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Eddie walks into a Michaels Arts and Crafts Store at 4PM on a Sunday stoned out of his goddamn mind and is immediately accosted by the image of Steve Harrington crouched over in the yarn aisle, wearing glasses and an apron over what can only be described as a grandpa sweater. Eddie blinks hard and rubs his eyes. Steve Harrington is still there, only now he’s looking up at Eddie and nodding in greeting. So. Not a hallucination, which is unfortunate, because that was Eddie’s only plausible explanation for the unexpected vision laid out in front of him.
“Hey, man. Eddie, right?” Steve says, like they actually know each other. Like they were anything more than passing faces in a dim hallway, or two people on complete opposite ends of the high school food chain. Steve was like a shark, all popular and sporty and handsome, preying on the weak alongside the other preps and jocks, and Eddie was… an amoeba. Or a piece of algae. Something slimy and wiggly that nobody else wanted to touch, especially not the sharks.
“Uh, hi,” Eddie says back. “Yeah. That’s me.” Like, sure. Why not surrender to the reality of whatever the fuck this is.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Steve says. Up until about three seconds ago, Eddie had no idea that Steve was even aware of his existence, so this is a shocking statement to hear, especially considering Eddie hasn’t left Hawkins for longer than a day at a time for the past ten or so years.
But he supposes it’s a fair assessment, because he hasn’t really seen much of Steve since last spring, either: just flashes of his face in mundane places like the supermarket or the movie theater, and once inside of Starcourt Mall, where Eddie had taken one look at Steve in a sailor costume complete with itty-bitty shorty-shorts and immediately turned around and went home to lie facedown on his bedroom floor and contemplate his extremely poor taste in people.
Eddie shrugs. “I was busy failing school for a second time. Going for round three this year. Got a streak going on.”
For some reason, this makes Steve laugh, and Eddie is standing under the awful fluorescents of Hawkins’ singular respectable crafts store staring unapologetically at Steve fucking Harrington laughing at something he said. He made Steve laugh. This must be an episode of the Twilight Zone, and nobody thought to tell Eddie about it. That’s fun. He wonders how it will end. Probably a nuclear apocalypse, or the revelation that Steve was actually an alien this whole time. It would explain a lot.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Steve eventually asks, standing up straight and brushing non-existent dust off of his mom jeans, which are all pleated and cinched at the waist and everything. His glasses are crooked on his face and make his eyes look twice as big as they actually are, which would be funny on anyone else, but Steve’s eyes are really, really nice; all warm and dark like hot chocolate. Eddie is just lucid enough not to freak out about Steve Harrington’s very big and unusual bug eyes, thank God.
“Um,” Eddie says. He glances down at the empty shopping basket hanging from the crook of his elbow, then back to the aisle of yarn. “I’m crocheting a blanket,” he lies.
Eddie does, in fact, crochet, but this is not why he came here. He can’t really remember why he came in the first place, though. Maybe for new acrylic paints? He had a couple of D&D minis that he was planning on prepping for the new freshmen in Hellfire. That’s probably why he came. But Steve Harrington is in the yarn aisle, looking downright edible in his stupid fucking cable knit sweater and matching stripey socks, so maybe Eddie’s just gonna get yarn instead.
Steve’s face lights up. “Cool. I like to knit myself.”
What the fuck, Eddie thinks to himself hysterically. This interaction feels entirely fabricated, maybe something he might’ve experienced in a dream once. There’s no way that King Steve is standing in front of him with a name tag clipped to his Michaels apron that proclaims Stevie in the prettiest cursive he’s literally ever seen and telling Eddie that he knits on a regular basis. What would Steve even knit, anyway? There’s another pin on Steve’s apron that says he/him, which is also wild, because Eddie had previously believed that someone like Steve Harrington would have no idea what the fuck a pronoun even is.
“Okay,” Eddie says, fiddling with the patches on his jean jacket. They’re all lifting up at the corners. He should fix them, probably.
“Do you have an idea for what kind of yarn you’d like to use?”
“Not really.” Eddie doesn’t really give a shit about the material of yarn or the weight. He usually just picks whichever one looks the best to him. But maybe Steve’s onto something here. He pauses. “Um, do you recommend one in particular?”
Steve smiles, cheeks dimpling and eyes crinkling and Jesus, Eddie’s going to fling himself into the quarry for thinking that Steve is probably one of the most beautiful people he’s ever seen. Steve. Steve fucking Harrington. “Chunky yarn is nice for blankets, obviously. We just got a couple of skeins of this really nice yellow, hold on…”
And Steve rambles on about the yarn for what must be a full fifteen minutes, recounting his own experiences knitting scarves with it, then picking a couple of the hanks out for Eddie and setting them in his basket for him. He even slides a coupon out of his apron pocket and places it in Eddie’s hand with a wink. He says, “Don’t tell Robin that I gave you this.”
Eddie has no goddamn idea who Robin is but he just nods diligently, and Steve smiles, says goodbye and then disappears into the backroom, leaving Eddie adrift. In the fucking yarn aisle in Michaels.
At least it isn’t Hobby Lobby.
He’s still reeling by the time he heads over to the front of the store to check out. A bored-looking girl is slouched over at the register. She’s wearing a beanie and a henley. Her name tag says ROBIN in all-caps and she has a she/her pronoun pin that matches Steve’s, as well as a metric shit ton of other buttons and patches on her apron that all hint towards her raging lesbianism, as if her outfit didn’t make it obvious enough. Eddie instantly feels the scrutiny of her gaze when he sets his bright fucking yellow yarn down on the counter.
“Munson,” she greets. Eddie realizes that he actually knows her, from band or theater or one of those other extracurriculars that he could never commit to for very long before getting bored.
“Hey,” he says. He then brandishes the coupon. “I have a coupon. 20% off all yarn products, baby.”
She squints at him. “Are you high?”
“It is very possible,” he answers. A beat. “Steve Harrington didn’t give this to me, by the way.”
She sighs. “He’s gonna get in trouble if he keeps giving everyone who walks into the fucking store coupons. Whatever.” She scans it anyway, tells him his total, and Eddie forks over some crumpled up bills and whatever loose change he is able to scrounge from his various pockets. Robin’s brow furrows in displeasure as she drops the money into the register, but she still asks, politely, “You like to knit?”
“Crochet,” Eddie corrects. “I run the Crochet Club at school right now.”
“The Crochet Club?” Robin repeats incredulously. “Don’t you also run the GSA? And that club for D&D?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus Christ,” Robin says. She bags the balls of thick yarn, tucking Eddie’s receipt in next to them, then hands the bag over. “Half the clubs at Hawkins High will deteriorate whenever you finally decide to graduate.”
“Probably,” he says, and he grins, toothy. “Fortunately, it’s looking like I’ll be sticking around for another year. Hope to see you at the next GSA meeting, Buckley.”
“In your dreams, Munson,” she shoots back, but she still waves at him as he leaves, and her face is a little less hard when she looks at him, so Eddie counts this whole experience—including his encounter with Steve Harrington, obviously—as a win.
