Archive of Our Own ^beta

Steve's just made captain of the basketball team. He's on cloud nine from the moment coach announces it. Tommy slaps him excitedly on the back in quick succession, whooping obnoxiously at the end of practice. He hops up on Steve's back and crows so loudly that a few people still lingering after school poke their heads into the gym.

Steve just ducks his head with a flush, grips the undersides of Tommy's legs and runs a quick tight circle around a few of the other players who are clapping and cheering. They are completely unbalanced and Steve has to drop them both to the wood floor soon after. Tommy quickly takes that in stride, pulling on Steve's shoulder until they're sat up.

"Hell yeah, Harrington!" Tommy's grin is infectious and Steve's smiling back just as wide. They're both sweaty and tired and Steve's just been made captain . "Party tonight?" Tommy asks.

Steve can already see the cogs in Tommy's head turning. Who he needs to hit up for a keg, for racks of beer and handles of liquor, for weed. Steve can tell he's already imagining the night spent with Carol in the guest bedroom. Steve laughs and shakes his head. It's a Friday at least.

"Sure, man," Steve agrees while standing up. He waves at some of the other boys that are heading for the showers. "Come over at eight?"

Tommy gives another whoop, slaps his hand into Steve's, and hauls himself up.

"I'll get Carol to start the call train." Tommy winks and that's that. Carol has the numbers for all the girls in the grade that matter, Steve and with girls comes other girls and the girls' boyfriends and those boyfriends' friends and soon Steve's whole house will be packed to the brim.

*

Steve gets home half an hour later. He's still dripping from the shower at the school, with sweatpants and a shirt on for now. He dumps all his gear and his backpack in his room. All the expensive collectibles end up in his parents' room, along with his dad's expensive whiskey and bourbon in the den. He locks both of those rooms up so no one will wander in during the party.

He puts on a pot of water to boil. There's a jar of pasta sauce he can spruce up and leftover bread to make garlic bread. It's nothing fancy, but Steve's browsed through some cook books in the past couple of years.

The phone is cool on his ear when he sets it in the crook of his shoulder. He's stirring in the pasta when his mom picks up.

"Harrington residence, Kathleen speaking," she says airily. Steve can already tell she's distracted. They're both in California, at the summer home Steve hasn't seen since he was eleven.

"Mom, it's me."

"Oh, Steve, baby," there's a shuffle on the line, the phone being moved from one ear to another. "How are you?"

"Coach made me captain." Even though she can't see him, Steve ducks his chin into his chest. He's feeling a mixture of pride and embarrassment.

His mom gasps prettily down the line. He can see her hand fly up to her mouth politely in his mind's eye. There's another muffle and a murmur of two voices. Steve assumes the other voice is his dad. He brings the pasta over to the sink where the colander is already sitting.

"That's great, baby!" She hesitates before asking, "For basketball?"

Steve's heart sinks a little. His vision kind of blurs at the edges and he holds back a sigh. 

"Yeah, for basketball," he responds, making sure to lilt his voice just enough so his mom won't notice. The pasta drains in a big splash, suctioning down the drain.

His mom tuts, "So proud of you! I knew you could do it."

He can't help the bitter thought of you didn't even know from flashing through his mind. Angrily, he dumps the pasta into the waiting sauce and stirs it around.

"Well, baby," his mom starts up without waiting for his reply. She's already began her apologetic tone. Steve can imagine her drawn in brows and the way she'd be clutching at her necklace. "Is that all?"

The bowl he pulls from the cabinet probably hits the counter too harshly. When he moves the phone between shoulders, he can't help but let it hang in his hands for a moment. Looks at the green glow of the buttons and wishes he knew what to say for once in his life. The receiver is warm against his other ear. The pasta plops into the bowl. 

"Yeah, mom, that's all. Talk to you soon?"

"Of course, baby," his mom replies, with a soft smile in her voice. She hangs up.

His spaghetti is good, even if he over cooked the garlic bread a little. 

*

There's music pounding from the living room. Streams of people began showing up shortly after ten and Steve's lost track of how many people he doesn't know. Sure, he recognizes most of them from other parties, but almost none of them are from Hawkins High School. It's nearing midnight now. There's a general hum of chatter and shouts and tapes scratching in and out of the sound system. Steve bets the cops will swing by soon for noise complaints. He already knows he'll get a cuff on the back of the head from Hopper and nothing more.

Something splashes in the backyard followed by a rowdy cheer. Steve rolls his eyes and shoves his way into the kitchen. A few guys from the basketball team slap him on the shoulders as he makes his way through. There's plastic cups abandoned everywhere, with cans of beer strewn about and handles of vodka and rum all cracked and partially empty. Someone had raided the pantry at some point. Chips crunch under his shoes. He'd learned after the first few parties that even if he thought it was weird to wear shoes in his own house, it was better in the long run.

He meets eyes with Tommy, who's got his arm flung around Carol's shoulder. She's pressed close and already red in the cheeks. She's a flirty drunk, but everyone knows she's only got eyes for Tommy. They're Fated, have been since second grade. 

You're kind of weird, said Tommy, age eight.

Your face is kind of weird , Carol had snarked back. And that trailed down the line of Tommy's jaw in a faded freckle brown color after that. Most days it stood right out against his skin, but in the summer it faded right into the tan Tommy was always able to get. Carol's curled around her wrist, grew with her and she covered it with loud plastic bangles. Neither were necessarily ashamed of their words, but everyone knew what it meant to be Early Fated: you were locked in for life. 

"Steve!" Tommy calls, waving with the hand around Carol's shoulder. 

Steve shoves further in. He gives a few smiling hellos to girls he doesn't know. There's a few more pats on his back too. 

Carol wraps a hand around one of Steve's. She grins up at him in a hazy kind of way. Steve winks at her; she winks back. Carol's also known to do this thing where she pretends to be more drunk than she is. Steve says known in a way that it's only known to him, Carol, and Tommy. She said once that Tommy loved it and she heard better gossip this way.

"Steve-o, you feelin' up to it?"

"To what?" Steve glances up from Carol to meet Tommy's gaze. He's swaying a little, but Steve'd guess he was fine. Another look at Carol proves she's not holding up his weight any. She squeezes his hand and then drops it.

Blindly, Tommy points to his right. A guy's sitting up on the counter, facing away from them both. He's got a black lunch box opened beside him. A few girls are giggling while he's seemingly telling them something interesting. 

Steve doesn't know him all that well, knows him in the way small town people know everyone, and he can at least recall the name Eddie Munson. A senior that's always lingered around parties selling. He flicks out a baggie and hands the girls two joints. Steve takes note of a skull ring and chipped black nail polish.

Steve shakes his head at Tommy, shoves his hands in his jean pockets. Tommy knows Steve well enough to just make a teasing face in return.

"Munson!" Tommy shouts above the music.

Dramatically, Munson curls his head to face Tommy. He's got a grin stretched around white teeth. His tongue pokes at a canine. His brown hair is a curtain around his face, cutting off at his chin.

"Hagan," he greets with a bow. Or as much as a bow he can accomplish while sitting. He stuffs cash from the girls into a zippered pouch.

"My usual," and it's not a question. Tommy's got an ego a mile wide. Munson just raises a brow and doesn't move. They all stand in awkward silence for a moment. Tommy gives Steve a shit-eating grin that makes Steve roll his eyes. Tommy can be such an asshole sometimes. 

When it becomes clear Tommy won't be saying please , Munson sighs and turns back to the lunch box to dig through it. 

Someone calls out to Carol from across the room. All four of them look up and see a hand waving above the crowd. Carol slips out with a kiss to Tommy's cheek. She whispers something gross in his ear that Steve's close enough to hear. Steve grimaces at it but Tommy just cackles.

"Voila," Munson states with a flourish. He's brandishing a baggie with a few things in it. Two small pills that Tommy and Carol will use later tonight and enough weed for the week. Tommy hands over the cash, gives a tip for coming to the party on short notice. Munson tips an invisible hat at him.

"What about you, King Steve?"

Suddenly those eyes are focused on Steve. They're brown and wide and teasing. Steve knows he's not in on the joke, but he's too distracted by a burning sensation under his right armpit to care. His heart double times at the feeling. Everything pulls away for a moment. Steve feels pinned by that gaze and he gives a brief flinch at the heat as the words form on his chest. 

Eddie Munson. 

Eddie fucking Munson.

Tommy slaps Steve on the shoulder enough to jar him out of it. His laugh is loud. Steve's suddenly glad Carol left. She would have noticed it in a heartbeat. Tommy is always happily ignorant of his surroundings. Steve crosses his arms, presses a palm into the warm spot under his shirt. He has to hold in another flinch at the raw pain that courses up through his armpit and down to his fingertips.

"Nah, Munson, Steve doesn't need anything!" And Tommy knows it's because weed makes Steve feel paranoid. Never had a good high in his life. Tommy jostles him a little until Steve gives a forced laugh, ducks his head.

Steve can't help but let his eyes stray across Munson though. He's already shrugged and turned to the next sale. Curly brown hair, pale skin, full lips. Black clothes, a shirt with a band Steve's never heard of, rings that Steve swears he can hear above the music. His breath is coming in short spikes. His vision is tunneling, focused somehow on the bats tattooed to Munson's forearm.

