#patchiest | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

curiositydooropened · 1 year

Text

Better Off - Part One

Four years since Argyle's wedding, Robin invited you and the gang to her boss's lake house. Hoping good memories will be made, you're forced to wrestle with some ghosts of your past.

This fic runs in the same Universe as My Whole Life, Too.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader, Eddie Munson x Reader

Wordcount: 11,019

Warnings: second chance romance, angst, fluff, sex and sex adjacent (minors DNI, thanks!), recreational drinking and drug use, mentions of pregnancy and parenthood, mentions of the loss of loved ones

Navigation • Masterlist • Part Two

---

The paper garbage sack slipped against the slick chiffon of your floral skirt as you fumbled for the brass door handle. When the door swung open, you hoisted the sack back up your hip like a sack of flour, catching a rogue apple with the crook of your chin before it went rolling off the pile.

“Hello?” You called out, stepping into a warm house. Windows were open on either side, a breeze trickling through the foyer and tickling your upper thigh where your skirt had ridden up, caught on your haul. You toed out of your sneakers and huffed your bangs from your eyes. “Anyone home?”

To no response, you sashayed through the cramped dining room to the kitchen entrance to find a figure hunched in the warm glow of the refrigerator lightbulb. Blue checkered boxers stuck out from the waist band of painted-on black jeans, a black t-shirt loose around a slender build. You waited for him to stand before you slumped your groceries to the wooden countertops with a dramatic sigh.

“It’s fine, I’ve got ‘em.”

Eddie Munson spun on bare feet to face you, a look of genuine surprise flashed before the corners of his lips turned up in that iconic Cheshire grin, all teeth. You were disappointed to find his dimples hiding behind the patchiest goatee anyone could grow. “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” He cracked the beer in his hand and kicked the fridge closed.

“Uh huh,” you practiced an unimpressed demeanor, despite everything in your body screaming to launch yourself into his arms. “Help me with the groceries.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted with two fingers and his beer can before taking a long gulp. His eyes never left yours, so you rolled your eyes and broke the contact, dipping into your bags to start putting things in a bare pantry and refrigerator.

Eddie sidled up behind you, all spice and cigarette smoke and warm, arms snaked around your middle while his head rested on your shoulder. You cried out and swatted at him as his stubble came to tickle the skin where your jaw met your ear, but he only tightened his grip. “I haven’t seen you in months, and you thought you could get away without affection? You wound me, sweetheart.”

With a resigned sigh, you gave in, sinking into him nearly deadweight, and he heaved dramatically to hold you upright, swaying back and forth as he pressed lithe kisses to the tops of your cheeks.

“I missed you,” he graveled, that vibration in your back that sent your knees weak every God damn time.

“Missed you too,” you rubbed his forearms before patting at his wrists for release. “Now put this meat in the freezer before it goes bad.”

He did as he was told, albeit like a teenager, balancing a steak on top his scraggly hair and one in each hand. He tossed them in and they landed on the frosty interior with thumps. “D’you run into him?”

“Who?” You breathed, glancing sideways back through the dining room. Your heart began to race in your chest.

“Steve,” Eddie answered.

You shuffled flour and sugar, baking soda, and lined it up against the wall, eyes still fixed on the front door you left open. “No, should I have?”

“He and Nance went to the store.” Eddie picked three apples from the top and began to juggle them. “Figured your paths might have crossed.”

Your shoulders relaxed, and you caught one apple midair and walked it to the fruit basket nearest the breakfast nook on the opposite side of the kitchen. “Could you not play with your food?”

“You never had a problem with it before,” Eddie tongued at a molar, cheeky grin spread across his features again. His eyebrows waggled.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth. “I thought Robin made you promise not to be gross this week.”

He shrugged, added butter, eggs, and bacon to the refrigerator. “Mom’s not home, and we’re both consenting adults.”

You barked a laugh and glanced around the corner once more. The breeze swept in through billowy, white curtains. After a moment, they fell to expose the long gravel driveway. Your car was parked out front next to another you didn’t recognize. Out of state plates signified it must be a rental. “Yeah where is Robin? She left her boss’s vacation home in your hands?”

“Ouch,” Eddie snickered, leaning against the back counter to sip his beer again. You shot him a look. He grinned, shaking his hair from his eyes. “She went to pick up Jonathan and Argyle from the airport. She left Nancy in charge.”

“Ah,” you smiled, folding the paper bags in on themselves to stash under the sink. You hadn’t realized your hands were shaking until now, didn’t feel the tremor of your knee cap as it bounced in place. You licked your lips, glanced once more toward the entrance hall. “When do you think they’ll be back?”

“Any minute,” Eddie answered behind you.

“Cool,” you breathed.

He laughed. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let’s get you a drink.”

You spun on your heel with a smile, nodding fervently.

Eddie’s eyebrows raised, and he tucked his fingers around your hip bone to pull you in closer.

You slipped his beer from his other hand to sip. It was cheap, and a little stale, and the rim tasted of Eddie, cigarette smoke and spice. “I don’t think I’ll survive this week sober. Do you have anything else to help me out?” You smirked, trailing your fingertips from the guitar pick on his sternum down his chest and past protruding hipbones to the tight front pocket of his jeans.

He wriggled out of your reach, but you managed to sneak two fingers in to procure a rolled up piece of paper. Holding it between you, you were disappointed to find a one dollar bill in place of the joint you were hoping for. “Told you, sweetheart. I don’t do that shit anymore. You’re going to have to ask Argyle.”

“Traitor,” you admonished.

He chuckled, fingertips finding purchase under the flow of your t-shirt, just where your flesh rolled above the elastic waistband of your skirt. “But I can offer your something harder than expired beer.”

You cocked an eyebrow. “Keep it in your pants, Munson.”

And then, you were launched across the room. Not quite launched, but had the hard wood been a little slicker, your socks might have betrayed you under the shove Eddie gave you. Some beer sputtered from the can in your hand and splashed the ground. He stood up straight and flashed you an apologetic look before you heard the ruckus in the next room.

“Hey, assholes. Want to help with these groceries?”

Your heart fell into your toes. You hadn’t heard those tones in four years. Not that clear, at least. You’d forgotten how Midwestern he sounded, the long As of his profanities. It hurt, ached somewhere within you you didn’t know existed. Your mouth was dry, and your hand shook too hard when you tried to take another sip, so you placed the can to the countertop.

“Dude, seriously, there’s like three more bags in the car - “ Steve’s voice cut off the moment he entered the claustrophobic kitchen, and he froze right in the doorway, blocking your only exit.

You swallowed and mustered the courage to look up, and there he was, Steve Harrington in all his glory, arms full of plastic grocery bags teeming with snacks. “Hi,” your voice cracked, betrayed you.

“Uh… hi.” His pink lips quirked in a strained smile, and suddenly he was far too close, all encompassing. His face was clean shaven, but his hair remained long and voluptuous. You couldn’t help but notice the pepper graying his temples, the wrinkles at the corner of those honeyed doe eyes. It hurt in that spot again, emotion dammed at your throat, blocking you from making any more noise.

“Awkward,” Eddie snorted in a singsong.

“Shut up,” you snapped, while Steve simultaneously groaned, “fuck off!” And at least that had the three of you snickering.

“Car, you said?” Eddie pointed past Steve, and the latter had to shuffle further into your space to let the other man through.

Steve smelled the same, expensive cologne and a bit of whisky, and you had to grip the countertop with your fingertips to stay upright when his bicep brushed your own so he should schlep his overfull bags off his arms. His forearms were thick and tan and veiny, and you busied yourself with helping him empty the bags just to keep your mind occupied on something other than being within touching distance.

“Oh, someone bought eggs.” His voice broke through the awkward swish of plastic and squish of styrofoam and cardboard and ting of tin cans.

“Yeah, me. Sorry. No one told me.” You trailed off, tonguing at a canker sore near a back molar that you’d manifested in the stress of the week leading up to this trip, the anxiety of this very moment.

“No it’s cool. We just had to get out,” he offered as an explanation, and that stung a bit too. “I mean… stretch our legs. Me and Nance.”

You glanced his way, and he ducked back into the fridge. “Where is Nance?”

“Upstairs. I guess she’s not feeling well. Food poison from the airport, she thinks.”

You hummed and turned back to the bag, nearly empty in front of you. You felt a bit panicked, closed in, like your face was too close to the plastic and it was all you could breathe. You dipped shaky hands inside to find the last glass jar, white lid, full to the brim with the florescent brine of maraschino cherries.