“The Michaels Arts and Crafts Store?” Gareth asks incredulously.
“Yup,” Eddie confirms, drumming his fingers on the table. “In a grandpa sweater, no less. Like, shit you’d see at Goodwill. All cozy and thick. Real nautical. And he had glasses, too.”
“What? Glasses?”
“And the name tag on his apron said Stevie.”
“We’re talking about the Steve Harrington, right?” Freak asks as he plops down opposite of Gareth, peering at Eddie over the makeshift DM screen constructed from the same old binders and guidebooks he’s used since his very first session as DM. “The very same Steve Harrington that used to try to get spit balls in my hair?”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “C’mon, man, wasn’t that in elementary school?”
“Well, yeah. He hasn’t exactly looked at any of us over the past six or so years.”
Whatever. Eddie is a weak, weak man, especially when it comes to ex-popular jocks who wear cuffed jeans, apparently. He purses his lips, looks down at his hands on the table. “He’s kinda changed.”
Silence.
“Changed?” Gareth repeats, his voice raising in volume. Jeff mumbles at the same time, “I always thought he was kinda cute.”
“Hey,” Eddie narrows his eyes at Jeff, like he has any reason to get defensive when a close friend of his admits to finding a virtual stranger mildly attractive, and said virtual stranger happens to be Hawkins’ very own sweetheart slash prom king slash MVP in the game where people throw balls into glorified laundry baskets.
“Cute?” Gareth screeches like a goddamn banshee. “There’s no way we’re talking about the same guy. He’s an asshole.”
“He has really nice eyes,” Jeff says defensively.
Freak hums in agreement. “Okay, they are kinda nice. A little bit sad. Makes me want to give him a hug. Even if he was a jerk to me in fifth grade.”
“You think he likes dudes?” Jeff asks curiously.
“Why is that at all relevant,” Gareth seethes.
Jeff holds both of his hands up in defense. “I’m just asking, man.”
“Gentlemen, I think we’re losing the plot here,” Eddie attempts to cut in, and is unanimously ignored.
“He kinda has a vibe,” Freak says.
“What the fuck does that even mean?” Gareth’s eyebrows are pinched so close together it looks like he has one big unibrow.
“You know,” Freak says, eyes imploring, and then he flicks his wrist and does a few too many complicated and vaguely inappropriate hand gestures. Gareth is staring at him in abject horror; Jeff just nods, considering, and Eddie scrubs his hands over his face.
“I cannot believe you’re implying that Steve Harrington might be some degree of gay,” Gareth says.
“To be fair, he does seemingly know what pronouns are,” Eddie contributes unhelpfully.
“Nice,” Jeff says. Then, directed at Gareth, “I don’t know, man. I can see it. Everyone’s gay these days, anyway. Just chill.”
Gareth does not chill. Instead he stands, splays his fingers on the surface of the table, just like how Eddie does when he’s getting into the nitty-gritty of a campaign. He’s trying to look scary, probably, but Gareth is short and about 90 pounds soaking wet with rain boots on, so he just looks like a really angry chipmunk. “Let’s just run through this hypothetical, then. Let’s say that Steve Harrington is gay, or bisexual, or pansexual or whatever. Let’s say that he does happen to be attracted to men. Even if he was, Jeffrey, it would be a cold day in hell before he’d date any of us. If Harrington liked men, he’d probably have some college boyfriend. A guy with a lot of muscles and a job and money and nice hair or something. So none of this even matters.”
There is a pause.
“Dude,” Jeff crows, “You totally like him, too!”
“I do not,” Gareth protests hotly, his face bright fucking red. “And that’s not even the point! I’m just saying that it’ll be a cold day in hell when—if Harrington decides that literally any one of us is remotely dateable.”
Eddie’s kind of at the end of his rope with the entirety of this conversation, so he claps his hands loudly and the other members of Hellfire immediately shut up. “If we don’t stop talking about this, you’re all rolling perception with disadvantage this session, because all of you are fucking lame and don’t know how to clock other gay people in the wild or internalize your big gay crushes on Steve Harrington like some of us do. Jesus.”
That gets them to quiet down, which is great because the new freshies choose that moment to burst into the old drama room, loudly talking about character sheets and stats, but also science class and girls and all the shit that only high school freshmen care about.
Mike Wheeler carefully arranges his gangly limbs into the plastic chair next to Freak. “Hey, Eddie,” he begins, tentative like he anticipates Eddie exploding at any moment, “No pressure or anything, but did you get the chance to paint our minis over the weekend?”
“No, he was too busy ogling—“
Eddie kicks Gareth under the table. “No, my dear squire, I was unsuccessful in that regard. But I will return to the Michaels Arts and Crafts Store and purchase the paints that I need as soon as possible. The next time I return to Hellfire, it will be triumphant.” Freak stifles a laugh into his shirt collar and Jeff looks like he wants to say something annoying, so Eddie kicks both of them for good measure, too. “Now, gentlemen, shall we begin?”
Eddie tosses and turns on his shitty mattress that night, trying not to picture the kind of guy that Steve Harrington would date: rich, probably, attending an Ivy League, with a chiseled jaw and perfect teeth and hands that aren’t scarred and calloused from manual labor. Hands that would feel nice on his skin. Hands that aren’t rough and ugly.
Eddie imagines that Steve has really nice hands, too. Skin soft and warm, palms wide and fingers long, but not, like, freakishly. They look elegant, probably. Pretty just like the rest of him.
Eddie looks at his fucked up hands, coarse and calloused all over, then raises them to his face and muffles a scream into his palms.
Steve Harrington is graduated Hawkins High royalty. He’s the most beautiful person in northern Indiana, probably—and it’s not even a small-town kind of beauty like what everyone’s used to, but a pageant-level beauty, or magazine-cover beauty. It’s Helen of Troy type shit and Eddie’s not even a nobleman, let alone a prince. He’s not delusional. He’s no Paris.
There’s no way Eddie can compete when they don’t even run in the same social circles. In general, it’s absolutely none of Eddie’s business who Steve dates and doesn’t date. Because Gareth was annoying, but ultimately right: there’s no way he stands a chance in hell.
He finds himself selfishly hoping that Steve isn’t seeing anyone, anyway.
Eddie returns to Michaels a couple of times within the following weeks, but doesn’t see Steve, and he ignores Robin’s knowing looks when he leaves empty-handed, his head down and eyes averted like he’s performing a particularly intense walk of shame or something. It’s all very fucked up and humiliating, but Eddie still returns every few days regardless, watching as the store is slowly overrun by Halloween crafts and decor as the last dregs of summer dry out and fizzle into fall. He had very little remaining dignity in the first place, so it’s not like it matters.
When he does go to class, he has to stop himself from staring out the window and daydreaming about Steve’s hair and eyes and hands and all that other gay shit. His grades would plummet even lower, if it were possible, because he’s so goddamn distracted. It’s also impossible to ignore the wave of NPCs that Eddie introduces to their current campaign that all resemble Steve in some capacity, whether it be his hair or his eyes or his bright clothing or athletic nature. Jeff and Freak and Gareth say nothing for fear of incurring their DM’s wrath, but they look at Eddie knowingly, eyes shining with sympathy and pity. Christ, what has Steve Harrington done to him?
