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hitlikehammers · 7 months

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Starring Steve Harrington in a Leading Role as 'Mom Husband Disappointed in YOU PERSONALLY'

rating: teen tags: future fic, established relationship, Eddie commits a capital offense, bitchy Steve strikes again, Eddie loves him so much, married steddie, rockstar husbands ✨for @hbyrde36 at my BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST for the prompt: “I assume I deserve this, but can you tell me why you want to kill me this time?”

One look is all it really takes.

As in: Eddie doesn’t have to do more than pulls his key from the lock, kick the door closed behind him, open his mouth to spill his usual litany of adorations, multiple at least tenfold for the uncommon days—plural, two whole days—spent apart from his husband, from his beloved, from less his other half and more his entire whole, the soul and breath of him, the rhythm-maker of his heart entire, his—

Eddie gets so far as turning to start on spilling all the love he’s had to bottle up because Steve wasn’t next to him for a whole 63 hours, and voicemails are fine, phone calls are nice, texts are a gift from god but also the bane of his existence because they’re starting to pretend—as in, the wider-world-of-they—but they’re starting to pretend they’re sufficient, that they’re enough and, and…

Fucking never.

But Eddie’s been gone—label negotiations, shit they were digging their heels on being in person for no goddamn reason, as proven by the actual days in person—and now, as he takes in his husband at the island, sat on one of the bar stools, those legs danged low and crossed at the ankles, the fucking socks on him tantalizing, good goddamn, but he’s leans back from the waist and those…those arms. Crossed over his chest.

That’s never meant anything other than judgement. Than what the kids used to term Mom’s disappointed in you personally.

Except Steve is his partner. His til-death-do-us-part-and-then-some. And…

Oh. Oh, he’s got his glasses on when he’s not working—Eddie scans the countertop for papers, nothing obvious—which only enhances the effect of the look; gives it a whole new dimension of accusation as he looks over the tops of the frames and lets his gaze fucking…just sear into Eddie. Uncompromising. No mercy.

Eddie will not try to pretend his doesn’t fucking gulp, the violent motion of his throat around it undoubtedly obvious: but Steve doesn’t budge. Doesn’t grant him quarter.

Fuck. Right. Okay.

Diffusion tactics.

“I assume I deserve this,” Eddie starts, pitches the words to land gentle because, well, they’re honest. Steve’s a fucking drama queen, absolutely: but it’s never been without his reasons, and Eddie loves him with his everything, right, so he respects his reasons.

Even when they’re fucking absurd.

But there’s no evidence here yet either way, about the what, about the cause of the sheer fucking inferno blazing in those eyes, the venom that Eddie can almost taste in the air that seeps from his lips for just breathing, that could probably land a death blow on its own when he actually deigns to speak, and so: yeah.

Eddie does assume he deserves it, one way or another. Because Steve loves him with his everything, too, like for like and then some, both ways and all ways. So he doesn’t react quite like this; doesn’t pull this sort of shit lightly.

“But” and he’s still picking his way through the minefield, takes only the barest step closer palms open near his hips, plaintive-like as he…yeah, kinda he pleads:

“Can you tell me why you want to kill me this time?”

Steve—okay, so, in any other circumstance: the sounds Steve makes, the guttural fucking growl that rumbles from his chest: that’d be hot as shit.

In fact it’s still hot as shit, but: not the time. Because those eyes are still…like, third-degree-burn to the touch.

“You lied.”

Eddie blinks, because…he hears Steve’s words. They’re very simple, and very clear.

But they’re nonsensical.

“What?”

“You lied to me.” And then Steve’s grabbing something behind him, flinging it closer to where Eddie stands at the end of the island and oh, okay, a magazine and—

Oh. Oh.

Okay.

A magazine with Eddie on the front with some…

Wait.

