Chapter Text
It starts off just, just…fucking lazy.
He’s a grown man. He can admit his faults.
(Sometimes.)
But it does serve a purpose.
Did he plan it that way in advance?
Doesn’t matter.
Because see, ‘King Steve’ was an unqualified douchebag. And even after said douchebag didn’t gut him for the whole broken-bottle-to-the-neck thing—good indication of the King having had at least a little change of heart—and hell. Even after that very same douchebag came to find him, to help him, at the behest of one of Eddie’s lost little sheep, no less, a lost little sheep who vouched for King Douche like his life depended on it, like the King’s life was that important to him personally, and more than any of it: to top it off, Henderson had done it all with a kind of absolute trust Eddie isn’t entirely sure he’s ever seen, not least because he’s absolutely sure he’d never believed it was real until he watched it unfold with his own two eyes—and hadn’t that been something.
That had been…really fucking something. In itself.
But even after all that—plus you know, add in polka-dotted dog monsters and psychic lich creatures and government conspiracies and Russians-under-malls and an entire hell dimension beneath their fucking feet—but even after all that? Eddie can’t just be expected to take the total mindfuck of Steve Harrington being a good dude at face value. That would be foolhardy, when everything he knows in his gut, in his bones—has always known—screams that it’s no more than a clever ruse.
So: it starts out lazy, no denying that. Frankly, he doesn’t really have the mental capacity for much else at this point, and he cuts himself at least a little slack in that department—witch-hunts generally do not a smooth talker make. Regardless: it’s a necessity, smooth or choppy; he has to poke around, get to the tender-ugly-truthful underbelly. If it’s not fucking Shakespeare, so be it.
Besides: the best payoff, the best revelations, come later, anyway.
For instance: he only tries calling the man ‘King’ once before he shuts that shit down, because there is genuine hurt that flashes across Steve goddamn Harrington’s face before irritation spreads over his features instead and makes him look unfairly fucking adorable, but it also makes Eddie’s gut twist hard enough that the pain of it lingered then—still lingers now, sore enough to keep his attention through all the absolute fuckery that has continued to unfold and in truth: the more he dwells? The more he realizes that King Steve was a douchebag, undeniably, but he was much more of one by association than by active intent. He did shitty stuff, absolutely, but if Eddie’s honest? Steve Harrington was more often the unobjecting bystander than the perpetrator at large. And Eddie would know, because Eddie paid attention.
Eddie’d been paying attention to him for fucking years.
Not in a creepy way, to be clear. In fact, it’s really important to set the stage appropriately, here: because Steve Harrington, it is a well-known and accepted fact, was adorable in middle school; athletic in a still-gangly preteen way and cute with floppy hair, a little dopey but rich as hell so it was endearing instead of ostracizing and yes, Eddie had noticed by that shit by 7th fucking grade—and while Harrington wasn’t his gay awakening, per se, to say he hadn’t contributed his fair share to the cause would be a bald-faced lie—but then, by high school? Everyone—from your brother, to your grandma, to your cousin, to your goddamn pet fish—everyone knew Steve Harrington had come back from summer vacation one year looking flat-out fucking mouthwatering. Just toned enough to be tempting while never teetering into meathead territory, and less dopey-cute than deep-eyed dangerous, because that coffee-drip stare would flash honey and hazel sometimes and catch up in your pulse-beat if you weren’t fucking careful; and then every year after that hair just got softer looking and poofed up higher, more suave than a movie star, more fluffy and feathery and that was goddamn dangerous too, because it made you want to run your hands through it to feel how feathery it really was, but like, in the morning, without all the obvious product in it; made you want to demolish it and mess it up and make it tell stories of how it got that way, a desecrated monument in a Podunk town and—
Yeah. So.
Eddie had been paying attention to the resident King for a long fucking time, is the point.
