Archive of Our Own

Eddie kicks a loose bolt across the stained concrete floor, watching as it clinks against the leg of the tool chest and spins in place before settling.

The garage is empty except for him.

The air is thick with the smell of oil and warm metal. In the back corner, a radio sits on a workbench, turned off. It ran out of batteries days ago, and he hasn't bothered replacing them. There's no one here to talk to, no one to play music for. Just the occasional customer, half-heartedly dropping off their car with as few words as possible.
People used to talk to him more. But most of those people don't live in Hawkins anymore.

He leans against the hood of a car that won't be picked up until tomorrow, stretching his arms over his head. The fluorescent lights buzz softly, their cold glow making his skin look sickly. He should probably eat something.

He won't, though.

Instead, he watches the open garage door, staring out at the quiet street beyond.
The pavement is cracked. A bird pecks at something near the curb. Nothing happens.

Nothing ever happens.

When Eddie was younger, he used to think the world was huge. He would imagine himself leaving Hawkins for somewhere better, anywhere better. Now, the idea feels childish.

He won't leave. He can't. His uncle needs him, and the garage barely makes enough to cover the bills as it is. Sometimes, he tries to convince himself he doesn't mind. That this—working, sleeping, existing thing in the empty spaces between—isn't the worst possible version of his life. But he knows it is. He's just too scared to say it out loud.

He tunes in to the buzz of the lights and the occasional creak of the building settling.
He's been working here full-time since he finished school, if you could call what he did "finishing."
The job was meant to be temporary, something to keep him busy while he figured things out. Then his uncle's back got worse, and fewer people were coming in, and suddenly Eddie was the one keeping the place running. Now, years have passed, and the thought of leaving feels like something that belongs to someone else, some younger version of himself who still believed in things.

He catches his reflection in the driver's side window: the same tired eyes, the same mess of curls that he hasn't had the energy to do anything with. His navy overalls are stained, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. There's grease on his hands, smudged into the creases of his fingers, under his nails.

He used to have calluses on his fingertips from playing guitar. Now, they're gone.

He hasn't played guitar in months. The case sits in the corner of his room, unopened, collecting dust. Sometimes he thinks about picking it up, about playing just to see if he still can. But it feels pointless. Who would he play for? Himself? The walls of his uncle's trailer? The silence is easier to manage when he doesn't remind himself of what he's lost.

He thinks about the band sometimes, about the way it felt to play, to be surrounded by sound so loud he couldn't think of anything else. They all left without him, of course. Slowly but surely, eyes glinting with an apology that didn't quite make its way out of their mouths. They had to. He doesn't blame them, not really. But it still stings, like a wound he keeps pressing to make sure it still hurts.

Outside, he watches the bird take flight, disappearing into the sky. Eddie watches it go. Feeling an unrelenting pang of jealousy.

Eddie scratches at a grease stain on his wrist, rubbing until his skin burns. It doesn't come off. Nothing really comes off anymore—not the dirt, not the exhaustion, not the sense that his life is something he set down years ago and forgot to pick back up.

He pushes off the car and drags a rag over the hood, though it doesn't need cleaning. It gives his hands something to do.

When he was a kid, he thought he'd end up somewhere bigger. Maybe not famous—he was never that delusional—but at least in a place where things happened, where he wasn't the only person left behind.

The band stayed in touch through half-hearted letters and rushed telephone calls. They got a new frontman. Some older guy called Sid. Eddie didn't like to think of him too much.

He was probably shit, anyway.

People from school are scattered across the state, across the country. Even the ones who used to say they'd never leave—gone. And Eddie? Still here. Still waiting for something to change.

He shakes his head, as though shaking the thoughts from it. The winding tendrils of his hair falling in front of his face.

He inhales, hearing the faint cries of cicadas in the field in front of him. The whole town feels like it's winding down, like a song at its last, fading note.

Eddie thinks about locking up early, going home, falling asleep in his clothes like he does most nights. Instead, he leans against the workbench, picks up a wrench just to hold it, just to feel something solid in his hands.

The sun is starting to set, spilling orange light over the pavement. A car passes by but doesn't slow down. No one stops. No one ever stops.

***

Eddie doesn't notice the car at first. He's in the back, reorganizing a shelf that doesn't need organizing, killing time in the slow, dragging way he always does.

But then he hears it—an engine smoother than anything that usually pulls into the garage, the distinct hum of money. He wipes his hands on his overalls as he steps out, already prepared for some guy in a suit who's going to be pissed about a scratch on his overpriced paint job.

Instead, it's him.

Leaning against the open driver's side door of a muted grey Porsche, looking out of place in the best possible way.
His hair is the same, maybe a little shorter, but still thick, still styled like he put effort into it. His shirt is buttoned all the way up, tucked into tailored pants that definitely didn't come from the Starcourt mall. The shoes, too polished. The watch, subtle but expensive. Everything about him is put-together, the kind of effortless wealth that doesn't need to prove itself.

Eddie doesn't place him immediately. He just knows he knows him, that there's something naggingly familiar about the shape of his face, the casual confidence in the way he holds himself. The way he grins when he sees him, warm and easy, like they were friends.

"Eddie! Hey!"

That throws him. No one calls him like that anymore, like they're actually excited to see him. They especially don't call him Eddie.

It's either Munson, Ed's or kid. And he did hate that his Uncle called him kid at the ripe old age of 27, though he'd never say that.

"Uh—yeah?"

The other looks back at him with this innocent puzzlement.
"It's—me." He urges. His freckle speckled, too tanned for Spring hands gesturing to himself. A soft, displaced laugh escaping his lips.

Eddie blinks. Still nothing.

"Steve. From high"—

And then it comes back to him like the tide in return.

"Harrington." Eddie says, clipped and defensive.

"Yeah." Steve gleams.

Steve Harrington. High school royalty, the guy Eddie used to make fun of from a distance because he seemingly had everything handed to him. Because people actually liked him. The perfect guy with the perfect life.
Not someone Eddie ever had real conversations with. Not someone who should remember him so quickly, so casually. Like they used to be close.

"Yeah. I remember you, dude."

Steve beams at that, and Eddie can't figure out why.

"Wow, it's—it's good to see you."

"Uh, yeah—sure." Eddie's eyebrows knit together, eyes darting from Steve's face to the floor.

Steve hesitates. Shifts on his feet like he's trying to read Eddie's mood. Eddie still doesn't get it. He doesn't remember Steve being like this—open, friendly. It makes him uneasy, like he's waiting for the punchline.

"Sorry. It's just been a while I guess is what I meant."

Eddie huffs a cynical laugh, looking at the Porsche, then back at Steve.
"Well—much like most, you moved on to greener pastures, I'm sure."

Steve tilts his head, considering that. His lips press together like he doesn't fully agree.
"Wouldn't say they're greener. Probably more grey than anything. And tall."

"Big city life, huh?"

Steve nods, adjusting the watch on his wrist.
"'Fraid so."

"Far?"

"Chicago. Came to visit my parents. Ran into some issues on the drive over here, so. Here I am."

Eddie looks at the Porsche again. It doesn't fit here. Neither does Steve. But he's standing there, smiling like this is normal. Like Eddie is someone he actually wants to see.

Eddie clears his throat, realising he should probably fill the all encompassing silence somehow.
"Oh, well. I can't help you with that, I'm afraid. This is actually a dentists office."

Steve laughs, and it's too much. Too enthusiastic for the kind of joke Eddie barely put effort into. Like it's actually funny, like Steve is genuinely amused.
It makes Eddie feel unsteady, like he's missing something, like there's a second layer to this interaction he hasn't been let in on.

"So"— Eddie goads, hoping for this interaction to be over with as quickly as possible.

"Oh! I, uh—I spoke to some guy on the phone this morning. Didn't get his name"—

"Southern and standoffish?"

Steve brightens. Points a finger like Eddie just confirmed a correct answer.
"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"Mm. That'll be Wayne. He's my uncle."

"Wayne. Got it. Uncle Wayne."
Steve nods to himself, like he's storing the information somewhere.
His gaze flicks up to the sign above the garage door, like he's just now making the connection.
"Which checks out because this is—Wayne's Wheels."

Eddie just stares at Steve, eyes flat.
"Yep."

Steve laughs again, less exaggerated this time. He shuffles his feet, glances back at his car, then back at Eddie.

"I guess you're my two o'clock then." Eddie announces, slapping his hands against his thighs.

"Looks like it." Steve nods, pursing his lips into a meek smile.

Eddie sighs, wipes his hands on the rag hanging from his pocket. Motions for Steve to pull the car in.
"Alright. Bring her in."

Steve meanders back over to the Porsche and slides into the  drivers side like he's used to moving like that, smooth and practiced. The kind of guy who's never fumbled with a seatbelt in his life. As he idles forward, Eddie watches the way the sunlight catches against the windshield, the way Steve fits into this expensive, polished thing like it was built specifically for him.

When Steve cuts the engine, Eddie nods, stepping up to the driver's side.
"Sweet ride."

Steve smiles, but this time it's more out of politeness as he shrugs like it's nothing.
"Thanks."

There's a pause. Eddie places his hand on the roof of the car, feeling the residual heat from the sun.
"So—what's the problem?"

Steve shifts in his seat, like maybe this is the part that actually makes him uncomfortable.
"Uh - well, it's - it's kind of um"— he pauses, screwing his face up in thought.
"If I drive over 30 it starts—vibrating?"

Eddie raises an eyebrow.
"Vibrating?"

"And like—growling. Maybe?"

Eddie lets that sit for a second. Looks at Steve. Looks at the car. Looks back at Steve.
"Right."

Steve nods, like that explains everything.
"Yeah."

Eddie exhales slowly. Runs a hand over his jaw.

"Okay, well—I'll take a look."

Steve relaxes slightly.
"Thanks. I really appreciate it."

"Well—it is my job. This is sort of a—transactional arrangement."

"Right, yeah. Course." Steve presses his lips together, nodding. He doesn't move to get out of the car yet. Instead, he looks at Eddie like he's still figuring out the rules of this interaction.

"So"—
Then he gestures vaguely at the garage.
"Do you need me to wait here, or?"

Eddie squints at him.
"I mean—whilst it isn't a rule we typically ask that you don't sit in the thing you want us to fix. For y'know—basic health and safety reasons. But it's a pretty strong suggestion."

"Oh. Yeah. Obviously. I wasn't—I wasn't gonna sit right here. I was gonna—get out of the way." Steve admonishes hurriedly.

"Have you never been to a garage before?" Eddie asks.

Steve scratches the back of his head. Smiles sheepishly.
"Not in a while, no."

"Well, nothing's really changed. It's still just a garage."

"Got it." Steve said, kissing his lips between his teeth. Steve taps his fingers against the steering wheel, then lets them drop. Eddie crosses his arms, glancing at the car again.

"I'd say come back around five? I should probably have some answers for you. Might even have it all done and ready to go if it's an easy fix."

Steve sits with that for a second, then nods.
"Okay. Five. Great."
He pushes the car door open and steps out. His cologne lingers in the warm air between them—clean, sharp, expensive. It doesn't belong here either.

He takes a step back, slipping his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels. Looks at Eddie like he wants to say something else. Then, finally—
"See you at five."

He turns, walking off down the street like he's perfectly at home here. Like showing up in Hawkins, standing in Eddie's garage, is just a normal part of his day. Eddie watches him go, utterly perplexed.

***

By the time five o'clock rolls around, Eddie is pacing. Agitated. Kicking at stray bolts on the floor like they personally offended him. He's still wiping oil off his hands and muttering to himself when Steve walks up.

And he's smiling. Obviously. God, why does he fucking smile so much? Smoothing down the front of his shirt like he has someone to impress.
It's the kind of casual confidence that makes Eddie's blood pressure spike.

"So—what's the diagnosis?"

Eddie exhales sharply, tossing the rag onto the workbench. He levels Steve with a flat, unamused stare.
"The diagnosis is that you drive like an absolute lunatic."

