Trix / T

White Teeth

The snowfall blanketing Hawkins, Indiana in the middle of December seemed to silence the town; muffling the sounds of car engines and children shouting through the cold air. Steve Harrington watched the from the living room window of Wayne Munson’s trailer, tracking the fat flakes as they splattered messily against the glass.

Wayne wasn’t there, but that didn’t matter. Steve was in Forest Hills to see Eddie Munson, who’d been managing to casually insult Steve while talking about some of the girls in their shared creative writing class.

Steve had tuned out. Instead, he stared warily at the teardrop-shaped lights strung across a little tabletop tree, daring them to blink. They didn’t. He pulled the sleeve of his dark blue sweater over his hand, despite how warm the trailer was. In his starched jeans and cashmere, he felt stuffy and out of place.

“Earth to Steve.” Eddie snapped his fingers in front of Steve’s face, rings flashing in the light coming from the trailer’s tiny kitchen. Steve glowered. The creative writing assignment they’d been given before Christmas break (which Steve thought was totally bogus) lay abandoned on the end of the sofa he sat on.

Eddie, dressed much more informally in loose jeans and a band shirt, was sprawled across the easy chair, legs dangling over one of the arms. His stupid grin beamed next to Steve’s face, which was fixed in a scowl.

“What do you want?” Steve snapped. “You want to act like you know me again?”

“Fucking fuck, Steve,” Eddie laughed, exasperated. “It was a joke, okay? I’m sure you give amazing massages. I’m just saying, girls will say a lot of things to the Great Steve Harrington. Plus,” Eddie barreled over the objection Steve was about to make, “last time I saw you use your hands, you were fumbling a basketball like a little bitch.”

That made both of Steve’s eyebrows go up. “Was I?”

He knew how to joke around, obviously. He was used to his teammates and friends making fun of him. It was all in good fun. But some guy he had one class with? The guy he hadn’t spoken five words to until they were paired up for this stupid assignment? Dude had a pattern. It’s not like he was about to beat Eddie up in his own house, but for a second, he really wanted to.

But then he thought about how Eddie had stepped in and offered to host when Steve’s parents told him they were having company that evening—he didn’t have to do that, and his place was even smaller than the Byers’ house. And that reminded him: Nancy was always telling him that violence should never be the first choice. Steve let out a sharp sigh. “Let me give you one,” he challenged. “If you can’t say it’s the best massage you ever had, I’ll give you fifty bucks. Dead serious.”

Eddie’d looked like he was ready to say no, but the sudden offer of cash seemed to shut him up, miraculously. He hummed. “Yeah, sure.” He held out a hand. “You have five minutes.”

“Fifteen.”

“Ten. Final offer.”

“Deal.” Steve clasped their hands together. “Sit over here.” He placed his palm on the cushion next to his.

A bark of incredulous laughter escaped Eddie. “You’re mental, dude,” he cringed. “If we’re doing this, I’m standing up.”

“Whatever,” Steve rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to be prissy about it.”

Eddie fixed him with an inscrutable look. “I’m not prissy,” he mumbled. He heaved himself onto the couch next to Steve, turning his back toward him. “I’m not prissy,” he announced again, a little louder this time. He glanced at Steve over his shoulder. “Ten minutes.”

Steve pushed his sleeve up to reveal his watch. “Okay, starting…” he watched the minute hand tick just past a Roman numeral, “now.” After an initial, very short moment of hesitation, Steve placed his hands on Eddie’s shoulders.

Eddie was tense. Steve remarked as such. “You have shit posture, too,” he commented. “That’s probably why.”

“Excuse me for slouching sometimes,” Eddie snarked. “Not all of us balanced books on our heads at Rich Baby School.”

That shut Steve up fast. Namely because he had balanced books on his head at Rich Baby School. It was actually called Worthington Day School, and he’d only gone for a summer when he was ten. Still. “Sit up straight, asshole.” He punctuated straight with a jab to Eddie’s back, right by his shoulderblade.

Two things happened. First, Eddie’s torso twisted back jerkily, his elbow nearly catching Steve’s side. Second, a choked yelp punctured the air in front of Eddie. It took Steve a second to realize Eddie actually made that sound.

Now, Steve was sometimes slow to catch on to stuff. But he’d wrestled enough guys in his life to know when he’d hit something tender. He felt a slow, devious grin take over his face. “What’s the problem, Edds?”

And that was when Steve knew he was right; when Eddie didn’t even bitch about the nickname. Instead, he seemed frozen in place.

Steve dropped his voice. “Did that tickle?” he purred. So he had a flair for drama sometimes. So what? He cracked his knuckles, just for intimidation.

Eddie finally seemed to snap out of his head. “No,” he growled, whirling around to shoot daggers at Steve. “That hurt, you dipshit; are you trying to start something? Well, two can play that g—AH!”

The satisfaction from seeing Eddie stiffen again warmed Steve’s chest. “Go on,” he cajoled, pulling his hand back from Eddie’s flank.

“Stop being a troglo—no! Steve! Wait!”

“Hm, wait for what?” Steve was aiming stray pokes at Eddie’s sides and back, pulling him down by his shirt when he tried to escape.

“I ca-HAN’T! Ahaha—Steve!” Eddie twisted in Steve’s grip and managed to break free, scrambling off of the sofa and making a run for it.