And yes: it was a very focused but very surface-level kind of attention. He didn’t give two shits about the petty useless gossip of the rich and popular; he was more intrigued by the muscles that changed between basketball and swim season. The entertainment value of the upper crust, for him, was far less local-soap-opera and much more…a sort of cheap-porno level of engagement. Sue him, some people were just very fucking easy to lust over, especially when there were no consequences. No possible way he’d ever have to interact with the object of his bedroom fantasies for anything bigger than a potential deal at his handy treeside picnic table.
No possible way.
So: he only really vaguely knew Harrington was dating that Wheeler girl, and then he wasn’t; he only generally knew when his throne got usurped but he honestly didn’t care because Hargrove was a fucking dick and his hair was far less impressive and his muscles were annoying, somehow; they were flashy in a way that screamed ostentatiousness—weren’t lithe and almost unassuming until they sure as shit weren’t, because when Steve Harrington starts coming to school bruised to hell a lot more than you’d expect from someone in his tax bracket, the rumor mill always hints to his epic humiliations in the fights to blame for it. But Eddie—who again, doesn’t follow the gossip—also doesn’t believe what little context is provided to support those claims of respective wins (nil) and losses (lots).
Not least because Steve doesn’t rise to the bait of the mocking, not once. He nurses his wounds and looks a little…and honestly this is the strange part, but his eyes were always beautiful but often blank, often pained in a way that had nothing to do with cuts or bruises but something much deeper than the skin; now, though, his eyes looks deeper somehow, and annoyed, and the pain is under the surface still a little but absolutely, far more in his body and there’s—dare Eddie be this soft?—but there’s, like, heart in his eyes now, even when he’s ignoring his idiot friends before they eventually scatter, leaving him for the new, lesser, usurper King.
And Steve—who even Eddie’s superficial observations could surmise has looked like he fears being alone more than anything for a real fucking long time, (which probably has absolutely nothing at all to do with how there is never more than one permanent car in the driveway at Castle Harrington when Eddie swings by to sell at one of the infamous parties said locale is known for; how there hasn’t been a second or third or really any other car there for…for years)?
But Steve Harrington, who Eddie’d have bet his stash on fearing being alone more than just about anything—Steve sits more often by himself, now, and yet still there’s heart in his eyes, long after the bruises fade. Hell—maybe there’s genuine heart in his eyes, for the first time since they left elementary school.
So Eddie doesn’t really think Steve’s losing much of…anything, really, in whatever fights he’s finding himself in, no matter how the broken veins under the skin beg to differ.
But Eddie, as a fucking rule, only goes skin-deep where Harrington is concerned and therefore decidedly does not think any further on the matter.
Until, you know. He’s wanted for murder and there are monsters and superheroes and interdimensional warlocks at play. And he starts…fucking caring about hurting the squishy feelings of royalty like Steve Harrington. Specifically Steve Harrington, actually.
And Eddie Munson hasn’t survived this long—though, given recent shifts in circumstance: possibly won’t survive much longer, either—but he hasn’t survived this long to give in to said caring about feelings, not to mention the feelings that exactly same care causes as a result, without due diligence. Without sizing up the enemy. The competition. The…
The armageddon-era-comrade-in-arms-who-you’ve-maybe-jerked-off-to-enough-times-to-reach-triple-digits-who-you-were-not-supposed-to-ever-see-up-close-or-get-to-know-or-feel-against-your-skin-with-the-heat-of-their-body-up-close-and-the-grip-of-their-hand-like-comfort-on-your-shoulder-here-at-the-end-of-all-things-and—
Fuck. Just…just fuck.
The important part is that, shortly out of the boathouse, Eddie tries ‘King Steve’ on for size and the asshole has the audacity to look like Eddie ran over his pet cat or some shit—but actually, if Eddie is honest, the split-second reaction looks less like that and more like Eddie somehow reached between Harrington’s ribs without ever extending an arm and grabbed at his heart and squeezed real fucking hard—before it’s covered with an eye-roll and not even dignified with a comment, and at the end of the day: Eddie isn’t fucking cruel, so.