Steve blinks, the soles of his shoes scuffing against the concrete as he stops abruptly.
"What?"

Eddie crosses his arms, stepping toward the car.
"First piece of evidence was the fact that there's a literal scuff mark under the pedal from where you hit the clutch like a fucking derby racer."

He watches Steve's expression shift—mild confusion, then something like embarrassment.

"When was the last time you had a service done?"

"Uh"— Steve rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Looks around, like maybe the answer is hidden somewhere in the garage.
"I—I don't know."

Eddie makes a sharp, incredulous noise in the back of his throat.
"How long have you had the car?"

Steve winces.
"Like—six years?"

Eddie raises his hands in vexation.
"And you've never had it serviced?"

"Not to my knowledge," Steve says, shifting uncomfortably.
"Usually my assistant will take it in if I have any issues. I don't remember them saying anything about a service."

Eddie laughs, and it's not a friendly one.
"Well—you should probably fire your assistant then. Because from what I can see, I don't think they've ever taken it in. Or at least—they've never taken it in to anyone who knows their ass from their elbow."

Steve presses his lips together. Nods.
"Noted."

Eddie wipes his hands on his overalls and gestures toward the workbench.
"Second diagnosis. Is this."
He holds up a corroded oil filter between two fingers like it personally disgusts him.

Steve leans in slightly, eyebrows knitting together.
"What is that?"

"That's your oil filter."

"Oh." Steve says simply, as though it means nothing to him at all.

Eddie tilts his head, examining Steve's face.
"I'm gonna assume you don't know what this is supposed to look like."

"No, but—I assume it's probably not that."

"I'm just gonna explain this in super simple terms that you're gonna understand. This? Is fucked." Eddie snaps, throwing the oil filter back onto the workbench with a sharp clatter.

Steve exhales through his nose.

"It's totally corroded," Eddie continues, voice sharp.
"And the oil is literally draining out of the car every single time you drive it. Like—sweating out, man. If all the oil drains out of your car, the engine is gonna seize and the car is gonna get written off. And that's the best case scenario."

Steve straightens.
"What's the worst case scenario?"

"That it fucking explodes?"

Steve exhales, nodding slowly.
"I see. So—what do I do?"

Eddie shrugs, raking his hands through his hair.
"Well. I can order the parts for you on Monday and do a full service for you. That is sort of hinging on the fact that you'll still be in Hawkins by that point. But—you should be ready to roll again by next Wednesday."

Steve closes his eyes briefly, sighs.
"Next Wednesday? Fuck." He pinches the bridge of his nose, pacing around on the spot.

Eddie leans against the workbench, arms crossed.
"Or, alternatively, I can jam this bad boy back in and you can go on your merry way back to Chicago and hope to God you don't go up in flames on the interstate."

"S'fine," Steve says, rubbing his jaw.
"I'm supposed to leave Sunday but—I'll just borrow one of my dad's cars to get me back for work. It's only a four-hour drive. Could be worse."

Eddie nods, staring at him for a second before muttering—
"Indeed it could be."

Steve stares down at the ground as he leans against the workbench behind him, a faint rhythmic clicking echoing as he absentmindedly tapped his tongue against his palate.
"Well—thank you." He says eventually, thumb bouncing against the wood.

Eddie scoffs.
"Don't thank me. Just get a car you actually know how to drive."

"I know how to drive." Steve laughs.

Eddie snorts.
"Sure. But not this kinda car."

Steve raises an eyebrow.
"So what kinda car do you think I should be driving?"

Eddie doesn't even hesitate.
"Based on what I've seen? Like—a fucking Volkswagen Passenger at best."

"What?" Steve cackles incredulously.

"You cannot drive this car, man. You clearly have no idea what goes into caring for a car like this. Which is quite blatantly obvious given the damage you've done to it by not knowing what the fuck you're doing."

Steve looks away, his tongue tracing across his lips.
"Wow, okay."

Eddie shakes his head, muttering to himself as he meanders across the room. Suddenly wanting to put as much space between himself and Steve as possible.
"You guys piss me off."

"You guys? Who's you guys?"

Eddie gestures vaguely at Steve, his Porsche, and nothing at all.
"You—guys. Rich assholes. The bourgeoi-fuckin-sie!"

"What?" Steve laughs again, and Eddie's back was up.

Eddie groans, agitated and gesturing wildly now.

"You get the most expensive car in the lot and all you use it for is a tax write-off or some kind of compensation for your tiny dicks and it's all for show. This car—is a classic. And you drive it like you're in some kinda fucking drag race. I would kill to have a car like this. And—you don't even appreciate it. It's just a nice hunk of metal sitting on your driveway to show how much fuckin' money you have."

Steve is quiet for a long moment. His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't look angry. He doesn't even move, still casually leaning up against the workbench like it belonged to him.
"So—that's what you think of me?"

Eddie crosses his arms.
"Yeah. Pretty much."

Steve considers this for a moment with a downward smile, his face relaxing in something Eddie could only assume was defeat.
"You're right."

Eddie blinks.
"What?"

"You're right," Steve says again.
"I don't know how to drive it. It's never felt right and I could never figure out why. But—I didn't buy it myself. That part you got wrong. My dad gave it to me for my birthday. To my knowledge it wasn't a tax write-off, but it's definitely not the car I would have chosen for myself. So—you're right."

Eddie shifts uncomfortably.
"Okay. Well—glad we're in agreement."

Steve smirks.
"The only thing you got wrong is the fact that I'm using it to compensate for my tiny dick. I don't need to compensate for that."

Eddie closes his eyes briefly as he allows the annoyance to pass.
"Thanks for clarifying."

Steve grins.
"No, thank you. Truly."

Eddie raises an eyebrow.
"For?"

"Well. Thanks for helping me fix my car. And secondly, thanks for the reality check." Steve tilts his head.
"I like your honesty."

Eddie shifts his weight.
"Oh. Well. You're welcome."

Steve's smirk returns.
"So—I'm gonna go back to my parents. And—I'll come back next Wednesday."

"Yep."

"Alright. It's a date." Steve says as he hauls himself off of the workbench.

Eddie's jaw tenses.
"I mean—it's not."

"Okay." Steve says simply, still smiling.

"It's an appointment."

"Uh-huh." And Steve is already walking away.

"It's a scheduled appointment!" Eddie yells after him as Steve casually waves him off without looking back.

"Can't wait!" Steve sings.

***

Eddie doesn't stop thinking about Steve after that.

It annoys him, how much space Steve Harrington starts taking up in his head. Like a song he half-remembers, looping in the background of his thoughts.

He laughs at Eddie's jokes like he's actually funny, even when he doesn't mean to be. He says thank you like he actually means it. For things that don't even warrant appreciation. And Eddie can't figure out why the hell that bothers him so much.

Back in high school, Steve had been the kind of guy Eddie knew to avoid. Not because he was cruel—he wasn't, not in the way some of the other jocks were—but because he was untouchable.  Steve was a name, a reputation, a presence that moved through the halls with a kind of effortless ease. That he never lost, clearly. He had his place and Eddie had his, and there was never any reason for their worlds to overlap.

Everyone loved Steve. Eddie didn't understand it, not really, but he also didn't question it.

He always used to fall for boys like Steve. Quietly, pathetically. He never let it become anything more than a passing thought. A brief, fluttering thing that he could crush as soon as he recognized it. He wasn't stupid. He knew better than to get caught looking.

He does remember one thing about Steve, though. Something small, something he's not sure he even should remember.

Once, junior year, Eddie had seen him crying in the alley between the gym and the field. He had been walking back from a smoke break, already late for class, already rehearsing what excuse he'd give if he got caught. He had heard the sound first—small, choked-off. When he turned his head, he saw Steve sitting on the pavement, back against the wall. His face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Eddie had stopped walking. Just for a second.

He had wanted to go over to him. Not to ask what was wrong, necessarily—just to acknowledge it. Just to sit there with him, maybe, even in silence.

But he hadn't.

He had ignored him. Kept walking.

That's all he really knew about Steve Harrington.

And now, years later, Steve Harrington is standing in his garage, smiling at him, laughing at his dumb jokes, shaking his head like Eddie is something worth paying attention to. Like he actually remembers him.

And Eddie doesn't know what to do with that.

***

Eddie is mindlessly tidying up around the garage when Steve strolls in. He's expecting him, but the sight of him still catches him off guard.

Steve is dressed like he has somewhere better to be, which, in all fairness, he probably does. He's wearing pressed slacks and a polo that looks expensive, but not in an obnoxious way—just in a way that makes Eddie hyperaware of his own oil-stained overalls and undoubtedly the smudges of grease on his face.

Steve grins at him, easy.
"Hey."

Eddie straightens his posture slowly, like prey that had been sighted by an apex predator. Hoping that his lack of subtle movements might make him unnoticeable.
"Hi."

Eddie grabs a rag from the workbench, wipes the sweat from his forehead. Steve steps in closer, hands in his pockets and an eagerness in his stare.

"What'd Daddy give you to roll around in, in the end? Nothing too awful, I hope." Eddie asks, not really caring for the answer.

"His Mercedes," Steve says, almost shyly.

Eddie snorts.
"God. How positively mortifying."

Steve laughs, glancing toward his Porsche as he gestures to it.
"Is she all good?"

"She is perfect." Eddie says with a wince. He always hated it when people referred to cars as she.

Steve nods, satisfied, then reaches for his wallet. "So—what do I owe you?"

"One fifty."

Steve hesitates, rifling through the bills.
"One fifty?"

Eddie narrows his eyes.
"If you're even thinking about haggling with me right now—"

"No, no. As in—that's it?"

"Yeah?" Eddie shrugs.
"The part itself isn't too expensive. The rest is the service itself and labor. All my blood, sweat, and tears."

"Oh. I was prepared for it to be way more than that."

"Well. It must be your lucky day."

Steve hands over the cash, casual about it, like it's nothing. Eddie starts counting, then frowns.
"This is three hundred."

"Yeah."

"That's—like double what I charged you."

"It's not like double. It is double," Steve says, voice light, like he's enjoying this.
"I'm a good tipper."

Eddie shakes his head.
"I can't—" he stammers, staring down at the bills in his hand.

"Yes. You can."
His tone is mild, but there's something in the way he looks at Eddie, something just shy of playful. Eddie feels suddenly self-conscious, which pisses him off.

"I'm not a charity case, Harrington." Eddie snaps,  shoving the bills against Steve's chest as he scrambles to take them.
"I know I look like I need a bath, but I do actually have a roof over my head, believe it or not."

Steve tilts his head, amused.
"Who said you were?"

"I'm giving you a tip for being good at your job," Steve continues. Eddie still hesitates, but Steve just holds out the money expectantly, waiting. "Take it. You wouldn't wanna insult me now, would you? Then I won't be able to tell my other rich asshole friends about your exceptional hospitality." Steve grins, quirking his eyebrows.

Eddie exhales sharply, annoyed but relenting. He takes the money.

"Fine." He shoves it into his pocket.
"Thanks, I guess."

Steve smiles, but it's not a gloating smile. It's something else. Something satisfied. He lingers a second too long, standing there like he has more to say, more to do. And then he looks Eddie over, slow and deliberate.
"You look really good, by the way."

Eddie blinks.
"What does that mean?"

Steve shrugs.
"You just—I don't know. You look good. That's something people say, isn't it?"

Eddie wipes his hands on his overalls, scowls. "I'm covered in grease and sweat."

"Then it must suit you."

Eddie huffs, irritated, but mostly just confused. Steve is still looking at him, watching his reaction closely, and it makes Eddie's skin feel hot. He gestures toward the car, desperate to change the subject.

"Alright." Eddie shakes his head, averting his gaze to focus on literally anything else.
"Quit flirting with me and get out of here. I got—things to do."

Steve's mouth quirks up at the corner, like he knows something Eddie doesn't.

"It was good to see you again, Eddie," he says, quieter now. Earnest.

