Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

harrington house, poolside.

2:45pm. 

Lucas arrives at Steve’s house early. He leaves his bike on the driveway, already decked out in his gym shorts, with his dorky little backpack slung over a shoulder. Given it’s the peak of summer, he’s a sweaty mess, and by the time Steve opens the door he’s already halfway emptied his water bottle. 

“Pool party starts at five,” says Steve, leaning against the doorframe. He taps his watch. “It’s not even three. So, why are you here? Wanted to be first?”

“I can hear Dustin and Robin from the street,” Lucas scoffs, but he’s polite enough not to push his way past. He idles on Steve’s welcome mat, expectant. “I bought my basketball. I need some advice.” He tries for the puppy-eyes trick he definitely stole from Dustin. Unsurprisingly, it works.

“You’re both pathetic to look at and appealing to my ego,” Steve sighs, shifting to let Lucas in. “That’s unfair. You know I won’t say no.” 

Lucas is already halfway down the corridor, shoes still on, because he’s a heathen. “I know,” he snickers as he wanders into the lounge room. 

Steve trails after him, exasperated, and settles on one of the couches. 

“Lucas!” Dustin tosses an arm over Lucas’s shoulder, discarding a pack of gummy worms on the table. “Hey, man! You’re early. What’s in the bag? Why are you dressed like you’re about to hit the court and not the pool?”

“Lucas wants advice,” Steve says. He waves his hand about, all carefully crafted ease and arrogance. “He’s here because I flourish at that.” 

“Last week you advised me to tell Keith his arms had gotten thicker so that we could get the evening off,” Robin snorts.

Steve folds his arms across his chest. Says, with a pointed sniff, “And it worked,” before he turns his attention back to Lucas. “Well, since you’re here, you wanna leave these two losers behind and go sink some balls? I’ve got an old hoop attached to the back of the house. You’ve got good form, but I think we could improve it.” 

“Don’t leave me alone with Gumby,” Robin despairs. “He’s talking me to death about Lord of the Rings or some other nerd shit.”

“You know Aragorn by name, Buckley,” Dustin hisses. “Don’t call me a nerd.” He smacks at her and she smacks back and Steve rolls his eyes, hand falling to Lucas’s shoulder.

“Sometimes it’s exhausting putting up with you people,” he mutters. He ushers Lucas towards the backyard with haste, yet he doesn't complain when Robin and Dustin trail after. They're still bickering. They're incapable of stopping. Sometimes, despite Robin's age, it's like Steve has eight kids.

Lucas, because he’s secretly evil, waits until Steve’s halfway through explaining a Euro step to drop his bomb on Steve. 

“So, I need love advice.” 

Steve fumbles his toss. The ball ricochets off the rim of the hoop and threatens to crack him across the face. He manages to duck before it does, not ready to suffer through another broken nose, and then pivots to level wide eyes and a gaping mouth at Lucas. 

Lucas holds his ground. “I said we could play basketball and that I needed advice. I didn’t say I needed advice about basketball,” he starts before Steve can complain. Sometimes Steve hates how smart his kids are. 

Knowing there’s no point complaining and because he’s more than a little intrigued, Steve leaves the ball to bump against the hedges and come rolling to a stop. He walks towards Dustin and Robin, already set up atop the sunloungers — they've gone non-verbal, choosing to slap half-heartedly at each other — and flops on the nearest one. Lucas elbows Dustin until they’re sitting side-by-side across from Steve. The summer sun beats down on them, relentless despite it being mid-afternoon. 

“Love advice,” says Steve, testing the words. Given his reputation, it’s not very shocking. What does surprise him is that it’s Lucas asking. He thinks about Max and the whole on-off debacle he knows very little about, aside from their break-up, and lets out a slow whistle. “Okay. Well, you’ve come to the most experienced, at least.” No matter the fact he’s only had three actual girlfriends, and that he only loved one of them. 

Lucas looks relieved. “How do I get a girl to like me?” 

Dustin rolls his eyes. “Just say Max,” he sighs. “You need to talk to her, man. Seriously.” 

Robin pillows her chin onto her knees, which she’s tugged against her chest. “I encourage you to consider who you’re asking,” she says to Lucas. “Think of his track record — really think — and consider if this is a wise decision.”

“I know he messed up with Nancy,” Lucas says, which ouch, it was actually very mutual — eventually, anyway — thank you very much. “Steve’s still got the most experience out of everyone. I tried playing it cool with Max, giving her some space, but … I just miss her, you know? Before Vecna, we were meant to go and catch a movie. That still hasn’t happened but I don’t want to pressure her—” 

It’s the most he’s said to Steve in ages, a torrent of babble he seems unable to cut off. Steve feels for him, genuinely, and leans forward to squeeze Lucas’s shoulder.

“Alright, listen. You want to romance Max? It’s easier said than done.” When Lucas’s face falls, Steve is quick to tack on, “But it is doable. There are steps. Six of them.” He spreads his hands theatrically, bending a little at the waist as if setting the scene.

Lucas’s eyes blow wide. “There are steps!?” Somewhat frantically, he sits up straighter. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? I’ve been flying blind with Max, oh my God—no wonder she broke up with me!”

Robin slaps a palm against her forehead. “There aren’t steps, Lucas,” she says, exasperated. “Steve’s just being an idiot.” She gives Steve a look like she can’t quite believe him, one part exasperated and two parts endeared. Well, Steve’s choosing to believe it’s endearment. 

Steve isn’t offended; Robin just doesn’t get it. She’s never tried to romance anyone before, but after Steve shows her how it’s done, she’ll have all the tips and tricks for it. For now, he folds his arms against his chest, all nonchalance and calm, unaffected ease. A smug little smile seeps across his lips. Lucas and Dustin lean forward, waiting.

“Step one,” he says, “is showing genuine interest in their interests.” 

step one. 

Steve knows he shouldn’t have favourites, and outside of Dustin, he really doesn’t. Sometimes, however, Will competes for that first place position. Baby Byers lingers on the gravel outside Eddie’s trailer, the rest of his friends stampeding through Eddie’s door without a second thought.

“Cold feet?” Steve asks, slinging an arm around Will’s shoulder. “We could go and get milkshakes. You can say I kidnapped you and everything.”

Will’s smile is tiny. “No,” he says, leaning hesitantly against Steve’s side. When Steve thumbs his shoulder, he lets himself relax. “Guess I’m just nervous. They’re always talking about Eddie and I’ve never met him. They’ve already got something good going.” 

Steve eyes the side of Will’s head, thoughtful. Once upon a time, he’d be looking down, down, down, but now, Will’s only a smidgen shorter. “When did you get so grown up?” he muses, mostly to himself. “Listen, you’re not going to be a third … uh, sixth? God, how many Hellfire members are there … Let’s go with six. You’re not going to be a sixth-wheel, Will.” 

He’s pretty sure he’s hit the nail on its head when Will’s shoulders hunch and his face tips towards the dirt. There’s movement in the window. Steve pays it no attention. “Hey, none of that,” he says instead, firmly. 

Steve presses Will into his side, grounding him, and tries to figure out his angle. With Dustin, Max, and Mike, he can be a little gruff. With Lucas, things are a little softer, much smoother edges. With Will? He’s stronger than he looks, having survived consistent UD-related trauma on a much larger scale than everyone bar El. The thing is, Steve never really got to spend that much time around Will. He hasn't quite learnt where he needs to step carefully; has never thought about whether Will would prefer things blunt or sugar-coated.

He ponders this now, gaze boring holes into the side of Will’s head. He’s always been a sucker for this rambunctious, rag-tag group of kids. Right now, Will dithers. He’s clearly uncomfortable with the heaviness of Steve’s stare, but he doesn’t hide. He seems desperate for any form of comfort. Steve’s heart aches for Will, the same way it had when Max and Lucas split; the same way it had when Dustin had admitted to having nightmares, cheeks tear-stained and lip wobbly. 

Steve lets his stance soften. He looks up the stairs to the still agape door. “Hey, you know how I know they’re going to love having you there?” He doesn’t wait for Will to look at him. “I know because they won't stop talking about you—about this. All week Henderson’s been chatting my ear off. Will the Wise this, Will the Wicked that. Eddie’s not gonna know what’s hit him.”

Will manages a bigger smile than before, cheeks a little pink from praise. “Yeah?” He rubs his arm, shy. “I’m being pretty stupid, aren’t I? They’re probably gonna come careening out here any second to yell at me to hurry up.” 

Steve thinks about the glimpse of Dustin he’d caught through Eddie’s curtains, the concerned look in his eyes, settling only when he’d seen Steve there beside Will. He looks back at Will. Despite everything, he can see Baby Byers isn’t a hundred percent convinced yet. Steve considers his ego, his perfectly crafted persona, and the way both of them had been sent careening out the window with the demogorgon two years ago. When his grip slackens, Will makes this timid, punched-out sound, and then immediately goes stiff from humiliation. That settles it, in the end. 

“Hey,” Steve says, already resigned to his fate. It’s worth it if it gives Will one afternoon where he feels normal. “Why don’t I come with you? That way we’ll both be the sixth-wheel.” 

Will stares at him like he’s sprouted demobat wings and started doing backflips. “What?” His eyes are massive in his head, like dinner plates upon a washed-out table cloth. “I think I misheard.”

Steve shrugs. He pushes away from the Beemer and because his arm is around Will’s shoulder, Will stumbles after him. “What, you think I babysat you guys for two years without learning anything about Dungeons and Dragons?”

Will gapes, tripping over his feet. “You know what it’s called. You. You always call it Dirt and Demons.” 

“Oh, do I now?” Steve hums, faux-innocent. He leads Will up the stairs. “I think maybe someone failed their history roll. We going in? You’ll need to help me whip up a character quick-smart. Hey, give me a guy with a bat or something.” 

To Will’s credit, he’s lightning fast at getting something legible in front of Steve. Within minutes he slips Steve a character sheet. Steve inspects the paper, the numbers and proficiencies and list of items, and feels his head swim. Yes, he knows a few of the terms and he has a general idea of how it works, but he’s never actually looked at one of these sheets before. Jesus, walking speed? What the fuck is a rest, and why are they both short and long? 

Dustin slides into the seat beside Steve, brows raised. He’s both incredulous and suspicious. “You’re sticking around?” He taps an off-beat rhythm atop the thickest fucking notepad Steve’s ever seen. “Why?”

Steve settles a little deeper in his seat, opposite the end of the table to Eddie’s, and says, “Want me gone that bad, Henderson?” He splays his fingers across his paper and tries to fumble his way through what kind of gear Will has given him. His sheet says Level Ten which apparently means he has six bonus ‘feat’ — whatever the hell that is. 

“I picked for you,” Will whispers, sliding a few loose-leaf notepad sheets towards Steve. “Hey Dustin,” he says, louder, “I heard Mike saying he thinks Nog would be the first to die in a fight against Strahd.” 

Steve has no clue who or what Strahd is, but Will’s taunt has Dustin caterpaulting out of his seat to yell viciously at Mike. This leaves Will to smack his hands against the table with a resounding thud. 

“Welcome to a five-minute crash course in half-orcs and fighters,” Will says, eyes gleaming.

Steve feels his head begin to pound. Fuck, he thinks, how’d you forget Will is arguably the most intense of them all?

“Listen up, Steve. We’ll make a hero of you, yet.” 