Finally, right when Eddie had given up, he stumbles upon Steve on a Friday evening, in the aisle with all of the acrylic paints, which is convenient since it's right where Eddie needs to be, anyway. Steve is restocking brushes, carefully sorting them into their various slots in the store’s plastic organizer.
Eddie clears his throat. Steve turns to him with warm sleepy eyes and smiles, all soft and sweet and pretty.
Eddie’s eyes flick down to the name tag on Steve’s apron. Stevie. This time, though, the he/him pin is conspicuously missing; in its place is what looks to be the same she/her pin that Robin had been wearing the other day. Eddie stares at it for a moment too long to be considered socially acceptable, and then it clicks.
“Do you and Robin the cashier switch pronouns?” Eddie asks, before he can stop himself, and Steve just laughs, seeming delightfully surprised, cheeks pinking.
“Yes, actually. I don’t really know much about it, and he explains it a hell of a lot better than I do, but we’re pretty in-sync when it comes to the whole… gender thing. We kinda just switch off whenever we feel like it and it usually feels right, afterwards, so I’m not gonna complain about it or anything.” She seems to become self-conscious the more she speaks, and her arms cross in front of her chest like she’s bracing for an unwelcome response. “Sorry. Too much information. You didn’t need to know all of that.”
Eddie had never thought he’d be living in a reality where Steve Harrington knows more about gender theory and self-expression than he does. But life has already established that everything surrounding Steve’s being will be supremely strange and delightfully surprising, so might as well accept this new facet of complete and total strangeness.
“So, uh… Stevie?” He points to her name tag.
She blinks. Looks down at it. “Oh! Uh, you can call me whatever. Steve is fine. Stevie is just what Robin calls me. He wrote my name tag for me.”
“Okay. That’s cool,” Eddie says candidly, and Steve blinks at him owlishly, like she wasn’t at all expecting that response.
“Thanks,” she says. She fiddles with the sleeves of her cardigan (a grandma cardigan, because Steve is nothing less than consistent) which is a really pretty autumnal color, kind of a rusty orange. Her hair usually falls over her brow artfully, but it’s held back with barrettes today, like maybe she couldn’t bother with the whole extensive hair routine and just needed something quick to keep her bangs out of her face. It exposes her forehead, and the moles dotted above her brow that match the ones on her cheek and neck.
Jesus H. Christ, she’s a fucking knockout. Eddie’s way out of his depth. He should’ve smoked again before coming out here. Would’ve helped with his fried nerves and the rocking of his stomach. If he throws up on Steve’s shoes without being under the influence of any kind of drug besides this horrible infatuation that he just cannot seem to shake, he’ll never forgive himself.
“The kids get a kick out of it,” Steve is saying offhandedly when Eddie zones back in. “The whole pronoun switcharoo thing that me and Robin do.”
“The kids?” Eddie repeats dumbly, thinking about the way Steve said pronoun switcharoo. Eddie wants to put her in his pocket and keep her forever. She’s just ridiculously charming, especially when she doesn’t mean to be. And then his brain catches up to what Steve said. “Wait, you have kids?”
“What? Oh—no. Well, yes, kinda? I babysit a lot of kids and drive them all over God’s green earth so they’re kind of like—not my kids, really, but my little brothers. And sisters. All seven of the assholes.”
“Seven?” Eddie repeats incredulously. “You have seven pseudo-kids.” He just barely refrains from making a reference to Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs even though the urge to compare Steve to a princess is practically overwhelming.
“Yeah.”
“Jesus. Uh, cool.” Eddie pauses. He got way more information than he was ready to receive, and now he feels like he’ll spend the next month or so just reeling from the fact that Steve Harrington isn’t just some rich cishet jock, and that she carts seven—seven—kids around Hawkins just because she wants to. “Um. Acrylic paints?”
She jolts like she had completely forgotten that she is currently working. “Right! Uh,” she scrambles over to the opposite side of the aisle. “Over here. These are the best ones. What colors are you looking for?”
They discuss paints for a bit, and she ends up picking out a couple of small tubes for him, the expensive ones that Eddie can’t normally afford, but she slides two more coupons out of her pocket and into Eddie’s hand, the brush of her fingers lingering along his palm and Jesus, Eddie’s gonna die. Right here in the paint aisle of the Michaels, all because Steve Harrington touched his hand a little and looked at him with the warmest brownest eyes he’s ever seen.
“Thanks,” Eddie says. “Um, you’ve been really helpful, y’know? This time and last time. You’re good at this.”
She glows with a smile and then looks embarrassed about it. “Yeah. A sales associate at Michaels. Kinda hard to be bad at, right?”
Eddie frowns. “No. And that’s not what I meant. Just. Like, with people. You’re good with people. I’m kinda jealous.”
She actually laughs at that. “You, Eddie Munson, are jealous of me for being good with people?” When Eddie doesn’t say anything, she continues, “You have no idea how much you affect people.”
What the hell is this conversation? “What?” Eddie says, lost.
“Dustin and Mike are always talking about how cool you are,” she says. “Lucas really admires you, too. He’s still trying to figure out where he belongs, and the way that you just know and you’re so sure about it—I don’t know. He wants to be like that. Be like you. I don’t think you realize just how much people look up to you.”
Eddie’s brain is working overtime and he feels like he’s going to combust. “Uh. Thanks.”
She just shrugs. She’s still got a handful of paintbrushes in her hand.
“So Dustin and Mike and Lucas are your kids?” Eddie asks weakly, because what are the odds? But then that would be just his luck.
“Three of them,” she grins. “And I have a feeling you know the rest, too. They’re in, like, all of your clubs. Won’t shut up about you.”
“Oh,” he says. “Like, in a good way, or..?
“Definitely good. I was actually kinda jealous at first, too.”
“Of me?” he asks. It sounds like his voice is getting progressively squeakier which isn’t doing great things for his self-confidence, or the very meager scraps of the dignity he somehow managed to retain.
“Yeah,” she says, with the biggest, brightest smile on her face, blinding like the fucking sun. “It’s kinda not hard to be.”
Eddie is floating on Cloud 9 in the checkout line and Robin laughs out loud at Eddie’s expression as he rings him up. He has no idea what his face is doing but it must truly be unusual.
“Everything alright over there, Munson?”
“Shut up, man,” Eddie says weakly. Then, more to himself, “I’m an idiot.”
Robin snorts in amusement and says little else.
Chrissy is the only one in Crochet Club who seems to clock Eddie’s weird mood. Then again, she might be the only one who actually cares. The rest of the members of the club are freshmen who probably didn’t make whatever sports team they wanted to make and are just looking for something to put down on their transcripts. Chrissy actually has a real passion for crocheting, though. She runs an Etsy page where she sells little crocheted animals and macramé, and she makes Eddie model all of her fun little crop tops and bralettes, and she makes bank from it too, so as far as Eddie’s concerned she’s probably actually the one running the club, not him.
