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Eddie Munson isn’t sure whether or not spring break of 1986 should be considered lucky. On one hand, there’s the whole murder accusations, the mob out for his hide, Carver trying to pistol whip Sinclair senior, and of course the portal to actual Hell with real life demonic bats and a sky that’s never not blue. Who knew Hell had actually frozen over? Stuck in time?
Oh—
And dying. Yeah, he didn’t like the active dying part. However, he did miraculously live—as miraculous as anybody can get when caught in a swarm of panic and the thin gap between reality and hell is closing—thanks to some swimmer’s lungs, urgent hands, and enough fabric to nearly consider him a mummy.
So…sure, all things considered, the early parts of 1986 were pretty unlucky. Any ordinary, sane person would think that. Though, if there’s one thing that everybody can agree on—himself included—is that Eddie Munson is no ordinary, sane person. He’s always been just on the fringe of a reasonable society.
While the underworld had rid itself, sparing no less than a great amount of thanks to their ragtag bunch of lost sheepies, a lot of things changed for him. Most importantly, he’s scarred and beaten. There’s a limp in his gait now, not a simple fix despite the amount of physical therapy appointments he attends; hell if he knows if this is permanent, but for the foreseeable future, it seems to be. Eddie thinks he should be mad—right?—but the alternative to this was dead and…yeah, if anything, he’s grateful in a weirdly hopeful, yet twisted way. There’s also the fact that he had to move away from the only place that really felt like home, Forest Hills. Not that there’s anything he would’ve been able to do about it, in hindsight. The alternate dimension gates had begun to rip and tear and sprawl, but had stopped—in the nick of time, too—right as the trailer and all that he knew were swallowed whole. Luckily, and truly luckily, Wayne hadn’t been at home; he’d developed stronger angel wings and stepped up as an even bigger virtue saint, put his hands where his mouth was, and helped where he see fit. The last major change came in the form of friendships, a plethora of them. It’s overwhelming, some days, to have everybody in his bubble of existence, but other times it’s just sweet.
During this long year of recovery, one thing that he could define as a true constant, was none other than reformed King—or better yet, a knight who tried on a crown one too many times—Steve Harrington. He’s around a lot, which isn’t an unwelcome thing, but definitely something unexpected with how little they knew each other at the start of things. He’s there during the extensive, agonizing physical therapy appointments. He’s there when Eddie’s thin-wire temper snaps and smacks them both in the face like a too tight guitar string; there with a soft voice and even softer eyes, the patience of a godsend. He’s there to help the Munson family resettle in their new residence, painting walls as Eddie directs from the center of the room, refitting Eddie’s bedsheets when his fingers dwindle, to organize Eddie’s pill sorter, and so much more. Helping is a knack of Steve’s. If there’s an opportunity to insert his hands or his brain or his brawn, he jumps to it. It’s…endearing, dare Eddie say. And even more so just shocking how natural it comes to Steve—despite the preconceived ideas that Eddie had.
Sure at the start of this terribly long year, they were nothing more than acquaintances; knowing each other from other people’s peripherals, from rumors, from stories. And over the several months that leads them to now, they had become closer. Impossibly close, yet fathomed as right. The kind of close that could almost be considered a new type of relationship, if Eddie dared to take a chance and put some labels where he sees fit, but wanting somebody was one thing, already having them just as they are is another. He’ll take some over nothing.
He’ll take Steve with his kindness. The kindness that’s natural, seemingly second nature, taking over a conversation before he can register he’s putting effort into motion. Eddie will have Steve’s sharp tongue and magazine smiles, his crinkled eyes around sugar-high giggles and soda spraying snorts, his long and pretty lashes that flutter when his smile gets too big, and his head that throws back, hair waving loose, shoulders bursting up and down as laughter spills and spills and spills. Steve with his afternoon naps, lazing quietly on one end of the sofa, curled tight into himself and legs folded into soft, doughy pretzels. Or his commentary on b-roll horror movies, or his two cents when it comes to a Dio song he thinks he might like—head bopping and all—or even the annoying gum snapping he does when behind the counter at Family Video. Steve’s attitude, yeah, Eddie will gladly carry that with him wherever he goes…or that ass or…
Okay, so the point is, Eddie will savor his crush from a safe enough distance. No matter how close-up Steve loves to get, it’s never supposed to be taken as reciprocation. It’s just dudes being bros. Something that Steve is very familiar with; Eddie’s seen enough jock ass slapping in the locker room, though he wouldn’t mind a little more—only if it involves Harrington, though. He’s playing it safe with liking Steve.
However, it’s during the holiday season when things really shift.
After the feast that Thanksgiving brings, all of their mismatched group huddled together in Harrington’s large dining room—the only place to contain them all—Steve shows up to help Wayne decorate. With a bundle of tinsel, a plastic storage bin of glittery ornaments, even a new set of Hallmark Keepsakes—that Steve had been told endlessly to not replace, but he never really listens; once he sets a plan in motion, he doesn’t give up.
It’s a jock thing, Eddie thinks, or maybe more like a Golden Retriever that wants to prove it’s good at what it was born to do.
Steve shows up, though, as if he hasn’t already, but it’s set on overdrive. He chops down the Christmas tree for them, based on what Eddie points and picks—he’d normally be the one to chop it down for Wayne, but with how battered he is this year, he’s unable to. Eddie hands Steve ornaments. Steve helps Eddie stand and reach, nice and tall, to put the angel on the tree; the only tradition Eddie figured he could keep to. After, with the weeks that follow, Steve is popping by without explanation or excuse. Treats, desserts, failed plates of cookies that he needs more input on. Showing up with board games, the ingredients Wayne asked for for homemade hot cocoa, countless stories about Family Video customers.
