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sp0o0kylights · 4 months

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Give meee: an Eddie who went into a small little bookshop on an Indie trip and stumbled across an in person fandom meeting.

It's mostly Star Trek, and also mostly women, but the stories they have are nothing like Eddie's ever read.

He's barely a teenager, and already protective of himself and his real identity--but everything he's ever wanted is written down, right here, on a little zine with Kirk and Spock doodled on the cover.

They’re not--it’s not obvious, that they’re what he is, but the story itself is blatant and Eddie ends up being so obviously close to tears, he accidentally outs himself without ever saying a word.

(He also ends up on the mailing list, then being sent home with several hand printed copies of all kinds of zines.)

Eddie would remain on this list well past his third senior year in high school.

Past bats, and Vecna and Steve fucking Harrington.

Flash forward to his first apartment.The tiny one he shares with Steve when they followed Nancy and Robin to college.

Steve knows Eddie’s gay.

Or rather, Steve has been told, but Eddie's still pretty clammed up about it. He's not yet where Robin is, ready to bemoan her loveless existence while draped over their crappy, thrifted couch.

He makes jokes and he flirts and he absolutely says things he shouldn't, but none of it is real.

It's flash. Showmanship.

It's the persona that yes, is him, but Eddie consciously built it. There’s nothing soft or gooey there, nothing anyone can use to hurt him.

So when he comes home and sees that plain, padded envelope with the neatly printed label on the counter, torn wide open and flat without its contents?

Eddie panics.

His heart thunders in his chest, vision tunneling as adrenaline kicks through him.

He wants to bolt-- should bolt--except ever since he almost died his brain no longer obeys him.

Not when it comes to running, anyway.

Instead it fights him to a standstill, freezing his feet right to the living room floor.

The urge is still there.

To run, and save face the cowards way.

Vanish before Steve could get at a part of him that had once kept Eddie out of Wayne’s trailer for two days, until the old man had hunted him down and made him come home, huffing about how he’d love Eddie no matter what but he better never disappear like that again.

(Which Eddie did anyway, and of everything that happened with Vecna, it’s that he regrets the most. The stories he heard of Wayne putting up posters. Squaring off with angry, too-righteous townies, and--)

A sniffle jerks him out of his thoughts.

Eddie gasps, entirely unsure of when he stopped breathing. Stumbles back and turns, right in time for Steve to come out of his room and amble down their hallway.

One hand rubs at his eyes, and the other is--the other has…

Eddie identifies the cheaply printed, stapled zine immediately. It's one he's wanted to read for a while now, solely because it features a story about Kirk and Spock being stuck in a cave together on a planet that has bat-like, vicious animals on it.

Kirk gets bitten after something goes wrong with the transporter and, look, it’s carthiatic okay!? Sue a guy for wanting to read a romance about a situation he identifies with!

Steve looks up from the zine and startles.

For a second his eyes go dark and flat, the same way Eddies and Robins and Nancy's and everyone's does when caught off guard.

It's gone in a flash though, Steve visibly relaxing when he clocks that it's just Eddie.

He keeps the zine pressed to his sweater clad chest, and huffs out a laugh that's half forced and half pure relief.

“Fuck Eds, you scared me! I didn’t know you could be quiet.”

“Uh huh.” Eddie manages, voice sounding totally and absolutely normal and not at all ten octaves higher than it usually is.

They stare at each other for a second. Long enough that Steve's eyebrows crinkle in the middle, which is the first hint that he’s beginning to worry, and Eddie really cannot handle Steve being worried right now.

“What's--” Eddie’s voice cracks and he coughs to recover. “what's that?”

Steve frowns at him for a moment, until Eddie gestures at the zine in his hands.

“Oh!”

Steve holds it up, as if to show it off.

“It's a little book Robin got in the mail. It has a bunch of stories in it. They're normally boring as fuck but this one's from Star Trek.”

Hearing the words ‘Star Trek’ out of Steve’s mouth shouldn’t be weird, not anymore, when Eddie and Dustin have been on a two man mission to nerdify Harrington as much as possible, but it still kicks like a mule to hear him say such things without any prompting.

“You know what Star Trek is?”

“Eddie,” Steve tuts, tongue clicking in his mouth. “everyone knows what Star Trek is. It’s nerd shit, but like, old nerd shit. My grandparents used to watch it when I stayed over. This?”

He shakes the zine, so hard Eddie wants to snatch it away from him.

“This isn't nerd shit. This is excellent.”

Steve gives the zine an appreciative glance and hell, maybe Eddie accidentally walked into another dimension.

He’s been trying to get Steve to read more, rediscover the joys of books the public school system does its best to destroy, but until now Steve hasn’t really taken to it.

Enjoys when Eddie reads aloud sometimes, and has started to bug Robin to do it for him too, but otherwise?

Eddie’s nerve seen him with anything that had the written word on it that wasn’t a cooking or car related magazine.

“Honestly,” Steve’s saying, “I think Robs fucked up, this isn't her style at all. She’s gonna be pissed.”

He eyes the thing appreciatively, like the gift it is.

“I'm stealing it the second she figures that out.” He adds decisively.

“You like it?” Eddie asks.

“Mmm.”

“Even though it's--it's got…Kirk…”

Steve's frowning at him again. “What?”

“It's queer man. It's really queer.”

Steve peers at him, the crinkle back in his eyebrows.

“I know. Wait, how do you--”

And well. It’s now or never.

“It's mine.” Eddie says in a rush.

“No it's not.” Steve scoffs, and okay, maybe this is a dream. Eddie pinched himself twice already, but perhaps a third time would wake him up?

(It does not.)

“it was even addressed to Robin. Well,” Steve has one hand on a hip now, his default position when arguing, “Robbie, but she goes by that sometimes.”

Which Robin does, but not in the fucking mail.

Without a word, Eddie turns and goes for the envelope the zine came in.

Steve follows, invading Eddie’s space to peer over his shoulder (and that’s Eddie’s fault too, that closeness, but he didn��t think it would be turned on him in a moment like this--)

There's a sticker on the envelope’s label.

It’s barely hanging on, half of it curled into the air. Round and yellow, with little black lines, it becomes immediately obvious that one of Robin's smiley face stickers has migrated again.

They're all over the apartment. Remnants of a phase she went through after she stole a roll of them from her and Steve’s job at a local toy store.

This one had clearly jumped ship from its original spot (likely on the ceiling somewhere), and was now firmly over the E in Eddie's name.

‘Ddie’ still isn't exactly ‘Obbie’ but--

Steve leans around, snatching the envelope up and bringing it close to his face.

Far too close, like he can't read it, eyes squinting as he examines the label--and suddenly Eddie knows exactly what happened.

He laughs, an explosion of noise that's half hysterical and half disbelief.

Steve looks at him.

“What?”

“Oh my God,” Eddie says, one finger jabbing in the air in the vague direction of Steve’s nose. “I told you you needed glasses!”

