Amortentia

The second show was even louder than the first.

Eddie had practically set the stage on fire—wild solos, hair flying, voice ragged from shouting lyrics over the chaos. Steve had found himself closer to the front this time, no longer hanging by the wall like he did the first time. And maybe he was a little too fixated on how Eddie looked up there: alive, grinning, sweat sticking curls to his forehead.

Steve barely noticed the time slip past. By the time the amps buzzed quiet and Eddie gave the crowd a lazy, two-finger salute, the room was already buzzing with praise, back slaps, and the scraping of bar stools.

They slipped out through the side door, the cold night air cutting through the haze of heat and beer-soaked reverb.

“Seriously,” Steve said as they walked toward the parking lot, “that solo? In the second song? That was insane.”

Eddie laughed, kicking a crushed cigarette box out of the way. “Yeah? You like that one? Might’ve written it while I was very high.”

“I’m not even mad. I think you broke the sound barrier.”

Steve grinned as they turned a corner, not watching his step—and nearly collided with a biker in a leather vest stepping out of the alley.

Before Steve could react, a hand shot out.

Eddie’s.

He curled his fingers lightly around Steve’s wrist and tugged him back a step—firm but easy, like muscle memory. His other hand settled instinctively on Steve’s waist, fingers splaying wide. Protective.

“Hey—watch it,” Eddie muttered to the guy with a narrowed glance.

The biker grunted and moved on.

Steve blinked, heart thudding—not from fear, but from the fact that Eddie hadn’t even hesitated.

Eddie dropped his arm slowly, hand brushing against Steve’s jacket a second longer than necessary. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, trying to breathe normally.

Eddie didn’t say anything. Just walked beside him again like it was nothing.

But something about the way he had reached for Steve—like it was instinct, like he’d done it a hundred times before—was messing with Steve’s head more than he wanted to admit.

So maybe that was why, when they neared the lot, Steve locked eyes with a girl across the pavement—tall, black jeans, safety pin earrings, laughing with a drink in hand—and latched onto her like a lifeline.

“Hey,” he said, nudging Eddie. “Come on.”

Eddie squinted. “Come on what?”

Steve didn’t wait. He grabbed Eddie by the wrist—not rough, but firm—and pulled.

Across the lot. Straight toward the girl.

Eddie sputtered. “Steve—”

“She was watching you all night,” Steve said over his shoulder. “She’s cute. You’ve gotta talk to her.”

“I don’t think—”

But they were already there.

“Hey,” Steve called as they neared. The girl looked up, surprised. “My friend here was just saying how sick your earrings were.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

The girl raised her brows. “Oh? Thanks.”

Steve nudged Eddie forward slightly.

Eddie, now standing awkwardly a foot away from her, gave a half-smile. “Uh. Yeah. Safety pins. Very punk.”

The girl smiled. “You were great tonight. On guitar.”

“Thanks,” Eddie said, stiff as a board. “Fun crowd.”

There was a pause. Steve stood beside him, beaming like he’d just nailed a touchdown pass.

And Eddie… was quiet.

Eventually, the girl nodded. “Well—nice meeting you. See you around.”

She walked off with a polite wave.

Steve turned back, triumphant. “See? She totally liked you.”

But Eddie wasn’t smiling.

He let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Steve.”

“What?”

Eddie didn’t answer at first. He just started walking again—shoulders a little lower than before.

Steve followed, frowning. “I’m just trying to help, man.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Eddie said, quiet but pointed.

Steve frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eddie looked at him then—really looked. His eyes weren’t harsh, but they weren’t soft either.

“I’m not interested,” he said.

Steve’s throat felt tight. “You don’t even know her.”

“I don’t want to.”

The words lingered in the air between them, heavier than either of them expected.

And for once, Steve didn’t have a comeback.

He just stood there, his hands stuffed into the pockets of Eddie’s borrowed jacket, heart thudding too loud for how quiet everything had gotten.

Eddie finally looked away. “Let’s just go.”

And Steve followed, silent.

The ache in his chest not so easy to ignore anymore.

The drive back to the trailer was quiet.

Uncomfortably quiet.

No music, no dumb jokes, no humming from Eddie like usual. Just the sound of the van’s engine and the faint buzz of Steve chewing the inside of his cheek, too aware of every second that passed in silence.

They’d planned this sleepover yesterday. Joked about watching terrible horror movies and stealing the last of Wayne’s root beer. It was supposed to be easy.

He glanced at Eddie a few times. Wanted to say something. Anything.

But Eddie’s face was carved in stone—jaw clenched, eyes locked on the road, one hand tight on the wheel like he needed it to keep himself grounded.

When they finally pulled into the trailer park, the silence came with them.

Eddie killed the engine and stepped out before Steve could even reach for the door handle.

By the time Steve caught up, Eddie had already shoved open the front door, heading straight for the kitchen like he needed distance between them. The place was dim, warm, lived-in. A safe space—that suddenly didn’t feel so safe.

Steve closed the door behind him quietly. “Eds…”

Eddie didn’t turn around. He was rummaging in a cabinet, not really grabbing anything, just making noise.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, voice low.

Eddie paused.

“It’s fine,” he replied. Too fast. Too flat.

“It’s not,” Steve said, taking a step closer. “I—I wasn’t trying to upset you. I just thought…”

“That I needed help?” Eddie turned, arms crossed now, leaning against the counter. “That I was too pathetic or sad or lonely to find someone on my own, so you’d do it for me?”

Steve’s stomach twisted. “No. That’s not— I just wanted to be a good friend.”

“Well, you’re not helping.”

The words hit harder than either of them expected.

Steve blinked, taking a step back. “Jesus, Eddie.”

Eddie raked a hand through his hair. He looked angry, but not the kind that wanted to fight. The kind that was trying not to cry.

“I know what this is, okay?” he snapped. “I know what it looks like. You bring me girls like I’m a charity case, like I’m broken, like you’re trying to fix something.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it.

Eddie’s voice dropped lower. Tighter.

“Well guess what, Harrington? You can’t fix this. Because I’m not interested in them. I’m not ever going to be. That’s not who I am.”

The room went still.

Steve swallowed. “...What are you saying?”

Eddie laughed once—sharp and bitter. “You’re not that dense, man.”

And then, with his back against the kitchen counter like he needed it to hold him up, Eddie said it:

“I’m gay.”

The silence was deafening.

Eddie didn’t look at him.

He stared at the floor, jaw clenched so hard it ached, fists pressed to the edge of the counter.

“Go ahead,” he muttered. “Leave if you want. Beat me up. Whatever. Just—just don’t go spreading it around, okay? I can deal with everything else, just don’t—don’t ruin me.”

Steve’s breath caught in his throat.

And all he could do for a second was stare.

Not in horror.

Not in anger.

But in the kind of stunned silence that comes from something finally clicking—a puzzle piece he hadn’t even known was missing sliding into place.

Eddie still wouldn’t look at him.

Still had his arms crossed, jaw clenched like he was bracing for impact. But now his breathing was shallow, uneven, like saying it out loud had knocked something loose inside him.

Steve took a step forward.

Eddie immediately flinched back, shoulders tensing. “Don’t.”

Steve froze. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“You don’t get it,” Eddie muttered, eyes darting to the floor. “You can’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to live every day thinking someone might clock you for looking too long. For sounding the wrong way. For being—”

“I do,” Steve said, voice firm.

Eddie scoffed. “Oh, come on—”

“I’m not joking,” Steve cut in, stepping forward again—slower this time, careful. “I’m not messing with you, Eddie. I mean it. I—”

He stopped. Took a breath. His voice dropped into something soft. Raw.

“I’ve been confused for weeks.”

Eddie blinked.

“I mean, I like girls. I’ve always liked girls. And I thought that was it. But then you came along—crashing into my life like some kind of metalhead hurricane—and you’re loud and annoying and touchy and... gentle, in a way I didn’t expect.”

Steve laughed under his breath, shaky. “And I didn’t get it at first. Why I was looking forward to get high with you. Why I started waking up thinking about you. Why I didn’t want to go home anymore when I could just be with you instead.”

He looked up at Eddie now, searching his face.

“I don’t know what this means. I don’t have the right words. I just know that I—” He hesitated. Then: “I understand how you feel.”

Eddie swallowed hard, eyes glassy. “You’re not just saying that?”

“No,” Steve whispered. “I’m not.”

Eddie didn’t move.

Not at first.

But then his shoulders slumped, like something in him finally gave up the fight. He let his arms fall, like he was exhausted from holding everything in.

“You wrecked me, Munson,” Steve said, smiling sadly. “And the worst part is... I think I kinda let you.”

A silence settled, thick with something neither of them could name yet.

Then—quietly, hesitantly—Eddie said, “Me too.”

Steve stepped closer again, and this time, Eddie didn’t pull away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t hide.

And somewhere in that space between confusion and truth, they stood—finally facing the storm together.

They stood there for a while, both of them unsure of what to do now that all the walls were down.

No more pretending. No more dodging.

Just this—the space between them, electric and still, like a live wire humming in silence.

Eventually, they sank onto the old couch in Eddie’s living room, side by side but not touching. Not yet. Both of them staring straight ahead like the room might start spinning otherwise.

Steve rubbed his hands over his face, letting out a long breath. “This is… a lot.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said quietly. “It is.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, from somewhere cautious but steady, Eddie added, “Bisexual.”

Steve turned to him slowly. “What?”

Eddie looked over, softer now. “That’s the word. For liking both. Guys and girls.”

Steve blinked. “Oh.”

“You, uh…” Eddie shrugged, trying to play it cool but failing a little. “You might be. If what you said is real.”

“It is,” Steve said quickly. “I didn’t—I’m not messing with you.”

“I know,” Eddie replied, smiling faintly. “Didn’t say you were.”

Steve let that settle, brows furrowed. “Bisexual,” he repeated, almost testing the word in his mouth. “That’s… that’s a thing?”

“It’s a real thing, Harrington,” Eddie said, grinning now. “Contrary to the entire state of Indiana’s belief.”

Steve laughed softly, more from relief than humor. “Okay. Yeah. I guess that… kind of fits.”

Eddie leaned back, tossing his arm over the back of the couch. “I can’t believe I’m Steve Fucking Harrington’s bisexual awakening.”

Steve flushed. “Shut up.”

Eddie snorted. “No, seriously. You were the guy in high school. The king. The whole hair and charm and girls falling over you thing. And now? Boom. One metalhead and suddenly you're spiraling.”

Steve groaned into his hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

“It’s kinda hot, actually.”

“Eddie—”

“What?” Eddie grinned wider, nudging him gently. “You said I wrecked your world. Let me bask in it a little.”

Steve shook his head, biting back a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Eddie said, eyes softening as they finally met Steve’s again, “you’re still here.”

That shut them both up for a second.

And when Steve leaned just a little closer, his shoulder brushing Eddie’s—

He didn’t pull away.

They were back in Eddie’s room, the dim glow of a lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent, weed, and something warm and uniquely Eddie—comforting, lived-in.

Steve tugged off his jeans and flopped down onto the mattress in just a borrowed t-shirt and boxers, already claiming one side like he’d done it a dozen times before.

Eddie watched him with a lazy kind of interest as he shuffled through a drawer for something clean to sleep in.

“You know,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “I’m still kind of reeling.”

Steve blinked at him from the bed. “From what?”

