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steviewashere · 25 days

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The Bow on a Gift

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Internalized Fatphobia, Fatphobia, Disordered Eating, Negative Body Image, Body Dysmorphia Tags: Post-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Chubby Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Self-Esteem Issues, Steve Harrington Has a Bad Mom, Sad Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Chubby Chaser Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Love Confessions, Getting Together, First Kiss

I'm a fat guy and this is partially based on experience. So you will be nice, or else. (There's nothing I'll do, but I am scowling, if you must know.)

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💕—————💕 Steve Harrington was a chubby little kid. You wouldn’t know that unless you asked directly, but it’s true. He’d been a little boy with dirty blonde hair, sun kissed cheeks, and a thick body sturdy enough to climb trees in his backyard. He didn’t parade this information around, though. Not with the voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like his mom; telling him to drink another glass of water instead of getting just one more scoop of food, to check the nutrition label on his packet of cookies (and to stop eating them immediately if the first ingredient was sugar; which it was, it always was), and to stay away from certain foods. Candies, chips, carbs—anything his mom disapproved of, labeled unnecessary and innutritious.

So, his relationship with food and body went from: This is good. To: It’s no longer good enough.

He had slimmed down over the years, no praise towards his eating habits. This was pure just working out through sports and gym class. His meals were portioned out to him by his parents, served to him as seen fit in school, or packed to be the best of the best. Always without the addition of some sort of snack food. Bad food, as it had been deemed in his house. Junk food, as it had been deemed by the public.

Other kids would offer up single Oreos from their sack lunches. He’d shake his head with a wry smile, say something about ‘watching his figure’ (like his mom would say), and go back to eating whatever meager meal was in front of him. A tuna salad sandwich some days. Water and a salad—leaves wilting and dressing a little left of good sour—on others.

He mourned those little moments of indulgence in his day. The couple little chocolate candies he could have before going to bed on Halloween night. A snack cake from the Byers family next door. His very own baggie of Doritos to go with his freshly made turkey sandwich, the champion’s meal after long days spent in the pool. And so his relationship with food and body went from: It’s no longer good enough. To: There’s nothing good about it.

Steve Harrington was a chubby kid. But he won’t talk about it, not really.

Though, he sort of has to now. Now that he’s thicker again, soft belly and chunky thighs and meaty arms. Now that the world ending fights are over and he’s relaxed and a little more sedentary than he was. Now that Eddie is giving Steve sad, cow-like, brown eyes whenever he mentions ‘watching his figure’ or being ‘not hungry’, or when he looks at a freshly taken Polaroid and asks a little too loudly under his breath ‘is that what I really look like?’.

——— Eddie’s sitting on the couch next to him. He’s shirtless, fresh from outside in the pool, eating away at a bag of Ruffles he brought with him. There’s an open can of Coke on the coffee table, gently popping and foggy from the fridge. The bag is shifted between them, open side towards Steve.

He eyes the chips inside. The dark orange coating—cheddar and sour cream flavored. Knows that if he takes even one, he won’t be able to stop himself. That he’d probably eat the whole bag. Because he’s done that before. After he’d not let himself indulge in snack foods, he’ll do that. Take in whatever junk food item he can find, hide away in his room, and eat it until he’s either sick or can’t stomach anymore. Usually the former happens before he knows it.

They look tantalizing though. And his tongue salivates at the mere thought of them. Imagining the salty goodness flat on his tongue. The savory notes of cheddar. What it would be like to give in could only be described as a dream.

“You wanna few?” Eddie asks around a mouthful. He absentmindedly scratches at his belly, Steve watching. Looking between them. At his own body, where he’s begun to develop a little pouch of a belly, folding over his older, tighter Hawkins High sweatpants. Then he peers at Eddie’s, lithe, thin, fit as a fiddle—even though Steve watched him devour an entire pizza outside, even though he had a few ice cream bars, even though he’d guzzled down some beers.

Steve knows as soon as he eats one of these chips, everything his mom said will come true. That it’ll go straight to his waistline. That he won’t be able to shed the pounds. That he’ll be a disgusting mess. Even though this body is comfortable, a little warm, entirely soothing. Even though he could see himself chubby again and know that he’d recognize himself. He looks like he did just before high school, before he really started to lose weight, when he was the happiest he’d ever been.