You heard the suction of the refrigerator door close, and you felt Steve’s eyes on you, but you couldn’t look away from the cherries, each of them slamming into one another like buoys after a storm. Your heart thundered in your ears and your chest, and all of you rattled when Steve muttered the syllables of your name.

“Hey, look who I found!” Eddie burst through the door with arms full of the last three grocery bags, and the ruckus of the entrance hall startled the cherries from your hand to the countertop beside your baking supplies. You moved aside to give him room to drop his haul, and you glanced around his lean frame to see Steve scratch at the stubble on his chin, a far-off look in his eyes.

“Is my best friend in there?” You heard a screech and the stomping of feet, and you plastered on a smile and stepped into the line of fire to catch Robin as she came sliding into the room.

She was all limbs and hair, and she cackled in your ear as she enveloped you in a hug, rocking you back and forth too many times. “Ohhhh, I’ve missed you.”

“I talked to you yesterday,” you laughed, running your fingertips down her slender shoulder blades.

“Yeah, but that was on the phone. I haven’t seen you in person in ages. Did you cut your hair? Did you get a new perfume?” Robin held you at arm’s length to shower you in compliments. “You look incredible. Doesn’t she look incredible?”

Instinctively, your gaze met Steve’s over Robin’s shoulder. Your face heated, and his lips fell open to say something.

“She looks incredible,” Jonathan interjected from behind you, grabbing your wrist from Robin’s waist to sweep you into a warm hug. He always smelled of leather and the metal of the New York subway, and was the refreshing breath of home you needed in that moment, centering, calm. You and Jonathan had grown close over the years, seeing each other every few months for coffee or bagels or a slice at 3am between the bar and home. “You good?” He mumbled in your ear, and you nodded, giving him an extra tight squeeze.

“This house is super nice, Robin,” Argyle commented, admiring the setting of your little reunion. He’d aged the most, but perhaps aside from Steve, it’d been the longest since you’d seen him. A sleek of grey framed his face, long hair tucked back into a low ponytail. His mustache nearly met his sideburns, and his dark eyes crinkled in a smile when he caught your eye, reaching to envelope you in greeting.

The room shuffled around to allow everyone to say hi to one another, and Eddie began emptying the final bags and clinking things around, and Robin yammered on about her boss letting her using his summer home before the season, and the lake, and Argyle and Jonathan crowded countertops and sidestepped Eddie, and soon you were sandwiched beside Steve. You leaned back to catch yourself, and caught the meat of his thigh in your grasp, both of your jolting upright at the sudden contact.

“Alright,” you huffed. “There are far too many people in my kitchen right now. If you idiots want buns for your burgers and an apple pie for dessert, I’d recommend you all find somewhere else to congregate.” You wiped your hands on your skirt, the warmth of Steve’s denim leg sent all nerve endings ablaze.

Jonathan chuckled, hands up, eyes sparkling as he backed slowly out of your way and back into the dining room.

“Okay, Your Highness, Geeze,” Robin laughed. “Come on, gents. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

“Oh!” You crossed to the purse you’d managed to drop some time ago and fished around the bucket for your keys. “If anyone could please get my suitcase and pillow out of the trunk for me, I’d love you forever.”

“I got it, sweetheart,” Eddie tugged the keyring off your finger, mischief flashing in his dark eyes.

“Don’t even think about looking through my stuff, perv,” you jabbed at the pick around his neck.

“Nothing I haven’t already seen,” he winked, voice low, and twirled his way out of the room.

You rolled your eyes and pulled the flour from its spot against the wall.

“I’m going to check on Nance.” A voice muttered from behind you, and you startled long enough to see Steve’s towering frame rush from the room.

You exhaled, brushing your bangs from your eyes and made to pull down a large mixing bowl. This was going to be a long week.

—

Robin’s boss had taste, or at least his wife did. Lakefront views, west-facing so every angle of the house was bathed in rich reds and burnt auburns as the sun dipped into tranquil waters on the horizon. The cottage-style home stood at the top of a slope downward, a deck with barbecue and place settings sat a level down, and the dock on the third level below, bobbing calmy in the wake.

You licked condiments from the corners of your lips, fingertips stretching through a paper napkin, hunger from a long day satiated. Everything smelled of smoke and summertime. You tipped your head back, sunglasses gliding up the bridge of your nose, and basked in the warm glow of evening, breathing in the chatter of family, of home.

“So, Jonathan, I hear you’ve finally sold out like the rest of us.” Steve commented, bringing his beer bottle to pink lips.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jonathan nodded, stretching himself out in his own chair beside you. “Kids call me Mr. Byers and everything. It’s disgusting.” Jonathan started teaching in the fall, photography at NYU. Freelance wasn’t paying the bills as he’d hoped.

“I shudder to think that today’s youths are being taught by you four,” Robin pointed in disdain at each of the men in front of her. Argyle taught shop. Steve taught gym at Hawkins High.

“Hey, I don’t teach. I hold extra curricular jam sessions and spend my time picking notes out of locker doors. Have you seen Mr. Harrington’s ass today? He’s soooo hot.” Eddie snickered, sloshing beer with every dramatic gesture. You swallowed around his words, trying not to imagine Steve in his track suit, hands on his hips, tonguing the whistle between his lips.

“Dude, gross,” Steve tossed his napkin at the other boy. “Those are kids. Literal children.”

“Oh yeah! Nancy told me Holly was your student this year.” Robin cackled. “Nancy, what was it she was saying about him over Christmas?”

Steve groaned, and the group turned to Nancy for an answer, but she was caught in her own world, staring off into the sunset behind designer glasses. Her hair was cropped short, sleek, perfect pink lips pursed in a pout. It took Eddie’s bump of her knee to realize she’d been called out.

“Um… what?”

“Earth to Nance,” Robin snapped her fingers. “You good? What the hell did you eat?”

Nancy had barely touched her hamburger, lettuce and tomato remained untouched and wilted to the side of her bun. “Nothing,” she snapped, pushing out of her chair. The metal feet scraped against wooden floorboards. “I’m going down to the water.” She grumbled and bolted for the staircase, sandals clacking against her heels with each step.

“Jesus,” Robin grumbled, pushing up from her own chair with a huff, resigning to apologize, but Steve beat her to it, hand to her shoulder.

“I’ve got it.” He reassured, soothing her back to her seat so he could head off after Nancy. You allowed your eyes to trail his frame as he left, watching the shift of his shoulders, the slight limp in his walk still prevalent after all these years.

“So…” Jonathan bumped you with his elbow. “How’re you?”

“I’m good,” you replied, simply ignoring the implications in his tone.

“They’re both freaking the fuck out,” Eddie translated. You shot him a glare. “Oh, don’t act like everything’s fine, sweetheart. You guys should have seen them say hi to each other. They were staring, mouths wide open like a couple of fish, man.”

You groaned and tipped your head back again, praying the heat of the sun would disguise the warmth crawling up your chest and throat.

Robin’s groaned matched yours. “You guys said you’d behave. This was a mistake, wasn’t it? I just wanted a good vacation with my best friends after ten whole years, and I guess I should have known better.” Robin Buckley was the master of guilt trips.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Jonathan offered.

“Sure,” Robin chided. “Then why haven’t you spoken a word to Nancy all day?”

You rounded on the boy with a smirk, the tables turned his direction.

He gaped back at you both, peeling at the label of his beer bottle. “We’ve talked. We said hi. I see Nancy all the time. We’re good. The last time you and Steve spoke, he asked you to marry him.” He smirked.

“Cheers, asshole,” you grumbled into your drink, finding the disappointment of the last few drops of beer, now warm under your clammy touch.

“Whoa, my dudes, chill,” Argyle pushed his sunglasses up and off his face as he leaned forward. “We’re all adults here, and Robin invited us to this beautiful lakeside oasis to have a good time. Everyone’s going to get along, even if it takes a little encouragement.” He fished in the breast pocket of a technicolor shirt until tanned fingers exposed the stark white paper of one of the largest joints you’ve ever seen.

“Robin,” you grinned, plucking the cigarette from the man’s oversized hands, “you’ve just been replaced as my favorite person here.”

“Hey!” Eddie and Jonathan argued, but you watched with delight as Argyle leaned toward you, flame of his lighter a royal blue.

—

With the sun went the warmth, and a blunt between seven people, no matter how big, quickly dwindled to giggles and hummed songs and playing with Robin’s hair between your fingers with her head in your lap. You wore someone’s well-loved sweater, the duck on the front no clear indication of owner, and savored the morsels of apple pie that stuck to your molars while you sunk deeper and deeper into the couch, your head light and your heart lighter.

