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When it comes to touch, Steve Harrington is a greedy bastard.
His whole life, it’s been the point around which he pivots– dancing in circles around the brush of his knuckles when passing a joint, the slide of lipgloss plump lips against his own, the bite of a fist connecting with his jaw. Steve has learned when to give, when to take, how to maneuver a feeling so large in his chest it threatens to crack his ribs. All so he can touch.
It’s hard– especially when he feels so much love for the people around him. He wants to show them how much he cares, but last time he tried, cupping Nancy’s face in the grimy bathroom at an imbecilic party, he was called bullshit. He was torn down for everything he was trying to be. Supportive. Fun. Strong. Whittled down to bullshit.
Add in a couple brushes with death, and everything shifted.
So instead he’s started shoving his hands underneath his thighs, digging his nails into his palms, and folding his arms over his chest.
Touch isn’t easy for him anymore. It never really was, but at least he had some control over it. Now, he takes what he can of it, and nothing more. Doesn’t want to mess up what little touch he already gets. It’s pathetic, really.
But it works.
It works because Robin throws a playful arm over his shoulders when she goads him, it works because Dustin pretends to punch him and yet presses against Steve’s side when they sit together, because Eddie isn’t scared to clap him on the shoulder anymore, because Max asks him to braid her hair.
And who is Steve to deny what works?
So he keeps shoving his hands under his thighs and holding his breath.
“Henderson! Watch the lamp!”
Dustin doesn’t even spare Steve a glance, cackling as he rounds another corner, Mike hot on his trail.
Steve rolls his eyes and tries to sink back into the couch, but his eyes keep tracking Dustin as he sprints around the small space, making sure the kid doesn’t break anything important. The Wheeler’s basement is not exactly ideal for sprinting, and Steve will be damned if he lets something happen to Karen’s furnishings.
Eddie hums contently to his right, stretched out on the seat with his arms draped over the back of the couch. His left hand is very close to Steve’s shoulder. He fights not to lean into it. Robin is splayed out on his left, using Steve’s arm as a backrest where she’s painting her toenails. And Steve, well, Steve’s basking in being this close to the two of them.
It’s not very often that the entire group can get together like this, much less often that they are all civil enough to maintain it for more than an hour. But the girls are on the floor making bracelets, and the boys– sans Mike and Dustin– are sitting in a circle griping about who knows what math test, and no one is trying to kill anyone. Yet.
Robin is talking about something or another (Steve’s leaving the polite nodding to Eddie) and Steve finds himself wanting to stay here forever, in this bubble of connection.
But then his arm starts cramping.
He winces, trying not to budge, but the pain creeps up his arm in such a fit of spasms that he has to move, shifting just slightly to the right.
Immediately, Robin sends a glance over her shoulder at him, registers his face, and then promptly moves off of him. Shit.
Steve mourns the contact.
The warmth fades with her, and his nails curl into his palms like he can keep it there. But he doesn’t shift closer to her. He stays carefully confined to one seat cushion, pressed into the fabric like he can hide from the world inside of it.
“And on top of that, I told her about 3 times that you have to be 17 to rent an R rated movie,” Robin continues, “But she just kept picking out more– like if the stack was high enough I’d say yes.”
Eddie laughs, low and heady, “Jesus, Buckley, you’ve gotta learn to put your foot down quicker.”
Steve’s arm is cold now. He wraps his arms around his middle as if that will help.
“Longest argument of my life,” Robin sighs.
Steve quickly throws on a cocky grin, trying to act normal, “No, that was when you tried to convince me that E.T. was better than Animal House.”
“That’s because it is,” she exclaims, “It’s a beautiful story about friendship, empathy, and love! How can you not like love, Steve?”
Steve rolls his eyes, realizing he set loose a beast, and readying himself for another hour-long lecture on the importance of the moment Elliot decides to hide E.T. from his parents. With an exasperated groan, he lets his head fall back onto the backrest of the couch.
Where Eddie’s hand is still resting.
The moment he feels his head make contact with Eddie’s fingers, he sucks in a breath, stomach twisting uncomfortably. He expects Eddie to jerk away, to rip his hand out from under Steve’s head like the others have always done, but instead, he starts playing with his hair.
His fingers slip closer, running through the strands, and scratch bluntly at his scalp.
Steve melts.
His body goes lax, fists unfurling and stomach fluttering. Robin is still ranting, but Steve tunes out almost immediately, even when Eddie himself joins in. The only thing he can focus on is the feeling of calloused fingers caressing his hair.
This isn’t something they’ve done before– it’s always been pats on the back, or quick side hugs, never anything like this. Lasting. Gentle. Loving.
What shocks him the most is how easily Eddie does it. Like it’s absentminded, a byproduct of being preoccupied with conversation.
And it’s no secret– at least to himself– that Steve likes Eddie. Likes him. Somewhere between ripping the heads off of unworldly monsters and battling for his life, he noticed how Eddie’s smile did weird things to his stomach. And when the dust settled, he had his crisis about it, talked to Robin, and decided that, after everything he’s seen, there are worse things in the world than also liking boys. So he came to terms.
But that just means that Eddie’s hand in his hair is that much more poignant.
“Steve, could you go grab us Will’s other walkie? It’s in his room.”
The light is blinding when his eyes crack open– which had apparently slid shut at some point– and Steve squints in the general direction of Lucas.
“Hell no, Sinclair,” he says, “Get someone else to do it.”
“But Will’s working on this one, and Mike’s looking for screws, and I’m trying to hold it open-”
“Nope,” Steve interrupts, popping the P. He’s not leaving this spot. Not in a million years is he giving this up.
Lucas groans loudly, but thankfully Nancy rolls her eyes and offers to get it for him, standing up from her spot next to El and Max. Steve sinks back into the couch, fighting a smile from the prospect of getting to keep this a little longer.
He hears a quiet laugh next to him, and glances up at Eddie, who is looking at him, amusement painted across his face.
“What?” he questions, brow furrowing.
Eddie just shakes his head, muttering, “Nothing,” like he knows something Steve doesn’t. Steve just huffs, crossing his arms and looking away.
The rest of the night passes softly, a hazy dream that wraps around Steve like a blanket. At some point, Eddie is pulled off the couch to join something or another with the kids, leaving Steve alone again. But he’s riding such a high, it doesn’t bother him as much as it would have. And it helps that Eddie had looked at him, all kind and reluctant, when he had to leave.
Eventually, they’re pawning off the kids for rides, and Steve has a backseat full of tired teenagers.
He’s swinging his keys around his finger, walking to the door of his bimmer when Eddie calls out to him. He turns, watching him jog over.
He skids to a stop in front of him, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans, “You free for a lavish night of fine cinema and shitty beer from my uncle’s fridge tomorrow?”
“Hm,” Steve replies, “I might have to talk to my lawyer about that one. Wanted murderer and all.”
“Ex- wanted murder, Stevie,” he interjects, “I’ve put my homicidal days behind me.”
Steve cracks a smile, “Sure, Munson.”
Eddie grins, throwing his arm out and dipping into a theatrical bow, “I’ll make it worth your while, my lord.”
“Fuck off, man,” Steve snorts, rotating to keep walking to his car.
“And wear your good underwear!” Eddie shouts after him as if the whole neighborhood can’t hear him. It’s obviously a joke, flirting the same way Eddie flirts with everyone, but Steve’s heart still skips a beat.
He sputters, horrified, and mutters an abashed, “Jesus,” before climbing into the driver's seat.
—
It’s not a big deal. It’s not.
But Steve can’t stop thinking about that hand in his hair.
He’s been lost in a fit of daydreaming all day, called back to reality multiple times by Robin, who’s worried Keith’s going to catch him slacking off at this point. It’s just that it felt so nice. And Eddie was so casual about it. Like it wasn’t the best thing that’s happened to Steve all week.
Like it hasn’t left him colder than usual in its memory.
