Archive of Our Own

Will you be my valentine?

He'd heard those words so many times that they had long since become mind-numbing. He would just sit there with a blank stare, a dead-eyed expression he tried so hard to avoid. It wasn't his fault; he didn't mean to be awkward or messy, but whenever one of those sweet Hawkins girls stood in front of him, rosy-cheeked and with big permed hair, looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, his brain would turn to mush. In those moments, it was as if he lost all sense of social awareness. Rejecting them felt terrible, especially when they had worked up so much courage to ask him out on Valentine’s Day. Maybe the old Steve would actually man up and go out with a girl of his choice. But current Steve, after Nancy, after the whole cycle of almost dying, surviving, almost dying again, and even being drugged in a Russian military base under a mall, he just wasn’t capable of that. He would simply stare and apologise, saying he was busy that night, but in reality he would go home and watch The Breakfast Club with Robin while getting higher than The Beatles on a trip to India.

What made it worse was how overwhelming it felt to be desired by people who barely knew him. It was the kind of popularity that never really left, even when he actively tried to avoid it. Avoiding it was nearly impossible; he was all too unnecessarily charming not to be noticed. He often wondered what it really was that attracted people to him. Was it his swoony personality? The longish hair, the bedroom eyes, the cheeks like wine? He’d never know, not really. Yet the thought always led him somewhere darker. He wondered what those girls would think if they saw him without his shirt on, without his clothes. How would they react to the ugly scars that covered his body from the neck to his thighs? Would they run, the way he had wanted to run the first time he saw them himself? He couldn't handle looking at them anymore; it felt like too much. They reminded him of everything he had gone through, and worst of all, they reminded him of the look in Dustin’s eyes as he held the lifeless body of Eddie Munson in his arms.

A sharp pain went through his head every time he thought of Munson. There was a cruel irony in the memory: dragging a young teen over a portal while looking back at the guy who had saved all of them, lying there limp and cold. That’s what Dustin kept yelling: “He’s going to be cold, Steve! We need to go back; he’ll be cold!” He couldn't handle it, not really. He couldn’t handle seeing his boy suffering so much, so for the longest time he simply blamed Eddie. If he had just listened, if he hadn’t played hero, maybe he would still be around, and Dustin wouldn’t be walking through life with dead, melancholic eyes and unkempt hair.

That memory always pulled him even further back. He couldn’t erase the last glance he took of Eddie’s face: big black eyes opened wide, mouth slightly parted, as if he were still shocked. Strangely, it reminded Steve of the first time he had ever seen him. Eddie was two school years older, tall and lanky, with that odd overgrown buzz cut. Back then Steve thought it looked weird and vulgar, but it honestly wasn’t that bad. He wasn’t even that bad of a kid; at first he was quiet and new, trying to stay off the radar. Only months later he started getting into petty fights and getting the shit beaten out of him. No one in Steve's inner circle knew what was going on, but a little digging from Steve’s nosy mind revealed that while Eddie was adjusting to living with his uncle, his mother was getting sicker than when he had left her. She had cancer; that was why Eddie ended up there. Their family didn’t have the means to treat it, so they simply let it happen. Steve grew strangely curious about the topic and once asked his doctor what happened when someone went untreated: increasing weakness, sleeping most of the time, eating and drinking less, confusion, hallucinations, and, in the final days, irregular breathing and cold, mottled skin. 

Sometimes he wondered how he would feel if he had to watch his own mother fade like that and then lose her. He felt for Eddie, at least a little. Maybe that was why the thought stayed with him so stubbornly, because every time he imagined Eddie watching his mother disappear, he couldn’t help imagining his own.

His mother wasn’t really around, yet Steve adored her. She was very famous, like actually famous. She was a model and was on magazine covers all the time, her gorgeous big brown eyes calling attention with her iconic blue eyeshadow and her bronze-coloured pixie cut. Steve sometimes would read those magazines and imagine her voice saying the printed words, her thick Russian accent—a darker, more retracted, and deeper sound than he was used to hearing in women—slipping with every letter. He had actually inherited that from her, somehow, with most of his childhood being spent in correctional English classes to learn how to stop rolling his r’s. He missed his mom, but she called every once in a while, and he liked hearing her voice and the way she said his name, all excited when she heard his own voice yell “Мамочка!”, the only Russian word he could really say without a stutter. She was his safety net, in a way; he always had had this dream that when he was old enough, he would run away—away from his father, his stepmom, and that stupid small town of Hawkins—and go to NYC with his mom and finally be happy with her. And maybe that was another reason Eddie’s story unsettled him so much: it reminded him that even the person he imagined running to might not always be there.

The thoughts refused to leave him. Lately he had been thinking a lot about Eddie and his mother, the two memories tangling together in ways he still couldn’t fully explain, and it was really freaking him out. It had been around a year and a half since he last talked to his mother and ten months since Eddie “kicked the bucket”, as he liked to tell himself in forced lightness. He was still messed up from the experience of nearly dying, contrary to the popular belief in the friend group that he was getting over things very easily. The truth was that some days he still struggled with the simplest parts of living: eating, bathing, and maintaining a clean space for himself. It wasn’t as bad as before, especially now that he and Robin had moved (or rather reallocated) into a small apartment near city hall, but the effort still drained him.

Robin really was an angel. She took care of him in ways he had never experienced before, the kind of quiet care that asked for nothing in return. So many times she had gotten into their tiny bathtub with him to wash his hair on days he couldn’t bring himself to do it, her clumsy hands massaging his sensitive scalp, both of them sitting awkwardly folded in the warmish bathtub. Moments like that made him wonder if this was what having a sibling felt like: safe and uncomplicated. And on the days when memories of Eddie pressed the hardest, he was especially grateful she was there. 

He was glad he had her. So, so glad he had her.

That night, the apartment was quiet except for the hum of the heater and the faint glow of the TV neither of them was really watching.

“Steve, you’re a complete idiot!” she yelled, suddenly breaking the silence, thumping him somewhere on the chest—or somewhere adjacent; they were too fucked up to really tell. She was lying on top of him, resting her head on his collarbone. “Like, medically diagnosable levels of idiot.”

“Wow. Thank you. Always nice to feel supported.” He rubbed his already reddened eyes.

It was one of those nights right after Christmas but before New Year’s Eve, when everything felt slow, stressful, and a little disappointing. He and Robin had spent most of the week rotting on their couch. She had been lamenting Vickie breaking up with her. They ended on good terms, of course; she had moved out of Hawkins with a good excuse. After the “earthquake”, her mom had become paralysed from the waist down, so she’d taken her to Philly, where there were better hospitals and more support. Robin pretended everything was okay, that she understood, that she didn’t hate the situation at all, but Steve could tell she was barely holding it together.

“You’re out here ignoring the girls begging you to look at them, and I can’t even keep a girlfriend for more than five minutes. I’m starting to think something really fucked you up down there and turned your brain upside down,” she said, trying to sound annoyed, though the edge in her voice didn’t quite hide the hurt. “I’m serious! Something is clearly broken in the universe. Or in you. You know what, it's probably just you.”

“Yeah, sorry, it is me,” he said in a sort of joking tone. “I’m currently busy being depressed and hating everything about myself. I’ll try to schedule a personality upgrade next week,” he groaned.

“We’re the best combination ever, huh? Depressed himbo and his girl-failure-friend. What a dream team,” she said, hiding her face in his chest. “We should move out once the military is out of here. We could go to Canada, maybe. People are nice there, right?”

“Yeah, and they play hockey… but it’s freezing in there…,” he said with a short chuckle, resting his hand on her back and rubbing small circles.