“I appreciate that you’re all happy high,” Eddie snorted, running fingertips over your freshly shaven shins. He meant what he said about not partaking, despite all of your whiny peer pressure, and you admired him for it. He was a good babysitter anyhow, and he smoked a cigarette while the rest of you passed around saliva and anecdotes about the daily life.

“Dude, we appreciate you, man,” Argyle nodded slowly, patting his sternum in devotion. He confessed he hadn’t been high in two years, not since the first baby was born, and it was clear as his pupils grew wider, slap happy smile across his features.

Eddie patted him on the shoulder in solidarity.

“Dude, do you remember prom?” Steve chuckled.

Your ministrations on Robin’s scalp stopped, and you could feel the tingle of your heartbeat against your ribcage. You’d never forget prom. Steve wore a turquoise cummerbund and bow tie to match your taffeta dress. His hair was slicked into that perfect coif, and he met you at your front door with a corsage in hand. He smelled of peppermint toothpaste, and didn’t even flinch when mom pinched his cheek, or when dad gave him that hard ass handshake.

He danced every song with you, swayed under the lights and banners, until your feet hurt, and then he brought you a mouthful of bright red, spiked punch. That was the first bit of alcohol you’d had, a cherry floating to the top of your paper cup.

Eddie snorted. “Holy shit, do you remember prom?”

You sunk further under Robin’s frame, and she made a humph of protest at being stirred, tucking her cheek further into the underside of your boob.

“What was prom?” Jonathan chuckled, but you could see his mouth continuing to pronounce the letters of the word ‘prom’, like it was some foreign word to him. You’d laugh, if it weren’t for the panic.

“Couple months ago, I was cleaning up after prom, and I found this massive stash under the bleachers. So I brought it home, and since I don’t partake…” he gestured with a lazy grin toward Steve.

“I was fucked up. I don’t know what kids are into these days, but I almost - “ He met your gaze from across the coffee table, mouth quirked in the softest of smiles, until it coughed it away, running a hand through his hair. He shook his head and looked back at Jonathan. “I almost did something I’d regret.”

“‘Prom’s a funny word, man,” Jonathan giggled. “Prom. Prom.” And although his laughter was contagious, had the room going, you couldn’t help but feel the familiar pit of heartache in your stomach that hurt somewhere new every time Steve looked at you.

“Okay, dickheads,” Robin announced, pushing herself off of you with surprising force. “I love you, but you’re all being so loud, and Nancy’s trying to sleep.” She pointed to the floor above, disgruntled expression not unlike a toddler.

“Maybe it’s time for all of us to turn into pumpkins,” Eddie started a chain reaction of yawns and stretches, lanky arms over his head to expose a bit of pale skin on his stomach.

The cold water was refreshing on your face, hair tucked into a stretchy headband and teeth brushed. You weren’t sure if you’d partake in another round of Mary Jane this week. This high went from cozy to anxious far too quickly, and sometimes melancholy wasn’t the ideal way to trudge to bed. You passed Eddie on your way out of the bathroom, receiving a slap to the ass that had you blowing him a kiss before you slipped into your designated bedroom to turn in for the night.

Your room was small, with a double bed and a little nightstand, a chair in the corner that hosted your open suitcase, contents already strewn in piles around the room in the search for your pajamas. A small window faced the front of the house, moonlight filtering in, and the antique lamp on the bedside provided a warm glow. The ceilings were vaulted, a little nook of wood and plaster that peaked above the headboard, and the patched blue quilt was handmade.

Steve sat facing the door, hands in his lap, socked feet firmly on the floorboards.

You jumped, grasping at your chest as you slammed against the closed door behind you, nearly chucking your toiletry bag at him. “Jesus Christ, Steve,” you scolded.

His eyebrows shot up in apology, head ducked. He looked small, unsure, like the kids he used to cart around. He didn’t say anything, but you watched doe eyes trail your face and linger downwards.

You felt hot, exposed in a t-shirt and tiny bed shorts, and you shifted uncomfortably on the balls of your feet. “What uh…” You swallowed. “What’s up?” What’s up? Really?

“Do you remember prom?” This time you knew which he meant.

He stood from his spot, took a step toward you, and out of fear he’d pull you in for a dance, you made about organizing your mess of a suitcase.

Steve cursed under his breath. “I just mean… we were best friends once, weren’t we?” And God, did that hurt too. “I know I fucked up, I fucked everything up so so bad last time, and maybe I was stupid thinking that we could come here and it’d be like no time had passed, like nothing had happened.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, released a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

“And now I’m just in your room, rambling about what a dick I am, when you know that. Of course you know that. And you probably don’t care or want to forgive me, or - “

“What do you want, Steve?” You were surprised at the evenness of your own voice, folding a t-shirt, back still turned, maybe terrified to look at him while his hesitation rang like a bell in your head.

He sighed. “Civility? I guess. I want a truce. Just for this week. For Robin.”

You glanced over your shoulder, saw his demeanor shift from desperation to something stiffer, unnatural, salesman Steve. You swallowed and folded your arms over your chest, turning to face him. “What does this truce entail?”

He shrugged, arms mirroring yours. “You could talk to me every so often. Let me take interest in your life, maybe even take some interest in mine.” You cocked an eyebrow, but you could tell his facade was breaking, the corner of his lip quirked upward.

“No referencing us, or Louisville,” you gestured between the two of you, watched his smile falter. “If someone else brings it up, we act like we have no clue what they’re talking about.”

He stood a little taller, hands to his hips. “You quit acting like I have cooties, sit next to me, interact with me, laugh at my jokes.”

“Deal’s off,” you scoffed.

It took a second for your sarcasm to hit him, but you felt your lips tug up in mirror to his own. He snorted, shook some hair into his eyes.

You wanted to reach up and push it from his forehead, to trail your fingertip down the ridged edge of his nose, to cup his cheek. You noticed his eyes scan your features, trail once again down your front, to your exposed thighs. You swallowed and hugged your arms closer. “And we reserve the right to go back to normal come Friday.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob before he offered a curt nod. He wiped a hand on his thigh before extending it toward you, brows furrowed in determination. “Truce?”

You clenched your fist a few times before crossing to meet his gesture. “Truce.” You slid your hand into his for a firm shake, and you almost melted at the way his digits enveloped yours. Just like prom night, corsage sliding to your wrist. You broke away quickly with a nod toward the door. “Now get out of here, creep. I’m beat.”

“Yeah,” he scratched at the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry. I mean… you know… goodnight.”

“Night,” you smiled, and as he left, you couldn’t help but feel something was missing from your exchange.

—

Your midmorning scones were a bit too salty for your liking, no doubt a sabotaging tactic of Eddie’s. Everyone argued with you about how perfect and delicious they were until you waved them off, refilling your coffee mug and joining Nancy on the terrace while the rest trudged to the rickety dock for a morning zoom on the boat.

Nancy wasn’t looking much better, although the pink had returned to her cheeks, and a shower did a lot for the bounce in her hair. She sipped water from a glass and held slender fingers to shade her eyes from the sparkle of lake water. Even sick, she was a super model, stretched a satin robe across a chaise.

“How was last night?” She pulled an abandoned journal from your chair to make room, and tucked it under the rolled towel at her back.

You sighed and stretched out beside her, accepting the morning breeze across warmed skin from yesterday’s sun. “Steve snuck into my room last night.”

“What?” Her eyes went wide.

You waved her off. “Nothing happened. I think he just wanted to corner me. I guess we have a truce, for the week.

Nancy settled back into her seat. “Thank God. I don’t think I have the patience for that right now.”

You snorted and sipped your coffee, bitter from a second drip, again a sabotage on Eddie’s part. You made a note not to allow him in the kitchen for the rest of the week. “Yeah, what is up with you? Did work just like go to shit since I saw you last month?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Nancy was lucky you’d swallowed when you did, but you held your coffee mug aloft and blinked into your reflection in the sludge until your brain picked up on the meaning behind her words. Setting your drink to the deck, you swung your legs to her side of your chair and leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

There were tears in her blue eyes, welling just around the edges, an emotion Nancy rarely portrayed. She was tough as nails, would rather lash out in violence than in tears. Terror flashed through her features.

You scrambled to meet her on the chair, pulling her into your neck before she could meltdown. You were at a loss for words, your mind just racing with images of Nancy in Boston, the least-tied down of the group, even less than you. She never stayed in an apartment longer than six months, always begged for stories that took her out of town, traveling the world, chasing the exact opposite of that American Pie life her parents raised her in.

