli since you hate them,” Eddie says. “But I used leeks. And a shit ton of onions.”

“Wayne hates leeks,” Steve says automatically.

He’s not too sure how he has that information, but he has it. He knows Wayne hates leek and Brussel sprouts, that he loves basically every red vegetables such as pepper and carrots. That he likes cheap beer and cheap wine even better than fancy one; he says it’s because of nostalgia. 

He knows Eddie is not a picky eater at all, but that he hates handling raw meat. That he’s kinda shitty at baking. That he likes to spurge into a good bottle of whiskey every now and then and pretend like he’s some rich CEO handling important business. 

And apparently, Eddie knows just as much about him. 

“He’ll live,” he says as he’s serving too generous slices of quiche on the plates.

Wayne’s plate goes right into the microwave, ready to be reheated when he’ll come home, and Eddie settles in front of Steve with a satisfied little smile and his cheeks red from the heat.

“Bon appétit.”

Steve takes a bite and, yeah, it’s unfairly good. The man learns a new skill and just excels.

“You should open a restaurant,” Steve says through a mouthful.

He discovered a passion for cooking not even a month ago and is already that good, can you imagine that? 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Right. Local freak murderer opens up a restaurant; will he serve human meat?”

Steve tries not to, but he still giggles dumbly. 

“You’d only be the cook. No one would even see you. I’ll be the waiter, charm all the housewives.”

“What about the house husbands?” Eddie asks, eyebrow raised.

“Robin,” Steve says too quickly. “She’s an amazing flirt when she’s not interested.”

Eddie hums, amused. “Not sure she’ll be too hot on rotting away in a greasy diner with us, Stevie. You either.”

The playful mood wobbles, just like that.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”, he asks, fork halfway to his mouth. “We work at Family Video, Eddie. This isn’t exactly the dream either.”

“At least you work. I’m literally unemployed.”

“You literally almost died,” Steve retorts in the same tone. “And you just graduated. Summer’s barely over!”

Eddie fixes him with a look, deep and serious and unamused. And Steve would happily back down, but not when Eddie’s currently beating himself up and acting like he’s some sore loser. 

“Steve. All I’m saying is that you and Buckley have everything in front of you.”

Steve idly wonders how this turned so serious and introspective. They were just playing two seconds ago, and yet. Here they are. 

“And you don’t?”

“No. Not in Hawkins, at least. This shit’ll follow me until I’m dead.”

“Well, then move,” Steve says, like it’s simple (and it is). “Problem solved.”

Eddie chuckles out loud at him. “And leave my old man behind? I’m not as tough and independent as you, sweetheart.” 

The words settle heavily in Steve’s throat, as much as the rest of the conversation. He doesn’t understand much- doesn’t understand how Eddie’s mind works. 

There’s a thousand questions swimming in his head. 

He dares to ask some.

“Then why do this?” He waves around the table. “Asking me out, making dinner? If you think I’ll just go live some fancy life and leave you behind. Are we just passing time?”

That knocks Eddie back. His jaw tightens, and he sighs, long and heavy.

“Steve, love, can we just drop it?”

“No,” Steve scoffs with disdain. “Why do you get to decide what happens next?”

“I don’t get to decide, that’s literally what I’m saying!” Eddie throws his hands up. “You can do whatever you want. You’re athletic and pretty and fucking rich. Everyone eats in your hand. You can go to college with Robin, or follow Nancy and Jonathan. I’m- stuck here.”

This is the dumbest thing Steve has heard in a while. It makes him sad, to know Eddie is thinking like this, but also because he thinks Steve is just this god-like, that he’s there at Family Video in Butthole, Indiana because he chose to. That he could just snap his fingers and be on top of the world. 

“You’re stuck because you want to be,” Steve bites. “People hate you here? Fine, then go fucking work next town. You’re not, like, bound here. You think you’re just this poor little soul being tormented but hello, Munson, we all went through shit. And Jonathan’s still away at college when four years ago he was organizing his brother’s funeral.”

He knows that he’s right; okay, so Eddie went through hell, almost died and came back only to be hated by everyone, followed by rumours and insults.

But it’s the same for them. 

And maybe it wasn’t as bad, maybe Steve is one of the luckiest. He didn’t face any hard losses (well, except Billy Hargrove, but that barely counts), didn’t have any lasting impact of this whole Upside Down except for the head injury that would likely make their presence remembered in a good couple of decades. 

Sure. He didn’t die. He didn’t get accused of murdering a popular cheerleader. He’s rich and handsome and still popular- sure, okay. He’s got the good side of it all, met Robin, Dustin, a real family.

But there are others. Will, who’s got enough trauma for ten people and is followed by whispers of Zombie Boy. Max, who lost her step-brother despite him being a fuck-up, who got targeted by some kind of human flesh monster and tourmented for days by him. Almost died, too. 

And Eleven, a human experiment who spent her entire life locked away in a lab. Who is very much the one who created the universe and the monsters that kept tormenting her friends.

Nancy, Jonathan, Dustin. They all lived shits, but they’re still dreaming and there, and-

And okay, Steve won’t blame Eddie for being sad. For not being able to get up from it as easily as anybody else. 

Max shut herself down for months after Billy died. Dustin is overprotective of anyone, mostly Eddie and Steve. Eleven has weird moments where she goes mute and glares at anyone who isn’t Hopper. Even Joyce, sometimes, gets teary in the eyes when she comes to Family Video and stares at Robin and Steve, before apologizing and running away.

They all got traumas, sure. No one will ever be able to live normally. 

But Eddie seems to think he’s resigned. That because a bunch of assholes from a small town hate him, that means he’s no good. No matter if those people don’t know the truth, if he’s got friends and even a potential future boyfriend being here with him, if he has Wayne who, even if he’s unaware of the whole Vecna thing, still loves his boy more than anything.

“’Just pisses me off,” Steve says as Eddie is still staring at him, eyes wide and unblinking. “You just think there’s no good, nowhere. Which is metal, okay, suits that whole dark thing you got going on. But c’mon, Eds. You can be pessimistic but still realistic.”

Eddie snorts. “Big word there.”

Steve stills, eyes finding Eddie’s quickly. For a second, neither of them moves,  just two idiots locked in a silent staring contest while the quiche slowly dies between them.

And it’s…it’s pointless.

Steve sags. “Fuck you.”

Because it’s always like this with Eddie: deflect, joke, smirk, anything but actually listen. And it’s so easy, to bite with sarcasm when people go against you. 

It’s for sure easier than to self-reflect, Steve knows it. He’s being around people disliking and dissing him more than once. People reminding him of what he used to be. Dustin, Robin, Hopper. Even Nancy. 

And he tried to change. He hopes he did, anyway.

“Okay, okay,” Eddie lifts his hands in surrender, sensing Steve’s urge to bolt. “Sorry. I, just…I just wanted this to be a cute dinner, and I threw us into this…discussion.”

Steve shrugs. Tough shit. 

“I don’t want this,” Eddie waves between them, “to be casual. I want to date the shit out of you. Grow old with you. Go to Robin’s secret wedding to whatever poor woman she traps into loving her.”