He is just there. Simple as that. Nothing more to it, and certainly nothing less.
Then, the Monday of Christmas week, he’s there again. In the driveway of the new Munson home. His BMW parked just a few inches off of the mailbox, thick snow on his tires. He’s got dark Levi’s on, chunky black snow boots, a pair of soft-knit navy blue mittens, a giant winter coat to match, and a pom-pom baby blue beanie atop his head. Steve’s on the porch, when Eddie finally opens the door, a heavy two-handed shovel in his grip. His hair’s slightly longer, curling around the underside of his beanie, just barely brushing his shoulders. And his eyes, round and droopy, are sparkling from the flashing multi-colored Christmas lights on the house: blue and red and green and white, blue and red and green and white, blue and red and—he’s Christmas magic personified.
Without greeting, “I already did my driveway,” Steve explains, “thought I’d come by and see the damage on your side. See what I could knockout.”
Eddie leans against the doorjamb, a cane held tight in his left hand. He’s not properly dressed to sit outside and keep Steve entertained, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a sweat stained plain grey t-shirt. “Well, hello to you, too,” he gently teases.
Softly, “Hi,” Steve finally says. Though his right hand is mittened, he gives a terse, stiff finger wave.
Quietly, Eddie scoffs under his breath and playfully rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna overexert yourself,” he tells Steve, “Wayne’ll trek back just fine.” He opens the door a little wider, stepping back. “Wanna come inside?”
Steve tilts his head towards his right shoulder, hiking the shovel higher in his grip, a confused puppy-eyed look crosses his face. “Don’t you want me to shovel the snow? It wouldn’t be too much trouble, swear. I’m good at it, y’know, I can help.”
“As much as I’d like to enjoy the view…”—Steve snorts at him, shoulders loosening—“…I’m okay, sweetheart. I can put on some milk for cocoa and we can break into the package of candy canes Wayne picked up the other day.” He smiles, frosting soft and light, and wiggles his fingers out towards Steve, hoping he’ll grip them. Adding with a gentle lilt, “I’ll even add extra marshmallows to your mug,” Eddie sing-songs.
Briefly, Steve shoots a quick stare towards the offending bright white snow in the driveway. It’s contemplation, an uncertainty. He purses his lips in thought, and then looks back to Eddie. “Sounds nice,” he mutters, “and I am cold. But…are you sure?”
Eddie passes behind the front door, holding it open with a blasé gesture towards the open living room. “You think I’m messing with you? C’mon, pretty boy, get in here and keep warm before you catch your death.”
With a fond eye roll and shake of his head, Steve sets the shovel aside on the porch, steps into the doorway, taps his boots out against the frame, and walks all the way inside with a gentle shiver down his back. He breathes out a short, stuttering sigh. “Ooo,” Steve groans low. “Man, it’s so nice and warm in here.”
The door shuts with a soft click. Eddie immediately turns back to Steve, reaches up, and slips the beanie off his head. He tosses the hat aside and runs a hand over Steve’s back, his coat crinkling. “One of the perks about having this place is that we have a built in thermostat. Whole house has been keeping good temperature all day. No more space heaters for the likes of moi.”
Steve giggles lightly under his breath, a sweet sound here and gone in a moment. He’s wrestling with his jacket, stepping clumsily out of his boots when he says, “I appreciate it, like, a lot. I’ve been working out in the cold for hours today. Think my nose might be an icicle.”
“Oh? Want me check for you?”
With a snort, “Sure,” Steve mutters, “knock yourself out, man.”
Eddie swoops around to face Steve head on, eyes already squinting in scrutiny. He tuts, tongue clicking against his teeth. Gently, he grips Steve’s jaw on either side, swinging his head back and forth. All the while, Steve stares down at Eddie, cheeks quickly heating under the touch, mouth pinching down in enamor. “Hmmm,” Eddie hums. “I don’t know…might need to”—he quickly snatches up the tip of Steve’s nose between his fingers and squeezes it—“chilly, very chilly. I’m afraid to say it, my valiant knight in crinkling armor, but your nose is pure ice. But”—Eddie steps back and claps his hands together, once and firmly, wobbling only slightly when his cane clatters to the ground—“not to worry!”
Steadfastly, he ignores the way Steve’s cold mitts have reached out to steady him. How his thumbs are digging into the waistband of his pajama pants, the tightening curl of his strong fingers even through the thick fabric. The amused, slightly creased with worry, admiration of his washed out, winter face.
The detail of that throws Eddie just a bit. Thank the luck of 1986 for allowing him to see Steve’s summer tan fade into a pretty winter pale, how it christens him like the snow on the earth. Soft, yet blinding, but all the same…somehow perfect.
After a sharp intake of breath to resettle himself, Eddie continues on, “Your nose will return to normal approximately by the end of today. However, I must recommend an overnight stay here at Casa de Munson if you wish to see your nose become the bulb that guided Rudolph all through the world.”
“Mmm…an overnight stay you say?” Eddie grins and nods. “Hmmm,” Steve hums deeper. He purses his lips again in thought, eyes squinting, eyebrows furrowed down his face. To add to the effect, he rubs his left hand over his face, the mitten leaving a scratchy trail in its travels. Something humorous glints in Steve’s eyes. “What accommodations do you offer before I decide on booking a stay? I know there’s an afternoon cup of cocoa and some candy canes, but what else?”
