Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Two weeks. It’s been nearly two weeks since Eddie Munson came this close to dying of the plague on Steve’s couch. Two weeks since he decided to throw caution to the wind, say ‘fuck it’ and kiss Steve anyway, knot his fingers in Steve’s sweater and pull him close and make his heart fucking stop in his chest on what was supposed to be a normal, casual movie night. ( There was nothing normal or casual about it, in case you were wondering, and Steve still hasn’t been able to restock copies of the Goonies without having to duck behind the shelves to hide a flustered blush from Robin’s creeping gaze — and look, he gets the Best Friend Code, he knows they’re supposed to talk about everything and he’s trying , but the questions are nonstop and Steve doesn’t even know how to answer half of them himself. ) If Steve was surprised — and fucking relieved , honestly — at how little coaxing it took to convince Eddie to spend the rest of the weekend crashing at his place, he’d tried not to make as big of a deal out of it out loud as he did in his head at the time. Tell him it wasn’t an accomplishment, though, and he’d call you a damn liar. 

Steve ended up calling Robin back late that Saturday night — late, he thinks with a snort, but it couldn’t have been any later than nine — after Eddie and Dustin had fallen asleep on the couch following a particularly ( but absolutely necessarily, in Steve’s opinion ) competitive game of Pictionary. In the end, none of them had been declared the winner, which, by Dustin’s logic, meant that all of them were the winner. Steve’s still not sure he agrees because not a single one of them produced a good drawing, although Eddie was insistent on a rematch when he wasn’t half-buzzed on cold medicine. He’d dialed her number on the line in the kitchen, tucking the phone under one ear and tossing the cord over his shoulder so he could start to gather all the dirty dishes and dump them in the sink while it rang. It rang once. “Steve Harrington, that better be you, I swear to God. If it’s not, hang up, this line’s busy. And if it is — what the hell, dude? Tell me everything.”  

So Steve did. Well, no, he spared a couple of details — mostly for Eddie’s modesty, and maybe a little bit for his own — but for the most part, he told her everything. That phone call was a confessional and Steve did not waste the opportunity to bare his fucking soul to Robin Buckley while he scrubbed a little too hard at silver spoons and ceramic bowls and she, for once, stayed almost entirely silent to listen. He told her about changing Eddie’s bandages, about the way he’d flirted and batted his lashes and made Steve’s chest go all tight and fluttery and how they’d almost kissed. And then he told her about the actual kiss, the very first one and the several that followed — ever the hypochondriac, she was both endeared and absolutely horrified by this, in spite of his insistence that he’d ‘be fine, Robin, Jesus, if I didn’t get rabies from those demobats, I’m not gonna go down over a stupid cold…’ — and how he was pretty sure he was maybe just a little bit completely head over fucking heels for Eddie Munson. How he was over the fucking moon right now, but none of it makes sense and holy fucking shit, he’s horrified it’s going to come crashing down somehow. And then he grounded himself by telling her about what Eddie’s mouth tasted like and—

“Oh my god, ew! What the fuck, Steve? When I said everything, I didn’t mean everything!”

Steve said she deserved it, that she asked for it. Because she totally did. And then, for both of their sake, he changed the subject. He told her about Dustin, about the conversation in the hallway, and fuck , he hadn’t cried when it happened but there were suddenly tears streaming down his face as he recounted the exchange to Robin. “I always knew that kid was cool,” she stated casually as if she couldn’t hear him sniffling on the other end of the line, and Steve let out a watery chuckle and turned the water up a little bit to drown out the sound of him clearly fucking going through it on the other end of the line. And when he got a little too choked up, she didn’t push him to keep going, because at the end of the day, no one ever really got Steve like Robin gets Steve, and she knew how much of a big deal this was for him. All of this. Fuck. 

To Steve’s immense and frequent gratitude — begrudging as he is to admit it sometimes — Robin also knew how to ease his frayed and tangled nerves like no one else. She could talk him down from a panic attack in a matter of minutes, a feat not even Nancy Wheeler could claim, and not for a lack of trying. ( Steve’s just… well, he’s got a lot of anxiety, okay? And according to the two of them, he doesn’t deal with it in healthy ways — whatever those are, Steve thinks, as if he’d know — and that’s why it ends up bubbling over in the form of hyperventilation and cold sweats when everything just becomes too much all at once. ) By the time Steve was finished with the dishes and wiping down the counter, their conversation had shifted to something lighter, something more teasing as Robin hypothesized about their first real date, offering plenty of her own thoughts and suggestions for a scenario that hadn’t even crossed Steve’s mind at the time and sending his heartbeat stuttering again. A first date with Eddie Munson. Holy shit. Holy shit.  

They saw each other a number of times in the dozen or so days that followed, more times than could be easily explained away by coincidence. After all, Eddie didn’t even leave Steve’s until Monday morning, after spending three nights in a row sharing Steve’s bed. Stay cool, Steve. It’s fine. A mantra that’s got to be burned to the forefront of his skull by now. To be fair, Steve argued that Eddie could probably still get away with taking a sick day, but Eddie only shook his head as he rifled through Steve’s drawers for something to wear. ( If Steve wanted to point out that Eddie’s own clothes from Friday night were clean, he bit his tongue. And, no, he’s still not sure why, so don’t ask, okay? Whatever. ) He’d settled for a heather gray crewneck and a pair of light-wash jeans, and Steve remembers feeling something in his heart twist as he watched Eddie tug on his clothes, shrugging his own leather jacket on over top before swiveling around to face him with a blindingly cheeky grin, tongue out. 

“I’ll be fine, don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours,” Eddie had told him, and even now, Steve can feel himself blushing. “You made a good nurse, Harrington. I’m a vision of health by now. And anyway, can’t graduate if I don’t show up, right? ‘86 is gonna be my year, I meant it when I said it and I’ll make goddamn sure of it. Can’t go wooing the King Steve as a deadbeat high school dropout, can I?” And Steve couldn’t argue that. Kind of had to admire it, really and, the more he learns about Eddie, the deeper he fucking falls. Steve knows how to swim — he’s an excellent swimmer, actually, fuck — but right now he’s drowning. Oh god, he’s drowning . Two weeks he’s been trying to keep his head above water. So Eddie left, and he took Dustin along with him to give him a ride to school, and Steve was left alone in his big empty house for the first time in at least seventy-two hours with absolutely nothing but his thoughts and a whole morning ahead of him before he had to start getting ready for another shift at Family Video. 

Steve’s not going to talk about those few hours before he got dressed, not the way he paced around the entirety of his house half a hundred fucking times, cleaning haphazardly and entirely at random along the way. It helps him when he’s stressed, alright? Picking up laundry, wiping down counters, dusting shelves. At least he’s not baking six dozen cupcakes or something. Not yet, anyway. ( He’s got to really clean the kitchen first if he’s going to do something like that. But he’s not. It’s fine. ) What he will say is that he’s been processing this just fine, thank you very much. By that, Steve simply means he’s grown used to the way he goes all tongue-tied and stupid around Eddie sometimes, and if his brain short-circuits a little when Eddie drops by the video store unannounced and tugs Steve down behind an endcap to steal a swift, hidden kiss in the horror section, it’s only for a few seconds now instead of the several long moments he’d been rendered all but useless prior. 

( Also, that Robin hasn’t caught them in this act yet is so far beyond Steve’s comprehension it almost hurts, but he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t kind of enjoy the thrill of it a little bit too. When did he get so bold? Was it Eddie making him act this way? Jesus Christ. )

So he’s seen Eddie around. His visits to Family Video have become near daily now, even if he never actually ends up renting anything. ( If Steve already has a list of recommendations picked out for the day Eddie finally does, well, no he doesn’t. It’s just that he thinks about him sometimes when he’s restocking, okay? It’s mindless work. Whatever, mind your business. ) And when Steve pulls up to the school to pick Dustin up from Hellfire, he actually gets out of his car now, easily spends half an hour or more leaned up against the hood just talking to Eddie. Sometimes Henderson too, sometimes not. Steve has to respect, the kid knows how to read a room. He knows when to give them space. And Steve’s grateful for it, grateful for the opportunity it provides him to lean into Eddie’s side in an otherwise empty parking lot, to slip his hand into calloused, ring-clad fingers and fixate for a second on the scent of leather and cigarettes, of Zest soap and cheap drugstore cologne. It’s enough to almost make him dizzy, just a little bit lightheaded every time. Eddie’s got a way of intoxicating him like that. 

