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Eddie Munson has been really looking forward to the festive season. For all that he has a reputation as some sort of Satanic freak, he much prefers Christmas to Halloween. It’s the one time of year where he can take a break from the pressures of being him, when people won’t judge him so much if he’s a little more free in his affections. And this year, he’s determined to do just that for one reason in particular: Steve Harrington. This is Eddie’s opportunity to finally ask the guy out.
“Munson,” Steve greets him plainly in the hallway.
“Harrington, to what do I owe the pleasure?” They’ve fallen into step almost immediately. To anyone else, it would look like they just happen to be going in the same direction at the same time; despite how blatantly Eddie has been flirting with him for the past few months, barely anyone is aware that the jock and the metalhead so much as know each other, let alone hang out. They’re like two passing planets, orbiting in completely different spheres but occasionally aligning against the starry backdrop of early winter Hawkins.
“Just wanted to let you know I’m throwing a Christmas party at mine on Saturday night.”
Eddie grins to himself. “Ah, you know me so well, I love crashing parties.”
“No, idiot,” Steve says quietly, “I’m inviting you. 7:30. Wear something festive.”
He risks a glance at the taller boy. He’s never actually invited him to anything before. They normally just run into each other at the park or the supermarket. The closest they’ve ever come to this before was when Steve silently nodded Eddie towards the empty seat beside him at the pep rally in September and they spent the entire time critiquing the football team. “I think I’ve got some red socks somewhere,” he says after a moment’s thought.
“Jesus,” Steve rolls his eyes. “Can’t you just find a jumper or something? Please?”
Eddie huffs. “I’ll see what I can do.”
What he does is spend the rest of the week fretting over his options. He doesn’t own anything festive. He really should, with how much he loves the holiday, but he can never bring himself to justify spending that much money on something he’ll only get to wear a few times a year at most. Hell, this might be the only time he’ll wear it at all… unless he gets invited again next year. Maybe by then he’ll be co-host. No. He can’t get ahead of himself. By the time it gets to early Saturday evening, he’s practically pulling his hair out. He thinks he’s got some semblance of an outfit, but is it enough? He almost calls Steve for approval, but for one thing he’s not got the nerve for that level of closeness yet and for another thing his uncle hasn’t paid the phone bill this month. He said he’d sort it today, at least. Whatever. Giving himself a grimace in the mirror, he puts together the final touches and grabs his keys.
—
Steve weaves through the crowd. It’s only 7:45 and his house is already pretty packed. Most people are going to be fashionably late as usual, that’s how it’s always done, but there’s one person on his mental guest list who he absolutely cannot predict. He could be on time, he could be an hour or more late, he might not show up at all.
Someone catches him by the elbow, and he turns to see a girl from math class, clutching a red plastic cup and batting her eyelashes. He makes polite small talk for a few moments, but thankfully she notices the way his neck is craning towards the front door and lets him go. He continues on his quest, bobbing around dancers and couples making out and girls in fake reindeer antlers. And then…
There.
Standing in the corner of the hallway, like he’d rather be anywhere else, is Eddie. He’s still wearing those ripped black jeans he’s always in, but he’s paired them with a red shirt, half unbuttoned to reveal a triangle of white T-shirt almost shaped like a beard, and finished the whole thing off with a bronze-buckled belt and chunky black boots. He even looks like he’s made half an effort to force his curls into some level of tidiness. His leather jacket is in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.
Steve appraises him with a raised eyebrow and an approving grin. “Ho, ho, ho.” God, that was cheesy. He pulls a face, but Eddie smirks and holds up the champagne. Just as Steve goes for it, it’s pulled out of reach.
“Have you been a good boy this year?”
“Probably not.”
Eddie’s smirk grows. “Right answer.” He hands over the bottle. When he doesn’t budge from his corner, Steve takes his jacket, hangs it on a stand by the door, and guides him towards the kitchen to get him a drink.
When Steve apologetically leaves to do some quick mingling and make sure that nobody is breaking any of his parents’ stuff, Eddie finds himself alone once again, this time sitting on a kitchen counter nursing a cup of what he thinks is whiskey and coke. Where the whiskey came from he has no idea: the island in the middle of the room is full of cheap wine, mixers and a few bottles of vodka. He’s starting to wonder whether he can find a back door to sneak out, when a girl he sort of recognises approaches, decked out in a vibrant green jumper covered in fake baubles. She doesn’t ask before she hops up onto the counter beside him.