Anyway, the moment he steps inside the near empty English Lit classroom at four PM, Chrissy looks up at him and frowns. “What’s wrong?” she asks. She’s still crocheting even though she’s not looking down at her hands. She’s a real pro. Eddie’s work is clumsy at best.
“Nothing’s wrong, Chris,” Eddie says, pulling up a chair and flopping pathetically into the worn plastic. The other club members have already started playing music, 70s pop which was the compromise they’d made between their current pop garbage and Eddie’s preference for 80s heavy metal. It’s still bright outside, light filtering in through the large windows. Winter’s coming, soon, and then it’ll be dark all of the time.
“You look stressed,” she comments.
“Stressed,” Eddie repeats.
“Yes.”
“I’m not stressed.” He pauses. “Just. You know, thinking about class differences and all.”
She just looks at him with her big blue eyes. “Class differences?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Is this about love?” She gazes at him, imploring. “Have you met someone?”
“It is entirely possible, yes.”
Chrissy grins, sets aside her current project, and scoots over to be as close to Eddie as physically possible without actually touching him. Chrissy’s good like that, good to the core—she’s just one of those people who’s insanely respectful, aware of the space she takes up and the space other people occupy, too, and she always asks Eddie before she touches him, which makes his insides feel all warm and goopy. Her fingers ghost gently all over Eddie’s arms and hands when he does allow touch, and she leans in close and lets Eddie know just how much she cares and pays attention. She has the biggest eyes Eddie’s literally ever seen, rival only to Steve’s, but where Steve’s are all dark and luminous, Chrissy’s are bright and could probably turn men to stone, if she tried hard enough.
“What do they do?” she asks. It’s interesting that that’s her first question—not who are they or do I know them? Chrissy’s different like that, always throwing Eddie off his rhythm by how unexpectedly she operates.
“Um,” Eddie starts. “She’s a sales associate at Michaels.”
“Oh, artsy! Definitely your type,” Chrissy says with a smile, clapping her hands down on her thighs. She didn’t have cheer practice today so she’s wearing yoga pants and a baggy turquoise t-shirt. She has no less than three scrunchies on her wrist, all different colors; Eddie had stolen her black one and it currently lives in the glovebox of his van. “Hey, if this works out, she can get you discounts on everything.”
Chrissy is Eddie’s favorite person for a reason. He laughs. “She already kinda gives me discounts, Chris.”
Her eyes go wide. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s really nice!” She exclaims. Then she pauses. “I’ve been thinking about making a cute lavender top, recently—“
“You’re a menace,” Eddie tells her as she giggles brightly. “Fine, I’ll go back and try to get you some nice discounted lavender yarn, or whatever. I needed an excuse to go back, anyway.”
“You’re so cute and I love you,” Chrissy tells him very seriously. She picks up her crochet needle again, thumbs over a few of her stitches before getting right back to it, looping the yarn again and again over her fingers, so fast that Eddie almost can’t track them. “I hope the class differences don’t keep you apart.”
“I mean, that’s not exactly what’s bothering me,” Eddie says. He finally sets about starting his own project, pulling out a skein of the very same yellow yarn that Steve had sold him a couple weeks prior. Chrissy eyes it and says nothing, but doesn’t bother concealing her toothy grin. Eddie ignores her. “Besides her living in Loch Nora and being a trust fund baby, she’s just like… Insanely out of my league. The kind of beautiful that it hurts a little just to look at her, and I’m… Me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Chrissy immediately protests. “You’re a catch, Eddie, you know that.”
Eddie can’t help the scoff that falls from his mouth. “Yeah, sure. Super senior extraordinaire that sells weed and runs a club for a tabletop roleplaying game. Huge catch. The ladies and gents just can’t resist me.”
“D&D is coming back, you know,” Chrissy informs him primly. “And the right person won’t care about any of that stuff. Not that it’s a downside, Eddie. We all know that the American school system and standardized testing is bullshit. And is it really so bad that you make sure the population of Hawkins doesn’t buy overpriced weed?”
“Alright, alright, settle down,” Eddie grouses. “Jesus, we’ve been hanging out too much. You’re starting to sound like me.”
“Or maybe you’re the one who’s starting to sound like me. But that’s not the point. The point is that I think you have a fighting chance. Probably more. And you shouldn’t discount yourself. You should ask her on a date. A place where you can get to know each other better, like a coffee shop or a diner. And if it works out, it works out. If she says no then you move on with your life. It’s easy, I promise.”
“You sure make it sound easy,” he grumbles.
“I know. So do it. Or else,” she says cheerily, like she didn’t just threaten Eddie, and he sighs, sinks a little further into his chair, and starts on a yellow blanket. This is his life now, so he may as well embrace it.
“You’re back,” Steve says from somewhere behind Eddie, and he jumps from where he’s crouched over in the yarn aisle yet again, looking at soft purple yarns.
“Christ, you scared the shit out of me,” Eddie wheezes, clutching at his chest. His heart was already beating rapidly from the moment he entered the store, though. He told himself that he was just there to get Chrissy’s yarn, and that if Steve also happened to be there then maybe he’d try the whole asking-out thing. Framing the task as a side quest makes it infinitely less terrifying.
He looks up at Steve, who is pretty as ever with the same flowing dark hair and hand-me-down sweater. The pin on his apron says he/him today. His Chucks are this golden yellow color like the sunset, with nary a scuff mark or scratch. He has a tiny hoop pierced in his right lobe that Eddie hadn’t noticed up until now. Every time he looks at Steve it’s like a one hit KO, a sucker punch to the senses of all of the tiny details he hadn't seen before. He suddenly feels like he might melt into the ground in a puddle of pathetic goo in the wake of Steve’s overwhelming radiance. He cannot, for the life of him, avert his eyes.
“Sorry,” Steve says sheepishly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Just saw you from across the store and had to sneak up on you.”
This is a sentence that Eddie cannot dwell upon, for fear of obsessing over the implications. “Oh. Uh, hi, it’s me.”
“It’s you. Hi.” Steve peers down at his hands. “What are you looking for today?”
Eddie explains that his best friend runs an Etsy business and she’s looking for a pretty purple yarn for a new top and that’s all Steve needs before he’s off like a shot, gathering up all of the lavender yarns and offering Eddie the best ones, and he even manages to convince Eddie to purchase a new crochet hook, and he slides Eddie a grand total of six coupons this time.
“Isn’t there a limit of one per transaction?” Eddie asks, staring down at the stack in his hand incredulously.
Steve waves him off. “Do you honestly think Robin cares enough about this job to refuse to scan these?”
Eddie is under no delusions so he just shakes his head. “I guess not.” And then he pictures the way Chrissy’s face had looked while she threatened him with implied bodily harm, and before he can wimp out, he blurts, “Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask you…”
“Yes?” Steve asks, and he takes a step closer and looks at Eddie with his huge pretty droopy eyes and they’re shining even in the awful fluorescents of the store. Jesus. All of the blood rushes to Eddie’s cheeks and he can feel his heartbeat in his ears. Don’t throw up on Steve’s perfect gold shoes, he tells himself internally.