Steve huffs, trying not to smile. Cheater- Eddie always uses Robin when he wants to soften him up.

“And,” Eddie goes on, fiddling with his fork, “I just don’t know what I’m good at anymore. Besides, like, telling stories and… dealing weed. Real résumé builders. I like being around Wayne and the kids, but Hawkins? It’s a graveyard. It’s still home, though.”

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly.

“And you, too. You’re here. For whatever how long you’ll stay before deciding to say fuck it and leave, which you should.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Dude. Stop writing my life for me. I like it here.”

And it’s true. He’s not chasing big dreams like everyone else. Robin wants to teach annoying kids and live her epic lesbian love story on a beach house, Nancy’s already halfway to Pulitzer-level journalism, Jonathan’s surviving on caffeine and devotion, the kids are all little geniuses. Steve just… wants peace. Wants quiet, dumb normalcy.

If that means working shitty shifts at Family Video for a poor salary, then so be it.

“Okay,” Eddie says finally. “Okay, I’m sorry, I, just-…You can do so much more, but yeah. If you don’t want to, it’s fine.” 

Steve smirks. “Right back at you, Ed.”

Eddie smiles, small and crooked. “I like being here too. It’s just that it doesn’t exactly like me back.”

I do, Steve almost says. He swallows it down.

“I guess that’s what being an adult is,” Steve shrugs instead. “Doing stuff you don’t wanna do. Like, uh, laundry.”

Eddie chuckles. “Laundry.” He scrunches his nose in disgust. “And consider leaving because people accuse you of ritual sacrifices.”

Steve relaxes, happy that the conversation is back at being playful, less tense.

“Yeah, that too. Or worse. Taxes.”

Eddie groans theatrically. “Haven’t had the pleasure yet.”

“Stay unemployed then,” Steve advises, chewing another bite of cold quiche. “They’ll bleed you dry.”

Eddie starts eating too. The fight (if that was even one) is over and long gone. 

“Not sure I’ll survive long without income, sweetheart.”

And the nicknames are back. Steve’s chest go warm. Yay. Future boyfriend doesn’t hate me yet.

“Unless,” Eddie drawls, eyes gleaming, “some handsome, caring guy decides to take me in. Let me be his housewife…” 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Housewife?” 

Didn’t know you were into that, he almost says.

“Picture it,” Eddie stands up all at once, nearly knocking his beer over, and twirls around as he pulls his shirt down as a fake dress. “Cooking you quiche and shit, keeping the house clean. Hey, honey, how was work? Fancy a blowjob before eating your dinner?”

Steve promptly inhales air instead of saliva and dies a little. His entire face goes nuclear red. This man will be the death of his. With his nasty mouth and nastier words.

“You,” he wheezes, “should get a job, Munson.”

Munson collapses back in his chair, groaning dramatically. “So, no housewife?” He asks and his pout turns into a sheepish grin when Steve shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean it’s a no to the blowjob.” 

Steve wants to kill him. 

And kiss him.

(And let him make good of that blowjob). 

Chapter Text

After that night they ate quiche and nearly fought (or did they actually?) about the fate of their future, they become insufferable. Robin’s words.

Steve gets it. If Robin and Vickie acted the way they do, he’d never let Robin live it down. He’d be relentless.

But apparently, Robin and Vickie are better people. More considerate, or whatever. Even if they did have sex by Steve’s pool (Robin had confessed that part while turning bright red and refusing to meet his eyes), and even if Steve did walk in on them making out in the Family Video backroom- somehow, they’re still less disgusting than him and Eddie.

Robin claims it’s because she and Vickie are actually together. That all this mess with Eddie is just unresolved sexual tension. That they just need to, quote, get it out of their systems. Which, rude. Especially coming from someone who only lost her virginity, like, a week ago.

Anyway. Insufferable apparently means evenings spent tangled up on somebody’s couch, pretending to watch whatever bad movie’s on TV while really just playing with each other’s fingers.

Insufferable means Eddie leaving even more little doodles everywhere -stick figures with big curly hair and another with a messy blob on its head, holding hands and grinning like idiots.

Insufferable means Steve barely has to cook himself dinner. And Eddie gets his little sugary treat every day -Wayne too, because Steve is well behaved. 

Insufferable means Steve goes to every D&D session now. Every Friday. 

It’s Dustin who corners him after one of them, as they’re all shuffling out of Mike’s basement. When he grabs his elbow on the way out, Steve has no idea what’s coming next.

“What’s up?”, he asks him as he’s fiddling with his car keys, shivering slightly in his shirt.

It’s late September already, temperature going down steadily.

They’ve been doing this dance, this flirty, confusing, almost something thing for weeks, and Steve kind of hopes it never ends.

Sure, he wants more. Wants to kiss Eddie, to actually call him his boyfriend. Wants the whole deal: hickeys in questionable places, awkward trips to the store for condoms.

But he likes the flirting and the wooing that comes before. It was always his favorite part with Nancy, before things got serious. Because once you hit the top, it all starts to slide downhill. It’s just how it goes.

And Steve knows it’s just how it happens for everyone. You get together, it all gets better until it doesn’t. Until something happens, or until it just fades away. 

And Steve’s scared. Scared of rushing it, of ruining it. He just wants this to last. Wants to stay wanted.

Wants Eddie to keep looking at him like that, like he is right now, in the driver seat of his van, big doe eyes staring at Steve with too much in them. 

It would be enough to get Steve all hot and bothered if Lucas and Mike weren’t right next to Eddie, bickering and fighting, and if he didn’t have a curly headed brat by his side. 

“What’s up?”, Steve asks, finally detaching his eyes from the van and most importantly, its driver.

Eddie is driving all the brats home, except for Dustin who insisted on having Steve drop him off for some reason. 

“Can, uh…,” Dustin risks a glance towards the other car. “I want to talk.”

Steve frowns. “What’s wrong? Is this about Suzanne?”

“Suzie.”

“Suzie, right. Did she ditch you?”

Because why would Henderson come to him except for this? They have no more monsters or alternate dimension to fight. He doesn’t seem too keen on climbing the social ladder at school, and if he needs help with classes or D&D, he already has other people to ask- Nancy and Eddie, respectfully. 

So. Girls tips. Maybe hair. Maybe a nightmare? But even then, Steve thinks he’s more comfortable sharing that with the Party. 

“No,” Dustin shakes his head. That makes Steve even more confused. “Can we, drive? I don’t want Holly to spy on us.”

Steve shrugs, but complies. 

They’re not even down the road, the window rolled down and the radio volume down to the minimum, when Dustin finally spits it out. 

“Do you know Eddie’s gay?”

Steve chokes on air. 

“Wh-…Where did you hear that?”, he splutters. 

Because this is dangerous. Is…Did Dustin hear this at school? Rumours about the supposed murderer? Did-…Is Eddie in active danger? Like, hate crime level of danger?

“Nowhere.”