“I do not!” Steve protests immediately, but his eyes are darting around the envelope.

He’s scrambling to figure out what Eddie’s seeing, trying desperately to find a hole that can prove himself right.

Eddie decides to help him, by plucking the smiley sticker off the envelope.

“See?” He jeers, and shit okay, maybe his life isn’t over just yet. “It says Eddie, not Robbie!”

“You guys have got to start using your government names for this shit.” Steve bitches, but it’s weak.

Eddie feels a grin coming on, and lets it overtake his face.

“So...Kirk and Spock huh?”

“They’re cute.” Steve defends instantly, before sighing his defeat and tossing the envelope on the table.

The zine he keeps in his hands.

Eddie crosses his arms and leans against their rickety table. “Even though they’re both guys?”

“I thought we were past this!” Steve whines. “I went to a gay bar with Robin last weekend!”

Which is news to Eddie.

“You didn’t invite me?” He gasps, feigning hurt by putting a hand over his heart.

Truthfully he still hasn’t fully recovered--is play acting himself, almost, but is rapidly coming around to the idea of Steve appreciating queer fanfiction.

“We did!” Steve rolls his eyes so dramatically his whole head moves. “We absolutely did, You said,”

Here Steve’s voice pitches into a mockery of Eddie’s that he will not give him points for, even if it is a little hilarious, “Me? At some loser bar? Fuck no, I’ve got a campaign to write. Starbuck, don’t you have homework?”

“I didn’t know that was a gay bar!”

“You did! Robin told you!”

“Okay well, I wasn’t listening!”

“Clearly. I keep telling you we need a fucking--system or, I don’t know, a code word or something!”

“Yeah well, when you wanna make us a safe word for conversations, big boy, you let me know.”

They’re both laughing a little now, this argument veering into familiar territory, with Eddie not really listening and Steve mocking him for it later. (As well as vice versa, with startling regularity.)

“You really like it though?” Eddie says after the laughter winds down, gesturing to the zine still clutched in Steve’s hand.

“Yeah.” Steve confirms, easy as he’s said anything else. Like this isn’t embarrassing, or almost worse than the time Wayne found Eddie’s porno mags and alphabetized them as a joke.

“It's part of a mail tree. I’m supposed to send it on to the next person when I’m done with it. I make copies though,” Eddie rushes to add, because Steve is now clutching the little booklet to his chest in horror, as if Eddie was about to rip it out of his hands. “If you like I’ll show you my other ones?”

Steve eases his grip, giving Eddie the little smile he makes that makes his stomach flip.

“That’d be cool.”

(Later, Steve pokes at Eddie’s thigh from where they’re both sprawled on Eddie’s bed, Steve having switched the new zine out for one of Eddie’s copies. “Are you going to laugh at me if I ask you to read some of these aloud?”

“Only if you don’t laugh when I ask you to take me to that gay bar.”

“Deal, but on the grounds you’re barred from making fun of my flirting attempts. Robin doing it was bad enough.”

“Well you deserve it if you’re hitting on women at a gay bar, Stevie.”

“I wasn't hitting on women you asshole.” Steve says and oh.

Oh.

Eddie feels the floor drop out from under him for the second time that day.

At least this time it’s not fear that thunders through him, but possibility.)

#steddie #pre steddie #eddie reads star trek slash fiction #kirk/spock #mentioned anyway lol #Steve Harringtons Terrible Fucking Eyesight #(me too buddy me too)#steve harrington #eddie munson #zines #0o0 fanfics #stranger things

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ayakashibackstreet · 2 years

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I love piracy I love piracy I love piracy I love piracy

#arrrrr etc etc #doesn't relate to anything in particular #just a general musing you know how it is #basically I think that if a company doesn't give a shit about my country #and won't even technically provide support for their hardware here (so you have to mail your console abroad if something is fucky)#then I 100% deserve to not give a shit about them either #anyways I love indie devs and I would much rather give them my money #piracy is cool but pirating from indies is generally kinda in bad taste you know #I'll do it sometimes in place of a demo #but I'll buy the game if I like it

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steviewashere · 2 months

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Perfect Timing

Rating: General CW: References to Sex Tags: Established Relationship, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Marriage Proposals, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, Dialogue Heavy

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is having hope for the future together."

💕—————💕

Steve was sitting at the dining table, hands spread out on the surface, staring down at a piece of mail when he heard Eddie clamber through the front door. Based on the string of things being dropped and Eddie not reacting negatively, just sighing a little bit and picking things up, must mean he was having a good day.

It’s funny, Steve thinks, that he knows the way in which Eddie’s emotions express when he comes through the front door of their shared space. They began renting an apartment in Chicago just a year or so after getting together. Tail end of 1986 meant sharing a bed and house by August of 1987. And it’s theirs. Filled with miscellaneous clutter—a bookshelf brimmed with books, coffee table layered with Sports Illustrated and Heavy Metal magazines, dice and keys and Topps baseball cards, and picture frames they dust and drawings from Eddie’s sketchbooks and ‘failed’ art projects of Steve’s that Eddie thought were masterpieces. Point is, they’ve made it their home. And they started their lives with a breath of fresh air.

And now it’s 1995, depending on one another’s reactions, this all may just crumble at their feet.

See, Eddie was out playing a demo tape for a small record company based here in Chicago. A little indie place that’s been looking to expand their music catalogue from contemporary to a broader lick of alternative genres. Which, it turns out, includes thrash and heavy metal. Which, Steve adores, Eddie is amazing at performing.

But, Steve? He’s been anxiously waiting all day for the mail to arrive. Biting down on his fingernails, chewing them up so much they bleed and he has to run his fingertips under lukewarm water. Pacing the carpet of the living room. Pushing down and peering through the eggshell blinds. Biting his fingernails, again. And then it came and now he’s at their dining table and now he’s waiting for Eddie to careen around the corner and kiss his hair and ask in his greeting Steve voice, “What’s this, baby?”

“What’s this, baby?” Steve hears from above him. He jumps a little bit. Maybe he should have put on music or something, try to get himself to stay grounded in the present. “Stevie?” Eddie calls.

“Oh, uh,” Steve stutters. “It’s a letter I got in the mail, but I—I wanna hear about your demo tape.” Eddie gives him a sidelong glance. A little furrow to his eyebrows, a frown. “The letter isn’t anything bad, I read it already. But I don’t know how you’ll feel about it.”

Eddie hums, nodding in slow understanding. He slides into the dining seat across from Steve. Mirroring his position. Then, he realizes, based on whatever face Steve makes, that it’s only anxiety inducing. He sets his chin in his right palm, stretching the other onto the table for Steve to take. Waiting patiently. And says, when Steve actually grabs back, “It went really well, sweetheart. They offered me a contract.”

“That’s great news, Eds! What did—Did you sign it? Please tell me you signed it.”

