Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"This place is a fucking dump."

"Can you not be like this please," Robin huffs while hauling another bag out of the coupe "and can you give me a hand here?"

Rounding the car, Steve helps with the last of their luggage—though calling his one suitcase and duffel bag ‘luggage’ is a bit of an overstatement.

Steve’s apartment in Chicago was a cozy one-bedroom sitting right on top of an even tinier Chinese restaurant. There weren’t many drawers or walls one could find empty, all littered with photos of family, trinkets, polaroids, medals. But that was in ‘the before,’ and Steve was in ‘the now’. He left his lively walls and busy drawers in ‘the before,’ leaving really only a suitcase worth of clothes and possessions to take with him to West Virginia.

Robin convinced him to pack a duffel with some silly souvenirs, like the Lake Placid ornament they bought for a stupidly high price because they were drunk and didn’t want to forget ‘core memories’ as Robin says. She’s sweet like that. Overly optimistic and too sentimental. She collects coasters and receipts from random nights because she thinks they soak up the memories they were around for. She tries to carry them everywhere, her phone case bursting at the seams with polaroids and train-tickets. She’s sweet like that and Steve thinks he would kind of die without her.

"I’m just saying we’ve downgraded quite a bit," Steve mutters, eyeing the building.

The sun glares down on him despite the cold and fuck he should have brought his sunglasses.

The snow crunching under his shoes is a comforting sound and the air is fresh in that cold way where nothing really exists in your nose except the air and the walls of your nostrils. It smells like nothing, just cold—Steve already likes it here even as he raises his hand up to block the sun from blinding him.

"I think it’s nice. A little beat-up, but nice." Shrugging and turning to look at him, Robin eyes Steve warily through her stringy bangs, like she isn’t sure what she can still say—what he won’t snap at. "Please don’t act like this when you meet the owners."

Steve knows, okay? He knows. He knows he was unbearable for a long time after everything unraveled, lashing out over the smallest things. It took him weeks to actually pick up his skates again after the fall. And, god isn’t that hilarious? Everyone around him calling it a ‘fall’ like that might make it easier to stomach, like maybe his bloody career-ending crash wouldn’t be so daunting if they called it a fall.

That was 2022 Beijing, China, the winter Olympics. Canada got the gold medal in the men’s single that year. Steve’s never felt more defeated than when he stood on the lowest platform on that podium in crutches with a bandage wrapped around his forehead. So he knows, he knows that everyone is waiting for him to get back onto the ice, to brush it off and return. But he can’t and it’s humiliating, because he was never weak, not when it came to skating. On the ice, Steve was separate from all other things in the universe, he was weightless and completely untouchable. And now, he’s like a bird with clipped wings—it's degrading. So yes, he knows he can be a little bit of a bitch nowadays.

Anger reflexively bubbles up in his gut at Robin’s pitying expression, but it quickly dies down the longer he looks at her. She dropped everything for him when his whole life came crashing down, never sending him a single judging glance throughout the whole process. Shit, she’s moving all the way to some random town in West Virginia because Chicago became too much for Steve to handle. So, he breathes out through clenched teeth and plasters on his best camera smile, all icy and charming.

"Oh, boo! Booooo! You suck. You’re not allowed to use your TV smile on me, it’s repulsive."

"I’m allowed to do whatever I want and you know this smile is the reason the people love me!" Steve tries his best to deflect the onslaught of imaginary tomatoes Robin has started to throw at him while fighting off a real grin.

"Ew, god! The people? Get a life, I’m the only opinion that matters and I say that smile is downright vile!" She laughs while sticking a tongue out at him.

Robin’s incredibly dramatic and Steve loves it, she’s his best friend. He thinks that’s why she was the first to break through to him after his fall—she just made everything fun, like nothing was ever really that serious.

Carol saw right through him though, she dug deep and wanted him to ‘confront’ things, she understood that skating wasn’t just Steve’s career, it was his life. He guesses that all other skaters understand, which is why he needed to get away from them, the pity and understanding suffocated him. Hence, Robin, his lovely, uncoordinated, and scared-of-even-touching-skates best friend.

"Can we check out the inside at least?" Steve asks, walking up to the massive barn that supposedly encloses the ice-skating rink he’ll start teaching lessons at in a few days.

The mahogany paint is chipping and the towering doors to the entrance of the barn have definitely seen better days. But despite it all, the building was gorgeous. It looked perfect, sitting in the untouched snow with a healthy evergreen garland wrapped around its edges. Steve was used to industrial skating rinks, metal and concrete. This rink looked warm, like parents would take their children there and drink hot chocolate afterwards. He guesses all the buildings around here looked like that though, straight-out of a Hallmark movie. The massive lodge only a few feet away from the barn had a similar coziness with a few rocking-chairs on the porch and a wooden sculpture of a chubby bear guarding the stairs.

"We should probably go inside the lodge first, introduce ourselves right?"

"Yeah, you’re right," Steve lets his fingertips slip from the cold metal door handle.

"Let’s get our shit off the snow and we can meet the owner, his name is Wayne but I think his son is also in charge. Fuck… what’s his name.." scrunching up her nose again, she tries to remember.

"It’s Eddie, and I’m actually his nephew."

Steve whips his head around to see a man around their age dressed in all black, smiling and holding out his hand in their space.

He’s hot, objectively so. A little lanky, but not awkward, he looks relaxed in his stance with his other hand sticking a thumb through one of his belt loops. His curly dark brown hair sits on his head perfectly in a loose bun, with some strands having broken free and now framing his face. Steve internally cringes at the dry and damaged curls, immediately itching to get some of his good hair oil on them. A few swirling tattoos make their way above the collar of his black henley and immediately Steve needs to see the full canvas. He wonders if they all have meaning or if they were done on some drunk impulse one night out with friends.

"I’m Robin and this is Steve, we’re best friends." Robin beams, going in to shake Eddie’s still extended hand.

"Good to know," he chuckles, looking a little amused at the introduction, "you guys must be the new skating instructors, I can help take your bags in and you can meet the rest of the crew"

"Oh, no way. You won’t even see me get close to that rink. Steve’s the man you’re looking for."

Big brown eyes glide over to him and suddenly Steve’s hyper-aware of every inch of skin he’s wearing. Does he smell? He probably smells. He’s been sitting in that car eating junk with Robin for hours now. He’s sure his hair has deflated and his lips are chapped. He darts his tongue out on his bottom lip to confirm, and Jesus, he probably looks like he wants to eat this guy alive. Trying to find some composure, he wills himself to appear uninterested.

"Can we see inside? Is the building finished?" It’s a little snappy, he gets a look from Robin.

The guy, Eddie, scoffs lightly but quickly schools his expression. "Yeah, no it’s finished. It’s a nice rink, she’s just old."

Eddie looks up at the barn with a fond eyes then quickly back down at the two of them, "well, Wayne'll show you the inside tomorrow, I'm sure you guys are tired. I’ll show you where you’ll be stayin' and the rest of the family can introduce themselves."

There’s a slight drawl to his voice, Steve likes it, he sounds like he would tell really good bedtime stories.

Robin nods enthusiastically at the idea of getting out of the cold and Eddie bends down to grab a few of their bags. Steve definitely does not stare at the way Eddie’s henley stretches around his bicep as he picks up a particularly heavy bag.

Eddie guides them around the massive lodge and into a forested area. A crudely formed pathway made completely of tire tracks and worn down terrain leads the way to their new home.

A smaller, but still just as cheerful building comes into view. There are Christmas lights strung half-heartedly across the railing of the porch and the second story of the house. They’re entwined with more of that evergreen garland he saw on the barn. It’s cozy and it’s definitely not Chicago.

"This is the staff house. Other cooks and instructors live here."

"Do you live here with us?" Steve blurts out, immediately regretting how weird that sounds.

"Mostly, yeah. I have my own room but I’m supposed to live up in the cabin with my uncle." Eddie says distractedly and nods his head in the direction Steve guesses where ‘the cabin’ resides, ominous fucker.

Inside the building is immediately warm and Steve feels his muscles slowly relaxing as he toes off his boots, following Eddie’s lead.

No one’s home right now but every room Eddie gives them a tour of is filled with life and memories, he can just feel it. There are stickers stuck to the side of the fridge that look like someone has been trying to scrape them off for years. Blankets are everywhere, draped across the couch in the living room and sprawled across the chairs in the dining room. An unfinished uno game was left on the stained coffee table in the center of what looks like a game room. Everything is warm red and wood.

Upstairs, Robin and Steve’s rooms are right next to each other in a long hallway of similar-looking rooms, some doors decorated with crooked signs and ribbons on doorknobs. Eddie leaves the two of them to settle in while he heads downstairs to get ready for the rest of the 'family'.

The room is simple, a bed that can fit two people squished sits in the corner of the room. A bathroom connects Robin’s and his room together and it reminds him of their setup in college. Light filters through a window hanging right above a dresser that looks out onto a well-groomed sledding hill and the main lodge.

Immediately Steve remembers that this is a winter lodge—a winter lodge where he will be working. Robin will start teaching snowboarding lessons at the small mountain the lodge owns and he will start instructing poorly-coordinated kiddies how to skate while their parents drink in front of a fireplace.