“Didn’t expect to see you at something like this,” she says bluntly.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh,” she seems to realise what she’s said, “I just meant I didn’t really have you down as a party person. I’m not either, to be clear, but Steve can be very persuasive. I take it that’s why you’re here too?”
He frowns at her. “You’re friends with Steve?”
“Yup. I’m Robin.” She holds out a hand, and he tentatively shakes it.
“Eddie.”
“I know,” she smiles. “You play guitar. I’m trumpet.” She mimes playing, and now he knows exactly where he recognises her from. Steve had pointed her out in the marching band at the pep rally. He raises his drink to his lips, turning his focus to an already drunk boy on the other side of the room trying and failing to pour wine into a cup without spilling it everywhere. He just wants this to be over, for his safety blanket to come back from mingling. Robin doesn’t get the hint. “So,” she continues, voice hushed, “you’re into Steve, right?”
Eddie almost suffocates himself as the whiskey slips, burning, down the wrong pipe towards his rapidly constricting lungs. He coughs it back into his cup, eyes stinging with the effort.
“I take it that’s a yes?”
“No! No, it’s not a-” He glances sidelong at the look he’s being given. His voice drops dangerously low, but there’s no venom in it. “How did you know?”
She shrugs like she hasn’t just shattered every single defence he’s got with five words. “Just did.”
“Wait, are you-” he suddenly realises, eyes widening.
“Oh, no,” she assures him. “We’re kind of in the same boat. I’m trying to get the nerve to ask Vickie Dunne out.” Eddie stares at her blankly. “Clarinet.” Oh. He follows the direction she nods, and spots a redheaded girl leaning in a doorway as she chats to a guy in a basketball jersey. Hang on, why does he get to skip the dress code? But then he spots something else. Above the girl’s head is a small clump of white berries surrounded by green foliage.
“You know she’s under the mistletoe right now?”
“Yeah, with Chance.”
“No,” Eddie insists, “he’s well clear of it. All you’ve gotta do is squeeze past her. Go and look for Steve or something, and tell that asshole I need a new drink.”
She smiles nervously, but finally climbs back down from the counter and skirts around the island with a backwards glance. The second she reaches the doorway, awkwardly sidling through the tight space, Eddie lets out the loudest wolf-whistle he can muster. A few people turn at the commotion, but Robin pretends to notice the mistletoe for the first time, and mercifully Chance follows suit. He can’t hear what the other boy says, but he watches him point up and draw Vickie’s attention. Her cheeks glow even redder than the flush of her makeup. Robin aims for her cheek, but at the last second the other girl turns her face and allows their lips to brush. It could be played off as accidental, but by the way the room explodes with goading cheers any less would have been unacceptable.
Robin is completely engrossed in conversation with Vickie now, the two of them pressed impossibly close into a space between the throng of people in the living room. Eddie is still in the kitchen, eyeing the dregs of his ruined drink. Well, it's not ruined exactly, but the whiskey is still searing the back of his throat and he can't bring himself to drink any more of it. He could just pour himself something from the collection on the table, but that's no fun. Besides, he came here for no other reason than to keep flirting with Steve, and since he hasn't come back there's no other choice than to go and find him. Abandoning his plastic cup, he hops down from his perch and ventures into the crowd. Sure enough, Steve is being bombarded by people, mostly girls. The moment he spots Eddie, however, he makes his excuses and nods towards an open space by the window. There’s barely enough room for the two of them, and Steve ushers Eddie closer with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, you know what these things are like,” he murmurs, glancing back at the gaggle of girls.
Eddie cocks his head. “Would you believe me if I told you no, actually, I don’t get invited to enough of ‘these things’ to know?”
Steve clasps his chest in pretend shock. “No? Really? But you’re the life of the party!”
“Piss off, Harrington,” he says without vitriol. The other boy laughs. “Anyway, I’m about to pour another drink if you want one?”
