Chapter Text
It’s a slow as shit Tuesday afternoon, and Steve is at work thinking about Eddie “the Freak” Munson.
Steve’s life is such a fucking joke. Of course he’s thinking about Eddie Munson. Of course he is.
Eddie Munson, who is two years older than Steve and still finishing up high school. Eddie fucking Munson, with his long dark hair and his big grin and his long fingers. His big personality. Big enough to fill up an empty room.
Steve bets, with Eddie inside, no house would ever feel empty.
Eddie’s got big doe eyes. They’re brown with lashes long enough to cast shadows on his cheeks. They’re real pretty. Steve has, on multiple occasions, wondered what they look like when they’re all glossy and wet. Fucked out.
Steve misses sex, sort of. It’s hard to explain. Steve has sex every other week or so; sometimes with a girl he’s slept with before, sometimes with someone new. He’s not in a dry spell, or anything. No, Steve just misses good sex.
Sex that makes his heart race, his toes curl. Makes his blood rush. His head spin.
It would probably be like that with Eddie. It would be good with Eddie, Steve knows it. Eddie wouldn’t even have to like him in order to fuck him. Fucking is, actually, probably Steve’s most realistic option; Eddie and him are barely more than friendly acquaintances, and fuck knows Steve doesn’t have the best track record with anything else.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, Steve thinks sourly, because he’s said the word so many times in his mind that it’s starting to sound funny.
“Fuck, why won’t Eddie fuck me, Robin?” Steve bursts, smacking his palm against the counter.
His words ring across the empty movie store and are absorbed by the soft VHS covers.
Robin flicks over to a new page in her magazine. “Because he’s dumb, Steve. Dumber than you are.”
“What am I doing wrong?” Steve moans. He drops his head down, buries it in his arms. Then he lifts it and drops it again. Then a third time. Thud, thud, thud, his brain rattling around in his empty fuckin’ skull, because what is wrong with him? What is he doing wrong?
Robin finally sets her magazine aside and leans her arms against Steve’s shoulders. She hunches over him comfortingly, the both of them stacked together behind the family video register. Steve huffs at her and Robin blows in his ear, making him twitch.
“Eddie just, like, refuses to notice you flirting with him. It’s not you, babe, you’ve been doing great. Flirting up a fucking storm,” Robin says kindly.
“I blew a popsicle in front of him, Robs,” Steve says, because that had been humiliating. He’d really given it his all, too. Put his lips and tongue against the blue, icy tip and then hollowed out his cheeks. It had been a show. He had looked good. Steve knows he did.
Eddie hadn’t reacted at all. He had just turned around and rummaged through the trunk of his car for a minute, then turned back like nothing had happened.
In Steve’s more delusional moments, he comforts himself with the fact— hope— that Eddie had been blushing. Probably.
The stupidest thing Steve has ever done is blowing that popsicle. And he’s done a lot of dumb fucking shit.
“I know, babe,” Robin tells him, because that’s their new thing. Her and Steve’s new thing; calling each other babe.
It cracks them up. Nobody else gets it.
That just makes it funnier.
“He’s just scared,” Robin continues. “He’s a self-confessed coward, Steve-o. Of course he’s not gonna make a move on you. Not on King Steve.”
Steve breathes in very deep, his lungs heaving. Robin heaves with him, still laying on his shoulders, then deflates when he breathes out.
He takes another deep breath and lets out a muffled yell into the crook of his arm.
It makes him feel a little better.
“I bet real kings get, like, way more head than I do,” Steve says. “Or at least more money. And they get a dead dad, too— fuck, real kings have it so much better than me.”
“They don’t have to work at Family Video, either,” Robin says. Her voice is very glum.
It’s real nice of Robin, to be melancholy and sullen right alongside Steve. It cements their best-friend status further, adds another tick into the Steve ‘n’ Robin: Together Forever column.
“Right?” Steve agrees.
They lay in their defeated heap behind the register together. They watch dust drift through the window light.
When a pimple-faced kid stumbles through the door, neither of them move. They chorus: “Welcome to Scoops— wait, shit— welcome to Family Video.”
They never fucking get their welcoming spiel right.
The kid takes one look at them, stacked together behind the register, and turns bright red. He spins on his heel and leaves immediately.
“Thank God,” Robin says.
Steve’s main problem is that Eddie is sweet. Majorly sweet; sweeter than coke or skittles or peach cobbler pie. Just genuinely fucking soft hearted.
Deep down at the core of himself, Steve is a little mean. He’s come to terms with it, mostly because Robin and Nancy are the same way. The three of them are a little too ready to bear their teeth at people who might not completely deserve it.
Eddie’s not like that. Eddie is more like Jonathan, though every time Steve has that thought he crumples it up like paper and tosses it into the furthest corner of his head. It makes his skin itch.
But it’s true. Eddie is sweet. It’s just a fact. His hair is permed and he likes Black Sabbath and he’s got thirteen tattoos and he’s sweet.
It’s been a long time since someone was sweet to Steve. And Eddie is. Sweet to Steve, that is. He gives Steve these shy smiles, hiding his face behind his hair. He talks a mile a minute and calls Steve Ozzy whenever they meet up. He touches Steve’s shoulder, his wrist, Eddie’s fingers warm and flitting away quickly. Eddie waves frantically and jogs over to talk whenever they see each other in public. He’s fucking excited to see Steve.
“We saved the world together, Ozzy-O,” Eddie says.
“Rock on,” Steve says back, and then has to throw his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and noogie him, because it’s that or kiss him.
Eddie’s so sweet it makes Steve want to be sweet right back— to put his mouth to Eddie’s collarbone and kiss him there. To tuck his hair behind his silver-studded ears. To drag his lips across Eddie’s cheekbone, his nose, over his forehead. Straighten out his shirt. Smooth out his bracelets.
They’re not best friends or anything, but they’re solid. Him and Eddie are new and fresh and good in a way that Steve can’t help but pick at. There’s so much potential, Steve feels like a newly potted plant. Like there are new places he could stretch out and grow into. New things to become.
It’s been a long fucking time since Steve felt like he was becoming something.
It’s a nice feeling.