After two seconds of tears, all she’d allow herself, Nancy pushed off from you and swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. “I missed my period, which is whatever, sometimes it’s late. And then I threw up on the plane, but I just thought it was motion sickness of whatever, but something was off. Like I just kind of knew. So when Steve said he was going to the store, I tagged along and bought five tests at the pharmacy. Every single one was positive. Every God damn one.” That familiar anger flared in her eyes, and you thought her wrath might explode on the pregnancy test factory workers.

A thousand questions buzzed in your mind, but none of them bubbled to the surface, so you just ran light fingertips down her arm, hoping it provided some form of comfort.

“Steve found me catatonic in the bathroom, and I asked him to get rid of the evidence. So he knows, but no one else.”

Instantly, your heart sank for the man. All he wanted was a family, a full brood of Harringtons. First with Nancy, then with you. You couldn’t imagine how he took that blow.

“Can we keep it between us please?”

You nodded fervently. “Hand to heart. Are you…?” You didn’t even know how to end that question.

“I’ll live,” she shrugged. “I’m just grateful I found out here, with you guys, instead of on a job in South Africa or worse, at my mother’s.” Nancy groaned and buried her face in her hands. “My mom’s going to have an aneurysm.”

You rubbed between her shoulder blades and stared off at the shimmer of sunlight across the lake’s water, a little metal boat casting its wake your direction.

—

Light filtered through the kitchen window soft and slow, a breeze billowy gossamer curtains. You washed and peeled potatoes in the sink, an old apron tied around your waist that you’d found in the pantry cupboard. You hummed to yourself, some obnoxious tune Eddie had been singing all day, stretched out in his sun lounger, pale skin turning a deep shade of lobster pink.

Each friend had filtered in and out as you cooked, complimenting the scents of onions sautéing on their pan or offering unwanted help rolling out the pastry dough for the potato pies you were making. You reassured Robin you’d be fine on your own and ushered her back outside for an evening stroll to the nearest convenient store for liquor.

You thought they’d all gone, surprised when a large figure loomed behind you to see the potatoes in a strainer over your shoulder.

“Smells amazing in here,” Steve commented, stepping quickly out of your space to open the refrigerator.

You hummed in agreement, basking in the waft of coconut suntan and expensive cologne he left in his wake.

“So, you uh… talked to Nance?” Steve sidled to the countertop beside you, thankfully a few feet away, and cracked into a beer.

You offered him wide eyes, noticing the patch of red that rimmed his eyes like a mask from where his sunglasses sat. “Yeah, what the actual hell?”

“Crazy right?” He shook his head, dipping back for a swig, exposing the tanned column of his throat.

You licked your lips and turned back to your potatoes, not wanting to slice yourself with the peeler. “How are you taking it?”

His long pause almost had you regretting the question, wondering if you’d toed over the line, over the parameters of your truce. It was hard to fall back into acquaintance territory when you knew so many truths about him, his deepest desires, his biggest fears.

“Yeah,�� his voice sounded small. He cleared his throat. “Yeah I mean it’s weird, right?”

You glanced his direction again, watched the pink of his tongue wet his lips.

He leaned a little closer, tilting his head your direction. Your heart began to race at the low rumble of his voice, breath fanning your cheek. “Do we know who the dad is? Is it… Jonathan?” He whispered the other man’s name, a sound for your ears only.

You shook your head, wiping your hands on your apron before elbowing Steve out of your way, transporting the strainer of peeled potatoes to the cutting board. “No way. They haven’t hooked up since like Argyle’s wedding. No, she’s been seeing this guy… Robbie. He lives in Hartford, and Jonathan just started dating this girl, Joanie or Julie?” You reassured, trying to disconnect any tacked yarn Steve had built on his mind bulletin board. Long gone were the days of Nancy and Jonathan meeting at your dad’s on the weekend from a friend trip turned third-wheel romp.

He seemed to relax at your reassurances, swigging his beer while he watched you work. He stood in comfortable silence, a sturdy frame with a silk shirt and board shorts, peeling at his label until you’d reached into the bucket for a third potato.

“And you?” He asked, voice a low rumble again.

“Me what?” You raised your eyebrow his direction.

“Do you have a Robbie in Hartford?”

Your knife slid easily into the flesh of a boiled potato, making a dull thunk against the wooden cutting board. Steve had angled himself your direction, blocking any light from the kitchen window. He was too close, all encompassing, warm breath against your cheek.

You glanced upward through your lashes find honeyed eyes, too much hope lingering in the way he watched you. There was something knee-weakening about the way he licked his lips.

“Steve,” a cry of anguish separated you. The sun filtered back in with the breeze. Nancy slumped herself to the door frame, wiping sweat from her brow. “Robin fell and skinned her knee, and the blood is going to make me puke. Can you handle it?”

Steve elicited a sigh your dad would have been envious of, and he pushed off the counter to take care of his eldest child. You tried not to watch him go, tried not to offer a sad smile when he glanced back your direction, tried not to wish he hadn’t gone.

“Are those carrots?” Nancy pointed to the pile beside your knife. You smiled and slipped one into her outstretched hand.

—

The crickets chirped their asynchronous tune, and the campfire crackled and glowed auburn off the water’s edge. Gravel and damp planks carved grooves into your asscheeks, but the cheap cinnamon whisky Robin found provided inner warmth and good company.

“Whoa there, sparky,” Eddie caught Robin as she swayed his direction, kneecaps covered in oversized band-aids.

“Yeah, Rob, you know the rules. No standing when you’re this flammable,” Nancy chided from her spot beside you. She was huddled in close for warmth, licking the chocolate off s’more stained fingertips.

“I just love you guys, okay?” Robin allowed Eddie to coax her back to the ground, knees curled to her chest to form the perfect mould for her chin while she sent heart-eyes around the campfire circle. “I just wanted to have a nice week with you all, like old times, minus the fighting monsters and setting the city on fire bullshit.”

You all snorted. A chill wracked your spine, eyes unfocused on the blaze in front of you, much smaller than the one that engulfed City Hall. You didn’t often let your mind wander that way, hearing the screams of loved ones against the dull roar of those things. Every time you were transported to that moment, reaching out for Mom, Steve’s strong arms around your waist, hauling you back to a military tent.

Feather-light fingertips stirred you from your daze, soft pads against the gooseflesh prickling your thigh. You blinked to find Steve watching you, worry etched into warmed features. Instinctively, you wrapped your fingers in his, the curl of his knuckles in yours, the steady sweep of his thumb across your wrist.

Maybe it was fruitless to think you could shrug off a lifetime of history just like that.

“I just wanted you to all come here and get along, and we could just laugh and get drunk and just act like nothing ever changes.” Robin continued her drunken ramble.

“Robin, everything good over there?” Argyle called from his edge of the circle.

“You tell me, bud,” she sighed, cheek pressed to the peeling edge of her bandage. “Everything good with you? What’s new? How’s life? Tell me something… juicy. A secret.”

Steve’s hand never left yours, circling a steady rhythm against the edge of your arm. Familiar nerve endings prickled. He shifted his weight to be closer, to hide your hands, all warm bicep against yours. If you wanted, you could rest your chin to his shoulder, if you wanted. You felt like a school girl again, stomach flipping like you were in a satin dress, watching out the front window for BMW headlights.

“I don’t think I have any secrets, my dude. I’m an open book. What do you want to know?”

“Ugh!” Robin threw her hands in the air. “Eddie, tell me a secret.”

Eddie leaned forward, gaunt featured shadowed devilishly in the firelight. He scrubbed at the goatee on his chin while he thought. He flashed a Cheshire smile before he responded. “I told Henderson you didn’t invite him. He’s pissed.”

“Can confirm,” Steve voiced from beside you, lifting his glass with a nod. “I also told him.”

“You guys suck!” Robin groaned, burying her head in her hands.

Your entire body vibrated with the rumble of Steve’s chuckle, you licked your lips and hid your smile behind your glass.

“What about you three?” Jonathan called from across the circle. “Any secrets?” There was a mischievous glint in his eye, and you yanked your fingers from beneath Steve’s while Nancy bristled stock straight beside you. Your heart thundered in your ears.

“I’m moving to France!” Robin cried out, hands in the air, whisky fleeing her glass skyward, luckily in the opposite direction of the fire.

“What?” Nancy breathed from beside you, instantly deflating in relief.

“It’s true. I’m moving to France, and I’m scared shitless, and I didn’t know how to tell you guys,” and with that, the poor sweet dear began to cry. Sob, actually, loud wails that wracked her tiny frame. Eddie was first to wrap an arm around her, pressing her into the crook of his shoulder and rubbing a strong hand up and down her spine, silver rings glinting in the firelight.