“What about Australia? That’s like a completely different kind of Upside Down, right?” she laughed hazily.

He hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Do you miss your mom, Robin?”

“...”

“Robin?”

“Can I be completely honest in here?” She said lifting her head from his chest.

“Well, yeah, that's why I'm asking.”

“No???” She paused. “Yeah… No. To be honest she’s better gone. I’m just glad I don’t have to doll up for her anymore,” she blurted. After a pause, she tilted her head slightly. “Do you miss yours? Like… your parents?”

“Um…”

“I mean, I’m still pretty fucking mad at them. Why would they just leave you like that?” she muttered. “For fuck’s sake, your mom’s the one paying for this apartment. Your dad and his wife dropped some cash and disappeared. He could at least try a little.”

“Yeah… I don’t know.” Steve stared at the ceiling for a moment. “But I’m kinda glad things are like this now, if I’m honest with you. I guess I just wanted something different. Like… my own place someday. Nothing fancy. Just a kitchen that’s actually mine. Food in the fridge. Normal stuff.” He let out a quiet breath. “Something that doesn’t feel temporary all the time… Does that make sense??”

She nodded, snuggling closer against him. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The heater hummed. The TV flickered. It felt almost normal.

“And I’m happy I’m sharing that with you, Rob.”

“Yeah, me too,” she murmured. Then she shifted slightly. “But we are becoming kind of codependent, don’t you think? Like… aggressively codependent. Is that weird? We might be—”

“—Trauma bonded?” he cut in.

She squinted up at him. “That’s the phrase. See? You’re learning therapy words.”

“Who cares?” he mumbled. “We should be grossly dependent on each other. We’ve almost died together, like, an unreasonable amount of times. Might as well just live the way we want.”

“That is true. Statistically concerning, actually.”

He let out a quiet huff of laughter, but it faded quickly.

“It’s just…” she added, softer now. “Sometimes I think we’re holding on so tight because we lost people.”

His hand stilled on her back.

“You mean—”

“Yeah.”

Eddie’s name hung there without either of them saying it.

“Is it weird that I miss him?” Steve said quietly. “I mean, I didn’t even really know him.”
He swallowed. “Fuck. I really miss him, Robin. I do.” His voice cracked. “I could’ve saved him. I could’ve. I just—” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m a fucking failure.”

“Okay, no. Nope. Absolutely not,” Robin said immediately, sitting up a little. “Shut the fuck up! We are not doing the self-hate spiral thing tonight, you hear me? We are not doing it.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “Wow. Supportive.”

“I can’t deal with your self-flagellation right now. I’m too high for this level of Catholic guilt.”

“What does that even mean?” he muttered, words slurring slightly. “I’m grieving in a normal way.”

“No, you’re not, you’re… you’re doing that thing where you turn it into a Steve Problem. Like it’s about your performance review as a human.” She gestured vaguely at him. “It’s weird. It’s very weird.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

“I’m serious,” she insisted, words starting to tumble over each other. “You keep acting like you failed some sort of hero test and… and… It’s like there was a checklist and you missed item three and now everyone gets to die because Steve Harrington didn’t execute properly. The way you’re acting about Eddie, it’s kind of messing everyone up. Especially Dustin.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t bring Dustin into this.” He muttered under his breath.

“I’m bringing Dustin into this,” she shot back, getting up from Steve's chest completely as she felt her world spin wildly for a very long second, but that didn’t stop her from continuing with her snappy reply. “Because he worships you. Which, by the way, is an insane choice, but that’s not the point. The point is he’s grieving, and you’re avoiding him, and he knows you’re avoiding him.”

“I’m not avoiding him.”

“You are. You totally are. You do that tight-shoulder thing when he talks about Eddie.” She pointed at him. “You get all weird and stoic and ‘I’m fine, buddy,’ and then you disappear. You’re pissed. Not just sad. Pissed. And you don’t know what to do with that.”

He stared at the ceiling. “I’m not mad at Eddie.”

“I didn’t say you were mad at Eddie,” she said quickly. Then paused. “Okay, maybe I am saying that. A little. Not like you hate him hate him. Just… you’re mad he did it. That you couldn’t stop it. You’re mad he did it in front of Dustin. And you’re mad he got to be the guy.”

“The guy,” Steve repeated flatly.

“You know. The brave, self-sacrificing, guitar-playing martyr guy.” She waved her hands helplessly. “You’re always the guy who stays, y’know,  the one who survives. Who cleans up after. That’s different.”

“Shut up,” he whispered, but there wasn’t much heat in it.

“I’m not attacking you,” she said, softer now. “I’m just saying you don’t get to turn his death into proof that you’re worthless. That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.”

Silence settled between them. Not tense anymore. Just heavy.

“You’ve gotten really smart,” he muttered eventually.

She snorted softly. “Wow. High praise from King Himbo himself.”

“I’m serious.”

“Will doesn’t get to be the only wise one now, does he?” she said, grinning, then resting her head back on his chest.

They stayed quiet again. His hand kept moving against her back, slower now, absent-minded.

“Did you know he had a buzzed head before he came to Hawkins?” Steve said after a while.

“Wait, what?” She lifted her head slightly. “Eddie?”

“Yeah. When he first got here it was growing out. Kind of… fuzzy.” He gave a faint huff of laughter. “He was so skinny. Like, unfairly tall and all elbows. Looked like he’d snap in half if the wind hit him wrong.”

Robin’s eyes widened. “No way.”

“Yeah. And he kind of looked like a girl. A little.” He shrugged, staring at the ceiling. “Not in a bad way.”

“A pretty girl?” she asked lightly.

He didn’t smile this time. “Yeah. Actually.” His voice softened. “A really pretty one.”

Robin went still.

“He wore those tight jeans that flared at the bottom. Thought he was, like, in a rock band already.” Steve let out a quiet breath. “And those band t-shirts. Led Zeppelin, or Bowie, mostly. I swear he only owned that one Bowie shirt.”

She hummed softly.

“He had these huge eyes when he was younger,” Steve continued, quieter now. “Always writing in some notebook. Wouldn’t look at anyone. Just… drawing or scribbling or whatever.”

He paused, swallowing.

“I don’t think I ever told him I noticed.”

She kept quiet. 

“I did, though. I noticed him around because he was always in some sort of trouble and outside the principal’s office with a bloody nose or a bruised cheek but always kind of smiley, like he was kind of smug about it.” He let out a confusing sound that Robin didn't really know how to interpret. “Can I make a confession, like, right now?”

“Confess, my child.”

They both laughed.

“I actually had, like, one real interaction with Eddie once when I was like fourteen. I’m pretty sure he never remembered it, though.” He paused. “I went for a night walk because I was home alone. It was Valentine’s Day, which is kind of pathetic, honestly. And I found him sitting on a sidewalk with a six-pack and some Camels, so I naturally went up to him.”

He paused, looking at her with glazed-out eyes due to the weed.

“He lit my first cigarette for me, and somehow we ended up on the rooftop of my house. He kept twirling my hair while I smoked. Said it looked like his mom’s.” Steve let out a small breath. “He was wearing this worn jean jacket, way too big on him. It was kind of cute. I don’t know… he looked nice that night. The moon was out, and his face was all lit up, and everything felt weirdly perfect.”

He rubbed his thumb against the couch fabric.
“I think that night was kind of when I realised I might like guys. At least a little.”

Robin let out a sharp yelp. “Whoa. Okay. Hi. Big information.”

“He was fun, too,” Steve continued, smiling faintly. “We eventually got off the roof and walked all the way to the church. That was back when I was really into the whole Christianity thing.” He glanced at her; they both understood the weight of that. “It was open for some reason, and we just went in. It was all dark inside, and we sat there staring at the cross, trying not to laugh because we were drunk and felt guilty, and his hands were still in my hair.”

