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Eddie Munson doesn’t swim.
Doesn’t. Not ‘can’t.’ Doesn’t. Does not.
There is a laundry list of reasons why that is the case, not the least of which is that his fair skin burns under more than 10 minutes of direct sunlight, and most swimming is not done in the shade. He also hates what chlorine does to his hair. Salt water is better, in that regard, but he hasn’t been to the beach since he was little. Finally, and perhaps most importantly: he doesn’t swim because he doesn’t have a private pool and, as Sartre once wrote: Hell is other people.
The Hawkins Public Pool is open from Memorial Day to Labor Day, 8AM to 8pm, seven days a week. It employs three lifeguards, two of whom work each day: one from 8 to 2, and one from 2 to 8. Objectively, Eddie knows that it’s weird for him to know this. Why should a guy who Does Not Swim concern himself with the work roster of a public pool he Does Not Swim at?
The answer to that question comes striding lazily out of the shade of the snack bar area, tan skin glowing in the setting sunlight. Steve Harrington is wearing nothing but an indecently short pair of red shorts, signifying his status as one of the aforementioned three lifeguards, and a lanyard with a silver whistle at the end of it. His brow and shoulders are tanned darker than the rest of him, as are his knees where they must protrude outside the shade of the lifeguard stand. His nose, however, is covered in a thin layer of white zinc oxide.
He should look like an absolute tool. Like an actor in a bad porno. Like a grade-A dickhead.
God, but what he looks like is a wet dream.
Eddie Munson doesn’t swim, but he comes to the Hawkins public pool every Thursday night, like clockwork. He swings the van into the crappy little parking lot around 7:50, and waits for Steve to finish hustling the stragglers out of the pool and shutting the gate behind them.
Once the last of them has climbed into their car and driven away, Eddie steals quietly through the gate that Steve has left unlocked for him and into the dark, humid atmosphere of the changing rooms. He can hear Steve rattling around in the back room that’s labeled ADMIN OFFICE – really more of an equipment closet – and positions himself in such a way that he’ll be directly in Steve’s path when he turns the corner. Sure enough, he hears Harrington’s footsteps approaching seconds later.
“Heya, big boy,” he croons as Steve rounds the corner. It has the desired effect; he scrambles backwards, overbalancing and ending up flat on his ass on the gritty tile. Eddie’s face lights up, a laugh just starting to build in his throat when he realizes that something is…off.
Steve looks scared. Like, really scared. Like he’s seen a ghost, rather than the same super senior drug dealer he’s been seeing every Thursday night for a month. “Woah, Harrington, easy man. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”
“Yeah, you did,” Steve spits back, annoyance now seeping in where the fear is receding. Then, as if hearing the acidity in his own tone, he corrects with, “Sorry. I’m a little jumpy. Not, uh…not sleeping too great.” He accepts Eddie’s proffered hand, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet.
“Yeah, I... Sorry, I guess I did mean to scare you. But I didn’t mean to…I didn’t realize it would get you like that. Sorry, man. Not cool.”
Steve seems mollified by the apology, already waving him away. “You’re good, man.” He brushes off the seat of his (really egregiously short) swim trunks, and Eddie makes a studious attempt to look anywhere else as he does it. “Shall we?”
He leads Eddie into the locker room proper, and tugs open the staff locker with his name on the front of it. The label looks like it was written on a scrap of yellow legal pad paper and then folded up to fit into the plastic holder. He produces his wallet from somewhere within the locker, and turns back to Eddie.
“Same price?” He’s already fishing a tenner out of the billfold, and Eddie notes that it is far from lonely in there. If he were smart, he’d upcharge Harrington to make up for the discount he gives his friends. But then, no one has ever accused him of being smart. Anyway, it feels too late now – they’ve already established a business relationship. Price gouging at this point would be gauche.
God, he has got to stop thinking gay thoughts in front of Steve Harrington.
“Yep, ten for a quarter.” He plucks the bill from Steve’s hand, replacing it with the carefully bundled baggie of weed. “You know, you could buy in bigger quantities. Half ounce would last you two weeks, probably.”
Steve’s face does something complicated, mouth twisting into a grimace. “Yeah, I don’t really need that much though. I mostly use it to sleep.”
And that’s…interesting. Eddie had assumed King Steve was smoking up at house parties and kickbacks, getting everybody loose-limbed and happy. It hadn’t occurred to him that Hawkins’ golden boy might be using his mid-grade herb for non-recreational purposes.
“Oh yeah?” He inquires before he can think better of it. “And what keeps the King up at night? Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and all that?”
Steve’s too busy shoving the baggie of weed into the front pocket of a backpack inside the locker to look up at Eddie when he responds. “Yeah, uh. No, not really. I don’t think I’m…” he trails off, looks thoughtful for a moment. It’s a new look on him, at least from Eddie’s perspective. He pulls on a ratty white t-shirt with Hawkins High School Swim Club 1983 printed on it in fading green letters. When he’s emerged from the neckhole, he finally finishes his thought. “I don’t think I’m really that guy anymore, man. I hate that nickname.”
Eddie gives a supplicating bow, hands held up in front of him. “Apologies, my liege.” When Steve just rolls his eyes and slings the backpack over his shoulder, he relents. “Okay, okay. No more King Steve cracks. But I could get you something stronger, if it’s a sleep aid you’re looking for.”
Steve shakes his head, waiting for Eddie to head out of the building ahead of him before flicking off the lights and stepping into the muggy summer twilight himself. “Nah, I tried that once. My mom’s pills. It made me…” for a moment he seems to lose his train of thought, eyes unfocused. “It made it way worse. I felt, like, trapped. Hated it. The weed’s fine.”
“Alright, well. If you change your mind, let me know,” he offers, beginning to peel away from Steve and walk backwards towards his van. “Otherwise, same time next week?”
Steve nods, reaches up to push the wild mop of brown hair away from his face. “Yeah, man. See you then.”
As he starts the van and pulls back out onto Cherry, Eddie tries very hard not to think about the fact that he’s already counting down the hours until next Thursday.
Three days later, and against all reason and logic, Eddie is still thinking about Steve Harrington.
He likes to think of himself as a good judge of character. He’s quick to get a read on someone, and he rarely has cause to change his assessment after getting to know them better. There have been exceptions, of course. He hadn’t wanted to let Franklin join Hellfire at first, but he’d ended up coming in clutch in his first campaign with them. Robin Buckley had earned an immediate Do Not Interact in his mind when he first spotted her in her marching band uniform, but she ended up being a pretty fun partner on that history project they worked on together. So it’s not that he thinks his judgment is infallible, it’s just…
… He’d been so sure about Steve Harrington.
And really, why wouldn’t he be? Steve was high school royalty: star basketball player (on their admittedly pretty shitty team), swim captain, homecoming king and all-around popular guy. His parents were rich and, importantly, never home . This last detail was particularly relevant to Eddie, because it meant a fairly steady stream of house parties, and therefore a steady source of Friday night business for him. He’d spent more than a few nights kicking around the back room of the Harrington Manor, selling cheap, stemmy weed to rich kids who didn’t indulge often enough to know it was shitty. Occasionally someone would want something stronger; he did a tidy business in mushrooms, and occasionally acid. But for the most part, the teens of Hawkins just wanted to lower their inhibitions a little and have a good time. Including, he’d thought, their host.
So it was understandable, really, that he might find himself a little fixated. Eddie was prone to it, anyway; anything that caught his interest was at risk of attracting it in its entirety, Eddie shoving every bit of information he could glean about the topic into a mental jar where he could stare at it constantly like a cool bug. His fixations just weren’t usually humans , and certainly not ones like Steve Harrington.
He lay awake in the dark of his bedroom, the numbers on the face of his alarm clock glowing softly blue, and he considered the pieces of the puzzle he currently had before him.
- Steve Harrington was smoking weed regularly, often enough to buy once a week
- Steve Harrington was smoking weed regularly not for fun reasons, but because he couldn’t sleep
- Steve Harrington had tried something harder, so the weed wasn’t completely cutting it
The question that bothered him the most was this: what could possibly be so bad that even a rich, entitled, popular, good-looking, athletic, handsome, fit, friendly, attractive…
Wait, wait. Eddie was getting distracted.
He tried again.
What could be so bad about a life that perfect? What could possibly happen to make King Steve, of all people, lose enough sleep to turn to self-medication?
And when had Eddie stopped disliking Harrington enough to notice all that other shit?
The following Thursday dawns hot and humid, summer sinking its teeth into Hawkins for good. It’s the kind of heavy, slow heat that promises rain later in the day, so Eddie does most of his usual Thursday runs shortly after lunch time. If he’s lucky, maybe the rain will start early, and the pool will close, and he can get everything done before he has to go to Gareth’s for band practice later.
But then, when has Eddie Munson ever been lucky?