Eddie appears from his bedroom roughly ten minutes later, hair messier than usual. His cheek has several little creases pressed into it, eyes still blurry. Somehow Steve isn’t surprised the kids let themselves in, uncaring that Eddie had been snoozing away. Eddie yawns and stretches, a tiny sliver of his lower back visible as he rounds the table. Steve catches a few curved lines of black ink before it disappears. Eddie’s wearing ripped jeans and a faded red shirt that says I Hiked The Canyon. He looks softer than Steve’s ever seen him. Steve leans back in his seat, side-eyes Will, and waits for Eddie to notice him. 

Eddie does not disappoint. He blanches, purposefully rocking back in his chair with a gasp. He shoves his hands against the table and looms over his books and what Will had referred to as a ‘DM screen’. His brown eyes narrow, tongue clucking; his hair sways forward to hang heavy around his face, like ratty curtains. 

“My, my!” Eddie speaks slowly, voice still raspy from sleep. “I count a lost sheep among us.” He’s gleeful. He rounds the table, sliding his fingers over the stained wood. He bumps Mike’s stacked tower of dice over, unbothered with Mike’s resulting whine. 

Steve rolls his eyes. He catches a stray die, the d6, and tosses it back to Mike. “I’d ask you to cut the theatrics, but I’ve got a feeling they’re about to be part of a three-hour special.” He gets comfortable in his chair, carding his fingers through his hair. 

“Try eight,” Lucas says, from Steve’s right. He smiles innocently when Steve meets his gaze. “Just giving you a better idea of what to expect.” 

Dustin jolts in his seat, smacking his hand against Steve’s arm. “You’re playing?” He looks like Christmas has come early; like the secrets of the universe are being laid out in front of his eyes; like Steve’s just handed him a million bucks instead of agreed to eight (fucking hell) hours of table-top roleplaying. 

Mike stares at him. “You are going to play D&D,” he drawls, sardonically. 

“Ow,” Steve says pointedly, shoving Dustin away. Then he turns to Mike and tries to look confident. “What, like it’s hard?” It comes out just as arrogant and bored as Steve had hoped.  

The party reel a little bit, except Will — yeah, definitely Steve’s favourite right now — who struggles to contain a megawatt, slightly deranged grin. 

“Um,” says Lucas, darting between Eddie and Steve. He sinks a little in his seat, eyes wide and tense. “Go easy on him, Eddie. He’s an idiot.” 

“Fuck you,” Steve hums, tossing one of Dustin’s dice across the table to hit Lucas square in the chest. “You want a ride home after this? I’d suggest you start grovelling.” 

Lucas is saved by Eddie. He drags a chair up next to Steve, eyes lingering. His smile is a little acidic, eyes challenging. Steve can tell he’s guarded, defensive, like he’s just waiting for Steve to try and harass them about their hobby. And yeah, maybe the Steve of old would have, but the Steve of current day openly screams ABBA out car windows and doesn’t care he got caught dancing to Club Tropicana in his kitchen by Erica. 

The Steve of current day smiles, resting his chin on his palm. “Gonna stop me, Munson?” 

Eddie spins his chair so that he’s sitting on it backwards, summer-tanned arms pillowed over the back of it. He regards Steve with narrowed eyes, his face becoming a clean slate of emotion otherwise. Steve matches his stare, unwavering, tracking each micro movement of Eddie’s gaze as it darts across Steve’s face. 

“You’re going to play D&D,” says Eddie, eventually. “You’re expecting to play it.” He tilts his head, puppy-like, brown ringlets hanging like a waterfall over the seat and his shoulder. “Why should I let you?” 

Steve refuses to back down. He rummages through the suitcase in his mind labelled ‘Dork Squad’ for the manilla folder labelled ‘Dungeons and Dragons’. “I haven’t fleshed him out yet,” he says, which is only sort of a lie, “but I’d like to play as a half-orc fighter. I’m thinking the team needs a heavy hitter, and we’ve already got a bard in Lucas, so you won’t need my natural charisma to manifest in-game.” 

Eddie’s eyes narrow even further. He dips his chin, letting it dig into the lean muscle of his forearm. “Oh yeah? So what are your most important stats going to be?” 

Steve sways into Eddie’s orbit. “Strength, dex, constitution,” he says without hesitation. Thank you, Baby Byers, you fucking godsend. “Typically the fighter is a human, but I want that orc darkvision.” He’s running out of buzzwords, admittedly, running off only Will’s rushed, hurried whispers about his selected race. Nonetheless, what he’s said has worked. 

Eddie’s throat bobs. He wets his lips. His brown eyes are steadily blowing wide, cheeks a little pink. All the acidity has washed away in the face of stunned approval. Steve’s not sure why, at first. Then he says, “So, you gotta spare d20?” and it all makes sense.

Eddie’s eyes slide shut, seemingly against his will, as he sucks in a deep breath. Then he launches off the chair with a laugh that’s only a smidge strangled. Huh, Steve thinks. Eddie’s embarrassed. Eddie’s blushing. His ego swells smugly in his chest.

Eddie avoids Steve’s eyes, but he presses a d20 and a handful of other dice into Steve’s hands moments later with a murmured, “Good luck.”

Steve grins as he curls his fingers around the dice. He thumbs at the d4, pressing into its pointy edges, and thinks about pressing his fingers into Eddie’s heated cheeks, into the tiny gap between his lips, and against the curve of his bright red jaw. 

Dustin kicks him under the table. 

“Ow, fuck,” Steve hisses, kicking back reflexively. He doesn’t miss. “Don’t complain,” he snaps, when Dustin whines. His fingers twist in Dustin’s hair to tug him closer. “You fucking started it. What the hell was that for?”

Dustin glares at him. “What’s your game, Harrington?”

“Right now? Dungeons and Dragons. Thought you were excited about that?” Dustin jolts with teeth bared like he’s about to take a chunk from Steve’s arm. Steve lets him go and relents. “Use your words, Dustybuns.”

Dustin near growls. “You know what I mean. Yeah, obviously I want you to play,” he mutters, mulish, “but I’m no idiot. Why the fuck are you really here? You hate D&D.”

“Wrong,” Steve says, and then he falters. “Mostly wrong. It’s not that I hate it, it’s that it seems boring.” He brushes his fingers across his character sheet. Baby Byers has already filled out most of it because he’s an angel, but there are some details missing, like a name and overall appearance. “Why would you want to fight imaginary monsters when we’ve fought real ones?” 

Dustin shrugs. “It helps me compartmentalise. It’s less stressful — well, it’s meant to be, but Eddie’s a monster DM. Like, crazy good. You’re definitely going to die. I saw the way he was looking at you.” 

Steve tries very hard to appear unaffected. He can’t afford to start grinning like a lunatic; Dustin’s a perceptive kid, but Steve gets the feeling he hasn’t cottoned on to the real reason Eddie had gaped at Steve. That blush wasn't born of anticipation, that's for sure.

“I dunno,” Steve hums, scribbling Korc the Brave where it asks for a character name. “I get the feeling you’re all underestimating me. I spent months reading mags in that basement while you sweat ass over this game. You better keep on your toes, Henderson, ‘cause Korc's not very lawful.”

Dustin gapes at him. Steve grins. He tilts his face towards the rest of the table to check on the kids. His gaze lingers, as is going to become typical, on Eddie. Eddie’s tongue peeks out the side of his mouth, his hands in furious motion across paper as he scribbles something down, pausing every now and then to glance at the assembled figurines across the table. 

Steve pillows his chin on his palm and watches. He’s not really sure how he feels about Eddie. He’s grating, dramatic, and noisy, but he’s also unafraid of being authentic, compassionate, and funny. He’s attractive too — gorgeous brown curls, body long and lean, and his eyes are like pools of chestnut, all doe-like, a soft Bambi brown. 

Eddie tucks some hair behind his ear, brushing the curtain of bangs away from his face. He glances up, freezing when he meets Steve’s unwavering gaze. He smiles, a tiny twitch of the lips, equal parts hesitant and confused. Steve tracks the movement and wonders if his lips are as soft as they look, if they get chapped in the winter, and how that would feel against the column of his throat.  

He would very much like to kiss Eddie Munson, he realises, feeling a little drunk with the knowledge of it. Eddie hasn’t looked away. Steve grins and lets his lids hood a little, all Harrington charm, and stares back. Eddie caves first, rolling his eyes, but Steve catches that perfect smattering of red that buds across Eddie’s cheeks again. 

Eddie claps his hands together. “Alright, Hellfire. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Steve leans back in his seat. Alright, Harrington, he thinks. You know what you want. Let’s get this show on the road.

harrington house, poolside.

3pm. 

Dustin throws his arms up with a shout. “I fucking knew it! I knew there had to be another reason you were staying.” He slumps on the lounger with a smug little grin, wriggling his bare toes against the tile. 

“Will needed the moral support,” Steve argues, leaning back on the sunlounger across from Lucas and Dustin. He grins, unable to stop himself. “But yes, I also wanted to see if I could knock Eddie off-course. I think it worked.” He hopes his cheeks aren’t tinting as red as Eddie’s had. No one says anything, so they must be accrediting it to the summer heat.

Lucas sighs. He looks forlorn. “I thought I was hallucinating or that Eddie had heat-stroke. You made him blush."

“Yeah,” remarks Steve, proud. “I did. And that was only step one, y’know. That was when I realised that he’s super fucking hot.” He leans forward to pillow his forearms on his knees and regards Lucas with a solemn nod. “You with me so far?” 

“We’re all adults here, Steve,” interrupts Dustin, with tremendous gravity. “You can say ‘I want to bone him’. This is a judgement-free zone.”

Robin and Lucas wrinkle their noses like they’ve both smelled something rancid. 

“No,” Robin says, sharply. “It decidedly is not. I’ve been putting up with this for weeks now. I’m going to get a drink.” She makes to stand up but Steve’s quicker, grappling her down onto the lounger, half sprawled across his lap with a squawk.

“No you don’t.” He smiles at her pleasantly. “It’s time for step two: flirting.” 

step two. 

The thing about Steve is that he’s never been good at doing things in moderation. He’s the kind of guy who jumps first, asks questions second. His relationship with Nancy and his introduction to the Upside Down are the largest testaments to that — a single-minded drive that had led him both to a broken heart and a broken face. His burgeoning obsession with Eddie is not entirely unexpected, therefore. He spends an entire weekend thinking about Eddie with such intensity he ends up with very little sleep. 

Finally, when the birds start heralding the sunrise, Steve gives up on tossing and turning and trudges downstairs. Despite it being the middle of summer, the tiles in the kitchen are fucking freezing. Steve demolishes three bananas before he caves and comes to a stop in front of the landline. He gnaws at the cuticle of his thumb. It’s extremely likely Eddie’s awake, that he never slept in the first place, but Steve’s not sure if he should call. He needs a gameplan, he supposes. He needs a way to gauge Eddie’s interest — to see if there is any, really. Is Eddie even queer?

Steve has to call twice before Eddie picks up. “Hi,” he says, cutting off Eddie’s exhausted tirade before it can even begin. He leans against the wall, flamingo-like, sauve. Eddie mightn’t be able to see him, but it helps put Steve in the right mindset. “Sorry to call so early, Munson.”

“Not sorry enough,” Eddie grumbles, yawning. Steve hears the ruffling and the clinking of ceramic. “What do you want, Harrington?” 

You, surprisingly, Steve thinks, with an amused little smile. “I was thinking,” he starts. 

The line crackles. “Oh good. I see this going really well for me.” Eddie must drop something, because there’s a heavy clunk, a swear, and then a resigned sigh. “Five in the morning and Steve Harrington is calling me to tell me he’s been thinking.” 

Steve brushes his hair back from his forehead. “Don'tcha wanna hear about it? Maybe I’ve been thinking about some real juicy stuff.” He aims for coy, but his throat is a little dry from a night spent thinking about Eddie topless, and his mouth is parched. Steve wets his lips, fruitlessly. 

