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invented a game called “I throw dice at the cat”

Robin's Guide to the Care and Feeding of Your Newly Adopted Former Mean Girl

Happy @stevieweek everybody! This is Day One: Stobin with none of the bonus prompts, but keep an eye out cause i've got a few more incoming this week.

Robin Buckley & Stevie Harrington; Pre-Stevie Harrington/Eddie Munson WC: 9483 | T | No Archive Warnings Apply | Tags/Themes: transfem!Steve Harrington; Platonic Soulmates Steve & Robin; Robin Buckley is the Stevie Harrington Defense Squad

AO3

On July 4th, 1985, Steven Joseph Harrington died in the Starcourt Mall Fire. 

The story Robin Marie Buckley tells, after two weeks of hospitalization and an additional month in Indianapolis for “personal reasons,” when she returns to her senior year at Hawkins High a full week after the first day of school is one of abject heroism on the part of Steve.

It’s true, even if it isn’t the whole story. Just like it isn’t hard for her to play morose and avoidant, because that’s how she feels. She might know Dustin, but it’s too hard to spend much time with him and she doesn’t want to be the weird friendless senior who only talks to freshmen. She’ll leave that to Eddie Munson, who snatched Steve’s weird little child friends up only a few weeks into the first semester. 

Nancy and Jonathan avoid her as much as she does them, she doesn’t think they know what to do with the new girl in the know. It paints a picture, well she realizes later that it paints a picture, but she doesn’t want to sit at a table and eat her peanut butter and jelly sandwich while Nancy Wheeler’s big beautiful eyes are staring at her like she’s an article that’s half an inch too long and needs to be dissected while Jonathan Byers is also there.

So she drifts through the halls of Hawkins High like a ghost, she’s Cathy on the moors. Avoiding anyone who might try to ask her too many questions about the final days of Steve Harrington and Starcourt Mall.

Until the day she spots a baby blue jeep pulled into the Henderson’s driveway, a tall brunette unloading a single suitcase from the back. She’s got her bike across the road before she can even think of a game plan. A noise that’s almost like a scream erupting from her mouth the entire time she coasts over.

“You’re here, you’re here, you’re here!” It’s an uncharacteristic bit of grace, that lets her drop her bike to the ground and use its momentum to catapult herself into the other girl’s arms. Too excited for a second to remember that she’s in a place where small town gossip exists, and a new neighbor can fuel the mill for days.

But she enjoys her hug for a second before settling into a more appropriate character. She extends a hand, ignoring the laugh it gets her, “Welcome to Hawkins, I’m Robin, occasional Dustin babysitter.”

The girl’s smile pulls lopsided at her mouth, kissed with a bit of irony and undeniably charmed. “It’s nice to meet you Robin,” her voice is soft, and a little unsure. Wavering like Becky Simpson’s tone deaf oboe playing, unsure of what pitch and timbre to land on. “I’m Stephanie Henderson, Dustin’s cousin.”

The bit crumbles immediately between Robin’s fingers.

“Stephanie? You went with Stephanie? Are you kidding? We workshopped so many names!”

“I liked my name! But it’s weird apparently to be a girl named Steve.” She distributes finger quotes randomly throughout the sentence like Robin hadn’t been the one to say she didn’t know any girls named Steve. “Stephanie is pretty!”

Robin looks her best friend dead in the eye, unsurprised that there’s not a hint of humor even underneath the drama. “Never mind that it sure would be strange for Steve Harrington to die just for girl Steve who looks like she could be his cousin to move to town.”

“Affair baby,” Stephanie presents the solution with a flick of her hand. Robin notices that her nails are still chewed short, more noticeable  after they talked about what it would be like for her to grow them out and manicure them.

“Give me the whole name right now,” Robin demands, “I wanna hear how it sounds.”

Steph, cause they’re going to have to figure out nicknames immediately they just aren’t the kind of friends that can go around being Robin and Stephanie, kicks the curb with her scuffed up Nike. Her arms crossed across her middle accentuates the way her body has already started changing, Robin feels like a creep for a second for noticing her friend’s boobs before deciding that they weren’t the kind of friends with those kinds of boundaries.

“Stephanie Marie Henderson.”

“Oh my god!”

“Shut up, don’t even.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“You’re already making a big deal out of it, which it’s not.” Stevie insists.

“You stole my middle name, you’re so obsessed with me.” It’s the best thing she’s ever heard actually, that Stevie might be as into this friendship as she is. She’s always the friend that’s too much.

Stevie’s smile is small, shier than she’s used to seeing it. “Yeah well whatever Stephanie Robin sounds like a straight to VHS Winnie the Pooh movie character or some shit.”

