#okay anyway | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

crowtrobotx · 9 months

Text

Check Engine

Ya girl has completely gone off the deep end. Did someone order a Mechanic!Karl fic that’s just going to likely end up being filth? Well, too bad. You’re getting it. First chapter isn’t much aside from reader (GN) thirsting. (Never fear Chrysalis fans, this is but a temporary diversion into madness lol. My main focus is still that particular work.) Words: 3,533 Characters: Karl Heisenberg x Reader Warnings: Minors DNI - Eventual Smut and hysterically bad PWP to follow, provided everyone feeds my ego enough. Read on AO3

You had no idea what had possessed you to bring your car to this body shop, but you were simultaneously thanking and cursing whatever it had been that guided your hand and made you turn onto the lonely gravel driveway after work, finally deciding that you could no longer win the staring contest between yourself and the check engine light. The sign, the exterior - everything about this place had seen better days, but you didn’t have the money to fork over to a more reputable establishment and at the very least it was on the way to the little place you’d started renting just outside of the city limits. The yard surrounding the building proper was littered with rusted out cars and bikes that you were pretty sure couldn’t possibly be salvaged, and there was an unsettling abundance of signs taped to the window warning any trespassers of what might befall them if they tried anything sketchy. The faded logo on the lopsided sign by the roadside looked like it might have once been a stallion’s head framed by a metal horseshoe, but between the sun and pure neglect it had faded to something almost entirely unrecognizable. Still, every morning on the way to your new job you’d passed this place, and no one seemed to be actively being robbed or shot on the property. It was probably fine. You’d taken a cautious step out of your vehicle, the barking of an unseen dog giving you pause. If you hadn’t been feeling so bold that particular day, jacked up on a particularly adventurous coffee order, you might not have decided on a whim to pull in and would rather have called ahead and given the owner the courtesy of a heads-up. But, no. Today you threw caution to the wind and gave a middle finger to all the pragmatic thoughts that screeched at you to get back behind the wheel and peel out of there as fast as physics allowed.

Having only lived in this town for a few months, you didn’t yet have the luxury of knowing what businesses you wanted to frequent or who was trustworthy or even where everything was. Hell, you didn’t even have friends here – you’d left everyone behind when you’d accepted your new position and decided to start over fresh. It might have simply been easier to jump on the highway and go looking for a more populated area, one that had a massive cineplex and ten Starbucks stores and a respectable car dealership. Your ego simply wouldn’t allow it. Your parents had questioned your choice to move to what was comparatively such a small town, but the promise of a quiet change of pace had been enough to entice you to take the plunge. You felt the thrill of rebellion coursing through your veins as you straightened your stance and made your way into what seemed to be the main entrance, a silent pep talk fueling your every step.

Granted, nothing about this mechanic seemed quiet.

You’d heard the ancient radio blaring before you’d even parked your car, the tinny audio almost enough to make you want to overnight the owner something less outdated purely out of the goodness of your heart. Add on top of that the clangs and whirrs of the machinery that were to be expected, plus the periodic exclamations of FUCK and STUPID PIECE OF— and you were beginning to understand why the shop sat on the edge of town, with fields in every direction unmarred by the cookie cutter housing developments that tended to descend on these areas like locusts. It seemed that whoever operated this joint wasn’t very interested in mingling with the local populace - you hoped that meant that whatever they charged you wouldn’t completely bankrupt you, but you kept that little tidbit of information to yourself. As it turned out, the interior was much the same as the sight that had greeted you when you pulled up. A near cataclysmic pile of junk was present everywhere you looked - you could just make out the workspace in the back of the building that looked at least a little bit clear, but between the low light caused by multiple dead bulbs and the thick coat of grime that seemed to cover everything in sight, it didn’t look much more inviting. The voice you’d heard was coming from that general direction, it seemed, and you cleared your throat, hoping that whoever was back there would be alerted to your presence. Of course, no matter how many fake coughs you managed, you still found yourself standing alone but for the woman in the poster on the opposite wall, scantily clad and leaning seductively against the hood of a restored classic Chevy. Fuck you, Mom and Dad. I won’t be bested by a shady repair shop. A cautious ding of the call bell yielded no results. You ended up having to shout into the void, doing your best to sound polite while you hollered for someone, anyone, to help you. More than once. When the radio suddenly went silent and the intermittent curses ceased, you knew you’d been successful. You waited with baited breath until at last a man stalked up to the counter, his expression almost the comical opposite of the smiley face printed on the “Ring for service!” sign taped to the counter. “Yeah?” He looked less delighted at the prospect of a new customer and more irritated that you’d had the audacity to show up and offer him a job. You stared back, at first completely unsure what to make of him. He wasn’t very tall, but he was broad and struck and imposing figure nonetheless. His wiry gray hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, the flyaways zigzagging away from his face like thunderbolts, and his messy silvery beard was uneven and looked in desperate need of a trim. His forehead was lined with lines that told of a life not particularly easy, and his light blue eyes darted anxiously between you and the exit, as if he expected your presence to herald something terrible. If you had to guess his age - maybe 45? 50? He looked like the type of person who might have been older than he looked - there was a weariness to him that you got the feeling he might never admit to but was detectable all the same. The dark blue coveralls he wore were halfway undone, tied around his waist and leaving him in a stained, dirty tank top that presumably had been white at some point. Now it was threadbare and almost gray, but you weren’t complaining - it meant you got a peak at the dark chest hair peeking out over the brim, and his biceps that flexed beneath skin criss crossed with old and new scars. His undershirt also didn’t seem to properly fit him - it was particularly tight around the middle and seemed in danger of riding up at any moment and oh dear god you were not about to thirst over this complete stranger and his dad bod, what was wrong with you?

If you wouldn’t have felt like a character in a sitcom, you might have slapped yourself across the face to bring yourself back to reality. He raised a brow at you, hands busying themselves with a rag that seemed far too dirty to have any chance at removing any of the god-knew-what trapped beneath his nails. Somewhere in the back, an alarm rang - some machine protesting his lack of attention. Just as he drew a breath in to chastise you and no doubt ask if you were stupid or something, you managed to sputter out an explanation for your visit. “Hmm,” he peered out the window at your back toward where you’d left you car. “When did it start doing that?” “Just about halfway through my move here,” you said, your confidence waning with every passing moment. “I’m uh, I’m new to the area. I drive through here on my way to work and I thought–” “You thought you’d just show up without so much as calling and that I’d just be dying to fix that hunk of junk? That I’d be jumping for joy and kissing your ass for deciding to grace my shop with your presence?” You gaped wordlessly for a moment. “N-no. Of course not, I just–” The man barked a laugh, revealing straight but slightly tobacco-stained teeth. You hated that he was vaguely handsome - not in the way most people would consider, of course. In the way that someone with slight mental derangement and daddy issues might find attractive - lucky for him, the dry spell that had plagued you over the last year was playing into his favor. It was throwing you off of your game, undermining all of the conviction you’d built up before entering. “I’m just kidding, doll. Calm down,” he said, cocking his head thoughtfully. “Sheesh, unclench your ass. I know that model, got a good idea of what might be causing it. I can probably fix it within an hour but I’ve got this other piece of shit to get back to working order first. Owner’s a real bitch and I do not want to deal with it if it’s not done by closing - can you wait maybe a couple hours?” Relief flooded your body. A couple of hours out of your night was far less terrible than the scenarios your mind had thought up when you’d first noticed the issue. You’d imagined weeks without your car, paying not just for the repair but also for a rental or a rideshare service that would not only add to your expenses but also mean you had to make dreaded small talk with strangers on the way to and from work. “Yes - that’s fine,” you exhaled shakily. “Thank you.” He nodded. “Got a lovely little waiting area behind you - make yourself comfortable. You want a soda or some shit? I think they’re ah…. Expired, but not by much.” “No, that’s okay. I’ll just play on my phone or something, thank you.” After a gruff nod, the mechanic disappeared to the back once more, and the radio resumed its obnoxious screeching. You noticed, with some amusement, that the shouting seemed to have died down somewhat, though not entirely. He seemed to be doing his best to deliver on his version of customer service. Whatever, you thought, if he fixes the car tonight and I don’t have to sell a kidney to pay for it, he’s my new favorite person on earth. As it turned out, the “waiting area” was little more than a bench with a wobbly leg, an end table, and a television with no remote that appeared to be perpetually stuck on the History channel. It was mounted far too high on the wall for you to feel around for any buttons, but you weren’t overly bothered by it. You had a mostly full phone battery, and a three hour video essay to catch up on. Of course, as seemed to be your luck as of late, a problem immediately made itself known - there was no wifi here. You sighed. Really, you should have expected it - the service you got in your apartment was shoddy as it was, why would some backwoods auto body shop be any better? With a sigh, you glanced at the end table and noticed the collection of magazines provided for the entertainment of the guests unfortunate enough to get stuck here while waiting for their cars to emerge from the mysterious garage out back. There was an eclectic mix, and you decided to live a little and fish through the pile without looking, pulling out a copy of National Geographic and resigning yourself to whatever contents you found within. Your mind wandered while you read, as did your eyes. Left alone with your thoughts, you were forced to consider the possibility that you’d made a mistake. Your father probably would have been horrified to hear that you’d simply showed up somewhere without giving the business a thorough search online and reading reviews. The owner - at least, he acted like the owner - had seemed relatively normal, if a little odd, from your brief interaction. But who knew - it was also entirely possible that there was a reason this place sat so separate from the city center, and he might very well end up wearing your skin as a mask come morning. The way things had been going for you, you weren’t sure that was such a bad thing. Truthfully, your move had not been as serendipitous as the movies had made it seem. You had expected a wholly beneficial change, that by casting aside your old relationships and job and apartment you would finally shake the feeling of stagnation that had settled heavy on your shoulders these past few years. But instead, you’d been greeted with roadblock after roadblock. First, the movers had forgotten an entire truckload of your things. Then, the exceedingly polite but hugely inept lady in payroll had managed to make your first paycheck hit your account several weeks late. Add to that the general fish out of water feeling that was bound to accompany any move, and your car deciding to try to kick the bucket felt like the final nail in the coffin. You could not, under any circumstances, admit that perhaps you’d been unprepared. Giving up was out of the question. If this mechanic turned out to be a complete scam, it might break you. Your eyes flicked up periodically from the bright photographs of penguins in the Antarctic to take in the details of the small part of the shop you were privy to. There were scant few decorations - no real attempt to make any visitors feel at home. There wasn’t even a coffee machine, or a mini fridge with complimentary bottles of water. You could vaguely see into a side room that looked like it must have been the owner’s office. There were a few pictures on the wall of him with some fancy looking cars, a couple of certificates that indicated that the building and business had passed the most basic inspections for human habitation. And, dear lord, were there a lot of posters with terrible jokes on them. Your personal favorite was a metal sign peering at you from behind the service desk that read “Unattended children will be given candy and a puppy.” You couldn’t help the small smile playing on your lips. Most businesses would have plaques commemorating their customer service awards, or how they were voted on of the local Best of’s. This guy seemed like he was daring you, personally, to leave a Yelp review. You wondered briefly if he was single, then gave yourself a hard pinch on the wrist and reminded yourself that you needed to find a new therapist.

