Mysterious Midnight

On the fifth night, he shows up at Steve’s door again, a bit more confidently this time, though he still doesn’t step inside. He lingers in the doorway with his arms crossed, waiting for Steve to invite him in. “What are you waiting for, Munson?” Steve asks, grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it open. Eddie trots over to the bed again and slips inside. “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug.” The blanket has barely settled over his shoulders before Steve is right behind him, his arm wrapped around his waist.

On the sixth night, Eddie doesn’t wait in the doorway; he walks into Steve’s room as if he owns the place and slips into bed. “I see you’re getting comfortable,” Steve says with a smile, and once again Eddie replies, “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug,” and just as quickly as the other times, Steve’s arm finds its way around his waist.

On the seventh night, Eddie enters Steve’s room again and slips into bed; this time, Steve says nothing, he simply smiles, but Eddie won’t accept that. “Steve?” “Yeah?” “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug.” Steve just chuckles softly before burying his face in the crook of Eddie’s neck, his hand wrapping around Eddie’s waist.

On the eighth night, Eddie is already in Steve’s bed before Steve arrives. When Steve walks in, he pauses for a moment upon seeing him before smiling and heading toward the bed “You’re already here, Munson?” And of course, as always, Eddie replies, “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug,” which Steve is quick to do.

By the ninth night, they realize they can no longer sleep without each other. Eddie needs Steve; he needs his hugs, needs to feel Harrington’s arms around his waist, to feel him close, to feel his breath against the back of his neck, he needs to feel safe. And Steve needs Eddie, too; he needs to feel Eddie’s body against his own, needs to touch him, to rest his hand on Eddie’s stomach and feel it rise and fall with his breathing, to hold him close, to feel that he can offer comfort, that his presence can be soothing. They don’t talk about it; they barely even dare to admit it to themselves. Eddie says, “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug,” and Steve does exactly that; for now, it’s enough; they don’t need to talk about it.

On the tenth night, Eddie is supposed to go back to sleeping at his Uncle Wayne’s, alone, in that cold, empty trailer, but there he is again in Steve’s bed “Weren’t you supposed to go home?” Steve asks, more out of politeness than anything else, because seeing Eddie still there fills him with joy (he didn’t know how to ask Eddie to stay; he didn’t know how to make him understand that he needed him without bringing up what was going on between them; it was still too early, too fragile). “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug,” Eddie replies, but it doesn’t sound the way it usually does; it’s softer, deeper, more intimate. Steve wraps himself around Eddie, holding him tight, and that too is different from usual, it’s more tender, more affectionate, more intimate.

They still don’t talk about it, but they keep doing it every night. Steve says something, anything, and Eddie replies, “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug,” and instantly Steve is pressed against him. They convince themselves that it’s a habit, that it’s part of their routine, but deep down, it’s more powerful than that.

They don’t talk to anyone about it because no one needs to know; it’s their own business. Steve pretends not to notice Robin’s intent gaze, the look that says she knows something but wants him to confirm it. He doesn’t even know what’s happening here; he needs time to understand before telling her anything. He isn’t ready to face the truth.

And then Eddie started saying that phrase outside the bedroom. The first time, it just slipped out; Steve was complaining about onions stinging his eyes, and without thinking, Eddie jokingly said, “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug” and he saw Steve’s reaction. He saw him hold his breath, saw his body relax as he exhaled, and saw him slowly turn his head; he saw his eyes, intense and almost hungry, and saw Steve abandon everything on the counter to come and embrace him. Eddie complained that the hug was terrible because Steve was keeping his hands away on account of the onions, so, without ever letting go, Steve steered them toward the sink, washed and dried his hands, and then held Eddie the way he deserved to be held, causing Eddie to melt into the embrace with a contented sigh.

Eddie loves hugs, he always has, but he especially loves hugs from Steve; he loves feeling Steve’s strong, muscular arms wrap around him and squeeze his waist, and he loves being snuggled up against Steve. He loves burying his face against Steve’s chest, and he loves falling asleep with Steve behind him.

