Archive of Our Own

Eddie hadn't left his bedroom in six days.

There were moments when he thought about it—really thought about it, with clothes laid out on the floor and the bedroom door cracked open an inch—but then something would stop him. A memory, a sentence, a look on someone's face that hadn't even happened yet.

He spent most of the week in bed, half-asleep, listening to the sounds of the trailer around him. The dull hum of the refrigerator. The rattle of Wayne's keys on the counter. At some point, Monday maybe, he'd unplugged the phone from the wall after the incessant calling just didn't stop.

Sometimes Wayne knocked. Usually not. He'd just leave food at the door like Eddie was recovering from a fever or something, like maybe this was temporary. A condition. Not a story already being told without him.

When Eddie did get up, it was to piss or dig through the laundry basket for a shirt that didn't smell like sweat and shame. He sat on the floor a lot. Smoked out the window with the fan on. He barely ate.

No one said Brian's name. Not Wayne, not Robin, not even in Eddie's head, really. Just the things he had said. The words that landed and stayed: he came onto me, I told him to stop. He knows I'm not gay, he just didn't care.

Eddie replayed the last time they saw each other, like it was a scene from someone else's life. Brian standing in the locker room, sweaty and red-faced, laughing too hard at nothing. Eddie waiting. Quiet. Hands in his pockets like he could hide the shape of them.

It hadn't been anything, really. It had never been anything. Not out loud. Not in daylight.

Now everyone at school knew. Or thought they knew. The words were out there and he couldn't get them back. He couldn't even speak them out loud.

On the seventh day, Wayne left a mug of coffee and a folded note on the nightstand. The note just said:
You're still my kid. I'm still here.

Eddie didn't cry. He just laid back on the bed and closed his eyes. His ribs hurt. Everything hurt.

He didn't want to go back to school. But he knew he would. Eventually. Because not going would mean they'd won.

And Eddie Munson didn't let anyone win.

***

Wayne knocks gently, almost like he hopes Eddie won't answer. The knock is soft, more gesture than sound. Eddie's on his bed, lying in the same hoodie he's been wearing for two days, the blanket tangled around his legs. He doesn't sit up.

"What?" he asks, voice flat.

Wayne opens the door partway and leans in, resting his hand on the doorframe like he's steadying himself.
"Robin's on the phone for ya."

He waits, then adds, "I can tell her you're sleeping—"

"No. It's fine."

Eddie hauls himself up and pads barefoot down the hallway, his socks grey at the toes. The trailer is quiet in that way it always is mid-afternoon: television off, outside light muted, the smell of fried bacon still faint in the air. He picks up the receiver from the wall phone and leans his back against the wood paneling.

"Hey."

"Hey, you. How you holding up?" Robin's voice filters through with that familiar brightness she always tries to layer over concern. He figures she's calling from school from the shrill sounds of people screaming and laughing in the background.

"Uh—well, not great."

"Sorry. Stupid question."

"S'fine. Probably not the most stupid question I'm gonna be asked, no doubt."

In the kitchen, Wayne leans against the countertop, hands nursing a fresh mug of coffee. He watches Eddie all the time, recently. Sometimes more subtly. Eddie pretends not to notice.

"Are you gonna be back at school next week?"

"Wayne's desperately trying to convince me not to, but—yeah."

Wayne raises his eyebrows but says nothing. Just sips his coffee. Eddie stares at a crack in the linoleum.

"Well, I think that's really brave."

"Is it? Or is it just a public performance of my own suicide?"

There's a silence on the line. Robin exhales softly.
"Look, it's gonna be shitty. Like—really shitty. Probably the most shitty thing that's ever gonna happen to you—"

"Wow, Robin. Love the motivational speech. Really, I've got goosebumps."

"But you've got me. I'm gonna be by your side through it all. Okay? You're not alone in this. And—I can't fight, but—"

She pauses as Eddie waits patiently, brows raised.

"Actually, I don't really have anything else. I can't fight. Period."

"Got it. Our gay, lesbian vigilante group doesn't extend to physical violence. Only verbal." He snickers.

"Correct."

"Wayne's trying to convince me to take up boxing for self defence purposes."

"Boxing? Really?"

"I told him that he's crazy and he should donate his brain to science."
Eddie pitches his voice upward, just loud enough for Wayne to hear. Wayne rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath.

"World heavyweight champion, Eddie Munson does have a nice ring to it though."

"Sure." Eddie laughs softly.

There's a pause on the line. A quieter kind of silence.

"Maybe I could come over and see you tomorrow? Watch some movies?"

"Yeah. That'd be nice."

"Okay, cool. I'll swing by at 12."

"With snacks?"

"With snacks."

"Good."

"Love you."

"Love you."

Eddie hangs up the phone, then rests his hand against the wall beside it. He stands still for a second. Doesn't move.

Wayne clears his throat behind him.

"I still think you should give it some more time. Lay low for a while."

He sets his mug down with a soft clink, the floor creaking beneath his shifting feet.

"I can go up there and get your work so you don't fall behind. Or Robin can pick it up for ya."

Eddie turns and walks away, voice rising as he goes.
"What? And give them what they want? Un-fucking-likely."

He passes Wayne without looking at him, heading back toward the hallway like it's muscle memory.

"Eds—"

"What?" Eddie asks, not looking back.

"I really think we should talk to your principal—"

"No."

"Eddie." Wayne's voice firms.

"Wayne." Eddie whips around to face him, the tendrils of his matted curls flailing.

He's standing in the doorway to his room now, hand on the knob.

"I'm doing this alone. Okay? I got myself into this—"

"The hell you did." Wayne snaps, voice rising.
"That asshole put you up to this then left you high n' dry to deal with the fallout 'cause he ain't got the minerals."

Eddie pauses. Looks at him briefly. His voice is clipped and ironic when he speaks again.

"Being left high and dry is my specialty."

He closes the door. The latch clicks.

***

They're standing in front of Eddie's locker. The metal is streaked with red and black spray paint, the letters still slightly wet and shining. The words are blunt and poorly spelled, but unmistakable. A used condom—at least Eddie hopes it's just used for effect—is taped to the centre like some kind of trophy.

"Jesus," Robin exhales, her voice low. She doesn't touch anything.

People are walking past them in waves, laughing, some not even bothering to pretend they aren't looking.

Eddie stares at it blankly. His bag slips a little off his shoulder.

"I'm gonna give it a six outta ten," he says.

"Yeah?"

"I mean—it's not wholly original but I do appreciate that they took the time to really let their creativity shine through."

Robin glances over at him, the way she always does when she's trying to figure out if he's actually fine or just performing fine.

"Yeah, I mean. The condom's a unique touch. Must have taken a while."

"Some might say it could be considered surrealism."

Someone walking past coughs and says it just loud enough to register.
"Faggot."

Eddie barks out a laugh, eyes trailing down the hall after them.

"Seriously? Even the drama kids are out to get me? What's next, the fucking chess club?" he shouts, turning around as if daring someone to respond. No one does.

The janitor rounds the corner. He slows down when he sees the mess, stops directly in front of the locker, and glares at Eddie like this is somehow his fault.

"Hey, man. Don't look at me. I can't take all the credit." Eddie placates, holding his hands up.

The janitor mutters something under his breath—"God damn kids"—then keeps walking. His keys jingle in his pocket.

Robin pulls a folder from her bag and flips through it with efficient urgency.

"Okay. I've copied your timetable for the week into my trapper keeper. I'll walk with you to and from every class. If I'm not there when you go to leave, just stay. Make small talk with the teachers or something. Then at lunch we'll avoid the cafeteria altogether and go sit under the bleachers."

Eddie doesn't say anything right away. He kicks at the floor near his feet, then shifts his weight.

"This all sounds great in theory, Robin, but what happens if I have to take a leak?"

"Hold it." She says sternly, without hesitation.

"Great." Eddie rolls his eyes.

"I'll just stand outside the door and listen for your screams. I'm not above going into the boys' bathroom."

"I don't doubt it."

Robin closes the folder again with a sharp snap and tucks it under her arm.

"Okay, so—first up is math with Mrs Duplass."

Eddie looks at the locker again and makes a face.
"Somehow that is worse than this."

"Let's go," Robin says, nudging his shoulder with hers.

He lets her push him. Doesn't resist.

The hallway is still buzzing with whispers and eyes that don't pretend not to see. But they walk. Slowly, but they walk.

***

Eddie skulks out of his classroom with his head ducked slightly, like if he angles his body a certain way he might avoid the full force of attention.

There's spitballs in his hair—he can feel it, the little wet points of it—and his fingers are combing absently through the strands as he walks. Robin is already waiting for him, leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed. She straightens when she sees him and grimaces.

"Oh God," she says.

He doesn't stop moving but makes a face, half amused, half tired. His fingers keep going through his curls, trying to dislodge whatever's clinging there.

"Are there any more?" he asks.

Robin moves closer. She's already reaching, inspecting.

"Turn around." She orders, and Eddie does.
"Uh—"

"What?"

"Good news or bad news first."

"Just say it." Eddie huffs.

"So—there aren't any more spitballs but—there is some gum."

"You're kidding." He groans, head tipping back as if appealing to some distant cosmic force for mercy.