Then, Eddie sighs. And Steve shrinks a little. “I did,” he tells slowly, as if testing the words for the first time. “I signed it. They’re keeping me based here. I’ll start recording next Saturday.” He squeezes at Steve’s hand.

“What’s the long face for, then?”

“I’m not making a face,” Eddie feebly argues.

“You are!” And Steve mocks him. Frowning, eyes distant to the surface of the table, bunching his eyebrows impossibly farther down his face. His shoulders slump. “That’s what you did! What happened? Were they pieces of shit to you or something? Did they like—Are they underselling your music prowess or something? Do I need to kick their—“

Eddie chuckles. His laughter like honey. “Babe, breathe for me,” he whispers. “My only issue is that—“ But he cuts himself off there. He leans in across the table. Eyes down at the letter in front of Steve. “That’s a letter from the community college, isn’t it?”

Steve pulls his hands back, laying them palm down on the paper. He swallows thickly. “It is. Why?”

“Did you get in?”

“I’m not telling you until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“You telling me determines whether or not I have a genuine problem. So…Did you get into the college that you’ve been looking at forlorn every time we drive by it? Or did you not and I need to go kick some old people ass?” His eyes are large in earnest. Grinning like the Cheshire Cat. His hair curtaining his face, making his facial features impossibly darker, shadowed by something tricky.

Steve chews on his lip. “I got in,” he mutters. “I got into their English literature program. And once I’m done with that, I transfer. And once I transfer, I start classes at a four year. I’ll be studying English literature and secondary education,” he rambles. His fingers tap over the letter. “Is that…Does that ruin your whole music dream? I don’t want to be the reason that you chase something else.”

For a moment, the room goes scary still and silent. Eddie’s facial features soften. And Steve’s heart rabbits against his ribcage. Hard enough that he slides a palm over his t-shirt, massaging at the rapid beating, hoping that he doesn’t have a heart attack on the third floor of their complex. That would suck, he thinks bitterly. And my future would be done for.

He sits back in his chair. Anxiety thrumming under his skin when Eddie still doesn’t say anything. Just keeps looking at him like he’s…Like he’s planning an entire five lifetimes with Steve. Like he’s about to sweep Steve off his feet, chuck him over the side of their mattress, give him hickeys until he’s a mottled lovesick mess, and then get down on one knee and surrender his heart to Steve’s hands. Like he’s gonna propose something wonderful like marriage. And, maybe, Steve lets himself believe something crazy like that.

“Remember when I told you that I consider marriage as a possibility?” Eddie asks abruptly.

And, goddamnit, if Eddie does something crazy and stupid like propose right now, Steve may just throw up out of excitement. How embarrassing, he thinks. And he chuckles despite that.

“I do,” he finds himself whispering. “What does this—“

“And I considered it with you. And I held you close and you cried against my lips and we made love like we were the only people in the universe? Remember all the times that you’d lay on top of me out of contentment? All the times I’d hold you close to my chest? All the times you kissed over my heart, like it was the only thing keeping us tethered to the moment?”

Nervously, Steve laughs. “Yes, Eddie. Yes, I remember all that. What is your point with—“

“Fucking margarita nights. You’re a sweet drunk, d’you know that? Like almost unbearably sweet.” Eddie scoots his chair around the table. Setting it next to Steve, on his left. And his hands come into Steve’s field of view. Gathering Steve’s palms in his, squeezing and caressing the skin. “All the times in which we thought that this apartment was all that we had.” He shakes his head, smirking, snickering like this intense reaction he’s having is something funny to Steve.

Fact of the matter, Steve is scared shitless right now. What if this is his way of breaking up, he can’t help himself from wondering. Cruel. He swallows against the lump in his throat. Words escaping him.

“I want to marry you so bad,” Eddie swears. “Wanna do the whole ceremony. And the paper signing. And the honeymoon, but in some little cabin on a mountain. Where we load the fireplace with wood and we huddle in for warmth and we sip at rich cups of Uncle Wayne’s hot chocolate. And then, in a few years time, when we’ve financially recovered from the wedding, we’ll buy a house.

“We’ll buy a house and paint it yellow,” he promises. Steve begins to cry, something silent, but can’t pinch his nose to stop himself. “It’ll be yellow because that’s your favorite color. With white shutters. And a big backyard for a dog or two. Wrap around porch so that we can sit and watch the sunrises and sunsets.” He takes a deep breath that sounds a little nasally. “I’ll make you breakfast every morning,” he continues, “serve you a fresh bowl of strawberries, ones that you grow under the big front window of our house. I’ll kiss you all over the face, like I do now, and you’ll grumble that it’s too early and then you’ll smell the bacon and you’ll give me your stupid sleepy smile that makes my heart do funny little flips and you’ll kiss me on the mouth and it’ll be disgusting because you haven’t brushed your teeth.

“And I’ll be a very happy man.” Eddie’s breath trembles in his chest. He swallows hard. Steve wonders if he can hear his own shaky breath. Or if he’s too involved in whatever this is. “I’ll be so happy,” he whispers, “And I’ll find myself thinking, how did I ever get so lucky? But it isn’t luck. And it isn’t fate. It was trauma that forced us together and I’ll laugh about it. But then I’ll sigh because who the fuck cares how we started all of this?

“You’ll be a funky middle school English teacher. With your nicely done hair and a sweater vest and some khakis. I’ll be a musician, hopefully. But, every day you’ll have a small lunch; an orange that I made you peel but I removed the pulp from, a tuna salad sandwich because you’re my fish loving dork, and a bottle of water. I’ll leave you a note everyday telling you how proud I am because I’ve never stopped being proud of you.

“I’m proud of you, Steve, d’you know that? So much.” He laughs wetly. His eyes staring down at their interlocked hands. “All this to say that I’m proud of you. That I’m happy. We’ve got a future, sweetheart. And I want to be your husband. Will you—“ He swallows once more, thick and heavy and almost painful looking. Can love hurt when it’s this sweet?

Eddie finally looks up. His eyes glistening and his cheeks wet and his skin tinted pink. His eyelashes stuck together. Nose dripping only slightly. He’s a messy crier, but Steve doesn’t fare any better. “Will you marry me, Steve? Stay by my side and we’ll accomplish our dreams together?” His voice is soft. Enamored.

Unbelievable, Steve swallows back. Because how did he get somebody like Eddie in his life? How did he manage to find love and have it promised back at him?

“Yes, Eddie,” he gasps out. “God, holy shit.” He drops his hands from Eddie’s hold, instead wrapping them around his torso. Muffled into Eddie’s shoulder, “All this just because I’m finally figuring my shit out? God.”

Eddie cackles, burying his own face in Steve’s hair. They sway a little. “I just—“ Eddie begins whispering. “I don’t know. I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while. Every time seemed right, but this one? Baby, this one was perfect.”