And if Eddie keeps telling him to shut up and give him a hug, it isn’t because he actually wants Steve to be quiet (because, honestly, he loves hearing him talk); he says it because he needs a hug, he needs to feel safe and soothed, he needs to feel like he matters to someone, but the words always get stuck in his throat, and he’s unable to tell Harrington that he needs him. It’s easier to just say, “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug.” Especially since, every time he says it, Steve drops whatever he’s doing to come and hold him. So, what’s the point of ruining things with words or feelings when they both get exactly what they need from that simple phrase.

They keep going like that. Eddie heads home around 11 a.m. and makes breakfast while waiting for his Uncle Wayne to wake up; then they spend the afternoon together until Eddie goes back to Steve’s place to help him get dinner ready (well, Steve actually cooks the meal, while Eddie just watches, occasionally chopping a few vegetables, handing over the pepper, and asking for a hug). Then the others arrive to eat before heading home with full bellies, since they don’t do sleepovers anymore. Eddie, however, doesn’t leave; he stays behind to help Steve clear the table and do the dishes (sometimes asking for another hug) before they both climb into Steve’s bed to cuddle. The next day, they have breakfast together before Eddie returns to his uncle’s place (And maybe he’s asking for another hug. He can’t help it; he loves it, and Steve’s hugs are the best.)

Then, some time later, Steve and Robin are allowed to return to the radio station. They host an afternoon show there that runs until 5 p.m. Eddie leaves it playing in the background when he’s with his uncle (and if he pricks up his ears when Steve speaks (and especially when he laughs) no one needs to know... And of course Wayne has noticed, but he doesn’t say anything).

Their routine remains unchanged, except that they now have their meals just the two of them; with his return to radio, Steve no longer has time to prepare such elaborate meals (sometimes Dustin and/or Robin join them, but preparing an extra portion is less of a hassle than cooking a meal for several people.) Apart from that, everything remains the same, until the day Steve tells him that he and Robin are hosting a special broadcast that won’t wrap up until around 10 p.m. Eddie jokes that he can manage sleeping alone for one night, and Steve lets out a forced laugh, trying to mask it with a cough. Neither of them wants this situation; they haven’t slept alone for weeks! But they are both too afraid to say anything. That evening, Eddie asks for more cuddles, and their embrace lasts longer. When they go to bed, Eddie barely has time to say, “Shut up, Harrington, and…” before Steve is already pressed against him.

The next day, Eddie takes a bit longer before heading home, once again letting the hug last a little while. He knows it seems a bit ridiculous, that Steve isn’t leaving for months, that it’s just one night apart, but a night away from Steve feels almost unbearable after all the nights they’ve spent together. Eddie can no longer really deny the feelings he’s developed for Steve.

Wayne doesn’t ask questions; he doesn’t ask Eddie why he’s still there when he’s usually in such a rush to leave. He heard the radio, he heard that Harrington kid announce the special broadcast, and, most of all, he heard Eddie’s dramatic sighs when he said he’d be staying the night. Wayne knows his nephew; he’s figured out what’s going on, he likely realized it long before Eddie did himself, and he knows there’s a good chance that when he comes home tomorrow morning, Eddie won’t be in his bed.

When Wayne leaves for work, a sad and distressed Eddie bids him farewell as if he were a grieving widower (that kid is so dramatic!).

No sooner has Wayne left than Eddie collapses onto his bed, clutching the soft pillow he stole from Steve’s house (the Harringtons have heaps of pillows; they won’t notice one is missing. Besides, he took it from the room that had been assigned to him, so it’s practically his anyway). He turns on his small portable radio and listens to his friends’ show, thinking that, since he can’t have Steve right there beside him, he might at least be able to fall asleep listening to his voice and cuddling the cushion that smells like his laundry detergent.

Eddie isn’t sleeping, neither during the show nor after. Steve’s voice had soothed him, but now he feels a void. It’s too quiet. The pillow was a decent substitute, but it isn’t Steve; it isn’t warm or muscular, it’s limp and useless. Eddie closes his eyes and tries to sleep, he really tries, but sleep eludes him. It’s late, 11:50 p.m. ; it’s not the time to be driving, not the time to be showing up at people’s houses… But it is the time to go to Steve Harrington’s place. It’s the time to get a hug, the time to ensure a good night’s sleep. Without another thought, Eddie gets up, scribbles a note for Wayne, grabs his car keys, and leaves the trailer park, heading for Steve’s house. He knows the way by heart.