Robin clicks her tongue in disapproval.
"Fucking vulgarians."

He stands still as she starts working through the strands, fingers moving with clinical urgency. Eddie winces slightly at the feeling of her tugging.

"Is it bad?" he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral. Robin doesn't answer right away. That's worse than if she had.
"How bad is it? Am I gonna have to cut my hair?" He turns his head as her hands find his cheeks, straightening it again.

"No. I won't let that happen. I know how precious you are about it," she says.
"Just know that I would not do this for anyone else."

"Ow!" Eddie yells as she continues to tug at his hair.

"Hold still." She snaps as Eddie just stares ahead, face contorting in anguish as she continues to aggressively groom him.

"Ew, ew, ew. Ew," Robin mutters, practically gagging.
"Ew, ew!"

"Oh my God," Eddie groans. He's trying to stay still but his shoulders twitch with every new yank.

"Okay. I got most of it. You're just gonna have to wash it tonight." She huffs.

"Okay, good." Eddie nods, smoothing his hair down with his hand.

Robin holds the gum out between two fingers, pink and balled up like something dug out from under a desk. She drops it in a trash can with theatrical disgust.

"Ew, ew!" she says again, wiping her hands on her jeans before reaching into her bag and pulling out a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. She uses way too much. Rubs her hands like she's performing last rites.

"It's fine. Everything's fine," she says, forcing a toothy grin.

"Mhm." Eddie hums, defeatedly.

They start walking. The hallway is mostly empty now, except for a few stragglers loitering by lockers or pretending to fix their hair in the metal mirrors.

"They'll run out of steam soon," Robin says. "Something else will happen and it'll be like you never existed."

"Oh yeah?" Eddie's voice is dry. He doesn't believe that. Not really. Not yet.

"For sure. An under the bleachers handjob or some parking lot car sex. Teen pregnancy, chlamydia, that kinda thing."

He smiles, barely.
"Fancy taking one for the team?" he teases.

"Ha-ha," Robin says flatly.

They turn a corner and reach Eddie's locker. The janitor's been through—Eddie can tell. There's a bleach smell lingering in the air, faint but present.
The paint's been scrubbed at, but the words are still faintly visible, ghosted into the metal. Smudged red letters like bruises. He enters his combination.

"Hate to be the one to say this but—these guys have been gunning for me for the longest time. I think they're gonna ride this wave for as long as they—"
He stops. Something flutters out of the locker and hits the floor. A folded note.
"—can."

Robin picks it up before he does.
"What is this?"

Eddie takes it from her, unfolding it quickly. It's handwritten on notebook paper, one edge jagged where it's been torn out. No name. Just a single line: I'm sorry, you didn't deserve this.

Robin squints at it over Eddie's shoulder.

"Did—he—" she starts.

"No. S'not his handwriting," Eddie cuts in, already folding it back up.

"Do you recognise it at all?"

"No." He shrugs, cavalierly.

Robin looks at him like she's trying to place a puzzle piece that won't quite fit.
"Weird."

"What? You don't think I'm the type of person who would receive fan mail?" Eddie teases.

"Sure. You're a regular ol' Freddie Mercury." She says, rolling her eyes with a grin.

Eddie lets out a breath. Doesn't laugh exactly, but something softer, like a step down from laughing. The note crinkles in his hand as he puts it in his pocket, not sure yet what to do with it.

***

A week passes. Every day, there's a new note.

They're always folded twice. Torn from a lined notebook, the kind they sell in three-packs at the drugstore. The handwriting is scruffy and inconsistent, like the writer doesn't care how it looks or maybe just doesn't know how to make it look nice.

Monday:
I dont know what to say but I keep thinking about you.

Eddie finds it wedged halfway into the top shelf of his locker. He doesn't open it right away. He just sees the edge of paper and knows.

There's a short, silent thrill in his chest that he ignores. At first he thinks it's just leftover adrenaline. He reads the note in the bathroom stall between second and third period. It's nothing. It's something. It's not signed.

Tuesday:
I watched you in the libary today. Not in a creepy way. You looked tired. I wouldn't sleep well either if this was happening to me. Try sleeping to music if you don't already. I do that a lot.

That one makes him laugh. Not out loud, but to himself, quietly. A small smile. He folds it again, then unfolds it, then folds it again, and finally tucks it behind his cassette deck at home. He doesn't know why he's keeping them. It feels weird to throw them away.

Wednesday:
I keep thinking I should say something to you when we walk past each other, but I dont think you'd want to hear it. I hope you're okay.

This one annoys him. It's too vague. He folds it more roughly, a sharp crease down the middle, then flattens it back out. Carries it in his back pocket all day.

Thursday:
You looked really good today. Sorry if that's weird.

Eddie reads that one standing at his locker with his whole body tense. He scans the hallway, like he might catch someone looking. He doesn't. He reads it again. His face is hot. Not in an entirely bad way.

Friday:
I think your laugh is the best sound I've ever heard. I used to hear it all the time in the cafeteria. I knew it was you without looking. I hope I get to hear it more soon. I hope things get better.

That one he reads three times. In the stairwell after last period. The paper is damp from being held too tightly in his hand.

It's not like he thinks he's being toyed with—not exactly. But there's still a part of him that braces for it. Like he's waiting for the reveal. That it's all some elaborate joke. A dare. A setup. And yet, he believes it too. That someone sees him. Watches him. Not just with curiosity, but with attention. With care.

He gets frustrated that he can't respond. But then he thinks, even if he could, he doesn't know how to. And even if he did, what would he say? Thanks for the weird, sad, badly written notes, you mysterious freak?

No. Instead, he carries them. Literally.

Sometimes in his jacket pocket. Sometimes tucked into a book he's pretending to read during study hall. He memorises the turns of phrase, the moments where something sincere leaks through despite the awkwardness of the words.

Sometimes, when he's alone, he wonders if the notes are making him feel better or worse. He hasn't decided yet. But his heart hammers at the thought of finding another one, and he figures he'd miss them altogether if they stopped completely.

Even if it was insane.

***

Eddie hands Robin the most recent note without a word, just lets it drop into her palm as they walk together down the corridor, their shoes squeaking faintly against the floor. She unfolds it like it's routine now.

"Another one? Seriously?" she asks, scanning the messy handwriting, the aggressively rounded letters, the phrases crossed out and re-written.

"Guess so," Eddie shrugs, his voice casual, almost bored. There's a twist of something unreadable in his mouth, something like a smile that doesn't quite get there.

"I can't believe you're not interested in finding out who it is, at all." She sighs, handing the note back to him. He holds it tight in his palm as he walks, like it's something precious.

"They clearly don't wanna be found, Robin. Otherwise they'd sign their name or give me some kinda clue."

"Is terrible spelling a clue?"

"That just about covers half the school," Eddie says, snickering under his breath. His tone is light, but he keeps glancing down at the note in her hand like it's radioactive.

Robin laughs and nudges his shoulder with hers, then slows them down near her locker. Her tone shifts slightly.
"Hey, listen," she says, and she's serious now. She touches his shoulder lightly.

"I'm gonna have to stay behind in woodshop today. Mr. Gregory is totally riding my ass about my end of term project. I'm nowhere near finished and it counts for, like—the majority of my final grade. So fuckin' stupid."

Eddie snorts.
"I can't believe you're even taking woodshop to begin with."

"I took it because it was supposed to be easy," she says, eyes wide like he should understand her logic.
"Will you be okay?"

"Yeah. Course. I'll be fine. If anything was gonna happen it would have happened by now." Eddie shrugs.

***

The bell rings and Eddie slips out of his last class like he's trying to disappear. His hand is tight around the strap of his rucksack, knuckles pale.

The hallway is half-empty but still feels full, filled with the kind of ambient threat that makes your spine itch.

"Yo, Munson!" a voice calls out behind him, loud and mocking.

Eddie doesn't stop. Keeps walking, head down, shoes moving faster now.

"Your little bodyguard finally give up on you too, huh?"

Eddie hears the sound of footsteps closing in, and before he can react, a hand grabs the back of his rucksack and yanks hard. He stumbles. Then he's shoved through the door of the boys' bathroom, slammed up against the cold tile wall hard enough to rattle his teeth.

His backpack slips off one shoulder, landing with a thud by his feet.

There's three of them. Two in front, grinning like they're owed this. Brian's behind them, near the sinks, arms folded across his chest. He's not looking directly at Eddie. He's studying a patch of tile like it's doing something interesting. That part's worse, somehow.

Eddie's ribs ache where the wall caught him. His pulse is fast but there's no heat in it—just the cold, familiar shape of fear. He hears himself speak before he really chooses to.

"Jesus. Is this what straight guys do for fun? Drag homos into bathrooms?" He says. His voice is dry and a little unsteady. Eyes wide but defiant.

"Shut your mouth, freak," the one gripping him says. There's spit in the word "freak," and Eddie feels it land near his chin.

"What? No safe word? Gentlemen, I'm flattered, but usually I like a little dinner first." Eddie teases, trying to ignore the searing pain of firm fingers pressing into his skin.

"You think you're funny?"

"A little," Eddie says, with a smirk that doesn't quite land. But it buys him a second. Maybe two.

"You tried to ruin his fucking life!"