But he’s currently a little distracted from his musing, because Max, Erica, Lucas, Mike and Will have invaded his place of work. Joyce trails behind them, offering an apologetic smile at Steve as she passes, knowing the full extent of the chaos she just descended upon him.
“No, that’s the wrong section for action movies, Lucas. I told you that already,” Robin is groaning, following them around in a useless attempt at help.
Max and Erica are leaning against the counter, debating which candy to buy. They’re not as tight as the rest of the group, but Steve still senses a familiarity between them as they point and bicker quietly.
“Are you two actually going to pick anything?” he grouses, leaning a hip on the counter opposite them.
Erica rolls her eyes, snappy as ever, “Obviously. Don’t be so demanding.”
“Yeah, Steve,” Max adds, not even looking up from the assortment of candy, “don’t go back to your glory days of being an asshole just because you want to get us out of here.”
Steve’s shoulders tense, “That’s not at all-”
“Oh! Let’s get Reese's Pieces," Erica exclaims, reaching for them.
Steve lets her, suddenly feeling distinctly worse than he did 5 minutes ago. He knows that Max meant nothing by it, but he can’t help but feel the weight of who he used to be fall over him, cold, and uncomfortable, and cruel. He’s changed. He has.
He’s not the same asshole he was in high school, pushing classmates around and calling them names with a heavy feeling in his chest. He’d thought that if he wanted to survive, he had to hurt before he got hurt himself. Hide his soft underbelly with parties and girls and feigned invincibility.
But now he knows better. He might even go as far as to say he has people who care about him now– as crazy as that sounds. It’s finally hit him that he doesn’t have to be an asshole to fill his lonely hours with people.
The guilt of who he used to be still gnaws at him, taking chunks out of his stomach late at night when the darkness creeps in. But Max meant nothing by it.
The kids and everyone else know that he’s not that guy anymore. Right?
He sucks in a heavy breath and rings them up.
After they’ve been herded out of the store by a tired-looking Joyce Byers and Steve promises to swing by the house for dinner, Robin collapses onto the counter as he punches the sales into the computer.
“How do they have so much energy? How do they not kill their parents?” Robin laments loudly, pulling a laugh from Steve.
“Shock collars, I think. I’ve heard they work great.”
Robin snorts, “We should get you one of those.”
“Please don’t.”
He turns to her with an easy smile, running a hand through his hair. The action feels emptier than before.
—
Later, when Steve shows up to Eddie’s trailer with a 12-pack of beer in his fist because he felt weird showing up empty handed, Eddie grins as he opens the door, clocking it immediately, “I thought I said I was providing the beer, big boy?”
Steve just shrugs, a blush working its way onto his cheeks, and follows an entertained Eddie inside. The trailer– despite only being a year or so old– is already cluttered with Wayne and Eddie’s things, bought with government hush money but defined by old coffee mugs in the sink and half-painted D&D figurines on the counters.
“Pizza’s on the counter. Make yourself comfortable over there, Stevie,” Eddie says, riffling through the movies they have as Steve sets the beer on the coffee table and grabs one.
He falls onto the couch, tucking himself up so there’s plenty of room for Eddie like he always does, knowing the metal head loves to sprawl out. Eddie eventually picks a movie, and Steve doesn’t even bother to ask what it is– Eddie likes it to be a surprise.
But as the intro starts to play, Eddie flops down right next to Steve.
Right next to Steve.
As in, touching shoulder-to-hip next to Steve.
He freezes, tries to keep his muscles from going rigid, tries to tell himself not to fuck this up, because this is the second time in two days that Eddie’s touched him. Sure, it’s in the way he touches everyone in the party, but it’s directed at Steve. And that makes all the difference.
As the movie rolls on, Steve allows himself to relax, feeling Eddie go pliant at his side with a beer in his hand. Every time he laughs at something on screen, Steve feels it reverberate through him, an echo of happiness left in its wake.
But all good things must come to an end.
About halfway through the movie, Eddie shifts. A little bit to the left, a little bit away. Steve takes his cue, realizing that his time is up, and clears his throat, scootching away. He pretends his side doesn’t scream at the chill.
But then Eddie’s looking at him. “You good?”
Steve cocks his head, confused, “Yeah?” Wasn’t Eddie the one that wanted him to move away?
“Where are you going, then?” he asks, a perplexity painted on his face as he frowns at Steve.
And that only confuses Steve more, because he’d felt it. The movement, the exact moment that Eddie wanted to subtly show Steve he was done, and he’d respected that. Moved away. Gave him space.
“I– what?”
Eddie smiles at him then, soft and amused, and leans closer, offering the expanse of his side to Steve, “Don’t leave me hanging here, Harrington.”
Steve stares at it, then slowly, carefully curls himself back into it. His heart is racing behind his ribs, mind reeling, chest singing, and if Steve couldn’t focus on the movie before, he definitely can’t focus on it now. Because Eddie wants him here?
Maybe it’s just because it would be uncomfortable otherwise, at the angle he’s sitting? Because it’s a necessity, not a want. Either way, Steve’s skin tingles where they’re touching, and his hands shake against his thighs. He crosses them against his chest to hide it, unseeing eyes trained on the television.
It’s just so nice. Eddie’s always so nice.
Steve steals a glance at him, taking in the way his hair frames his face, glowing under the low light from the screen, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a sip of beer, the way he’s always so warm, radiating heat like he’s constantly stuck on high.
Honestly, he’d never expected to be friends with someone like Eddie. Someone kind. Someone caring.
Just then, Eddie’s eyes flick to his own.
His heart jumps in his chest, Eddie’s eyes just as pretty as the rest of him, locked onto his for a demanding second. They dart down to his lips, then away, so fast he almost misses it. But with his history, Steve has an eye for that sort of thing. And, what?
It must have just been a trick of the light, because no way was Eddie looking at his lips. The man’s a metalhead, for fuck’s sake. He’s not interested in some boring jock like Steve. Steve’s just… Steve.
And on top of it, he’s never really been much. His high school days were spent searching for warmth in all the wrong places, and here Eddie is, doling it out so abundantly. He would have been a dick to him in high school. He knows that. But he’s different now.
He’d never do anything to hurt Eddie now. Never.
When the credits roll, Eddie pushes up to stop the film, and Steve misses him the second he’s gone from his side. When Eddie turns around, he stands there, watching him for a moment. Steve hasn’t moved, staring up at him with a (definitely dopey) look on his face, feeling loosened and content. But then Eddie smiles at him, and shakes his head.
“Movie’s over, Stevie.”
Instantly, his stomach drops. Shit, he didn’t mean to over stay his welcome.
Nevermind that the credits just started rolling, he definitely lingered too much, wanted too much, made it weird again. His shoulders tense up once more, fingers fisting at his sides. He needs to keep himself in check, keep his hands tucked under his thighs and his side decidedly not pressed against Eddie Munson like some desperate idiot.
“Right,” he mutters, rocking to his feet, “Sorry. I’ll head out.”
Eddie’s brow furrows as he watches him collect his things, trailing him on the way to the door. Steve doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t want to see the annoyance on his face, urging him out faster after he made a fool of himself.
Well, he was happy while it lasted. Glad he got at least a little bit before he had to withdraw like always.
Hand on the doorknob, he throws, “Thanks, Munson,” over his shoulder.
“Yeah, had a good time,” Eddie replies courteously, stepping into the doorway to send Steve off.
He pushes his hands in his pockets, turning to face the man despite how deeply he doesn’t want to. Eddie’s leaning on the frame, watching him again. It makes Steve want to squirm, knowing he’s probably thinking about how Steve just had to go and ruin the night with his stupid need and his stupid touch.
But, “You alright?” he asks.
Steve hesitates, not expecting it, but quickly pulls himself together, “Yeah, of course.”
And then he turns on his heel, booking it off the porch before Eddie can say anything else. Before Steve can crave anything more.
In his car, he shoves the key in the engine and keels out, eyes on Eddie in his rearview mirror. God, how could he be so stupid?