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? All he’s been doing is seeing Eddie around, catching glimpses of him here and there and sharing a few fleeting moments whenever chance ( or Eddie ) decides their paths will cross. To be fair, he’s seeing more of the guitarist now than he had in a lifetime growing up in Hawkins, so it’s not even like Steve’s got any right to complain. Not really. It’s just that — shit, Robin really got in his head talking about dates, okay? So maybe Steve’s thought about it a little bit. ( Fuck, fine. He’s thought about it a lot, alright? )  And, look, you don’t have to say it’s a two-way street. Steve already knows. He knows. He could’ve just as easily made a point to ask Eddie out himself first, could’ve picked up the phone or slipped in a suggestion the last time Eddie dropped by the store. It’s not like he hasn’t already come up with at least a dozen different ideas for things they could do. No, he doesn’t know why he didn’t either, so just… don’t. It’s just that Steve gets so flustered, so caught up in his presence when he’s around that it’s hard to think straight sometimes. 

And anyway, just because he knew he liked guys before he started falling ass over elbows for Eddie doesn’t mean Steve has even scrap of a clue what the fuck he’s doing right now. He doesn’t, in case you were wondering. Outside of the last week with Eddie, Steve Harrington’s kissed a boy once before. He was still in high school, young and drunk and stupid, and he doesn’t even remember the guy’s name — fuck, that sounds awful, doesn’t it? Steve dreads to think of the person he used to be then, finds that’s the only one he’s been truly grateful to mourn amid all the loss they’ve suffered — but he remembers scrambling out of the bathroom in a panic afterward, full of adrenaline and panic and confusion and fuck, something like lust. And then? Then Steve buried it. Tucked it away. Compartmentalized it, as Nancy would say. ( He’s still not gray yet, damn it, and he’ll keep it up until he is, thank you very much. ) So forgive him if he doesn’t exactly know how to ask a boy — not just a boy, but a fucking metal head with a goofy smile and a heart of gold — out on a first date. Steve doesn’t know how any of this works.

For as much as he spends the next few days fretting over it — and he really, really does, it’s kind of embarrassing actually — it turns out Steve didn’t even have to. Eddie arrives at Family Video on Thursday afternoon with a grin on lips and a spring in his step as he pushes — more like slams, Steve thinks as the signs hanging from the windows rattle with the force — open the front door. If he wants to ask what’s got Eddie in such an unexpectedly bright mood, the beaming guitarist doesn’t even give him a chance. “Guess who actually managed to do the impossible and book a fucking gig?” He struts in with all the confidence and swagger and absolutely none of the chill of a Rolling Stone cover model. From somewhere in the romance section, Robin squeals loudly, already sensing the direction his words are heading, but Steve’s too busy trying not to stare at that little glimpse of Eddie’s stomach that appears below a shredded old t-shirt as he throws his arms over his head in a dramatic gesture. “That’s right! Tomorrow night, for one night and hopefully not one night only, Corroded Coffin will be taking the stage again at the Hideout! Thank you, thank you!”  

Eddie throws his head back in a delighted series of whoops and hollers that Robin echoes as she emerges from the shelves, and she’s grinning almost as wide as he is as she lunges forward for a set of double, over-the-head high fives. Something in Steve’s heart swells as he stands back and watches his best friend and not-quite-boyfriend celebrate his good news, and he thinks about how glad he is that Eddie’s found them, or maybe that they’ve found him. However it all panned out, he’s grateful. And he’s smiling too, because of course he is. It’s great news, if a bit surprising… and, okay, maybe a little worrisome; thanks to a few women and men in dark suits and sunglasses, Eddie’s charges might’ve been dropped and his name cleared to the general public, but they all knew that hardly meant they’d changed everyone’s minds on the matter. Half the town was still convinced he was a murderer, and even more than that figured at very least he was a no-good devil worshiper who couldn’t be trusted. Just because he’d evaded prison didn’t mean Eddie had been able to outrun all the rumors. Okay, so maybe Steve’s not smiling quite as wide as his friends.

And fuck, Steve’s really got to get better about wearing his thoughts right there on his face because it doesn’t take long at all for Eddie to notice and he’s deflating a little, head falling into a curious tilt as he sidles up to the counter. “Something wrong, Steve? I mean, I know your taste in music is questionable at best, and I get that we don’t really fall under that umbrella, but I guess I was kind of hoping—”

Steve interrupts quickly, and something about the look Robin’s giving him makes Steve think maybe he shouldn’t have — and since when’s Buckley the one giving him advice on social cues? — but it’s too late because he’s already started speaking. “It’s not that!” Steve insists and he’s shaking his head as if to emphasize his point as he leans up against the countertop and folds his arms across cool melamine. “I’m sure you guys do, um, good metal,” he continues, trying not to cringe at exactly how awkward those words sound coming out of his mouth, “and I’m glad you were able to get back into the Hideout. I know that’s like — it’s a super big deal. It’s just — I don’t… shit, how do I say this?”

“I don’t know, Harrington, but you could just spit it out,” Eddie replies and he sounds a little defensive, not that Steve could blame him. Here he comes with exciting news and Steve, of course, can’t help but rain on that parade. It’s not his fault, okay? He can’t help but worry sometimes, it’s just who he is. He frets over the people he cares about. And, as it turns out, Eddie Munson has a whole lot of shit to fucking fret over. Who would have thought? Eddie’s fidgeting with his rings again, tugging and twisting them around his knuckles. “Look, I get if it’s not your scene or whatever, if you don’t want to go, but I—”

“Of course I want to go!” Steve exclaims, and fuck, he actually means it. Never in his life did Steve Harrington think he’d want to go to a shitty little underground metal show at a hole-in-the-wall bar on the outskirts of town, not once did he have the thought that he might actually enjoy it, but here he is, thinking just that. “So I’m a little bit nervous, okay? Of course it’s awesome — it’s fucking great — but I just… I don’t know, Eddie, aren’t you even a little bit worried that it’s maybe too soon or something?” Fuck. Fuck. Eddie’s got that look in his eyes again, Steve can see it even as he turns to look away. He’s upset him. He didn’t mean to, but— “It’s only been a few weeks since… you know, everything, and — and I mean, we all know you’re innocent, but you said yourself just the other day that people keep coming and vandalizing your trailer, that someone keyed Wayne’s truck on Sunday. Not everyone’s warmed up to you — not everyone knows you — and I just feel like…” 

“Steve. Steve, hey!” His words are cut off as Eddie reaches out to pull one of Steve’s hands into both of his, raising it to his mouth and pressing his lips to Steve’s knuckles with a softer smile. “I get it. Trust me. I’ve thought about it, too, and I haven’t forgotten this whole fuckin’ place is full of assholes. Kinda hard to, if I’m being honest. I only get reminded on a daily basis.” 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying—”

“But—!” Of course Eddie doesn’t give him a chance to argue, tangling their fingers together as he leans into the counter opposite Steve. “But it’s a risk I think I’m willing to take, Steve. I mean, shit. This town has already taken so fucking much from me, I can’t — I’m not gonna let it take away one of the few things that makes me happy. I can’t do it. It’s not fair.” And okay, no, Steve can’t exactly fault him for that. In fact, the way he phrases it makes Steve almost feel bad for even suggesting it, for recommending Eddie continue to put his own life on hold and sacrifice something that gave him serotonin for what was essentially the sake of others. People who didn’t give a shit about him. Fuck, he’s right. “Besides, it’s not like I can keep hiding from the world forever, right? I’m — I’m an innocent man!” His voice does something weird on the words innocent man, lilting just right to make Steve think somehow even he still doubts it sometimes. It pinches his heart in a way that has Steve shifting awkwardly to try and dispel the discomfort.  “They’re gonna have to forgive or forget eventually. There’s no two ways around it. So why not now?” 

“Okay,” Steve says after several long seconds of deliberation, and Robin’s cheering in the background as if Steve’s thoughts on the matter had any real sway on whether they’d be performing or not. ( They don’t… do they? ) “Okay,” he says, because he’s not sure what else he can say. Because he wants to support Eddie, wants to see him smile the way he was when he’d walked through the door just moments earlier. “But I’m coming with you.” It’s not a question and Steve doesn’t mean it to be one. Even if he’d never wanted to step foot in the Hideout a day in his life, he does now. He’s going. And he’ll be damned if any of the drunk idiots in attendance try to say a single thing to Eddie. Fuck, a single thing about Eddie. Steve doesn’t care. Eddie might be hanging on to threads of optimism, but Steve’s not going to feel comfortable knowing he’s safe unless he’s there too. Unless he can see it. And he’s ready to start swinging if he has to. 