“Oh…well, anything you think I can offer,” Eddie says sweetly, “you’re a VIP guest in Casa de Munson after all.”
Something fluttery and flirty passes over Steve’s features. A light glowing effervescent from within him. “Anything?”
“Anything. Within reason, of course.”
“So…if I asked for a pair of comfortable pants because my jeans are kind of wet from snow and are actively getting soggy against my legs…?”
“Lucky for you, I happen to have a full drawer of pajama pants, sweatpants, and long johns courtesy of some very nice people in our circle. Had to find some easy things I could slip into that weren’t covered in buttons and clasps.”
Steve nods once to himself, slow and absorbing. Before he gives Eddie any further answer, he bends down and picks up the cane on the floor, placing it back in Eddie’s left hand all in one swift motion. Then, he slips out of his crinkly jacket and scratchy wool mittens. There’s a thin long sleeve henley that he unveils, which Eddie responds openly with a scoff.
“Jesus, Stevie,” he tuts, “what’re you doin’ in this snow with this”—he plucks at Steve’s shirt—“and nothing warmer on top?”
“I had a jacket!”
“Yeah, that’s not going to keep you as warm as you thought. Go on to my room and change into something better. Warmer, sweetheart. You come outta that room in basketball shorts and a t-shirt, I’m gonna whack you with my cane.”
A long sigh. “I don’t wanna overheat on top,” he whines.
“Well, I don’t want you to actually turn into a popsicle.” With one hand, Eddie turns Steve full bodily towards the hallway, just across from the front door, and shoves him lightly. “Go on, sweetheart. I’ll start the cocoa and grab the throw blanket from the back of the couch. No protesting me on this.”
As much as he loves to see Steve leave the room in those Levi’s of his, Eddie’s glad that he actually listens. Albeit, he does give a dramatic stomping march of his feet down the hallway and an even bigger inconvenienced sigh. Belatedly, Eddie thinks, God, he’s such a brat…why do I not hate it?
He returns to the task back at hand, going to the kitchen and preparing a pot of milk. Setting a few cups of milk to simmer on the burner, Eddie readies his uncle’s container of hot cocoa mix—all handmade, thank god—and a couple of giant mugs—thank god for the Goodwill bins. And then he just…waits.
Steve makes a lot of noise rummaging for clothes. Drawers rattling open, banging shut with a yelp, “Shit! Oops….” Something slams into the rickety bed frame, that causes Eddie to peer around the corner of the kitchen, eyebrows furrowed down his face. Another hiccuped yelp, a groan, “Ow, fuck.”
“Dude, are you good?” Eddie shouts.
“Yeah! Yeah, dude, fine! Just…tripped over my own pants!”
“Okay,” he calls back, unconvinced. “It sounds like you’ve unleashed a battalion of a thousand strong dwarves in my room to, like, do your bidding.”
Another bang. “Stubbed my toe!”
“Do I need to come in there and babysit you or something?”
“What? And watch me get naked?”
“Naked?! Steve”—Eddie stops short at the end of the hallway, staring down his open bedroom door where…yep—“oh! What the—Why are you”—he promptly slams his hands over his eyes. Do not look, Edward—“I told you to put on clothes, not take them all off!”
The bedroom door slams shut with a knock to it, Steve most likely falling against it. “Yeah, but my underwear were also soaked!”
Do not think about his underwear, don’t think about why they’re wet, don’t ask him what the fuck he was doing, Eddie chants in his mind. He sighs. “My underwear are in that milk crate near my bed!”
More shuffling around.
Eddie paces back to the kitchen, hissing under his breath when discovering the milk burbling up at him. He removes the pot from the heat, cursing all the while, and quickly pours it out into the respective giant mugs he found: black, rounded, and thick like witch cauldrons.
Suddenly, “Your underwear are really soft, dude!”
He shuts his eyes against that and lets out a low groan. He’s in your fucking underwear, what the fuck. “Yeah, they, uh, they’ve been worn, y’know? Honestly, probably on their way out any day now.”
Steve, like a normal person, shouts back, “I’m gonna steal them!”
Under his breath, Eddie questions, “What the fuck is his problem?” He steps out of the kitchen, two steaming cocoa mugs in his hands, and promptly makes pace towards the living room. “Your mug’s on the coffee table! Stop stealing my underwear!”
Like a bullet that’s just been fired, Steve comes sprinting and skittering into the living room. He’s got a red sweatshirt, grey sweatpants, and a pair of fuzzy blue socks on—all courtesy of Eddie’s wardrobe…and not to mention whatever underwear he chose. There’s a ruffle to his hair, causing it to bush and frizz over his ears, around the underside of his jaw. The tips of his fingers are a pale red, still inflamed from the cold outside. A sweet, gooey smile overtakes his face. “Ooo, yay,” Steve cheers, “I love Wayne’s cocoa!” He cups the mug between his hands, brings it to the end of his nose, and scoots around the coffee table to lever down into his spot—the far right side of the sofa.
Gently lowering himself on the couch, Eddie sits back with a smirk. “Oh, I know. Think I’ve helped remake his mixture about five times since Thanksgiving.”
“It’s good!” Steve defends. He takes a big whiff of his cocoa. And then he curls his tongue into the mug, scooping up a few tiny marshmallows that are just beginning to melt, but then he lets out a sharp, loud hiss. “Ooohhh, it’s hot.”