“Stevie,” and Eddie’s not gonna be placating, he’s not going to be evasive or dismissive—Steve knows the other party hanging off Eddie in the photo, it’s Lance, the band’s media intern who has a not-so-secret infatuation with Steve of all people, and is about to be replace by a kid, Marvin maybe, in his senior year in PR and media studies who, honestly, Eddie suspects may have an even bigger infatuation with his husband, but that’s not a concern for right now; the concern for right now is that Steve’s looking at Eddie, glancing every half-second toward the photo again and looking…somewhere between enraged and betrayed.

And it’s so fucking sour in Eddie’s chest, god: he needs to fix it. He’s just, he’s got to fic it but—

He doesn’t know what the hell it even is.

“Baby, I would never, not ever lie to you. And you know Lance,” Eddie tries to point out soothing, rational, no hint of patronizing because he wouldn’t, he would never, especially not like this.

Steve’s scowl just depends, and he taps hard enough on the page to leave an indent, to score a line with his nail.

Right. Okay.

“Stevie—“

“You,” and Steve leans toward the far side, grabs something out of view before he points the something at Eddie almost threateningly:

“Lied.”

“Steve,” and Eddie’s eyeing the instrument leveled at him carefully before he notes what it actually is: a pen.

A red pen and oh. His Stevie. Always the consummate educator.

And Steve does the growling thing again, probably because Eddie’s face goes lax, all soft and shit in the face of Steve being all competent in his profession in the small, sweet ways that pop up all the time, that Eddie loves so deep, so hard, but then Steve’s scribbling and oh, it’s one of the fancy pens, more like a marker that’s bright against the magazine gloss and he’s circling, he’s making arrows, there’s no rhyme or reason—

“Lies!” Steve declares, definitive as he throws down the pen and shoves the marked-up photo toward Eddie so it’s skids across the island, so Eddie has to catch it, and he squint a second, tries to make sense of what’s circled over and again and—

“You fucking promised me,” and Steve…yeah.

Steve sounds like Mom’s disappointed in him personally to a fucking T.

But so much worse again: because this is his husband.

“I did—“

“No!” Steve cuts him off; “no more bullshit,” and oh, fuck, Eddie knows it’s serious, that word’s got a premium still in their household, and then Steve’s leaning closer pointing forcefully at the image, at the red-ringed offenders:

“That,” Steve snarls; “is fucking frizz, Edward,” and Steve looks up at him, again, some combination of livid and offended on principle; “why did I even bother to pack you the conditioner that you swore to me you’d use—“

“I did, Stevie!” Eddie protests, pleads for leniancy; “I did, I swear, my bag got delayed the first night, it was only that first night that I showered without it,” and fuck, how’d they even get that photo, how the fuck did it get to print and in Steve’s hands even, how—

“You cannot maintain your curl pattern without proper maintenance,” Steve grits through clenched teeth and yes, yes: Eddie knows. He’s learned, and learned again, and learned some more, for…for years.

He kinda loves it. But he’ll never love making his husband sad. So, because he’s skilled on his feet, he tries for a compromise. A Hail-Mary, in sports ball speak—or he thinks that’s the right thing to call it.

“Maybe you can salvage it,” Eddie proposes, damn-near begs, and yeah, yes: he means that wholehearted, too; “maybe we can go upstairs and you can save it?”

And Eddie’s not even trying to make his eyes big, knows Steve’s largely immune unless he chooses not to be, but his eyes are stinging for how wade they’re stretched, and he holds the gaze, stares pitifully at Steve, pleads so hard, and then—

Steve smacks Eddie’s forearm with the rolled-up magazine and makes to leave the room; Eddie just stands, a little frozen, a little bewildered, until—

“Well, get your ass up here,” he hears from the staircase; “you better hope I can work miracles, dipshit, else your photocalls are gonna be stringy and sad all goddamn week.”

And Eddie grins because like: he knows his husband—and the man himself is already kind of a miracle.

So miracle working is kinda his area of expertise.

permanent tag list (comment to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690

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