Steve sighs into the embrace. Content to not say anything else. Except, “I’m proud of you, too, honey. I love you so much and I’m so proud of you.”

“I love you too, love bug. God, Steve, I love you, too.”

For the first time since 1983, Steve allows himself to truly settle in for a future. A future, he knows, he’ll be especially proud of.

💕—————💕 Fun fact, I accidentally deleted this whole ficlet when I was copying and pasting. Hit the spacebar and watched it disappear in front of my eyes. But I figured out how to get it back, not before almost throwing up on myself out of anger. Love y'all <3

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddielovemonth #day 12 #fluff #domestic fluff #domestic steddie #<3

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xiaq · 1 year

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AO3 Pt. 1 Pt. 2

Pt. 3 I combined the prompts: Outsider POV, Steve Harrington is an Idiot (affectionate), Everyone is Queer Because I Said So, and @c0olness's hyper-specific Wayne's Boyfriend Owns a Gay Bar in Indianapolis and Introduces Steve to a Drag Queen. :)

Angel Reyes has loved Wayne Munson about as long as he’s loved himself. The timing is not coincidental.

Which is why he’s willing to wait for him, even when Angel’s patience is worn thin like the shirt he stole from Wayne three years ago and wears like a prayer to bed.

Some nights, when Wayne calls at the end of his shift and Angel is wiping down his own bar at closing, he’s tempted to say: we might not have much time left—shouldn’t we spend what we do have together?

But he doesn’t.

Because he already knows the answer.

Because the same reason he fell in love with Wayne is the reason Wayne won’t move to Indy. The man is loyal to a fault and when he gives himself to people he gives all of himself and there’s no force in the world that would convince Wayne to leave Hawkins if he thought Eddie still needed him there. Because Wayne loves Angel. But Wayne loved Eddie first. And Angel can hardly begrudge him of that.

So he repeats a well-worn mantra, only slightly comforting: not today, but someday. And he hangs up the phone and he checks the calendar and he looks forward to the time he is allowed. If there’s one thing he learned over the years, it’s that he can’t get greedy when he already has a good thing.

Wayne is worth the quiet agony of patience.

So when he’s locking up for the night and the phone rings, he expects the conversation to take a familiar path.

“Evening, handsome,” he says, canting his hip against the counter. “You tell him yet?”

It’s been his standard greeting for close to a year. Why the man won’t just tell his gay nephew that he is, conveniently, also gay, is beyond Angel. But then, listening has always been Wayne’s strong suit. Talking, not so much.

“Well,” Wayne says. And that’s new.

“Well?”

“I did, actually. After I walked in on him and Steve kissin’ last night—“

“Finally!” Angel crows. The saga of Eddie and Steve and their will-they-won’t-they relationship had quickly surpassed even his favorite telenovela’s dramatic storylines. The pretty jock with hidden depths and the nerdy metalhead falling in love? Hospital vigils? Protracted pining while sharing a bed? Impeccable.

“They’re together now,” Wayne finishes.

“Darling,” Angel says, not for the first time, “I’d like to remind you that you are not paying per word for this call.”

Wayne huffs at him, also not for the first time.

“Steve didn’t know liking both boys and girls meant he was bisexual. He thought there was some sort of…threshold he needed to pass to be queer enough to date a man. I suppose Robin set him straight––or, not so straight as the case may be––” he chuckles a little at his own joke, “And he came over to declare his love as soon as his shift ended.”

Angel takes a moment to digest that. “...Maybe they use Eddie as the sperm donor if they want kids,” he suggests.

“Ease up, it’s not like they teach this shit in school. Bet I’d been a lot more confused too if I had the luxury of liking both.”

“Alright, I won’t pick on your future son-in-law, promise.”

“ Speaking of school,” Wayne says, sidestepping his implication. “Eddie got his diploma in the mail yesterday.”

“You going to do something to celebrate?”

“Actually, we thought we’d take a trip to Indy this weekend.”

Angel twists the phone’s cord around his finger. “…you’re supposed to come next weekend.”

“So you’d have to see me two weeks in a row, if you can bear it.”

“A trial, to be sure. When you say…” he pauses, trying to figure out how to clarify without breaking his own heart. “When you come this weekend. Would you want us—would you want me. To meet them?”

He closes his eyes and bangs a fist against his forehead because that is not the safe way to ask that question.

“It'd be pretty weird if they didn’t meet the person hosting them.”

“Oh, I see. You’re just using me for my five star accommodations,” he says, because he’s apparently determined to dig his own grave.

“No. Wayne says, “those are nice. But mostly I just want to introduce them to my boyfriend.”

“Ah.”

“And saying shit like that makes me think you’re trying to compete with Steve in the stupid Olympics.”

Angel makes an outraged noise but Wayne talks over him which is unique enough an occurrence that Angel lets him get away with it.

“See,” Wayne says. “The boys have decided they don’t want to stay in Hawkins long-term. They figure they’ll stay another year. Save some money. Make sure the kids are settled. And then Eddie’s set on New York or California and I think Steve’s just set on Eddie, wherever he is. I thought we could at least make a case for Indy, though. ‘Cause if Eddie isn’t staying in Hawkins, I’ve got no reason to.”

“Ah,” Angel says again. “And you don’t have any interest in New York or California?”

“I sure don’t,” Wayne says levelly.

“Well,” he clears his throat. “I’ll mop the floors and clean the windows. Give them the best showing I can. Should we plan to take them to one of the…heavier… music venues? I can probably have Frank cover for me, I’d just need to ask him now.”

“Nah. I figure I’ll help you out Saturday night and let them explore on their own. Eddie’s already making a list of options. But Friday is drag night at your place, right?”

“It is.”

“We should start them with that, I think.”

Angel grins. “Their debut in queer society shall be heralded by Dolly Parton and glitter.”

“Mm.”

Angel is familiar enough with Wayne’s thoughtful noises to know that he’s smiling.

“Enough about my boys,” Wayne says. “Tell me about your day.”

Angel does.

When Angel hangs up ten minutes later, for once, he’s grinning. He thinks, as usual, not today but someday. Only ‘someday’ suddenly feels tangible in a way it never has before.

***

Eddie Munson is exactly what Angel expected him to be when he comes tumbling out the driver’s side door of the van parked half on Angel’s driveway and half on his lawn. Angel has been hearing about him through the rosy lens of Wayne’s affection for close to five years and as a result, Angel loves him immediately upon first sight.

Then again, he’d be difficult not to love. Eddie is a bright, frenetic, presence, all hair and chains and affected airs, who shares Wayne's smile, though he dispenses smiles much more freely than his uncle. He is unashamedly himself as he shakes Angel’s hand, tells his uncle he approves, and then asks for a tour of the house.

Steve Harrington is somehow simultaneously exactly and nothing like Angel expected.

