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The first time Eddie takes Steve to his trailer, Steve is overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stuff sitting in every corner of the home — the vast collection of novelty mugs carefully placed onto shelves, viny-leafy plants hanging from the ceiling, board games boxes stuffed under the redwood coffee table in the living room and several framed pictures of Eddie and his Uncle hung lovingly onto almost every wall.
The place looks and feels thoroughly lived in — proof of life etched into every creaky floorboard, every magnet stuck to the fridge, every exhaustively read book tucked into the bookshelf.
Eddie’s flannel-wearing Uncle Wayne pulls him into a warm hug, smelling of cigarettes and dewy-morning grass, catching Steve entirely off guard. “Nice to meet you, son,” he says. “Make yourself at home,”
Steve responds with a, “Thank you, Mister Munson,” which has Eddie belly laughing behind him and Uncle Wayne telling him to cut it with that formal crap.
Then Eddie’s tugging him by the hand, pulling him into his bedroom, and closing the door behind them.
And Eddie’s bedroom is about as Eddie as it gets — Steve revels in the band posters, the crates upon crates of records stacked next to his record player, troves of clothes hanging in his closet, polaroids taped onto his bed frame.
“You got a lotta stuff,” Steve remarks, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, arms behind his back.
Eddie’s cheeks grow red. “Yeah, stuff just sorta piles up in here,” he takes a seat at the edge of his bed. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve done any kind of deep cleaning around here so, sorry for the mess.”
“No, no — it’s fine, man, it’s cool. Your room’s cool. I like it,” Steve reassures. He walks over to the window, crystals and candles littered on the sill, and looks out the glass.
The view of the edge of the woods is nice — summer-evening fireflies blinking in the strips of tall grass swaying in the wind.
“Nice view,” Steve says.
Eddie snorts. “Thanks,”
Steve turns back to Eddie, whose eyes have been following him, who has been fiddling with his fingers — Steve shuffles over to the bed and grabs Eddie by the face, and kisses him on the lips, soft and warm, before flopping onto the mattress.
*
Steve’s mother is an interior designer.
She credits herself with knowing the ins and outs of all things furniture and decoration — she knows which colors work well together, the types of houseplants people should have depending on the wood used for their kitchen cupboards, temperature-specific light fixtures, the whole nine yards.
She’s designed and decorated almost every household in the neighborhood, her own included.
But as beautiful as the paintings, as comfortable the couches and their matching throw pillows and blankets — the inside of the house has always looked like it came straight out of a catalog.
Besides a few robotic family photos placed on the shelf above the fireplace and the ever-present pile of dirty dishes in the sink that Steve has yet to wash, it doesn’t look like anyone actually lives in there. Everything in the house sits untouched and still, looking like a home decor store at some suburban mall.
Even Steve’s room sits upstairs barren and devoid of anything remotely personal other than a few old textbooks, some basketball medals from high school, and clothes hanging over his desk chair.
And it’s lonely sometimes because Steve is usually the only living and breathing person in the house for weeks at a time, his parents caught in the endless loop of their supposed business trips outside of town.
It’s eight p.m. when he gets home from his and Robin’s shift at the video store, tired despite sitting at the counter and doing absolutely nothing for an entire six hours.
Steve wonders how the store manages to stay open with a whopping average of zero customers.
He kicks his shoes off and tucks them into the rack by the front door, carelessly dropping his bag on the floor as he shuffles into the kitchen to look for something to eat.
The answering machine’s stacked with messages — mostly from his parents, always something about being back in a few days, always something about holding the fort down for a little longer.
It’s the same thing every time.
Steve hasn’t seen his parents in three and a half weeks and counting the days is becoming exhausting.
He makes himself a buttery grilled-cheese sandwich, licking slippery grease from his fingers, wiping breadcrumbs from his mouth as he sits in the living room, watching Miami Vice re-runs.
*
Eddie likes swimming — and he’s really good at it too, much to Steve’s surprise.
In the stuffy brain-melting heat of July in Hawkins, Eddie often spends his afternoons submerged in Steve’s pool, paddling around like a plump little baby seal.
He’s like a little kid when he’s having fun — loud, brash, and boisterous in a way that makes Steve rest easy, knowing that the events of the past spring haven’t taken that big of a toll on him.
Steve watches him slosh around from his seat at the edge of the diving board, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he pretends to read the copy of Wuthering Heights he borrowed from Robin a few days ago.
