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The air is thrumming in the shimmering heat. Twitching above the black asphalt sneaking its winded way through dying grass. Steve’s hair must look like it, stiff from remains of hairspray and bits of sunscreen, depleted after a whole day of sweating, and hauling chairs and the boat around at the beginning of his shift and then a couple overwhelmed kids through the water when they had trouble getting back to the shore on their own.
The lake is packed today, unsurprisingly, in this weather. There’s not a single cloud in the sky and it’s the beginning of July, so of course half the town decided to spend the day at Jordan Lake. The other half is probably at the quarry. Steve stalks past the patchwork carpet of colorful towels and tossed-off flip flops, parents trying to reign their sugar-high children in and people baking in the sun with a hat or a book covering their face. He loves this summer job, he does, it’s way better than the stuff he did during his high school years when he spent mind-numbing shifts slinging ice scream in a ridiculous sailor outfit and then precious evenings stuck behind the counter of what had to be the last video store in the country after he graduated, checking out copies of Goodfellas and Reservoir Dogs for customers under Robin’s rolling eyes, until that joint finally admitted its defeat to the streamers and closed down last year. But—
There’s one big downside to this job, compared to the others. Robin’s here too, technically, but she’s far away, working at the small café near the dusty, barren dirt area under a bunch of pines that serves as the makeshift parking lot during the months that the lake turns into popular ground for summer fun. Steve passes the rundown kayak rental with its rusted boat racks outside, mostly empty right now. The lake’s busy with swimmers and folks trying their hand at steering long plastic vessels through murky water. Things won’t really slow down till about eight, but by then, Steve will hopefully be nursing a cool beer in the blissfully private pool at his parents’ empty house and dodging Robin’s targeted splashing attempts.
She’s still got a few hours to go though. Fynn relieved Steve on his raised chair overlooking the water, but it’s barely four and the café doesn’t have a late shift, so she’s not off until six. Which is his luck, ‘cause having his bestie being his sort of colleague this way means he gets to end his workday with the best flavor of popsicle they got that usually runs out around noon. Well, unless there’s Robin Buckley always saving one for you down at the bottom of the freezer.
It’s nothing short of a little bit of heaven every day, if Steve believed in that sort of thing, even better than the too expensive dark chocolate ice cream at his go-to coffeeshop just off campus in Chicago that he sometimes treats himself to after an exam or a particular brutal library session. He’s doing okay in college, or good actually as Robin would insist, and for the most part he even likes what he’s learning, generally speaking. He’ll just never be one of those weird people who simply thrive in the academic world. Not like his Platonic Soulmate or his roommate Chrissy do, or his little brother from another mother who’s probably gonna graduate high school early, y’know if he could stop getting into petty fights with his teachers over shit like Einstein’s favorite axiom or whatever. Axiom. The fact that Steve even knows that word… that’s completely Dustin’s fault.
He’s just glad he won’t have to worry about deadlines and group projects and the weird smell in the hallway of his apartment building again until late August. No, all he’s got left to do today is bitch about the sand he’s gonna get all over his car seats like every time after a shift, then get said sand off himself in the shower, then prepare some dinner and wait for Robin to join him in the yard.
But before that, he’s gonna benefit from her employee privilege of Power Over the Freezer. He has reached the low building that houses Jen’s Café with its striped marquis above the door, the bell next to it jingling as he pulls it open. The sound drove Robin nuts for the first week she worked here, though she quickly got used to it.
It’s not exactly cool inside, but considerably more bearable compared to the boiling temperatures he’s escaping. Perks of shade and an AC (it even works most days), so Robin looks all neat and chipper in her cut-off light jeans and her black and red Heart band shirt. She’s rocking her signature bob again that she returned to in April after she’d let it grow out for a year after she graduated and she went for bright azure mascara today that makes her blue eyes shine.
Eyes that gain a weirdly sheepish air when she spots him.
“Hey dingus,” she greets him as per usual. She’s mid-fulfill of a French Fries order though, for a pair of kids waiting in front of the counter, so Steve just nods at her. They’re about twelve maybe and surprisingly they’re holding actual cash in their hands instead of the expected phone with Apple pay. Steve smiles to himself.
