There is one guy who could be a groupie, but he’s dressed so… preppy. He’s sprawled on one of the many comfy couches and working on a Rubix cube, tongue poking out a little in concentration. Munson doesn’t introduce him, just calls out, “How’s it coming, sweetheart?” The guy doesn’t even look up, just flips him off; Eddie laughs and moves the tour along to the next room, which contains a full Olympic sized pool with a Star Wars themed mosaic floor.

What draws all the attention though is a coffee kiosk set up inside Munson’s home that’s a clear spoof on Starbucks. It’s a fully branded and decked out coffee “company” named Penta-Dollar, with a logo that has a white pentagram etched on a red sand dollar by a black tentacle holding a tattoo gun, curling around from behind the sand dollar. Once the footage airs Starbucks sues, and Munson has good enough lawyers that it basically just becomes a matter of cease and desist.

A few months later Munson launches his own coffee company called Malicious Compliance Coffee Co., with a logo featuring a hand that’s obviously modeled after Munson’s giving a thumbs up sign. Of the rings on the hand, two are some of his signature decor: a skull and a cross surrounded by skulls. But the middle ring, instead of his signature pig ring, is an octopus. The branded hot beverage cups feature photocopies of the legal decision from the case with “Starbucks” and “Penta-Dollar” blacked out.

It’s such a big stir that it takes a long time for anyone to comment on the fact that, uh, wasn’t that Olympic gold metal swimmer Steve fucking Harrington chilling on Munson’s couch like he lived there?

And doesn’t Harrington have a small sand dollar tramp stamp tattoo??

Steve is leaning against his Beemer, trying not to be charmed by his boyfriend's antics. But all it has done is egg Eddie on.

His voice grows louder and higher, his movements more theatrical. His body is all but buzzing as he swings around to flash Steve a wicked grin.

"What do you mean, sweetheart?" Eddie exclaims. "I'm irresistible – just look at me!"

He flaps open his jacket, exposing the front of his Hellfire shirt.

Steve snickers at the devilish logo, his eye travelling up to Eddie's rumpled collar, and then to the guitar pick around his neck before settling on a teasing tongue poking to the side of a curled mouth.

Eddie waggles his brows, humming as he puffs out his chest and nods.

Steve pushes himself up off his car to close the gap between them.

They spend the summers together playing in the forests, turning over rocks and slaying imaginary dragons in the backyard.

To everyone's surprise, the Harringtons encourage the connection. They may be absent, jet-setting around the world, but they do care for their son in their own way. They see the way Steve brightens up around Eddie, their normally serious little seven year old coming alive.

Wayne doesn't mind either. He loves to see Eddie so animated. His nephew always starts the summer sullen, coming to him straight from Al with a shaved head and a dulled spirit. Eddie makes friends easily at the park, pulling all kids of kids into his imaginary world, but no one brings his true self out life little Steve.

Eddie is loud, and protective, and sweet in the ways Al tried his best to beat out of him.

Waybe takes care of the boys more often than not, the Harringtons quick to agree to week long sleepovers when they know they'll be out of town. They love to hear Steve's stories about Mr. Wayne and Eddie when they get back.

Years later, their friendship will fall apart. Steve's parents will start fighting, and he'll close himself off, trying to be a picture perfect son so they'll stay together. Eddie will become angry, taking his frustration at the world and his confusion about his dad's sentence out on anyone who comes too close.

But even then, Steve's favorite memory will be of Wayne pulling him out of the car after a movie at the Hawk, more than half asleep and clinging to his soft flannel. He'll hold the sleepy image of a young Eddie resting on the opposite shoulder, the sun setting behind him, as a needle makes its way into his arm. He'll pull it to the forefront of his mind as he passes out in the Byers' living room. He'll try to recreate the feeling when he holds Nancy close on Christmas.

robin, curled into a ball on the couch at the radio station, yeah, he should check, just to see if she hasn't suffocated herself in that weird position she sleeps in. still breathing, she's fine.

mike and will, oh look, they're holding hands under the blanket, which is none of his business, but that's kind of cute, still breathing. he double checks will and max, just to be sure.

eddie- god, he sleeps like roadkill, face half buried in his makeshift pillow. he's fine, still breathing, hair all over the place.

dustin's curls meshed into the sleeping bag. good, still breathing- drooling, too. but he's fine. fingers almost touching el's, smooth bastard. she's good, too.

lucas, nance, jonathan. all breathing. all fine.

He uses a silly pseudonym and lowers his voice to a sultry whisper, to disguise himself and set the mood. His becomes a cult favourite, a shared secret around town.