He’s been so good recently, keeping himself contained, keeping the need buried where it belongs. He’d followed the rules, kept his love inside, stopped himself every time he wanted to connect, to hold.
He just feels so much for the people he loves. And every time he tries to show it, it doesn’t end well.
He remembers his mother retracting at the ripe age of ten, remembers his father’s cruel hands offering no comfort when asked, remembers dingy bathrooms and trying so hard in vain. He knows it. The consequences of wanting. Of reaching out.
It must be some sick twist of fate– to want so intensely and be so incapable.
He drives fast, faster than he ought to, and tumbles into a big, empty house. He doesn’t cry. He breathes. In and out. Quietly. Alone.
—
Dark surrounds Steve’s car the second the headlights go out, and he steels himself before clambering out, tupperware packed with his best attempt at Will’s favorite chocolate cake in hand.
The air bites at his cheeks as he makes his way up the drive, coloring them under the assault. Hawkins is already slipping from summer into autumn, and Steve bemoans the change. Inside the house, the lights are on, casting a warm glow over the pavement, and Steve can see Hopper skirting around Joyce in a wayward attempt to help.
Dinner with the Byer-Hopper family is always full of life, good food, and a considerable amount of disorder. He loves it.
He lives for the days that he’s invited in for a meal with Joyce Byers, or Claudia Henderson, or Melissa Buckley. He spends the whole day fussing over what to make, then fussing over actually making it, and then arriving pointedly early to help out, and then basking in the joy of sitting at a table filled with real, actual people.
It’s always his favorite night of the week. Tonight, though, his mind is elsewhere.
It’s been three days since he last saw Eddie. Three days since he drew a line for himself, pledging not to embarrass himself again.
And despite himself, he’s still thinking about that night. What he did wrong, what he should have done instead, what he’s going to do next time- if there is a next time. His chest hasn’t unclenched since he sped away from Eddie’s.
He pauses in front of the door, staring at the dark wood, and lets out a breath. It isn’t even as if something terrible happened with Eddie. It’s just that Steve has learned when to give, when to take, when to cross his arms and hold himself together– and Eddie’s been turning all of that on its head. He’s pushed guitar-calloused fingers into his hair. He’s pressed against Steve, warm and kind. He’s pulled Steve back when he tried to withdraw.
It’s confusing as hell.
Steve’s never met someone who actually wanted to touch him. Who did it so easily, so readily. It makes him want to run, to stay, to curl up in Eddie’s arms and never leave. But he knows he can’t. He shouldn’t.
Eddie may want him in the small increments he has him, but there’s no way he wants all that Steve is.
He scrubs a hand down his face. Stares at the door. Shakes his head. Lifting a hand to ring the doorbell, he pulls his shoulders back and lifts his chin, readying himself for a night of pretending he’s not lost in his own mind.
But then the door flies open, spewing golden light out onto him, and El is there, shouting at him.
“Steve! Come inside, Papa said he saw you standing out here like a stalker.”
Steve blinks into the brightness, stunned, and then laughs, smiling as he follows her inside.
“A stalker, huh, Hop?” he teases, calling into the kitchen where the clatter of dishes sings.
He hears Hopper huff and grumble, “She wasn’t supposed to say that. Form of expression and all,” but he just laughs again, rounding the corner into where they’re standing.
“Hi Steve!” Joyce grins at him, toothy and affectionate, and immediately wraps him up in a hug. Steve’s heart stutters in his chest. He fights the urge to push his face into her hair, but she draws back quickly, hands still on his shoulders and gestures down to his tupperware, “What do you have there?”
Steve shrugs, “Chocolate cake. I can’t promise it’s any good.”
Joyce beams, taking it from his hands excitedly, “Oh that’s wonderful! Thank you, Steven,” she sets it on the counter before motioning to the awaiting dishes, “Would you mind setting the table, Sweetheart?”
“Of course, Mrs.Byers,” he says, already reaching for the plates. He gathers an armful of ceramic, moving to the other room where Will is arranging napkins and silverware. It’s tight quarters, especially for 5 people, but the warm lighting and the chipped forks make it feel like Steve could fit all the world in here.
“Need some help with that?” Will asks, looking up at the pile of plates Steve clumsily deposits on the table.
He nods at him in greeting, but muscle memory forces a quick, “Nope, I’ve got it,” from his mouth. Will smiles, close mouthed and a little bit too knowing, but keeps to himself, smoothing out the napkins.
Steve heads back to the kitchen to grab the rest of the dishes, but halfway there, El pushes in front of him, tutting something about him being a guest and that guests shouldn’t have to help set the table, so his duties are revoked from him as she grabs the remaining ones.
He slinks to the kitchen anyways, refusing to just sit and wait. Helping makes him feel like he’s a part of the family. He hates feeling like a guest in others’ homes– he already feels like a guest in his own half the time. At least this way, he can pretend.
Joyce is stirring something at the stove, Hopper leaning over her shoulder to quickly peek inside. Steve’s heart clenches at the broad hand on her hip, the way she tilts back into him, offers a taste. They’re both smiling and attempting to hide it, but Steve marvels at how comfortable they are with each other.
Joyce swats Hopper away when he tries to steal another bite, and Steve leans on the counter, making himself known, “Anything else I can do?”
“Actually, could you chop those vegetables for me?” Joyce asks, still shooing Hopper away from the soup.
Steve does, and the rhythmic motion almost distracts him from the anchor of emotions in his chest as he watches Hopper and Joyce bustle around each other, always passing with a hand on the hip, or the shoulder, or a kiss to the cheek.
Normally when Steve’s over, he doesn’t get to see this, too busy entertaining the kids or readying the dining room. But now he does. And now he’s having trouble focusing on the carrots in front of him. His body aches with want. But he just cuts and cuts and cuts it away.
Eventually, they gather around the table, where El plops down at the head of the table, and Will slides in next to Steve, leaving Hopper and Joyce across from him. The food is amazing– it always is, but Steve isn’t even paying attention to it, overtaken by the urge to watch, to observe.
The brush of fingers when passing the salt. The hand on a shoulder when regaling a story. The fingers that push a strand of hair behind an ear. Steve watches it all, a feeling he can’t name bubbling up his throat.
Because Joyce and Hopper touch in the same easy way that Eddie touches him. With the same kindness, the same willfulness, Steve might even say the same love.
And isn't that a thought.
Dinner passes with Steve unusually quiet, pushing the carrots around on his plate. Everything else tastes great, but Steve can’t stomach the carrots. When it’s time to go, he’s standing in the doorway with his tupperware container full of leftovers, and promising to come back soon. Joyce pulls Will to her side as they talk, causally running her hand up and down his arm.
It’s cold outside, colder than it was before. He tumbles into his car, rubbing his hands together for some warmth, and hurriedly turns on the engine. But that’s as far as he gets. The moment he goes to shift into reverse, he stalls.
He can see through the window.
Joyce pulls Hopper into a hug, head resting on his chest. He kisses her head, both of them oblivious to the car still sitting in the driveway. They look so happy.
Steve wants that.
Holy fuck, he wants that.
So much that it feels like his chest is caving in, making room for it in his body, cracking his ribs and uprooting his organs.
And that’s not even it– there’s also the manner in which Hopper receives the touch: with a small smile and an uncharacteristic blush. Like he enjoys the touch just as much as he lends it out. Like it can actually go both ways.
And Steve’s never thought of it that way.
He backs out of the drive, ignoring his shaking hands and spinning head, and breathes in and out. He always thought that touch was a one-way street, that he could give it, and love it, but no one ever would feel the same. But Joyce and Hopper…
And Eddie…
The way he’d looked at him, the touches, Steve is suddenly rethinking every interaction they’ve had in the last week. Hell, the last two years.
Steve’s cold, and alone, and slowly– finally– realizing that he might be able to have that.
—
“I think I might like Eddie.”
Robin doesn’t even bat an eye, looking at him over the towering pile of pancakes in front of her, face flat and inattentive as she shoves another forkfull into her mouth.