“Nah, I’m good,” he relays through a tight, fake smile. “Had quite a big lunch not too long ago, remember? I’m trying to watch my figure.” He pats his own center for good measure. Palm meeting soft cushion, like he’s patting a pillow. But he’s all too aware that’s his own middle he’s touching. Grimaces at the realization.

Eddie eyes him for a beat. Chewing stopped, food swallowed, not going back for more. He not so subtly wipes his crummy, greasy chip fingers on his swim shorts. And just keeps looking. “Why do you do that?” He asks bluntly.

Steve chuckles nervously. “Do what?”

“You make these awful comments about your body. Why do you do that?”

He scoffs. “Like you weren’t already thinking them, Eddie. I’m fat. And I shouldn’t be eating all this shitty food.” His hand rests on his middle, scrunching his fingers lightly, feeling that extra padding through his t-shirt. Feels like he should’ve grabbed a different shirt. Something looser. Something less outlining, skin-tight. It doesn’t actually fit against his skin like plastic wrap, but it tries to.

As Eddie continues to stare in stunned silence, Steve retreats in his mind.

Thinking over how a lot of his clothes have become tighter in the last several months. Thinks over everything he ate today—a slice of pepperoni pizza (‘Too much bread, Steven,’ his mom’s voice states), four glasses of water, a banana, the chocolate bar Robin threw at him (‘Think of the sugar, Steven! That’s awful for you,’ his mom rings out again), and a single beer (‘Beer? Really? That’s alcohol, Steven. God, you really are like your father’, and that particular comment stings. His dad is a bigger guy, has a bigger gut, wears larger clothes. It stings.) He kind of wants to cry. To hide. To run away.

So that’s what he does. He stands abruptly from the couch. Eyes on him, still, burning and observing. Seeing exactly who he is and how he’s shaped. And he darts up to his bedroom—trying not to focus on how parts of him jiggle or how parts of him slap against the other or how his sweatpants shift in a way that pinch him because they’re too small. He slams his door shut, locks it, and stuffs himself at his desk. And 'stuffs' feels right because his chair creaks, it squeezes him. He can feel it. Feel himself. Knows every little movement he makes and how it makes him look.

And his eyes drift over to the few pictures he has framed on his desk. Some of Robin and some of Dustin. One with Eddie and Mike. Then, one that particularly irritates him, is a photo Eddie sneakily took. Of Steve laying on one of the loungers outside, shirtless for once, belly spilling over the waistband of some swim shorts, hairy and soft. There’s a roll forming under his chest. And he squeezes the equivalent of that now, noticing that it seems bigger than the picture is making it out to be. Looks harder and notices his chest has grown to be a bit flabby, moobs. Eyes scrutinizing the way his ankles are bigger and his watch is tighter on his wrist and that he’s laying on his chair in such a way that there’s a more pronounced double chin. He squishes that, too. The heft of his fat between his fingers. And for a moment, he kind of wants to throw up.

His cheeks are warm under his fingertips. Squishy. Pinch-able. And his fingers are thick, thicker than he remembers them being. His feet feel wider when he flexes them under his desk. Every little bit of him is softer and more humiliating and just a little more disgusting.

This was a safe body at one point. The softness in it was comfort. And the warmth it carried was a balm. But it’s just this. A terrible reminder of how selfish he is, how over-indulgent he is, how much of a mistake he’ll always be.

He shouldn’t do it, but he looks back at the photo. At everything about him. The roll and the moobs and the soft underbelly. The thick neck and thicker legs and widening wrists. And then his eyes drift back to his center. Noticing, for the first time ever, that he’s got those red stretch mark lines forming on his hips and near his belly button.

Remembers, only some short years ago, when he was stout and chubby and still a pre-teen dorky kid—how his mom would make all sorts of ugly comments about those lines. When she’d see the silvery ones left after giving birth to him, the way her fingers would trace them and she’d scoff. Or how she’d see them on his dad’s hips, making some short comment about how fat his dad was getting. Remembers the look of hurt that would flash over his dad’s face—quick and subtle, but contorted and downward and sour nonetheless. And he knew, still knows, that sometimes his dad can be a total asshole—college and work and doing good in life all stark reminders of failure—but knowing that even the biggest, toughest, and smartest of guys can be knocked down with statements like that…It always made Steve feel just a bit sick. He knew he’d never be perfect in their eyes, but something about his physical attributes being all that matters to his mom, that hurts. He may never be the smartest of their family tree or the best, but at least his dad can find respect for him in other regards—knowledge about cars or sports or hugs given after rude comments from his mom.