Eddie grins even wider, leaning in to knock his forehead against Steve’s and forcing Steve to smile, too, in spite of himself. “Good, ‘cause I was kind of banking on you saying that,” he says, so matter-of-fact, and Steve’s gaze flickers down when his tongue darts bashfully across his lower lip. Stay cool, Steve. Remember Robin’s watching you right now. Fuck. “Actually, what I was really hoping was that you’d, um, go with me. You know, like, um — like as my date?” One hand slips out of Steve’s to reach for a chunk of dark curls, twisting it around his fingers to pull it over his face and hide an endearingly sheepish expression. “If you wanted to, of course! I know — I mean, I know I said it’s not your scene, but I thought maybe—” 

“Just shut up already.” And then Steve’s reaching out for the collar of his shirt, pulling him over the counter and into a kiss and he doesn’t even care that Robin is gawking because, goddamn, he has gone so soft for this stupid boy he doesn’t even know what to do about it. It’s clear Eddie’s not expecting it by the way he fumbles at first, palms pressing into the counter to steady himself, but he finds his focus just as quickly as Steve curls his fingers even tighter into the shirt. They don’t come up for air until Robin’s suddenly clearing her throat, reminding them that they’re in the middle of a family establishment and that Steve’s still on the clock — and not as an adult entertainer, which results in the closest VHS tape being thrown in her general direction. Then Steve’s looking back at Eddie, parted lips upturned at the corners as he finds a dark, doe-eyed gaze. “I told you. I’ll be there.”

“Me too!” Robin chimes from somewhere behind Eddie and Eddie laughs, so close Steve can feel warm breath on his lips before he ducks in to steal one last kiss. 

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at 8.” And then he’s out the door with a wink and the chime of a bell, leaving Steve blushing and bumbling in his wake as Robin zooms up to the counter behind him. 

“Holy shit. Did that just fucking happen? That definitely just fucking happened, right? Oh my god, Steve —!”

That’s how Steve finds himself standing in front of his closet, hands on his hips in nothing but a pair of boxers as Robin shouts suggestions for his wardrobe from his bed. It shouldn’t be this hard. It really shouldn’t be this fucking hard. He’s going to a dive bar, for christ’s sake. A dive bar in Hawkins at 8 o’ clock on a Friday. If ever there were a situation Steve didn’t have to worry about underdressing, surely this would be it. “But that’s the thing!” he cries in frustration as he flips through hanger after hanger, passing by polo shirts and crewnecks and sweaters. “I can’t show up in just anything, you know? If I walk in there wearing what I’d normally wear going out, I’ll stick out like a sore thumb, Robin! Do you think anyone else in there is going to be wearing pastels? Because I can’t fucking imagine—” 

“Do you hear yourself right now?” Robin groans as she flops back on his bed, shaking her head. And that’s easy for her to say — she’s already dressed, and as always, she looks so fucking cool. Steve’s not sure he’s ever thought as much about another woman in suspenders, but Robin’s never really been just any woman. That’s what he loves about her, what ended up drawing him to her like a moth to a flame in the first place. She’s fucking weird, and unabashedly so. Strangely enough, it emboldens Steve to want to be the same. Her confidence is real and he envies that — no, admires it. “You’re overthinking it, Steve. You could literally show up in a potato sack and Eddie would still be all over you—”

“Shut up!”

“Tell me I’m wrong! Tell me I’m fucking wrong, Steven!” She’s sitting back up now, pointing an accusatory finger at him and suddenly Steve feels very exposed. “So you don’t want to stick out? Fine. We can work with that.” And then she’s heaving herself off the side of the mattress, walking over to his desk and snatching up the vest that’s once again draped over the back of his chair before thumbing through the clothes folded in a pile on the seat. Grabbing the shirt from the pile as well, Robin chucks them both in Steve’s direction and he quickly scrambles to catch them. He starts to protest, to say something about the clothes being Eddie’s, but she doesn’t let him. “Uh, no. You already told me he gave you that vest. Actually, if I recall your words correctly, he gave it to you ‘because you were just so fucking hot you had to wear it.’ Right? That’s what he said?” Steve can feel his face burning and he scrambles to try and defend himself. It’s a pointless effort. “So you’re totally wearing that. No question. And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you borrowed his shirt. Have you even gotten any of your clothes back yet?” 

“Well — no,” Steve says, and the way he’s twisting the shirt in his hands as he speaks, he can’t help but think back to the way Eddie had treated it the same way that night in his kitchen, how he’d taken out his nerves on the already distressed fabric the way Steve is now. And okay, yeah. He gets it. Having something to do with your hands helps. “But that’s different.”

“No it’s not. Put it on.” Robin’s not even looking at him anymore, too busy digging through the drawers of his dresser. Nothing is going to be folded the next time he goes to look in there, he just knows it. Steve sighs, but he hooks the vest over the knob of the closet door so he can pull the t-shirt over his head. And even though he washed it, despite the fact that the first notes that hit him as he tugs the cotton down over his face and chest are floral and soapy, somehow, it still smells like Eddie. Steve could fucking swoon, and he wants to hate himself for it. How’d he find himself down so bad like this? Smoothing his hands over the logo emblazoned across his chest, Steve inspects his reflection in the mirror mounted on the closet door. The shirt’s soft, well-worn and threadbare in places, but it does fit. Sucking in a breath, he reaches for the vest and shrugs it on over top, fully expecting to look ridiculous. But he — maybe he doesn’t? Fuck, he doesn’t know. “Here, these too!” 

There’s a pair of jeans flying through the air at him and Steve grabs them quickly, tugging them on and tucking the shirt in before he buttons them. They’re a light acid wash, a pair Steve rarely ever wears because they’re just a little bit too tight. “Goddamn, yes. Those are the ones,” Robin says with a decisive nod as she returns to her spot on the bed, satisfied with the outfit she’s managed to assemble in two minutes that Steve couldn’t think of after almost an hour. “You and I both know I only like the ladies, but can I just say, completely platonically, that your ass looks phenomenal right now, Steve Harrington? Because it does. Do a spin! Come on, do a spin!” And Steve may grumble, but he raises his arms in the air and does a single three-sixty for her to get a full look at the clothes, trying not to flush even deeper as she whistles at him. “Mark my words, you are getting laid tonight.”

“Oh my god, Robin, what the fuck?” Steve counters, shoving the closet door shut and turning around to lean against it. “He’s not going to — we aren’t — no. Come on. Stop, okay? I swear, if you act like this in the car—”

“I’m not gonna embarrass you in the car. Relax! I’m an excellent wingman, Steve. Give me some credit here, cut me some slack.”

“No, absolutely not,” Steve counters with a shake of his head, walking over to the smaller mirror over his dresser and carding a hand through his hair, trying to get it to fall in just the right place. Of course it doesn’t. He frowns, glances over at the alarm clock on his nightstand and swears under his breath. 7:54. Shit, when did it get so late? Did he really take that long trying to figure out what to wear? Eddie was going to be there any minute. Giving up on his hair with a frustrated huff, Steve quickly snatches up his shoes off the floor and takes a seat on the side of the bed to pull them on and lace them up. He fumbles with the knot three times before turning to face Robin. “Fuck, do I — do I look stupid? Is this whole thing stupid? Is it too late to call it off, do you think—?”

“Jesus, Steve! The only thing stupid right now is you,” Robin points out and it’s enough to make Steve pause, a pout tugging at the corners of his lips. She rolls her eyes. “You look fine. You look fucking hot, actually, so just relax. Eddie’s just going to be happy that you’re even there, I don’t know if you’ve seen the way he looks at you, but I had to see it yesterday. You guys made me see it. And based on that? He’s probably not even going to notice what you’re wearing, too busy staring at your dumb, stupid lips, I don’t know. The point is, you’re fucking fine, Steve, and you’re not backing out of this now.” As she speaks, the squeal of tires echoes from outside the window followed by the loud drone of a horn and they both look up, Robin grinning. “You can’t now anyway, even if you want to. I think that’s our ride, pal.” 

And then she slaps him on the shoulder and hops off the bed, and Steve’s got to scramble to finish tying his shoes so he can follow her out of his bedroom and down the stairs. Steve grabs his wallet and his keys and takes a deep breath on his way out the door, trying to brace himself. Stay cool, Steve. You’ve got this. It’s embarrassing how nervous he is right now. The van’s already in the driveway by the time Steve’s got the place locked up, and he freezes for a second when a realization he should have already considered suddenly dawns on him. Any worry he had about Robin feeling like a third wheel on the ride over dissipates all at once as Steve realizes the entirety of Corroded Coffin is packed into the back of Eddie’s van right now. Eddie himself is in the driver’s seat and currently shoving someone out of the seat next to him and into the back as well, and all Steve can see are legs kicking and flying and oh god, what has he gotten himself into? 

