Chapter Text
The next day, Steve Harrington reclaims his house.
He calls the kids (plus Robin) from Eddie’s landline and arranges an impromptu movie night for later that day— starring a movie of their choice, which Steve is barred from complaining about— under the guise that it’s ‘been too long’ since they all got together. And sure, he does miss the little shits, but what he’s really trying to do is strip his fucking house of whatever residual enmity his parents left behind.
He leaves the Munson’s sometime around four— I’ll pick up the kids, Stevie. You just relax today, okay?— with a fiery determination burning in his chest.
Because it’s his house, and he was getting better, and he won’t let anybody take that away from him.
The air feels stale when Steve steps through the door, so he opens a few windows. Everything is clean, and perfect, so he unearths some old throw-pillows from the hall linen closet and tosses them on the couch cushions— scatters his father’s shoes over the welcome mat, and drags that stupid fucking recliner into the basement to die.
When the silence threatens to suffocate him, he slips on his Walkman, blasts Technical Ecstasy, and dances in his kitchen— because it’s his fucking kitchen. It’s his house, and he’s tired of hiding from it. Tired of sleeping in his car at the quarry’s edge, tired of staring down at that inky black water and wishing on stars that died years ago, tired of being angry and scared and sad—
Because he isn’t. Not always, anyway. Not anymore.
Now he’s found a home in the face of a boy who is really, very pretty. A boy who he likes. A boy who told him to chase what he wants.
And what Steve Harrington wants, is his goddamn house back.
Robin arrives first, around eight, fresh out of Family Video and wreaking of B.O. When Steve tells her so, she socks him with a hearty gut-punch and runs off to his bathroom to commandeer his deodorant, while he wheezes helplessly in his living room.
“Wha-tha fuck, Robin—”
“Don’t tell me I smell bad, you dick!” She calls out from upstairs.
“Then don’t smell bad, asshole!”
Robin comes stomping down the stairs, arm lifted as she slips Steve’s deodorant under her shirt, “God, now I’m gonna smell like man all night.”
“‘Man?’”
She scrunches up her nose, “you all smell the same. It’s gross.”
Steve huffs, ducking into his kitchen, “I sincerely doubt that, Robin. I think I would have noticed, by now.”
“You wouldn’t be able to, because you are one,” Robin’s eyes dart down, blowing wide as her mouth falls slightly agape, “Steve Harrington!”
Steve blinks, “what—“
Her hands rise to Steve's, taking his palm in a firm grip and holding his fingers aloft like they’re on fire, or something, “are you wearing nail polish?”
Steve splutters, feeling the heat in his body notch up at the memory of him and Eddie— pressed close, tangled, vulnerable, “uh, yeah?”
Offence settles over Robin’s features, accompanied quickly by petulance, “you never let me paint your nails! This is so unfair!”
Steve’s first instinct is to roll his eyes and ignore her comment entirely, but as he takes in Robin’s dramatic little pout, something in him settles.
Wanna be vulnerable, like you.
Steve’s voice turns quiet, “my parents stopped by for a bit, yesterday. To ‘talk.’ It was stupid, but—” his eyes dart down to his own hands, the black polish resting proud and heavy on his bitten nails, “my dad said some shit that I didn’t like, and I couldn’t say anything back, so I just thought… I dunno, I could have some kind of quiet rebellion, or something. It’s stupid.”
Robin shakes her head, expression softening into something private, “it’s not stupid.”
Steve smiles, just a bit, and feels Robin’s eyes linger as he turns away to rifle through one of the little bags of snacks he picked up from the grocery store.
“So… how have you been? Y’know with the whole… gay… thing?”
Steve shrugs.
Being queer really isn’t that big of a deal, in the grand scheme of things.
He’s more worried about being queer for Eddie, “fine, really.”
“Really? Cause… well, I dunno. I feel like Steve ‘Lady Killer’ Harrington being gay is kind of like… flying ants. Like, it’s feasible, and real, but also what the fuck, y’know?”
“Thanks, Robin, that makes me feel spectacular—”
“You know what I mean, dingus. I’m glad you’ve y’know… found yourself, but… I dunno. I never thought you, of all people, would be gay. Is that mean?”
“A little.”
“I’m sorry.”
Steve sighs, “it’s fine, Robbie. I never really… I mean, looking back, I did, but… I’ve never really felt like—like this, about a dude, before. Like— I mean, I guess I kinda liked Tommy—”
“Tommy H? Ew, Steve—”
Steve feels his face redden, “shut up! Don’t think I’ve forgotten about Tammy Thompson—”
Robin squeals, hiding her face in her hands, “oh God— I yield, I yield,” she peeks through her fingers, “you liked Tommy, but…?”
“But, it wasn’t… like this.”
Steve expects another sarcastic comment, or some dumb joke at his expense, but instead Robin just… tilts her head a bit, “like… what?”
“Like—”
Like I need him more than I need air. Like his hands on my skin feel like aloe on a burn. Like sunsets, and borrowed tapes, and broken mugs. Like he is everything, everywhere, all at once.
“Like Nancy.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“So… you still loved Nancy?”