“I thought we had your crisis already?”
Steve rolls his eyes, cringing at the mouthful she talks around, and pushes his (frankly untouched) plate away, leaning back heavily in his seat. This is surprisingly hard to say– Steve never thought that this would even be a possibility, but if he’s going to go through with it, he at least needs some gay-people wisdom.
“Yeah, but I’m thinking of… telling him?”
That catches Robin’s attention, her fork slipping from her grip. She blinks. Then, “Really?” she asks, a slow, devilish, grin starting to creep its way onto her face.
He picks at his napkin, avoiding her gaze, “I mean, yeah? I just think that maybe-”
“-Definetly-”
“-there might-”
“-Totally-”
“-be something there?”
Steve fidgets under her unwavering gaze, shifting in the sticky booth of the diner they’re at, a result of Robin’s begging for breakfast before work. He’s not ready for this conversation, he shouldn’t have brought it up, there’s no way he can–
“So when is this happening?”
Steve opens his mouth to tell her off, but then the waiter appears, refilling their waters, and he snaps it shut again. Once she’s gone again, he tries again, albeit softer, “I don’t know. I’ve asked out so many girls, Rob, like so many girls,” Robin scoffs across from him, “But I’ve never… what if it goes wrong?”
Robin sighs, going softer across from him, “I know it's scary. Believe me, I understand. But at some point you just have to take the risk. And this is a risk worth taking.”
“But how do you know that?” Steve protests, flopping back into the seat dejectedly.
Robin shrugs, twisting her glass around, “I just know. Eddie’s not going to be like that. He’s… good.”
“Good?” Steve echos.
Robin shrugs again, “Good.”
They’re dancing around something, but Steve isn’t going to pry. He knows that when it comes to other people’s secrets, Robin is a locked vault. He’s trusted her with his own for a reason.
She smiles at him, eyes suddenly bright and mischievous again, “What are you doing tonight?”
“I- Nothing?”
“Wrong. You’re hosting a movie night with me and Eddie at your house.”
“Rob, no!” he groans, “I just realized I wanted to do this, tonight is so close–”
“I’ll be there to help! Even if I do think you should do this on your own, as your best friend ever, I’ll sacrifice myself.”
“You’re a saint,” he quips.
“I know,” Robin chirps. They sit in silence for a moment, letting the prospect settle between them. Steve drums his fingers on the table. Robin takes a noisy sip from her glass. Then, “Let’s get the check?”
“Yep.”
—
Steve is so fucked.
He’s spent the last 45 minutes on an outfit. All of his clothes are suddenly too preppy, or too high school, or too not good enough. He’s finally landed on a simple tee-shirt and sweatpants, trying his best not to seem too over-eager for tonight. But he still keeps pulling at the hem, and smoothing his sweaty hands down his pants. Not over-eager his ass.
Acutely, he’s also spent the 45 minutes pacing back and forth to the phone, because Robin was supposed to be here an hour ago.
Every time he tries to call, he gets sent to her answering machine, and if that isn’t making the itching under his skin increase tenfold, the fact that Eddie’s due over any minute definitely is. She’s leaving him stranded. She’s testing years of friendship. He’s going to show up at her window and bodily drag her–
The doorbell rings.
Steve freezes, head jerking to the door. He forces himself to move, reminding himself that tonight’s not actually that big of a deal, and that he doesn’t actually have to do it tonight, and that Robin’s going to feel his wrath when he sees her again.
“Get it together, Harrington,” he mutters to himself, frustrated he’s freaking out so much over a not- date. He’s been on plenty of not- dates.
He tugs open the door.
Eddie is gorgeous, as always, standing on the doorstep with a jacket wrapped around his shoulders, his hands shoved into the pockets, a cold-induced pink to his cheeks, and a grin on his lips.
“Hiya, Stevie,” he says.
Suddenly, everything that Steve was worried about is miles away, and the only thing that matters is Eddie.
Steve smiles. “Hey, man.”
The scent of Eddie– the cologne he wears threaded with weed and smoke– wafts into the house as a breeze blows outside, and Steve drinks it in happily, unable to tear his eyes away from Eddie’s face.
Eddie’s looking at him too, albeit a bit wary, but he quickly snaps out of it and rocks on his toes playfully, “You gonna let me in or what, Harrington?"
“Oh,” Steve says, jolting out of whatever stupor he’d been in, opening the door wider for Eddie, “Yeah come on in. Robin’s not here yet, but she should be on her way.”
Eddie saunters inside, almost brushing Steve as he does, making Steve’s skin prickle. He tosses over his shoulder as he goes, “Actually, she told me she can’t make it tonight. Something about bad sushi?”
It draws Steve up short. That little shit. She left him alone on purpose! After she planned the whole thing!
Steve sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face tiredly, following Eddie into the living room. He should have expected this, really. The glint in Robin’s eyes at the diner was far too wicked to be scheming anything less than mysterious food poisoning. Watching Eddie drop onto his couch like he’s been here a million times (which isn’t exactly inaccurate at this point), Steve lets himself abandon the plan.
If Robin’s not going to be here, he doesn’t think he has the balls to do it. It’s not like he can give himself his own pep talk. He used to be able to do it, but years of conditioning apparently fall away the second you get a friend like Robin in your life.
So he just goes up to his tapes, picking through them disinterestedly. He must sigh too loudly, or let his deflated attitude creep into his shoulders, because suddenly Eddie’s at his side, laying a hand on his shoulder. A feather-light, barely there, absolutely branding hand on his shoulder. Steve suppresses an honest-to-god shiver, sucking in a breath desperately.
“What’s up? You seem… off.” Eddie says, and Steve can feel his rings pressing into his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt, can feel the flex of his fingers, feels like he could feel the very blood pumping through his veins if he tried hard enough.
“Not off,” he pushes out, “Just– I’m– What do you want to watch?”
Eddie chuckles, his hand sliding down from his shoulder to the small of his back, which– Jesus, and says, “Well I wasn’t expecting to be invited to two movie nights in such quick succession, Stevie, so I’m not quite sure.”
He lets out a laugh, more of a rush of air than anything, muttering, “Okay, but she was the one that wanted to do it, so I can’t be blamed.”
Eddie hums, his hand searing into Steve’s spine, “What about… this one.”
Steve doesn’t even look at the cover, “Yeah, sure.” He takes it and pushes it into the VHS player with heat creeping up his neck as Eddie reclaims his spot on the couch.
Once the film starts to roll, he turns back to Eddie, hesitating for a second at the seating choices laid out in front of him.
There’s obviously the spot next to Eddie on the couch, where he could be perfectly close to him and not be weird… but Eddie’s arm is draped over the back of it, and Steve doesn’t know if Eddie wants him under it. There’s the arm chair next to the couch, a safe distance, but pointedly away from Eddie. There’s the floor, unassuming but uncomfortable.
And then there’s continuing to stand here like an idiot, staring at the options.
Luckily, Eddie seems to notice his internal struggle, and grins, patting the sofa next to him. Steve lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and sits down in the empty space. Eddie immediately scoots closer, and Steve’s stomach flips, excitement boiling inside of him. He crosses his arms over his chest.
“I love this movie,” Eddie whispers, eyes trained on the screen.
Steve, all too aware of the arm still on the backrest behind him, nods, not trusting his tongue. They watch, and they don’t talk, and Eddie keeps shifting every so often, a contrast to Steve’s careful stillness.
Eventually, Eddie huffs and shoots a glance at Steve, muttering, “Hot,” before shifting away from Steve and tugging his jacket off.
When he returns, instead of draping his arm over the back of the couch, it lands over Steve's shoulders. His eyes widen, body going taut.
Holy fuck.
Steve can feel the weight of it, warmth pressing into him with the press of Eddie’s– now bare– skin. Of course he had to wear a cut-off shirt today. It makes it so Steve can feel every inch of his smooth skin, wrapped around whatever lean muscle he has, and for the first time since Eddie’s trailer, Steve’s chest loosens. The tingling underneath his skin goes quiet.