“Steve! Robin! Come on!” Eddie shouts through the open window once he’s freed up the seat, and waves for Steve to come around to the passenger side as the back door slides open to reveal bench seats stuffed with instruments and bandmates. If Robin’s at all surprised by the situation, she takes it in stride, climbing into the back without a moment’s hesitation and yanking the door shut behind her. Steve has no choice but to follow suit and jogs around the front of the van, gets inside and turns to face Eddie with a nervous grin as he slams the door shut behind him. ( After driving it only one time, Steve knows that’s the only way to get the door to actually close, he’s not usually that rough. ) And Eddie’s already looking at him — staring, really — but all Steve can focus on is the fact that he’s wearing eyeliner again and holy shit, it looks good. He looks good. Fuck. Fuck.  

“Who’s the closet thief now, big boy?” When Eddie smirks, it ignites something deep inside of Steve and he squirms a little in his seat, looking down toward his lap. “It’s okay. If you’re gonna look like that,” he continues, and he’s turning the key in the ignition, yanking the car out of park to pull out of the driveway, “you are welcome to my clothes any fucking time.” And then he’s laughing, this bright, melodic sound that still manages to carry a little bit of a rasp, a rough edge that catches on Steve’s heart and makes it skip a beat as he sinks into his seat. By the time he’s pulling out of Steve’s neighborhood, Eddie’s reached over, decided to rest a hand against Steve’s thigh while the other remains on the wheel and from behind him, he can feel a foot slam into the back of his seat. Odds are it could be any one of the four of them packed into the back, but something tells him it’s Robin. He tries not to think about it, instead focuses his attention out the window as he tries to move one of his own hands to rest on top of Eddie’s as casually as possible and not totally fucking die as Eddie squeezes his leg when he does. 

“So, uh, I hope it’s okay that we picked you up a little early?” Eddie says out of the blue a few minutes into the drive, sparing a glance in Steve’s direction. “We’re not actually on until nine, but we’ve gotta get everything set up first. I thought maybe you guys could grab a drink or something — Bruce doesn’t card anyone ever, so you can order whatever you want — and I, uh, I invited everyone else to come out…” When he trails off, Steve breaks his eyes away from the window to look at him, and he can see the unspoken question lingering in his gaze. Is that okay? As much as Steve appreciates him wondering, him wanting to ask, he’s pretty sure there’s not a single person in their little circle of friends that doesn’t at least know that he and Eddie have kissed at this point. Word travels fast, and he knew between Argyle and Robin it was only a matter of time anyway. But it’s fine. Steve’s fine with this, he tells himself. It’s not like any of them would judge him anyway; hell, Robin and Nancy already know he swings both ways, and he suspects at this point Argyle’s pretty sure of the same. And if Argyle does, then Jonathan probably does too. 

“Sounds good, yeah,” Steve says with a shrug and a nod, and he’s chuckling before he can stop himself. “Great, actually, because I think I’m gonna need a drink if I’ve gotta spend a night hanging out at the Hideout.” The playful jab elicits jeers and boos from the backseat and Eddie beams that big, dumb smile of his as he joins in, reaching up to give Steve a playful shove. 

“You’re gonna have a great time, Stevie, mark my words. I know you don’t believe me yet, but you will, I promise.” 

Steve does, if he’s being honest. Although, to be fair, he thinks he could probably go anywhere with Eddie and he’d be just as happy. It’s fucking sappy and stupid and he’d never own up to it out loud, but damn him if it’s not a little true. The rest of the ride to the Hideout passes mostly uneventfully, and Eddie keeps their hands entwined up until the moment he’s pulling into a spot on the side of the building and shifting the van into park. Gareth yanks the back door open before the van’s even stopped, and suddenly the band is pouring out of the van, taking Robin along with them in a sea of instrument cases and amps and pure chaos. Steve’s got his hand on the handle of the door, ready to head out, but Eddie hasn’t moved yet, not beyond pulling the key out of the ignition. So Steve waits, glances from the window to the dashboard to Eddie and back again. He’s almost tempted to break the silence, to speak up himself, but he’s not sure what he’d say if he did. Every fiber of his being is thrumming with the electric buzz of excitement and anticipation and anxiety all rolled into one nerve-wracking and unidentifiable emotion.

“You look so fucking hot right now, Harrington, Jesus H. Christ,” Eddie suddenly groans, throwing his head back against the headrest of his seat and slamming his palms into the steering wheel. He’s not even looking at Steve anymore, his gaze locked on some point beyond the windshield that Steve can’t place. “I just thought you should know — and in my fucking clothes, too, goddamn, I can’t — you really fucked me over tonight, you know?” And if Steve gawks, you’ll have to forgive him, because he thought for a second he had an idea where this conversation was heading but all of a sudden he’s really not sure anymore. What did he even do? “First goddamn show back and I don’t know how I’m supposed to pay attention to shit on stage knowing that you’re standing somewhere in the crowd looking like every fucking wet dream I’ve ever had, holy fuck.” 

Oh. Oh. Okay, maybe his first guess wasn’t too far off after all. Steve can feel heat climbing up his neck from beneath the collar of Eddie’s Black Sabbath t-shirt and he tugs at the shredded fabric, thumbs at a button on the collar of the vest. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had some sort of weird kink for swapping clothes,” he teases, because he’s still not ready to react to everything else Eddie just said, not sure he could stumble through it even if he wanted to. But Eddie’s already shaking his head, already prepared to argue.

“No. No, and I’ll tell you why, too, because it’s not my fault that your sweaters are all so fucking comfortable or that you would look like a fucking teenage dream no matter what you wore because you’re literally Steve Harrington, but also that you happen to be wearing a shirt for one of my favorite bands? And a vest that I made? Yeah, Steve, it’s fucking hot. Of course it is. Fucking look at you!” Eddie’s finally turning in his seat now, unbuckling the seatbelt so he can wave an arm in Steve’s general direction as if he did not just spend over an hour looking at himself in the mirror just before this very interaction. Steve locks eyes with him and almost fucking swoons because Eddie’s pupils are blown wide and he’s just staring at Steve, frantic gaze searching, exploring, drinking in every single inch of Steve that he can see. “God damn it, I could just—” And if Steve doesn’t let him finish the sentence, it’s because he already knows what he’s going to say and he just wants to beat him to the punch. So he curls a fist into the collar of Eddie’s leather jacket and tugs him close over the van’s center console so their lips can crash together in a fervent, heated kiss. 

Eddie moans into his mouth the moment their lips meet and Steve tries to ignore the way the sound sends all the blood burning up his cheeks suddenly rushing south. It’s messy and desperate and full of unadulterated want and their noses bump and their teeth crash together and — holy mother of fuck, does Eddie have his tongue pierced? — there’s a hand on his neck and another in his hair, curling in the locks he spent too long stressing over and knotting tightly there as he explores every inch of Steve’s mouth. If Steve lets out a little whine when Eddie finally pulls lips away from his, it’s short-lived as they latch on to the pulse point just below the curve of his jaw, sucking a bruise that turns a deep cherry red as he pulls his mouth away with an audible pop. Steve can see it in the reflection of the windshield, exhales a breathless laugh as he reaches up to touch it. 

“Oops,” Eddie pants against sensitive skin and licks swollen lips, but Steve knows it’s no accident. It stokes at that heat growing deep in his stomach and he wonders how the fuck he’s supposed to make it through the night when these jeans are already way too fucking tight and they still need to get out of the van. They’re both reminded of as much by a knock on the window, and Eddie waves Gareth away when he points aggressively to his watch and then again to the heap of equipment unloaded on the side of the van, but he does finally start disentangling himself from Steve. “Alright, alright! We’re coming!” He calls over his shoulder when Gareth knocks again, flashing a look at Steve before shoving his cigarettes into the pocket of his jacket and shoving open his door. “Damn, you couldn’t have even gotten started without me, you lazy little fucks? And who’s fucking — you’ve got Buckley unloading the back of the van? Are you kidding?”  

Steve only catches part of the conversation before Eddie’s slamming the door shut, and he takes a few more seconds alone in the silence of the van to collect himself and maybe catch his fucking breath before even trying to step outside and interact with anyone. He’s still shifting uncomfortably in the confines of acid-washed denim as he finally makes his way out and around the side of the van and Steve shoves hands in his pockets, hopes it’s not actually as obvious as it sure as shit feels. Robin’s at his side before he even spots her approaching and she’s got her hands on her hips, brows raised to disappear behind a curtain of bangs as she all but stares him down. “You were in there alone for two minutes, Steve. Two minutes! How do you have fucking sex hair right now? Are you—” Her stage-whispered exclamations come to a screeching halt as her eyes land on his neck, and Steve instantly freezes like he’s been caught red-handed. To be fair, he kind of has. Red-necked, anyway.