“Yeah.”
“But you… like this guy, now, too?”
“Yeah. Is that okay?”
“Yeah.”
Steve smiles a bit, soft and free and more than a little relieved.
“So,” Robin plants her hands on the counter, leaning forward with a smirk, “when do I get to meet him?”
Oh. Ha.
Steve bites his lip to contain a nervous little laugh— because she doesn’t know, and that’s actually very funny— and shrugs.
“C’mon, Steve! I’ve gotta make sure you’re not stuck with another Tommy H situation.”
Steve snorts, “trust me, Robbie, he is absolutely nothing like Tommy H.”
The first couple notes of ‘Rock N’ Roll Doctor’ hum through the headphones looped around Steve’s neck, and he finds himself smiling as he pulls a few tins of stove-top popcorn from one of the grocery bags.
Robin’s eyes narrow, “isn’t that the tape Eddie gave you?”
Steve blinks.
Caught.
“Uhhh—“
It’s then that the front door bursts open, and six teenagers come barreling into the foyer, pushing and yelling at each other like apes in a zoo.
“Hey!” Steve rests his hands on his hips, trying to be subtle as he adamantly avoids Robin’s eyes, “stop screaming like banshees, you little shits—”
Dustin shoves Steve aside, rifling around in the grocery bag closest to him, “did you get Coke?”
“What happened to ‘hello,’ Henderson?”
Max whacks Dustin’s ankle with the end of her cane, shoving past him and sticking her nose into the same bag. She crows in victory as she pulls out a pack of sour patch kids, “fuck yeah!”
“Ow!” Dustin, petulant.
Max rolls her eyes, “don’t be a pussy.”
“Hey,” Steve points a stern finger at Max, which she promptly glares at, “don’t call people ‘pussies’—”
“‘It’s degrading’— I know, mom,” her eyes roll, then narrow, “are you listening to Eddie’s music?”
Dustin’s brows furrow, “you listen to Eddie’s music?”
Steve splutters, “it’s not Eddie’s music, it’s Black Sabbath—”
Robin butts in from where she’s staring a hole into the side of Steve’s head, “yes, a Black Sabbath tape, that Eddie gave you—“
“Hey,” Eddie— and at the sound of his voice, Steve perks up like a fucking dog, head turning in his direction with a barely-suppressed smile, “are we all ganging up on Steve?”
Steve rolls his eyes, “no, we are not—“
Dustin crosses his arms, narrowing his eyes at Eddie, “why does Steve get to borrow your tapes? You never let me borrow your tapes—“
Steve must be losing it, because he swears Eddie’s blushing, “uh— yeah, cause you’ll break them.”
“And Steve won’t?”
Eddie hides his face in one of the grocery bags, “oooh! Three Musketeers—“
Dustin lights up, “wait, really?”
Steve feels relief, for a moment, before he catches Robin opening her mouth from the corner of his eye—
“Uh, Steve?” Will pops his head into the kitchen, a sheepish smile on his face, “we can’t find the TV remote.”
Praise the lord, “it should be around the coffee table somewhere. Here, let me—”
Eddie’s suddenly at Steve’s side, and hey, isn’t that something? “What movie did you guys pick out?”
Will grins, “A New Hope.”
Eddie nods sagely, the three of them making their way into Steve’s living room, “solid choice… but Empire Strikes Back is way better.”
Mike scoffs from where he’s crouched in front of Steve’s TV, “as if, dude.”
Eddie squawks indignantly, practically barreling over to where Mike is fiddling with the VCR, as they begin to bicker like children.
Steve snorts, hands falling to his hips once again with a look of fond exasperation, “shut up, you two, and help us find the remote—”
“Found it!” Will grins, wiggling the little black brick between his fingers.
“Steve,” Max sidles up beside him— Eleven at her heels— teeth tacky with sour patch kids, “braid my hair.”
Steve scoffs, “what happened to ‘please,’ Mayfield?”
El looks up at him with wide, glimmering eyes, “will you please braid Max’s hair?”
Steve huffs. Damn these kids, “yeah, yeah, c’mon.”
He situates himself on the middle couch cushion, El cross-legged to his right with Max tucked between his legs on the floor— laying her cane in front of her knees— as he combs his fingers through her thick hair.
Max slaps Steve’s hands away when his fingers catch on a knot for the millionth time, “be gentle, asshole.”
Steve huffs, “you’re the one who doesn’t brush your hair.”
“You don’t brush curly hair, Steve.”
“Well then braid it yourself, Mayfield.”
She rolls her eyes, “shut up.”
El leans closer to Steve, “she likes when you do it. It is an excuse to spend time with you—“
Max’s hand flies out again, thwacking against El’s ankle, “shut up!”
El giggles.
Steve finds himself grinning, crossing the first few sections of Max’s hair over each other, “awe, you like spending time with me?”
Max’s face is beat red as she glared daggers at the two of them, “shut up and braid my hair, you fucking cunt—“
“Woah! Language!”
El tilts her head, “what is ‘cunt?’”
