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Steve did ballet seriously until he was fourteen , the kind with recitals and teachers who pushed his shoulders down until every muscle shook. He doesn’t talk about it now. It sits in his body instead, in the turnout of his feet when he’s barefoot, in the way his spine still remembers how to bend.
Eddie finds out on a Tuesday.
One minute Steve’s bitching about hauling amps, the next he’s on the rug in the middle of the living room, dropping into a backbend that looks exactly like something out of a black-and-white training photo. His ribs stand out, his hair brushes the air, one hand wrapped around the heel of his opposite foot like it’s nothing.
Eddie is quite literally in shock at this.
“What on earth are you doing, Harrington?” Eddie manages, voice strangled.
“My back hurts,” Steve says, like that explains anything. “I’m stretching.”
“I’ve never seen someone bend that way, man,” Eddie says, because holy shit. “That’s not stretching, that’s… something else”
Steve blinks up at him from upside down. “Huh? We used to do this in class all the time.”
“Class?” Eddie echoes.
“Yeah, ballet?” Steve says it so casually Eddie almost misses it. “Danced for like eight years. Stopped before high school.”
There’s a ringing in Eddie’s ears. “You did what?” he says, strangled, because Steve Harrington, secret ballerina apparently, is already more than his crush-riddled brain can handle, and now all he can think is: if he can bend like that, what else can he do?
He drags his gaze away before he gives himself away completely, shoves his hands in his pockets and tries, desperately, to sound normal. “Cool, yeah.”
Steve’s sitting up now, looking at him with this curious little squint. Eddie squirms. “What?”
Steve huffs, rolls his eyes, and pushes to his feet. “Don’t be weird about it, Munson.”
“No, yeah, I’m not, I’m just— y’know.” He shrugs, hears himself babbling. “Ballerina Steve. Whatever.” He can feel the heat in his cheeks and turns away so Steve can’t see his face hiding under his hair.
From behind him, Steve lets out this half-laugh. “Wanna see something else cool?”
Eddie’s mind trips over itself. What else could he *possibly* have up his sleeve? “Uh. Okay. Yeah. Sure.”
He turns back around—
and Steve’s already moving, spotting some invisible point on the wall and snapping into a clean fourth position before Eddie can even process it. Then he’s turning, fast, tight pirouettes one after another, the kind of spin that should belong on a stage, not in the middle of a dingy living room. His shoulders stay level, his chin locked, feet whispering against the rug in quick, sure steps until he snaps to a stop like someone hit pause.
He’s a little breathless, hair mussed, wearing this self-satisfied smirk that hits Eddie like a truck. “Still just ‘whatever,’ or did I earn an upgrade?”
Eddie’s jaw works uselessly. Words have apparently left the building. All he manages, wide-eyed and bright red, is a breathy, “…cool.”
Steve laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week, shakes his head, and claps Eddie on the shoulder as he walks past. “Knew you’d be into that,” he says, halfway under his breath.
Eddie stays rooted to the spot, ears ringing, and realizes two things at once: one, Steve Harrington used to be a ballerina and from what he’s just seen today, he was *good* at it. Two, Steve Harrington is absolutely weaponizing that information against him.
“This means… of Rocky, possessive. Of the speaker.”
“My.”
“Correct. But only for names.”
“So you’re calling me…?”
Rocky repeats the word: “My Grace. Yes.”
“Are there other Graces? Why do you need to specify?”
Rocky considers this, tapping his xenonite-encased claws idly against the floor.
“No other Grace,” Rocky says. “We just do this.”
“Like an honorific,” Grace guesses. “It goes before everyone’s name? Everyone you know?”
Rocky whirs in surprise. “No, no, no. Not at all.”
“Okay, then who? What makes me qualify?”
Rocky is silent for a moment.
“...Does this offend Grace?” he asks, voice lower.
Grace blinks. “No! I don’t think so. Is there a reason to be offended?”
“Good,” Rocky says, relieved. Grace is starting to recognize what Eridian relief sounds like. “No, no reason.”
“Who else do you call that?”
“You don’t have this on Earth?”
Grace considers. What for, friends? He couldn’t call Marissa “my Marissa.” That would be weird.