You’re an old soul Robin likes to say, teasingly but with a gentle undertone. And she’s probably right. He catches himself being happy about shit like that he still learned how to use a phone booth when he was younger, and he didn’t have Instagram until he was seventeen. Not that he posts much anyway but he’d be lying if he claimed he doesn’t succumb to the occasional doomscrolling session these days. Hell, who in this world’s immune to cat videos.
He picks at a stray bit of algae crusted to his burgundy swim trunks while he waits, wiggles his toes in black Adidas aqua slides. Fixes his hair a bit in the reflection of the small cake display.
Robin’s lips curl at the sight. She has sent her little customers on their merry way with their grease and salt fest, lemonade and their change, fixing him with an amused glance over her shoulder as she holds her hands under the faucet at the steel sink and he strolls over.
“How was your shift?” she asks.
“Too warm.” Steve sighs. “I’m like a marinated chicken now thanks to sunscreen and sand up to my asscrack and my eardrums are all baggy from kids roaring their lungs out during their water gun fights. Y’know, the usual.”
“Can’t claim to know,” Robin muses exaggeratedly, “I’m in this humble parlor all day, gracing the service industry with my hospitality skills. What even is a tan?”
“Ask that sunburn you managed to get within the first week of May,” Steve counters. It was during a warm spring day they’d spent at the park with some of their friends and it was bad and he’d given Robin a lecture about skin protection that had her rolling her eyes so hard he could only see whites, groaning yes, Dad. It hasn’t happened again though, so Steve counts it as a win.
“Yeah, yeah.” Robin waves him off, drying her hands on a checkered towel. “I’m happy I’m sweating, like, only half my body’s water contents out at my job when I work the deep fryer for too long. You must be dried fruit by now.”
Steve throws her a lazy middle finger. She grins, wandering over to the freezer in the corner, though her smile turns into a bit of a grimace when she reaches it. She bites her lip. Oh, no.
“Unfortunately, I’m out of raspberry. Or well—” She looks down at the glass sliders. “All the popsicles.”
She leans a little bit over the freezer, scanning its contents as she announces his worst fears. Hell, giving himself some good old brain freeze with cold berry is practically the best part of his day currently, besides spending more time with Robin than they usually get to when they’re running between classes and book club meets and swim practice.
“I still got an ice cream sandwich,” she says skeptically.
Ugh. Steve lets his head hang, hair flopping over his face. “What kind?”
She pulls another grimace, knowing he won’t like what’s coming. “Ergh, strawberry vanilla.”
No way. Steve shakes his head. Everyone seems to love that combination of classics, in any shape or form, but Steve just can’t do it, especially as ice cream. Worse, slapped between two layers of stale, industrial waffle.
“What happened to our pact?” he asks. He’s not whining, just genuinely wondering when and why she shed her loyalties and gave someone else his reserved treat. Well, he does have about a truckload of popsicles waiting for him in his parents’ basement but that’s so not the point. “The sacred oath?” he tacks on. Okay, he might be whining. And fuck, Dustin’s clearly rubbing off on him with his nerd game lingo shit he keeps spouting around when he pops in on Steve unannounced on Steve’s days off to hog the pool and drain his soda supply.
Robin throws him a look he can’t quite read. “I had to help out a patron in need,” she says vaguely. “Did my job, y’know.”
Which would be a valid explanation of course, if Robin hadn’t spent the last two months stashing away a secret popsicle for him even though Jen would give her an earful about it if she knew. But Jen only sticks her head through the door about once a week, usually right after her café that she’s named but can’t really spend time at because she’s dealing with the kayaks all day opens, so she’s yet to become the wiser to her employee pool’s shenanigans. Steve’s pretty sure Zara steals like half a cheesecake or cookie tray per shift, and Aaron regularly locks the door for a ‘bathroom break’ to call his girlfriend in Cali. The point is, Robin’s never cared to stick to the rules a hundred percent before, hence, the existence of his wonderful candy veto in the first place, so what happened that changed her mind today?
If it was Jen of all people who’d requested that final frozen perfection, Robin would’ve said so right away.