Eddie pauses. His fingers twitch at his sides.

"Mm," he hums noncommittally. He doesn't know why he does that, why he holds himself back, why he suddenly doesn't want to.

Steve gets into the car, starts the engine. Eddie watches him, something restless settling under his skin. At the last second, he calls over the noise.

"And quit slamming your fucking ginormous, dumb feet down on the pedals. Gentle tap, Harrington!"

"Alright!" Steve hollers.

"Gentle tap!"

Steve only grins, gives Eddie a little salute, and pulls out of the lot.

Eddie stands there for a moment, watching the dust settle. Then, with an exhale, he rubs his hands over his face, groans into his palms, and gets back to work.

***

Eddie spends the week trying not to think about Steve Harrington. It shouldn't be that hard—Steve is just some guy, some rich asshole who waltzed into his garage with a broken-down Porsche and an easy smile. He's back in Chicago by now, probably drinking cocktails in some skyscraper bar, talking about stock options or whatever it is guys like him do.

Eddie tells himself that, over and over.

It doesn't work.

He's sitting at the desk in the office, tapping a pencil against the wood, pretending to read something important when the familiar, unmistakable growl of a Porsche engine rumbles outside. Eddie freezes mid-tap.

"Oh, you have got to be fucking with me," he mutters.

Wayne looks up from his newspaper.
"What?"

"Steve Harrington's back again."

Wayne leans back in his chair, peering out through the garage door.
"That's the Harrington kid?"

"Uh-huh." Eddie deadpans, eyes locking onto Steve as his tongue swills around his mouth.

Wayne lets out a low whistle.
"Well, I'll be damned. Kid looks like he been swallowed up by a Wall Street banker and spat back out in a Brooks Brothers catalog."

Eddie snorts despite himself.

"What'd you do? Fuck his car up to all hell?" Wayne asks.

"God, no. The car doesn't deserve that. Him on the other hand."

Wayne groans as he stands up, stretching his back with an exaggerated noise of exhaustion. "Alright, well—you're dealin' with him. I'm takin' lunch."

Eddie frowns.
"It's three p.m."

"Late lunch. Early dinner. Linner." Wayne smirks.

Eddie rolls his eyes.
"That's not a thing."

"You know I ain't got time for rich folk," Wayne continues.
"They make my blood pressure rise. You don't want me to drop dead, do you?"

Before Eddie can respond, Steve pulls into the open space in the garage, parking neatly like he's done this a hundred times before. The engine cuts off. The door opens.

Eddie sighs, swivelling round in his chair.
"Now what'd you do?"

Steve gets out, holding his hands up in mock innocence.
"Okay, this time—it actually wasn't my fault."

Eddie crosses his arms, skeptical.
"Sure."

Steve walks around to the back of the car, gesturing. Eddie follows, and then—

"Jesus fucking Christ."

The bumper is a mess. Dented, scratched all to hell, looking like it got into a fight with a semi-truck and lost.

Steve winces.
"Some asshole clipped me at a rotary."

Eddie raises an eyebrow.
"Clipped you?"

Steve exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Okay—maybe a little more than a clip."

Eddie crouches down, examining the damage more closely. His whole body tenses.
"This is so painful."

Steve shifts awkwardly.
"Yeah, well—"

Eddie squints.
"Is that—duct tape?" He admonishes, feeling something akin to fury.

Steve hesitates.
"Yeah."

Eddie stands up slowly, turns to face Steve like he's witnessing a crime scene.
"You put—" He takes a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You put duct tape on a Porsche?"

Steve scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish.
"I didn't know what else to do."

Eddie stares at him like he's personally offended. "Not that! Anything but that!" He throws his hands up.
"What's next, a fucking bumper sticker that reads honk if you're horny?"

Steve huffs out a laugh, which only makes Eddie more furious.

"I could literally strangle you with my bare hands."

Steve rolls his eyes, dropping his shoulders.
"Can you fix it or not?"

Eddie wants to say no just out of principle. But the truth is, he's not sure yet if he can fix it. But if there's one thing Eddie Munson isn't, it's a guy who admits when he's not sure.

He crosses his arms.
"Yes. Obviously, I can fix it. I can fix everything."

Steve grins, that same easy, self-satisfied grin Eddie has come to find inexplicably irritating.

"Well, that's good then," Steve says. Then, after a beat— "Can I stay and watch?"

Eddie scowls.
"If you absolutely must."

***

Eddie works in silence, trying to focus on the task at hand. His fingers move automatically—but his mind is elsewhere. Specifically, on Steve.

Steve, who is doing absolutely nothing except leaning against the worktable, arms crossed, watching him and asking stupid questions like 'what's epoxy?'

It puts Eddie on edge. He can feel Steve's gaze like a physical thing, lingering, appraising. Like something hanging off of his neck and forcing his attention. Not in a bad way, necessarily. Just in a way that makes Eddie hyper-aware of himself.

He tells himself he's imagining it.

Eventually, he gets the bumper looking—well, reasonable. Not perfect, but good enough to pass to anyone who isn't looking too closely. He polishes it up with a cloth, stepping back slightly to assess his work.

"So—" Steve says suddenly.

Eddie glances up, wary.
"So?"

"You doing anything tonight?"

Eddie looks away. Just keeps wiping down the bumper, feigning disinterest.
"Nothing much. Just meeting some of the guys for drinks down at The Hideout. They're coming down from Indianapolis."

"That place is still open?" Steve practically guffaws.

"Surprisingly, yes. Though I doubt it's passing any health inspections."

Steve laughs, quiet and genuine.
"Well. Sounds fun."

Eddie shrugs. He stands up from his crouched position, tossing the dirty rag onto the workbench.
"Okay. I think this is as good as it's gonna get for now."

Steve tilts his head, examining the bumper. "Looks great."

"Yeah, well. I'm good at my job, what can I say." Eddie huffs, stretching out his back.

Steve nods, that same small, amused smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Eddie almost forgets to return the question, but at the last second, he does, if only out of politeness.
"You?"

Steve blinks.
"What?"

"What, uh—what are you doing tonight?"

"Oh." Steve shrugs, shifting his weight against the table.
"Nothing. I don't have any plans."

Eddie pulls at the zipper of his overalls, stripping them off and kicking them from his legs with an embarrassing amount of difficulty as they catch against the heels of his sneakers.

"Oh. Well. I would invite you, but my friends are all losers, so—probably not your scene." He grunts, discarding the overalls on the floor.

Steve raises an eyebrow, but Eddie keeps talking. "We're just gonna be talking about music that you probably don't know and definitely don't care about. Then moving on to our ever-dwindling love lives, and—" He frowns, looking around for something. His eyes scan the room until—
"Oh—there it is." He snatches a navy handkerchief from the workbench, shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans like an afterthought.

"Your ever-dwindling love life, huh?" Steve teases.

"Mhm."

"Can't be that bad."

Eddie shrugs again.
"Sometimes I get lucky, but—it's kinda like God's waiting room around here these days. Everyone's either old or—like, young."

"I think that's probably most of the world." Steve quips.

"You know what I mean, smartass." Eddie rolls his eye, trying to suppress a smile that spreads too easily across his lips as he moves to mindlessly tidy the workbench.

Steve hums.
"Maybe you just need to expand your horizons a bit. Y'know—try somewhere that isn't The Hideout."

Eddie groans.
"Yeah, yeah—this transactional relationship we have doesn't require you to tell me things I already know about my personal life."

"Alright, I'm just saying."

"Say less."

Steve grins.
"What! Quit being so defensive. You're a good-looking guy, and you're a bottom, so you'd be like a pot of gold in most places in the city—"

Eddie stops mid-step.

His brain screeches to a halt.

"I'm sorry?" he says, turning slowly.

Steve's face shifts slightly, caught somewhere between realization and regret.
"What?"

"What?" Eddie echoes.
"What did you just say?"

"Uh—"

"Say what you just said again."

Steve hesitates.
"I feel like I've overstepped—"

"Why did you say that?"

Steve glances around, suddenly nervous.
"I don't—I don't know."

"Yes you do. Why did you say that?" Eddie goads.

"Your—hanky." Steve says warily, pointing weakly at Eddie's back pocket.

Eddie blinks.
"What about my hanky?"

And Steve just stares at him.

"It's for wiping grease off my hands. What the fuck else would it be for?" Eddie asks, voice booming.

Steve's face does something complicated.
"Oh!" Then— "Oh." Then— "Oh, okay. My bad, man."

Eddie narrows his eyes.
"What?"

"No, sorry—forget I—forget it."

Eddie stares at him, incredulous.
"You just said I was a bottom, out of the blue, on a Tuesday afternoon, and you're gonna tell me to forget it?"

"I just thought you were, like—signalling."

Eddie squints harder.
"Signalling?"

"Yeah?"

"Signalling what? That I need a better life because I dropped out of high school and work in a garage for pennies?"

Steve makes a face.
"No—like—" He shakes his head.
"I'm sorry—I—it was a joke."

"A joke about what?"

Steve rubs the back of his neck.
"I just—I'm sorry, I thought you were gay." He laughs awkwardly.

"I am gay."

Steve's jaw falls slack as he shifts uncomfortably.
"Oh."

Eddie crosses his arms, staring at Steve in disbelief.
"Is the joke you outright assuming what position I most like to be fucked in?"

Steve immediately looks like he regrets speaking at all as he stands up slowly from his seated position, holding his hands up in defence.
"No—"

"While you're at it, do you wanna ask what cock I most like the look of? What girth I find most gratuitous? How I really like it when they have that one protruding vein going up—"

"Okay, okay!" Steve interrupts, waving his hands around maniacally.

Eddie huffs, shaking his head.
"You know—high school was like—a while ago, man. Are you guys that bored that you have to come to my place of work to bully me, too?"

Steve lets out a surprised laugh.
"I am so not bullying you."

"You're laughing at me!"

"I'm not laughing at you because you're gay, I'm just laughing because—this—it's funny!" Steve says, gesturing between the two of them.

Eddie glares at him.
"You're so fucking weird, man."

Steve groans, dragging a hand down his face like he wants to physically wipe the situation away. Eddie stares at him, unimpressed.

"Are we done?" Steve asks finally.

Eddie rolls his eyes.
"Yeah. You're all done."

Steve grins.
"Great."

"How much?" Steve asks, fishing into his pocket to pull out his wallet.

"Sixty."
Eddie narrows his eyes.
"And I mean sixty. I don't want any more Harrington handouts."

Steve sighs, pulling out his wallet.
"Fine." He counts out the bills and hands them over.
"Sixty."

Eddie snatches them, shoving them into his pocket.
"Thank you. And I don't wanna see you in here with this poor car again."

"That's a bummer," Steve says, walking backward toward the car with a smirk.
"I was planning on there being something wrong with it again next week."

Eddie blinks.
"What?"

Steve just winks at him.
"In the meantime, why don't you do some research and get back to me. 'Kay?"

Eddie frowns.
"Research on what?"

But Steve is already sliding into the car, pulling the door shut, and reversing out of the garage like he hasn't just said something completely deranged.

Eddie watches the Porsche disappear down the road.

"Research on what!" he yells after it.

***

As promised—and though Eddie is genuinely surprised—Steve rolls up in the Porsche the next week. Eddie feels the anger bubbling up before Steve has even stepped out of the car.

"It's only minor this time, I promise."

Eddie sighs through his nose, jaw tightening. He's sitting at his desk, mid-bite into an apple, and he doesn't even look up.
"I seriously don't have time for this."

Steve leans against his car, arms crossed, watching him with an infuriatingly relaxed expression.
"Yeah, you look super busy."

Eddie takes an aggressive bite of his apple. Chews. Swallows.
"I have other actual customers, you know."

Steve glances around the empty garage, then lifts his eyebrows.
"That's weird. I don't see any."

Eddie clenches his jaw. He doesn't need to justify himself. He could be waiting for a fleet of customers. He could be meticulously planning the rest of his afternoon. Or he could just be enjoying his fucking apple in peace.