Exhaustion finally hits him at the thought and he immediately collapses on his bed, not bothering to empty his suitcase when tugging out a well-worn Santa Barbara sweatshirt that could definitely be Carol’s. Turning over, he takes in the rest of the room. There are no team photos hung on the walls, no medals on display, the room isn't asking anything of him. The sheer curtains hung above the window definitely won’t be helpful in blocking out the sun, but it adds a nice contrast to the rest of the wooden and well, brown room. A tapestry rug sits in the center of the space. Its colors are all washed out in certain areas but he can still make out the symmetrical designs weaved throughout the thing.

Steve stares at it for a second, eyes tracing the worn edges. Something eases in his chest for the first time in a while at the sight. Not because the rug is beautiful—god no, it's hideous. But because it's not trying to be, it's just there. The rug is trying, quietly, to keep things together, to soften the weight of boots and snow and grief. Maybe he's looking too much into it.

He lets out a breath and relaxes further into his pillow. It smells like old pine and fresh laundry, like someone cleaned the bed before he came—like someone actually cares about this place. That's what's giving him this false sense of safety. Everything here is worn, yes, but it's lived-in, it's comforting. He can feel this energy thrumming underneath his skin softly. Not like the excitement he’d feel before a performance where it felt like colors and music were going to burst from his skin. It’s gentle this time, a barely-there hum, but Steve feels it and it’s like he can finally breathe, like a dam has broken in his chest. Robin’s in the other room probably fussing over how she should decorate her new space, downstairs he can hear a door open and a cacophony of voices fill the hallways, the sun is setting and it’s making the room glow this soft orange color, there's a slight creak in the walls as wind passes through the hallways, and everything is all so new it’s intoxicating. Maybe, maybe, this place isn't a fucking dump after all.

He feels like he’s at the end of a movie where the protagonist would look off into the sunset and sigh some stupid line like I think I’m going to like it here. He snorts at the thought and decides to smush his face further into his new bed, sweatshirt bunched up under his chin, hair fanned messily across the pillow.

"Get up, babe. We’ve got to meet our new roomies!" Robin sings, popping her head through the doorway.

Steve sends her a weak thumbs-up and mentally thanks god that he has her presence throughout whatever’s next to come downstairs.

He could almost cry out of relief when none of the staff in the packed dining room show even the slightest bit of recognition when he introduces himself. No lingering glances trying to place where they know his name from, no questioning if he’s been on TV. To the rest of the staff, he’s simply the new skating instructor.

"I’m glad we’re finally making use of that barn," A redheaded teenager says to him at the dinner table, "I always thought it was kinda creepy being all abandoned and stuff."

"It wasn’t abandoned, Max. Don’t scare them off." Eddie, the guy from earlier, flicks her in the forehead. There's a clear family dynamic going on with this group and it warms him a little to see the comfortability between 'coworkers'.

"It’s cozy, I like it." Steve offers.

"Cozy?" Eddie immediately questions, raising an accusatory eyebrow at Steve, challenging him to go on—which, what the fuck dude? It’s just a thing people say, it was a compliment!

"I think it’s cozy as well! I always loved when the snow covered the roof, I thought it looked straight out of a holiday card." Chrissy, the bubbly blonde who had introduced herself first to Robin and Steve, chuckles nervously, trying to alleviate the weird tension Eddie added to the conversation.

The introductions resume after that but Steve can't shake the feeling of judging eyes from Eddie's side of the table watching his every move. He makes an effort to hide behind the curly-haired teenager explaining which chairs in the living room are the most comfortable for movie nights.

"… so Max and El will always steal the right side of the couch and by then the whole room's filled up," the kid, Dustin, leans in all serious and whispers, "but since you seem cool, I'm willing to team up with you to take over the love seat."

"You just tell me what to do and I'll be there." Steve affirms while trying his best to keep an earnest face. The interaction makes him giddy, like he's making new friends on the first day of school.

"So, how long have you been skating man?" Argyle, one of the guys who works in the ski repair shop, plops in between him and Dustin.

"Can you do any tricks?" Jonathon, a lift operator, asks through a mouth full of chili.

"Oh that'd be so sick," Dustin is practically vibrating, "can you do flips? Like 360s?"

Of course he can do flips, spins, axels—he's a figure skater, an Olympic one at that. But before sharing the story of his first triple-axel, Steve remembers where he is and why he left Chicago. Here, in the middle-of-nowhere West Virginia, he's Steve Harrington, a 'seasoned ice-skater' and nothing else. If a little lying is necessary for his fresh start, he's willing to hold back on certain information.

"Oh not really. I can do some spins and jumps, but that's really it." He shrugs coolly, intentionally avoiding Robin's saddened gaze.

"I think it's impressive that you can even balance on those tiny blades," Chrissy smiles his way, "it's why I chose skiing, I need it as easy and safe as I can get." The conversation devolves back into meaningless but comforting small talk where Dustin starts listing off the dangers of skiing. Steve relaxes again and as the night wears on, he feels Eddie's intense staring start to ease off and he prays that means all is forgiven.

Dinner ends up being fun. Steve can't remember the last time he ate homemade food with a group of people this interesting. The rest of 'the family' come together to create a sort of motley crew with way too many children bunched in with the rest of the adults. But somehow the dynamic works, and something clenches in Steve's stomach at the reminder of nights with his team all huddled up in Jason's apartment eating takeout and watching reruns of Grey's Anatomy. He pushes the memories into the back of his mind and mentally reminds himself to return all of Carol's messages.

Once the clock hit a certain time everyone started to slowly filter out of the dining room and head upstairs to their rooms. After Robin excuses herself and squeezes Steve's hand, he gets the memo and starts to wrap up his conversation with Chrissy, realizing it's just him, Chrissy, Robin, and Eddie in the dining room now.

"I got that, you guys can just head to bed, don't worry about it." Eddie says, intercepting his path to the sink where Steve was going to wash both his and Robin's dishes.

"Oh, thanks. I really don't have a problem with it though." Steve assures, trying to redeem himself in the other man's mind.

"Oh don't worry sweetheart, you're not exempt. Dustin's got a whole chore wheel set up, I'm just paying my dues." 

Eddie gently seizes the dishes from his hands and wishes him a goodnight with a lazy smile. Sweetheart? Is that a thing people down here say? Should Steve call him sweetheart as well? What are the next steps one should take after being called sweetheart by a hot guy with an even hotter accent. He really hopes this means all that bad energy from Eddie's end has dissipated and there will be more 'sweetheart's in the near future.

"Hey earth to dingus," Robin whisper-shouts when they've made it to her bedroom, "you're so bad at hiding when you want to bump uglies with a guy, you were practically drooling."

"Ew did you just say 'bump uglies'? We're adults Robin. You can say sex," Steve hisses, "and I was not drooling."

"You were totally drooling babe, heart eyes and everything. Steve and Eddie sitting in tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

"Oh my god my best friend is five years old." He groans, plugging his ears.

"And you love me," Robin sticks out her tongue and flops onto her bed, changed into one of Steve's old t-shirts and a pair of basketball shorts, "do you think you could find an extra pillow? This one's kinda lumpy."

"Yes, you spoiled brat, I'll go look for some."

"Thanks sweetheart!" Robin croons as he flips her off.

Padding through the long hallway, Steve searches for a linen closet. His cheeks hurt from smiling and he's still wearing a lingering grin from Robin's teasing and the events that happened tonight. Maybe everything was going to be fine, maybe his new life has already started in West Virginia, maybe the people he ate dinner with downstairs are his new family, and maybe in the next few days his only worry will be getting picked on Dustin's chore wheel. His little string of maybe's are cut off by muffled voices in the room next to him. He really shouldn't eavesdrop, but when has he ever resisted listening in on poorly-silenced whispers?

"Are you OK?" Chrissy's hushed tone filters through the wall Steve has pressed his ear against.

"Why?" he makes out Eddie's voice.

"You looked like you wanted to kill the new guy downstairs. You were sneering." 

"Fuck off, I was not."

"Um. You totally were, it was rude as hell."

"I'm sure the airhead didn't even realize, it's fine."

Steve's stomach drops and the last parts of his smile have fully vanished, face falling. He should really stop listening.

"See! What's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem, I just don't like the guy! He seems kinda stuck up, did you see what he was wearing, that tight-ass Lululemon jacket? Who actually wears that kind of thing?"

Ok seriously fuck off, his running jacket was from Aritzia and it's supposed to be 'form-fitting'. It doesn't matter though, he's already burning up from embarrassment and shame. Turning back to Robin's room, he berates himself for being so stupid, for getting excited for this fresh start and new family. 

"No pillows?" Robin questions when he enters the room, massaging the lumpy one.

"Huh? Oh, yeah couldn't find any, sorry."

He wishes he never went to get the fucking pillows, or listened to himself and just continued walking down the hall when he heard the voices. Unease and dread spread throughout his body and suddenly the thought of starting a new life here sounds colossal mistake.

"What's up with you? You're pouting and you look mean again," she makes room for him on the bed, it's a tight fit, "bring back happy Steve, we love happy Steve here."