“Oh my fucking god. Steve, you little minx! I fucking told you he’d like the outfit! What did I say?” Robin’s got him by the wrist before he has a chance to respond and she’s tugging him around the van to the side entrance of the building. “Eddie said to just head inside because they were gonna be busy with all of, uh — that,” she nods over her shoulder toward the heaps of equipment they’ve got piled up on the curb, “but that he’d try to meet us before they go on if he can.” And when Steve looks over his shoulder, he notices Eddie’s already gone, having disappeared somewhere behind the scenes before Steve could even notice he’d left. “Are you picking up on any of this, or are you still suffering from oxygen deprivation over there? I cannot fucking believe you, by the way — are you suddenly back in high school? A hickey, Steve? I was three feet away!” 

“I didn’t know he was going to do that!” Steve protests lamely and lifts a hand to brush at the tender spot on his neck; although, to Eddie’s credit, Steve knew exactly what was happening in that moment and he didn’t do or say a damn thing to stop him — couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He didn’t, by the way.  “Is it that bad?” She doesn’t have to answer, he already knows because he could see it in the fucking window , but Steve still can’t help but ask. Robin’s look says everything Steve needs to hear and all of a sudden, he doesn’t know whether to tousle his hair forward to try and obscure it or push it back and try to embrace a more cavalier, ‘fuck it’ attitude about the whole thing. It’s not like he’s really going to be able to hide it anyway, not in the spot Eddie had picked, so fucking high up on his neck it’s only inches from his face. Is he blushing? His face feels like it’s on fire. “Shit. Do you think anyone’s here yet? I need a drink.” 

Much to Steve’s relief — and Robin’s evident lack of surprise with an incredulous, “We’re almost an hour early, Steve!” — they’re the first ones there apart from the band and a few patrons that he can only assume are regulars. And the Hideout, now that he’s inside and can actually get a decent look at it, is exactly what Steve expected it might be. The lights are dim, flickering in places from low-hanging, dusty, stained-glass fixtures, illuminating an eclectic mix of tables and chairs that look like they could’ve been picked up off the sidewalk after somebody’s garage sale. Hell, maybe they were. Hardwood floors are battered and sticky and covered in ash and Steve tries not to think about the way he can feel — no, can hear — his shoes peeling up with every step. The air is smoky and sort of stale, barely circulating through the room from a fan at the far end of the bar. 

Steve spots two vacant seats among many that line the bartop and nods to Robin, and the pair quickly settles in to find a way to try and kill some time until the others show up. By the time they do, Steve’s about halfway through his second beer and Robin is nearing the end of her first Dirty Shirley ( and yes, Steve did make fun of her at first for her choice of drink — “Are you seriously ordering that right now?” “You heard Eddie! He said we could order anything!” “And you picked a Dirty Shirley?” — but the second she let him try a sip, she was watching him eat his words because okay, no, it was pretty fucking good actually, goddamnit ) and they’ve managed to build a pretty respectable house of cards out of the flimsy cardboard coasters littering the bar. Steve’s got his knee on the worn leather stool and the straw from Robin’s drink between his teeth as he goes to add a fourth tier to the tower when the sound of a familiar voice rings out behind him. And Steve almost falters — almost — but he’s spent enough time around the kids to know how to hone his focus over the sound of somebody literally shouting his name and he manages to place the coasters flawlessly before he bothers to turn around.

“Harrington! How’s it hanging, my guy? Long time no see!” Steve doesn’t have the chance to step down from the bar stool before Argyle’s pulling him into a hug, and there’s just somehing so tactile about the stoner, something so warm and inviting, that Steve doesn’t hesitate to return the embrace with a clap on Argyle’s shoulder as he tries not to get his hands tangled in waist-length locks. When Argyle pulls away, he holds Steve at arm’s length for a moment, both hands on his shoulders as he looks him up and down. He’s got a familiar smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and Steve remembers seeing the same look in his kitchen two weeks ago after Argyle noticed Steve wearing Eddie’s rings. “Looking good as always, man! Shit, check out this vest! Are you serious right now?” All of a sudden, hands have slid from his shoulders to the denim covering his chest, brushing over patches and twisting at pins to admire them in the low light. 

“Thanks,” Steve says a bit sheepishly, lifting a hand to scratch lightly at the back of his neck. “It’s, um—” he pauses, falters for a second because he’s about to say that it’s Eddie’s, but that’s not exactly true anymore, is it? Eddie gave it to him. But still, it feels strange accepting a compliment for the hand-crafted garment, particularly because he had no creative input on it whatsoever and, up until a couple of weeks ago, Steve would’ve been convinced there was no way in hell he’d wear something like it to begin with. “Eddie made it,” Steve decides to say instead, because if nothing else, he thinks the metalhead deserves a little recognition for his handiwork. Steve’s spent enough time poring over the details in the stitchwork in the dead of night when he can’t sleep. If anyone would know, it’s him. “I’m pretty sure he sewed all the patches on and everything, even the big one on the back. Dio, I think?” 

“Hold the phone — Steve Harrington listens to metal?” comes Jonathan’s voice from somewhere behind Argyle, and at the same time, Steve can hear realization dawning in Nancy’s exclamation of, “So that’s what he was doing in Home Ec!” Steve finally wriggles his way out of Argyle’s curious grasp to nod hello to the others, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans and trying not to let himself get too far in his own head. He can’t help but feel a little embarrassed at the attention, even if he can’t quite place why; he’d already been self-conscious about the outfit, about wearing Eddie’s clothes, and that was when he thought the only two people who’d really be seeing him were Eddie and Robin. 

“No, but I also didn’t wanna show up wearing this and get called a poser by some sixty-year-old boozer with a throat tattoo,” Steve counters Jonathan’s question with a shrug, and to his credit, Jonathan concedes with a chuckle, mumbling something about that being a fair point. And it is, Steve thinks, given the rest of the rough-and-tumble crowd populating the place. Maybe he should keep his voice down. Hopper would have his ass if he got a call that Steve got into a brawl with an old man at a fucking Corroded Coffin set of all places, and Steve’s just not willing to invite that kind of negativity into his life right now, alright? “Don’t worry, Hell’s not freezing over. I’m just trying to cover my bases and cover my ass.” 

“I think you just want somebody else to cover your ass…” Robin whispers at his side, low enough that Steve’s the only person who hears the comment. He fucking hopes, anyway, and digs an elbow into her ribs for good measure. She yelps and stumbles back, and Steve doesn’t even have to look behind him to know that their tower’s collapsed because he can hear the flutter of two dozen coasters scattering across the sticky counter. Goddamnit, Robin. “Oh shit!” she cries dramatically enough to garner the attention of a few random patrons, and Steve doesn’t even bother turning around, instead takes a deep breath and exhales in a slow, silent sigh, reaches blindly for the beer he’s left on the bar so he can drain what’s left of it and start on the next. ( At this rate, he’s going to be more drunk than not by the time Eddie’s set is over, but fuck if he can help it. Eddie’s not here right now, and he needs something to help him handle this, okay? Don’t judge him. ) 

So Steve buys another round for himself — and for everyone else, mostly because he can’t stop thinking about Argyle and the pizza and he feels like he needs to pay it forward somehow — and after a bit of campaigning from Robin, the five of them set to work assembling an even larger, more impressive tower of coasters. Nancy and Robin somehow managed to sweet talk the bartender, Bruce, into giving them a few fresh stacks for the cause, weaving some charming and fantastical story about how they could potentially break a Guinness world record — did such a record even exist? Steve wonders — and promising they’d clean up any mess and return all of the coasters after. 