—

You held Robin’s soft waves while her stomach evacuated itself, and wiped the mascara from the corner of her eyes, off freckle-ridden cheeks. You lay on the pillow beside her, nose-to-nose, breathing in her minty toothpaste while she hiccuped herself to sleep, reassuring her that no one was mad and that you all loved her, and were proud of her for being an amazing change in the world. She’d feel better in the morning.

Her staggered breathing deepened, and her grip on your hand went limp, and the sounds of busied houseguests silenced over the floorboards, everyone having taken their turn in the bathroom before bed. You slipped from beneath soft covers and tiptoed out of your best friend’s room to gather your own toiletries for a late night shower.

Just as you reached for the bathroom door, however, you saw the wiggle of a brass handle before the door opened to expose Steve in a burst of steam, towel around his waist, toiletry bag in one hand, gripping the fold of the waistband. He smelled intoxicating, like expensive aftershave and toothpaste, and you watched a drop of water from his hair hit the plane of his chest and glide all the way down a chiseled abdomen to the v of his hipbone.

Your mouth filled with saliva. Sputtering, face burning from the steam, you side-stepped, but he bobbed and weaved the same direction.

“Jesus, sorry.”

“Excuse me, sorry.”

Finally, you managed around one another, your socks wetting on the drip of his bare feet against the tiled floor. Your reflection in the fogged mirror betrayed you, pupils blown, bottom lip forced under your top row of teeth.

“Hey,” Steve muttered.

You squeaked a hum, trying to stare at the darkness just over a freckled shoulder.

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line tonight,” he offered, but you couldn’t hear past the hum in your ears, couldn’t see past the sturdy grip of his fingers against the door jam. You missed those fingers. Christ, maybe you should have declined that last shot. “I just thought I saw you going back there, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You swallowed, blinked, tried to focus on his words. “Back where?”

“Home.”

You met his gaze then, honey eyes dark, eyebrow furrowed to crease in the middle. Home. It’s how you used to refer to him, the only piece of that Godforsaken place you clung to, the only positive memories. ‘Come home’ he’d coaxed, in that swanky hotel room in Louisville, fingertips bruising your triceps, same honey eyes pleading.

Your throat dammed with emotion, and you pulled away from him, glancing back at the look of hurt etched across your own features. You turned on the faucet and squirted toothpaste onto your brush.

“So are we good?” His voice came thick from beside you, too close, a looming stack of meat.

You pressed your toothbrush to your molars and hummed, feigning nonchalance with a shrug.

“Okay…” He seemed unconvinced, posted up against the door jam, fingers gripping his towel to keep it upright.

You tried to hold back your eye roll, spitting foam into the sink, and thought of Robin craned over the toilet. You cursed internally and turned to the man, gesticulating with the bright green utensil in your hand. “I’m good, Steve, really. Today was just a lot with Nance and now Robin, and I’m just tired.”

“Yeah?” He still had that lost puppy look in his eyes.

You shrugged and continued to brush. “Who knows,” you sipped dribble before it fell from the corner of your mouth. You turned and spit, rinsing your brush. “I might even let you knead some of the pizza dough tomorrow.”

He chuckled at that, that sound that hurt somewhere within you. “I’m holding you to that.”

You snorted. “Goodnight, Steve.”

And then he reached out, linking his fingers around your wrist, feather light. “Goodnight.”And he was gone, floorboards creaking into the darkness of the hallway.

—

Midway through the third day, when the sunlight glinted off dark waters, and the bob of a boat brought a lull of contentment over the group, the homesickness crept back in.

You curved yourself into the bow, legs outstretched and glistening from your dip in the cool waters, head back against leather seats, basking in the warmth of the sun. Eddie sat at the other side, ankles tangling with your own while he wrapped a rhythm on his sternum with nimble fingers. Jonathan and Argyle splashed and laughed, somewhere just out of sight, too close to the vessel to be seen over the edge, but their cackles made your mouth upturn to a warm smile.

And just a few yards away, Steve popped up from a swim, head swung back in a gasp, droplets cascading in pools around him. He swiped at his eyes and nose, treading water to stay afloat, all tanned and toned, a grin spread across pink cheeks when he spotted whatever ruckus the other boys were getting up to. His smile hurt.

All at once, you were transported to the last pool party in Hawkins, the last time you’d all been there, before Argyle went home, and you moved, and everyone went off to college. Steve did his laps, surfacing at the shallow end to push his hair from his face, grin making you weak at the knees. It hurt then, too, knowing you might never see him again.

He’d taken you for a drive that night, just out of city limits, to an abandoned farm house. You’d broken in, sandals crunching on broken glass, blowing dust from mantelpieces. It was there, you’d let him kiss you, let him touch you. You realized that even if you left Hawkins, you’d always have him. He’d be your anchor, your guiding light, your home.

Eddie toed at your ankle, stirring your attention from the sparkling water, from the boy breast stroking your direction. Your eyes focused again, and you cleared past the emotion stinging in the back of your throat. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded and shimmied upright, fanning yourself. “I think I’m getting roasted alive.” You pulled a tube of sunscreen from beneath your towel, the plastic soft and smelling of coconut. “Do my back?”

“With pleasure,” Eddie smirked and took it from you.

You rolled your eyes, but gave him a soft smile while you cleared any hair from your shoulders and turned your back toward him.

Eddie Munson was a life preserver of sorts, the buoy you needed in the storm. You’d felt guilty to cling to him, at Argyle’s wedding, when your internal storm thrashed at every sign of what-could-have-been. You apologized a dozen times, tangled in sheets and curled hair and tattoos, and Eddie laughed and trailed fingertips to your skin and understood.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He grumbled, calloused hands pressing out the knots between your shoulder blades. You tilted your head to expose your left trap, sucking in a breath when he thumbed at a particularly sore spot. “Sorry.”

You sighed, watching Steve reemerge from the depths, closer now than before. “Why are we here, Eds?”

“I think this was a test.” Eddie responded, certainty etched into his graveled tone. “To see if you could be in room together and get along. I think it was the reassurance you both needed that you aren’t monsters.”

You scoffed at his accusation, but his words rang true, cut a little too deep.

“You were both too proud to call each other, to apologize for being assholes to each other, so I think you both needed this to prove you were adults who could put the past behind you.” He squirted more lotion into his hands and lathered to heat it up before applying it to the backs of your arms, sliding lithe fingers under the straps of your bathing suit.

“I can’t put it behind me. It’s all I can think about.” You confessed, chewing at a sore spot in your cheek.

“So talk about it,” Eddie offered, catching the back of your neck with one oversized palm, thumbs pressing into the pressure points on your skull. You curved under his touch, closing your eyes to the soothing pressure of his hands. “I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve caught him by the phone.”

You frowned and glanced back out at the water. Steve was watching you, a crease formed between his own brows. When he caught your gaze, he turned around, dove back in, ear to the water as he stroked away.

“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,” Eddie sighed, squeezing your shoulders. You reached up and locked your fingers in his.

“I know.”

—

The dining room table was a graveyard of rustic pizza toppings and marinara in ramekins, empty wine glasses, tossed napkins, a clutter of silver spoons in ice cream bowls, the last bits melting into vanilla soup. You’d all moved onto harder things, pulling whisky bottles to the table to top off glasses, maraschino cherries staining lips cherry red when everyone cheersed to Argyle’s eldest son, Rami.

Eddie had been humming something all day, a tune you couldn’t mess through as the carbohydrates and the alcohol warmed beneath your skin, tingling at your fingertips and thighs and the tips of your canines, which you tongued in laughter, humming the tune alongside him.

“Will you two shut-up?” Robin groaned, tossing her napkin your way. “I’ve had that stuck in my head all fucking day.”

“Me too,” Nancy sighed, swirling her cherry from the stem. You’d been sneaking drinks of hers for her, hoping no one would catch you, but getting tipsy twice as fast as the rest of them. “What even is it?”

Eddie shrugged, a wide grin etching a dimple into his cheek. He waggled his brows at you.

“Elvis,” Argyle answered, arms swaying like a wild conductor. “The King. Can’t Help Falling in Love. My wedding song, remember?”

Your cheeks warmed with familiarity, but you sunk into Eddie’s arm as he swung it over the back of your chair, giving a little shimmy when he sang the words to you, breath hot on your cheek.

“Never have I ever hooked up at somebody’s wedding!” Robin announced, well proud of herself, as though she invented high school drinking games. You all chorused various groans of protest. “Stop your bellyaching and drink up, bitches!”

You smiled as Eddie clinked his glass to your own, and as you brought the drink to your lips, all sweet syrup and the kick of alcohol, you noticed Steve watching from across the table, thumb tapping the side of his glass. His gaze flitted from Eddie to you, and when you noticed you watching, he quickly stared at the ice cubes bobbing in his discarded drink.