Steve waves his empty cup in agreement, and they’re about to head back towards the kitchen when a chorus of whispers break out around them and one of the girls points above their heads. Oh god. Eddie slowly looks up at the familiar sight of white berries. He gives Steve a disbelieving look, and notices his cheeks are flushed. Perhaps Eddie’s are the same, if the rising warmth blooming from deep within his chest is anything to go by. Its intensity only grows, until it feels like his entire face is on fire, when Steve leans down and places a light kiss on his cheek.
Someone in the crowd boos.
The sound ripples across the watching faces, catching like a fanned flame until the room is alight with the same burning that spreads from where Steve’s lips had touched him.
“You call that a kiss?” a voice calls out, distant but familiar. Eddie risks a glance around, and spots Robin, Vickie in her arms and unrestrained glee in her smile. When she catches his eye, she winks.
“Yeah, kiss the freak!” another jeering voice picks up the cry.
Steve winces. “We don’t have to, if you don’t-”
“What’s wrong, Harrington?” Eddie says loudly, channelling the energy he has when he’s standing on the cafeteria tables taunting the jocks, allowing his false bravado to give him courage. “You’re not chicken, are you?” The nearby onlookers give an ‘oooo’ of approval at the turn of events.
The look he gets in return is cocky, challenging, and far more intimate than he could have ever expected. All the air leaves the room as Steve quirks an eyebrow. “You have no idea.” He places one hand on Eddie’s cheek, the other tangling in his hair, and it’s all Eddie can do to grasp the boy’s waist to keep himself upright as Steve drags him close and kisses him. Hard. His lips are a little chapped, capturing the taste of the same whiskey that lingers on the back of Eddie’s tongue.
They break apart as the room erupts into screaming cheers. Steve is instantly swept away into a sea of high fives and remarks about how gutsy he is, leaving Eddie to desperately try and compose himself. In all these months of casual flirting, he never imagined it would actually go anywhere. Nobody ever tried to get close to ‘The Freak’, especially not boys with nice hair who did sports and dated girls like Nancy Wheeler. And yet he just had. Eddie mentally kicks himself. Of course he had. He’d basically been dared, both by Eddie and his friends, and if Eddie knows one thing about the type of people that Steve hangs out with it’s that they’ll never pass up an opportunity to get one over on the outcasts. Steve’s not going to do anything like that if it’s not for attention. And yet…
Eddie doesn’t allow the thought to go any further. He’s had his fun, and if this is as good as he’s going to get he might as well call it quits before he does something he regrets. He finally finds his escape route, a door onto the back patio, and slips through it before anyone notices.
“Now who’s chicken?” a low, amused voice follows him on the bitingly icy night air as he sneaks round the edge of the pool. He turns to see Steve leaning in the doorway, silhouetted against the glow of the colourful fairy lights within. Eddie turns to leave again, until he hears the door click shut and footsteps approach. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“The champagne’s a gift, genius.” Steve catches up, his steps slowing, and Eddie finally caves and looks at him. His jaw drops. “Is that my jacket?”
Steve grins, wrapping the leather tighter around himself. “What do you think?” he asks coyly. “Do I pull it off?”
Hang on a second. After everything that’s just happened, Steve is… initiating the flirting? Not to be outdone, Eddie takes him by the lapels of his own jacket, relishing the way Steve’s throat bobs nervously. “How dare you look better than me in my own clothes? If you’re trying to get me to kiss you again, you can forget it.”
Steve lets out a small, breathy laugh as he slips it off and drapes it around Eddie’s shoulders. “Ouch. If I’m that bad you can tell me, I think my ego can take it.” The laughter fades from his lips. “Sorry, though, for putting you on the spot. I hope that’s not why you’re leaving.”
Eddie forces a smile. “Nah, I’ve just got three other parties I’ve been invited to tonight.”
The laugh that elicits is stronger, a small respite from the tension simmering between them. “I’d be a terrible host if I didn’t send you off to them at least a little bit tipsy. One more for the road?”
Eddie nods, feigning reluctance. “Only because you’re offering me alcohol, not because I want to stay.”
Even in the dim outdoor lighting, he can see the pink creeping back into Steve’s cheeks. “Of course not.”