"Bathroom," Steve manages to whisper into Tommy's ear. His best friend nods, pats a hand to Steve's neck and lets him go.

*

Steve makes it to his bathroom upstairs in record time. Has the door closed in Samantha Price's face before she can say a word. Instead she pounds on the door with a whining Steve, I have to pee . Steve is in no state to care.

His arms feel long as he grips the neck of his shirt to yank it above his head. Something in the middle goes wrong and he's stuck flailing for a moment. He smacks into something, hears it clatter, but just pulls harder on the collar. With a deep breath, he's freed and looks at himself in the mirror. The perfect coiffed hair he'd done is now a whirl-winded mess. His cheeks are red and splotchy and he looks panicked.

The shirt soundlessly hits the floor. Steve raises his right arm up. His hands are shaking. Scratch that, his whole body is shaking. Everything feels out of body for a moment and Steve has to take a deep breath with his eyes closed to force himself back down.

When he opens his eyes and looks, it's to What about you, King Steve? in light brown chicken scratch text under his arm, nestled next to his pec. It's small, but there. Eddie fucking Munson. He's still shaking out of his skin. Steve traces the letters gently and feels a careful smile pulling at his lips. 

He doesn't feel any different than before. Feels exactly as sober and overwhelmed by people as he had before. Everyone spoke like everything changed in that instance. Steve wasn't naive, knew that Tommy and Carol weren't perfect just because they were Fated. 

It's warm though. They're his words . Apparently Munson's first words to Steve even after years' worth of parties. He's still vibrating out of his skin a little but he's Fated now. Munson's cool, Steve supposed. He must be if they share words. If they're going to share words once Steve talks to him. 

Steve could–he could see the appeal though. In Eddie Munson. Closes his eyes and pictures him again. The dark, goofy energy that Munson gives off. They could work on it together.

He traces the words one more time. There's an unconscious full smile on his face. 

Steve throws his shirt back on. His hand tangles its way through his hair to try and fix it. It only partially looks good.

Samantha stumbles in when Steve cracks the door back open. She looks up at him with watery eyes and a thankful smile.

"Steve, oh my gosh, thank you," she says with a sweetened voice. Her small hands push and tug him out of the bathroom. She slams it behind her. The lock clicks.

*

Steve's plan is pretty simple: find Munson, say something. It's two steps. He stops by the kitchen again, doesn't see him on the counter anymore. Doesn't see Tommy either, but does grab himself a soda while he's there. 

It's lukewarm but Steve's suddenly parched. He chugs the whole thing quickly while flowing with a crowd to the living room. Tommy and Carol are meandering up the stairs, Carol leading the way. She's smiling back at Tommy, is spinning the guest bedroom key around her finger. They both won't be seen until morning.

Munson's nowhere to be seen on the main floor and the only open space on the second floor is the bathroom. Steve takes his bets on going outside. The soda can gets set on a side table blindly.

He starts to head that way when Kyle Carver slaps him on the shoulder as he passes. Carver's a senior, his brother an incoming freshman. Steve hates the guy, but grins up at him anyway. 

"Congrats, Harrington," Carver says. His smile is all false cheer and too much alcohol. He'd been a shoo-in for captain this year. By the unsteady stance he's taking and the slurring of his words, he's absolutely sloshed.

"Thanks, man," Steve replies before slipping from his grasp. Last thing he needs is to get punched in his own living room by someone too drunk to even remember it. He lets himself get taken over by a group heading out to the pool. "See you around."

Carver just nods, gaze somehow both glazed and hyper focused on Steve.

*

It's chilly on the patio despite the body count. There's people naked and mostly naked in the pool, making out on fold out recliners, and dancing drunkenly with each other. There's a haze of smoke and a sweet smell of weed coming from near the shed in the back corner. Steve can't help but sigh and put his hands on his hips when he notices the dozens of empty beer cans floating in the pool. Watches as a guy who's busy worming his way into a girl's throat just lets go of a glass so it sinks to the bottom of the pool with a clunk. Steve doesn't know either of them.

He spots Munson by the shed, leaning against the right side. He's smoking. There's rings of smoke leaving his mouth before he turns to the person next to him slightly out of view. Steve thinks he shares math with him though, maybe even has a locker close by.

Steve starts making his way around the left side of the pool. It's easier and there's less people. Liza Kane flutters her eyelashes at him when he goes by, whispers a soft congratulations to him. She's drying off her hair and is surrounded by her friends. Steve just gives her a friendly smile, takes in her wet hair and lace bra, before continuing on his way. There's a hey printed on her collarbone.

Munson's right there, Steve can hear his laugh wheeze out of him. From around the corner of the shed, he sees smoke puff out and hand gestures wildly out. It's three rings shining and a half dead joint.

"–that's what I'm saying, man!" And that's for sure Munson. The hand poking out recedes. Smoke floats up again.

"That is not what you're saying, Munson," says the other boy. His voice is high pitched, cracks on a word. He coughs violently and seems to take another hit.

"Okay, maybe not," here Steve leans on the front of the shed. He doesn't want to eavesdrop, but Carol sometimes rubs off on him. Gossip is gossip. "But I just can't see it for myself."

There's a lull of silence where neither boy says anything. Steve's pulling his hands from his pockets and pushing off from the shed when the other boy quietly speaks again.

"You can't see being Fated?" He says it like it's a secret. And while being Fated isn't everything–can't be–it's something everyone hopes for.

Except apparently Eddie Munson.

"Like right now? No fucking way." There's a grinding of the joint butt being ground into the gravel below. Steve leans back in the shed. He crosses his arms and the words are still warm under his left hand.

"What do you mean right now, man? You're eighteen, when else?"

"When I'm maybe not failing Mrs. O'Donnell's?" Munson laughs, hollowly. "Fuck, I don't know, maybe never?"

"Don't say never, Eddie," the other boy says harshly.

"Sure, sure," Munson concedes, "maybe–I don't–" there's a click of a lighter kicking on, slamming shut again right after, "maybe not in fucking Hawkins."

Steve creeps back the way he came. And it's not like he can fault Munson, but that doesn't help the dull feeling that's growing in his chest. Somehow he makes his way back to the kitchen. There's a cracked fifth of rum calling his name. Steve takes a pull directly from the mouth of it. It's vanilla-y and sharp going down. He grimaces and vows to try to forget the rest of the night.

*

Steve never says anything. To anyone. He makes a point to avoid Munson for the rest of the year. It's not difficult; he's been avoiding him for at least a year without realizing it before this. Doesn't stop him from looking though. There's no rules against it. He’s making the rules anyway. 

Eddie's hard to ignore and Steve honestly doesn't think he'd be able to if he tried. Munson is wild energy, uncontrolled limbs, and cruel smiles when he catches Steve watching. He's bright, makes friends easily it seems, with a band of boys always pounding the lunch room tables when he goes on a rampage. Steve likes him. So easily now that he's looking. 

Steve likes the curly hair, and the wide brown eyes, and the full lips that smile so unashamedly. Munson has dimples, like parentheses that frame his mouth when he's happy. 

He sometimes imagines how it would feel to be in Munson's orbit. Sometimes imagines where his words would be. Hopes they'd curl along Munson's cheek bone where Steve could brush his thumb so easily. Or in the junction between his neck and shoulder, a place where Steve could drop kisses. Or along the curve of his hip, where Steve's palm could settle.

None of it matters because Steve never says anything.

*

Another year goes by like that. Steve's a senior now, and Munson's a senior again. It's harder now, to fully avoid him. They share a few classes. Steve even lets himself sit near the other boy. 

A summer apart hadn't really helped Steve all that much. Parties at the quarry, movies with Tommy and Carol, the county fair, the pool. Steve had to be careful. He'd kept a shirt on all summer. Tommy gave him shit for it, joked that the beer must be getting to him. Steve let him think whatever he wanted. Through all of it, he never saw Munson, but he thought about him all the time. Thought about if he'd like that movie, if he would let Steve win him a prize, would be his partner in chicken. Steve would shake himself out of it everytime.

And worse yet, none of it helped. The moment Steve saw him again for the new school year, he had to look away. Munson's hair was longer, he had a tan from the summer sun, he was tackling the boy from the shed and giving him a noogie. Steve's chest felt tight and his words were warm.

The school year went on like that. There were parties at Steve's, Tommy still bought weed from Munson, Steve was titled captain of the basketball team again. Tommy throws another party for it this time too. It's in the woods instead, somewhere out near farmland. Steve thinks Carol's uncle owns it. It's fun and Steve loses himself in it for a while. Drinks too much and even smokes a little. It's good shit, for once it doesn't make Steve curl up behind a tree and zone out in a panic. Munson's always there, near the flickering light of the bonfire, hidden away in a kitchen, but Steve doesn't mean anything to him so they still never talk.

Steve starts dating Nancy Wheeler. She's beautiful, with her wispy brown hair and her dainty figure. She's also wicked smart and Steve isn't really sure how he managed to get her attention. She's not a distraction, Steve tells himself when he doubts their relationship. Not a replacement for what Steve can't have. Nancy's her own person and so is Steve.

They never talk about being Fated. Nancy doesn't have her words yet and Steve never mentions his. They work, for a while anyway. Steve falls in love with her, Barb dies, Steve has his heart broken by her, he becomes friends with Nancy somewhere in the middle.