"Plus, I'm a customer. I pay you, don't I?"

Eddie narrows his eyes.
"Not the point."

Steve just shrugs, undeterred.

Eddie sighs. He forces himself to stand and stalk over to the car, expecting the worst.
"Now what's wrong?"

"It's making this weird clicking noise when I turn the wheel. I think something might be loose."

Eddie exhales sharply through his nose.
"Alright, I'll take a look."

***

Steve just stands there, watching him the same way as before, leaning back against the workbench like this is his favorite part of the week.

Eddie's looking under the hood, wondering if he slammed his head against it hard enough it would knock him clean out.

After a few minutes, Steve tilts his head.
"Any luck?"

Eddie lets out a sharp breath.
"I've been working on it for five seconds."

"I meant on your homework." Steve grins.

Eddie pauses, then scowls.
"Oh—yeah. Fuck you, by the way."

"What?"

"I couldn't find anything at all about your weird hanky fetish." Eddie grumbles as he assesses the belt.

Steve chuckles.
"You weren't looking in the right places then."

"Well, I gather it's not the kind of thing you'll find in a book at the library."

"Probably not, no."

Eddie exhales, tilting his head to the side in annoyance as he manoeuvres his way around and slumps into the drivers seat.

"It suits you y'know." Steve acknowledges.

"What suits me?" Eddie asks.

"You. Sitting in my car." Steve shrugs.

Eddie grinds his molars, unwilling to be taken in by this facade that was almost certainly a trap.
"Why don't you save us both some time and just tell me." Eddie presses.

Steve's smile turns knowing.
"I can tell you."

Eddie watches him warily.
"Go on, then."

"At The Amber Room tomorrow night."

It wasn't a question. He wasn't asking him to go anywhere. He just said it as though it was a fact. Like he'd already decided Eddie would for sure be there.

Eddie frowns.
"What?"

"It's a bar in—"

"I know what it is." Eddie interrupts. And he does. He's never been, but he knows of it.

Steve smirks like he expected that.
"I go there with friends whenever I come home for the weekend. I want you to come."

Eddie blinks. His stomach twists, and he hates that it does.
"Why?"

Steve laughs, throwing his head back.
"Why are you so offended?"

"Because—why?" Eddie repeats, because it really is the only thing circling in his head right now.

"Because I think it would be nice for us to hang out."

Eddie lets out a dry laugh.
"Would it?"

Steve sighs, shaking his head.
"Jesus, I've never had this much pushback from asking somebody out before."

Eddie stiffens.
"You're asking me out?"

Steve lifts a shoulder.
"Maybe."

Eddie stares. Feeling as though he's about to become the butt of some joke Steve will tell everyone he's ever known somewhere down the line.
"On a date?"

Steve watches him for a moment.
"If you want. Doesn't have to be. Could just be—a high school reunion if that makes you feel more comfortable."

Eddie's heart is pounding, and it makes him furious. Maybe Steve was more callous and cruel than he remembered.
"I don't know, man."

"Well then I guess you'll never know, will you?" Steve interrupts, already pushing off the workbench. He stretches his arms above his head, then rolls his shoulders like this was just another casual conversation.
"We're getting there around seven on Saturday. Normally if I was asking someone on a date, I'd offer to pick them up, but—seeing as you haven't decided on that part yet, I'll just meet you there."

Eddie just stares at him. His mind is a mess.

He wants to tell Steve to go away and not come back. He wants to pretend this never happened. That Steve never rolled into his life like this. That he never leaned against Eddie's workbench and smiled at him like that.

He doesn't trust it.

"I'll think about it."

Steve nods like he expected that, too.
"You should."

Eddie swallows, suddenly feeling like he's already lost whatever argument this was.
He fixates his gaze back to the wheel, knuckles whitening.
"There's nothing wrong with your steering wheel by the way. It's perfectly fine. It's got the right amount of hydraulic pressure, the power steering pump has the right amount of fluid. There's literally nothing wrong with it. I'm starting to think you have some kind of car related Munchausen's."

"Must be your magic touch." Steve says, looking at Eddie with a softness that feels like laying on a bed of nails.
"So I can go then?" He asks, barely audible.

"Yeah. You can go." Eddie nods, evading his gaze as he gets out of the drivers seat.

Steve waltzes past, reaching for the car door. "Well—I'll see you. Or maybe I won't. But—I hope I do."

And then he's gone.

***

Eddie doesn't get asked out on dates. That's not something that happens to him.

He doesn't understand what Steve's doing, what game he's playing, what the end goal is supposed to be. It's not that Eddie thinks Steve is cruel, exactly—it's just that he doesn't think Steve is interested in him, not like that, and so the whole thing makes no sense.

He wasn't even certain if Steve knew what he was asking for.

Eddie hasn't been trying to get Steve to like him. That's the thing. He's not putting on a show, he's not trying to be charming or attractive or whatever it is that makes people want other people. If Steve liked him, that would imply there was something likable about him already, and that doesn't track.

Because Eddie knows what he looks like. He knows what people see.

It's not that he thinks he's ugly, necessarily. It's more like—he knows he isn't the kind of guy people want to be seen with. He knows how he comes across: loud, messy, unpolished. He knows his clothes smell like gasoline and cigarettes and his hands are usually stained with grease and there's always dirt under his nails.

He knows he fidgets too much, that his laugh is too sharp, that he has a habit of talking too fast and not knowing when to stop. He knows that even when he was younger, when people liked him, it was usually in a way that involved a stage and a persona and something to watch from a safe distance.

And yeah, he's slept with people. He's had sex. He's had nights in shitty bars where someone leaned in too close and he let them, where someone wanted him just enough to pull him into a dark corner, to take him back to their place, to press him into a mattress and keep the lights off. But those weren't dates. Those weren't people asking to be seen with him, weren't people offering to pick him up at seven and take him somewhere.

He had a girlfriend once, back in middle school, who dumped him because he never held her hand. She told him it made her feel like he wasn't interested. And maybe she was right. He wasn't interested. Because Eddie remembers wanting to hold hands with someone else, remembers watching another boy in his class laugh at something their teacher said and feeling his stomach twist because that's what he wanted, that's the kind of thing he would have reached for if he wasn't so afraid of what would happen when he did.

So no, Eddie doesn't get asked out on dates.

Which means Steve Harrington either doesn't know what he's doing, or—worse—he does. And he's fucking with Eddie anyway.

Eddie doesn't tell anyone about the invitation. He doesn't mention it to Wayne, doesn't bring it up with Gareth when he calls to check in. He doesn't even let himself think about it too much, because thinking about it makes it real, and if it's real then it can go wrong.

Instead, he spends the next few days pretending it didn't happen, like if he ignores it long enough it'll just cease to exist. Like maybe Steve will forget he ever asked, or maybe he'll change his mind and decide it was a joke after all. And that would be better, honestly.

That would be easier.

Eddie has spent his entire life working under the assumption that people like Steve don't want people like him. And it's not self-pity, it's just fact. Steve was prom king. Steve had cheerleaders hanging off his arm, had girls writing his name on their sneakers in ballpoint pen, had people orbiting him like it was something they needed to do.

And sure, that was years ago. And yeah, maybe people change. But Eddie doesn't think he's changed, not in any way that matters. He's still the same person he's always been. Still the guy people laugh at when he gets too worked up about something stupid. Still the guy people roll their eyes at when he talks too much. Still the guy who's fun to be around in a way that doesn't require real affection. The kind of guy who's good for a night, maybe, but never much longer than that.

Steve Harrington doesn't ask people like Eddie Munson on dates.

Which means, if Eddie goes, it won't actually be a date. It'll be some kind of joke, or a misunderstanding, or one of those things that happens when people get nostalgic about high school and start making bad decisions.

And Eddie doesn't know if he can handle that. Because it's one thing to be lonely. He's used to that. But getting his hopes up—letting himself want something—only to have it all fall apart?

That would be so much fucking worse.

***

The Amber Room is nothing special. Dimly lit, hazy with cigarette smoke. The walls are deep red, like the inside of a jewelry box, and the booths are lined with cracked leather that's seen better days.

Eddie stands outside for a long time, looking through the window and willing himself to go in. He's already here. He washed his hair and tied it back because he spent too long agonizing over what to do with it. And what, he's just gonna turn around and go home? No. No, that would be pathetic.

Eddie shifts his weight from foot to foot, feeling out of place, like he doesn't quite belong here, like he's made some kind of mistake. And then Steve is in front of him, looking relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

So he walks in.

The bar is crowded, but not uncomfortably so. The low hum of conversation mixes with the steady thump of music from the old jukebox in the corner. Something classic rock adjacent, the kind of thing Steve Harrington probably grew up listening to in his massive house with his absent parents. And speaking of Steve—

He's easy to spot.

Not because he stands out, not in the way Eddie is used to. No, this is different. Steve looks casual. Normal, even. He's wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt nothing like the crisp polos and tailored slacks. He's wearing this silver chain that peeks through the neckline of his shirt that Eddie's never noticed before. His hair isn't slicked back anymore. It hangs loose, a little messy, like he ran his hands through it too many times and didn't bother fixing it.

He's sitting with a group of people Eddie recognizes. Jonathan Byers, slouched in the booth like he's part of the furniture, picking at the label on his beer bottle. Robin Buckley, talking with her hands, leaning in close like she's in the middle of some grand story. People that, as far as Eddie remembers, Steve never would've been caught dead with in high school.

None of it makes any sense.

And then Steve sees him.

It's not immediate. He's in the middle of laughing at something Robin is saying, hand wrapped around his drink, body relaxed. And then his eyes catch on Eddie, standing just inside the doorway, shifting on his feet like he's contemplating making a run for it.

Steve watches him. Just for a second. But it's not the kind of look Eddie is used to. It's not mocking or surprised. It's not some kind of backhanded acknowledgment, like oh wow, look at you.

No, Steve looks at him like he's pleased to see him. Like he's enamored.

And then he's getting up. Not in a rush, not like he's making a big deal about it. But he pushes away from the table, excuses himself, and starts walking toward Eddie like it's the easiest thing in the world.

Eddie swallows hard, tries to ignore the way his palms have suddenly gone clammy.

He has no idea what he's doing here.

"You came." Steve acknowledges, tilting his head slightly.
"Or rather – you caved."

Eddie exhales sharply.
"Mm. Something like that."

Steve looks him over, mouth quirking into something almost like a smirk.
"You look—"

Eddie's shoulders immediately go up.
"What?"

Steve's lips thin and he rests his own cheek against his shoulder knowingly.
"If you'd let me finish before you start jumping down my throat, I was going to say you look great."

Eddie blinks. His stomach twists uncomfortably. "Oh."

He glances down at himself, like he needs to double-check that he actually remembered to dress properly.
"Yeah, well. Sometimes us poor folk can scrub up well. Wouldn't want the prince to be seen with a pauper now, would we?" His tone is sharp, teasing, but there's something underneath it. Something defensive.

Steve just smiles, easy, like he doesn't take the bait.
"It's good to see you."

Eddie hesitates, then nods.
"You too."
He's not sure why, but he's starting to feel like he means it.

Steve jerks his chin toward the bar.
"Can I get you a drink?"

Eddie shakes his head, already moving in that direction.
"I can get my own drink. Still making my way through that hefty tip you gave me."

He leans against the bar, pressing his palms to the worn wood, and Steve follows, standing too close but acting like it's perfectly natural.

"Well, generally speaking, I'd probably give a little more than the tip." Steve snickers.

Eddie closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ."

Steve laughs louder now, nudging his shoulder lightly. Then, more casually, he asks, "So have you decided?"

Eddie frowns, signaling to the bartender.
"On?"

"On whether you want this to be a date or not."

Eddie snorts.
"Harrington, people don't typically ask other people on dates with their friends. Unless – you're in middle school or something."

Steve shrugs.
"That never happened to me in middle school."