“I still don’t know what it means,” he settles on. “So I couldn’t tell you.”
Rocky groans in frustration. He’s a very impatient tutor. “We just say it.”
“Are you my Rocky?” Grace asks. He hits the two keys to make the my note.
“I don’t know!” Rocky says. “You decide this.”
“I decide? Who do you use it for?”
“You. Adrian. I will use it for my pebbles.”
Grace blinks. “So few?”
Rocky shifts. “I am… you do not have the word yet. Eridian who works alone often, not close to many other Eridians.”
“What, mechanical engineer?”
Rocky chitters with amusement. “Acceptable.”
“Is Adrian your only friend?”
Rocky draws back, like he’s taken offense. “I have friends. Coworkers. But different.”
So just Adrian. And him.
“This worries you,” Rocky says.
“Adrian is your mate,” Grace points out. “I’m not your mate.”
“Correct. You are not. You do not like to be a mate.”
Grace isn’t sure how to respond to that, so he ignores it.
“I’m your friend,” Grace says.
Rocky hesitates, for a second. “...Correct.”
“Like your coworkers.”
“No.”
Grace sighs, rubbing his hand across his face. Okay, maybe that’s fair. It’s not like he felt about any of his coworkers like he feels about Rocky.
“Best friend,” Grace amends. “You’re my best friend, too.”
Rocky hums. “Acceptable.”
“Just acceptable? Now you are offending me. Can you just explain?”
This makes Rocky fall silent for a minute longer than usual. Grace is half-ready to apologize and to say let’s move on and to retype his own name without the superfluous my.
“The Earth ‘best friend’ is not strong enough,” Rocky says finally. “It does not translate this way.”
Grace runs his fingers through his hair, a little nervous, for some reason. “Okay.”
“It is…” Rocky pauses. He has to pause more often, now that they’re not using the translator, to simplify his language. “It means that I am not Rocky without my Grace. You are part of… of the whole. When I wake up, I think of you. When I work. When I eat. When I think I am going to die.”
Rocky speaks slowly, but it’s still a lot of Eridian for Grace to grasp all at once. Even as he works out the sentences in his head, he can feel hot tears rising in his eyes.
“It means that when you are sick, I am sick,” Rocky continues. “And it means I will take care of you, because taking care of you is taking care of myself.”
Grace bunches up his sleeve, wiping it across his face, blinking furiously.
Rocky’s voice is soft. “So Grace is part of Rocky. Grace is like a cell. You see? My Grace.”
Grace is quiet, for a moment, trying to get himself together. When he speaks, his voice is shaky.
“...Oh.”
Rocky hums, pressing his carapace gently against Grace’s arm. “You are leaking. Does this make you sad?”
Grace shakes his head, sniffing, crossing his arms across his knees and resting his chin on his sleeves. “Not at all.”
“Good, good.”
“I feel like that,” Grace mumbles. “Just like that. Just exactly—exactly like that.”
“About your old mate?”
“Don’t act stupid. You know I’m talking about you.”
Rocky hums, burrowing closer. Grace curls one arm around his carapace. That’s not enough, so he leans over, dropping his head down so his forehead presses against the xenonite.
“My Rocky,” Grace whispers in English.
“My Grace,” Rocky echoes in Eridian. Grace can recognize the note at the start. He will add it when he plays Rocky’s name.
“How long have you called me that?” Grace asks. “Must’ve been a while. I didn’t notice it change.”
Steve thinks friends are like the embers that float up from a firepit. Tiny bright specks against the dark, beautiful and a little scary. They drift for a while, and then they start falling, straight toward him, and that’s when his stomach knots up.
He’s been burned before. That’s what it feels like, anyway. People get close, closer, closest, all that light right in front of his face—and then they’re gone. The light fizzles out. And he’s in the dark again. So when an ember starts dropping into his orbit now, his whole body tenses on instinct. He doesn’t even know if he’s afraid of getting burned or afraid of watching it go out when it finally reaches him.
Eddie lands softer than anyone he’s ever met. One day he’s just this bright thing across a cafeteria, across a trailer park, across a field full of kids. Then he’s on Steve’s couch. In his kitchen. In his passenger seat. On the floor of his bedroom, laughing at his own joke. Right up against Steve’s skin.