“I mean…Stevie, it’s called hot cocoa.”
There’s a small, indignant squawk from the back of Steve’s throat. “I know! I just…”—he shrugs—“whatever, I really wanna drink it.”
“Well, don’t burn your tongue.”
“You’re not my mom.” To drive that point home, Steve slurps up a mouthful of his hot chocolate. Trying, and failing, to smother the sharp inhale as burning pain erupts in his mouth. And then he raises his eyebrows at Eddie, as if to say, “See? I can drink it just fine.”
Eddie rolls his eyes, leaning forward for the clicker on the coffee table. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters. Before Steve can reply with something snarky, he interrupts, “What should we watch? I’ve got It’s A Wonderful Life on video, or The Price is Right is on CBS in, like, ten minutes.”
“Mmm…whatever you wanna watch, I don’t really care. Though, I do watch George Bailey wish he wasn’t born every year, so. I dunno.”
“Okay…so…The Price is Right, then? You, uh, you basically indirectly answered my question.”
Steve shrugs. “I dunno. I’m just drinking my cocoa”—slurp—“put on whatever you want.”
“We could also just watch…uh…whatever I haven’t returned to Family Video yet.”
“Oh, you mean that copy of This is Spinal Tap that I let you rent on my account because your account is currently stalled with late fees for that adult film you rented where some girl was being fucked by Tarzan?”
Eddie freezes. “That is…How did you…”—
“I work at the store you rented from,” Steve says—a silent duh hangs in the air—“I had to ID you before you went into the adults only section. And I had to check you at the register. And and I had to write the receipt you received, which also has my signature on it. Y’think I don’t know that you rented that?”
He clears his throat, licks his lips, and stuffs himself into the corner of the armrest he’s leaning against. Mumbles, “Must’ve forgotten.”
“Hm. Don’t be embarrassed, man. I’ve seen that one before. Both the girl and the guy in that are super hot. Dude, that guy is hung. Like a fucking horse”—What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the—“it’s not as good as the sequel where the girl fucks the guy, but to each their own.”
Eddie takes a slow, deep inhale. Cheeks flaming not only from the heat of the house, but whatever the hell Steve is doing to him. There are several things in all of that that he could focus on. You’re into dudes? You watch offbeat weirdo porn? You’re attracted to Tarzan…or, really, dudes in leopard print? Instead, “There’s a sequel? Why do you know that?”
Simply, “I get bored. It’s like when you go to the library and check out one of those erotic books and read out the dialogue. Robin and I do that all the time.”
“Yeah, but…you…uh…you actually focus on certain parts.”
“Oh, like you don’t get curious about a guy’s dick every once in a while.”
“What? Do you, dude?”
Steve blinks at him. Eyebrows thick and furrowed on his face. “Do I what?”
Exasperated, Eddie huffs, and asks, “Get…get curious about dicks?!”
“I…Have I not…I thought I told you?”
Eddie tilts his head. “Told me what?”
“That I’m into guys? Back some months ago? You told me that you were into dudes, like, out of nowhere and then you got kinda scared around me and I told you that I’m the same way and”—something big and shocked must be passing over Eddie’s face based on how Steve trails—“you don’t remember.”
It’s not accusatory, just a soft realization. Still, it stings.
He gently taps the back of his right hand against Steve’s left bicep. Softly, “Hey, I’m sorry, man. It must’ve been when I was on those painkillers or losing my mind to physical therapy. I would’ve remembered, I swear.”
Steve shrugs, staring down into his mug. The marshmallows leave streaky white trails as they melt and swirl. “I know you would’ve, Eds. I’m not mad or anything.”
“But”—
“Eds,” Steve repeats, sugar sweet, wonderfully soft. He smiles at Eddie, the corners of his mouth curling lightly into his cheeks, rounding them out. There’s a light flush over his cheeks, splotchy and pink. “You’re sweet for wanting to remember and thinking you need to apologize for not, but it’s fine, I swear on it. The fact that we’re still sitting here on your couch after I just told you that I was attracted to some guy’s schlong in a porno is enough, yeah?” He chuckles. “That’s the most absurd reasoning I’ve ever had to give for anything in my entire life, by the way. It’s very…us.”
He snorts. “Us?”
“Yeah, us.”
Eddie hums. “And…what else is…us, sweetheart?” He discards the clicker onto the arm of the couch, forgotten, and pillows his cheek in his hand instead. A lopsided smile on his face, matching the same on Steve’s. With his right foot, Eddie brushes Steve’s closest ankle. “C’mon, tell me.”
Teeth and fondness is all Eddie can see in Steve’s smile. The anxious tic of his hands passing his mug back and forth. Steam curling ever so slowly over his face. Eyes crinkled, eyelashes long and fanning with them. Hushed, “Where do I start?” Steve asks. “There’s…um…there’s a lot. I’m sorry if this is corny and embarrassing.” He takes a deep breath. “Well…first of all, when I come over and we just sit here and shoot the shit, drink hot chocolate, and watch TV for way too long. Or when we go to the arcade with all the buttheads and you always try and beat my Pac-Man score, even though you know that you’re going to lose no matter what. And when we annoy Robin by shooting spitballs at each other from across Family Video.”
“Yeah? When we’re annoying?”
“No, when we’re having fun. There’s a difference. Annoying would be like when we were in high school and I’d run down the halls before the last bell rang and instead of focusing on getting to my class, I was busy knocking textbooks out of everybody’s hands.”