Eddie settles onto a lounger by the pool as he wrangles his arms back into his jacket to fight off the chill. The slightest hint of Steve’s cologne lingers on the collar, and he resists the urge to breathe it in. This is ridiculous. He’s Eddie Munson, the leader of the school rejects, the local rebel, the troublemaker, and here he is outside a big fancy house waiting for a guy whose nickname is literally ‘The Hair’. What the hell is he still doing here? He almost gets up and bails when Steve returns, his own jacket fastened high over his Christmas jumper and two glasses in hand. Not cups, proper glasses. He hands them to Eddie as he shuffles another lounger closer and kicks on a heater set up nearby, then pulls the mysterious bottle of whiskey from within his jacket. Eddie eyes the label. It’s good stuff. He watches, still baffled by how he’s ended up in this situation, as Steve pours two generous measures and takes one of the glasses back, holding it up in a toast. The clink as they collide echoes through the still night air.
Eddie takes a sip, making a conscious effort to make sure it slips down properly this time. “You don’t have to stay out here with me, you know. Your adoring fans will be wondering where you are.”
“No they won’t.” He pauses. “And if we’re talking adoring fans, you’re the one who’s threatened to make out with me twice already tonight.”
It’s a relief that he’s already lowered his drink, otherwise he’d be having a repeat of the kitchen incident right now. He shoots him a playfully disapproving look. “Don’t flatter yourself, pretty boy, I never said anything about making out. Just a kiss.”
His words have the desired effect: even in the warm glow of the heater, Steve’s face turns scarlet. He quickly breaks eye contact, downing the rest of his drink, and Eddie follows suit. Just as he’s about to get up to finally leave, Steve catches him by the wrist and pours another couple of fingers into each of their glasses. His unspoken message is as clear and bright as the deep brown eyes with which he gazes up at Eddie: stay.
They sit for who knows how long, the companionable silence of their drinking occasionally punctuated by remarks on school, their peers, their lives. They still gently tease one another throughout, but without anyone else there to bear witness to the fact that they’re just joking it feels different. There’s no need to act like they’re just messing with the other, no need to pretend that this is about anything other than the two of them and their intersecting orbits.
“So,” Eddie says eventually, “what festive delights are you inflicting on the world tomorrow? Another incredibly fetching jumper?”
Steve bites back a retort, genuinely considering the rest of the question for a moment. “I’m all out of plans, actually. I guess I could do something, my parents don’t get back until Tuesday, but I don’t know. You?” There’s something in his voice on that last word; it goes beyond idle curiosity, straying into a territory wholly unfamiliar. There’s more of a question behind it than the obvious.
Eddie isn’t sure whether it’s the whiskey giving him a burst of unearned confidence, or the fact that they’ve already sort of kissed once and Steve didn’t run off when he joked about it the second time (if he was joking at all), but he takes his chance. “A hot dinner date, if I’m lucky,” he replies pointedly.
Steve’s faces falls almost imperceptibly. Eddie’s too busy fidgeting with his hands to notice. “Oh. Nice.”
“At that nice Italian out by the highway?”
“I love it there.”
“I know.”
Another unrecognisable note seeps into Steve’s voice. “Well that… that sounds great.”
“You think?” Eddie’s a little taken aback, but determined not to get ahead of himself. “I was thinking-”
Steve stands suddenly. Now Eddie really is taken aback. “I, um, I should probably head back in.” He holds out a hand for the now-empty glass, hugging it to his chest as he takes it. “But I’ll see you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says softly. He should leave it at that, he knows he should, but he’s never been one to stand down and he’ll be damned if he’s going to start now. “Hey, Harrington?” The boy turns. “Call me in the morning?”
Steve blinks. “I- Yeah, okay.” And then he disappears back into the warmth, swallowed up by the colourful glow.