*

Munson comes to school with a split lip and a busted right eye sometime in November. There's a scab in his brow and he's still smiling somehow. Steve sees red when the other boy waltzes into the cafeteria that afternoon. His words burn and he grits his teeth against the pain. A breath rattles through him and he forces his eyes back to the table. Nancy and Jonathan are comparing history notes. The pizza he grabbed is no longer sitting well in his stomach.

"What happened to Munson?" he manages to say after a few deep breaths. It comes out passive and nonchalant.

"You know Munson?" Jonathan asks without looking up from where Nancy is pointing somewhere in the textbook.

Steve shrugs anyway. He picks a pepperoni off and flicks it onto his plate. 

"From parties and stuff."

"Carver got him apparently." Jonathan finally looks at Steve. He doesn't really know what kind of face he's making, but Jonathan eyes are taking it in. Jonathan always looks at people so closely. He almost reminds Steve of Carol in that way. Where Carol was doing it to gain a step up on someone, Jonathan does it because he can't help not.

"Kyle?" He'd graduated already, but there'd been a party at his place this past weekend while he'd been home from college. Munson would've been called in for weed probably. 

Jonathan shrugs, eyes Steve assessingly. Steve keeps his face neutral, doesn't let his hand stray to his side like it wants. Nancy's just looking between them. She turns in her seat to stare off at Munson. He's nodding along enthusiastically to someone, scooping orange jello from a cup.

"Why?" Jonathan asks.

With a blink down at his pizza, Steve lifts a shoulder. He picks at another greasy pepperoni. One thing about Jonathan is he doesn't pry. After a few moments they go back to studying.

Steve can't help but look back at Munson again. Takes in the dark smudges under his eyes and the stark blue and black shiner on his right eye. It's as if the other boy has a sixth sense because he looks up. Their eyes meet for just a second before Steve looks down. A heat blossoms on the back of his neck, trails somewhere behind his ribs, settles into his words. Steve shoves his tray to the center of the table and crosses his arms on it so he can lean forward to lay his forehead on his wrists.

When he sighs it fogs up the tabletop.

*

Steve's not actively looking for Kyle Carver when he finds him a few days later. He's just running laps near the quarry. There's trails through the woods that loop around it, avoiding the fence line and the steep drop.

But he's there, car parked off of the path a little. Music is coming from the rolled down windows and he's lounging on the hood. It's a warm day for November. He's in cargo shorts and a plain blue shirt.

Steve doesn't really think about it much. He just approaches the older boy, sees him turn over at the sound of Steve's sneakers crunching on dirt and dry leaves. He grins wide when he sees it's just Steve. 

"Harrington, hey," he says, raising himself up to his elbows.

Steve doesn't even say anything in return, just punches down into Carver's jaw. It drops him back onto the car, his head reverbing dully into the windshield.

"Fuck!" Carver shouts. A hand flies up to his face, dancing over the blood dripping from his nose. "What the fuck, Harrington?" He slides from the hood so that he's standing, slightly bowed so the blood is falling to the ground. 

Steve doesn't respond, makes a fist and settles it into Carver's stomach. All the air flies out of him in a gasp. Steve feels out of control. Carver pedals backwards with the force of the hit. He smacks back into the car. Spits blood to the ground.

Next thing Steve knows he's got a fist flying towards his face. It hurts, in a flashing and empty kind of way. 

And they meet punch for punch after that. It's all a little hazy for Steve afterwards. He remembers taking another hit to the same eye. Remembers how tight his lungs felt, thinks maybe he took a few to the ribs. He remembers knocking Carver to the ground near the end, rolling around briefly, a rock settling in a knot on his back. Twisting enough to flip them over before socking a few more into Carver's face. 

Carver can hardly stand once Steve's off of him. He's blurry eyed and wobbling from side to side. Steve feels kind of the same, but there's something low in his stomach that burns. Something bitter and ugly and unfamiliar. It leaves Steve with enough energy to shove at Carver's shoulders instead of another punch. 

Carver falls like a bag of bricks after that. Breath wheezes out him when he makes contact with the ground. Steve's tempted to leave him like that, without knowing why , but he can't. He can't just let him get away with it. That gross thing is his chest won't let him walk away just yet. 

A groan sounds when Steve hauls Carver's chest up by his collar. His head lulls to the left on an unsteady neck. Steve's panting and there's blood dripping down into his eye. It stings. 

Steve leans down into Carver's space, gets close enough to smell the sweat on him. 

"If you ever–" Steve's never heard that tone come out of his body before. It's low and slow and disembodied. "– ever touch him again–" He hardly even sounds like himself. Carver whimpers softly. "–I'll fucking kill you."

Steve drops him back down to the ground. He stands at his full height. Looks down at Carver's wrecked face and dirty shirt. Feels how his own hair is damp with sweat and loose around his face now. He feels dangerous, doesn't recognize this person. He'll never be this person again if he can help it. Carver can barely open his eyes, but Steve knows he's looking.

"They'd never find you."

Steve leaves him there.

*

Steve goes into school the next day with a disgusting bruise blossoming on his cheek and eye. There's more under the polo he picks out and it hurts to breathe. He still does his hair, drives to school blaring music, and acts like nothing happened. He's in English class, where he sits closest to Eddie. Nancy bundles in a few minutes before the bell. She sits closer to the front than Steve, but stops by in a flurry today. She's not even looking at him fully yet. She's pulling out the assignment due today, shoves all her books on Steve's desk when they become a hindrance.

"Did you hear?" is how she starts.

Steve shuffles all her stuff back together for her. He leans carefully on his hand, propped on the desk. "Hear what?"

"About Kyle–" and that's when she finally looks up at him. She double takes immediately. Blinks a few times at his face before her brows dip in confusion. Steve can see the dots connecting in her head. Can tell that she can't seem to find Steve's motive for it though when her mouth opens and closes a few times.

"No," Steve says and it’s not really a lie, because he hasn’t, "haven't heard."

"Right," she extends. Steve sees her eyes glance up at Munson. When he follows her gaze, it's to brown eyes staring back at him. They trace over Steve's busted eye. Munson's curled carefully into his own shoulder to look at them, only his eyes visible with the curtain of his curly brown hair fanning around his face. The split to his brow is scabbed and smaller than it was a few days ago. Steve's gut twists and his words warm. He crosses his arms so he can press his palm to them. Munson tracks the movement silently. "Right," Nancy draws out one more time.

"Something happen to him?" Steve continues. He blinks back up at Nancy. She stares over at Munson for a moment longer. Shaking her head, she pierces her lips.

"Someone really messed him up, apparently," she tones up someone . Steve hums in false sympathy.

"That's fucked," he responds. Tilts his head so the scratches along his jaw from Carver's class ring are visible. 

The bell rings before Nancy can say anything else. She huffs, glares down at Steve in confusion and disappointment, turns and flounces back to her seat. 

Steve leans back on his palm with a sigh of his own. He rubs a knuckle into his good eye and tries to not feel Munson's eyes on him all period.

*

For a long time Steve doesn't even have time to think about Munson. He honestly doesn't think of much outside of surviving, saving the kids, how bad of a trip he has on Russian truth serum.

The best thing to come out of working at Scoops, getting tortured, and feeling slightly out of his mind, is Robin Buckley becoming his best friend. She's familiar in a way that only shared trauma can make someone. She's sticky ice cream filled days and laughter from mile-wide smiles and a confession in a bathroom stall in the women's restroom at Starcourt fucking Mall.

Steve regrets not telling her about his words almost immediately after they leave the bathroom. In a dazy high that quickly changed to a dropping crash that left him puking more acid up at home. 

He promises himself that he'll tell her. Soon. Wants her to know about Munson. Who he is to Steve. Desperately Steve wants to tell someone, have someone that just knows . She already knows everything there is to know about Steve, what's knowing his words after all that? 

Except she has to go back to school for her senior year. The world keeps spinning around everyone. Steve works at Family Video for solo shifts for the next year. He keeps avoiding Eddie Munson and the other boy never notices because Steve Harrington means nothing to Eddie Munson.

Not yet, Steve will tell himself after a shower, when he's wiped away the steam from the mirror and is tracing his words until they're warm. 

*

"Wake up, dingus, we're late!" comes Robin's groggy but panicked voice. Steve's shoulder is punched and with a great breath he shoots up in bed. All the blankets pool around his waist. Robin stands at the edge of his bed. Her hair is messy, eyeliner from yesterday, and clothes–that's Steve's shirt.

"That's my shirt," he states while scratching at his stomach underneath his sleep shirt.

" Our shirt, Steve, now get up!" she plucks up something from a laundry basket at the end. It smacks into Steve's face and she walks out his bedroom door.

Robin got into State easily. Her grades were good with a year full of homework while Steve worked until close, had Steve pick her up and drop her off for band, slept over to cram with Nancy while Steve played host. She'd stressed enough for Steve's sake that she hadn't even had time to stress for herself. Steve got by with a work scholarship. His grades were iffy, but what's a little recommendation from the Sheriff to help things move along? He's not ashamed of it. It felt better than paying his way in any way. And Robin had practically cried with joy when Steve appeared at her door at six in the morning on a Saturday to tell her.

Now here they were, a few cities over from Hawkins, a year and some change deep into college, and living together in a semi-shitty apartment off campus. Steve hasn't been so happy before in his life.