Max cackles as Steve flounders, “uh—“
“Steve,” Dustin comes trundling into the room, Robin at his heels with a bowl of freshly popped popcorn, “it’s kinda hard to watch a movie when you’re blasting metal through your Walkman like a dumbass.”
Steve feels his face heat, lips pursing into an embarrassed line as he very hastily clicks the Walkman off. He’d forgotten about the damn thing entirely, “shit— sorry.”
His eyes dart to Eddie against his will, and once again finds his friend red-faced. He avoids Steve’s eyes entirely, staring down pointedly at Mike as he taps his foot rhythmically— nervously— against the hardwood. In fact, now that Steve’s thinking about it, Eddie hasn’t looked him in the eyes once since he got here.
He’s being weird—
“You’re literally so fucking stupid,“ Mike scoffs, before spluttering when Eddie flicks him between the eyes.
“You’re fucking stupid, Wheeler,” he fists his free hand in Mike’s hair and ruffles it, “ Empire Strikes Back has a way better story line, dude. Clearly your pea-brain can’t comprehend a plot after it moves into emotionally complex territory.”
Lucas sways into the room, leaning against the arch between the living room and foyer, “sure, but it’s only a better story because of the groundwork laid out in A New Hope.”
Eddie rolls his eyes, “groundwork, shmoundwork. The writing’s better, the relationships are better, George Lucas made ‘Vader a way more in-depth villain, Luke matures— Princess Leia and Han-motherfucking-solo!”
A content smile settles over Will’s lips, “he’s got a point…”
Mike whips around, aghast, “you’re supposed to be on my side!”
Will shrugs, “your arguments are weak.”
“You can’t seriously agree with someone who prefers a sequel over the original content—”
Eddie swoops down and drags Mike into a headlock, who responds by jabbing his fist into his attacker's gut repeatedly. When Eddie doesn’t let up, Mike throws his weight forward and essentially tackles him to the ground, both of the younger girls bursting into giggles as the two boys thump onto the floor at their feet.
Robin plops down on the last cushion, on the other side of Steve, and kicks Mike in the side with the tips of her toes when Eddie throws him off of him with a crackling laugh.
Lucas rolls his eyes, stepping over the two boys and crouching down in front of the VCR, “both of you, chill out. It’s not that big of a deal—”
He yelps when Eddie grabs his ankle, pulling him into the heap with a wild grin, “not a big deal? All that B-Ball is rotting your brain, Sinclair! There is nothing more important in life than one’s opinions on film.”
Max rolls her eyes as Steve rolls a hair-tie off of her wrist, “you’re all so lame, it’s almost impressive. Now shut the hell up and play the damn movie.”
Robin nods, voice muffled through a mouthful of popcorn, “agreed.”
Steve ties off Max’s braid with a little smile as Will pushes ‘play’ on the VCR.
The heap disbands, the younger boys huddling up together on the floor with their eyes glued to the screen, while Max squeezes in between Steve and El on the couch.
Eddie glares down at Robin petulantly, “really?”
“What?”
He makes a grand gesture over the expanse of the couch, “there’s nowhere for me to sit!”
Robin rolls her eyes, stuffing another handful of popcorn into her mouth, “sit on the floor with the rest of the nerdy children.”
Eddie squawks in offense, slapping a hand dramatically over his heart, “I am a nerdy adult, thank you very much—”
Max kicks at Eddie’s knees, “you’re in the way.”
He scoffs, “well, excuse me—”
Robin kicks her feet out, too, “you’re excused. Now sit down.”
Max kicks Eddie again, “what she said.”
“Fine, Jesus…”
He rolls his eyes all dramatic, and without hesitation plops himself down beside Steve’s legs on the floor, his own criss-crossed as he hunches forward a bit.
Steve can’t help but get the sense that something’s wrong, because, well… Eddie’s being weird. He can just sense it— the way his shoulders are drawn together, just slightly, how he won’t look at Steve, how he can’t seem to sit still, how his fingers twitch where they rest on his knees, which bounce restlessly every once and while— and it’s distracting enough that only about fifteen minutes into the movie, Steve decides he has to do something about it.
Steve leans forward, just a bit, and carefully combs his fingers through Eddie’s hair.
Eddie immediately tenses, shoulders hiking up to his ears. His voice becomes low, and secretive, “whaaat are you doing?”
Steve keeps his voice low, too, “you’re sitting in the braid-chair,” he feels a smile twitching at his lips, nervous and giddy and stupid, “I have to braid your hair now, Eds. I physically can’t help myself.”
Eddie turns his head a bit, finally looking at Steve over his shoulder, eyes roaming the planes of Steve’s face. Steve watches his friend's pupils dilate just-so, as a warm pink shade settles over his freckled skin.
Eddie rolls his eyes, but all annoyance is absent from the expression, “pfft. Fine.”
Steve just barely manages to keep his composure when Eddie shuffles back, bracketing himself between Steve’s legs.
Eddie’s hair is tangled, and a little greasy. There are enough knots nestled between the strands to form a rat's nest, with flakes of dandruff dotted around his roots like ash. The ends are dead, and dry, and all in all Eddie Munson’s hair is honestly quite horrible, and Steve’s never been happier to touch something in his life.