“From the part where Steve Harrington basically told me I’m irresistible,” Eddie said, slipping off his shirt with an exaggerated flourish. “Truly a landmark moment for the people.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but there was a pink flush on his cheeks that hadn’t quite faded since their earlier conversation. “I didn’t say irresistible.”

“You implied it,” Eddie countered, tugging on a tank top and sauntering toward the bed like a cat with a secret.

“You’re impossible.”

“Mm. You said that often too. Starting to think it’s your version of saying you’re into me.”

Steve turned onto his side, facing Eddie, who crawled into the bed beside him with a grin far too smug for someone who’d had a meltdown an hour ago.

“This is you being humble?” Steve asked.

Eddie shrugged, settling into the blanket beside him. “Nah. This is me being confident, because you’re still here.”

Steve met his eyes, and something warm passed between them—unspoken, but understood.

Then Eddie’s voice dropped just slightly. “So… now that we’ve both bared our souls and all that very romantic crap… what are the rules?”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Rules?”

“Yeah. Like… can I flirt with you now? Without it being, you know, fake?”

Steve’s throat went dry.

Eddie inched closer, just a little, propping his head on his hand. “Because full disclosure—I’ve been dying to do it for real.”

Steve bit his lip to hide the smile threatening to spread. “You’re flirting with me right now.”

“Only mildly,” Eddie said, winking. “I’m holding back out of respect for your fragile post-awakening state.”

Steve let out a soft laugh, ducking his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you like it.”

A beat.

Steve looked up again, all soft eyes and flushed cheeks. “...Maybe I do.”

That made Eddie’s smirk falter—just for a second—into something more genuine. Something gentler.

“Cool,” he said quietly. “That’s… cool.”

They settled in, the distance between them almost nonexistent now. Shoulders touching. Breaths syncing.

And maybe, in the quiet that followed, there wasn’t a need for any more flirting.

Because this—the weightless way they rested beside each other, the freedom in their words, the quiet grin on Eddie’s face—said more than teasing ever could.

Steve had never been on this side of it before.

The side where he wasn’t chasing, performing, impressing.

He was being courted.

By Eddie freaking Munson.

And it was working.

It started with the pet names. Eddie had always thrown them around casually—big boy, pretty boy, hotshot—sometimes just to watch Steve roll his eyes. But lately, they’d shifted.

Softer.

Sweeter.

“Hey, baby,” Eddie would say when Steve showed up at his locker after class, like it was nothing. Like it had always been that way.

Or a quiet, “Y’alright, sweetheart?” if Steve looked tired, Eddie’s hand brushing the back of his neck with casual concern.

And maybe the first few times, Steve flushed so hard he had to pretend he was cold.

But he didn’t hate it.

Not even a little.

Eddie’s touches changed too. They used to be thoughtless, unconscious—knuckles against Steve’s arm, a knee bump under the table. Because Eddie genuinely couldn't keep his hands to himself in general. But now? Now they were intentional. A hand at the small of his back when they walked through crowds. Ring brushing over Steve's skin just to say I’m here.

Steve let it happen.

More than that—he found himself waiting for it.

Then came the mixtape.

Eddie had handed it over without fanfare. Just leaned across the van one day, dropped it in Steve’s lap, and said, “Don’t play it around anyone else. It’s got my soft shit on it.”

The label was scrawled in Eddie’s sharpie handwriting: For Stevie—with a crudely drawn heart that Eddie tried to scratch out, but not really.

Steve didn’t say anything at the time.

But he played it that night.

And the next.

And the next.

It was in his Walkman as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. It was in his car stereo when he drove to school, to the store, to Eddie’s. Sometimes he didn’t even realize he was humming the songs under his breath until someone asked what he was singing.

And every time it played, something twisted sweetly in his chest.

It was weird.

Steve used to be the one who did the mixtapes. The one who showed up with flowers and smirks and cologne. The one who leaned in first, always.

Now Eddie was beating him at his own game.

And God help him, Steve didn’t want him to stop.

The Hawkins spring fair wasn’t anything special.

But the one out of town—just past the county line in the next town over? That one had a Ferris wheel, good funnel cake, and a reputation for not sucking. Eddie had been once, years ago, for a deal gone sideways in the parking lot. He never made it inside.

This year, he wanted to change that.

“Let’s go,” he’d said to Steve a week earlier, sprawled out across the hood of his van like a lazy cat. “The fair. It’s cheesy, and overpriced, and full of screaming kids, but I don’t know. I think you’d like it.”

Steve blinked up from where he sat on the curb, tossing a pebble between his hands. “You’re inviting me to a fair?”

“I’m inviting you to funnel cake and rigged games and the joy of watching me puke after three spins on the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

Steve had laughed. “Alright. You’re on.”

The day came sunny and unseasonably warm. Steve had just finished shaving when he heard the familiar growl of Eddie’s van outside.

He grabbed his jacket and jogged down the driveway—but stopped short when he pulled open the passenger door.

A small bouquet of daffodils sat on the seat.

Bright yellow. A little uneven. Wrapped in what looked like newspaper comics.

Steve blinked. “What’s this?”

Eddie, in the driver’s seat, leaned back with a shrug and absolutely zero eye contact. “Flowers.”

“No shit, why?”

“Because,” Eddie said, still trying to sound casual and failing. “I thought it’d be nice to give my boy flowers.”

Steve blinked again. “Your boy?”

Eddie winced. “Too much?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. He picked up the bouquet carefully, like it might fall apart in his hands. The stems were damp, and the wrapping was already curling a little, but the flowers were bright. Happy.

He looked over at Eddie, who was finally glancing at him, all nerves under a leather jacket.

“I didn’t know I was your boy,” Steve said, voice softer now.

“Well,” Eddie said, drumming his fingers on the wheel, “you don’t exactly make it easy when you melt every time I call you baby, so I’m just kind of… shooting my shot.”

Steve smiled, looking down at the flowers again.

Then—without thinking—he leaned across and kissed Eddie on the cheek.

It was quick.

Barely there.

But it left Eddie blinking like someone had just short-circuited his brain.

Steve sat back, placing the daffodils gently in his lap. “You got any more romantic tricks up your sleeve, Munson?”

But Eddie didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

His forehead was pressed against the steering wheel now, both hands gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Steve blinked. “Eddie?”

“You can’t just—” Eddie’s voice was muffled against the leather. “You can’t just do that!”

“What, kiss you?”

“Yes!” Eddie lifted his head just enough to turn wide eyes toward Steve—his face bright red, ears flushed, and that wild, completely betrayed expression like Steve had committed an actual crime. “Warn a guy or something, Jesus Christ.”

Steve bit back a laugh. “You’ve been calling me baby for a week and I’m the problem?”

Eddie let out something between a groan and a giggle, then buried his face in his hands this time. “Unbelievable. Steve Harrington is gonna be the death of me.”

Steve leaned back in his seat, smug now. “Didn’t know I had that kind of power.”

“You’re obnoxious,” Eddie mumbled from between his fingers.

Steve just chuckled and looked out the windshield, twirling one of the daffodils absently.

Eddie peeked between his hands. Just a little.

Grinned. Hid again.

Peeked again.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“You’re right, I don’t, and it’s the worst,” Eddie groaned dramatically. “God, you kissed me. You kissed me. I’m not gonna recover from that.”

Steve smiled softly, letting the moment settle. “Get it together, Munson. We’ve got a fair to get to.”

Eddie let out one last breath, thumped his head gently on the wheel again, then sat up with a grin that wouldn’t quit. “Okay. But for the record—if you ever do that again without warning, I will melt into goo.”

Steve reached over and patted his thigh. “Good. You deserve it.”

And with that, Eddie pulled out of the driveway, still blushing, still sneaking glances at the boy next to him like he couldn’t quite believe it.

The sun was bright when they pulled into the makeshift lot outside the town's fairgrounds, the warm evening light catching on strings of colored bulbs being flipped on one by one. The air smelled like fried sugar, popcorn, and something vaguely agricultural.

Eddie slammed the van door shut behind him and stretched his arms over his head. “Alright, Harrington,” he said with a crooked grin. “Prepare to be wooed.”

Steve raised a brow. “Wooed?”

“I’m gonna win you everything, sweetheart,” Eddie declared, already motioning toward the rows of game booths ahead. “Stuffed animals. Goldfish. That weird inflatable alien. Name it.”

Steve just laughed. “You do remember these games are rigged, right?”

“I laugh in the face of capitalism and physics,” Eddie said, puffing his chest out. “Let’s go.”

Fifteen minutes later, Eddie had successfully knocked over zero milk bottles, missed five consecutive rings at the bottle toss, and got absolutely humiliated at the basketball hoop game by a child in overalls.

He looked at Steve with wide, betrayed eyes. “Okay, the universe is personally targeting me.”

Steve was already biting back laughter. “You really thought you were gonna nail that last one?”

“I had a good feeling!”

“You hit the side of the tent.”

Eddie crossed his arms. “Rude.”

Steve grinned, stepping up to the next booth—the one with the baseball toss. He handed the carnie a few tickets, rolled up his sleeves, and adjusted his grip on the ball.

Three throws. Three direct hits. All targets down.

He turned to Eddie with a smug little tilt of his head. “Watch and learn, baby.”

Eddie jokingly frowned. “Hey, that's my line, call me something else.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said under his breath, grinning. “You know it.”

Steve chose a small stuffed tiger and tossed it at Eddie’s chest. “Here. Since you suck at winning things.”

Eddie caught it, beaming like a kid. “I’m gonna name him Disaster, after my performance today.”

They kept walking, their hands brushing now and then, the line between friendly and romantic long since erased. Steve let Eddie point out a haunted house ride they had to do, even though it looked like it had last been inspected during the Carter administration.

They shared funnel cake. Took blurry photos in a too-small booth.

And every so often, Eddie would look over—at Steve’s flushed face in the lights, his laugh, the way his hair caught the breeze—and think, this is what it feels like.

To love someone. To let yourself be loved back.

The drive back to Hawkins was quieter than the ride out. The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward—just content. Full. Like the night had left both of them with enough warmth that they didn’t need to fill the silence with words.

Steve had one leg up on the seat, his hand resting on the daffodils now tucked gently into the crook of his arm, eyes fluttering between half-shut and fully closed. The mixtape Eddie made was playing softly in the background—Cheap Trick fading into Bowie.

The fair had long disappeared in the rearview mirror, but Steve still smelled like kettle corn and summer air.

Eddie tapped the wheel lightly with his fingers, stealing a glance every few seconds.

When they finally rolled into Steve’s driveway, the porch light was on but the house was still and quiet.

Steve sat up slowly, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Anytime,” Eddie said, though his fingers tightened just slightly around the steering wheel.

Steve reached for the door handle—

But stopped when Eddie cleared his throat.

“Hey,” Eddie said, voice low. “Can I ask you something?”

Steve turned back to him, curious. “Yeah?”

Eddie stared ahead at the dashboard, jaw flexing like he had to push the words out.

“Was I… good at this?”

Steve blinked. “At what?”

“The date thing.” Eddie’s thumb tapped the wheel twice, nervously. “Not the fair—clearly I peaked at ‘small bouquet of flowers,’ and then it was all downhill from there.” He gave a weak laugh, then looked down. “I mean with you. Did I—was it okay?”

Steve’s expression softened.

“You’re asking if you fucked it up.”