Time passed, at once both too quickly and unbearably slow. Every time you looked at your phone, it felt like it was playing a joke on you - more than once you considered standing up and hunting down the mechanic to tell him you’d just come back some other time, with the intention of not returning. But just when you’d mustered the courage to stand, he appeared as if summoned - a few locks of his hair had escaped the ponytail now and fell haphazardly near his shoulders. He was covered in a fine layer of sweat but flashed you an easy grin all the same. “Brought you that soda whether you want it or not. You looked so sad out here I could hardly stand it. I’m takin’ your car back now, should just be a little bit. Name’s Karl, by the way. It’s on the - it’s on the jumpsuit, but it’s hot as balls in here. You know how it is.” You accepted the lukewarm can with a quiet “thanks” before handing him your keys and stopping yourself before asking if he’d be so kind as to just run you over while he was at it. After he disappeared out of sight and you heard your car engine rev to life, you sighed and slumped in your seat, letting your head rest with a thump against the wall at your back. The drink in your hand felt like it weighed about 50 extra pounds. Now you were really deep in it. You couldn’t well tell him to just stop now that he was actually in the middle of working. But you did want that fucking light to stop glaring at you every time to fired it up - shit. You glanced at the can - the expiration date was six months ago. ….whatever. You switched between the magazine, a previously downloaded podcast on your phone, and staring thoughtlessly at the fuzzy television for the next twenty minutes. You were hungry, and tiredness from your day was starting to settle into your bones. All of the self-assuredness that you’d felt when you’d arrived had given way to loneliness, and with that, the feeling that perhaps you didn’t know nearly as much as you thought. The other problems you’d been ignoring started to loom large in your mind - the broken sink you had to call the front office about, the vinyl record of yours that had broken during the move, the fact that it felt like your new boss might have a vendetta against you. You glanced down again at the article it had taken you far too long to get through. You read over the same sentence once, twice, ten times without absorbing it. This was supposed to be your fresh start, your magical new leaf that would change everything. No more would you be trapped with jobs and partners and shitty landlords. You were going to prove to everyone that you were capable of doing something great on your own, that your judgment was sound and that you didn;t need anyone else to get by. Everywhere you went, you felt the sensation of otherness, for lack of a better word. The flyers pinned on the cork board at the grocery store were for clubs and events that didn’t involve you. People greeted one another by name except for you - oh, they were polite, but you still had the nagging feeling that you were just a novelty, something looking into the window from the outside that would never be invited in. Perhaps you hadn’t put as much thought into this massive overhaul of your life as you’d insisted. Perhaps everyone else had been right and it would have been smarter and more responsible to stay where you were - even if that meant standing still. Maybe it really had been as good as it would get, and you’d fucked it all up. Once again, Karl had impeccable timing. “So, funny story, turns out I might have lied.” He leaned easily against the doorframe, strong arms crossed in front of his chest.

You lowered the magazine and blinked at him owlishly. So engrossed had you been in reading about global political events that had long since come and gone that you’d almost forgotten you weren’t alone. “Oh?” A sinking feeling descended upon you. You’d tried to quash any thoughts of him pulling the classic repairman tactic of finding “extra” problems to charge you for while he was at work - you had told yourself you were smart enough to recognize it if it happened, but your spirits were so dampened at this point that you felt like just letting him do whatever the hell he wanted if it meant you could get out of here without a fight. “Don’t like the drink?” He nodded toward the unopened can at your side. He sounded, oddly, rather hurt. He scratched his beard thoughtfully, eyes roaming you once before meeting your gaze. You almost melted into a puddle. Wow, you needed to get laid. “Oh!” You waved your hands disarmingly. “No! It’s not that, I’m just - it’s been a long day. I honestly forgot it was there. I’ll have it when I get home. You were saying something about my car?” “The car? Oh, yeah. Ain’t nothing wrong with that hunk of junk. Just a stupid communication issue in the electronics. Without gettin’ into too much detail, basically the thing that’s triggering your warning light is less an actual problem and more just something misfiring. I can reset it for you and have you on your way - just wanna double check and make sure I’m not gonna be wrong twice. Not usually wrong the first time, mind you - I’ve also had a long day if you don’t mind me saying.” He shuffled in place almost awkwardly before stretching, almost as if to feign indifference to your opinion. When he did so, much to your delight and horror the tank top did indeed ride up revealing a thick stretch of hair that made its way from below his belly button to -

“Yeah, I can wait a little longer,” you said hastily, forcing the magazine in front of your face to hide the obvious and burning redness spreading up from your chest and burning a path across your cheeks.

#okay let me tag this so that the people who apparently can't handle the sight of x reader fic without having an aneurysm don't freak out #karl heisenberg x reader #x reader #x reader fic #READER INSERT #reader insert fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #KARL HEISENBERG x Y/N #x y/n #THIS FIC IS A READER INSERT WRITTEN IN THE SECOND PERSON ARE YOU ALL HAPPY NOW.#okay anyway #karl heisenberg #resident evil village

103 notes · View notes

ghosttotheparty · 2 years

Text

hideout

also on AO3 based on this post i made even tho i said i wasn't gonna write the actual fic (i lied) part two: somewhere soft like this part three: somewhere god can't see There’s a new singer at the Hideout. Eddie falls hard, watching from where he’s sitting on the bar across the room, his beer almost slipping from his fingers. The singer’s voice is smooth and soft, and it makes the rest of the world go silent and Eddie’s head go cloudy.

The only problem is that Eddie recognises him from physics.

Eddie didn’t recognise him at first. He’d been taking a sip from his beer when he was announced, introduced as Anonymous, and then the boy appeared on stage, guitar in hand, tossing the chords out of the way so he didn’t trip on them. Eddie had lowered his bottle, his eyes narrowing, but he was too far away, and the lighting hadn’t adjusted on stage, and the boy’s face was lowered.

The boy stopped in front of the microphone. Slid his fingers down the neck of the guitar, making the strings squeak. Took a breath that Eddie could hear over the speakers placed around the bar, even though it’s noisy with chatter and laughter and the sound of glasses on wood tables.

And then he started playing. It was a soft, slow melody, much much different that what Eddie plays. Perfect for the beginning of the night. Eddie had tilted his head, listening intently, setting a foot on a stool by the bar, almost leaning over to listen harder. The room fell a little quieter, and then it fell even quieter when he started singing.

His voice was soft.

Smooth and low and almost soothing, and just as Eddie realised who he was listening to, the lights on stage flicked on.