"Shut up, we're sharing these lumpy pillows. I'm sleeping with you tonight."

"Ok but don't get all octopus on me, you know I run hot," she whines but snuggles closer to him.

They’ll definitely wake up tomorrow tangled in blankets, Robin sweaty and grumbling. Steve shuts his eyes and tries to sleep, forcing himself to forget the conversation he overheard—and the new enemy he apparently has. Screw Eddie. And screw his stupid, lumpy pillows.

Maybe they won’t even have to interact. With their schedules, they might never see each other: Eddie’s stuck in the lodge kitchen, and Steve works in a completely different building. He tells himself it's fine, they'll never cross paths.

Down the end of the hallway, Eddie is probably still ranting about him, about how much he hates someone he doesn't even know, because of what they're wearing.

Steve snorts into the quilt he's snuggled into. Good. Let him. He's not thinking about Eddie. Not at all. Not even a little.

Chapter Text

Steve likes Wayne much more than his nephew, he's found. The man is gruff and straightforward but not in an obtrusive way, just the kind that makes you feel like he sees through your bullshit and doesn't hold it against you. He's probably incredibly wise, but maybe that's just a cliché he's applied to any old man with a white beard and gravely voice.

Wayne shows up first thing in the morning to pick him and Robin up, driving an old green UTV, the seats all crackled and worn. He takes them on an official tour of the property, pointing out each landmark with a cute anecdote about Eddie as a kid or a casual bear sighting. Steve pretends the latter doesn't scare him half to death. Robin does most of the talking during the tour, telling Wayne their story—well, some version of their story—and Steve really only butts in when he's needed, mostly pleased to just sit back and hum along to whatever she's saying.

They nod along as Wayne runs through the ground rules: keep the staff house clean, stay off the main slopes unless invited. Robin chatters away, keeping the man entertained, while Steve takes in his surroundings. The lodge is starting to buzz—families unloading skis, shouting about trail meetups, kids face-planting into snowbanks. It’s unfamiliar but nice, he thinks he could get used to it.

He's brought back to reality when the UTV comes to a stop in front of the same barn from yesterday. With a grunt, Wayne eases out of the vehicle and gestures for them to follow.

The cold is the first thing that hits him when he steps inside, dropping his bag to the ground with a soft thud. Robin sidles up beside him and they wait for Wayne to flip on the lights of the dark barn. She gives his shoulders a gentle squeeze like a little you got this. It's only slightly patronizing. 

When the lights shutter on, the space is illuminated, dust specks now visibly dancing in the glow. There are white structural posts holding the barn up and tall windows that need a serious wash down. And at the very center, yellow light glinting off it, is the rink. It's smaller than what he's used to, sure, but it's pristine. The ice is glossy and untouched. He doesn't realize he's walked to the edge of the rink until his fingertips ghost the fence that borders it. Gliding his fingers across the smooth wood lightly, he wonders how long it took to sand the whole fence down. There's not even a chance of getting splinters. Distantly, he wonders if it's for the children who are sure to latch onto it like a crutch, or maybe for the parents who lean against it when filming their child's first skate. Ice holds memories, you know?

Wayne coughs in the background and he realizes he's been staring at the rink like a creep. Snatching his hand away from the railing, he blinks himself out of the trance he had fallen into.

Wayne doesn't say anything, just steps further into the barn and gestures broadly. "She's all yours," he says. "Had it refitted a few years back when some hotshot wanted to open winter classes here. Didn’t pan out, but the setup’s solid. Should get you through the season."

Robin lets out a low whistle behind him. "This is insane," she says, spinning in a slow circle. "I feel like we’re in a Hallmark movie."

Steve snorts. "You’d need a small-town festival and a tragic backstory for that."

She grins. "You do have a tragic backstory."

Wayne glances between them at that, but doesn't question it. Instead, he walks over to another switch and flicks it. More lights turn on and illuminate a covered corner of the barn, and an old Zamboni encased in dust is revealed.

"You know how to work one of these?" Wayne gestures over to the machine.

Steve nods, "yeah, I've run one a couples times."

Robin raises a brow at that, "you know how to use a Zamboni? That sounds like a rich kid urban legend."

He shrugs, "the coaches let me do it when my parents were late after practice. Guess they liked having free labor."

Wayne chuckles, low and approving. "Better for me. Saves us trouble teachin' you from scratch." He walks over to Steve and brings a hand down on his shoulder.

"Just keep her in good shape. The rink's been around for a while—means a lot to folks up here," he pauses and looks Steve square in the eye, "I'm trustin' you with it." 

If there's one thing Steve knows, he can take care of the rink. He worships any ice he skates on. His mother told him to 'respect the stage you dance with,' and it stuck. She was a ballerina, but the same rules apply. He picked up on her habit of thanking the floorboards she performed on, making sure to transfer a kiss to the ice with his fingertips after every performance. He's sure Wayne's not expecting that much devotion but he nods his head vigorously anyways, vowing to take good care of the rink.

Wayne seems content with his response and gives his shoulder one last squeeze before letting go and turning to Robin. "Now let's go get you set up at the mountain. If the weather keeps up, kids’ll be rollin’ in by the weekend here and up at the slopes." Robin gives a two-finger salute at that and moves to follow him back to the UTV outside, but not before mouthing a quick you good?

Steve smiles and waves her off, watching as she returns at Wayne's side. When they pull out of the lot and out of sight, he goes to grab his skates from the bag he discarded when they first entered. Unwrapping them fully makes something in his stomach twist. They're not even the skates he wears for competitions or performances. That pair is black and sleek, easy to pair with dark leggings for a seamless outfit. No, these skates he's only worn once or twice to know if they fit at most. They're generic white with your average steel blades, nothing to write home about. But Steve bought them a few years ago for casual skating, not practices or performances, but for vacations and getaways, places where no one would be watching. He'd imagined using them on real ice, a lake or pond, something dreamy like that. He, of course, never told anyone about this purchase or where he planned to use it.

It was embarrassing at the time, getting these pretty little skates that really had no use on the professional stage. But they reminded him of his first pair, the one he bought with saved up allowance that quickly got discarded by his parents when he started performing in competitions, opting for a more practical pair. It doesn't matter anyways, this pair never made it out of his closet. He only brought it here because he didn't think he could stomach using his performance skates. God, had he even cleaned them up after the fall? Probably not.

Lacing them on in the empty barn, he feels a wave of nostalgia at the action. Wiggling hit toes in the boot, he makes a mental note—again—to call Carol back. And maybe answer one of Jason’s endless texts. Taking a deep breath in, he steps towards the ice, like he's done a thousand times. It's different though.

The ice glimmers and ripples a little when he steps onto it, having melted a thin layer of water at the top. Looking at the rink, Steve can already see it—scraped and scored with skate lines, crowded with kids in mismatched gear, laughter echoing through the rafters. Maybe even the sound of blades cutting fast and clean, just like they used to. But first, he has to find out if this ice remembers how to hold him.

Taking another unsure step, he's met with another tiny ripple. But the ice feels firm and strong under his weight and Steve knows he's back. Pushing out from his feet, he feels the ice give way beneath him and the rink feels endless. He pumps his legs with one last push, releases, and then he's off. The blade of his skate carves the surface with a slight scrape as he lets muscle memory guide him. Each motion feels familiar in a way that aches. There's no thinking when he moves on the ice, just his body guiding him, remembering what his heart forgot. The cold air tugs at his sleeves, whistles past his ear, and brushes his face as a greeting.

It’s not the same as performing. There’s no music swelling behind him, no eyes watching, no pressure to land a perfect anything. But his body knows this language like it was born fluent. The push and pull of it. The weight and the wind and the rhythm. Something has settled in his chest, maybe not happiness, but something weightless. It's like peace has seeped in through every pore in his skin and the corners of his mouth don't feel as heavy anymore. Leaning into another curve, Steve skates.

Later that evening, he meets up with Robin at the bottom of the slopes, feeling lighter than he has for months. She bounds down from the ski racks with a toothy grin, kicking up packed snow everywhere. 

"Tell me you spun dramatically in the rink like a Disney princess. Please. I need this" She teases, grabbing the cocoa Steve's been holding for her.

He rolls his eyes, smirking. "How was the mountain, did you check out all the trails?"

"Yeah, god Steve, it was gorgeous," she gushes, "like a fucking winter wonderland, I swear."

They start walking back to the staff house, neither of them trusting each other to drive the UTV yet. The air is less biting now, with the sun setting behind them, feeling softer on the skin. 

Robin blows into her cup, glancing at him sideways. "So?" She asks, "how was it? How did it feel?"

Steve shrugs, but theres a small smile tugging at his lips. "It was... I don’t know. Fucking amazing, I think," he says, a little breathless.

Robin just grins into her cocoa like she knew the answer already and bumps his shoulder. The rest of the journey back to the staff house is in comfortable silence, broken here and there by the crunch of their boots or a huff of breath in the cold. Soon, the porch lights come into view through the trees, warm and golden in the greenery.

By the time they reach the door, the sun has just tipped below the mountains, and the air has turned crisp again, the kind that bites the tops of your cheeks. Robin stomps snow off her boots while Steve fumbles with the door, his cold stiff hands working in slow motion.