It’s Thursday. Eddie Munson is in Mike Wheeler’s basement, hidden behind his dorky fucking folder, arms splayed wide and weaving a web of a story.
Steve is also in Mike Wheeler’s armpit of a basement— shit, Steve has to take Max out to a park or something, get her to throw a ball around with him, they’re both gonna get, like, jaundice doing this— and watching him. When Eddie grins, Steve’s heart thumps. When he cracks his knuckles before rolling his dice, Steve bites down a smile. Eddie fiddles with his hair. Steve licks his lips.
It’s pathetic. Steve is pathetic and he needs to stop.
But then, for a moment, Eddie lifts his eyes off his notes. He doesn’t look at Mike or Dustin or Lucas or Will, fresh from California. He doesn’t look at El and Max, huddled in the corner and sharing headphones. Eddie doesn’t look at any of them. Eddie looks at Steve, and Steve looks back. He thinks his eyes must be, like, fucking smoldering or something.
Eddie winks at him, flirty and dramatic and not at all serious. And then he looks away.
It’s fucking bleak, is what it is.
“Oh, ouch,” Robin says, dropping onto the couch next to him. She hands him a coke.
Steve groans and buries his face into her bony shoulder, pressing the cold can to his hot cheeks. Everything he does is embarrassing.
Robin pets his hair. “I know, babe.”
“I’m killing myself,” he tells her. “Like, soon.”
Dustin whips his head up from his nerd notebook. “You’re what?”
Steve ignores him. Robin does too.
“If I were you? I would,” Robin tells him. She’s dead serious.
“Right?” Steve asks, because fuck this is so fuckin’ sad.
“Not right, you guys, what the fuck!” Dustin cries.
“Steve, are you good?” Will asks. Steve peeks one eye open and discovers him frowning, concerned. Next to him, Mike Wheeler is staring like he’s not sure whether to be upset or anxious or what. Lucas is nibbling nervously on his lips.
The girls keep ignoring them.
Steve loves them most.
“Aren’t you playing your nerd game?” He asks, lifting his head from Robin’s shoulder with a scowl. “Focus on that. I’m good. I’m going to kill myself, but I’m good.”
“Hey, man, come on,” Eddie says. His eyebrows are furrowed together over his gigantic fucking Bambi eyes. Steve wants to, like, lick them. He wants to see them shiny and wet.
Steve’s brain is so fucking weird.
“Hel-lo we are having a fucking conversation here!” Robin exclaims. She scowls at them, fiercely, and Steve squeezes her tightly in thanks. Robin is so the best. Steve, overwhelmed with warmth, kisses her temple.
“We’re just concerned!” Dustin sputters.
“Don’t be,” Steve says. “I’m kidding.”
“I’d never let him do that,” Robin says reassuringly. “Not alone, anyway.”
“Aw, babe,” Steve says, putting a hand over his heart.
“We’re a two for one deal, Harrington, and you know it.” Robin rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. She’s wearing her black jacket with the patches, and new green plaid pants. There’s a silver chain hooked on them.
She’s so fucking cool. Steve loves her so much.
Robin huddles into Steve’s side and Steve wraps his arms around her joyfully.
“That’s, like, not reassuring, Robin!” Dustin cries.
Lucas, Will, and Mike gaze at them, bug eyed, and Steve pinches his nose.
At the head of the table, Eddie chews on his lip nervously. After a moment, he clutches at his hair, pulling it across his face and twirling it between his fingers. Steve wants to touch Eddie’s hands. Wants to pull them down and then stroke Eddie’s hair back. Wants to soothe all that nervous energy.
Steve thinks that Eddie would probably let him. Probably. He’s almost certain. But almost certain just isn’t fucking good enough. If Eddie would give him just one sign, literally any sign at all—
He doesn’t even have to blow any popsicles. Steve’s done all the heavy lifting. Eddie’s just got to fucking do fucking anything—
“What are we talking about?” Nancy asks, stepping delicately into the basement. Jonathan follows at her heels, his hands at her waist and a sort of big-eyed, stunned look on his face.
Steve’s mouth twitches, despite his frustrated thoughts, because looking at them makes him want to smile. If Eddie makes Steve feel like a blossoming young thing, then Jon and Nance make him feel rooted. Planted deep into the ground.
Jonathan and Nancy being in the basement with them reassures Steve. Just a little.
“Steve’s talking about killing himself,” Mike immediately snitches.
In unison, Steve and Robin groan.
“It was a joke, Wheeler,” Steve says. “Take a joke. Also, Robin said she was going to, too.”
Robin huffs. “We’ve got a joint suicide pact, Steve, why would I lie about that?”
“Okay, woah, what?” Jonathan sputters.
“Back up,” Nancy agrees.
“We love you, Steve, don’t kill yourself,” Dustin says. He’s standing at the table fidgeting like he might come over and throw himself on top of Steve.
“Do not come over here,” Steve warns him.
Dustin comes over anyway.
He rounds the table and leaps onto Steve and Robin both, the solid weight of him slamming into Steve’s chest and then settling with a fwump onto his legs. Dustin sprawls out on top of them like a too-large cat, and Steve raises his eyes to the ceiling and counts to ten.
And then he breathes in deep and pats Dustin’s head.
“Okay, first of all, I’m not going to kill myself. If I was going to do that I would’ve already done it. And I’m still here, so.” This reassures precisely no one, so Steve keeps talking. “Also, I don’t want to die. I promise. If I did, Robin would know.”
“He’s good,” Robin promises. She gives them all a thumbs up and a crooked grin.
Robin is the realest friend Steve has ever had. Because sure, fine, there have been nights where she’s had to come over and pull a bottle out of his hand. Draw the blinds for the windows that look out at the pool. But Steve’s done the same for her; pulled her inside out of the rain, shaking and crying, because she thinks her mom knows, Steve, oh God, oh God, what am I going to do?
Robin is the realest friend Steve’s ever had, and when push comes to shove, like it’s shoving now, Steve knows she’s going to take his secrets to the fuckin’ grave. He’s gonna do the same for her.
“Hel-lo, are we playing or not,” Eddie interrupts. He waves his hands back and forth, like, look at me! I’m right here! “Leave Harrington alone. Mike, you’re in the chamber, four enemies around you. Will and Dustin are off to the side, and Lucas is in front with—”
Barreling on without any further input from the players, Eddie picks up where he left off. Steve tips his chin at him, a silent thanks, and Eddie gazes at him with his big brown eyes.