Robin, who’s throwing him another look, well kinda. She’s sort of peeking over his shoulder actually, somewhere behind him. Huh. Steve spins around.
And spots his bright pink popsicle. Held deftly in a doodle-adorned hand with clunky silver rings on long fingers. Black leather bands and a chainlink bracelet around the wrist that leads to a pale, subtly toned arm covered in several tattoos propped up on one of the tables in the small seating area the café provides opposite the counter for rainy days. Or, well, people who’d like to stop sweating their limbs off outdoors for a minute.
The guy slumped on the rickety plastic chair, slurping on icy raspberry perfection seems to enjoy it. He’s bent over a tattered book, head propped up on his free hand while his other guides the popsicle to his mouth in idle moves every so often. He must be about Robin’s and Steve’s age, though Steve’s never seen him around before and that’s odd because Hawkins checks all the boxes of a small as fuck hick town, but okay.
His long, dark brown curls are piled on his head in a messy bun, save for his unruly bangs and a few strands on the run, falling around his face in lazy coils. He looks like one of these 80s rockstars, or what Steve thinks those looked like. He doesn’t really know, he doesn’t listen to much rock himself, except for what hits him when he’s with Robin who likes to turn up Sleater-Kinney so high in the Bimmer that the windows rattle.
And, while not exactly in 80s, but definitely kinda fitting old school fashion, there’s a pair of thin black cables that must belong to in-ear headphones coming out of the curls and joining somewhere in front of the guy’s black shirt that says AVATAR in bold red letters over a red balloon behind a face in black and white clown makeup staring grimly at anyone who dares to look, and running to nothing less than a fucking walkman lying on the table next to the book. Complete with a music tape turning behind the clear latch. In 2019. Wow.
Steve shifts his weight. He’s faintly aware that he’s staring and of the fact that Robin’s gonna give him shit for it all night, but he’s looking at his popsicle thief who happens to appear completely oblivious of the heinous crime he committed and a bit weird. Also, hot as fuck.
And well, Steve knows he’s got a bit of a thing for the ‘would make mom clutch her pearls’ aesthetic ever since his fling with Kat when he was a college freshman that would’ve sent his dad’s eye twitching, simply because of her buzzed head that she liked to bleach platinum blond and her refusal to wear a bra. What Steve didn’t know is that he’d ever consider tattoos attractive (he just doesn’t really give a shit usually) or this whole shaggy, longhaired rocker look in general that this guy’s got going on. His black jeans poking out under the table are somewhat tight, which is a straight-up health hazard at this time of year, so no wonder he’s hiding out inside. At least they’re ripped at the leg bend, pretty thoroughly so, revealing a pair of knobby knees, one of them bouncing insistently.
Though maybe it’s the soft features of his face, too. His delicate cheekbones, the bridge of his strong nose. His faraway expression as he reads and listens to that cassette tape. Shit.
“Steve?” Robin says behind him.
“Mhm?” Steve twists back to the counter, struck with the embarrassing urge to check his hair again. Man, he’s in goddamn Adilettes and sandy swim trunks with algae strings on them and no shirt. Okay, that last one might be a plus, technically. If that guy’s into dudes. Which he likely isn’t. And even if he was, which he probably, certainly, one hundred percent is not, he’d be into something… way more alternative than Steve. By fucking miles. So no reason to worry about his appearance.
He drags a hand over his face, if only to spare himself the embarrassing act of meeting Robin’s eyes for another second. They’ve been best friends for four years now, found a level with each other Steve didn’t even know could exist, let alone in a non-romantic way. Which comes with (un)pleasant side effects such as her ability to read him with bordering-on-scary accuracy. Though it probably doesn’t help that he’s being painfully obvious right now. Well fuck, he sat on his lifeguard chair all day, in the sweltering summer heat, so his brain’s fried at least medium rare, so he’s allowed to be a lil’ off his playin’ it cool game (and if he’s pretty sure he’d be similarly flustered if he’d spotted this dude in the middle of a bar in Chicago during a chill night out, when he’d be all styled in his best jeans and done the full hair routine and be prepared to have fun, then that’s no one’s business but his own).