Eddie rolls his eyes.
"You know what I mean."

"Point taken." Steve concedes.
"Guess I just figured it might put you more at ease if you vetoed the date idea."

Eddie glances at him, squinting slightly.
"How considerate of you." His voice is laced with sarcasm, but Steve just grins.

"But if at any point you decide you'd like this to be a date, say the word. We can go somewhere else. Just the two of us. And if not, well, I got to hang out with you and introduce you to my friends anyway. So I'm fine with that."

Eddie doesn't know what to say to that.
"Sure. Okay." He says finally.

Steve watches him for a second, like he's waiting for something else. Then, when nothing comes, he flashes another easy smile and walks away, weaving through the crowd to rejoin his friends.

Eddie watches him go, fingers still curled around the edge of the bar. His stomach feels weird. This awful, fluttery feeling like he's going to puke. Is he going to have a panic attack? He hasn't had one in years. Maybe Steve Harrington is just so bad for his wellbeing he's brought them back.

***

The booth is crowded, too many people squeezed into too small a space, but nobody seems to mind. Eddie sits wedged between Steve and the wall, feeling vaguely trapped but also oddly comfortable.

Nancy Wheeler arrives shortly after Eddie, sliding into the seat across from them, and that's when Eddie starts to think this entire night exists in some strange alternate universe. She greets Steve with familiarity, ruffling Robin's hair as she sits. No weird tension, no remnants of whatever dramatic high school breakup her and Steve must have had as she sidles up to Jonathan and pecks him on the lips.

Eddie doesn't ask about it. He just watches.

Some guy called Argyle arrives around a half hour later bringing with him the smell of weed and a slow, easy energy that seems to level everything out.

Steve is the kind of person who makes being around people look effortless. He tells stories, leans in when he talks, laughs easily, grinning with all his teeth. He nudges Robin when she rolls her eyes at him, tosses an arm over Jonathan's shoulder and looks at them with such adoration.

Eddie doesn't know how to do this. He listens, mostly, throwing in a comment when someone looks at him expectantly, but he feels like an observer. Like he's watching something play out from the outside. Like he's been given a guest pass into a world he doesn't belong to.

Every so often, Steve turns to him—Right, Eddie?—pulling him into the conversation, making sure he speaks. And when he does, they listen. They actually listen.

It's so strange.

And what's stranger is that Steve is just so excruciatingly close to him.

Every time Eddie speaks, he can feel his eyes on him, his attention unwavering in a way that makes Eddie fidget with the label on his beer bottle. And then there's the way their arms keep brushing—small, accidental touches that neither of them pull away from. At one point, Steve shifts in his seat, and their skin touches, warm and solid, and Eddie doesn't move. Doesn't want to.

Then there are shots on the table. Ordered by Robin and Argyle, who are already slipping into that loose, tipsy kind of joy. The glasses are small, filled to the rim with something bright and sharp-smelling. Eddie shakes his head.

Steve does the same.

He could have done it just because he doesn't want to drink. But Eddie knows it's more than that. He's going at Eddie's pace. He's matching him. It does something to Eddie's insides. Makes him feel warm in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol.

And after that, it gets easier.

The conversation shifts. The edges of the night soften. Eddie loosens up. He leans back in his chair, stretches his legs out beneath the table. When he speaks, it comes easier. They laugh at the right moments. He makes Steve laugh, really laugh, head tilted back, mouth open, eyes crinkling at the corners. And Eddie thinks—

Oh.

He doesn't know what to do with it.

But he likes it.

***

The jukebox hums beneath Eddie's fingers as he flips through the selections, pretending to focus. Steve is beside him, leaning against it like he belongs there, one arm draped over the top, watching Eddie with a lazy kind of amusement.

"What are you putting on?" Steve asks, voice low, teasing.

Eddie doesn't look at him.
"Oh—just something you'll hate."

Steve hums, tilting his head.
"Hate? That's a strong word." Then, after a beat—"Besides, I don't think I could hate anything that came from you."

Eddie's fingers freeze over the buttons. Something tightens in his chest, sudden and unwelcome. His breath catches like a hook snagging in his throat.

Eddie's back goes up immediately.
"Look, man—"

"I'm looking," Steve interrupts, grinning. He bobs his head from side to side in a way that feels deliberately obnoxious.
"Man."

Eddie exhales sharply, frustrated.
"Are you seriously hitting on me, or is this some kind of joke?"

Steve raises his eyebrows.
"I've been hitting on you. For like—quite a while. I thought you knew that."

Eddie blinks, quieter now.
"I did know that."

Steve leans in slightly, watching him.
"So?"

"So—" But Eddie doesn't have an answer.

Steve tilts his head, considering him.
"Do you want me to not hit on you?"

Eddie doesn't say anything. And then his song starts to play. The opening chords spill out of the jukebox, filling the space between them. Steve listens for a moment, nodding along.

"This is interesting," he says.

"Interesting." Eddie repeats flatly.

Steve grins.
"Well, I don't hate it. So—you were wrong."

"Oh, okay." Eddie scoffs.

Steve hums again.
"I guess you don't know me as well as you think you do. Which, if I had to hazard a guess, is pretty well. Because I see you trying to figure me out."

Eddie looks at him, wary.
"And how exactly do you see me doing that?"

Steve watches him for a long moment, then lifts his hand.
"Because whenever you look at me, you get this little dip above your eyebrow. Right here." His thumb traces it, featherlight.

Eddie doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.

Steve's voice is softer when he continues.
"Like you're frowning, except you're not really. You're just secretly thinking of all the ways you think I'm going to make fun of you or hurt your feelings and preparing for that eventuality. So you're miles ahead, hammering nails into barricades to make sure I can't. Even though I wouldn't. Because I'm typically not in the business of hurting people I want around."

Eddie stares at him. Something cold and shaky curls in his stomach.
"How do you know you want me around?"

Steve shrugs, simple, certain.
"Just do."

Eddie stares at him, wide-eyed, like he can't quite believe what he just said out loud. Then, suddenly self-conscious, he drops his gaze, his lips twitching as he tries to suppress a smile. He turns his head slightly, letting his hair fall forward, obscuring his face.

"What?" Steve asks, watching him closely.

"Nothing." Eddie mumbles.

Steve squints at him.
"What?" he presses.

Eddie shifts on his feet, still half-hiding behind his hair.
"This can, uh—" he pauses, breathes in.
"This can be a date. I guess."

Steve's expression shifts immediately, eyes brightening.
"Yeah?"

Eddie clears his throat, forcing himself to meet Steve's gaze.
"Yeah."

Steve nods, satisfied.
"Alright."

Then, with great exaggeration, he mimes taking an invisible baseball cap off his head and tossing it to the side, before theatrically replacing it with yet another imaginary hat.

Eddie watches him, bewildered.
"What the fuck was that?"

"I was taking my platonic hangout session hat off and putting my date hat on."

Eddie groans out a dismal laugh.
"Wow. Yeah, no. I take it back. This isn't a date."

Steve shakes his head, grinning.
"No take-backs. Sorry."

Eddie narrows his eyes.
"That so?"

"Yep. I take it very seriously. If I'm gonna romance you, I need to do it right."

Eddie raises an eyebrow.
"Romance me, huh?"

Steve nods.
"Mhm. I'm on official business as of now."

Eddie scoffs, crossing his arms.
"Alright then—well are you gonna tell me about your weird hanky fascination or what?"

Steve smirks.
"Or what."

Eddie groans again, rolling his eyes.
"Dude."

"I'll tell you," Steve says, "if you answer one of my questions first."

Eddie exhales, exasperated.
"Fine."

Steve leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make Eddie's stomach turn over. "Would you like to come back to mine?"

Eddie stills.
"Yours?"

"Mhm."

Eddie blinks, hesitant.

"You're right. Kinda sucks having a date when there's so many people you know around."

And then he realises something.
"In Chicago?"

"No, sorry." Steve shakes his head.
"I should have clarified. I have an apartment here too. Like a nice halfway point between home and home."

Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it.
"W-uh—"

Steve laughs lightly.
"We passed the sweet spot of people's drinking capacities a while ago, trust me. It's all downhill from here. But— we can stay and hang out with these guys if you want. Just might involve you and some other poor unsuspecting member of the party carrying Robin into a taxi by her arms and legs."

Eddie glances back at the table, at the growing chaos of their friends getting progressively drunker. Then he looks back at Steve.
"No, no—it's fine. I can come to yours."

Steve grins, pleased.
"Great."
He gestures toward the door.
"Let's go then."

Steve weaves through the tangle of bodies and half-empty glasses at the table, Eddie trailing just behind him, hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

"Eddie and I are heading out," Steve announces casually, but the reaction is immediate.

"Ohhh—you're heading out. I see, I see!" Jonathan says, leaning forward like he's just uncovered some grand mystery.

Robin, already well past the tipping point, sings, "They're gonna f-uuu-ck."

Eddie stiffens, his whole body locking up. His skin prickles with heat, and suddenly, he feels like he's sixteen again, the punchline to some joke he wasn't in on. He doesn't know where to look, only that he really, really wants to be anywhere but here.

Steve doesn't even flinch. He just shakes his head and points between Jonathan and Robin.
"I'm prescribing them water from here on out."

Nancy laughs, lifting her glass.
"Good luck with that."

Argyle gives a slow, exaggerated salute.
"Sir yes, sir!"

Robin pouts dramatically, throwing an arm around Nancy.
"Nuh-uh! Tequila, you sons of bitches!"

Steve claps a hand on Eddie's back, nudging him toward the door before the conversation can spiral any further. Eddie follows, still half-stuck on whatever the fuck just happened. How she wasn't embarrassed. How Steve wasn't embarrassed.

Outside, the air is cool, crisp. Eddie breathes it in, trying to shake the feeling from his body. Steve glances over at him.

"Sorry," he says.

Eddie shrugs, keeping his voice level.
"S'fine. Doesn't bother me."

Steve stops walking, turning slightly to face him. "We can fuck if you want, but we don't have to."

Jesus, does this guy not have a filter?

Eddie freezes.
"What?"

"I'm just throwing it out there," Steve says, like he's stating the weather.
"That's not the reason I invited you over. I just like being around you."

Eddie swallows.
"Oh."

Steve watches him, waiting. Then, more softly: "So—whatever you want is fine."

Eddie exhales, shifting his weight.
"I mean—" he pauses, shaking his head. "I literally have no idea how to respond to that."

Steve just laughs.
"We'll just—see how it goes then."

Eddie nods slowly, still feeling like he's a few steps behind, like Steve is moving at a pace he hasn't quite caught up with yet.

Then Steve reaches into his pocket, pulls out his keys, and holds them up.
"You wanna drive?"

Eddie blinks at him.
"Are you for real?"

"Sure. Catch."

Before Eddie can process it, Steve tosses the keys in his direction. Eddie scrambles, catching them against his chest.

He stares at the Porsche, then back at Steve. "You're fucking crazy."

Steve smirks.
"So I've been told."

***

Eddie keeps looking around, trying to make sense of the apartment, but it's difficult. It doesn't feel like Steve. Or, maybe it does, but not the version of Steve that Eddie had already built in his head. The one that made sense.

The walls are filled with color, warm tones that don't match the cold, corporate image Eddie had subconsciously attached to Steve's new life. There are weirdly shaped, legless green sofas that seem to defy the laws of furniture design. A chandelier that looks like it belongs in some eccentric art museum. Shelves stacked full of DVDs, records, games.

It's too big, though. Even with all its personality, it's too big. And Eddie doesn't understand that either.

"Jesus Christ," Eddie exhales.

Steve moves easily, naturally, straight to the kitchen. It's so open that it barely feels separate from the rest of the space. The appliances gleam under the light, untouched-looking, like they belong in some catalog Eddie would never bother flipping through. The whole place is surreal.

Steve doesn't seem to notice his hesitation, or maybe he does and just doesn't comment. Instead, he heads for a wine rack and pulls out a bottle.