"Oh, right. Yeah. Poor little closeted Brian got a little handsy in the locker rooms and now it's my fault. Got it." He takes a sharp intake of breath as he feels the grip on his arm tighten.

He glances at Brian. His jaw is tight. He won't look up. It's not guilt, Eddie thinks, it's fear. Or shame. Or both. But it isn't sorry.

"Keep running your mouth and see what happens."

"Well, I assume this is the part where you guys beat me up. Scuff up your Nike's for the sake of some heterosexual honour," he says, blinking rapidly. Eddie feels his voice change—too flat now, too easy.
"Y'know, I hope at least one of you remembered to bring a camera. This much sexual tension really shouldn't go undocumented."

"You think this is some kind of game?" The guy moves closer. Close enough that Eddie can smell the sweat on him. Their noses almost touch. Eddie doesn't move.

"No. I just think you're all cowards. And honestly—" He lifts his chin. Makes himself meet Brian's eyes.
"—I think you're more scared of me telling the truth than I ever was of you lying."

Brian's jaw tightens. He won't meet Eddie's eyes. "Just fucking hit him already."

"Yeah. If you're gonna do it, do it," Eddie says. His voice is flatter now, dull. The resignation makes his voice sound smaller than he means it to.

He hears the sound before he feels it—the hiss of a breath, the air moving, the fist coming.

He braces for it. He clenches his jaw. The world narrows down to white static.

Then—

The bathroom door slams open.

"Hey!"

The voice cuts sharp through the echo. Eddie squints an eye open and sees him—Steve Harrington, in his basketball uniform. A blurry mess of emerald green and orange, slightly breathless, eyes hard.
"Get off him."

"Jesus, Harrington." The guy in front of Eddie steps back half a pace. His hand falls away. It feels like air rushing back into Eddie's lungs.

"Now," Steve says again. The quiet of his voice is worse than if he'd shouted.

"Gimme a break, man. Who fucking cares? It's Munson."

Steve doesn't blink. He doesn't even look angry, just tired of this. Like he's been tired for a while.
"You really wanna risk getting suspended before the biggest game of the season?"

"We're not gonna get suspended. He's not gonna say anything. He knows better."

Eddie does. He knows exactly how this goes. The moment after. The silence he's supposed to keep.

Steve's jaw tightens. His hands are clenched. But his voice stays level.
"He might not. But I will."

"You serious?"

"Try me." His voice doesn't waver as he takes one step forward.
"We're one game away from state. You really want Coach to find out his starting lineup's been beating the shit out of people in bathrooms?"

The silence that followed was palpable. Eddie swallowed hard, glancing between them all like he was watching a tennis match.

"Better yet—if there's even a single bruise on him, I'll go right over his head and go to Higgins myself. You think being benched is bad? Try getting suspended and kicked off the team."

The moment holds. Eddie doesn't breathe.

"Fuck this." The guy shoves off, backing away entirely as Eddie slips slightly down the wall.

"This isn't over. Faggot." He sneers before they file out of the bathroom, shoving past Steve as they go.

"God, I hope not," he mutters.
"I love a long, drawn out rivalry."

And then they're gone, the slam of the door bouncing off of the tiles.

Steve lingers, awkward, like he doesn't know what to do with his hands. He shifts his weight back and forth.

"You okay?" he asks, eventually.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Eddie straightens his jacket, brushes imaginary dust from his shoulder.

"Good." He nods, once.
Steve doesn't say anything else. He ducks his head and walks out the door.

Eddie watches him go, heart hammering hard behind his ribs, not entirely sure what the hell just happened.

***

The music was on low, something with sharp guitars and a voice that sounded like it was coming from the other side of a wall. Eddie was sitting on his bed cross-legged, his hair still damp from the shower, wearing an old band tee that had faded at the collar.

The room smelled faintly of incense, something woodsy and sweet, and there was a half-eaten bag of chips folded shut on the nightstand.

In his lap, the spiral notebook lay open like a secret. Inside it, tucked carefully between pages of physics notes and some doodles, were the notes—creased and soft-edged now from being read and re-read, some torn along the fold where he'd opened them too quickly.

He took them out one by one and lined them up like playing cards. The handwriting was erratic, like someone trying too hard to be casual. Some words scratched out and rewritten messily. Spelling errors that seemed too consistent to be accidental. He wondered if that was a choice—if the person thought it'd be less obvious that way. Less traceable.

He kept reading the same lines, mouthing the words silently.

I'm sorry you didn't deserve this.

He pressed his thumb to one of the corners, rubbed it flat again. Some of the notes were sweet in a way that made his chest ache, like they were written by someone who had no idea how to say anything out loud, like it physically pained them to be vulnerable. And there was something about that—about being noticed quietly, privately—that made Eddie feel worse, not better.

He'd started making lists in his head. Not of people he liked—or people who might have a crush on him—but people who might be this version of themselves in secret.

It was like playing a game he didn't know the rules to.

He tried to picture the person sitting wherever they were, writing the next note. Trying to decide what to say.

The thought made him feel warm. But also kind of sick.

He didn't know why he cared so much. But he did.

There was a soft knock at the doorframe—barely a warning—before Wayne leaned in, one hand resting against the chipped paint, the other cradling a mug of coffee.

His eyes flickered once around the room before settling on Eddie, who was sitting hunched over on the bed, the notebook snapped shut on instinct. He looked like a kid caught in the middle of something, though what exactly wasn't clear. His fingers hovered too long near the spiral binding, betraying him.

"Watcha got there?" Wayne asked, his voice casual but edged with the lightest curiosity.

"Oh—nothing." Eddie cleared his throat and straightened up a little too quickly, as if good posture might somehow render him innocent.
"Just—studying."

"Studying? Since when have you ever studied?" Wayne raised a brow, but he was smiling faintly, amused rather than suspicious.

"Thank Robin. She's a pretty good influence." Eddie smirked, folding his arms, trying to lean back like he hadn't just hidden something.

Wayne nodded, half-laughed to himself in that quiet, tired way he did.
"Alright," he said, still smiling, and ducked back out into the hallway.

Eddie waited until he couldn't hear the footsteps anymore before exhaling. He reopened the notebook and ran his thumb over the paper again, like nothing had happened.

***

The store was overly bright, saturated in fluorescent light and vaguely chemical smells. Music played softly overhead—Fleetwood Mac or something like it, slightly warped through the old speakers.

Eddie and Robin stood shoulder to shoulder at one of the low crates in the music store, flipping through glossy, half-fingerprinted vinyls. The plastic sleeves crackled softly with each shuffle.

"This one's basically a rite of passage," Robin said, pulling out a Bowie album with a practiced flick, holding it up like a relic.

"I've already passed that class with honours, thank you. Next." Eddie didn't even look at it, just smirked, his hand already buried in the crate again.

Robin kept rifling, elbow brushing his now and again. She was mid-sentence—"Oh! What about this?"—when Eddie stilled. His focus shifted.

Beyond the store, Steve Harrington was perched on the low wall beside the mall fountain, legs crossed at the ankle, milkshake in hand. He looked like a department store ad, right down to the white sneakers and carefully mussed hair.

"I'll be back in a sec," Eddie said, already turning.

"Where are you going?"

"Just—gimme a sec." He tossed the words over his shoulder as he crossed the floor.

"Hey, Harrington."

When Eddie spoke, Steve stood too fast, like he'd been caught stealing something.

"Munson." His voice cracked slightly.

"Just wanted to say—thanks. For what you did. In the bathroom." Eddie's tone was genuine, weighty, for once without the armour of sarcasm.

"S'fine." Steve's gaze didn't settle anywhere, like he was looking for an exit.

"No, seriously. I don't think anyone's ever stepped in for me like that. Just—wanted you to know. It mattered."

"Well—I'm just—glad you're alright," Steve said, nodding without looking directly at him.

"You always this twitchy when people are thanking you for something?" Eddie tilted his head, brow raised.
"You don't have to worry. I'm not gonna make it a whole thing. You're not my new gay crush or anything."

"Good." Steve laughed, but it was thin, brittle.

Eddie stared for a beat too long, brows pinched, before finally nodding and backing away.

"Alright, well—I'll let you get back to your very important affairs." He waved a hand at the milkshake like it was a symbol of elite status.
"Thanks again."

Steve nodded again, too quickly, and turned to go.

When Eddie made it back, Robin was still by the crates, watching.

"What the hell was that?" she asked.

"Oh, we have a class together. I was just—asking if he got any notes I could use. He didn't."

"I could have told you that."

"Yeah." Eddie's eyes lingered on Steve's retreating figure, half-turned away from her. His expression unreadable.

***

The library was quieter than usual. Dust hung like gauze in the slanted afternoon light coming through the blinds.

Eddie had a stack of books wedged under one arm, thumbing through the spine of another as he moved between the shelves. His boots made soft, muted thuds on the carpet.

He rounded the corner too fast, not looking.

"Jesus Christ." He jolted backward as a shoulder slammed into his. The book in his hand slipped to the floor.

Steve Harrington. Again.

"Sorry—sorry," Steve said immediately, stumbling back a step like he was bracing for an aftershock.

"Good God, man. You're built like a fuckin' brick wall or something." Eddie bent to grab the book, shaking his head with a laugh.

"Sorry. I wasn't looking."