After a moment, Steve needs to look away, because he wants to go over there. He wants to toss his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and sit on the arm of his chair. Heckle him while he speaks. Brush kisses down his chin.
Jon and Nance come and sit with their backs to the couch. Nancy tosses her legs over Jonathan’s thighs, and Jonathan’s long fingers stroke across them. Robin tucks herself further under Steve’s arm. Eddie stays over at the geek table, effortlessly commanding and entertaining Steve’s feral pack of nerds, and Steve watches him.
Eddie catches him doing it, of course. He meets Steve’s eye and grins like— like sunshine. So bright and stunning.
And then Eddie looks away. Focuses on the kids. His eyes never stick on Steve like Steve’s do on Eddie.
Yeah, Steve thinks. Pretty fucking bleak.
“What I need,” Steve declares, one foot on a movie rack like a historic general, “Is a plan.”
“For sure,” Robin agrees, mostly ignoring him. She’s focused on painting her nails dark blue; her tongue is poking between her teeth.
“If I could just figure out what he likes, then I’d be in. I’ve just gotta… I just need to know what works for him, you know?”
Robin looks up from her nails. As soon as she does, she paints the brush across the counter and mutters shit. She wipes at it with her thumb, but it just smears.
Steve waits patiently.
“Okay, pause,” Robin says, giving up on wiping the stain away. “You don’t mean you’re gonna, like… Okay. You cannot change yourself for Eddie fucking Munson. You’re better than that.”
“No, Robin, of course not,” Steve dismisses, although in all honesty he wouldn’t put it past himself. But whatever. “I just mean, like… dressing up a little. You know? If I could just figure out what gets him hot…”
“You blew a popsicle in front of him, Steve,” Robin reminds him.
Steve’s cheeks heat. He flaps his hands at her then puts them on his hips. He opens and shuts his mouth four times in a row.
“And if that didn’t do it, then I don’t think anything can,” Robin says. Her tone is so firm Steve almost expects her to follow it with the prosecution rests.
“Some guys don’t like blowies,” Steve says, sullen and embarrassed. He’s talking out of his ass and Robin knows it.
“You think Eddie the freak doesn’t like blowjobs.” Robin’s tone is so incredulous that Steve’s cheeks burn hotter.
“No, I bet he fucking loves them!” Steve presses his lips together and gives a muffled, frustrated yell then tosses his hands up. “Fine. Fine! I’ll give up. I’m pathetic and I gave oral to a popsicle to try to seduce him and I’ll just fucking throw myself off a cliff.”
“Okay, just for argument’s sake, let’s say Eddie isn’t gay,” Robin declares.
“Right,” Steve says.
A long pause comes. Robin taps her fingers against the blue stain on the counter. Steve chews on his lower lip.
“He’s got to be gay,” Robin finally says.
“Right?” Steve says again.
“So then why isn’t this working?” Robin massages her temples like she’s got a migraine. There’s nothing Robin hates more than a puzzle that won’t fucking solve. A mystery without any solid clues. “It’s got to just be that he’s stupid. Like, that’s got to be it. Stupid and a scaredy-cat. So even if he was picking up what you’re putting down, he would ignore it.”
“Okay, woah,” Steve says. “A little mean.”
Robin slaps her hand against the counter. “It just doesn’t make sense!”
Steve heaves a deep sigh. He sits down on the ugly, brightly patterned carpet and stares up at Robin.
“It might,” he starts, “possibly, potentially, be time to come to terms with the fact that he just doesn’t want to fuck me.”
“No way,” Robin dismisses. “There’s another answer.”
Drumming his fingers against the bottom of his shoe, Steve frowns. Thinks hard and long about Eddie and what might gag him. Thinks about his showboating, his cool-as-shit clothes, the way he took the nerds under his wing. Thinks about Eddie, repeating senior year three times. Eddie, flushing red and looking away from Steve. Looking away every time.
Hesitantly, Steve says, “Could he be… I don’t know. Embarrassed?”
“Embarrassed about what?” Robin says.
Steve shrugs. “Wanting things is humiliating. If you want something, someone can take it away from you.”
“It’s vulnerable,” Robin muses. She’s quiet for a beat, tapping the heels of her converse against the floor. “Especially if you want something embarrassing.”
“Fuck off,” Steve says. “Liking me is not embarrassing.”
“Not that,” Robin says. “You’re a catch.”
“Thank you.”
“No, like… you know. The things Eddie likes.” Robin flushes and looks away.
Steve stares at her. "No, I don't know. What fucking things?"
Robin stares back, wide eyed, like she’s trying to communicate telepathically.
Normally they kind of can. Talk telepathically, that is. But right now Steve isn’t picking up what she’s trying to put down.
“Don’t make me say it,” Robin says. Her cheeks are a hot red, her eyes darting around.
Steve whistles, long and low. “Damn, Buckley. I’m out of the rumor mill, mostly. I’m not keeping up. Did something go around about Eddie?” Because it must have really been something, the way her face is. All red and wide-eyed.
“It’s, uh. Not a rumor.” Robin tugs at her shirt collar and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes.
“Explain.”
“The hanky,” Robin blurts in a scandalized whisper. She looks around the empty store, at the motionless shelves of tapes, like she thinks a customer might be hiding.
“The hanky,” Steve repeats, lost. He wracks his brains and comes up empty. But, wait. Hold on. “That’s like the gay bandana system, right?”
“It’s the fucking hanky code, Steve,” Robin responds. She puts her head down, like she can’t stare at him and have this conversation at the same time.
“So, Eddie’s gay. There’s our proof. Right?”
“I mean,” Robin says. “That’s only if he knows what he’s doing.”
Steve thinks about Eddie, twenty years old. Playing at bars and selling hard drugs out of his trailer. Grinning at Steve like that, knocking his chest against Steve’s shoulder, touching Steve’s bare wrist.
“No, he definitely knows,” Steve declares.
“Probably,” Robin says. “I’m, like, ninety percent sure. Eighty-five. Sixty at the lowest.”