It should burn. This ember on his skin. Steve waits for it to. His brain keeps insisting, any second now, this is going to hurt. He keeps his shoulders up around his ears, keeps a little distance tucked inside his chest, like that’ll make it easier when Eddie fizzles.
But it doesn’t hurt. He looks at the ember, bright against his skin, and it doesn’t hurt and it doesn’t dim.
It just…glows. It’s warm where Eddie presses up against his life, not scalding. It’s the kind of heat you lean into without meaning to. A hand on his shoulder. A knee against his on the couch. A voice at his side going, ‘Hey, you awake?’
Sometimes, when it’s late and they’re the only ones left by the dying fire in the Harrington backyard, Steve looks down and realizes he’s stopped bracing. Eddie’s light is right there on his skin and he isn’t flinching; he’s just admiring and holding his breath like he’s afraid to accidentally blow it out.
The thing is, embers always go out. Steve knows that. He can feel that fear like a ghost burn under the surface, even while he’s sitting there, bathed in Eddie’s warmth. He doesn’t know how to believe in an ember that might stay.
Eddie doesn’t know any of that. He just knows that every time Steve looks up, Eddie will still be there—falling closer, landing softer, refusing to drift away.
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Imagine steve dreaming eddie got out of ud and the paramedics arrived but they were refusing to treat him and steve feeling it all in slow motion anf couldn't move closer to eddie.
Eddie wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed and he hears Steve crying in the shower (he didnt want to wake eddie after a nightmare) but eddie just strips down and immediately gets in there with him.
Steve trembling from fear and crying and eddie gets into the tub so quickly and hugs him to tight.
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Re: little spoon Steve. Eddie refusing to big spoon early on in their relationship when he still thinks Steve’s just having his gay experiment moment bc it would be too easy for Steve to feel him get hard and Steve being so disappointed.
@tinytalkingtina amazing tag preservation. Eddie figuring they’re hooking up bc Steve’s been striking out with girls and he’s better than nothing. Steve always wanting to play with his nipples supports that theory. But then Steve’s ALSO constantly grabbing at his dick even when he purposely keeps it away from him so what is the truth
when some random guy has a blorbo opinion i disagree with: blocked you will die and no one will remember your name
when my beloved mutual has a blorbo opinion i disagree with: i have never considered this, but perhaps i could be won over... your passion compells me my beloved...
Steve's hands are relaxed on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road. Eddie smokes a cigarette down to the filter, flicks the butt out the window, lights another.
They don't speak.
The only sound is Eddie's smoking, the Springsteen tape in the deck.
It's night, but Eddie's wearing sunglasses, wore them even as he stepped off the plane. Ray-Bans with black lenses that make seeing his eyes impossible. Steve wonders, not for the first time, if he's high, but he shakes the thought away, knows it's unfair.
He glances away from the road, studies Eddie's profile. He's wearing a black t-shirt, leather jacket. His hair's pulled up, so that the scars on his neck are just visible. The same ones Steve shares.
"What?" Eddie asks.
"Nothing." Before Steve's eyes can land back on the road--before he can remember Eddie's wearing sleeves and the streetlights are struggling in their battle agains the night--they drop to the insides of his arms and the track marks he knows will be there.
Hot shame rushes up from his stomach, and he averts his gaze, but he knows it's too late.
Eddie smiles, too big. "You can say it, if you want."
"Say what?"
"Don't play dumb, Harrington. It's beneath you."
"I seriously don't know what you mean."
"Sure, fine," Eddie scoffs. "Bet it's killing you not to know if I shot up in the bathroom back there."
And he doesn't know what to say because he had wondered. He's going about this all wrong, has from the very beginning when Dustin begged him to pick Eddie up at the airport, to bring him home after rehab. He's not the kind of caring, nonjudgemental guy who should be doing this. He's mean and sharp and cruel even on his best days and this is not one of his best days.
They fall back into silence, uncomfortable now.
They weren't ever friends, before. With everyone else, the Upside Down brought them together, no matter their differences, their grievances. He and Jonathan and Nancy are proof positive of that, but he and Eddie never clicked.