"No kidding. You almost rearranged my spine. Might sue." Eddie straightened, lips curling into a grin. Steve just stared back at him as though he had just had an out of body experience of some kind.
"I'd be pretty terrified of that form if I was one of the guys playing against you."

Steve didn't respond. He shifted his weight, hands half-curled at his sides.

Eddie took a breath, grounding himself.

"Look—I know that—being seen with me right now isn't exactly good for anyone's reputation. But I'm not some kind of predator, y'know."

Steve looked up suddenly, wide-eyed.
"What?"

"Like—I'm not gonna make a pass at you or something. So if you could stop being so jumpy around me that would be great. 'Cause it kinda makes me feel like shit."

"I know you're not—I know—" Steve stammered, voice lowering.
"Sorry. That wasn't—that's not how I feel."

"Okay." Eddie nodded slowly, eyes narrowing.

"I don't care about that stuff," Steve added, looking him full in the face now.

"Good to know." Eddie clicked his teeth together, watching him.

"I gotta go. I gotta—get this paper written for Friday." Steve gestured weakly with the book in his hand.
"See you around."

"Yeah. See you."

Eddie watched him retreat down the aisle. He navigated the library as though he had been abducted by aliens the night before and he was worried someone would pick up on it just by looking at him.

"Weird dude," Eddie muttered under his breath.

***

The notes keep coming.

The handwriting hasn't improved—still rushed, still uneven, some letters too big and others like they didn't quite make it onto the page.

They come every morning without fail, even when it rains, even when Eddie's late.

Saw you laughing in the hallway. Made me want to laugh too. That's all.

I like it that black jacket you wear. The leather one. You always look cool in it. Not in a trying kind of way. Just cool. I wish I could be like that.

And once, in larger, messier letters, like the writer had been in a rush or nervous:

I wish I could sit next to you in class. Just sit. Not say anything. That would be enough.

Sometimes he stares at the loops in the letters, the way the lowercase "r" always looks like it's about to fall over, and tries to remember if he's seen it before—on a homework sheet, a class project, a detention slip. But there are too many people, and handwriting is a slippery thing to catch.

And besides, part of him doesn't want to know. Part of him likes the not-knowing. The possibility of it. That someone sees him. That they want to be kind in a way that isn't loud or performative. Quiet kindness. Anonymous.

There's one more, folded into a triangle like a school kid's note from years ago, a faint smudge at the edge where someone's thumb must have pressed.

If I ever work up the courage, I'll say this out loud. But for now, this'll have to do. I like you. I think about you a lot. Probably more than I should. You probably think I'm crazy, or weird. I wouldn't be surprised if you throw these away. But, I just needed you to know.

Eddie feels the lump form in his throat, the tremor in his hands.

I like you.

He reads it over, and over again. Eyes blurring as he exhales this giddy laugh of disbelief.

***

The metal bleachers were cold underneath them, even through the thin layer of their jeans. It was the same patch of cracked concrete and worn-out grass they'd claimed every lunch hour since Eddie had come back. Safe enough to avoid the eyes and still close enough to the edge of things to feel like they were part of something.

Robin was lying on her stomach, legs bent at the knee, ankles crossed in the air, rifling through a mess of folded paper like she was conducting some kind of forensic investigation.

"How many are there now?" she asked, not looking up.

Eddie was slouched against one of the supporting beams, knees drawn up, sandwich in one hand, the other wiping crumbs off his jeans.

"I don't know." He shrugged, still chewing. "Fifteen, maybe?"

"Fifteen? Are you kidding? That's a whole fucking campaign!" Her voice echoed slightly beneath the bleachers, sharp enough to draw a curious look from a group of freshmen lingering too close.

He didn't flinch. Just shrugged again.

"Why don't you seem to care that there's some—guy in this school writing you tragic gay poetry? He could be your soulmate and you have absolutely no desire to find out who he is."

Eddie glanced at her, expression unreadable. His tone stayed flat, maybe a little bitter.

"Because—it's obviously some kinda pity thing. That's clearly why they don't wanna reveal themselves. Much like everyone else in this shit hole, they're obviously deeply ashamed of being associated with me."

Robin sat back on her elbows, squinting at him like he'd said something offensive in a language only she could translate.

"No way. There's far too much substance there for this to just be pity." She scoffed.

Eddie looked down, focused on the last bite of his sandwich like it might save him from having to answer properly.

"So someone's writing me notes. Doesn't mean it has to be a whole thing. Plus, what if I like them better as a ghost? If I try too hard to uncover the mystery, they'll stop. And then how will I boost my ego?" He joked, shooting her a half smile. 

Robin sighed heavily, dropping the last note on top of the stack with a soft flutter. She rolled her eyes with such force it seemed like it hurt.
"Right. Sure."

***

The Hideout is half-empty, the air stale with the smell of old beer and cigarettes, the carpet damp in places where someone must have spilled something hours ago and no one bothered to clean it up.

The stage is only raised a foot or two off the ground, a couple of cheap coloured lights swaying gently above, casting inconsistent glows—blue, then red, then nothing for a beat before flickering back on.

Robin's in the front, leaning on the edge of the low stage, sipping from a Coke like she's at Madison Square Garden. Her grin is ridiculous, the kind of thing Eddie pretends to hate.

A few other people hang back, scattered around tables, nodding along to the music, not really invested but not outright hostile either. A couple of regulars, a group of seniors who came for the cheap drinks and stayed because they were too bored to leave.

Eddie hadn't planned to feel anything tonight. He'd expected numbness, or maybe nerves. But standing there with his guitar strapped low, sweat beginning to gather at the base of his neck, he felt—oddly good. Almost whole. There was something grounding about the noise. The distorted feedback, the rawness of Gareth's drumming, Jeff's heavy-handed bass. It made his body feel more like his again. Like he belonged inside it.

He plays the songs like they mean something, even the stupid ones they wrote in Gareth's garage half-stoned. He yells into the mic like there's something in his chest that needs to be dragged out by force.

He doesn't know why, but he thinks it might be the notes.

He's not stupid—he knows they're probably nothing. A whim. A joke, even. But they've made him feel like someone was paying attention. Like his presence at school hadn't just become a cautionary tale.

At the end of the set, he's panting, hands aching, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. The crowd offers a polite ripple of applause. Robin cheers obnoxiously.

As they pack up, he's tired—but it's a good kind of tired. His body humming with something other than dread.

It's almost like the version of himself he'd started to forget—loud, theatrical, half-serious and all heart—was still buried somewhere underneath the bruises. And tonight, for a few songs at least, he got to feel like himself again.

***

The parking lot was mostly empty now, just a few scattered cars under dim overhead lights and the kind of brittle silence that follows hours of loud music.

The Hideout's neon sign buzzed faintly in the distance, half the letters flickering like they couldn't be bothered to hold on. Everything smelled like smoke and warm asphalt and the tail end of someone's cigarette.

Eddie's guitar strap cut into his shoulder a little and the amp was heavier now that the adrenaline had started to wear off.

Robin walked beside him, her jacket collar flipped up against the chill, hands jammed into her pockets.
"I think I have a concussion in my ankle from jumping around so much."

Eddie smirked without looking at her, shifting the amp in his grip.
"You do this every time. You've got a martyr complex."

"I'm your number one hype girl," she said, nudging him lightly with her elbow.

"Okay, but did you actually think we were any good?"

"Are you asking me as your insecure inner artist or your overconfident outer one?" she asked, arching a brow.

"Trick question, they're the same guy."

"You were annoyingly good. That new one? Where it starts slow and then just—turns into chaos. Amazing."

"Turns into chaos? You wound me." Eddie scoffs dramatically.

"In a cool way. Like the inside of your brain falling out but with music."

"Now that's the pull quote for our next demo tape," he laughed.

They reached the van, paint chipped and streaked with dirt, looking like it had been through several wars. Robin rounded the front to get to the passenger side, then stopped short.

"Uh—"

"What's up?" Eddie asked, sliding the van door open and tossing his gear inside with a soft thud.

Robin pulled something from under the windshield wiper and held it out to him. The paper fluttered slightly in the breeze, a torn corner, the handwriting unmistakably familiar.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Eddie blinked at it, voice tight with disbelief.

You looked happy tonight. It suits you.
I hope the music made you feel like yourself again. I couldn't stop watching.

There was a tiny smudge just under the last word, like maybe the writer had hesitated, or maybe their hand had been shaking.

"He was here." Eddie said.

"What?" Robin's eyes widened, snatching the note from him as her eyes scanned the lettering.
"Jesus."

"Okay, at what point does this stop being endearing and become borderline stalker behaviour?"

"Borderline? We passed borderline a while ago."

"Jesus H Christ." He stared at the note like it might burn a hole through his hand.
"Did you see—anyone? Anyone looking out of place or—standing alone?"

"Not at all. To be honest I wasn't really doing a whole lot of looking around."

Eddie froze for a second, expression caught somewhere between overwhelmed and intrigued.
"What if he's ugly?"

Robin blinked.
"Seriously? That's your concern?"

"Uh—yeah! That would fucking suck. He's been waxing poetic for weeks and he finally reveals his identity and he's hideous? I'd never show my face again."

"You're ridiculous." She rolls her eyes, walking around to the passenger side.