—
Eddie wakes up late. Shit. It took him hours to get to sleep, too full of that very nice whiskey and, more importantly, the thought that he’s asked Steve Harrington to dinner, and Steve hasn’t said no. He said it sounds great, even. More than once, Eddie pinches himself just to make sure he isn’t dreaming. The dull ache in his skin is both a blessing and a curse. This is really happening. He feels pathetic for it, but he spends the rest of the morning hanging tinsel and paper chains, always within arms reach of the phone, praying that he didn’t miss a call while he was asleep. The afternoon rolls in, the sky dimming by the minute, and the only thing that’s changed is that now the trailer looks significantly more seasonal. Maybe he should suck it up and make the call, but the only thing more pathetic than waiting for a call is caving and making it himself only to find out that there’s a reason Steve hasn’t reached out. What if he’s reconsidered? What if this whole thing was a mistake? No, he chides himself, there’s no way Steve would have put up with him this whole time if he wasn’t at least a little bit interested. He’s probably just hungover. That’s Eddie’s area of expertise. He grabs a carton of tomato juice from the fridge and some painkillers and vitamins from the bathroom cabinet and heads out.
The Harrington house is in darkness when he arrives, mirroring the growing gloom of the late afternoon that gathers around him like a funeral shroud. It’s hard to remain positive about his chances when the winter frost is nipping at him through his leather jacket and the holes in his jeans, and he’s never been one for optimism at the best of times. Still, he marches up to the front door and knocks, his knuckles and his rings rapping sharply against the wood. No answer. He jimmies the latch on the side gate and checks the patio. No Steve passed out on the loungers they’d sat on, no signs of life at the back door.
Eddie swears to himself.
He was so stupid to think this might work out. “Merry Christmas, Harrington,” he mutters at the empty house as he storms back to his van. “Kiss my ass.” Oh. That’s not a bad lyric idea. Eddie always does seem to do his best songwriting when he’s in the thick of his emotions, and it’ll give him some form of release from the wave of guilt and self-loathing and anger and despair that is threatening to drag him under before he even makes it home to his guitar and to those stupid decorations that he can’t wait to tear down. They’re not two orbiting planets after all; Steve is a star, radiant and distant and unattainable, and Eddie is a black hole. It’s for the best that they don’t get too close.
—
Surrounded by paper snowflakes and fairy lights and kids exchanging gifts on their lunch break, Steve mopes through the hallway. It’s the start of the last week before they break up for Christmas, and he’s never felt less festive. Most of yesterday was spent at Robin’s, watching shitty movies they could both complain about and eventually fall asleep to, all to distract him from the fact that Eddie unknowingly (he really hopes it’s unknowingly, otherwise the whole thing gets even worse) prompted him to finally follow through on his desire to kiss the metalhead, albeit under the guise of the mistletoe Steve dotted around the house, and continued flirting with him only to announce he was going for dinner with someone else. He’d tried phoning that morning like Eddie said, motivated by curiosity and jealousy and a foolish confidence that he could change the outcome, but his call wouldn’t even go through. All this, and now the guy doesn’t even want to speak to him. He really has no right to be so hung up about this: Eddie can date whoever he wants, it’s none of his business. He made it perfectly clear that their kiss didn’t mean anything, and that’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s-
Fuck.
His feet steer him down one of the side corridors, into the music and theatre department. Eddie’s domain. He can't be here. He has to turn back before he gets his heart broken further. He almost does when that siren-song voice drifts from one of the classrooms, accompanied by a gritty, low guitar.
“I hate that mistletoe, it makes me think of our first kiss…”
His heart is hammering so hard in his chest that he doesn't hear the next few lyrics. It has to be a coincidence, doesn't it? That Eddie is singing about mistletoe so soon after…
“...and then you taught me how to quit.” His voice slides up with a slight snarl on the last word, and that's all it takes for Steve's resolve to crumble. He's powerless to stop his own impulses as he almost floats down the corridor, drawn like a moth to a flame by the raw emotion in the boy's voice. He hesitates just before the doorway. Maybe this is, once again, none of his business. Maybe Eddie's date went badly last night and this is his way of letting his feelings loose. But then again, if he's hurting, surely this is Steve's chance to show that he does care about him as more than just someone to flirt with when he feels like it? Silently, he inches forward and leans in the doorway. In the back of his mind he's aware that this is the same pose he made that night, right before everything went wrong. Eddie is sitting on top of his amp, back to the door as he plays. His hair cascades down the back of his Hellfire T-shirt, a stark contrast against the white fabric, as he tilts his head back and sings to the ceiling.