Robin makes it to class on time and Steve slides into work five minutes late. The only person there to care is Mary, who's chronically nice and tired in one fell swoop. She's blinking tiredly up at a girl attempting to check out way too many reference books at one time.

"Morning, Mary," Steve says before swinging through to the back office. He slides into the chair next to Mary moments later. The computer wheezes and beeps as it boots up. The girl is still there.

"–but I need them all," she says with a petulant tone. From the looks of her and the books, she's a math major.

"You'll have to remove at least one," Mary responds reasonably. 

"The bottom one isn't an approved reference text," Steve pipes in after glancing at the titles. He's bad at reading, the words swirling before his eyes most of the time, but working the desk has taught him a thing or two. Like how many times people come back complaining that the library carries unapproved references . Like how many times it takes to explain to them they're just a library not a research library.

"Oh," and when she glances over Steve he sees her take all of him in. Watches as she goes from understandably frustrated to flirty in a moment. And Steve looks different from high school. He'd chopped his hair their freshman year. It's short on the sides, still long enough on top to make a facsimile of his high school style. He got glasses a few months ago after Robin pressured him to go to the doctor. They're slightly rounded, thick brown frames, and Steve hasn't gotten a migraine in the months since getting them. He's even ditched polos for button downs and sweaters and plain cotton t-shirts. Robin calls him Academic Steve. She's not entirely wrong. 

He doesn't say anything else, instead turns back to the computer and kicks off the library software. 

"Okay," the girl says with slight disappointment, "I'll get rid of this one."

That's how Mary and Steve's day goes. He has no classes on Mondays, by his design, and Robin works with him Tuesday and Thursday. He does some homework. He even has time to catch up on reading halfway through the day when they lull. It's slow going and he even leans over to Mary once or twice to ask about words he doesn't know. She's an English major. Whenever they both don't know a word, Mary pulls out the huge dictionary they keep behind the desk. Steve wouldn't call them friends, but he likes Mary well enough.

"Do you wanna do the restacking?" Mary says around a yawn after three. 

So Steve combines all the returned and misplaced books onto one cart and sets out. It probably takes an hour, easing up on the night shift switch. First he goes to the deep stacks, drops off a few crumbling books to Mrs. Taylor who manages the old books and refuses to get a computer set up. Next he goes up to the second floor, piling file after file back onto shelves. Research binders slide back into their spots easily. There's students everywhere. All the study rooms are full of group project people. Steve's seen all types of notes written on the blackboards throughout the library.

He saves the main floor for last, likes to look at the fiction titles to see if any sound interesting. He pulls out two he thinks Robin would enjoy. They're thin books on summer nights and glimpses into grief. He pulls out another for himself. A broken spined horror novel, the easiest genre for him to read.

Steve's rounding back to the front. He accidentally grabbed the cart with the wonky wheel. It shudders its way down the aisle from the elevator. 

Mary's got a small line in front of her, but that's entirely her own fault. Steve shakes his head when she rubs her eyes sleepily. It takes Steve a minute to recognize the person she's talking with.

He abandons the cart at the mouth of the aisle and sinks down behind it so he's hidden from view. Steve's heart is beating out of his chest. Both of his hands form fists where it pounds away. From where he's hidden, he can just see the mass of brunet hair haloing him. It's been just over a year since Steve's so much as seen him. Munson looks exactly the same. He's in dark jeans, heavy chain wrapping from a belt loop back to his wallet, a vest with an array of patches littering his back. He's still long limbs and a thin waist. When he turns to leave, a book in hand, Steve absorbs as much of his profile as he can. Piercings drag up his ear, one looping from his nose. He's fucking beautiful. Steve's words burn for the first time in over a year. He rubs his palm along them and watches Munson make his way out the double doors. It's as easy to like him now as it was then. So easy to drop right back into that feeling.

Steve groans and has to shove the heels of his palms into his eyes. Everything is a muddled mix of pink and red and yellow and black. It takes him an extra ten minutes before he can make his body move again. Mary doesn't say anything, just smiles over at him when he slides back into his chair.

"The Talisman?" Mary asks in between clearing the line.

Steve shrugs. "You know me." The next person in line is panting when they smack a book on the counter to add more days or something please . Steve does just that, sees a football player with a communications major staring back at him now.

Mary laughs softly, points a student over to where the stairs leading downstairs are. "Tell me how it ends?"

Steve checks out all three of the books he collected under his name. The line's gone and he nods over to Mary. She grins over at him, blinking slowly like a tired cat.

*

Steve's in the car waiting for Robin's final class to get out. She's terrible though, Robin, and Steve knows she's walked the professor back to their office, talking their ear off about whatever it was they taught in class that day. She's fifteen minutes late.

The radio's down low, but it feels loud to Steve's pacing mind. He'd meant to tell Robin ages ago. He's remembering the mall bathroom and the stinging along his face, along with his everything. He's remembering how the world felt sideways for hours afterwards. Robin's laughter, her quiet voice, and panicked expression. 

Steve rubs his hand along his jaw and mouth. His other hand hasn't left his mark since climbing into the car. There's a desperation clawing at his throat to see it. A need to prove that it's still there. Munson's words on his side. A comfort in Steve's own panicked state. He's here . Munson's here . 

"Smith fucking blows," Robin says while slamming her way into the Beemer. Steve startles, hand reflexively going to turn the radio down even lower. Robin doesn't seem to notice. Instead chucks her sidebag into the backseat, continuing, "My essay was good. I know it, he knows it, like what crawled up his ass and died?" She flips the mirror down to pick something invisible out of her teeth.

When Steve doesn't respond and doesn't start driving home, she turns to him with her brows drawn low. Something weird must be happening on Steve's face. Robin seems to be copying it on her own face.

"Steve?" she asks quietly.

"I–" he can't really find the words. Steve remembers a time somewhere in the middle of their freshman year when Robin had used that same quiet voice, drunk but not drunk , to whisper to Steve. They had shared a bed that night like they did when the nightmares were really bad. She'd sniffled loudly in the dark, her face pressed to his neck. 

I don't have my words yet , she'd admitted. 

That's okay , Steve had said back just as softly.

What if I don't–

You will , and maybe Steve had been too firm because she'd burrowed somewhere under his skin at that. You will, Rob, don't you dare doubt that.

Her hair had tickled his nose when she nodded into him. Her arms had tightened and she hadn't asked about Steve's words but Steve still could have said something. Should have said something. 

Her tone now is just like then.

"I got my words," he says, staring right into her wide blue eyes.

She doesn't say anything. Robin has a sixth sense when it comes to knowing when Steve just needs someone to listen. 

"I've had my words," Steve corrects, "since junior year of high school." Robin's eyes grow impossibly wider. "They–" Steve blinks to himself, turns and stares at his hand on the wheel instead. The one on his words grips his button down tightly. Robin's gaze drops to where it's settled before flashing back up to his face. He's not really sure why he feels like he wants to cry. "I never said anything." His thumbnail digs into the seam of the wheel. "Back then, I mean. They don't–" he swallows loudly. "He doesn't have my words yet."

Steve goes quiet. Robin, when Steve slides his eyes over to her, is staring out the windshield. She's nodding to herself slowly, tilts it to one side after a while.

"Okay," she settles on. "Okay," she repeats, as if to convince herself. Suddenly Steve has an armload of Robin Buckley. Thin arms twine around his shoulders and pull tight while her legs climb awkwardly across the center console. She's settled in Steve's lap, pressing his face to her shoulder. Tears overflow, but only a few. He winds both of his arms around her waist.

"Who?" because now Robin's flipped to nosy. Scrunched between Steve and the steering wheel, her cheek pressed to the top of Steve's head. Steve sighs and leans back out of Robin's arms a little. She's heavy in his lap. He doesn't tell her to move. "Who, Steve? You're killing me here."

"Munson," Steve says for the first time out loud. He takes it one step further, "Eddie Munson."

"No fucking way," Steve knows that Munson had been held back another year after their shared senior year. Robin shared her senior year with him too. "Eddie?"

"Yeah–" Steve swallows. "Eddie."

"Can I see?" 

It's rude to ask, damn near taboo, but him and Robin are basically one person at this point. They share a closet, share beds, share all their meals together. Steve's just as much Robin and she is Steve. So Steve pulls up the side of shirt, shifts enough so that Robin's not in the way. It's awkward but neither of them are saying anything. His words are warm when his hands brush against them for the first time without the shirt in the way. His hands are shaking. Robin's eyes are so so blue. Her hand ghosts over them, chipped nail polish and thin rings. She knows not to touch.

"You didn't say anything?"

What about you, King Steve?

It's a question and those usually have answers. Steve shrugs, because no, he hadn't said anything.

Robin takes that in stride, lets Steve drop his shirt before saying, "So what's the plan?"

*

The plan is to keep doing what he's been doing. Because now the ball is in Eddie's court. Steve's followed what Eddie wanted: he's not failing English and he's not in Hawkins. Whatever happens, happens. Steve won't force it and he also won't avoid it. So he's not at all doing what he's done before. Now there's a hum of anticipation in his blood. He doesn't stop himself from the comfort of putting a palm to his words now.

He reads The Talisman. He goes to class and finishes assignments and talks to Mary about The Talisman. When he asks her what avaricious means, they hunch over the dictionary together.

Time moves weirdly for Steve for a while. He sees Eddie a few times after that. 