“Great,” Steve says dismissively, because Robin is avoiding something. Steve wants her to get to the fucking point. “Okay. So if we assume Eddie knows about the code and is doing his hanky-thing on purpose… What does his mean?”
Robin bites her lip. Hesitantly, she says, “back left pocket means receiving.”
Steve stares at her. “What, you think he’s embarrassed he likes to bottom?” Because that’s, like, not a big deal. Eddie wouldn’t be embarrassed about that— Steve knows he wouldn’t. It’s just practical, to put that preference out there. Makes it easier for everyone involved.
“I wasn’t fucking done, dingus!” Robin blurts. She rolls her shoulders like she’s about to run a race.
Steve stares at her, baffled.
“The black hanky. You know. The colors mean things. And the black hanky is for. Uh.”
“It’s for…?” Steve prompts.
Robin presses her lips together. Winces.
“Okay, it cannot possibly be that bad,” Steve says.
“It’s for S&M!” Robin finally exclaims. “He’s a masochist!”
Steve stares at her. Robin stares back.
“And you’ve known this the whole fucking time?” Steve exclaims right back, throwing his arms up. “You couldn’t have fucking told me? Am I not a good wingman to you, is that it? Is that it? Is this payback for whatever fucking—”
“Hold on,” Robin interrupts. “Hold on, is this— are you, like. Do you know what masochism is?”
“I know I act like it sometimes, Robin, but I’m not actually fucking twelve,” Steve says. “It means Eddie wants to get smacked around or whatever.”
Robin keeps staring at him.
“And this is all beside the point because what Eddie likes during sex is none of my business unless I can get him to sleep with me!” Steve finishes passionately.
After another pause, Robin nods her head like respect, dude. “I don’t know why it keeps surprising me that you’ve got hidden depths.”
Steve shrugs at her. “I like sex,” he says with a wave of his hands. “We, like, all know this. I especially like good sex. And if that’s what will make it good for Eddie…” Steve trails off.
It comes to him like a vision, a daydream so vivid it’s like he lives it: Eddie, beneath him, his skin a hot red. His wide brown eyes glossy. His cheeks glowing pink. Grinning and saying, fuck, Harrington, is that all you got? I can take it. Give me more, give me— Steve—
Reluctantly, Steve pulls himself out of the fantasy, tucking it away for later when he’s alone in his room. He clears his throat.
“Anyway,” Steve says. “Game plan, Robin. Come on.”
Because knowing what that hanky means does exactly nothing if Eddie doesn’t want Steve. It does fuck all.
Robin nibbles her lip thoughtfully, tilting her head from side to side. She hoists herself to sit cross-legged at the register counter, and Steve finally leaves his army-general perch against the shelves. He comes to lean next to her, his shoulder against her knee.
“Okay, so. You smoke, right?” Robin asks, and Steve knows she’s just thinking out loud, because of course Robin knows he does. Weed, cigarettes. Steve isn’t picky. He’s been cutting down, because recently lung capacity and stamina have seemed life-savingly important, but he’s never completely quit.
“Yeah,” Steve says anyway.
“Well, maybe pretend you don’t,” Robin tells him.
Steve taps his fingers against his folded arms thoughtfully. “Go on.”
“Tell Eddie you’ve never smoked before. He would love to pop that cherry. He would, like, need to. Getting Steve Harrington high for the first time? He wouldn’t be able to resist.”
Nodding, Steve tells her, “I can do that. Then what?”
Robin is really getting into it, now. Her eyes are all lit up and she’s thinking fast, talking even faster. Improv and scheming are two of Robin’s favorite things. She’s way better at them than Steve.
“Obviously, you’re telling him this at a kickback where people are already smoking,” Robin says.
“Obviously,” Steve agrees. “Am I in charge of throwing this party?”
“I don’t know what other parties you think this is going to happen at,” Robin tells him. “And after you weasel your way over there and are your stupidly endearing self, and take a hit or two of whatever, you’re going to lean on him real cute and ask him what shotgunning is.”
“Oh that’s good,” Steve says, pleased.
“I know,” Robin says. “I’m a genius. But after that it’s up to you.”
“You can lead an Eddie horse to water but you can’t make the Eddie horse thirsty, or whatever,” Steve agrees.
“Exactly,” Robin says, because her and Steve share a brain. They have for pretty much the entire time they’ve known each other. “Eddie might not have realized that the other stuff was flirting. He might’ve thought you were, I don’t know, making fun of him. Or something. But I guarantee you he’ll understand if you flirt with him like this. He’ll have seen it before. He’ll take it seriously.”
“That’s all I need,” Steve says.
And it is all he needs. He knows it. He just needs Eddie to realize what Steve’s asking for, what he’s propositioning, and then he’ll be… maybe not in. Maybe Eddie will say no. But he’ll be done. For better or worse, he’ll be done with the pining and imagining and scheming.
It’s like he’s been standing on Eddie’s doorstep, nervous as a kid on his first date, waiting for Eddie. Just waiting and waiting, scuffing his shoes back and forth. With this shotgunning plan, maybe Steve will finally try the door handle and realize it’s locked and walk away instead of doing what he’s been doing, which is standing on the porch and hoping Eddie realizes he’s there.
Or maybe he'll try the door and discover it's open. Maybe he'll be welcomed inside, be told to take off his shoes, his coat.
“Well, Robin,” Steve sighs, leaning a little harder on her knee. “Looks like we’ve got a party to plan.”
Four days later, Steve’s got everyone at his house— and by everyone, he means Nance, Jonathan, Jonathan’s friend Argyle, Robin, and Eddie.
Robin, who had crashed at Steve’s the night before, single handedly prevents Steve from tearing his hair out while he sets up. They clean and laugh and shove each other into the pool, giddy and nervous. Or maybe that’s just Steve.
A kickback in order to seduce a big-eyed curly-haired beauty; Steve’s done this before. It’s going to be totally fine.
Totally.
Fuck, there is such a horrible precedent here. It’s making Steve lose it, just a little.
The sun is setting by the time the others start arriving. The sky is leaking orange like a cracked fanta can, the trees standing dark against the sky. It’s warm out, closer to sweltering than not, and Steve wipes his face with the bottom of his shirt.
