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Eddie Munson has never been good with authority figures. Didn’t listen when his teachers told him to sit still, lit up for the first time after Nancy Raegan told the country to just say no, got his first ticket for j-walking in front of a cop (and then flipping him the bird, but, semantics).
That’s all to say, Eddie does not do well with following directions. Especially when those directions do not align with doing whatever he fancies.
If Eddie really wanted to psychoanalyze, go all armchair psychologist, he’d blame it on his years in foster care. The years before he was finally placed with Wayne. All the days and weeks and months of… not having control over anything. Not where he’d be spending the night or what belongings he could keep. Not if he could visit his dad or stay in his same school, not what he could eat for dinner or what clothes he could wear.
So moving in with Wayne meant freedom. Meant control. Meant sleeping in the same bed every night and owning enough to have bookshelves and dressers and closets to fill, meant going to the same shitty school everyday. Meant growing out all his hair and chopping in layers. Meant getting tattoos and listening to music and donning clothes that made mothers call him devil worshipper. Because he could.
But it all, apparently, might be end up being what sends Steve Harrington into an early grave.
“Hey!” Steve’s voice is sharp, and Eddie retracts his arm like he’s been burned, his smile already growing sheepish, “don’t do that.” Steve attempts to nudge him out of the way, to go for the box Eddie’d been hellbent on carrying himself, his box of meticulously painted miniatures, his hours of pain-staking labor, all carefully packed away into this box of cardboard and bubblewrap, “you’ll hurt yourself.” But Eddie doesn’t budge. He tightens his grip and lifts, the stitches in his side pulling, and ducks from Steve’s grasp. It’s not that heavy, and he sort of doesn’t want anyone carrying it but him. Knows Steve would be careful. Knows it, but it still feels… safer with him.
This time Steve just glowers. Puts his hands on his hips in that way he does with the kids when they’re being especially obstinate, and glowers some more.
“I’m fine, Stevie,” he promises, because yeah, his stitches pull, don’t feel great with the weight his arms are carrying, but what doesn’t make him hurt, nowadays? Might as well make sure that the few precious belongings he’s been able to salvage from their absolute wreck of a home make it safe and sound to their new place.
Even though he’s been avoiding all of this for as long as he could. Avoiding going to the trailer and seeing… all of it. Sorting through what remains. He doesn’t want to be here. Which is the first time he’s ever not wanted to be here. Be in the home he’d loved. And yeah, the people make the home, and all that garbage, but within these now-crumbling walls was the first time he’d ever learned the difference between a house and a home, and seeing it all like this is quickly becoming more than he can stomach.
Eddie nods towards the heavier box, the one filled with the only mugs and plates and bowls that hadn’t been smashed to smithereens. “I’ll even let you carry the heavy one,” Eddie offers, readjusting his grip.
Steve doesn’t look happy about it. Must sense something in Eddie tone, though, because all he does is grumble about it, say something under his breath that Eddie doesn’t catch, and picks up the box.
There’s hardly anything left. Wayne had gotten most of it, just left Eddie’s room as-is, let it alone so Eddie could go through it himself. Because he’d known Eddie’d want to.
It takes two more trips, and Steve glowers at him through it all. Frowns as Eddie carries his miniatures, his armful of books, and then his amp down the short flight of steps, like he’s assessing, like he’s about to wield the goddamn Force to stop Eddie in his tracks.
He doesn’t, of course. And Eddie doesn’t look back when they’re done. Just climbs into Steve’s passenger seat and sorts through his cassettes, as if he doesn’t know each and every one by heart, stares at The Joshua Tree like he’s seeing it for the first time in his goddamn life.
He tries to ignore the way Steve hovers, but he watches from the corner of his eye as Steve stands at the driver’s door, doing god knows what, before, finally, sliding behind the wheel.
Steve drives them back to the Harrington’s. Which is Eddie’s temporary hole-up until Wayne finds them a new place, Steve’s fingers drumming on the steering wheel the way they always do when he’s thinking too hard.
Eddie doesn’t say anything. Keeps his trap shut for the first time in his godforsaken life during their short drive, lets his cloudy thoughts swirl and his anxiety fester, lets his irritation grow and build because:
It has all made him feel so damn powerless.
He still says nothing when they get to Steve’s. Carries in the first two boxes even though his legs are shaking with the exertion of it, his hands going clammy around the handles. He just needs to bring his amp in. Bring it in, and he can bury himself in Steve’s unfairly comfortable guest bed, sleep off the ache in his legs and the pain in his sides and his frustration with having to feel any of it.