For a good, long moment, Steve forgets he was ever anxious to begin with; he’s too caught up in all the laughter and the jokes and the arguments about architectural design, the shared comradery as they dive further and further into the ridiculous and nonsensical task of building something bigger, something better. At one point, Steve whips his head around, incredulous, when Argyle suggests they fold some of the coasters for structural integrity and he feels an instantaneous sort of regret as he feels both Nancy and Jonathan’s eyes land on the dark, bruised patch of skin sitting high on his neck. He freezes involuntarily because shit shit shit they were having such a good time, he does not want to do this right now, and it’s not that he doesn’t want anyone to know but it’s just that he doesn’t want to have to explain — 

But fortunately, Steve doesn’t have to. He’s not sure if he’d call it a rescue — that’s not quite the right word, is it? No, because when Eddie swoops in on their little huddle at the bar all of a sudden, he’s answering the question they haven’t even had a chance to ask, swinging an arm around Steve’s shoulder to pull him close ( not too close, nothing too friendly, because they may be among friends but they’re still out in public and fuck, it’s awful but the both of them know better ) and knocking his head lightly against Steve’s cheek as he looks around at everyone with a bright, bubbling grin that Steve thinks he probably couldn’t contain if he tried. Steve would venture a guess this is the best turnout Corroded Coffin’s had in ages — if ever — and he’s sure it means more, anyway, because it’s an audience of friends and not just a handful of Hawkins’ finest degens and alcoholics. Or maybe that’s just him getting sentimental. He doesn’t know. But Steve doesn’t have the chance to work it out either way because he’s too busy hyper-fixating on the way Nancy’s looking at him now, lips twitching and a curious glint in her eyes behind the rim of a pint glass. Is he blushing? Fuck, he’s blushing. Can anyone tell? 

“Fuck, I’m so glad you guys made it!” Eddie beams at his side, and the pure, genuine excitement that radiates from him as he speaks is enough to keep Steve from spiraling completely, to tether him back to reality.  

“Of course we did, man!” Argyle says at once, not missing a single beat for someone whose eyes are as red and half-lidded as his are. ( Once again, Steve’s got to admit, he’s a little fucking impressed. Especially now, now that he knows how strong the shit Argyle’s smoking really is. That purple paradise punch or whatever it was had him and Eddie both out like a light for hours after they shared a joint. How is he even upright right now? ) He claps Eddie on the shoulder, but he’s grinning at the both of them when he speaks and somehow, Steve’s cheeks grow impossibly warmer. “I didn’t even know you could find live music out here in the boonies. Y’know, like, outside of the Hawkins High marching band—”

“Hey, watch it!” Robin twists away from the tower to shout indignantly, coasters still in her hands as she points them both in Argyle's direction. “We make incredible music, thank you.” 

“I didn’t say it wasn’t good—!” “You implied it!”

“I would never!”

“Guys!” Eddie shouts over the both of them and Robin jumps at the sudden interruption, howling loudly when she realizes that she’s the reason not one but both towers have collapsed as something close to fifty small cardboard squares suddenly go toppling across the counter and scattering onto the floor. The look on her face says she knows they’ll never let her live it down, and honestly? Steve thinks she might be right. He grins. Through it all, Eddie’s entirely unfazed. Steve wonders if this kind of chaos is typical of the Hideout, but he instantly backpedals — he’s sure these walls have never seen their particular brand of chaos before. ( The exasperated glances Bruce keeps sending their direction from across the bar only confirms as much in Steve’s mind, but to their credit, he hasn’t put a stop to any of their antics. Not yet, anyway. ) “I was just coming to tell you we’re gonna be on in five if you wanted to, uh, maybe get a spot by the stage?” 

There’s something so earnest — almost shy — about the way he suggests it, even in spite of the confident tone he’s forced to adopt to command their attention as a whole. It’s fucking endearing, if he’s being honest, and it’s got Steve’s heart doing Olympic-level somersaults in his chest as he turns to look at Eddie. And he tries to keep himself in check, really, he does. He has to. For the both of their sake, for fear of the wrong pair of wandering eyes seeing them inch just a little too close. It’s frustrating, too, christ, because there’s nothing he wishes more in this moment than that he could pull Eddie in, their friends be damned, and kiss those stupid, smiling lips of his. For good luck. God, what Steve wouldn’t give. ( He’s so down bad. Fuck. He’s so fucked for Eddie Munson. ) Instead, he simply flashes Eddie a smile when eyes that are impossibly bright for being dark enough to swallow Steve whole find his own, holds out the last of his beer to him in an offer and tries not to stare at the way his mouth curls around the opening of the bottle and the long line of his throat as he tosses his head back to drain the last drops from the bottom.

The way his lips pop off the mouth of the bottle — that fucking sound — suddenly has Steve’s mind rushing back to the van, and his hand comes up to distractedly graze at his neck as cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red. Oh God. Oh no. He doesn’t know where to look, gaze darting and bouncing around the room before landing on the small stage — if you could even call it that, the platform couldn’t be more than six inches off the floor, and even from here, Steve can see how cramped the instruments and amps are up on it — and he decides now seems like the perfect time to find a good spot, actually. ( And no, you don’t have to point it out. Steve knows there aren’t even twenty people in the place, the band included, and that one spot’s just as good as the next, but he’s not about to look a gift excuse in the mouth, alright? ) Giving Eddie’s shoulder a light squeeze — but not bothering to look at him because he can’t right now, okay, he can’t, not if he wants to hold onto any hope of keeping himself together — Steve sets off without any real preamble, weaving through his friends on his way toward the other side of the bar. 

“Oh, uh — alright, guess we’re going now,” Jonathan says to the group at large with a chuckle as Steve pushes past him and reaches for Argyle’s arm to give him a gentle yank in the right direction as the stoner calls over his shoulder, “Break a leg, dude!” And maybe that’s how he gets by, Steve thinks absently as they follow behind him, having Jonathan there to guide him through his day-to-day. ( Steve wants to say it makes sense, that he’s cracked the case, but the truth is if Argyle’s lighting a joint, Jonathan’s at least taking a few puffs. Do two halves really make a whole? He wonders. ) Steve doesn’t look back as Robin leaps from her stool and yells for Nance to wait up, but Steve does hear the melodic ring of Eddie’s laughter carrying over her cries as he shuffles into the darker part of the bar, shoving hands in his pockets and coming to a stop only a few feet in front of center stage, directly in front of the giant ( hand-painted? Steve thinks it looks hand-painted, and he can’t help but be curious if the bold, black calligraphy is Eddie’s handiwork ) sheet emblazoned with the band’s name. Corroded Coffin. The more Steve thinks about it, the more he finds that maybe it does have a little bit of a ring to it. 

The toes of rubber-soled Reeboks scuff against a speck of something that looks like it could be gum on the stained hardwood and Steve rolls his shoulders back, tries to relax. This is supposed to be fun, after all, right? It’s not like he isn’t excited to be here, like he can’t feel that aggressively frenetic flutter of anxious thrill bubbling up in his stomach at the thought of actually getting to see Eddie perform. It’s just that — well — fuck, he knows it sounds stupid, but up until now, it almost feels like Steve’s been living in his own dream. Like at any moment, he could just snap out of it and wake up. It’s been private, secret, clouding his brain and his heart and his judgment, but most of all? It’s only been his. His and Eddie’s, anyway. But now — well, now it’s like everything is suddenly real, and it’s not that Steve doesn’t want that ( isn’t that all he’s ever wanted with anybody all along, if he’s being really honest? ) but it almost feels like he’s on that rickety old roller coaster they set up every year at the Indiana state fair, like his stomach’s in his throat and his heart’s in ass and his veins are pumped so full of adrenaline he thinks maybe they could burst. 

It’s overwhelming, if he can be perfectly fucking frank about it, but Steve still only wants to bask in it all, if you could believe it. He just needs to find his footing first, figure out how he can continue to keep casually drowning in Eddie Munson’s big, doe eyes without catching anyone else’s attention as he goes under. A few of the overhead lights nearest the stage darken and Steve glances up from the floor; if you’d have told him they just flickered like that every now and then, he probably would’ve believed it. Steve’s no expert, but the Hideout hardly looks like it’s up to any kind of code. But then Robin’s at his side and she’s letting out an emphatic wolf whistle and Steve realizes the lights must mean the show’s about to start. And then Steve’s smiling so hard he’s got to bite down on his lip to try and hold it back because he knows it’s ridiculous how giddy he feels right now. But, look, Steve’s never been to a concert before. He’s never been to a concert before and now he’s on a date with the guitarist for a band that’s about to perform.

And no, okay, he’s not sure this counts as a concert — he and his friends make up half the patrons, and they’re the only ones that have bothered to get up from their seats, too — but he’s a couple of drinks deep and through these rose-tinted glasses he can’t seem to shake off, Steve thinks this shitty little dive bar could just as well be the Troubadour. He wouldn’t know the difference. Either way, he feels a little like he might hyperventilate. Robin must notice this, because her hand finds the one hanging at his side and curls around it tight. She’s grinning up at him, nudging him with her shoulder — a friendly reminder: it’s okay to be excited. And Christ, Steve knows he’s said it a million times before, but he’s not sure he’s ever been more grateful for his best friend. That she’s his best friend. He squeezes her hand and lets out a laugh that seems to take most of his nerves with it as it tumbles out from somewhere deep in his chest. 