Him and Robin are sitting on the steps to his front porch, knees knocking. She’s got a lime green band-aid on her left shin.
There’s the low rumble of Jonathan’s shitty car, then the squealing of his brakes, and Steve tips his head back while smiling. When he hears three doors open, he calls out, “Come on in, Byers and friends.”
“Steve Harrington!” Nancy calls joyfully, climbing out of Jonathan’s car, snagging Jonathan’s hand, and jogging over. Jonathan keeps pace with her and they almost tackle Steve in greeting.
“Hey, guys,” Steve says, his throat feeling tight.
Nancy and Jonathan put their heads on either side of Steve’s neck, their arms around him like bands. Steve throws his around them, too, until they’re all holding each other up.
Years and years, they’ve been in each others’ lives. Drifting together and apart and together and apart. Steve’s stopped worrying about it, stopped questioning it. He has faith, now, that the three of them will drift back together every time.
Squeezing them a little tighter, Steve murmurs, “Be cool, but I need a favor.”
They freeze. Steve can feel the tension creeping up their spines and immediately he adds, “It’s nothing bad! Just, uh.” Steve clears his throat. Presses his cheek to Jonathan’s hair and then to Nancy’s. “Listen, if anyone asks, I’ve never smoked weed before. Alright?”
“Steve, what?” Nancy asks, the same moment Jonathan says, “Sure, whatever you need.”
“Oh, I fucking love you, Byers,” Steve says. And then: “Please, Nance.”
“Fine,” Nancy says, giving in. “But you’ve got to explain later, Steve, I mean it.”
“‘Course, babe,” Steve tells her.
All three of them squeeze each other tight for another moment. Two, three. Steve only pulls away when he hears another car pull up, another door slam.
Finally, they unravel from each other, and Nancy greets Robin just as enthusiastically as she greeted Steve, Jonathan hanging back but giving Robin a casual nod. Steve looks out at his driveway and sees Argyle leaning against Jonathan’s car, eyes on the sunset and a dazed smile on his face. High already, Steve thinks, and snorts.
Argyle is a fucking riot. Steve loves that guy— anyone who can loosen Jon up even a little is worth his weight in gold.
Behind him, Jon, Nance, and Robin move inside, talking about something geeky. A news story or something. Steve tunes them out because then there’s Eddie.
Eddie is standing next to his car, staring at Steve and frowning. Steve’s heart thumps. It’s half dread— because fuck why is Eddie frowning already— and half excitement. Eddie is here, leather jacket on, jeans ripped across the knee, black boots tied up tight.
That black hanky is still hanging out of his back left pocket.
Eddie puts it there every day. He picks it up, tucks it in, and goes out with it every day on purpose.
There’s a lot of bravery in that.
Steve lifts his hand and waves his fingers at Eddie, a sort of sardonic toodle-oo, and Eddie finally cracks a smile.
He comes jogging over, giving Argyle a friendly smack on the arm as he passes. Argyle sways a little then grins, waving at Eddie then leaning back against the car, eyes once again on the sky.
“Steve fucking Harrington,” Eddie exclaims once he’s close enough. His eyes are glimmering, mischievous and bright. He’s got a bag on his back, black canvas with pins and drawings in white sharpie, that rattles every time he moves.
“Munson,” Steve greets, then pulls Eddie in for a hug, too. He can’t help it; he’s a hugger. He’s just got to grab and pull and squeeze at people. It’s what he does.
Eddie isn’t used to it yet. That’s fine. Steve is great at wearing people down until they accept his affection. He’s persistent and stubborn and bad at taking hints.
He squeezes tighter. He knocks their temples together.
Finally, Eddie lifts his arms, backpack clinking slightly, and returns the hug. Softly, he places his hands on Steve’s back. Steve can feel his fingers twitch against his spine, out then in, like he wants to pet Steve but isn’t sure he can. Slow and steady, Steve drags one hand up Eddie’s ribs, then cups the back of his neck. Gives a firm squeeze.
After a moment, Steve rocks them gently from side to side. Just a little. Barely any movement at all. Not enough to scare Eddie away.
Eddie fists his hands in the back of Steve’s plain tee. It pulls his collar tight, choking him a little, but Steve doesn’t care. He just holds Eddie tighter. Presses Eddie’s face further into his neck.
The tips of their shoes are touching.
Steve takes one, indulgent deep breath— Eddie smells like cigarettes and weed and sweat, honestly a little rank, but also like cheap cologne and deodorant— before pulling away.
“Come on in, dude,” he says, grinning so widely his cheeks hurt. “Mi casa and all that shit.”
Eddie stares at him for a moment, his brow furrowed, his hair ruffled. Steve stares back and tries to look cool, or at least friendly.
“Alright, Harrington,” Eddie says, though Steve doesn’t really know what he means. Eddie continues with more energy, rocking back on his heels and grinning, a little manic looking. Full-up on frenetic energy, the way Robin gets, sometimes. “Show me what a party thrown by King Steve is like.”
“Probably kind of lame,” Steve warns. “There’s only six of us.”
“You leave it to me, Harrington,” Eddie says, clapping Steve on the arm. His hand lingers, long-fingered and warm, and Steve’s heart leaps. “I can get any party hoppin’.”
Eddie takes his hand off Steve and hefts the bag on his back up a little higher. It clinks and rattles, and Steve shakes his head. Wonders what Eddie has in there. Wonders how much trouble they’d all be in if they got caught.
Whatever. It’s not like it would be the first time there was coke or weed or Jim Beam in Steve’s house, at one of Steve’s parties.
Steve shoves at Eddie’s back and Eddie cackles.
“Who even says ‘hopping,’ man,” Steve says.
Jonathan has followed Argyle into the fuckin’ stratosphere, high as all get-out, Nancy shaking her head at them both because weed makes her feel sick. She’s been pounding back her vodka soda, though, so Steve doesn’t feel too bad for her. They’re both sitting with their backs to the couch.
Steve’s in the only recliner, leaned back and faking like he’s relaxed. He’s not sure it’s working.
Robin and Eddie are sitting on the floor and passing a blunt back and forth over Argyle’s prone body; the guy is snoring fit to shake the house down, passed out with a bag of chips on his chest.