Dustin comes scrambling out of the house before Robin can make another joke. “You were supposed to call before you left! Ma isn’t finished setting up your room, and Tews is stuck under your bed.”

They share a look, and Robin thrills a little that she has a friend that she can share looks with. “Henderson,” Stevie shouts, sounding a little more like she did this summer. “Are you really going to make me carry my own bags in? I'm a fucking lady, dickhead.”

“Sure don't fucking talk like one,” Dustin hollers back from the door, already trudging out of the house.

“Gonna have to work on your feminism,” Robin says. wondering what kind of weird shit a person would have to sort through when they realized they were transsexual. “Just because you're on estrogen doesn't mean your arms are atrophied.”

The butter-wouldn't-melt smile is still the same, even though her face looks softer. She hands off her suitcase, patting Dustin on the head as he visibly stumbles under the weight. “Don't drag it on the sidewalk, it's new,” she directs. 

He can't flip them off when it takes both hands to lift the luggage in his hand, “How are you more of an asshole, oh my god.”

“Is that anyway to talk to your cousin, Dustbunny?”

Dustin doesn't answer directly, but he's muttering under his breath the whole way to the house. 

“My ribs still hurt some when I'm doing heavy lifting,” Stevie says when he's out of earshot. “Better to be a high maintenance girl all of a sudden than someone he doesn't think he can count on.”

“Don't love the way you used girl in that sentence, Dingus.” Robin shoves at her shoulder, “Let's go look at your room, we can plan how you want to decorate.”

“I'm not saying I'm upset we got the job, Rob, just that it's weird the way Keith was acting. He always hated me, you know that. Before all this,” she gestures down her striped top, well Robin supposes she’s actually gesturing down at the way it hugs her figure, “he hated me. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire.”

“That seems a little dramatic, but welcome to your first workplace sexism.” Robin gives Stevie a comforting pat. Hopeful that it communicates a ‘welcome to the bad parts of everyone knowing you're a girl’ and not how she’d been prepared to work some of that sexism to their advantage. But apparently Keith was charmed by Stevie’s list of favorite films, he’d even laughed when she said her favorite Star Wars movie was the one with the teddy bears. When they’d gone to pick out movies last week she’d heard him lecture a guy for five minutes on how it was Episode VI not ‘the third one.’

Stevie flips her hair, sending Robin a playful glare, “I’ve experienced sexism, thank you, have you already forgotten what I used to look like.”

“I’m sure he’ll go back to hating you once he realizes you working here is going to mean this is one more place that Henderson and the brats are always hanging around.” She went with Stevie to the arcade once and she almost understood why Keith always hid in the back when they walked in. 

“Probably, but at least then I can stop being nice to him. He’s such a-” Robin can hear the way Stevie swallows the rest of the sentence. A frustrated, red blush flooding her cheeks as she bites down on her bottom lip. It’s confusing, the small shake of her head and how upset she suddenly seems to be with herself. “Sorry, sorry, never mind.”

Maybe it’s stupid, but for some reason that’s when Robin realizes that Stevie was about to say something mean. That Stevie stopped herself but she is, Robin supposes, frustrated that the instinct is still there. And it’s not like Robin doesn’t remember that they’ve talked about this before. Stevie with that eyepatch on from where they reattached her retina and Robin laying in the hospital bed next to her still under doctor’s supervision. Neither one of them were high anymore, it had been almost sixteen hours since Everything, they were only in the hospital at all because Robin’s mom had found them both passed out in her bed and panicked. When Mrs. Henderson had seen them both in Hawkins General and did what Stevie said was panicking and had them shipped to the city, her car speeding closely behind.

The only thing they could possibly be high on was the sudden crushing awareness of their own mortality, when Stevie’s one good eye locked with hers and she said, “I don’t want the first thing people think of when they remember me to be how I was a douche or an asshole. Or a bitch, I guess, if they actually let me change like they said they would.

“All the girls I know,” she paused and seemed to consider that, “all the girls that I still like, are good and kind and badass.”

“Including me?” Robin had teased, but she had remembered the way she had given Stevie such a hard time from the second they started working together until the moment they as the ‘adults’ realized they were going to have to protect Dustin and Erica from something that might kill them all.

“Especially you.”

So yeah, of course, when she catches herself about to verbally eviscerate Keith behind his back two weeks after being back in town she shuts down. But Robin isn’t about to let that happen. Stevie is good and kind and definitely a badass, if Keith were in trouble she would absolutely risk her life to save him -- as long as saving him didn’t keep her from saving one of the kids. 

Stevie was a good person who had some mean girl tendencies, Robin wasn’t going to make her feel bad about that. As long as she was using her powers for good, or like Claire in the Breakfast Club she was kind of Mean Girl lite.