He likes Eddie, like this. Likes the way he leans his head against the inside of Steve’s knee as he sections off bits of his hair. Likes the hand he wraps around Steve’s ankle, the catch of his calluses against the hair on Steve’s leg. Likes how he seems to be finally— finally— letting himself relax.
Steve hasn’t paid attention to a single second of the movie, but when Eddie falls asleep against him about halfway through the braid, he finds it quite hard to care.
He feels an elbow prod at his side, and swings his head around with a huff.
Robin’s got this look on her face.
Steve’s brow furrows.
What?
He asks, without asking.
She tilts her head a bit, contemplative and soft.
Is this… is this the boy you like?
Steve blinks, a sort of sheepish smile flickering at the corners of his mouth.
Yeah.
A shocked yet gleeful expression bursts onto Robin’s face, as she brings a hand up to smack his arm.
Oh my God! Really?
He frowns.
Watch it! You’ll wake Eddie up.
She rolls her eyes.
You’re so gay.
Steve rolls his back, ducking his head as his cheeks turn rosy. A few moments later, Robin shuffles around a bit and quietly leans her head on Steve’s shoulder.
Thank you for telling me.
She says, without saying a thing.
Steve turns his cheek into her hair.
Thank you for being here.
Max and El eventually join the boys on the floor, the whole lot of them pressed shoulder to shoulder, with El’s head in Max’s lap and feet in Will’s. With more room to sprawl, Robin’s spread herself over the couch— legs tucked behind Steve— like a cat napping in a sunbeam, picking at Steve’s nails and rolling her eyes whenever he tries to yank them away. Eddie’s head falls back a bit in his sleep, nestled in the crook of Steve’s thigh— which he is being very normal about, by the way— breath warm where it puffs against the skin of his inner thigh. His nose prods the area just a bit, and Steve’s—
Being very normal about it.
His hair is smooshed against the side of his face. He’s drooling, a bit.
He’s perfect.
‘It’ll go away.’ God, he’s stupid sometimes.
When the movie inevitably draws to a close, Dustin lets out a dramatic yawn accompanied by a wide stretch, before craning his head back to look at Steve.
“Air mattress?”
Steve nods, “air mattress,” Dustin gives him an expectant look, and Steve blinks a bit dumbly, “oh— yeah, I’ll—”
He huffs a bit, before leaning down and gently shaking Eddie’s shoulder, “Eds. You gotta move.”
Eddie’s nose scrunches up, and he turns his face further into Steve with a frustrated huff of air.
Steve snorts, ignoring the heat in his face, “dude. C’mon.”
Eddie mumbles something into his thigh.
“What?”
His friend rears his head back, looking like he is the single most inconvenienced person on the entire planet, “you’re the worst.”
Steve feels himself grinning, as he gently pats Eddie’s cheek, “yeah, yeah. C’mon.”
Eddie’s eyes squint against the warm lights embedded in the ceiling, sighing heavily as he extracts himself from Steve’s space, “where’re we going?”
“Nowhere. I just need to get the air mattress from the basement.”
“Mmm… I’m comin’.”
“What—”
Eddie flails his hands around wildly, “andele, andele! The children need a place to sleep, Steve-o.”
When it comes time to make sleeping arrangements for the three adults in the group, there’s this vast cavern of hesitation poking holes in Eddie’s groggy expression, as he claims Steve’s parents room for the night. And it’s right then, in that moment, that Steve realizes that they’ve only ever slept together on the nights spent in each other’s presence. And when he settles into his own bed, alone, he can’t help but feel strange.
Because Eddie is here, but he’s not.
They had a dog once. When Steve was really, really, little. He can barely remember her, only that she was big and golden, and liked to sleep at the foot of Steve’s bed every night. She made him feel safer— like whatever monsters lurked in the dark void under his bed or behind his closet doors wouldn’t dare attack him, lest they be torn to shreds by his faithful protector. Steve remembers loving that dog, as much as a child can love something. Remembers soft fur and a wet nose and tongue. Remembers muddy pawprints speckled over white couch cushions after a rainy-day walk. Remembers yelling, and insults, and a sharp whine as his guardian was booted out into the cold.
The dog hadn’t slept at his bedside that night. That had felt strange, too.
Because she was there, but she wasn’t.
And then his father gave her away, and she was never really anywhere again.
Steve wonders when he got so attached.
Maybe it was Technical Ecstasy. Or the phone booth, with Steve’s hands on Eddie’s chest. Maybe it was that first night they spent together, at the quarry’s edge, curled quietly into car seats. Or Family Video— hands to chest for the first time, breathing, together, for the first time. Maybe something was born, then, in the space between the heartbeats Steve felt pulse under his fingertips. Or, maybe, it was that party. That cigarette, shared in a stranger’s backyard in the black of night, Steve’s head fuzzy and body loose. Honest.
Or maybe it was before then. Maybe their souls were bound together when Eddie’s blood seeped into the fabric of Steve’s T-shirt.
You were already dead, Eddie. You are dead. But you’re not. I don’t know how to deal with that.