Steve frowns even more, his eyebrows almost touching. “He’s not. Don’t believe what people say.” 

“Would it be a problem if he was?”

They share a glance as Steve slows down, and he can see the careful, almost angry look on Dustin’s face. Like he’s scared of Steve’s reaction. 

Like the problem isn’t Eddie, but Steve. 

And it’s suddenly obvious. 

“Oh,” Steve gasps, and then snorts. “Did Eddie tell you something?”

Dustin doesn’t follow- he’s still frowning and assessing Steve with a glare that hardens by the second. 

“Would it be a problem, Steve?”

Steve gets brave in a swift. He shrugs, doesn’t miss the way Dustin lifts his eyebrows in surprise like, the nerve of that guy, and then chuckles. 

“I don’t have a problem with myself,” he says. “So I don’t have one with Munson either.”

“Wh-…,” Dustin looks confused. Lost.

Steve takes pity on his usually formidable but useless brain. 

“I’m queer too, Dustin.”

“Oh.”

Dustin shuffles so he’s not facing him, and he blinks lazily as the streets pass, dark and almost empty. 

“Are you two fucking, then?”, he asks after a minute. 

And it would’ve been funny to survive literal hell for multiple years just to end up in a car crash because Dustin Henderson can’t hold his tongue.

It would’ve been funny to go out and experience, as the last sound you ever hear, Dustin’s high pitched screech as you barely swerve off an upcoming car.

It would’ve been funny. For like, three seconds.

“What the fuck,” Dustin punches Steve’s arm  once they’re calmed down.

Steve swats him away. He’s embarrassed and high on adrenaline and just wishes this kid would shut up for once.  

“What the fuck yourself! What’s wrong with you Henderson?!”

“What’s wrong with me? You almost killed us!”

“You just can’t ask people things like that, man,” Steve sighs, trying to shake off the tickling feeling in his bones. “That’s personal, intimate and just, not cool. Especially if they’re driving, what the fuck.”

Dustin huffs and sags in the seat. “I’ll ask once you’re not driving anymore, then,” because he’s a smart ass. 

And because he’s annoying, he waits about a nanosecond once Steve parks in front of his house and turns off the engine before asking again. 

“We’re not,” Steve says.

He promises him he’s telling the truth. Tells him he can even ask Eddie if he wants. That he’s not lying.

I wish we were, Steve adds, but only in his mind.

Dustin doesn’t need to know that. 

——

Eddie gets a real kick out of the whole nearly-dying thing.

Steve tells him so while they’re sprawled across his couch, Monty Python playing in the background, not that either of them is actually watching. They’ve both seen it at least five times. Classic childhood stuff.

“Max. Dustin. Already two out of, what, six kids?”, Eddie tilts his head, curls following the movement easily.

Steve narrows his eyes as he tries to count them in his head. His fingers tap absently against Eddie’s calves while he does the math.

They’re tangled up together, legs a mess, Eddie’s feet practically by Steve’s head. Thankfully, they don’t smell too bad. Just a little sweaty. (Not that Steve minds. Is it weird that he kind of likes it?)

“Seven,” Steve finally says, squeezing Eddie’s ankle. Eddie gives him a soft, fond look. “I count little Sinclair.”

“Ah, Lady Applejack. My mistake.”

Eddie’s fingers trace lazy shapes over the fabric of Steve’s sweatpants, the touch light and distracting. It’s almost too nice.

That’s the thing that makes Steve want to just do it already; confess, kiss, get it over with. Because this right here, this quiet comfort? It’s domestic. It’s relationship-level intimacy.

A finger brushing against his ankle hair. A sweaty foot by his head.

He could get used to this, waking up tangled in Eddie’s curls, pressing sleepy, gross morning kisses into his neck, not caring about breath or sweat. Because that’s what you do when you love someone.

But he’s torn.

Half of him wants to straddle Eddie and tell him to just ask, to make it real. The other half wants to stay right here, in this in-between. The sweet spot of I know you want me, and you know I want you. No pressure, no fear, no next steps.

“Steve?” Eddie shakes his legs lightly, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Ground control to Major Steve?”

Steve blinks. “Was that a Bowie reference, Munson?”

Eddie grins. “I have a large musical range, Harrington-”

“That’s just not true. You listen to metal bands exclusively.”

“I literally have ABBA tapes in my van.”

Steve scoffs. “Those are mine.”

“Exactly.”

Eddie looks smug (unfairly so) while Steve just stares, lost. Eddie catches the look and laughs softly.

“You know I listen to Voulez-Vous even when you’re not there, right?”

Steve frowns. “No, you don’t.”

“Definitely do. The King has lost his Crown is a classic.”

Yeah. Of course. 

Steve scoffs. He can’t have anything, right? Eddie always has to make fun of him somehow, with his sarcastic self. Always has to remind him. 

“Not funny, man,” he almost whispers. 

But Eddie doesn’t laugh. His expression softens, confused in the same way Steve feels, searching the air for something solid. 

Then he gives a small chuckle.

“Steve. I’m not- this has nothing to do with, like, King Steve. This song is just good,” he says, and quickly sits up on the couch. 

He almost tips forward and falls on Steve, angling himself so he’s lying in the limited space between Steve and the couch. 

They’re close, like this. Really close- Steve can see every detail of Eddie’s face, can smell his cologne and his breath and even see the shaved stumble on his chin. 

It’s unfair how good he looks this close.

“You wanna know a song that actually makes me think of you?” Eddie asks, voice low and rough.

Steve knows ABBA. And he knows Eddie.

So he just rolls his eyes. “If you say Voulez-Vous…”

Eddie bursts out laughing, eyes bright and wild. Steve can’t help wanting to taste the grin on his face.

“Ding ding ding,” Eddie murmurs, sliding even closer. “We have a winner!”

“You’re a perv,” Steve deadpans, trying not to indulge him by grinning like a fool (even if he wants to). 

Eddie shrugs. “Only for you, honeybun.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. Calling someone honeybun after suggesting sex is just so…Eddie-like. Out of place and weird and, freaky. 

Eddie nudges him with a foot. Steve kicks him back. The whole couch wobbles.

“You’re gonna break my furniture, man,” Steve whines.

Eddie doesn’t seize the chance for an innuendo. He just smiles down at him, lazy and satisfied.

By the time the movie ends, they’re curled up together. Eddie’s back is pressed to Steve, one arm draped across his waist, his nose almost brushing Steve’s neck. It happened naturally, once Steve glanced back at the screen and Eddie let his elbow fall, and they just…existed, warm and comfortable against each other.

Steve hums, chest vibrating under Eddie’s squeeze as the credits roll.

“Question,” Eddie murmurs, his breath tickling Steve’s skin.

Steve turns his head. “Answer.”

“We have a gig on Monday,” Eddie says, fingers tapping lightly against Steve’s stomach. “Wanna make it a date?”

The nervousness Eddie used to carry when asking Steve out is gone. Now, cuddled together, trading sex jokes, they both know the answer is already yes. Calm and confident, he just locks eyes with Eddie, studying him. He can’t decide which he likes better, anxious-mess Eddie Munson or easy-flirt Eddie Munson.