“Is something wrong with the line? You sound weird,” Eddie says. Then, more rapid, and aggrieved, “Hey, you’re not some delayed Vecna vision, are you? Thought we left that shit in the past. Don’t start calling me slurs or I’ll hang up.” 

This startles Steve enough that his foot slips from the wall. He wobbles, steadying himself with a hand, and says, incredulous, “Huh? What the hell are you talking about?” He twists the cord around his finger to give himself something grounding. “Eddie?” 

Eddie gives a wired little laugh, more of a huffed breath than anything. Tired, he mutters, “Sorry. Rough night. Nightmares were especially saucy.” He doesn’t offer any further explanation. Steve doesn’t ask him to.

“Yeah, I get that.” Steve lets himself slide down the wall, legs splayed in front of him. He’s wearing little red shorts and the tiles are just as cold beneath his thighs as they had been under his feet. He tilts his head back to trace the popcorn swirls of the ceiling. “Wanna come over?” 

“Uh,” Eddie hesitates, “You know that you called me, right? Like, Eddie Munson? I know the trailer phone is shit but my voice is way deeper than Buckley’s.” The distant sound of a steaming kettle drifts down the line. 

“Oh shit!” Steve acts shocked, his eyes catching on the rising sun. “Sorry, I wasn’t calling for you. I was hoping Wayne was there! Can you put the big man himself on?” 

Eddie’s laughter is sudden, surprised. “Don’t ever let him hear you say that,” he snickers. Then, “Fine, I’ll bite. What were you thinking about?” 

It’s probably more accurate to ask what Steve hasn’t been thinking about, but that’s not exactly conversation for dawn. Still, it takes some strength not to say, oh, only you, Eddie. Only you, sprawled across my bed, face kiss-stained and your fingers bruising my hips. 

Steve wets his lips. Says, only a smidge gravelly, “We don’t hang out. I mean, outside of D&D the other night, we never see each other.” He pauses, picking at a loose thread on his shorts. The sun is peeking around the curtains in a way that threatens to blind him. Steve lets his eyes fall shut. 

The town can say what they want about Eddie, but he doesn’t bullshit. “Isn’t that a good thing?” 

Steve wrinkles his nose. “If you feel that way,” he says, hoping that Eddie doesn’t, "then I guess it is. But maybe I wanna see you.” He lets his voice deepen a little, becoming a lilting, private thing. “Maybe the game last week cemented something in my head, Munson.”  

Eddie is silent for a very long time. Then, quietly, he says, “And what would that be, Harrington?” 

Steve walks his fingers across his thigh. “Dustin always said you were funny. Said plenty of shit about you, like how cool your hair is, how badass your campaigns are, how metal you are.”  He lets his eyes fall open, wincing against the sunlight. “I saw some of it myself during Hell Week. I’d only ever known you as some distant memory before.”

“Freak-loser-druggie?” Eddie says it like he’s unaffected, but not even a phone line can hide the tense tone to his voice. Steve thinks of the acidic look in Eddie’s eyes on Friday, how it had faded away with a few careful words, with proof Steve wasn’t there to humiliate. 

“Nah,” he dismisses. “I remember the melodrama, actually. Say, you totally tripped and fell in a bin one time, didn’t you?” 

Eddie makes a wounded noise. For a second, Steve thinks he’s about to be hung up on. Then he realises Eddie is laughing. “Fuck you,” Eddie chortles. “Why the fuck do you remember that? How ? I’ll have you know I was tripped by your stupid little jock pal.” 

“Which one?” Steve’s smile is a permanent fixture on his face at this point. “Hagan, right?” 

“Sweet, sweet, Thomas,” Eddie croons. “With his back acne and bow legs and fear of birds.” 

Steve cups the phone tight to his ear, curled into himself. He presses his cheek against his knees, which he pillows to his chest, and can’t help but laugh. “We playing two truths and a lie?” he asks, thumbing at his bottom lip, absently. “I knew that asshole for eight years. There’s no way I missed him having a phobia of fucking birds.” 

“Would I lie to you, Stevie?” murmurs Eddie, sorrowful. “I swear to you, he wanted to buy weed and a pigeon landed on the end of the table and I don’t know who shit themselves first. Never seen such a dramatic reaction in my life, and that’s coming from me.” 

Steve would love to respond, really, and he has the words prepped on his tongue — something teasing, a segue into inviting himself over — but his mind is caught up in a loop. Endlessly, over and over, Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie. Heat prickles his cheeks. There’s nothing remotely flirty about Eddie’s words, but Steve’s thrown, regardless, back to an RV and big boy and a mocking little Princess Steve and it’s like radio static drowning out all his sensibilities. 

“Let me come over,” he says, instead of something normal. He fumbles for a reason. “Only, I’m beginning to get jealous. You let Tommy have your weed, but you’ve never offered me a cut.” 

“Hagan paid me,” Eddie observes. 

He doesn’t even sound surprised that Steve’s invited himself over. There’s more clinking of ceramic, maybe a spoon in a teacup. Does Eddie drink tea? Steve can’t imagine it. Finally, before Steve can beg, Eddie sighs. 

“Fine. What the hell does it matter? It’s barely six, Uncle Wayne’s up north for the week, and I’m bored as shit. Come over and get high with me before breakfast.” 

Steve’s up and at the counter before Eddie finishes. The phone cord stretches almost to full capacity as Steve grapples for his car keys. “The diner on the outskirts of town is open twenty-four seven,” he states, as if Eddie hasn’t also lived in Hawkins most of his life. “Do you want pancakes, waffles, or something heavy?” 

“Pancakes. Four of them. Extra blueberry jam.” 

Steve rolls his eyes, cradling that giddy little feeling in his stomach. He’s sort of missed having an infatuation, even if it is, most likely, going nowhere. “You taking a hammer to my wallet, Munson? Just for that, the weed’s gonna be free.” 

Eddie barks a laugh. He doesn’t argue. He just says, “Don’t skip out on the whipped cream.”

Steve stands in the kitchen of his too-big house — sunrise painting it a gentle pink-yellow — for a long time after Eddie hangs up. If he’s lucky, he’ll see Eddie sleep-rumpled and soft, just as he had been during D&D. Steve glances down at his own quasi-pyjamas, dithering, before he decides that the more leg he has out, the more likely Eddie is to look. He throws a windbreaker over his shirt, joggers on his feet, and only just manages to keep under the speed limit all the way to the diner. 

The door to the trailer is propped open with a single, raggedy combat boot. Steve toes it to the side and steps into the main area. He shuts the door behind him and turns to face an empty room. The bag of diner food is uncomfortably warm in his hands and Eddie is nowhere to be seen, but Steve remembers where his room is, even if he’s never actually been in it. 

Sure enough, Eddie’s door is shut, but there’s faint noise behind it. There’s an ancient skull sticker tacked over the paint, and another one that says ANARCHY, only the first A is so faded it actually reads NARCHY. Steve raps his knuckles against the door, only slightly peeved that he can’t lean all seductive in the doorframe. The way to a boy’s heart is through food, he reminds himself, as Eddie tugs the door open.

“Delivery,” Steve says, all charm, before he has a meltdown. 

Eddie’s hair is in a ponytail. There’s so much of his face on display that Steve’s never seen clearly before, as stupid as it sounds. His freckles don’t stop at his cheeks; his ears are absolutely coated in them. Soft, a barely-visible brown. Steve almost drops the bag of pancakes, but Eddie has a hand under it, whisking himself back into the bedroom. He’s wearing sweatpants and a tank top, which leaves his shoulders and tattoos on display, and for God’s sake, Steve really needs to pull himself together. Drooling is not part of his plan. 

“Five pancakes? Woah, you shouldn’t have, Harrington.” Eddie crams his fingers into a pile of blueberry-whipcream-pancake, uncaring of the mess that smears over his hands, and proceeds to shovel his breakfast into his mouth. 

Steve’s too busy having a crisis at the door to care about how uncouth that is. His mother’s distant voice swims across his mind: use your cutlery, Steven. Not now, he thinks, swallowing thickly. He needs a moment to process Eddie’s freckled shoulders and back tattoo. Granted, Steve's only caught a glimpse of the top of it, the rest hidden beneath Eddie’s shirt. It's enough, however. He adjusts his mental image of shirtless Eddie — the one that had lingered all weekend — and adds the details he's only just been clued into. Christ, maybe the lines he’d seen on Eddie’s lower back at D&D are all part of a bigger, intricate piece. If his entire back is covered, Steve needs to see it. 

Eddie looks up from his pancakes. “Are you gonna hover at the door or is this purely a business exchange?” He looks a little unsure, half-rising from the bed. 

Steve startles into action, kicking off his shoes. He settles on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked beneath him, and another spread out behind Eddie’s back. Eddie blinks, clearly having not expected Steve to sit so close. Steve sways in further still, rummaging through the bag to procure a single hash brown. 

“I already ate,” he explains, picking at the still-hot potato. “Three bananas. I don’t really like eating heavy meals before lunch.” 

Eddie looks at him like he’s crazy. “Sure,” he says, amused. “Three bananas for breakfast. Why not?”

“They’re good for you,” Steve remarks, making sure to lick his fingers nice and slow. Eddie’s gaze flits to Steve’s mouth, just once, throat bobbing, before he goes back to his pancakes. Steve’s not sure whether to count that as a win or not. He tentatively chalks a tally into the ‘you rule’ column on the Robin-board permanently lodged in his head.

“Henderson reckons we share fifty percent of our DNA with bananas,” Eddie contemplates. He presses his fingers to the flesh above Steve’s knee, a little too firm to be comfortable. “Does that make you a cannibal?” He lets his hand rest there absently, smearing a little bit of blueberry jam across Steve’s skin.

Steve thinks about asking Eddie to clean it up. Use your tongue, he imagines saying, tugging Eddie’s head down by that life-changing ponytail. He settles for pushing Eddie’s fingers away so that he can swipe the jam up and suck it off his thumb. Eddie’s eyes linger this time, his expression unreadable. 

Steve grins, innocent, and says, “You like making a mess, Munson?” 

It’s the perfect combination of suggestive and coy, and Steve gets front-row seats to that delicious blush again. It’s even better this time, because Eddie’s hair no longer hides his ears and neck. Steve watches the heat sweep over Eddie’s ears and down his nape. It trickles down Eddie's throat, low enough his shirt obscures it, suggesting his whole chest could burn pink. 

Eddie jerks away, clearing his throat. “Teen boy,” he says, voice tight. “Course I’m messy.” He discards the pancakes to tug open his bedside drawer, bicep flexing.

Steve manages not to sigh dreamily. “You’re almost twenty,” he teases. “There’s nothing teenage about you.” 

Eddie doesn’t respond beyond waving a joint in Steve’s face. “You want to light up now?” He’s already flown through three pancakes. “I don’t really get the munchies anymore, but it’ll be good to have these pancakes on hand. Man,” he sighs wistfully. “Wish they still served ‘em with blackberry jam.” 

Steve places the bag and the remaining pancakes on the floor, safe from errant limbs. Then he sprawls out, legs a long line of bare skin. His shirt rises over his stomach. He catches Eddie’s eyes darting from the smattering of hair, down to his thighs, then off to the wall, then back again. 

Steve thickens the tally in his mind. Then, because he’s an asshole, and feeling pretty good about the situation, Steve says, “Eddie? You good, man?” He pats the bedspread beside him. “C’mon. Light her up and lay the fuck down. It’s early.” 

“And whose fault is that?” Eddie grumbles, but it’s gentle enough that Steve knows he doesn’t mean anything by it. 