Inside, the staff house smells like pine and something warm simmering on the stove. As much as he dislikes the guy, Steve can't deny the fact that the dinner Eddie made for the group last night was one of the best meals he's had in a while. He silently hopes Eddie's cooking again. Someone's left music playing low on a speaker—Fleetwood Mac, maybe—and there a scrunching sound coming from the living room, like paper is being crushed.

Robin toes off her boots and perks up at the noise. "Is that Chrissy? I bet she's getting the fire started, I'll go help!"

She trips over herself and sprints to the living room, stumbling over the rest of the shoes in the walkway and disappearing around the corner. She's definitely going to get herself killed on the mountain if she doesn't do it here.

"Just the man I wanted to see."

Steve's head snaps up at the sound of Eddie's voice, dry and way too smug. He’s leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, arms crossed and a shit-eating grin on his face.

"You're just in time for your noble quest."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Steve spits, getting up from his hunched position untying his shoes.

Eddie shrugs like the answer should be obvious. "It means you're about to embark on a harrowing journey through the wilderness to retrieve the sacred logs of warmth and fire."

Steve snorts, "you're so full of shit."

"And yet, there's a fire that needs tending to, and someone's gotta be the hero."

"Why can't it be you? Or like, anyone else but me?"

"Steve. I slaved away over that glorious pot of chili in the kitchen, I can't risk these fingers. Besides, as a new man in the household, it's your duty to gather the firewood for us!"

Steve glares. This banter and teasing is throwing him off. It's fun, talking to Eddie. He could almost fall for it again. But he won't, he knows how the man truly feels and that's enough to sour his mood and scare away all the thrill that had started to build in his chest. Good riddance, this guy is totally fucking with him.

Eddie grins wider. "Look, it's not that far. Just past the ridge, the little shack with a big stack inside. Couldn't miss it."

"That sounds exactly like the beginning of a slasher movie."

"Then bring a headlamp and a sense of adventure, princess."

The 'shack' is more of a shed after being thrown into a blender. It's walls are barely holding, and the roof has almost completely cleared away, the wind whistling in the cracks. It's fucking pitch black outside and Steve's dropped his phone at least five times. He really should've listened to Eddie and grabbed the stupid headlamp instead of using his phone flashlight. His jeans are soaked up to the knees and the splintery logs he's got in both arms are poking into his ribcage. Overall, the situation's fucked.

Finally, he stumbles in through the front door and nearly drops everything right there in the entryway. The blast of warmth hits him like a brick wall—too sudden, too much after the hellscape he just endured. 

Chrissy rounds the corner of the living room, just in time to witness the spectacle.

"Steve..." she cringes, taking in his soaked jeans, red fingers, and collection of half-frozen wood, "that's really sweet of you, but why didn't you just grab some from the basement?"

"The what? There's a basement?"

"Yeah, it's where we keep all the dry kindling," She answers, relieving him of a few logs.

"Eddie told me to get the wood from outside. The shack at the edge of the ravine." he grits out.

Her face crumples, "oh my god. He didn't."

Steve doesn't say anything, but he's sure his expression answers her.

"Christ, I'm so sorry Steve. I don't know why he's being such an ass. You can just leave them here and go upstairs to dry off."

That’s all the confirmation he needs. He lets the logs drop to the floor and bolts for the stairs, wet pants slapping against his shins. His cheeks burn—not from the cold this time, but from sheer secondhand embarrassment—as Eddie’s muffled laughter drifts up from the kitchen, loud and unmistakable.

Upstairs, Steve peels off his jeans with a significant amount of effort which ends up with him in a heap on the floor, sweaty and tangled up. His socks squelch when he moves to take them off and he has to physically wring them out in the sink. He's never felt wetter, grosser, and more humiliated ever in his life. Tears spring to his eyes but he quickly blinks them away and grips the edge of the sink, not willing to cry over this dick and his high school pranks. For the second time in the two days he's been here, Steve already wants to leave. Keep in mind, both occasions were caused by a certain man with crusty, brown curls.

By the time he’s back downstairs, his hair is damp, face blotchy, and he's still fuming. He pads into the kitchen, jaw tight, intent on ignoring Eddie altogether—but of course the bastard is still there, leaned against the counter like a picture of casual evil, scooping a spoonful of probably delicious chili into his mouth like nothing happened.

Steve doesn’t say anything. Just opens the fridge and grabs whatever drink he sees first. Apple juice is what his hand lands on and he internally wilts. He's more of an orange juice kind of guy. Not willing to hurt his pride any more than he already has, he grabs the apple juice like it's exactly what he wanted and slams the fridge door with way too much emphasis.

"You survive the wilderness, Snow White?" Eddie asks, dropping his spoon back into the bowl, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Steve doesn’t answer. He just shoots him a glare, and takes a long, angry sip of juice.

"You didn’t have to go," Eddie says, mock-innocent. "Could’ve questioned the task. Rebelled. Mounted a resistance."

This absolute asswipe. Steve sets the juice down, turns to him, and says flatly, "You’re a dick."

Eddie's eyes slightly widen at that, a twitch that would've gone unnoticed if Steve wasn't analyzing (glaring) him so thoroughly. He can't decipher what it means and doesn't get the time to because Eddie immediately returns to his resting douchebag face and snorts, like what he had said was a compliment. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Steve stares at him for another second. A man cradling a bowl of chili, wearing a black knit sweater with questionable stains, and who probably uses a 3-in-1 shampoo has ruined his day twice. He ignores the way this image of Eddie is still appealing in his mind and turns to walk out of the kitchen before he does something irrational. Like throw the juice. Or break down and beg this man why he hates him so much. Or admit that a tiny part of him is thrilled by their banter. That's not the point. The point is: Eddie Munson is the actual worst.

Chapter Text

Eddie moved in with Wayne when he was 12 years old. Freshly buzzed hair, trash bag full of his belongings, and brimming with way too much anger for a kid that young. The quietness of the mountains was something he was familiar with, but it was never constant. Being your father's personal partner in crime was a loud and chaotic job even in the country. So when he arrived on Wayne's doorstep, he was ready for screaming, crying, chaos, violence, grief. And when those things never came and silence quickly replaced them, he was even more off-kilter.

The first few weeks he raised hell. Running away constantly, only to return to the cabin with his tail between his legs, tracking in snow and dirt. He was a real asshole to all the staff, constantly testing boundaries, pushing Wayne like he was daring him to give up. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never did. Wayne never cracked. And once that sank in, the tough guy act disappeared fast. The shift was jarring—like the second he realized his old tricks wouldn’t fly, he turned timid overnight. Careful. Like he knew he was in new territory now. Living with someone who actually respected you—that meant there was something real to lose.

Wayne made it easy though. No judgement, but no free rein—Eddie learned discipline for the first time, real discipline, not punishment. Eventually the lodge was home, not just Wayne but the staff too. He found family in the housekeepers, lift operators, groundskeepers, and especially with the kitchen staff. Benny swiftly took Eddie under his wing, allowing him to be comfortable enough to move from his permanent spot hiding behind Wayne, tiny hands grasping onto his uncle's flannel like a lifeline. 

It came easy after that, becoming Eddie, the new version of him. He grew his hair out, long and wild, took on a 'culinary apprenticeship' for Benny (his only job was wearing a comically large chef's hat and handing the other cooks salt and pepper, but Wayne didn't have the heart to tell him), and made friends—real friends, not his dad's buddies, but honest to god play-dates and sleepovers kinda friends. 

He met Chrissy when they were 15, and she was unlike anyone he'd ever met. Wayne used to say she was in a bad way, that she was born under a bad moon. Eddie didn't understand what he meant for a long time but he understood that he needed to protect her, not because she was fragile or weak, but because she was good. Chrissy was sunshine and freshly fallen snow, and she was Eddie's girl, and he was her guy—that's how it was for a long time.

Their love was something fierce and unshakable. So when Eddie slipped into Chrissy’s room that Sunday night and found her barely breathing, soaked in her own blood, it was like the world collapsed beneath him all over again. And maybe it was selfish but the entire ride to the hospital, Eddie was paralyzed in fear—for Chrissy, yes, but largely for himself. The thought of losing another version of himself, of having to relearn how to function in a completely separate world again, well he just couldn't do it. The Eddie he was when his mother died, when his father got arrested, when Wayne took him in, when he met Chrissy were all distinctive. Bile had risen in his throat at the idea of giving it all up, because Eddie was selfish. He'd been spoiled with a new life, and he hadn't believed he could survive shedding the person he’d gotten so comfortable being. So that night, he'd prayed for his girl to come out of it alive—but he’d begged for his own survival, too.

A few weeks later, Chrissy and her father sans one Margaret Cunningham moved right up next to the lodge, and the mountains didn't bat an eye. No one talked about it after that, what had happened to the blonde girl and her family, the disappearance of Mrs. Cunningham and the ease that came with her absence, how the Cunningham girl with two white lines down her wrist had started to grow into her body, how she no longer looked hollow. The town had moved on from their story with surprising grace, or at least had the decency not to talk about it in front of their faces. And Eddie could relax, step out of his fighting stance.