And now Eddie is sitting on a bar, staring at fucking Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington, who’s playing guitar and singing into a microphone in front of a room full of people who have no idea who he is.

Eddie sets his bottle down next to himself, setting and elbow on his knee and and tilting his head as he listens.

He doesn’t know what Steve is singing about.

Something about “flower-faced demons and father figures.” Something about the monsters under his bed, and a baseball bat. Something about kids with decades in their eyes and blood on their sneakers. Something about hiding away in his closet when the booze comes out, about his back hitting glass bottles taken with nimble fingers and desperate hopes.

Eddie almost wants to cry. He doesn’t know why.

If they could see me now would they still care about those cigarettes

Eddie leans back onto the counter, finding his beer and taking a little sip as he watches. Steve’s hair is perfect, of course. He isn’t wearing one of those cute polo shirts like he always wears at school. (Eddie chastises himself for thinking they’re cute. There’s nothing cute about them. Even if they make Steve look like a preppy school boy that should be giving out church pamphlets or something, and even if that makes Eddie want to see him on his knees. He pushes the thought away with a little shake of his head.) He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt, and a pair of pants that reach to just above his chucks.

My head hurts and the sun is too loud, but I’m scared of the dark and the storm clouds

Steve can’t see him from the stage. Even if he could, he spends almost the whole time with his eyes half-shut, looking at the edge of the stage or at his feet. Like he’s shy. Which feels out of character for King Steve, though Eddie supposes he’s never been quite as obnoxious as Tommy H. Or as obnoxious as Eddie himself.

When he finishes singing, there’s scattered applause around the room, and Eddie sets his bottle down to clap, smiling when there’s a little hoot from behind him and Steve smiles bashfully.

“Thanks,” he says quietly into microphone, and Eddie wants to cry again. He doesn’t know why.

Corroded Coffin performs later that night. Eddie sits on the bar all night, waiting to see if Steve comes by to get a drink, but no dice. He doesn’t even know what he’d say if he saw him, if they made eye contact and if, by some small mercy from God, Steve recognised him.

Eddie tosses the chord of his guitar aside, blinking in the intense light that shines on him and his band mates, looking around the bar as some people crowd up around the edge of the stage.

“Good evening, Hideout,” their singer says loudly into the microphone as he tunes his guitar. “How we doin’?”

Eddie grins as cheers fill the bar.

“Eddie, say hi.”

His grin widens, and he steps up to his microphone.

“Do I have to do this every time?” he asks through his smile, and a few laughs scatter around the room.

“Yes, you’re the heartthrob.”

Eddie shakes his head, strumming a chord as the drummer hits two beats in a row. The lights flash.

“Hi,” he says softly into the microphone. A girl screams in the back of the room, and he throws his head back with a laugh.

He spots Steve when they’re on their second song, as he almost yelling into his microphone, and he falters slightly, but manages to catch himself and continue. He can’t tell if their eyes have met or not. They’re too far away and the bar is too dark, the light flashing too much for Eddie to really see him clearly. But it’s definitely Steve. Sitting in the same place Eddie had sat earlier.

He looks away when the song ends, rubbing his cheek and turn away to take a breath. No one can really tell in the dark.

“Our next song is called Class.”

Eddie almost laughs out loud, turning back to face the mic, spotting Steve by the bar again, sipping a beer. The song starts abruptly after a soft two, three, four, and Eddie plays with a grin throughout it all. It’s one of his favourite songs of theirs, and the thought of rich boy Steve Harrington listening to them, and a bunch of people around the stage, belt about how much they hate rich people, amuses Eddie to no end.

You don’t know how good you got it, cash and checks in your silk-lined pockets

Steve is watching, an elbow set on the bar, his chin in his hand. Eddie is out of breath, sweating and panting, and his fingertips hurt like they might be bleeding, but Steve is watching him.

Pay your bail off for the same shit I do, but of course it’s not the same

Eddie takes a deep breath before he speaks into the microphone as the music cuts off, switching to sharp, monotonous beat. His voice is low and scratchy and soft, right up against the mic, his eyes lowered to the edge of the stage.

“Coke is classy on a silver tray instead of the dashboard of a broken down car. Day drinking if it’s a champagne glass instead of a paper bag, celebration instead of self pity. You pay thousands for art in gold frames, but hate the art on the streets. You claim to work for everything you earn, even though your rough start was in the family business. Must be nice to not worry about it all. Must be nice to have a table to put food on. You stare in the streets because I’m not a cookie-cutter man from a cookie-cutter house. Look at those jeans, bet he smells like a trailer park. He has long hair, he must be a fag. He has art on his skin, he must be the antichrist. Don’t look, kids, don’t look! He’s fucking trailer trash!”

His voice escalates through it all, and he shouts the last words before they begin to play again, music crashing down in the bar like a tidal wave, loud and nearly discordant.

Eddie is smiling.

Steve’s eyes meet his a while later, while Eddie is sitting on the edge of the stage talking to a boy with spikey hair and heavy makeup. Eddie’s voice gets caught in his throat as he looks over at him.

He’s pulling the strap of his guitar of his head, and he seems to falter too, but he looks away sharply and goes outside.

“Eddie?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking back at the guy sharply. “Sorry, I’m here.”

He laughs lightly. His black lipstick is faded on his inner lips, probably left behind on rims of glasses.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he says again, shaking his head with a smile. “Tired, y’know.”

He laughs again, giving him a sympathetic smile, but Eddie interrupts before he can say anything.

“Sorry, I’m—“ He hips down from the stage. “I need, uhm. Some air.”

He leaves before he can say anything else, only feeling partially guilty about leaving the boy hanging, but Steve is already gone by the time he gets outside.

Steve definitely recognized him. It kind of makes Eddie happy. Kind of makes him excited, even though he absolutely hates that it does; Steve Harrington is just a preppy rich boy that doesn’t give even half a shit about anyone like Eddie.

There was that one time he’d told Tommy H to cut it out, man when he tripped someone in the cafeteria that one time. Not that it really meant anything.

Eddie spends the whole weekend worrying.

—————————

Their eyes meet in the hallway on Monday. He’s by his locker talking with Nancy Wheeler, and he looks at Eddie as Eddie passes by.

Eddie looks away.

He doesn’t see him again until physics, second to last period. He’s sitting at his desk staring at the worksheet blankly, watching letters and numbers and symbols swim around the paper, when something drops onto the page in front of him, and he blinks. It’s a folded piece of paper, and he cuts his eyes up without moving to find Steve walking to the teacher’s desk. He says something to the teacher and then turns to the door, glancing back at Eddie.

Eddie looks back at the paper, tentatively unfolding it to find Steve’s pretty girly handwriting.

Bathroom. 5 min

His face flushes with heat, and he covers it with a hand, pulling his hair across his face and folding the note again before he tucks it into his pocket.

He waits a few minutes, glancing at the clock, and then goes to the teacher.

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

The teacher looks up over his glasses at him. Eddie holds back a deep sigh at the judgement shining in his eyes.

“Did you finish the worksheet?”

“I… No?”

“You can go when you finish it.”

“But.” He pauses. “My bladder doesn’t care about your worksheet. I need to pee.”

“Edward—“

“I’ve been drinking a lot of water lately—“

“Alright, go,” he interrupts, frustratedly. “Whatever.”

“Thank you,” Eddie says curtly.

Steve is leaning against the wall in the bathroom when Eddie gets there. They look at each other silently as Eddie shuts the door behind himself, taking a deep breath and moving to stand across the room, leaning against the graffitied tile and twisting one of his rings.

He looks at Steve. Steve looks at him.

He’s wearing a white shirt. It’s tucked into his jeans with a little belt, and his hair looks perfect even though he’s running his hands through it.

“Hey,” Steve says finally.

Eddie almost flinches, expecting a jeer at his ripped pants and frizzy hair, but Steve isn’t looking at him the way the others do. He face almost looks soft.

“Hi,” Eddie says quietly. He pulls a ring off and twirls it between his fingers. Steve takes a breath to speak, but Eddie blurts, “I haven’t told anyone.”

Steve blinks, and then nods.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Cool, I— I haven’t… either.”

Eddie nods, taking a breath that shakes against his will. He looks at the floor awkwardly, but Steve keeps looking at me. Eddie doesn’t often feel self-conscious, or insecure, or anything like that. He doesn’t care if people stare at him. But right now…

He wants to hide.

Steve is hot, he decides. He hasn’t allowed himself to think it until now, but he glances up at him, looking at the way he leans against the wall leisurely, the way strands of his hair fall in his face. He’s hot. It’s irrelevant. It doesn’t matter.

So what if he’s looking at Eddie like he doesn’t mind the fact that he’s a freak? Or if he plays guitar and has one of the prettiest voices Eddie’s ever heard? Or if his eyes sparkle and he has cute moles scattered all over his skin?

Eddie wants to slap himself.