The first couple of drags are taken in silence. Eddie lays somewhat stiff against Steve’s side, but Steve doesn’t take it personally. The situation is bizarre, Steve can recognise; half of Hawkins slumbers away while Steve and Eddie, connected through trauma and Dustin Henderson, lay on a ratty trailer bed, high. Steve stretches his hands up towards the ceiling, spreading his fingers wide. Flirting, he thinks. That’s his gameplan. Test the waters before he plunges in.

Eddie rolls his head to the side, sucking the last of the joint. He lights another without prompt. “So.” He passes it when Steve makes grabby hands with a small, exasperated smile. “Is this just a thing we’re going to do now? Get high in my trailer and eat pancakes?” 

Steve considers this for a second. “I think I’d want to see you at different times of the day,” he says. He wants to catalogue the Eddie of every hour: early morning, midday, late afternoon, midnight. “I’m also gonna be super honest with you, ‘cause I feel like friendships are built on honesty.” He rolls to his side.

Eddie also rolls over, pushing himself up a little so he’s half-leaning over Steve’s form. “You mean normal friendships aren’t built on giant hellmouths and fighting shrivelled husk supervillains and getting partially torn to shreds by mutant bat-squids?” 

Steve takes a breath for him, a little winded. “Well,” he starts, fingers hovering over Eddie’s waist. He doesn’t touch, not yet. “When you put it like that, normal friendships sound fucking boring.” 

“Maybe you should be honest anyway. I get the feeling you were about to tell me some deep dark secret.” 

Steve snorts. “Hardly,” he grins, finally letting his fingers ghost Eddie’s side. “I was just gonna say that you’re probably never going to get rid of me. I’m like a stray cat, see, only like … way less raggedy.” 

He waits for Eddie to comment on his battle wounds; the mottled bruises that still haven’t left his ribs; the scars on his face from plate-smashing and too many punches; his permanently crooked nose. Eddie runs his eyes up Steve’s entire body, lingering on his thighs, the mop of hair on his head, and then finally, he cracks a small, devious grin. 

“I dunno, Harrington. I think alley cats have cleaner hair than you. Way better groomed, too. The rug on your legs,” he stumbles on the word, wetting his mouth, “is more matted than any stray round here.” 

Steve feels loose and floaty. His hair, he thinks. There’s a world of ammunition to work with but Eddie, who Steve’s realising might be a total sweetheart, had only mentioned Steve’s hair. Steve drags his hand away from Eddie’s side, realising with cold water clarity that he’d been pressing his fingers lightly against Eddie’s scars, or where Steve assumes they sit. 

“Ha ha,” Steve manages, weakly. He wants to roll onto his stomach and drag Eddie down. He wants to pull them beneath the covers and breathe in the same air as Eddie, straight from his mouth. He wants Eddie to run his fingers over his thighs, his chest, catching his fingers in the hair. He wriggles a little closer. “You’re a comedian, Munson.” 

Eddie’s pleased. He drops his head, joint forgotten. He looks at Steve like he’s something delightful, intriguing, a puzzle Eddie’s determined to piece together. Steve lets him stare. He has an inkling (or a hope, rather) that Eddie finds him physically attractive, which is a perfect start. Either that, or he isn’t used to positive attention. The latter is depressing. So much so that Steve just about commits to spending the rest of his life changing that. Steady, Stevie. Maybe he can just start with summer before he goes on promising forever.

“Moderation,” he murmurs, aloud, momentarily forgetting himself. “Decelerate, Harrington.”

“Oh, big words from you, Stevie.”

Steve glances up, considering. He’s good at flirting, and Eddie’s already called him big boy, mouth shaping self-satisfied around the words. So, he wets his mouth. Says, “Plenty more big words I know, Munson. Dickhead — that’s eight letters. Shitbag — that’s seven.” Sweetheart — that’s ten. 

Eddie presses his hand against his mouth like he’s desperately trying not to laugh, like he doesn’t want to admit Steve is funny. Heat pools in Steve’s gut. His heart swells. He chases after Eddie’s mirth like a demodog catching blood on the wind. He marvels at how animated Eddie’s reactions are, pulse skipping a beat or two or three. He’s never been able to make someone laugh so easily, not even Nancy, and he feels drunk off the realisation that he can with Eddie. 

Steve shuffles in closer, fingers ghosting Eddie’s wrist. “I know synonyms too,” he promises. He lets his eyes lid, gaze heady. Feeling brave, and aided by the haze of weed, he says, “You know, words that can be substituted for others. For example, you’re gorgeous, but you’re also vivacious.” 

Eddie snorts helplessly, tugging his hair across his face to obscure his laughter. “Fuck off,” he grins. “Vivacious makes me sound like someone’s hot mother.” He doesn’t read into Steve’s flirty tone, but this only fans the fire. 

Steve seizes the opportunity handed to him so perfectly, and smiles all coy. “Well, we’re basically co-raising several kids. If I’m the dad then hey, look at that. You are someone’s hot mother.” He walks his fingers across Eddie’s forearm, letting the motion appear unconscious. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. His smile becomes a little softer, almost shy. He doesn’t react to Steve’s touch beyond a quick glance down at Steve’s hand. “You the breadwinner, Harrington? Working those long haul shifts at Family Video to provide for us?” 

Steve rescues the joint from Eddie before they waste anymore of it. He sucks in a lungful before he can say we’d both be Mr Harrington, holds it, then blows out a little ring. “Of course,” he hums, pressing the joint back into Eddie’s hand. “Someone’s gotta earn enough money to bail my naughty housewife outta jail when he gets caught for drug dealing.” He turns on the charm, glancing up at Eddie from beneath his lashes. It’s easy from this angle, with Eddie leaning partially over him.

Eddie bursts into laughter, bright and punched out of him. “You’re such an ass,” he states, turning to sit up criss-cross applesauce on the bed. He takes a hit and says, “I’m no housewife. You can daydream about me in a skirt anytime, Harrington, but I think we’re both the fathers in this situation.”

It’s embarrassing to admit, but Steve’s silly, adolescent dream rises from its slumber, deep within Steve’s chest. Six kids and a Winnebago. Six kids and Eddie and a Winnebago. Six kids and Eddie in a skirt in a Winnebago. He distracts himself by wriggling around to drop his head firmly into Eddie’s lap. This angle is even better. He makes grabby hands for the joint, heart jumping when Eddie holds it above Steve’s open mouth, waiting patiently for him to take a drag. 

“Not sure how well the kids are gonna turn out given one of us is a deadbeat,” Eddie muses, unaware of how he’s torturing Steve with the thumb he has pressed to Steve’s chin. It’s unfair, especially considering how unreactive he’d been to Steve’s touches. Eddie’s tactile, Steve guesses. He’ll have to alter his game. 

Steve grapples to take the joint from Eddie, sucking in so sharply he almost chokes on it. His eyes water as he gives a solid, wretched cough. “Dude,” he says, scandalised, “I thought we were friends. How could you say that about me, huh?” 

“I was talking about me, Stevie,” Eddie snorts.

I know, Steve thinks, except what you don’t know is that you’re wrong, and that you’re not allowed to think that. 

Aloud, he says firmly, “Not sure how. From my perspective — now see, that’s an eleven letter word — you’re a dream. Tall, handsome, funny, clever, creative, capable, compassionate.” Each compliment douses Eddie’s cheeks in a darker red than the last. Steve, addicted to Eddie’s delightful embarrassment in the wake of kindness, pushes on. “Not sure how you fit deadbeat into all that.” 

“Three years in senior year,” Eddie tries, but it’s weak, cowed beneath Steve’s praise. 

“All I’m hearing is that you don’t give up. You’re determined.” Steve sucks the final hit from the joint. “Failing to see how I’m wrong about you being a dream.” 

Eddie’s gaze is a heavy thing, brown eyes depthless, face considering, bottom lip sucked into his mouth, and brow crinkled. Steve wonders if he could reach up and press away that little wrinkle — if Eddie would let him. He keeps his hands to himself; he’s being transparent enough as it is. There’s a fine line between giving too little and giving too much. Steve knows Eddie’s perceptive — he’s been studying Steve with an intensity all morning that makes his blood thrum — so he reels himself back in. He’s playing the long con, he reminds himself.

Eddie continues to observe Steve like he’s some incomprehensible thing, unsolvable, like Dustin’s Rubik’s Cube. Steve does his best to appear unruffled, eyes never wavering from Eddie’s. He refuses to back down first. He drums his fingers on his chest, stomach doing flips, until finally, Eddie lets out a sigh.

“Steve Harrington,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Brave, hot, and kind. Wonder of all wonders.”

Unable to help himself, Steve wets his mouth and leers, glancing up through his lashes. “You think I’m hot?” His blood fizzes like soda pop.  He slams another tally on that board.

Eddie touches his fingers to Steve’s face, light and delicate. He smiles, slow and wide, lids hooded, and leans down. Steve’s heart kicks into overdrive and his ears begin to burn. His hand jerks, like it wants to soar up and weave into Eddie’s thick curls. 

“Stevie,” Eddie murmurs, “you’re not just hot, you’re vivacious.” He reels back with a peal of laughter, clearly pleased with himself. His cheeks bunch, his eyes go squinty. He’s the most handsome boy Steve’s ever met, the realisation slamming into him like a semi-trailer. 

Even though Steve’s cheeks are burning and all he wants to do is chase that mirth, to swallow it down directly from Eddie’s lips, he grins. “Fuck you,” he snorts, tension dissipating. He smacks at Eddie’s chest. “Roll me another joint, dickhead.” 

harrington house, poolside.

3:15pm. 

Robin wriggles in Steve’s lap, shoving her spindly legs against the headrest. It doesn’t take her long to stop struggling. She glares up at him with baleful, betrayed eyes. Steve ignores her. Her eyes are bugging out of her head in a way that’s equal parts scary and funny, like an almost six-foot chihuahua with anger issues. 

“Unhand me, Harrington,” she hisses.

Steve continues to ignore her, smiling placidly at Lucas. Dustin looks haunted, his eyes distant. He and Eddie are all over each other at every group event, but until now, Steve supposes Dustin’s been oblivious to the depths of Steve's affections. He has no idea how, given how blatant he is, but hey — Dustin had never seen him pining after Nancy; he's got no measurement for the depths of Steve's romantic prowess, and the lengths he'd go to in the name of love. He's got a feeling this'll be just as much of a learning curve for Dustin as it will be for Lucas. 

Tentatively, Lucas says, “So you’re saying I should get high with Max to … win her back?” 

Steve and Robin pause. 

Dustin perks up, the little shit. “If Max is getting weed,” he says, with forced apathy, “then I should too. Maybe before she does, even, so that I can like … test the … uh, strain.” 

Steve leans in, outraged. “How do you know that word, Henderson?” And then, “More importantly, no! You are not giving Max weed! No weed for any of the toddlers— now, or ever!” 

“Party pooper,” Dustin mutters.

Robin chortles, frame shaking with laughter. She pinches Steve until he lets her go. Then she wriggles so that she’s half draped over him. He adjusts his hold on her, making sure she doesn’t fall off the lounger. 

“Oooh,” she snickers. “You pissed off dad!” 

Steve edges out from beneath Robin so that he can stand up. His hands pillow on his hips, a familiar, age-old position. He waggles his finger in Dustin’s face, incensed, not at all impressed with the faux-innocent, gummy smile that Dustin responds with.

“Listen,” Steve says, firmly. “No one is doing weed, and that was not the point of step two. What, you think it goes: ‘show interest in them, get high, then make out on the couch’?” He tosses his hands heavenward, exasperated.