At 18, he just barely graduated, walking out on a stage in front of his whole family—housekeepers, cooks, and all. Most of his friends left after that, starting families young, going to university, getting jobs. He thought about it, going to college and working at some dingy restaurant. But the idea of leaving the mountains never impassioned him like it did his peers.

His momma used to say, “you’ll know you’re home when you’re loved”. She probably would've wanted him to leave though, to not make the same mistake she did getting stuck in her hometown, hiding away with a man she didn't love. But the lodge was family and Eddie was loved. So, with Chrissy, he stayed in the mountains and started to actually work under Benny, then with him, actually making some good meals. Life got easy after that, Chrissy started teaching little ones how to ski while Eddie fed their parents. Then his new family came along, the kids and Jon and Argyle, and the mountains grew wider to accommodate.

On some weekends the older of the family would go out into town, Eddie would find some random guy to fuck and never see again, never take back home. He did once, had a boyfriend, met the parents, the whole shebang. But it didn't stick, the guy wanted to leave to someplace warmer, louder and Eddie just couldn't, couldn't unlearn the stillness he'd made a life in. So they split in the spring like snowmelt and Chrissy hugged him so tightly he almost cried, but he didn't. Sometimes he still thought about it, about him , but not in a way that hurt. More like a lesson. A reminder that the family he has can't be infiltrated, the mountains can't accommodate for any more. So when he goes out with Jon and Argyle, he just screws around, would never bring someone back that could disrupt the balance he has, that Wayne gave him, that his mom never got. Chrissy, Wayne, and the kids are his family, they'd carved out a home in the hush of snow and pine, in the clatter of breakfast rushes, in ski boots lined up by the door, in movie nights and sharing beds. It was sacred, and the mountains muffled any outside interference. 

So when Wayne announces one night at dinner that he's hired some folks all the way from Chicago to make use of the abandoned rink by the lodge, Eddie is immediately on guard. 

And then three days later, Steve Harrington rolls up in a silver coupe, duffle bags in hand and a pinched expression on his face, like the air here personally offended him. His hair's too perfect for the dry mountain air, his boots are too new, like the guy googled 'mountain footwear' and chose the first thing that popped up, and his zip-up looks like it costs more than Eddie's truck. He watches from the porch as a girl struggles to unload the car, talking a mile a minute about how the GPS tried to kill them. But Eddie clocks the way Steve seemingly blocked her out, analyzing his new home with disdain and something else Eddie can't quite place. Not anger. Not disruption. But something just loud enough to echo.

He takes mercy on them eventually—bounding down the stairs of the lodge and sneaking up behind them. When he leads them to the staff house, the guy doesn't even say thank you, just scans the place like he's goddamn James Bond. The girl, Robin, is the opposite—willing to chatter the whole way to Eddie about the drive up, thanks him three separate times, and nearly cracks her skull open on the ice before they even reach the porch. He kind of likes her.

At dinner, he gets a closer look at their new skating instructor. Steve's polite, technically, but it's all distant and performative. Eddie watches him as he talks with Dustin, trying to make jokes here and there, at least it's something.

Chrissy bumps shoulders with him at the table. "You're staring."

"He's trouble," Eddie mutters, eyes not leaving the boy.

"He looks like he needs a nap." She's probably right, she always is.

Later, Chrissy reminds him again that the guy is probably just tired, not used to the cold yet. But Eddie doesn't trust him. There's something about Steve that he just can't shake, it's not the expensive boots or jacket, even though that's what he says it is. There's this haunted look in his eyes, like he's carrying grief and destruction in them. But not in a loud way, and not in the barely-holding-it-together way either, but in this quiet, contained sort of way. He's not sure what Steve's story is, honestly he doesn't want to know either—but he recognizes it enough to clock it as dangerous. Not violent dangerous, but the kind that could bring ruin to the sanctuary he's built. 

Surprisingly, Wayne loves Steve and Robin, going on about how they're 'good kids, I can tell' in his ominous, all-knowing type of way. Bullshit. He's always been weirdly specific about hiring new staff for a guy who finds them on Indeed. It's like he's got this internal radar, and once he gets a read on you, that's it. You're either in or out, and once you're in, you're family.

Eddie cannot let that happen. Steve Harrington is not family.

"You're so dramatic, he's not a serial killer you can look away," Chrissy laughs from behind him as he glares at Steve and Robin driving off to the rink—not that the third day of them being here has made him any less suspicious.

"I'm not being dramatic, I'm being protective. I'm protecting us."

"From what exactly? His expensive clothes? He's rich, Eddie, get over it."

"He's hiding somethin', I don't know what." He says helping her to her feet and out the door. The cold immediately stings his face when he steps outside, but soothes instantly, like the wind recognized it was him and wanted to apologize. Scurrying over to the UTV parked by the porch, he waits for Chrissy.

"We all are, Ed," she murmurs, "it doesn't mean you get to be a dick about it. The shit you pulled yesterday wasn't OK, seriously."

Eddie scowls, kicking a rock across the frozen dirt like a child. "I didn't pull anything, it happened on its own.

"You sent him out to the wood shack for firewood when there was a full stack inside the staff house. He came back freezing and soaked."

"He needed to toughen up," Eddie mutters, but it sounds weak even to him.

"Or maybe you just wanted him to feel out of place for a second," she says, climbing into the passenger seat. "You're not twelve, Ed. Knock it off."

She's right, realistically. Eddie knows it, not that he's about to admit it out loud to her. He just grumbles under his breath and moves to start the car, jamming the key into the ignition. 

The UTV sputters for a second then rumbles to life. He ignores Chrissy's still pointed glare as he reaches behind her seat and looks to back out of the lot. But the second he taps the gas, it jerks hard to the side and makes a horrible grinding noise. Both of them lurch forward in their seats and Eddie face-plants into the dashboard.

"What the hell now?" he mutters, rubbing his forehead and throwing it back into park.

Chrissy's already biting her lip, fighting a smile.

Eddie shoots her a look then stomps to the back of the car. And there it is, a fat chunk of wood, wedged between the wheel and the back fender of his UTV. His UTV. Everyone knows this is his UTV, the one he takes every morning to drop Chrissy off and then drive over to the kitchen. And now there's a log of wood wedged in his wheel well.

Yanking it out, he takes a closer look. It's not just any random piece—it's from the stack in the shed, the one he sent Steve to last night. Realization sinks in slow and sour. Motherfucker.

Still in the UTV, Chrissy's full-on laughing now, pointing at him like a five-year-old.

"It's not funny. Did you hear that sound it made? That could've damaged the wheel, we could've died."

Chrissy just laughs harder, gasping now, "yeah, he really put us in danger."

"I don't know why you're laughing," he snaps, throwing the wood into the snowbank by the porch, "you're going to be late as well."

Ignoring Chrissy's poorly-muffled giggles, Eddie hops back into the UTV and cranks the gear into reverse, jaw tight.

Alright then Harrington, if that's how you wanna play it.

"Dinner is served," Eddie says dropping his extra special plate down in front of Steve. Everyone else has already started to dig in, chatting casually and picking from each others dishes.

Eddie, sitting at the head of the table, watches Steve closely as he takes a bite of his food.

Steve freezes for just a second, feeling the salt Eddie dumped in his meal hit his tongue like a tidal wave. He coughs slightly to cover it up, but forces himself to swallow and continues chewing, trying to mask the grimace forming on his face. The others are oblivious, happily munching on their perfectly seasoned plates.

"D'ya like it Stevie? It's Wayne's ma's recipe, I'd hope you wouldn't have anything bad to say about it." Eddie's voice is sickly innocent, but the narrowness of his eyes tell a different story.

Steve purses his lips and swallows the rest of his bite down, though it looks like he's just gagging. "Yeah... it's.. um, it's great." His voice is strained and Eddie can tell he's trying his best not to throw up in front of everyone.

Wayne, sitting across from him, takes another bite and nods. "Yeah, that’s the stuff. Real good. You did good tonight, Ed."

Eddie can see the exact moment Steve realizes it's only his plate with an over-serving of salt.

He leans back in his seat, eyeing his victim, clearly enjoying the discomfort. "Yeah, I figured. Added a little extra salt, tastes good right?" He's practically daring Steve to admit it's terrible.

Steve swallows another bite, eyes watering a little, and forces a smile. "Totally. Pops right out at you," he says, trying to sound as casual as possible. The way he's clenching his jaw looks like it hurts, Eddie almost feels bad. But he doesn't.

Steve surprisingly finishes his plate with the rest of the group, not without eleven glasses of water a few disgusting gags though. It's still kind of impressive, Eddie can admit.

When everyone starts migrating towards the living room after clearing their plates, Eddie makes sure to bump into Steve as he's putting his plate away.

"Glad you liked it so much, I'll make a note of it."

"Yeah, real fan." Steve grinds out, forcing another tight smile.

"Good, wouldn't want to mess up a classic," Eddie says, completely satisfied with the discomfort he's caused, "I'm just glad I got to repay you for your gift this morning."

Steve just tilts his head, all polite interest. "Oh, that?" he says lightly. "Repay away, man. You're gonna need the practice."