“Never have I ever been eighty-sixed from a bar,” you sputtered, your mouth moving faster than your brain in the slog of your inebriation.

Steve looked back up at you then, and a private moment was shared between the two of you as the others squawked various words of protest you couldn’t hear. Steve searched your face for something, you weren’t sure what, maybe some evidence that you meant what you’d said, some understanding of this olive branch, a truce. Then, you watched him shake his head, grin stretching across his pretty, pink lips. “Yes, you have.”

You blinked, trying to remember what you’d said and how you’d said it, wondering if you’d misunderstood the parameters of the game, or maybe you’d misremembered that moment in Louisville, when things were at their peak, days and unending memories before the end. “What?” The room echoed with the same sentiment, although the rest of your comrades were cackling at your demise.

Steve cleared his throat, choked on an awkward laugh, wrapping his knuckles against the table. “Remember that tiki bar? We were hashing bets all night, and I bet you wouldn’t get up on the table…”

The room erupted in laughter, and chants of “drink, drink, drink!” until you extended your glass in a cheers of surrender and drank. Steve kept his eyes on you, settled back in his chair, but there was still that contemplation playing on his features. You had broken the rules of the agreement. You brought up Louisville, and if you were being honest with yourself, the consequences stirred something within you.

“Okay, my turn,” Eddie leaned forward, running fingers through his shaggy hair. “Never have I ever lived outside of Hawkins.”

Everyone but Steve booed and drank, and you avoided his gaze as you went for another sip. That was too big a wound to prod right this second.

Nancy shifted in her seat, sighed, giving into the game. “Never have I ever been in a band.” Robin, Eddie, Jonathan, and Argyle drank, mumbling under their breath about how bands were cool.

“Never have I ever had sex with a man,” Jonathan chuckled, and no one was surprised when Eddie drank beside you and Nance.

And on and on the game went, targeting one another with hyper-specific memories, until you were all toasted and giggly, the game devolving into other silly little quips and anecdotes. You’d fallen back into Eddie’s embrace, finger spinning the chain of his necklace while you struggled to keep your eyes open, too blissed about because you were home again.

“Okay, I dare you to tell me about the last girl you slept with,” Robin crossed her arms over her chest, narrowed her gaze at her target.

Jonathan paled. “What? Why?”

“Robin,” Steve bristled from across the table, his tone a warning, protection mode activated.

You frowned when he met your gaze in warning, before glancing at Nancy. She sat stiff beside you, her own lips pursed and arms crossed, water glass empty in front of her.

“It’s fine, dingus,” Robin shrugged. “I just wanna live vicariously through you. I haven’t had sex in months.”

Jonathan chuckled, ran a hand through his hair. “Alright, what do you want to know?”

“Her name?”

He swirled his ice in his glass, staring straight into it before muttering, “Julia,” and crunching down on anything remaining.

You allowed your gaze to flit to Nancy, and she didn’t show any physical reaction, eyes watching him, waiting for him to look up at her.

“Julia,” Robin mused. “Sounds sexy. Italian?”

Jonathan hummed a response.

“The last person I had sex with was Jonathan.” Nancy’s voice cut through the room like glass, every hum of warmth and intoxication buzzed like live wire. There was a moment of recognition before the table erupted in questions. Jonathan wasn’t looking at Nancy, staring at his hands in his lap, but her gaze was unmoving. “Jonathan is Robbie from Hartford.” She offered as clarification.

“What!?” You, and Robin, and Steve chorused. She’d been seeing Robbie for ages, a regular basis, trips back and forth, something serious. You never expected her to lie to you about it. Secrets kept between lovers, you supposed.

“Is Nancy Julia?” Eddie asked with an uproarious laugh, but the look of guilt on Jonathan’s face said it all. “Oh, shit.”

You cursed under your breath, and reached for Nancy’s hand, but she swatted you away, teeth grit.

“I’m pregnant, Jonathan.”

You buried your face into your hands and sunk further into your chair as the other voices in the room erupted in questions. You felt Nancy push out from beside you and rush from the room. Steve told Robin to sit down, and when you peaked from between your fingers, Jonathan tossed his napkin to the table and rushed after her, feet stomping up the groaning staircase.

“What the fuck just happened?” Robin looked to you for answers, and then to Steve.

“Well that’s one way to harsh a mellow.” Argyle grinned from his side of table, standing to start collecting plates and bowls to take to the kitchen.

“No kidding,” Eddie grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple before he got up to help clear the table.

Robin stood from her spot too, napkin falling from her lap to the floorboards below. “What the hell else is going to happen on this vacation?” She turned to you with a pointed finger. “You two better not be hiding anything from me. You aren’t sleeping together, are you?”

“No!” You squeaked the same time Steve repeated her name in that Dad voice, your entire body warmed.

“Who’s the last person you had sex with?” Robin asked, point-blank, arms crossed over chest. “And be honest with me.”

You sucked in your cheeks to avoid a laugh, the absurdity of the situation bubbling in your chest.

“Eden,” Argyle nodded, matter-of-fact, sliding back in to stack glasses.

“Thank you, Argyle. I believe you.” Robin scoffed before blowing out the candles dripping wax to the center of the table. She shot you a death glare before stamping up the staircase.

You shuffled in your seat, uncomfortable as Eddie hummed that stupid song, peeling the candlesticks from the tablecloth and bunching it up. Your mouth tingled, and your fingertips, and you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling. Eddie glanced down at you and winked, and you swat his knee until he scampered off to the kitchen where Argyle had the water running.

That’s when Steve said your name, low and slow, and in seconds, your smile was wiped from your face. You watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, and he nodded toward the entry way. “Can I chat with you outside?”

Your mouth went dry. You swallowed, nodded, pushed out from your chair on wobbly limbs, and followed him outside.

Steve stood against the porch railing, hands shoved into the pockets of his Levis, soft blue sweater hugging the swell of his bicep, the expanse of his chest. The glow of the moon cast everything in blues and lilacs and silvers. Crickets chirped over the sound of rocking boats and the softest waves.

With a deep breath, you closed the front door behind yourself and sidled up beside him, basked in the warmth radiating from him. You waited for him to speak.

“Do you think they’ll be okay?” He asked softly, after a long moment. “Jonathan and Nance?”

You licked cherry syrup from your lips, stared out at the expanse of trees and twilight. “I think so.” Your heart fluttered in your chest, the buzz blurring your vision and lowing your inhibitions. “Things tend to work out for people as close as them.”

He turned to you then, and you wondered if your eyes mirrored the hope in his. After a long moment, he coughed a laugh, scratched at the back of his neck. “I actually was thinking about our truce.”

“Oh yeah?” You smiled, turned to face him completely.

“Yeah,” he let out a shaky breath. “I was wondering if I could… add something to the terms and conditions.”

The sweet breeze fanned your cheeks, and you closed your eyes, leaned into it, hummed for him to continue. Warmth from your chest bloomed up your throat, to your cheeks. You hoped he’d cup your face, cool your skin with his strong fingers. You hoped he’d pulled you in tight, press his lips to your own, tell you how he feels.

“Just for this week, while we’re here, and we’re getting along. Could you maybe… not be so cuddled up to Eddie.”

Your eyes blinked open.

He ran his hand through his hair, shrugged. “Like I know you guys are friends, and I love that, you know I love that. And I know you slept together at Argyle’s wedding, and that’s cool. Whatever. You’re consenting adults, but it just makes me feel a little uncomfortable to have to like… see and be around or whatever.” He was rambling, and all you could hear was the rushing of blood through your skull. Here, you thought he wanted to kiss you, wanted to forget the truce, wanted to go back to the way things were.

“We slept together a few times.” You don’t know what possessed you, but it just came spilling out, and the second something heartbroken expression flashed across his features, you wished you could inhale it all back in. Your mouth slammed shut, and you tried to regulate your breathing, your heart rate, the panic at its boiling point.

Steve took a step back, nodding slowly as his gaze drifted to the toes of his sneakers. “Right, sure. Again, like I’m glad you’re comfortable with each other. I’m just asking for you not to like… rub it in my face.”

“When did I rub it in your face?” You were embarrassed, mortified even.

Steve shrugged, avoided your gaze. “Just now, at the table with the song, the Elvis song,” he grumbled. “And earlier, on the boat, I saw him giving you a massage.”