"Do you like wine? I'm feeling like wine."

Eddie snorts, stepping tentatively further inside, like the floor might reject him if he walks too confidently.
"I tend to like most things that stop me from being myself."

Steve just looks at him, head tilting slightly.
"Not too much then. I like it when you're being yourself."

Eddie swallows. The words shouldn't land the way they do, but something about them makes his face warm. Steve pours two glasses of red, handing one to him from across the obscene kitchen island.

"Cheers."

"Yeah. Cheers."

They clink glasses. Eddie drinks too fast, lets the alcohol coat his throat, distract him. Steve is still looking at him like he's waiting for something.

"Okay," Steve says, leaning against the counter, "this is now officially your domain."

"Sorry?" Eddie almost chokes.

"This is a date. And I want you to have fun on said date. So you pick what we do."

Eddie huffs a laugh, shifting on his feet.
"Uh—I'm not sure I'm qualified to make those decisions."

Steve grins, easy, like this is normal. Like Eddie is normal, which he definitely appreciated.
"Okay, well—luckily for you, this is the fun apartment. Have a lot of afters here with the gang. So—we have board games, video games, movies, snacks, enough alcohol to kill a pirate. You pick."

Eddie hesitates, looking at Steve, then at the space around them. He still doesn't understand how he ended up here. How this is happening.

"Then—I choose all of it."

Steve raises an eyebrow, intrigued.
"All of it?"

"Sure. We'll start with a board game, have some snacks. Play some video games, have some more snacks. And then—whatever else."

"Let me guess, with more snacks?" Steve quirks his eyebrows.

"I like snacks."

Steve laughs, shaking his head.
"Okay. All of it, it is."

He moves toward the fridge, pulling out an assortment of things—meats, cheeses, fruits. The fridge is stacked. It doesn't look like the fridge of someone who's rarely here.

Eddie narrows his eyes.
"If you're not here all the time, why do you keep a full fridge?"

Steve doesn't even pause.
"I don't."

Eddie blinks.
"So you were just banking on me saying yes to coming here days in advance?"

Steve finally looks up from the food, grinning. "Pretty much."

Eddie exhales sharply, shaking his head.
"You are the perfect combination of selfless and pompous, you know that?"

Steve's grin widens.
"So you're saying I'm perfect?"

Eddie rolls his eyes, taking another sip of wine. "So—you're like rich. Right?"

"I am—not struggling."

"Okay, well, you must be rich to afford an apartment here and in Chicago and just—travel between the two whenever you want."

Steve just shrugs.
"Sure."

Eddie watches him for a beat. Steve is slicing into a block of cheese like this isn't the most surreal moment of Eddie's life.

"So—what do you even do for work?"

Steve glances up, amused.
"What do you think I do for work?"

Eddie considers him, the way he's standing there all effortlessly put together, the casual arrogance that somehow isn't irritating. The wealth. The confidence.

The fucking apartment.

"Honestly, at this point, with your general aura? I'd say like—a hitman or something."

Steve laughs, shaking his head.
"I am not a hitman. Don't worry." He pauses, slicing into another piece of cheese.
"It's actually kinda fucking boring."

Eddie leans against the counter, watching him. "So bore me."

"My dad is the CEO of a sports advertisement company, and I am his COO."

Eddie considers that, lips pressing together. "Hm. Sorta like me and Wayne but less fancy."

Steve chuckles.
"Very much so."

"So what does a day in the life of COO Steve Harrington look like?"

"Well—essentially it's just a lot of numbers and paperwork. Financial planning, budget management, revenue management—"

"You're right, that is really boring." Eddie interjects flatly.

Steve grins.
"Told you." He leans back, straightening up.
"It does have its upsides. Obviously, building good client relationships is key. They come to us because they're looking to promote a product. And we're the best, so it's an easy game. We just have to show them why we're the best. People like Nike, Adidas, sports teams and leagues." He pauses, smirking.
"Plus, I can't sound too hard done by. I do get to look at hot men in kits for eight hours a day."

Eddie snorts.
"Oh yeah, must have to strap it down on your way out the door every morning."

"Another perk is we have boxes at pretty much every major arena. So—if you're into that kinda thing, just say the word, and I can get you some tickets."

Eddie raises an eyebrow.
"Me? Sport?" He shakes his head.
"Nah—that's Wayne's thing. However, I won't pass up the offer if it's a cool gig."

Steve nods.
"Noted." He leans down, pulling a wooden board from the cupboard as he laces it with a smattering of meats, cheeses and crackers.
"Anyway—that's enough about me."

Eddie picks at a piece of prosciutto.
"You barely said anything." He says with his mouth full as he chews.

Steve leans in slightly, like he's sharing a secret. "Why would I wanna talk about me when there's someone far more interesting standing right in front of me?"

Eddie stops, mid-chew. Looks at him. Steve is just standing there, relaxed, watching him like it's obvious, like it's not even a question.

Eddie swallows, looks away, grabs his wine. His stomach twists. He doesn't get it.

But Steve just keeps looking at him like he does.

***

Steve sets up a board game first, laying it out on the coffee table in front of those ridiculous green sofas. Eddie sinks into one, feeling like he's being swallowed whole, the fabric so soft it barely feels like furniture at all. He watches Steve read the rules, his brow furrowing in concentration. The way he moves is so unselfconscious, so relaxed in his own space. Eddie can't tell if he envies it or if it just makes him feel more out of place.

But then Steve starts explaining the rules in this exaggerated, dramatic voice, gesturing wildly like they're about to embark on some high-stakes mission. Eddie rolls his eyes, but he's already laughing. They play for nearly an hour, bickering over rules, accusing each other of cheating, their wine glasses emptying too fast.

At some point, Steve gets up and puts a record on. The sound crackles to life, warm and rich, filling the space in a way that makes Eddie feel like maybe he does belong here, at least for tonight.

They switch to video games after that. Steve pulls out a console, hands Eddie a controller, and they sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV. The game is some version of Street Fighter, something fast-paced and stupid. They spend half the time shouting at each other, shoving at each other's shoulders whenever one of them lands a particularly brutal move.

Eddie laughs so hard at one point that he actually tips backward onto the carpet, his stomach aching, tears stinging his eyes. Steve is cackling next to him, victorious, the glow of the screen making his face look softer somehow.

They eat straight from the charcuterie board Steve put together, picking at meats and cheeses, passing grapes back and forth. Eddie drinks more than he means to, the wine going down easy, loosening him up in a way that feels good, like something warm and golden spreading through his limbs.

Steve just watches him, eyes soft, like he's studying him. Like he's memorizing him.

Eddie doesn't get it.

***

The Jeff Buckley vinyl crackles softly beneath the weight of the needle, filling the space between them.

They're sitting across from each other, a Scrabble board between them. Eddie picks up his tiles and immediately regrets this activity.

"You do realise that Scrabble is maybe the most unsexy game in the history of the world, right?" Eddie says.

"Scrabble can be sexy."

"No it cannot."

Steve pulls out some tiles and spells out the word penis.

"See. Sexy."

Eddie laughs, head tipping back. It's easy with Steve, stupidly easy.

"Okay, I have a question." Eddie eventually says.

"Maybe I'll have an answer."

"Why am I here?"

Steve looks up from his tiles, eyebrows drawing together.
"What? You don't wanna be?"

"No. I do. It's just—why did you ask me to go out with you?"

"I—" Steve falters, looking at him like he's not sure how much he wants to say.

"Actually—let's go back to before that. Why are you gay?" Eddie interjects.

"Why am I gay?" Steve echoes, suppressing laughter.

"I guess more like—how? I mean—are you gay?"

"Yes, I'm gay." Steve clarified with a placating nod.
"As for the how and the why, I don't have an answer for that. I guess I just—sort of—realised maybe my attraction to girls was sort of misplaced because it was the normal thing to do and be when we were younger. I mean, I love girls. I love my friends. But—I never like, loved them, I don't think. Like how you're supposed to."

Eddie nods, processing. The vinyl skips for a second before settling back into its song.

"When did you realise?" Eddie asks.

"In college."

"Well, if you're gonna realise anything anywhere it's gonna be at college."

"Yeah, it was uh—an interesting time. But a part of me is grateful I realised that about myself away from home and away from my parents. Like, I had a sense of freedom in a new place and I didn't really feel like myself. Like Steve Harrington. I just felt like Steve. I could experiment and try new things and regret things and be—not perfect. And—yeah, the rest is history. Now I'm just super fuckin' gay."

Eddie smirks.
"So you are. And I assume you knew I was because of the whole outing situation in high school."

Steve's eyebrows quirk into a frown, lip twitching as he contemplates this.
"Yeah. I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Don't be. Sometimes it's easier to get pushed before you jump. Rip the bandaid off. It was—shitty, and I hated it when it was happening, and then I just stopped caring, I guess. Like, high school ended and everyone who made my life a misery just left. The people I care about know and don't treat me any differently. So, who fuckin' cares."

"Well, I'm glad it's been easier for you."

"Woah, I wouldn't go that far. I'm still a gay guy living in buttfuck Hawkins, Indiana." Eddie laughs.

"Touché." Steve smiles.
He pulls a tile from the bag, rolls it between his fingers.
"Moving on to why you're here—the answer to that one is a little simpler. And that's—because I like you. I think you're hot and I'm interested in getting to know you. Know you as you are now. So, yeah."

Eddie blinks, feeling strangely unmoored, like the ground beneath him just tilted a little.

"You think I'm hot?"

"I have a thing for grumpy guys that always look a little dirty, what can I say?"

Eddie snorts, trying to deflect the way something warm curls in his chest. He clears his throat. "Well, I guess the next big question here is—how and why are you still single?"

"That's the next big question? Not, what do I think is the meaning of life?" Steve asks, bobbing his head with dramacy.

"I'm sure we can get to that, but I'm more interested in this right now."

"Nothing that exciting." Steve leans back on his hands.
"I guess I can just be—a little picky, when it comes to relationships. Some people might say difficult."

"You? Difficult? No." Eddie says, tone laced with sarcasm.

"I think I just spent long enough chasing after the wrong people and wasting my time. Now, I just—refuse to settle for anyone less than incredible."

Eddie scoffs.
"Could have fooled me."

"That's not a self-deprecating dig I heard, is it?" Steve queries, knowingly.

"The Eddie specialty."

Steve shakes his head, exasperated but smiling. "I just like to believe that romance is still possible when you have to hide so much of who you are from other people. That's what I'm holding out for."

"I think it can be." Eddie's voice is quieter now. He looks at Steve and finds him already looking back.

"That and the fact I've been told I'm a little full-on a handful of times."

"Can't imagine why." Eddie jokes.

"I know I struggle to reel it in sometimes. Guess I just—"

"Please don't say you wear your heart on your sleeve or something. I'll vomit on this really nice and probably expensive rug."

Steve laughs, tilting his head back, and Eddie hates how much he likes the sound of it.

"Okay, I won't. But—yeah. Essentially."

Eddie exhales through his nose, shaking his head, smiling despite himself.
"Well—I don't know shit about relationships. But I can't imagine it would be full-on for the right person. It'll be—the perfect amount of on."

Steve's smile softens. He watches Eddie for a second too long.

"What about you?" Steve asks.

"Ah—y'know. Don't really get a lotta time to broaden my horizons with the garage and helping out Wayne. Plus, it's a small town, everyone knows everyone, which you already know. Guess I just—forgot that it was something I could even want because I was so hung up on surviving and keeping everything running. What I'm doing now is just—it wasn't something I ever wanted for myself. But—now here I am. Kinda stuck."

Steve watches him, listening, not interrupting. Eddie's not used to that.

"We'll have to find a way to get you unstuck."

Eddie huffs out a dismal laugh.
"Thanks, but—I think I'm in this for the long haul now. Or at least until Wayne retires. He'll probably sell it off and I can do whatever I want then. But—that won't be for another ten years or so and then it'll just be too late."