Once on his way to a group project meet up on the west side of campus. There's a coffee shop there that Kelly from the English track prefers to collaborate in. Steve kind of doesn't like her, but he's pretty sure the feeling is mutual.

Eddie's sitting on the quad in the center of campus. There's a few people with him, one that Steve swears is the boy from the shed. The sun is dim, fighting the clouds above them. Something happens, though, when Steve sees him. The clouds break, Eddie's throwing his head back on a laugh, and the sun shines right on him. He's pale skin. He's a halo of glowing brown hair. He's cutoff jeans and a black shirt with a jean jacket overtop. All the new piercings Eddie has flashing gold in the sun. Steve's words are warm underneath the sweater he'd picked out for the day. It's knit and soft and reminds him of El somehow. It's Robin's, and since it's Robin's, it's Steve's. Steve's hands are gripping the straps to his backpack and he grinds his knuckles into his words carefully. Steve ducks his head and keeps walking. 

The second time is a closer call. Steve's working the desk with Robin. It's always a fast day when they're together. Steve's on a short shift, with class starting at one. He's finished a long-winded essay on child psychology and is working through a walk through of geometry for his math course for tomorrow. Robin's raving about one of the books Steve pulled out for her last time.

Raving might be the wrong word, "It's not that I didn't like it, Steve." The book is thin and floppy in her hands as she flings it onto the counter. 

"You can't blame me," Steve laughs while checking it back in for her. She scoffs but Steve cuts her off, "You told me sad and short , Robin, with trauma, Steve ," he mocks in her exasperated tone.

"Don't quote me to prove your rightness, dingus. It gives me the heebie jeebies." Her shoulders shudder dramatically. And then it's noon and with that comes a rush. They don't say anything real for the next twenty minutes. The line winds down the counter to the door. It's filled with returns, checkouts, recheckouts, questions, lost students and more.

Steve lets his mind go blank to work through it. They go through like that for another half an hour. He's scanning Frankenstein and a biography on Mary Shelley when he senses Robin tense up beside him. It's subtle. Steve knows that no one else would notice. It's in her idiosyncrasies. The way she's no longer tapping her foot beneath the counter. The way her chair swivels to a stop. How she slows her pace minutely and her tone of voice raises a bit. 

Steve hands the books back over to the girl waiting in his line. She smiles shyly at him, but Steve just says, "Due back in two weeks," with a customer service smile. The next person, Ceci from stats, in his line hands him a research binder.

"–currently checked out until next week, but I can reserve it for you after?" Robin asks in his periphery.

"That'd be great, thanks," the person she's helping replies. Steve feels himself tense up as well. He can't help his gaze from flitting over to him. Eddie's looking down at a slip of paper, head tilted while Robin types away on her computer. Him and Robin meet eyes. Her blue eyes widen and her shoulders roll like, are you going to say anything? 

Steve turns back to Ceci instead, says, "Due back next Monday. See you in stats tomorrow, Ceci."

"Bye, Steve!" she replies with a mouthful of braces. The binder gets tucked into her backpack and she leaves the line. When his eyes slide back over to Eddie, he's looking right at him. Brown eyes squinting in confusion, like he's trying to pick Steve out from a crowd. Steve's not entirely sure there's any recognition there. So Steve clears his throat awkwardly. His hand pushes his glasses up before trailing up to run through his hair. 

The next person in line complains to him first about the wait time, then about how his book has been out for two days, and by the time Steve looks back at where Eddie was standing, he's gone.

*

Steve's feeling good though, through all the ups and downs of seeing Eddie. He sees him almost every day now. There's something that he'd heard once about how all it takes is one incident before you start to see something everywhere. Like Erica Sinclair. One minute she didn't exist to Steve, the next she helped them burn down the Starcourt Mall. The next moment after that she's calling Steve once a month to complain about high school and Lucas and Dustin.

That's how it is with Eddie after that point. He's across the dining hall. He's loitering outside of the science building, smoking. He's blurry eyed and studying during Steve's night shift on Friday. Steve soaks it all in. Is instantly seventeen and in love with this boy again. Or right on the verge of loving him. Steve hadn't really been sure about the details before the Upside Down started becoming a problem. But he knows the shape of Eddie's lips, where all his new piercings were, likes how Eddie's started throwing his hair up into a messy knot at the top of his crown. Steve's a mixture of miserable and hopeful everyday. Is waiting for every moment to be the moment.

It all comes to head on a Wednesday afternoon weeks later. Steve's already finished his morning class. The presentation with Kelly went resoundingly fine and the weather was still holding up for early November. It's chilly and Steve had prepped chili in the crockpot back at the apartment. So far the day was in the books as a good one.

It continued to be good when he got to work, where Mary had called out sick for the day. Which wasn't necessarily a good thing, but Steve was glad to have an excuse to work on a lab report due the next day. He pulls out the lab notes and a calculator. The math portion was Steve's weakness, one he's been working to overcome for the past two years. The only way to become a middle school math teacher is to learn math himself. It's been a long process. His tutor Ian thinks he's really improving.

Steve's nearly done, is punching in a final number before he can officially start the essay portion, when someone clears their throat.

Steve pushes up his glasses and runs a quick hand through his hair. He thinks briefly that it needs to be cut soon. He glances up to Eddie standing nervously on the other side of the desk. Steve feels his throat close up and a flash of heat soar through his entire body from head to toe. It hums in his words, settles and pulsates. It takes almost too much effort to not let his hands fly to them. Instead he sits there silently, not sure what to say. Not entirely sure he could say it if he knew.

"Hey–" Eddie says after another moment. His eyes flick around behind Steve as if to search for someone else to talk with. When he sees no one, "I'm here to pick up a book? A–" he shoves a hand through his curly hair. There's rings that catch and shine in the fluorescent lighting of the library. A tooth pokes out to pull a lip piercing into his mouth. It's white and quick and Steve's heart is palpitating off beat. Eddie shifts on his feet. "Reserved book? Robin helped me a few weeks ago?"

Steve's frozen solid. The pencil in his hand is creaking. He hasn't felt this out of body since he got tortured by Russians. Or maybe when he got his words in the first place. He wishes desperately that Robin were here. Eddie's eyes are so brown and so confused. And Steve can't say anything . Eddie shifts again.

"I'm Eddie?" he tries, lilting his voice up like a question. Something in that snaps Steve out of it. He blinks rapidly and looks back down at his assignment. The pencil squeaks as he writes the final number down. He slowly shuffles the papers together. "Munson?" Eddie says again. Steve glances up, places his pencil down, he continues, "Eddie Munson?"

"Yeah," Steve manages quietly. He rises up from the desk and continues, "I know who you are, Eddie." He turns bodily away, moving to where the reserved books are stored. His hands are shaking. What about you, King Steve? is echoing across his brain. When he knows that Eddie can't see him, enclosed by rattling metal cabinet doors, Steve presses a palm to his words. He ducks his head and smiles because he said them. He said them. His reciprocating words.

Steve collects Eddie's book, a thick book on eighteenth century medicinal plants, before locking the cabinet back up. When he turns back to the counter, Eddie's gone.

*

The drive home afterward is a complete blur. Steve recalls the radio playing too loudly in his peripheral. He recalls stopping at a red light for too long. A car honking behind him jolting him enough to move the vehicle forward through the now green light.

It’s not until he’s parked in front of the apartment complex that he’s himself again. His thumbnail aches where it was pressed into the steering wheel. There’s wet patches on his button down from the tears that have been trailing down his cheeks. Steve didn’t even notice he was crying. The streetlight overhead flickers like it always does.

“Steve?” Robin says from the couch in that soft voice. Steve sees flashes of the car a few weeks ago. Flashes of that night sharing a bed over a year ago.

“Robbie,” Steve whispers desperately back. And Robin knows Steve because she is Steve and Steve is Robin. She pulls him into the couch and tucks his face into her shoulder. They bury themselves in all of their throw blankets. The questions will come later, tomorrow maybe. Robin is too nosy to let them go unasked for very long. Steve doesn’t cry anymore, but his breaths are uneven. There’s a talk show on TV to fill the silence. 

They stay there together for hours before moving to Robin’s bed. Her blankets are flannel and heavy and too warm. Steve sweats. He doesn’t move from where he’s curled around Robin’s back though. Her hand trails up and down his arm in comfort. His words pound along his ribs. It hurts worse than it ever has. The words ache like a lost limb. Steve thinks he could trace them out from the heat alone and his breath is heavy in the silence of the room. It’s rejection. Steve knows it; Robin knows it.

It takes a long time before they both fall asleep.

*

It takes Robin whispering to him during a rush a week later to realize that Eddie hasn’t come into the library since.

“He hasn’t been in again?” she asks. Her head doesn’t turn, still looking down at her computer when Steve looks at her. The student she’s working with sighs impatiently. Steve knows the question was meant for him.

“No,” Steve replies. The economics major he’s working with gives him a questioning face that Steve just shakes his head at. He takes his books with a quiet thank you. 

“Hi Steve!” Ceci says, stepping up to Robin.

“That’s kind of weird, huh?” Robin says, scanning out Ceci’s research binders. Steve’s scanning through a stack of music theory textbooks. 