“Well, no,” says Dustin, with the kind of fed-up, duh attitude that makes Steve want to tackle him into the pool. “Obviously step three isn’t making out, because then what’s the point of the other three steps? Plus, you’re a total romantic disaster, Harrington. Sorry if I’m not trusting your judgement here.” 

“Which one of us has had three girlfriends?” Steve snaps, kicking off his shoe to peg it at Dustin’s head. Dustin jerks left and the shoe bounces across the pavement behind him. "You don't know shit about my romancing!"

“Which one of us is single?” Dustin grins, unbothered. 

"I am pining," Steve hisses, stepping closer. He waggles his finger about, crazed. "There is a difference!"

"Oh, so it's unrequited, then?"

Lucas gives a resigned sigh. “Why did I come here?” he mutters, gazing forlornly at his feet. “There’s no way I’m gonna win Max back over.” 

Not with that kind of attitude, Steve thinks, sourly. He contemplates Lucas for a moment. The forlorn twist of his mouth, the dejected slump of his shoulders, the defeated way his head hangs. Steve sucks his bottom into his mouth and thinks. Lucas and Max had a good thing going. Thanks to Vecna airing everyone’s dirty laundry, Steve knows why they’d split — Max’s grief was too overwhelming to cope with, her issues with abandonment leading her to keep everyone at a safe distance.

Steve gets it. Before he buried himself in alcohol and parties full of people he fucking hated who only wanted him for his last name, for a brief second alongside him in the limelight, he’d been the same. Middle school Steve had struggled through his parental neglect. Holidays had been spent playing happy family, giving Steve a breather against well-meaning, nosy teachers. Except he’d been treading water so poorly that sometimes that breather had become more of a spluttering cough, a desperate attempt to expel liquid from his lungs. 

Sometimes, Steve’s glad he only hears from his parents down a distant, crackling telephone line. Sometimes, he’s glad he hasn’t seen them in years. Mostly he just feels sad.

“Hey.” He pops a squat in front of Lucas. “Listen, Max is in a really tough spot right now, okay? She has been for a while, and I’m not saying that anyone’s to blame. They’re not. You’re not to blame,” he says, pointedly, because he’s known Lucas for the better part of two years now, and he can see the self-loathing that seeps across his face. “It just means that you need to show her you’re there for her. That’s why step three is so important.” 

He settles on the ground, squeezing Lucas’s knee. “Step three is all about comfort, about doing things for her to lighten her load. I know she’s more than capable of doing things herself, and she knows it too, but sometimes just letting them know that you’re there? Sometimes that’s enough.” 

step three. 

The thing about Eddie is that he’s all energy, all big sweeping arms and restless movements. He brings a kind of eclectic ardour to life that Steve can’t help but be envious of. He carries himself with a self-assured confidence that leaves Steve confused, because Eddie isn’t afraid to shove himself into places where he doesn’t quite fit. He isn't. As time passes, he waltzes into Steve’s personal space without thought, makes himself at home in Steve’s passenger seat, and sits atop the Family Video counter like it’s his throne. He doesn’t wait for an invitation. 

And yet, despite the time they spend together in Eddie’s rundown, lived-in trailer — the kind of place Steve’s parents curl their lips at; the kind of place that feels more like home than white plaster walls and frivolous décor— Eddie never pushes for more. He stays out of reach, dancing away from Steve’s fingertips, and rejecting invitations to group activities with a levity that drives Steve crazy. Eddie retreats into himself, unsure of his place in the party despite everything, despite saving the world. 

“Come to mine,” Steve says, leaning against the brick wall of Family Video. He’s not working today, but Robin’s on the morning shift which means Steve’s on pick-up duty. “Tonight. It’ll just be the Scooby Doo gang. You, me, Nance and Rob, and it’s about time you met Jon and Argyle, so they’ll be there too.” 

“Who am I?” Eddie asks, and then, “You do realise there are only five people in Mystery Inc?” 

Steve tosses his car keys up and down. He tips his head, considering, and says, “Well, I was sort of lumping Jonathan and Argyle into a group. I guess they’re both Scooby.”

“Aw man,” Eddie sighs. “I was hoping to nab Scooby.” He looks genuinely disappointed too. 

Steve’s lips twitch. “I shouldn’t have to say it,” he grins, tucking his keys into his back pocket. “Sorry, man, but unless you’re quitting weed, you’re Shaggy.” 

Eddie wilts with a despairing cry. “Shoved into the stoner box again,” he mutters, but he glances up at Steve from under his lashes the way he always does when he’s gauging Steve’s amusement. Heat builds in Steve’s gut, an electric zing down his fingertips. Eddie’s hot like burning; it’s not good for Steve’s health. 

“You’ll survive,” says Steve, dryly. “So, you coming?” 

Eddie wavers. He shoves his hands in his pockets all suave and collected, and bites his lip. “Gee, Stevie,” he starts, stalling, “you’re gonna have me thinking you’re pining for me.”

You have no fucking idea, Steve thinks, blood singing in his veins. He thinks about the space between them, about how his invitation has sent Eddie pulling out of Steve’s orbit. It’s infuriating trying to walk the tightrope of Eddie’s invisible boundaries, unsure of when he’ll next send the line wobbling. 

“Maybe I am.” He tips his head to cut Eddie a lazy grin, eyes lidding. He wets his mouth and takes pleasure in the way Eddie seems to struggle not to watch his tongue. “C’mon, you coming over or not? You never hang out with us and I know Nancy misses you, which— when did that happen?”

“You know,” Eddie trails off, brow crinkling. He laughs. “I have no clue. She’s alright though. Total fucking badass.” 

Steve smiles. “So, yes? Yes, Steve, I’ll arrive at 6 on the dot, and I won’t skip out and force you to come to my dinky little trailer and kidnap me?” 

Eddie blinks. He takes a step forward and every inch of Steve rejoices. “Kidnapping was on the board?” He takes another step forward, and Steve finds himself holding his breath, hands desperate to reach out and grab, to tug Eddie closer and closer still. “Sure seems like a lotta trouble to drag little old me into Casa de Harrington. Fine, I’m magnanimous— that means generous—” 

“I know what it means.” Lie.

Eddie doesn’t call him out. He smiles, amused, mouth a soft thing. “Sure,” he indulges. “‘Cause I’m so magnanimous, I’ll come. I’ll bring Wheeler; she owes me a record, anyway, and I’ll never get that shit back if I don’t take it from her myself, the little hoarder.” He grins, eyes a little distant. 

Steve contemplates Eddie for a moment. He’s almost certain Eddie’s not straight. There’s a whole spectrum of sexuality though, and it’s possible that he’s like Steve if he is queer. The likelihood of him being in love with Nancy is slim, but it’s not impossible. Steve’s mouth pinches without his permission and he only just manages to smooth his expression out before Eddie catches on. Jealousy is not hot, he thinks. Well, it sort of is, but he doesn’t think Eddie would find jealousy hot. Hm, although— Steve tables the thought for later as the Family Video doors ring.

“Boys! Christ, am I glad to see you!” 

Steve has an arm flung out just in time to catch Robin. “I’m going to drop you one of these days,” he muses. “I hope you know that.”

“Nah, you’re too in love with me for that.”

“Oh baby.” Steve smoulders and waggles his brows ludicrously. “You know I can’t wait to whisk you into my bed later.”

Robin gags. “Okay, okay, too real. Ew.” 

“Can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen,” Steve states, smug. He straightens her up and adjusts the suspender slipping off her shoulder. “Hey, guess who’s coming to haunt us tonight?” 

Eddie waggles his fingers like a cartoon villain and hisses, “I’m going to get you!” His shoulders hike up as he hunches into himself, snarling dramatically. 

Robin snorts. “Is this a Dracula impression or Arnold Schwarzenegger?”

Eddie pauses. “Both would be pretty cool,” he decides. He bares his teeth — Steve feels totally normal about the glimpse of tongue piercing he sees; he definitely doesn’t want to slam his head through the brick wall —and says, “To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you …” He yowls like an alley cat. “And to drink their blood! Blah!” 

Robin bursts into laughter. “Okay Bram Stoker,” she snickers, “you coming back to Steve’s now or will we be seeing you later?” 

“Six on the dot,” Eddie confirms, rocking back on his heels. “I’ll be bringing Wheeler.” He leans in to whisper faux-conspiratorially to Robin, “Supposedly I’m meant to be meeting Jonny and a sentient sweater vest. Heard they’re kind of a big deal.” He shrugs like he doesn’t get it, and sends Steve that infuriating, beneath-lash glance.

“Haven’t you met Will already?” Robin asks. “How’d you miss out on Jonathan?” 

Eddie shrugs again. “No clue. Steve says he’s kind of a prick, though. Also says he’s really hot, with huge biceps and washboard abs.” 

Steve takes a step forward, outraged. “Hey! I never said any of that! I mean, fuck, not that he’s ugly or something— if anyone has washboard abs it’s me, but I guess he does have good biceps— are you laughing at me? Fuck you guys! You’re uninvited.”

He storms to the car only so that he can hide his laughter. Robin swings into the passenger seat after she hugs Eddie goodbye, still giggling. Steve, only a little miffed he hadn’t thought about hugging Eddie himself, leans out the car window to blow Eddie a kiss, leering the whole time. Eddie catches it and feigns swooning against the brick. Steve doesn’t miss the little pleased grin he gives. 

“C’mon, Romeo,” Robin snorts. “You’ll see him tonight.” 

“And what a miracle that is,” Steve says, shaking his head. He pulls out of the carpark and manages not to glance in the reverse mirror more than twice. Eddie disappears into the video store as Steve pulls out onto the main road. “I was beginning to think he wanted nothing to do with us.”

Robin gives him an odd look. She speaks slowly, arm hanging out the open window, feet up against the dash. “Nah. It was kind of obvious he’d say yes if you asked, in retrospect.” 

Steve frowns. “What’s that mean?” 

Robin shakes her head. “Just something to think about,” she hums, and then she proceeds to spend forty minutes talking his ear off about returns, dickhead customers, and how Keith had hit on a girl. Successfully. All things considered, it’s shaping up to be a pretty good day.

Steve thinks about it all afternoon. Not Keith and his maybe-girl — although that is certainly something to consider —but Eddie. Eddie and his reluctance to join them right up until Steve asked. He tosses that idea around in his head for a bit, getting a feel for how it tastes on his tongue. Eddie said yes because it was Steve who was asking. At least, in Robin’s opinion. 

Steve lingers in the kitchen as his mind wanders, wrist deep in sink water as he washes the last set of plates. Robin putters about outside. She’s trying to man the grill — Steve can smell whatever’s burning from the kitchen. He places the last dish on the drainer and wanders outside with a tea towel over his shoulder. 

“Thought I told you that hot appliances are only available to you with supervision?”

“Fuck off. I dropped a paper plate and it caught on fire, so I’m letting it burn out.”

Sure enough, the ashy remains of a paper plate coat the grill. Steve sighs. 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, bumping her aside with his hip. “Go get the sausages from the freezer, Buckley. How you managed to burn something before we even started cooking …” 

Robin disappears into the kitchen amidst a torrent of catty insults and returns with an entire crew of individuals. Steve spots Argyle first, because he’s dressed in a pink button up and lime green board shorts. He looks like an absolute eyesore, but his smile is warm and friendly. Steve, melting beneath Argyle's inviting smile and friendly candour, beams. 

“Steve!” Jonathan slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders, squeezing him tightly. “Hey, man. Looking good!”