“Oh, so that was you.”
“In hindsight, that was also fun for me at the time.”
Eddie hums. “To be fair, I was also annoying.”
“Yeah, walking on tables and throwing paper airplanes at my table all the time.”
“Aww, Stevie, were you watching me?” He pulls a chunk of hair to his mouth. “I’m flattered.”
Steve shakes his head fondly. “How could I not watch you? Not like I could escape a Reebok spontaneously showing up in my mashed potatoes. Or that one time where you stepped on Tommy’s milk carton and it exploded all over his favorite polo. Nice job, by the way, that was probably the hardest I’d ever laughed at school.”
“Hey, I aim to please.”
That fond smile of Steve’s shifts, lips pursing, flirtatious teasing creeping into the edges of his face. “Oh, do you now?”
“Mmm…sure. Why? You wanna find out?”
Without saying anything at first, Steve sits up, sets his mug down on the coffee table, and promptly scoots closer to Eddie on the couch. He sets his left hand out, fingers gently laying over Eddie’s. There’s a curl to his fingers, a warmth growing and growing now that he’s safe and comfortable inside.
Up this close, Eddie can make out every single pore, every single freckle and mole, every eyelash on Steve’s face. The slight dryness to his barely chapped lips. A part of him just wants to stare forever, another part says, I can fix how chapped his lips are.
Steve’s pinkie traces over the back of Eddie’s hand, pushing the soft skin. “Is this okay?” he murmurs.
“Y-yeah,” Eddie stutters.
The pinkie stops. Instead, Steve wraps his entire hand over Eddie’s. Scoots closer. Shoulder to shoulder. He leans forward, eyes catching Eddie’s, hair drooping over his forehead frizzy and unkempt, and he smirks. “And if I”—
Forehead to forehead.
Loudly, unceremoniously, Eddie inhales sharply, but he doesn’t back away. He trails his free left hand over Steve’s arm, up the side of his neck, and cups his right cheek. Thumb sweeping over the sparse, noticeably scratchy and freshly grown back-in stubble on his jaw. Eddie taps his forehead against Steve’s—once, twice—nuzzles his nose against the squishy, sharp line of Steve’s, and brushes their lips together. Hesitant. Soft.
Careful, as if the world will enter through the front door any moment, snow sweeping into the hallway, wind rustling through to the couch, ice freezing their cocoa, a thousand eyes on them; for the walls to fall away and instead of the world, it’s the manufactured stage of a sitcom. Laughter buzzing through the studio, up to the ceiling, into their veins. For the moment where Steve stops being Steve Harrington and instead is just some guy in costumer made pajamas, reading over a script, searching for the line he couldn’t remember. And Eddie won’t be Eddie Munson, no longer some awkward virgin who happens to watch guys longingly from afar, and will be replaced with an arrogant, stuck-up asshole; who’ll reach up and take this wig off his head, roll his leg one way and the next to wake it back up from the fake limp he’s given it, and storm off set to reconcile the absolute stupidity that has become his day to day life.
Instead, he’s holding Steve Harrington’s face in his hand, feeling the exact moment that he breathes out relief into Eddie’s cupped palm, and presses more firmly into the kiss. Lips parting with a breath, eyes fluttering shut on their own accord, nose plunging deep just above the new scar on Eddie’s cheek. He groans, whimpers onto Eddie’s tongue, and squeezes their hands even harder.
He gives himself to the heat of the moment. Opens his mouth when Steve prods him with his tongue, tastes what he’s given. Steve is hot chocolate and marshmallows, a hint of peppermint gum, and…eggnog?
Eddie pulls back with a soft, wet pop. When he opens his eyes, it’s to Steve’s pouting face, eyes still closed into the kiss. He warmly chuckles. Whispers, “Did you have some eggnog before you came over?”
Steve’s eyes slowly flutter open. Blush warm over his cheeks. “Mhm…is it really that obvious? I got a new carton yesterday and was craving it all morning.”
“Tastes good,” he breathes. “Makes you even sweeter. Spicier.”
A hum. Steve leans back in without another word, kissing along the soft scar on Eddie’s jaw. Nosing over his cheek, against his temple, kisses pressed to every inch of skin Steve dares to reach.
Giddily, Eddie giggles. “Your lips tickle,” he murmurs, “you’re warm, you feel good.”
Sighing against him, Steve whispers, “Yeah? I can make you feel really good, if you want.”
Eddie gulps at that. Nervously, “That would…yeah, I’d like that. Just…,” he trails.
Steve pulls back a hair, droopy eyes staring into Eddie. He turns their hands over, tucks his thumb into the center of Eddie’s palm, and brushes circles into his skin. With his free hand, he gently tucks a few strands of hair behind Eddie’s left ear, cascading fingers down the side of his neck, tucking them securely where it meets shoulder. Attentively, “What’s goin’ on, Eds?” He lifts their hands and gingerly kisses at Eddie’s knuckles. Head tilting, a caring, genuine smile on his face.
“I, um, I’ve never done…this. Any of it. With anybody,” Eddie admits quietly. His breath stutters in his chest. “And I want to, with you, but I don’t know what I’m doing.”
As if the sun has come out, Steve’s face softens like snow in early days of spring. He brushes his thumb over the gentle slope of Eddie’s jawline. Comforting. “We can take it slow, I don’t mind. I’ll do whatever you’re comfortable with. I just…I’ve wanted you for a while now, Eds, whether we do something or not doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
Hesitantly, “And…and how do you feel about me?”