He inhaled slowly. “I remember wondering if there were angels watching us and being disappointed or something. I was so dumb and young.”

Steve stayed quiet for a long moment. He didn’t have the heart to tell her more of what happened that night.

“Eddie didn’t have to die. He shouldn’t have.”

“I know, Steve. I know.”

They fell asleep curled around each other, absorbing what little warmth they could as the cold wind rattled the windows.

When Steve woke up, Robin was hugging his side tightly. His first thought came with a sharp pain in his head. He groaned. She stirred and opened one eye, but he softly shushed her and motioned for her to go back to sleep as he carefully got up.

He liked these kinds of mornings, the ones after nights when they’d gotten high together. They were slow, soft mornings, where they didn’t do much other than talk shit and eat like pigs. It was the sort of intimacy he craved: resting his head on her stomach while she lazily combed her fingers through his hair, the ceiling fan clicking above them, the distant sounds of the military outside a quiet reminder not to get too lost in the peace of it.

Steve would get up eventually to go wash his face and get ready to see people and live. He’d go to the bathroom and take care of himself, lingering a little too long at the sink, getting lost in thought, sometimes on other people, but mostly reflecting on himself.

The boy in the mirror always made him think about who he used to be.

Steve was a good kid; he really was, everyone said so. He did his work as carefully and thoroughly as he knew how and played every sport his father signed him up for: football, basketball, tennis, and even the ones he didn’t particularly like. He went to his piano lessons and took them seriously, practicing when no one asked him to, sitting straight on the bench and counting the beats like he’d been taught.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Sometimes he forgot how much he had loved playing the piano.

Because yeah, over time, the piano became the one thing that seemed to stick. What had started as just another obligation turned into something else entirely. It followed him all the way into high school, deepening, sharpening, expanding into hours of practice and performances that actually mattered. His father began to show him a sliver of approval, talking to him less like a child and more like someone worth acknowledging.

Steve had always excelled at sports. He made it to the local teams, solid and reliable, but he didn’t care much for it; in fact, he thought it was a drag. But at the piano he was different. He became more than competent, unnervingly precise, good enough that people sometimes whispered the word prodigy. His recitals were incredible. No one in all of Hawkins, hell, maybe even Indiana, could match his technique. He had practiced for so long, chasing the closest thing to perfection he could reach, and it showed.

He was an artist. A real one.

He didn’t like to talk about it, though; he found it embarrassing, even unmanly. Instead, he focused on his studies and on presenting himself as the sporty type in front of everyone. It was easy. He was strong and charismatic. People liked him, and now that he was a “big boy” (or at least old enough to think he was one) he was loved for things that belonged to him rather than to his parents.

Instead of parents at the country club congregating to praise his father for having such a pretty, talented, well-mannered son, they gathered around Steve himself, telling him how pretty, talented, and well-mannered he was. Steve loved the attention.

“Still do…” he murmured to himself. He still did.

And it didn’t stop there. He had always been popular with girls. It had something to do with him being soft in a way people found hard to name. Steve knew, had always known, that he carried with him a kind of feminine charm. He was not blind, nor stupid, nor vain enough to pretend otherwise. It was written in the soft slant of his cheekbones, the gentle curve of his mouth, and the wide, unguarded eyes that seemed at once to invite and to accuse.

That softness, paired with the gentleness of his voice and contrasted sharply with the sure, almost rough confidence of his hands at a girl’s hips as they kissed behind vending machines or down quiet streets, was enough to make him popular (and very much not a virgin) by the time he was fourteen.

Maybe that was why fooling around had never seemed so bad to him. He liked the relief of sex; it made him feel wanted, especially when he had girls under him moaning and giggling and kissing his cheeks. He loved kissing people. More than anything, he loved the moment when kisses stopped being careful and turned messy, when people grabbed at each other because they literally could not get any closer. That was his favourite part.

Sometimes kisses got sloppy and clumsy, and he’d end up with a mouthful of teeth, both of them laughing into each other’s faces. Sometimes he forgot to be gentle and found himself pressed back against a wall, breath knocked out of him, hands tangled somewhere between panic and excitement. He liked when things got hot, when both of them were panting because neither could quite catch their breath. In those moments, thinking stopped, and for a little while he didn’t have to be anyone except someone worth touching.

He wondered if Eddie died a virgin.

He looked at himself again, his face still wet from the sink, and remembered the conversation from the previous night, feeling his face burn in embarrassment as he dried it. At least he hadn’t told Robin the complete story, only a few messy fragments. If she knew everything, she would understand why Steve always felt uneasy around Eddie, or why, despite barely knowing him, a strange sense of helplessness took hold of him whenever Eddie’s name came up. Maybe she would understand why, ever since eighth grade, he had caught himself stealing glances at the curly-haired guy whenever he had the chance, watching him rant in the cafeteria or argue with teachers like nothing could touch him.

The memory pulled him backward before he could stop it.

That night Steve had been left home alone again. He had just come back from school; the maid, Miss Dorothy, had picked him up for some reason. She fumbled with the paper grocery bag in her arms while trying to fish the keys out of her purse and get the door open. The moment they stepped inside, Steve took off toward his bedroom, too excited to slow down. He hurried through the wide corridors, eyes fixed on the floor, which was why he didn’t notice the person until he ran straight into her.

He might not have seen her, but he heard her immediately.

“Jesus Christ, Steven!” Marjorie snapped, her voice sharp enough to make him flinch.

“I’m sorry, ma’am! I didn’t mean to!” he said quickly, looking up at her. She was wearing heavy makeup: frosted eyeshadow, thick black liner stretched past the corners of her eyes, glossy peach lipstick. For a second he stared before remembering he wasn’t supposed to. “You look very nice, ma’am.”

“I know I do.” She smoothed her skirt. “Daniel, your kid’s running around like a maniac again. Tell him something. Do some actual parenting for once.”

Steve felt the color drain from his face as he saw his father step into the hallway, jacket already on, keys in hand. They were leaving again. They were always leaving.

“Is that so?” his father said. “You giving her trouble now, son?”

“No, sir. It was an accident. I just didn’t see her. I’m sorry.” His voice shrank with every word.

Behind him, Dorothy coughed softly and moved toward the kitchen, pretending not to hear.

His father barely looked at him before reaching for Marjorie’s wrist, steadying her. “Don’t start anything, boy. I’ll hear about it if you do. Understand?”

“Yeah, Misha, don’t act up,” she added sweetly.

Steve tensed. She was using the nickname for his middle name. He didn’t like his middle name at all, when se said it. It made him sound wrong, un-American. He wasn’t foreign. He was Steve.

“That’s not my name,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Oh, but it is, isn’t it, Danny?” she said, turning to his father with fake curiosity. “Isn’t it something real Eastern Bloc? Mikhail or whatever.” She looked back at Steve, smiling like she was being generous. “Relax, kid. Plenty of people are half commie these days. Someone’ll put up with it.”

Steve could feel his face burn, his chest tightening. He was humiliated, furious, too small to do anything about it.

“My name is Steve. Just Steve. Not Mikhail.”

She reached out and pinched his cheek hard, nails digging in.

“You’ll be whatever I say you are, as long as you’re living in this house. I’m your mother.”

“You’re not! You don’t even like it when I call you that!”

“That’s enough!” Daniel snapped, finally raising his voice. Jesus Christ.

Steve knew immediately he was in trouble.