Eddie nodded, still not looking at him. “Yeah.”

Steve leaned back against the door, hand resting lightly on the bouquet again.

“No,” he said quietly. “You didn’t fuck it up.”

Eddie glanced over, hesitantly.

Steve smiled. “You did really good, Munson.”

Eddie laughed under his breath, a little too relieved. “Good. ‘Cause I wasn’t just trying to impress you. I actually meant all of it. Like… the dumb games, the flowers, the dumb jokes—”

“Eddie,” Steve cut in, his voice warm and certain now. “You don’t have to try so hard.”

“I know,” Eddie said, smiling nervously. “I just want to.”

Steve reached out and touched his hand where it rested on the gear shift. Gave it a quick, grounding squeeze.

“I know,” Steve said again. “That’s why it’s good.”

They sat there like that for a second—Eddie, wide-eyed and glowing, and Steve, calm and sure, like something was finally settling into place.

“I’ll see you?” Steve asked.

Eddie nodded, still smiling like an idiot. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Steve gave his hand one last squeeze before slipping out of the van, bouquet in hand. As he walked up the driveway, he turned back and caught Eddie still watching him from behind the wheel, a ridiculous, love-struck look on his face.

Steve grinned and waved.

Eddie waved back, then immediately dropped his forehead to the steering wheel again, groaning into the vinyl.

“Christ,” he mumbled to himself, grinning so hard it hurt, “I am so pathetic.”

The trailer was quiet except for the occasional soft clunk of cassette cases being shifted around. Eddie was sprawled on the carpet, legs crossed, surrounded by tapes, notepaper, and a near-empty can of grape soda.

The old stereo hissed softly as he rewound a song to just the right timestamp. He was making another mixtape, this time filled only with love songs—real ones, no winks or sarcasm. The kinds of tracks that said everything he couldn’t quite bring himself to say out loud yet.

He scribbled a title on the case:

"Vol. 2 – Music for Stevie"

Behind him, the trailer door creaked open.

Boots scraped the mat.

“Is this for that Harrington boy?” Wayne’s voice came in rough and steady, just behind him.

Eddie jolted, nearly smearing the ink on the label. “Jesus, Wayne—how long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear The Cars and Fleetwood Mac back-to-back,” Wayne said, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. “That’s a love mixtape if I’ve ever heard one.”

Eddie flushed immediately, tugging his hair behind his ear and glancing away. “...Yeah. It’s for Steve.”

Wayne nodded slowly, walking further into the room and lowering himself into his old recliner with a familiar creak. “Didn’t say it wasn’t sweet.”

Eddie looked up at him, brows raised. “You didn’t?”

Wayne smirked. “Not yet. But I will now.”

Eddie snorted and leaned back on his palms. “He’s… he’s kind of the best, Wayne.”

“I gathered.” Wayne gestured toward the stack of tapes like Exhibit A.

They were quiet for a moment. The stereo clicked, a new song humming low in the background. Wayne watched Eddie as he picked a new track and cued it up.

Then Wayne spoke again—softer now.

“You know his folks don’t come around much, right?”

Eddie glanced over. “Yeah. I figured.”

“Saw them at high school years back. The dad—he was always stiff. One of those types that thinks being cold means being respectable.”

Eddie didn’t reply right away. Just sat still, the cassette paused in his hand.

Wayne looked at him. “I’m not trying to scare you, son. I just don’t want you to walk into something thinking he’s got it easy.”

“I don’t,” Eddie said quietly. “I don’t think he has it easy.”

Wayne nodded once. “Alright.”

Eddie hesitated, then added, “I’ve seen it. Not just the parent stuff. He puts up walls, but they’re not very high. I think he wants someone to see over them, y’know?”

Wayne studied him for a moment, something like pride warming his tired eyes. “And you’re volunteering for the job?”

Eddie grinned, shy and fond and a little stupid. “I think I already took it.”

Wayne chuckled. “Alright, Romeo. Just don’t let your heart write checks your head can’t cash.”

“I won’t,” Eddie said, picking up the pen again. “He’s worth the overdraft anyway.”

Wayne shook his head, smiling into his hand.

And in the quiet, while Talking Heads hummed from the stereo and the sun crept across the stained trailer floor, Eddie added another song to the list.

Lover’s Rock was a dumb name, really.

Just big rocks out in the woods with a halfway decent view and enough carved initials to prove generations of teens had come here to make out or smoke up or both.

Eddie had scoffed the second Steve suggested it. “What is this, a goddamn John Hughes movie?”

Steve just grinned and said, “You’ll live.”

So now here they were. The sun had dipped below the trees, casting long shadows across the stone. The pack of cigarettes lay open between them, and the scent of weed hung lazily in the cooling spring air.

Eddie took a hit and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl upward. “Still think it’s cliché.”

Steve snatched the joint from him and took a long drag. “Yeah, well. I like it. It’s quiet.”

“Quiet’s overrated.”

Steve nudged him with his knee. “You’re never quiet.”

Eddie grinned, but there was something softer about it tonight. Something settled. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small cassette case, slightly scuffed.

“Speaking of sappy clichés,” he said, holding it out, “I made you something.”

Steve blinked, accepting the mixtape. The label was written in Eddie’s messy scrawl:

"Vol. 2 – Music for Stevie"

Steve snorted. “That’s it?”

“Shut up and look at the track list.”

Steve flipped the case over. His brows arched immediately. “These are… all love songs.”

Eddie leaned back on his elbows, watching the sky. “Yup.”

“No metal?”

“Nope.”

Steve grinned, thumbing through the track names.

“This is, like… aggressively romantic,” he said, mock-impressed.

Eddie groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Yeah, yeah. You corrupted me. Happy?”

Steve grinned wider, slipping the tape into his jacket pocket. “Actually… I brought something too.”

Eddie turned his head. “Oh?”

Steve reached into his backpack and pulled out a small box, opening it before Eddie could even get properly nervous.

Inside was a simple necklace—a thin black cord with a red guitar pick attached. Slightly marbled, glossy in the fading light.

Eddie stared.

Steve cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. “Figured you’d eventually lose all the ones you actually play with. This one’s not for playing. Just, y’know… wearing.”

Eddie took it gently, like it might shatter in his hands. “Steve.”

“It’s stupid, I know—”

“No. It’s—fuck.” Eddie looked down at it, then back at Steve. “You make it so hard for me to not make you mine right here and now.”

Steve’s breath caught, eyes flicking to Eddie’s.

“You say that like I’m not already halfway yours,” he said, voice low.

Eddie stared for a beat too long. Then he laughed, quiet and overwhelmed, slipping the necklace on like it had always belonged there.

Then said, quieter than usual but with none of his usual deflection, “Well… I kinda want to make you fully mine.”

Steve’s breath hitched.

Eddie gave him a nervous smile, like he was trying to laugh off the weight of his own words, but his fingers were twitching where they rested on his knee.

“How’s that sound?”

Steve looked at him for a long beat. His heart was thudding somewhere near his throat, and everything about this felt heavy and light all at once.

And he smiled.

He nodded. “Sounds like something I’ve been wanting too.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

Steve laughed under his breath. “Don’t act so surprised.”

Eddie opened his mouth, probably to make some quip, but didn’t get the chance—because Steve leaned in. Slowly. Carefully. Like he wasn’t totally sure what he was doing, but he knew who he was doing it for.

Their lips met.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was soft. Intentional.

Steve melted into it, and god—it felt different. Not like kissing girls, not like kissing anyone he kissed before. There was no script here. No memory of how it should go. Just warmth and pressure and the scent of smoke clinging to Eddie’s hair and the rough brush of rings against his jaw when Eddie reached up to cradle his face.

Different, but good.

Really good.

And maybe it was because it was new, or maybe it was because it felt like coming home. Either way, Steve didn’t pull back. Not for a long moment.

When they finally did part, foreheads resting together, Steve let out a shaky laugh. “That was… something.”

Eddie looked dazed. “Yeah?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. That was my first time kissing a guy.”

Eddie’s eyes widened, guilt flashing across his face. “Shit, was that okay? I didn’t even—”

“Eddie,” Steve said, still smiling, “it was great.”

Eddie exhaled a laugh, relief crashing through him like a wave. “Good. ‘Cause I was about to dramatically throw myself off this rock if you said otherwise.”

Steve grinned and leaned into him, head on Eddie’s shoulder, fingers brushing the red pick still hanging around his neck.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel confused.

He just felt wanted.

Their breath was still mingling in the air, hearts racing but shoulders relaxed, the quiet around them suddenly feeling like it was holding the moment instead of pressing in on it.

Steve leaned back first, resting his weight on his palms, a little stunned smile still pulling at his lips. Eddie just stared at him for a second—at the curve of his grin, at the faint flush on his cheeks, at the fact that he was his now.

“So,” Eddie whispered. “Are we really boyfriends now?”

Steve let out a breath of a laugh. “Yeah, we are.”

That was all it took.

They both broke—into laughter, full and loose, the kind that bubbled out of their chests like they’d just gotten away with something big. Steve leaned into Eddie’s side, giggling, while Eddie threw an arm around him and buried his face in his neck.

Then, without warning, Eddie sat up straight and launched to his feet.

Steve blinked up at him. “What are you doing?”

Eddie spread his arms, threw his head back, and yelled into the woods:

“Steve Harrington is my boyfriend!”

Then he flipped both middle fingers to the sky and added,

“Take that, universe!”

Steve burst out laughing, nearly doubling over where he sat.

“You’re such a dork,” he said through his grin.

Eddie dropped back down beside him, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, his laughter just as breathless. “You love it.”

Steve leaned his head on Eddie’s shoulder again. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I really do.”

And there, under the stars and the trees, with smoke still hanging faint in the air and their hearts feeling way too big for their chests, they just existed. Two dumb teenagers in the middle of nowhere, high on love and weed and the thrill of finally being.

1985

The parking lot of Starcourt Mall was still chaos, hours after the “fire” had been contained. The air stank of smoke and scorched plastic. Sirens wailed distantly. Flashing lights cast harsh reds and blues across ash-covered concrete.

Steve Harrington sat hunched on the back of an ambulance, a foil blanket draped over his shoulders and another thrown across Robin’s lap beside him. His face was a mess—bruised, scraped, his eye swollen nearly shut. He looked like hell.

Felt like it too.

Robin was mid-sip of some god-awful coffee when the sound hit—screeching tires, rubber burning against the lot pavement.

They both turned.

A familiar van swerved to a crooked stop near the emergency line. Before the engine even finished choking out, the driver’s side door flew open.

“Steve!” came a shout, loud and ragged.

Eddie Munson.

Hair wild. Jacket half-on. Eyes wild as he sprinted across the lot, dodging EMTs and officers like a man possessed.

“Steve!” he called again, voice cracking now. “Jesus Christ, Steve!”

Robin sat up straighter. “Uh—”

Steve blinked, squinting through his good eye. Then—

“Eddie?” he croaked.

By the time Eddie reached him, he barely slowed. Just dropped to his knees in front of Steve like the rest of the world had vanished.

“What the hell, what the hell, baby,” Eddie breathed, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch without hurting him. “You were gone. You didn’t call, no one knew—forty-eight hours, Steve. I thought you—I thought—” His voice caught.

Steve opened his mouth, but no words came.

So instead, he leaned forward. Wrapped both arms around Eddie’s neck and held on.