‘King’ was out.
Which is how he starts toying with ‘Your Highness’ and ‘My Liege’: tangential but not…not what people had called him, in admiration or derision because Hawkins wasn’t generally that creative. Eddie gets to play with it, throw his voice, and use it to draw the strangest reactions from the guy: annoyance, but without the hurting which really just leaves it being a little too endearing with the way he huffs like maybe he can’t help it, too automatic, and puts hands on his hips, wholly automatic, like he definitely can’t help it; snarkiness, with a little more worldly of a perspective than Eddie expects when he asks if this means Eddie’s his court jester, or even shames him for being a disappointing one, to Eddie’s unqualified delight; humor, or maybe banter, when Steve stops between steps when Eddie strides half-a-pace in front of him, clears his throat and deadpans ‘could have you beheaded for that’ or then the opposite, when they’re matched stride for stride and Steve stops deliberately, puts a hand in front of Eddie and sends his pulse jumping for fear of some unknown noise, some unseen threat and then bows his head like the little asshole he’s quickly revealing himself to be before saying ‘after you, truly, I’m a benevolent leader’ and his grin is blinding and Eddie’s relief is also tied up tight with joy, almost punching out of him like a goddamn giggle every time, transforming the feeling in his chest from painfully tight to dangerously stretched wide, free, making it almost playful up against the open jaws of hell; then there’s amusement, like the innocent-genuine kind, and it comes paired with the best fucking one-beat laugh, quick and half-aborted but like the meeting of a metal riff and tinkling crystal, fucking mesmerizing.
Eddie knows he has to get a grip on these wayward thoughts and their associated feelings. But it’s largely all set against the backdrop of a rancid purgatory plane of death with red lightning, so at least it’s easier than it could be.
He keeps up the titles and honorifics once they fall back upstairs, does it to deliberately lighten the mood and distract himself from Harrington in his battle vest, or the blood that soaks the bandages too fast, or the fact that he, Edward fucking Munson, helps change them more than once until they bites are staunched and the wrappings stay white long enough to breathe, or then there’s that fucking chest hair his rings brush against, tangle around two whole times and almost give him a damn heart attack for it, and maybe it’s the lack of the crimson lightning—what a band name, though.
But maybe it’s the fact that they’re in the real world again that makes it harder to tie it all into a nice little box and wrap it up in barbed wire and shove it under the bed to never be acknowledged ever again. Because he—can’t.
He can’t.
Steve Harrington…is a good dude.
Which is probably why he runs with ‘Princess’ honestly, just—or, mostly, not just, it’s also because Steve Harrington’s fucking pretty—but calling him ‘Princess’ was mostly to double-check, to dispel the notion or fall face-first into the undeniable thing that’s not staying in his wire-chained box at all; to see for sure if it’d repulse this guy who was definitely-not-a-douche-anymore but, well, you you gotta make sure of things. Especially things like this. Because…the best of men can get real fuckin’ funny about being vocally reminded of their feminine sides. Add in a little extra physical contact, a little less regard for personal space, get a little closer with the leaning in—even for Eddie—and he could figure out quick if Harrington secretly hated women (not likely, because it looks like one of his best friends is a woman, and hell, even his ex looks just as ready to die for him, and him for her) or secretly was a homophobe (more likely, because that described most people, and hell, most of ‘most people’ don’t even bother keeping it secret, but then: Eddie has his suspicions about Robin—though Steve might not, no matter how close they seem, and so it might not be that Eddie’s suspicions are even true, or that if they are, it might not be that Steve knows, or that he accepts it and the he loves her all the same; but shit, he might not even see it to suspect—or, shit. Steve may just be better than most of the best of men Eddie assumes the worst from, after the diveing into the water and biteing a bat in half and putting the most solid, most steady, the most, fucking, compassionate hands on Eddie’s shoulders as he holds him down to earth, grounds him through the panic when it finally hits, puts one of Eddie’s hands on own his chest to telegraph how to breathe until Eddie’s lungs remember how for themselves and Jesus, his hands feel like, like—)
He calls him Princess, flippant but watching every second, and that motherfucker just scrunches his nose and says:
“Think I’ve grown up a little these past couple years. Like, how about…I dunno. Duchess, at least, yeah?”