He pulls into the parking lot of the Hawkins Public Pool right on time, and just as the first fat drops of rain are starting to splat against his windshield. The pool looks empty already, most people probably scared off by the purple-black clouds that have been gathering since midafternoon. Eddie spies Steve doing his customary sweep of the deck for stragglers, propping the gate, and heading inside. He looks smaller than usual, somehow; like there’s a weight on his shoulders that’s bending his spine, keeping his eyes downturned.
Or maybe Eddie is projecting, because god knows he’s been turning the guy over in his head like a rotisserie chicken all week.
Either way, he figure’s he’d better get his ass inside if he doesn’t want to be riding around in soaked denim the rest of the night. So he swings down out of the van, patting his pocket to make sure he has the merchandise before sprinting towards the pool’s lone, squat outbuilding.
The air inside the changing room is warm and humid, steam rolling out of the tiled corridor that hosts the showers. It isn’t immediately apparent where Steve is, as the ADMIN OFFICE stands dark and empty. There’s a creak as the water shuts off in the showers, and Eddie’s brain finally catches up: Steve is in the shower.
For a moment his mind goes blissfully, entirely blank. Then, with a stuttering, whirring sound that he hopes only he can hear, it comes back online. Steve Harrington is in the shower. Steve Harrington is potentially naked. Steve Harrington is in the shower and potentially naked and within a hundred feet of Eddie, who is teetering on the edge of a gay crisis about it, actually.
Before he can work himself up into a proper freak-out, there’s the sound of wet feet slapping on the tile, and Steve appears from around the partition. His hair is slicked back against his skull, and he’s bare save for a thin white towel slung low around his hips.
Oh, Eddie is fucked. Eddie is so fucked .
Retreat is the only option. He needs to spin on his heels and walk the fuck out of here right now. And he’s going to do that any minute, he’s certain; just as soon as his brain reconnects to his legs, or whatever. Because he knows he’s sending the signals, but his body is not listening. Instead, it’s keeping him frozen to the spot, his feet as good as encased in concrete for all the power he has to move them. He should shut his eyes, at the very least, but he can’t even manage that: they stay wide and unblinking, fixed to Steve’s torso.
“Woah,” he manages to choke out after a very long few seconds. And then, because his brain hates him: “Nice tits, Harrington.”
And Jesus H. CHRIST that is not what he meant to say. He didn’t mean to say anything at all! This is a disaster of the highest order, worse than the time he’d gotten a boner in health class in middle school. This is apocalypse levels of bad. He needs to run away, or like, evaporate or something. God, that would be cool. He would love to just disappear into a fine mist at this exact moment in time.
While Eddie contemplates the finer points of shifting the human body from a solid to a gas, Steve merely raises a surprised eyebrow and pauses in his tracks. This is almost definitely about to become a 60 minutes special about the dangers of exposing your homosexuality to the moral majority. Eddie can feel it in his balls. This is going to be the end of him.
“Uh…thanks, I think?” Steve’s voice is skeptical, unsure. But it isn’t angry, which doesn’t make a lot of sense. Eddie opens one eye, wonders when he’d squeezed them shut. Steve continues before he can spend too much time on the thought. “You’ve seen me without a shirt before, dude.”
And that is…true, technically. He has seen Steve without a shirt on pretty much every Thursday night for the last five or so Thursday nights. But seeing him dry and sun-bronzed and dressed for public viewing is different than this. This feels intimate, unpolished and private and vulnerable in a way that makes Eddie’s stomach swoop unpleasantly. Or maybe it’s pleasant. He isn’t sure, he just hopes his dick stays out of the discussion. They can unpick the startling intimacy of the way Steve Harrington’s chest hair is wet and plastered to his skin later, in the safety of literally anywhere fucking else .
“Yeah,” he finally managed to cough out. Brilliant start, killing it. “Yeah, I have. Just. Um.” He blinks a few times, shakes his head and tries to remember his human disguise. “Nevermind. Forget I said that. Weed?”
And Steve Harrington, bless his heart, just huffs a soft laugh and nods. “Yeah, weed. Let me just go, um,” he gestures towards the curtained changing stalls with the bundle of clothes he’s holding. “Put my tits away, or whatever.”
And…was that a joke? Eddie just told Steve Harrington he had nice tits, and instead of beating the everliving gay snot out of him, Steve is just gonna laugh it off? Like it’s nothing? No pearl clutching, no macho no-homo bullshit? That is just. That is.
Eddie needs to sit down.
He stumbles over to a bench bolted to the floor in the middle of the room, sinking gratefully onto the damp wood. A few deep breaths and he’s starting to get feeling back in his limbs, skin prickling as the adrenaline starts to recede. He’s okay. He apparently has no idea who Steve actually is, which is disconcerting. But all things considered, he’d rather be wrong in this direction than the alternative.
Steve reemerges within a minute, clad in soft black basketball shorts and a t-shirt that’s just this side of indecently tight. It’s heather gray, the screenprinted Hawkins Tiger on the front of it cracked with age and wear. Weirdly, it says Marching Band along the bottom of the design.
Whatever. Eddie doesn’t have time to unpack that particular mystery just now.
He’s just opening his mouth to say something about getting this transaction over with when the rain starts for real. The sound of it pounding against the building’s tin roof is momentarily deafening, and Eddie’s jaw snaps shut.
“Ah, shit.” Steve voices the thought before Eddie can. “That sounds bad.” He’s already jogging towards the heavy metal door, peering through the little glass window. “Yeah. Shit. We’re not going anywhere.”
Eddie paces over to the door, bumps Steve out of the way so he can look for himself. The rain is lashing against the building, whipping across the parking lot in sheets. The wind looks like it’s bending the trees in half, stripping leaves from them even though it’s midsummer. He doesn’t doubt that some of them won’t make it through the storm, hopes idly that the trailer park doesn’t lose power again.
“Well, fuck,” he concludes, stepping back from the door. “Guess we aren’t.” Then, because he is an idiot with no brain-to-mouth filter, he adds: “Wanna smoke?”
It’s stupid. It’s such a stupid idea for him to get high with Steve Harrington. But he’s already offered, and Steve is frowning, and then nodding.
“Yeah,” he sighs, finally stepping back from the door and leading Eddie back into the center of the building. “Guess we’d better.”
They settle on the dry floor of the ADMIN OFFICE, legs crossed and backs braced against opposing equipment shelves. There’s just enough room for the two of them, the bare knobs of Eddie’s knees brushing against Steve’s as he adjusts his position. He pretends not to notice, busies himself with shedding his leather jacket and fishing the old gum tin from the pocket.
It’s in his best interest, in his line of work, to always keep certain tools on his person. He pops the lid off of the tin, turning it over and dumping a lighter, a small baggie of weed, and a stack of rolling papers out onto it. Carefully, he pulls one of the thin papers from the stack and tucks the rest back into the tin, which he sets aside. Implements assembled, he digs into the baggie and starts to carefully crumble the dry bud over the paper. He rolls almost on autopilot, relieved to have something to do with his eyes and hands and brain that doesn’t involve looking directly at Steve Harrington.
When he glances up at Steve, he’s surprised to find the younger man watching his hands with something approaching fascination.
“What’s up, Harrington,” he teases, unable to keep the edge of a smile from his voice. “You never seen someone roll before? What the hell have you been doing with all this bud I’m selling you?”
He could swear Steve blushes, his trance breaking as he looks back up to Eddie’s face.
“No, I… I can roll. Just, not like that,” he nods at Eddie’s hands, the joint smooth and evenly proportioned, the cardstock rolled into a small filter at the end. “You’re like… a pro.”
Eddie scoffs. “Yeah, man. That’s kind of the point.”
He raises the joint to his mouth, wets the edge of the paper with his tongue. Steve’s eyes track the movement, snapping down to his lips. Interesting. He files that away for later consideration, turning his attention to waving the flame of the lighter under the joint and drying the seal. When it looks presentable enough, he pinches it between two fingers and holds it out to Steve.
“After you, your highness.” He’s doing it on purpose this time, and he’s rewarded almost immediately with an exaggerated roll of Steve’s eyes. He moves his head with it and everything, reminding Eddie of nothing so much as Dustin Henderson when he makes a bad roll during Hellfire. It makes him smile even wider, and he has to look down and fish the lighter off his lap to avoid making Steve think he’s even more of a weirdo.
Because he’s normal, Steve accepts the joint without comment, and the lighter a moment later. He lights it with the ease of someone who smokes regularly, taking a long pull and holding it for a few seconds before letting it out in a cloud of grey between them. He doesn’t even cough. Eddie is reluctantly impressed.
“Who’s the pro now,” he prods, reaching across their bent knees to retrieve the joint again. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Harrington.”
Steve’s mouth twists, expression wry. “That’s me. Steve Harrington, professional stoner.” He props his head on his hand, bites absently at the edge of his thumbnail. “My dad would be so proud.”