Eddie froze for half a second. Then his arms wound around Steve’s waist, pulling him close, grounding them both.

“Shit,” Eddie whispered against his shoulder. “You’re really here. You’re okay.”

“I’m here,” Steve whispered back, voice shaky. “I’m okay.”

Eddie pulled back just enough to cup Steve’s jaw, thumb brushing carefully under a bruise. “What the hell happened to you, sweetheart?”

Steve laughed once, rough and tired. “You should see the other guy.”

Eddie gave a strangled sound—half a laugh, half a sob—and leaned forward to press a kiss to Steve’s hair. “You absolute idiot. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” Steve murmured. “I didn’t mean to—things just got—”

He stopped himself. Because what could he say?

“Complicated,” he finished lamely.

Eddie frowned, confused and worried. “I heard about the fire on the news. They’re saying the mall’s totaled. You were in there?”

Steve nodded.

“And you didn’t think to call?”

“I didn’t exactly have a phone, Ed.”

Eddie huffed, still visibly rattled. “I’ve got you now,” he whispered. “You’re safe. You’re with me.”

Robin was just getting accustomed to weird things happening around Steve Harrington. Russian code, secret elevators, flesh-melting monsters—sure. But this?

This was new.

She sat still on the edge of the ambulance bench, a half-sipped cup of lukewarm coffee in one hand, the other clutching the foil blanket tight around her. And all she could do was watch.

Eddie Munson—resident Hawkins High freak, metalhead, Dungeon Master, Scoops Ahoy’s biggest flirt—was currently kneeling in front of Steve like a man possessed. His hands were trembling, voice hoarse with worry, pet names slipping out like second nature.

And Steve… was holding on just as tightly.

Robin blinked.

Oh.

Oh.

Suddenly, all those thrice-weekly visits to Scoops Ahoy made a hell of a lot more sense. The relentless teasing. The finger guns. The winks. The way Eddie used to call Steve “pretty boy” just a little too sincerely.

They weren’t jokes.

They were confessions.

Eddie finally noticed her watching. His whole body stiffened like he’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar—or worse, caught in something dangerous.

He slowly peeled himself back from Steve, one hand still on the guy’s knee, and turned his head toward her.

Robin blinked, trying to school her expression into something that wasn’t just "holy shit this is real."

Eddie cleared his throat. “I, uh—”

“I’m cool,” she said quickly, lifting her hand in surrender. “I’m so cool. Frosty, even. Like, ice cold.”

Eddie stared at her, still tense. “Yeah?”

Robin hesitated, then glanced at Steve—who was too exhausted to catch the subtext, head leaning against the ambulance—and looked back at Eddie.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Friend of Dorothy’s.”

Eddie’s eyebrows lifted.

Robin gave a small, nervous smile.

Something in Eddie melted. His shoulders dropped. The guarded look flickered into something softer—more familiar. A kind of relief you only show when someone just proved they’re safe.

“Jesus,” Eddie said, letting out a laugh that was more breath than sound. “Of course you are.”

Robin shrugged. “I mean, look at me.”

They both laughed—quietly, but honestly. For a beat, the three of them just sat there under the harsh red glow of sirens, wrapped in trauma and emergency blankets, slowly finding solid ground again.

Robin nudged Steve lightly with her elbow. “You okay?”

Steve murmured, “Mm-hmm.”

Robin sat back on the bumper again. She watched the two of them, bruised and exhausted, but together—and suddenly something in her felt less alone.

Maybe everything was on fire. Maybe none of them had answers.

But in this strange, small, ash-covered moment?

They were a little less in it alone.

3 Months Later

The store was quiet, lit only by the buzzing fluorescents overhead and the fading orange glow from the sunset outside. Robin clicked the lock on the front door and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED with a satisfying thunk.

Steve was already halfway through wiping down the counter—faster than usual, actually. Suspiciously efficient for someone who once spent ten whole minutes trying to organize the horror section alphabetically before giving up halfway through the H’s.

Robin narrowed her eyes. “Okay, what’s with you?”

Steve didn’t look up. “Nothing.”

“You’re cleaning like you’re being timed.”

“I’m just being productive.”

“You’ve never been productive a day in your life.”

Steve tossed the rag aside and practically jumped to grab his jacket. “I just—might have plans.”

Robin squinted. “Plans?”

Steve hesitated. “...Plans.”

There was a beat. Then Robin’s eyes widened. “Wait. Is this a date?”

Steve tried—and failed—to suppress the grin crawling up his face. “Maybe.”

“With Eddie?”

“Who else?”

Robin groaned, slumping against the counter like a tragic Victorian widow. “You two make me sick.”

Steve laughed, tugging on his jacket. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Buckley.”

“I’m not jealous,” Robin said, pointing a Sharpie at him like a weapon. “I just think it’s cruel that I have to hear you talk about him all day and then sprint out of here like a golden retriever with a bone the minute we close.”

“I do not sprint.”

“You sprint with purpose.”

Steve grabbed his keys, stuffing them into his pocket. “We’re going Halloween costume shopping.”

Robin’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my god. I hate this. I hate both of you.”

Steve was already at the door, positively glowing. “He wants to go as a vampire. I told him I’m not wearing fake blood on my face.”

“Tell me you're not doing couple costumes.”

“No promises.”

“I swear to god, if you show up in matching outfits, I’m setting myself on fire.”

Steve blew her a kiss as the bell jingled behind him. “Love you too, Buckley.”

“Tell Eddie I said barf,” she called after him.

But she was smiling when she said it.

Downtown Hawkins wasn’t exactly a metropolis, but the seasonal pop-up costume store had managed to take over the old furniture warehouse, its windows plastered with cartoon bats, neon pumpkins, and a vaguely threatening Dracula poster that claimed YOU NEED A COSTUME NOW in dripping red letters.

Steve spotted Eddie leaning against the hood of his van, a cigarette tucked behind one ear, looking very pleased with himself.

“You’re late,” Eddie said as Steve approached.

Steve rolled his eyes. “I have a job. You’re lucky I showed up at all.”

Eddie gave him a grin. “Touché. Come on, let’s get spooky.”

Inside, it smelled like rubber masks, plastic packaging, and cheap fog machine juice. They strolled past the horror aisle, already tossing ideas back and forth.

“Vampire still stands,” Eddie said, holding up a velvet cape dramatically. “Timeless. Sexy. Easy.”

“You just want an excuse to wear eyeliner again,” Steve muttered.

They wandered further into the store, past cartoonish clown suits and glittery angel wings. Steve pointed at a werewolf costume with a skeptical look. “That’s just a shirt with fur glued to it.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t rock it.”

Then Eddie turned a corner, paused—and his whole face lit up like a kid in a candy store.

“Movie section,” he announced like it was sacred ground. “This is where the good shit lives.”

Steve followed with a shrug. “Like what?”

Eddie started sifting through racks, rattling off ideas as he went. “Indiana Jones, Spock, Kirk, Sexy Spock, Sexy Kirk.”

“You’re impossible.”

But Eddie wasn’t listening anymore—he’d just pulled out a plastic-wrapped Han Solo costume, complete with the iconic vest and faux-leather holster.

“Oh hell yes.”

Then he immediately grabbed the costume hanging next to it and held it up with both hands, already smirking. “I know who you're gonna be.”

Leia.

More specifically: Leia’s slave outfit from Return of the Jedi— bikini, gold trim, zero shame.

Steve looked at it, blinked, then looked at Eddie. “Why am I Leia?”

Eddie waggled his brows. “You know why.”

Steve’s face went red instantly. “You’re such an asshole.”

“I’m just saying,” Eddie said, holding the hanger up like a sacred offering, “if I die young, it better be because you wore this and my heart exploded from sheer beauty.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Eddie grinned. “I’ll get it engraved on my tombstone.”

Steve grabbed the costume out of his hands and shoved it back on the rack. “You are never allowed to die, just for saying that.”

“Aw, baby, you do care.”

Steve gave him a shove toward the next aisle, but he was laughing the whole time—trying and failing not to picture himself in that ridiculous costume… and worse, trying and failing not to imagine Eddie watching.

They hadn’t picked a costume yet.

But Eddie had definitely picked a favorite.

Eventually, after rifling through an entire rack of questionable superhero knockoffs and rejecting a couples costume labeled "Plug & Socket" with identical looks of horror, they circled back to the Star Wars section.

Eddie held the Han Solo costume against Steve’s chest with a little flourish. “Okay. This we’re keeping. Vest, blaster, hair that screams ‘I shoot first’—this is you.”

Steve raised a brow. “Wait, so I’m Han now?”

“Obviously.”

“What happened to me being Leia?”

Eddie gave him a crooked smile. “I realized I’m not emotionally strong enough to handle you in that outfit.”

“Fair.”

He pulled the Leia costume off the hanger and returned it to the rack, only to come back with a Luke Skywalker robe—tan, oversized, classic.

“I’ll go as Luke,” Eddie said, tossing it over his arm. “Simple. Iconic. Pairs well with smug scoundrels.”

Steve squinted. “But Han and Luke weren’t... you know. Together.”

Eddie grinned, eyes shining with mischief. “Oh Stevie. Sweet, sheltered Stevie. You ever seen the zines people make?”

Steve blinked. “The what?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie said, patting his shoulder. “Just know that if Han wants Luke, Luke absolutely reciprocates. Passionately.”

Steve flushed a little but didn’t argue, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Okay. Han and Luke it is.”

They started heading toward the checkout line, costumes bundled in their arms, when Eddie leaned in close, his voice dropping low.

“And hey,” he added, “If you're nice, I'll let you handle my lightsaber later.”

Steve nearly tripped over a sale bin.

“Eddie!”

“What?!” Eddie said, feigning innocence, eyes wide with mock virtue. “It’s just Star Wars lore.”

“You’re the worst.”

“And you love me.”

Steve shook his head, grinning helplessly as they walked to the register, two dorks with a costume, very much not canon—and very much in love.

It didn’t happen every night.

They’d probably both be dead if it did.

But often enough—maybe once, sometimes twice a week—Steve would find himself pulling into the gravel patch outside Eddie’s trailer just after sundown, the headlights catching on the crooked porch steps and the porch light Eddie always left on when he was expecting him.

It started casual. Quiet knocks, hushed “hey”s, Steve handing over a crumpled twenty and sitting through the same instructions every time like he hadn’t already memorized them.

But somewhere between the third and fifth visit, things shifted.

He stopped knocking.

Eddie started calling him a Frequent Flyer.

They started sitting a little closer. Sharing snacks. Swapping tapes.

And without either of them really planning it, they… became friends.

Weird friends. Unlikely ones. But real.

They didn’t talk about school. Or Hawkins. Or anything that felt too much like real life. But they talked—about music, movies, stupid conspiracy theories, the best flavor of Pop-Tart (Steve was wrong, apparently), and which teachers smelled like cigarettes versus actual weed.

And Steve started noticing things.

Like how Eddie always lit the joint and took the first drag—not because he wanted to be first, but because he was checking the roll, making sure it burned even before passing it over.

How Eddie always had a glass of water already on the table, slid toward Steve without a word after the first cough.

How he played the same low-volume mixtape every time—guitar-heavy instrumentals and mellow rock, nothing that’d overload their already drifting minds.

How he watched Steve, sometimes. Not in a creepy way. Just like he was… paying attention.