His forehead’s prickling and dotting with sweat, sun beaming down hard, and he’s considering taking a dip into the water but he’s still reeling in from the Lover’s Lake incident — Demobats notwithstanding.
Eddie pops out from under the water like a wet groundhog, hair dark and glistening, matted to his cheeks. His eyelashes are clumped together, lips red from the chlorine and he brings a hand up to wipe the water from his face.
“Cute,” Steve teases, not being untruthful.
Eddie rolls his eyes. “Watcha reading, Steve-o?” he asks.
Steve responds simply with, “A book,” and flips through the pages, all smart-like and clever, incredibly proud of himself for the low-brow humor.
He’s met with a splash of water to the face, Eddie’s laugh reverberating from below.
Steve feigns a grumble. He brings his shirt up to his face and gently pats the water off his eyelids, ignoring the string of whistles from Eddie — who never fails to let it be known that he’s Steve’s number one fan. “Okay, that’s enough for you, mister,”
The diving board wiggles a bit as Steve closes his book and hops off, crouching at the end of the pool, the insides of his feet burning against sun-warmed stamped cement as he holds a hand out to Eddie and pulls him out of the water.
He pushes Eddie’s hair behind his ears, enveloping him in a fuzzy towel. “You smell like a wet dog,”
Eddie holds him by the shoulders, leaning in and pressing their lips together, wet and slippy-slidey, their kiss tasting of everything secure and stable and safe .
“Let’s go inside,” Steve pulls away, bopping their foreheads together. “I’ll make you something to eat,”
*
That night, they lay silent and comfortable in Steve’s bed — Eddie’s head pillowed on Steve’s chest, Steve’s nose deeply planted into Eddie’s hair, smelling like chlorine and Steve’s honey-scented shampoo.
“This house creeps me out,” Eddie confesses into a yawn. “No offense,”
Steve’s almost out of it, eyelids being pulled down by invisible hooks, mind going foggy with sleep. “Why?”
“I don’t know, it just — it feels hollow, somehow? Like it’s all bones and no meat, y’know?”
Steve blinks into the darkness of his room.
His curtains are open, silver light from the moon projecting shadows of creepy hand-like tree branches onto the empty walls of his room.
He holds Eddie a little tighter.
“Yeah, I think I know what you mean,”
*
Spaghetti Nights have become somewhat of a little ritual of theirs.
Every Friday evening Uncle Wayne aromatizes the entire trailer with the smell of rich-red tomato sauce and nose-tingling garlic — he’s always so modest about his skill but Steve has gathered, tasted , enough evidence to come to the verdict that Eddie’s Uncle has gotta be one of the best cooks in Hawkins.
“Soups on!” Uncle Wayne declares. He sets a large pot of spaghetti on the table, wiping his hands off on his overalls.
Steve cartoonishly licks his lips in anticipation and Eddie scurries off to the kitchen to get some plates.
“Smells great, as always,” Steve compliments. For as much as he’s gotten comfortable with the man, he’s always been quick to please around parents.
Wayne pats him on the back, chuckling as he goes to put a record on — something not so far from anything Eddie would have played if he had the choice.
The Velvet Underground, Steve thinks. He’s been educating himself.
“I cometh bearing thy fine china,” Eddie says, loudly stomping back to the table.
Uncle Wayne sighs, deeply fond, taking a seat at the other side of the table. “Boy, are you a character,” and there isn’t a drop of malice behind his words.
Eddie scoffs loudly, feigning offense. “I’m a rarity, thank you very much.” he sets the plates onto the table.
“I don’t know, Eddie. You’re pretty weird.” Steve prompts.
“You two wound me — my own boyfriend,” which makes Steve’s heart skip, his stomach tickle with something warm. “and you ,” Eddie turns to his Uncle. “my own flesh and blood?”
“As if you gave birth to me . If anything — you’re my flesh and blood.” Wayne corrects. “Now sit down and eat before you go on another tirade,”
Eddie’s a real actor, crossing his arms and angrily pouting as he drops down into his seat. “ Unbelievable ,”
Steve laughs because he loves Eddie’s dramatics and never tires of hearing and watching him go off the rails. So he kisses him, slipping a little tongue in, smiling and blushing when Uncle Wayne tells them to save some for the bedroom.
And they eat, forks clinking and clanking against the glazed-pottery surfaces of their plates, feet knocking together under the table as a soundtrack of grainy music plays in the background. There are stories surrounding Eddie’s mischievous childhood escapades, laughter at the mention of teenager Steve’s copious use of Farah Fawcett spray, and joy and happiness and everything else that makes the heart swell with contentment.