A couple of hours passed. Steve’s head still throbbed, and he felt dizzy, fogged, not quite in his body. His father had grounded him immediately after delivering the hardest smack to the back of his head he could remember. He cried quietly for a couple of hours after they left, pressing his face into the pillow so no one would hear.

Daniel made a point of telling Dorothy that Steve was not to be indulged. No proper dinner; if he was grown enough to yell, he was grown enough to cook for himself.

That was just bullshit.

Once he was finally alone, he went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge, needing something cold in his hands just to calm down, and stepped out onto the patio. It was cold, far too cold for what he was wearing: an oversized black lightning-bolt Grease shirt with the pink circle on the front, baby-yellow cotton boxer shorts patterned with polka dots, and high socks shoved into his football shoes. He looked a little messy, his hair going in every direction, fluffed out and brown and ridiculously pretty, but the girls weren’t wrong; he had beautiful hair. Sometimes he thought it was too pretty for him.

Once outside, he felt a small wave of relief, the kind that came when the house finally went quiet. He stayed there for a while, breathing in the sharp smell of winter and something faintly citrussy drifting through the air, staring up at the moon as if it might tell him everything would be okay.

The silence inside the house felt heavier the longer he stood there. He didn’t want to go back in. One thing led to another, and he decided to take a walk, tossing the empty can away, pulling a thin blanket around his shoulders, and heading down the street. Without really deciding to, his steps carried him toward the edge of the woods.

He ventured a little farther in, the cold biting at his cheeks and legs. Twigs snapped softly beneath his feet, and he could hear the faint rustle of mice somewhere in the dark. He walked for a long while. For the first time that night, his head felt quiet. He was finally at peace, at least for a bit.

Eventually, the trees thinned, and he found himself spilling back out into a neighbourhood that wasn’t his. He didn’t care. His parents were gone for the weekend; it didn’t matter if he didn’t make it home right away.

And there he was.

Eddie “The Freak” Munson sat on the sidewalk with a six-pack of beer at his feet and a pack of Camels in his hand, lighting one under the flickering streetlight. He looked insanely pretty like that. Pyjama pants hung low on his hips, a Black Sabbath shirt stretched thin over his chest, and a big, worn denim jacket swallowed his shoulders. His overgrown buzz cut was trying desperately to curl, falling into soft, uneven waves over his forehead. It made him look wild and gentle at the same time.

He wore flip-flops, and Steve noticed his toenails were painted, some black, some purple, flecked with glitter. It felt like a secret he wasn’t supposed to see.

Steve panicked. He froze, unsure where to go, blanket clutched tight around him. Too late. Eddie looked up, eyes wide, like a deer caught in headlights.

Steve suddenly became painfully aware of how stupid he must look, half-wrapped in a blanket, tiny boxer shorts on full display.

They stared at each other. Steve wondered, stupidly, if Eddie noticed his hands shaking.

“Hey,” Eddie said finally. His mouth twitched like he wasn’t sure if he was smiling or not.

“Uh… hi,” Steve said. He had never been this aware of his own body before.

“It’s late,” Eddie said. “What’re you doing out here?”

“I was bored at home,” Steve shrugged, immediately wishing he hadn’t.

Eddie snorted softly. “No date tonight, huh?”

“Not for me,” Steve said, smiling a little despite himself. “You?”

Eddie took a drag of his cigarette, slow and practiced. Steve thought it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen.

“My date bailed,” Eddie said. Not angry. Just… flat.

“Oh,” Steve said. “That kinda sucks.”

“It’s fine,” Eddie shrugged. “She said your dad was waiting for her.”

Steve blinked.

Then he laughed. “Son of a bitch.”

The older boy laughed, and for the first time that night Steve felt the cold a little less. He sat down beside him, letting out a quiet groan as the concrete bit through his socks.

“You’re awfully underdressed,” the taller teen said, glancing at the blanket. “What’s with the grandma-core situation?” He blew smoke away, careful not to send it in the other boy’s face.

“I wasn’t planning on going out,” Steve muttered. “I got kinda pissed and needed some air. It’s fine. I had a beer. I’m warm.”

A small tilt of the head. “D’you want another?”

“Another beer?”

“Yeah. I got five more and absolutely nothing better to do.”

Steve hesitated. “Sure. But I’m not getting drunk in the middle of a random street I don’t even know.”

A shrug. “Then take me to your place.”

Steve blinked. “I’m not taking you to my house, dude. Ever heard of stranger danger?”

The boy with the cigarette snorted. “C’mon. You could snap me in half.”

“Still,” Steve said, folding his arms tighter around the blanket. “You could be trying to, like, drug me or something.”

Dark eyes lifted toward him, suddenly serious.

“You think I’d do that?” The question came quieter now.

Steve flushed. “Not you specifically. Just… statistically.”

Silence stretched, then a crooked smile returned.

“Well,” he said, “maybe if you got to know me, I wouldn’t be such a stranger.”

“Maybe.”

The taller boy pushed himself to his feet and stuck out his hand dramatically.

“Edward Munson. Freshly fifteen. Future rock legend. I will be a famous guitarist the second I get the hell out of this town.”

Steve stood too and took the offered hand. “Steven Harrington. Fourteen. Future President of the United States.”

A grin. “Jimmy Carter better start sweating.”

It didn’t take much more convincing before the older boy grabbed the six-pack and got up.

“Can we go tell my uncle I’m leaving with you? Just so he doesn’t start freaking out later.”

“Sure!” he answered, maybe a little too fast, then tried to shrug like it wasn’t a big deal.

It took them barely five minutes to reach the trailer, the curly-haired teen pushing the door open and stepping inside first, the other trailing behind him into a tiny living room area where an older man rested in an armchair.

“Wayne, I’m sleeping over at a friend’s place tonight!”

“Who is this friend?”

“Uh, hi, sir, it’s me!” he said, lifting one hand in an awkward wave. “I hope it’s okay if he comes over. We’re just gonna watch movies or something.”

Wayne looked at the two kids standing in front of him with wide smiles, both very badly pretending not to be hiding the beer and cigarettes behind their backs.

“All good,” he said, already turning back to the TV, as the metalhead teen gave him a quick hug before they slipped back out the door. Steve couldn’t help but feel jealous when he saw the little pat in the back the older man gave his nephew.

Steve was kind of nervous. He’d never really had anyone over before. Maybe Tommy H, but that didn’t count — they’d known each other forever. This was different.

Eddie would probably think his place was totally lame. Hell, he thought it was totally lame. His life was kind of lame.

“You call your uncle by his name?” he blurted out suddenly, kicking at a rock as they walked through the woods.

“Yeah? What else would I call him?”

“Dunno. I only talk to my uncles on my mom’s side and I call them Dyadyushka, so…” He winced the second it slipped out.

“That sounds so Russian.”

“Uh. Yeah.” He shrugged, staring straight ahead. “I guess it does.”

“Your mom’s Russian?”

Steve just nodded, heat creeping up his neck.

“That’s cool,” Eddie said easily. “Back where I lived in Kentucky there was this Russian family, and their son was, like, insanely cool.” He grinned. “Nobody even used his real name. We all called him Blaze ’cause he ran crazy fast.” He flicked his cigarette, not noticing the ash landing on his sleeve.

“Heh… that’s cool,” Steve said, a little quieter now.

“He was fun, too. Let me mess around on his drums even though I sucked.” He laughed. “Dude had the strongest accent ever.” He glanced sideways. “Does your mom have one?”

Steve nodded again. “Yeah. She can’t even pronounce my name right.” He let out a small laugh. “She just calls me by my middle name. Well — not even that. The nickname of it.” He hesitated. “It’s kinda sweet.”