Steve wasn’t used to that.

People usually looked at him. Not after him.

“You always this careful?” Steve asked once, watching Eddie neatly ash the joint into an old mug with a faded KISS logo.

Eddie shrugged. “Only with rookies.”

Steve gave him a look.

Eddie smirked. “And people I like.”

Steve pretended not to hear that part.

But it echoed anyway.

They were halfway through the joint, sprawled on Eddie’s floor again, backs against the couch and the ashtray dangerously close to a leaning stack of tapes.

Until Eddie glanced over and asked, too casually, “You ever talk to Wheeler anymore?”

Steve’s face faltered just a little. He didn’t look over.

“Nah,” he said after a beat. “She’s, uh... she’s with Jonathan now.”

Eddie nodded like he already knew. He probably did. Hawkins wasn’t exactly teeming with secrets, not ones that stayed hidden long.

“You cool with that?” Eddie asked.

Steve shrugged, too quickly. “Yeah. I mean. I guess.”

Another beat of silence.

Steve reached for the pretzel bag to have something to do with his hands. “Wasn’t exactly built to last, y’know? We were both trying to be people we weren’t. Or maybe I was just trying harder.”

Eddie looked at him for a second, eyes softer than Steve expected.

“You’re not really who I thought you were,” he said quietly.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “That a good thing?”

Eddie grinned. “It’s confusing.”

Steve barked a laugh at that, tension cracking just enough to let the haze roll back in.

He leaned over, elbow nudging Eddie’s arm. “Alright, your turn. You seeing anyone?”

Eddie rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh yeah. Just beating girls off with a stick.”

Steve raised both brows. “Seriously?”

Eddie gave him a look.

“Steve, do I look like someone Hawkins High girls are lining up for?”

Steve blinked at him. “Yeah, actually. You’re, like, objectively good looking.”

Eddie froze.

Steve didn’t seem to notice the slight shift, the way Eddie’s fingers tensed around the pretzel bag.

“You’ve got the whole thing going,” Steve continued, gesturing lazily. “Hair, cheekbones, weird metalhead charisma. You’d clean up if you just showered and maybe talked like, ten percent less.”

Eddie stared.

Then barked a laugh. “Wow. Thank you. From the depths of my smelly, overtalkative heart.”

“I’m serious,” Steve said, nudging him again. “I could set you up. I know some girls who might actually be into, y’know, the vampire dungeon aesthetic.”

Eddie snorted. “Tempting. But I think I’ll pass.”

“Why? You too cool for blind dates?”

“Something like that.”

Steve looked at him then. Really looked.

There was something in Eddie’s tone. Not defensive. Just… final. Like the conversation wasn’t going further than that.

So Steve nodded, leaned his head back again.

“Alright. No blind dates.”

“Thank you.”

“But if you ever change your mind…”

“Steve.”

“Fine, fine.” Steve held up his hands. “No matchmaking. But I’m still right about the cheekbones.”

Eddie chuckled and shook his head, but didn’t argue.

Outside, cicadas buzzed. Inside, smoke lingered in soft curls above their heads.

And somewhere between deflection and laughter, something settled between them—unspoken but present.

Waiting.

Despite what he said, Steve didn’t keep his promise.

Maybe he thought it was harmless. Maybe he thought he was helping.

But every time they hung out—whether they were passing a joint or just killing time with a stack of tapes and a bowl of popcorn—Steve would find a way to point someone out.

“What about the girl behind the counter? She looked at you twice.”

“Record store girl with the nose ring? Totally your type.”

“Pretty sure that senior in drama class has a thing for you.”

Eddie never took the bait.

He always brushed it off with a joke or a shrug. And Steve would laugh, but it never quite reached his eyes.

“Alright, we’re not getting The Thing again,” Steve said as he scanned the horror shelf for something Eddie hadn’t already made him sit through.

Eddie, trailing a step behind, held up a copy of Return of the Living Dead. “Counterpoint: punk zombies.”

Steve snatched it from him and stuffed it back on the shelf. “You’re lucky I haven’t banned you from movie picks entirely.”

Eddie scoffed. “Excuse me for trying to broaden your cultural horizons.”

They rounded the corner into the drama section, their voices echoing low under the flickering fluorescents. Family Video wasn’t exactly bustling on a weekday afternoon, but a few customers lingered between shelves.

Steve glanced sideways, then nudged Eddie’s arm. “Okay, but—real talk—girl at the counter? Kinda your type, right?”

Eddie groaned. “Steve.”

“No, seriously,” Steve leaned in, voice dropping. “Tall, curly hair, kinda artsy? Looks like she listens to Joni Mitchell and drinks black coffee. Total Munson material.”

Eddie turned his head just enough to glance toward the counter, then back at Steve with a deadpan expression. “You’re obsessed.”

Steve held up his hands. “I’m just saying! You could totally go up to her, ask for a movie recommendation, and boom—you’re halfway to first base.”

“You’re relentless.”

“I have taste,” Steve corrected.

And then it happened.

Steve had reached for a tape—some forgettable drama with a crumbling spine—when Eddie stepped a little closer, scanning the shelves beside him. Without thinking, Eddie’s hand drifted casually to Steve’s waist, resting there lightly, his fingers pressing just at the curve above his hip as he leaned in to peer at a title.

It wasn’t anything, really.

Just a touch.

Like it was second nature.

But Steve froze.

It wasn’t the kind of touch that screamed attention. It wasn’t teasing or performative. It was just… there. Familiar. Like they did this all the time.

And Steve couldn’t focus on anything else.

He didn’t hear whatever Eddie said next—something about how Footloose was propaganda. His brain was too busy looping what the hell was that? over and over.

The hand stayed there for maybe two seconds longer before Eddie moved again, stepping forward to grab a copy of Rumble Fish. The contact broke. The air shifted.

Steve blinked. His skin still buzzed.

“Earth to Harrington?” Eddie was waving a tape in front of his face. “You spacing out or are you just finally accepting my superior movie taste?”

Steve cleared his throat, a little too loud. “Yeah. No. Uh—yeah. That one’s good.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

“Totally did,” Steve lied, grabbing the tape from him and heading toward the counter like it might erase whatever just short-circuited his brain.

Eddie followed, thankfully not pressing.

But as the girl at the counter rang them up, Steve realized something weird:

For the first time, he didn’t care whether she was Eddie’s type.

Steve barely had time to shut his locker before he felt a hand grab the back of his jacket and tug.

Not hard—just enough to make him turn.

“Jesus,” he muttered, heart skipping a beat. “You ever walk up to someone like a normal person?”

Eddie grinned, completely unbothered. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He was bouncing on his heels, hair loose today, black rings on all ten fingers, and that usual glint in his eye that made it impossible to tell if he was about to start a fight or tell a joke.

“You got plans Thursday night?” he asked, adjusting the strap on his guitar case slung over one shoulder.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “That depends. Is this one of your D&D nights or your ‘wander into a crime scene’ nights?”

Eddie snorted and lightly smacked the side of Steve’s head with the back of his hand. “It’s Corroded Coffin at the Hideout, jackass. Our set starts at eight.”

Steve blinked. “You want me to come?”

Eddie shrugged, but it was too casual. “Yeah. Thought maybe you could use some culture that doesn’t involve pastel polos and Top 40.”

“Wow. An insult and an invitation.”

“I multitask.” Eddie reached out and tugged Steve’s jacket straight on his shoulders, an unconscious gesture, like he did it all the time. His hand lingered a second too long near Steve’s neck before he turned to walk backward in front of him.

“We’re trying out a new track. I think you’ll like it.”

Steve watched him bounce backward down the hallway, making finger guns at no one in particular, before vanishing around the corner.

He exhaled.

Then rubbed the spot on his shoulder where Eddie’s hand had just been.

The Hideout was dim, all buzzing neon signs and sticky floors. The kind of place that smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke, and something fried that probably wasn’t food anymore.

Steve paused just inside the door, blinking against the low light. The hum of amps warming up filled the room, and people were packed tight around worn wooden tables. It wasn’t a big crowd, but it was a loud one—leather jackets, combat boots, and black eyeliner for days.

Not exactly his scene.

Steve shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and scanned the room. Maybe this was a mistake.

Then he saw him.

Eddie, near the edge of the stage, guitar already strapped on but not plugged in yet. He was halfway through laughing at something one of his bandmates said when he looked up—and immediately spotted Steve.

His entire face lit up.

He hopped down off the stage in two strides, dodging a drunk guy holding two beers and weaving through the crowd until he reached him.

“You came,” Eddie said, a little breathless, eyes flicking quickly across Steve’s face like he was trying to read something there.

“You invited me,” Steve replied, trying for casual, but something in his chest settled at the way Eddie looked at him—like he was both surprised and relieved to see him standing there.

Eddie leaned in a little, close enough for Steve to hear him over the music. “You okay? It’s kind of a zoo in here. I forget not everyone’s into the dive bar vibe.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. He didn’t expect that. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“You sure?” Eddie’s hand found his arm—light, grounding. “We go hard sometimes. Volume, crowd, bad jokes between songs. Don’t want you feeling like you walked into the wrong movie.”

Steve glanced at the band tuning behind him, then at Eddie again. “I’m good. Go melt some faces.”

Eddie grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and gave his arm a brief squeeze before turning. “Alright, Pretty Boy. Stick around—I’m dedicating the third song to someone who thinks Bon Jovi is real rock.”

Steve scoffed. “You wish you had their hair.”

Eddie threw a middle finger over his shoulder as he climbed back onto the stage, guitar slung low. The crowd shifted, murmurs rising as he adjusted his mic.

And Steve stood there, in this loud, grungy dive bar full of people he didn’t know, and realized…

He didn’t feel out of place at all.

Not with Eddie looking at him like that.

Eddie was electric on stage.

Steve didn’t have a better word for it.

He’d seen him loud before, sure—ranting about music or monsters or whatever had pissed him off that day—but this was different. Eddie commanded the stage. The way his fingers moved over the guitar strings, sharp and fast, like the instrument was just an extension of him. The raw rasp in his voice when he shouted into the mic. The way his hair whipped in time with the beat, wild and untamed and completely himself.

And the crowd loved it.

Steve watched from a back booth, drink in hand, half-hypnotized. People were cheering, headbanging, raising their glasses, and yet Eddie’s eyes kept flicking toward him. Every few seconds. Like he was checking in. Like he wanted to know if Steve was still watching.

He was.

God, he was.

When the set ended, Eddie let the final note ring out, feedback buzzing through the amps. He flashed a crooked grin at the crowd and shouted a thanks before slinging off his guitar and jumping off the stage. The moment his feet hit the ground, a few people tried to crowd around him—slaps on the back, compliments, someone offering a cigarette—but Eddie ducked past them.

He headed straight for Steve.

“Still got your face, huh?” Eddie said as he reached the booth, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

Steve gave him a mock salute. “Barely. But I’ll allow it.”

Eddie plopped down beside him, close enough that their knees knocked. “Skipped post-show beers with the guys. You better feel honored.”

Steve smirked. “I’m touched.”

Eddie leaned his head back against the booth, chest still rising fast. His rings clicked softly as he drummed his fingers on the table, still riding the adrenaline high.

Steve let the moment settle before nudging him with his shoulder. “Okay, now you’ve earned it.”

Eddie blinked. “Earned what?”