Eddie snorts, then coughs a little as it forces smoke out through his nose. “You don’t seem too concerned about that.” He takes another short pull from the joint, and leans forward to hold it back out to Harrington.
Steve accepts the joint, but shakes his head in response to Eddie’s words. “I’m not. Dude’s an asshole.” Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up at that, so he continues. “I haven’t seen him in months, anyway. They’ve been done with me since…” he trails off, eyes unfocused as he takes another puff. As he lets it out, he seems to think better of finishing the thought. “I don’t know, whatever. Point is, they aren’t around to give a shit whether I smoke or not.”
“Lucky you,” Eddie replies, deciding to leave some space around that obvious minefield. He’s starting to get the soft-edged feeling that marks the beginning of a good buzz, muscles loosening and limbs getting heavier. “So how come I haven’t heard of any classic Harrington keggers this summer, then?” He watches Harrington take another hit, stretches forward to take the joint back again. “Those used to be good business for me.”
Steve looks almost sad, but not quite. “Not really my thing anymore, man. Hasn’t been since…” he eyes Eddie thoughtfully for a moment, and then looks away. “Since everything with Nancy, I guess.”
It’s not a straight answer, but it’s an edge for Eddie to slide a finger under. He lets out a low whistle. “She really gotcha good, huh?”
Steve’s expression does something complicated, like a smile and a wince at the same time, before he pulls it back to neutral. “Wasn’t her fault. I was kind of a shithead.” He glances up at Eddie, eyes starting to look a bit glassy as the weed kicks in. “Still am sometimes, I guess.”
Eddie snorts a laugh at that. “Who isn’t, though?” He’s considering his next line of inquiry when Steve beats him to it.
“What about you, man? You got a girl?” He’s looking at Eddie down the bridge of his nose, head tipped back against the shelf behind him as he takes another hit. Eddie is momentarily distracted by the long line of his throat, the way it tenses as he holds in the smoke.
God he is in so much fucking trouble.
He rallies, shakes his head a bit to clear it. “Nah, no girl for me. I–” he’s cut off by a massive crack of thunder, so loud it feels like it’s in the room with them.
“Jesus H. Christ! ” It’s an octave too high to not be a little bit humiliating, and when his eyes find Steve again, he’s definitely laughing. But he’s also got a hand on Eddie’s knee, warm and big and squeezing just a little.
“Easy, Munson,” he chuckles. “You’re awfully jumpy for a stoner. It’s just a little thunder.”
Eddie scowls, takes the last sour hit of the joint. “There was nothing little about that.”
Steve smirks suggestively for just a second before his face softens into a friendly grin. “I’ve always liked it. Thunder, lightning, the wind. Nature just,” he makes a wild, fist-shaking gesture with both hands, “letting loose. The world going absolutely apeshit. God, it’s like… I wish that were me, you know?”
And Eddie does kind of know, yeah. But he’s somewhat shocked to learn that Steve Harrington knows; that he has things he wishes he could scream and thrash and break shit about. That for some reason he doesn’t do it.
“So why don’t you?” he asks before he can think better of it.
“Why don’t I what?”
“Go apeshit.”
Steve looks at him like he’s just suggested he perform brain surgery. “I don’t know, man. You can’t just… It’s just not what people do.”
“So?” Eddie knows he’s being annoying, but he gets like this when he smokes. A weird clarity settles over him, slices through all the bullshit in his head. “Who cares what people do?”
Steve huffs, smiles. “Well, not you, I guess. With your, y'know...” he gestures at Eddie’s entire person. "Whole deal."
“Dude, you just gestured to all of me ,” Eddie laments, mildly offended.
Steve snorts a laugh this time, tries to explain himself. “You know, your whole…bad boy, leather and chains, fuck-you-I-do-what-I-want deal.” He seems to hear how it sounds the second it’s out of his mouth, looks down and feels his face bloom with heat.
When he looks up again, Eddie’s grin is wicked. “You like that kind of thing, Harrington?” There’s a laugh in his voice, but it isn’t cruel. He’s feeling good, loose-limbed and soft and amused. Steve Harrington just called him a bad boy , which is stupid, but it makes that flipping sensation in his stomach return. This time, it feels more good than bad.
Steve, for his part, peers up at Eddie from beneath the fringe of his stupid, floppy hair. He looks hesitant for a second, like he might want to retreat from the comment. But the room is dark and close, the rain on the roof creating a constant drone of noise that makes the rest of the world feel far away. His eyes search Eddie’s face briefly, and then he huffs a sigh.
“It works for some people.”
It is and isn’t the answer Eddie wanted. He peers at Steve’s face in the dim light, tries to divine what he’s thinking from the expression on his face.
“Does it work for me?”
The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. Goddamnit.
But Steve isn’t laughing at him. He’s looking at him appraisingly, like he’s sizing up a nice car. It makes Eddie’s skin prickle, his face heat; kind of feels like Steve is looking straight through to the most vulnerable parts of him. He’s just about to open his mouth and take it back, relieve the squirming sensation under his skin, when Steve finally answers.
“Yeah. It works for you.”
And…really, what is Eddie supposed to say to that? He tugs at the ends of his hair, pulls a hank of it across his mouth to hide the effect the words have on him. Probably does a bad job of it, if the way Steve is smirking at him is any indication.
Eddie mentally pages back through the events of the evening, considers their interactions in light of this new information. Thinks about Steve stepping out of the shower, easy and comfortable in his skin; Steve’s complete lack of concern when Eddie couldn’t stop staring at his body, save for being a bit awkward just before he went to get dressed; Steve failing to beat him senseless for being very obviously into him. He’d assumed that the dude was just chiller than he’d thought, hadn’t even considered that they might be the same.
There’s a long, tense moment of silence. Eddie’s eyes search Steve’s face, looking for any indication of the punchline he’s still half-sure must be coming. But Steve’s expression doesn’t change. His face is carefully neutral, eyes fixed on Eddie’s.
Intent is the word that floats through the dark, fuzzy space where Eddie’s brain used to be. He feels like a bug in a jar. Observed.
Steve moves so quickly that Eddie almost doesn’t know what’s happening. In the space of a blink, maybe two, he finds himself face to face with the younger boy, shallow breaths mingling in the scant space between them. Steve has a hand hovering tentatively at the side of Eddie’s neck, eyes darting around his face as if to gauge his reaction.
“Is this okay?” He breathes the words quietly, the edge of a tremor in his voice. Eddie realizes that he must be nervous; thinks maybe this is uncharted territory for the King. The thought sends a hot shiver down his spine that he belatedly identifies as desire.
“Absolutely.”
The word is barely out of his mouth before Steve is pressing their lips together. It’s soft, but not tentative. Steve Harrington kisses like he means it, and Eddie’s heart feels like it might be beating faster than is compatible with human life. But, Christ , he thinks to himself. What a way to go .
He tilts his head back, leaning into the hand Steve has now threaded into the hair at the base of his skull. His own hands grasp blindly upwards, curling into the soft fabric of Steve’s t-shirt and pulling him closer. It startles a soft, pleased noise out of Steve that goes straight to Eddie’s head, and he immediately sets about trying to see if he can get him to make it again. His hands slide down to grip at the backs of Steve’s knees where he’s crouched in front of him.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice low.
Steve goes easily, letting Eddie pull him forward and arrange him so that he’s straddling Eddie’s lap. He’s surprisingly pliant. The easy way he follows Eddie’s suggestion makes something hot and pleasant curl at the base of the older boy’s spine. If he weren’t checked out of his mind completely at the moment, he’d make a mental note to tuck this knowledge away for future consideration. But he is, so he just pulls Steve down by the neck and presses their mouths back together.
The truth is that Eddie hasn’t actually done much of this. He’s been kissed a handful of times; queer kids in small towns tend to find one another. But they were few and far between in Hawkins, and the occasional ill-advised trips he’d taken to the city when his curiosity got the better of him tended not to involve much kissing.There had been a few rushed handjobs, and one memorable occasion when Eddie had let himself be coaxed onto his knees in a single-stall bathroom. And none of the above had ever felt like this ; like something is popping and fizzing and bubbling over inside of him. The sensation is dizzying, even better than the weed.
Steve shifts and settles his weight more firmly on Eddie’s lap, and he abruptly becomes aware that he’s hard in his jeans. Apparently Steve notices as well: he makes a throaty, curious noise and grinds his hips down with more intention. Eddie gasps, breaks away from the kiss.
“Was that–” Steve starts, cuts himself off. “Do you–”
“Yes, definitely, oh my God,” Eddie is the one to cut him off this time. “Do that again.”
Steve is quick to obey, tilting Eddie’s mouth back up to his own as he rolls his hips down. Eddie groans, the pressure on his dick just this side of painful. Just short of enough. He reaches around to grip Steve’s ass, guiding him into a slow, torturous rhythm. Steve's skin is warm through the soft cotton of his shorts, and Eddie can’t resist the impulse to dig his fingers in a little.