He rings the bell. Maybe he shouldn’t, since it’s past midnight, but he does it anyway. He can’t think straight anymore anyway; he needs Steve, he needs his arms…

Steve opens the door, surprised. “Eddie?” “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug,” Eddie replies, relieved.

Steve hesitates for a moment, looking at him as if he can’t believe it’s real, then smiles, grabbing Eddie by the front of his T-shirt and pulling him inside. He closes the door, pins Eddie against it, and wraps his arms around him. He holds him close, as if they hadn’t seen each other in years.

“I thought you could go a night without me?” Steve teases, as if he weren’t just as happy about the situation. “I lied,” Eddie replies, tightening their embrace.

They stay like that for a few moments until Steve suggests they go upstairs. It will be more pleasant if they cuddle in his bed rather than in front of his door.

Lying in bed, with Steve’s arm around his waist and his firm, warm chest against his back, Eddie falls asleep in moments.

After that, things slowly start to change between them. Steve finally manages to put into words what he is feeling. He still isn’t ready to admit it to Eddie, but he talks to Robin about it (she puts on a look of mock surprise “You have feelings for Eddie? I never would have guessed!”).

Eddie starts using his phrase for everything and anything, because he knows the effect it has on Steve and loves seeing him drop whatever he’s doing to rush over and wrap him in a hug. He also uses it whenever he wants a hug, or feels like Steve needs one.

Steve complains about Jonathan because he’s a total moron “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug.”

Steve gets annoyed because he’s hungry and the pizza delivery guy is three minutes late “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug.”

Steve is annoyed because Dustin spent 25 minutes singing Eddie’s praises, while he just told Steve that he was cool. What do you mean, he’s just cool? “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug.”

Steve says the movie on TV sucks “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug.”

Steve is annoyed because he had to cut his shower short since there is no more hot water “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug.”

Steve had a bad day and someone was rude to him “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug.”

Some jerk bought the last pack of Peanut Butter Boppers “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug.”

Eddie really finds any excuse to ask for a hug, and Steve is starting to get a little too addicted to it. Sometimes he even makes up excuses complaining about completely trivial things, because he knows Eddie will ask to hug him, and he absolutely cannot resist; he has a desperate need for that physical contact.

Without quite knowing who started it, they become more tactile (beyond the cuddles) with each other. It begins with fingers brushing against one another, lingering a little too long; then a hand on an arm, the lower back, or a shoulder; fingers running through hair; a thumb on a cheek to brush away a crumb or an eyelash... fingers that caress and stay a moment longer than necessary. And then there are the glances, more intense, deeper. None of them says anything, but their bodies speak for them.

And besides, Eddie no longer settles for just asking for a hug; he doesn’t wait for Steve to drop everything and come to him anymore. Now, Eddie goes and gets the hug himself. It’s a change Steve is far from minding, even if it still leaves him dumbfounded.

The first time, he was sitting on a high stool when Eddie slipped between him and the table, pressing his back against Steve’s chest. Startled, Steve asked, “What are you doing?” Eddie simply replied, “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug,” something Steve was quick to do, wrapping both arms around Eddie’s waist and burying his face in his neck, completely forgetting the documents in front of him. Then it happened again, Steve had just closed the fridge door and asked Eddie what he wanted to eat, but he’d barely had time to turn around before the metalhead fell into his arms “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug.” Choosing a meal might have taken a little longer than planned that night, but Steve couldn’t very well deny him a hug.

Steve was completely at his mercy.

And it went on, over and over, until Steve, who had actually handled the situation well up to that point, started blushing every time Eddie sat on his lap (needless to say, he blushed a lot).