It must have been then, because Steve isn’t too proud to admit that his head has been full of Eddie since he pulled him out of hell all the way back in March.
There’s a knock at his bedroom door. Soft, careful.
“Eddie?”
The door creaks open, and Eddie pokes his head in with a sheepish smile, “hey.”
“Hey. What’s up?”
Eddie steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him before shifting awkwardly between his feet. He clearly changed into something a bit more comfortable, the flannel sweats slung around his hips just a bit too big, making him look small where he stands, “it’s uh…” his face does a weird thing, “it’s weird, not sharing with you.”
Steve feels more than a little relieved, “yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, it is.”
Eddie’s shoulders sag a bit, tension leaving him— and there’s this… fragility dotted between the freckles speckled over his skin that Steve can’t help but frown at. It’s like he’s scared, or something.
“Are you okay?”
“What? Yeah.”
“You’ve just—” Steve works his jaw around a bit.
Communicate, dumbass.
“You’ve been weird all night. Like—” he searches for the right words, but can’t seem to find them, “I dunno.”
Eddie seems to flounder, for a moment, mouth twitching with uncertainty.
“Did I do something?”
His eyes widen, “no! No, God no, Stevie, I’m just—” Eddie’s eyes search Steve’s for something so specific there really can’t be a name for it, “I don’t know?”
Steve feels himself soften, “that’s okay,” he gives Eddie a teasing smile, “get over here. I’m tired, dude.”
Eddie huffs, and crawls into bed beside Steve, “you’ve been calling me ‘dude’ a lot today.”
Steve rolls his eyes, “sorry, dude, what would you prefer? Man? Bro? Home-boy—”
Eddie snorts, thwacking Steve’s arm in a very Robin-like way, “shut up.”
“Sorry, bro.”
Eddie hits him again, and Steve is more than a little relieved when his usual grin settles over his face. The one that makes his eyes crinkle, and his cheeks dimple.
They lay down on their backs with their heads thunked together.
Steve picks at the hem of his own T-shirt, thinks of Eddie’s face when he’d undressed him without thinking, “are you sure you’re okay?”
Eddie sighs, just a bit, “yeah, Stevie. I’m sure.” Eddie rolls his head to the side, “what about you? Are you okay? After yesterday?”
Steve rolls his head, too, immediately drawn into Eddie’s searching gaze, “honestly? I kinda forgot about it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I mean,” he shrugs, “I got to see the kids. And Robin. And— and you. Reminded me that I’m not… alone.”
Eddie smiles again, soft and warm. He hesitates for a moment, before speaking, “I am okay, I’m just…”
Steve watches Eddie’s mind race, fingers tapping against his knees to a beat that isn’t there.
Eddie breaths, “I kinda… missed you? For the, like, four hours I didn’t see you,” he darts his eyes away, and that fear laces itself back between the divots of his irises, “and I kinda realized that I miss you all the time, like, constantly, and I’ve never… that’s— well, that’s crazy, isn’t it? Like, that’s—”
“I missed you too.”
Eddie blinks, “oh.”
“Yeah. Is that okay?”
“Well, fucking obviously, man—”
“Hey, if I can’t call you ‘dude,’ you can’t call me ‘man.’”
Eddie rolls his eyes, “yeah, yeah. Whatever, brosef.”
Steve rolls his back, along with his head, “goodnight, asshole.”
“Night, sweetheart.”
𝌀
Steve wakes up to a sudden pain in his thigh, and has already flung himself to the ground before he’s even processed the fact that he’s woken up. He pries his eyes open right as his ass hits the floor, expecting to find something snarling and full of teeth hunched over his bed with a chunk of his bloody thigh in it’s maw.
Instead, as his room comes into focus and his mind stops jumping between conclusions, Steve is met with the sight of Eddie thrashing wildly in his sleep. Which, admittedly, isn’t any more comforting.
Steve groggily clambers back onto his bed, stumbling a bit as he gently plants his hands on Eddie’s shoulders, “hey, hey— Eds, wake up, Eddie,” he’s wheezing in his sleep, body tensed with a fear that casts sharp lines over his face in the dark, “c’mon , c’mon, Eds, you’re dreaming— it’s just— wake up—“
It’s okay don’t be afraid I’m here I’m here I’m here—
Eddie blinks his eyes open with a sharp inhale, desperate and wet like a wounded animal, and Steve doesn’t hesitate before wrapping his arms around him, “hey, shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay…”
He makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a grunt, confused and pained and more than a little afraid.
“You’re okay, you’re okay, I promise. We’re uh—“
Hands on his chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, lung to lung.
Steve takes Eddie’s hands in his, “we’re in my room. At my house,” he presses Eddie’s palms against his chest, prays that his heart is steady behind his ribs, “it’s the twenty-seventh of July. Or—” he peaks over at his alarm clock, “actually, it’s technically the twenty-eighth, now. Which, wow— that means that we’ve been friends for like… a month. Which is cool. Kinda crazy, too, cause, like— it feels like it’s been… longer. Than that. Like, I feel like I’ve known you for years. Is that weird? Wait— shit, sorry, we’re, uh—”
He feels Eddie’s shoulders start to shake, and clicks his mouth shut.