Rumours swirl around Steve's age group that he might be the host because, well... Some of the advice this radio love guru is giving out is very specific. Steve earned a reputation for a reason *wink.

Eddie listens. Oh boy, does he.

Huddled under the covers with his radio on low (even though his uncle is mostly at the Plant at that hour), Eddie has developed an embarrassing crush on the host. Context clues have helped him figure out it is someone around his age but, with three separate senior year books at his disposal, he can't quite pin down who it might be.

Imagine his surprise when he realises it is Steve (who he also has a crush on). Is it still two separate crushes if someone is masquerading as an Anonymous Radio Sex God?

Anyway, he about near falls out of bed when he hears Robin chiming in and a very Steve-and-Robin squabble ensues, live on air.

Eddie can relate.

He too, says a lot of things, many untrue, many more weilded in defense-- if not of himself or others, than the principles that guide his doctrine.

Hawkins is a shitty small town, full of equally shitty, small minded people. It's easy to sell a lie.

Be a magician, and make them all look at one hand while you make the real magic happen with the other.

So he gets it, when Henderson swears his (former?) babysitter Steve Harrington is "a good dude we can call for help" when Van Helsing's engine gives out, stranding them.

He understands when Henderson doubles down when called out, storming his way to a payphone.

Eddie even applaudes the dedication to the bit when Henderson actually fakes the entire damn phone call.

At no point does he honestly believe The Hair himself will show up to rescue a mixed crew of Hellfire members because some nerdy kid called him.

Dustin Henderson, Eddie learns some odd 30 minutes later, watching Steve fucking Harrington flip a wrench lazily in the air, is the smugest freshman on the planet when hes proven right.

Even though he’s in a room with the two people he’s supposed to feel most loved by, he’s trembling with the worst feeling of fear he’s ever felt in his life.

Worse than his first encounter with the Upside Down, worse than his fight with the Demodogs, worse than fighting a giant flesh monster and watching Billy die.

He’s watching his mother, staring at her, willing her to say something, to protect him from what’s about to happen.

“Steven. Don’t look at her. Look at me. She can’t help you now.” His father snaps.

Steve’s eyes don’t move from his mother’s face. Eyes pleading that she stop this. Just this once, can she step in?

His father approaches, “Steven, do you know what this means? Do you know what would happen if this got out?”

He doesn’t look away from his mom.

“Look at me, son.” His father steps closer “imagine how I feel? Can you just think about how shocking it must be for me? How shocked I am to find out that my son, my boy, is a homosexual?”

His mother has tears streaming down her cheeks, but she still won’t look at him.

His father sighs “I don’t want to have to send you to a camp, Steven. That’s not ideal for anyone. Can’t you just ignore this until you move out? You’ve graduated now, you can move out. You can be this… whatever you are, away from us. You can leave. That reflect poorly on no one.”

His mother turns away completely.

“You have to understand, son, this affects all of us. I can’t have the town finding out about this, do you understand?”

Steve nods.

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.

written for week 1 of the @steddiemicrofic july challenge

prompt: three | wc: 333 | rated: G | tags: established relationship, steve is weak for eddie's puppy eyes, eddie is a menace but steve loves him for it

Three years.

It's been three fucking years.

You'd think Steve has learned his lesson by now but somehow, Eddie still manages to surprise him. To catch him completely off guard and make him question everything he knows about the man he's been sharing a bed and a life with for so long.

Because when he enters their home, tired from work and ready to waste away in front of the TV for the rest of the evening, he's greeted by two pairs of puppy dog eyes.

   "Babe. What did you do?"

Eddie looks at him, all innocent and sweet.

   "His name is Dio. Well, the lady at the shelter said his former owners called him Rocky. But I like Dio more. And I think he likes it, too."

As if to agree, the dog Eddie holds in his arms starts wagging its tail, happily nuzzling and licking his face.

   "Can we- I don't know. Maybe take a few steps back so you can explain to me again why the fuck there's a dog in our house?"

Eddie has the audacity to shush him, covering the dog's ears with one hand.

   "Steve! No swearing in front of the child, please."

    The- what?

Steve's going to strangle him.

   "He's only three," Eddie says, as if that explains anything.

   "I'll ask again." Steve tries to sound annoyed but he knows he's probably failing. "Whose dog is that?"

   "He's our dog!"

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs defeated. He's weak, can't fight the power of Eddie's big, beautiful eyes when he looks at him like that.

   "I don't wanna hear a single word about it being too early, or too hot, or too rainy outside to go on walks. He's your responsibility."