Eddie can’t believe he’s the one provoking these reactions in Steve; he can’t believe he’s the one making Steve blush like that. Exhilarated by his discovery, he begins to become clingier and more teasing. Steve can’t sit down anywhere without Eddie ending up in his lap. Eddie doesn’t really need to say “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug” anymore, since Steve’s arm immediately finds its way around his waist, but he keeps saying it anyway because he knows the effect it has on Steve; he can hear Steve’s breath hitch for a moment before he exhales slowly, as if trying to steady his breathing; he can feel Steve’s body pressing closer as he leans in, seeking more contact; and he can feel Steve’s arm tighten around his waist, sometimes bunching up the fabric of his T-shirt before letting go. Eddie is completely dependent on Steve’s reactions to him; he loves it.

And he keeps teasing him, intensifying Steve’s blushing and reactions each time. First, there are the intense, deep gazes that make Steve go weak at the knees (“Stop looking at me like that, Munson,” Steve whispers, his voice slightly shaky; “Like what?” Eddie replies innocently. He never gets an answer, because Steve looks away, but Eddie doesn’t need one, he can clearly see the flush on Steve’s cheeks). Then, Eddie starts lowering his voice slightly when he asks Steve to be quiet and give him a hug; sometimes, he even plays with his hair, twirling it around his index finger (Steve might collapse to the floor if he didn’t have such control over his body). And when Steve looks at him, Eddie bites his lower lip. At that moment, he doesn’t really have a reason to tell him, “Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug,” because Steve is completely silent, his eyes are shining and he is out of breath, but Eddie says it anyway, because it amuses him, because he loves watching Steve step toward him, completely mesmerized.

Until the day everything changes. It’s a perfectly normal Thursday evening; they’re in the kitchen, and Steve is busy preparing the meal while Eddie tells him about his brilliant idea for the next D&D campaign (even though Steve hasn’t got a damn clue what a lich or a kender or whatever the creature is called is).

Eddie is leaning against the kitchen island, twisting a strand of hair around his index finger, and when Steve turns toward him, he unconsciously bites his lower lip while continuing to gaze at him intensely, his large brown eyes filled with desire. He has no idea that he is about to collapse, continuing to talk about his idea, his voice slightly lower now that Steve is looking at him. He isn’t really in control of his tone; it’s as if his body is acting for him.

After a sudden intake of breath, Steve steps forward until they are face-to-face. Eddie doesn’t have time to react before Steve grabs his necklace, hooking his index finger around the chain and pulling him close “Shut up, Munson, and give me a kiss.” 

Eddie is completely disoriented. His breath catches, his eyes widen, his mouth falls open in surprise, and he feels his heart pounding against his ribcage, hard and powerful. His head is spinning; he feels as though he has stepped out of time.

He remembers that he needs to breathe and he lets his breath slowly escape from his mouth, finally registering Steve’s words. Still disoriented, he leans forward as if he has no control over his own body and plants a kiss on Harrington’s cheek before pulling back (though he doesn’t get far, as Steve is still holding him by the necklace).

Steve raises an eyebrow, his gaze locked with Eddie’s, his lips curling into a playful smile. “W-what?” Eddie stammers, blinking, still bewildered by what is happening. Steve gives his necklace a slight tug, pulling him a little closer, and then, with their faces inches apart, he murmurs, “Shut up, Munson, and give me a kiss.” And yeah, Eddie finally gets what he means, and... holy shit! His eyes go even wider than the first time, but this time he doesn’t disconnect from reality; this time, he leans in and, with his heart pounding wildly in his chest, kisses Steve.

Eddie might just faint, he really might, if Steve’s arm hadn’t just wrapped around his waist, steadying him and pulling him closer. Steve lets go of his necklace, sliding his hand behind his neck to deepen the kiss, and Eddie responds with fervor.

+++

It's probably a good thing they're alone, in the middle of the woods, on opposite sides of Eddie's favorite deal-making table, so no one's around to hear him yell, "What the fuck?" It echoes around the woods anyways, maybe louder than he meant to be, which is good, because it's definitely a 'what the fuck' moment. They've literally never spoken before. Actually, they've done less than spoken—they could live on opposite poles of the Earth, for all the interaction they've had. They don't share any classes. Hell, they don't even see each other in the halls. And now Steve Harrington is staring at him like he's actually waiting for an answer. Again: What the fuck?