"I'd leave the country, Robin. I'm so serious."

They climbed into the van. Eddie's fingers curled around the steering wheel, and the keys jingled as he slid them into the ignition.

"Drive," Robin said, sharp like she was giving orders in a heist movie. Eddie just laughed, a real laugh, as the engine sputtered to life.

***

The school looks like it's been dipped in neon vomit. Orange and green on every surface.

Crepe paper streamers hang limply from the ceiling tiles. There are balloons taped to lockers that slowly deflate throughout the day.
Someone's drawn a tiger in chalk on the front steps and it's already been half-smeared into a psychedelic smudge of orange paw prints.

The corridors are louder than usual. The kind of noise that isn't exactly joyful, but charged—like everyone's talking about the same thing, just with slightly different tones of reverence or panic.

Posters scream GO TIGERS in bold, overly enthusiastic fonts. Even the teachers have given up pretending it's a normal Friday. One of the science teachers wore a foam finger during a pop quiz.

Eddie drifts through the chaos like a background character. His black jacket makes him feel more out of place than usual, like someone stuck a funeral into a birthday party by mistake.

The basketball team have been largely absent for the last couple of weeks, corralled away by coaches and practice and whispered superstitions.

It's been a weird, unexpected reprieve—fewer slurs shouted in the halls, fewer shoulders slammed into him on the way to class. The air still feels heavy with possibility, like at any moment someone could turn and remember they hate him. But for now, the enemy's distracted. He's grateful for it, even if it's a borrowed kind of peace.

Robin and Eddie walk shoulder to shoulder through the mess of it, dodging people, dodging the entire mood. Robin's holding her arms stiffly at her sides, as if not touching anything might somehow spare her from catching school spirit.

"Place is unhinged," she mutters.
"Feels like we're gearing up for war."

Eddie shrugs.
"At least they'll be too busy frothing over sweaty boys in shorts to try and drown me in a urinal."

Students brush past with their faces painted in stripes and smears, yelling half-coherent chants and laughing too loudly at nothing.

"School spirit's a hell of a drug," Robin mutters, smirking without much energy.

They pause at the intersection between the gym and the bathrooms. The sound bleeds faintly through the walls now—whistles, shouting, the rhythmic thump of warm-up music.

"You sure you won't come?" She asks, tilting her head toward him.

"What?" He looks at her like she's just suggested they go bungee-jumping off the roof.

"To the game."

Eddie snorts, shaking his head.
"No fucking way. You know I don't spend any longer in this place than what's required of me by state law."

"Fair point."

He glances down the hallway, takes in the madness with a flat expression.
"Especially when it looks like this. But I hope you enjoy sitting in a sea of meatheads and maniacs."

"We're probably gonna lose anyway."

"Fingers crossed." Eddie sighs dramatically.

Robin nudges his arm, already starting to back away toward the gym.
"I'll call you later?"

"Sure." He shrugs.
"Go team!" he adds sarcastically, raising his fist in a weak, ironic cheer.

Robin pretends to choke herself and disappears into the crowd, swallowed up by face paint and foam fingers.

***

The school is quieter now. Eerily so. Everyone's funneled into the gym like cattle to the slaughter, and the hallways are empty, fluorescent lights buzzing louder in the silence.

Eddie's alone in the bathroom, the echo of running water filling the space as he washes his hands. He stares at himself in the mirror for a second—not long enough to mean anything— then shuts the tap off and flicks water from his fingers.

He steps out into the hall and is met with the sudden sight of Steve Harrington, halfway across the corridor, in full game uniform. Green jersey, athletic tape on his fingers, cheeks pink like he's already been running. He's moving quickly, focused, like he's late.

Eddie's about to call out—maybe just a sarcastic "Harrington!" Or something like "don't fuck it up out there."

But then he sees it.

Steve stops at a locker.

His locker.

Looks around once, quickly, and then slides a folded piece of paper into the slot.

Eddie's feet are rooted to the floor.

He watches, disbelieving, as Steve bolts through the fire exit door, disappearing outside like he was never there.

Eddie doesn't move for a few seconds. His jaw clenches, unclenches. He walks to the locker with short, furious steps, throws it open, snatches the note.

The metal door slams shut behind him as Eddie storms through it, his boots crunching on gravel and broken cigarette filters scattered across the concrete outside. The air's colder out here, sharper somehow. The sound of the game crowd is muffled through the thick walls, a distant thrum like the heartbeat of something completely unrelated to him.

Steve is leaning against the side of the building, one leg bent and propped up on the brick, head tipped slightly downward like he's trying to breathe through his nerves. He doesn't see Eddie coming—not properly—until Eddie's already got his hands on him.

He grabs Steve's shoulders and slams him back hard into the wall. The force knocks the wind out of him, makes a low oof sound escape Steve's mouth as his back hits brick. His hands fly up too late to stop it.

"You fucking asshole!" Eddie yells, face close, breath hot and fast.

Steve winces, his eyes wide, already panicked.

"What the fuck's wrong with you, huh? You think this is funny? That this is all—just some hilarious fucking joke?" Eddie's voice is loud and furious, reverberating off the empty concrete around them. He's pressing into Steve, using his weight to keep him pinned.
"You and your friends already humiliated me once. And now—what? More bait? I open a note and this time it's five guys in a bathroom instead of three? You stop it from happening because you wanted to be the one to do it yourself?"

Steve tries to inhale but the air doesn't quite get there.
"N-no—" he chokes out, barely.

"So what is it?" Eddie spits.
"Some slow burn setup? You trying to soften me up before the next hit? You get bored of playing the hero and thought you'd string the freak along for a laugh?"

Steve says nothing, his mouth half-open like the words are there but none of them are the right ones.

Eddie slams him again, harder this time. The sound of his back hitting the wall cracks like a slap.

"Fucking say something!"

Steve flinches.
"Please—don't hit me," he exhales, voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie's face twists, jaw clenching.
"Why shouldn't I? You think those assholes would listen if I asked them that?" His voice cracks.
"You think I don't know how this goes? You let me think it was real. You let me believe—for one second—that someone out there actually saw me? And now what? You get to watch me crack open and laugh about it with your little friends after the game?"

He steps in closer. His voice is quieter now, but not softer. It burns.
"What's the plan, huh? Tell the team where to find me again? Make it count this time? What?"

Steve's eyes dart wildly across Eddie's face, searching for something—a thread, an exit.

And then, without a word, he surges forward and kisses him. Hard. Messy. Desperate. There's nothing gentle in it. It's not romantic.

It's panic.

The kiss pushes Eddie back half a step. It breaks the hold, just enough for Steve to exhale, to pull away. His hand trembles slightly.

"I gotta go," Steve says. His voice is rushed, straining against something internal.

And then he's gone, retreating through the same door he came out from, leaving Eddie standing there engulfed in the buzz of the cicadas, mouth parted, heart pounding like a siren in his chest.

***

The headlights lit him up all at once—sharp beams cutting across the driveway, casting the rest of the street in longer shadows.

Eddie stepped out from beside the garage like a bad omen, his arms crossed, posture loose, as if he hadn't been standing there for an hour rehearsing what he might say.

Steve braked too fast, the tires skidding just slightly, then sat frozen behind the wheel like his body had forgotten how to react.

Inside, he blinked. Once. Twice. His eyes met Eddie's through the windscreen and Eddie could just make out the fear registering in his face.

Steve finally pushed the door open. He got out slowly, a towel slung on the passenger seat behind him. His hair was still damp from the locker room showers, plastered in loose strands across his forehead. He'd changed — a grey sweater that hung loose across his frame, shorts that made his legs look even more bare in the porch light.

"What are you doing here? Are you insane?" Steve's voice was barely above a whisper, his tone urgent, glancing nervously at the neighbouring houses like any moment someone would switch on a light and peer out.

"Oh, what. So you can write your cryptic little notes and follow me around but I can't rock up to a guy's house?" Eddie said, too casual. He didn't step closer. Just stood in the light like it was deliberate—like he wanted Steve to see the damage.

"I just—didn't—think you'd be here. That's all." Steve backed up slightly, just a half-step, like it wasn't something he meant to do but his body made the decision for him.

"Well—I don't particularly want to be." Eddie sneered.
"You kinda left me no choice after you kissed me and ran off like I'd punched you."

"Well I thought you were going to punch me." Steve retorted.
"And—I didn't really know what else to do." His voice cracked a little.

"You could've not kissed me." Eddie's voice had gone flat, and Steve looked down at the ground between them.
"Do you know how much you've fucked with my head?"

Steve inhaled in a way that looked as though he couldn't get nearly enough air into his lungs.
"Yeah."

"Really? Because I don't think you do." Eddie said, something bitter settling under his tongue.
"So what is this, huh? You watched your friend experiment a little and thought, oh this looks fun. I want in on that. Maybe I'll try the freak this week."

"Jesus, what? No." Steve said abruptly, like the accusation landed somewhere soft inside him and didn't quite bounce off.

"Then what is it?"

"I—I don't know." He stammered.
"I didn't mean to—I didn't want it to be like this." Steve's hand moved up through his hair, raking it back. Like the words weren't forming fast enough to match his thoughts.