Great job, Steve, you made him fucking cry—
But when Eddie tips his head up, he’s got dimples in his cheeks and laughter in his puffy eyes, body trembling with his attempts to keep quiet.
His whole face is cast in soft blue darkness, and Steve suddenly feels like he’s standing in a stranger’s backyard and sharing a cig all over again, “sorry, you’re just,” Eddie snickers, “you’re so… you.”
“Hey! What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Eddie pats his chest, rings thunking against Steve’s sternum, and oh, we’re touching, like, everywhere, “it’s a good thing, Steve-o. Promise.”
Steve drags his eyes over Eddie’s face, searching for lines of lingering distress, “are you okay, though?”
Eddie hums, “hard not to be, what with my knight in shining armour scooping me up and saving me from the woes of my subconscious.”
Steve frowns a bit, “I’m sorry. For grabbing you like that, I mean.”
“That’s alright. The comfort’s welcome. I like… it. You.“ He clears his throat, “I like you.”
I like you I like you I like you I like you—
“Can I show you something? Might make you feel better.”
“Well then! Be my guest.”
With a pink face and jittery smile, Steve unearths his guitar from where he’d haphazardly buried it in the depths of his closet, and tries to ignore the way Eddie’s eyes are boring into him as he settles down on the edge of his bed.
The guitar suddenly feels strange in his hands. He clears his throat.
“So, uh…” God, why is this so hard? “You— I kept playing. After you showed me stuff, because my dad used to play, when I was little, and he—“ he forces air through his nose, “Jesus, okay. I’m just— I’m gonna stop talking, now.”
Eddie tilts his head with a teasing grin, “no, no, please, go on. You have such a way with words.”
Embarrassment and adoration set Steve’s skin alight, “shut the fuck up.”
Eddie cackles, all teeth and wild hair and dimples, and Steve finds himself smiling, too.
He whacks Eddie’s arm with the body of the guitar, “shh! You’ll wake up Robin.”
Eddie slaps a hand over his own mouth, waving the other one dismissively, “sorry,” his voice is muffled beneath his palm, “sorry, sorry! Please, continue. I’m curious.”
Steve rolls his eyes, gaze darting down to the fretboard where his hands clumsily tense and slacken over the strings, “just— be nice. I’m not very good.”
Eddie nods, expression unreadable as he pulls a knee to his chest and props his chin against it.
Steve breathes.
In, out. In, out.
His fingers press down onto the first chord formation, his other hand plucking at the strings in a pattern that feels ingrained into his very bones, ground into the marrow during countless late nights spent driving himself insane looping this stupidly beautiful song into the cold empty night.
Now, Steve Harrington is not what you would call a singer. He doesn’t know what notes Ozzy’s singing, or if he’s anywhere close to hitting them. His voice is soft and raspy with nerves and quieted further by embarrassment. He slurs the ends of words sometimes, and his timing’s off, and his pitch cracks if he goes too high, but dammit, he tries.
“I've been a long long time… waiting for you. ”
The sides of his throat feel swollen, suddenly, Eddie’s eyes on him like rough hands wrung around a thin neck.
“I didn't want to see you go… oh, no, no.”
He knows his face is red.
“And now it's hurting so much. What can I do?”
Feels like his very being is burning.
“I wanted you to be my wife.”
But honestly? He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“The days are passing slowly… since you've gone.”
He likes Eddie’s eyes on him.
“Your memories are all I have. Yes, I have.”
Likes the way his gaze makes Steve’s fingers tremble against the strings.
“I sit here waiting but… you'll never show.”
Likes knowing that if he looked at Eddie now, he’d see himself reflected back. Because he has Eddie’s full, undivided attention. Has all of him.
“Without you I can't carry on. Ooh, my baby.”
But as Eddie watches him sing, and play, Steve does his best to avoid those eyes because he’s honestly a little terrified of what he’ll find swirling around behind his own face. Because this…
Well, this feels a whole lot like a confession.
Steve likes to think that in trading tapes, they’re trading little bits of their souls. That when Eddie played that song for him, at his show, that was Eddie letting Steve see all of him. Fully, and unguarded, no matter how silly of a song it might have been. And now, Steve’s letting Eddie see him, too.
“The silent emptiness, of one-sided love”
And that’s what it is, isn’t it? One sided?
“My life means nothing now you've gone.”
But when his eyes flick over to Eddie’s— face suddenly so close— and he finds not only himself, but a very familiar emotion there, too, well…
“Ooh my baby…”
He starts to think that maybe, it isn’t.
There’s about a minute of guitar left in the song, but without the distraction of his own voice, Steve finds his fingers stumbling and unsure.
His music and his confidence splutter out into nothing, hands coming to tap restlessly against the body of the guitar, “it’s— that song’s like, really sad, which I know probably doesn’t help, but it’s the only one on the album I could do without an electric guitar—“
“Steve, it’s perfect. I don’t—” and Eddie’s looking at him, in that way he does, staring directly into Steve’s soul. This time, though, he isn’t searching for anything— isn’t trying to see past a mask or a lie or anything stupid like that— he’s just… admiring, “you’re perfect, Stevie.”