Steve sniffs. “Later,” he murmurs, “later, baby, later. I don’t think I’m ready to say it yet.”
Eddie gently grins. “Seems like you already indirectly told me.”
“Maybe I did,” Steve whispers, immediately conceding, “I have a hard time with hiding the truth.” He shifts, brushing the tip of his nose against Eddie’s, kissing the left corner of his mouth. Draws away again, shoulders loose, hair still droopy, eyes glistening and warm. There’s a spot of chocolate under his lip, where his chin divots, Eddie says nothing about it. “How do you feel about me?”
The walls could fall away any moment now, Eddie thinks. Spotlight hot on his face. His script rewritten, all of this transformed and taken, the audience asking what happened to the love that seemed embedded into their souls. And he wants to answer, is the thing, tell the truth, let it free like a firefly begging to be out of the jar.
It’s only Steve. Nobody else is here. No-one outside cares, not yet, and certainly not right now. Though, it feels like it. Hunt the freak, town pariah, target on my back. With Steve, he’s safe, but with his own mind, Eddie cowers still anyway. He won’t run away, that’s a past thing, but he can freeze, he can solidify for now.
“Later,” he eventually says, an echo, “I’m not ready yet. I’m still”—
“Scared?” Steve licks his bottom lip, a nervous little twitch. “It’s okay. We have time now, don’t we?”
Eddie nods softly. “Lots of it.”
“Yeah…yeah, baby, lots of it. Okay? Eds, you’re brave, you be as brave as you think you can be right now. First times are scary, I get it.” He tenderly runs his hand down the slope of Eddie’s shoulder, his bicep, to his free hand. Curls his fingers. Fingernails scratching in slow, considerate circles. “I guess I don’t really get queer love, not yet, not fully. But I don’t…maybe I don’t get it because feelings should just be feelings, right? I should be able to…I should be able…” A sharp inhale. He stops.
Be brave.
You’re brave.
Carefully, “Should be able to do what, sweetheart?”
Steve shrugs gingerly. Eyes looking down at their hands, his fingers still moving. “Love,” he states slowly, “you. I should be able to love you, Eddie.” His next inhale is shaky, if a bit wet. “I don’t even think I freaked out when I realized how close I was getting to you. That I was crossing lines that I would never cross with somebody like Robin or…or even Jonathan. It felt like…I felt…I was on fire around you, Eds. And I…I did feel like that around Robin once, I felt that truthfully and honestly and that feeling still lingered even when her and I became just friends, capital P Platonic, y’know? But I felt like this, like for this long, around somebody like Nancy.
“And I loved Nancy, I did. It was natural. It was real. I wanted it, I welcomed it.
“And you? Eddie, I felt it months ago. Stronger. Bigger.
“It was suffocating. I’d be in a room with you and it’s like I put my open palm into a freshly lit fireplace, every single fucking time. And I never…I never wanted to stop feeling that. I don’t want to stop, Eds.
“You’re the first guy I ever felt this way about.
“It’s scary. I’m mostly just scared by how much I want you and how much I want this to never end. Any of this.” He swallows, throat moving harsh and slow. Sniffs. Rips his right hand out of Eddie’s left, and brings it up to swipe and pinch at his nose. “Heh,” Steve huffs. “Sorry, that was…a lot? I do that. I come in too hard and too fast.”
Eddie lets the silence cushioning that linger for far too long. Steve shoots him a questioning glance. He runs his tongue over his teeth, smirk creeping over his face. Laughter wrestles and fits in the back of his mouth, yet he murmurs, “That’s what he said.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, giggles erupt over the couch. He earns a swat to the center of his chest, a light backhand, and a shoulder shove. His skin ignites from every point of contact, lingering in the sensation that is Steve Harrington just being around. And, to his absolute delight, Steve is choking and coughing on pure hysterical laughter. Eyes squeezed completely shut, cheeks bright red and bulbous, lips pulled taut against his teeth from how hard he’s smiling, shoulders shaking and shaking and shaking, breath wheezing out of his nose, and his hair tussling all at once.
I did that, I did that, I did that—echoes, ping-ponging around his skull.
Voice quivering, Steve says, “Y-you’re a…a jack…jackass! Fuck…fuck you, man, I feel like I’m gonna vomit, dude!” His hand clutches tight at his stomach, fingers curling and pulling at the sweatshirt on his back, body completely tilting into the couch cushions, guiding Eddie down with him.
Like a dog, Eddie goes down easily, blanketing himself over Steve’s left side, pinning their arms between their bodies. He’s chuckling something awful, snorting and squealing right into Steve’s ear, but neither of them care. It’s been a long time since he’s been comfortable enough to stop caring around somebody like this. He’d always shied away, bit his hair, wrangled his fingers for comfort; no matter how loud he was to the masses, he’s never more quiet than when he cares; he does, is the thing, but not in that nitpicking way. With Steve, he doesn’t have to do that. Being himself is easy. It’s…welcomed.
Steve’s still howling something fierce, buried deep in the sofa, hair pooling and sprawling to hide his forehead, his ears. Just barely, Eddie sits himself up, not enough to release Steve’s waist, but just enough to wriggle his free hand into their pile of limbs. Gently, trying to not blow too much air, he tickles his fingers through Steve’s hair, and tucks it behind his ear. Just so he can see, the way blush truly now flushes all over, tears cascading from the corners of those droopy-puppy eyes, spit spraying from his open mouth. Eddie leans down and kisses his exposed temple, skin hot against his lips.