“I’m sorry I gave your popsicle to the geeky metalhead.” Robin’s whispering, like she wants to make sure the geeky metalhead can’t hear her even though he’s got headphones in anyway, and Steve’s hand has reached his chin, so he’s greeted by her twinkling eyes as she leans in close over the battered countertop. Not even the blue mascara can distract from the unique mix of guilt and pure glee in her irises. Steve can feel his ears growing a little warm. “But he came in here looking for something frozen and I just couldn’t lie to these fucking doe eyes of his when he saw ‘Raspberry Dream’ on the menu card.”
And yeah, Steve would object instantly, whisper back Is that all it takes to betray your person like that, ‘cause he likes to label Dustin and Robin the dramatic people in his life — only Robin might have a point when she insists he can be just as bad — but he makes the mistake of throwing another glimpse over his shoulder at the person in question, and now that Robin’s said it ‘metal’ does make sense—
Just as the guy looks up from his book. Straight at Steve.
For what’s like a split second probably, though it feels like an eternity, like it tends to do when you accidentally make eye contact with a stranger on the subway or something. With the slight complication that this stranger’s eyes are downright mesmerizing. Huge and dark and button-like, framed by lashes so dense and long, Steve, if he didn’t know it would make them look spikier, would wonder whether the guy was wearing mascara.
Okay, so that’s why Robin couldn’t deny these eyes anything even if she tried, Steve concludes in the blink of the moment he looks right at them, then quickly averts his gaze back to his betrayer that shall be forgiven. His ears must be flushed by now and his stomach does a belated swooping thing. Fuck, how old is he? Fifteen and sweet on the prom queen?
“Are my ears red?” he tries to take some inventory on the state of his appearance. It’s embarrassing to ask but Robin’s got a front row seat to this shit show anyway, so there’s no use in holding onto any weak attempt of pretending.
“Probably,” she says, her grin widening, “but they’re covered by your hair, dingus.” Right. He’s about to inquire on the next item on his top priority list, Is he still looking over here? Y’know, ‘cause he just caught me staring like a weirdo but he gets his answer when he hears a click and a slight scrape of what must be a chair on ancient linoleum and then—
“Hey, somethin’ up?”
Shiiit. Steve closes his eyes, briefly, his heart kicking as he turns back around, decidedly avoiding Robin’s stare on the way. The guy’s got a nice voice too, because apparently the universe decided it’s time to torture Steve today.
“Fuck, can you hear the music?” The guy’s looking at Steve, close to embarrassed almost. He’s pulled the headphones out of his ears, the play/pause button on the walkman pressed down, dogeared pages flipping beneath the upside-down V of his arms, no longer kept in check by elbows.
“What? No,” Steve assures hastily. “You’re good, man.” There’s a cluster of bats tattooed on his right arm, slightly messy from the looks of it, mid-flight. Steve drags his eyes back up.
Which turns out to be another mistake, ‘cause the guy licks on the popsicle again that very second, pink lips wrapping around pink ice. Smiling. Well at least, Steve’s horrible hair is obscuring flaming cartilage, and boy, is the bi panic panicking.
“Oh, good,” the guy says as he pulls the popsicle away from his mouth, “It’s just— I never realize how loud I turn up my shit.”
You should probably turn it down then, Steve thinks, to save your ears from early old age. They’re nice ears, he notices, because of course they are. A hint of jug ears, actually, just a smidge, a helix hoop in the left one and two more plain silver earrings in both lobes.
“No worries,” Robin says over his shoulder, poking Steve in the arm. “He just got mad because he wanted the last popsicle.”
BUCKLEY, WHAT THE FUCK??? Oh please, dear ground, open up now and swallow him whole. He’d also take an effective murder weapon that materializes out of thin air right in his hand. Like with a blade.
He whips around and tries to slice her with a glare, like he isn’t busy going up in flames burning him from the inside. Or from his ears that set the rest on him on fire, because sure, standing here all bedraggled in rumpled polyester shorts and rubber shoes and caught ogling ain’t enough, Robin just had to go and out him as the petty ass lifeguard who demands special treatment from his coworker. Worse, a guy who begrudges an unsuspecting dude for enjoying fruity bliss on a stick to prevent himself from getting heatstroke. Unfortunately, it doesn’t faze Robin in the slightest. She merely grins at Steve with smug eyes as she takes a swig from her big green water bottle. Christ.