“And, like, you can totally say no,” Eddie starts, “Because, you know, you’re you and I’m me, and the chances of the whole—of you wanting to—the chances of this whole thing working out are—y’know, probably depressingly low, but, uh… Would you like to, maybe, I don’t know… Go out sometime?”
“Yes,” Steve says immediately, which takes Eddie by a complete and all-consuming wave of pure shock. Steve didn’t even think about it. Didn’t hesitate. The response is a gut punch in, like, the best way possible.
“Oh,” Eddie says, his voice all high and breathy. God, he’s such an idiot. He’s certain he’s grinning like one. He can’t exactly feel his face.
“Yeah,” Steve replies. His cheeks have gone all rosy and it's beautiful. “Because you’re you and I’m me. And I’d really like to get to know you better.”
“Okay,” Eddie squeaks. The same feeling from the first day he wandered in here has returned; the feel of this Michaels Arts & Crafts Store being an entirely different alternate dimension that Eddie had unwittingly walked into. Never in a million years did he think Steve Harrington would ever willingly agree to go on a date with him.
“Cool,” Steve says. “Wanna get dinner or something? Benny’s has the best shakes.”
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Yes, that sounds good. To me.”
“Cool. Um, I’ll have to check my work schedule and make sure the little assholes don’t have anything planned this weekend, but, uh, maybe you can text me?” He pulls a sharpie out of his apron pocket, and then another coupon upon which he scribbles out his phone number. “And we can work out the details.”
“Cool,” Eddie echoes, struck dumb.
The loudspeaker crackles to life and someone says something utterly unintelligible, and Eddie’s still reeling from the fact that he has a tentative honest-to-God date planned with Steve. So when Steve sighs, “I better go help with that,” Eddie’s not entirely sure what that is. He just nods.
“Uh, yeah, yeah, go help with—that,” he says. “Um, I’ll text you.”
“Text me,” Steve repeats. He smiles and it sucks the breath straight out of Eddie’s lungs. He’s backing away incredibly slowly. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Yeah,” Eddie answers, his voice cracking, and Steve disappears with a muffled laugh that Eddie definitely does not think about the entire time he’s checking out.
A day later, Eddie is leaving Melvald’s with a plastic bag full of deodorant and a six pack of PBR for Wayne when he catches sight of Steve in the parking lot of Main Street’s old deteriorating movie theater. Only Steve’s not alone: propped up against the side of a brand spanking new Mercedes is Tommy Hagan, looking like he wants to devour Steve alive.
Tommy’s got on this preppy fucking outfit, kinda like the clothes Steve used to wear in sophomore year, a collared shirt from Ralph Lauren and unstained, tight-fitted blue jeans. His hair is all coiffed and styled and somehow artfully messy at the same time. He must be back for fall break from whatever college he goes to because Eddie hasn’t seen him in months and had practically almost forgotten about his existence. He almost certainly goes to some fancy school, and Eddie imagines that he’s in a frat, with a couple different scholarships because he’s a legacy or whatever, even though his parents could probably pay off his tuition in full if they wanted to. He looks like he reeks of overly expensive cologne, and he has this awful crooked grin on his face, at odds with literally everything else about his appearance, and he reaches over to brush a hand along the length of Steve’s arm. Steve doesn’t visibly react.
He doesn’t pull away, is the thing.
Tommy Hagan’s hands are probably soft, Eddie thinks. Not at all fucked up. Nice to hold.
Something huge and ugly and overpowering surges in Eddie’s chest and he wants to hide away at Skull Rock and scream across the surface of Lover’s Lake, the sound rippling and disappearing before it can reach the other side. He wants to march up to Steve and shield him from Tommy’s predatory gaze, kind of wants to punch Tommy in his dumb freckle-y face just to feel something, he wants to remove himself from the memory of everyone in this town and disappear to go live in Sweden, or something, where the locals are nice and gay-friendly and happy all the time and he doesn’t have to feel heartbreak like this.
Because who was Eddie kidding? He never should have dared to hope.
Instead of doing any of this, he turns and walks away instead. He walks all the way to his trailer even though it’s a couple of miles there and back and he had initially driven to Melvald’s. He leaves his van in the strip mall parking lot. He’ll pick it up tomorrow when he feels a little less hopeless about this whole thing.
Eddie doesn’t blow Steve Harrington off. It’s not like that, and it was never like that, and it will never be like that. He just doesn’t return to Michaels to confirm the details of their date. And he doesn’t text him either. And when he does happen to glimpse a head of glorious brown locks or the familiar pattern of a thrifted sweater, he turns tail and sprints thoughtlessly in the opposite direction. In fact, the next time he sees Steve, it’s because he marches into Thatcher Tire with a fire in his eyes and thunder in his steps. Eddie ducks behind the counter as soon as he catches sight of the dusty red BMW pulling into the parking lot to avoid this inevitable painful confrontation.
Bob Thatcher squints. “The hell are you doing, boy?”
“Hiding,” Eddie hisses. He hears a car door slam and clasps his hands together beneath his chin. “Please, Bob, if you ever loved me or thought that I was a somewhat decent employee, or hell, if you ever thought of me as the fuck-up pseudo-son that you never had, you will not tell Steve that I am here.”
“Is Steve the fella with the fancy hair marching over here right now?”
“Yes!”
Bob grunts. The bell above the door tinkles. Bob looks down at him, and then looks at what Eddie knows to be the sight of Steve stanced up in the doorway, and says, “Hello. You looking for Eddie?” The traitor.
“How’d you know?” Steve’s voice sounds as he strides up to the desk. Eddie tries to calm his breathing.
“Just an educated guess,” Bob says. Then, after a brief moment of hesitation, “He’s not in right now, but I can take a message.”
God, Eddie could kiss the man right now.
There’s a prolonged moment of silence where Bob is staring at Steve and Steve is clearly staring back and Steve must know that Eddie is hiding right behind the counter because he’s a huge fucking coward, but he doesn’t say anything to that effect, doesn’t accuse Bob of lying. He sighs and the sound kind of breaks Eddie’s heart. “It’s just… Whatever. Tell him that Steve will be at Michaels Tuesday through Saturday working the afternoon shift, if he’d like to come talk.” The sound of footsteps, and the door swinging open, and then Steve says, from the doorway, “We were supposed to have a date.”
The door slams shut and Bob doesn’t say anything for about two full moments. At this point Eddie has melted into a pool of shame and anguish on the dirty linoleum floor.
“You sure know how to pick ‘em,” Bob eventually proclaims. “You better get this all sorted out with this Steve fella, because I never want to see him angry marching back into my shop again. Christ. Thought he was lookin’ for a fight.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Eddie mutters miserably, hiding his face in his palms. “Jesus, what am I doing?”
Bob just looks at him. “You know, Ed, for someone so smart, you sure can be a hell of a dumbass sometimes.”