Robin is being nosy and finds Steve license one day and discovers that they are exactly the same age. She grills Steve about this of course, finds out his parents put him through school early to kickstart his development (which he actually didn't pick up on a lot of because he was SO young. It's why he struggles.)

written for @steddiemicrofic july week 1

prompt: three | wc: 333 | rated: E | tags: boys in love, hand job, light bondage | also on ao3

Steve's really no better than a dog conditioned to salivate at the jingling of a bell, can feel the downward rush of blood pumping hot into his lower half at the sight alone.

Eyes fixed on thick fingers with calloused tips, veins visible on the back of his hands, moving methodical, almost ceremonial, as Eddie slowly slides one chunky ring after another off his left.

    One-two-three, he lets them drop onto the nightstand individually, each thudding sound sending little shocks of desire through Steve, making impatience grow into unbearable need.

This is for the @steddiemicrofic July Week one prompt "three" | wc: 333 | cw: implied violence | rating: G

summary: Eddie shows up at Steve's house in the rain.

AO3

Steve sips his hot chocolate, happily watching the rain fall outside.

A bright flash of lightening flashes across the sky, followed immediately by a window shattering crash of thunder.

His tranquility is disturbed by frantic knocking.

Immediately, Steve's hackles rise. No one should be stopping by, definitely not in this storm. He grabs his nailbat from the hall closet before glancing through the peep hole.

On the other side, is a wide eyed and soaking wet Eddie. Steve yanks the door open, confusion written all over his face. He gave his boyfriend a spare key, weeks ago.

“Eddie what the—” he begins.

Eddie pushes past, slams the door shut, and locks it. He glances around and pulls the nearby table in front for good measure.

Before he can ask, Steve finally gets a good look at the other man. What he sees, feels like a knife to the gut.

Bruises bloom along Eddie's face, blood and snot drips from his nose. Tears sit unshed in his eyes. They fall as soon as Steve softly cups his cheek.

“How many were there?” He asks. This isn't the first time Eddie's shown up like this and Steve doubts it'll be the last.

“Only three this time,” Eddie shrugs, like it's not a big deal.

“Eds,” Steve sighs, but doesn’t say anything else. There’s no point right now.

Silently, Steve takes Eddie's hand and leads him to his bathroom.

Slowly, he strips them of their clothes, rubbing warmth back into Eddie’s chilled skin before pulling him into the shower.

After, he applies antiseptic to his cuts, cream to his bruises, and soft kisses to his lips.

Laying in bed, he holds Eddie close, letting him cry until he succumbs to sleep.

Steve stares at the ceiling for hours.

Three times.

Three times in three weeks that Eddie’s arrived beaten and bloody.

Steve needs to do something to protect his boyfriend. Looking down at the sleeping man, Steve decides he’s getting Eddie out of this town.

Tomorrow.

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written for @steddiemicrofic | prompt: ‘three’ [title from 'past lives' - børns]

rated g | 333 words | no cw | tags: domestic bliss, existential crisis He first says it like a joke, tossed across the living room like it’s nothing more than another stupid Harrington-ism, something to make Eddie snort and call him drama queen.

“Three lives,” Steve mutters, hip-bumping the coffee table straight while sweeping guitar picks and loose change into his palm. “King, babysitter, and whatever the hell this one is.”

This apartment wears them well: laundry in limp mountains on the couch, Eddie’s favourite mug sweating on the windowsill, Dustin’s spare key hanging beside theirs in a crooked row. A grocery list on the fridge, old ink beneath the fresh scrawl where Steve kept changing his mind about who they are now, what they need. Whole milk, low-fat, lactose-free. Life one, life two, life three.

King Steve lived in mirrors, in the sheen of a car hood and the hollow clamour of parties that never felt like fun. Babysitter Steve lived in bat-splintered knuckles and Eddie’s van, in the thud of sneakers racing down cracked-open suburban streets, and in the terrifying knowledge that he loved kids who weren’t his and would kill monsters for them.

This Steve lives here, in the dip of their shared mattress under Eddie’s weight, in the three towels that hang in the bathroom - one for him, one for Eddie, one permanently stolen by Dustin when he crashes. Now-Steve lives in the click of three locks on the door each night, counted off under his breath.

“One, I’m not at my parents’ house,” he says, thumb brushing the deadbolt.

“Two. I’m not in the Upside Down.”

He hesitates on the third, palm pressed flat against wood grain.

Eddie’s voice comes from the bedroom, lazy and sure. “Three, you’re here. With me.”

Steve exhales - it feels like shedding old skin - and turns back toward the soft bedroom glow, scattered guitar magazines, a man waiting for him with his hair tied up and his heart uncluttered.