Steve wants to be high so fucking bad but of course he isn’t yet. He’s faking weed virginity, so mostly he’s reclining on his makeshift throne, downing vodka lemonades with his arms and legs spread invitingly, and trying to look interested and not desperate.
It’s been a couple hours, two or three, and everyone is settled into the house. In Steve’s experience— of which he has a lot— this is the time that makes or breaks a party. When everyone’s high, or drunk, and a little bit bored. In the headspace where they’re willing to look at a bad idea with rose-colored glasses. Willing to look at a bad idea and think, that looks fun. Besides, who’s gonna know?
The trick is, of course, throwing out a bad idea. If nothing happens everyone will leave, drunk or high enough to get horny and tired.
Steve is the king of bad ideas. Of tossing one out then hitting it out of the park.
He starts with: “Fuck, it’s hot in here.”
Robin, who Steve genuinely believes is connected to him telepathically, says: “You know what sounds, like… Really good?”
“What?” Steve says.
“Grass. Being on… the grass.” Robin’s eyes are bloodshot. She’s staring at the ceiling like she’s counting the popcorn bumps.
“Grass,” Jonathan sighs.
“You’ve got a pool, right, Harrington?” Eddie says. He’s hardly high at all; apparently, he’s got an insanely high tolerance to everything.
Fuck, this might work, Steve thinks, shocked. He takes a deep breath, meets Nancy’s eyes— more sober than he’d thought— and raises his eyebrows.
If Nancy doesn’t want to get in the pool, Steve won’t let anyone get in the pool. Easy as that. End of story.
What do you think, Nance? He asks silently.
She stares back at him for a moment, her brow furrowed, the turn of her mouth sad. But then Jonathan touches her knee, and she covers his hand with hers, and she nods. Fuck it.
A bad idea, rose colored glasses. Hook, line, sinker, Steve has this in the bag.
He’s going to buy Nancy a brand new gun, holy shit.
“Yeah, Munson,” Steve grins. “I’ve got a pool.”
“Well let’s go then!” Eddie says, staggering to his feet.
Steve kicks the footrest of the recliner down just in time for Eddie to stumble over to him and hold out a hand. Steve takes it without hesitating and pulls himself up with too much force, an excuse to bump into Eddie.
Game time, Harrington, he thinks to himself. Keep it moving.
He fakes like he’s off-balance, letting Eddie hold him up while everyone else gets moving. They’re all grinning, eyes lidded low, cheeks red. Hair frizzy with alcohol and weed. Jonathan gently kicks Argyle’s side and Argyle wakes up with a jerk and a good-natured woah, man!
Nancy and Jonathan troop out into the backyard hand in hand, Robin and Argyle following. They slide into an easy conversation, something about conspiracy theories, and Steve shakes his head at them.
Eddie is still, like, holding him up. Even though he’s got to know that Steve doesn’t need it, not really.
Steve tugs at the bottom of Eddie’s shirt. “We swimming or what?”
Eddie’s eyes are low, and dark, and he sways close to Steve. Just for a moment. Their noses almost brush and Eddie looks intent. Focused. His eyes are twinkling.
Refusing to move away, Steve meets Eddie’s eye. Keeps himself planted.
“Yeah, Harrington,” Eddie finally says. “Let’s go swimming.”
And then he throws his head back and laughs, cackles really, and Steve doesn’t get the joke but he smiles too. Eddie bounces on his toes, a weird little dance, and jostles Steve eagerly. He tugs Steve out of the house and into the back yard with an arm over his shoulders. Steve doesn’t fight it. He just goes, easy as anything, and when Eddie Munson throws his shirt off, Steve doesn’t look away.
Eddie empties his pockets out before he jumps in; baggies of weed, of cash, of DnD cards, white pills in bottles.
When Steve sees the pills, he raises his eyebrows.
“Just in case,” Eddie shrugs. “I don’t know, Jonathan seemed like he might want harder drugs.”
“He absolutely does not,” Nancy interjects fiercely, from where she’s sitting on Jonathan’s lap in the slatted pool chair.
Eddie just cackles. He shakes his head and his dark curls fall over his bare shoulders. His jeans hang low on his hips; Steve can see his underwear, the thick band of it. He wants to reach out and snap the elastic against Eddie’s hips. Maybe with his teeth.
Instead of doing that, Steve pulls off his shirt, too.
He reaches out to Eddie, presses his palm flat to the slightly concave part of Eddie’s chest. Eddie is a little thin in the arms, carries a little bit of weight in his hips. He looks nice. He looks healthy— Steve, abruptly, realizes he had been worried.
Worried that Eddie might be too thin, or sickly-pale, or pockmarked with cigarette burns. Maybe it’s stereotyping, maybe Steve should feel bad about it, but he kind of thinks being worried is justifiable.
Eddie Munson is twenty years old and sells hard drugs out of the trailer he shares with his Uncle. That’s just facts.
They’re worrying facts, if Steve is honest. He tries not to think about it too much.
Because Eddie is sweet. He’s just— he’s sweet.
Steve’s hand is still on Eddie’s chest. Shit, Steve thinks, then does what he had meant to do before, which is shove Eddie into the pool.
Eddie falls with a gigantic splash and a gleeful whoop. He bobs under then back up, sputtering and laughing, his hair hanging in his face. That beautiful large grin crinkling his cheeks.
Leaping in after him, Steve clears Eddie’s head and lands in the water flat on his back, legs and arms all akimbo. He goes under, the water covering him, and he breathes out slow. Years on the swim team, a year as captain, and it never gets old.
The cold of the water, the muffling of noise. It covers him, a tangible and full-body feeling. He loves it. He fucking loves swimming.
He hasn’t gone swimming in a long, long time.
After a moment, Steve kicks off the bottom and breaches, breathing in slow. When he opens his eyes, Eddie is right in front of him.
They stare at each other for a heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Eddie’s cheeks are pink, his lips are red. A bead of water slides down the edge of his nose. Eddie’s eyelashes are long, and dark, and clumped together.
Steve kicks closer, wrapping an arm around Eddie’s waist and pressing their naked chests together. Skin on skin in the pool, like this, makes everything a little bit more. Makes Eddie feel warmer than he really is, his skin a little smoother.