Eddie sputters. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Bob rolls his eyes and turns around to go to his office toward the back of the shop. “If you don’t get it now, I’m not sure you ever will, kid.”
Big words coming from a man who avoids the general public by hiding in his office and communicates with Wayne through a series of grunts and shrugs. Apparently he can read Steve better than Eddie can. Which kind of sucks. Everything kind of sucks. Eddie spends the rest of his shift miserable, moping and ignoring the pointed looks that Bob and the rest of the staff have begun to send his way.
Dustin Henderson and Erica Sinclair corner him before the sixth GSA meeting of the year officially starts, which is ridiculous because Dustin really only goes to GSA to support the rest of his baby gay friends and Erica is still in middle school, which isn’t technically even out yet. She should be in seventh period algebra or something, not standing menacingly in the doorway of the Hawkins High art room armed with nothing but a pink unicorn backpack slung on one shoulder.
“Munson,” Erica says coldly as she strides forward, Dustin not far behind, and she’s so fucking tiny but when she means business, she means business so he just kind of freezes up, looks down at her and blinks. She’s got some pretty yellow beads braided into her hair and overalls in the same color. Her cutesy aesthetic does not match the unimpressed look on her face.
“Yes?”
“What did you do to Steve?” she asks bluntly.
Of course she’s one of Steve's kids. Of course. “What?”
Dustin steps forward. Claps a hand on Eddie’s arm. “Listen, Eddie, you know how much I respect you, right? As your close friend and protegé.”
“Uh. Sure?”
“So you should know that Steve will always be number one priority,” Dustin says. “And even though you’re my friend and I love you, Steve’s been in my life way longer. He’s the older sibling that I’ve never had. Which takes precedence.”
“Okay?”
“So I have to say that if you break his heart any further I’ll—well, I won’t kill you, obviously, but there will be some serious violence,” he says cheerily.
“Maiming,” Erica adds. “Torture, if you will.”
“What,” Eddie repeats.
“Steve is kind of a dumbass but we have formed a sisterhood over this past summer, and he owes me ice cream for life and all of the coupons he can give me on paint at Michaels and you’re screwing it all up for everyone because sad Steve doesn’t go to work or give me ice cream,” Erica explains, surprisingly patient, considering how done she looks with Eddie’s existence in general. “So man up and go on a date with him, you coward.”
She then turns and stomps out the door in her light-up Sketchers. So. That was a thing that happened.
“She’s right,” Dustin says, albeit more gently than her. “Steve is sad and he doesn’t understand what he did wrong. He really likes you, man, and if you get together then this could be great, because then it’d be like my two favorite people in the world are dating but you can’t date if you don’t talk to him.”
“That is how dating works,” Eddie surmises, and Dustin rolls his eyes.
“Just stop avoiding him. I know you’re braver than that,” he says. “I know you’re better than that.” And then he goes to join Will and Max in setting up the projector, leaving Eddie by himself over by the doorway, emotionally winded and with an ego even more bruised than before. These fucking kids.
Somewhere along the line Eddie recognizes that he fucked up big time.
He’s kind of used to screwing himself over, is the thing: he’s failed senior year twice and deals drugs on the down-low and has gotten into trouble with local law enforcement on more than enough occasions to realize that. He’s awkward with people and disguises it by making a lot of noise and standing on tables and making it seem like it was always his intention to stand out, because it’s better to stand out on purpose than for people to slowly realize that he is unintentionally a huge fucking weirdo. He never dates because he’s afraid of someone being with him, eventually seeing how crazy and awkward and generally pathetic he is, and then choosing someone better. He’s always, always afraid of not being enough.
Seeing Steve with Tommy brought back that horrible doubt, which subsequently triggered his fight or flight. And Eddie never fights. So he left. Without even giving Steve an explanation for it, which is the epitome of a dick move. Eddie, at the very least, owes him an explanation. And if he can get Steve to forgive him, then they can pretend like none of this ever happened, which would be ideal. He’d have to start going to Hobby Lobby again to shoplift all of their supplies because there’s no way in hell he’s giving them any of his money. Even still, that would be better than returning to Michaels after all is said and done, and seeing Steve reverting back to the way things were a few years ago by acting like Eddie doesn’t even exist.
It would hurt way too much.
It’s Saturday morning of the following week when Eddie bucks up and drives over to the Michaels Arts & Crafts Store. He knows Robin is eyeing him suspiciously from the register upon his entrance and doesn’t spare her a glance. She undoubtedly has words for him but it’s nothing he hasn’t already heard or told himself. He’s single-minded in his mission, determined to apologize and grovel to Steve and then hide away in the trailer for the next week or so in a puddle of his own shame and grief.
He finds Steve in the yarn aisle—of course he does—restocking the needles. He’s wearing a rugby shirt with pink and yellow stripes and his apron is tied haphazardly around his waist, like he’d been rushed in getting ready for his shift. His hair is loose, no product, and it falls into his eyes. He looks sad. Which makes Eddie feel a lot worse about this whole thing, actually, if it were even possible.
Eddie stares at him, steels himself one last time and then says “Hi,” like a complete and total asshole. Like a jackass, really. If he could, he would run himself over with his own car. Maybe he could get Max to do it; according to Dustin, she apparently has no qualms driving cars that do not belong to her while in possession of exactly zero learners permits or licenses.
Steve looks over at him. He’s got that face he used to have on all the time in high school: imperious, holier-than-thou, bitchy to the nth degree. God, Eddie likes him so, so much.
“Hello,” Steve says. Not coldly, but there’s no trace of any of the previous warmth and familiarity he’d had when talking to Eddie. It stings, a little. Emphasizes even further what an idiot Eddie had been. “Can I help you find anything?”
“No,” Eddie says too quickly. Then, “Well, maybe, yes. I was looking for you.”
“Oh, so now you wanna talk to me?” Steve turns fully to Eddie, crosses his arms over his chest. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows and his forearms are gloriously defined, beautifully tanned, and Eddie wants to bite him, but this is not an acceptable thought to have, especially about a guy that Eddie had just royally fucked over. “Why?”
“Well, I wanted to apologize.”
“Because you completely ignored me for the past week and then hid behind the counter at Thatcher Tire when I came in?”
Eddie cringes. “Uh. Yes. For that. It wasn’t very mature of me, I’ll admit. I’m sorry.” He pauses, lets out a careful breath, and says, “I’m really sorry, Steve. I know I hurt you and I’m sorry.”
He must sound pathetically genuine enough, because Steve drops the standoffish attitude and posture and now he’s just peering at Eddie, brows furrowed, like Eddie’s a puzzle missing a piece that he just can’t find.
“I don’t get you,” Steve says.
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“No, I just mean that—nobody’s ever blown me off like that. When I ask people on dates, or they ask me, I’m never stood up or—or ghosted. That was the first time. And I was surprised,” Steve pauses. “Because I thought maybe you wanted to go on a date with me, and that you were the first person to want that just because I’m… me, and not this other version of me that people make up in their heads.”
