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Steve has a routine. He's semi-perfected it over the years. He'll take a whole day for it, sometimes two or three, depending on what exactly needs to get done.
People do Spring cleaning. They'll do garage sales and yard sales and thrift store drop-offs. They'll de-clutter and cleanse the house to start the year anew. And, for most people, that works. That once a year big cleaning moment.
But, not for Steve.
No, he needs to do that far more often.
Well, not the whole yard sale thrift store drop-off nonsense. The cleaning. The kind where he goes meticulously through each room and cleans it, floor to ceiling, practically.
Sometimes, he'll just focus on a single room — like his bedroom. Or the kitchen. Considering the fact that his parents were always fucking gone and that left him a too-big house to himself, there was hardly ever a need to clean the mass of other rooms. Unless he had a party or something.
He knows, realistically, that the way he approaches it isn't exactly normal. It's born out of necessity from being raised in a fucking museum, where nothing was ever allowed to look like it wasn't straight out of a showroom. They had people who came and cleaned, but that didn't stop his parents from forcing him to clean things that already looked pretty damn clean to him.
But, as time progressed, it became kind of…cathartic, in a way. A single point that he could control. A process that calmed him when things got too loud or wild or overwhelming. He could just make a list and start working through it.
And honestly, half the parties he threw in high school were just so he had the believable excuse to clean the way he did. Almost like he had to justify to himself the pure ridiculousness of what he was doing.
To justify the way he pushed all the furniture aside, dusted every nook and cranny, washed and washed and washed everything.
So, he knows, intrinsically, that he's maybe not the most normal when it comes to cleaning.
Thing is, Steve's so used to practically living alone that he doesn't even think about it when he moves into an apartment with Eddie. Doesn't think anything of his regular cleaning spiel, or his more intense, deep cleaning binge. Honestly kind of forgets that he lives with Eddie unless they're both home, which is a bit sporadic as they both settle into their lives here. They're both getting their new jobs set up and running various errands.
Moving is a fucking bitch. Steve's literally never had to move that he can remember, so the sheer amount of boxes and baskets and bags and furniture and — it's overwhelming. Not to mention setting up all the utilities and doing paperwork and shit. God. He's grateful that Hopper has been helping them get it all set up, because otherwise, Steve thinks he might drown under the sheer weight of it all.
It's safe to say Steve is a bit stressed.
Which means he's cleaning. One of those semi-deep cleaning binges. He doesn't really trust that the place is really clean without doing it himself. And that's fine. That's normal, he thinks.
A Tears for Fears record is spinning in the corner. Warm teakwood candle burning on the counter. He's pushed all the unpacked boxes against the wall, giving him space to finally set up their dining table — one they nicked from Steve's parents' basement on his way out. Not like they'll miss it. They probably don't even know it exists.
It's dusty, a bit dinged up from the kids playing games on it. But, that's the appeal, that it's big enough, already play-tested, for game nights. He's looking forward to those nights, honestly. The apartment isn't that big, but it's big enough, cozy, perfect for when they're able to get people together.
Steve gets it fully set and then gets to cleaning. He's bopping along to Head Over Heels. There's a spot in the center of the table that's particularly stubborn — something that looks suspiciously like splattered root beer, which he full on suspects is the result of Dustin. So, Steve grabs his rag, spritzes out some of the cleaning solution, and leans across the table, and starts scrubbing.
And that's when the front door opens.
"What the fuck?"
Steve freezes.
Oh, yeah.
One small thing.
Steve does all these chores naked.
"Uh." Steve stays frozen, front stretched across the table. Unsure if he should move. Unsure if he can move.
His back?
Ass out.
Whole ass out for the world to see.
Or, in this case, for Eddie to see.
"What?" Eddie's voice is high, crackling at the edges. "Why are you — what is — oh my god, what the fuck." He chuckles a bit manically and Steve feels an immediate pang of fear.
They're barely a week into actually being in this apartment and Steve's already fucked it up.
The one good thing he's been looking forward to for ages and he's gone and fucked it up by doing something dumb like cleaning the furniture naked.
He doesn't even have a good reason for being naked. It's just…part of the routine.
Steve swallows hard, tries to think of any words, make anything come out of his mouth — an explanation, a joke, a way to laugh this off and pretend it's totally fucking normal and hopefully convince Eddie to stay.
But, before he can even attempt a response, Eddie turns and steps out the door. "I'm just gonna—"
And then Steve is alone. Again.
He thunks his head against the table.
"Shit."
At the gym that afternoon, Steve tries to black it out of his memory. Tries to run off the anxiety and adrenaline. Tries to channel all that angst into every rep. Tries to bench press all that fear out of his chest. Pushes himself to the brink and back again, fully drenched in sweat, chest heaving with every breath. He gulps down some water at the end of a particularly intense set. Droplets bead around his mouth, drip down his chin, join the damp of his body.
His muscles are screaming at him and he relishes in the pain of it all. Knows that might be a bit fucked up, but, well, so is the whole of him.
Because he fucking cleans naked and forgot to, maybe, not do that now that he has an actual roommate who regularly is, you know, there.
Or, well, that he hopes is still going to be there.
Oh.
Did he mention he has a crush on Eddie?
Big one. Massive one. World-shattering one.
And now, Eddie has walked in to their newly shared apartment and seen him. Naked.
How the fuck is he supposed to look Eddie in the face now?
Steve groans and drops his head into his hands.
God. He's fucked.
That night, Steve opens the door to the apartment, arms laden with please don't move out, I promise I'll wear clothes bribery tacos and beer. Hoping that they'll be able to move on from this with a few laughs and only a slice of Steve's pride burned away.
"Eds, you home?" Steve kicks his shoes off as the door clicks shut behind him.
No response.
Right.
Steve sighs, takes two steps forward, before his eyes lift up.
To find Eddie.
Standing in the living room.
Naked.
Totally and completely naked.
Eddie grins at him, a bit sheepish, wholly devilish. "Hey, big boy. Welcome home."
"Shit." Steve chuckles as he crosses the room.
Yeah.
Things are gonna be just fine.