Steve nodded discreetly toward a girl at the bar—leather jacket, dyed red streak in her hair, nursing a bottle of Coke. “Stage presence. You’ve got, like, dangerously hot frontman energy. You could totally go talk to her.”

Eddie’s expression didn’t shift.

He didn’t even look.

Steve frowned. “Dude. She’s literally checking you out.”

Eddie exhaled slowly. “I’m good.”

Steve tilted his head. “Seriously? Why not?”

Eddie looked at him then, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Just not interested.”

It wasn’t said harshly. No edge to it. But there was finality in the words. Like a quiet door being closed.

Steve sat back, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

Eddie didn’t elaborate. He just turned back to his drink and gave Steve a tired smile.

“So,” he said, voice light again, “you sticking around, or am I driving the starstruck jock home?”

Steve tried to match his tone, tried to pretend he hadn’t felt the subtle sting of rejection—not for himself, but for the idea that he didn’t get it. That maybe… he really didn’t get it.

He smiled, too, and clinked his glass lightly against Eddie’s.

“Let’s get outta here, Rockstar.”

The diner smelled like fried everything and syrup. The kind of place that never updated its menu, or its linoleum floors, since 1963.

Steve and Eddie sat across from each other in a corner booth, a shared plate of cheese fries between them, the cheese halfway to congealed, but neither of them cared.

Steve licked salt from his thumb, slouched with his arm draped along the back of the booth. “Okay, serious question.”

Eddie raised a brow mid-chew. “Oh no.”

Steve smirked. “What is your type, anyway?”

Eddie paused, fry halfway to his mouth. “We’re still doing this?”

“Come on,” Steve said, nudging his foot under the table. “You shoot down every girl I point out. It’s not even subtle anymore. Just humor me.”

Eddie leaned back and exhaled through his nose. “Alright. Fine.”

He tapped his fingers lightly on the tabletop, like he was thinking it through. “I guess… someone who doesn’t scare easy. Bit of an edge. Smarter than me, but won’t make me feel like an idiot about it. Someone who makes me laugh. Someone who… listens.”

Steve narrowed his eyes slightly, caught off guard by how serious Eddie sounded. “That’s not a type. That’s a personality quiz.”

Eddie shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You asked.”

“Okay, fine, fine. But looks? Give me something to go off.”

Eddie hesitated for a second too long.

Then he said, casually, “Brown eyes. Nice hair, really nice hair. Kind of a dumb smile.”

Steve blinked.

Eddie didn’t meet his eyes, just plucked another fry from the plate and shoved it into his mouth like he hadn’t just dropped a quiet bomb.

Steve snorted. “That narrows it down. You just described half the girls at Hawkins High.”

“Did I?” Eddie said, chewing.

Steve leaned back, staring at him for a second. “You’re a weird dude, Munson.”

Eddie finally met his eyes, something unreadable there. “You have no idea.”

And Steve… laughed. Because he thought they were still talking about girls.

Because his heart hadn’t caught up with his gut yet.

Because Eddie made it sound like a joke.

But under the yellow glow of the diner light, Eddie couldn’t help glancing at the way Steve’s lashes curled when he looked down, the way his fingers drummed distractedly against the edge of the Formica table.

The way Steve didn’t know he’d just been described.

Steve turned into the driveway and immediately spotted the Mercedes in the carport.

He sighed, forehead hitting the steering wheel for a second before he killed the ignition.

His dad was home early.

School was hard on him today. And now this.

The house looked the same as always—perfect hedges, clean walkway, some catalog-looking wreath hanging on the door even though Christmas was ages behind them now. But something about the car being there made the air feel heavier.

He stepped inside and kicked off his sneakers by the door.

“Steve?” his mother called from the kitchen. “There’s casserole if you’re hungry.”

“I’m good,” he said, tossing his keys in the bowl by the stairs.

His dad was already in the living room, blazer still on, drink in hand, and a finance magazine open on his lap like he hadn’t moved since getting home.

“You get that math grade back yet?” he asked without looking up.

Steve scratched the back of his neck. “Not yet.”

“Because your midterm report said you were sitting at a C-minus. That’s not gonna get you anywhere.”

Steve stared at the back of the chair for a moment. “Yeah. I know.”

His dad finally glanced at him over the rim of his glass. “Do you?”

Steve clenched his jaw. “Yeah. I’m working on it.”

His father snorted lightly, like that answer was beneath him, and looked back at his magazine.

Steve lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, waiting—for what, he wasn’t sure. A question. A “how are you?” Anything.

But the only sound was the flipping of a page and the faint hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen.

His mom stepped out with a glass of wine, smiling. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay at school?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, eyes darting toward the floor. “It’s fine.”

She patted his shoulder as she passed. “That’s good.”

And that was it.

No more questions. No follow-up. No real conversation.

Just polite fragments in a house that always looked perfect in pictures.

Steve headed upstairs a minute later, shutting his bedroom door behind him.

Only when he sat on his bed and stared at the wall did he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

And for some reason, his mind drifted to Eddie. The way Eddie looked at him when he asked questions. Like he actually wanted to know the answers.

Steve rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

The sky was already bruising with dusk when Steve pulled up to the trailer park.

His headlights cut across the gravel, catching the familiar crooked mailbox with “Munson” painted in black sharpie and a fading metal lawn chair left out all winter.

He didn’t call first. Didn’t need to.

Eddie opened the front door before Steve even made it to the porch, barefoot in a ripped tank top, an unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers.

“You okay?” he asked immediately, not even a hello.

Steve shrugged one shoulder, eyes tired. “Yeah.”

Eddie squinted at him. “You don’t look okay.”

Steve scratched the back of his neck. “My dad’s home.”

Something shifted in Eddie’s expression—just a flicker, but enough.

His grip on the door tightened. “Did he… do something?”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“I mean—shit, Harrington, if you need a place because—” He gestured vaguely, like he didn’t want to say it out loud. “If he put his hands on you or something—”

“No,” Steve cut in quickly, holding up a hand. “No, no. It’s not like that.”

Eddie looked at him, still skeptical.

Steve sighed, stepping up onto the porch. “It’s not… anything dramatic. He’s not a monster. He just—he doesn’t care unless it’s about grades. Doesn’t ask how I am. Doesn’t even pretend to give a shit about anything real. And when he’s home, it’s like the air in that house just—freezes.”

Eddie opened the door wider. “C’mon. You don’t need to explain it.”

Steve stepped inside, the familiar scent of incense and old wood paneling already easing something in his chest.

Eddie closed the door behind him and leaned his shoulder against it, eyes soft. “You can crash here. Obviously.”

Steve gave a tired smile. “Thanks.”

Eddie tossed the cigarette onto the kitchen counter, unlit and forgotten. “You want a drink? Or food? I think I’ve got leftover mac and cheese that hasn’t developed sentience yet.”

Steve chuckled under his breath. “Nah. Just… Can I sit for a sec?”

Eddie nodded toward the couch. “You can do whatever you want, man. You know that.”

Steve dropped onto the couch with a sigh, head falling back against the cushions.

And Eddie stood there for a second longer, watching him.

The quiet kind of watching. The worried kind.

He walked over and sat down beside him, close enough that their knees bumped.

The movie Eddie put had been over for a while now.

The TV screen was dark, casting only a faint blue glow across the living room. Somewhere between the halfway point and the credits, Steve had drifted off—head tilted back on the couch, mouth slightly open, one arm slung over his stomach like he’d just melted into the cushions.

Eddie hadn’t moved.

He sat cross-legged at the other end of the couch, watching the flicker of streetlights through the blinds, then glancing—just once or twice—at the way Steve’s lashes fluttered when he breathed, how soft his features looked when he wasn’t trying to be anything for anyone.

It was stupid how pretty he looked.

Eddie blinked hard and reached out, fingers hovering just above Steve’s shoulder before he made contact.

“Hey,” he said gently, voice low. “C’mon, Harrington. Time to relocate.”

Steve stirred, brow scrunching like he was trying to stay asleep.

Eddie chuckled quietly. “Don’t make me carry you, man. I’m delicate.”

That got a faint, groggy grunt. Steve blinked blearily, lifting his head just enough to meet Eddie’s gaze. “What time is it?”

“Late. Too late for both of us to be ruining our spines out here.” Eddie stood and offered a hand, wiggling his fingers. “C’mon. Bed’s yours.”

Steve took the hand without thinking, let Eddie pull him to his feet with more care than force. Their palms touched a second too long before Eddie stepped back and nodded toward the hallway.

Steve padded down it slowly, still half-asleep, while Eddie lingered behind to shut off the lights.

When he finally caught up, Steve was standing in the doorway of Eddie’s room, looking around like he hadn’t quite realized before now how personal it was. Posters, books, half-done sketches pinned to the wall. A warm kind of chaos.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck. “Sheets are clean, I swear. You, uh… you can take the bed.”

Steve turned, confused. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

“Couch.”

Steve frowned. “Why?”

Eddie looked down, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I just figured—I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

“Why would I be?”

Eddie paused.

There were so many ways to answer that question. Too many truths packed in a single sentence.

So he just shrugged. “Some people don’t like sharing. That’s all.”

Steve studied him for a second, then looked at the bed, then back again.

“I’m not some people,” he said simply.

And for once, Eddie didn’t know what to say.

So he nodded.

They settled in with their backs to each other at first—blanket tugged up to their shoulders, silence thick between them. But neither of them fell asleep right away.

And when Steve shifted an hour later, rolling onto his side and unconsciously inching closer, Eddie stayed perfectly still.

But his heart was loud in his chest.

And it felt like something had just changed—quietly, irrevocably.

Morning crept in slowly through the gaps in Eddie’s threadbare curtains, the kind of golden light that made everything look softer than it really was.

Eddie stirred first.

It took him a second to realize where he was—and more importantly, how he was.

His arm was slung around Steve’s waist, their legs tangled under the blanket, Steve’s back flush against his chest. The warmth between them was too perfect to be accidental. Steve's hair tickled his chin, and Eddie had the insane, fleeting thought that he could fall asleep again just like this.

Then panic whispered at the edge of his thoughts.

Shit. Shit, shit—what are you doing?

He held his breath and started to pull away, slow and careful, hoping not to wake him.

But the moment he shifted back, Steve let out a quiet sound—half-asleep and almost needy—and reached behind to grab his arm.

“No,” Steve mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep. “Five more minutes.”

Eddie froze.

Steve didn’t let go.

Instead, he tugged Eddie’s arm tighter around him, fingers brushing against the skin just beneath Eddie’s shirt where it had ridden up in the night.

Eddie’s heart nearly exploded.

“…You sure?” he asked quietly, unsure if Steve was even awake enough to realize what he was doing.

Steve made a small sound, something between a hum and a sigh. “Mm-hmm. Warm.”

And that was it.

Eddie exhaled softly through his nose and gave in, letting his hand settle over Steve’s stomach again. His chest pressed to Steve’s back, fitting like a secret.

He chuckled under his breath, barely audible. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Harrington.”

Steve smiled—small, lazy, and unseen in the light.

But he didn’t say anything.

He just held Eddie’s arm in place, like it belonged there.

And maybe, for the first time… it did.

The smell of toast and eggs filled the trailer, hazy with early morning light and the quiet clinking of utensils.