He pats Eddie twice on the chest—real friendly—and saunters off, leaving Eddie standing there, mouth slightly open, brain still catching up.

A slow, stupid grin spreads across Eddie's face.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

Things kind of escalate after that. 

A few days after the salt debacle, Eddie checks his UTV extensively before driving, and even then, he wears his seatbelt for the first time in years. Stepping into the kitchen, his sanctuary, his shoulder drop in relief. He can't believe he was actually scared for a second, all talk and no game Harrington. Chuckling to himself, he forgets about Steve and ties on his apron. Of course only moments later, the kitchen is erupting in laughter and Benny is staring at him with a mix of you do you man and just not in my kitchen. 

"Don't we have a dress code?" Max gasps through her giggles.

"Not yet," Benny mutters, done with everyone's shit. "Jesus, Ed, go change."

Letting his guard down was a bad idea. A really bad idea. Because now he's standing in the kitchen, in front of all the line cooks who are supposed to respect him, with two bologna-sized holes cut in his apron right where his nipples are, the only thing stopping him from flashing the rest of the kitchen is the white shirt he has on underneath. Son of a bitch. 

A slip of paper sticks out of his lap pocket and he can only guess who it's from. Covering his exposed breasts and hiding in the walk-in (bad idea: hard nipples), Eddie unfolds the paper and reads a note written in curly, expensive handwriting.

Hope my tailoring helps with ventilation in the kitchen

(don't worry I picked your cheap cheapest apron)

It's not signed but who the fuck else would it be from. 

The rest of the day is spent in the expensive apron he only wears for events while trying to avoid just about everyone's eye contact.

So naturally, this means war.

Eddie retaliates by not sleeping a wink that night, plotting the most elaborate revenge he can think of.

It's simple. Elegant, even. 

Steve's boring black laces on his expensive snow boots really didn't show his personality, his sparkle. 

So, at the crack of dawn, Eddie spent an honestly embarrassing amount of time untying and replacing Steve's old shoelaces with pink, glittery ones he bought from the gas station. (They were labeled 'Princess Power,' I mean how could he not?)

The cheap, frilly laces looked glorious against the otherwise high-end, serious boots—glittery and so, so pink. They caught every bit of light as Steve stomped across the lot toward the lodge, quietly fuming but trying really hard to look casual. Like he hadn't just spent five minutes in the parking lot yanking on his boots like a pissed-off Disney princess.

Eddie leans casually against the porch, grinning. "Love the pink Harrington, really brings out your eyes."

Steve just flips him off and clomps back inside to change, sparkly glitter flying with every step.

The next morning when Eddie rolls into the kitchen, something feels off. He doesn't notice it at first—not until he grabs a carton of eggs and starts prepping for the breakfast rush. That's when he realizes that every single egg has a tiny, smug face drawn on it in Sharpie. One has sunglasses, some are winking, a few just grinning like little idiots. But it's obvious who the vandal is.

Max almost cracks a rib laughing again (it's clear she's taken Steve's side in this whole war, they've been getting unusually close the past few days. Traitor).

Eddie glares at her, then glares at the eggs, then glares off into the general direction to where Steve is probably flirting with a mom dropping her children off at the rink.

"Swear to god," he mutters, shoving the eggs back into the fridge so hard the one with the sunglasses almost falls out. "One more prank and I'm melting all the ice in that rink of his."

From the corner, Benny dryly adds, "heard that boy's lessons are helping pay for our new fryers, might wanna rethink that."

Eddie flips him off without looking. But it’s true—for the almost two weeks Steve’s been here, his lessons have been raking in cash for the lodge. The guy’s annoyingly charming when he’s not staring off all moody and tragic. He and Robin have kind of just... slotted themselves in the family seamlessly. Game nights, chore rotations, the whole thing. Everyone likes them and the rink is getting busier and busier each day.

Not that Eddie’s actually seen Steve skate. He’s heard things—that the guy’s good with kids, that the moms adore him, that Max asked for one-on-one lessons and came back looking like she’d won the lottery. But Eddie’s never stuck around to watch him teach, or hung back to catch one of those quiet, late-night solo sessions Steve sneaks in when the rink’s empty.

And that's another thing. Being in this prank war has given him the chance to learn a lot about Steve, willing or not. Like his favorite condiments (though 'Chick-fil-a' sauce should not count as a condiment), or how many pillows he sleeps with (way too many), or how it takes him thirty full minutes to style his hair in the morning—and somehow, even after a day of chasing kids across ice, it still looks perfect. Not that Eddie’s paying attention. Obviously.

So, needless to say, Eddie knows the guy. Probably way more than he should considering they've never actually had a real conversation, always opting to ignore the other when no one else is around. He knows Chrissy’s tired of his little grudge, calls him childish and "kind of a bully." But that's easy for her to say. She’s been charmed like the rest of them, even started going on morning runs with him, like they’re honest-to-god friends. Eddie's totally, definitely, not jealous of all the attention the other man is getting.

Maybe that's why he finds himself tiptoeing down the back hallway with a bottle of glue and a bag of little baby clowns (another thing he's learned: Steve is fucking terrified of clowns). It's the night before both of their days off, meaning he'll actually be around to hear Steve's screams. His scheming is interrupted by a familiar creak in the floorboards and the sound of someone clearing their throat.

"Boy I hope you're not planning another one of your silly pranks"

Eddie jumps, almost drops the glue. Wayne's leaning against the wall at the far end of the hallway, arms crossed and eyebrow perfectly arched with disapproval. 

"It's.. uh.. for maintenance..?"

Wayne just looks at him with a long unimpressed stare. Eddie suddenly feels 13 years old again getting caught trying to jump his bike off the lodge roof.

"Jesus, what is wrong with you?" Wayne says, shaking his head. "Far as I can tell, that boy's good for this place. Good for you too."

Eddie shifts awkwardly, clutching the bottle of glue to his chest, suddenly feeling very ridiculous.

Wayne sighs. “You’ve always pushed good things away when they come easy. Never trusted anything that didn’t make you bleed first.”

He looks away, jaw tight, because Wayne's not wrong. Steve showing up here—fitting in effortlessly without even trying, charming Chrissy, becoming buds with Dustin, even getting through to Max of all people—it made something in Eddie want to claw its way out. He can tell himself its ego, or jealousy. Petty shit. But he knows it's something softer and more dangerous underneath that. He knows he's scared.

Eddie grips the glue even tighter. "You don't get it"

"No? I don't get what? How it's hard for you to just let things be easy? You think I didn't see you as a kid, waiting for me to kick you out, stop feeding you? You were so damn sure love had to come with a price tag."

Eddie looks away. He doesn't want to hear this. Doesn't want to remember how long it took him took him to stop flinching when Wayne raised his voice, how he used to hoard food under his bed just in case.

"He just doesn't belong Wayne. This place, the people here ... he's not one of us."

Wayne is quiet for a long beat, just looking at him in that way that makes Eddie feel two feet tall.

Then, calmly: "Funny. I seem to remember another kid who didn't 'fit' too good once."

Eddie scowls, opening his mouth to argue back but Wayne just keeps going. "You remember how folks gave you a chance? You called me every name in the book. Ran off into the woods twice a week like a damn wildcat. But we made room for you, waited for you, didn't throw you out."

Wayne's voice softens, "look I'm not saying you have to love the guy. But I'm surprised you've forgotten what it's like to show up somewhere with all your mess and just hope somebody doesn’t slam the door in your face. Don't be the reason someone doesn't get the same chance you got.”

And with that Wayne turns to leave, floorboards creaking a familiar sound under his steps.

Eddie stays in the empty hallway for a while, still holding his prank materials, feeling like a huge jackass. 

The next morning the sky is a clear, bright blue, stretched wide over the ridge. The staff house is quiet, most of them have today off and the others have left by now. It's early, not obscenely early but early enough that there’s still a chill clinging to the air.

Eddie's been standing in front of the door to Steve's room for the past five minutes, working up the courage to actually lift his hand and knock. He shifts from foot to foot, cursing himself. Dumb, dumb idea.

Suddenly the door swings open and a sleep-rumpled Steve pops his head out into the hallway, eyes blearily locking in on Eddie. Steve's hair is flat and messy, nothing like the perfectly-coiffed style Eddie's used to, he looks good regardless. 

"What the fuck are you planning?" Steve questions, squinting at him and leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Planning? I'm not planning anything."

"I could see your shadow under the door pacing like a villain." 

Eddie snorts and rolls his eyes but he feels his cheeks heating up. Jesus that's embarrassing, he kinda thought he was being discrete with his panic in the hallway. "Alright, ease up Harrington."

Steve just lifts and eyebrow, looking majorly unimpressed and very tired. Even with pillow wrinkles on his cheek, messy hair, and an oversized sleep-tee the guy still looks unfairly good.

Eddie clears his throat. "I was just gonna ask if you wanted to go for a drive. I've gotta head into town, restock the kitchen. Restaurant Depot run."

Steve blinks at him, processing. "Okay... and you want me to come, why?"

Eddie shrugs, tries to act casual. "Thought you might be bored. Figured it wouldn't kill us to hang out like normal people, 'specially if you're planning to stay the whole season."