“You’re really good,” Steve says abruptly, and Eddie looks up at him, slipping his ring back on.

“Yeah?” Steve nods. “You into metal, Harrington? Wouldn’t have guessed.”

Steve scoffs lightly.

“Not particularly.” He shifts on wall. “But I still liked it. You’re talented.”

“Jesus.” Eddie looks at him blankly. “You’re laying it on thick. I already said I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

“I’m not—“ Steve’s cheeks redden. “I’m not trying to butter you up, I just… It was cool.”

“I’m messing with you.”

“Oh.” Steve nods, looking away, suppressing a smile. “Of course you are.”

“You were really good too,” Eddie says after hesitating. “Like… weirdly good.”

“Weirdly good?” Steve says with a light laugh. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It was unexpected,” Eddie says with a shrug, moving his hands to play with the ends of his hair. “Didn’t recognise you at first. But you seemed… I don’t know, like, in your element.”

“I really like music,” Steve says softly.

“And your lyrics?” Eddie does a chef’s kiss. Steve laughs again, rubbing his cheek. “Genius.”

Steve rolls his eyes, his cheeks pink.

“I mean—“ Eddie ignores it. “‘Flower-faced demons?’ Where the fuck did that come from?”

“Uhm.” Steve’s smile falters and he looks away for a second. Something flashes in his eyes that Eddie can’t quite read. “I, uhm. I have recurring nightmares.”

“Oh.” Eddie stares back at him for a moment. “Well that fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” Steve says with a laugh. “It does.”

“Whats your favourite song?” Eddie asks, twisting his hair. Steve’s eyes follows the movement.

“Uhm.” He takes a breath. “I guess. Boys Don’t Cry. The Cure.”

Eddie nods slowly, twisting his hair around his finger.

“Yeah? Do I pass?”

A little laugh bursts out of Eddie.

“I’m not testing you, man, you can like whatever you like. The Cure’s nice.”

“What do you like?”

“Uhm.” Eddie sighs, pushing his hands into his pocket and flicking his head to get his hair out of his face. “Metallica. Mötley Crüe. Ozzy, for sure.”

“Ozzy?”

Eddie looks up at him. He’s looking at him curiously.

“Ozzy Osbourne?” Eddie says. Steve shrugs. “He’s the, uh, lead singer of Black Sabbath. Bit a bat’s head off on stage a few years ago. Real metal.”

“He fucking what?”

Eddie cackles, looking at the way Steve’s face changes, his brows furrowing, his eyes wide. Eddie nods, and Steve laughs, looking at Eddie the way people do when they make fun of him, but he’s still smiling.

“That’s what you’re into?” Steve says.

“Well—“ Eddie laughs again. “Yeah. And the music.”

“The music,” Steve repeats with a teasing nod. “Right.”

Eddie makes a face at him.

It feels like they’re flirting. Eddie supposes he’s flirting with him, the way he does to the popular girls so they think he’s loveable freaky instead of insane stalker murder rampage freaky. And so they tell their boyfriends to leave him alone.

He can’t tell if Steve can tell that he flirting. Or if Steve is flirting back.

“You should show me sometime,” Steve says softly.

And oh.

Eddie stares. Looks back and forth between Steve’s eyes like he’s trying to see if he’s fucking with him or not. But Steve looks earnest. And nervous.

“Okay,” Eddie says. His voice is also soft. He might be mirroring Steve. “You should, uhm. Come over.”

Steve looks at the floor. And he smiles.

“Yeah, okay.”

Eddie stares at him, twisting his mouth.

“You’re not messing with me, right?” he asks. Steve’s eyes cut up to him. “You’re not gonna like… I don’t know.”

Steve stares back at him for a moment. And he shakes his head.

“No,” he breathes. Eddie can just hear him across the room. “I’m not fucking with you. I think you’re cool, Eddie.”

Eddie guffaws, and Steve looks offended.

“What, I can’t think you’re cool?”

“No!” Eddie exclaims, laughing. “No one thinks I’m cool, that’s— that’s my whole thing!”

“Okay, well…” Steve laughs lightly, tucking his hands behind his back against the wall. “I’m different. You’re cool.”

“Oh, you’re special?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie looks at him.

He is.

“Fine,” he cedes, and Steve grins. He has a beautiful smile. Eddie has to look away. “You wanna come over tonight?” he asks before his brain catches up. His cheeks flush with heat. “I mean— Unless you have, like, homework, or your parents need you home, I…”

“My parents aren’t even in the country,” Steve says. “And I can do my homework when I get home or something.” Eddie stares. “Yes. I’d like to come over. You can show me your music. We can light up a joint or something.”

“Oh, I see,” Eddie says, nodding. “You’re in it for the weed.”

“…I mean it definitely helps.”

“Wow.”

Eddie frantically cleans up as soon as he gets home. He doesn’t think he’s ever cleaned like this before, organising his and Wayne’s shoes at the front door, gathering dirty dishes and stacking them in the sink, wiping counters and sorting the cushions of the sofa. He’s almost out of breath after a while, standing at the door and scanning the trailer for anything out of place. It’s still cluttered and probably nothing at all like Steve’s home, but there isn’t really anything else he can do.

So he goes to his room and finds some weed, taking it to the living room and anxiously rolling a joint as he waits for Steve. Part of him thinks he won’t show up. That he really was just fucking with Eddie. That tomorrow he’ll avoid his eyes and pretend they’ve never spoken.

He’s in the middle of rolling the third joint when he hears a car pull up in front of the house, and he freezes, staring at the door, wide-eyed. He stays like that until there’s a knock on the door, and he scrambles off the sofa, dropping the unfinished joint to the coffee table.

Steve’s eye are wide when Eddie opens the door.

“Was worried I had the wrong place,” he says, exhaling, and Eddie laughs lightly, pushing the door open for him to come in.

“Welcome to casa a la Munson,” Eddie says as he comes in, shutting the door. Steve looks around the trailer, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his face light and curious. His eyes trail across Wayne’s mug and hat collection, across the sofa and table and television, the kitchen and table. “It’s not a lot, but…”

“I like it,” Steve says simply. “It’s…”

“It’s?” Eddie questions, leaning against the small table by the doorway. Wayne hates when he does. Tables are for glasses, not asses and all that.

“I don’t know,” Steve says softly, almost bashful. He’s still looking around. “It looks like people actually live here. My house looks… like a photo set for a catalogue.”

Eddie laughs, crossing his arms, watching Steve wander around, looking at everything.

“Is it all pristine and white?”

“Unless I throw a kegger, yeah.”

Eddie laughs again. He hates himself for it, how much Steve gets him to laugh.

He watches Steve look closely at every one of Wayne’s trucker hats, watches him laugh at the stupid ones, and Eddie furrows his brows in judgement.

“These are your uncle’s?” Steve says, pointing up to them, and Eddie nods. “Your uncle’s funny.”

“I think your brain is broken.”

Steve hesitates, then shrugs.

“Only a little.”

Eddie laughs again. (Fuck.) He shakes his head.

“Music?“

“Yeah, lead the way.”

“Apologies for the state of my room,” Eddie says as Steve follows him down the hall after he grabs the joints from the table, even though he knows he cleaned it up in a rush before Steve arrived.

“I don’t judge.”

Eddie almost scoffs.

“Oh, woah,” Steve exclaims when he enter his room, and a laugh bursts out of Eddie. He turns to ask if he’s judging him, but Steve is looking around the room, his eyes shining brightly. He’s staring open-mouthed, gazing around the room like he’s entered a portal to another world. Maybe he has.

“Woah? Good woah?”

“I— Yeah.” Steve looks around again. He’s smiling. “Yeah, it’s cool. My mom would shit a brick if I tried something like this.”

Eddie looks around his own room. At the posters and tapestries and the white sheet he spray painted CORRODED COFFIN onto that’s pinned in the corner. It looks like a disaster, but Steve is looking around like he’s in the Louvre.

“What does your room look like?” Eddie asks, shutting the door and kicking his shoes off to sit on his bed.

“Uh. Well.” Steve sits on the edge of his bed, still gazing at the walls. He looks awfully, perfectly out of place. “My walls are plaid.”

“Your walls are fucking what??”

Steve laughs loudly. He has a great laugh.

“Plaid,” he repeats, still laughing. He kicks his shoes off too, turning to face Eddie and crossing his legs. “My mom picked the wallpaper when I was, like, thirteen.”

“Jesus.” Eddie shakes his head. “I’ve never felt pity for a rich person, but—“

Steve laughs again.

“You should be rebellious, Harrington. Get an ABBA poster or something.”

Steve shrugs.

“I might. You gonna show me some music, or what?”

“Uh-huh. But first, what you really came here for.”