“He’s kind of a slimy creep,” Robin admits. The kind of comment she thinks, but couldn’t ever really say with her last group of friends. It would break the loser code.

Stevie’s shoulders drop from around her ears. She’s still idly picking at the nail polish they just painted on her thumb, but she smiles over at Robin. A little sly, a little catty. “He touched my shoulder while we were leaving and I swear to god he left orange cheese puff residue behind.”

“Maybe half of your new clothes shouldn’t be dry clean only.”

“ Maybe he should help cover my dry cleaning bill if he’s going to put his hands on me in the workplace. I could call Family Video HR, probably. You know his dad owns like half of this strip mall, and people gave me shit about having money, I’m pretty sure they own the dry cleaning place too.”

“So why do these polyester nightmares smell like the BO of employees past?”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

With the job and Stevie back, Robin almost forgets that she spent the first three weeks of school sad and miserable. She’s maybe even a little distracted that they have plans tonight, and forgets that there are reasons other than the threat of bacterial infection to avoid the girl’s room in the language hallway. And more than any of that, it’s really hard to think about any of that when she can feel her bladder starting to pickle her brain.

The door to the bathroom swings open before she can exit the stall. Voices she recognizes as Patty Taylor and Molly Smith already mid-conversation filter in. “I mean she’s pretty, like really pretty, but I mean why would you even move to Hawkins.”

It’s definitely too late to leave.

“Carol said that she heard from Heather that she moved in with her aunt, she was from the city or something.”

The squelching sound of a lipgloss wand leaving the tube is punctuated by a bitchy hum, “Well, you know who spent all that time in the city this summer.”

“I mean yeah, but how would they have even met? I’ve heard like six different stories about why she was there.”

Patty’s voice echoes, through the crack in the stall door Robin can see her lean over top of the sink putting her face even closer to the water spotted mirror above it. “Well she was in that mall fire, but I heard she had to stay so long after initial treatment because she…”

There must be some facial expression she’s missing, Patty trails off like she’s dropped some grand secret. Robin isn’t a total loser, she hears gossip. She knows that Mrs. Click is going through a bitter divorce from her husband because he had that affair with the gas station attendant from the Chevron by the highway. She knows that Tim Morris got sent to military school after he put a cherry bomb in Mrs. O’Leary’s mailbox. She knows that Vickie is definitely a shoo-in for clarinet first chair even though Michael Lewis had it last year and he’s a senior this year.

And yeah okay two of those she had heard from Stevie.

But she thinks she should have had some clue that there was some kind of rumor going around about her. Molly wrinkles her forehead, maybe she isn’t the only one who has no clue about this rumor. “Because she what?”

“Because she lost the baby and they put her in the psych ward,” Patty says loud enough that it bounces off the tile walls of the bathroom. A hand covers her mouth and they both look around like they’ve just remembered that they’re in public. Robin pulls her feet up on the toilet seat with her.

“What baby?” Molly asks in a whisper that seems even louder with the way she forces it out.

“Come on, everyone knows the reason she was so upset that Steve died. He knocked her up while they were working together and with the stress she lost the baby. She was such a freak already, the new girl and her must have been in the same padded cell in the loony bin.”

“Really? I mean with Steve Harrington? ”

“I mean Carol said it so I’m pretty sure it has to be true, you know how close she used to be with Steve.” 

The bell rings, sending them both fleeing from the bathroom with muttered curses. Robin stays in the stall too stunned by what she’s heard to move. Stunned and filled with the thought that all she wants right now is to see Stevie.

She bumps into Eddie Munson on the way to the payphone. He gives her an unreadable look, mostly eyebrows that she can’t see beneath his bangs anyway, so she isn’t sure why he even bothers. Is he wondering why she’s skipping class? Or did he see her running from the bathroom and now he’s wondering if maybe the rumors were only partially true, that she’s still pregnant and she hadn’t lost the baby like apparently half the school thinks.

If a wet rat like Munson knows more about her status in the school than she does she really might have to go back and hurl.

She puts in her change and dials the increasingly familiar number for the Henderson place.

“Hen-”

“I need you to come pick me up, now.”

It isn’t hard to convince the school nurse, who’s more worried about when she can slip away to sneak her next cigarette than she is about doing any nursing, that she’s too sick to stay. So she’s waiting out front when Stevie’s new Jeep rockets into the parking lot, the woman of the hour flinging herself out of it before it’s fully in park. 

“What happened? What’s wrong? The kids are fine right?” She’s pressing the back of her hand to Robin’s forehead, the other at her side clenching into fists as she looks over Robin’s head for any creature or person that might need to be put down.

“Everything’s fine,” she lies, “I needed to see you.”