“Christ,” he chokes out, pulling his lips away from Steve’s again. “Shit, Steve. You’re so– how are you fucking real?”
Steve doesn’t answer. Instead he leans back, reaches for the hem of his t-shirt and strips it off. Eddie’s eyes rake over his chest, snap back up to Steve’s own.
“I stand by my earlier assessment,” he teases, proud of himself for stringing together two words of more than two syllables each. “You have amazing tits.”
Steve laughs out loud this time, and Eddie leans forward to demonstrate his devotion. He presses soft, biting kisses down the column of Steve’s neck, along the line of his collarbone. A large hand cards into Eddie’s dark curls, cradles his head softly against Steve’s body. It feels like permission, so he continues downward. When he presses his tongue experimentally against one flat, pink nipple, Steve gasps softly.
"Yeah? Like that?" Eddie means for the question to sound coy, teasing; instead, it comes out raspy and wrecked, just a little shaky. Steve is nodding clearly enough, but Eddie pulls back to meet his eyes.
"Hey, gonna need some verbal confirmation at some point here, Harrington."
Steve clears his throat, blinks a few times. "Yeah, yes. Feels good, baby."
The endearment slips out, muscle memory from past encounters. His eyes go wide the moment he's said it, search Eddie's face again for any glimmer of discomfort. But Eddie is smiling wickedly in the low light. He presses a thumb over the same nipple, busies himself with humming a pleased noise into Steve's mouth.
They spend several long minutes just kissing, slow and unhurried now that they’ve gotten past the initial nervous rush of it. Eddie pinches and twists gently at Steve’s nipple, experimenting with different pressures, considering it a success any time it pulls one of those breathy little gasping noises from Steve’s throat. One particularly vicious tug earns him an actual moan, followed immediately by a sharp nip to his lower lip.
“Be nice,” Steve murmurs against his lips. But his voice is warm and amused, so all Eddie does is start the same process on the other nipple.
And, listen. He’s shut the rational thinking part of his brain down out of self-preservation for the current moment, but there is still a low-level hum of whatthefuck whatthefuck whATTHEFUCK happening at the back of his mind. Because this is a situation he couldn’t have contrived as possible in his wildest daydreams– and believe him, he has tried . But here they are, and there is little room for doubt that Steve is just as into this as Eddie is. He’s grinding down against Eddie’s lap in a stuttering, irregular rhythm, breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps as his pleasure builds.
And god, he’s fucking beautiful . Eddie can barely tear his eyes away from the way Steve’s head is thrown back, exposing the long column of his throat, already dotted with purpling marks from Eddie’s lips and teeth. Steve has one hand still knotted into the short hairs at the nape of Eddie’s neck, the other pressed to the warm skin of his side. Squeezing, sliding forward to brush tentatively against the button of Eddie’s jeans.
“Can I?” Steve asks. His voice is pitched so soft in the space between their faces, something small and diffident about the question. Eddie thinks that it probably charms the panties right off the girls Steve does this with. And, well. Why should Eddie be any exception?
“You asking if you can touch my dick, Harrington?” he tries to play it off, knows his voice is too rough to really sell it. “Because I would think the answer to that would be obvious by now.”
Steve snorts a laugh, proceeds to pop the button of Eddie’s jeans open as he leaves a few kisses of his own across a bare shoulder. Eddie briefly wonders how he’d missed his own shirt coming off - he’s sure it had been there just a moment ago. But he loses track of that thought with a swiftness the second Steve finishes opening his fly and working a hand beneath the waistband of his briefs.
He feels the faint hum of Steve’s words against his throat, a pleasant burr. “What was it you said about…vocal confirmation, or whatever?”
Eddie wants to laugh, but there’s nothing remotely funny about the way Steve’s hand feels as it wraps around him. The only words Eddie’s brain seems capable of generating for a moment are HOT and BIG and FUCK.
“Verbal,” he croaks out after a moment, adjusting to the sensation. “I said verbal confirmation.”
“I’ll…give you verbal confirmation.”
It’s such a stupid response that Eddie has to laugh this time, a high-pitched giggle that has Steve pulling back to look at him with a raised brow.
“Dude,” he complains. “Don’t laugh at me when I have your junk in my hand. That’s, like…super rude.” He gives Eddie’s dick a squeeze to emphasize his point, but it only serves to make Eddie wheeze softly and giggle harder.
“ Dude ,” he snarks back, “don’t call me dude when you have my junk in your hand. You’ll give me a Pavlovian boner response to, like…mallrats or something.”
Steve only rolls his eyes in response, adjusting his grip and beginning to stroke Eddie’s cock in earnest. “Pavlovian. Jesus Christ, I swear you make this shit up.”
Eddie can’t make a rebuttal, because his brain has gone back to doggy paddling in circles around the place where Steve’s hand is enveloping his dick. He takes a few shaky breaths, remembers how to use his fine motor skills, and sets about getting his own hand into Steve’s shorts.
It only takes a few minutes after that. He works Steve’s shorts down, presses their cocks together and spits into his hand. Steve makes a sort of strangled noise at that, but judging by the way he thrusts up into Eddie’s fist on the first stroke, it’s not a bad noise. His hypothesis is confirmed a moment later, when Steve grinds himself down against Eddie and makes the same noise into the warm space between his neck and shoulder.
“Shit,” he pants, his breath humid against Eddie’s skin. “M’gonna come.”
Eddie kisses him again, harder. He digs his thumb in where he’s gripping Steve’s hip, trying to keep him still, before pulling back to look into his face. “Do it, come on. Let me see you.”
Steve spills over Eddie’s fist where they’re pressed together, hips twitching through a few last abortive thrusts. The sensation of it dripping down over the head of his own cock is too much, and Eddie follows quickly after. For a moment there’s only the sound of their labored breathing in the darkened room.
Eddie peers up into Steve’s flushed face. His eyes are blown black, lips red and swollen from kissing. He looks absolutely fucking delicious. Before his brain can catch up with him, Eddie raises a cum-slick finger to his own mouth, sucks it clean of their combined spend. Steve’s eyes widen, teeth catching at his lower lip as he watches it reemerge.
“Fuck, why is that so hot?”
Eddie only smirks, uses his clean hand to tug Steve back down and press their mouths together. The kiss is messy, too full of salt and spit to be sweet. But Steve groans into it all the same, sucks greedily at Eddie’s tongue until he finally pulls back.
The cleanup is slightly awkward. It’s to be expected, Eddie supposes; after all, exchanging orgasms on the ADMIN OFFICE floor is not exactly rom-com material. They’re quiet as they clean themselves off, find discarded shirts and put everything back to rights. It takes several moments of half-heartedly wiping at the bit of come near his zipper for Eddie to realize that the quiet actually means something else in this context.
“Hey, it’s not raining anymore,” he announces, looking up at the now-silent tin roof. Steve’s eyes turn upward as well, brow lifting.
“Yeah, guess we’re not trapped anymore.” There’s something almost reluctant in his voice, like it costs him to say it. Like he was glad of the excuse, and now it’s gone. “You got plans for the rest of the night?”
Eddie’s answering on autopilot before he can consider the implications of the question. “Yeah, band practice with the guys.” His eyes snap to Steve, take in the way he seems to shrink slightly at the words, looks away. “But, um,” he stalls for time, mentally weighing the pros and cons of bailing on yet another practice. “Same time next week, right?”
It’s not what he wants to say, but it’ll have to do. Steve’s smile is small, but it’s there, and he nods in confirmation as he hefts the backpack out of his locker and onto his back.
“Yeah, same time next week.”
The air in the parking lot is blissfully cool when they emerge, the sparse security lights casting everything in a hazy orange glow. They pace across the empty asphalt, silent except for the slight crunch of their footsteps. Just as Steve starts to break away to head towards the BMW, Eddie finds a desperate shard of courage and grabs for his wrist. “Steve, wait.”
Steve steps back into his space, doesn’t even need to be pulled. His face is carefully neutral, but his brow and the corners of his mouth tilt upward in a way that feels like hope.
“What’s up?” It’s obviously meant to sound casual and unaffected, but he misses by a long stretch. Eddie doesn’t mention it.
“If you wanted, before next Thursday…” he trails off, toes awkwardly at the crumbling asphalt. Unable to make himself finish the sentence, he looks back up at Steve. The younger boy’s expression is cracking open, affection spilling over it and lighting him better than the sodium bulbs ever could.
“Yeah. Before next Thursday sounds good.” Eddie has to look away for a minute, knows his smile must be stupid. Steve, always the braver of the two of them, takes the final step. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”
Eddie nods, tugs a lock of hair over his mouth like it might hide how much he likes that idea. “Yeah, okay. You…have my number.”