Eddie tosses a joint to Steve, who catches it against his chest with a grin. Eddie has to lean over to rummage through the drawer of his bedside table, pushing past the half-empty bottle of lube and hoping his cheeks don’t flush, until he finds a lighter. He turns back to look at Steve, popping another joint between his lips, to find him leaning over his lap, an elbow on his knee and his chin on his palm, his joint already dangling form his lips.

Eddie has to take a breath, looking, before he flips the lighter in his hand and leans in. Steve mirrors him, leaning in until the joints are almost touching, and he flicks the lighter a few times before it lights. They both pause for a moment before Eddie leans away, his cheeks flushed red as he inhales the smoke deeply.

Steve sits on the bed and continues to look around while Eddie looks through his records.

He picks a Metallica record, carefully lowering the volume before the music starts.

“Are you gonna hate me if I don’t like it?” Steve asks as Eddie crawls back onto the bed. He looks hot when he smokes. Which Eddie should have seen coming, really, but the way he sucks air between his teeth before he exhales the smoke slowly is doing things to Eddie.

“Nah,” Eddie says easily. “‘S not for everyone.”

“But it’s for you.” Eddie nods, taking a drag off his joint, watching Steve’s chest rise under his t-shirt. “Why?”

Eddie pauses, exhaling, listening to the heavy music for a moment.

“I dunno,” he says lightly. He’s never thought about it before. The music’s always just made sense to him. Always fitted. “Makes my brain go quiet, I guess.”

“Could you sleep with it on?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Steve snickers, taking another drag.

“Can you play this one on guitar?” he asks after a moment. Eddie nods.

“We’ve covered this at the Hideaway before,” he says. He sticks the joint in his mouth, lifting his hands and playing an air guitar, humming along as Steve watches his hands.

“I like how you dance,” Steve says softly, and Eddie grins around the joint.

“Headbanging?” Eddie says, and Steve nods with a grin. Eddie does it harder, listening to the way Steve laughs lightly.

“You have great hair for headbanging,” Eddie comments.

“You think?”

“Mmhmm.”

He gets to see Steve headbang. Steve Harrington. With his lovely hair flying around his head without a care, laughing as Eddie cheers loudly, a joint between his fingers and Eddie’s favourite blanket under him.

“Steve Harrington, I’ll make a metalhead of you yet.”

Steve just laughs again.

—————————

He decides to be brave on Wednesday. He slips a note into Steve’s locker as he’s passing it in the hall. Just a short note, reading having lunch in my van if you want to join signed with a small E.

Even though he knows that it’s unlikely anyone saw him, and even though it’s fine if Steve doesn’t join him, and it’s fine if he does, Eddie feels sick and spends the next ten minutes standing with his face to the wall in a bathroom stall with his eyes closed, trying to take deep breaths.

And then a few hours later he’s sitting in the back of his van, the doors open so he can sit in the sun, and then Steve Harrington is joining him, silently climbing up so sit next to him and pulling a sandwich out of his bag.

“You’ve got shit handwriting,” he says after a minute, and Eddie almost chokes on his water, snorting and covering his face as Steve laughs.

“Sorry my handwriting isn’t pretty like yours,” he says defensively, coughing lightly.

“Oh, my handwriting is pretty?”

“A lot about you’s pretty,” Eddie says before he can actually think, and Steve looks at him. His face flushes and he avoids Steve’s eyes.

“I think you’re pretty too,” Steve says after a moment.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Steve laughs again.

“Do you wanna come over this week?” Steve asks as Eddie is kicking his feet. “Like on Friday?”

Eddie looks at him.

“Your parents won’t mind?”

“My parents probably won’t ever find out.”

Eddie blinks.

“Oh, you said they’re travelling, right?”

“Yeah.” He takes a bite from his sandwich.

“Where are they?” Eddie asks, shifting to lean again the wall, facing Steve.

“Somewhere in Canada.” Steve brings a leg up in front of himself, swinging his other leg. “Dad has a conference or something, and after the last time he went to Canada, Mom didn’t trust him to go alone.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and Steve snickers, nodding.

“Although,” he continues, “I’m pretty sure she’s hooking up with his boss. But also I don’t really care.”

“Jesus. How long are they gonna be gone?”

“Two more weeks.”

“You miss them?”

Steve scoffs, giving Eddie a look like the question is absurd.

“No,” he says when Eddie just looks at him. “I don’t miss them.”

“Do they suck?”

Steve laughs softly, moving to sit across from Eddie.

“Yeah, kinda.” He hesitates, looking at the ground between them. “I don’t think they like me very much,” he says thoughtfully. “But I don’t really like them either, so. Oh well.”

“Why wouldn’t they like you?”

Steve hesitates again, nibbling his sandwich. He really is cute.

“I don’t think they actually meant to have me,” he says after a moment. “They’d stick me with random nannies and babysitters until they could leave me home alone, and then… Well, they saved money, I guess.” He shrugs. “They don’t really talk to me anymore. And when they do, it’s…” He trails off, and it looks like he’s zoning out, breathing shallowly. “My dad yells a lot,” he says softly.

“Sounds like a dick.”

Steve just nods.

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “I’m actually… I don’t know, like. Scared I’m gonna end up like him.” He takes a breath, blinking, and he looks up at Eddie.

“You’re not,” Eddie tells him. Steve just looks.

“It’s how everyone knows me,” he says. “Even though I hate it. Steve fucking Harrington.”

Eddie’s chest clenches.

“And I’m…” Steve looks away again. “I don’t know. If I’m not Steve Harrington, who the fuck am I?”

It’s not really a question. Eddie answers anyway.

“Your own Steve Harrington,” he says. “Not your dad’s. Or fucking Tommy H’s, or anyone else’s. Just… You’re Steve.”

Steve is almost smiling.

Eddie was to hug him. His eyes are shining almost vulnerably, and he looks tiny, sitting up and against the wall of Eddie’s shitty van.

“What about your parents?” Steve asks through another bite of his sandwich, changing the topic. Eddie lets him.

“Well.” Eddie takes a breath. “Mom was too coked up to be a mom. And Dad wanted me to his little mini-me. And when I refused he treated me like a punching bag instead of a child.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you end up Wayne?”

Eddie looks up at him. Something shifts in his chest. He ignores it.

“When Mom OD’d in the living room, Dad wanted it to be my fault, so I left,” he says, moving down the wall, relaxing. He twists a ring. “I went to my aunt’s house because she was close, my— my mom’s sister— but she, uh, like… genuinely thought I was the antichrist, so—“

“She what?”

Eddie laughs, nodding.

“Genuinely, entirely,” he says, watching Steve’s brows furrow. “She’s one of those people that’s, like, preparing for the rapture or something.”

“Jesus.”

“Exactly.”

Steve laughs. He leans his head back against the wall, and Eddie’s eyes get caught on the line of his neck, on his Adam’s apple. Eddie wants to press his hand to it. He ignores the thought.

“She told me wanted to save me and stuff but that I was ‘hopeless.’ So I called Wayne and he picked me up and we moved like a week later so Dad couldn’t find me.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Steve says softly, and Eddie looks up at him. His cheeks are flushed, and he looks away after a moment, twisting the sleeve of his jacket. “Safe.”

“Me too,” Eddie breathes.

They’re quiet for a moment.

“So was that a yes on Friday?” Steve asks. “I don’t think you actually answered.”

“Oh,” Eddie realises. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Okay, cool.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Uh,” Steve sighs. “I dunno. Watch a movie or something.”

“You’re inviting me over for no reason?” Eddie says incredulously. Steve laughs.

“Why do I need an excuse to hang out with you?” he asks, still laughing, and it makes butterflies erupt in Eddie’s stomach.

“No weed or anything?”

Steve tosses a hand, making a face.

“I don’t need to be high to enjoy your company.”

The butterflies swarm. Eddie almost feels sick.

“Steve Harrington.”

“Mhmm?”

“You slick fucker.”

Steve laughs. It’s almost a giggle. Eddie dies.

Steve ends up laying down as they continue talking, looking at the ceiling of the van. It’s badly spray painted with song lyrics that are barely legible, but Steve looks up at it like he’s stargazing.

He looks like he might fall asleep. Eddie kind of hopes he does. But he sits up after a little while, holding a die in his hands, looking at it like he’s almost marvelling.

“Oh, I was wondering where that was,” Eddie says when he sees the deep purple colour. He lost it ages ago.

“Was under the blanket.” Steve is almost marvelling at it, rolling it in his hands. “This is a D20 right?”

Eddie blinks. Looks at the die and then at Steve again.

“You know your dice?”

Steve glances at him. His cheeks flush pink and he sighs.

“Yeah, the kids I babysit have me well-trained.”

Eddie blinks again.

“The… The kids you babysit?”

“I mean, I guess it’s not really babysitting as much as it is me driving them places and watching while they play D&D, but…” He looks up and laughs at Eddie’s expression. “It’s not officially babysitting, I just— I just get along with them, for the most part. Their parents trust me.”

Eddie stares.

