Just a Bathroom Wall (in a Spirit Halloween)

Steve is such a sweetheart, he's so kind to the staff and supportive of the other artists. He’s also extremely dedicated. He does take after take at his bosses' requests without a single complaint, even when Eddie fails to see anything wrong with his previous ones. There’s this little notebook he always has with him where he meticulously writes down every single miniscule thing he needs to work on.  

Eddie doesn’t think Steve’s gone home at the same time as the rest of them a single day this week; he always stays to listen to everyone else, then moves to one of the rehearsal rooms to go over some tracks for an album he’s due to start recording. He had no idea so much work went into making cookie-cutter pop music. 

Something in Eddie's chest pangs when he sees the look on Steve's face as he finishes a perfect take only for his dad to frown and say, “He was pitchy. Have him do it again.” 

He experiences the same feeling as he watches Mrs. Harrington literally slap an item from the snack table out of Steve’s hand. Steve picking it up from the floor and disposing of it with a frown a few seconds later so the cleaning staff don’t have to do it. 

Something surprisingly like anger on Steve's behalf is bubbling under the surface like water about to boil over. And Eddie has never been the best at minding his own business when something he believes is unjust is happening. So, Eddie waits until Steve’s parents have stepped out for a while, sets a few of the pastries from the snack table onto a plate and cautiously approaches an unsuspecting Steve, who’s got his head buried in that notebook again.  

He taps him on the shoulder and says, "Hey! Wanna sneak off somewhere and split these with me?" 

To his astonishment, Steve doesn't look at him weird or tell him to fuck off and mind his own business. Instead, a conspiratorial grin spreads across his face. 

"You're on." He says, slamming the book shut and setting it aside. 

Good. Eddie kind of wants to throw the thing into an incinerator at this point. 

Five minutes later they're sitting in the nearest stairwell, slouched across the steps and breaking pieces of pastry off as they get to know each other. Eddie makes sure Steve gets most of it, noticing how he eyes the baked goods with all the desperation of a thirsty man in the desert gazing upon an oasis. 

"Never thought I'd see the Steve Harrington, prince of pop, sitting with bad posture. It's almost uncanny valley." Eddie teases. "Think I'm gonna have nightmares later about you slouching." 

"Shut up," Steve laughs, playfully shoving him. 

And that’s the thing, he thought talking to Steve was going to be like trying to squeeze blood out of a stone, but they have this natural banter right from the jump that has Eddie completely blindsided. 

"Seriously though, Harrington," Eddie says, shifting his tone to one of sincerity and looking Steve straight in the eyes. "It's so much better seeing you like this than seeing you all polished and perfect. It's good to know you're a real human being." 

"Thanks," Steve says, then sighs. He fidgets with a chunk of glazed dough absentmindedly before popping it in his mouth and chewing as he processes his thoughts. "I would be like this more often, but perfect and polished is what sells apparently." 

Eddie sits up a little at that, intrigued by the bitter tone in his voice and the little eye roll he follows up his statement with. 

“You say that like you hate it.” 

“I do hate it,” Steve admits. “I don’t want to be used to push a standard that even I can’t live up to. But that’s what you get when you're handed a contract as a child, don’t bother to read it and you have asshole parents who only care about money.” 

“Damn,” Eddie whistles low. “And there’s nothing you can do about it?” 

“Not for now,” Steve says. “But lucky for me I have a cool uncle who’s a lawyer and hates my dad as much as I do. He’s looking over it all for me. So maybe things will be different soon.” 

Well shit. Now Eddie feels like a bit of an asshole for making assumptions. 

“If it’s any consolation, I also have a very cool uncle and an asshole dad. So you aren’t alone in that department,” he offers. “Seems like we have all kinds of things in common.” 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees with a little smile that causes his nose to scrunch ever so slightly. “Seems like we do.” 

Suddenly Eddie is acutely aware of how hundreds of thousands of pop fans all over the world feel when they look at this man. Particularly when they turn on the music channel and Steve’s there singing about some romance or another. Eddie’s sure it's entirely fictional because practically everyone in the industry knows Steve’s label enforces dating bans and other such bullshit.  