“Bye, Ceci!” Steve calls out as she winds back out of the line. She waves back with a smile. “Considering?” Steve replies a few minutes later after picking up copies from the printer. They’re stapled and still warm. The professor picking them up smiles too meaningfully down at Steve. He pushes up his glasses with his best customer service smile, “Have a great day, Mrs. Johnson.” 

Robin sticks her tongue out at the back of Mrs. Johnson’s head and says, “That he still has a reserved book to pick up?” There’s a lull enough for her to spin Steve’s chair so they’re facing one another. She hovers over him, arms braced on the armrests of his chair. Her eyes pierce into his with an earnest color of blue. She’s wearing one of his ties and an overly large gray blazer from a secondhand shop. The shoulder pads encase her body enough that she’s taking up Steve’s entire sight.

“He’s avoiding me, Rob, that’s all it is,” Steve whispers back, wrapping both of her hands in his. There’s a stone in his throat that hasn’t left. His words have been blisteringly hot for days. He blinks hard and presses his forehead into Robin’s gently. He shrugs but he’s not sure if she sees it. Her eyes are flicking back and forth between his own. They’re wide and scared and Steve can hear her saying What if I don’t get my words, Steve? so clearly in his mind. 

“You don’t know that,” Robin settles on before pressing her forehead painfully into his in retaliation. The chair creaks when she rights herself. Her hands slip out from underneath his. Steve sighs, turning back to his own computer. 

She’s right; Steve knows she’s right. That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

A throat clears. When Steve glances up, it’s to see the boy from the shed, from the locker a few down from his in high school. He’s not as boyish anymore. His hair’s been cropped short, a tattoo crawling up his neck, and a ring in his eyebrow. Steve recognizes him immediately.

“Gareth, hey, man,” he says before thinking, voice as level and nonchalant as he can manage.

Gareth’s eyebrows fly up at that. He glances back and forth between Steve and Robin for a moment. Clears his throat awkwardly, shuffles on his feet, and readjusts his shoulder bag. A red flush steals across his entire face.

“Buckley,” and his voice isn’t as crackly as it had been in high school, “Harrington.”

The nod he gives to Steve is paired with a questioning look. His eyes flicker across Steve’s cropped hair and chocolate brown sweater. Beside him, Robin shifts minutely. It’s subtle, unnoticeable to anyone else. It’s reminiscent of messing with Dustin, of convincing Mike of a total lie, of Robin with her mother. There’s an edge to it now. The corners of her elbows shove her keyboard up out of the way.

“What can we do you for, Anderson?” Robin says in the tense silence. Her voice is innocent and her most obvious tell when secretly angry. Her head tilts so her hair spills along her shoulder. Steve almost pities Gareth. “Another book on nineteenth century anatomy? How about medieval chemistry? Oh,” and here she snaps her fingers. “I know what he’s here for. Any guesses, Steve?”

There's a grin on Robin’s face, lips stretched to one side and eyes furious in the fluorescents. Steve feels an unsettling warmth grow in his stomach. It feels like punching Kyle Carver in the face. Not knowing who he was during or after. The unrecognizable aspects of himself reflected into Robin.

Robin doesn’t wait for him to reply, continues, “You wouldn’t be looking for a book on eighteenth century medicinal plants would you?” There’s a shuffling noise that must be Gareth shifting from one foot to the other. Steve hasn’t looked away from the flush of Robin’s cheeks, the way her leg is bouncing under the table, and how that unfamiliar smile remains. “Because you’d be out of luck, Anderson; that one’s on reserve. He’d need to come down and clear the reservation.”

Gareth clears his throat, mumbles, “Right, yeah,” and starts to turn to the entrance.

“And Anderson,” Robin calls before he can turn completely away. He shoves his hands in his pockets, his head curving around his shoulder to look back. “Tell Munson to go fuck himself.”

*

Steve picks up a shift for Mary on an odd Friday night. 

She calls the apartment, Steve , I’m sorry , sighs a few times before coughing. Steve just leans into the kitchen wall. The clock on the stove flickers with a few power surges while Mary explains she’s sick. Ten minutes later Steve leaves the apartment, dropping a kiss to Robin’s head as he does so. He packs up his bag with his homework and a late night dinner and heads in. Mary deserves the rest.

When he gets there, the day shift people fill him in on a few reservations. They let him know that they hadn’t had time to check in all the returns during the rush.

“Say hi to Tyler for me,” Steve says to Sarah as she’s bundling up in her jacket and scarf. Tyler, her boyfriend, had helped a lot with Steve’s reading during English last semester.

Sarah salutes him with a mittened hand and a dimple-filled smile. 

It takes Steve an hour to check in all the books while organizing them on the cart for each floor. The library isn’t busy, but isn’t empty either. There’s students milling about down aisles along the front, a girl sleeping quietly on a couch with her backpack still on, and a group had checked into a study room half an hour ago.

Steve blames all of that for not noticing Munson sitting between an aisle and a window. The table he’s settled in is for four people with books and papers strewn across it, but he’s the only one there. The wheels of the cart rattle to a stop with a heavy thumping sound. Steve with it. His heart jumps a beat at the sight of him. A hand hovers briefly over his words. Before he can make sense of it, or think too hard, his feet walk forward.

He stops at the edge of the table, overly aware of where in the library they are. There are heads buried into books and paperwork across the main floor. The ceiling raises up and casts an opening to the second floor above. Heads dot over the ledge. 

Eddie doesn’t look up from his assignment. Instead is flipping through a textbook every few seconds, marking something down in a notebook, chewing on the backend of his pen. His shoulders tense up and his eyes turn to slits; he knows Steve is there. Steve takes in the messy bun on his crown, the row of silver rings that line his ear, a scar on the sharpest point of his jaw. Eddie’s beautiful and Steve’s always known that. Steve swallows and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Munson,” he starts awkwardly.

“What,” comes the blunt response, more statement than question.

Steve hovers for a moment. Feels himself sway from one foot to the next. His collar feels too tight and his lungs are strained. He can’t find the right words for this. He’d only ever thought as far as saying his words, not what might happen after the fact. He settles on “About the other day–” before Eddie’s already interrupting him.

“What about the other day, Harrington?” There are brown eyes glaring into his now. They’re slitted still and Eddie’s mouth is twisted to match his obvious anger. There's a raging flush to his cheeks. His brows are creased down the middle. And there– there in the middle of it all are Steve’s words. They leave Steve wavy and uncertain. 

Yeah, I know who you are, Eddie , there across the bridge of Eddie’s nose. They curl from the underside of one eye to the other. Steve takes another step forward to get a better look, as if he was hypnotized by the sight. 

“No.” Eddie’s voice is ice. Steve stops dead, a lead stone dropping in his stomach.

Eddie looks back down, writes more notes, flips a page and reads a paragraph for a long few minutes, before asking bitterly, “Did you have them already? Before the other day?”

And Steve doesn’t have to ask what he means, “Yeah,” he admits. 

Eddie scoffs. He shakes his head down at his paperwork before looking up at Steve again. It’s how he’d look at Steve sometimes in school, sheer curiosity matched with disdain. Eddie hadn’t given Steve the time of day back then, and Steve had done nothing to remedy that. He knows what Eddie sees when he looks at him. Basketball captain Steve, swim team captain Steve, Keg King Steve. People that Steve hasn’t been in a long time. Steve holds the cuffs of his sweater tightly.

Eddie gives an ugly mocking laugh. It’s hollow sounding in the quiet of the library. “Oh wow, this is priceless ,” and it’s said so evenly, with no humor, that Steve has to stop himself from flinching, “King Steve and The Freak,” Eddie flares his hands in the air, pen clacking down on the table, “ Fated . I bet that was a riot for you and Hagan, huh? Don’t let little old Munson in on it though.” He tsks. “Oh no–”

"You didn't even want to know!" Steve finally says, voice sharp but quiet. Even still, he can feel eyes from across the library burning on his neck. He shoves a shaky hand through his hair, pushes his glasses up with a knuckle before pressing his hand under them to grind it into his eye. A sigh rattles out of his chest. He drops heavily into the chair across from Eddie. "And I didn't tell anyone, not even Tommy. No one knew . It was just–" Steve swallows thickly, "me. It was just me."

Eddie goes silent. When Steve can finally meet his eyes, they're wide. Eddie's mouth is dropped open, all of his anger with it. It's the first time Steve's ever seen the other boy completely still.

"You said–" Steve starts.

"I never fucking spoke to you, Steve," hushed and disbelieving.

"You said ," Steve interrupts, shoulders curling in at the weight of Eddie’s gaze, "not in Hawkins. That's what you told Gareth,” Steve halts but forces himself to continue, “that night at the party."

"So what? You just–never said anything?" He can’t be imagining the desperation in Eddie’s tone. Eddie doesn’t even question how Steve knows Gareth. Or how he’d heard their conversation that night.

"You wouldn't have wanted me to, man. As if you'd have wanted me to," Steve sighs. His hands are shaking under the table. The knuckles are white from gripping at his sweater sleeves.

Eddie stays silent. His eyes are contemplative and angry and Steve keeps his gaze low. He runs a hand through his hair one more time before sighing deeply. At the end of it, Steve stands. Eddie still hasn't said anything. Steve knows then, that he was right to never say anything back then. Eddie was a runner in a lot of ways, and he absolutely would've ran from Steve when they were seventeen.

*

A week later finds Steve in an aisle on the second floor with a cart of research binders. He's staring blankly at a stack of them because they aren’t cooperating. 

