Chapter Text
Eddie Munson isn't very good at puzzles.
Well.
He can make them, sure, in the form of weeks-long campaigns for his bandmates and a ragtag group of now sophomores he'd come to adore. He's great at making them. Great at making villains that his party thought they'd had figured out, beaten, only to make a quick 180 and have them come back from the dead for a final, earth-shattering fight. Yeah. He can make them.
What Eddie Munson can't do when it comes to puzzles, is figure them the fuck out.
Especially, it seems, when the puzzle comes in the form of a boy one year younger than him and slightly shorter when you don't count his mass of gorgeous hair that makes him, falsely, look taller than Eddie. This puzzle had saved the world with him, had saved him when he was sure he was a goner, snatched up by the creepy fucking tendrils that coated the Upside Down and dragged him away from the rip in space and time that his friends were all trying to squeeze through before it closed completely. The puzzle had, without a second thought, grabbed a piece of debris that looked like roofing, large and flat and most importantly, sharp, and scrambled after Eddie as the vines pulled him away, swinging the large, flat, sharp chunk of roofing at the vine wrapped 'round Eddie's ankle. He'd freed him, and wasted no time in yanking Eddie off the ground and shoving him through the portal to fall through after him.
Eddie'd landed with his puzzle on top of him, of course, because the universe seems to hate him like that. Thought I lost you, got whispered above him, and Eddie had broken down. He'd felt like an opposite piece of a puzzle, a part that goes in where the other boy's goes out and they fit together, there in that moment. Eddie was held and comforted and soothed so sweetly by the boy over top of him and for a bit it felt like the universe maybe wasn't mad at him.
The puzzle's name, of course, is Steve Harrington. King Steve, to many, Hawkins High's golden boy, rich and charming and apparently, a fucking badass.
Eddie never stood a chance.
Currently, he's turning over the puzzle of a boy in his mind, rotating him this way and that, poking him at odd angles to try to learn just what makes him tick. Eddie's no closer to figuring him out now than he was three months ago when they fell through the portal together and ended their town's torment for good.
Eddie is supposed to be watching a movie right now. It's The Terminator, too, and he loves that movie. But he can't bring himself to pay attention to it when Steve Fucking Harrington is sitting next to him on the Wheelers' couch, arm slung casually behind him like it means nothing. Eddie is pretty sure it means everything.
On the screen, something gory happens and most people in the room give a start. Steve is no exception (Eddie knows now that he likes horror movies but always gets caught by the jumpscares, no matter how glaringly obvious they are), letting out a small shout and curling his arm on the back of the couch protectively. It makes it so his arm is fully around Eddie's shoulders now and not just resting behind him on the back of the couch. Steve makes no move to put it back where it was and it's heavy over Eddie's shoulders. Heavy and warm and Eddie leans back into it, pinning his arm behind him.
Steve doesn't notice, or if he does he doesn't mind and starts curling his fingers over Eddie's shoulder, tracing little circles into the skin beneath his jacket. Whatever pieces of the puzzle Eddie thought he had slotted in the correct place fall out, multiply, and now he's further away from figuring out Steve Harrington than before he sat down next to him for this stupid fucking movie. Fuck.
No one notices Eddie's inner turmoil as the movie drags on. Robin is sitting on the other side of Steve, clinging to his shirt and burying her face in his regrettably beautiful chest any time there's a scary part. His other arm, the one that's not etching circles into Eddie's jacket, is wrapped around her reassuringly. Maybe Steve is just a physical guy, thinks Eddie, testing a puzzle piece in a spot that looks like it would fit. Maybe he's just affectionate with his friends, and Eddie's his friend now. The piece stays, Eddie thinks it might stick, maybe Steve is just straight and a little touchy-feely.
But Steve's fingers stop making circles on his shoulder, make an 'm' shape instead that dips into a 'v' below it and oh, it's the shape of a heart. Eddie glances over at Robin. Steve's hand around her is still, not tracing circles and definitely not tracing hearts on her.
The puzzle piece falls out.
Maybe, Eddie muses, Steve is one of those guys who's so comfortable in his masculinity and sexuality that he can be physical with his guy friends and not think about how it might make him look gay. Or something. One of those dudes who can...kiss his homies goodnight, or whatever, and still make love to a million girls and be the straightest of the straight.
Perhaps, Eddie thinks, that's how he's ended up in Steve's bed of all things.
It had started off as another movie not-date. Steve works at the video store still, so they do that a lot.
This time it's Blade Runner, and they're both blown away by the effects and the technology that had gone into that movie. It's just them, this go round (Robin would've come, too, but she made up some bullshit excuse about having to babysit the next morning and politely refused, which Eddie was embarrassingly grateful for) in Steve's huge, empty house. Steve's eyes had lit up at him when he opened the door after Eddie arrived, positively beaming as he ushered Eddie to the living room where he'd gone ahead and set up blankets and snacks for them. Steve's living room has many seating options, and Eddie had stood there frozen for a bit trying to decide where he could sit that didn't come off as rude (too far) or assuming (too close). But Steve had beckoned him toward the couch he was sitting on and really, who was Eddie to refuse him?