He passes Steve on the front steps. Nearly fucking glares back when he sees Steve watching him, eyes trained on him like he’s staring Eddie down for hurts that don’t—
“You’re bleeding.” Steve’s hands circle him. One on his side, the other going to the hand holding his amp, and Eddie looks down to see faint speckles of blood leaching through his shirt. “Eddie. Give this to me right now.”
Eddie’s about to bite back. About to let his irritation with the entire day bubble over, about to take it out on the person that’s always patient with him, has been by his side through it all, before he sees Steve’s face.
And Steve’s staring at the freckles of blood on Eddie’s shirt like they’re life-threatening, eyes wide, jaw set like—like he’s forgotten where they are.
And so Eddie lets Steve take the amp. Lets Steve set it down and press his hand to Eddie’s back. Lets him guide him into the bathroom and seat him on the closed toilet. Watches as Steve pulls out the first aid kit and pulls out the alcohol and bandages and gauze for a couple little specks of blood. Because Steve needs him to.
“I told you not to.” Steve murmurs, but it sounds more like an assurance to himself than a reprimand, his hands coming to the hem of Eddie’s shirt.
Again Eddie lets him. And chest bare he stares down at Steve’s sure movements, at his large hands and steady fingers as they clean away the drops of blood, as they press unnecessary bandages across the healing wound, his jaw set and gaze stern like doing this will fix it all.
And then Steve’s hands pause there. Just hold the bandage on Eddie’s mangled torso like the his touch alone will be what keeps him all together.
Like it did before.
“I’m okay, Stevie.” He murmurs, and, without second-thought, brings his hand to cover Steve’s. His palm is cooler. Smaller, too. And his touch finally gets Steve to look at him properly, tear his gaze away from the bandage and up to Eddie’s eyes.
Eddie’s looking down at him, like this. Steve on his knees in front of him, and Eddie notices, then, how close they are. Can see the summer-time freckles across Steve’s nose. The hair coming in on his upper lip and the fanning of his eyelashes, and it’s not the first time Eddie’s thought about kissing him. Not the tenth or the twentieth or the thirtieth, but it is the first time he’s thought Steve might be thinking the same.
Steve’s gaze softens. Loses the hard, concerned edge, and Eddie watches as he inhales. As his shoulders drop. His touch still on Eddie’s side.
“I’m sorry.” Eddie whispers. And he’s not sorry for his own blood, or the stain he’s gotten on his ratty old shirt, but he will never not be sorry for causing Steve to hurt. For being the reason those brows crease in concern, for bringing him back to the days they all try so hard to put behind them. “I should’ve listened to you.”
Steve grins. It’s weak, a little shaky, but it’s there. It’s back, despite Eddie’s shit. “Should’ve listened to me,” Steve repeats, around a huff of laughter, “sure I don’t need to check for a concussion, too?” Steve’s head dips. Cocks to the side so their faces are even closer, his smile finally steadying. And there’s never been a time Eddie’s been able to resist matching Steve’s smile, been able to hold back his own grin at the mere sight of Steve’s, like the goddamn sun shines from the parting of those lips, like flowers could bloom in the lines of his face.
Eddie drops his head to match. Watches Steve’s bright eyes in the harsh light of his bathroom, watches as his gaze dips down to his lips, and hopes, prays, he’s not misreading this. That he’s correctly reading the signs of this territory he has yet to tread on, and tips his head closer.
Their noses brush. He can feel the exhale of Steve’s breath. The tremble of his hands as he squeezes Eddie’s tight, the sound of his swallow and the sight of his fluttering eyes, before Steve closes the distance between them.
His lips are soft. The motion tender as his mouth presses against Eddie’s and moves, and very suddenly and very stupidly Eddie realizes he has no idea what he’s doing. Has no idea why he thought he could kiss Steve Harrington and be able to play it off like he knows exactly what he’s doing, because Steve’s mouth opens, his tongue runs across the seam of Eddie’s lips and Eddie doesn’t know what he’s doing. What does your tongue do inside someone else’s mouth?
Joust?
“Eddie.” Steve whispers his name so close he can feel the way his mouth forms the word, another kiss all its own.
He swallows. Squeezes Steve’s hand even tighter, palms still pressed against Eddie’s middle. “Sorry,” he whispers, because talking too loudly feels wrong, feels like it would shake whatever foundation they’re standing on, “that was my first kiss.”
Steve hand shifts in his. Rotates so their palms are pressed flush. “D’you want your second?”