*
As the sun sets and rises, Steve finds himself spending more and more time at Eddie’s place.
Spending the night and staying up to talk about nothing and everything, listening to new records Eddie brings home from work to add to his already overflowing collection, lazily lounging on the couch watching gut-wrenching horror movies while they share a bowl of home-popped popcorn between them, playing three straight, tense rounds of Monopoly with Uncle Wayne when he gets home from an early shift.
Steve’s things have begun accumulating around the Munson household too — various pairs of his shoes sitting by the front door, his clothes hung and folded into Eddie’s closet, his toothbrush in the cup by the bathroom sink.
It’s all very cozy and makes Steve feel like he’s wearing a thick, cable-knit sweater and sipping on hot chocolate, huddled under a wooly blanket even though it’s well over seventy degrees out.
He’s waking himself up from a long nap when Eddie comes back from band rehearsal.
Steve watches bleary-eyed as Eddie shuffles around his room, peeling his shoes off and shucking his jacket. He hovers by the side of the bed, bending down and kissing the side of Steve’s head.
“How was rehearsal,” Steve asks voice raspy, snuffing his nose into his pillow.
Eddie hurriedly shimmies out of his jeans and climbs into bed next to Steve. “It was great - Gareth was a few minutes late but we managed to hold everything down ‘til he showed up,” he sighs. “Sleep well? How was your shift?” arms snake around Steve’s middle, a nose poking the pocket between his neck and shoulder.
“Work was work. No one ever comes into the store so robin and I just fucked around as usual.” he breathes.
The sky’s a summery, neon purple-pink — crickets chirping outside Eddie's window, the smell of someone’s barbecue tingling inside Steve’s nostrils.
He jerks up, flipping around to face Eddie, digs his face into his neck, and closes his eyes, twisting, tangling their legs together.
Steve loves Eddie's bedsheets and his mattress and the earthy smell of the incense he keeps lit on his desk and the glow in the dark stars pasted on the ceiling and the Bowie posters and the colorful crystals lined up on his window sill and the guitar hanging on the corner and his little green potted plants.
It’s messy and it’s a lot but it’s toasty and homey and turns Steve into a marshmallowy goo, sticky and sweet.
It’s the most comfortable he’s ever been.
*
Steve only goes back to his house once in a span of two weeks because one, he needs some more clothes and he and Eddie can’t keep sharing and two, to check if his parents are back.
After shoving everything he needs into his duffle, he stands by the front door and holds his breath in.
It’s eerily silent.
His parents aren’t back.
They haven’t even called.
*
Leaving high school is a catalyst for realizing just how stupid the parties are.
He and Eddie have been here for no more than thirty minutes and steve’s already bored, cradling a cup of ginger ale in his hand as he pushes through the throng of sweaty, vibrating bodies.
Robin’s here too but she’s off somewhere sucking face with Vickie, which — good for her, she deserves a win after everything she’s been through these past two years.
Steve finally spots Eddie by the snack table, stuffing his mouth with pretzels and licking the tiny rocks of salt from his fingers.
“Eds,” Steve prompts as he creeps up to him, touching his arm.
Eddie turns to look at him, cheeks round and full, smile curling on the corners of his lips. “M’hey, Stevie!” he muffles.
“D’you wanna blow this pop stand? Party kinda sucks,”
“Really? I thought you were like — King Party, or whatever people kept calling you in high school,”
At that Steve winces — he isn’t exactly too fond of who he used to be in high school, all talk and no bite, the hair on his head higher than most, if not all of his grades. “Nah, I’m all partied out for today. I just wanna go home and lay down.”
Eddie nods, understanding in a way no one have ever been towards Steve before. “Okay — just let me stuff these nachos and we can hit the road,”
He feels entirely too old, leaving a party at eight p.m. on a Thursday night, but Eddie snakes an arm around his shoulders and they wriggle their way out through the back door, going unnoticed by the crowd of intoxicated teenagers swaying back and forth to terrible synth-pop.
Eddie smacks their lips together as they walk down the street, footsteps falling in sync. “Y’know maybe leaving was a good idea — Uncle Wayne has a late shift tonight so we, uh, we’ve got the whole place to ourselves,”
“Horndog,” Steve fondly accuses, putting his hand in Eddie’s back pocket as they make their way home.