A record scratches in his brain and yup, there’s Harrington’s voice again, smarmy little smile on his face, asking: “Will you go to prom with me?”

As in, Steve Harrington just asked, in this existence, in this reality, on this planet, for Eddie Munson to go to Hawkins High Senior Prom with him. For real.

For real?

No. No way.

Harrington’s joking, Eddie knows. Figures the day’d come he decides torturing Eddie is just as much fun as the rest of his shit-jock cronies made it out to be.

And then, suddenly, Eddie knows what it is. Has seen enough of those terrible movies on early-morning TV with Wayne. Has seen the same damn plot enough times to smell it coming from a mile away.

“You know what,” he says, leaning into Harrington’s space, too close, brimming with irritation and a disgusting desire to one-up the smug, cocky bastard, “You get me a bouquet of roses as black as your twisted, festering soul, and I’ll wear a pretty little dress for you, too.”

Harrington’s frown makes anger tighten Eddie’s jaw. “Do roses… grow in black?”

“I guess that’s for you to find out and for me to know, Harrington,” Eddie sneers. He gets up, snatches his lunchbox, and stalks back through the trees to school.

He throws a “fuck you” over his shoulder when Harrington calls out “Benny’s at six?” but doesn’t turn around because the last thing he needs is to eat shit tripping over a goddamn branch. As it is, he’s already waiting for any of Harrington’s little friends to appear out of the shadows and jump him. That’s how it goes, right?

Only, it doesn’t.

There’s no swirlies, no shoving into lockers, no missing clothes after gym, no brutal beatdown on late days after Hellfire. Eddie’s almost worried the meatheads have had too many concussions and forgot he was next on the hit list.

And then he realizes—oh. Oh no. They’re waiting for prom. Actual prom night to fucking flay him open on stage in front of the whole school or something equally psychotic. Drown him in the punch. Stomp him to death on the dance floor.

Clearly, they HAVE had too many concussions if they think Eddie would EVER show his face there. Fuck Harrington, and fuck his minions. Like Eddie’d make it that easy for them.

Except, in the days leading up to prom, weird things keep happening. And Eddie doesn’t know what to think about it.

There’s pudding at his spot at the head of the table. Once a week, because the cafeteria only has pudding once a week. Eddie loves cafeteria pudding.

Steve Harrington grins at him from across the goddamn cafeteria and Eddie’s gut curdles.

One of the Hellfire posters he puts up monthly (and is always shredded by first period’s end) is still up a week later. Sure, torn and taped back together, but it’s not slush in a toilet, either.

Steve Harrington tells him that he looks nice when he finds him smoking just outside the school, and Eddie’s skin itches like he needs to tear it off.

There’s a flower on the driver’s seat of his van the day he forgets to close the window all the way, a day-old daisy with the petals stained a dark blue, the yellow center dulled.

Steve Harrington says he’s got a nice voice and he’s really good at playing the guitar and Eddie wonders how the hell he knows that.

One day, Harrington drops down to sit on the curb next to him, in the parking lot of the shitty little convenience store that’s a five-minute walk from the trailer park. He passes over a pack of his fancy smokes and nabs one of Eddie’s cheap beers so they can drink and smoke together and neither of them say anything. Eddie wants to say it’s because he doesn’t want Harrington to realize exactly what he’s done and get his shit beer cans crushed over his head, but in truth, it’s because he can’t get a damn read on the guy.

Another, Harrington and Hargrove both come to school looking like they’ve been run over, then backed up over, and then run over again for good measure. Hargrove doesn’t haggle him for weed again, and Harrington still smiles at him from across the cafeteria like the pull of his cheek doesn’t make his broken nose and black eye smart.

Again: What the fuck?

He asks the guys. “What the hell is going on with Harrington?”

He doesn’t like how they look at him, mouths twisted and uncomfortable and unsure.

“Heard he and Hagan beat the shit out of each other a while ago. Haven’t talked since.”

Hagan. Not Hargrove. A while ago.