He can feel Eddie look at him, questioning quietly, “Okay?”
Steve swallows, eyes flickering to Eddie’s own before back to the screen, nodding, “Okay.”
Eddie nods back, pulling Steve closer, so he fits underneath his arm and against his side like he belongs there. Shit, Steve’s heart is racing. He knows his face is steaming, but he can’t bring himself to care in the midst of so much touch.
Everything in him is screaming not to move, not to mess up, but he pushes it all away, reminding himself of Hopper and Joyce. The happiness they had together. The love. He braces himself, and pushes his head closer instead. Curls into Eddie. Allows himself to accept the touch and even reciprocate it.
He’s immediately rewarded when Eddie leans his head on top of Steve’s. He can feel his smile pressed into his hair.
Here, he can smell Eddie even more, and he tucks his nose into his neck, breathing soundly. It drains all the anxiety out of him, leaves him a puddle of contentment and astonishment. He’s curled into Eddie’s side, and Eddie’s not pushing him away.
They stay like that, folded into each other for the rest of the movie, and it’s so juvenile, but Steve hasn’t felt this happy in a long time.
When the credits roll, Steve’s heart is in his throat. Surely Eddie will pull away. After so long of touching Steve, there has to be a limit. But once again, Steve’s proven wrong. Eddie sighs, and burrows further into Steve’s hair, his hand beginning to trail up and down Steve’s arm where it rests.
“What’d you think of the movie?” he asks.
“It was good,” Steve replies, quiet in the darkness surrounding them, “I really liked the main girl. What was your favorite part?”
He’s just making conversation, but Eddie hesitates, his voice a lot more loaded than Steve expects when he replies, “When she gets the guy.”
He makes a face, laughing, and pulls back to look at him, “Really? I wouldn’t expect that of you, Munson.”
Something passes behind Eddie’s eyes, and he looks away, “Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter. It’s just nice.”
“Why?”
Eddie sighs again, but this time it’s heavy, and he runs a hand through his hair, shifting away. He looks at Steve, then away again, and says, “It’s just nice to see it play out on screen. Helps me feel less pitiful when I know it’ll never happen to me.”
Steve blanches, because doesn’t the feeling of Eddie’s arm around him prove it will happen to him? That it’s happening already?
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, man,” Eddie replies, deflecting with a self-deprecating laugh on his lips, “No one’s gonna– I’m not exactly prime material.”
And that has Steve sitting up, a wave of upset washing over him, because there’s no way he can leave Eddie thinking he’s anything less than incredible. “Wh– yes you are.”
Eddie shoots him a look, but Steve takes his arm still being around Steve’s shoulders as confirmation he can keep going, “You are. You’re so nice, and charming, and–”
“Stevie, dude, stop,” Eddie interjects, withdrawing more.
Steve freezes, eyes locked on him. There’s no way that Eddie actually thinks this, right? But the way that he’s angling himself away, the way he’s avoiding Steve’s eyes… he must. And something in Steve aches at the prospect, something he urgently needs to mend.
So he shoves away every part of himself that screams its objections, and he finally– finally lets himself take a risk. This goes farther than accepting touch– than reciprocating it. It’s reaching out.
He cups Eddie cheeks, the skin burning under his palms.
Eddie’s eyes snap to his, and Steve’s throat constricts against the rules he’s breaking, but he still manages to mutter, “I like you, Eddie. Really like you.”
As far as Steve Harrington’s confessions go, it’s not the smoothest, but Eddie still gasps quietly, a small intake of air that seems involuntary. He stares at him, mouth slack, an emotion Steve can’t name mounting on his face.
Then his face goes blank, eyebrows furrowed.
“C’mon, Steve. Don’t do that. Don’t joke with me like that.”
“I’m not joking,” Steve says.
Eddie blinks at him. Steve’s thumb swipes back and forth over his cheek, the action sending a thrill down his spine that then twists up his chest until it reaches his face, lifting the corners of his mouth into a smile.
But as soon as Eddie sees it, his face goes dismal, and then suddenly dark, stacking each feature into place like armour.
“Fuck, Steve,” he hisses, tearing himself out of Steve’s grip. Steve’s heart drops, his fingers tingle, his chest constricts, “What is wrong with you? Seriously?”
Eddie rips off the couch, “I mean, I knew you were an asshole in high school, but I thought you were through with all that. Why would you– after everything–” he lets out a frustrated groan.
“I don’t… understand,” Steve says, his voice barely above a whisper. He feels lost, hanging on like a lifeline to the fact that Eddie’s still here. That means he can fix it. Right?
He tucks his hands under his thighs, tries to ignore his stomach tumbling, tries to tell himself that he can fix it if he just stays still, doesn’t make him angrier, doesn’t touch him.
“What’s happening,” Eddie grits out, “is that you’re just the same as you were . And I’ve been shoved up against too many goddamn lockers for this.”
He stomps away, making for the door, and that lifeline snaps, sending Steve careening off the couch, following him frantically.
“Wait, Eddie–” he can’t help himself. He reaches for Eddie’s wrist.
But the second his fingers make contact, Eddie jerks away, like the others always have.
He looks over his shoulder, biting, “Don’t touch me.”
He jerks the door open, and then he’s gone.
The second the quiet hits him, something in Steve shatters.
His stomach caves in. His hands are shaking at his sides. His chest is heaving. He can’t move. The front door is blurry, and he distantly recognizes that there are tears falling down his cheeks, but nothing gets past the glacial pain drowning him in waves.
Don’t touch me.
Steve feels cold all over, shivers wracking him again and again and again with such force he has to steady himself against the wall. He tries to cross his arms over his stomach, to hold himself together, but it feels empty. This cold goes deeper than skin level. It’s in his bones. It’s overtaking him. It’s all he is.
A sob tumbles out of his lips, and he’s not quick enough to stop it, but the second it does, he snaps his mouth shut, draws his shoulders back, and stands straight.
Get it together, Harrington.
It doesn’t matter what he feels. It never does.
He turns on his heel, and stumbles away.
His hands are still shaking under the suds as he does the dishes, and his eyes are still blurry as he sweeps the floor, but he can’t seem to turn off the tv, where the credits are still rolling, music playing softly to accompany them.
Steve stares at the screen for a long time. It’s the only light in the house.
Then he goes upstairs and crawls into bed, aching. Bleeding. Bullshit.
Don’t touch me.
—-
Steve Harrington is very familiar with the ceiling in his bedroom. He’s spent years staring at it. Tear-ridden, slack-jawed, sleepy-eyed. He has the bumps and curves of the texture memorized, could map them out against the back of his eyelids with ease.
Today, he’s been staring at it for hours. Every time he tries to get up, everything that happened– everything that he is, comes crashing down on him and keeps him there. He’d thought that people understood he was different now. That he’s better.
But evidently, he’s not.
He only hurts people, he hasn't changed at all, his hands are still fists and his touch is still mean.
The sky is blue, and Steve Harrington is an asshole.
Jesus.
He rolls on his side, staring at the wall instead, and tugs the blankets higher over his shoulder. Nothing helps the cold, and he finds himself craving Eddie and hating himself for it. He doesn’t deserve someone so brilliant when he’s acted the way he has– reaching out when he’s not wanted, touching when he’s not supposed to.
There were rules for a reason.
And he just had to go and test the limits and get himself into trouble like he always does. As much as he tries, when it really matters, he can’t stop himself from his habits. The point around which he pivots always remains the same: addictive, terrifying, and inevitably decimating.
Without the fan that's always running in the corner of his room, it’s nearly silent aside from the soft breaths leaving Steve, ghosting over his cool, tear soaked pillow. But that means that he hears the banging on the door.
He ignores it, burying himself further in the blankets. Whoever it is will go away eventually. Just like whoever was calling all day eventually gave up.
“Steve Harrington, you’d better let me in!” The voice is muffled, and sharp in that distinctly Robin way.
“Fuck,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face.