Steve smiles at that, his own just as wide and goofy as Eddie’s feels. “I sure do. Dude. ”
And if Eddie has to kiss him one last time for that, well. There’s nobody around to see.
When Eddie wakes up Friday morning, he’s half convinced it was a dream.
He’d left the pool parking lot and driven straight to Gareth’s. He was an hour later than they’d agreed upon, but he figured this was, like, the definition of extenuating circumstances.
“Where the hell have you been, Ed?”
“Oh, Gareth. Sweet, innocent Gareth. The place I have been is so far-fetched that even if I were inclined to tell you, you would never believe me.”
Gareth looked unimpressed, but hauled himself off the couch and over to his drum kit. “Better have been worth it. We missed a whole hour of practice time, and you know Jeff needs to work on the –”
“GENTLEMEN!” Eddie proclaimed, arms outstretched and expression wild. “Let us not squabble over the passing of the first hour and waste away the second!”
The other three blinked at him, Frank’s brow furrowing in suspicion.
“Whatever it was, it’s got him in a hell of a mood,” he observed under his breath.
“Sounds like he’s been into his own supply again,” Jeff agreed.
They were right, but Eddie would never give them the satisfaction of confirming it. Also, the high he’d worked up with Harrington had been long since worked off with Harrington, so to speak.
“Dude, you’re laughing at nothing again.” Gareth made a little ba-dum-tss sound on his kit to emphasize his point.
“Don’t you worry your little head about it,” Eddie deflected. “We ready? Let’s start with Jeff’s Sabbath problem.”
So, yeah. Given how normal the rest of his Thursday night had been, Eddie thinks he could be forgiven for wondering if he really had just taken a few too many hits off the ol’ jazz cabbage and had a really, really vivid dream.
But when he steps into the bathroom and flips on the light, the evidence is right there in the mirror. Round and purple-blue and just under the edge of his stretched t-shirt collar, is a bruise. A hickey. A love-bite! Incontrovertible evidence that Steve Harrington had pressed his mouth to Eddie’s skin. His teeth, even.
Eddie presses a finger to it, hisses at the slight sting. It’s real. He went to the Hawkins Public Pool expecting a negligible sale and a peek at Harrington’s thighs in those swim trunks, and he’d gotten… Well. A considerable amount more than that. Wayne was right: it really was a funny old world.
Speaking of Wayne, Eddie hears him starting to stir, making noise as he bangs around the kitchen preparing coffee. He splashes water on his face, considers tugging a comb through his hair, but ultimately decides it’s not worth it. He needs a shower today, anyway.
“Good morning, O Uncle mine,” he greets Wayne as he swings into the kitchen. “Wouldst thou have happened to make enough coffee for me?”
Wayne rolls his eyes, pushes the second mug he’s already filled over to his nephew. “Uh-oh. You’re talkin’ all old-timey again, Eds.” It’s not a new phenomenon. Wayne has weathered a variety of Eddie’s hobbies over the past eight years, including his flair for the dramatic and his tendency to stay in character after a particularly exciting session with Hellfire. “You play Demons and Dungeons or whatever last night?”
Eddie shoots him a sour look, knows he’s doing it on purpose. Old bastard thinks he’s funny. And…generally, yeah. He’s probably right. But Eddie is not about to let Wayne taking the piss puncture his good spirits on this most auspicious of days.
“No, actually. I had band practice. But it was a great night. Momentous events in the life of Eddie Munson have occurred. I am, you might even say, a changed man.”
Wayne snorts into his mug at that, levels Eddie with a flat look. “Ain’t changed that much, still wearin’ the same damn t-shirt you’ve had on for three days now.” Fucking brutal . God, Eddie would hate him if he didn’t love him so much.
“Can you ever just let me have a moment? ”
Wayne’s only response is a sly smile, the satisfaction of winning this interaction clear on his face. Eddie huffs, takes a sip of his coffee.
“This have anything to do with that herpe on your neck?”
Eddie spits the coffee directly back into the mug. “The what? ”
Wayne gestures casually at his own neck with one finger. “You know. This business here.”
Eddie didn’t think Wayne was still capable of making him blush. He’s a man grown, of legal age, old enough to vote! He shouldn’t still feel the heat in his cheeks when his uncle proves to, once again, be three steps ahead of him and well-aware of exactly what he’s been up to. He slaps a hand over the mark, frowns when doing so only makes Wayne’s smirk wider.
“I can’t believe you just called it that. There is no such thing as a singular herpe . It’s an affront to grammar. Merriam Webster is rolling in his grave.”
“Merriam and Webster were two different people.”
“God, I should have never let you get cable. You know too much now.”
“Dictionary also ain’t about grammar.”
“Oh my god .”
After several long minutes of standoff, Eddie finally sits down at the table and removes his hand from his neck. “Okay, yes. It’s related. But that’s all you get to know!”
“More’n I wanna know, frankly.”
“Oh come on, you’re not a little curious?”
Wayne looks thoughtful for a minute, like he’s considering Eddie’s question. “Well, maybe a little. But I figure you’ll tell me in your own time. Just couldn’t resist giving you a little shit about it. Coming in here with a big ol’ suckerbite like that, you were practically askin’ for it.”
“That’s rude. And victim-blaming. And also, it’s not that big.”
“Well it ain’t that small.”
Eddie snorts a laugh, can’t really think of a rebuttal. They’re both quiet for a moment, sipping their coffee, before Wayne speaks again.
“He treat you right?”
The question surprises Eddie, knocks him off-kilter. “What?”
“This boy. Was he good to you? Is he a nice guy?”
Eddie thinks back over the night before, his mind a View-Master reel of sense memory snapshots: the dimly-lit ADMIN OFFICE; Steve’s black shorts stretched tight over his thighs, his shoulders dotted with moles; the soft way he’d asked Can I? before he touched Eddie.
“Yeah,” he finally replies, mortified to hear his own voice crack a little. He clears his throat, tries again. “Yeah, he’s a good guy. You’d probably like him.”
“Doubt that,” Wayne retorts.
“Hey! You don’t even know him!”
“Don’t matter. I don’t like any of the boys you hang around with.”
And, yeah. That probably checks out. Eddie hasn’t brought a lot of guys around to the trailer or anything, but Wayne knows the general shape of his dating life. It’s not the fairytale romance anyone would want for their would-be son.
“He’s different. Better.”
Wayne grunts in the affirmative, but manages to make it sound doubtful. “You seeing him again?”
“Yeah. He’s supposed to call me today. So. We’ll see, I guess.” He kicks idly at the leg of the rickety kitchen table, a nervous habit Wayne has been trying to deter him from since he was a kid. Just like always, he feels his uncle’s foot stretch out to stop his own from moving.
“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you to be safe,” Wayne intones seriously. Eddie rolls his eyes, but can’t truly be annoyed about it. His uncle loves him and doesn’t want him getting hurt. Or sick. There could be worse things for a gay kid in Nowhere, Indiana than an overprotective parent.
“Always am,” he reassures him, instead of complaining. He’s surprised to hear the next words spill out of his mouth without his permission. “I’m hoping it’s not that kinda thing, anyway.”
His uncle eyes the hickey again, skeptical. “Looks to me like it’s already that kinda thing.”
And okay, he’s kind of got him there. He and Steve did go from casual business acquaintances to…whatever last night was in the space of one shared joint. But there was something about the way Steve kissed him, the way Steve had cradled his face in those (big, God they were so big ) hands that felt…
Well, it hadn’t felt like the sort of thing that only happens in dark bathrooms and hidden alleyways. It had felt almost tender, the way Steve always looked when he was cuddled up to some girl in the halls at school. Intimate. Sincere.
Hot. It had been really, really hot.
Shaking himself back to reality, Eddie refocuses on Wayne. The older man is fixing Eddie with a grin that is all too knowing, and Eddie guesses that he’d been broadcasting all of those tender thoughts directly across his face. He blushes deeply, but doesn’t rise to the bait.
“Whatever. I like this one, sue me.”
Wayne, smiles, drains what’s left of his coffee. “Wouldn’t be worth the legal fees, kid.”
Wayne has a day shift at the plant, so Eddie has the trailer to himself for most of the day. He almost wishes he didn’t. Time seems to be both crawling and hurtling by, the phone deadly silent in its cradle on the wall.
He paces the living room - kitchen - bedroom - living room circuit for so long that he finally gets annoyed and starts tidying things up on his way by. He puts mugs sitting on the kitchen counter into the sink, and then three circuits later he actually washes them. A pile of his clothes that had been spread throughout the place starts to form at the foot of his bed, and he even sorts his dirty laundry with the intention of maybe doing some later.