Steve frowns.
"Too late for what?"

Eddie shrugs, looking down at the Scrabble board. The word penis is still sitting there. It makes him laugh a little, shaking his head.

"So yeah—all of that shit has kinda prevented me from being able to find my person or whatever."

Steve's watching him again, something thoughtful in his expression.

"What does your person look like, do you think?"

"Honestly? I have no idea." Eddie licks his lips, glancing at Steve.
"Well—up until recently I had no idea."

Steve hums, tilting his head.
"Hm."

"Oh, don't let me give you the wrong impression. I have another date with some other guy tomorrow. Super hot. Built like a house," Eddie jokes.

"Oh, of course. I don't doubt it."

Steve smiles, biting down against his lower lip. He glances down at the Scrabble board, then peers up at Eddie beneath his brows. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. Eddie's watching him intently. Then Steve says—

"Can I"—and doesn't finish. He clears his throat. "Get you some more wine?"

"Sure."

Steve stands, takes Eddie's glass with him. The room feels briefly quieter without him, just the soft scratch of Jeff Buckley's voice, the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. Eddie watches the way Steve moves, the ease in his shoulders, the way he runs a hand through his hair absentmindedly while uncorking the bottle.

"Now can you please tell me about this stupid fucking hanky thing?" Eddie calls after him.

Steve laughs from the kitchen.

"Or was your plan to get me so drunk on your fancy red wine that I forget all about it?"

Steve returns, handing Eddie his refilled glass, sitting back down with a little sigh, like he's settled into something familiar. Eddie takes a sip, watching him over the rim.

"Okay," Steve says.
"I'll tell you."

"Thank you."

"It's a code."

"A code?"

"Mhm." Steve sips his wine.

"A code for what?"

"So—people will put handkerchiefs in one of the pockets of their pants or whatever to signal to other people what kind of sex they're into."

"What?"

"Yup."

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

"So—why? How does that even work?"

"Because there's a code. Each colour means something, and whatever side you wear it on—be it your left or right—also means something."

Eddie takes a moment to process this to the best of his ability.
"So—wait. You thought I was a bottom."

"Correct."

"Because—"

"Because your handkerchief was navy and you were wearing it in your right pocket."

"And if I was wearing it on the left, that means—what, exactly?"

"That you're a top."

"Jesus Christ." Eddie leans back, runs a hand down his face.
"That's—insane. I've drunk too much wine for this."

"Yeah. It's pretty gnarly." Steve shrugs, mimicking Eddie's body language as he leans back too.
"And you know all of them?"

"Sure. Most of 'em."

"How?"

"Just—gay clubs, I guess. People watching. Talking."

"Okay, so—what's—I don't know. Pink."

"What shade?"

"There's different shades?"

"Yeah." Steve laughs, clearly entertained.

"I don't know, like—a normal pink."

"So that would mean—depending on the side—tit torturer, or tit torturee."

"Shut the fuck up." Eddie stares at him.
"I can't believe you know all this."

"Is it weird?"

"No. Not at all. It's just crazy." Eddie shakes his head.
"Have you ever done it?"

"Ah—like, I don't know, maybe once or twice. Other than that, no."

"Okay, so what would your colour be?"

"Now that's personal." Steve smirks.

"Oh, gimme a fuckin' break." Eddie scoffs.

"Probably—grey and black. Grey with a black trim or something."

"God—there's trims?" Eddie practically guffaws.

"And I'd wear it on the left."

"What does that mean?"

"Tell me what you like, and I'll give you a colour." Steve leans forward eagerly, his hands clasped against the scrabble board like they're in some kind of meeting.

"You're so secretive."

"Inquisitive."

"Now this does feel a lot more personal than me saying a colour."

Steve watches him, his gaze steady, the ghost of a smirk still lingering. He doesn't press, doesn't tease. Just waits.

Eddie can feel his own pulse in his throat. It's ridiculous, really, the way Steve is looking at him. Like he's already figured him out, like he knew all of this before Eddie even said it out loud.

"Okay." Eddie sighs, surmounting the energy.
"I uh—I guess I like"—

Steve doesn't break his gaze, but his eyes are unhurrying. It's not like anyone has ever asked him this before, at least not in a way that mattered. Not in a way that made him feel like he was about to step off the edge of something.

"You don't need to be nervous. I'm not gonna judge you." Steve says softly.

"Oh trust me, I think this is a very good time for me to be nervous."
Eddie laughs, but it sounds tight, like there's not enough room in his chest for it. He exhales.
"Well—I'm a bottom."

"Okay."

Steve says it so evenly that Eddie almost laughs again. No reaction, no surprise, no teasing. Just acceptance, like Eddie had said he liked coffee black or that his favourite colour was red.

"You're not gonna say something like—water is wet?"

"Course not. I'm just gonna think it."

Eddie rolls his eyes, but it's fond, and Steve is smiling, just barely.

"Anything else?"

Eddie hesitates. This part feels harder, but he doesn't know why. It's just words. Just things he likes, things that make his body feel good. Things that Steve clearly wants to know. But something about saying it out loud, here, in Steve's massive kitchen, with Jeff Buckley still murmuring on the turntable, makes it feel terrifying.

He swallows.
"I'm into like—some—I don't know. I guess a little bit of S&M. But—not too much. My pain threshold isn't very high. I basically cry whenever I stub my toe."

Steve smirks, but he doesn't interrupt.

"I mainly like temperature stuff. Like ice cubes. I don't mind being tied up but—I mostly like handcuffs and stuff. Blindfolds, cockrings. That kinda shit. Not really into straight-up torture. There's enough of that in the world." Eddie rambles, barely making eye contact.

Steve nods. Like he's taking mental notes. Like he's filing this information away somewhere private, somewhere only he has access to.

"That's fair."

"What colour is that?"

Steve hums.
"That—would be—" He pauses, tilting his head slightly.
"Grey and black. And you'd wear it on the right."

Eddie blinks.
"Ah."

Steve just shrugs, like this is the most casual conversation in the world.

"Yeah."

Eddie narrows his eyes slightly.
"How do I know you're not lying just to get me into bed?"

Steve meets his gaze, unwavering.
"I would never lie to you about something like that. Trust me." His voice is quiet, certain. And then he grins, all teeth.
"And I make a point of not lying to get people into bed. Kind of a rule for me."

Eddie clicks his tongue.
"I see."

"So—for that exact reason, I am going to do my utmost to not get you into bed."

Steve hauls himself off the floor with a grunt, collects the plates and bowls surrounding them, then walks off toward the kitchen. Eddie watches him go, frowning slightly, like his body is lagging behind his brain.

"Oh okay, big guy."

"This is me, not trying to seduce you," Steve says, dumping the dishes into the sink and running the tap.

Eddie gets up, following him, standing on the other side of the kitchen island.

"Hate to break it to you, but there's like an entire porn sub-category for people who are into horny housewives."

Steve snorts, scrubbing at a plate with a sponge. "So you're saying that watching me clean dishes is turning you on?"

Eddie gapes at him.
"No, I'm just—"

"What? Blushing?" Steve glances up at him, smirking.
"Yeah, you might be, actually. Looking a little flushed there."

Eddie can feel the heat creeping up his neck, the traitorous warmth settling somewhere behind his ears.

Steve grins, drying his hands off on a dish towel. "You're adorable."

Steve moves toward Eddie slowly, deliberately. There's no urgency in his steps, just a quiet kind of inevitability.

Eddie exhales sharply and tips his head back, closing his eyes with a groan. When he looks again, Steve is standing right in front of him, leaning back casually against the kitchen island like they're talking about the weather.

"We're gonna fuck, aren't we?" Eddie asks, his voice rougher than he intends.

Steve tilts his head slightly, eyes flickering over Eddie's face.
"Yeah, probably."

Eddie nods, mouth dry.
"Cool. That's—cool."

"Is that—okay?" Steve asks, watching him carefully.

"Yeah, I mean—it's fine." Eddie shifts on his feet.

"You don't sound convinced."

Eddie lets out a weak laugh.
"Oh no, it's cool. It's just—totally gonna ruin my life and destroy my perception of literally everything else in the world. But it's not a problem, really."

Steve raises his eyebrows, amused.
"How so?"

Eddie sighs, shaking his head.
"I'm supposed to move on with my life having fucked Steve Harrington? Yeah, okay."

Steve laughs, low and warm.
"You think way too much of me."

Eddie huffs.
"I think way too much about you, yeah."

The second it leaves his mouth, he wants to take it back. It feels too raw, too exposed. And Steve's laughing again, like he heard it exactly the way Eddie didn't mean for him to hear it.

"Sorry—that was your awful wine talking."

Steve's grin lingers.
"You do?"

Eddie swallows.
"Obviously."

"What kind of things do you think about?"

Steve reaches for him, fingers brushing against Eddie's wrist, barely there, but pulling him closer all the same.

"Oh—you know. Whether or not you're into crochet."

Steve hums, pretending to consider it.
"I've never tried. So—technically, I can't say no."

His voice is quieter now, lower, and Eddie is close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him.

"Mm. Figured." Eddie nods, as if this is a very serious revelation.

Steve exhales a laugh.
"Sorry. Is that disappointing?"

Their feet knock together, then their knees, and then there's no more space left between them. Eddie tilts his chin up slightly.

"Disappointing but not surprising."

Steve licks his lips, his gaze dropping to Eddie's mouth for half a second.
"Well—I'd hate to disappoint you, Eddie."

His voice is barely a whisper now. Eddie can feel the words against his skin, can feel the soft warmth of Steve's breath against his face.

They just look at each other for a while.

The seconds stretch out, charged and heavy, and Eddie is suddenly aware of how still Steve is. How much control he's forcing himself to have.

"Do you usually wait for the other person to make a move and suffer in silence like this?" Eddie asks, tilting his head slightly.

Steve blinks.
"What?"

"I'm still waiting for that kiss you were gonna ask me for."

Steve straightens slightly.
"I—when?"

"When you were definitely gonna ask if you could kiss me and then chickened out and asked if I wanted more wine."

Steve closes his eyes briefly, laughing.
"Ah. You caught that."

Eddie grins.
"Now who's blushing?"

Steve shakes his head.
"Didn't wanna go too fast and freak you out."

Eddie smirks.
"S'kinda hard to freak the freak out."

Steve smiles, and then—he kisses him.

It starts slow.

Steve's lips press against his like a question, like he's waiting for Eddie to pull away, to tell him to stop. But Eddie doesn't. He sighs into the kiss instead, his whole body softening, sinking into it.

Steve's hand moves to Eddie's jaw, fingertips trailing lightly along his skin, barely there. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his other hand resting at Eddie's waist, steady and warm.

Eddie makes a small sound in the back of his throat, and something shifts.

Steve groans softly and tugs Eddie closer. His hands are everywhere—his jaw, his throat, his waist. He strokes his fingers through Eddie's hair, tugs lightly, drags his thumb along Eddie's cheekbone. His mouth is hot, eager, and Eddie lets himself melt into it, hands fisting into Steve's shirt.

Steve kisses like he needs it. Like he's been waiting.

And then—he pulls back. Abruptly.

Eddie blinks up at him, dazed.
"What?"

Steve exhales sharply, shaking his head.
"When I tell you—I have wanted to kiss you so bad for like the last two weeks."

Eddie chuckles, nudging his nose against Steve's. "You're insane."

"I know."

Eddie swallows, heart still pounding.
"Why?"

Steve's fingers are in his hair again, stroking absently, like he can't help himself.
"I just like you. I couldn't stop thinking about you. It was just—the second I saw you, I couldn't get you out of my head."

Eddie's breath hitches slightly.
"Jesus."

Steve tenses slightly.
"I'm sorry—"

Eddie shakes his head quickly, cupping Steve's face with both hands.
"No. Don't be. It's—it's nice."

Steve relaxes under his touch, eyes flickering over Eddie's face.

"Not enough people are that honest," Eddie murmurs.

Steve hesitates.
"I haven't been—completely honest."