There was no respect for Steve’s soft body, though.

And how was he supposed to respect his own when it was nothing to everybody else? When it was gross, unflattering, the topic of every conversation? When he was peered at like a bug, poked and prodded, scarred?

He gently rolls the t-shirt he’s wearing so that it sits just below his pecs. And looks down. Lifting up a love handle to really get a good look. There they are. Red, fresh, scarred reminders of just how awful his body is.

Nobody likes the fat kid. Not his mom. Not his middle school gym teachers. Not his old friends. How is he supposed to believe that this body of his is liked now? All he’s heard is negative. And negative it must be.

A knock on his bedroom door breaks him out of it. “Steve?” Eddie’s soft voice flutters in.

Steve sniffs, unbeknownst to him that he was crying. He hastily wipes at his cheeks. Choked, he calls out, “Please go away, Eds.”

Eddie sighs gently. Rests his head on the door, his hair rustling from how he shifts. “I’m sorry for bringing it up,” he sincerely apologizes. “I just…I don’t know. It makes me upset to hear you talk like that.”

“Yeah, well—“ His voice crackles, attempting to be stubborn, but sorely failing. “—It makes me upset that you have to see me like this. I’m…Eddie, I’m fucking ugly, don’t you get that?”

For a long moment, Eddie doesn’t speak. And in that time, Steve thinks he left. Left because he realizes that Steve’s right, that he is some ugly mess, incapable of being loved correctly. But then the gentlest voice Eddie’s ever carried comes through. “Baby, you’re not ugly.”

Steve’s chin wobbles, eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I am, Eddie. I am—“

“I look at you, Steve and see somebody I want to know infinitely,” Eddie admits quietly, bulldozing the claim Steve was making. “You’re someone that I seek out, a person I find comfort in. You are…” And he swallows heavily. The sound unmoored by Steve’s shaky breath. “…You are so damn beautiful to me. I—I know that’s hard to believe, probably with how you view yourself, but it’s true. I enjoy the fact that you’re relaxed enough now to indulge, to grow comfortable. I love the way peace wears itself on you, Steve. You’re beautiful, you’re everything, you’re…Steve, you’re somebody I love so deeply that I can’t fathom viewing you any other way.”

Slowly, Steve comes back to the door. He twists the doorknob, listening as Eddie shuffles back a couple half-steps. And opens it just enough to peer through. Eddie’s soft, sad eyes are on him again—not observing, just looking. There’s something warm in his gaze though, a warm blanket stretched between them that Steve wants to nestle in.

“Do you really mean that?” Steve asks a little breathless. It sounds whiny to his ears, maybe a little petulant. But Eddie doesn’t look affronted by it or mad. Just disheartened.

He nods gently. “Yeah, sweetheart. I really do mean that. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

“Even though I’m…Though I’m fat?”

“Yes,” Eddie answers immediately. And another part of Steve preens, loving that Eddie didn’t say something stupid like, ‘You’re not fat.’ Because so many people have said that. Too many people have said that. “Steve you could be in any kind of body and I’d still think you’re beautiful. And…uh, it’s kind of odd to admit it, but maybe I have a preference for chubby people?”

Steve snorts and opens the door a little wider. “Really?” He asks, a semblance of teasing back in his voice. “Is that really something that does it for you?”

“There are so many places on you that I can use as a pillow. Or that I could bite. You’ve got more space for kisses! Steve, think about how many kisses I could give you!” Eddie emphatically states. He grows a little meek-ish, though, when he continues. “And, honestly? I’ve been attracted to you since like…seventh grade. I’ve literally seen you in all shapes, all sizes. My attraction to you has not wavered, tell you that much. The chubby bit is like a giant bow on top of an already amazing gift. Y’know the kind of bows that are sticky on one side? The ones you sometimes stick to your forehead and then you keep afterwards because you liked how shiny it was and your mom says something like, ‘Why on earth are you keeping that?’ and then you say you like it because it’s pretty and then she rolls your eyes and lets you keep it, but then you’ve got like something really cool and awesome and memorable in your hands and you just kinda want to cradle it forever? That’s—“ Eddie takes a heaving breath, washing out Steve’s tiny fit of giggles. “—That’s…I want to hold you in my hands and keep you forever.”