And Eddie chokes on his own spit when Steve winks and turns back to Nancy to figure out their next play.
And then Eddie catches the edge of a conversation happening behind him before they commit to storming fucking Mordor—
“…is better than a princess, right?”
“Pretty sure princess is better than a duchess,” Robin’s voice gives away both her frown and her confusion, her exasperation and the fact that none of those things will ever fully outweigh how fond she is of Steve fucking Harrington, wonder of all possible wonders in the world; “but I am also pretty sure you can be both at the same time.”
“Oh,” and god, gawwwwd, something very warm and fleshy and vulnerable lurches in Eddie’s chest like a goddamn betrayal at how adorably put-out that single word sounds, like Eddie can see both the pout it comes from and the…the…deflating of that absurd hair in real time like a cartoon telegraphing disappointment. “Damn. Duchess just sounds more powerful and mature and,” Steve’s voice trails off, and still sounds so hopeful and defeated all mixed up together and Eddie is going to die, and those otherworldly monsters won’t even be the reason, there will be no cool and totally metal tale of his demise, woe is he: “stuff.”
“Almost totally sure a princess would be more powerful like, responsibility wise,” Robin informs him with a smirk in her tone; “all ruling class lording over the peasants.“
“Aww,” Steve draws out, but it almost sounds more optimistic, which seems strange until: “guess I wouldn’t want to lord over any peasants, anyway.”
And just, Steve doesn’t want to lord over anyone, but he takes responsibility for everyone, even Eddie for no good reason at all, thrown into this shit show all blind and unbalanced but that doesn’t seem to make a difference, doesn’t seem to lessen how much Eddie is a part of this wayward flock out the gate, and Eddie has a moment of total and complete weakness, then, where the idiotic fucking notion consumes him that he kinda just…hopes he can keep his place in said flock. After.
The justification for changing it up is tenuous at best, and probably only has any justification retrospectively, in his own head—all about status, above and below, big man on campus and that kinda shit.
But when Eddie calls him ‘big boy’—if he’s honest, that one slips out without his permission. That one get knocked straight out of his ribs by the kick drum of his pulse because all of this is getting to be too goddamn much and Steve smells like blood and rot and sweat and stale cologne and hairspray that’s doing less of its job, probably, than bat guts at this point and honestly Eddie just wants to eat him. Lick him head to fucking toe.
Good goddamn.
Which is when Eddie starts thinking that maybe he should rephrase what he’s been dealing with, here: the payoffs and revelations, maybe they’re not the best.
Because Eddie might be on the edge of something he can’t control, teetering on the precipice of an unknown entity that every instinct in him has been taught, has been honed tight to judge as hostile but which has nonetheless, in this specific instance, given every hint of being the glowing, glimmering exception to the rule: kind and open and forgiving and understanding, hard won and more committed for knowing the struggle to get here, protective and caring and doesn’t flinch at being called a princess and doesn’t gag at a very thinly veiled reference possibly to the size of his dick but definitely to the size of his body, lewdly intended whether delivered alongside humor or not, and made by another man, hovering inches over the very same body in question, and sarcastic, and long-suffering, and patient and loyal and soft-on-the-inside and just, just—
It’s maybe not the best, is what he’s getting at. It’s maybe the goddamn fucking worst.
But then, very conveniently: there’s a swarm of demon bats and he doesn’t actually have a chance to think on the whole clusterfuck of it all anymore, so.
There’s also that.