“Wait, so you’ve got, like, a secret name?” Eddie’s eyes lit up. “Can I know it?”

“Nope. Never.” He smiled, a little more confident now. “Not even in your wildest dreams, Munson.”

When they got home, Steve was visibly nervous, fumbling a little with his keys, taking longer than necessary at the front door. Munson noticed immediately, glancing from him to the large house and back again.

“Hey dude, we could go on the roof if it freaks you out for me to go inside,” he said gently, like he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

“It’s not that…” Steve started, pushing the door open but not stepping in yet.

“It’s okay, you really don’t have to explain it,” Eddie cut in quickly. He rocked back on his heels, giving him an easy grin. “Let’s just go up there.”

Steve hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. The roof’s better anyway.”

They made their way around the side of the house, awkwardly figuring out where to climb, bumping shoulders once or twice as they tried to help each other up. It was the kind of clumsy teamwork Steve never would have expected to do with someone he’d just met, and somehow it made the tight feeling in his chest ease a little.

Once they were up there, everything felt easier. The wind pressed softly against their faces, and the pool below caught the moonlight in scattered silver ripples.

He opened two cans and handed one over, then lit another cigarette, the small flame briefly lighting his face before disappearing again. They drank in silence, both watching the slow movement of the water.

The quiet did not feel uncomfortable. It felt calm, almost warm.

“So… you like Grease?”

He flushed immediately. “It’s not my shirt. It was a gift. From… uh…” The excuse faded before he could finish it.

“I don’t really care if it’s yours,” the other boy said with a small laugh. “I was just asking. Grease is good anyway. Relax.”

He tried to frown, but it came out more like a pout.

“See, that right there,” he said, nudging his shoulder lightly, “that’s what those girls were talking about. You’re kinda cute when you do that.”

“What girls?” The question came out too quickly, too hopeful.

He laughed. “You cocky bastard. There’s this girl in my chem class, Darla, I think. She said you look like some shampoo commercial guy.”

He ducked his head, ears turning red. “Nice…”

They sat there for a bit longer, the teasing fading into something softer.

“So…” he said, leaning back on his hands. “If you had to survive the apocalypse, what’s your weapon of choice?”

“What?”

“Like zombies. Or aliens. Hawkins seems due for something.”

He rolled his eyes. “A bat.”

“A bat?” He laughed. “Creative.”

“It’s solid. Reliable. You can swing it, y’know?”

“Wow. Inspiring.” He took a sip from his can. “I’d go crossbow, it’s more dramatic.”

“You don’t know how to use a crossbow.”

“I could learn.”

“Sure you could.”

There was a grin there now, easier, less guarded.

“You’d die first,” Steve added.

“No way. You would. You’d stop to fix your hair in a broken mirror and get eaten.”

“That is slander.”

“It is fact.”

The sound of his laughter reverberated throughout the pool. He then exhaled the final curl of smoke, gazed at the moon for a while, and reached for another cigarette.

“That’s gonna kill you.”

“That’s the point, you know?”

He paused, watching the lighter in his hands flick open and shut.

“Do you think I could try one? I’ve never smoked anything before.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

“Sure thing, Stevie.”

His heart started beating way too fast, and he wasn’t sure why.

One hand rested lightly against his thigh as the cigarette was lifted from one mouth and placed at the other, the brief contact feeling strangely intimate. He flushed, eyes fixed on the glowing tip while the lighter sparked again. For a moment they just looked at each other, neither speaking.

“You’re so pretty,” the thought crossed his mind, sharp and sudden, and he wished he had the courage to actually say it.

“I like your eyes,” the older boy said instead, almost abruptly. “They’re… kind of golden in this light. Like honey or something.”

He inhaled too quickly and coughed, shoulders shaking. A laugh followed as the cigarette was gently taken back and another drag pulled from it.

“I like your hair,” he added. “It’s got that wave thing going on.”

“It used to be longer,” he admitted. “When I ended up in the children’s shelter they shaved it off. Said it was easier, you know, in case of lice or whatever.” His voice softened. “My mom had long hair too. Like mine.”

“My mom has short hair,” he said with a small smile.

“Yeah? That’s kinda badass.”

“She’s super badass, dude.”

He lay back on the roof, hands tucked behind his head, staring up at the sky for a moment before speaking.

“This is kind of insane,” he said, glancing sideways. “Why are we even hanging out? We just met. That’s crazy.”

“Yeah,” the other boy said after a second, rolling onto his side to face him. “I dunno. It’s nice though.” He shrugged. “You’re not that bad.”

A pause.

“Well. Not to me.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Maybe it’s because you’re a little drunk. Speaking of…” He reached for another can, popping it open with a sharp crack before raising it slightly. “Cheers, I guess.”

“Cheers.” He lifted his own, still half full, and clinked it lightly.

They both took a sip. After a second, the cigarette was nudged back toward his mouth, and he took a careful drag this time, slower.

He exhaled, watching the smoke disappear into the night.

“Still insane though.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Good insane.”

Steve snapped back to reality when Robin called him from the kitchen. It smelled like bacon and eggs, and he smiled widely, leaving the bathroom and padding quickly toward her.

He found her moving lazily around the small kitchen, sleep still clinging to her eyelashes, her hair sticking out in every direction. She was wearing a pair of his boxers and a faded D.A.R.E. T-shirt.

He sat at their tiny table and watched her prepare two glasses of orange juice. He would have tried to help, but she always protested when he did.

She had a whole speech about it.

“We are in the kitchen together. I love you. I want to give you everything. Come stand in the kitchen while I cook for you. No, you cannot help cook. This is an act of love. I am making you dinner. I am giving you food because I cannot give you the world. Sit at the counter and tell me stories while I chop vegetables. Food is love. It is special. Deliberate. We are in my kitchen, together, and I love you.”

She went on those little rants every time he tried to grab a pan or cut something, so now he simply sat where she wanted him, watching quietly.

He didn’t complain. He liked watching her.

She looked soft in the morning light, almost unreal. Some kind of angel he had somehow been allowed to keep. His soulmate. Looking at her sometimes made him stupid, fixating on the smallest details: the way she examined her fingernails when she was thinking, the slow stretch of her arms, the gentle curve of her neck, the line of her spine under the thin cotton shirt.

Sometimes she would glance at him and laugh.
“Why are you staring?”

And he would go wordless, all tangled warmth and something dangerously close to longing.

He wanted to build a universe where they never had to leave the apartment, where mornings stretched forever and the world stayed quiet outside their windows. He wanted to fold himself into her arms like ivy, catch her laughter out of the air and spin it into something that could keep them warm.

Around her, he felt steady, like moss growing on a tree that had finally stopped shaking in the wind. Home, he thought. This must be what home feels like.

His mind drifted back to the roof.

He didn’t know how long they had been up there, but the memory of fingers in his hair lingered like warmth that refused to fade. It had felt natural. Like it belonged there. Under the moonlight. In the February cold.

“Did you actually have a date tonight?” he asked quietly.

“Kinda. The person didn’t show up.”
The hand in his hair shifted slightly, fingertips brushing along his temple instead of pulling away.

“Her loss,” he murmured, leaning into the touch before he could stop himself.

The word seemed to hang there for a second.

“Um. Yeah,” he said after a beat, a little too casual. “I guess.”

“No, seriously,” he went on quickly, filling the space. “You’re nice. You’d make a great date. If I were a girl, I’d totally go out with you.” He huffed a small laugh. “I’d be pumped, honestly.”

“Oh yeah?” There was something careful in the question.

“Yeah. I’d be telling all my friends about it. I’d get dressed up and everything. Probably overdo it.” He grinned. “Show up early like some loser.”