Steve just narrows his eyes, unconvinced. "And this isn't just a plan to dump me on the side of the road?"

"Tempting, but no. Look, man," Eddie says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, "it's just a drive. You're new, I'm-" He pauses, wrinkling his nose like it pains him to say this "-I'm being nice."

Steve blinks at him, then huffs a quiet, incredulous laugh. "That so?"

Eddie shrugs again, trying to look unbothered despite his sweaty palms. "Yeah, well don't get used to it."

There's a moment where Steve just watches him, still a little wary. Then he runs his hand down his face and sighs. "Okay. Give me ten minutes."

Eddie grins, the tension in his shoulders releasing all at once. "Take your time princess, I'll warm up the chariot."

"Don't call it that," Steve mutters and then the door is slamming shut in his face.

Eddie backs away, still smiling to himself like an idiot, the ghost of nerves still fluttering in his stomach. He turns on his heel and bounds down the stairs, wood clunking with each step.

This was fine. Totally fine. See Wayne, he could be nice.

He plops himself in the drivers seat of his truck and taps a rhythm on the steering wheel, feeling way too keyed-up for a grocery run.

And if he fiddles with the radio stations trying to find one Steve might like, well—that’s nobody’s business but his own.

Chapter Text

Steve didn't expect to like it here. Not really. Not the early mornings or the endless parade of tiny gloves winding up on the wrong hands. The kids were fun... mostly. Loud and chaotic, and weirdly sticky. But they listened to him and haven't gotten him fired yet, so they're not all bad. It wasn't what he was familiar with, obviously. The barn wasn't anything like the club ice he used to practice on, where he almost always got a private rink and privacy and solitude was the norm. Now, it's all squeaky skates and kids face-planting into the ice, forcing Steve to bribe them with hot chocolate before the tears hit.

He imagines Carol and the others laughing at him. If they saw him crouched down on the dusty floor of a barn, tying some kid's skates and zipping up their jacket, he's sure they'd never let him live it down. Still, it’s not awful. The kids are kind of great, actually. They cheer when he glides backwards without wobbling and gasp like he’s doing Olympic-level stunts when he does a simple spin. One of them tried to give him a friendship bracelet last week. He kept it in his coat pocket. So, yeah. He loves the kids and kind of loves this new job.

At the end of the day, the parents, sufficiently rested after a break from their children, hand Steve a twenty and slowly drain the rink of its chaos. Then, it's just him and the ice again. For an hour or so after the rink empties out, he just skates. Sometimes he listens to his old program music, but usually the clean sounds of blades cutting ice is enough.

He doesn't try any axels, hasn't for a while now. But the rest—step sequences, tight spins, a few loops with clean landings—they come easy. Muscle memory. Ghosts in his knees. It's nice. No coaches barking from the edge of the rink, no pressure to shave off a tenth of a second. Just cold air in his lungs and the crunch of ice under his weight.

He still misses his team, practicing with them and grabbing dinner after, sneaking into each other's hotel rooms during competitions, standing on podiums together. He misses them so much. And it's shitty what he did: ghosting them and then disappearing off the face of the earth. He knows it was shitty. But this place was supposed to be punishment. A fresh start yeah, but it was supposed to be something where he would say 'yeah I ran away, but I was totally miserable'. It's just hard to be unhappy when everyone in this goddamn town is so welcoming and domestic, it's like everyone here was born with this intrinsic care for others. Everyone except one.

Eddie Munson is obnoxious. He's loud, opinionated, always stomping around the lodge in his clunky combat boots. He talks with his hands, never shuts up during staff meetings, and has a habit of rolling his eyes so dramatically that it's a miracle they haven't stuck that way. He's messy, like genuinely feral, and sarcastic to the point where it's just rude. And for some reason, Eddie hates him for just existing.

He didn't bother hiding it either. Glares from across the living room during movie nights, dramatic sighs whenever Steve enters the room, and blatant sabotage every time they played Monopoly. But to everyone else? Eddie was an angel. Even to Robin, which felt like a personal attack. He hadn't even done anything, hadn't said more than a few words to the guy before Eddie decided he was public enemy number one.

But then the pranks started. And oddly... that's when things started getting easier.

It's like once Eddie got an outlet to let out his hatred for Steve, he chilled out. The tension didn't vanish, obviously. But somehow glittery shoelaces were better than being straight-up ignored and silently resented. They were still trading jabs, but the air didn't feel thick with hatred anymore. Now it was something lighter. Teasing, maybe. Borderline playful.

And Steve had to admit, he was having fun doing these stupid pranks. Eddie was kind of funny. When he wasn't being a pain in the ass, he could actually make Steve laugh.

Plus, Eddie could cook. Like really cook. Steve hadn't expected that, either. Watching him in the kitchen was almost hypnotic—loud music blasting, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, and Eddie just moving, like he belonged there. Steve caught himself watching once or twice. Or more.

So yeah, he didn't expect to like it here. And he sure as hell didn't expect to tolerate Eddie Munson.

Which still didn't make it any less weird when Eddie showed up at his door, not to prank him, but to ask if he wanted to go for a drive to town.

And Steve, because he never backs down from a challenge (and mostly because Robin wasn't around to give him a better excuse) said yes.

Now, they were 10 minutes into the drive and haven't spoken a word to each other. It should be weird but It's not.

Looking out the window, trees blur past in endless greens and browns. The view is breathtaking with the mountains in the background, the kinda thing you'd only see in car commercials. 

"You look like you've never seen a tree before." Eddie teases, not taking his eyes off the road. 

"I have, just not this many. I could get lost here so easily, everything looks the same."

Eddie hums noncommittally. "You kinda learn how to navigate the trees once you've been here a while. My grandma used live up that road," he adds, nodding his head up to a dirt path that looks identical to the five others they passed earlier. "She made me learn all the back roads in case her truck ever broke down, said knowing land was better than any GPS. Of course, that didn't help her when that family of bears ate her alive."

Steve blinks. "Jesus, is she okay? I mean- obviously she's not okay but.. jesus."

Eddie smirks. "Kidding. She moved to Florida. Which is arguably worse."

"You're such an asshole"

"I try." 

Another stretch of silence passes and Steve looks out the window again. "Were you close to her?" he asks eventually.

Eddie shrugs with one shoulder, hands still steady on the wheel. "Yeah. She practically raised me when I wasn't with Wayne. Taught me how to drive stick, gut a fish, bluff in poker. Everything useful in life."

Steve huffs a quiet laugh. "Sounds badass."

"She was," Eddie says, quieter this time. "Yelled like a drill sergeant, but made the best biscuits you'll ever eat. Total menace."

Steve smiles to himself at the thought. He can imagine it, a tiny Eddie learning how to bake with his Grandma and almost burning down the kitchen. He's probably been this chaotic since he was a kid. "I always wanted that type of thing with my grandparents."

"Type of thing..?"

"Y'know, your grandma taught you how to do everything and was probably wise beyond her years or something. I wanted that a lot when I was younger." 

Eddie hums like he's listening, then says, "So you weren’t close with yours?"

Steve shakes his head. "Never met them. They lived somewhere in Europe I think."

"Oh, so your folks and them weren't close?"

He huffs a quiet laugh at that. "Yeah, guess it runs in the family."

Eddie doesn't say anything, just nods and keeps driving. It's probably for the best. Steve wouldn't even know where to start if asked about his parents. Just that they had a kid for the sole purpose of living vicariously through him, and when that kid fucked up at the Olympics, they suddenly had somewhere else to be.

He clears his throat. "So how much further?"

"Twenty minutes, give or take." Eddie says, then after a beat, "you doing okay over there or are you gonna need juice box?"

"I'm fine." Steve says, and means it, mostly.

The rest of the drive passes in patches—Eddie pointing out landmarks Steve will never remember, a diner that apparently has the best pie in the state, a road that floods every spring without fail. Steve listens without really meaning to. Eddie talks about this place like it's a living thing, something that breathes and has moods. Steve finds it hard not to get caught up in it.

When the Restaurant Depot comes into view it's enormous and brutally lit and Steve immediately feels overwhelmed.

"Okay." Eddie kills the engine and grabs a stack reusable bag from the back seat. "Ground rules."

"We need ground rules for a grocery store?"

"It's not a grocery store, it's a Restaurant Depot, and yes. Stay with the cart, don't put anything in it without asking, and—" he points at him, very serious, "—do not talk to me like a civilian when we're in the bulk aisle. I'm a professional in there."

Steve stares at him. "You're insane."

"Twenty minute drive and you're just figuring that out?" Eddie's already out of the truck.

Inside is a sensory experience Steve was not prepared for. The ceilings are warehouse-high, there are these huge industrial fans that are bigger than Steve's first apartment, and everything comes in quantities that make no logical sense for human beings. He stands at the entrance holding the clipboard Eddie shoved at him like a reluctant intern while Eddie grabs a cart with the focused energy of someone who has done with a hundred times, because he has.

"Do I really have to hold this clipboard? Can't you just put your grocery list in the Notes app like a normal person?"

"Don't complain about the clipboard unless you want to lose clipboard privileges."

Steve looks down at it. The list is long and weirdly specific, written in Eddie's handwriting which is chicken-scratch but somehow legible. "What's the difference between these two olive oils?"