In the process of clearing the clutter off the top of his dresser, Eddie privately admits to himself that he isn’t sure Steve will actually call. It’s a Friday night. There’s a fun fair in town, he thinks - real classic date-night shit for a backwater like Hawkins. Steve probably already has a date. He’s probably getting ready right now, planning to wash all that gay shit off him like so much chlorine and go back to charming the panties off whatever girl he’s snared this time.
Eddie’s in the middle of aggressively scrubbing the bathtub out with Comet, regretting not putting on gloves to do it, when the phone finally rings.
“HELLO,” he barks into the phone, then bangs his head quietly against the wall next to it. “I mean, hello?”
“Um, hi,” the familiar voice on the other end replies. “It’s Steve. Harrington.”
And, honestly? Eddie’s so glad Steve is awkward. It makes it so much easier to recover from the otherwise ball-crushing humiliation of his own eagerness.
“As opposed to all the other Steves I know,” he teases.
“I don’t know, dude. It’s a pretty common name.”
“Okay, dude . How about, as opposed to all the other Steves I know who said they would call me today?”
Steve chuckles. “Yeah, alright. You’ve got me there.” There’s a moment of silence, which the younger man hurries to fill. “What are you up to today?”
“Oh, about 7 or 8 inches.”
“Now you and I both know that’s not true.” And there it is: just like that, Steve rips the security film off the events of the night before. It was real. They’re talking about it.
“Yeah, well. Haven’t had any complaints.” He hears the timid edge in his own voice, balls his fist up and knocks it gently against his forehead.
“No, I guess you wouldn’t,” Steve responds softly. And Eddie needs to rescue this interaction before they embarrass one another off the phone. Or one of them starts cooing.
“Sorry, you asked a question. I haven’t been doing much of anything, tidying up around the ol’ homestead. What about you?”
Steve’s voice is blessedly normal when he replies. “Just work. Had to go in early because whoever closed last night forgot to put the chemicals in the pool. Must’ve been super distracted.”
“Man, it sure is hard to get good help,” Eddie laments. Steve laughs, small and happy.
“It really is.” He adopts a deep, formal-sounding voice that Eddie thinks must be an impression of Harrington Sr. “Kids these days just don’t understand hard work. All they want to do is watch movies and smoke marijuana.”
“I mean, yeah. Who doesn’t want that?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Steve agrees. There’s a beat of hesitation, and then he just goes for it. “Speaking of which, d’you, uh… Would you wanna come over later?”
Eddie glances at the clock on the stove, squints to read both hands. 4:30PM. “Sure. When’s later?”
“I don’t know, six? Whenever you’re free.”
“Harrington, I’m a super senior who sells weed in Bumfuck, Indiana. I am always free.”
There’s a smile in Steve’s voice. “Alright then, smartass. I’ll see you at mine at 6:00 sharp.”
“I’ll be there with bells on,” Eddie confirms, and then they say their goodbyes.
Six o’clock. That gives him just under ninety minutes to…get ready? Is there a getting-ready period allotted for a night in getting faded with the dude you recently exchanged orgasms with? Eddie isn’t sure, but he does know this: he needs to take a goddamn shower.
Eddie parks in front of the Harringtons’ weird mid-century modern palace at 5:57PM. Damn it. He’d tried so hard to be fashionably late, but there was only so much stewing in the trailer he could handle. He’d had to leave, and even the brief stop at 7-Eleven for papers and snacks hadn’t been enough to offset how early he’d been. Still, he supposes it would be weirder at this point to loiter in the van for another ten minutes. He might as well just bite the bullet and be on time.
He’s standing on the porch, contemplating the ornate knocker and whether it’s functional or decorative, when the door opens inward and renders the question moot.
“Hey! Right on time,” Steve’s tone is casual, and Eddie reminds himself that the guy is not psychic and cannot know how hard Eddie tried not to be. He focuses instead on mirroring Steve’s relaxed energy, betraying none of the anxiety bubbling under the surface. Following Steve into the cavernous front room, he waits until the door is closed behind them to reply.
“How’s it going, Harrington?” He feels himself wince as he says it. It’s too casual, his calm too affected. Fortunately, he’s recently become aware of the fact that Steve is kind of a good dude, so he doesn’t call him on it.
“Not too bad. C’mon, I’ll get you a drink.”
Eddie follows him through a series of doorways into a kitchen that looks big enough to cook meals for an army. It’s beautiful, but…empty. The counters host an array of carefully-covered appliances that look like they don’t often get uncovered. The whole space is almost sterile in its cleanliness. He fights the bizarre urge to spill some pepper or something, just to interrupt the flat blankness of it all.
“Beer?” His eyes snap up to Steve, who is bent slightly at the waist to peer into the vast, white refrigerator. It takes him a moment to realize it was a question.
“Sure, yeah.” He catches the can of Coors Steve tosses his way, cracks it open and sucks down the foam. “Thanks.”
They retreat to the back yard with their beers, Eddie lighting a cigarette as they settle into deck chairs. It’s typically muggy for July, but the shade cast by the house is tolerably cool. He actually prefers it over the frigid, air-conditioned interior. He sheds his leather jacket – why did he bring that, anyway? – and hangs it over the back of his chair.
“So,” Steve starts after a few moments of awkward silence. “Welcome to my house, I guess.” And ah, there it is. Steve has had the home field advantage, moving easily through their interactions thus far in a way that made Eddie feel out of place and unsure. But the tone of his voice now betrays the slightest sliver of nerves, the urge to fill the silence and fix the mood. Eddie can work with that.
Slumping slightly into his chair and taking a long sip of his beer, Eddie looks at Steve consideringly. “It’s not the first time I’ve been here.”
Steve looks down, might even blush. It’s hard to tell in the blue shade of the back yard. “Yeah, but. You’ve never been invited by me.”
Eddie blinks, thinks he might be offended. “Well, that’s rude. How else would your guests get their party on?”
Steve’s definitely blushing now, eyes wide and horrified. “Christ, I didn’t mean it like…how it sounded. I meant, this is the first time you’ve been here for me. To hang out with me.”
“Who says I’m here to hang out with you?” It has the desired effect: Steve rolls his eyes and relaxes back into his own chair.
“No one else here, asshole. I’m all you’ve got.” Eddie shrugs, glances boredly around at the yard and pool.
“Is that what we’re doing? Hanging out?”
Steve looks puzzled, cautious. “I mean, yeah.” When Eddie doesn’t say anything in response, he adds, “Isn’t it?”
Eddie lets the moment draw out, long and tense. He furrows his brow, pretends to consider the question. In reality, though, he’s trying to determine whether he has the nads to say what he really wants to. Finally, he meets Steve’s eyes again and cracks a grin.
“I don’t know, I kind of thought I might like to kiss you again. Does that fall under the umbrella of ‘hanging out?’”
Steve’s face melts into a smile so bright, Eddie’s almost surprised every moth in the vicinity isn’t drawn straight to it. “Yeah, I think that counts.” He fiddles with his beer can, fingers swiping designs into the condensation on the sides. “That was pretty smooth, actually. I’m kind of impressed.”
Eddie sits up a little straighter, expression smug. “What, you think you’re the only guy with game in this town?” Steve snorts a laugh that indicates that yes, he did think that and he probably still does. Whatever, Eddie will take it. They’re here, they’ve addressed the elephant in the room, and they seem to be on the same page about wanting it to be there. This is already going better than pretty much any other hookup-adjacent social interaction he’s ever had.
Satisfied that he’s not going to find himself kicked to the curb for gay-related crimes, Eddie reaches back into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a crumpled soft-pack of smokes. He lights one up and offers it to Steve, who takes it with a raised brow.
“You still gonna wanna kiss me if I smoke this?”
“Shit, Harrington. I think I’d still wanna kiss you if you smoked the whole pack.”
The deep, pleased pink that flushes across Steve’s cheeks is well worth the tiny bit of vulnerability it costs Eddie to say it.
“Damn,” Steve huffs a small laugh. “You’re different.”
“Than what?”
“I don’t know. Other people I’ve kissed?” When Eddie just levels him with an unimpressed look, he carries on. “Like, most of my dates won’t come near me if I’ve been smoking.”
“Yeah, well. Most of your dates are girls who don’t smoke, Stevie.”
Steve’s eyes snap up to him. “Oh, I’m Stevie now?”
Eddie already has his answer ready. “Sure, if I’m your date now. Why not?”
They fall quiet for a few minutes while they smoke, the crickets at the edge of the yard providing a soothing sort of background noise.
“Can I ask you something?” It’s the first thing Eddie has said in a while, reluctant to break the peaceful stillness that has settled between them. But the questions on his mind won’t shrink away, and there’s not going to be a better opportunity than right now.
“Sure,” Steve shrugs, unconcerned. “Shoot.”
“You said the other week that you use the weed to sleep. But you only started buying from me this summer. So like…is the not-sleeping new, or did you just have a fight with Hagan and now he won’t get it for you?” Realizing how harsh that sounds, he hurries to add, “Not that I mind, of course. It’s, uh…worked out pretty well for me, all things considered.”