A quiet pause.

“You’d look good all dolled up,” he added, softer now, almost without meaning to.

“You think?” he smiled, glancing sideways instead of looking directly at him, suddenly curious about what he meant.

“I know,” he admitted, taking one last drag before flicking the cigarette away. “Anyway… seriously, how come you don’t have a date? Girls go nuts over you.”

“I did get asked out,” he said with a small shrug. “I just… wasn’t really in the mood. I’m not great at talking to girls, actually. Like, I start off fine, and then I say something stupid and my brain goes, wow, cool, you’re an idiot, nice job, and I get so embarrassed I just end up kissing them so it won’t be awkward anymore.”

He snorted. “That’s a terrible strategy, man.”

“Hey, it works,” he said defensively, then laughed. “Sometimes.”

“Can’t relate personally,” he said, nudging his shoulder lightly. “But yeah, I get the talking-too-much part. Once I start, it’s over.”

They both giggled, and Steve took a drag too, coughing lightly before handing the cigarette back, placing it at Eddie’s mouth when he was done.

“What things do you like?”

“Um… kinda nerdy stuff, mostly. I like reading. I read The Hobbit last year and it was awesome.” He thought for a moment. “I like music too. Playing it, trying to write some sometimes. And… I like playing Dungeons & Dragons.” He smiled a little, fidgeting with his hands. “I like art, kinda. I suck at drawing, but painting’s fun sometimes.”

“What’s Dungeons & Dragons?”

His face lit up. “Oh, dude, it’s so cool. Okay, so basically it’s like… telling a story with your friends, but you’re all characters inside the story. There’s this one person, the Dungeon Master, and they create the world and the monsters and all that, and everyone else plays heroes.”

He leaned forward slightly, getting more animated.

“You get dice, like a bunch of different ones, and every time you try to do something, like fight a monster or pick a lock or whatever, you roll to see if you succeed. And sometimes you totally fail and everything goes to hell, which is honestly the best part.” He laughed softly. “And after a while the characters kinda become real, you know? Like you actually care what happens to them.”

Steve smiled widely at Eddie. God, it was so stupidly cute when he got like this, all bright eyes and wild hands over his little game.

“Tell me more,” he said, grinning as he leaned closer, shoulder nudging against Eddie’s.

Eddie’s smile stretched even wider. He launched back in without hesitation, hands moving as he talked, like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. Something about elves and barbarians and a quest for the heart of the forest. Steve didn’t really understand most of it, but that didn’t stop him from nodding seriously and asking question after question, even if half of them made no sense.

“Wait, so the elf guy is like… magic, but also shoots arrows?”

Eddie had laughed. “Yeah, Harrington, that’s called multitasking.”

The memory lingered for a second longer. Eddie’s voice, all animated and warm. The way he looked at Steve like he actually cared whether he understood.

“And like, I understand she wanted to break up, I really do, but why would she keep me as a friend and then never talk to me unless I initiate contact, you know? I’m the only one calling and sending letters, she’s out here just… argh!”

Robin’s voice snapped him back to the present.

Steve blinked. The quiet hum of the apartment settled back around him, the faint sizzle from the stove still lingering in the air. Sunlight filtered in through the thin curtains, catching on the steam rising from their plates. Robin was sitting across from him at the tiny kitchen table, mid rant, hands flying just like Eddie’s used to.

“And it’s not even like I’m asking for that much!” she continued. “Just consistency!”

Steve stabbed at his eggs. He’d gotten really annoyed at Vickie for what happened, because just like Robin said, she was acting kind of like an asshole. You don’t get to say you don’t want someone and then keep them hanging around like a spare option. She didn’t let Robin close things up and move on. Every phone call came with mixed signals, soft voice, almost flirting, but at the same time she was clear she didn’t want her.

It was confusing even for him.

“I’d tell you to just stop talking to her,” he said finally, softer now, still a little sleepy as he took a bite of bacon. “You need to move on, Rob. She’s not coming back.”

“I knowww…” she groaned, stretching her arms dramatically across the small table.

Steve chewed slowly. Mixed signals suck.

He knew that much.

“Hey, Steve… can I ask you something?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, still chewing, not looking up from his plate.

“Last night, when we were talking about Eddie… you said something.”

“Did I?” He glanced up briefly, already wary.

“Don’t be an asshole.” She rolled her eyes. “You said something about liking guys, remember? What was that about?”

Steve froze mid-bite. God damn his runny mouth.

“I was high, Rob. It was probably some bullshit. You know how I just say stuff,” he dismissed, shrugging too quickly.

“Steve…”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“It’s genuinely not that big of a deal, Rob. We’ve been through so much shit, I think me liking dudes is, like, the least of our problems. I still like chicks too, so it’s not like my life is ruined or anything…”

“I guess…” she said softly. She watched him for a moment, then tilted her head. “So like… back in the Upside Down… you were into Eddie or…?”

“What?! No!” he choked. “It was some stupid thing, one night back when we were like fourteen, Rob! We barely even kissed!”

“YOU GUYS KISSED?!” she yelled, eyes going wide.

“Yeah, sure, say it louder so the whole town can hear you!” he shot back, dropping his fork with a clatter.

“I cannot believe what I’m hearing.”

“Good,” he muttered. “Then don’t believe it.”

He pushed his chair back and stood, putting his plate in the sink before pulling his shirt off as he crossed into the tiny living room just a step away from the kitchen. Some jeans were lying on the small coffee table, along with a striped polo in different shades of red, yellow, and navy blue. He dressed quickly, put on his shoes, and looked at himself in the mirror while he shrugged into a jacket. His hair wasn’t too messy, and it wasn’t like anyone would see him anyway.

“You need to tell me about it, dude. You can’t just drop a bomb like that and say nothing about it.”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“What?”

“I need some fresh air, Rob.”

She sighed. “Bring bread with you, loser.”

“Will do, my dear.” He went outside with a giggle. It was always funny when they pretended to be a married couple.

“I want a divorce!”

“I already filed!” he called back, closing the door behind him as he jogged down the stairs.

Once he was outside, everything was bright, too bright, and it took him a second to get used to it. Walking through Hawkins ever since the incident was a trip on its own: military everywhere and an uncomfortable amount of wariness lingering among the people in town.

He headed toward the gas station and maybe the park. He wanted to see people doing ordinary things, children running around, families laughing. It always eased his mind.

The cool air helped, but it didn’t quiet his thoughts. His mind wandered back to old memories. This specific set of memories of Nancy and him slow dancing in his room to a Frank Sinatra song, playing the piano for her, falling asleep wrapped around each other, and laughing while they tried to bake a cake and failed miserably. He missed those moments. He missed having someone to love, to kiss, to touch.

He did similar things with Robin, of course, but it wasn’t the same. They danced in ridiculous ways in their kitchen to the Beatles, he played bizarre tango songs for her on the Hendersons’ piano, and she never let him cook. It was a different kind of love from the one he found himself missing.

He found himself going all the way back to that roof again.

“Do you want to do something crazy, Harrington?”

“Crazier than this?”

“Much crazier.”

He considered it for a second, his heart still racing from the beer and from sitting so close to Eddie under the open sky, before smiling widely. “Screw it, I’m in.”

They climbed down carefully, leaving no evidence of having been up there, just in case Steve’s parents made it back before him, which wasn’t really a possibility but better safe than sorry. The rest of the beer was hidden somewhere on the patio, and the pack of Camels stayed in Eddie’s pocket. Steve ran inside to throw the blanket back on his bed and grabbed his jacket on the way out, the one with his team name stitched proudly across the back. When he stepped outside again, Eddie grabbed him by the wrist without saying anything, and together they started walking quickly down the street.