Steve stood at the tiny stove, barefoot, still in the hoodie from the night before. His hair was a little wild—slept-on and unstyled—but he looked content, humming faintly as he nudged scrambled eggs around the pan with the focus of a man trying to pretend nothing deeply intimate had happened just a few hours ago.

Eddie sat at the tiny kitchen table, chin in hand, watching.

Not saying much.

Not because it was awkward—but because it wasn’t. And that scared him a little more.

Steve Harrington, golden boy of Hawkins High, casually cooking him breakfast after curling into his chest like a human furnace. And now he was talking about toast ratios like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Are you… one of those monsters that butters before toasting?” Steve asked, side-eyeing him.

Eddie grinned sleepily. “I live in a trailer, not a cave.”

Steve chuckled, grabbing two mismatched plates. “Okay. Just checking.”

That’s when the front door opened with the soft metallic click of a key in the lock.

Wayne Munson stepped inside, boots heavy on the floor, smelling faintly of tobacco and diesel and long hours under fluorescent lights.

He looked tired. He always looked tired.

And then he saw them.

Steve by the stove, hair a mess, flipping toast onto plates like he’d done it a hundred times before. Eddie in a wrinkled t-shirt, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed.

Wayne’s gaze flicked from one boy to the other.

Then settled on Eddie.

Just for a beat.

A long, quiet beat.

And in that look—eyebrows raised just slightly, face unreadable—was the unspoken question.

This one?

Eddie felt the air shift, throat suddenly dry.

He gave the smallest shake of his head, eyes lowered, a silent not like that… not yet.

Wayne nodded once. Barely.

Then he walked toward the back of the trailer without a word, stopping only to mutter, “Gonna shower. Tell your little friend he’s got good hand with eggs.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Steve blinked. “Is he always that—?”

“Yep,” Eddie said quickly, stabbing his fork into his toast.

Steve slid into the seat across from him, oblivious to the silent conversation that had just happened.

“Shirt?” Steve asked, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp from the quickest shower Eddie’s water heater could manage.

Eddie, already half-dressed and digging through the mountain of laundry on his bedroom floor, nodded. “Yeah, yeah—give me a sec, I got something.”

He pulled out a faded Metallica tee from the cleaner pile —which, by Munson standards, meant “not visibly crusty”— and tossed it over.

Steve caught it one-handed, barely looking at it before pulling it over his head.

And Eddie—

Eddie paused.

Because the shirt was loose on Steve—hung a little low at the neck, sleeves brushing the edges of his biceps, hem sitting just at the waistband of his jeans. It was his shirt, unmistakably, but on Steve it looked—

Wrong.

Or maybe too right.

Like something out of a daydream he was never brave enough to admit to having.

Steve ruffled his hair in the mirror, smoothing the fabric over his stomach. “Thanks. Smells like smoke.”

“Yeah, that’s my brand,” Eddie muttered, trying to pretend he wasn’t staring. “Glamorous trailer musk.”

Steve smiled, easy and oblivious, and looked down at himself again. “I kinda like it.”

Don’t say anything stupid, Eddie told himself. Don’t be a creep. Don’t—

Steve turned toward him, still adjusting the hem, unaware of the way Eddie’s jaw tensed.

“You okay?”

Eddie cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yep. Totally fine. You just, uh—look good. In black. That’s all.”

Steve smirked. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and grabbed his jacket, slinging it on with more force than necessary. “C’mon, Harrington. If we’re gonna pretend we care about education, we should at least pretend to show up before second period.”

Steve followed him out the door, still wearing Eddie’s shirt like it meant nothing.

And Eddie followed behind, trying not to think about how badly he wanted it to mean something.

The house was quiet when Steve got home.

Too quiet.

He tossed his keys into the ceramic bowl near the door and made his way up the stairs, footsteps echoing in the polished hallway. No sign of his mom. No sound from his dad’s office. Just the low hum of the AC and the faint creak of wood under his feet.

He shut his bedroom door behind him and shrugged off his bag, tossing it on the bed. Kicked off his shoes next. Then reached for the hem of his borrowed shirt.

Eddie’s shirt.

It slipped over his head with ease, soft from too many washes, the collar stretched just enough to fall a little too wide on his collarbone. Steve caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—tousled hair, pink at the cheeks from the heat, Eddie’s faded Metallica tee hanging off him like it belonged there.

He froze.

Fingers tightening slightly around the fabric.

His brows furrowed as he held the shirt up in front of him, inspecting it like it had betrayed him.

And then—slowly, almost without thinking—he brought it closer to his face.

The scent was unmistakable.

Smoke. Faint clove. A hint of something sharp and warm—like old wood and citrus and… Eddie.

Steve blinked.

And blushed. Hard.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, suddenly yanking the shirt away like it had burned him. “Get a grip.”

He tossed it toward the bed, turned around to grab something else from the drawer, but his hand hovered, frozen, heart thudding a little faster than he wanted to admit.

Then—after a beat—he reached back, picked up the shirt again.

Stared at it.

And, this time, pressed it slowly to his nose, letting his eyes slip shut.

It was stupid.

He knew it was stupid.

Eddie was a guy. His friend. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a borrowed shirt. Just a smell.

Just a warm ache in his chest that he was afraid to name .

Steve exhaled shakily and sat down on the edge of his bed, the shirt still crumpled in his hands.

And for this time, he didn’t shove the thought away.

Not completely.

Part 3

—comment if you wanna be added to this fic taglist

A message to everyone who ignores their raging queerness: don’t go to a costume party with your best friend who has a point to prove to his stuffy parents. It never ends well. 

But of course Remus wasn’t queer so this message didn’t apply to him. 

…But if it did—IF—a step-by-step instructional on how to avoid being outed to everyone and humiliated in front of your crush best mate would be helpful wouldn’t it? 

For those who do happen to find yourself in this oddly specific and not werewolf-pointed scenario, the list would go as such: 

When your best friend arrives dressed in drag, don’t stare too long. No more than 30 seconds or else they’ll think you’re a creep (slurs rhyming with flag and maggot might include themselves). 

Don’t let them do your makeup. That involves close contact. Close interaction with the subject may lead to misfiring of brain cells.  

Don’t hold hands. That’s gay. 

When the two of you get split up at this party, don’t look for them around the room. 

If you (inevitably) find them, don’t get disappointed when you spot them dancing with someone of the opposite sex. Your fragile heart won’t be able to take it. 

Get a drink, loosen up, enjoy yourself (if possible) and eventually go to bed knowing everyone thinks you’re 100% straight.

[BONUS] Kiss someone of the opposite sex too, prove to everyone that you definitely don’t think about kissing your best friend all the time. 

Of course in a hypothetical situation such as this, we’d put it to the test on a hypothetical test subject. Who better than Remus Lupin who happens to be waiting for his best friend—who he’s not in love with—to go to a costume party?

Already taking scene with Remus is his good friend: Lily Evans dressed as your favorite paranormal private investigator: Daphne Blake. 

I suppose in a typical situation (with you assuming the position of a straight man) where a very obviously beautiful woman stood over you holding your chin as she drew a red and blue lightning bolt across your face, your mind would be reeling. 

Apparently Remus Lupin wasn’t like other people. 

Where his other classmates would die to be as close to Lily as he was right now, to Remus it was nothing. And it was not because he didn’t like women—he’d like to make it very clear, he LOVED women. He just hasn’t found the right one yet…allegedly.

Anyways. 

The clock was three notches away from the 45th minute of the 23nd hour of the day. Remus—ever the stickler for time—was painfully aware of the fact that they were now 42 minutes late for a party they helped plan. Despite these facts, he and Lily were the only ones who were close to being ready to go. 

“How come they’re always last to be ready,” Remus murmured as Lily hovered over him. 

Lily only tutted softly at his question. “One of the world’s many secrets I suppose. I hear Marlene’s giving him some crazy makeup.” 

Lily, ever the observer, couldn’t help but notice the way Remus’ brows jumped up. Just a smidge but she noticed it. 

His Adam's Apple bobbed in his throat and his eyes drifted to the corner of the room, avoiding Lily’s eyes.“Is he?” 

Fun fact: Remus was a terrible liar. At least in front of Lily Evans.

A ghost of a smile whisked across the girl’s lips, continuing on with the boy’s face paint. “Yeah…this film I took him to last year he seems to like. I forgot the name of it if I’m being,” she paused, her smile stretching wider. “If I’m being frank.” 

Lily Evans evidently also loved her puns.

“That’d be cool to see.” A cough escaped him in hopes of covering up the crack in his voice. “Leave it to Sirius to go all out.

Almost as if his words were a cue, the loud rumbling of the rest of the group coming down the stairs filled in the silent space. 

First came Peter dressed as an unnamed serial killer. Fake blood splattered on a white tee and jeans with a fake knife. Rather unoriginal but what do I know? 

Following soon after came James, Marlene, and Dorcas dressed respectively as Fred Jones, (a very inspired) Shaggy Rogers, and Velma Dinkly.

(No Scooby-Doo because Peter stubbornly refused to be a dog).

The group filled the Gryffindor common room eagerly, James flocking to Lily’s side with an arm wrapped around her waist. 

“Bowie,” James mused, inspecting the nearly done lightning bolt across his face. “Nice, it suits you Moony.” 

Remus was typically a very well spoken character, not often left involuntarily speechless. But then again, I wouldn’t be presenting this scenario if it was a typical one. 

Remus, being a completely and wholly straight man, would have no problem following the step-by-step instructions laid out to help him in the hypothetical situation that he was in love with his best friend. 

Step One: When your best friend arrives dressed in drag, don’t stare longer than 30 seconds. 

In Remus’ defense, time is relative. Seeing Sirius step down the stairs in heels, fishnets, and what was basically lingerie, had to have been shocking for anyone. 

Once more the lump in the boy’s throat bobbed painfully as he tried (and failed) to tear his eyes away from him. “Um, what was Sirius meant to be again?” 

Standing above Remus, Lily snapped her fingers as if she was trying to summon up the answer in her mind. “Oh! I remember now! He’s a doctor from that movie Rocky Horror Picture Show. Dr. Frank-n-Furter!” 

Remus' mouth fell open then shut, yet to look away from the boy as he sauntered around the room. “A doctor?” 

His question was, however, drowned out as Lily began talking to James. “Oh! I completely forgot something in my room…But Remus makeup…” 

With a cold plunging yet dizzying feeling, Remus watched as Lily called Sirius’ name. 

“I completely forgot one more piece of my costume. Can you finish Remus’ makeup for me?” 

Oh she was good. 

Step Two: Don’t let them do your makeup

Well the boy was already failing at that. 

As still as a deer in headlights, Remus watched as Sirius stood over him. Between Remus sitting on the couch and Sirius standing in impossibly high heels, this was the first time the boy towered over him. 

“May I?” 

If Remus had control over his body he was sure he’d kick himself in the face for the strangled noise that escaped his throat. He could only usher to clear his throat and cover it up. 

“Sure! I mean—yeah, sure.” 

Remus wasn’t sure what he expected. Maybe that he’d pull up a chair or sit next to him on the couch. He definitely wasn’t expecting Sirius’ hand on his chest, pushing him back against the couch as he kneeled in between his legs. His hand snaked up Remus' chest, finding his neck before cupping his jaw as he brought the cold paintbrush up to his face. 

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Sirius murmured, voice low. 