"What exactly did you think was going to happen?" Eddie pushed.
"Did you ever even plan on telling me it was you? Or did you just think you could get away with it for long enough that you wouldn't have to?"

"I didn't think you'd want it if it was from me."

"Well, guess what. I don't." Eddie's voice faltered, then came back hard.
"I mean—are you really this fucking stupid? What part of my life right now looks remotely enticing to you?" Eddie huffs, kicking his feet as he paces around the driveway.
"You're all the same, man. Really. I try not to generalise but—fuck me. You guys make it really fucking hard not to. You just want me in secret. In the dark when no one's looking and it's all exciting."

"No—that's not—"

"Well, I'm not doing that. I've done that. I've lived that already, and I barely made it out. I'm still in it. You don't get to crawl into my life with your notes and your silence and expect me to just deal with it. I deserve someone who's not ashamed of me. And I hate to break it to you, Harrington. But that's not you. Not in this fucking lifetime."

"Jesus Christ, do you ever stop talking?" Steve says abruptly, his face stern.

"Excuse me?" Eddie blinked, stunned by the suddenness of it.

"You act like you've got everything figured out. Like you know exactly what this is and who I am and how this ends. You don't." He says firmly, wiping his hands down his face in frustration.

"Yes, I wrote the notes. Yes, I kissed you. Because I like you. I like you. And I didn't say anything because I didn't want it to ruin you. After everything—after what those assholes did—I thought if I said it out loud, if it came from me, it'd just make it worse." Steve's voice had gone hard and quiet at the same time, the words pressing into Eddie like weight.

"Then why did you."

"Because I was pissed, okay? Pissed that they outed you and no one did shit. Pissed that I didn't do more. And then you started getting those notes and it made you—different. Calmer. Happier. And I thought maybe that was enough. Maybe it was better if you didn't know. I don't know. I've never done this before. I've never been—this before. But I'm not playing with you. I'm not fucking around. I'm just as much of a mess as you are, and I didn't want to drag you into that."

Eddie's arms dropped a little. His voice softened but not by much.

"How can you like me? You barely even know me. You don't know anything about me." Eddie says, trying to compartmentalise what Steve was saying in real time.
"I mean—even if you did. Do you honestly think that this could ever be anything? Do you have any idea what that would mean? You don't get to come into my life with your perfect smile and your perfect house and just—expect me to give into all of it. Like this isn't some huge fucking risk. You don't get to decide suddenly now because we have one thing in common that I'm good enough for you. That this is real. I'm not doing it. I'm not being your secret."

"I'm not asking you to be my secret." Steve's voice was almost a whisper now.
"I'm just asking you to trust me. To trust that I meant all of it."

Eddie stared at him then—really stared. He wasn't sure what he was hoping to see in Steve's face. Maybe clarity. Maybe a lie that sounded good enough to believe.

"Make me trust you." Eddie says eventually, voice still tainted in spite.

"How?" Steve asks hesitantly.

"If you care that much you'll think of something. But I won't hold my breath."

He moved past Steve swiftly and started walking. The gravel crunched under his boots, the dark swallowing him inch by inch as he disappeared down the driveway.

***

The rain had started sometime during second period, and by lunch it was hammering the pavement like it had something to prove.

It left them with nowhere else to go but the canteen, where the air smelled like wet denim and reheated chicken, and everything echoed too loudly off the linoleum floor.

Robin and Eddie sat in the corner by the waste station, the worst table in the room—if anyone had been paying enough attention to rank them. The metal trays clattered as people dropped them off behind them, the sharp sound of plastic cutlery scraping across half-finished food underscoring their silence.

Eddie was hunched over his plate, elbow resting on the table, stabbing aggressively at the congealed mound of mashed potato. He wasn't really eating it. His fringe hung low over his eyes, almost like a curtain he could hide behind.

Robin was silent. She picked at her food, eyes drifting across the room, watching the rain trail down the windows, watching the way Eddie's jaw clenched every time someone laughed too loud. Then she nudged him gently under the table with her foot.

Steve was in the lunch line, half a dozen members of the basketball team crowded around him like satellites. One of them shoved at his shoulder, and he smiled, but not fully. His laugh didn't quite reach his eyes. His hair was still a little damp from the rain. He looked tired in a way Eddie couldn't quite name.

Eddie didn't lift his head but looked up through the strands of hair that fell in front of his face. He watched Steve laugh at something someone said, let another guy pull him into some dumb locker-room style headlock. It was nothing really. Just boys being boys, or whatever people said when they wanted to excuse idiocy.

Then Steve looked up. Just for a second. His eyes caught on Eddie's and held, like they'd both accidentally walked into the wrong room and weren't sure who was supposed to leave first.

Eddie looked away. He stabbed the potatoes again. Said nothing.

When Eddie looks back up, Steve is standing in front of him, holding a tray like it's completely normal to be there, like this is something he does every day.

Eddie's expression shifts before he can help it—his eyebrows pinched into a sharp frown, his whole body bracing like he's been caught off guard and doesn't know what's coming next.

"Hi," Steve says, his voice low and careful, like he's trying not to wake something up.

"Hi," Eddie replies, tone clipped, guarded.

Steve glances over to Robin, whose mouth has parted slightly in confusion. She's staring up at him like he might be a hallucination.

"I'm Steve," he says awkwardly.

"I know who you are", Robin snickers, eyebrows raised in a sort of stunned amusement.

"Is it okay if I sit?" Steve asks, looking at Eddie again.

"Uh—sure?" Eddie says, voice rising at the end like a question he doesn't mean to ask.

He glances past Steve's shoulder and sees the table of basketball guys watching, confused, eyebrows raised, yelling things they probably think are funny.

"Thanks," Steve says simply, sliding his tray down as he takes the empty seat across from them.
"So—what are we talking about?"

Eddie blinks, incredulous.
"What are you doing, exactly?"

"Having lunch, why?"

"Oh. Is that what we're calling it." Eddie leans back slightly, eyes narrow.

Steve doesn't respond to that. Instead, he nudges the edge of his tray forward.
"Fry?" he offers.

"I'm good," Eddie says immediately, recoiling like the fries might be laced with something.

Steve shifts, silent for a moment, then offers them to Robin.

"No thanks." She says, slinking into her chair as though she's hoping she could disappear if she willed it hard enough.

They're both staring at him now, waiting for him to crack, to admit this is some elaborate joke or dare. But Steve just eats casually, like he belongs there. Like there's no subtext.

"What class you got next?" he asks, mouth full, chewing in a way that should be gross but somehow isn't.

"Biology," Eddie says flatly.

"With Miss Craven?"

"Uh-huh."

"That's a long walk."

"Is it?"

"Maybe I can carry your books for you," Steve says, shrugging like it's nothing.

"Is this a joke?" Eddie scoffs, sharp again, unable to read any of it.

"No." Steve meets his eyes evenly.
"So—can I?"

"Okay," Eddie says, hesitant and suspicious, but not saying no.

"Cool," Steve says. He smiles, looking between them like this is all totally fine. Like he hasn't just set something in motion that neither of them knows how to stop.

***

They walk down the hallway like it's something they've done before. Like it's normal. But it's not.

Steve has Eddie's rucksack slung over his shoulder, balancing it against his own duffel bag like it weighs nothing. He looks comfortable, casual even, the way he nods at people who pass them, unconcerned.

Eddie, on the other hand, feels like he's about to combust. His hands are jammed deep into the pockets of his jeans and he keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, not looking at anyone, not risking it. Every whisper feels louder than it probably is. Every look feels pointed. He wonders if everyone can see the heat crawling up the side of his neck.

They reach the door of Eddie's biology class and stop.

"Here you go," Steve says, lifting the bag off his shoulder and handing it back, like a ritual exchange.

"Thanks," Eddie mumbles. He barely meets Steve's eyes. His voice sounds like it's trying not to betray him.

"See you later?" Steve offers, a gentle smile creeping onto his lips.

"Okay." The word comes out flat, involuntary, like Eddie's mouth doesn't know what else to do. He watches as Steve turns and walks away, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

***

Class drags. Eddie spends most of it watching the rain slide down the windows and thinking about Steve's face, which makes him feel pathetic.

When the bell rings, he files out with the rest of the crowd, head low again.

Steve is already there, leaned against the wall like some kind of teenage movie cliché. Eddie doesn't know whether to roll his eyes or smile.

"Oh my God, you're relentless," Eddie laughs.

"You wanna go see a movie with me tonight?" Steve asks, falling into step beside him.

"What?" Eddie asks, incredulously.

"Or we could go bowling. Mini golf. Get something to eat." Steve says this all quickly, like he's trying to get it all in before Eddie interrupts him with some half assed excuse.

Eddie just keeps walking, like maybe if he doesn't stop, none of it will become real.

"I'm not fucking with you. I promise." Steve adds, hurriedly.

"Promises don't really get people very far these days," Eddie replies. It comes out more bitter than he intends, but he doesn't take it back.

"Okay then—if I'm fucking with you I give you permission to—I don't know—set fire to my car."

"Okay, sure." Eddie huffs out a laugh despite himself. He hates how easy Steve makes it to forget he's supposed to be furious.

"So. Which one?" Steve presses, leaning into Eddie's side as though he belonged there.

"What?" Eddie asks, stopping in his tracks as the two of them drift to the side, away from the throngs of rushing people.