It was around two in the morning, the streets mostly empty except for a couple of distant drunks lingering under flickering streetlights. The further into town they went, the stronger the adrenaline rushed through Steve’s veins, mixing with the cold air that stung his cheeks. Eddie was smiling like he’d just gotten away with something brilliant, his pale face flushed pink from the night air, and Steve found himself staring a little too long. He was so focused on Eddie that he didn’t even question where they were going at first, but the closer they got to the town centre, the more his stomach tightened with unease. Why were they approaching the church? And why was the door open? And why did it look like no one was inside?

As if Eddie could hear every thought racing through his head, he spoke quietly. “They leave it open to air the place out, but they always forget to lock it after. We’ve got a few hours before anyone shows up. Relax. I do this all the time.”

“That is not comforting,” Steve muttered, but he let himself be pulled up the wide stone steps anyway. The door was massive, wooden, carved with careful details that looked darker in the moonlight, and when they stepped inside, the air changed immediately.

Rows of wooden pews were arranged neatly on either side of the aisle, perfectly symmetrical, and the only light came from the moon filtering lazily through the stained-glass windows, casting faint coloured shapes over the floor and the walls. At the far end stood the altar, slightly elevated, and behind it hung a large crucifix mounted against a green backdrop. Lantern-style lights hung from the wooden ceiling beams, unlit and still. It wasn’t one of the enormous churches you’d see in big southern cities, but it felt imposing in its own quiet way.

Eddie guided him further down the aisle, still holding his hand, and the air smelled like old wood and something citrussy and clean, like polish rubbed into the pews earlier that day. It should have felt wrong to be there at that hour, but standing next to Eddie made it feel less like trespassing and more like a secret.

They stopped in front of the crucifix, both of them looking up at the limp body hanging from the cross. Steve had never liked looking at those, even as a little kid. It made something twist in his stomach. He never understood why people focused so much on the dying part instead of everything that came before it. He shifted his weight slightly, uncomfortable without fully knowing why.

Eddie noticed.

“Wanna hear a joke?” he asked, breaking the silence before it could stretch too long.

“Is it going to be bad?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Then yeah. Go ahead.”

Eddie cleared his throat dramatically. “Okay, so a Jewish guy goes to his rabbi and says, ‘Rabbi, my son converted to Christianity!’ And the rabbi goes, ‘Really? Mine too!’ So the guy asks, ‘What do we do?’ and the rabbi says, ‘We pray.’ So they pray, and God answers, and they’re like, ‘Lord, our sons converted to Christianity!’ And God says, ‘No way. Mine too.’”

He was barely holding in his laughter by the end of it, watching Steve’s face the entire time.

It was so bad. Genuinely terrible.

“That was horrible,” Steve said, already laughing harder than he meant to, clutching his stomach. “Like, actually horrible.”

“You’re laughing!”

“I’m not,” Steve insisted, trying and failing to straighten his face. “Not funny! Didn’t laugh.”

Eddie didn’t even bother arguing. He just lunged forward and started tickling him, and Steve immediately lost whatever composure he was pretending to have, laughter echoing loudly through the empty church as he tried to shove him away without really trying that hard.

They wandered around for a while, whispering and laughing too loudly for a place like that, running their fingers along the backs of pews and daring each other to step closer to the altar. Eventually they settled on one of the benches. Well, Steve sat properly, and Eddie stretched out across it, resting his head on Steve’s thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The weight of him made Steve’s leg ache a little, but he didn’t move. It felt too warm. Too grounding. Too nice to interrupt.

“God, I love this place when there aren’t any prudes in it,” Eddie said, giggling softly.

“You’re impossible,” Steve muttered, smiling down at him. He felt warmer than before, the buzz from earlier settling low in his chest.

One of Eddie’s hands slid up lazily to the back of Steve’s neck, fingers brushing lightly through the hair there.

“You’re cute,” he said quietly. “Your hair. It’s… pretty.”

Steve swallowed. “Your hair’s pretty too. It’ll look cooler when it grows out again, though,” he added, remembering Eddie mentioning it used to be longer.

“Yeah,” Eddie smiled faintly. “I’ll be able to braid it again. That’ll be great.”

“You used to braid it?”

“All the time. I’d wake up and instead of it being curly and annoying, it’d be all wavy. Like my mom’s.” He paused. “I mean, hers was curly too, but she used to wave it because she liked it that way.”

“I bet she was pretty.”

“She was the prettiest ever,” Eddie said softly. “She taught me how to play guitar. She was gonna be a rockstar, you know? Had a record deal and everything. But then she had me.” His voice dipped lower. “Guess I kind of ruined that.”

Steve’s chest tightened. “I don’t think you ruined anything, Eds.” The nickname slipped out before he could stop it. “I’m pretty sure she loved you more than any record deal.”

Eddie went quiet at that. He gave Steve one long look, something unreadable in his eyes, before closing them again. His hand slipped away from Steve’s neck, resting loosely against his own chest.

Steve hesitated, then reached down and brushed his fingers gently through the tiny waves at Eddie’s hairline. They weren’t even proper bangs. Just soft little curls at the edge of his forehead.

They were stupidly cute.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The church felt quieter than before. He could hear their breathing.

Then Eddie spoke again, voice softer now.

“Hey… can I ask you something?”

“Depends,” Steve said lightly, though his stomach had already tightened.

“It’s about… you know. That stuff people say.” He hesitated. “I heard you’ve, uh… been with girls. Like, for real. Not just dates.”

Steve stiffened slightly, then let out a quiet breath.

“People talk too much,” he muttered. “But… yeah. I guess that’s not completely wrong.”

His ears burnt. This didn’t feel like when Tommy used to ask about stuff. It didn’t feel like bragging or comparing or proving anything. It felt like being examined.

“Yeah,” he admitted more clearly. “I mean… it happened. A while ago though. Well, not too long ago. You…you know what I mean.” He was so nervous. 

Eddie shifted just slightly on his lap, eyes still closed. “What was it like?”

Steve hesitated, searching for words. “Honestly? Kinda confusing. Everyone acts like it’s supposed to be this huge thing, but mostly I just felt nervous the whole time. Like I was trying to do everything right and not mess it up.” He let out a small embarrassed laugh. “Not exactly the cool hot story people think it is.”

“Wow,” Eddie said after a beat, something between teasing and thoughtful in his tone. “Harrington.”

“Don’t,” Steve warned, though there wasn’t much heat in it.

“I’m not judging,” Eddie said quickly. “I’m just… curious.”

That was the part that made Steve’s throat go dry. Curious didn’t sound like locker room talk. Curious sounded like something else.

The church suddenly felt a lot smaller.

“I’m still a virgin, obviously. Just thought I’d, like, let you know. Holier than the Virgin Mary, actually,” he joked.

Steve giggled. “Okay… can I ask you something too?”

“Shoot.”

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” he asked softly, his hand drifting back into the other boy’s hair without thinking.

“Yeah, I’ve kissed a couple people…” He paused, then looked straight into Steve’s eyes. “Not girls, though.”

Steve blinked, taking a second to process that.
“You’ve kissed guys before?”

“Yeah, a couple times,” he said, squinting a little. “It’s easier to kiss guys than girls, I think. Makes me less nervous.”

“Why?”

“I don’t care as much about disappointing guys, but if I disappointed a girl I’d probably want to disappear,” he joked lightly. “Also… guys feel easier to read.”

“I guess that makes sense…” Steve said, still thinking it over.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just thinking.” He looked down at him. “Was your date tonight a guy?”