Exactly, because he looks the part: a cropped Hawkins Varsity Basketball sweatshirt, tiny athletic shorts, and the well-built frame of someone who regularly works out. His hair is verging on ridiculous. His face is…well-suited to the body, he’ll say.

But the kid also has a hyper-awareness to him, a quick-eyed, assessing, vigilant posture, that Angel has only ever seen in war vets twice the kid’s age. He puts his back to a room’s farthest corner. He keeps doorways in sight. And he constantly, constantly, orbits Eddie like the world's most unsubtle protective detail.

There are also the scars. Terrible, still-healing, scars. On one exposed thigh, the side of his neck, and his right forearm. On the slice of skin between his waistband and the frayed cut-off hem of his sweater. He wears them unapologetically, with the composure of someone who is neither proud nor embarrassed by them.

Angel suspects, only a few minutes into their first meeting, that Eddie may have similar scars beneath his torn jeans and bleach-speckled band shirt. One of his arms has some sort of medical sleeve on it—the pale fabric covered in black bleed-fuzzy Sharpie drawings of bats. Angel considers the mangled half-moon-shaped lines decorating Steve’s thigh. Unless earthquakes have suddenly developed teeth, Wayne has clearly been editing his stories.

But despite their significant aesthetic differences, the two boys are well-suited, if painfully young and unpracticed in the art of subtlety. They touch each other constantly; unthinkingly. Hands. Hips. Shoulders. Elbows. And the way they look at each other—well. They’ll need to work on that if they don’t want to accumulate more scars. Granted, they hardly have to hide their relationship in the sanctuary of his home, but he gets the feeling they don’t know how to be any other way with each other.

It’s both sweet and more than a little heartbreaking.

“So,” he says, “ I need to get back to the bar before the opening act at 8. It’s drag night.”

“Robin is going to be furious she didn’t come,” Steve says.

“We’ll bring her next time,” Eddie says.

They go.

***

Angel’s bar is called Innuendo.

He can’t take credit for the name, but he can take credit for the atmosphere. It’d been a dark, sticky, hole-in-the-wall when he started working there at 21. When he’d bought it from the former owner a decade later, he’d cleaned it up, regulated the jukebox hours, and started live music, drag, and deejay nights. A few years after that, in 1984, when the mayor issued a proclamation declaring the new city policy to no longer discriminate against queers, he’d taken the boards down from all the windows.

It’s still dark in the back where the stage and dance floor are tucked away, but the front windows with a clear view of the street are big and unashamed. He keeps the windows clean.

There’s a copy of the proclamation framed above them, along with pictures of Angel and noteworthy patrons of the establishment over the years: Wakefield Poole; Tom Higgins; Bayard Rustin; Freddie Mercury, and Jim Hutton.

A lot has changed in the last two decades that he’s worked there, but some things, like the old oak-wood bar where all the pictures were taken, stay the same.

He brings Wayne and the boys in through the back to scattered shouts of hello from regulars. He and Wayne slide behind the bar to start helping Frank, and the boys sit on stools with wide eyes.

It’s nice, to see the place from their perspective. The magic of it is never lost on him, but sometimes he does forget exactly how magic it is: a bar that looks like most other bars but where men look and touch and kiss without concern, where there’s art and magazines and conversations that wouldn’t be permitted by common society a scant few feet outside the door.

After fifteen minutes, they get brave enough to explore—admiring the posters on the opposite wall: Bijou and Boys in the Sand; Passing Strangers, Forbidden Letters, and A Night at the Adonis.

They play a round of darts near the front windows, the boards covered in shitty black-and-white copies of Anita Bryant’s face.

They sit at a table near the stage when the show starts. They pull their chairs together. They hold hands on the tabletop. They laugh and shout and sing along and kiss when invited.

After, when they’re back at the bar, flushed with alcohol and the subtle worldview shift that Angel remembers well from his first visit to a gay bar, a few of the queens come over to introduce themselves. Leslie, currently in her Cher era, steps up to the bar, accepts her drink from Wayne with a wink, and gives Steve a clear once-over.

“Aren't you out a little late for a school night, baby?" she says in her customary baritone.

“Uh, no ma’am. I graduated last year. Sorry. Sir?”

"Sugar, do I look like a ‘sir’ to you?"

“Take it easy on him, Les,” Angel calls. “He’s new.”

“No kidding.” She purses her lips at him. “Ma’am is fine unless you meet me on the street. But here I’d prefer ‘honey. Or ‘darling.”

Steve swallows. “I promised I’d reserve pet names for my boyfriend. So. I’ll stick with Ma’am.”

“Well aren’t you a charmer. And where is this boyfriend?”

“Hi,” Eddie says.

She gives him an equally critical once-over.

“Do you know what that color bandana means in that pocket?”

Eddie glances down at his back left pocket; at the black bandana hanging against his thigh.

“Ah...that I’m into S&M but that I like to be the submission one? Like the one getting tied up?”

“You what?” Steve says.

Angel notices that Wayne has made a hasty exit to the bathroom, which is probably for the best.

“Oh my sweet summer child,” Leslie says, “it means the opposite on that side, so maybe switch pockets.” She considers Steve’s pink face. “And also maybe talk to your boyfriend. The whole point of flagging is to find someone to meet your needs and you've got a pretty one right here who seems like he’s awfully willing.”

Steve pulls the bandana out of Eddie’s pocket and, using his teeth, tidily rips it into two. He tucks one half in Eddie’s right back pocket. He tucks the other in his left. He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow like he's expecting Eddie to argue. Eddie does not argue. Eddie doesn't do much of anything except stare at him with wide, hungry eyes.

“Well,” Leslie says, sounding pleased, “My work here is done. Honestly, kids these days.”

She gives Steve a little pat on the shoulder as she pushes back into the crowd. “I’d dance while you have the chance, boys. Life is short and sometimes so is love. Capitalize on that shit!”

“Do you want to dance?” Steve asks.

Eddie is still watching Leslie with a bemused smile. “I don’t know how to dance to this music.”

“Well I won’t know how to dance to yours tomorrow, but I’m planning to let you show me.”

“Fair enough, King Steve." Eddie affects a curtsy, offering Steve his hand. “I suppose I can allow you to take me for a turn about the dance floor, good sir.”

Steve bows low over Eddie’s hand, pressing his lips to his knuckles, looking up at him with a grin. “An honor,” he says solemnly, and then drags Eddie, laughing, into the throng of moving bodies.

***

The next morning, Angel wakes up early for no reason he can determine. He’s not good at sitting idle, and he doesn’t want his fidgeting to wake Wayne, so he elects to take his book to the garden. Only, as he slips into the hall, careful with the door behind him, he can hear the quiet, indistinct lull of voices in the kitchen.

Angel moves down the hall on sock feet, avoiding the creaky bit of flooring where the original foundation meets the master addition he added four years back.