Steve can see Jonathan really means it too. He bites down on his mirth to smack a fist against Jonathan’s shoulder. “Hey, man. Not too bad yourself. You growing this out?” He tugs a lock of Jonathan’s hair without thinking. Spending so much time around Robin and Eddie has made him handsier, which he knows is a surprise for anyone who knew him prior to ‘85. 

Jonathan is no exception. He blinks at Steve and then barks a laugh. “Yeah. You letting yours go natural?” He ruffles his fingers through the deflated, soft wave of Steve’s hair. 

Steve ducks away from Jonathan’s hands with a grin. “Too much hairspray causes cancer, or something,” he gives as explanation. It’s less pathetic than: ‘it was too hard to take care of myself when I was spiralling beneath UD trauma, and even though we’re out the other end, I haven’t quite learned how to be myself again.’ 

“Come and sit down. Argyle — looking … colourful.”

Argyle grins all loose-limbed and serene. He’s already high; Steve can see the pink staining the whites of his eyes. “Brochacho,” he greets, smacking a hand firmly against Steve’s back. “Your hair is totes looking bodacious.” 

Steve can’t tell if that's a compliment. He nods. “Sure, thanks. You too. Crazy bodacious.” 

Steve must say something right, because Argyle nods and starts to float away, wandering over to pull up a seat next to Robin and Jonathan around the pool. Steve spares them a thoughtful glance. How he's ended up a part of this mismatched, eclectic group he has no idea. He's grateful all the same. Robin begins making grabby hands as Argyle and Jonathan lean in conspiratorially. Steve shakes his head and turns to Nancy and Eddie. 

“Hey.” He tosses an arm around Nancy and presses a kiss to the side of her head. “Go save Buckley before Argyle gives her some of that palm tree shit. I do not need her in over her head before we even start.” 

Nancy observes the trio with a tight smile, like she’s trying to be displeased. “I swear,” she mutters, exasperated, “there’s more to life than getting high.” Pretty rich coming from a girl who’s only an hour off drunk, Steve thinks, but he doesn’t say anything. He presses a can of beer to her hand and nods in their direction. 

Then it’s just him and Eddie. 

Eddie dithers near the grill, six-pack in his hands. His gaze lingers on the surface of the pool, face illuminated by the fading, yellow-pink sun that dips over the horizon. He looks horribly out of place for a second, eerily still and expression blank. Steve accidentally bumps the tongs against the grill. Eddie blinks and when he pivots to face Steve, that familiar, comfortable smile is seeping across his lips. 

“Hey, Stevie,” he greets. “You gonna cuddle up to me like you did with everyone else?” 

Steve knows he’s taunting, making a joke at Steve’s expense, which is exactly why he swoops in. He grabs Eddie at the waist with slightly bent knees and lifts, spinning Eddie in a circle. Eddie goes stiff, the beer carton hanging by his side. The edges of it dig painfully into Steve’s hip, but it’s easily ignored. Especially when Eddie’s other hand grips tight to Steve’s shoulder.

“Woah,” Eddie laughs, pleased. “Helluva greeting.”

Steve drops him and takes a step back. Not too far — just enough that he won’t be tempted to sway in and kiss Eddie — and grins. 

“Hi,” he says, feeling unexpectedly shy. He can feel Robin’s eyes boring holes into the side of his head. He tries to look unphased, pretending his pulse isn’t running rampant through his chest. “You satisfied? I didn’t give anyone else a spin.”

Eddie’s cheeks flush as he grins. His face is wondrously soft and open, gorgeous brown eyes lingering on Steve’s smile. “If that’s the Casa de Harrington official greeting, I’m gonna be over here all the time.” He drops the beers onto the grill’s side table. 

Steve spends a second taking Eddie in. His hair is out, as always, but pushed back with a little black and red bandana. His entire face is on display, ears visible, and Steve lets his gaze catch on the two black studs that sit in each of Eddie’s lobes. Eddie’s wearing a plain, black denim jacket, and a faded green shirt that proclaims BIGFOOT IS REAL!  His jeans have two big holes at the knees. He’s got freckles. Steve wants to connect them with his tongue. 

“Harrington. Hey, Stevie. You check out? How many beers have you had?” 

Steve blinks back into awareness and swallows. “None. Go sit down,” he says, voice like gravel. He clears his throat. “I’m just gonna grill up some hot dogs and I’ll come join you. Go meet Argyle and Jonny.” 

“Tryna shaft me already, huh?” Eddie asks. He pauses and then says in an odd voice, “Jonny?” 

Steve busies himself with dumping the sausages on the grill. “Yeah, Jonathan. I dunno that he likes the nickname much, but he’s never complained when I say it, so… He’s pretty cool.” 

He thinks about Jonathan, eyes steely, throwing a fist across Steve’s cheek; about spending hours talking things over until they’d come to a tentative, mutual friendship; thinks about how tight they’d hugged each other before Jonathan left, surprised to find they’d miss each other. Somehow, Steve thinks, Jonathan slipped into his life the same way Robin did. Little by little until Steve can hardly imagine them not in it. Though, unlike Robin, Steve’s in no hurry to share a bed with Jonathan —no matter how platonic. 

Steve doesn’t even realise he’s smiling. “He’s a good guy,” he says, glancing up at Eddie. His smile fades. Eddie’s face is thoughtful, eyes distant. His gaze tracks Steve’s face. “Eddie?”

Eddie doesn’t say anything. He glances over at their friends, lingering on Jonathan, before he twists back to Steve. “He and Wheeler broke up the other month, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Steve pauses his grilling. “Why? You… interested?” 

Eddie snorts and tips his head to the side. He reaches up, brow creasing when he realises the bandana hinders him from hiding his mouth with his hair. “No,” he says, mouth opening and closing. He seems frustrated with himself. 

Steve waits patiently for Eddie to speak, concerned and surprised to see him at a loss for words. He’d been joking, but he starts to wonder if maybe Eddie does like Nancy — or hell, Jonathan, even. The thought sinks heavy in his stomach, a boulder of complicated and messy emotions that he doesn’t want to explore. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie eventually says. He tugs at his hair, mouth pinching like it does when he’s annoyed. Steve reaches out without thinking, fingers cupping Eddie’s face. He pushes the bandana back a little, and gently untucks some of Eddie’s bangs so that they frame his face. Then he shifts the bandana back into position. 

“There,” he murmurs, fingers still tucked against Eddie’s jaw. Eddie’s throat bobs. His eyes are blown wide, pupils so dark in the evening light that they threaten to swallow all the colour in his eyes. Steve feels his gaze threaten to drop, body swaying in just a little. 

Then Nancy laughs and the moment breaks. 

Steve pulls away and turns back to the grill with burning ears and conflicted feelings. Eddie is attractive. He’s the kind of guy Steve wants to pull down across a mattress and have his way with, mouth sucking and licking and kissing. Up until now, that’s all it’s been. Except, Steve’s realising that something softer has set up home in his chest. A feeling that threatens to ruin him. He wants to look after Eddie; wants to be the one to smooth away his aches and make him smile. He likes Eddie. 

“I’m gonna go pinch one of the Scooby Two’s joints,” Eddie says, but his voice is muffled, like Steve is very far away. 

Steve doesn’t hear him go. He stares down at the grill until the flames blur together and the sausages start to burn. There’s no point lying to himself. This is no longer infatuation; he’s falling for Eddie Munson. 

“Chug, chug, chug!” 

Steve grips his stomach, folding like a napkin at the waist, and tries not to throw up his lungs. He’s laughing so hard he can barely breathe, fingers entwined with Robin’s so tightly his knuckles threaten to pop. Nancy stands atop a sunlounger, Eddie’s jacket sloughing off her shoulders, and stabs a knife through the side of her beer can. 

“Let’s fucking go, Nancy!” Robin shrieks, throwing her hands up in celebration. Given they’re connected, Steve’s hand joins her. 

Nancy gulps the liquid down greedily, alcohol spilling over the sharp lines of her jaw. The liquid slides down her throat to puddle at her shirt collar. Her shirt’s going to reek all evening and she’s probably stained Eddie’s jacket too, but Steve doubts either of them mind.

As if to prove him right, Eddie starts shouting. “We like to drink with Wheeler, cause Wheeler is our mate!” He’s got Argyle’s sunglasses on as if it’s not half ten in the fucking evening. “When we drink with Wheeler, she gets it down in eight! Seven! Six! Five!”

Jonathan throws an arm over Eddie’s shoulder, joining in with the chant. Nancy pulls her mouth away from the side of the can with a wet shlick before they hit zero and pegs it at the ground. She lets loose a decidedly unlady-like burp and freezes, face burning red from embarrassment. 

“Bro,” Argyle drawls, in the silence that rings out. “That was tubular. Definitely give you an eight outta ten for that one, Hot Wheels.”

Robin snorts her laughter into her hands. Steve collapses into her side as Nancy starts making frantic apologies. Jonathan falls against Argyle, laughter buried into his friend’s shoulder, choking around assuring her everything’s fine. Steve grins as he watches Eddie help Nancy down, bowing all theatrically and kissing her hand. Eddie passes her another beer.

“This is good,” Steve hums, head fuzzy from alcohol. “Being here with you guys like this. It’s good.” 

Since everything, they’ve so rarely had the opportunity to be kids. To be stupid and make awful choices that won’t lead to someone’s death, or the destruction of an entire town. Steve’s gut-wrenchingly glad Vecna’s six-feet under, blown to dust, no longer haunting the mortal realm. It doesn’t send the nightmares away, but it makes for evenings like this, which honestly, Steve feels are just as good.

Eddie gives Steve an indulgent smile, leaning around the front of Argyle and Jonathan to say, “Yeah. I’ll drink to that, babylove.” His eyes are so dark they look black and bottomless. 

Steve’s stomach tingles pleasantly. He’s helpless to do anything but smile back, well aware that his entire face has softened pathetically. His fingers flex against Robin’s automatically. She squeezes back and lets her head drop to his shoulder. 

“Cute,” she whispers, for once in control of her volume. Blessedly, she doesn’t continue. 

Nancy wobbles in place next to Eddie. “Lemme give you the jacket back,” she hiccups, fumbling with her new can of beer. Steve watches it happen in slow motion, the can slipping from her hand and bumping Eddie’s shoulder on its way down to the floor. 

Eddie startles, the side of his face, bandana, and hair suddenly damp. “Oh,” he says, and then he snickers. “Nice. Now when I wake up I can have a midnight snack. Beer-soaked hair.” Edde stoops to pick up the half-spilled can, stumbling as he does so.

“Oh wow. I’m definitely drunk,” he mutters, surprised. Then he tips his head back and chugs the rest of Nancy’s can.

Steve despairs. That little part of him that makes him such a good babysitter comes alight, sobering him near instantly. “Eddie,” he groans. “No, man. Fucking hell. Okay — I’m cutting you off. We’re getting you water, for your hair and your head.” 

“You gonna dunk me in the pool?” Eddie beams. He wanders a few feet towards it, like he’s ready to jump in.

Steve’s stomach rolls. He dives forward and wraps his fingers too-tight around Eddie’s wrist. “No," he snaps, heart pounding. His gaze slides over Eddie’s shoulder to the pool, the deep blue taunting him. His throat bobs as he wet his lips, sucking in a harsh breath. “No,” he says again, quieter. “You’re not getting in the pool. You’ll drown.” 

Eddie flips his hand over and drunkenly paws at Steve’s arm. “Hey,” he hiccups, brow twisting. His eyes are glossy and dazed, but Steve can tell he’s trying to ground himself in the conversation. He softens. “Stevie, sorry. I dunno why I said that. I know you’re aq-ua-ph-ob-ic.” He sounds the word out with furrowed brows.