He doesn’t want to see her right now. He doesn’t want to see anyone ever again. But she knows where the key is. On cue, he hears the door jingle and open, and footsteps sounding through the living room.
The TV switches off.
“Steve? You’d better be calling out of work for a damn good reason,” she calls, the sounds of her getting closer.
His door creaks open. He can feel her presence, standing awkwardly at the threshold to his room, looking at the pathetic lump of blankets that Steve is. He can’t bring himself to care, much less move to greet her.
Robin creeps closer, peering over his shoulder. He imagines what she sees– a rumpled blanket wrapped around him, clothes from yesterday still on, pillowcase wet and face red. He nearly cringes just thinking about it. Surely Robin’s thinking the same.
“Oh, Steve,” she exhales, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, “What’s wrong?”
Steve bites his lip, keeps his eyes trained on the wall. He doesn’t know what to say, how to explain the feelings coursing through him, so he shrugs– a tight, forced motion.
She’s quiet for a moment, clearly trying to decode Steve, then asks quietly, “Is it Eddie?”
His fingers tighten over the blankets. It’s too loud against the quiet of Steve’s bedroom, and he bites his lip harder to stop the tears welling up in his eyes. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. He can’t cry.
Robin sighs above him, shifting on the bed. She looks at the opposing wall for a while, then back at Steve. He can feel the pity flowing off of her in waves. He hates it.
Suddenly, she’s saying, “Come on, let’s get you up, man,” and reaching for his arm.
Steve clocks it the second before she makes contact, and jerks away. “Don’t,” he rasps. His voice is rough even to his own ears, “I’ve got it.”
Robin hesitates, hands hovering over him as he sits up, running his hands through his hair self-consciously. Ultimately, he’s grateful she cares enough to be here, but at the same time he wishes she wasn’t seeing him like this. She’s watching him, though, so he attempts a small smile her way. It must not come across right, because Robin’s returning smile is feeble and tense.
“Shower and then run to the drugstore with me?” she asks, obviously using it as an excuse to get Steve up, but Steve’s always been putty when it comes to her, so he just nods.
She watches him haul himself up, follows him to the bathroom and hovers outside of the door as he showers, where he blinks at the wall and tries to will himself into feeling okay. It doesn’t work, but it’s worth a shot. He lets the hot water turn his brain numb, lets it warm him momentarily, and then steps out into the cold again.
They drive to the store together, and Steve lets her flip through the radio channels, lets her drag him inside, and lets her chatter about what she wants to get. She’s trying to distract him, he knows. He tries to play along, not wanting her to know how deeply his hurt runs.
When they get to the hair products, “What do you need, Steve?”
Robin says it so simply, a mundane question on a mundane Tuesday, fingers trailing over the products distractedly. In reality, the question makes Steve’s stomach roll. The feelings he’s chewed on his whole life threaten to claw their way out of his gut and into the air.
He bites his tongue. The feeling slides back down.
He doesn’t– can’t spill his mess on her. She doesn’t want to deal with him. The broken parts of him that yearn for comfort. For touch. And as always, he doesn’t have the words for anything other than, “Farrah Fawcett.”
Robin hums, her fingers closing over the bottle of hair spray. Steve clears his throat, stepping back. He pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind, into the little box in the corner he never opens. Laboriously, he slips back into his practiced personality, he makes an exasperated face at Robin, funny and good-natured. She rolls her eyes affectionately, albeit still concerned, and moves past him. Hook, line, sinker.
“Ready to go?” She asks, looking over her shoulder at him.
He smiles, nods.
The dirty tiled floor passes under Steve’s sneakers as they make their way to the checkout of the drug store, the overhead lights antiseptic. He feels laid bare.
He follows Robin as she hums under her breath, tuning out as she chats with the bored-looking cashier, offering up his wallet when she asks. Pretends he’s not so deep in this facade that he’s lost among the empty halls, wandering and wandering in search of himself.
The motor hums under him on the way home, crawling into his skull and sitting at the base of it, vibrating every thought that he used to be able to stow away. He’s careful not to let them show, of course, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there, berating him.
Not deserving of touch, bullshit, cruel, never a recipient of love– they feel at home among the cold.
He drops Robin off at her house, only just managing to get her out of the car with steady complaining and persuasive reassurances that he’s feeling better. Still, she fights with him until he promises to see her later, and climbs out of the car muttering something about ‘having a good long talk with Eddie.’
Then he drives home, crawls into a big, empty house, and stands there, out of place.
His skin tingles.
He digs his nails into his palms.
—
“My mom says chocolate pudding is the devil’s spawn, but I think she’s just saying that to make me stop eating it.”
Steve sighs, looking at the teen sliding into his passenger seat, “Well hello to you too, Dustin.”
“But I can’t, Steve! You think I get these muscles from eating vegetables?”
He scoffs, shifting into reverse, "Definitely not.”
After a night of tossing and turning, Steve woke up bright and early for work, dragged himself through the day, and barely made it into his house before the phone was lighting up with strident calls. Apparently Dustin needed a ride to the library to meet the party, and if he didn’t immediately get it, the universe would fold in on itself and everyone would die.
What they’re doing at the library anyways, Steve doesn’t know. Dustin mentioned something about a D&D campaign needing extensive research to defeat, but all the words went way over his head. They’ll be kicked out in a few hours regardless.
But that’s how he landed with a curly-haired child in his car, complaining about vegetables and riffling through his glove compartment.
What’s another couple minutes of pretending he’s okay? Especially when those minutes are used as being helpful. Useful. Proving he’s not the same as he used to be.
“I mean, chocolate pudding is the Romeo to my Juliet. I can’t give that up.”
However moronic this may be.
“You know they both die in the end, right?” Steve questions, shooting him an incredulous look.
Dustin rolls his eyes, “That’s not the point, Steve.”
“Right, right, forgive me.” Steve grouses, sarcastic and dry.
Dustin doesn’t pick up on it. “You’re forgiven.”
He shifts in his seat, drumming his fingers on the center console, “Why are you trying to refuse giving me a ride, anyways? Eddie said no because he apparently,” he puts on a goofy voice for him, “had something really important to do, but you don’t have anything going on.”
Steve ignores both the shot at him and the mention of Eddie, instead exhaling, “I’m just tired, dude. I don’t have the energy to be hauling you around all the time.”
Dustin eyes him, and it almost feels like he’s seeing more than he’s supposed to– reading into the bags under Steve’s eyes and the slouch of his shoulders, but he doesn’t mention it. He shrugs, “You like it. I know you do.”
“Do not,” Steve says, fighting the creeping sadness in his chest. He can’t break down in front of the kid.
“Do too.”
It’s immediately replaced with annoyance.
“Do not,” He shoots, flicking on his turn signal hastily, “I do it because I’m a nice guy.”
Really, his reliance on these drives is pathetic. His reliance on the shoulder pat Dustin always gives him when he leaves even more so. He grits his teeth to stop the words from spilling out.
Dustin smiles cheekily, “Such a nice guy. So nice you might even pick me up afterwards!”
“Not a chance, Henderson.”
He deflates, “Damn. Worth a shot.”
They pull into the parking lot, and Steve drives to the front door to let him out, rolling to a stop easily. But Dustin hesitates, eyes flicking from the door back to Steve, his hands wringing in his lap. Steve waits it out.
Eventually, he asks, “Steve, are you… alright?”
Shit, he should have known he wasn’t lucky enough that Dustin wouldn’t bring it up. He’s looking at him, all wide brown eyes and worried eyebrows, and Steve has to turn away to answer. He can’t lie to that.
“Yeah, man. I’m fine. Just tired, like I said.”
Dustin keeps looking at him, like he’s expecting something more, but eventually he just sighs and averts his gaze, “Okay, just…”
And then suddenly his arms are around Steve.
“Let me know if I can help.”
Fuck. Steve blinks away stubborn tears, carefully laying his hand on Dustin’s shoulder in return. He knows he doesn’t like it when Steve doesn’t reciprocate his hugs. And he’s so delicate about it. Gently squeezing Steve’s shoulder, taking a second to be wrapped around him, allowing Steve to feel it.