“Ditched Carol P. and Stacy C., too.”

…

What the fuck?

…

The day of prom comes. Vaguely, Eddie remembers: Benny’s at six. Yeah-fucking-right.

He doesn’t go. Doesn’t have a suit, anyway, and wouldn’t have gone even if he did. Obviously. He might be stupid, repeating senior year, but he’s not THAT stupid.

An hour later, the phone in the trailer rings. When he picks up, Gareth is on the other end of the line. Distantly, Eddie can hear the shitty pop that makes up the school’s prom mixtape.

“What’d Harrington’s face look like?” he asks. “Was he pissed?”

“He didn’t show,” Gareth admits. “I dunno, man, maybe he was being serious.”

Eddie’s laugh probably pisses off half the trailer park. He can’t hear Gareth’s through the phone. “Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t kill the messenger.”

“Messenger might get me killed,” Eddie bites back, and then he hangs up. He hopes the punch is spiked and Gareth gets so drunk he falls asleep in a bush.

He grabs his keys off his nightstand and the trailer door slams behind him when he leaves.

Outside Benny’s diner is dark, shadows over the parking lot, but Harrington’s beamer is still there, clear as day. Maroon and hideous. God-fucking-damnit.

Harrington is in the driver’s seat, arms crossed over his chest as his head lolls back against his seat, half-asleep and definitely getting there. He’s wearing a nice shirt and nice pants and his tie goes flying like a whip across his cheek when Eddie knocks his fist against the roof of the car.

“The hell’s your damage, Harrington?” He barks, before the guy can even get his bearings.

Harrington fumbles, flailing limbs punch a short blare out of his horn, and his tie ends up over his shoulder.

“Eddie, hi. Hi, Eddie.” There’s drool at the corner of his mouth. Eddie’s lips curl.

“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps again. Harrington’s window is half-down—he can definitely hear him.

“Um.” Harrington looks sheepish, now, doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “It was—Benny’s at seven. I was waiting for you. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Eddie’s jaw tightens.

“It was Benny’s at seven, right? I thought it was Benny’s at six, at first, but I can’t really keep dates straight up here, anymore,” he knocks against his head with a knuckle, “All the pointless melon-splits of American sports, or whatever.”

Vaguely, Eddie remembers a long-winded rant on the top of a cafeteria table about the same subject.

“It was at six,” he acknowledges. “I didn’t bother showing up.”

“Oh.” Harrington’s eyes drop, take in his pajama pants and his threadbare tee. “But you did. Now.”

“Yeah, well.” Eddie turns the words over. “Call it a lapse of judgment.”

Harrington nods. He’s not looking at Eddie anymore. It sours something in his gut that he doesn’t acknowledge.

Eddie looks past him. In the passenger seat, a bouquet.

Of black roses.

Harrington’s fingertips are stained a shade darker, black stuck underneath his nails.

What the actual fuck.

“What the hell was your plan here, Harrington?”

Harrington blinks up at him with those stupid big eyes that Eddie definitely, absolutely hates.

“Dinner, and then, you know, prom? Isn’t that how is usually goes?” He asks, like Eddie would have any fucking clue.

Eddie grinds his teeth. “You realize you’ve wasted your only senior prom on this dumb joke, right? And I didn’t even fall for it? Way to have your priorities in order, King Steve.”

Harrington’s face scrunches. Eddie bites his tongue.

“I’ve had the misfortune of having two, and I didn’t subject myself to either. So you can cut the shit—”

“Wait, hold on,” Harrington cuts him off. “It wasn’t—what joke, Eddie?”

Oh. Oh no. If Gareth’s right, he’s gonna have to throw himself from the quarry cliffs.

“You know,” he spits, like it doesn’t affect him, that every last goddamn person in fucking Hawkins sees him as a freak, like a bug to torture and then squash, “Lure me to prom. Dump a bucket of pig’s blood over my head or however that movie goes.”

Harrington—Harrington looks horrified.

Well. The quarry’s always empty at seven in the evening.

“Even I’m not that dumb, man.” He ignores how the words come out, slower, an edge of uncertainty.