Now, a laugh bubbled out, a bark, dry. “He was applying my sunscreen,” you explained, and suddenly all of your anger from the last four years surfaced, bloated and gruesome, untethered from the depths. “And what gives you the right? I can’t spend my life coddling your comfort, Steve. I came here to spend time with old friends. We’re comfortable around each other. We have love for each other, and I’m not just going to stop acting how I’m going to act because you’re jealous.”

His nostrils flared at that, and you watched the steady rise and fall of his chest and shoulders. He grit his teeth, nodded, shrugged. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“It’s just so typical,” you cried out, fists clenched at your side. “You never considered what I want, or what makes me happy. You always had this picture painted of what our life would look like together, of the perfect wife I’d be for you, and I’m sorry but I can’t just do whatever you want, Steve. I have to live my life.”

And God, the hurt in his eyes made you want to take it all back, but it’d just been growing for years, festering, peeling apart, and now it finally had an outlet, an escape, and you couldn’t hold it back if you tried. So you left. Before any more could spill out, before he had anything to say, you stormed back inside, slamming the door behind you.

“All good, buddy?” Argyle called from the kitchen.

“Fine,” you breathed. Your hands shook, your lungs burned, your jaw ached from clenching. With a deep breath, you stormed up the stairs until you found a bedroom door, and you slammed it open to find Eddie slipping his socked feet out of his jeans.

“Whoa, you okay?” He asked, standing upright. He was all limbs and inked skin, scraggled hair, pale skin, checkered boxers, the perfect outlet.

You grabbed the front of his t-shirt and pulled him down into a fervent kiss. It was all teeth and surprise, but Eddie sunk into it for a moment, grunting and groaning as his cold hands slid beneath your t-shirt at your waist, and you dug your fingertips into his scalp, relishing in the sounds he made into your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed when you came up for air, lips finding his jaw, his throat, the lobe of his ear. He whined, guttural, low in his chest, and gripped your hips. “Fuck, no. Stop.”

“What?” You breathed, biting a mark into the curve of his collarbone. You pushed his boundaries, sliding a hand down the front of his boxers.

He yelped and used the strength of his sinewy arms to push you away, holding you at arm’s length. He cursed again, running his fingers through his hair. “We can’t.” He licked his lips, pupils blown.

“What do you mean?” You sucked your cheeks in, your chin raw from the stubble of his goatee. The inside of your mouth tasted metallic.

“You know I want to,” he offered, watching you. He reached a hand out to push your hair behind your ear, but you stepped out of his reach. He sighed, crossed his arms over his chest. “I just won’t. Not when Steve’s here.”

“This isn’t about him,” you scoffed, but your voice wavered, your jaw trembled.

“Then tell me you don’t want to make him jealous.” Eddie responded, even-toned, and the hurt in his eyes was worse than Steve’s.

You swallowed and shook your head. “Fuck you,” you whispered before you left, the hallway a blur of too many doors and the sounds of your housemates readying themselves for bed. You knocked blindly, knuckles trembling, and Robin greeted you with open arms, ducking you into her chest and clearing your hair from bleary eyes.

---

A/N: This is part one, be sure to click over to read part two. Thanks, so much, for reading xo xo

---

----

-----

#better off fic #steve harrington fic #eddie munson fic #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson x reader #steve harrington angst #eddie munson angst #steve harrington fluff #eddie munson fluff #nancy wheeler #jonathan byers #jancy #argyle #robin buckley

145 notes · View notes

lookedlikethebins · 5 months

Text

holiday party (plus one)

surprise! have a (belated) holiday oneshot written on a whim because i was thinking about our producer george x TA matty this past break! just wanted to write something fun, something sweet, and see what came up! enjoy this little glimpse! [set ~4months since meeting each other] ~3k words xo

Technically, where Matty lived was considered student housing. He could have friends over for parties, could bring boyfriends back after dates—had brought quite a few boyfriends (and a few one-date-only boys) back—without issue. Matty just couldn’t bring George back after any of their dates. The new hire in the archeology department was more of a local celebrity—known for being the youngest professor on faculty, just a year older than Matty—and not the same as the international kind. Matty had assured George that it wasn’t particularly personal. Simply put (although few things Matty said were to George) if George wanted any bit of his private life to remain within his own control, be his story to tell, he couldn’t be seen wandering around campus, alone or with Matty.

With Matty’s flat off-limits, naturally, George never found it presumptuous when Matty would text George after his evening class to see if George would help grade papers that seemed to show a negative correlation between level of coherency and number of words. Actually, George sort of counted on it. He liked that Matty would invite himself over; never asking if it was okay if he spontaneously dropped by, instead wondering if George simply wanted to keep him company—to which the answer was always yes—then arriving an hour later and knocking on George's front door with said papers and a bottle of wine.

One night in mid-December, George was impatient waiting for Matty’s post-class text. He was nervous Matty would be too exhausted to come over and George would have to figure out another way, and fast, to ask Matty to join him his label event the following night. He didn't think he could face it alone—

But Matty texted, as he always did: last student just left. forgot something in my office but then i’ll be over? x

Matty arrived within the hour, standing outside his door with twice as many papers and wine bottles.

“Final essays.” Matty answered the question George hadn’t yet asked. He pecked George on the lips—George’s preferred form of hello, if he was being honest—and hurried inside from the cold.

Matty looked exhausted, as he had the past few weeks of the term, but at least he’d recently shaved. George was beginning to worry—not only about his general well-being, but Matty’s ability to grow the patchiest beard but the most solid moustache. Meanwhile, George had success with neither and was losing his own ability to grow hair on his head before thirty. Some guys just had all the luck: the looks, brains, sense of humor, charm—

“Which class is this for again? You had three of them.” George said, shutting and locking the door. He flicked off the porch lights, expecting and inviting no other visitors now that Matty was there. He followed after Matty.

Matty was back in his usual spot at George’s kitchen counter, placing one wine bottle down between the barstools before shouldering off his worn, nearly-beaten, leather briefcase onto his seat. Matty always claimed the stool closest to the wall. He began leaving—most likely forgetting—pencils and pens on the lip of the counter that extended up the wall. Even though they’d only been seeing each other for four months, George figured it wouldn’t be too much of a gesture to wordlessly replace his napkin holder with a pencil cup.

“This was the intro class. Other classes finished last week.”

“Right, right.” George nodded. This classifier helped him very little; every class Matty described to George felt introductory. Made him feel like he was sitting in the desks himself, green and confused, just trying to scramble together some foundational understanding.

“I told them: short and succinct. Six pages maximum. They don’t have to show off—I’ll know by how they write it if they are copying, bullshitting, or absolutely clueless. I took the same class—same professor—during my very first term. I know the subject and am their intended audience. I told them seven times last week the only person they were writing to was me. Not Dr. Wriley, not even each other; just me. And you know what they did?” Matty exclaimed. He threw his one empty hand up in exasperation as he looked at the top-most essay in his other hand. “They all wrote me dissertations on Euripides. Which means that I will have no time to work on my own. It’s like they heard I cancelled my trip home and thought I was just planning on fucking about.” Matty rolled his eyes. He paused, lifting his eyebrows in consideration before scowling again. “George, I swear, they gave me so much to read, I’m going to have to call my optometrist again by New Year’s. I'm going to be blind before I graduate."

“I’m sorry, love.” George said, trying to translate the regretful, apologetic look on his face into his voice; Matty hadn’t looked up at him since they greeted each other at the door. With every second that Matty stayed distracted and frazzled, George began to think his entire plan that evening was not a good idea. Not what Matty wanted to be asked after such a taxing day. "Is there anything I can do—”

“—and I know there’s no way you’ve studied the Murray and Woodruff translations so I can’t exactly ask you to read any of these for me so…” Matty paused and grumbled away alternatives to his sentence. “It’s just going to be a very long night. You can help by keeping me awake.”

“Do you have to read them all tonight? Pretty sure you can let yourself have an hour of sleep. Maybe actually have dinner with your boyfriend,” George said. “Think I can convince you of at least that?”

Matty let the full stack of essays thud onto the counter and sighed. His shoulders fell with his exhale as he finally looked back at George. Before he could respond with his usual, quick-witted quip his eyes fell from George’s face to his clothes: his pristine, pressed shirt and polished belt buckle visible just above the countertop; his necklace resting in the gap left by his intentionally neglected shirt buttons; his rings dressing the fingers wrapped around the two stemmed wine glasses; the silver earring George had accidentally taken from Matty’s spot at his bathroom sink—he only ever wore one of them anyway.