“A date where I just watch you for an hour and you can’t even see me?”

Eddie snorts. “We’re playing in a shitty bar, Steve. I’ll definitely see you.”

“Better find a good outfit then.”

“Or no outfit at all.”

Perv, Steve thinks again, almost blurting it out, but Eddie speaks before he gets the chance.

“You can bring your little clique too.”

Little clique means Robin and Vickie- apparently, they’ve formed some kind of trio now. Steve remembers a night not long ago, when he had hung out with them for hours and finally asked if it bothered Vickie that he was basically cockblocking them. She’d shrugged, told him that she knew beforehand that Robin and Steve were a package deal.

“It’s better to have a dude with us sometimes when we go on dates too," she’d said. 

“Yeah,” Steve’d agreed. It’s not really a date then, but if they just pretend he doesn’t exist, maybe it can count. “But we’re alone, here.”

“You’re fun,” Vickie had added. “Robin is less on edge when you’re around.”

Me too.

“And we still get plenty of time alone, don’t worry,” she’d winked.

That’s how they’d ended up as some kind of weird little trio. It’s all very recent; just a week since that night. Six days since Vickie had dropped by Family Video and started joking with Steve about customers instead of Robin. Three days since she’d called to ask if he was up for board game night with Robin and one of her friends.

Three days since Steve had gone- had stayed up all night, coming home at one in the morning, calling Eddie to brag about absolutely demolishing everyone at Clue.

And now…they’re a clique.

“Alright,” Steve says after a silence that’s lasted far too long. Eddie squeezes his waist again. “I’ll be there.”

Eddie drags his nose along Steve’s neck, slow, deliberate, teasing.

“Sweet. I’ll announce something,” he murmurs.“Better keep your attention on me.”

As if it wouldn’t. 

——

Monday, 9pm comes faster than Steve expected. 

His so-called clique bails on him, some nonsense about work, exhaustion, and so sorry, next time! He’s pretty sure Robin and Vickie just have a hot make-out session scheduled. 

But he gets it. He wishes he could’ve the same schedule as them. 

Robin still calls that afternoon to help him pick an outfit because, you just can’t go there in your straight jock uniform. They’ll eat you alive. 

So now he’s in the same old battle-worn leather jacket (the only non-preppy thing he owns), the dark pair of Gap jeans he bought when they went to the mall, and a thick black sweater. Because it’s actually cold for September. (Maybe it’s just because Hawkins doesn’t have a gateway to Hell warming it from underneath anymore). 

“Please, for the love of God, kiss him tonight,” Robin tells him after forcing him to put on some of that highlighter. “End all our sufferings.”

“Stop using God’s name in vain,” Steve recites like his mother. 

He can’t see her, but he knows she’s sticking her tongue out.

They hang up quickly, and then Steve gets on the road. The bar isn’t in Hawkins, only a few towns over. It’s a ride long enough for Steve to relax a bit, smoke a cigarette with the window open and Phil Collins playing loud enough that the cars passing him must hear it. 

He’s expecting a hole-in-the-wall bar, but when he parks, he realizes it’s… not small. Not even close. It’s basically a club.

His palms start to sweat.

“Okay, Harrington,” he mutters at his reflection in the windshield. “You got this. Channel your inner groupie.”

At the door, the bouncer stops him. Steve hands over his ID with what he hopes is a confident smile because he’s technically far from twenty-one. He doesn’t want to have to do the awkward drive back and the even more awkward call to Eddie to tell him that he wasn’t allowed in. 

“Oh,” the bouncer nods when he sees it. “You’re on it. Good evening.”

Steve doesn’t ask for details- on what? 

He’s not about to risk getting tossed for being underage, so he just shuffles inside and pretends that was a totally normal exchange.

Still. What the hell does on it mean?

He only has two and a half seconds to wonder before the sight in front of him makes his brain short-circuit.

This isn’t a typical bar. 

It’s definitely more of a club. A metal club? Do they have this? 

At least, he thinks that’s what this is.

For a second, he’s sure he’s wandered into some kind of underground strip show; dim red lights, black walls, people in leather and heavy eyeliner, the air thick with bass and cigarette smoke.

It looks like a scene out of a modern Rocky Horror, that’s what this is.

Steve feels out of place in a breath. God, he wishes Robin was here with him- or anyone. He thinks he’d find comfort even if fucking Tommy was here with him. 

Most of all, he wishes Eddie was here. And well, he is. In the vicinity of this place, somewhere, probably backstage. 

But Steve wishes he was right next to him, making fun of his awkwardness and stirring him towards the bar while throwing peace signs over his shoulders. Or whatever the fuck metal nerds use to communicate to each other.

Someone bumps into him. “Oops, sorry, sugar.”

Steve blinks, mutters something like no problem, and finally gets himself moving toward the bar, safest spot in sight.

It’s not crowded. Monday night, after all. Probably why Corroded Coffin even got this gig. Not to throw shade on his maybe-future-boyfriend, but this is clearly their biggest venue yet. Yet, Monday’s quiet enough for the bar to take a chance.

“What can I get you?”, the bartender asks him when Steve settles down on a barstool.

She’s got a blonde buzz cut, sharp eyeliner, and a grin that could kill. Steve thinks Robin would be blushing five shades of red if she were here; he can’t wait to tell her.

“Just a Coke, thanks.”

He almost adds something lame like gotta drive back, but she’s already sliding the glass toward him before he can finish the thought. No questions asked.

Steve spends about six minutes nursing his Coke and avoiding eye contact before Corroded Coffin finally steps onto the stage, all the way across the room, so far from the bar that Steve almost has to squint.

We’re playing in a shitty bar, I’ll definitely see you, Eddie had said last week.

What a dirty liar. 

They don’t even introduce themselves before launching straight into it, and Steve frowns at the sheer volume of…everything. The drums are relentless, Eddie’s practically screaming, and the guitars sound like they’re trying to start a war.

But everyone else loves it. The crowd moves like they’ve rehearsed this; they know exactly when to bang their heads, when the rhythm shifts (if it can even be called slowing down), when to scream back the words.

By the end of the first song, Steve’s ready to go home and cry into his pillow. Maybe beg someone to play some Cyndi Lauper to cleanse his soul.

“Heya,” Eddie drawls into the mic, guitar slung over his shoulder. “We’re Corroded Coffin. Nice to meet all you dope people.”

The place erupts. Even the bartender claps.

Steve wants to, but he needs a second- that was… intense.

“Hope there aren’t any inexperienced folks in here tonight,” Eddie teases.

Steve looks up instantly, and of course Eddie’s staring right at him. From across the room, through the dim light, there’s no mistaking it. Either Eddie’s making heart eyes at him, or he’s flirting with the buzz-cut bartender, and Steve really doubts it.

“If there are,” Eddie says with a wink, “welcome to our world.”

The crowd cheers again.

“That was Metallica’s Whiplash,” Eddie continues. “We’re gonna play a few covers, but also some originals.”