Feeling the urge to swoon over a random cute thing Steve Harington did is not one of Eddie’s proudest moments, but he’s chalking it up to Steve being a master manipulator who knows how to make an audience feel things for him.  

He needs to change the subject. Fast. 

“So, what got you into all this in the first place?” 

“I just love performing,” Steve answers simply, honestly. “The stage, the lights, the adrenaline, taking everything I feel and putting it into that one moment. It just feels like I’m untouchable when I’m in it, you know?” 

“I do know,” Eddie confirms. It’s one of his favourite parts of the job too. 

“I also like creating songs,” Steve continues. “It’s nice to hear the finished product for the first time and think ‘I made that’, even if a lot of the ones I write end up as B-sides or get sold to someone else.” 

Eddie hums thoughtfully for a second then says, “Why don’t you sing about it, sweetheart?” 

Steve pauses, frowning in confusion. “What?” 

“What you’re feeling about all these shitty adults around you and the role they’re making you play. Why not try writing some songs about that?” 

Steve seems to be deep in thought, so Eddie continues. 

“Your contract probably includes something about having to produce a certain number of singles or albums, so you can’t just stop and wait it out. Am I right?” 

Steve nods, a crease appearing between his eyebrows that makes Eddie want to reach out for him. 

“So, make the music they want so desperately, but use it to expose instead of comply,” Eddie explains. “Make everyone else see what you’re seeing and do it right under the noses of the people who’re exploiting you. Make them applaud you for it without even realising they’re applauding you showing the world their poison.” 

“That’s an interesting idea,” Steve muses, “but they’d never let me release songs like that.” 

“So, wrap it up in a nice package. Make it catchy and just vague enough that they’ll never know any better, but people will theorise and figure it out. They’ll know what you’re trying to warn them about. There are a lot of scumbags in this industry. You could destroy all of yours with that pretty voice if you wanted to.” 

Eddie’s train of thought is suddenly captured, derailed and held hostage by wide brown eyes and a slow growing smile.  

“You think my voice is pretty?”  

There are these tiny dimples that materialise at the corners of Steve’s mouth for the sole purpose of being Eddie’s personal undoing. Unable to look away, Eddie can only nod in response. 

"Yeah. I do."

Steve leans in ever so slightly, his captivating stare flitting to Eddie’s lips. 

Eddie’s drawn closer like a moth to a flame. 

The door to the stairwell slams open, forcing them to pull back. 

“Steve! Eddie! There you are.” A rather frantic looking PA says. “They need you both back in the studio.” 

They give the woman an awkward nod and rise from their seated position. As Steve dusts off his jeans, Eddie grabs the now empty plate that was perched on the step between them like a bridge, a successful olive branch.

Eddie’s heart sinks when he sees the way Steve’s posture straightens up, his shoulders settling into their usual down and slightly back position as his expression switches from relaxed to practiced and professional. 

He reaches out and touches Steve’s arm gently before he can get too far out of reach.  

Steve casts a curious glance back at him.  

“Just think about it. What I said,” he says softly. “You have more power than they realize.” 

“I will,” Steve promises, the real him bleeding through in his body language again just enough to give Eddie hope. 

Later, Steve calls out to him as he’s leaving. 

“Hey! Eddie!” He shouts, voice wavering ever so slightly from constant use.  

The sound snatches Eddie’s attention away from thoughts of dinner and a warm, comfortable bed.  

Steve parents are standing nearby, confused and judging stares equipped. Eddie pays them zero attention. 

“Thanks for today.” Steve says with the same arresting smile from earlier. “I mean it.” 

This time, Eddie’s ready for it, having already been exposed to the intensity of it once. 

“No problem,” he says with a slow grin. “Just mention me in the next album.” 

A few months later, a signed copy of Steve’s new album comes in the mail. It’s clever and emotional and thought provoking. And more importantly, Steve has written a lengthy thank you message on the cover of Eddie’s copy in gold permanent marker, followed by his phone number and a small heart. 

It sits proudly in the collection of his most prized albums on his shelf as Steve kisses him on his doorstep after their third date. 

It's the only pop album Eddie would ever go to war over. 

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