"What do you wanna do tonight?"

"A movie? Maybe?" Eddie says like it's a question, like he's still waiting for the punchline.

"You wanna get dinner after?"

"Okay." Eddie shrugs.

"Okay. I can pick you up at"—Steve starts.

"No. Don't. Don't pick me up." Eddie stops abruptly. His voice catches a little and he doesn't look at Steve when he says it.
"I'll just, uh—meet you there. At the movie theatre."

"Okay." Steve nods, smiling gently again. Not pushing.
"Seven okay?"

"Sure. Yeah." Eddie nods back, then watches as Steve walks away down the corridor. He doesn't feel excited. He feels like he's just agreed to walk across a tightrope without knowing how high up it is.

***

Eddie doesn't go to the movie theatre.

At seven o'clock he's lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling like it might shift or open up and swallow him.

He's still in his jeans, still wearing the shirt he said "sure" in earlier that afternoon. His boots are off but he hasn't bothered changing into anything else, as if part of him thought he might still go right up until the last minute.

But the clock moved. The sky darkened. And now it's past seven. It's past the part where he could reasonably show up late and pretend it was traffic or nerves.

He keeps thinking about the way Steve looked at him in the hallway, like it wasn't hard at all, like it wasn't the strangest thing in the world to be carrying Eddie Munson's bag through the school like he wanted people to see it. Eddie knows that sort of confidence doesn't come from nowhere.

He also knows he doesn't deserve it.

It's not that he doesn't want to go. He does. Or he did. But then he pictured Steve there, standing outside the movie theatre, waiting. Maybe still smiling, trying to act casual in front of a group of strangers who don't know he's being stood up. Or maybe Steve hadn't shown up at all.

And Eddie couldn't handle the idea that maybe this was all still part of a joke. A delayed punchline. Or worse—maybe Steve actually meant it, maybe Steve really did like him, and Eddie would ruin that too.

He rolls onto his side, facing the wall. The air in the trailer feels heavier than usual. He hasn't eaten. He hasn't turned on the lights.

It's not about Steve. Or not just about Steve. It's about the slow, thick feeling in his chest that tells him none of this is real, that nothing good sticks. That people like him don't get things like this.

***

Inside, Eddie hadn't turned on more than the lamp beside the couch. The TV was on but muted. Some movie he wasn't watching. The room smelled like stale cigarettes.

When the knock came, he didn't startle. He just sat there for a second, eyes unfocused, hand slack against the beer bottle resting against his thigh, then dragged himself up like someone who already knew what was waiting.

He opened the door. Steve was standing there, under the yellow light, looking the same as he always did when he didn't want to admit he was hurt—collected, tired in a quiet way, but trying for something lighter.

He held two overstuffed paper bags in his arms. One was already starting to tear at the corner.

"Well, you were right. Promises really don't get people very far these days."

Eddie blinked. The air between them held steady.

"Technically I didn't promise anything."

"Touchè." Steve shifted the bags. He was smiling a little now. It didn't feel fake, just slightly more effort than usual.
"Well, to be honest, there was a small part of me that thought maybe you wouldn't come. So—I thought I would bring the date to you."

"What?" Eddie asked, eyebrows pinched into a frown.

"I rented some movies. Now—I wasn't sure what you're into so I kinda got one of everything as a sort of—fail safe. And a pretty hefty assortment of snacks. Savoury and sweet because I didn't know what you'd be feeling"—

"Steve"—

"—and also neutral territory for the ice cream I just went for vanilla. You can't really lose with vanilla"—

"Steve." Eddie's voice was sharper this time, more grounded. The porch light above them flickered again.

"Yeah?"

"I can't."

Steve's expression didn't change. His body didn't shift. He just stood there like he'd expected it, but had hoped it might come out differently.
"What?"

"We can't do this. This—can't happen."

"Why not?"

The words felt too heavy. Eddie couldn't seem to hold onto one long enough to make it make sense.
"I don't know what you want me to say." He says quietly, looking down at the paint peeling on the wooden slats.

"I want you to say something that makes sense. I mean—Jesus, you told me to make you trust me"—

"It doesn't make sense, Steve. None of this makes any sense."

Steve didn't move, didn't answer right away. He adjusted his grip on the bags.

"So—you stood me up and now—that's it?"

"I can't do this anymore, Steve. Pretending it's not terrifying. Liking somebody who can't say it out loud. And now you're here doing—whatever this is, and I'm supposed to forget this whole thing started with a lie."

"It wasn't a lie." Steve's voice was firm. Unapologetic.
"Eddie, I'm not them. I'm not Brian. They're assholes."

"But you were. And you still could be."
It came out sharper than Eddie meant. He didn't walk it back.
"If I go all in on this and it turns out you were just figuring things out, or blowing off some steam—that's gonna wreck me. Plus I'm kinda into the idea of the whole flying under the radar thing until the end of senior year. Sue me."

Steve nodded like he understood. But his mouth stayed tight.
"Okay. Fine. You're scared. I get that. But don't pretend like you're the only one."

"What?"

"You act like I've got everything figured out and I'm just casually playing with your life for fun. Like I'm bulletproof and you're the only one who could get hurt here."

"You won't. Not like I will."

"You don't know that. You don't know what this costs me either. You think it's easy for me? That it's nothing?"

Eddie huffed out a sigh.
"You're Steve Harrington. You'll be fine. You can just laugh your way out of it and call it some kinda joke and they'll believe you."

"Stop saying that like it means anything. Steve Harrington. It doesn't protect me. It doesn't make this easier."

"You'll still get to wake up tomorrow and be loved. People will still talk to you. They won't shove you into lockers or call you names under their breath."

Steve let that hang there. Let Eddie hear himself say it.

"Maybe not. But it doesn't matter. None of it does. Not if I have to pretend to be something else."

Eddie watched his shoulders sag, fingers almost breaking through the paper.

"I didn't write those notes because I thought it was a game. I wrote them because you looked like you were drowning and no one even noticed. And I didn't know how to be close to you without fucking it up."

The bags were getting heavy in his arms now. He adjusted them, but didn't look away.

"Look, I don't need you to say yes to anything permanent. I'm just asking for one night. One date. And—if for whatever reason you don't wanna do this again then, fine. No questions, no argument. I'll go, and I won't bother you again.
But if there's even the smallest part of you that doesn't want me to walk away right now—
say something. Because I'm here. With a paper bag full of melting ice cream and movies that you'll probably hate."

The wind picked up. The door creaked in Eddie's hand.

"Fine." Eddie exhaled, stepping back.

Steve didn't move at first. Still uncertain.

"Well, come in then."

"Oh." Steve said abruptly, stepping forward quickly, like he'd been holding his breath.

Eddie rolled his eyes, but he was already turning around, letting the door swing closed behind them.

***

Steve sits cross-legged on the floor like it's the most natural thing in the world, like he belongs there, his back against the front of Eddie's ratty couch.

Eddie stays on the couch itself, limbs spread wide like he needs the extra space, like he's not sure yet how much room Steve takes up in his life.

The coffee table is a mess of crumpled bags and half-opened candy. There's a row of sodas sweating condensation onto napkins. Steve had really brought everything—Twizzlers, peanut M&M's, Doritos, three kinds of popcorn. It's an absurd spread. They won't eat even a third of it.

The movie is loud and stupid. Some buddy cop thing where one of them is an idiot of a man and the other one is disgruntled and three days from retirement. The plot makes no sense. Someone gets blown out of a window before the ten-minute mark. Steve laughs out loud at every dumb joke, leans back against the couch like he's at home.

Eddie watches him out of the corner of his eye, trying not to smile when Steve starts stacking candy on his face like it's a challenge. First an M&M on each eyelid, then balancing a gummy worm across his nose. He holds perfectly still, trying to keep it all up, and when one of the M&M's slips and rolls into the neck of his t-shirt, Steve gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like he's been shot.

Eddie snorts. Then tries to cover it with a cough.

"I heard that," Steve says, without looking at him.

Eddie pretends to be invested in the movie, but he's not. His eyes flicker back to Steve, still holding still like he's making a serious art installation of his face. His mouth twitches again.

"You're an idiot," Eddie mutters, finally, low and almost fond.

"Thank you." Steve replies, grinning.

Eddie looks at him then. Really looks. Steve's hair is a little messed up from where he's been leaning on the cushion, and there's sugar stuck to his cheekbone, a smudge of chocolate near his collar. Eddie wants to reach out and wipe it off. He doesn't.

He leans back instead, lets himself laugh properly when the movie delivers another terrible one-liner about explosives and rogue dolphins or something equally nonsensical. Steve laughs too, like it's the funniest thing he's heard all week.

Eddie isn't sure when the moment shifts. When the noise of the TV fades a little and he's aware of how close they are. Not physically—Steve's still on the floor, a good foot away—but emotionally, something is shifting. A wall lowering without ceremony. Eddie doesn't feel threatened anymore. Just warm. Quietly pulled into the gravity of Steve's attention.

He thinks maybe he could get used to this. Not the chaos or the jokes or even the sugar overload—but this version of Steve. Calm. Dumb in a charming way. The Steve that showed up.

***

The second movie ends. The sound drops off like the air's been let out of the room. On screen, the credits scroll by too quickly to read.