“I did,” Eddie rushes, taking a step forward. Steve doesn’t move. “I do. But come on, Steve. I’m not like the people you’ve dated in the past. I’m not like you. I can’t wine and dine you at Enzo’s and buy you nice things. I can’t even manage to graduate, let alone get into college. I don’t have nice hands.” He holds up his hand, which is trembling a little, so he shoves it right back into his jacket pocket. “I’m kind of a huge fuck-up. And I just think that you’re very much out of my league, and you’re nice and funny and a little bit mean and you adopted an entire legion of children who all want to murder me because I made you a little bit sad. And all of that is amazing. And I just—how the hell am I even supposed to stand a chance against fucking Tommy Hagan? He goes to college! He drives a Benz!”
Steve stares at him for a moment, the confused look only deepening. “Tommy? Who said anything about Tommy?”
“I saw you in the parking lot of the Hawk, the other night,” Eddie says, only a little bit sheepish. “He just looked, y’know, very much into you, and he can probably give you things that I can’t. A lot of the things that you deserve, for sure.”
Steve stares again for another prolonged moment before he bursts into laughter. Eddie rears back, shocked; Steve clamps his hand over his mouth like he’s trying to suppress the sound but it leaks out between his fingers. Jesus, even the way he laughs is amazing. All snorting and gasping for breath. Eddie wants to bottle it up and open it on his worst days just to make everything a little more bearable.
“Tommy is an asshole,” Steve says emphatically. He stands up straight, wipes at his eyes. “I’ve moved on from our high school glory days but he hasn’t.” He spits the words glory days like they personally offend him. “He wants to go back to the way things were in sophomore year, when we were both major dicks. Hang out and terrorize people for the hell of it. I told him that wasn’t a possibility. He got pissed and drove off. Haven’t seen him since.”
“Oh,” Eddie says, suddenly feeling very, very stupid. “Oh.”
Steve looks at him closely. “I don’t like him, Eddie. And I don’t like the person I was when I was with him. I’m not like that anymore, you know? Not saying that I wasn’t an asshole back then and I’m not still making up for it, but I just need you to know that—well, my parents cut me off and kicked me out and I’m living in a shithole apartment right now with Robin that our paycheck barely covers. I didn’t get into any colleges, either. Almost didn’t graduate. And my hands are not nice.” He holds up his own hand and Eddie stares. Where before, he’d imagined Steve’s hands were soft and warm and gentle, he can see now that they’re just as calloused, if not more, than Eddie’s. His fingers are a little crooked and he has a scar running up his palm. His hands are beautiful, Eddie thinks, but not because they’re perfect; because they aren’t.
Eddie realizes he may have romanticized this whole situation, idealizing Steve just a little bit when the start of this whole thing began, that fateful Sunday a few weeks ago. Steve isn’t what he’d imagined him to be the entirety of his high school experience. He’s awkward, incredibly charming, cutting when he needs to be, kind when he doesn’t. He does have the most impressive hair in all of the midwest, sure. At the same time, his teeth are maybe a little crooked and his nose definitely is, and he has this braying laugh that he dilutes into giggles smothered behind his hand when he can get away with it. His taste in clothing is a mystery and so is the intense friendship that he has with the dorky lesbian at the register but Eddie won’t question it. All he wants to do is hold Steve’s scarred, calloused, rough hand in his and soak in all the ways that he is beautiful and all the ways he wants to love him.
Steve is saying, “We’re not so different, okay? I think I’m more different than Tommy at this point than you.”
“Oh,” Eddie repeats. He feels like a huge dickhead. A coward. Even more of a fuckup than usual, which is saying a lot. The plan to move to Sweden is sounding more and more appealing by the minute but Sweden doesn’t have Steve Harrington subverting every one of Eddie’s expectations, so he supposes he’ll have to reevaluate. Even if Steve deigns to never talk to him again. “I’m sorry. I… was a huge idiot. I made some baseless assumptions and then got all sad about them even though they weren’t true.”
“It’s okay,” Steve says gently. “I like you, Eddie. I like that you’re so serious about this. I don’t know. You’re different from anyone else who’s ever been interested in me. I like that.”
“Oh,” Eddie says again. Where his extensive DM vocabulary has disappeared to, he has no idea. But the feeling of hope is rising rapidly within his chest, so he can’t think all that clearly, to be honest. “So, even though I kind of fucked everything up an insane amount—like, majorly, irrevocably, indefensibly—would you maybe still be interested in, y’know—“
“Yeah, Eddie, I’d still like to go out with you,” Steve says softly, shaking his head, although his cheeks are rosy again. “You just actually have to show up, this time. And not ignore me ever again. Also, you’re paying for dinner.”
“Yes,” Eddie says. “Yes to all of those things, obviously. I’ll never let you down again. If I do, you can shove my head in a toilet and flush.”
“I’m not going to give you a swirlie,” Steve says, rolling his eyes, but his lips are pulling up into a grin. He’s shuffled a little closer and he smells like Halloween, like pumpkins and cider and vanilla chai, like all of the most beautiful things in autumn.
“Then I swear on mine honor, Steve of House Harrington, I will never ghost you again, so long as I live,” Eddie proclaims loudly, kneeling on the dirty linoleum floor in the middle of the Michaels. He takes Steve’s hands in his own, cups them gently, which Steve only looks mildly mortified about. The old lady perusing the cross-stitch kits in the same aisle does not spare them a second glance. “From this moment onward I will treat you with the utmost kindness, sincerity, and gentleness. I will pay attention to you endlessly, answer your texts at all hours of the day and night, worship at the altar of your grace, your ceaseless charm and unrelenting beauty—“
“Stop,” Steve says, although he doesn’t actually do shit to stop Eddie so he figures it’s performative. In fact, he appears to glow under the attention, his cheeks blooming from pink into a beautiful red. Eddie leans down to kiss his ring finger right above the knuckle and Steve lets out a noise that Eddie won’t ever forget.
“Please do not stop,” someone says from further down the aisle, and both Steve and Eddie turn to see Robin standing there with her phone out, apparently filming everything. “This will be, like, prime blackmail material for years. I really hope it works out for you two because then I can play this at the wedding, and Steve will be, like, so embarrassed about it—”
“Robin—you asshole—” Steve tears down the aisle after Robin, who shrieks and takes off as well, and the sounds of them chasing each other echo throughout the store but it’s still early enough on a Saturday so nobody’s around to really complain about the lack of professionalism coming from the two associates currently on duty. Besides cross-stitch lady who still doesn’t seem to give a shit.
“I have a date with the hottest person in town,” Eddie tells her proudly.
“That’s nice, dear,” she says without even looking at him, clearly uninterested. “Do you happen to know where they keep the embroidery needles?”
“Wow,” Jeff says, eyebrows raised, impressed. “Good for you, Eddie.”
“And they said it couldn’t be done,” Freak says, reaching over to fist bump him.
“Who said that?” Jeff asks.
“And we’re just supposed to believe that you’re dating the Steve Harrington without any hard proof to back it up?” Gareth asks dubiously.