Eddie feels a bit fidgety now, to be honest. They're only about ten minutes into the movie and Steve is so close on the couch next to him, but not touching him this time. Eddie can't tell if it is a relief or not, those few inches of space between them.
"'Nother beer?" Steve asks, standing and stretching and his sweater lifts up a bit and Eddie can see his hipbone. Jesus.
"Uh," he begins lamely. "Yeah, that would—that would be great."
"Perfect," says Steve, and as he exits the room his hand runs over Eddie's shoulders in a way that probably means familiarity.
So physical, Eddie thinks again, and he's still trying to decipher what it means, if anything, when Steve returns with most of a whole twelve-pack.
"So we don't have to get up again," Steve offers, setting the beers down and passing one to Eddie.
"Cheers, man," Eddie says, reaching for the remote to turn the movie back on.
Steve settles in next to him, hooking a leg over one of Eddie's where it's propped up on the ottoman. Eddie's mind short-circuits.
What Eddie cannot understand is how casual Steve is about it. His whole side is pressed into him like they do this everyday (if only, Eddie's mind supplies). Under the blanket, Steve's hand rests on the thigh of Eddie's leg he's decided to tangle with his own. This means that whenever something exciting happens in the movie—which is often because Blade Runner is fucking awesome—Steve's hand tightens around it and Eddie has to keep his breathing low and even to prevent any embarrassing lumps that might arise in the blanket because Steve Harrington is squeezing his fucking thigh.
Eddie doesn't even know what the puzzle's supposed to fucking look like anymore.
By the end of the movie, Eddie feels more than a little buzzed. He'd needed something to do with his hands so that he didn't like, accidentally palm himself in his trousers or something, so he had made a hearty contribution to finishing the what was left of the twelve-pack. Plus, Steve actually has great taste in beer so what he had been anxiously downing for the last two hours was significantly stronger than the watery shit he and his uncle normally buy.
Steve had a fair bit, too, and Eddie is learning that a drunk Steve is a giggly Steve, which is so unfairly endearing and Eddie wants to scream. Steve's leaning heavily into him, speaking more into the side of his arm than anything else.
He's also a bit of a fucking nerd, whispering about how big the special effects budget was and how the production crew had shot certain scenes with those effects in mind, and how, when you put them together you got the masterpiece that was Blade Runner.
“Thought this was your first time watching this, Stevie," Eddie teases.
An honest to god pout appears on Steve's face. "Wanted to watch it again with you," he says, brown eyes fixing on his.
"Oh Stevie," he says, deflecting. "You're such a romantic."
"Shut up," Steve says into his shirt. A perverted part of Eddie's mind hopes there's a wet spot on it where Steve's been muttering into it for the past fifteen minutes.
Eddie isn't able to dwell on that thought, because Steve is peeling himself off the couch, off of Eddie, and offering him a hand. He takes it, hopeful that the flush on his cheeks can be passed off as being from the alcohol and definitely not from the feeling of Steve's strong hand pulling him to his feet.
"I, uh, should probably get going." Eddie says. "Getting late."
"Sure, yeah, whatever." Steve shrugs, and it looks like his face falls for a second before he puts a soft smile on it instead.
Neither of them move, however.
Eddie is the first to break, checking his watch and swearing. "How is it two in the morning?"
Steve grabs his wrist to check that yes, it is in fact two in the morning. Eddie ignores the electricity shooting up his arm from the contact.
"Wanna crash here, man? We had a lot to drink, anyway." Steve says, still holding his fucking wrist.
"Um. Yes, that'd be nice." Eddie hopes it doesn't come out too breathy.
"Great, okay. I'll find you some clothes to sleep in." Steve positively beams at him. He dashes away toward the stairs, but not before giving Eddie's wrist a little squeeze.
Eddie shakes his head and follows him. He must really hate himself, he thinks, allowing himself to stay the night like this.
Steve is in his bedroom when Eddie finds him. He leans against the doorway and watches him dig through drawers to find Eddie some sleep clothes. He pulls out a pair of old basketball shorts (god they’re short) and some sort of jersey with the sleeves cut off, thrusting them in Eddie's direction.
"Bathroom's down the hall. There's a spare toothbrush under the sink if you want it,” he grins at him.
Eddie mutters out his thanks, turning toward the bathroom. How weird would it be, Eddie wonders as he crouches down to retrieve the aforementioned toothbrush, if instead of using this new one, he uses the blue one in a cup on the sink. It's been inside Steve's mouth dozens of times, would it taste like him? Eddie kicks himself mentally, begging his brain to stop supplying him unhelpful thoughts. It'd be really fucking weird, he decides, squeezing a pea-sized blob onto his new toothbrush. But the decision doesn't stop him from putting it in the cup with Steve's after he's brushed and spit. It doesn't stop him from lining up the brushes, heads touching in a spitty embrace, either.