“Yeah. I didn’t really expect him to show up, though. He’s kind of older. Already a junior in high school.”

Steve shifted slightly, the movement small but tense.
“I’m kind of glad he didn’t show up. Feels weird for a high schooler to be hanging around with you.”

“I guess…” he said, a little quieter. “He said I had a cool vibe.”

“You do have a cool vibe,” Steve said quickly, almost defensive without realizing it, “but it’s not for him. He’s probably some loser who can’t pull people his own age, so he tries with cooler kids instead.”

He giggled. “You’re so cool, dude.”

“You think?” Steve asked, earnest in a way he didn’t mean to be.

“Yeah. You’re awesome. I just wish we could actually hang out after tonight.”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

He hesitated, fingers still fidgeting with Steve’s hand. “I don’t know… I just don’t think it works like that. People like us don’t really… cross over much.”

“Oh.” Steve tried to shrug. “Yeah. I guess.”

“It’s okay, we can just enjoy ourselves now.” He slid off Steve’s lap and settled beside him instead, shoulder to shoulder, knees pulled up to his chest. His head tipped gently against Steve’s.

“Can I hold your hand? I’m nervous,” Steve said, his voice small in a way he hadn’t heard since he was six years old and clinging to his mom at the ice rink.

Eddie didn’t tease him. He just took Steve’s hand and threaded their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Why are you nervous?” he asked softly.

“I feel like I’m being watched or something…” Steve admitted.

Eddie glanced toward the crucifix. “Oh. It’s the angels. They hang around sometimes. Probably bored.” He smirked faintly. “We’re talking about unholy stuff. Of course they’re nosy.”

“Do you think they’re mad?”

“They can’t be mad,” Eddie said, shrugging. “They’re like machines, man. They just do what they’re built to do. Like a typewriter. Or a fridge.” He nudged Steve’s knee. “You ever feel judged by a fridge?”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh. “No…”

“Exactly.”

The joke settled between them, but the nervousness didn’t. Steve squeezed Eddie’s hand again.

“Eddie…”

“Yeah?”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just close.

“I think you’re beautiful,” Steve said.

Eddie blinked, caught off guard. He smiled in that crooked, unsure way he did when he didn’t know where to put his hands.

“Feeling’s mutual,” he said quietly. “You’ve got pretty eyes.”

“You’ve got pretty eyes too.”

“And pretty moles.”

Steve leaned closer. Close enough that their foreheads almost brushed. Close enough that the air between them felt charged.

“You’ve got tiny freckles…”

“I do…”

“And… pretty lips.”

Eddie swallowed. “Steve, can I…?”

Steve nodded.

Eddie put his hands on either side of his face, and the room fell away. He had never gotten so lost in a kiss before, never felt the world narrow down to a single point of warmth between them. And then the space between them seemed to explode; his heart kept missing beats, and his hands couldn’t pull him close enough.

He tasted him and realized he had been starving. He had loved before, but it hadn’t felt like this. He had kissed before, but it hadn’t burned him alive. Maybe it lasted a minute, and maybe it was an hour—time felt useless now. All he knew was that kiss, how soft his skin felt when it brushed against his, and that, even if he hadn’t known it until now, he had been waiting for this person forever.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both tearing up and giggling like little boys. Steve’s hands clutched Eddie’s shirt as he whispered, “Don’t stop.”
Eddie let out a breathless laugh. “Wasn’t planning to.”

Steve leaned in again, and the second kiss was softer, breathless. He didn’t want to break away from him, even for a second, so instead he pulled him even closer, the slight lack of oxygen making him feel just dizzy enough to drown completely in the feeling of his lips on his own. For a moment, it was the only thing he could feel.

When they separated, Eddie looked at him, stunned, as if he were still trying to catch his breath.
“Okay,” Eddie whispered, almost laughing. “Okay.”

“Do you hate me now?” Steve asked quietly, the question slipping out before he could stop himself.

The older kid’s hand came up to caress his cheek.
“How could anyone ever hate you, Steve?”

He smiled, the tears finally rolling down his cheeks, and he noticed Eddie was crying too. The sight made him let out a small, shaky laugh. It was a little funny.

“Are you sure we can’t hang out again?” Steve murmured, still holding onto the front of Eddie’s shirt.

“Yeah, it’d be selfish of me to drag you down,” he said, hugging Steve tightly and pressing his face into his shoulder.

They both stayed quiet for a long moment, the kind of silence that felt heavier than words.

“It’s Mikhail, by the way. Misha,” he said, abruptly.

“Huh?” Eddie pulled back slightly to look at him.

“My middle name is Misha,” he said softly. “Well, Mikhail, but Misha is the nickname.”

“You said you’d never tell me,” he laughed.

“I lied,” Steve replied, giving a small, tired smile.

Steve found himself standing in front of Eddie's grave, not knowing how he got there. That happened a lot now. It looked wet, like it had just been cleaned.

Edward Munson, now in peace. 1966–1986.

He sat down cross-legged in front of the stone, rubbing his hands slowly over his jeans while the familiar pressure built behind his eyes.

“Uh… hi, Eddie.” He let out a breath, glancing down at the name carved into the marble. “It’s been a while, huh? We miss you over here.” His mouth twitched into a small, awkward smile. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Everyone’s kinda sick of hearing it, actually. I can’t really blame them.”

Steve picked at a loose thread on his sleeve, quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Let me tell you a secret. Sometimes I think this might all be a bad dream. Every now and then, when the world gets quiet enough, when the yellow light hits the ceiling just right, I feel like a kid again, and I start thinking maybe I’ll wake up.” He swallowed, eyes fixed somewhere past the grave. “Like I’ll find the place where time is the weakest, touch it, tear it open, and suddenly I’m back on the sofa, pretending to sleep so my parents don’t notice I crawled in after some nightmare.”

He huffed softly, almost laughing, brushing a bit of dirt from the grass beside him. “There’s a laugh track coming from the TV. It’s summer. The balcony door is open just a little, and there’s a mosquito trying to get in.” His voice lowered. “Nothing hurts yet. My heart doesn’t ache. Everything’s still okay.” He blinked hard, eyes shining as he finally looked back at the headstone. “I don’t know… I guess part of me keeps thinking that’s the moment I’m going to wake up into.”

He looked down again.

“I wish I could join you,” he said quietly, picking at the grass between his fingers. “Maybe the angels would still be nosy, huh? You’d hate that.” He let out a soft breath. “But I have to stay here. I’m sorry. I’ve gotta look after Henderson. And Robin. And the kids in general. They still need me.”

He nodded to himself, like he was convincing someone. Maybe he was.

“I miss you. I know I’ve told you that before.” His jaw tightened. “But nothing has ever topped that night with you at the church. Nothing ever will. I’ve been thinking about you ever since.” He swallowed. “You’re perfect, Eddie. Too perfect, maybe.” A fragile smile touched his mouth. “Maybe that’s why you’re gone.”

The smile didn’t last.

“I can’t wait to see you again,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the carved letters. “But not yet. I’ve still got things to do here. I’ve still got them. You understand that, right? You always did.”

He exhaled slowly. “I like talking to you. It feels… I don’t know. Easier.” He wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. “Anyway. I still have your vest. I bet you’re so mad. Aren’t you?” A faint huff of laughter escaped him. “It’s a cute vest. Looks better on me, though.”

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his jeans. “I better head home. Robin’ll kill me if I disappear again for too long.”

He stood there a moment longer.

Then, softer, almost breaking—

“Good morning, Eddie.”

His voice trembled. “I hope you know I’m still in love with you.” He closed his eyes. “And I don’t think that’s ever going to change.”