“Ah, nevermind,” Jeff mutters.
“It’s true,” Dustin says as he packs up his stuff into a backpack that shouldn’t be able to hold as much stuff as it does. He’s got, like, three textbooks in there for his AP classes. The chances of him developing acute scoliosis are high. “They’ve gone on three dates already.”
Mike’s nose is screwing up as he tucks his hair into his green beanie. “Yeah. Unfortunately. They’re, like, really gross about it. I catch them making out all the time.”
“C’mon, man, it’s not gross,” Lucas says, pulling on a jean jacket.
“Yeah,” Will adds, already standing up with his backpack on, looking a little dreamy about this whole thing. “They’re cute.”
Erica, who had at some point materialized at their club meeting and proceedingly phased her level fourteen half-elf rogue into their campaign without Eddie’s knowledge but reluctant approval, says, “Just remember what I said about bodily harm, Munson.”
“And maiming,” Dustin chimes in.
“Yeah, maiming. Thank you, Dustin. Serious maiming.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie says, waving them off. “If I ever hurt Steve again you have my full and enthusiastic permission to maim me in whatever ways you see fit.”
Before Dustin and Erica get into all of the ways they might do so, Eddie is saved by the bell, for the aforementioned Steve Harrington himself comes striding into the room. His sweater is an ombre pastel rainbow, and he does this cute thing with his white high-top Chucks where he wraps the laces around his ankle a couple of times before tying them into the world’s most perfect bow. It's ridiculously endearing, just another thing to add onto the list of things Eddie loves about him.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been to this side of the building,” he’s saying, peering around in an adorable combination of awe and trepidation. “What room is this? Does anyone even know you guys are down here?”
“We are currently in the abandoned drama room that is now being used to store props, under the watchful supervision of our patron saint Mrs. Hatch, who left approximately—“ Eddie checks his watch, “Three hours ago.” He stands up and crosses the room to greet Steve with a gentle kiss to his cheek. And then one to his forehead and then to the tip of his nose, for good measure. “Hello, darling angel light of my life.”
Steve rolls his eyes, as he is wont to do, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, hey, Eddie. How was your Dorks and Dumbasses session?”
“You know that’s not what it’s called,” Mike says with a practiced scowl that is reserved just for Steve. “Is your car running?”
Steve tosses the keys to him, which he fumbles to catch. The rest of the kids are looking back and forth between Steve and Mike incredulously.
“You’re giving me your keys?” he asks, face blank.
“No way you’re giving Mike your keys before me,” Dustin protests. “You said I’d be the first one to drive your car!”
Steve is rolling his eyes. “I’m just giving him the keys to turn it on. If I’m driving all of you home tonight, then you pipsqueaks better figure out how to arrange yourselves in the back, because Eddie is riding shotgun.”
They all groan, and then Dustin takes off towards the door with no warning, which spurs the rest of them into an impromptu race and soon enough they’ve all disappeared through the drama room door with Erica trailing leisurely behind.
“Are you ready to go?” Steve asks, clasping Eddie’s hand in his own.
“Almost, sweet thing. Gotta pack up my stuff,” he says, and turns back to do just that only to see the rest of the guys just sitting there watching them. Jeff looks impressed, Freak looks approving, and Gareth looks—well, it’s hard to describe. Like he just sucked on a lemon, maybe, and is also trying very hard not to spontaneously combust.
Eddie grins. “Oh, you haven’t officially met the guys yet. Guys, this is Steve. Steve, this is Jeff, Freak, and Gareth. The original members of Hellfire and also Corroded Coffin.”
Steve waves. “Hey. Eddie’s always talking about you guys. I’ll have to see you play sometime.”
“Dungeons and Dragons?” Gareth asks very dumbly, voice cracking a little, and Jeff and Freak snicker and elbow him. Eddie rolls his eyes.
“Oh, no, I meant your band,” Steve laughs, and Gareth turns red and sinks into his chair. “I wouldn’t really watch you guys play D&D.”
“Right,” Gareth nods. "Of course you wouldn't."
“I’d probably join,” Steve says thoughtfully. “Do you have a barbarian already?"
Silence, and Eddie gets to watch as they all absorb the fact that Steve Harrington would willingly participate in a tabletop roleplaying game. It's a lot; the first time Eddie realized that Steve had actually played D&D before, he'd been absolutely incorrigible about it.
“Steve Harrington plays D&D?” Jeff crows delightedly.
“A barbarian?” Freak repeats.
Steve just shrugs. “Occasionally, and only because Dustin made me a character sheet. And yeah, I’m an elf barbarian with an enchanted club? It’s fun when the kids aren't being little assholes about it. I can't really keep up with the whole magic part—like when Will the Wise starts using spells and shit? You’ve lost me. But going into rages is fun.”
“Spoken like a true barbarian,” Eddie muses, as he packs up the last of his things. “You should join us sometime. Really.”
“Yeah,” Jeff says, a little too eager for Eddie's taste. “Join us.”
Steve nods. “Maybe, if I’m not working. Next time I’ll definitely bring snacks, though. You guys like brownies?”
“Everyone likes brownies,” Eddie huffs.
Freak leans over to Eddie and stage-whispers, “Please marry Steve Harrington.”
“Man, shut up,” Eddie says, laughing as he shoves Freak’s shoulder. “Alright, my love, apple of my eye and keeper of my heart, let's get going.”
“It was nice to meet you all,” Steve says as he takes Eddie’s hand again, and smiles at the chorus of affirmations he receives in response, Eddie dragging him away. They start walking towards the door.
“Which child do you think is currently sitting shotgun?” Steve muses aloud.
“Doesn't matter. I’m kicking them out regardless. Unless it’s Erica. I have found her to be a formidable foe and she is immune to all of my intimidation tactics. You know she threatened me with bodily harm when she found out I made you sad? Dustin, too.”
Steve looks way too pleased about this. “Good. I’ve taught them well.”
Eddie looks over his shoulder to the guys, who are still watching them like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. Gareth looks an absolutely hilarious combination of cowed, embarrassed, and into Steve. It’s a shame, really, because Gareth was wrong, as it turns out, and Steve is actually super into people of the loser variety. Unfortunately for him, Eddie doesn’t really plan on letting Steve go any time soon.
“Bye, you heathens. See you tomorrow for band practice," Eddie calls, and they all chime their goodbyes and as soon as they’re out the door, Eddie takes Steve’s chin in hand and kisses him soundly on the mouth.
Steve doesn't even hesitate in kissing him back.
“What was that for?” he asks after Eddie pulls away, a small smile growing on his face, eyebrows raised and cheeks flushed the most beautiful pink in the world.
Eddie shrugs, tucks his hand into the back pocket of Steve’s loose jeans, and starts walking again. They make their way toward the doors that lead out into the parking lot and into the crisp autumn air, the sound of the kids squabbling over who sits where filtering inside easily, echoing all throughout the dim high school hallway.
“No reason, sweetheart," he says. "Just because I can.”