I've got brainrot about 2 idiots from the 80s

“Stevie,” he says over the sound of Mrs. Harrington’s stifled cry of surprise. “This ring belonged to my mother. She gifted it to me on her deathbed, asking me to give it to the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. She was an excellent judge of character, and she always wanted nothing but happiness for me, so I am sure she's looking down at us now and smiling. Because, see, I've never been happier than in the short time I've been with you. Will you make me the happiest man on earth and turn this short time into a happily ever after? Will you marry me, Steven Otis Harrington?”

Steve initially refused to tell him his full name, but Eddie said they needed it for dramatic effect. Now, letting the pause linger as Steve's eyes fill with actual, real tears, he's glad he insisted, because that line fucking slapped.

He's also more than a little proud of himself for delivering it with a straight face, because what kind of name is Otis?

“Oh my God,” Steve chokes. The tears have spilled over and are running down his cheeks now, leaving long, wet trails that glisten in the lights of the Christmas tree. “Yes! Yes, Thomas Archibald Hagan, I will marry you!”

The plan was for Eddie to climb to his feet and slip the ring onto Steve's finger, then for them to hug tearfully. Steve, however, evidently just decided that the plan could do with some improvisation, because what he does instead is launch himself at Eddie in a full-body tackle that sends them both tumbling to the floor.

“Ow shit, carefu-” Eddie says, but that's as far as he gets before Steve takes his face between both of his hands and kisses him, hungry and open-mouthed. It's only their second kiss - somehow they've kept up the mushy, loving boyfriends act purely on hand-holding and cuddles and pet names - and it hits Eddie as hard as the first. Steve's acting skills, it turns out, are only surpassed by his kissing skills. It makes Eddie’s head go light and his fingers tingle, makes his stomach swoop with the violent flurry of a million butterfly wings.

It makes him wonder what Steve kisses like when he truly means it.

By the time his head stops spinning and his vision unblurs and he finally manages to put the ring on Steve’s finger, Mrs. Harrington is next to them on the sofa, sobbing into her silk handkerchief, and her husband is standing behind Steve, clapping his shoulder.

“Well done, son. Quite the catch you made there. And just in time, too. I was starting to think you'd-”

“Thank you, Dad,” Steve says, maybe a little too loudly. “We're very happy, too.”

“Well, you'll need to start planning sooner rather than later,” Mrs. Harrington says. She has stopped sobbing and is bouncing excitedly in her seat. “All the good venues are probably booked already, but if I pull a few strings, I might get you in at the Four Seasons, or maybe-”

“Mom!” Steve's smile is distinctly more strained now. “He literally proposed two minutes ago. Maybe leave us a little time to celebrate?”

She waves him off. “Of course, sweetheart. All I'm saying is that April is coming sooner than you think.”

“Hold on,” says Eddie. “April? What about April?”

The Harringtons trade a look. Steve looks like he's ready to commit violence.

Mr. Harrington clears his throat. “I think this occasion calls for the good whiskey. Maybe some cigars, too. I'll see what I still have in the study.”

His wife watches him go, fiddling with her pearl necklace. “I … I'll see if I can reach the Four Seasons.”

The kitchen door hasn't quite shut behind her when Eddie rounds on Steve.

“Honey?” he singsongs. His smile twitches at the corners. “What about April?”

Steve screws his eyes shut. His lips move silently. He looks like a man praying for strength.

“Not in here,” he then says, and grabs Eddie's hand. “C'mon.”

Eddie doesn't even remember to put on his coat or scarf as he gets dragged through the porch doors. Which turns out to be gross negligence, because Steve hasn't even entirely turned around by the time his teeth start chattering.

“Okay,” Steve says, and wraps his arms around himself to ward off the cold. He looks adorable with his cable-knit sweater and reddening cheeks, not like the human icicle that Eddie is rapidly turning into. “Remember when I said that my parents wouldn’t take it well if they found out that Tommy and I broke up?”

“Uh, yeah?” Eddie asks. “It's sort of what got us into this whole mess? Why-”

“And how I told you they were very much about tradition?”

Eddie nods, trying to rub some warmth into his goosebump-covered arms. By now, he's wishing that Steve would just hurry and drop whatever bomb he has in store.

“Well, the whole story is that we kind of have this family tradition? Started by my great-grandfather, I think? May have been my great-great-grandfather. He came from a very wealthy family, back in Europe, and then he came here and started this business, and-”

“Yeah, no offense?” Eddie says. “But can we skip your family history and get to the point? It's kind of a little chilly out here.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, you're right. The point is that there's this trust fund.”

“Trust fund,” Eddie repeats dumbly. Of course there'd be a trust fund. “How much?”

Steve tells him. Eddie almost goes down on his ass on the snow-covered porch.

“I need that money,” Steve insists, with the same weird urgency he always gets when the topic of his inheritance comes up. Eddie finds it hard to imagine what anyone would objectively need that amount of money for, but he can't say he doesn't get the appeal. Fuck, the things he could do with even half of that. “The problem is that I won't get it if I'm not married by my twenty-first birthday.”

“What, seriously?” Eddie asks, a little hysterically. “What is this, the eighteenth century or- ooooh, shit, hold on a sec.”

Because it just clicked, and going by the wary look on Steve’s face, it clicked correctly.

“Steve,” Eddie says. “When is your twenty-first birthday?”