The boys have opened the double doors to the patio and Steve is leaning against the jam on one side, coffee cup in hand, looking out at the garden. He’s shirtless, wearing only the shorts from the day before. Warm, tree-diluted, sunrise rays cast him in sepia, making the scars that traverse his flank to his thigh look less gruesome and more artistic. Poetic. He knows more than one photographer who would kill for a shot like this. Something about the coexistence of beauty and pain. Something about a commentary on perceptions of strength; the allure of imperfection resulting from battles survived.

Eddie joins Steve, sliding under his open arm like a habit, dragging a hand down Steve’s side to cup the puckered line of recently-stitched skin at Steve’s hip.

Eddie is also shirtless—wearing jeans and a riot of bed head that Steve presses his face into, murmuring something low and clearly funny by the stifled laughter it produces.

Angel wasn't wrong with his initial assumption: Eddie’s back is littered with shallow scars as well, but he also has a fair amount of tattoos, which makes the other marks less incongruous. There’s something about Steve’s otherwise flawless skin and sculpted muscles that make his injuries feel more visceral.

Or, at least, that’s what he thinks until Steve suddenly looks behind him, like he has a preternatural awareness that he’s being watched.

“Oh,” he says, “Good morning.”

Both boys turn to face him.

And Angel realizes that Steve’s injuries pale in comparison to Eddie’s.

Because Eddie’s chest and belly is a brutal mess of scar tissue.

It looks like something tried to gut him.

It looks like whatever it was probably succeeded.

He knows he’s staring but he can’t seem to stop himself until Steve slides a proprietary hand over the worst of it, spread fingers against what has to still be an agony of healing skin.

He meets Angel's eyes and all but dares him to say anything.

“I think,” Angel says, turning abruptly to enter the kitchen, “the occasion calls for french toast. Thoughts?”

“The occasion?” Eddie asks.

His hand covers Steve’s and presses, not a dismissal but an invitation to linger.

“Your diploma,” Angel says, “Steve’s first time making a fool of himself in front of a drag queen. Whatever excuse is sufficient for the making of said french toast.”

“See, we’re sort of trying out this new thing lately,” Eddie murmurs, looking at Steve, “where we don’t need excuses for things that make us happy.”

“No guilt in our pleasures,” Steve agrees, voice soft, expression reverent. He tucks an errant curl behind Eddie’s ear.

Angel resists the urge to sigh at them. Instead, he toasts them with a carton of eggs. “French toast for the pleasure of french toast, then. You two go sit on the bench in the garden. The sun should be hitting it right about now and that is surely a pleasurable experience. I’ll let you know when breakfast is ready.”

Steve meets his eyes again, this time less challenging, more thankful.

His hand slides from Eddie’s belly to the small of his back, pushing him out onto the patio.

“That sounds nice,” he says.

And they go.

When Wayne shuffles out to join Angel at the stove ten minutes later, the bread is sizzling in the skillet.

They take their time washing the egg bowl and whisk in the sink, elbow to elbow, two men sharing space for a one-man job.

They lean into each other, considering Eddie and Steve, similarly leaned into each other, on the bench under the oak tree outside.

“You think I should talk to them?” Wayne murmurs. “About the way they look at each other. And touch each other. And how they need to cut that shit out if they’re in public?”

“Probably,” Angel sighs. “But not today.”

“No,” Wayne agrees after a moment of silence. He presses a kiss to Angel’s temple. “Not today.”

Pt. 4 (Will's POV)

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington/eddie munson #steve/eddie #myfic #outsider pov #prompt fill #mywriting #listen this was mostly an excuse to cram in a bunch of references to the research I did for my PhD exams in queer theory/history

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sevenyeargap · 7 months

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voici, le fromage

why would you betray me like this.

#youre so lucky that i love you [smooches you]#but like lets be for real. what the hell is this. what IS this indy. i hate it here #💌 : you've got mail!#endsofjune.

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wilbursoot-updates · 10 months

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Lovejoy Take the Indie Rock Scene by Storm

Lovejoy is in this article!

Formed in 2021, Lovejoy is one of the newest and hottest bands in the indie rock world, building their name around their snappy lyricism, captivating melodies, and overall playful personalities. Comprised of lead vocalist Will Gold, guitarist Joe Goldsmith, bassist Ash Kabosu, and drummer Mark Boardman, the English quartet has already built quite the following through the releases of their three EPs. Their most recent release, Wake Up & It’s Over, came out in May this year, debuting at No. 5 on the UK album charts. Their schedules have been packed, as they did their first US headline tour this spring, topped off by a performance on the main stage at New York’s Governors Ball Music Festival. I had the absolute honor and pleasure of catching up with the guys after their performance at GovBall to discuss their recent successes, unexpected influences, and their hidden abilities:

To start off, let’s discuss your performance earlier today! How was it getting to play at GovBall and see all of your fans?

Will Gold: It was really, really fun.

Ash Kabosu: It was really cool. It’s like the end of a long-ass tour. It was a really nice endcap to everything we’ve been doing in America. It was cool to play New York again. We were here in December last year, and New York crowds are always really cool. I always fucking love this place!

WG: GovBall’s been absolutely incredible so far. Our set was really fun, and it’s always a pleasure to do any sort of main stage or any big stage that we get to perform our songs. It’s always a bit of a blessing.

Joe Goldsmith: We’ve done quite a few festivals, and I think we’ve played the best that we’ve played at any festival. We’ve done four, and that was the best we’ve played.

AK: Actually, we’ve done five! We played Manchester twice.

JG: I’d say that was the best we’ve performed. It was really fun.

Are there any artists that you’re hoping to catch while you’re here?

AK: A ton! I want to see Oliver Tree, Snail Mail

JG: Kenny Beats, Suki Waterhouse would be cool.

AK: Suki is fucking great; we’ve seen them at a few festivals now, and they’re really nice.

Are there any artists that you’re inspired by that fans might be surprised by?

AK: It is only basslines, so you don’t really notice, but I take a lot of inspiration from Idiot Pilot. They’re a small band from back in the emo days. I really like Loathe; I think they’re incredible. They’re just a completely different genre, and you wouldn’t really notice if I didn’t tell you just now.

WG: I get a lot of rhythms from Japanese math rock.

Mark Boardman: A lot of my style of playing comes from bands like Northlane and all these metalcore bands, like Thornhill. Even old stuff from Bring Me The Horizon, that’s the stuff that got me into double kick and stuff. Northlane, especially with the cymbal placement and the double kicks, the space, I love it.

JG: Sometimes I get some weird guitar influences from shoegaze bands, like DIIV or Slowdive, bands like that. It’s stuff like that but also random Japanese city rock from the 80s.

Japan is always living in the future!

JG: Yeah, it’s so cool!

WG: Specific bands that I really like are tricot, Chon, things like that.

I love that you guys mentioned these other influences and how they play a role in your current creation! Are there any other genres that you want to dabble in or draw inspiration from in the future?