When he pulls back, Steve has to clear his throat and feign interest in fiddling with the radio channel.
“See you, kid.” he says.
“Yeah. See you, Steve.” Dustin gives him one last, lingering look before getting out.
Quietly, the door clicks shut. Steve takes a breath. It feels like there’s a brick wall building in his torso, slowly turning his stomach to lead as each block is placed down. Eddie had more important things to do today. He isn’t sitting around wallowing like Steve is. No one wants all that he is. It’s just too much. Always too much.
The everpresent cold seems more abundant now, gripping his sides with nails that bite into his skin, wrapping icy fingers around his spine, dragging ardently down his legs.
He needs to get out of here.
Throwing the car into drive, Steve knows that his house isn’t an option– the white empty hallways seem too impinging right now. He needs somewhere he can be alone, where the ghosts of his past don’t haunt him and he can breathe easier.
The quarry is quiet when he pulls up.
The sun is just starting to set and paint the view golden, bleeding down onto the water below. He parks at the overlook, thumping his head on the wheel tiredly as he does. This is the spot that he goes when his head is racing too loudly, but right now it’s heavy with conclusion.
All the things that Steve used to debate– whether he’s a bad person, not enough, or just wrong– feel undeniable now.
No matter how he does it, his touch is unwanted.
Steve grips the door handle and tumbles out into the evening air, sitting on the ground where it’s still sun-warm and familiar. Rocks dig into his palms. He pulls his knees up and rests his elbows on them, runs a hand through his hair with a sigh.
The breeze tickles his neck, and birds squawk above him, but Steve feels so far away from all of it. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, getting colder, but soon the sun is barely peeking over the horizon.
And that’s when he hears it.
Footsteps. More specifically, booted footsteps. All of the Upside Down horrors flash in his mind, and before he can consciously process it– before he can blink, he’s on his feet, spinning around to the sound.
The first thing he sees is his black curly hair. The second, his expression.
Eddie looks distraught. His clothes are disheveled, his eyes wild and anxious, his hands flexing at his sides. A wave of nausea rocks Steve at the sight of him, standing here. Why is he standing here? Steve can’t get his body to move, frozen in place as he stares at Eddie.
His van is in the distance, which Steve hadn’t even heard approach, but Eddie’s here, eyes locked on Steve. It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.
He forces his mouth to work, “What are you doing here?”
“I was– you weren’t home.”
Another beat of silence. The trees rustle. Steve swallows.
And then, “Stevie, I’m sorry.”
Which, “What?”
Eddie takes a jerky step forward, hands hovering in the air like Steve is a frightened animal, ready to bolt. Honestly, that doesn’t feel too far off. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have– I was an idiot for acting like that.”
Steve crosses his arms over his chest, which Eddie must read as anger, because he winces slightly, continuing, “When I’m scared, I run. And when you… I was terrified, because there was no way that you, Steve Harrington actually liked me in the way that I liked you. So I ran. I got defensive and ran.”
Eddie steps forward again, only a few feet away now, “But then I talked to Robin, and she knocked some sense into me. I’m sorry, Stevie. I should have known.”
Steve looks away, eyes on the ground, “It wasn’t– I would never joke with you like that.”
“I know that. I was stupid,” Steve’s heart clenches as Eddie gets closer, “Please.”
He doesn’t know what Eddie’s pleading for. Steve was the one that broke them. That asked for too much. That broke the rules and fucked it all up.
Like he does every time.
“Eddie, you’re not the problem here.” he pushes out.
That pulls the other up short. He stops, only standing an arms length away from Steve, eyebrows drawing in. It’s almost as if he isn’t breathing.
“What? Steve I literally–”
Steve cuts him off immediately, “Yeah, but I was the one that put you in that position. I know the reputation I have, I shouldn’t have touched you like that.”
He doesn’t understand why Eddie won’t just leave. Doesn’t understand what he’s doing here in the first place.
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to say!” Eddie shoots back, “I know you’re not that guy anymore. You take care of the kids, you’d kill for Robin, you care so much. That’s who you are. That’s who I–”
Eddie’s mouth clicks shut, and then determination settles in his eyes. He opens it again, “Steve, I’ve never– shit– I’ve never felt this way before. Didn’t even know it was in the cards for me. But against all odds, you’re… it.”
Oh. Oh no.
Steve takes a step back, “You don’t want me. You can’t.”
“I do.”
“Jesus, Eddie,” Steve bites, twisting away from him, planting his hands on his hips, pinching the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t have the bandwidth for this right now. Eddie can’t be this crazy. He can’t mean this. “You don’t. God knows that no one ever wants me– not really. They want the idea of me. The status, the bullshit. I can’t take that from you.”
Eddie’s quiet for a moment, and Steve thinks he may have finally gotten through to him, but then he speaks again, and what’s left of Steve’s hope detonates.
“I know about your touch thing.”
Instantly, Steve’s shoulders shoot up. His chest constricts. He digs his nails into his palms. He prepares to be ridiculed, to be made fun of or punched. But it doesn’t come.
Instead, the gravel crunches under Eddie’s boots, and then he’s at his side, looking at him. Steve stares at the water below, unable to meet his eyes. Eddie’s hand comes up, drifting near his shoulder. Steve bites his tongue. Don’t say please. Don’t beg for him to stay. Don’t.
Slowly, meticulously slowly, fingertips press to his shoulder, then a palm, and then the whole of Eddie’s hand is resting on him. It’s nothing– just a hand. But the heat of it sears into Steve’s skin, spreading through his entire being. It seeps down into his stomach, bubbles up his throat. The cold is barely there.
Steve lets out a little sob, turns his face away to hide the tears welling in his eyes.
“Stevie,” Eddie breathes, his other hand coming up to cup Steve’s jaw, gently tilting it back to him, “It’s okay.”
“F-fuck you, man,” Steve tries, attempting to pull himself out of Eddie’s grip, but he doesn’t get far. As much as he wants to go back and fold himself away, Eddie’s grip is strong. Not rough, never rough. But strong.
“It’s okay,” he says again, brown eyes boring into Steve.
Steve’s face is burning, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, utterly horrified because he doesn’t know what to do. No one’s ever… Why would Eddie… Fuck. His hands are steady, pressing into Steve’s skin like being on the surface is not enough. His thumb swipes back and forth over his cheek. His hand on his shoulder slips to the back of his neck.
Something in Steve snaps.
Before he knows it, he’s shooting out, grasping at Eddie’s arms, desperate to touch, to feel. His fingers claw at the leather of his jacket, eyes tracking wildly over his face. He thinks that he lets out another cry, but he can’t tell, too focused on the way Eddie smiles at him, warm and knowing, before he pulls Steve in.
He goes willingly, allowing himself to be tucked into Eddie’s chest, feeling his arms wrap around him, his scent envelope him. He’s definitely crying now, pushing farther into Eddie, who hums quietly and rubs his hand up and down his back, slowly lowering them to the ground.
They collapse, tangled and shaking, clutching each other. Steve wishes he could stay here forever, wishes he could get Eddie’s fingerprints tattooed to the spots he touches so he never loses the feeling. It’s clear Eddie doesn't know what to say, but he more than makes up for it in the way he holds Steve close, touches him like he’s something to be savored– loved.
They stay like that for a while, simply sitting on the hard ground, pressed into each other. Eventually Steve’s cries slow, and he can breathe easier again. Eventually, Eddie speaks.
“I’m sorry I ran. I’m a coward at the worst of times, you know?”
Steve’s heart twinges, and he huffs, taking Eddie’s hand in his and reveling in the fact that he doesn’t pull away. “You’re here now,” he says, “And you’ve apologized already.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t feel like enough. I really hurt you, Steve,” Eddie’s voice cracks slightly, his fingers tightening over Steve’s.
Steve shrugs, looks away, “I’ve been through worse.”