They go around introducing the band, but Steve barely listens. He knows Gareth and Jeff. The rest doesn’t matter. He only cares about Eddie.

Eddie, who looks so happy up there; hair wild, eyes bright, grinning like he was born for the stage. Steve wants to jump up there, drag him off, and cuddle him into oblivion.

That thought doesn’t last long once the next song starts.

It’s one of their originals. Steve recognizes it right away- Eddie’s been humming it for weeks, plucking at the chords during movie nights. The lyrics hit too close to home: trailers and monsters and survival dressed up as metaphor. There’s no way anyone but Eddie wrote this.

The crowd loves it.

Steve doesn’t.

But he does love watching people love it, seeing them clap, shout, and cheer for Eddie’s voice, for Gareth’s drum solo. Seeing Eddie’s hopeful little smile when the applause gets loud.

They play for nearly an hour: five covers Steve’s never heard of (except The Trooper, which even he knows by now), and four originals with very Eddie-style titles: Grave of Kings, Doom, You’ll Have It, Risers Through the Night. Each one earns more noise, more energy, more pride on Eddie’s face.

“We’ve got one last song!” Eddie says at last. The crowd boos playfully. “Oh, stop flattering us,” he grins.

Steve laughs into his Coke. Eddie’s so charismatic. Never worked in the halls of Hawkins High, but here? People eat it up.

“This one’s a little more personal,” Eddie goes on. “And, uh, I’ve got a sappy announcement first.”

Steve frowns. Oh no.

“The band forced me to say they’re not involved and don’t condone what I’m about to do.”

Excited whispers ripple through the crowd, and Steve’s stomach drops. What the hell is he about to do? Set himself on fire? Jump into the crowd?

“Nothing dangerous!” Eddie laughs, waving his hands. “They just hate happiness.”

Steve barely gets a second to breathe before Eddie’s gaze locks on him again; direct, unflinching, and way too confident.

“I’ve got someone here tonight,” Eddie says into the mic. “Not big on the spotlight, so don’t go sending a search party, people.”

The room goes quiet, and Steve’s face burns.

“This person…” Eddie pauses, smiling softly. “We went to the same high school, but we didn’t really talk. Except, y’know, for the occasional weed deal.”

A few people laugh. Steve doesn’t.

“But recently, we became friends. And now, more. Kinda. We’re not together yet.” 

He glances down at his hands, then back at the crowd. 

“You guys know I’ve spent most of my life dreaming of making it big? Getting out of my small town, seeing the world, being on top of the charts, all that cliché shit?”

People cheer, some raising their drinks.

“Yeah, that. But lately… I’ve been dreaming about other things. Of my uncle being happy. Of my friends being safe. Of this one kid, my friend, being okay. And maybe, if I’m lucky, of getting to be a boyfriend for the first time.”

The crowd melts. Steve wants to crawl into the floor. Or maybe jump on stage. Or both.

Eddie keeps going, eyes still on him.

“So, to that person out there, the one who hates metal but still came to see us,  thank you. For being here. For forgiving me. For liking me.”

Steve’s throat tightens. He wants to tell him it’s nothing. That it’s so easy to like him.

“To my sweetheart,” Eddie adds, twisting the knife. “I’ve been wanting to say this for days, but I only get as brave as you when I’m on stage. I love you.”

Then he starts playing Master of Puppets, and Steve loses it. 

Chapter Text

Eddie doesn’t see Steve for the rest of the night.

Well, he sees him before. He sees him before the chaos, when Steve is staring at him wide-eyed during that ridiculous, reckless confession- because that’s exactly what it was, no matter how poetic or dumb it sounded. 

Eddie hadn’t planned it. He’d just told Gareth and Jeff beforehand, ignoring their panicked warnings, climbed on stage, and announced to the entire bar that he loved his sweetheart.

It got cheers.

It got Steve red-faced and bright-eyed.

It got Steve to leave and not come back. 

Now Eddie sits with the memory, stomach twisting. 

Somewhere along the line, he thinks he screwed up. He thought: fuck it, Steve was the attention magnet back in high school. People throwing themselves at him, him kissing Wheeler like some movie heartthrob in Hawkins High parking lot.

So of course, Eddie thought, well, me too.

After all, he’s still the same guy who’d write mock-serious sonnets about how English class was a scam. The smartass who’d jab at football players, make faces at authority, taunt Carver and the rest of the jock brigade. Eddie thought they were a match made in Heaven. Or in Hell. for each other. Whatever works.

Apparently, he was wrong.

Wouldn’t be the first time. Eddie’s been wrong a whole lot of times. 

When he thought his dad might care, or that helping Reefer Rick just this once wouldn’t explode into a whole disaster, or that he’d graduate. 

When he thought Chrissy would be safe buying from him, that he knew just how dark the world could really get- that it was it, he was going to die in Dustin’s arms.

And, more recently, wrong about Steve Harrington being straight.

Add another tally: thinking Steve Harrington would be into a public love confession.

Beep. Incorrect.

“Your sweetheart didn’t come blow you after the show,” Jeff says the next day, twisting the knife with all the casual cruelty of a friend who knows exactly what they’re doing.

Eddie shrugs, keeping his tone light, like he isn’t teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack. “Guess I shouldn’t’ve blurted it out in front of everyone.”

“What, King Steve doesn’t like being the center of attention?”

“Don’t call him that,” Eddie snaps, kicking at Jeff’s shin. “And he wouldn’t have been. I did my best not even to imply that it was a dude!”

Because, newsflash: being into metal and freaky shit doesn’t automatically make people un-homophobic. Eddie learned that the hard way.

“You sure he actually likes you?” Gareth asks. “Maybe he just freaked out ‘cause it got too real. Maybe he realized he’s in too deep.”

Oh, that’s a new insecurity for sure. Thank you so much, Gareth. 

“Man, fuck you,” Jeff cuts in before Eddie can spiral. “Nobody flirts for months and hangs out in that sleazy bar for a prank.”

“You never know,” Gareth shrugs.

Yeah. You do never know about people. Eddie’s been learning new things about Steve since day one, things Steve doesn’t even want people to see.

And he’s pretty sure he just threw a wrench in the works by assuming.

“You sure nothing happened to him?” Gareth asks next, because of course he does.

Right. Either Steve ghosted him or got kidnapped by some Indiana version of the Night Stalker. Fantastic options.

“His car was at Family Video this morning,” Eddie says. 

Maybe he did take a tiny detour to check. Steve might be a badass who’s fought literal demons, but he’s still a queer man in Indiana, and people can be a lot worse than monsters.

So Steve’s safe. Just…not happy with him.

Maybe he’s overwhelmed. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to see him cry. Maybe the L-word freaked him out. Maybe he really is just there for fun. Something deeper; maybe not. 

Eddie gnaws at the inside of his cheek, trying not to panic.

“Fuck it,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

Jeff and Gareth share a look, one Eddie chooses to ignore. He focuses on his new guitar instead, a shiny little beauty Dustin got him after the demobats destroyed the last one. Heartbreak always makes for good music. At least that’s something productive.