“How old are these kids?”

“Middle school,” Steve says. “Like thirteen or fourteen or something.”

“You… hang out with a bunch of middle schoolers,” Eddie says, raising his eyebrows. “While they play D&D. You know what D&D is.”

Steve laughs again, nodding. He tosses the die and Steve catches it against his chest.

“Why do you hang out with them?” Eddie asks, tossing and catching the die. “If their parents aren’t paying you?”

“Someone needs to make sure they don’t get themselves killed,” Steve says, and he suddenly seems too serious, too worried and forlorn. Eddie watches as he looks at the ground before he looks up again. “They’re good kids,” he says, his voice softer. “Fucking smart. Smarter than I’ll ever be. They don’t deserve half the shit they get.”

“Shit like what?”

Steve sighs.

“Kids are assholes. Bullies, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“And…”

“And?”

Steve takes a breath, his mouth twisting as he thinks. He’s fiddling with the lace of his shoe.

“You know that kid that went missing?” Steve says, looking up at him. “Everyone thought he died?”

Eddie remembers it. Remembers how Wayne worried and worried like it was his own kid. Remembers seeing the kid’s face on a pinboard at the school, remembers hearing what people would say about the kid’s brother.

Bet the freak killed him.

“Yeah, I— I know of him.”

Steve nods, looking back at the lace that he’s twisting around his finger.

“Yeah, that fucked him up,” he says. “The kids at his school called him Zombie Boy, it’s… Jesus.”

“He’s one of your kids?”

Steve smiles at his shoe.

“Yeah.”

“He plays D&D?”

“Mhmm.” Steve nods and looks up at him again, still smiling. “Will the Wise,” he says fondly. There’s a shine in his eye. “He has a wizard robe and hat and everything. I think you’d love him.”

Eddie stares at him, open-mouthed.

“…Who are you?”

Steve laughs loudly. He has a great laugh. Real.

He moves forward, holding his hand out.

Eddie slides his hand into Steve’s, and Steve’s fingers tighten around it. He shakes.

“I’m Steve.”

“Steve,” Eddie says softly. His hand is warm against Eddie’s, and Eddie wants to pull him in and kiss him. “It is… really nice to meet you.”

Steve’s smile could outshine the sun.

—————————

Steve was right about his house looking like a catalogue. It almost makes Eddie sad, the lack of personality and anything that could make it look like a home. There aren’t any photographs anywhere except one in the living room of Steve’s parents at their wedding. No magnets on the fridge, no unique dishes, no worn and walked over runs. It would look abandoned if it weren’t for the few used dishes in the sink and the flowers on the kitchen table.

Steve’s room is heartbreaking.

The bedroom of a thirteen year old boy with physics and world history textbooks on the desk. It’s clean, and Eddie wonders if Steve cleaned it before going to school today.

The walls are absolutely horrendous. Eddie tries not to laugh, Steve gives him a look that makes his snort and choke.

“You have any tape?” he asks Steve after looking around. (There isn’t much to look at; nothing on the walls except a framed picture of some car. Books stacked on and papers spread across his desk. A pair of slippers by the door. A photo of him and Nancy Wheeler on the wall above the desk that Eddie wants to stare and stare and stare at, but he looks away.)

“Uh, yeah.”

Steve rummages in a drawer before he finds a roll of masking tape, and he tosses it to Eddie before he sits on his bed and watches Eddie cross the room to a wall, reach into his backpack, and pull out a poster that he took off his own wall last night. It’s a worn AC/DC poster, the corners of it curling in as he holds it to the awful plaid wall and rips tape with his teeth. Steve is laughing, and Eddie smiles until the poster is stuck to the wall. It’s not straight, but Eddie doesn’t really care. Steve doesn’t either.

“Highway to Hell?” Steve questions when Eddie joins him on the bed, spinning the tape around his finger.

“Mhmm.”

“Yeah, my parents are gonna love that.”

He’s grinning.

Steve orders pizza for them.

They watch three movies before he goes to the kitchen and comes back with two beers.

And then he sits next to Eddie again, but this time he’s a cushion closer. Eddie almost can’t breathe with him so close, and his hands shake as he cracks the can open. He has his legs pulled up onto the sofa, comfortably curled up in the bland living room of the Harrington mansion.

Eddie drifts off after a while.

He falls asleep.

He wakes up after a while to find the room dark, tv screen full of static and Steve asleep next to him. His arms are crossed over his chest, his head fallen forward. Eddie allows himself to gaze for a moment.

He’s beautiful. He probably has no idea how gorgeous he really is, Eddie thinks.

He looks around after a moment, at the television and the empty cans between them. He moves them carefully, setting them on the ground and sighing.

He’s adjusting the cushion behind him when he hears Steve exhale sharply, and Eddie looks at him. He hasn’t moved, but his eyebrows are furrowed slightly.

Eddie pauses, looking at him, and after a moment, Steve exhales sharply again, gasping, and then it looks like he’s hyperventilating, his chest rising and falling quickly, his eyebrows furrowing and relaxing and furrowing like he’s going to cry.

I have recurring nightmares.

“Steve?” Eddie whispers. He wants to reach out and touch him. But he doesn’t know what to do. Steve doesn’t respond, still asleep.

His eyes squeeze. He exhales again.

And a moment later he lets out a whimper so small Eddie almost doesn’t hear it.

“Steve?” he says again, louder. “Hey. Stevie.”

Steve awakes with a start after a minute, and it startles Eddie. Steve’s whole body moves sharply, his eyes flying open, a kind of fear in them that Eddie’s never seen before.

“Steve,” he says gently, but Steve is already getting up, using a trembling hand to shut off the television. The room falls slightly darker, and Steve turns in the center of the living room, looking around like he’s gaging the safest part. “Steve?”

Steve startles again, his eyes finding Eddie on the sofa.

“Eddie?” he asks breathlessly, confused.

“We fell asleep,” Eddie explains softly. “I think you had a nightmare.”

“A nightm—“ Steve cuts off with an exhale, and he averts his eyes, looking to the floor and then around the room again. “Fuck.”

“You’re okay,” Eddie says softly. Steve swallows, looking at the ceiling. His eyes are shining. Eddie’s chest aches.

“Jesus, I’m so sorry,” Steve says breathlessly. “I—“ He takes another breath, and Eddie worries that he might start hyperventilating.

“Steve, it’s fine,” he says gently, shifting on the sofa so he’s sitting in the edge of it. “I know, it’s okay.”

Steve covers his face with his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by his hands.

“Don’t apologise,” Eddie says, watching Steve take stuttering breaths. “I— I know you have nightmares, I’m not… I’m not judging you or anything, Steve, it’s okay.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Eddie can tell that he’s crying, and his whole body hurts as he watches, unsure and lost on what to do.

He gets up slowly like he doesn’t want to scare him, and he carefully, tentatively approaches him.

“Can I touch you?” he whispers. Steve nods, wiping his eyes but still hiding his face, and Eddie sets a hand on his back, gently sliding it up to the back of his neck. Steve exhales shakily. “Come here, Stevie.”

Steve falls against him as he wraps his arms around him, and they sway as he cries.

“You’re okay, Stevie,” Eddie whispers. “I got you.”

Steve apologises again. Eddie tells him not to.

He pulls Steve to the sofa, pushing a hand up into Steve’s hair and combing through it.

“Take a deep breath,” he says softly, reaching to take Steve’s hand and squeezing it. Steve is shaking, but he tries to take a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “You got it.”

Steve falls against him as his breathing levels back out, and Eddie hugs him tightly, pressing his face against the top of his head. Steve shifts, and their legs twine together until they’re tangled together on the sofa, wrapped around each other.

Eddie wonders if Steve is going to fall asleep again. But he can tell that he’s not.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Eddie whispers softly. “Your nightmare?”

Steve is quiet for a moment, his face pressed into Eddie’s shoulder.

“I can’t,” he says quietly.

Eddie combs through his hair again.

“Okay.”

They both sigh, and relax against each other, and Eddie wonders if he’s in some kind of parallel universe.

A parallel universe where he gets to cuddle with Steve Harrington.

Steve smells nice. Like fancy, expensive shampoo and something masculine that belongs just to Steve.

“Is this okay?” Steve asks in a small voice. Eddie’s arms tighten.

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

He wakes up in the morning with Steve laying on his chest, Eddie’s hand in his hair. Steve is still asleep, breathing steadily, curled up next to Eddie on the sofa. Eddie looks down at him, and he wants to kiss him.

He lets his head fall back against the sofa, smiling at the ceiling.

Steve sleeps. Eddie wonders how often he sleeps this soundly, this peacefully. He can feels Steve’s chest and see his shoulders rise and fall with every breath. (He ignores the part of his brain that wants to swallow his breath.)