Steve takes a step out in the hallway, grabs Eddie’s hand, and leads them back into his bedroom. He’s still laughing as Eddie squawks, blushing furiously, nervously chuckling back. He takes Eddie’s face between his softer hands, relishing in the way he reaches up and grabs onto Steve’s wrists. Thumbs running warmly over pulse points. “You’re such a dork!”

“And you’re such a beautiful person, Stevie.”

He leans in, resting his forehead on Eddie’s collarbone. Hands falling down to his biceps. Squeezing. “You’re such a dork,” he reiterates, voice soft and awed. “And it’s the nicest thing in the world. But I…” Steve looks back up, chin digging into Eddie’s chest, peering up reverently just as Eddie does the same downwards. A hand cups the back of his head, running over his hair. “I need you to know that sometimes I still feel bad.”

“Means I can remind you more just how much I love you.”

“And I have a bad time controlling my food habit bullshit.”

Eddie shrugs. “So I’ll be there to help you out, no biggie.”

“And I have stretch marks.”

Warm hands travel up and down Steve’s back. And…yeah, it feels nice the way Eddie’s palms glide over his softer parts. How they tenderly hold him. He doesn’t feel bad, not within these arms. “I’ve seen ‘em,” Eddie admits quietly. “You wanna know what they mean to me, though?”

“Hm?”

“It means that you’re comfortable enough to relax. To let yourself…be at peace. And the best thing about ‘em is that they’ll turn silver with time. Shows to the world your survival, sweetheart,” Eddie explains. Voice gentle, seeking. Loving. “Means that at some point in our lives, whatever stretch marks you have will fade just like the other scars we share. They’ll just become another memory of yesterday. And that I can admire them when we’re a little more wrinkled, wrapped around each other in bed, sharing kisses like secrets. Means that we won and I got to keep you as my prize.”

Steve shifts his hands from Eddie’s biceps to his face again. Holding him just as soft as Eddie is. Just enough to squish his cheeks, just enough to feel him, but not smother him. And he pulls him in. Rubs his nose against the tip of Eddie’s. With all the adoration he’s ever felt for Eddie—enough to make him want to burst with it, enough to warm him, enough to paint him golden—he kisses him. No tongue, just a press of lips. Chapped skin and tiniest bit of crumbs that Eddie, somehow, did not wipe away completely. He kisses just to transfer. A love so all encompassing, it needs nothing more than this, nothing more than softness and warmth and the two of them in a small space. His love for Eddie, kept away and flourishing like greenhouse flowers. And just like those plants, he can share this love, keep it comfortable and year-round.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs against Eddie’s lips. Pulls back slightly to gauge all of Eddie’s face. Adoration gleaming in his chocolate eyes. “I wish I had better words to give you.”

“When I have you in my arms? There’s nothing else that’s better, Steve. I could have you just like this forever, deaf and blind and mute, and I would view it as heaven.”

Steve sniffs, again, unknowingly crying. But Eddie thumbs away his tears as if it’s nothing. And maybe it is. Maybe he doesn’t have to worry so much with somebody like Eddie. “You’re a sap,” he gently teases. But then his face gets serious again, tone shifting once more. “You wouldn’t mind that I kept my body like this, though? This genuinely wouldn’t bother you?”

“Chubby chaser,” Eddie states, pointing at himself. “If it was bothersome, ever, to me, you’d have to kill me. Because that definitely wouldn’t be me, babe.”

He smiles, teeth and all. “Good because I…I do like this body a lot, even though it seems like I don’t. It’s just shit I’m working through, y’know? But I like being able to just let go. Be at peace, so you said.”

Eddie hums. Presses his hands into Steve’s back. Kisses him softly, just to kiss and nothing more. “Then just be. Do it for you,” he whispers.

“Okay, Eds. I’ll try.” At that, his stomach grumbles. He chuckles, moment ruined. “We should go get something to eat,” he suggests.

“Yeah? I heard there’s this bag of Ruffles downstairs that your…boyfriend?” Steve nods, answering wordlessly. “That your boyfriend tried to offer up earlier. Maybe we should eat that.”

Steve nods. “We should see how many we can stack on our foreheads. My record is ten.”

“And you say I’m a dork.”

“You are a dork.”

Eddie smiles, lets Steve guide them back downstairs. Murmurs, “And you’re beautiful.”

💕—————💕

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #chubby steve harrington #angst and hurt/comfort #tw disordered eating #tw fatphobia #tw body dysmorphia

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