"What's it say?" comes a raspy voice from behind. Steve freezes in place. His words burn along his side and trail up into the crevice of his armpit. It's shocking enough to make him drop the binder he's holding with a clang onto the cart. A hand flutters around the area for a second.

Munson is at the opening of the aisle. Dark leather jacket topped with his familiar denim vest. He's staring straight into Steve, unblinking. His eyes so brown in the fluorescent and now face-to-face Steve can see the words as clearly as the day they fought last week. He feels bereft at the sight of them.

Yeah, I know who you are, Eddie. Brown, like all words were, but in Steve's unmistakable handwriting. He’s been dreaming about them endlessly. Steve can imagine summertime freckles dotting themselves around the words. He can imagine himself pressing kisses there, lingering on the delicate skin underneath the eyes. Can imagine how they would fade with a tan. He swallows and it sticks.

"What about you, King Steve?" he recites quietly.

Eddie’s contemplative at that. He stays at the mouth of the aisle. His hands are shoved deeply into his leather jacket as he tilts his head to take all of Steve in. Steve’s wearing one of Robin’s sweaters, was in need of the comfort of bringing her with him today. It’s cream and has atrociously embroidered flowers along the cuffs.

“At the party?” Eddie finally asks.

Steve only nods. Eddie hums in response. Squints before itching at a spot on his cheek below the words. 

“And Carver?” When Steve says nothing, Eddie continues, “Senior year. That was you?”

Steve shrugs and doesn’t try to keep a grimace off his face. Not his proudest moment, but he’d made peace with it. Another in the line up of why Steve Harrington’s vision went to shit.

“Don’t make me fucking regret this, Harrington.”

“Regret what?” Steve asks before he can think better of it. Feels like an idiot once they leave his mouth.

Eddie just huffs a laugh without a smile, says, “Giving you a chance.” After a moment of silence from them both, he continues, “I’m still pissed.”

Steve gives a wry smile. His words are itchy on his side and he can’t stop himself from crossing his arms so his palm presses into them. “I figured.”

Eddie just nods, eyes lingering on Steve’s arms, and leaves.

*

Only a few days later finds Steve sprawled across the quad with Robin. He’s reading steadily aloud to her, where she’s pillowed on his lap. One of his hands runs through her short hair in between turning pages. Her eyes are closed but Steve knows she’s listening. Her eyes flicker behind her eyelids and one of her fingers pinches underneath his leg whenever he starts to read in his head on accident. When he stumbles on words, with a sixth sense, she’ll recite the word back to him with a quiet definition that may or may not be accurate.

It’s colder than sitting on the quad should warrant. 

I don’t care, Steve, we own blankets , Robin had argued on the drive to campus. So they’d both bundled into layers of knit sweaters and more layers of quilts from both of their beds. They’d been there for at least an hour. They’d already run out of hot cocoa in the thermos. Robin’s cold and she absolutely won’t admit it. Steve gives her another half an hour.

“Harrington,” a voice calls from behind them. Robin wiggles to look behind the curve of Steve’s side.

“It’s Munson,” she mutters and burrows back down into the blankets, nose pressing into Steve’s stomach. 

Steve pinches a finger into their book to save the spot before turning enough to see Eddie and Gareth standing on the nearby sidewalk.

“Hey Munson, Gareth,” Steve says with a hesitant smile.

“Hey,” Eddie says back with a quick two fingered wave. They keep walking down towards the science building.

Robin's hand curls up under Steve’s sweater in support, palm hot against his hip. Steve continues reading. Robin calls it quits forty minutes later.

*

There’s snow on the horizon. Steve can smell it every time he leaves the apartment in the morning. He begins wearing his jacket and stuffing mittens into the pocket just in case. Mrs. Byers had sent them in a care package freshman year. They’re hideous, but Steve doesn’t really care. 

The air is crisp, wet, and cold in his lungs. Some days before his shift, his glasses will fog while entering the library. Steve never bothers to clear them. He’ll just prop them up on his crown. If he squints everything is clear enough anyway. The world is blurry but every blur is just a shape to not run into. 

“Hey Harrington,” someone calls from a table one morning. Instinctively Steve turns, with a hello on the tip of his tongue. They’re too far away for him to identify right away. They’re just a fuzzy blue and black blob sitting down. 

Steve squints and takes a few steps towards them. He flicks his glasses down, flicks them right back up when he notices that they’re still fogged. 

“Hey,” Steve starts anyway, unsurety in his voice. Another step forward morphs the blob into brunet hair and a pale face with silver studding in it. Steve’s face drops into an easy smile immediately, too obvious in so many ways. “Munson, hey.”

“Those things actually do anything?” Munson asks jokingly, but Steve can hear the real question in there. Steve hadn’t needed glasses in high school.

“Concussions are no joke, Munson,” Steve jokes back. “This is what six of them can do to you.”

The incredulous look Eddie gives is almost visible. “Hargrove?”

Steve just shrugs with a bitter laugh, “One of ‘em, yeah.”

“Shit,” comes the raspy reply. Steve’s not entirely sure he was meant to hear it. He drops his glasses from the top of his head. Eddie comes back into clarity. Hair pulled up into a messy bun, a button down flannel, and thick lined eyes. Warmth brews in Steve’s chest, swirls into the words and he doesn’t stop himself from crossing his arms so the palm of his hand presses into them. Eddie’s brown eyes follow the motion without saying anything. Steve wants too much suddenly. There’s something clambering in his throat like an unsteady newborn.

“See you around?” Steve murmurs unsure of himself. Feels it pull out of him like a question when he could’ve pretended confidence. 

“Yeah, Harrington, see you around,” Eddie responds and smiles something gentle. His dimples cup his cheeks, his words crinkle upwards into the corners of his eyes, and Steve tries not to stumble when he leaves. He almost succeeds. 

*

 A few days later finds Steve deep in the aisles of the first floor. He’s humming quietly to himself, a pile of books for him and Robin already growing on the bottom rack of the cart. Hopelessly romantic, Stevie she requested quietly while cuddled on the couch watching late night cartoons.

“Hey,” comes a murmur to his left.

When he looks up, it’s to Eddie pulling a book off the cart. He’s wearing a beanie, snow melting in his hair. Red spots are dotting his cheeks and cupping the words on his nose. He mouths one of his gloves off with his teeth, book still held in the other. He flips it to read the back before slotting it at random on a shelf. It’s decidedly in the wrong spot. 

“Hey,” Steve replies. If he doesn’t look directly at Eddie, his heart will return to its normal rhythm. The words on his side won’t tingle like they are. Steve pulls the book off and resorts it. Eddie grabs another after tugging off his other glove. 

“What are you up to?” Another book is slipped where it doesn’t belong. Steve returns it to the cart in a weird tango between the two of them in the small aisle. There’s a slow smile growing on Eddie’s face that’s doing nothing for Steve’s heart. The ring in his lip glints in the fluorescent lighting.

“Working,” Steve says with an air of duh . Another book returned where it doesn’t go. Steve sighs, lets Eddie pick up another to do the same with. It’s a losing battle. Eddie’s smile makes it worth it.

The chain on Eddie jeans jingles quietly as he spins to face Steve again. “What about later?” Two more books are pulled off the cart.

“Going home, I guess.” Steve can’t help but squint at him. Energy hums between them. It’s vibrating, matched by the way Eddie’s rings occasionally clink dully on the metal shelves. Eddie’s eyes are skittering across Steve’s face with every book he misplaces and his smile hovers between full blown and too small. Steve blinks with realization. Eddie’s nervous. 

“Can I come by?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. 

“Can I–” Eddie starts. There’s a book in his hand when he gestures to Steve. He clears his throat quietly, drops the book into a shelf, “Can I see them?”

Steve’s voice is so soft when he says, “Yeah.”

*

“Stevie, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” Robin tumbles into the passenger side without looking over, “Smith fucking blows.” She burrows to dig into her messenger bag, continuing, “If he makes me work with Nick one more time, I’ll–well, I don’t know what I’ll do but–”

“Nick Caraway?” Eddie asks from the backseat.

Robin just scoffs. Steve throws an arm on the back of her seat to reverse the car out of their spot. Her blue eyes are burning holes in the side of his face. Instead Steve just meets Eddie’s where he’s sprawled in the back, grins wide at the bewildered face Eddie’s making.

“Obviously fucking Caraway , Steve, who else has a goal to be the bane of my existence?”

Steve shifts the car to start the journey home and says, “Him sneezing a lot does not make him your mortal enemy, Robbie.”

“You never heard Caraway sneeze, huh, Harrington?” Eddie chimes in.

“Exactly! Exactly, Steve– what the fuck? ” Robin shrieks in a panic. She grabs Steve’s arm, rocking the car into the gravel edge of the drive to their complex. She whips her pencil case blindly back, screaming a little high pitched. 

*

“You could’ve said,” Robin huffs once more as they all shuffle into the apartment. She drops all of her stuff on the dinner table, only enough chairs for the both of them. Steve hooks his book bag on a nail by the door, pushing his sweater sleeves up at the heat of their apartment. Neither of them were ever keen for the cold, not after the chill of the Upside Down, not after the shocking cold of Russian serum running in their veins. 

Robin’s door clicks shut.