Why? He mouths at her, silently and desperately. Seriously, what cruel kick does she get from snitching on him like this?
“Shit,” the guy says, “I didn’t know.” His voice sounds so good Steve’s brain decides to remind him then, because it’s a traitor, just like Robin. Hones in on how deep and smooth his pitch is, though with a bit of a rough edge.
“It’s fine,” Steve gets out, miraculously evenly, small victories or whatever, and twists around again. “I was just surprised there weren’t any left.”
The guy’s looking at him with curious eyes. He’s got a faint pattern of scars running down the left side of his face in uneven lines. They look old but they must’ve originated from harsh wounds.
Until his gaze darkens a bit, shifts into something else, unreadable as he lowers the popsicle, then holds it out between them with a twitch of his lips.
“Y’know, we could share if you wanna.”
What?
Steve sputters. Learns what it feels like to have your heart do a looping in your ribcage. Interesting sensation, definitely. Not sure whether he loves or hates it.
“Uhhhh,” he says intelligently, more on autopilot than anything and oh, it’s gonna be a surprise for everyone how this sentence will be ending.
“That’s nice of you but I, uh, I got a whole freezer full of popsicles at my parents’ place, so I’m alright.”
Okay. Okay. Yep. Behind him, Robin’s currently dying a slow, painful death of secondhand embarrassment. No need to turn around and check. He can feel it. Totally justified of course, ‘cause what twenty-two-year-old responds to what Steve’s ninety-five percent certain was a come-on like a middle schooler bragging to his buddies about his mom’s and dad’s home appliances. Steve ‘brain lost somewhere in Jordan Lake today’ Harrington, everyone.
The guy’s smile only widens though, into something very big and beaming that can only be described as delighted. Delightedly amused at Steve’s expense entirely. He sucks on the popsicle again, down to the last third by now, as he stands up and snatches his walkman and puts it into his back pocket, headphones slightly dangling from it. He’s got a black bandana with some white print hanging out his other pocket and a wallet chain chinking at his hip, completing the metalhead look down to the very last bit, including the dark red Docs on his feet that he now uses to pushes his chair back under the table.
He picks up his book too. The title The Luminous Dead printed yellow across the gaping maw of a jagged underwater gorge with a hand underneath that looks like it’s in a sort-of space suit, glowing in the dark and clawing its way up from the edge of a cliff.
“Guess I’ll finish this off all by myself then,” he says, holding up the dripping popsicle and tilting his head, his eyes crinkling mischievously. Though if Steve’s desperate enough, there might be a flicker of insecurity in that warm brown too? Fuck, he’s utterly out of his depth here.
Flirting with dudes is so much harder than it is with women Steve has come to learn ever since he noticed that he’s less straight than everyone in his life, most of all himself, believed about a year ago. Which is mostly due to the fact that he’s always left to figure out whether the person he’s flirting with is being serious or just fucking with him. Or well, about to clock him in the face.
The guy isn’t though, on the verge of knocking Steve’s teeth out that is. He’s leaving actually, throwing one last impossibly big beam over his shoulder as he pulls open the door.
“Well, thanks for saving my life with icy berry juice, Heart queen,” he tells Robin. To Steve he says, “Have fun with your popsicles. They’re lucky they got you suckin’ ‘em dry.”
What the fuck is happening? That was so on, no, over the nose it can’t have been serious, plus, Steve’s being left in the dust right now, staring dumbfounded at a narrow-shouldered back and then the door that’s swinging closed with a wave of hot air wafting in but decidedly no hot guy in here anymore.
“Uhm, what was that?” he croaks.
Robin’s eyes are very wide when he twists to face her and weirdly enough, she doesn’t even look like she’s suppressing a laugh. Nah, she’s staring at him completely aghast, lips parted and out of words for a full three seconds. Shit.
“That,” she says eventually, gravely, “was a cute guy hitting on you and then turning it into a joke to protect himself because you let him run face first into a concrete wall.”