"One's for cooking, one's for finishing. Don't mix them up."

"What happens if you mix them up?"

Eddie looks at him. "Don't mix them up Steve."

"I thought we were supposed to become friends during this trip."

"We are, we will. We can bond in the the condiments aisle," Eddie says and pushes the cart.

Steve puts the clipboard under his arm. Fine.

They bond in the baking aisle for approximately forty five seconds before Eddie places a five-pound jar of pickles into their cart.

"Um. Those aren't on the list."

"Yeah, ignore it." Eddie mutters.

"Woah. What happened to your ground rules? What's the point of the clipboard if we're not-"

"Oh my god. Okay. I get one thing for myself."

Steve blinks. He thinks he misheard. "You- you get one thing for yourself? Is that... are we stealing right now?"

Eddie drops his head into his hands on the shopping cart. "Oh my god, this was a mistake."

"You are such a little thief! What else do you do on these trips?" Steve is absolutely delighted.

"That's it. This is literally it. I do one nice thing a trip, sue me."

"You steal pickles." Steve says slowly, like he's processing all of this. "Every trip. You come here, professional clipboard man, ground rules, 'don't touch anything'. And then you steal a jar of... pickles?"

"First of all. It's not always pickles. And secondly, it goes on the invoice eventually."

"Eventually!" Eddie is red in the cheeks and Steve thinks it's the cutest thing ever.

"Keep your voice down-"

"Eddie." Steve grabs the cart, leans in, deeply sincere. "I need you to know that this is the best thing that's happened to me since I got to West Virginia."

Eddie points at him. "You're so annoying." But he's smiling.

"I want something."

"Absolutely not."

"You got something."

"'Cause I'm the boss."

Steve levels him a look and starts scanning the aisle. Eddie tries to physically redirect the cart but Steve grabs his side of it. They spend an embarrassing three seconds in a silent tug of war in the middle of the condiments aisle before Eddie lets go.

"Fine. Fine. One thing. And it has to be reasonable."

"Define reasonable."

"Under ten dollars and edible."

"What if I want something over ten dollars."

"Then you pay for it like a law abiding citizen."

Steve purses his lips and looks down at the clipboard very seriously like he's consulting it. He tries to think of something he would need in bulk, because that's the only size they sell here.

"Okay." Steve says. "I know what I want."

Eddie follows him through four separate aisles because Steve refuses to spoil the surprise. They linger near the candy section too long apparently, because Eddie nearly intervenes.

"Any day, Harrington." 

"This is a big decision."

"It's a snack."

"It's my snack. It has to be right."

Eddie presses his fingers to his eyes.

Eventually Steve stops in front of a display and picks up a three pound bag of marshmallows. The big ones. He holds it up.

Eddie stares at him. "Marshmallows..?"

"Marshmallows."

"That's what you went with."

"Yeah- they're good." Steve says, suddenly insecure.

"You're like a child. You know that?"

Steve hasn't had marshmallows since he was a child.

He used to steal them straight form the bag when his mom made rice krispy treats for those bake sales at school.

She'd swat his hand away without looking up, the way you do when you already know what someone's going to do before they do it. He'd wait until her back was turned and steal another one anyway.

That stopped around the time he stopped being allowed to eat a lot of things. It happened gradually, they way most things did with his parents. There was no big conversation, just a new normal that arrived and then stuck. A nutritionist first, then a meal plan printed out and stuck to the fridge with a magnet from Niagara Falls. He was eleven. His mom explained it like it was a good thing, a you're serious now thing. And he was serious. He wanted to be serious. So he stopped stealing marshmallows and started reading labels and that was that.

Then the fall happened. And suddenly he didn't need to stop eating marshmallows or following a meal plan or watching his weight for skating. He could've had marshmallows any time since the fall. 

But he never did. He's not totally sure why. Maybe it felt like losing something twice. Or maybe he just forgot he was allowed.

But now he's standing in a Restaurant Depot in the middle of West Virginia next to a guy who steals pickles and calls its a work expense, and he wants marshmallows. So he's getting marshmallows.

"They're good." he says.

Eddie looks at him for a second, something changing in his expression that Steve can't quite read. Then he just nods and grabs the cart,

"Yeah, okay." Eddie says simply. "They're good."

They move through the rest of the store differently after that. Steve stops trying to mess with the cart and actually helps, reading things off the clipboard while Eddie loads. It's domestic in a way that Steve used to dream about when he was younger, before skating became the love of his life.

Eddie makes all these little faces at the food, like these weird quirks of his lips or twitches in his eyes. It's cute, how serious he is about his cooking. Steve wonders if every expression has a meaning that only someone who knows Eddie would be able to decipher. He finds himself wondering how long it would take to learn them all.

Eddie pulls two different vinegars off the shelf and holds them up, eyes narrowing slightly at the labels. His nose does this small scrunch, barely there, and then he puts one back and drops the other in the cart without hesitation. Decisive. Like the answer was obvious once he looked long enough.

Steve watches him do this with a can of coconut milk, a particular brand of stock, three nearly identical bags of dried chilies. Each time there's something—a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a slight tilt of his head, one eyebrow pulling just a fraction higher than the other. A whole private language happening on his face that has nothing to do with Steve and everything to do with the food in his hands.

It's the same face he makes in the kitchen, Steve realizes. When he thinks nobody's watching.

"You're staring again." Eddie says without looking up from the shelf.

"I'm supervising." Steve says. "Clipboard responsibilities."

Eddie glances at him sideways. Steve looks down at the clipboard.

"We still need the finishing oil." Steve says.

"I know."

"Just saying."

"I know, Steve."

Steve follows him to the next aisle and doesn't say anything else, and if he keeps watching Eddie's face when he picks things up, well. That's just part of the job.

When they're finally back in the car, grocery stuffed in the back, Steve is exhausted. It's the good kind of tired, but he wants to go home.

Eddie starts the engine and the radio comes on low, some old rock song Steve doesn't recognize. He leans his head back against the seat and watches the trees blur past again, different now in the low afternoon light, everything gone gold and long-shadowed.

He falls asleep somewhere past the diner with the "best pie in the state."

He doesn't mean to. One second he's watching the tree line and the next he's jerking awake with his cheek pressed against the cold window, the truck slowing as the lodge comes into view through the trees. He sits up fast and checks sideways.

Eddie's eyes are on the road. If he noticed, he doesn't say anything. Just keeps driving, one hand loose on the wheel, the same song or a different one playing low on the radio.

Steve looks back out the window. 

Outside the cold has sharpened into that particular evening bite, the temperature dropping fast the second the sun goes behind the ridge. His breath comes out in clouds and the snow squeaks under his boots. The path to the barn is lit by the little solar lights Wayne put in along the edge of the walkway, small and dim, just enough to follow.

The barn door is heavy and he has to put his shoulder into it. Inside, the air is still, colder than outside in the way enclosed spaces hold chill. The low lights are on, casting the rink in that familiar yellow glow, and the ice sits there glassy and untouched from the end of his last lesson. Waiting.

He laces up on the bench by the boards, hands moving without having to think about it. Ties them the way he's always tied them, left then right, double knot. Stands and rolls his ankles. His breath comes out slow in the cold air.

Then he puts his earbuds in and steps onto the ice.

He lets the music decide.

It's an old program piece, something from four years ago, before Beijing, before everything. He'd skated to it at the Grand Prix Final and stood on the podium afterwards feeling like his chest was too full to hold.

He hasn't listened to it since.

But he remembers the choreography, the feel of it.

Step sequence first, slow and deliberate, relearning the shape of it. Then a spin that pulls tighter than he expected, cleaner than it has any right to be. He comes out of it and doesn't think, flows into the next thing—a back outside edge, a three turn, building momentum the way his body still knows how to even when the rest of him forgets. The cold air tugs at his sleeves, rushes past his ears. The blades cut clean and sharp and it's the best sound in the world, it has always been the best sound in the world.

He sets up for a loop. Nothing complicated, just a single. His body does it before his brain can intervene.

The landing is clean.

He exhales hard into the cold air. Does it again. And again. It feels like a language coming back—one word at a time and then all at once, the whole grammar of it flooding in. His knees know it. His ankles know it. Something in his chest knows it too, something that's been sitting very quietly for a very long time.

He coasts to the center of the rink. Lets himself glide in a wide lazy arc, head tipped back, looking up at the old rafters. The barn groans faintly in the wind outside, the way old buildings do, settling into themselves.

He's not performing. There are no judges, no music swelling for an audience, no coaches at the edges of the rink. Just cold air in his lungs and the sound of his blades and this feeling sitting warm beneath his ribs.

He looks down.

Eddie is in the doorway.

Still in his jacket from earlier, hands in his pockets, one of the reusable bags hanging forgotten from his wrist like he was heading somewhere and just stopped. Steve doesn't know how long he's been there. Long enough. The barn is quiet enough that he should've heard the door, which means he was too far inside his own head to catch it.

He waits. Braces for a joke, a smirk, something to store away and use later.

Eddie just looks at him for a long moment, expression unreadable in the low light of the barn.

"Thought you said you didn't know any tricks."