“That feels nice,” Steve grumbles after a long while as Eddie is slowly, gently playing with his hair. Eddie almost startles, looking down at him, but he can’t see his face.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

Eddie continues. He runs us fingertips across his scalp, dragging through his hair, scratching and pulling through little snags. Steve sighs. He falls asleep again. Eddie can tell when he does, by the way his breathing becomes heavier, the way he presses his face into Eddie’s chest. Eddie doesn’t stop playing with his hair even though Steve is asleep.

Something changes after that. Everything easy between them. Steve reaches across the table to push Eddie’s hair out of his face as they eat the eggs he made for breakfast. Eddie fixes the tag of Steve’s shirt as he’s passing him in the hallway on Monday. They eat lunch in Eddie’s van, listening to metal and chatting with their legs tangled between them. Steve puts his leg over Eddie’s the next time they’re at Eddie’s trailer watching a movie, and he smiles softly when Eddie sets his hand on his leg. A while later Eddie is laying on Steve’s floor, slowly working through his homework (his brain keeps going back to next week’s D&D campaign) while Steve is working at his desk. After a few minutes Steve gets up and sits on the floor next to him, but before he can ask what’s up, Steve is laying down, resting his head on Eddie’s lower back and sighing. (Eddie somehow finishes all his homework with the steady weight of Steve’s head on his back, careful not to move as Steve hums along to the music that’s playing from his radio.)

Steve goes to the next gig at the Hideout, and he allows Eddie to trace dark eyeliner around his eyes and smudge it with his fingertip. He just giggles when Eddie stares at him afterward.

“Christ.”

“No, it’s just Steve.”

“Fuck off.”

Eddie throws his battle vest into Steve’s face so he can finally look away. Steve puts it on over his black t-shirt, and Eddie’s mouth goes dry.

He looks good.

He looks… really fucking good.

His hair is tousled from the vest hitting his face, and his eyes are shining and framed by messy smudged eyeliner, and he’s grinning lazily like he knows all about the crisis Eddie is currently having.

“Yeah, that’s good.”

When Eddie has to say hi on stage again, this time it’s Steve that gives a little scream, and it elicits a laugh from the bar, but it makes the butterflies in his stomach swarm again.

Steve sits close enough that Eddie can see him while he’s on stage, sipping a beer and smiling and smiling and smiling and smiling and smiling.

Eddie gets pulled aside after Corroded Coffin is done by a girl, but another band is already playing, and he can barely hear her. He plays along for a moment before she leaves with a bright smile, and then he slides his guitar to hang on his back as he goes to find Steve.

Who is still at the same table, holding a glass bottle in his hand, but now there’s a man talking to him.

And man that Eddie doesn’t recognise, but immediately doesn’t like.

He’s smiling too fondly at Steve, not that Eddie can really blame him, talking and smiling like he’s fucking flirting. Eddie freezes, watching, a fire growing in his chest even thought it’s stupid. Steve isn’t his. It’s not like he belongs to him.

And it’s not even like the man is being a creep. He’s not touching Steve, or leaning into his space, or biting his lip or touching the bottle Steve’s holding the way Eddie’s seen some perverts do. He’s just talking. Smiling at Steve and nodding and laughing and being friendly.

But Eddie still finds himself striding across the bar and stepping up next to Steve, looking at the man with a too-bright smile and too-bright, “Hi!”

The man’s face lights up with recognition. He tells Eddie he was amazing, man, and Eddie manages to get out a thank you before Steve’s arms are flying around his neck. Eddie startles and hugs him back with a laugh.

“You okay, Stevie?”

“You did so good.”

“…Are you drunk?”

“Only a little.”

The man leaves them alone after exchanging a look with Eddie. They’re both laughing.

Steve pulls away but leaves his arms over Eddie’ shoulders. His eyeliner is even more smudged than it was when Eddie did it for him, and his cheeks are flushed, and the bright lights of the bar are flashing and shining in his eyes.

Eddie wants to kiss him more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

The feeling doesn’t go away.

Eddie wonders if it’ll ever go away.

He doubts it.

Because every time their eyes meet in the hall at school, and every time Eddie traces a finger across the back of Steve’s neck in physics and Steve looks up at him with a sly smile, and every time Steve nods his head along with Eddie’s music while they sit in his van, and the first time Steve slides his hand into Eddie’s, Eddie wants and wants and wants and wants.

Steve is a dream.

A daydream.

Eddie barely believes he actually exists.

He listens to Eddie rant about Lord of the Rings and D&D and all the bands he loves, and he listens to Eddie’s music, and even seems to like it a little bit. He lays on Eddie’s bed with his head hanging off the edge upside down and looking around with a smile even as he and Eddie talk. He keeps all the stupid notes Eddie leaves in his locker, and when Eddie finds out, he almost cries. He asks clarifying questions about Lord of the Rings, and he doesn’t get it all but it still lights Eddie on fire. He talks about his kids like they’re the stars even though he refers to them as the little shits. (Except some girl named Elle, who Eddie’s never heard of but apparently is a sweetheart.)

He doesn’t laugh when Eddie pulls out a sewing kit and stitches an old t-shirt that ripped. He just looks at him and smiles and keeps talking.

—————————

It’s a Saturday.

Eddie’s got his van parked in a clearing in the woods, and it’s so bright and sunny that he wonders if he should have brought sun lotion.

The back doors are open and Steve is sitting across from him, Eddie’s acoustic guitar in his lap. He’s plucking at the strings, playing some melody that Eddie doesn’t recognise. He wonders if Steve wrote it himself. He doesn’t ask.

He’s sewing a patch onto an old jacket. He messed it up and is pulling at the thread, careful not to snap it, the sewing needle held between his teeth, his brows furrowed.

The guitar falls quiet as he’s working, and he looks up to find Steve watching him, holding the guitar in his lap, frozen like someone’s taking a picture of him. Eddie gives him a grin, the needle sticking out of his mouth, and Steve’s lips curl into a little smile before he sets the guitar aside carefully. He moves to reach between the front seats and switches on the tape that Eddie had playing on the way over, turning it down so it’s playing softly in the background.

And then he’s crawling across the van and laying next to Eddie’s legs, tossing an arm across his lap, carefully ensuring he doesn’t hit the jacket and mess Eddie up, and he’s pressing his face into Eddie’s leg.

“You gonna take a nap?”

Steve nods, sighing.

Eddie smiles and continues pulling at the thread.

“You know you’re my best friend?” Steve mumbles after a while. It makes Eddie freeze. It makes him look down at the side of Steve’s face, and it looks like he’s sleeping, but Eddie knows what he sounds like when he’s sleeping. It makes the butterflies swarm and his heart pound and it makes him want to cry.

“You’re my best friend too.”

He really is.

He comes to Eddie’s gigs and cheers for him and calls him Eds. He wears Eddie’s battle vest every time. He has posters from Eddie’s room on his walls even though his parents did “shit a brick” when they come home and see them. (He tells Eddie this with a grin, and Eddie says he might be a bad influence for Steve. Steve’s smile widens and he just tells him it’s fun. Eddie wants to die.) He explains basketball to Eddie, which really, in any other context, Eddie wouldn’t give even half shit about, but Eddie fucking listens like his life depends on it. He remembers Eddie’s favourite gum flavour and that he hates bread crust and that he hates with the seams of his sleeves rest on the sides of his wrists.

Steve sleeps peacefully with his head on Eddie’s lap. Even with one of Eddie’s metal mixes on.

—————————

They’re high.

Steve looks so pretty when he’s high. (He always looks pretty.) His eyes are glazed over and half shut, and his cheeks are flushed red, and he looks like he might keel over and fall asleep at any second. Eddie knows he must not look much different. His hair is probably frizzier. Steve’s is still perfect.

“What are you looking at?”

Eddie blinks. He’s staring at Steve, and Steve is staring back, smiling, like he knows. Eddie shrugs lightly, watching Steve take another rip from the bong in his hands. Watching him blow smoke into the air between them, wishing he’d blow it straight into Eddie’s lungs.

“Think you’re pretty.”

Steve smiles as he finishes his heavy exhale.

He stares back at Eddie again.

Eddie doesn’t know how long it lasts, this quiet, gentle tension, until it snaps when Steve says, “I wanna fucking kiss you.”

Eddie blinks.

He wonders how high he is.

“…You do?”

“Jesus. Yeah.” Steve sighs heavily. “Yeah, I do.”

“Please.” Eddie’s voice is too soft. Too vulnerable. Too. “Please do, I— Please, Stevie.”

Steve exhales, and his eyes look even glassier than they did a minute ago. He leans over, setting the bong down and tossing the lighter to the ground, before he moves and crashes his mouth against Eddie’s.

Eddie’s eyes shut and his hands fly up to hold Steve’s face between them, and after a moment the kiss softens, and he might be ascending.

Eddie’s kissed people before. He’s fucked people before. He likes making out with people, and he likes sex. Really likes sex. But this.