Steve doesn't bother saying it’s less aquaphobia and more dead-girl-in-my-pool-don’t-need-a-dead-guy-too phobia. “Get your ass inside, Munson. We’ll fix this in a safe environment.” He keeps his hands steady and careful against Eddie, physical proof he’s not mad with him. 

Eddie doesn’t complain. He locks his hand around Steve’s forearm, engaged in an awkward monkey grip, and kicks at Robin as they stumble past. 

“Mama Harrington is mad,” he whispers, full of levity. “Think I’m in for it. Wish me luck.”

Robin’s head rolls back. She squints up at them and then snickers. “Don’t let him spank you.” 

Steve’s face flames. Luckily, Eddie bursts into peals of laughter. 

They wander up the stairs to Steve’s bathroom, the house full of a familiar, eerie silence. Thankfully, Steve can still hear distant, muffled laughter from around the pool. It settles him some, keeps him grounded. He helps Eddie kneel against the tub, back pressed to the porcelain, and squints beneath the bright lights. 

“We’re gonna have to take this off,” Steve mutters, eyeing up Eddie’s shirt. 

The reality of the situation hits him then. His tongue feels fat in his mouth as he tries to swallow. He’s about to see Eddie shirtless. Steve’s fingers curl against his palms as he contemplates how he’s supposed to survive the next few minutes. Eddie’s not only about to be shirtless, but he’s about to be wet too, water sluicing down his bare throat as Steve hovers over him, hands in that hair and — God, fucking hell. Fuck. He needs to stop thinking before his pants grow tight. 

Eddie grips the bottom of his shirt and pulls it up and over his head in a smooth, effortless motion. Steve’s eyes fall shut automatically as he sucks in a sharp breath. Then, when he feels like he can open them without lunging forward, he does. His heart thumps so loudly in his chest he feels sick. Eddie’s got a nipple piercing. There’s a giant moth tattoo sitting just above his belly button, wings extending to brush against rippling, stark scaring. Steve’s fingers ghost his side, feeling his own still-healing wounds.

“‘S kinda ugly,” Eddie mutters. He presses his fingers to his scars with an unhappy sneer. “Thought it would be like battle scars, y’know? But it just looks like I got cheese-grated.”

Steve reaches out. His fingers ghost Eddie’s scars. “Nah, man. These are … these are totally metal.” He straightens up and grabs his shampoo and conditioner before he can say something stupid. “You just lay back and let me get this clean.” He lightly tugs Eddie’s hair, sliding the bandana free.

Eddie sits lax on the floor as Steve massages the shampoo into his hair. Steve sits on the other edge of the bath, bare feet in the tub, and tries not to stare down at the captivating column of Eddie’s throat, at the cluster of freckles that burst across his chest, at his black nipple piercing. Steve squeezes his eyes shut, feeling filthy for the way he can’t stop staring. He’s really fucked, he realises.

“This is nice,” Eddie hums. His neck must be aching but he doesn’t complain. The liquor is probably dulling all his sensations. “Don’t remember the last time someone washed my hair. Maybe Uncle Wayne that one time I was sick in ‘81?” 

Steve feels his heart ache. The last time his mother touched his hair, he thinks, he was twelve and had blood in the back of it. He’d fallen out of the tree in the backyard and broken his wrist, too. That winter break had sucked; Steve locked up in his room, completely alone, navigating the cast and his desperate ache for someone, anyone, to take care of him. 

Steve shakes himself before he can spiral. “This is why I stopped getting drunk,” he mumbles, feeling melancholy and embarrassed. 

“Huh?” 

Steve sighs. “Don’t worry about it, Eddie. Eyes shut; we’re rinsing.” He cups Eddie’s forehead on the off-chance any suds make their way south. Eddie’s skin is warm beneath his hand. Eddie’s got little freckles on his nose and cheeks too, because of course he does. Gorgeous, handsome, perfect bastard.

Eddie hums. “Okay. Can you pour the water on my face?”

Steve halts. “Uh, why?” 

“I’m thirsty,” Eddie explains, tilting his head back further so he can make eye contact with Steve. “Like, I could die. You want me to … opposite-of-drown … in your bathroom?” 

“Opposite-of-drown,” Steve echoes, flatly. He shakes his head and gives an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Shut your eyes, tilt your head, and after I wash the shampoo off you can… you can drink the fucking bath water. Jesus.” 

Eddie seems happy with their agreement. He stays quiet while Steve washes his hair, scrubs roughly as his face when Steve carefully sprays water across it, and takes in a big gulp of water with a grimace. Steve doubts the warm, copper pipe taste is pleasant. His mouth pulls up into a grin anyway, hopelessly endeared. 

Eddie hums an unfamiliar tune while Steve lathers conditioner through Eddie’s hair. He gives an epic drum solo against his knees and then settles on playing air guitar. Steve leaves him to it, smoothing his fingers through Eddie’s thick, impressive mane of hair. He’s only a little bit jealous of the volume. The water darkens Eddie’s hair to a rich chocolate, warm and glossy. 

Steve scrunches it a little, admiring the way the strands clump together. He wonders if Eddie maintains his curls. He gets the feeling Eddie’s hair is largely bedhead. The thought of standing behind Eddie in the shower, gently scrunching his curls up in careful, controlled motions, has his breath catching. Helping him massage oil and moisturiser into the damp ends, gently blow drying his bangs — he swallows. He wants that. He really fucking wants to look after Eddie. To spoil him. 

Eddie’s soggy bandana bumps his foot, floating towards the drain. Steve leaves Eddie slumped against the tab, half asleep, and plops the bandana in the sink to soak. He scrubs lightly at the beer stains, wondering if he should toss it in the washing machine for good measure. For now, he leaves it in the basin. 

Eventually, he settles on the floor in front of Eddie. “Okay, big guy.”

Eddie cracks one of his eyes open. “Big guy?” He tries to sit up, stomach tensing. It’s only a little bit distracting.

Steve steadies him without thinking, hand against Eddie’s chest, right between his pecs. It fits perfectly. The knowledge makes it hard for Steve to get himself back on track, but he manages, leaning forward to check the sudsy ends of Eddie’s hair. 

“Time to rinse, Munson. Lean back.” 

Eddie does as Steve asks, but one of his hands bunches in the bottom of Steve’s shirt, fingers brushing the sliver of revealed skin. It locks Steve in place, breath catching. He stares down at Eddie with wide eyes. 

“I can’t be big guy,” Eddie complains, cross-eyed in an attempt to meet Steve’s gaze. He’s so drunk, but clearly fighting against the haze in his brain to argue. It’s equal parts hilarious and sweet. “I can’t be big guy ‘cause you’re already my— you’re already big boy.” 

Steve’s heart catches in his chest. My big boy, he thinks, with a sudden, depthless glee. The portion of his heart titled Eddie takes a knife and starts to carve out a bigger home in Steve’s chest. Eddie looks so mournful, eyes big, beseeching, and doe-like. He sways into Steve’s orbit with a singular, drunken hiccup. 

Steve resists the urge to press his fingers beneath those beautiful eyes, to brush his lips against their lids. He smiles, hopelessly endeared. Christ, he’s a total fucking goner. There’s no hope.

“Who says, huh? Maybe we can match.”

“No. You’re stealing my thunder,” Eddie slurs, eyes narrowed. 

Steve gives into his desires and disregards washing out the conditioner to run his fingers through Eddie’s hair again, massaging his skull gently. “Sure,” he says, placatingly. The smell of beer is long gone and Eddie’s skin has begun to goosebump, though Steve doubts he actually feels the cool summer air. He pats Eddie’s chest lightly. 

“C’mon. Eyes shut. We really are rinsing now.” 

Eddie hums. “Yay,” he murmurs distantly. “My favourite part.”

Steve can’t hide his grin. His heart catches a little thump-thump rhythm in his chest. Eddie shuts his eyes, both hands twisted in the bottom of Steve’s shirt. He waits dutifully while Steve washes out the remains of the conditioner. He keeps his eyes shut while Steve rummages around for a towel too, twisting Eddie’s hair up. 

“Come on,” Steve says. “I’ll grab you a shirt from my room and we can dry this mop.” 

Eddie trails after him, left arm out, fingers brushing against the walls. He wobbles like a newborn deer, and Steve ducks his head with a laugh.

“What?” Eddie sways into Steve’s orbit, intrigued. He lets Steve settle him on the bed. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Steve says, rummaging through his drawers. “Just you, Bambi.” He comes up for air with a yellow graphic tee Dustin had bought him for his eighteenth birthday. “You gonna throw up or hiss or turn to dust if we shove some colour onto you?”  

Eddie doesn’t answer. Steve turns to him, confused. He half-expects to find Eddie asleep, snoring away with the towel suffocating him. Eddie is very much awake. He looks shell-shocked and abashed. 

“What’s wrong?” Steve tosses the shirt on the bed. He squats in front of Eddie, mouth pursed, and reaches out to lightly touch one of Eddie’s knees. “If you’re going to blow chunks, you need to let me know. I'll get you a bucket, man. You puke on my carpet and I'll never forgive you.” 

Eddie stares down at him, pupils so large they threaten to swallow all the colour in his eyes. “Bambi,” he says, carefully, ignoring Steve. His gaze is probing, hands tangled in his own lap. “You called me Bambi.”

“Sorry,” says Steve, reflexively, “only you threw such a tantrum over ‘big guy’ I had to go for something else.” 

Eddie sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. With his hair pulled up, Steve can see the embarrassed flush that climbs steadily over his ears. Interesting. He catalogues pet names as something Eddie is receptive to. Then, he decides to be merciful. Steve lets it go.

He rises, says, “You gonna let me dry your hair?” and clambers onto the bed when Eddie nods, distracted. His eyes are unfocussed, clearly using the distant remnants of sobriety to fuddle through Steve’s term of endearment and what it could mean. 

Steve leaves him to it; he has more pressing concerns. Namely, the ink at the top of Eddie’s spine. Triple swords, all with different hilts, angled in towards each other. The ink is darker than the ones on his chest, a starker black. They must be newer, Steve concludes, ghosting his fingers over the sharp lines.

Eddie shivers. “Got one lower down too,” he says, like he’s discussing the weather instead of sending Steve’s world off its axis. “Above my ass. It’s an ouro… oboro… it’s a serpent. Endless serpent.” 

Steve glances down. Sure enough, there sits a perfect ring of black at the base of Eddie’s spine. A snake eating its own tail, scales uneven in a way that’s a little too orderly to be anything but deliberate. It should be ugly. The Steve of a few years ago would have turned his nose up, but the Steve of current day sits behind Eddie, eyes lingering, mouth dry. 

“What’s it mean?” 

Eddie hums. His hands move about as he explains himself. “It’s about like … rebirth. Lots of things. The snake eats its own tail, an endless cycle of life, death, and rebirth. Always dying and never dying.” He drops his hands back to his lap and drops his head, spine bowing. “Thought it was pretty apt given … um, everything.” 

“This is new?” 

Eddie nods. “Uh huh. Only a month old.” 

Steve’s wonders how much it cost and who did it. He thinks about Eddie, lying amidst hundreds of demobat corpses, clinging onto life with grit teeth and spiteful fingers, refusing to go down without a fight. A phoenix would have been just as apt, he decides. Life from death, and all that. 

“It’s cool,” Steve says. “I don’t really get it, but it’s super cool, Eddie.” 

His gaze tracks north. He wants to press his mouth to the centre of Eddie’s swords, right atop one of the knobs of his spine. Eddie’s got a good back. Smooth, freckle-ridden, a little bony. He’s wiry in a way that has Steve considering how much hidden strength lies dormant beneath Eddie’s skin. He's hairless in a way that begs Steve give him beard burn.