“Easy,” Eddie chuckles, “Stevie, sweetheart, easy.”
“I c-can’t,” Steve cries out, laughter still clogging his throat, “you…you said”—
“The world’s funniest joke? God, I should be a stand up comedian at this rate. Only if I can draw in crowds exactly like this.” He brushes his fingers over the top of Steve’s warm, red ear, and kisses there, too. Over exaggerated, wet, sticky. “Though, think I want this all to myself,” Eddie murmurs.
At that, Steve begins to quiet, inhaling deep, shaky breaths, swallowing down around his spit and his giggles. Eddie continues to pet through his hair as they come down. And then Steve shifts, angling himself so he can look right up at Eddie, hair down and curtaining the both of them. Softly, “Yeah?”
He smiles, cheeks tight with it. “Oh, yeah,” Eddie breathes out. Gently, he runs his thumb over Steve’s hairline, down his right temple, over his ear, and rests it at the scratchy hinge of his jaw. “I don’t think I’ve felt this good in a long time, y’know? Why would I want this to go away?”
“Yeah,” Steve says again. He turns his head into Eddie’s palm, kisses the skin of it, and lets his cheek be cushioned, leaning into the hold. On instinct, Eddie is already soothing his thumb over Steve’s skin. “Yeah, why would we? This is nice.”
“Nice,” Eddie sighs warmly. “Hey, y’know, I’m also the kind of guy to rush into things.”
“Are you now?”
Nodding, he says, “I am, always been. But I don’t know…I don’t think it’s a bad thing. Just means I happen to know what I want. And, Steve, baby, I’ve been wanting you a long time.”
Something awakens, glowing and sparkling in Steve’s stare. Shyly, “Really?”
“I was always watching from afar. My eyes were on you for years. It was honestly super embarrassing. All my friends knew before me that I had a crush on you. You know how lame it is to say that I have a high school crush? It is…absolutely mortifying.” He leans back down, nosing against Steve again, and kisses him squarely on the lips. Pulling back, he’s able to see the stars in his eyes reflecting in Steve’s. “I want my firsts to be with you,” Eddie quietly confesses, “Steve Harrington, I am…so deeply and madly in love with you. I’ve been struggling so damn hard to contain myself the last year.”
The words are out there. Quiet and comfortable.
There’s no studio laughter or the collapse of these four living room walls, nothing explodes, nobody dies. It’s just…peaceful. He said it. It’s out there.
He’s in love with a boy that somehow loves him back. That he kept at arm’s length for as long as he possibly could. Until Steve forced himself to fit in every last crevice of Eddie’s life: at the hospital, at physical therapy appointments, pit stops for diner food, Family Video visits with spitballs and renting out lame films, Thanksgiving, and now for some reason Eddie’s underwear are on Steve’s body. How much closer could one be?
That answer is immediately given when Steve launches himself at Eddie, shoves his free hand into his hair, pulls and pushes until their foreheads touch, and then they’re kissing. It’s teeth, mostly, with smiles shared between them, spit and hot breath and not enough space to pull back and actually breathe. Steve kisses like he’s trying to eat, to taste and savor; he kisses like he never will again—like Eddie would ever give this up.
He groans into Steve’s open mouth, licking against the sharp edges of his canines, squeezing their bodies impossibly closer. Eddie can’t stop the way his body reacts in time, grinding down hard and needy into Steve’s lap. Before he can apologize, though, Steve is responding back: grinding up, twisting until he can free his other hand, burying his hands into Eddie’s hair, and moaning brightly between them.
Eddie draws back, panting. Spit strings between them. “Do you want to”—
“Yes, Eds, yes.”
“I didn’t even”—he chuckles thinly, still trying to catch his breath—“didn’t even say”—
“Can I…baby, can I blow you?” Steve asks sweetly, desperately. His hips circle, lifting up once from the couch in search of friction. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Just…please, please let me show you how much I want you? How much I love you.”
Briefly taken aback, Eddie’s eyes widen, mouth agape. He blinks, stunned. “You don’t have to”—
“I want to, Eds.”
“Y-yeah, okay, how do I…what should I…”
Gently, Steve pushes him up and back, sitting himself up when he’s no longer pinned. He guides Eddie to rest his back against the arm of the couch. “Put your legs up on the couch, spread your knees a little bit,” he lightly commands. Eddie does just as he’s told, planting his feet on the couch cushion, a leg thrown over Steve’s lap, the other tucked against the back of the couch. Steve grabs a nearby throw pillow and wordlessly tucks it at Eddie’s lower back. “Does this feel okay? Your right leg isn’t flaring, right?”
Eddie nods. “Yeah, sweetheart, I’m doing alright.” Although, he does weirdly feel fuzzy at the back of his mind. It’s not a bad sensation, though. It’s pleasant, warm. He watches Steve reposition on the couch, laying out on his stomach, feet curled up against the opposite armrest, head next to Eddie’s cock, peering up.
“I’ll be sweet on you,” Steve murmurs, a promise. He nuzzles his cheek against Eddie’s inner right thigh, nose squishing, breath stuttering. His hands are on Eddie’s hips, fingers curled into the waistband of his flannel pajama pants. Sugary, “If you want, baby, you can put your hand in my hair. You’ll have more control that way.”
He combs his fingers through Steve’s hair, gripping loosely to the strands. “Okay?”