At some point Steve had gotten up from the floor. Complaining about how his ass was numb as he collapsed into the couch.

Eddie hadn't moved in twenty minutes, though he's not sure he'd noticed until now. His whole body feels weirdly heavy. Like he's come down with something, but in a slow, sticky way.

Steve turns his head and lets it fall back against the cushion, looking over at Eddie sideways. There's something casual about it, the way he's reclined like they do this all the time.

"This was fun," he says.

Eddie nods.
"Yeah."

"See. I'm not so scary, after all."
Steve pokes him in the ribs. It's unexpected. Not painful but enough to make Eddie twitch and then scowl at him, though it's not convincing. He's trying not to laugh.

"Alright, calm down." Eddie rolls his eyes but it comes out fond. Too fond.

Steve smiles.
"I mean it. I really liked hanging out with you tonight."

There's a beat of silence. Eddie stares at the television. The names scrolling past mean nothing to him. His fingers dig into the fabric of the couch, just barely.

"Yeah. Me too," he says.

They're both quiet again. He feels Steve watching him. Eddie doesn't look back. He thinks, very suddenly, that if he turns and meets Steve's eyes something irreversible might happen.

Steve shifts. His hands land flat on his thighs and he slaps them once before standing up. The movement breaks the moment completely.

"Well—I'm gonna bounce. Leave you to the rest of your—night."

Eddie shrugs. He wants to say something else but he can't think of anything that doesn't sound stupid.
"Okay."

Steve starts picking up empty wrappers and balancing them on top of the stack of video tape cases. His body moves with deliberate casualness. He's trying not to seem too invested. Eddie knows because he does it too.

"You can keep the movies by the way," Steve says, not looking at him.
"Just—remember to take them back before Kieth bars me for life."

Eddie watches the back of his neck, the slight rise of his shoulders under his jacket.

"I mean—if you wanted to watch the others or watch them again, or whatever."

"Thanks."

"Alright. Well—I'll see you." He nods.

Steve's already halfway to the door when Eddie says, suddenly, "Steve."

Steve turns around.
"Yeah?"

And Eddie doesn't think. Doesn't pause. He just crosses the room and kisses him.

It's strange. Not the kiss itself—that's soft, careful—but the way it feels. Like some part of him he didn't know was bracing has finally let go. Steve's hand finds his back like he expected to be touched. Like he wanted it. And maybe a little bit because he thought Eddie might scarper at the very last moment and wanted to hold him in place.

They pull away but stay close.

"That one was—definitely better than the first one," Steve says, smiling a little like he can't help it. Eyes still locked on Eddie's lips.

Eddie exhales.
"Yeah." He leans in and kisses him again, quicker this time.

Then the door opens.

They spring apart immediately, like children caught doing something naughty. Wayne stands in the doorway, blinking. He smells like beer and wind and the kind of aftershave that comes from a bottle that hasn't changed in thirty years.

"Oh," he says, eyes darting between them.
"Hi."

Eddie's jaw tenses. He narrows his eyes, trying to telepathically communicate with Wayne on how he absolutely does not need to make this a thing.
"Hi."

Steve straightens, smoothing a hand through his hair like that'll somehow fix everything.

"Hello." He clears his throat.
"I'm Steve." He holds out a hand.

Wayne hesitates, then shakes it.
"Hi Steve."

"Nice to meet you, sir." Steve nods, stepping back next to Eddie.

"Likewise." Wayne's voice is polite but uncertain.

He looks around the room. At the couch, the TV still on. The two boys standing too far apart, like that could erase the shape of what he just walked in on.

"Watcha boys doin'?"

Steve starts to answer.
"Oh—we, uh—we were—"

"We were kissing," Eddie says. Flat. Deliberate.

Steve clears his throat awkwardly, shoving his hands into the pocket of his jacket.

"Oh."
Wayne nods slowly, like he's giving himself time to catch up.
"Oh. Okay."

"Yeah," Eddie says.

Wayne looks at him carefully.
"You, uh—you want me to go out and come back?"

"No. You're good." Eddie rolls his eyes.

Wayne nods again, like that's all he needed to hear. He walks into the kitchen, opens a cabinet, like this is completely normal. Like this is fine.

"You boys want some coffee or somethin'?"

Eddie opens his mouth.
"No—"

"Sure," Steve says, cutting in with a smile.

Eddie glances at him, already sighing.
"Sure."

***

The light in the kitchen is low, tinted yellow like an old bruise. Everything feels hushed, even though no one's whispering.

Wayne's talking, his voice slow and even, like it always is when he's tired and a little tipsy. Steve is listening, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, nodding in a way that doesn't feel performative. He means it. Whatever Wayne's saying, Steve's interested. And Eddie is watching.

He sits quiet, curled over his mug, which has long since gone lukewarm. He doesn't drink it. He just holds it like it anchors him, gives his hands something to do while the world rearranges itself around him. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

Steve laughs at something Wayne says, and Eddie glances up, quick, just to catch it. The sound of it—bright, easy, like it belongs here. Wayne's chuckling too now, tapping a finger on the table like he's making a point, and Steve's smiling at him like he's the most fascinating person in the room.

And that's the part Eddie can't stop staring at. The ease of it. The way Steve isn't trying to impress Wayne, or charm him, or make him like him. He's just there. Just being. Comfortable in a way that makes Eddie feel both warm and vaguely sick.

He studies the slope of Steve's shoulders in his t-shirt, the little wrinkle of fabric near his neck where it always slips slightly crooked. He watches Steve's hands—long fingers wrapped around the mug, a small scar near his knuckle that Eddie hadn't noticed before. Steve uses his hands when he talks, sketching the shape of his thoughts in the air.

Eddie barely hears the words. Something about basketball. High school teams. Point guard. Shooting. Small forward.

None of it matters. What matters is Steve is sitting at his kitchen table with Wayne, like it's not a strange thing. Like it's the most natural thing in the world to be here at gone midnight, drinking burnt coffee, talking about free throws and broken gym heaters and college plans that don't exist.

Eddie wants to say something. Contribute. But everything he could say feels small next to the weight in his chest. It's not jealousy exactly. It's not even fear anymore. It's just the startling realization that he wants this. Not the conversation, not the night.

This—Steve, like this. Present. Kind. Leaning his weight into the world like he belongs in it.

He doesn't say anything. Just watches. Quietly, greedily. Like if he watches long enough, he might believe it's real. That Steve really did come back. That he stayed. That he wants to be here. That this isn't some brief and shining accident about to be undone.

Steve laughs again, this time quieter, and Eddie holds his breath like he doesn't want to scare it away.

***

The air outside is cooler now, soft with the kind of quiet that only happens after midnight. Eddie steps out onto the porch and shuts the door behind him with a soft click.

The screen door rattles faintly as it settles. Steve's standing there under the porch light, which flickers once like it's thinking about going out. His face is all relaxed edges and dimples, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets.

"Your uncle's cool," Steve says, smiling like he means it.

"Yeah. He's somethin' alright." Eddie answers, a little under his breath, but without any bite.

There's a moment where neither of them says anything. The hush between them feels easy, like it's stretching out so they don't have to say goodbye just yet.

"Okay, I'm actually leaving now. I promise," Steve says, laughing lightly.
"Don't wanna overstay my welcome."

Eddie doesn't say it out loud, but the idea that Steve thinks he could overstay is kind of ridiculous.

"See you soon?" Steve asks.

"Yeah." Eddie nods, and the smile on his face is real. He doesn't have to force it.

"You gonna stand me up again?" Steve teases, narrowing his eyes in mock suspicion.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Eddie shrugs with a grin, his voice low, a little playful. He feels light in his chest, like he could float.

"Okay. Guess I'll just have to find out," Steve replies, biting back a smile.

Eddie doesn't think. He just moves. He reaches out and grabs the collar of Steve's jacket, tugging him in like it's the most obvious thing to do. Their mouths meet again. It's slower this time, softer than before. Steve's hands cup his face with this kind of reverence that Eddie doesn't know how to handle.

In the distance, a dog starts barking—sharp and sudden. Then Wayne knocks on the window, waving like an idiot with a big, toothy grin.

Steve pulls away laughing.

"Oh my fucking God!" Eddie groans, turning toward the window.
"Will you go away!"

Wayne throws both hands up and retreats, clearly pleased with himself. Steve can't stop laughing.

"Bye," he says, still grinning as he walks backwards toward his car.

"Bye," Eddie echoes, watching him go.

Steve turns around and then turns back again to wave, once, then again as he opens the car door. Eddie waves back and just stands there for a second longer than necessary, watching the car disappear down the road. His stomach feels like it's full of electricity.

When he finally turns back inside, Wayne's there, standing in the middle of the living-room like he's been waiting.

"I like him," Wayne says, pointing toward the door with a crooked smile.

"Yeah, well. You can't have him. He's mine."

Eddie says it casually, walking past him like it's not a big deal. But as soon as he hits the mattress, the weight of the night presses into his skin.

He lies on his back in the dark, one arm thrown over his eyes, grinning like an idiot and unable to stop. The sheets are twisted around his legs and the air is warm and still, but his heart is pounding in a way that feels impossible to ignore, like it's pushing out against his ribs just to be noticed.

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