“That’s fucked up,” Harrington whispers, “There’s a movie like that? I wouldn’t—that’s not what I—”

“Yeah, I think I’m starting to get that.”

Harrington’s jaw shuts with a click, and they’re both quiet for a minute. And then, like a curse he doesn’t want to say aloud lest he bring it to life, Eddie asks, “That was you, wasn’t it? With the pudding and the posters and the flowers.”

“I broke Tommy’s nose when I caught him trying to let the air outta your tires, too,” he says, hollowly, like it doesn’t matter anymore.

Fuck.

There’s no one in the parking lot, and Eddie tells himself its the only reason he rounds the car and drops into the passenger side seat. The flowers are saved by Harrington’s quick reflexes, and Eddie kind of wants to curse him out for having his doors unlocked.

“Okay.” He hypes himself up like he’s seen Harrington do in PE, a quick breath in and out. “I didn’t know you were being serious. I thought it was just a dumb joke.”

“Yeah, I got that part.”

He twists his fingers together. “Those were for me, right?”

Harrington hums. Hands them over. “Kinda makes it worse, but sure. Yeah, they were for you.”

“Worse?”

Harrington laughs, scrubs a hand over his face. “I thought it’d be funny. You said you’d wear a dress if I got you black flowers, but I—I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted to get you flowers you’d like.”

Fuck. Eddie does remember that, now.

The stems are still thorny and prick at his fingers when he hold them. He likes them better that way.

“You’ve been… practicing these,” he realizes. Remembers the little blue daisy.

“First ones came out a really gross kind of green,” Steve admits.

God fucking damn it.

“I don’t do prom,” Eddie says.

“Yeah, I figured that one out,” Steve replies. Dry. Still isn’t looking over at Eddie.

“No, I mean—I wouldn’t have gone even if I’d thought you were being honest from the get-go. I don’t DO prom. It’s the death of counter-culture and individuality.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“What I’m saying is,” he takes a deep breath, a little part of him still praying Steve won’t punch his damn lights out, “I’m not gonna go to prom. Ever. That’s an invitation to douchebags like Hargrove and Hagan to split my skull open on the gym floor. I don’t want my last breath to be weeks-old jock socks.”

He ducks, tries to catch Steve’s gaze. Doesn’t manage. He ends up pressed against the dashboard like a moron.

“But there’s this bar I go to,” he continues, “It doesn’t really check ID. I think they’d go out of business if they did. They let us play on Tuesdays.”

“I know.”

He knows? Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe Eddie needs to buy the flowers. About six dozen. Fuck him.

His leg jostles, knocks against Steve’s door. He finally looks up.

“That’s more my speed,” he admits, in a big rush. “It’s… probably better than prom as a first date, anyways.”

Steve’s eyebrows jump up into that famous hair, perfectly styled. Eddie’s is a mane of despair and hopelessness, wilder than a tornado.

“Really?” he asks, like Eddie didn’t just say he’d thought he was a piece of shit in seven different ways. “That’s—you’d—really?”

“I mean, not right now,” Eddie scoffs, and Steve’s face drops. He hurries to amend, “I’m not really dressed for the occasion. But maybe, like… tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Steve repeats, and Eddie flushes. “That’s soon.”

“Or never,” he snaps, because he’s a goddamn moron, “That works too.”

Steve’s grin splits his face and Eddie has to look back at the flowers in his lap. “Tomorrow’s good,” he agrees, too easy.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, kicks the door open, probably leaves a scuff, but Steve doesn’t say a word. “Better be.”

Steve’s still grinning as he gets out of the car, slams the door closed, rounds the side again. He’s not scared of a gaggle of dipshits ready to jump him because they’re not there. And he’s got a bouquet of black roses pressed to his chest.

“See you then, Eddie,” Steve chirps, as Eddie climbs back into his own van, and Eddie—Eddie has to hide his smile behind a curtain of hair as he throws the piece of shit into reverse and backs out of Benny’s diner.

…

He leaves the flowers on their tiny kitchen counter and the next morning, Wayne’s put them in a vase Eddie didn’t know they had, with water and that weird flower-food crap and everything.

~