Robin laughs, too, this bright, raspy giggle that Steve’s grown to adore the sound of so much it’s silly and it doesn’t even matter that everyone else is looking at them like they’ve gone a little off their rocker — maybe they have, Steve doesn’t feel too confident in his ability to defend his sanity right now — because for a moment they’re both just in their own little world and Steve feels like maybe he can actually remember how to have fun. The sounds of their amusement are drowned out by the loud, electric whine of an amp and both pairs of eyes immediately dart toward the stage as the band suddenly appears from behind a wrinkled black curtain. Gareth and Jeff come out first, followed by that other guy — shit, he knows Eddie told him his name, it’s on the tip of his tongue but they were high at the time and Eddie was twisting one of his curls around his fingers with his head in Steve’s lap and Steve couldn’t tell you half of what he’d said because his attention kept wandering — as they all seek out their instruments. 

At the center of a stage stands a microphone, unoccupied, and Steve realizes everything he’d pictured when he let himself fantasize about Eddie’s band performing must have been right. ( No, he’s not going to talk about those fantasies either. They’re private, thank you. ) Of course he’d be the frontman. Steve couldn’t imagine anyone else commanding an audience quite like Eddie Munson. And then — then Steve realizes that means he’s going to hear Eddie sing. All at once, his mouth goes dry and it becomes impossible to swallow for the anxious nervous holy fuck excited lump in his throat. He thinks he’s going to be hung up on this, his brain hyper-focused on this thought until it becomes a reality but he’s proven horribly, drastically wrong when all of his attention is suddenly snatched away the moment Eddie walks on stage, stolen just as quickly as the air in his lungs as he nearly chokes on his own — fuck, what would you even call it? desperation? — at the sight of the musician. He’ll have to be forgiven if he needs a second to pick his jaw up off the goddamn floor. 

Even under the too-bright glow of the Hideout’s shitty, outdated light fixtures, of one thing Steve is absolutely certain: Eddie Munson looks like a real, bona fide fucking rockstar. He’s sure he’s seen someone just like him on the cover of Rolling Stone before, though Steve would swear Eddie’s doing it better. Spotlights gleam off the tight leather pants that fit snug against his hips and thighs, studded and spiked and glittering with chains that swing when he fucking swaggers onto the stage. He’s shed his leather jacket for the performance, and Steve understands now why he’d decided to keep it up on the ride over in spite of an unseasonably warm night; beneath it, he’d been hiding the t-shirt Steve had given him to sleep in the first night he’d crashed at his place, the very same one Steve had gotten on a sort-of-date, sort-of-volunteer-gig with Nancy years before. Steve thinks he can feel his heart stop. Or maybe that’s just Nancy’s eyes burning a hole through his back because they both know that Eddie fucking Munson did not volunteer at the 1983 Hawkins Senior Olympics. 

It’s a wonder Steve even recognizes the shirt for all the customizations Eddie’s made to it since Steve last saw it; faded, baby blue cotton has been cut off at the sleeves and stretched at the neck, and he’s cropped it not too far below the corny punchline screen-printed across the chest ( ‘ Why don’t you pick on someone your own age?’ Steve almost snorts, even now ) so that the hem curls up several inches above his bare hips and the dangerously low waistline of his leather pants. There’s a tattoo climbing up from behind his belt, curling around his hip, but Steve can’t quite tell what it is. No matter what it is, he’s fucking transfixed. There’s something else dark, too, peeking up past the shiny, cuff-shaped buckle of his belt, a smattering of hair that trails up a pale stomach to reach just below his navel. Suddenly Steve’s forgotten how to breathe. He’s forgotten where he is. Oh fuck.

Lately, as a way to cope with all of the feelings he doesn’t know how to handle, Steve’s been telling himself that it took him so long to realize that Eddie ‘the Freak’ Munson was attractive was because he had to get to know him first, to find out who he was beyond all the preconceived notions Steve already had about him based on rumors and word of mouth and brief sightings alone. Right now, in this very moment, Steve discovers that’s actually total bullshit and, really, he must’ve just been blind all along. Because holy fucking shit, Eddie Munson is hot. If nothing else, he doesn’t know how he couldn’t have noticed that before. Maybe — maybe Steve just didn’t know what his type was before, at least not when it came to guys. That’s entirely plausible. It’s not like he thought he’d ever have very many options in a town as small as Hawkins, anyway. All he knows is that up on that stage, gleaming and grinning and already glistening with sweat under the cheap stage lights, Eddie might just be the most beautiful person Steve’s ever fucking seen. God, what is happening to him?

He’s so caught up in the sight of Eddie, in fact, that Steve almost doesn’t hear Nancy calling his name over the sound of guitars tuning up, the sporadic beat of a drum. “Steve. Steve!” But then she’s yanking on the sleeve of his shirt and Steve whips his head around like a deer caught in the headlights, amber gaze wide and startled. His heart is racing and he can feel his cheeks start to burn like he’s the one under a spotlight. “Is that your shirt?” Steve blinks. Maybe if he doesn’t say anything, she’ll think he didn’t hear her and he won’t have to answer. He doesn’t see why he needs to, really. Between the look on his face and the mark on his neck and the fucking Black Sabbath t-shirt he’s wearing, he figured it was obvious. Nancy’s smart as a whip, Steve knows this. She’s got him figured out already, there’s not a doubt in his mind. She just wants to hear him say it out loud. “Steve!” Nancy repeats, hands on her hips and gaze creased in an inquisitive stare. Ever the journalist, ever the investigator, Nancy fucking Wheeler. “Is Eddie wearing your shir—”

“Hello, Hawkins, Indiana!” If Steve even wanted to answer ( he still doesn’t ) he isn’t given the chance. Eddie’s voice suddenly comes crackling over the speakers as he shouts into the microphone as if he’s addressing an audience of hundreds and not what’s maybe a dozen — if Steve’s being generous and including the folks drowning their sorrows and liquor and conversation at the bar and hardly paying a lick of attention. He doesn’t want to count them, if only because they’re dicks for not even bothering to look the band’s way, but he’ll do it anyway, if only for numbers’ sake. Besides, they’re a captive audience — if they want to drink tonight, they’ve also got to listen to Corroded Coffin. It’s clear Nancy’s not ready to call it quits on this discussion, but Steve’s already turning his attention back to the stage, so she’s forced to put it on the back burner, at least for now. 

“We have an absolutely drop-dead fucking gorgeous crowd tonight,” Eddie croons into the mic, and if his eyes linger on Steve as he says it, well, Steve will just pretend he’s reading too hard into it and squeeze Robin’s hand a little tighter as she throws her head back and shouts toward the stage in tandem with Argyle. Somewhere to his left, Jonathan whistles. “Thank you all for coming! We are Corroded Coffin, and I know it’s been a while, so we have prepared a special set for all of you tonight as a little welcome home for all of us, and a welcome to the jungle for all of our new faces. ” And no, fuck, okay, he definitely winked at Steve. Goddamnit, he’s going to have a heart attack. He may be a mother of six teenage brats, but he’s too young to go out like this. “But no, seriously, we’re, um — we’re glad to be back, and before this shit starts to get too sappy, we’re also ready to burn this place to the fucking ground!” 

“But not literally!” Gareth chimes in quickly, crossing his sticks in his lap and leaning into the mic positioned above his drum kit. “Definitely, uh — definitely not literally.” 

And Steve wants to thank his lucky stars for the interjection because fuck, Eddie, he understands showmanship and putting on a persona and saying shit just for the stage presence, the image of it all, but he can’t help but think this feels a little bit like poor timing. Or maybe poor taste, at least given the rest of the audience littering the establishment. He knows it’s dumb, but he wants to be grateful to Gareth for clarifying the band’s lack of ill-intent nonetheless. He wants to, but he doesn’t get a chance. All of a sudden there’s a loud, echoing ‘Boo!’ coming from the bar behind them, followed by the slam of a glass and a disgruntled shout. “Someone ought to light your house on fire, goddamn devil-worshiping sack of shit!” Steve’s grip on Robin’s hand grows impossibly tighter as the man jeers from his bar stool, and he can feel her eyes on him but he’s still looking at Eddie. Watching him. Waiting to see how he’ll react. 