Right. Fuck. Steve props his elbows on the counter and buries his face in his hands. “Oh, god.”
Robin whacks her towel at him. Though she’s being unreasonably kind with the undercurrent of fondness in her tone as she says, “Steven, what the hell? I handed this to you on a silver platter.”
Wait, what? Steve groans. She was trying to wingwoman here??? By totally throwing him under the bus, obviously, but still—
“I panicked, okay?” he keens. Massively. And no, so very much not okay.
“Yeah, I noticed,” Robin sighs. “Now go and pick up your shattered pride from this sticky floor and make it right.”
“I don’t know if I can.” Steve presses harder at his eyes, making him see tiny colorful explosions.
She snorts. “Fuck yeah, you can. That Bambi dude you were drooling over just totally put himself out there for you.” Oooh, that’s her stern mode now. Steve lifts his head and meets her eyes, boring into him under knit brows. “And you accidentally shot him down because you’re kind of a moron, but he was obviously interested in you even though you’re kinda looking like you could sleep for thirteen hours straight right now and he clearly has good taste in books, so please go after him.”
“Yeah?”
“Right now, or I’ll make you,” she threatens, shooting daggers at him from light blue irises. She grabs his head, and for a moment Steve thinks she’s gonna give him a noogie, which he’d totally deserve, but all she does is tousle his hair a bunch, fluffing it up, then releases him again.
“Thanks, Robbie.”
“Go!” She points at the door.
Steve does, scurrying out, past jingling bell and back into the muggy afternoon, nearly slamming into an elderly woman with a big straw hat coming in. He apologizes as he dodges her, barely, and strides over yellowed, dry grass, his head swiveling as he looks around for wild tied curls and a swinging chain. Damn it, where did he go?
Parking lot, probably. The guy didn’t look like he was at the lake for a swim. Must’ve just popped in for a badly needed cool-down, meaning he’s likely about to hop into a car at any moment and hit the road and then Steve’s sliver of a chance here is gone before he could even grasp it.
He breaks into a jog, aqua slides flapping against his heels. They’re shit for running, same as the trodden, root-addled ground, but it’s not far to the dirt patch full of cars. And there. Closing in on a beat-up dark van with a horizontal white stripe along its side that looks like it time-traveled right from the seventies, is the unexpected subject of his desires. And fuck, the guy’s fast, like he’s itching to book it off this parking lot, back into the anonymity of the world, never to be seen again, and Steve is being so fucking over-the-top right now, but he doesn’t care. He speeds up his pace, just like his heart speeds up his pulse as he comes closer.
Metal guy’s hand has closed around the door latch of his van and pulled it open. He’s pushing himself up and inside, pulling his other leg up behind him and—
Okay, fuck it.
“Wait!” Steve yells.
The guy freezes, then turns his head and peeks over the door, his eyes widening as he takes in the undoubtedly glorious sight that Steve must make hurrying past parked cars in questionable footwear. He comes to a halt in front of the van, his chest heaving and heart galloping. It stumbles a bit when the guy reverts his ascend, lowering himself back down from the ledge of the driver’s door where he was halfway up already. He must’ve finished the popsicle and ditched the stick, thrown the book into the van, crossing inked arms and propping his shoulder against the door, watching Steve with wary eyes, waiting.
Oh, god. Okay. Steve steels himself. Here we go, time to make this right.
“I did not mean to shut you down in there,” Steve says. No use in beating around the bush, so right into he swamps he dives. “I, uh, I just blanked ‘cause I’m an idiot.” The guy’s still looking, eyebrows slightly raised but he’s listening and Steve dares a small smile when he adds, “I’m glad you got the last popsicle.”
He takes a step forward.
“I’m Steve,” he says, resisting the instinct to run his hand through his hair again or fiddle with the drawstring of his swim trunks. He feels kinda like he did when he waited in front of Becca Osman’s locker in his first year of high school to ask her out for the winter ball, giddy and yet buzzing with nerves. “And as you already know I got a bunch of popsicles at my place. But I can’t eat them all by myself, actually, so… I was wondering if maybe you’d help me?”