Steve taps his empty beer can against the table, chews on his lower lip. He glances up at Eddie, almost nervous. Finally, he answers. “Yeah, it’s new. New-ish. But I also haven’t been friends with Tommy for a while now.”
“What happened there?”
Steve grimaces, pinches at the sides of the can until they crease. “He was kind of an asshole. I was kind of an asshole. But I was worse with him, y’know?”
Eddie nods; he’s not unfamiliar with the concept of people bringing out the worst in eachother.
“The final straw was Nancy though. We had a fight, and Tommy was a huge dick about it. I mean I was mad, was…hurt, but Tommy and Carol always take things too far. I should’ve stopped them.”
“What’d they do, egg her car or something?”
It’s apparent from his face that Steve doesn’t want to say what he’s about to say. “Worse. Called her a slut, painted it on the marquee of the theater on Main. And I just..let him do it. God.” His brow furrows, expression grim. “I was such a fuckin’ coward.”
Eddie winces, shifts closer, bumps his knuckles against Steve’s arm. “C’mon now, we’ve all done shitty stuff. Is that why you and her broke up?”
“No, not really. It was early on, in my Junior year. There was a misunderstanding, I thought she cheated on me. She didn’t, but. Well. She did end up with him anyway.”
Eddie’s eyes widen. “ Byers ? You thought she was cheating on you with Jonathan Byers?”
Steve gives him a pointed look. “Like I said. They did end up together. But I should have never reacted the way I did, I don’t think we ever really recovered from it. And then after–” he cuts himself off abruptly, eyes flicking to Eddie and then quickly away. “After…everything, it just. It wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”
“...but Byers though,” Eddie laments. “I will never understand that trade.”
Steve chuckles, bumps their shoulders together softly. “Yeah, well. Her loss, your gain at the moment, right?”
At the moment . Eddie pretends he doesn’t hear it. It goes in the mental box marked Do Not Open that he knows he will inevitably open and obsess over later. But that’s later-Eddie’s business. Now-Eddie is trying to live in the aforementioned moment.
He turns to face Steve, squints as he gives him an exaggerated once-over. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“You guess so?”
Eddie stands from his chair, stretches out his back. “Yeah. Need me to say it again?”
Steve stands as well, face scrunched up in mock outrage. “Oh, okay. I see how it is. You know what, then?”
Before Eddie can answer, Steve lunges forward, puts his arms around Eddie’s middle, and hauls him up over one shoulder. Eddie makes a strangled yelling noise as the ground is shifted out from underneath him, and then a slightly higher-pitched noise (that he absolutely will not call a squeal) when Steve pivots toward the pool.
“Stop, stop! I take it back, Wheeler’s loss is definitely my–” but he’s cut off as Steve hurls them both into the water.
There are a few seconds of awkward scrambling to find which way is up, and then Eddie breaches the surface of the water with a gasp. His hair, so recently washed, hangs in a heavy curtain over his face. Spluttering, he kicks his legs in an attempt to tread water while he reaches up to slick it back away from his eyes.
“Asshole!” he shouts the second he’s located Steve, about six feet away and floating on his back like nothing has happened. From the expression on his face, one would think he took fully-clothed swims every day. Eddie takes a few awkward strokes toward him, struggling against the weight of soaked denim and the uselessness of sneakers for moving through water. “Fiend! Bastard man!”
Steve merely spits out a stream of water like some kind of floating cherub, and then right himself and gives Eddie a judgmental look. “Bastard man? Really?”
“Yes!” Eddie spits back, finally reaching both Steve and the pool’s edge, which he clings to with one hand. “You, Steve Harrington, are a bastard man .”
As if to prove his point, Steve just starts laughing. “That’s what you get, dude ,” he taunts back, sticking out his tongue to complete the performance, “for being such a little fucking gremlin.”
And what had Eddie told him about calling him dude? He feels himself start to chub up in his jeans, despite the constriction and the chill of the water. Fucking Pavlov.
He rallies, arranges his face into something smug. “Oh, Stevie,” he purrs, stalking through the water towards him. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to get those wet?”
“Well, actually, it’s the mogwai you’re not supposed to get wet. They turn into the gremlins if you do.”
Eddie stops just in front of him. “Fucking nerd,” he breathes, and then slides a hand up into Steve’s wet hair and kisses him.
It's divine. The hard press of lips and the sharp rasp of stubble. The way Steve melts into the kiss and into Eddie's touch. If last night had been a spark, this is a midsummer bonfire. Steve’s hands land on his shoulders, glide down along his sides before finally landing at the small of his back and pulling him close. He feels almost weightless in the water, lets himself be pulled up onto his toes and into the warmth of Steve’s body.
They pull apart, and Eddie tilts his head back just far enough to make Steve’s face come into focus. And what a face it is. His hazel eyes are dark, pupils blown black, and his lips are swollen and pink from the kiss. Eddie moves his hand to cup the line of Steve’s jaw, thumbs softly at his bottom lip.
“Just as good as I remembered,” he murmurs, leans in to press his lips to the smooth expanse of Steve’s cheek. When he meets his eyes next, Steve is looking at him with a pinched brow. He doesn’t look unhappy, exactly; it’s more as if he’s trying to figure something out, eyes searching Eddie’s face like he might find the answers there. He says nothing.
A minute passes.
Eddie feels himself start to squirm under the scrutiny.
“Was that– should I not have–” But Steve cuts him off.
“No, that’s–” he blurts out, moving a hand up to cup Eddie’s jaw. “It was good. So good. Sorry, I’m…uh, I’m usually better at the– the, um, talking part of this.”
Eddie squints up at him. “Do I make you nervous, Stevie?”
Steve swallows, probably too loudly for Eddie to miss it. His smirk in the next moment confirms it.
“Aw, I do. That’s actually kind of adorable.” It’s just the slightest bit condescending, enough to make Steve flush with embarrassment, but no real shame. Eddie’s just teasing him, and he probably deserves it. He’s been off his game since Nancy, sure. But no one has ever made his head feel this completely empty.
“Can’t help it,” he finally answers, voice soft.
“Don’t want you to,” Eddie reassures just as softly. “I take it as a compliment.” Then, in a curious tone, “Am I the first guy you've ever…”
Steve swallows again, nods. “Yeah. But that’s not… I’m not nervous about that part.”
“Oh?” He pulls back slightly, moving his hands to grip at Steve’s shoulders. “Pray tell, then.”
“It’s just…you,” Steve shrugs. “Kind of can’t believe you’d want anything to do with me. Keep waiting for you to realize how lame I actually am now and dip out.”
Eddie snorts. “Yeah, okay. Like that’s gonna happen.”
“No?” And Eddie’s somewhat surprised to hear that it sounds like a genuine question; like Steve really does need reassurance that Eddie likes him. Like it isn’t painfully obvious how into this whole situation he is.
He leans in close again, letting their lips brush. “Why don’t you take me inside, and I’ll show you how many reasons I have to stay, hmm?”
They scramble out of the pool, tripping up the steps and across the yard as quickly as their soaked clothing will allow. Steve doesn’t even pause at the door, ushering Eddie through it and towards the stairs. They drip their way down the long upstairs hallway and into what Eddie assumes is the master bedroom, and then into an enormous en-suite. He barely has time to take in the expensive-looking tile and enormous glass doors of the shower before Steve has him crowded back against them and they’re kissing once again.
He's starving for it, the hot press of Steve's lips and the way his fingers tangle in the heavy strands of Eddie's hair. It's intoxicating, it's perfect, it’s– really fucking uncomfortable having cold, wet fabric between them, actually.
“Okay, nope, not doing this,” Eddie announces when they break apart a moment later. Steve looks confused, lifts his hands from where they’d been settled at Eddie’s hips. Before he can form a question, Eddie offers a suggestion. “Strip.”
Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, disappearing into the mess of wet hair that falls across his forehead. But he does as Eddie’s asked, stepping back to peel off his wet shirt. Eddie’s eyes fall immediately to his chest, same as they had yesterday when he’d arrived for their appointment at the pool, and Steve looks pleased to see it seems to affect him just as much now as it obviously had then. He reaches down to unfasten his belt, watches Eddie’s eyes track that movement, too.
“Not a show, man. You too.” He gestures at Eddie with a nod of his head, and Eddie immediately moves to comply. The light in the bathroom is dim and warm, and Steve watches from the corner of his eye as Eddie uncovers long expanses of pale skin and dark hair, a surprisingly delicate waist.
Before he can start to feel awkward about the exposure, Steve is kissing him hard and walking him backwards into the enormous shower. He pushes Eddie to the far wall, turns to start the water.
“Did we really just leave one wet setting to find another? Thought you were gonna take me to bed, big boy.”
Steve just rolls his eyes, manhandles Eddie under the warm spray. “Just shut up and wash the chlorine out of your hair.”