“She’s–” Eddie hesitates, “the same as high school.” He trails after Steve, who migrates naturally to his own bedroom off the side of the kitchen. They pass book shelves full of photo frames, textbooks, artwork from Will. It’s a kaleidoscope of Steve and Robin. Their schedules are tapes next to a photo of the two of them in a J.C. Penney. It’s surrounded by candids of the kids. Dustin’s recent school photo, El hanging upside down in a tree grinning from ear to ear, Mike and Will with bunny ears just visible behind Mike’s head. Bus tickets with hearts drawn surrounding “Hawkins”. Steve’s college acceptance letter. Robin’s recommendation letter from Keith, laughable in how hollow sounding it was. Eddie lingers there in the hallway. He’s somehow more delicate without his shoes on. The bun he’d thrown his hair in droops down the back of his neck. Steve hovers in the doorway to his room and waits for him.

“You and Buckley, huh?” Eddie finally asks, eyes not moving from the collage of the last four years of Steve’s life.

Steve hums, because it’s so clear from the way they live that Steve and Robin are best friends. That they’re something one step beyond that. Steve’s shared everything with Robin, Robin with Steve. They meet at an intersection of life. There was no changing who they were once they’d crossed paths. “Not like that, but yeah,” Steve hums again, “me and Buckley.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything else. He trails his fingers along one of El’s ceramics, up and over a pile of books that Dustin had left behind last time he’d visited. He picks up a broken pair of friendship bracelets that Erica had once given Steve and Robin a year or so back. They’d worn through, but neither of them had the heart to toss them. The bracelets roll between Eddie’s fingers for a moment before he sets them back. When he’s done, his eyes are lost, displaced and unsure of himself. His eyes, when they meet Steve’s, are honey brown and overwhelmed. Steve’s lived an entire lifetime already. Where does Eddie fit into this? Steve opens the door to his room open wide, the invitation clear. 

Like this, Steve wants to say, but stays quiet as Eddie passes him. Closes the door behind himself and leans bodily into it. Eddie doesn’t look around. He keeps his gaze on Steve. It’s not pressuring but lingering all the same. Steve keeps his gaze. He doesn’t let his eyes stray as he grips the hem of his sweater. It’s one of his this time, overly large and with loose strings down through the striped design. He tucks his arms through the sleeves. The collar slips easily over his head. It ruffles his hair and skews his glasses on his nose. 

And then Steve is standing shirtless in his bedroom with Eddie Munson. Who’s staring silently at him. The quiet is loud and a blush starts swimming to the surface of Steve’s skin. He’s not embarrassed about his body. But the way that Eddie’s eyes are skimming across his waist to where a trail leads from his belly button downwards below his waistline to where it climbs upwards to his chest and circles his nipples. Steve takes a step forward, arms loose at his sides. He doesn’t cross them. He’s not embarrassed about his body. He’s not . The scars along his side are white and smooth. They’re shiny in a way skin isn’t meant to be. Steve’s hands are shaking. 

“What–” Eddie’s voice croaks. Steve knows how the sentence was meant to end –the fuck happened to you, Steve? Except Eddie stops himself before the words are out. Changes course instead to take a step towards Steve.

Eddie makes his movements obvious, telegraphs them silently. Brings his arm up slowly with his fingers long in the dim lighting of Steve’s room. It’s an out. Eddie is giving Steve time to back away.

Steve doesn't. Can feel the way Eddie's fingers are before he touches him. His fingers are soft, slightly cold on the very tips of them. It's like he can read Eddie's fingerprint through his touch. The unique swirls and ridges of it against the heat of his words. Like everything of Eddie, it's familiar. Steve has to close his eyes, hears an intake of breath and can't tell if it was him or Eddie. Feels like maybe there isn't a difference in this moment.

He's touching him. Eddie's touching him .

At first it's blisteringly hot. It flashes up through his cheeks, to his ears, curls around the nape of his neck to his crown. Down and down and down to the pit of his stomach, the backs of his knees, the arch of his feet. All of it originating from where Eddie's fingers press delicately to the words on his side.

Steve opens his eyes.

He lets his hand rise to where Eddie's eyes are wide. Steve cups the hand first on his cheek. It's rough with days of stubble but smooth where his cheekbone juts out and that flares somewhere deep in Steve. It's when Steve's thumb hovers, smooths down to the corner of Yeah, traces down the tail of the y, that a low murmur of heat wanders through him. It's a quiet warmth, embers pooling in his armpit where his own words are, moving back into where Steve’s hand is tucked against Eddie’s cheek.

They're a flowing current. They're giving and taking and cycling this feeling back into one another. When Steve runs his thumb over the words once more, he can admit that he feels the same as before. He's still Steve. When he meets Eddie's eyes, they're the same oscillating array of browns. Eddie is still Eddie. Steve's unchanged in the same way he was at seventeen. He’s the same as before getting his words. Meeting Eddie was just recognition, seeing parts of himself reflected back.

Steve chose Eddie. Years ago in a house party that he only partially remembers, Steve chose Eddie. How can he be different now, when that is all he's ever been? He'll always be the Steve Harrington that chose Eddie Munson.

So what's different?

Steve blinks up into Eddie's face. Takes in the parentheses dimples and the pink lips stretched into a smile. The difference is that Eddie has chosen him back.

"Can I kiss you?"

Eddie answers by gently pressing his lips to Steve’s. His lips are warm and chapped and Steve can feel Eddie exhale a sigh from his nose when Steve presses back. Feels how the hand on his side flutters away for a moment before settling more comfortably. It keeps the feedback loop between them going. Feels how Eddie’s other hand guides carefully to the side of Steve’s face. It cups under his ear, warm rings and dry fingertips. His thumb pets mindlessly at the soft skin there.

It’s simple at first, easy. Steve’s thought of kissing Eddie for years. Has always known somewhere deep in him that Eddie’s lip would be soft and giving. Then Steve tilts his head, drops it fully into Eddie’s palm. He lets the hand on Eddie’s cheek drop to his neck. His thumb touches the sharpest point of Eddie’s jaw, gives enough pressure that Eddie’s mouth slots more with his. Steve swears he can feel Eddie’s pulse rocket, swears he hears Eddie’s breath stutter in his chest when he inhales. Blinks dumbly into those too brown eyes, drooped behind long lashes, framed by pink cheeks and Steve’s words.

When they gravitate back to one other, it’s easy again. Eddie’s mouth is quick, trails kisses down Steve’s neck, tilts his jaw up with a sure hand. It leaves a cooling path in its wake. A shudder pulls its way along Steve’s spine, wracking Eddie closer into him. When Steve opens his mouth to him, Eddie’s tongue is slick against his. He pushes Steve back into the door, the cool surface burning against Steve’s skin.

It’s easy now.

They’ll learn the rest together later.

–

Mary's eyes are just barely open when Steve gets in on Monday morning. She blinks at him in an unsteady way before whispering hi Steve. 

The day stays quiet from that point forward. Steve finishes a math assignment slowly, writing out all the steps he takes and marking a few places to ask Ian about during tutoring on Wednesday.

When he's done, Mary is face down on her keyboard, the letter j trailing in the search bar as she sleeps. Her breaths are deep and her mouth is slightly open. Steve props the closed placard on the counter in front of her monitor. He helps a group of girls navigate to a study room, rechecks out a stack of binders, chats quietly with Ceci when she wanders in to pick up a printout. And when there's no one, he reads Ghost Train.

A few hours later, Mary smacks her lips and rubs her eyes.

"Thanks, Steve," she manages around a yawn. Steve lets her take the restack cart, watches her disappear to the second floor. When she's gone, Steve ducks his chin, pressing a hand to his buzzing words. They've been a humming vibration throughout the day like a hive of bees beneath his skin. His ribs are sore from it, pleasantly painful. It feels separated from himself, like a disembodied copy of Eddie's energy has been transferred into him. A constant reminder of the type of person Eddie is: chaotic and bounding and electric.

Steve tucks a smile into his shoulder and grips his button down one last time before picking his book back up.

When Mary returns, Steve flips back to a page in Ghost Train where the word specter is.  

She huffs at him, says, "Whoo," is a warbling voice while wiggling her fingers at Steve.

"A ghost?" 

"Yeah, but more like," Mary scrunches her face before plopping back in her chair. Steve watches as she tilts her head back and forth in thought, "a serious ghost? Does that make sense?"

Steve feels silly for a moment–the book is literally Ghost Train–but doesn't let the feeling linger. Instead smiles and shakes his head at Mary, repeats back, "a serious ghost," in as studious a voice as he can manage.

A throat clears.

Steve just ducks his head at his book. Flips back to his original spot and slotting in the felt bookmark that El made him for Christmas. He knows who it is without even looking, felt how the words along his side are ricocheting.

“Munson,” Steve greets, blinking to meet Eddie’s open expression.

“Stevie,” Eddie hums slowly back. He’s stretched along the counter already, fingers toying with the edge of Steve’s monitor. When the tips brush along the surface of the glass Steve can hear the static building. And he’s beautiful, so Steve smiles back something obvious, opens up his expression back at him. Lets Eddie see everything seventeen year old Steve dreamed about.

“What can I do for you?” Steve drawls dramatically back.

Eddie’s grin is fifty percent shit-eating and fifty percent fondness. Matching Steve’s tone, he says, “Hear I’ve got a reserved book.”