“Wait. You’re all dressed up.” Matty seemed startled by the realization. He looked down at his own clothes—a sweater, slacks, and polo combo he wore frequently when he was running on little sleep; comfort and professionalism without having to think too much—and looked back up at George with a look of panic and apology. “You’re all dressed up and I—”

“Look very handsome.” George assured him. He placed both glasses down before grabbing a bottle of wine. They were two different labels: end of term gifts from faculty or perhaps an older, friendlier student. “As you always do—usually I’m the one in slippers and joggers when you come over. Your jumper’s got buttons on it. That’s pretty sophisticated for this place, you know that.” George was hoping Matty would laugh, but concern kept his expression tight and furrowed.

“Are you supposed to be going out—am I interrupting something? Fuck! Oh, shit. Is your stupid little elbow-rubbing holiday party tonight?” Matty gasped as he looked at his watch—before gasping and swearing again. “Fuck, I’m sorry. It’s not stupid, George. I didn’t mean it like that—” His words began to gain speed and George held out a gentle hand to hopefully slow him back down.

“Don’t be sorry. Label holiday dinner parties are stupid little elbow-rubbing events. You’re completely right. Per usual.” George laughed. “But, if it makes you feel better, it’s tomorrow. I didn’t skip anything. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“Oh. Okay.” Matty nodded.

George knew what Matty looked like when he understood something—his face relaxed and he slightly offset his jaw while he dipped his head in slow, steady nods, blinking each time. Standing in his kitchen, Matty’s eyebrows were still knitted together; his eyes were looking between his papers, his keys, his bag, and the door; and he was pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth so harshly George was afraid he’d draw blood.

“Let’s try another one: would you believe I was waiting for you?” George chose to focus on the corkscrew in his hands rather than Matty’s face as he spoke. George was being sincere and he had been waiting for Matty’s arrival since he’d texted him about his first class around noon that day, but George wasn’t sure he was ready for the look on Matty’s face when he admitted the gesture—or if he knew how to minimize the look on his own face in case the act was too much or too soppy when really Matty just wanted to come in and have a quick rant and a hasty glass or two of wine, before sinking deep into his work. George's only job then would be to make sure by midnight Matty was at least no longer in creased trousers and a belt, lounging next to George in bed while he continued to read.

“You didn’t have to do that, George. It was an exam day—and that’s always a crapshoot as to when the students all finish, you know that.”

“But exam day means end of the term, right? Well, minus the grading.” George winced as he waved the removed cork toward the stack of essays. “But that’s something to celebrate, right? You’re free—for at least a little while.”

“Oh, I see. Celebrate, huh?” Matty caught George’s attention again with a short, low laugh. He looked at George with lifted eyebrows. “You know, I’ll never understand your pretense to get dressed up when your main goal is to get undressed. You keep doing it, George. Just answer the door with about fifty percent of an outfit and I’ll get the idea a lot faster. I’m a smart man. I can handle it.”

“Yeah, because you come over after an exhausting day of teaching and dealing with end of year administrative hoop-jumping and the first thing you want to deal with is me practically steering you right to the couch.”

Matty seemed to mull the idea over. “You know, I wouldn’t hate that… But, I guess you’re right. Maybe answering the door fully clothed is a better idea. Perhaps you are sensible, George. I keep forgetting. Thank you.” Matty reached over to touch George’s forearm holding the wine bottle—and about to pour the contents all over the counter. Matty was looking at George with an expression that always took him by surprise. Made him freeze in place and thought. Made him feel in awe, for a split (hopefully) undetectable moment, of the life he’d found himself in.

Matty’s eyes were locked on George’s, not moving even as their moment of connection drug on into an extended silence while George scrambled for his next charming response—just trying to keep up. Matty’s smile was subtle, almost timid, compared to what George knew to be his full, squinted grin. It was all in Matty’s cheeks, in the subtle roundness at their peaks, just under his eyes. A small hint for George; the single location that was a giveaway to George, in an otherwise seemingly neutral expression to everyone else, he was being seen in a startling private and intimate way, even when they were alone.

George knew, once he handed over the full wine glass, he had a limited amount of time before his window of opportunity would close and the night would shift over to a blur of Matty growing chatty and trying to explain the faults of his students papers—and hopefully a few successes—while George gulped down his own wine and sounds of confusion; both of them giggling as the papers were forgotten and empty wine glasses nearly clattering to the floor as Matty climbed to sit on the edge of the counter, legs on either side of George and feet resting on the horizontal back rung of George’s chair; George only wanting to listen to the way his name sounded when being gasped and sucked in through clenched teeth—

“Actually," George began speaking before he could talk himself out of it. "there is a reason—there’s something I wanted to ask you.” George came around and sat down in his chair at the counter. Matty moved his bag and joined George, taking the other wine glass with a quiet thank you.

“Oh, yeah?” Matty kept the subtlety to his smile but let his eyes change from even and gentle to intense and direct. George was going to lose his courage—because he definitely didn’t have the will to resist Matty, sitting in his kitchen without any early classes the next morning, looking sharp and clever in his work clothes, freshly shaved, and looking at George like that without even a drop of wine in him. “What else is there you could ask me to do, George? If you’ve thought of it and I haven’t tried it, you’ll really surprise me.”

“Would you like to go with me tomorrow?” George said. He took a gulp of wine from his glass. “Be my date to my stupid little elbow-rubbing dinner.”

Matty’s confusion returned faster than before. “Wait—to the label holiday party? W-Work? You want me to go to a work function with you?”

“You asked me if I wanted to go to a faculty dinner the other week.”

“Yeah, because half the department is over sixty-five, doesn’t actually know my name, and hasn’t listened to any music that came out after the year they first started getting laid. They probably would’ve thought you taught there too! But your work… that’s a real dinner, George. Those are important people.”

“And so are you.” George said. He hated how immediate his response was, if only for how canned it sounded. He’d already thought of each of Matty’s arguments; he wanted to bring Matty to a party filled with people that pretended to know him best. If they were going to market him and his personal work (and personal life), they could at least know just who that involved. “My work is important to me, but you are too, equally so. I don’t see the issue. Sort of a natural combination, I’d think.”

“George,” Matty said with a quiet sigh of pity. “I barely knew who you were when we met. I-I should not be in a room with… with… pioneers of culture. I will make a fool out of myself, and worse, you.”

“You won’t make a fool out of me, Matty. You forget I’ve been attending these things for ten years. I used to bring ‘girlfriends’ with me. Absolutely no one has made me look more like an idiot than me at important, career-defining label functions, let me assure you.” George said with a laugh. He reached over to place a hand on Matty’s leg. “I know this is a big ask though, coming to something like this. But it’s a close-door dinner party—just, well, I guess they’re my co-workers. The boys will be there, definitely. But if you don’t want to—”

“I didn’t say that. Never said I didn’t want to go, but...” Matty placed his hand on top of George’s, his finger mindlessly tracing the ring on George’s pinky. “Am I really the person you want to bring along and introduce to... genuinely your entire social circle? Social and work circle? Talk about pissing where you eat, George.”

“Matty, I’m pretty sure everyone on the label being my friends is the example of pissing where I eat. Not bringing you to a party.” George said, shaking his head. “People asked me if you were coming, if you must know.”

“Probably because they don’t want me to be there—” Matty cut himself off with a long sip of wine.

“Matty,” With two fingers, George carefully grabbed the stem of his glass and eased it away from his mouth—without spilling it down the front of him. “First off, even if someone didn’t want you to be there—for whatever reason: you’re new, you’re not industry, you’re a man—I’d still like you to be there. Me. As my date. Not theirs... If you wanted, of course.”

Matty paused and began to bite his thumbnail. “Are you sure no one’s going to mind if I’m just… sitting there in the corner, awkward and quiet?”

“Babe, what do you think I do at these things?” George laughed. He waited for Matty to smile, his mouth preoccupied and unable to chew his cuticle, before using one finger to lower Matty's hand back down to his own lap, where George was holding his other hand. “It’ll be nice to finally have someone join me in the corner.”

Matty inhaled slowly, squeezing George’s hand before speaking again. “I’d love to go.”

“Yeah?” George’s relief—his joy—came out as incredulity. As the immediate questioning of Matty’s decision—and accidental chance to rescind his response. George held his breath but didn't have to wait very long.

“Yes! Yes, I want to go with you. Corner and all.” Matty managed to say before George kissed him.

In a breathless giggle, hands resting on George’s shoulders, Matty said he was very lucky there was a wall behind him.

#gatty #gatty fanfic #matty x george #george daniel x matty healy #producer george and TA matty fic #andfacedown fics #this isn't going on ao3 (yet) so shhh just for you guys #enjoy and thank you for indulging this au that happened bc of my stretch of listening to abiior interviews while copyediting #producer george oneshot

29 notes · View notes