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

I love this woman to pieces. Will forever be sad she didn't have more screentime... Now!

The collection is growing... Slowly, but surely.

He's athletic. He's been working out one way or another for every sport he's ever played. And, thanks to his dad's high expectations of him, that's a lot of sports.

Post-S2 concussion his coaches drop him one by one, calling him a liability at best or a glorified bench warmer at worst.

Sports were his stress relief. Basketball, swimming, baseball-- he needs the release. Can't function without it.

So he takes up running.

He runs until he's sick, light-headed, and barely able to stand. He runs from the monsters and the doctors and his parents and everything he can't shake off. Runs until he's shaking, tripping over himself on the pavement. He doesn't care about anything except for the burn in his lungs and the pain in his legs.

Doctors warned him to take it easy. Nancy tells him to stop. His parents call him lazy. The kids think he's just a jock, even though Dustin and Max have both walked in on him heaving into the kitchen sink.

The migraines get worse. He probably needs glasses, maybe hearing aids-- but he stopped going to his follow-up appointments when his parents started asking too many questions.

It all comes to a head when he goes for a run on a hot summer day, the sun baking him alive before he even gets started.

One foot in front of the other. There's black spots in his vision. He can keep going. His stomach cramps. Keep going. Just one more step. Push harder.

One more.

One more.

One more.

One more.

He wakes up in the back of an unfamiliar van.

He'd worry the G-men finally came for him, but there's matted shag carpeting scraping his neck. The smell of stale weed makes him sick all over again and thank God there's a plastic bag shoved under him so it doesn't get everywhere. He just wishes this dude would stop yelling, he's louder than Dustin.

"Fucking Christ, Harrington, thank god you're alive. If you'd died in the back of my van they would've burned me at the stake."

"Munson?"

"Yeah Golden Boy, it's me. Although," Munson pauses, assessing Steve with the same clinical eye he gets from Nancy, "you're not looking so golden right now. Almost as pale as me."

And that's it. After a few protests, Munson drops him at home. Steve keeps running himself into the ground.

Almost nothing changes. He gets a job at the mall. There's some torture and another monster. He meets Robin. Billy dies.

And he runs. And runs. And runs.

Except maybe Steve starts running past the trailer park. He knows Max is going to move in soon, and it's his job to scope it out. One time he nods when he sees Munson on the porch. The guy's decent enough to wave back.

Steve's not sure if it's coincidence or not, but eventually Munson starts handing Steve a water on his way by. Then a Gatorade. Then calling out to him to say hi, inviting him to sit and offering a granola bar.

Max starts turning up at about the same time. She starts running with him. She's not as fast, she can't go as far or as long as Steve can.

He slows down. He makes sure she doesn't overwork herself and shortens their routes. They always somehow end up at Munson's porch even though Max's trailer is right there.

The burn in his lungs has cooled down, the shooting pains in his legs become a warm ache instead. Stretching feels practically euphoric.

Munson sits down next him, handing him another glass of water. Their sides are brushing. Steve's insides flutter with nerves, the sensation so similar to how running used to make him feel, all the way back before his concussion. He realizes suddenly that it's been a while since running made him sick.

The tip of Eddie's pinky brushes his own. Max smiles to herself as she pretends not to notice. It's better than any runner's high Steve could ever chase down.

"How're you feeling, Stevie?"

Honestly... "Pretty great, actually."

He slips into Steve's bed, settling in comfortably, and Steve, who was starting to drift off, suddenly sits up.

“What the hell are you doing, dude?” he asks, puzzled.

“I'm going to bed, because I'm tired,” Eddie replies.

“You're in my bed!”

“Yours, mine, what does it matter in the end?”

Steve keeps arguing, trying to make Eddie understand that it’s his bed and he’d like his spot back, but Eddie isn’t listening anymore; he slips an arm behind him, grabs Steve's forearm, and yanks him close.

“Shut up, Harrington, and give me a hug,” Eddie grumbles.

Steve wants to protest; he wants to tell him that he doesn't feel like cuddling him, that he just wants to be left alone in his bed, but he has barely opened his mouth when he closes it again, because Eddie is shifting, settling against him, and their bodies seem made for each other, or it’s just Steve, so deprived of sleep (and physical contact) that he’s trying to convince himself of it. Anyway, it’s been a long time since he’s slept with anyone, and Eddie feels warm against him, so... maybe he could just give him the damn hug.

Mike: Can you afford that, Ice Cream Boy?

Steve: *narrows eyes*

Mike: *narrows eyes back*

Steve: It wouldn't cost much.

Steve:

Mike:

Written for @steddiemicrofic!

[ AO3 ]

'THREE' wc: 333 | rated: T | cw: N/A | Tags: Pre-Relationship, Chest Hair, Nipples, Lust, Inspection, but not in the BDSM or medical way, Eddie's not a doctor anyway he doesn't know if he's right

Steve needs Eddie's opinion to settle an argument.

“Oh my God Steve,” Robin sighs. A years long exasperation permeates the air. “It’s not, you’re normal.”

Steve crosses his arms over his bare, hairy chest—Eddie forgets to listen as his tits get squished. He’s been with enough men to have preferences—unfortunately Steve tends to embody them all.

“It is! And it’s weird enough,” he argues, letting his arms drop. He’s too busy to notice that Eddie’s two seconds away from howling like a dog. “You’ve never even looked.”

“Yeah well—” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “Excuse me. I don’t want to get all personal with your—your nudity!”

Eddie bites at the insides of his cheeks. Their arguments are usually pretty entertaining—this one’s the best, because Steve took off his shirt to prove a point that Eddie can’t see.

“Then you don’t have a leg to stand on,” Steve says, like it’s final. “Eddie—”

Eddie’s head whips up from where he was squinting.

“Settle this,” he says, coming closer. Steve gestures at his chest like his tits are vowels on The Wheel of Fortune—Eddie desperately tries to conceal that he feels like a crazy horndog.

“Okay?” he asks, pulling up years of DMing experience to keep his composure; Steve’s tits are a hidden enemy, or a boon the party has to discover on their own.

“How many nipples do I have?” Steve asks. Eddie opens his mouth to say clearly there’s two, but—

This warrants scrutiny. He leans in closer—Steve smells good, like always. He looks whole and healthy and strong—Eddie’s mouth literally waters as Steve helpfully points to what could be a mole.

Eddie considers it, trying for objectivity.

“Could be a nipple, could be a freckle. Lemme test it,” he says, holding up his fingers. Steve doesn’t stop him, so he lightly pinches one of his regular nipples and gets fully hard when Steve sucks in a quiet gasp. He quickly moves onto the third one, lightly pinching that too. “Feel anything?”