JG: I really want Mark to do a jungle drum breakdown at some point in a song because jungle drums are fucking so catchy and boppy, and they’re so fun to groove to. I think we could pull it off, so I think that’s going to be a challenge for Mark.

MB: That’d be really sick. We’d get to experience playing around with a lot of different sounds because it’s a whole lot of cymbals and shit, so that’d be really fun to do that. We’d have to see where it fits though. We’ll get it done.

Which song of yours do you think defines your band the most?

WG: That’s kinda “Call Me What You Like.” Or “Portrait of a Blank Slate.”

AK: We’re still kinda figuring who we are, so it’s difficult to kinda pin it down. I think the songs are just different periods of our development, so I guess it’d be the most recent ones.

What was it like forming your band over the past few years and getting to tour the world so quickly in your careers?

WG: Different. I don’t know if it was more or less difficult. I feel like bands that form and grow on the Internet seem to have a lot of scrutiny for bands that grow the old-fashioned touring way and vice versa—bands that tour and go through that tend to have a lot of scrutiny for the Internet bands. I feel like we could all learn something from each other. I feel like there’s a lot of crossover and important things we can learn. We definitely haven’t done it perfectly, but we’ve done it our way, and that’s what matters.

AK: I feel bad for the bands that are forced to make TikToks all the time. That shit sucks, dude. Just let them make music; that’s what they’re good at!

WG: I like making TikToks.

AK: Yeah, but that’s us: we’re Internet-brained.

If you could switch roles with one of your bandmates for a day, whose role would you want to take on?

WG: Probably Ash.

AK: I’m very happy being me.

It’d be just for a day!

WG: Oh, I’d be the bassist.

AK: I’d be Mark just so I could understand how his brain works.

WG: Oh, we’re being in the other person’s brain? I thought we were just switching instruments.

It’s just switching roles, not bodies!

AK: Oh, okay! Well, not Mark. I would fuck that up so bad.

MB: I want to be Joe and do a guitar solo, slide on my knees. I’d be lead [guitar].

AK: I also want to be lead [guitar].

JG: I’d sing. Nobody wants to be drums.

If you could devise a conspiracy theory involving your band, what would it be?

JG: We're not real.

AK: Yeah, we’re actually AI-generated. We were an earlier iteration of ChatGPT that actually fabricated itself into human beings. It’s very advanced; you’ll probably see this roll out in the next 4-5 years. There’ll be loads of AI bands—we’re the first.

WG: Mine would be that we started the Spanish flu. You remember that pandemic 490 years ago or whatever it was? It definitely wasn’t rampant civilization and technological booms and livestock.

If there were band member Olympics, what events would there be?

MB: Hot dog eating.

Do you guys do a lot of hot dog eating?

MB: Oh yeah, we’re glizzy munchers.

WG: Do we?

MB: Me and Joe don’t eat meat, so yeah, lots of hot dogs!

WG: Don’t ask Mark any more questions! 100-meter, discus, archery, let’s just have the full shebang! I don’t know how we’ll do it, but I just want to see how we’ll do.

AK: I’m not really good at any physical capacity-

WG: Bobsled.

Don’t they have video games now in the Olympics?

JG: Esports type shit! I was thinking skating, as well.

AK: I’ll do some longboarding then.

JG: I’ll play some Tetris for a gold medal.

Any messages you’d like to send your fans?

JG: You’re the best. We appreciate everything that you say and give to us, except for Steve. We don’t care for Steve.

After our quick chat, the guys huddled around a tree in the media area to take portraits, which immediately escalated into a climb up the tree to pose for a few photos. Even in our short time together, all of them were incredibly gracious and took every opportunity to let each of their personalities shine, whether it be through silly facial expressions in their individual photos or laughing along to one another’s goofy mannerisms. Although they were one of the opening acts of the Saturday lineup, their fans came out to show their support, screaming along to each song as if Lovejoy were headlining the main stage. One other photographer mentioned to me that a fan told him that they were only at GovBall to see Lovejoy play, which is true commitment.

Since their GovBall appearance, the band has since played Glastonbury Festival in England and Open’er Festival in Poland, topped off by a headline spot at Belgium’s Rock Werchter. For a band in their earliest years, it’s evident that this is not the last you’ll hear of Lovejoy as the band continues to grow and tour the world. The massive support that they’ve garnered over the past few years is also a testament to their talent and their potential to be one of the biggest names within the indie rock scene as a whole. If you haven’t already hopped on the Lovejoy train, there’s no better time than the present, as there’s no telling what they’ll achieve next!

#lovejoy #wilbur soot #ash kabosu #mark boardman #joe goldsmith #governor's ball #articles

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hairmetal666 · 11 months

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Steve and Eddie.

Eddie and Steve.

After Vecna, they're inseparable. They share a bed. Always. Twine their legs together and sleep close. No reason to pretend they don't need each other when they so obviously do.

Eddie loves him. He knows it's stupid. Doesn't know how to protect his heart when Steve is everything.

Spring fades into summer, and between nights spent with entangled limbs, Eddie starts to see more in Steve's hazel eyes; soft fondness and gentle care, a flash of heat. Their physical affection goes beyond casual touches--arms around waists, fingers on hips, faces nuzzling against necks, kisses pressed into hair.

It feels like they have all the time in the world, but Robin asks Steve to move to Indy and Steve never mentions it. Eddie pretends like the silence doesn't hurt. They've only ever been just friends, after all.

Then, one night, "I'm moving to Indy."

"Okay, yeah." Eddie tries to keep his voice even, the tears from spilling. it was always a mistake, falling for Steve Harrington.

"Come with me?" Steve's hands are clenched in the duvet.

"I'm moving to New York." He had no plans until this very moment.

Steve falls quiet. "That's nice, Eddie. That's--yeah, you should do that, if it's what you want."

He nods. Ignores the lump in his throat. "Maybe I can really be somebody."

Steve smiles. Eddie's not sure why it looks so sad. "You'll knock 'em dead, Ed."

---

They stay friends, of course they do. There's phone calls and visits, and it's not the same, but it's still good.

Eddie tries to get over him. He does. There are dates, men, possibility. But they're not Steve.

Steve meets a girl--nice, pretty, wealthy--the kind of girl made for a King. It sticks. Eddie likes her. And nobody needs to know that he cries himself to sleep, thinking of what might have been.

The invitation comes in the mail. He throws it in the garbage without a thought, before standing against his counter, knuckles going white where he's gripping into the laminate. Tries to remind himself to keep breathing around the shattering of his heart.

He's not going. Knows he can't take it.

Then, a phone call.

"I'm getting married," Steve says.

"Yeah, just got the invite. Congrats!" Bile in his throat threatens to choke him.

"Will you--you'll stand up there with me?"

Eddie smacks his head repeatedly against the wall. "Of course," is the only possible answer.