Jeeze, there he went, all out. Bared his deck. No take-backs.
The guy’s brows draw deeper, like he’s still trying to decide what to make of the situation. “Are you asking me out, Steve?”
“Yes.”
That seems to throw him. “I thought you’re like super-fucking straight.”
Oh. That’s… not the first time Steve’s heard this, except it was usually him then who’d started the flirting.
“I’m bi,” he clarifies. It’s only fair of him to declare the facts like this after his awkward as hell rejection that he didn’t even mean. Plus, he’s had some people be kinda shitty about it when he’d told them, so— just in case this guy turns out to be a biphobic asshole Steve better find out now.
But the guy merely shrugs, his lips forming what might count as the beginnings of a sheepish smile. “Sorry for assuming,” he says.
“So, uhm, you make it a habit to flirt with straight boys?” Steve vexes lightly, his heart fluttering like goddamn butterfly wings when the guy’s smile widens.
“Kinda,” he admits. “I go all out. It’s fun to see them choke on their own spit.”
Steve can’t help his chuckle. Well, okay, that explains some things. Like why he’d been offered to share a Raspberry Dream popsicle even though the guy had thought Steve’s straight as an arrow. Also, why he escalated things at Steve’s utterly botched response even as he fled the scene.
“So what do you say?” Steve asks, because Metal Guy is definitely warming up to him, though he’s yet to answer his question.
“You mean at your mom’s and dad’s?” The guy says, his eyebrows rising and his smile still growing, all shrewd and warm at the same time and shit, he has dimples. Steve’s knees go a little buttery. He wants to reach out and feel them with his thumb. What the fuck.
“I’m just back for the summer,” he explains hastily, “working at the lake and house-sitting for my parents. I live in Chicago actually.”
Which sucks real bad because even if this guy actually says yes to Steve’s suggestion and if this doesn’t stay a one-time thing and if they’ll see more of each other during the rest of the summer, it will be cut off at the end when Steve returns to the big city. But that’s a lot of ifs and a lot of Steve getting ahead of himself, like he always does and that always scares people off, which, yeah, it’s weird, he needs to slow down. Never mind that he doesn’t even know where this guy lives. Very likely not in Hawkins since Steve hasn’t seen him there ever, and he would remember, and with Steve’s luck he’s just traveling through the state right now on his way to freaking Louisiana or something. Planning on crossing into Kentucky by tonight. This is all doomed right from the start.
“Shit, really? Me too.”
Or not. Holy hell, what are the odds?
The guy uncrosses his arms, fully revealing the clown face with the balloon again. “I’m from Dalton,” he says, “Moved to Chicago when I finally got my act together and finished high school. I’m just back to visit my uncle.”
Hell yeah. Steve grins. Dalton. Meaning three fucksville towns over from Hawkins, half an hour drive tops. Which also means the odds aren’t that bad actually, ‘cause most people born somewhere in the boondocks of Indiana who wanna ditch their boring-ass hometowns either end up in Indy or Chicago.
Still. Just the fact that Steve’s found him, here of all places, that’s—
Making him stupidly optimistic suddenly.
“I, uh.” The guy scratches his head. “I’m due for a nephew uncle reunion for the ages over beer and Monty Python tonight,” he says. Steve tries to keep his face from falling, but he’s pretty sure he’s doing a shit job. The guy lets his hand fall, one of his rings knocking against the open van door. “But tomorrow I’m free? If you still got popsicles to spare then.”
Holy shit. Steve has a date. With this cool as hell, hot as hell, pretty, doe-eyed stranger whom Steve almost scared off for good with his completely vaporized game, and who happens to live in the same city as Steve and smiles at him wide enough his dimples show. This is too good to be true.
Or maybe not.
Steve looks down at his dusty toes, then up again, peering at the guy from under his hair. “Honestly, I was thinking less spare and more share,” he says quietly, with a dash of cockiness in there.
The guy laughs. It’s brief but full and deep and rumbly, unexpected for both of them and Steve’s heart is summersaulting again. Lighter in his chest.
“Plus, I’m pretty sure Robin would have my ass if I called off our night,” he says, even though he’s positive she would’ve let it slide given how this is turning from disaster into something strangely promising.