And that feels like a confession, too.
“What did you dream about?”
Eddie draws his other knee up against his chest, securing his chin in the divot between the two, “bats. Like usual. I just…” he tilts his head a bit, expression growing sombre, “I don’t know how the hell I made it out of there alive, man. I felt them… eating me, and I swear to God, Steve, I felt myself… I felt myself die. But I didn’t. Sometimes I can’t…”
He trails off, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft material of his sleep pants, and Steve can feel his heart in his throat.
“Do you remember what you said? ‘Couple weeks back, in Family Video— the, uh, the thing about me? How you thought I was dead?”
Steve regrets that, now, “I— yeah.”
“Do you… do you still feel like that?”
Steve shakes his head, firm, “no. No, I don’t. You’re—“ he slides the guitar off of his lap, propping it up against the side of his nightstand, “I don’t. At all. Eddie, you’re— you’re so alive that it’s kinda scary, sometimes.”
Eddie shuffles, leaning back against the headboard before stretching his legs out, “sometimes…” his hands find his own torso, touch feather-light over his shirt, “sometimes, I look in the mirror, after I’ve showered, or something, and I see these stupid fucking scars, and I think— well, I kinda think I’m dead, too,” his voice waivers, then, thick and quiet, “‘cause how the fuck does someone survive something like that? And I— I hate them. It’s like— it’s like that place branded me, or something. Like, I’ll never really ever leave, because it’s a part of me, now.”
That’s…
Steve understands that.
His own scars were a subject of vile shame for him, too. Even before Vecna, and the bats. Like permanent reminders of the hell beneath their feet, of flowering toothy maws, of Billy Hargrove and Barbara Holland, of Vecna, of everything terrible Steve has ever been through, and the possibility that he’ll have to do it all over again. A reminder that he’ll never get to be normal. That he’ll never get to live on a star.
Robin always tells him that he’s stupid to think that, though. That what they really mean is that Steve was brave— and stupid— but most importantly, that he survived. That he walked into hell and lived to tell the tale. That he protected his own.
Steve always had a hard time believing her. Still does, sometimes. But there are days where he looks at the spindly lines of pink and white carved into his skin and he thinks, ‘yeah. I fucking did that. I lived.’
He wants Eddie to feel like that. Triumphant. Proud, even.
The thing is, though, Steve isn’t very good with words. He’s quite horrible with them, actually.
What he is good at, though, is actions. Speaking without speaking.
So, with very little hesitation, Steve Harrington grasps the hem of his t-shirt, and pulls it over his head.
He watches Eddie’s eyes blow wide, face growing red as he baulks openly, “whaaat are you doing—“
“They’re not brands,” Steve barrels over him, determined to— well, he isn’t quite sure, really, but he has a goddamn point to prove, “they’re like… those dots. That blind people read… uh— oh! Braille. They’re like braille. Raised patches of skin, and when you touch them, you read… a story. Your story. That doesn’t make sense— just—“
He reaches out, and wraps his hand around one of Eddie’s wrists. Slowly, in case he wants to back out, Steve directs Eddie’s open palm to rest against the bumpy pink skin stretching over his waist. He can’t help but shiver, as Eddie’s cold, callused fingers brush over his skin, rings catching just slightly.
“See? That’s—“ he stumbles as Eddie’s fingers twitch, fighting to retain his train of thought over his brain fucking begging Eddie to touch me, touch me, please touch me, please please please, “that’s my story. You’re reading it. Every bat-bite, and the pain that came with them. But also, the fact that I lived, right? Does that— does that make sense—“
Steve sucks in a breath, eyelids fluttering, as Eddie’s opposite hand rises to his throat. He trails two fingers along his jugular, over the barely-there scar from where that bat’s tail had wrapped around his neck and nearly squeezed the life out of him. Steve tends to forget about that one, until he catches people staring at him in public. He knows what they’re thinking, tries and fails not to let it bother him.
Eddie’s index and middle fingers seem to fit perfectly over the width of the little scar, his voice a cool whisper against Steve’s hot skin, “yeah.”
Steve blinks, “…what?”
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
Oh. Right, “so… so you don’t have to be ashamed, Eds. You shouldn’t be.”
Eddie’s eyes evade him, flicking down to Steve’s torso as his fingers trace the divots of his skin. Cold hands, like aloe over a burn.
“‘Cause you’re not dead, Eddie. You’ve got battle scars. And battle scars mean you fought, and you lived.”
Eddie lays his palm flat over Steve’s skin, thumb rubbing rhythmically back and forth. His lips part, and he speaks so softly his words almost sound like sigh, “I’m glad I did. Glad I’m… here. With you.”
He looks at Steve, then, with galaxies in his eyes and reverence in his hands, and when the one resting against Steve’s neck wraps carefully around his throat and holds him, well…
“I wanna see you,” Steve rests his fingers against the hem of Eddie’s shirt, “can I see you?”