---

The wedding is fine. During the ceremony, he tries not to listen to the vows, keeps his eyes on Robin's back and never, ever on Steve. He drinks through the reception. Knows it's too much, knows he's losing control. Can't take watching Steve dance with his new bride, so he sneaks out a side door into an alley, lighting his last cigarette. The nicotine barely hits his lungs before a scuffle of feet interrupts his moment.

"Can I get in on that?" Steve asks.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, handing over the cigarette. "What're you doing out here?"

"Haven't really talked to you at all today."

"Well. You've been a little busy." He means it to be a joke but it falls very flat, his bitterness too close to the surface.

Steve exhales a cloud of smoke. "Yeah. Didn't realize weddings were so much work."

Eddie doesn't know what to say, so they fall into silence, passing the smoke back and forth until it burns down to the filter.

"You happy?" Eddie asks. Doesn't think he meant to, doesn't want the answer.

"Ed..."Steve swallows.

"So, yes," he chuckles. It's the most hollow thing he's ever heard.

"It's just--It's normal, you know?"

And it's like Steve punched him, to know they never could've been because Eddie--being with Eddie--would never be normal.

"Right, of course, Harrington. Normal."

"That's not what--I'm not saying--"

"What else could you possibly mean?"

"I want quiet. No monsters, no secret dimensions. Something regular. Easy."

"Six-fucking-nuggets, right? Still a pretty lady in the front seat next to you."

"What's wrong with that? Huh? What's wrong with kids and stability and a fucking life. Not bartending until 4am and playing the occasional gig and living with 18 goddamn people."

Eddie straightens at that, fingers twisting in his button-down. "Sorry my life doesn't meet your exacting standards, King. Sorry I can't be what you want."

He storms away, Steve shouting after him, but he leaves him there with his promising and bright and normal future unfurling before him.

---

They don't talk. One month. Six Months. A Year. Two.

For lack of better to do, for stability, he writes a book. Fantasy. About an Adventurer who helps a group of kids save the world. They're joined by a handsome, mysterious man who seems like an asshole, but helps them selflessly every time. He and the Adventurer are something, but before it's anything real, the stranger is revealed to be their Prince. They save the world, but the Prince has to leave the Adventurer behind.

The book is a hit. Spawns a series. Eddie's somebody.

---

Eddie comes home from the store, paper bag of groceries balanced against his chest.

Steve Harrington, not looking a day older than at his wedding, stands at his door, hands wringing.

"Steve?" He asks.

"Hey, Ed." The nickname twists Eddie's stomach, but he doesn't say anything.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm getting divorced," Steve says.

Eddie almost drops his groceries, his hands shake so hard. He busies himself with the lock, ushering Steve inside.

"Is that all?" He asks.

Steve blinks at him, dazed expression on his still pretty face. "What?"

"You came all this way just to tell someone you haven't spoken to in almost eight years that you're getting divorced? What's it to me?" He stomps into the kitchen with his groceries.

"I wanted--I thought--"

Eddie snorts, makes it mean because he feels mean, wants to make Steve hurt the way he has for years. "You thought? We haven't spoken since your wedding day, man."

"She was ready for kids, and I realized that she's not--she's not who I picture having a family with."

The words pierce him like shattered glass, and he whirls into the living room, into Steve's space. "What the fuck are you doing?" he hisses.

"I wanted you to know, Ed. After all--"

"Stop calling me that. Stop acting like we're friends, for Christ's sake. And I don't give a damn about whatever realization you had once you realized normal wasn't for you."

"I'm trying to make this right!" Pink splotches highlight Steve's cheeks, his anger spiking to match Eddie's.

"There's nothing to fix, Harrington. We're over. It's fine."

"It's not fine," Steve is breathing hard. "I wanted you so badly, and you fucking ran away--"

"Bullshit! I waited for you. And you moved to Indy with Robin without a thought."

"I asked you to come! You were the one who said no."

"You asked a week before you left!"

"I was scared!"

"Of what, Steve? Not having that normal, easy, life you wanted so badly?"

"Of course not!"

"Then why?"

Steve chuckles, steps back. "I always thought you of all people would understand, and now--"

"Not when you come to my house unannounced to unload on me about your divorce because you expect us to pick up like none of it ever happened."

"That's not what I want!"

Eddie turns, pinching the bridge of his nose to cut off the stinging in his eyes. "I can't do this. I think you should leave, Steve."

"Fine." Steve won't look at him, storms to the door. "This was a mistake."

He slams it hard enough it makes the walls shake, picture frames rattle. Eddie can't stop the sob that rips out of him. Entitled, selfish, Steve Harrington, the only man Eddie will ever love. Steve Harrington who thinks love comes with strings attached. Steve Harrington who was afraid of asking Eddie to move away with them. And Eddie, always the coward, stifled by the weight of his own impossible love.

Eddie moves on autopilot, just knows he needs to find Steve, to see if there's a chance.

He skids down the stairs, almost falling a time or two, out into the night. His eyes scan the sidewalk, searching for familiar tall hair, but there's no sign of Steve, no sign--

A soft sob cuts through the air and Eddie's eyes fall to the steps in front of him, to the beautiful man sitting with his head on his knees.

"Steve," he says.

He stands, whirling, face a wreck. "Eddie?"

He doesn't know what to say at first, swallowing and swallowing around nothing. "I--I'm sorry I said no, when you asked me to move with you."

Steve's face does a funny, fracturing thing, even as he gives a little laugh. "I'm sorry I took so long to work up the nerve to ask."

Both of them take a step forward, then stumble together in a clumsy, tear-soaked hug.

"I'm sorry I got too drunk at your wedding," Eddie whispers against his friend's neck.

Steve giggles, but quiets quickly "I'm sorry about the 'normal' thing. I didn't mean it. I was--it doesn't matter. I'm sorry."

They hold each other for a long time on the steps of Eddie's building, rocking gently back and forth. When they finally let go, Eddie pushes Steve's hair off his forehead, asks, "wanna order a pizza and catch up?"

The answering smile is blinding as a sun, and Eddie is just as hopelessly in love as he was at 20.

They walk inside, fingers still entwined, lit up with hope.

"Hey," Steve says as they walk up the stairs together. "Are the Adventurer and the Prince going to find each other again? Because it's been four books now, and I'm still wait--"

Eddie twists his fingers into Steve's t-shirt, pushing him against the stained stairwell wall. "Fuck, Steve, I--"

He's interrupted by Steve closing the distance between their mouths, pulling them together in a searing kiss.

"They get forever, sweetheart" is Eddie's answer.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #angst #best friends to enemies to lovers #falling out #second chance at love #second chances #steve gets married and all eddie gets is this broken heart #reconciliation #happy ending #novelist eddie #the grand tradition of eddie writing hero characters who are thinly veiled versions of steve #hopelessly in love eddie munson #pining eddie munson #steve harrington is kind of a dick but he doesn't mean to be #they're just very bad at feelings

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