“You shouldn’t have to do that,” Eddie says, shaking his head, “You deserve so much more than that.”
“I don’t know,” Steve sighs, “I’ve done some fucked up shit.”
“So have I, man. That’s not the point.” Eddie shifts, moving to look Steve in the eyes, “Your past is your past. Who you are now is what matters.”
Steve’s head spins, actively fighting the need to argue, to drill himself into the ground because he doesn’t think he’s done enough to change. But he just breathes, lets the words settle. Lets the urge pass.
“That’s a lot of wisdom for a metal-head,” Steve replies, trying at a joke.
The edges of Eddie’s lips quirk up, and he teases, “I’m full of surprises, Sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. The name makes Steve’s stomach flip, a smile working its way onto his face. But then he thinks back to that night. And he just has to ask.
“If that’s true, why did you freak out?”
He doesn’t have to specify– Eddie’s knows what he’s talking about. He lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair, “This is Hawkins, Indiana, man. Everyone’s either a Jason Carver or a Tommy Hagan. I couldn’t take the risk.”
“But you had your arm around me! How could you not–”
Eddie shifts, uncomfortable, but he steels himself and says, “I’ve never had this. I didn’t know what it meant– or where the line was. Didn’t know if that was just a friend thing.” He laughs a little, scrubbing a hand down his face, “God knows I haven’t had many of those either.”
Eddie bites his bottom lip, brow furrowed as he thinks. Then he cocks his head, asking, “I mean, you and Robin do that too, don’t you?”
Steve looks down, “Not really, it’s kind of hard for me to…”
He closes his eyes, throat tightening.
Eddie squeezes his arm, “To reach out?”
Steve nods.
“Shit,” Eddie says, realization dawning, “And I… After you… Fuck, I feel awful.”
“Can’t change the past,” Steve remarks, echoing Eddie’s words.
Eddie laughs a little, dropping his head onto Steve’s shoulder, “Right, right,” he lingers there for a second, like he’s gathering his nerve through the contact, and then he looks up again, and Steve knows whatever comes out of his mouth next is going to be nerdy as hell, “But I can change the future.”
He rolls his eyes, “Eddie, you don’t have to–”
But Eddie’s already on a roll, proclaiming, “I promise from here on out, I will be valiant, and attentive, and I will never run again!” He gives him a stupid little salute, and it’s so Eddie that Steve kind of wants to cry again. Then he deflates a little, looking sheepish, “If you’ll have me, that is.”
“If I’ll– Eddie, I’ve wanted this for months,” Steve smiles, reaching up and planting his hands on either side of Eddie’s face.
Eddie shrugs, smirking, “Just had to make sure. You’re too pretty to disappoint."
And then suddenly the air shifts, pulling taut between them. Steve’s eyes flick down to Eddie’s lips, then back up to where Eddie’s staring at him. He shouldn’t. If Eddie wanted it, he would’ve–
“Are you going to kiss me or what, Harrington?”
Steve blinks. Then grins, helpless and a little shaky. And then finally presses his lips to Eddie’s.
It’s like the cold doesn’t even exist now.
—
When it comes to touch, Steve Harrington is definitely still a greedy bastard.
He craves it, counts down the seconds until the next point of contact, wants and wants and wants. But now he’s learning that that’s okay. That he’s allowed to want. That he can have what he wants. In Eddie’s slow touches, in Dustin’s shoulder pats, in Robin’s careful hugs.
And while Steve can definitely say he’s feeling more himself again, there’s still always that flash of anxiety when someone pulls away. It’s better now– easier to handle, not as intense– but it’s still there. As much as he tries to push it away.
It took a while, honestly, for Eddie to gain his trust back. He was still scared to reach out, dreading the day that Eddie wouldn’t want him to. But the other boy was so painfully consistent, steadfast in the little things. He’d bump their knees together under the table, koala around Steve at night, brush the hair out of his eyes when he was busy.
He was relentlessly tactile, and gradually, Eddie started to make Steve believe.
Every solid touch felt like roots, growing in Steve’s chest painstakingly slow but frightfully strong.
It’s been a month or two since the whole quarry shit show, and tonight, everyone’s squished together in the Byer’s basement, shoulders overlapping and chattering noisily, with D&D scattered on the table in front of them. Steve has the best seat in the house, slouched on the couch next to Eddie at the head of the table.
His boyfriend is DMing tonight, and he’s been given the pleasure of watching from up close. Eddie doesn’t play much anymore, but every so often the kids manage to convince him to create a campaign for them. This is one of those nights, and as Steve’s eyes roam over his plans set up behind his DM screen, he can tell how much effort Eddie poured into this.
“Alright, you little shits, get ready to have your world rocked,” Eddie proclaims, already settling into the overdramatic Dungeon Master he is, spreading his arms wide, "Because I’m not pulling any punches tonight. Better pray to whatever god you believe in for some nat 20s. ”
Will and Dustin giggle fiendishly to each other, practically vibrating in their seats. Steve huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes.
It never fails to amaze him how nerdy his kids are.
Eddie gets comfortable on the couch, still talking, and pulls Steve’s legs onto his lap. They try to keep their touch friendly in front of the party, because adult things belong in adult homes, but a select few already know about them, and they aren’t very discreet anyways.
Case in point: Eddie’s hand coming up to rest just above his knee, rubbing up and down in a decidedly not just-friends way. But no one is paying attention to him, too wrapped up in the story spilling from Eddie’s lips.
It’s almost like he’s invisible in the shadow of Eddie’s intensity. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
He soaks up every small brush of skin against his own, worships the feeling of Eddie against him, lives in the spaces between– when the look in Eddie’s eyes is enough. He just exists in the contentment of touching his boyfriend.
He’s so caught up in it, he almost misses Mike shouting, “I cast fireball!” while basically leaning his entire body over the table.
Eddie tuts, shaking his head at him, “We’ve only just started, Wheeler, don’t be so bold just yet. You may want to save your strength.”
“For what?” Lucas exclaims, “For what?”
Eddie just smiles, sinks further into the couch, mimes zipping his lips. The kids explode in chatter amongst themselves.
The night goes on just like that, the feeling of happiness thick in the air. Steve could suffocate on it, really. But after everything they’ve all been through, they deserve to be this happy. Always, if Steve could help it. But he’ll settle for this as a start.
A couple hours in, Steve is sitting with his feet tangled with Eddie’s on the floor, and his hands playing with Eddie’s rings under the table. They’re at a big battle in the game, which Eddie had been courteously only using one hand to gesture with for, when it happens.
Eddie pulls away, removing every bit of himself from Steve as he bends over the table and points at one of the kids, acting out a scene. And there it is again, that stubborn spike of anxiety. Realistically, he knows that Eddie doesn’t mean it, that he’s just wrapped up in the game and that he shouldn’t have to put all of his attention on Steve all the time. But that doesn’t stop his stomach from flipping.
Eddie finishes, ending with a flourish, and a dark, “What do you do?” before flopping back onto the couch.
Steve tucks his hands under his thighs before he realizes what he’s doing and wrings them in his lap instead. Eddie looks over at him as the kids discuss, light concern immediately forming on his face.
“Hey, you alright?” he asks, one of his hands coming to rest over Steve’s.
He takes a breath, “I– yeah. Do you need to… I can scoot over if you want.”
He clicks his tongue, shaking his head, “Nope. I’m good.”
“You sure?” Steve asks, just because he wants Eddie to know there actually is an option for that, and that he’s not going to break down if he chooses it.
Eddie just smiles, tightening his grip, “Cross my heart.”
Steve chuckles, muttering, “Dork,” as Eddie laces their fingers together. He’s never felt so loved, never been able to love someone else this much, but the feeling in his chest doesn’t feel so large anymore. He finally has somewhere to put it. Someone to hold it.
Across the table, Erica shouts, “I try to seduce the dragon!”
And he groans, rubbing a hand over his face with a laugh, “Of course she does.”
But he wouldn’t trade anything in the world for this.