Later that night, Eddie does something he’s never done before. He tears a page out of his lyrics notebook, scribbling small notes to himself, prompts for his heart:

I thought you’d like it. I’m sorry if I misunderstood. I’ll ask next time. I’m sorry if it was too soon. I’m ready whenever you are. I just wanted you to know. I should’ve done it in private. I should’ve listened to Gareth and Jeff.

The pen rests heavy in his hand as sleep finally drags him under, thoughts swirling in a thousand directions.

It’s knocks that finally jolt him awake at 11am, hard and fast against his bedroom window. His brain takes a second too long to catch up, latching first onto dreams of doors closing and cages, slipping between nightmare and reality. For half a heartbeat, he’s convinced it’s Jason and his little cult of idiots, or maybe Dustin bursting in with news that Vecna’s risen again.

Instead, it’s just Robin The Storm Buckley, cheeks flushed, hair wild, looking like she’s biked through a hurricane.

Relief and happiness squeeze through him in equal parts as he smiles. He ignores her impatience as he stretches and yawns, before crossing the room to the window.

“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise?” he says, pulling it open.

She doesn’t even bother asking for the front door. Just climbs right through like it’s the most natural thing in the world, landing on his bed and immediately groaning, “Water. Please. I’m dying.” 

Eddie hands her his own special nightstand water bottle and watches as she chugs it in two gulps. 

Half a second later, she sniffs the sheets and grimaces. “Dude, y’know you’re supposed to wash those?”

“I do. Every five days since I started dating your maniac best friend,” he replies, rolling his eyes.

Going to refill the bottle, Eddie’s eyes flick to the phone on the kitchen wall; new, shiny, black, and just a call away from Steve. If he can fix this, he can get back to the fun part: the wooing, the confessions, the ridiculous soft Steve Harrington cuddles he’s been daydreaming about.

“What a way to bring it up,” Robin calls from his room. When he returns, she’s cross-legged on his bed, eyes sharp now. “I’m here for the official shovel talk.”

Eddie blinks. “Do I really need one?”

Robin exhales something between a sigh and a scoff. “Steve’s been off all of yesterday.”

Yeah. That checks out. 

Relief washes over him. If Steve’s upset, that means he cares.

“So,” Robin continues, when Eddie doesn’t answer, “don’t hurt him, yadda yadda. He’s my ride-or-die. Just fix this, okay?”

Eddie smirks. “Did Steve give Vickie the same talk?”

“I think they gave each other one. But Vickie apologized like crazy afterward for how she treated me, so maybe Steve threatened her or something,” she shrugs like it’s no big deal. 

Eddie raises an eyebrow. Steve Harrington. Threatening someone like Vickie?

He can’t tell if that’s hot or weird. Maybe both. It definitely does something to him, at least. 

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” he says finally, settling his worries.

Robin gives him that look, eyebrows twitching, sharp, somewhat fond. 

“I’ll make sure he listens.” 

Eddie believes her. Because if there’s one person Steve Harrington can’t say no to, it’s the storm currently sprawled across his unwashed bedspread.

——

Steve answers on the first ring.

“Harrington,” he says, flat.

It’s three in the afternoon. Eddie had made a point of waiting -an hour after Steve’s shift, knowing he’d need time to get home, shed the day’s exhaustion, and untangle himself from whatever little void he disappears into after work. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, careful with his tone. Not too familiar, not too distant. Just…right.

“Eddie. Hey.” 

There’s a softness there, an unguarded, almost hesitant warmth in Steve’s voice that makes something inside Eddie ease, a balm to his heart he didn’t realize had been aching.

He huffs a laugh, a little wild. “Hey, sweetheart.”

For a beat, neither of them speaks. The only sound is their breathing, the faint hum of the trees outside Eddie’s window mixing with it. Eddie can feel the slight vibration of the phone against his ear, Steve’s presence stretching across the line. 

He’s about to fill the silence with nervous rambling, when Steve sighs, a long, low exhale.

“Listen, Ed. I’m sorry.”

Eddie frowns. “For what?”

“Everything. Leaving the bar. Not calling. Avoiding you.”

“You haven’t been avoiding me. I didn’t call either.”

“Yeah, well…” Steve scoffs. “I wouldn’t call either if you left after I confessed.”

“I don’t-” Eddie trails off, swallowing down the sudden lump in his throat, then exhales slowly, steadying himself. “We should do this in person. I want to see you.”

“I want to see you too,” Steve says softly, almost like he’s testing the words.

Sweet, careful, and it makes Eddie’s chest flutter in ways he can’t entirely control. 

He’s so gone for this man. 

“I’ll be there right away,” he says, and hangs up before Steve can protest.

Eight minutes later, Eddie is at his door. 

He spent about six of those minutes driving like a man possessed (maybe running a few lights, definitely ignoring a stop sign) and the first two meticulously dousing himself in cologne, brushing and taming his hair, mentally preparing for the sight of Steve, tired and perfect.

Steve opens the door looking exhausted, the weight of his shoulders dragging, eyes slightly hooded, a worn-out smile flickering. 

Eddie notices the subtle twitch of his jaw, the way his hair falls just slightly into his eyes. He can’t stop himself from drinking him in.

When they finally settle on the couch, Steve exhales again, long and low, as if the act of sitting is itself a relief.

“Are you okay?” Eddie blurts.

Steve tilts his head, frowning slightly. “Do I look that rough?”

“You look good,” Eddie says, not lying. “But tired.”

“Yeah. Bunch of assholes at work. Doesn’t help that I’m, like…ruining everything with the guy I’m seeing.”

A small frown tugs at Steve’s lips. Eddie bites back the urge to kiss it off his face, forcing himself to focus on the words instead.

“You’re not ruining anything. I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

Eddie chuckles. “Okay, neither of us are.”

It doesn’t explain the chaos of that night. Why Steve ran away. Why Eddie chose that moment to confess.

“Can I go first?” Eddie asks, crossing his legs to mirror Steve’s. 

Their knees brush, a little spark of contact- Eddie fights the urge to lean forward, rest his head on Steve’s lap, and nap there forever.

Steve hesitates, conflicted, then nods faintly.

“I just wanna say that I’m sorry. I thought you’d be into the whole public confession thing, y’know, since we’re both attention sluts,” Eddie blurts.

Steve rolls his eyes, though the corner of his mouth quirks upward, clearly amused.

“I guess I was wrong? Don’t know why, or where exactly, but I was. And I’m sorry. I, uh… I meant what I said, though.”

Steve blushes, a soft, warm pink that makes Eddie’s heart skip. Encouraged, he keeps going.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he murmurs, tracing small, absent-minded circles on Steve’s knee, feeling the subtle twitch beneath his fingers. “I meant what I said last time, too, at my place. I want us to be old and wrinkly and complain because we have to go to, like, aquagym or some shit.”

Steve bites his lip, eyes bright, sparkling at Eddie’s hand, lingering where it is.