Sometimes, it's the little things.
When he returns to Steve's bedroom, his intention is to ask where the guest bedroom is. A house this big ought to have one, he figures. He stops short when he sees Steve in just a pair of flannel pajama bottoms that make his waist and hips look divine. He's combing his hair with his fingers in front of a mirror, turning when he sees Eddie in the reflection.
"Teeth clean?" Steve asks, walking toward him.
"Kiss me and find out, Harrington." Eddie grins, puffing a minty breath of air in his face when he's close enough.
"You're such an idiot, Munson." Steve says, but he's smiling. "Need anything else before we turn in?"
"Ever the gentleman." Eddie bats his eyelashes. "I see why all the ladies fall for you. But no, I'm good, thanks."
Steve rolls his eyes when he steps toward the bed. "Grab the light before you crawl in, would you?"
Eddie pauses. "You don't want me to sleep in another room?" He has to ask, has to make sure.
"You can," Steve says, like he hadn't even considered it an option. "But it's kinda nice to have someone there, isn't it? After everything, I mean."
"I could..I could sleep on the floor if you'd prefer." Guys like Steve don't normally want to share beds with guys like Eddie.
"I am not making you sleep on the floor, Eddie. Get over here."
Huh.
So Eddie flicks the light switch down and jumps toward where he thinks the bed is. He lands heavily, jostling Steve as the mattress springs creak in protest. Steve is laughing, really laughing, and he punches Eddie in the arm.
"You're so fucking weird," Steve says. In the dim light his eyes look massive.
"So I've heard," Eddie tries to keep his tone as serious as possible, but Steve is still laughing so Eddie is, too.
"Just shut up and get under the covers, Munson."
"So bossy. Are you always like this in bed? I mean, I'm into it, don't get me wrong, but—"
Steve's hand is covering his mouth. "That is not shutting up, Eddie."
He considers licking Steve's hand but decides against it. It's removed from his mouth before he can, anyway.
"You know, if I knew it just took one sci-fi movie and a couple of beers to get into Steve Harrington's bed, I would've rented Blade Runner a long time ago."
"Munson."
"Okay, yeah, sorry, done now. Night, Harrington."
"Night, Eddie.
Eddie falls asleep fairly quickly after that. He wakes up once through the whole night, and it's only because Steve had shifted closer to him in his sleep and is pressed against him, back to chest and Eddie can feel his breath on the back of his neck.
He's being spooned by Steve fucking Harrington.
The puzzle is on fucking fire.
Eddie wakes the next morning before Steve does. He'd like very much to slip away, drive home and have a pity wank in his own bathroom after spending the night in Steve's bed that reeks of his hair products. But Steve is still cuddled against him, an arm thrown over his waist and hand splayed against his chest in a way that, if Eddie didn't know any better, seems protective. Possessive.
So Eddie is stuck and his mind is very unhelpfully reminding him that his ass is flush with Steve's crotch and if he ground down just a little he could probably definitely feel his cock and Eddie is not going to do that because Steve is his friend and that would be Taking Advantage and Ruining Everything so Eddie is just going to stay very very still and try to not get hard despite repetitive thoughts about asses and cocks and Proximity.
Luckily, Eddie isn't awake by himself for very long. He expects Steve to rocket away from him when he realizes that he's not been holding a girl this whole time. He expects to be thrown out the front door, keys chucked out after him so Eddie will just get off his fucking property for daring to think he could be held by someone like Steve.
Except. That isn't what happens at all. Steve stirs behind him, rolling over on his back with a groan. As if he hadn't been clinging to Eddie all night long.
"Morning," he grunts, and fuck him if Steve's sleep-addled voice isn't the cutest thing he's ever heard. Steve stretches, the bed shifting with it. He gets up and makes his way to the door.
"I'm gonna start on breakfast. Come down when you're ready." He pauses in the doorway, really looking at Eddie now. "You look good in my clothes." And he's gone, disappearing down the hall to presumably start on breakfast.
What the fuck.
Eddie needs to abandon his puzzle metaphor (he's using that word correctly, right? He really should know after three years of twelfth-grade English).
Steve is not a puzzle. A puzzle has corner pieces and edge pieces and colors that you match up with each other and any idiot can put a fucking puzzle together. A puzzle makes sense. Steve does not. If he were to compare Steve to something, and be truthful about it (he is using that right. Metaphors are comparisons. He's not completely stupid), it'd have to be some far-off galaxy that's looked at through a lens. How the galaxy looks through the lens is how Steve was in high school. Extremely out of reach but still really fucking gorgeous. Most people don't know how galaxies work, and Eddie definitely doesn't know how Steve works. To learn about a galaxy, one typically consults an expert scientist, or conducts a space mission to actually travel to the galaxy. Eddie doesn't know how a space shuttle would apply to him and Steve in this metaphor, but he does know a really good fucking scientist when it comes to galaxies named Steve Harrington.
Robin.
He's got to talk to Robin.