“Wanna play tag?” Steve asks.
“What?” Eddie asks, and his voice sounds strange. Breathless.
One tally in the You Rule Column, Steve thinks. Eat that, Robin.
“Tag,” Steve says again. “Come on. I’ll be it.”
“You want to… play?” Eddie says hesitantly.
“Yeah, come on,” Steve says, jostling Eddie a little. The water splashes. Their bare stomachs slide together. “You love games, dude. Let’s play one.”
“I don’t play sports games,” Eddie sputters, indignant for some reason.
Why the fuck not? Steve thinks, baffled. Aren’t you like me, don’t you want this? Don’t you want an excuse to touch me all wet and shirtless? Don’t you want to get away with it?
Steve doesn’t say that. Steve says, “Well, Munson, then tonight’s your night. I’m popping that cherry.”
Eddie stares at him with those big eyes, that smooth pale skin. “Cool.”
So they play tag. They race around the pool, shouting and choking on water, shoving each other down, pulling each other up. Skin on skin, cheek to cheek, their legs twined together with their jeans rubbing.
Dimly, Steve registers Robin and Argyle on their backs in the grass, still talking. Notes that Jon and Nance are still wrapped up in each other on the pool chair, playing with each others’ hands and whispering. Giggling. Occasionally glancing over at Steve, making sure he’s alright.
Once, Steve holds Eddie under the water for a split-second in order to give them a thumbs-up. Eddie wrestles him off and dunks him under the water a moment later.
When he comes back up, Nancy is shaking her head and Jonathan’s eyes are squinting happily.
Him and Eddie wrestle and play like puppies or kids, tumbling over each other in the water, shouting about nothing and everything. It’s fun. It’s just— it’s fucking fun.
This is something him and Eddie have in common, though they go about it in different ways; they both love to play.
By the time they climb out, they’re shaking and panting and still grappling with each other. Eddie is hanging on Steve’s shoulders like a blanket, his hands skittering across Steve’s chest, and knocking their heads together over and over again.
Steve tugs him over to the lidded basket where he keeps towels, spinning in Eddie’s arms in order to wrap one around his shoulders. Without hesitation, Eddie does the same to him.
“Killer fuckin’ party, dude,” Eddie tells him, shivering like a small dog.
Steve grins at him. “It’s lame as shit, man, but thanks for lying.”
“Well, yeah, now that you say it,” Eddie agrees. But then he tosses his head back and cackles, big and bold the way Eddie is sometimes.
The kids, Mike and Dustin and Lucas, all insist that Eddie is larger than life. So fucking cool, man, you should see him! And Steve’s caught glimpses. More than glimpses; Eddie in the Upside Down, bashing monsters to death. Eddie with his guitar, wailing out into the red-tinted night.
But, mostly, Steve sees Eddie like he’s been all night: genuine, and sweet to Steve. Hunching his shoulders in and looking up at Steve through his hair. A strange vulnerability to his jokes, like he might be crushed if Steve doesn’t laugh.
He’s different, away from the kids. Away from the school. Eddie is different from his Freak Munson persona, the same way Steve is different from King Steve.
It’s not that those personas are lies, exactly; Steve knows first hand that it’s impossible to become a different person. King Steve is him, was him, will be him— cocky and energetic and full of life and too worried about what other people think. He is all those things. And, despite what everyone always says— Robin and Dustin and Nancy and even Eddie himself— Steve liked being King Steve. Not all the time, but mostly… yeah.
King Steve wasn’t a lie. Eddie “the Freak” Munson isn’t a lie either.
But it’s not everything. Steve knows that better than anyone.
Steve takes a deep breath and thinks, alright. Phase two.
“I’ve got a confession, Munson,” Steve murmurs, leaning in slightly closer. It’s hard, because they’re already pressed together so tightly there’s not much empty space left between them, but Steve makes it work.
“Lay it on me,” Eddie says, still grinning. “You know I’ll take it to my grave, man.”
“I’ve never smoked up before,” Steve lies. Bold-faced and calm but feeling like his pants are on fire, the same way he did when he was fifteen and told his mom oh, wow, I have no idea where those whiskey bottles went. I was spring cleaning earlier this week, maybe I moved them?
“You’ve what?” Eddie sputters. His voice is loud and shocked, and Steve plays his part.
He waves his hands and shushes Eddie dramatically, eyes darting over to Jon and Nance, their foreheads pressed together, and Robin and Argyle, still in the grass.
“This is a travesty, this is— this is a crime, I can’t believe this,” Eddie says, already marching over to where he’d tossed his plastic baggies of shit.
Sure enough, he finds one stuffed with weed, the green buds full and tempting. Tucked into the bag is a grinder and papers for rolling and Steve watches, delighted, as Eddie sets up shop right on the towel basket’s lid.
He leans one shoulder against the back of his house, the brick scrubbing at his skin, and basks in his success. Still got it, Harrington, he thinks smugly.
Quicker than blinking, Eddie rolls them a fat blunt, perfectly put together and sealed. Steve is more than a little impressed.
“Alright, here, hold on,” Eddie says. “So, like, okay. I’ll start it and—” He cuts himself off by lighting it, putting it between his teeth, and taking the first drag. He breathes out, long and slow, getting more jittery by the second. “So, okay. Here.”
Eddie steps closer to Steve and holds up his hand so that the blunt is near Steve’s mouth.
“Breathe in and then hold it,” Eddie tells him. He starts strong but by the end of the sentence his voice is quiet. His doe eyes are wider than usual. Steve bites his lip, half to keep from smiling and half because he wants to kiss Eddie so fuckin’ bad, and that’s the only way he can think to stop himself from doing it. “Count to five real slow and then breathe out. Do, like, the Mississippis.”
Steve leans forward, parting his lips just a little. He makes sure Eddie sees the flash of his tongue, the white of his teeth. Please fucking let this be better than the fucking popsicle fiasco, Steve thinks, sending out a prayer to whoever the fuck wants to make it come true.
He wraps his lips around the blunt. He takes a pull, counts one Mississippi, two Mississippi, and then fakes a coughing fit at four seconds.
“You’re good, dude,” Eddie reassures him, rubbing Steve’s bare shoulder. His nails scratch at Steve, just lightly. Gently.