“And if you want to do that in Hawkins? Fine. I’ll find a job somewhere, or get plastic surgery to look like someone else, or-”

“Don’t you dare,” Steve interrupts, lifting a finger like a warning.

Eddie chuckles. “Yeah, no money for that anyway. We’ll figure something out. Indianapolis. Or fuck it, California! Grab Max when she graduates, live on the coast with her.”

Steve hums thoughtfully. 

“We’ll get a room for Wayne,” Steve adds, eyes brightening at their little fantasy, “and a huge shelf for his mugs. And one of those massage chairs for his back when it acts up.”

“A fancy one so we can use it too,” Eddie nods, smiling wide.

Steve looks up, brown eyes shimmering with a kind of quiet joy that makes Eddie want to crawl right inside him.

“What I want to say,” Eddie says, hand warm against Steve’s knee, “is that I love you. I know I’ll mess up again, I already have. But I’m trying. I hope you’ll give me more chances, let me figure out what you want, what you like.”

“I like you,” Steve says, dumbly, hesitating. “I…I don’t know what to say. You’re too good at this man, how come?”

Eddie laughs, loud, relieved.

“I think I have problems with this word,” Steve admits, voice low. “Love. You said it so easily in front of everyone. I was overwhelmed. Like, okay, yay! But also, wow.”

“You have such a way with words, Steve Harrington,” Eddie teases, nudging their knees together lightly.

“Fuck you,” Steve snorts, though it’s soft. “I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t even know why I’m like this. My parents messed me up, and Nancy didn’t help. Hearing it for me, in front of all those strangers was…too much.”

Eddie hums, understanding. Maybe declaring love to someone who’s never really heard it before, in the middle of a crowd, wasn’t the best idea.

“I overthought it,” Steve continues. “Like, this dude can just whip out some book-level confession to me, and I’ve never heard I love you in twenty years. I’ve only had shitty, failed relationships, except for Robin and the kids, and that’s all…shared trauma stuff.”

“Steve…”

“No. It feels like sometimes I’m not, I don’t know…lovable, except if people are forced to be with me. And you guys didn’t help with leaving me out. I freaked out.”

The words hit Eddie like a punch to the chest. Oof. This one hurts.

“Steve.”

Eddie leans in, both hands cupping Steve’s face, fingers brushing along his jaw, his neck, his cheeks. He can feel the subtle warmth of Steve’s skin beneath his palms.

“I love you,” he says softly. “Should’ve said it better. Should’ve done the whole fucking thing;  wine, dinner, telling you a hundred times until you got it.”

He is considering doing it now. Rushing out to grab some fancy bottle, vanilla candles, whatever. Set up a romantic thing, with ballads playing in the background. Whatever Steve wants. Whatever he likes.

But it’ll be stupid and pointless. Because the problem isn’t just about Eddie saying is- it’s mostly about Steve not believing it. 

“Steve,” Eddie says again. “I get you. I do. But you need to understand that everyone loves you. Even Nancy, even Jonathan. And no one is forced to; they could all easily avoid you now that the nightmares are done, and no one does. Especially now me- I think I’ve been in love with you ever since I jumped you at Rick’s place.”

Steve blinks, quiet for a moment. Then a faint flush creeps up his neck, spreading across his cheeks, warming Eddie’s hands. His eyelids lower, heavy.

“I’ll say it too one day,” Steve murmurs, voice rough around the edges. “I think I already do.”

That’s enough. Enough to know that Steve loves him, even without the words fully formed. He’s opened up. He’s vulnerable. He’s amazing.

“If you ever want to pull another rom-com move,” Steve adds, nuzzling into Eddie’s hands, unashamed, “just give me a heads-up. I like your dramatic, theatricly self, but only when I’m aware of it.”

“Theatrical,” Eddie corrects, grinning and pressing a kiss to the side of Steve’s cheek, feeling it stretch as he smiles.

They stay like that for a while, knees brushing, limbs loosely tangled, neither moving. Neither really knows what to do with… all of this. Feelings are messy little things.

Eventually Steve shifts, scratching the back of his neck the way he does when he’s nervous, and Eddie swears he could die right there because, God, it’s cute.

“I think I like us like that. Not running from each other.”

“Good,” Eddie murmurs, smiling down at him. “Because I’ve done enough running away for like, fifty years. I’m stuck here, now.”

Steve giggles- and with his cheeks squished between Eddie’s palms, eyes small and tired, it’s the prettiest damn thing Eddie’s ever seen. He swears he might actually die right there, just from looking.

He shifts closer, their legs tangling completely now, the solid warmth of Steve’s thigh pressing against his. It’s domestic in the most ridiculous, perfect way. 

“Is it weird if I say I like you being tired? You’re way…nicer.” 

Softer, Eddie wants to say, but he doesn’t dare. Teasing is always a better choice than outright saying he likes this soft, cuddly version of Steve. 

“Shut up,” Steve snorts, a little embarrassed, resting his forehead against Eddie’s shoulder. 

“You loove it,” Eddie teases, nudging him. 

Steve groans but wiggles closer anyway, like his brain doesn’t get a vote. 

They get lost like this, just existing in the warmth and comfort of the other, Steve’s body moving in sync with Eddie’s breathing pattern. 

Eddie loves it, like Steve’s part of himself, as vital and as steady as his bones or his heart. He loves that they’re okay again, that they explained themselves. 

Hopefully it’ll stick, this time. 

“Should we do something?”, Steve asks after a while, so long that his back is probably hurting from his hunched position. “Like, watch a movie? Or cook something? Have you eaten today?”

Eddie wants to tease. To say, awh look at you already dotting on me. Pinch his cheeks and call him a good little housewife. 

But Steve’s putty against him. And sometimes it’s nice to be genre and honest, not always down to the sarcasm- the same that made Steve run away from him (from them- Robin, too) with harsh words and a stolen coming out. 

So Eddie just threads his fingers through Steve’s hair and nods.

“I made some mac and cheese. Wayne’s gonna eat himself sick tonight,” he says, poking at Steve’s cheek when he looks up. “Should’ve brought you some.”

They’ve rarely (read: never) been this close, this physical. There are fingers and skin everywhere, legs tangled, Steve absently playing with Eddie’s sleeve while Eddie traces the soft warmth of his cheek.

It’s amazing. Eddie didn’t know physical touch could be like that- he’s only ever experienced rushed blowjobs and desperate hook-ups in less than comfortable places. Just harsh teeth biting, white tongue licking. Never warmth that feels like home. Never eyes that could comfort as much as a hand.

He feels like he’ll spend his whole life thinking back to this moment. Feels like he’s in the middle of a memory, right now.

“Can we watch Grease?”

Just like that, the bubble pops.

——

Steve knows Grease almost by heart. It’s both endearing and terrifying. 

He slips into the role of Danny Zuko without hesitation, springing to his feet to perform the worst rendition of Greased Lightnin’ Eddie’s ever witnessed. He’s not sure whether he likes the actual movie or Steve’s off-key, over-committed version more.

It’s a stupid, easy movie, cheesy and corny, but there are sweet bits tucked in between. The songs aren’t half bad either.