Remus had no reply. He was too caught up in the way Sirius was so close that he could smell the lingering alcohol on his breath. He was too focused on the fact that if he wanted to he could rush forward, smash his lips onto Sirius’ and smudge his red lipstick. 

But he didn’t. Because Remus was (apparently) completely, 100% without a doubt, straight. 

“You think so,” Remus questioned. 

Deflecting. 

Sirius’ thumb brushed over the boy’s bottom lip, sitting back to admire his work before meeting Remus’ eyes. “Oh I know so.” 

It took every inch of Remus’ will not to let his eyes fall or drift anywhere other than Sirius’ eyes. But why did that make things worse? 

“You wanna know how I know,” Sirius grinned. Somewhere in his teasing tone and his red lipstick, Remus could feel his train of thoughts abandoning him right as he regained it. 

“...How?..” 

Sirius’ hand abandoned his jaw as he leaned in, finding the boy's neck. Remus could only feel the chills of absolute torture as he leaned down right to his ear, his breath dancing across his jugular. 

“Because I know you, pretty boy.” 

But no matter how long it felt like Sirius hung over him, the moment he pulled away never felt so sudden. In a blink, Sirius was free from the couch and talking to Marlene as if he wasn’t mounted on top the boy a few moments prior. 

Giving Remus the benefit of a doubt, there’s a whole night to be played out and five more steps to be considered. He still has time to redeem himself. 

Step Three: Don’t hold hands. 

As any non-school mandated party goes, they’d have to sneak out to attend. 

The halls were dark, only lit up by a few leading wands as the group attempted to navigate the halls with two objectives: stay quiet and don’t get caught by Filch. 

Simple enough right?

Remus and Sirius were at the tail end of the group, a quietening charm cast over Sirius’ shoes all while James led from the front of the group, Marauder’s Map in hand. 

Remus, an awful test subject I realize, still remains unable to keep his glance completely away from Sirius, but at least for now the boy can allow himself to breathe. 

Not for long of course. 

In a sudden, startling movement, the group came to a stop. 

“It’s Filch,” James uttered, face in the map now. Quick to move, he began in the opposite way they came, the group now forming a crowd before he stopped again. 

Just their luck, they were cornered in by a prefect at one end of the hall and Filch at the other. 

“Scatter,” James’ hissed. “We’ll meet up at the party!” 

Remus wasn’t even allowed a moment to process his words before a sudden hand tugged him away down a concealed corridor. 

It was dark and quite frankly Remus couldn’t tell where they were anymore until he suddenly felt the sudden feeling of a cold wall against his back. 

Regaining some semblance of sense, Remus realized where they were: in an alcove hidden by a tapestry right around the corner from the Hufflepuff common room. 

The boy couldn’t put enough emphasis on how dark it was, both of the light from their wands exterminated. But Remus could’ve narrated the scene blind and deaf. 

He was sandwiched between a cold wall and Sirius in a small enclosed space. Both of Sirius’ hands were occupied, one held over Remus’ mouth and the other still clasping his hand. 

It was a well known fact between the friend group and anyone who knew Sirius for more than a week that the boy did not have a single clue on what personal space was. No matter how small a seat, how smelly you might’ve been, or how visible to his peers, you can bet on Sirius invading your space. 

But this was entirely different. 

Remus couldn’t tell where his own body ended and Sirius’ started. He could feel where the fake diamonds of the boy’s corset poked at Remus’ abdomen. His own hands somehow found themselves on his hips burning a phantom heat through his hands and up his arms. 

Remus could see one thing, though. The amused eyes of Sirius as he whipped his head around to face him with devilish delight. 

“What an interesting position we’ve found ourselves in.” 

Sirius’ hand smelled of cigarettes, chocolate, and Marlene’s perfume. (I’m sure every straight man takes notes on what his friend’s hand smells like.)

“It’d be rather embarrassing if Filch found us like this, no?” 

The full moon was nowhere near, Remus was sure of that. But what else would explain that stabbing feeling he felt through his heart. 

Embarrassing. 

Would Sirius consider being caught like this with him embarrassing?

With a shaky hand, Remus reached up and pulled Sirius’ hand away from his face, his makeup surely smudged. 

But Sirius, stubborn and oblivious, didn’t let that move him away. Rather, he remained where he stood. Except now without the boundary of his own hand, the boys stood (nearly) face-to-face—give or take a few inches of the heels. 

Intoxicating. 

That’s what Sirius Black was. 

His mere presence was an attack on your senses, taking away your ability to think, breathe, or even act on your own accord. 

Or maybe it was just the result of being utterly infatuated with someone. 

Not that Remus was willing to admit that outloud. 

“We should go before we miss the party, yeah?” 

Remus was just as quiet the remainder of the short trip there. And Sirius kept a hold onto his hand as they led up to the entrance of the Hufflepuff Commons, merely watching as Sirius rhythmically tapped at one of the barrels before the door slowly opened, warm light flooding out from the room. 

From one environment to the next, Remus remained just as pathetically helpless in Sirius’ presence—or lack thereof as the boy’s warmth abandoned his grasp, mixing into the party. 

Just like Remus lost him. 

Step Four: When you lose him at the party, don’t look for him

Remus was a man of many unspoken words.

Words such as ‘leave me alone’, or ‘your voice is gratingly annoying’ or ‘I’m gay and in love with my best friend. But the words pertaining to this situation would be the fact that he didn’t like parties. 

He was already a naturally quiet person when he wasn’t around his friends, being thrown into such a loud, messy setting was basically a set up for him standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. 

“Remus! There you are! I was getting worried about you and Sirius.” 

Even Lily Evans found it in herself to enjoy parties more than he did. 

Ever the light-weight, the girl was already tipsy, stumbling into the boy before frowning at him. “What happened to your makeup? It’s smudged…suspiciously around your mouth…” 

Nothing gets past the girl. Not even when intoxicated. 

“It was Sirius!” Remus was quick to come to his own defense and dug himself an even deeper hole. “His hand I mean—he was trying to get me to be quiet or—.” 

“Defensive are we,” Lily giggled, regaining her balance and already turning away from the boy. 

“Don’t worry Remus,” she put a finger over her lips playfully. “I know how to keep a secret.” 

I suppose I better start digging the hole Remus always thinks about throwing himself into. 

Or perhaps he’s already doing a good job at digging his own hole. Once Lily found her way away from the boy, instincts took over. His eyes swept across the crowd, taking in every one he saw. 

Searching. Looking. Hunting. Whatever synonym worked best for him. 

In short, he was doing everything he wasn’t meant not to do: searching for Sirius. 

It didn’t take long of course, the boy stood out with his heels and his makeup. However, it didn’t make the sight he found any less uncomfortable. 

Step Five: Don’t get disappointed when you see him dancing with a girl. 

They were close, Sirius’ arms on her waist while hers was tangled in his hair. Was it even possible to dance at a party like this so close to each other?

If there’s a will there’s a way. 

Just as predicted, Remus’ fragile heart couldn’t take it. He didn’t want to admit it, his stubbornness worse than Sirius’, but some mix of shame, embarrassment, and disappointment welled up in his chest at the sight. Thus bringing this step to a shockingly quick end. 

Step Six: Drink away the misery inside your glass closet. 

Remus pushed through the crowd, creating a bee-line to the spiked punch bowl and for the first time that night let loose. 

By drink two he felt the buzzing in his head that fuzzed out all the hurt and confusion he sat with. 

Halfway through drink three he could feel the room move. Not a spinning like they typically describe it, but more like a sway. 

Once he finished his third drink he was dancing uncharacteristically like himself. One would’ve confused him for James. 

*Note to self: subject seems to have failed steps 1-5, however, results still resolve back to step 6*

By time he was reaching for the fourth drink he found a hand pulling it away from him. Maybe it was Lily looking to dance with him. Or James wanting to get whatever he had. 

If only Remus knew the world didn’t work like that. 

“Moony, don’t you think you’ve had enough?” 

It was Sirius of course, who else. 

Somewhere in his drunken stupor, Sirius only somehow looked even prettier in Remus’ eyes. His makeup was somehow still flawless and his hair seemed to have fallen in all the right places. 

“I didn’t think you were such a stickler at parties Sirius.” 

His words were beyond slurred, tripping into the boy just as Lily did moments (or maybe even hours prior). 

Sirius’ laugh was music to his ears as he began to pull him out from the room. “I think that’s enough party for you.” 

Remus hadn’t even noticed how warm the room had gotten until he was outside of it, following Sirius as he pulled him towards the kitchens. 

“Sit here,” Sirius instructed, pulling a stool up to a table. 

Remus simply let himself fall into the chair, head propped up on his hand as he watched Sirius move around the room comfortably (as if he wasn’t wearing the sluttiest costume ever). “Whatever you say, pretty boy,” Remus mumbled loud enough for him to hear.

Maybe if the boy was sober, Remus would’ve seen how Sirius’ own cheeks flared red. 

Lost in the way the boy moved about the room, Remus hadn’t even noticed the boy preparing anything until there was suddenly a glass of water in front of him. 

“Drink.” 

Remus picked up the glass slowly, a grin sliding onto his face. “It’s cute when you tell me what to do.” 

“Merlin’s beard,” Sirius exclaimed softly to himself as he pulled up a chair in front of the boy, their knees overlapping. “How much did you have to drink?” 

“Does it matter if I’m not lying?” 

For the first time in the night Sirius was left stricken silent, his mouth falling open and shut until he could find his words in some capacity. “Remus that…you’re…” 

“Do you know what tonight was like for me,” he asked suddenly. “How I couldn’t stop thinking about—” 

Some part of his body knew to stop talking. 

Step Seven [BONUS]: Kiss a girl.

Silence reached across the room. All Sirius could hear was the pounding in his heart. Remus couldn’t hear anything but the part of him that screamed at him to do what he’s wanted to do for two years now. 

Curiosity killed the cat didn’t it? 

“What have you been thinking about so much tonight,” Sirius whispered. 

Sirius' eyes never stopped moving. Remus’ left eye, his right eye, his lips. Right, left, lips. 

Remus’ remained still. Trained. Unmoving and unwavering. 

Call it muggle’s Liquid Luck or call it sudden confidence. Something summoned up that courage to allow Remus to surge forward to meet his salvation. 

It was messy, and impulsive, yet more than Remus ever considered when he dreamed of kissing his best friend. Remus’ hands on Sirius’ waist, pulling him impossibly closer; Sirius’ grasping his shirt until his knuckles turned white. 

Just as in the alcove, there was no hint to where Sirius ended and where Remus began. The red of Sirius’ lipstick smeared across Remus’ lips as they kissed but the paint of Remus’ lightning bolt rubbed off on Sirius’ cheeks just as much. 

Remus’ hadn’t even realized he wasn’t breathing until one of them finally parted. Sirius was first to open his eyes, admiring the way Remus’ eyes remain closed for just a second longer. But when they opened, something new was found in Sirius. 

“I…I need to go.”

And somehow, no matter a party around him or not…Remus was left alone. 

*note to self: subject’s actions can still be taken as advice, rather to not mimic his decisions if you don’t wish to out yourself to your best friend*

part ii...coming soon main masterlist

taglist: @whothehellismack @valleylaflor @sleepiscrazy

A/N: OMG I FINALLY WROTE SMTHN!!! I'm hoping that now I'll be able to post stuff (namely my superman x reader) more consitently now) feel free to comment, reblog, and like!!