“Yeah, baby, this is okay.” Steve presses a chaste kiss to Eddie’s clothed thigh and begins to pull down at his waistband. Softly, still with a note of command, “Let me know if I do something you don’t like. This is for both of us, not just me.”
The air hits Eddie’s naked cock as soon as it’s exposed, warm and pleasant. Steve’s staring down at the length, eyes wide an marveling. He leans in and kisses at the red, leaking tip; it’s a soft things, more of something instinctual than necessary. Then, he works his way down Eddie’s cock—not taking him into his mouth, not yet—just pressing quick, considerate, delicate kisses down to the base, his nose buried in the curly bush of pubic hair.
Moaning under his breath, Eddie lets out a soft, “Fuck.”
Steve’s tongue darts, testing, kitten licking. His breath shutters, hot and cold over Eddie’s cock, fingers tensing and curling at his hips. He hums and mouths, acting as if he’s going to suck hickies wherever he can reach, tongue curling.
His hand tightens in Steve’s hair, fingernails scratching against his scalp.
A low groan burbles from the back of Steve’s throat. He licks one, long strip up to the leaking head of Eddie’s cock, and as he relaxes his jaw, takes him into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth. It’s new, the sensation, and lethal—Steve’s lips thin and stretch, working their way to take the new girth, spit dribbling and pooling as he swallows down, tongue twitching and flattening to take to the new intruding shape inside him.
The prettiest little moans spill from Steve, growing in intensity as soon as he takes as much as he can—a solid inch of Eddie’s cock still exposed between them, too much and too big for both of their first times—and he sits, relaxing into the sensation. Steve’s eyes had fluttered closed at some point, but they peel back open now, staring up at Eddie. His right hand comes up to Eddie’s and squeezes, an affirming hum leaving his mouth—permission. The vibrations are felt all the way from tip to base of Eddie’s cock, it twitching against Steve’s tongue.
Slowly, carefully, Eddie guides Steve’s head up a couple inches, and then back down at the same sedate pace. When he doesn’t choke or rip himself off, Eddie goes a little quicker, dragging him up and down, up and down, up and—
Steve chokes the next time he goes down, eyebrows furrowing with it. Panicked, Eddie begins to pull him up, but all that Steve does is tighten his hold on Eddie’s hips, stays put right where he is, and tests the waters by moving at his own pace now. He’s faster than Eddie was, pushing himself closer and closer to taking the full length into the back of his throat.
He tries to smother moans, but all that does is make Eddie whimper, quiet and shaky, wet and needy. His breath shutters when Steve only quickens, the tears beading at the corners of his eyes, flush growing high and higher on his face. There’s spit bubbling and burbling at the sides of Steve’s wet and wetter mouth.
Eddie moans, soft and shaky. “You’re…you’re good at this,” he breathes out, “sweetheart, you’re wonderful.”
Shockingly, Steve’s next moan crests, loud and pitchy. The praise spurs him on, bobbing and shuttering, sucking obscenely, slurping up his own spit and Eddie’s pre-come. He grips tighter, nuzzles at the pubic hair that meets the tip of his nose, sighs and whines.
“Oh, fuck, Stevie,” he groans. “Good…’s’good,” Eddie slurs. “Gonna…baby, I’m close.”
Instead of pulling up, pulling away, Steve buries himself deep on Eddie’s cock. Taking all of him at once. Gagging, choking around it. Eyes pleading up at Eddie as if to say, “Do it. I can take it.”
All at once, heat builds, full and jittery. He arches against the armrest, burying himself as far as he can in Steve’s wanton mouth, head thrown back, hair spilling over his shoulders. His eyes close on their own accord, feet planting firmly into the couch. Eddie stutters around his next moan and then he’s coming, fast and plenty down Steve’s accepting throat.
He can feel it, Steve’s tongue working to swallow and swallow and swallow. Throat clicking as he takes and takes and takes. His hips grinding into the couch cushion—once, twice—and then he goes lax.
Eddie’s catching his breath, vision spotty as his eyes trace the ceiling, when Steve finally pops off. His cock is hidden back in his pants, spent and twitching. Arms glide up around his waist, squeezing him ever so gently. He lulls his head back down, staring at Steve.
Steve’s cheek is pillowed on Eddie’s right thigh. Hair ruined, sticking up from where Eddie had finally released him. Lips slick and shiny. He’s spent, panting, but smiling. Hushed, voice croaky, “Was that good?”
“Good? That was…Steve…sweetheart, that was mind blowing!”
A smirk. “Pun intended?”
“Pun fully fucking intended. Holy shit. I’m a changed man. Now that I know what that’s like, I don’t think I can ever go back to how I was before.” He sighs, swooning against the armrest. “You are…fucking incredible.”
Steve hums, satisfied. “It was so good that our hot chocolate is cold now,” he murmurs, nuzzling deep.
“I can make some”—
“No,” Steve interrupts firmly, squeezing at Eddie’s waist. “Just sit here with me, baby. Want you close.” He presses a kiss to Eddie’s thigh again, resting against the spot. “I love you,” he whispers, “I’m glad I didn’t wait to say it. Even though we might be crazy or something.”
Eddie, for once in his life, stays put when he’s told. He pets through Steve’s hair, smiling down at him. “Well, if we’re crazy for this, for being in love, then so be it. I love you, sweetheart. Thank you for such a good year.”
“To more?”
“Oh yeah, baby, definitely more.”