Steve practically glows whenever Eddie snorts or taps his foot along to the music, so Eddie decides to ham it up just to see him be happy a little more.  

He says, asshole, when Ziko doesn’t dance with Sandy at the prom, and Steve nods solemnly. He pretends to be invested in the car race, and Steve asks him if he thinks that’s just how teenagers spend their weekends in California. 

“We should ask Max,” Eddie says.

Steve snorts. “I could see Billy do that. Asshole activity.”

Eddie bites his lip- he doesn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but yeah. It would probably surprise him more if Billy never did it. 

When the carnival scene rolls around, Steve’s back on his feet. 

Only this time, he interprets Sandy, and he invests himself in the first few seconds, where he takes on a seductive gaze, lets his tongue curl against his top lip, and mutters, Tell me about it, stud- 

Eddie thinks he’s dying.

He freezes where he’s sitting, staring, mouth half open. He’s not even watching the movie anymore- he just wants to throw himself at his feet just like Danny is, at Sandy’s. 

Of course, Steve’s just goofing around. He starts singing, confidence outweighing talent, hips swaying as he points right at Eddie on, and my heart is set on you.

When Steve crooks his finger in a teasing come here gesture, Eddie doesn’t even pretend to resist. He’s up and crowding close in seconds.

“Should I throw myself on the ground too?” he asks, as Sandy and Danny belt the chorus.

Steve laughs, looping his arms around Eddie’s shoulders. “We’re already ridiculous enough. We don’t need more.”

Eddie agrees too much. He never thought he’d be in Steve Harrington’s living room, listening to Grease, with a handful of him. Being so damn happy about it too. 

Hawkins really is full of mysteries.

It takes another ten seconds before Eddie’s mind completely explodes.

Sandy’s next line hits just as Steve’s hands slide down Eddie’s arms, fingers tracing until they catch his. 

Of course Steve knows the soundtrack by heart. 

Of course he knows exactly when Sandy breathes out feel your way-  soft, slow, suggestive.

Because that’s when Steve guides Eddie’s hands around his waist, that same knowing spark lighting up his eyes.

Eddie’s brain short-circuits.

“Steve,” he manages, right as Sandy purrs that she needs a man who can keep her satisfied. It’s too much- “You’re a fucking tease. And a huge nerd.”

Steve throws his head back with a laugh, exposing his throat. It makes everything worse.

“A nerd? Grease?”

“Using Grease to seduce someone is the nerdiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Eddie says.

Steve just smirks, stepping closer until their chests press together. Eddie’s hands stay where they are, steady against the small of Steve’s back.

“I already seduced you,” Steve says, voice low and sure. “This is just for fun.”

Eddie can’t even deny it- he’s completely, embarrassingly under Steve’s spell.

What he can do, though, is turn the tables. Make Steve blush instead of smirking like the cocky bastard he is right now.

So he leans in, voice low.

“I’d kiss you if those two would shut up,” he says, barely an inch from Steve’s face. “Show you just how lovable you are to me.”

The reaction is exactly what he was aiming for.

Steve goes still, eyes flicking to Eddie’s like he’s making sure he heard right- and then he just melts. 

His shoulders drop, his whole body softening, color blooming across his cheeks and up to his ears. His hands find Eddie’s hair, fingers curling and tugging gently at the strands.

It’s ridiculous, Eddie thinks. Ridiculous and amazing, to have a man like this in his arms. Seventeen-year-old Eddie would lose his damn mind. Steve Harrington, walking heartthrob, literal dream guy, blushing and shy because of him.

Thank God for the Upside Down, his brain supplies, dumbly and inappropriately.

Onscreen, Sandy and Danny are singing through the last of the chorus, and Steve’s trying so hard not to grin, his lips twitching as he looks at Eddie.

“They’ll be done in a few seconds,” he murmurs, voice rough but teasing. 

He’s red-faced, still somehow managing to be brave and infuriatingly confident all at once.

What follows is a little embarrassing- they just stand there, waiting for John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John to finish their big finale, staring at each other like idiots.

It’s a weird setup. A weird moment. Eddie’s brain can’t quite catch up to it. He’s about to kiss Steve Harrington, and somehow he owes that to Grease. A musical. A damn rom-com. What even is his life?

“Should we do a countdown?” Steve asks, voice light with nerves. “Like at New Year’s?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You do that, and I’m never kissing you.”

Steve fake-pouts, bottom lip jutting out in exaggerated disappointment. “Awh. I thought the Freak would be into it.”

Eddie huffs a laugh, trying to play it cool, but his knees feel like jelly.

“Not helping yourself,” he mutters, though his voice has lost most of its bite.

Steve just grins that stupid, heart-melting grin, and leans closer, ignoring the movie entirely. His hands rest lightly on Eddie’s neck, tentative but steady.

Eddie swallows hard, fingers curling into Steve’s shirt, feeling the ridiculous warmth radiating off him. Every nerve in his body tingles.

“They’re done,” Steve says.

And Eddie doesn’t even think. 

He leans up, meets Steve halfway, and it’s messy and perfect. Their lips collide with all the awkward eagerness of weeks of dancing around each other, of bad timing, mixed with every bit of horniness two young men just can’t contain. 

Steve groans softly into it, and Eddie can’t help but grin against him, hands threading through his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.

It’s a little crazy. 

Eddie opens his mouth, just as an invitation, for Steve to accept or not, and Steve takes. He licks around his lips in a way that should not be so good, and Eddie can’t even fight the deep moan that rises from his throat. 

They get a little too much into it. 

Eddie half-massages half-gropes Steve’s waist, and in return Steve’s just pulling the long, curly hair with wild but still gentle hands. Their tongues meet and discover; Eddie biting at Steve’s lower lip and smirking when he gets the most luxurious groan in answer. 

Eddie could stay like this forever- kissing him, discovering him, learning the contours of his body, how warm and soft he is, how every touch sends fire racing up his spine.

Eventually though, they run out of breath. 

They pull back just slightly, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. Steve’s eyes are half-lidded, cheeks still pink, and Eddie feels his own heart hammering like it’s going to explode out of his chest.

“Yay,” Eddie breathes. “But also, wow.” 

He just can’t help himself from teasing him. 

Steve laughs quietly, shoving at him, and Eddie just chuckles back, too happy to care that he’s being sappy.

“I think I’ll need this,” Steve murmurs, pressing a quick peck to Eddie’s lips, “every day of my life.”

Eddie can only agree. That forbidden fruit again, better than anything else he’s tasted.

“I’ll be happy to provide.”

Steve tugs him towards the couch, where they fall in a mess of limbs. 

It takes about a second before Eddie finds himself sprawled on his back, Steve above him, thighs bracketing his hips and chest to chest. 

“I’ll be happy to be provided.”

Eddie doesn’t have a snarky or sappy comment to add, but he does have a very bad time looking away from the pink and plush lips. 

He licks his own, runs a hand through Steve’s hair, and they find each other again.

Thank you, Grease. Thank you, Robin. Thank you, demobats.