There’s fear in Eddie’s eyes, again, but it’s… different, this time. It’s like earlier, in his living room. That fear of… of judgement. Rejection.
“You don’t have to, Eds,” Steve fixes him with a firm look, “it’s okay.”
Eddie watches him for a long while, fingers tracing over divots in Steve’s torso with a complicated look swirling around shiny eyes. After a moment, he extracts himself from Steve’s space and leans back against the headboard, scrubbing his hands over his face.
“Eds?”
“Okay, okay, okay…”
Eddie takes a deep breath, before clumsily pulling his shirt over his head.
His skin is all silvery white and pink, scar tissue stretching over the vast majority of his torso to the point that he’s really more scar than skin. They’re thick and deep on either side of his waist, flesh dipping inward like a stab wound that never healed quite right. Which, Steve supposes, it is. Spindly ones—like Steve's— lick up his chest, cutting through a tattoo over his left pectoral and scattering into little knicks over his arms and neck.
Eddie’s skin is a marred mess, shiny and fucking beautiful in the moonlight.
Eddie crosses his arms over his chest, eyes fixed on his own knees as Steve stares openly at his torso, “I know they’re ugly, man, there’s no need to stare.”
“Hey,” Steve takes Eddie’s hand closest to him, guiding it back to rest on his waist, “nothing about you,” he retrieves the other, placing it against his sternum and nearly screaming when Eddie wraps his hand back around Steve’s throat on his own accord, “could ever be ugly, Eddie Munson.”
Eddie’s fingers tap against the scar on his neck, something ardent and desperate surfacing from the deep dark depths of his pupils, “yeah?”
“Yeah,” Steve breathes, raising a hand to graze against the battered skin of Eddie’s stomach.
The skin is smooth and stiff, and Steve feels something stir within him when the muscles there tense, just a bit.
Eddie’s fingers twitch against Steve’s torso, “tickles.”
In response, Steve lays his palm flat and splays his fingers wide, revels in the way Eddie leans into his touch with a soft hiss. Steve’s other hand finds the tattoo on Eddie’s chest, and when his friend leans into that touch, too, he feels something soft brush against his collarbone.
When Steve looks up, he finds that Eddie’s already looking at him, pupils blown wide enough to engulf his iris entirely. He also finds that Eddie has rolled on top of him— just a bit— and is using Steve’s shoulder to prop himself up so he can keep holding Steve’s neck.
In short, Steve Harrington is being half-pinned down to his mattress by a shirtless Eddie Munson. It’s hard not to get a little riled up over that.
Get your shit together, Harrington. That’s not what this is.
Steve half expects one of their traded tapes to start blaring through his tape deck on it’s own accord— to drown out the undertones of desperate want like they usually do.
Music has always been a buffer, of sorts.
But now, with their souls bared to each other in the deep blue dark, they find themselves caught up in silence and skin-on-skin.
“See?” Steve whispers, afraid to break that precious silence as he glides the pad of his finger over one of the deep divots at Eddie’s waist, “s’not so bad…”
To what Steve is referring to, he has no idea. The scars? Touch? Vulnerability?
Eddie keeps his eyes trained on Steve’s, and Steve feels entirely helpless beneath his gaze, “they’re fuckin’ everywhere, man,” Eddie’s voice is low, and breathy, “I’ve got them on my thighs, too.”
Something about that makes Steve’s heart burst, “can I see?”
“I’m not taking my pants off for you, Stevie.”
“Oh— yeah.” He hadn’t entirely realized what that implied, but now he can’t seem to stop thinking about it.
Steve drags both of his hands down Eddie’s torso, taking in every bump and divot with reverence before settling just above his hips.
Eddie’s hand on his waist migrates to his stomach, fingers splayed all the way down to the waistband of his jeans, “Steve…”
“I like your skin,” Steve lays his palms flat against Eddie, words dancing over delicate breath, “I like the scars. I like— I like you, Eddie.”
Eddie’s hand flexes against Steve’s throat.
His eyes flick to Steve’s lips. They settle there, unbidden.
When Eddie’s eyes return to Steve’s, they’re wide, and complicated— full of everything and nothing, all at the same time. There’s a paleness to him, and Steve can’t help but feel a little cold when Eddie suddenly rolls off of Steve and onto his back. He keeps his gaze pointed firmly at the ceiling.
There’s a tightness in Steve’s chest, as Eddie mutters into the silence festering between them, “I think— I think we should go to sleep.”
“Okay.”
Did I do something wrong?
Did I do something wrong?
Did I do something—
Steve’s hand finds Eddie’s in the dark, pinkies bumping on the mattress. Steve links them, hesitant.
When he rolls his head to the side, he finds that Eddie’s got his eyes scrunched up tight, brows drawn together like he’s in pain, somehow.
His friend lets out a shaky sigh, before slipping his hand into Steve’s. His fingers are still cold, and his rings still bite, but there’s a softness to him, too.
Fragile.
Steve squeezes Eddie’s hand, hesitant.
Did I do something wrong?
Eddie squeezes back.
No. Thank you.
Steve breathes, “night, Eddie.”
Eddie squeezes his hand again.
Goodnight.