He liked Munson fine. Would ride around with him and Argyle and Jonathan and get high and listen to terrible music. But it never became anything more than that. Honestly, he didn't think about Munson too much, post-Vecna, and then he ran off to LA with Corroded Coffin to make it big, and--
In middle school, he heard all about Munson the Freak. First, it was the warning: Munson was unhinged, he threatened Tommy Hagen's older brother with a switchblade. Then, it was all about how he had the best drugs in town.
Once he got to high school, Munson lived up to the rumors. Poorly grown out, straggly hair, dressed in all black, worn leather jacket hanging off his slim frame, ridiculous jewelry. He strutted across cafeteria tables and taunted the popular kids, the rich ones. He sped into the parking lot in his shitty van, shittier music blaring, always looking like he wasn't afraid of anything, like he'd murder you with a smile on his face and go right back to yelling about the conformist trap of sportsball.
Back then, Steve laughed at all the jokes about him, joined in most of the time, too, and never thought too hard about what Eddie Munson's life must be like. That he was loud and weird and mean--larger-than-life--for a reason.
He thinks about it now, though.
He thinks how bad it must have been for Eddie already, with his mom dead and his father in prison. Wayne was a safe place, offered a comfortable home, but he had to take on extra shifts to provide for the scared, lonely, hurting child in his care, and...it had to be hard in a way Steve doesn't have the language to express.
After all that, Eddie almost died. His guts had to be stitched back inside his body, and he spent three months in the hospital. Wayne missed so much work he was fired and on the brink of bankruptcy, until Hopper put up such a stink that the government quietly wrote a check. And even when he was released, he wasn't safe. It took the combined efforts of the state and local police and the US government to clear his name, chase off the mobs that wanted him dead.
He knows Eddie well enough now to recognize that behind the devil-may-care bad boy he presents to the world, to Hawkins, to their friends, he's soft and gentle. And everything he went through, even before the Upside Down and Vecna and near death, must have caused him such pain.
Probably why the LA metal scene and all it entailed were so alluring.
"Fuck off," Eddie says, like he can hear every single one of Steve's thoughts.
"Sorry." He flinches, hard, giving himself away, making Eddie scoff.
"Harrington--just." Eddie sighs, turns to the window and the dark landscape beyond the car. "Forget it."
They spend the rest of the ride in silence, Steve not even bothering to flip the tape when the side ends.
He wishes he could apologize for so much than tonight. For being an asshole in high school, for being one after that too; for all his unkindnesses that Eddie didn't deserve. For misunderstanding the shape of Eddie's life and how hard it must have been.
After another hour, they pull up at the small house the government bought for the Munsons after their trailer was destroyed.
"Need help with anything?"
Eddie climbs out of the car without responding, has the trunk open and his suitcase and guitar unpacked before Steve can even move.
The trunk slams shut, and Eddie's head pokes through the open passenger-side window. The sunglasses are off, his eyes clear, and Steve feels guilty all over again.
"I don't need your fucking pity, Harrington," he says before disappearing through the front door.
It takes Steve a long time to fall asleep that night.
Headcanon: Robin thought Steve hadn't changed before Starcourt burned down because his rich friends kept showing up, and he kept bringing them out back during his break. But really, his daddy cut him off, and he had to pay the rent his father started charging him somehow. It's why he made his lips look extra pretty. It's a shame they didn't show Robin's reaction to Steve telling her the truth. They weren't his friends. They were his customers. 🤭
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Steve’s parents force him to move out of the house when they hear that he’s dating Eddie, despite not even being back in Hawkins for a year now. Eddie picks Steve up to take him to his new home at the trailer, but not before closing all the windows and farting in every room.
The happiest birthday @penny00dreadful 🖤🖤🖤
I'll leave out the belated since tumblr rudely ate and posted this post without my consent yesterday xD
This pic goes along with @sidekick-hero amazing fanfic "Damocles".
My dearest Sam, i really think we only share one brain cell 🤣 I can't believe we both came up with the same silly picture idea to give to each other (only role reversed but shhhh)...
Imagine my surprise when i saw the second part of your comic 😂 This is so funny xD But i hope, even tho it's not really a surprise anymore, you still like my pic for *you* 🖤 Happy belated bday!! Love you 😚
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