This is better than anything. He’d trade every single sexual experience he’s ever had for this moment.

Steve’s head is tilted, and he sighs as he catches Eddie’s lower lip between his and sucks gently. Eddie furrows his brows, pushing a hand into Steve’s hair and lowers the other to his waist, pulling at him until he moves without pulling his lips away, lowering himself to Eddie’s lap.

Eddie groans. Steve wraps his arms around Eddie’s neck and lets his lips part for Eddie’s tongue, and Eddie’s hand tightens in his hair.

“Fuck,” Steve gasps when they part. His lips are shining. “Wanted to do that for so long.”

“How long?” Eddie asks breathlessly, combing through his hair, stroking his waist. He’s heavy on his lap, firm and solid and real even though Eddie still feels like he’s floating.

“Since you got up on that stage and fucking said hi like that.”

He kisses Eddie before Eddie can say anything, and Eddie kisses him back, hard, tugging his hair and listening to him whine.

“Seriously?”

“So fucking hot, Eddie, shit.”

“Jesus, Steve.”

“Eddie, please.”

He kisses him again.

They’re both uncoordinated and smiling, and Steve is running his fingertips across the back of Eddie’s neck under his hair, and Eddie is shivering like he’s freezing.

“I like you so much,” Eddie says softly when they part, letting his head fall to Steve’s, his forehead pressing against Steve’s cheek. “You’re everything, Stevie.”

Steve sighs. He pushes his head into Eddie’s hand.

After a moment he pulls away and their eyes meet. They stare.

They gaze.

Steve takes Eddie’s hands in his and looks down at them. Gazes at them. Strokes them with his fingers and traces the lines of his palms and veins below his knuckles.

“I really like your hands.”

“Yeah?”

Steve nods. He drops one of his hands and Eddie slides it over his hip, watching Steve analyse his hand like he’s studying it, like he’s trying to memorise it.

“Can I?” he breathes. Eddie doesn’t know what he’s asking. He doesn’t care.

“You can do anything, sweetheart.”

Steve’s eyes flutter shut.

He seems to hesitate, sliding his tongue over his lips and taking a breath like he’s nervous before he lifts Eddie’s hand up to his mouth.

He drags his tongue up Eddie’s palm to the tips of his fingers, and Eddie’s breath cuts off.

Steve hums like he’s drinking a milkshake, and Eddie smiles at him even though he isn’t looking. Steve turns Eddie’s hand and licks it again, over the side of his hand, over his knuckles, over his fingers. He sucks the tips of Eddie’s fingers into his mouth, furrowing his brows like he might cry.

“‘S okay, baby,” Eddie says softly. He presses his fingers into the heat of his mouth, hearing a soft whimper escape Steve’s throat. He leans in and kisses the side of Steve’s neck, sighing as Steve flicks his tongue over his fingers. Steve hums softly, tilting his head to the side.

When he pulls away there’s a bruise blooming on Steve’s skin. It’s beautiful. Eddie didn’t know he was capable of creating anything beautiful.

Steve holds Eddie’s hand between both of his, and he pulls it away. His spit is dripping between Eddie’s fingers. Eddie shivers.

“Fuck.”

Steve moans softly, licking his fingers again before he looks into Eddie’s eyes.

He looks almost shy. Embarrassed. Which doesn’t fly with Eddie, so he leans in and kisses him like his life depends on it, biting Steve’s lip and pressing his tongue into his mouth. He drags his wet fingers over Steve’s cheek, down his neck, and Steve whines.

“Alright?” Eddie asks softly. Steve nods desperately, pulling him back in.

They’re barely even kissing. Steve’s mouth is warm and wet and he tastes so good Eddie can’t stop. He’s holding Steve’s neck lightly, his other hand gripping Steve’s hip, and he pulls when Steve rolls his hips against Eddie’s subtly.

“‘S okay,” he says when Steve pulls away, wide-eyed. “It’s alright, Stevie, you can…”

Steve exhales sharply. He slowly rolls his hips, and Eddie bites his lip, trying not to groan.

“Don’t do that,” Steve says softly, breathlessly. He touches Eddie’s mouth, pulling his lip free from his teeth and leaning down to suck on it. “Wanna hear you.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie closes his eyes.

Steve whines as they move together, kissing and clutching at each other desperately. He grabs at Eddie’s hand that’s on his hip and lifts it to his face, turning his face into it and moaning, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Eddie,” he chokes. “Eddie, baby, please.”

“What?” Eddie asks. His voice is rough. “What do you need, sweetheart?”

“Shit. Fuck, Eddie, touch me.”

Eddie thinks he might be dead. Steve looks like he’s glowing. Fucking ethereal. A blessing sitting on Eddie’s lap. Maybe it’s because Eddie’s high. Maybe it’s because he’s in love.

Oh.

Eddie exhales shakily, his thumb brushing over Steve’s cheek.

“Hey,” he says softly. Steve looks at him, his eyes shining desperately. “You change your mind, or it’s too much, or anything like that— you— you wanna stop, and you tell me, okay?”

Steve smiles at him. Kisses him.

“Okay.”

“Open your jeans for me, baby.”

Steve grins and releases Eddie’s hand to unbutton and unzip his jeans. Eddie watches. Steve leans in and kisses him deeply as he shifts on his lap, lifting up onto his knees to tug his jeans and boxers down his hips.

When he pulls away, Eddie lifts a hand to his own mouth, spitting into his palm, and then he holds it in front of Steve.

“Spit.”

Steve looks down at his hand. Stares at his palm. Leans down and licks Eddie’s spit off before he closes his mouth and closes his eyes like he’s savouring it. Eddie’s eyes widen. Steve spits into his palm again, smiling at Eddie’s expression.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Steve giggles.

“Fucking filthy,” Eddie says fondly, reaching down to touch him, and Steve’s head falls back as he lets out a disgustingly beautiful moan.

Steve is holding the hem of his shirt out of the way. When Eddie looks down he can see the softness of his belly, and he wants to press kisses to it, go suck bruises into it. (He will eventually, he decides, if Steve is cool with it. He has a feeling he will be.) He wants to do that everywhere, leave bruises and bites and love across Steve’s whole body. Eddie wants to make him feel beautiful. He wants to worship him.

Steve finds Eddie’s free hand and holds it tightly as he squeezes his eyes shut. Eddie likes how he sounds. Every breath comes with a soft noise from the back of his throat, weak and desperate and so pretty that Eddie’s eyes burn.

“You’re fucking beautiful, Stevie,” he breathes. Steve’s hand tightens on his.

He watches Steve’s face. Watches him bite his lip and furrow his brows and squeeze his eyes shut. He listens to his breaths, to the slick sounds of Eddie’s hand moving.

“Eddie—“

“It’s okay,” Eddie says. He’s breathless. Steve isn’t even touching him. “It’s okay, Stevie, I got you.”

Steve looks down at him. There are tears in his eyes, and Eddie knows that he’s remembering that first night he had a nightmare while Eddie was there. (He’s had plenty of nightmares since. Eddie’s been there for lots of them. He’s heard Steve whimper names and words that make no sense, heard him cry and scream, and he’s held him after every single one. Wiped his tears. Kissed the top of his head because he couldn’t kiss his lips yet.)

Steve kisses him. His lips don’t land square on Eddie’s, and it’s messy and wet and they both have tears falling down their cheeks, but Eddie doesn’t care. It’s beautiful.

“Fuck,” Steve says sharply, pulling away enough that his forehead rests on Eddie’s. He’s breathing hard. Eddie is too. “Eddie, I’m—“

“‘S okay,” Eddie whispers. “Come for me, baby.”

Steve drops his shirt to wrap his arms around Eddie’s neck tightly. He’s trembling as he comes, letting out a long groan into Eddie’s neck, and Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his other hand into Steve’s hair and holding him as tears slide down his face.

“Did so good for me, Stevie,” he breathes as Steve comes down. “My sweet boy.”

Steve whines, tightening his arms. Eddie hugs him back, pressing a hand to the small of his back as he combs through his hair.

“Eddie,” Steve says after a few minutes.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“Need you to take your shirt off.”

Eddie giggles.

—————————

They fall asleep naked, under Eddie’s blankets and quilts, facing each other. Steve falls asleep first.

The barely present light that sneaks under his door from the hallways lights his room up the slightest bit. When his eyes adjust to the dark, it’s enough to see Steve’s face. Eddie traces his features, trailing the very tip of his finger over his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose, over his lips and chin and jaw. He tucks his hair back when a strand falls in his face.

“I love you,” he breathes, soft so it doesn’t wake Steve up. He never wants to wake Steve up, never when he’s sleeping like this: peaceful and quiet and calm.

He lifts his head and moves closer to kiss his forehead. He falls asleep with a hand on Steve’s warm, soft waist, and sunlight in his head.

#okay anyway #stranger things #stranger things fic #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson

342 notes · View notes