Eddie gives him an unimpressed look. “You realize you’re the reason the chlorine is in my hair, right?”
It gets him a smile. “Yeah, I know. But it’s hell on curls like yours, shouldn’t let it dry in there.”
“So this was your plan all along,” Eddie feigns disbelief, even as he reaches for the shampoo. “You just wanted to get me all wet and naked and take advantage of me.”
“I mean that was the general plan, yeah.”
Eddie is delighted by the admission. “Oooh, scandalous Stevie! Absolutely devious. And also,” he lathers the shampoo into his hair, scrubs at his scalp, “a complete failure. Can’t take advantage of a willing participant.”
Steve smooths his hands over the crown of Eddie’s head, squeezes the lather out of it under the spray. “I don’t know. Doesn’t feel like a failure from where I’m standing.” He rakes his eyes down Eddie’s body and back up as he says it.
When they’ve both done a perfunctory wash and condition (enough to prevent any lasting chemical damage, anyway), Eddie pushes Steve back against the cool tile wall and kisses him. It’s deep and a little dirty, his tongue flicking teasingly at Steve’s own. When Steve has surrendered to it, relaxed back into the wall and let him take charge, Eddie sinks to his knees.
“Shit,” Steve breathes. “Shit, you wanna–?”
“Fuckin’ right I do,” Eddie purrs, wrapping a hand loosely around Steve’s dick. Then, just to be a shit, he looks up at Steve through his wet lashes and bites at his lip. “Can I?”
The sound Steve makes is some strangled combination of a groan and a laugh. “Can you– fuck. Yes, god, fucking please–”
Eddie doesn’t waste any time, swallowing Steve down the second he has permission. He bobs his head a few times, getting a feel for how deep he can comfortably take him and still breathe. Just the weight of him on his tongue is enough to have Eddie’s own cock throbbing, heavy and hard between his legs.
“ Shitshitshit ,” Steve exhales, hands hovering in the vicinity of Eddie’s shoulders. “Eddie, so good. Holy fuck, your mouth .”
Eddie pulls back a bit, flicks at the ridge beneath the head with his tongue before pulling off. “I got you, baby. Just let me make you feel good.”
Steve evidently agrees, as he moans again when Eddie wraps his lips back around him. His hands slap against the tile at his sides when Eddie starts to suck him in earnest, gliding his mouth up and down on Steve’s cock and using his hand to stroke at the parts he can’t quite reach. He uses his free hand to grab one of Steve’s, guiding it to the back of his head and demonstrating just how okay he is with Steve giving him a bit of direction, too.
Steve, ever a fast learner, weaves his fingers into Eddie’s damp curls and tugs gently. Eddie follows his lead, bobbing on his cock as Steve’s confidence and desperation grow. His mind goes sort of blissfully blank around the time Steve starts rocking his hips into each downstroke, fucking his mouth in a way that’s incongruently tender.
He comes back to himself when Steve’s breaths start coming fast and shallow, and he whines faintly. “Eddie. Eds. ‘m gonna come, baby. Gotta stop.”
Eddie pulls off with a pop, but immediately replaces his mouth with long, firm strokes of his hand. “That’s kind of the point, Stevie. I want you to.” With that said, he pulls Steve back into his mouth, speeding up slightly and using his free hand to reach back and squeeze gently at his balls.
Steve makes a new sound; this one higher, almost keening. His fist tightens in Eddie’s hair, just short of painful as his hips begin to stutter. Another moment and Eddie feels him start to twitch in his mouth, spilling hot down the back of his tongue and throat.
Eddie swallows him as best he can, wiping at the corners of his mouth when he finally pulls off. Steve is panting like he’s run a marathon above him, the hand that’s not tangled in Eddie’s hair twisted roughly into his own.
“Jesus fuck,” he breathes out. “That was– Oh fuck, c’mere.” He grasps both of Eddie’s hands, helps him to his feet. And then they’re kissing again, Steve’s tongue licking into his mouth. He groans at the taste of himself there, and Eddie’s own cock throbs in sympathy. He rocks his hips against Steve, the warm water that’s still pouring over them making the slide slick and delicious.
“Do you want– I can,” Steve reaches for his dick, but Eddie bats his hand away.
“Turn around, baby,” he tells him in a low voice. “Wanna try something different.”
Steve turns without protest, braces his hands against the wall at Eddie’s instruction. Eddie, in the meantime, reaches for the bottle of conditioner they’d both used earlier and squeezes a generous amount out into his hand.
“Sorry if this stuff is expensive,” he offers, reaching down to slather it between Steve’s asscheeks and behind his balls. He lets his thumb catch very lightly against his hole, watching for Steve’s face for a reaction. But he only tenses a moment, flicking eyes over his shoulder at Eddie, and then consciously relaxes his posture again.
“Good boy,” Eddie croons softly, and notes the way Steve’s whole body shivers with the praise. He’ll tuck that away for future examination; right now, he has plenty to be getting along with. He grasps himself in a loose fist, spreading the rest of the conditioner along his length, and then angles his hips and presses his cock into the slick channel of Steve’s ass.
“Fuu-uck,” he groans against Steve’s shoulder when he’s pressed all the way forward, cock pressed behind Steve’s balls. “This okay, baby?”
Steve nods emphatically, reaches back with one hand to grip at Eddie’s slippery hip and tug him forward. It’s not verbal confirmation, but then, Steve doesn’t seem especially capable of that right now. Eddie wraps an arm around his waist, pulls him close and thrusts himself back and forth against him. Steve moves easily with him, shifts away from the wall a bit and lets Eddie help hold his weight as they rock together.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Eddie babbles praise, out of his mind with how good Steve feels against and around him. “So good for me. Feel so fuckin’ good, Stevie. Gonna make me come.”
Steve moans long and low in response, grasps at the hand Eddie has around his waist. Eddie obliges his wordless request, lacing their fingers together against Steve’s hip. It’s intimate, feels like something precious passing between them. Eddie nips at Steve’s neck, sucks a bruise just above where a collar would cover it. Turnabout’s fair play, after all.
When he feels on the precipice of coming, Eddie uses his free hand to reach up and tilt Steve’s chin back towards him. The angle isn’t ideal, but it’s close enough for him to press his lips to Steve’s, close enough for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss as he tips over the edge.
They stay like that for a moment, pressed back-to-chest and breathing heavily. When he feels like he can move without trembling again, Eddie reaches up for the handheld showerhead (goddamn rich people shit, seriously) and carefully rinses the residual conditioner and come from Steve’s body. Steve turns in his arms after, wind himself around Eddie’s neck and kisses him, slow and deep.
The hot water eventually runs out; apparently, even in Loch Nora, it’s not unlimited. Steve steps out first, pulls luxuriously thick towels from his parents’ linen closet and wraps one around Eddie. They huddle together back down the hall, the air-conditioned cold biting at their wet skin until they dive under the covers in Steve’s (egregiously plaid) bedroom.
“Are you gonna be a dick about it if I try to cuddle you?” Steve asks. His tone is teasing, but there’s a genuine question in his eyes.
Eddie just grins, opens his arms. “Only condition is that I get to be the big spoon.”
It earns him yet another roll of Steve’s eyes. But it also gets Steve himself rolling over into his embrace, his back pressed to Eddie’s chest.
“Not planning on being a dick about any part of this,” Eddie murmurs after a moment, his hand finding Steve’s on the bed and lacing their fingers together, squeezing tight. “In case it wasn’t clear, I like you. So much it kind of makes me look stupid.”
Steve snorts a laugh, squeezes Eddie’s hand right back. “You say the sweetest things.”
“Yeah?” Eddie asks softly. “Well, here’s another one then.”
He pauses, and Steve waits in breathless anticipation.
“The mogwai don’t turn into gremlins if you get them wet. They multiply. They turn into gremlins if you feed them after midnight.” When Steve doesn’t respond, he adds, “I couldn’t let you continue living in that delusion.”
And then they’re both laughing, long peals of laughter that come out of nowhere and don’t want to stop. Eventually Steve rolls over in his hold, presses in closer, and kisses him quiet.
“Spend the night?” He asks, face all honest and open. And, seriously. How is Eddie supposed to say no to that?
“Yeah, okay.”
Later, they’ll get dressed in Steve’s clothes and go downstairs, raid the fridge and end up ordering a pizza. They’ll put on a VHS tape Steve brought home from Family Video, squeeze into the corner of the loveseat and cry laughing at Monthy Python. They’ll stay up late into the night, talking about everything from their contrasting experiences with parental abandonment to the best and worst spots to park up and hook up (or, in Eddie’s usual experience, sell weed) in Hawkins.
But for now, they stay here, wrapped up in soft cotton and one another. And Eddie thinks that maybe, just maybe, he might have to reconsider his stance on swimming, after all.