If Eddie flinches at the drunkard’s words, you’d have missed it if you blinked. He looks back toward his friends — toward Steve, who’s there waiting to meet his gaze with nothing but encouragement and support, reassurance and maybe just a touch of righteous indignation. He can’t help it, okay? It’s just who he is. “We’ve got a couple of original songs to play for you tonight, but we’re gonna start out with a Mötley Crüe hit from a few years ago. One you might recognize, and yeah, okay, maybe it’s a little mellow, a little sentimental. What can I say? So maybe I’m a fucking softie.” He’s pouring himself into the mic, into the performance like nothing ever even happened, and it’s easy for Steve to forget his anger for a moment in favor of simply enjoying the show like he was meant to before it was rudely interrupted. Almost as easy as it is for Eddie to put on the mask that helps him to forget. “This is Home Sweet Home!”

Gareth counts the band in as Eddie slips his mic into the stand so hands can find his guitar, and he hasn’t even started singing yet but yeah, Steve thinks he might be in a little bit of trouble. All of his clothes feel too tight and it’s so fucking warm and everything’s happening so abruptly but he thinks there must be hearts or stars or something glittering in his eyes as he stares up at Eddie, just like in the cartoons he watches with Dustin on Saturday mornings. He’s in too deep. He’s drowning. Fuck, he’s drowning. Steve is taking on so much water right now, he can feel it filling his chest and his lungs and once again, he cannot fucking breathe but here he is, diving even deeper into Eddie’s eyes as he leans into the microphone so close Steve can see the way his lips drag against the metal, even from here. The same lips that, only an hour ago, were latched onto his neck. Steve’s neck.

He remembers thinking in the bathroom that fateful night that Steve cornered Eddie into crashing their movie marathon, that the rockstar-boyfriend fantasy, while amusing and hot and frustrating as it was to entertain, wasn’t actually for him. It wasn’t actually what he wanted. Of course it wasn’t, because it didn’t align with everything he’d planned out for himself, the life Steve always dreamed — you know, the one where he had a family, a loving partner and a handful of bright, rowdy and rambunctious children and a house with a tree in the front yard with a tire swing and white picket fence to keep them all in. Maybe, Steve thinks now as he stares up at Eddie with lips upturned and pupils blown wide, maybe he was wrong about that. He’s seen the way Eddie is with Dustin, the way he is with all of the kids. Steve knows the bond he has with them. So maybe, he thinks, maybe it is possible to have both. A rockstar and a family man. Jesus H. Christ, Steve’s not sure he’s ever had a hotter fucking thought in his life. Has anyone noticed he’s having an actual crisis right now? 

Steve turns to Robin and she’s still got her eyes trained on the stage again and she’s bouncing to the rhythm of the song, swinging her hand and Steve’s between them. Somehow, the sight relaxes him enough to refocus a little and he takes a deep breath, turns back toward the stage. ( Back toward Eddie. ) It proves to be absolutely perfect timing on Steve’s part, because Eddie’s leaning into the mic and Steve finally gets to have his curiosity satisfied, finally gets to know what it sounds like when he really sings, and not just carry a stupid little tune when he’s teasing Steve or making a melody out of his name to get his attention — or push his buttons. Sometimes both. “You know I’m a dreamer, but my heart’s of gold. I had to run away high so I wouldn’t come home low.” 

Look, Steve Harrington could not tell you the name of Mötley Crüe’s lead singer if there was a gun to his head and his life depended on it, but he knows he’s heard this song before on the radio when he was flipping through stations trying to find something decent that would come in. It’s familiar enough. “Just when things went right, it doesn’t mean they were always wrong.” Eddie’s voice is deeper than the original vocalist’s, and Steve doesn’t know a hell of a lot about music other than what he likes to listen to on his drive to Family Video, but it sounds like he’s taken it down a pitch — a pitch? Is that even the right word? It doesn’t sound like it. Fuck, he’s going to sound so dumb if he ever tries to talk to Eddie about any of this. The point is, it’s lower and it suits him, and there’s a rough edge to his tone that maybe gives Steve a couple of goosebumps. Whatever. He doesn’t know music. But he does know that Eddie can sing, and he can sing well. And he can play the guitar? How is it not more common knowledge that he’s a genuinely talented fucking musician. Has Steve just not been paying attention? “ Just take this song and you’ll never feel left all alone.”  

Steve’s so caught up in the performance, so entirely lost in it, that he almost doesn’t know how he manages to hear it. The clattering of glasses against the bartop and stools scraping against the floor, the shuffle of bodies as they abandoned the bar in favor of a closer proximity to the stage. It’s not necessarily loud, not over the sounds of Corroded Coffin blasting through a handful of amps cranked to max volume, but maybe Steve’s just on high alert after the comment from earlier. Either way, it’s enough to finally tear his gaze away from the stage to spare a glance over his shoulder and he sees a trio of patrons from the bar shuffling closer, a group of older, blue-collar-looking men who were clearly more intoxicated than anyone in their group by far. Steve thinks maybe he recognizes their faces from somewhere in town, maybe a hardware store or a gas station. He doesn’t fucking know, but he couldn’t put a name or an identity to any one of them. All of that aside, Steve’s still shaking his hand free of Robin’s and turning ever so slightly, trying not to make a spectacle of the fact that he seems to be the only one that’s noticed these guys. 

“Take me to your heart, feel me in your bones.” But if Steve’s the first to catch on, it’s only by a matter of moments before the others’ heads are turning at the sound of more boos, more protests literally shouted in an attempt to be heard over the music. ”Just one more night and I’m coming off this long and winding road.” Steve thinks it’s got to be harder to hear from up on stage — he hopes so, anyway — but it’s not hard for him to hear at all. No, he hears every single sound, every word, and maybe it’s the booze or the adrenaline that’s got him feeling riled up or just that he’s Steve fucking Harrington and of course he’s going to get protective over the people he loves ( love is a big word, shit, it’s a really big word, but you get the point, you know what he means ) but he’s already rolling his shoulders back, twisting his neck until it gives a satisfying crack and setting his sights on the three men. “I’m on my way!”

“Hey! Can’t you hear us? Shut the hell up and get off the stage, you fucking murderer!”

Steve can feel his hands curling into fists at his sides and he wishes for a moment he’d thought to put on any of the many rings he’s collected from Eddie over the past few weeks. 

“I’m on my way!”

“Should be on your way to fucking rot in prison just like your scumbag daddy!” 

At this point, Steve can’t tell what’s the sound of Gareth slamming away on his drums and what’s the roar of his heart beating, his blood absolutely boiling, churning as it echoes in his ears. It all sounds the same. And fuck, Steve was afraid of this. He was worried it was just him being over-protective, over-cautious like he always is. There goes Steve, worrying again, always the fucking mom. Eddie insisted that it would be fine, that he would be fine. And no, okay, far as Steve is concerned, this is not fucking fine. He’s not sure how Eddie’s still going, how he hasn’t broken yet, if he can even hear any of this happening right now or if he’s even noticed yet that Steve’s got his back turned. It doesn’t matter. As much as he wishes he could give Eddie his full, undivided attention right now, Steve can barely even hear the song anymore. And even if he could, he’s not paying attention. Can’t. He’s too busy seeing red. It’s blinding, actually, so much so that he doesn’t even notice how quickly his feet are carrying him at first. And then he’s shoving past Nancy and Jonathan and Argyle, ignoring Robin’s cries of protest behind him. He can’t hear those either. 

“Home — ”

Steve’s already winding up, and the guy hasn’t even said anything yet but Steve can just feel it coming and, christ, he doesn’t know what’s gotten into him because this is gonna turn out to be three-against-one and he’s definitely not fucking ready, but he doesn’t have a choice, and it’s not like he’s going to back down now—

“—sweet—”

“Shut the fuck up and get off the stage before we get up there and drag you off, you fucking f—”

Steve doesn’t give him the chance to finish, doesn’t even let him start to say the word he knows was about to roll off his hateful tongue. Instead, he takes the opportunity to reel his fist back while the loudest asshole’s still distracted and aims to knock said tongue straight into the back of his fucking throat. Knuckles collide with teeth with a sickening crack and that — that, Steve hears, even over the deafening thrum of his pulse and the bass and the drums and the sudden uproar that erupts behind him. The guy stumbles back into his friends, clutching at his face, and Steve can see red trickling through parted fingers. He doesn’t consider this an accomplishment, not yet. Steve’s not stupid enough to think this was over after a single throw, and he knows the odds are stacked against him. He is stupid enough, however, to not give a single fuck how he’s about to get his ass handed to him. He’s stupid enough to not back down. 

So he doesn’t. Instead, Steve cracks already battered knuckles, squares his shoulders, readies himself for the fight he knows is inevitable, and doesn’t even see the first hit coming until it lands him square in the jaw.

“—home!”