“When I gave you my heart, you ripped it apart like the wrapping paper trash. So I wrote you a song, hope that you sing along, and it goes Merry Christmas, kiss my ass.” Eddie stops, the guitar's final note ringing out like a death knoll. Steve holds his breath. “The fuck do you want, Harrington?” he says, without turning, once the silence has stretched on a little too long to be comfortable.
“How did you know I was here?” Steve answers with another question.
“Just did.”
“Well, I was passing. Song sounds good.”
To his surprise, Eddie barks out a laugh. Not his usual laugh, rich and sincere; no, this one is warped, acidic, clawing its way straight into Steve’s chest. He shifts, his hands coming to the guitar once more. “And it goes Merry Christmas, kiss my ass.”
Steve hesitates. “Are you okay?”
Eddie finally turns around, and Steve almost wishes he hadn't. He’s never seen the boy look so vulnerable, not in all the years they’ve been at school and certainly not in the past few months of them actually spending time together. He looks like he hasn't slept in days, his eyes are red-rimmed underneath long lashes, his skin is ashen except for a light flush high on his cheeks, and his lips are pulled tight into a fierce scowl. He stands, clicking off the amp and laying his guitar to one side as he folds his arms across his chest. “Kiss. My. Ass.” Every word is enunciated, barbed and deadly.
“What is wrong with you?” Steve snaps. He doesn't know where the anger comes from, considering he came in here to check on a guy who didn't reciprocate his feelings, but it burns white hot behind his eyes, thrums in his temples, explodes out of his mouth like it hurts too much to keep holding it back. “After everything I've- we've-” He can barely form a sentence coherent enough to sum up the pain that's beginning to overwhelm him. “Do you just enjoy being an asshole?”
Eddie scoffs. “Oh, I'm an asshole?”
“Yeah! Because I don't know what I've done that all of a sudden you're not talking to me and being a petty little shit about it!”
“Don't know what you've…” Eddie gasps, hands spread and half-clenched in frustration. One rises and clutches at his hair, his brows knitting together. “You stood me up, Steve!”
The silence in the room is unbearable. A cavernous expanse seems to grow between them, swallowing the room in a bottomless pit of fraught emotion. Steve is convinced he's stopped breathing entirely. He’s so busy trying to process what’s just been said that he barely notices this is the first time Eddie has used his first name.
“What?” The word comes out small, far too small to cross the distance between them, yet Eddie hears it.
“Yesterday,” he hisses, still broiling with rage which seeps from his words down through his heaving chest to his trembling hands, “you stood me up.”
“You said you had a hot dinner date!”
“With you!”
Steve has definitely stopped breathing. He can feel his lungs desperately trying to suck in air as he grapples with this new revelation. “Jesus, Eddie, it’s like you've never asked someone out before.” He drags a frustrated hand through his hair, eyes fluttering closed, but when he opens them again the other boy is looking at him with his mouth slightly agape and eyebrows upturned, distraught. Steve falters. “Eddie?”
He throws up his hands in frustration. “Well how am I supposed to know?! I thought you were meant to be all casual and flirty, and that's what I did! I even made it clear we were going somewhere I knew you'd like, and you said it sounded great!”
“Fucking hell,” Steve groans, “that was me being bitter that you were taking someone else.”
“But…” Eddie exhales slowly. All the fight has left him, replaced by confusion and dejection and something akin to embarrassment. “But I was trying to ask you properly. That's why I said to call me, because you ran off too quickly for me to tell you what time to come round.”
“I did call. It wouldn't go through.”
Eddie mutters a string of expletives, interspersed with the name Wayne and various threats of violence and something about a phone bill.
Steve worries at his lip as he finally moves further into the room, pushing the door softly closed behind him, and Eddie - god - Eddie actually flinches. “Sorry,” Steve murmurs, inching closer. Eddie makes no move to run or fight back, but there’s a wary tension in him, in the way his arms are raised slightly between them. Steve stops, his whole body slumping slightly, and Eddie wonders if he’s ever shown this side of himself to anyone before. Did Nancy get to see him being this open? Is he this honest with other girls? Do any guys get to see it, or just him? “And I’m sorry about this weekend. Everything just got so… I mean, shit, Eddie, I thought you were trying to leave because you hated me for kissing you.”