“Robin?”
“Oh, that’s the Heart queen,” Steve fills him in. But Jesus fucking Christ, speaking of— “What’s your name?”
“Eddie.”
Eddie. Steve rolls it over in his head. It suits him. Probably a nickname, maybe for something he hates. Maybe Steve will be allowed to hear it one day.
“Well, Eddie do you have a pen and paper?” he asks, making Eddie huff another laugh. And okay, some confidence is coming back, thank fuck.
It’s not like he hasn’t had fun with dudes before, he has, has kinda slept his way through the last semester actually, with men and women alike. Has been having a blast and not looking back. And this is fun right now, and he sort of, no, totally wants to fuck Eddie into the mattress, against the wall maybe, or even in the pool.
Mostly, he wants to know what Eddie thinks about the book he’s reading. What tape is in his walkman he pulls out of his back pocket and onto the passenger seat as he rifles through the messy cab of his van for something to write with. Who AVATAR is. Why it took him a while to finish high school. Where the scars come from. What he does in Chicago. What’s up with the guitar pick necklace Steve spots around his neck. Does he play?
Eddie doesn’t have something papery to write on, but he does have a pen, so Steve promptly uncaps it with his teeth and writes his childhood home address on Eddie’s arm. There are the bats near his elbow and there’s a claw-like hand tattooed on his inner forearm, holding a marionette by its strings. Steve writes on the space in between. Blue ink on pale skin, warm against Steve’s hand and Steve’s whole chest is humming like a bee on coke.
“Thanks, big boy,” Eddie grins when Steve’s done and he inspects the handiwork. “There anything I can bring to the literal table tomorrow,” he squints at his arm, “at eight?”
“Hm, I’d say swimwear, but I wouldn’t be mad if you forgot them,” Steve dares, aiming for another laugh again and he gets it, this time with a bunch of adorkable snorting noises.
“So, your parents got a pool?”
“Yep.” Steve nods. Eddie’s eyes gain a mischievous glint.
“I’ll be very tempted to throw you into it.” And now it’s Steve’s turn to laugh, trying not to squirm under the fondness in Eddie’s impossible eyes as he does.
“Please do,” he says.
“Lovin’ this already,” Eddie replies easily. And then, his gaze just curious again suddenly, flicking down to the orange whistle dangling around Steve’s neck, “You a lifeguard?”
“Mhm.” Steve nods.
Eddie’s lips quirk. “That’s hot,” he admits quietly, though Steve spots something besides attraction in his big eyes. Something that feels like affection. Perhaps dangerously close to pride.
And Steve doesn’t know what to do with that, just knows that it makes it chest go all warm and wide and raw. In a weirdly good way. He tips his head, his ears probably flushing again. “I swim a lot,” he says. “Did all throughout school, still do it in college now. Figured I could use the experience for something good, y’know.”
“Okay.” Eddie takes a step back, toward the van, though it’s a bit hesitant, like he’d like to stay. “Okay. You’re swimmer and lifeguard Steve with killer hair, post shift somehow, what the fuck, a friend with good music picks and a weakness for popsicles.” And there, the dimples are back again. “I’ll leech off of that for tonight,” he says as he climbs into the cab, looking at Steve the whole time and not bothering to tamper down the rush of anticipation so clearly running through him. Steve wants to kiss him. “But tomorrow,” Eddie drawls, his eyes a little menacing but also crinkled and just soft, “I wanna know more.”
Steve smiles back. Has been for a while, unsure when he started, way less certain when he’ll stop even when Eddie’s van will long be in the wind. “You’ll probably hate my music taste.”
“Oh, so I’ll just bring a playlist then,” Eddie quips cheekily.
“You got any mixtapes?” There must be an old cassette player still flying around the basement somewhere.
Eddie looks straight up offended at that. “Of course I do! Who do you think I am?”
“An old soul.” Steve says it quietly, kinda pleased with himself when Eddie just stares at him for a moment, surprised before he shrugs with a grin and says, “Shit, you’re right. And don’t worry, I’ll bring tapes to blast your ears right off your skull.” But mostly just happy.