“They’re both cool,” Steve repeats, stupidly, tearing his mind from the gutter. He lets himself tip his head despairingly to the ceiling, knowing Eddie can’t see him. What the fuck, he mouths. Smooth, Harrington.

Eddie snorts. “Sure, thanks. Hey, you gonna dry my hair? I’m getting cold.”

“You could always dry it yourself,” Steve bitches, but the towel is already gathering the bottom of Eddie’s hair. 

With Nancy as his ex, Steve’s no stranger to curly hair. He bunches from the bottom up, squeezing and tousling his fingers through the mop. It’s not ideal for Eddie to sleep with wet hair, but there’s no fucking way Steve’s rummaging for a hairdryer at ass o’clock. Eddie’s ends are starting to spring up again, thick and curly. Steve tugs at a lock, amused at how it bounces when he lets go. 

He discards the towel with a thoughtful hum. “You ever had your hair plaited?” He gathers the soft, damp mess in his hands, lips pursed. 

“Um.” Eddie twists to peek over his shoulder. He blinks slowly, tired. With a shrug, he says, “Gareth’s baby sister tried once. She’s seven, so...” He trails off with a yawn, mouth stretching wide. The tiny black stud nestled in his tongue teases Steve. 

Steve busies himself with gently turning Eddie’s head back into position, so that he won't be tempted to push his fingers into Eddie’s mouth. He nods decisively. “Cool. I’ve been practising with Max and Robin, not that Rob’s got a lot to work with. I’m no hairdresser, so one complaint and you’re getting the scissors.”

“Scissors? Isn’t that a staple of hairdressers?” 

Steve gives a warning tug. Eddie snickers. It’s really more of a giggle, wheezy and quiet. Steve’s heart beats a singular solid thump in his chest as if to say, hey, me again, just checking in to let you know you’re falling. He ignores it to kneel behind Eddie. He makes quick work of the plait, gently carding flyaway strands into place. It’s looser than it probably should be, but it doesn’t look half bad. 

“Tadaaa,” he murmurs. He lingers behind Eddie, hands resting atop Eddie’s shoulders. 

The room is quiet. Through the open window, Steve can hear the distant chatter of their friends. Laughter floats on the breeze. The lamp beside his bed casts a muted orange glow around the room — Steve’s overhead light had burst a few months ago and he never got around to fixing it. Eddie looks so calm and warm, skin painted just as orange, stomach soft. Steve’s pretty sure he’s dozing off upright.

Steve considers Eddie. He sifts through the muddled mess of emotions he holds for him, the feelings slipping like sand between his fingers. Physical attraction, endearment, amusement, infatuation, exasperation. Long gone is the jealousy, the petty irritation. Steve’s hands don’t shake where they rest against Eddie’s scalp. He waits to feel panicked and nervous under the mounting realisation he’s developed a crush. He feels thirteen again. 

The panic never comes. In its place settles a warm, satisfied feeling. I like you, Steve decides, gaze tracking down each of Eddie’s vertebrae. His hands start to map the shape of Eddie’s shoulders, skimming down the long, firm line of his back. I like you so much more than I ever thought I would, and it’s good. It’s so good, Eddie. Absently, he traces Eddie’s name across Eddie’s shoulder blades. The skin is soft and cool beneath his touch. 

“We should probably get a shirt on you,” Steve murmurs, reluctant. 

He lifts his hands away, dropping them to his lap. He’s completely sobered by now, but he feels dizzy all the same. He fantasises about winding his arms around Eddie’s middle and dropping his forehead to that soft little patch of skin at the base of Eddie’s skull. 

Eddie sniffles. Steve freezes. He drops a hand back to Eddie’s shoulder and leans around him, confused. Eddie turns his face away. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He thumbs at Eddie’s skin. “Did I hit a bruise or something? Shit man, you shoulda said.” 

“‘S not that,” Eddie mumbles, keeping his face hidden. Steve hears him suck in a tiny, damp breath. He sounds very tired when he says, “Just not really used to people touching me.” 

Steve's heart splinters, just a little. “Dustin hugs you every time we meet up,” he says, carefully. 

He plays with the end of Eddie’s plait, dropping his hand to rub carefully against Eddie’s back. He thumbs at the ridges of Eddie’s spine, studying every one of Eddie’s microexpressions. Eddie’s cheeks are dry, but his eyes look wet and glossy. 

“You’re always hugging me hello.”

“Yeah. But it’s … not like this. Not …” Eddie smears a hand roughly over his cheek, despite the lack of tears. “Fuck, this is so pathetic.” He pushes himself off the bed, stumbling a little as all the blood rushes to his head. Despite Steve having cut him off an hour ago, he’s still a little tipsy. “Shit,” he curses. “Pass me the shirt, man.”

Steve reaches for him thoughtlessly, arm sliding around Eddie’s naked waist. “Jesus, Eddie,” he mutters, pivoting so that he’s standing in front of Eddie, nose-to-nose, hand cupping Eddie’s cheek. “C’mon. Fuck the shirt. What’s this all about? I can’t listen if you’re not talking.” 

Eddie meets his eyes. They’re still glossy but alert, more sober. He’s unusually stiff beneath Steve’s touch, throat bobbing as they stand in silence. Finally, he says, “I don’t think anyone’s been this careful with me since before my mum died.” His words are quiet, fast, like he’s ripping off a bandaid. 

Steve digs his thumb into Eddie’s cheek a little further, hand squeezing Eddie’s hip. He thinks about a big house, no parents. He thinks about voicemails for his birthday and Christmases spent in stony, uncomfortable silence. He thinks about business meetings halfway across the globe, about ‘it’s time you toughen up, Steven’, about ‘you’re ten now, Steven, you don’t need to cling’. 

“Hey,” Steve says. He tugs Eddie to the bed, manoeuvres him so his back is pressed to the headboard, and settles down beside him. “I get it. I really, really get it.” 

Eddie’s still rigid. With most of the alcohol wearing off, he seems to be realising what a vulnerable position he’s in, and the delightful blush from earlier has become something angrier, more humiliated than anything. Steve can’t let Eddie lose himself to self-destructive thoughts, but he doesn’t want to overstep, either. This thing between them, it’s bigger than Steve ever expected. It’s important. It’s precious. Eddie’s precious. 

Steve doesn’t say as much, because he can’t imagine Eddie will take it well. Instead, he wriggles until he’s sitting a little higher and slides a hand beneath Eddie’s plait to cup his nape. He urges Eddie’s head to tilt, temple resting against Steve’s shoulder. 

“Before I met Robin, the only hugs I got were from Nancy, and we were in a pretty rough patch for a bit … prior to splitting, so I wasn’t … things weren’t ideal.”

Eddie’s hair is damp against Steve’s throat and shirt. He doesn’t say anything but Steve waits, patient. Eventually, Eddie says, “Wayne’s good. He’s good. He hugs me whenever I want.” He twists his fingers together in his lap and gives a drained, empty laugh. “But I can’t exactly ask him to hold me for like ten minutes flat.”

“I bought three extra pillows so I could trick my brain into thinking I wasn’t alone,” Steve admits freely. Outside of Robin, it’s a secret no one knows, but Steve trusts Eddie. An eye for an eye, he thinks, offering up his own touch-starved desires on a silver platter. “Sometimes I want to ask Robin if she'll spoon me, but I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, y’know? Besides, it’s not fair to demand her to be my teddy bear when she’s probably got her own shit going on.”    

Eddie laughs. It’s not very loud and is more of an exhale, but Steve’s counting it. “Little spoon Steve,” he muses. “Somewhat unexpected. You’re always protecting others — you’d think it would extend even to when you’re unconscious.” 

Steve smiles. “Yeah,” he says, staring blankly at his record player atop the chest of drawers. “I like being the protector. I know I’m good at it. It’s where I fit within the party, you know? The hard hitter. The fighter.” He thinks about his D&D character sheet, resting in the bottom drawer of his bedside table. “Sometimes it would be nice though,” he admits, swallowing past a sudden lump in his throat. “To be protected. Sometimes it’s nice to just … be held.” 

Very, very slowly, Eddie slides his arm around Steve’s waist. His fingers brush lightly against Steve’s side. Steve lets himself wilt, melting into Eddie’s side. His eyes fall shut as he savours Eddie’s touch. 

“Fuck, we’re depressing,” Eddie murmurs. “Thought this was supposed to be a regular party, Harrington, not a pity party.” 

Steve snorts. “Wanna make it a slumber party? You can head back down if you want, but I’m seriously beat.” He’s not lying, either. He gestures to his bed. “You can crash here if you want, or I can give you the spare room.” 

Eddie sits up. Steve mourns his touch immediately, but says nothing. He reminds himself that Eddie is his friend, regardless of the attraction he feels towards him. Though, it might be about time to cement to himself that the train of affection has long blown into station crush, and is threatening to catapult itself firmly off the rails and headfirst into adoration. 

“You just want me to big spoon you,” Eddie declares, back to Steve. There are a few thuds against the carpet— Eddie’s wallet, probably, and the last of his weed. Eddie slips off the bed to tug the sheets back. “You uh, we should say … we should tell someone, right? That we’re … sleeping.”

“We’re definitely going to be missed. We were basically the life of the party,” Steve says flatly. “Especially when you nearly tripped and fell onto the grill, or when you tried to measure the length of Argyle’s hair by number of beer cans, or when you accused Robin, a lesbian, of trying to touch your ass.”

“Is it bad to say I don’t remember any of that — except maybe the beer cans?” 

Steve shakes his head, sadly. “You’re a fucking disaster,” he sighs, shucking his jeans without second thought. He’s glad he’s wearing boxers instead of briefs. He misses Eddie’s wide-eyed stare and lingering gaze. “Get in the bed. I don’t think any of them have even fucking noticed. They’ll probably pass out on the loungers and wake up with back problems. Meanwhile we’re going to wake up feeling ten years younger.” 

“You’re twenty, Steve,” Eddie snorts. He slides into the bed, keeping his distance. He thumbs at the sheets, eyes darting around the room. 

“All the bedding at Casa de Harrington has a thread count of over six-thousand,” says Steve, sagely, not entirely sure what a thread count is. “You’re sleeping in luxury tonight.” 

“Until you kick me at like four in the morning,” Eddie mutters, reaching out to turn off the bedside lamp. Moonlight seeps into the bedroom, casting shadows across the wall. 

Steve rolls his eyes. His mouth opens before his mind can catch up to him, and he says, “Can’t kick you if you’re spooning me.” 

Steve’s not sure, given the low light, but he thinks maybe Eddie’s face goes red. He hopes so, at least. Eddie dithers, gaze darting across Steve’s face. He seems to come to a conclusion, mouth twitching as Steve wriggles his brows ridiculously. 

“Fine,” he says, quietly. “But only ‘cause you cleaned my drunk ass up and gave me a pretty princess braid.” He inches a little closer and then Steve rolls over, facing the wall. Eddie’s arm settles very lightly across his waist. 

“Eddie, tonight I am but a teddy bear. Think of me as one of those extra pillows I mentioned.” 

Eddie’s grip tightens. Steve feels Eddie’s knee bump his thigh, and then there are little puffs of breath against his neck. Steve thinks about threading his fingers through Eddie’s, but the situation is delicate, he reminds himself. He’s toeing a line here between seduction and scaring Eddie away. 

“Goodnight, Bambi,” he settles on saying, unable to help himself.

“Night, big boy,” Eddie says, seemingly unaffected, but his fingers tremble a little against Steve’s stomach.