A small glimmer of that usual charismatic fire returns to Eddie’s gaze. “And whose idea was the kiss, exactly?”
“That’s just it, it was my-”
“Steve, do you think I’d have challenged you if I didn’t want you to go through with it?”
“Eddie, do you think it was an accident that I chose the one point in the room with a massive bunch of mistletoe?”
He can practically see the implications running around Eddie’s head. It’s clear the moment it sinks in, because his face turns beet red. “You motherf- how much mistletoe did you hang?”
Steve can feel the colour rising in his own cheeks, and he stares intently at a point in the floor. “Seven,” he mumbles.
Eddie laughs, actually laughs, as he slumps back against the wall. It’s a high, almost childish sound of surprise and disbelief and something warm, genuine. “Jesus, man, and you think I’m an idiot for not asking you out properly?”
“I know, I know,” he groans, running his hands down his face. He moves a little closer, and this time Eddie rises to meet him. They both cast a glance at the door, making sure it’s definitely closed. Not that anyone ever comes down here anyway, unless they’re from Hellfire, but the guys very quickly figured out earlier that morning that this is not a good time to talk to Eddie. Steve approaches until his toes are almost touching Eddie’s and he gazes down, heart pounding and stomach bursting into a million butterflies at the rich brown doe eyes that stare back. “Can I make it up to you?” he whispers into the shrinking space between their faces.
“What did you have in mind?”
Steve runs the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip, desperately trying to maintain the nerve to say what he’s thinking. It doesn’t escape him the way the other boy’s eyes follow the movement, the dark of his pupils dilating. “Hot dinner date? At that nice Italian out by the highway?” Eddie grins, but hums non-commitally. There’s a definite glint in his eye, something mischievous. Steve can’t help but be intrigued. “Why, did you have a better idea?”
Eddie’s grin widens as he reaches into Steve’s perfect, perfect hair and pulls him down until their lips meet. They collide with the same force as they did on Saturday, but this time none of it is for show. There’s no inciting, no spite, just passion and desperation and wanting. Steve begins to take the lead, hands settling on Eddie’s hips, but then Eddie grabs him by the firm flesh of his biceps and spins him round, spurring them both on until Steve’s back hits the wall and he gasps. Presented with an opening, Eddie wastes no time in flicking his tongue in, filling Steve with the taste of cigarettes and menthol gum. He devours it like a man starved, moaning as the other boy pulls back just long enough to drag his teeth across Steve’s bottom lip. His hands grasp bruisingly at Eddie, pulling their hips together and taking great delight in the way the movement tips the other boy slightly off balance. One of Eddie’s hands comes up to splay, steadying, across Steve’s chest, but as his own little moment of revenge the hand with the three steel rings snakes round his waist and under the hem of his top, the cold metal sending sparks up Steve’s spine that have him bucking involuntarily. In retaliation, he weaves a hand into the curls at the base of Eddie’s skull and tugs, earning him a low growl that reverberates from his chest down to the pit of his stomach. God, they should have been more obvious about their feelings weeks ago. They’ve missed out on so much time. They could have been doing this under the bleachers after the pep rally, they could have been making out in the back of Eddie’s van in the parking lot after classes, instead of one pretend kiss and a few drinks at the party they could have-
The harsh chime of the bell for class breaks them apart. Steve’s hair is a mess, Eddie’s top has ridden up, and both of them have rosy cheeks and wide eyes and plump lips. They stand panting together, trapped by the other’s gravity, both too afraid to be the one to let go first.
“So, I’ll pick you up at seven?” Steve purrs, his voice deep and husky. “Wear something festive.”
“Kiss my ass, Steve,” Eddie responds with a cheeky smile. “You got that on Saturday, and that’s all I’ve got.”
“Fine.” It’s Eddie’s turn to gasp as a hand slides down from his hip into his back pocket and squeezes firmly. “Then wear something hot.”
“Now that I can manage.” They exchange one more brief kiss, before Steve sneaks away to class and Eddie hangs back to pack up his guitar. He never cares if he’s late, and especially not this time. He’s got a good excuse, and far more important things to be thinking about.