Except the trailer was small, and Steve was fast, and Eddie’s brush with freedom ended when Steve tackled him, pinning him facedown to the kitchen floor.

Panting, Eddie struggled under Steve’s weight. “Judas Christ, what the hell are you even—ow!—made of, you fucking Clydesdale?!”

Steve let out a hearty chuckle. “Pure muscle, baby,” he joked. “Comfy?”

Eddie craned to look back at him. “Do you give a shit?”

Steve grinned. “Nah.” He pressed his thumb into the spot on Eddie’s back again, wiggling slightly.

“Fuck, shit! St-ahaha, Stee-heve!” Huffy, stuttering laughter claimed Eddie’s voice as he made a blind attempt to grab the offending hands.

“You keep saying my name,” Steve taunted, holding back a laugh. “I’m right here, dude.” He started wiggling his thumb a little further out on Eddie’s back, closer to his flank.

Eddie made a choked sound before breaking into hysterics, closing a hand around Steve’s wrist to try and pull him away.

But Steve was a lot stronger and so, so much more determined. At Eddie’s failing attempt to overpower him, Steve merely snickered and vibrated all five fingers into Eddie’s ribcage.

“NO! No-no-no-ho!” Eddie’s laughter rose in pitch and he squirmed violently. He seemed to vacillate between grabbing for Steve and smacking the linoleum tile with the palm of his hand.

“Yes!” Steve countered. When Eddie’s hand came flying back again, he captured it and secured it under his knee. “Yes, no one can hear you and you can’t get away!” He tried to slot a few fingers under Eddie’s trapped arm, causing a wild shriek in the process. Steve snorted in disbelief.

He went for Eddie’s sides next, pushing into the space bracketed by his torso and arm. Steve crawled deft fingertips up and down, pinching and kneading over the faded Black Flag T-shirt as Eddie laughed uproariously. He could feel Eddie kicking out behind him, which, for some reason, made him smile.

Experimentally, Steve groped behind himself until he found the lowest part of Eddie’s thigh he could reach, and gave a few squeezes. Eddie let out a roar of laughter that seemed to shake the trailer, the lines of both legs snapping into acute angles at the knees. His heel hit Steve’s upper arm hard enough to make Steve wince. “Fuck, man, are you trying to leave marks?”

Eddie wasn’t even able to form a response. “Sto-hop-ahaha, plea-hease!” he wheezed.

Please? A self-satisfied grin curled Steve’s mouth. “Finally, some respect,” he quipped. “Bu-u-ut, you kicked me. So, tough shit.” He reached back with his other hand, palpating all the sensitive flesh he could access with Eddie’s leg in the way. He found that he could kind of move his restrained hand, so he took advantage. The result was a thrashing headful of curly hair and a scream so loud, you’d probably be able to hear it from a town over.

Steve broke into laughter. “Dude!” It wasn’t Eddie’s fault, really. Blaming him was funny, though—plus, it made him whine, which was even funnier. Steve snorted at the sound.

Eddie seemed to be struggling less and less with each passing minute. It was like he was losing steam. Feeling just a little bit guilty, Steve decided to take the opportunity to shove his free hand into a weakened Eddie’s armpit.

The sound that came out of Eddie’s mouth was awesome—a giggle-squeal combination that broke into his high register, making him wheeze. He still had Steve’s other hand trapped between his calf and thigh, but the tickling had loosened his hold. Once Steve managed to wrest his hand free, he crawled it from Eddie’s ribcage to his shoulderblade and up under his arm.

“Stee-hee-heve!” Eddie wailed. “Sta-ha-ha! Stop!”

“Hm,” Steve pretended to consider. “Say this was the best massage you’ve ever had and maybe I’ll stop.”

“No! No-ho fuh-hucking way-hay!”

Steve shrugged. “I mean, I could do this for hours.”

“NO! No, wait, wait!”

Though he didn’t outright stop, Steve lightened his touch. “Go ahead.” He nodded toward Eddie.

Around huge gasps of air, Eddie half-spoke, half-laughed, “This was—aha, wait. This was,” he began again, “the beh-hest massage I’ve—ha—ever had.”

Fair’s fair. Steve released him, kneeling over his legs as he cooled down.

“Ugh,” came muffled through long, curly hair as Eddie rolled onto his back. “I think I’m dead. Dead and in hell.”

“You think you’re going to hell—oh.” Steve hadn’t meant for that last syllable to slip out.

Eddie frowned at him. Eddie, all rosy-cheeked, panting, and tear-streaked; white teeth blinding in the fluorescent kitchen light. His hair fell in ringlets just out of the way of his deep, shining eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Steve felt his stomach flip. He stood up quickly. “Nothing. Just remembered we have a homework assignment due after break.”

Eddie groaned. “You still owe me fifty bucks. That admission was made under duress.”

“Whatever.” Steve didn’t know what half of those words meant. He extended his hand toward Eddie, and helped him to his feet. “Here’s—,” he dug his wallet out of his back pocket—, “twenty of it here, give you the rest tomorrow?”

“Choice.” Eddie pocketed the bill. “C’mon, let’s finish this stupid thing, and then I’m buying us dinner.”

Steve felt, not for the first time that night, a warmth blooming in his cheeks and chest, forcing him into another genuine smile. “Yeah, I’m in,” he said.