Steve breaks out into goosebumps.
Steve leans into him further, until his head is almost in the crook of Eddie’s neck, still pretending to cough. “Fuck, man,” Steve wheezes, and the hoarseness isn’t fake.
“Yeah, I know, the first couple tries can take it out of you,” Eddie says kindly.
“Mhm,” Steve says, watching as Eddie takes a drag, too. His lips curl around the paper, pink and full, and the blunt’s cherry burns red and hot for a moment.
After, Eddie holds it back out to Steve. “Try again,” he says, and his voice is a little lower. A little slower.
Steve looks up at him through his lashes. Meets his eyes while he wraps his lips around the blunt and takes another hit. He lets himself hold it for the full five seconds, this time, but he forces himself to cough right after.
“Fuck,” Steve says, once he’s fake-wheezed for long enough, and Eddie licks his lips at the word.
They take another hit or two like that, pausing for longer and longer between drags, because Eddie doesn’t want Steve to get too high too quick. It’s sweet of him.
So fucking sweet, Steve thinks, a little blurrily. His tolerance isn’t what it used to be. Strawberry milkshake type sweet.
“If you were a food, you’d be a strawberry milkshake,” Steve tells Eddie, because why not? He’s supposed to be getting high for the first time. People who get high for the first time say the stupidest shit imaginable. Besides, it’s true. Eddie is a strawberry milkshake and Steve wants to suck him down.
Eddie flushes, one side of his towel falling off his bare shoulder. Steve can see his collarbones and he wants to put his teeth on them.
“Thanks, I think,” Eddie laughs. He leans until he’s pressed shoulder to shoulder with Steve, both of them leaning against the brick of Steve’s house.
They’re still in sight of all the others, but it feels private anyway. Secluded. It’s a little magic, standing under the stars, still dripping from the pool, with Eddie Munson leaning into his space. Looking at Steve with those eyes of his.
“Got a question for you, Munson,” Steve says, his heart pounding in his chest like it’s going to burst out and run away from him.
“Shoot, King Steve,” Eddie tells him. His teeth flash in the dark. The blue glow of the pool lights his jaw and cheeks, turning him into something strange. Something beautiful.
I’m gonna fuck him, Steve thinks. And then, for the first time: I’m gonna make him love me.
The thought doesn’t scare him. It lights up something in his stomach instead.
“Explain shotgunning to me,” Steve says, lazy and calm.
“Well, it’s like. It’s when you. Like. Okay, so it’s like—” Eddie sputters, whole body rocking with sudden embarrassment. But then he pauses. Narrows his eyes at Steve.
Steve stares at him, all apple pie innocence. Just a good-ol’ corn-fed Indiana boy who’s never heard of shotgunning, and who certainly doesn’t know what Eddie’s black hanky means, good Lord, nothing to see here, officer.
“Well?” Steve prompts, a little arrogant. Are you calling my bluff or not, Munson?
Eddie stares for another moment, meeting Steve’s eyes with a furrow in his brow. Steve doesn’t look away. He gazes back serenely.
“I’ll show you,” Eddie finally says.
Steve strangles back a grin. Kills off the triumphant burst of laughter that wants to explode out of his chest.
“Thanks, Eddie,” he says.
Eddie freezes with his mouth open. He licks his lips.
“Fuck it,” Eddie breathes, then raises the blunt. Inhales. Leans into Steve, who meets him with his lips already parted.
When Eddie breathes out, just a whisper away from Steve’s mouth, Steve breathes in smoothly. Effortlessly.
Without moving away from Steve, Eddie takes another drag. He holds it in his lungs and Steve can feel his chest expand. As he breathes out, Steve leans in closer, until their open mouths are pressed against each other and their teeth are almost touching. Eddie is tense, keeping his tongue pulled tight toward his throat, but Steve lets himself relax. Lets his tongue slide forward until it’s pressed lightly to Eddie’s bottom lip.
He gives it a lick, slow and firm, dragging from one side to the other.
“You’ve done this before,” Eddie murmurs.
“Yeah, no shit,” Steve says, and then kisses him.
He presses their open mouths together in a tight crush. It’s immediately wet, because Eddie’s not quite kissing him back, is mostly just standing with his lips parted wide, but Steve rolls with it. He wraps his tongue around Eddie’s and gives it a stroke. He presses in closer, feels Eddie’s nose dig into his cheek.
A muffled noise erupts from Eddie’s throat, and then he’s kissing Steve back.
Eddie drops the blunt onto the ground and surges forward, throwing his arms around Steve’s shoulders. Steve takes it, catches him easily. He wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist in return, sliding his palm up Eddie’s bare back.
Eddie’s mouth is clumsy, too quick and too slow at the same time, and he pulls in and out like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing.
That’s fine. Steve likes it, actually. It puts a fire in his stomach, makes his legs tense, thinking about how maybe Eddie’s never done this before— or, if he has, he’s so nervous Steve’s made him forget how to do it.
Either option is fantastic.
Steve takes a sharp breath in through his nose and then focuses. Eddie seems fine with the amount of tongue they’re using, so Steve keeps rocking with it— presses in and twirls their tongues together before pulling back, just barely, so that he can get their lips involved too.
A good kiss has a lot of lip and a little tongue.
Steve wants to give Eddie a good kiss.
So he does: he tips his head back and slides his lips over Eddie’s, sucks Eddie’s bottom lip into his mouth. Smooths his tongue over it in a hot long stroke. Pulls Eddie until he’s flush against Steve, pressing Steve into the wall.
Eddie wraps one of his calves around Steve’s and Steve hitches him upward until Eddie’s crotch is flushed with Steve’s thigh.
And then, there it is: another noise from Eddie. A moan, drawn out and a little breathy.
“Yeah,” Steve whispers. “Yeah, just like that.”
Steve tilts his head and kisses him again, licks in from a new angle. Pulls his tongue back and bites down, so gently, on Eddie’s lip. And then he tilts his head, chin scraping against Eddie’s, sliding his tongue back in. Long and slow strokes where he never pulls away, just keeps kissing and kissing and kissing Eddie Munson.
Eddie, miraculously, keeps kissing him back.