Eddie leans back slightly, brow furrowing.
"Oh God. You're married. You have a beard. I'm a homewrecker."

Steve's eyes widen.
"No, God, no! Nothing like—that. Jesus." He grips Eddie's shoulders.
"Nobody clipped me on the rotary."

Eddie stares at him.
"What?"

Steve sighs.
"I just—backed my car up against a fire hydrant a couple times so I had an excuse to go back and see you."

Eddie's jaw drops.
"Are you—are you out of your mind?"

Steve smiles, sheepish.
"I'm starting to think so."

Eddie groans, dragging a hand down his face.
"I cannot believe you."
He pauses, thinking, and then breaks out into a knowing gleam.
"So you did lie to get me into bed!" He says, pointing at Steve.

Steve shakes his head quickly.
"No, no. Getting you into bed was not the end goal. It wasn't even on my mind. I just—needed to see you."

Eddie crosses his arms.
"Well—you're committed, I'll give you that."

Steve watches him carefully.
"Does it change anything?"

Eddie exhales.
"No. But—you could have just—came and said hi."

Steve smirks.
"You're very abrasive. I needed an excuse. You would have turned me away."

Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it.

Steve raises his eyebrows.
"Be honest."

Eddie groans.
"Mm. Maybe I am a bit prickly."

"Only a bit."

Eddie shakes his head.
"I can't believe you did all that just to talk to me."

Steve shrugs.
"Would have done a lot more if I had to."

Eddie squints at him.
"Like—kill someone?"

Steve grins.
"I am not a hitman."

"Sure. That's what all the hitmen say."

Eddie leans in this time. He's the one who kisses Steve, and it's different—hotter, hungrier. He feels the heat surge between them immediately, their lips locking, the taste of wine still on their mouths.

He kisses Steve with more urgency now, his tongue slipping between his lips. There's an almost frantic quality to the way they move together. Eddie can't help it; he feels a pull, a magnetic force drawing him closer. His chest tightens, his body reacts instinctively, wanting more, wanting all of it.

Steve's hands slide up under Eddie's shirt, hot against his skin. Eddie jolts at the sensation of Steve's fingers brushing across his ribs, skimming over the soft, sensitive flesh. He pulls back, gasping, eyes wild, as Steve's lips travel down his neck, kissing and nipping at his skin. Eddie practically shudders, tilting his head back to give Steve more access. His heart races, his pulse thundering in his ears. This is too much, too fast, but it feels so goddamn good.

Eddie grips Steve's shoulders, his hands shaking, and before he can catch his breath, Steve speaks again, his voice muffled against Eddie's skin, still warm from their kiss.

"Question."

Eddie barely hears it, his mind swirling.
"Yeah?" he chokes out, voice strained, barely coherent.

"How many times have you been able to come in one night?" Steve asks, sounding almost too casual.

Eddie freezes. The question snaps him back to reality, pulling him out of the haze of desire that had been clouding his mind.
"Uh—what?"

Steve pulls back just enough to look him in the eye, his lips still brushing Eddie's skin as he speaks.
"Just a query." He smirks, amusement flickering in his eyes.

Eddie stares at him, blinking, trying to process the absurdity of the question.

"I don't—I don't know. Like—twice? Maybe? At a push?" Eddie stammers, trying to sound nonchalant, but the heat still courses through him, his body still aching with need.

"Hm." Steve hums thoughtfully, his index finger brushing gently across Eddie's cheek as he looks at him, thinking, assessing.

"Well—I figured just the once is kinda unremarkable. And you're a pretty remarkable person. Twice is doable for most people, and you're not most people. So—I'm thinking maybe we could just do this all night and go from there?" Steve's voice is so casual, so sure, that it catches Eddie off guard.

Eddie laughs, more from disbelief than amusement.
"I reiterate my previous statement. Are you fucking out of your mind?"

Steve shrugs like it's no big deal.
"Well, actually—I was hoping to be fucking you. If that's something you'd still want." His tone is completely innocent, but Eddie feels the shift. His body tenses, his pulse spiking as Steve's words sink in.

"I just like to not be forgettable." Steve adds, almost as an afterthought.

Eddie stares at him for a moment, processing. And then he speaks, quieter than before but no less sincere.
"Trust me, man. Nobody is forgetting you."

Steve's grin widens at that, and before Eddie can say anything else, Steve pulls him back into another kiss.
Eddie feels Steve's hands push up under his shirt, fumbling at his jeans, undoing his belt and zipper in one smooth motion. Eddie gasps as Steve drops his pants just below his waist, his hands circling to cup Eddie's ass, nails digging in as he tugs him closer. The friction is almost unbearable, Eddie's breath catching in his throat.

"You gonna undress me here in the kitchen?" Eddie says, a half-laugh, half-sigh escaping him. "You're taking the not getting me into bed promise very literally."

Steve looks at him, a glint in his eyes.
"I do kinda like the idea of fucking you here in the kitchen, not gonna lie." He says it like it's just another option, just another way this could go.
"What do you think?"

Eddie bites his lip, a mixture of disbelief and excitement pooling in his chest.
"I think I can handle that."

Steve smirks at him, and for a second, Eddie sees the challenge in his eyes, the spark of mischief. He doesn't even have time to think before Steve pulls him forward, taking his hand and guiding him out of the kitchen, dragging him toward whatever the next step in this night will be.

"Believe me, I'm very much looking forward to finding out exactly what you can handle. But—my plans do typically revolve around you being in the bedroom."

Eddie smirks.
"Your plans?" He teases, letting the words slip out before he even has time to think.

Steve quirks an eyebrow, looking at him sideways.
"C'mon." He grins, his fingers tightening around Eddie's hand as he drags him along.

***

Eddie lies there, his skin damp with sweat, the sheets tangled beneath him. His breath is still uneven, his body still thrumming, an aftershock of something he doesn't quite have words for. Sex has never felt like this before. He's had fairly good sex, sure. He's had messy, fun, thrilling nights with people who made him feel wanted, who made him laugh, who left him satisfied.

But this—this was something else entirely.

It wasn't just the physical part of it, though that had been insane. It was the way Steve touched him, the way he looked at him—like Eddie was something to be memorized, studied, cherished. It was the way he whispered to him, the way he seemed to want to make him feel good just as much as he wanted to feel good himself.
Eddie has never felt so seen in bed before. So wanted in a way that wasn't just hunger but something deeper, something that scared the shit out of him.

"That was amazing. You're amazing." Steve practically gasps beside him, both of them still catching their breath.

Eddie turns his head, watching Steve in the dim light of the room. His hair is a mess, his chest rising and falling, his lips kiss-swollen and red. He looks beautiful. Stupidly, unfairly beautiful. Eddie wants to make some joke, to deflect, to stop his brain from feeling so much, but all he can manage is a hoarse—
"Yeah. It was."

Silence lingers between them, warm and easy. And then, without warning, Eddie starts laughing. A full-bodied giggle that he can't contain, like something inside him just snaps.

"What?" Steve asks, turning to look at him, grinning now too.

Eddie shakes his head, trying to catch his breath. "This has got to be the weirdest week of my fucking life."

Steve chuckles, rolling onto his side.
"Good weird, I hope."

"Oh, yeah."

Steve studies him for a second, then asks—
"Do you need anything?"

Eddie turns his head, meeting his eyes.
"I'm good."

But Steve doesn't stop looking at him. His gaze lingers, soft and intent, like he's checking something. Like he's making sure Eddie's still here in the same way Steve is.

Eddie shifts, uncomfortable with how exposed he feels under that look.
"I'm fine. Promise. You don't have to look at me like I'm gonna break."

Steve's expression doesn't change.
"This isn't me looking at you like you're gonna break. This is me looking at you because I think you're beautiful."

And then he rolls onto his front, nuzzling his face into Eddie's shoulder, kissing his skin again and again, soft and slow.

Eddie swallows hard, his heart skipping. His brain feels scrambled, like he's trying to hold onto too many emotions at once. He exhales shakily, managing—
"This is me looking at you because I still think you're insane."

Steve grins against his skin.
"For thinking you're beautiful?"

Eddie huffs out a laugh.
"Mm. Well—and most things."

Steve just shakes his head, pressing a quick kiss to Eddie's lips.
"I don't care."

And Eddie believes him.

Steve groans suddenly, flopping onto his back.
"I also think I might have been a little overambitious. I'm wiped."

Eddie freezes. The warmth in his chest turns sharp, sudden and immediate. He feels sick.

"Oh. Yeah, sure. I can go—" He moves without thinking, sitting up, already reaching for his clothes.

"What? No." Steve's hand is on his shoulder in an instant, firm and grounding. He sits up too, brows furrowed.
"What?"

Eddie doesn't look at him.
"You wanna go?" Steve asks, voice softer now.

Eddie hesitates.
"No, I just—thought you were like—I thought you wanted me to."

Steve's face twists like the thought physically pains him.
"No. God, no. I want you to stay." His voice is so gentle, so honest.

Eddie's chest aches.
"You do?"

"Course I do. I want you to spend the night with me." Steve says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. Like it should've been obvious.
"If you want to, obviously."

Eddie exhales, tension slipping from his shoulders.
"Yeah. Okay."

Steve smiles, relieved. "Okay, good." He laughs breathlessly.
"Almost gave me a heart attack."

Eddie shakes his head.
"My bad."

"S'fine. It would've been worth it."

They settle back down, turning toward each other. Steve strokes his fingers across Eddie's face, moving the curls from his eyes, touching him like he can't quite help himself.

"It doesn't usually ever feel like this." Steve murmurs.

Eddie blinks at him.
"What?"

Steve's eyes are steady, sure.
"With other people. It's never felt like this with other people."

Eddie swallows. His throat is dry.
"No. It doesn't."

Steve starts to say something else but stops, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. He looks down, his finger absently tracing the spot over Eddie's chest.

“I”—

"You what?" Eddie presses.

Steve laughs to himself, shaking his head.
"I need to go to sleep before I say something stupid."

Eddie narrows his eyes.
"Like what?"

Steve suddenly shifts.
"Actually, I'm gonna get some water. You want some water?" He's already moving, practically leaping out of bed.

Eddie sits up fast.
"Dude, you're freaking me out. Just say it."

Steve shakes his head again.
"No. I can't."

"Say it." Eddie pushes, watching as Steve paces, running a hand through his hair.
"Like what?"

Steve heaves out a breath, squeezing his eyes shut. And then, quietly—
"That I can see myself falling in love with you."

Eddie's breath catches. His heart stutters.
"Oh."

Steve lets out a humorless chuckle, looking utterly defeated.
"Yeah." He glances up briefly before looking away again.
"Sorry."

Eddie's pulse pounds in his ears.
"No. Don't be sorry."

Steve laughs at himself, rubbing his hands over his face.
"Way to take it slow, huh?"

Eddie shakes his head, sitting up straighter. "Steve, seriously—"

"Just—forget it, please?" Steve cuts him off. "Pretend I didn't say anything. I'm sorry, it was dumb. I've had some wine, I've got—fuckin'—post-sex brain. That's a lot of pressure to put on a person—"

"Okay." Eddie interrupts.
"You've been drinking and you've got post-sex brain or whatever. If you woke up tomorrow, stone cold sober would you feel differently?"

Steve stills. His eyes meet Eddie's, hesitant. "About you?"

"Yeah."

Steve doesn't even take a second to think.
"I don't think so." His voice is quiet. Certain.
"No. No, I—I really like you."

Eddie kneels on the bed, holding his hands out, gesturing for Steve to come closer. Steve steps forward hesitantly, and Eddie takes his hands.

"Okay, so what if I don't want to forget it?" Eddie asks, voice steady.
"What if—I think—I could see myself falling in love with you too? Are you gonna take that away from me before I even get the chance?"

Steve doesn't answer right away. He just smiles, shy and small.
"No."

Eddie nods.
"Good." He squeezes Steve's hands.
"I'll take that glass of water."

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