A single eyebrow raises, Robin helped her pluck that eyebrow into that arch and now it’s being used in disbelief at her own blatant lie. “Fine,” she relents, “I’ll tell you when we aren’t standing in the middle of the parking lot, okay?”

The radio is off but so are the doors, so even as Robin refuses to talk the sound of the wind rushing past them fills the silence of the car. With no destination in mind, Stevie seems to be driving a slow meandering circuit of Hawkins.

“I overheard Patty and Molly talking about us in the bathroom today.” She says only after they’ve passed Melvalds twice with no sign of parking.

“They were talking in the bathroom about us or they were talking about us in the bathroom.”

“That’s the same sentence twice.”

“No it’s not. In the bathroom or in the bathroom.” The emphasis is nonsensical, but after a second it clicks.

“They were in the bathroom. I guess I was also in the bathroom but it was definitely not about our bathroom conversation.”

“What were they saying?” Stevie noses out gossip like a search dog noses out missing kids.

Robin sticks her hand out the side of the car, dancing it up and down in the wind like a wave. Letting the force of it glide up and over her like she wishes she could just get over whatever it is that has her so upset. Gossip and rumor that she knows isn’t true.

“Technically you got to be two characters. They think we know each other from the psych ward because boy you got me pregnant and when you died I lost the baby and went crazy.”

Her seatbelt catches her hard against the chest, forcing the air out of her lungs. Stevie’s hit the brakes so hard that the smell of rubber is in the air, uncaring that they’re in the middle of a main road. She’s just looking at Robin with something, disbelief or outrage, maybe a little bit of that rage she gets when her people have been hurt.

“Patty said that? Patty Taylor? Patty with the retainer breath whose lipgloss makes it look like she’s always drooling on herself, Patty?”

A nod is enough answer for Stevie to let out a little humph, setting her eyes back to the road and easing them into drive like they’d just been caught by a stray redlight.

“What?” 

She shakes her head, gazing around the upcoming turn like they don’t both know it’ll be the rundown place that used to be Benny’s. It’s going to be something mean, something she’s worried will make her sound too much like the person she used to be.

As far as Robin is concerned whatever it is won’t be any different than when she swung that phone at that Russian guard. Or crashed that car into Billy’s. It’s all just different ways of helping to protect the people she loves that aren’t as good at protecting themselves.

“Tell me,” she insists, wheedles even. “Whatever it is I won’t tell anyone else. It’s time honored girl code you have to tell me.”

“Girl code?”

“I’ll mimeo you a copy of the handbook, tell me. It’ll make me feel better.”

Stevie’s sigh is audible over the wind rushing past them, her side eye not bad enough that Robin is at all worried about it. “I just think it’s funny that she’s passing judgment on you and your possible pregnancy when everyone knows she’s banned from the U of I campus because she went streaking to impress a guy that wasn’t even interested in her. The only reason she doesn’t have an arrest record for it is because her dad is a former professor or donor or something and threatened funding if the Dean pressed charges.”

“Oh my god, really?”

“Totally, the guy was on the basketball team. He came back and told everyone when he came home for the pre-season kegger.”

She grabs Stevie’s hand off the gearshift, holds it just because she can. Relishes in the closeness the two of them can have now that she’s back and everything is better again. “You are the strongest woman I know, all this knowledge and you just keep it to yourself all the time.”

She snorts, squeezing Robin’s hand, “I literally don’t, I just told you something. Pretty sure that’s like if I had the nuclear launch codes or something and I gave them out to just one person because they’re having a really bad day.”

“Oh! Do you remember doing those stupid duck and cover drills in elementary school?”

“Oh that's really nice of you, Mrs. Buckley, but Aunt Claudia is expecting me home for dinner.” Stevie's voice calls from outside the door, only a surprise because they didn't have plans to hang out today.

She scrambles from her bed, the wire on her headphones tangling around her neck until the weight of her walkman drags them off her. Flinging the door open she's just in time to save her best friend. “Thanks for bringing her up, Mom, we’re just gonna hang out in my room til Steph has to leave, okay?”

Shoving Stevie toward the bed before her Mom has a chance to say anything else, Robin at least smiles before she shuts the door in her mother’s face.

“What happened?”

Stevie is digging through her jewelry box, has a ring Robin picked up at a garage sale because it looked cool and didn’t think about trying on, and doesn’t bother looking ashamed at being caught snooping. “Why does something have to be wrong?”

She slips the ring on her finger, the gold band and mossy green stone looks better on her than it would have Robin. “You can keep it if you admit something happened.” Stevie starts to raise an eyebrow, but it halts half way up her forehead when Robin gives the Family Video vest she’s still wearing a tug.

Her smile goes lopsided, tilts too high on one side before she wanders over to flop down on the bed. “I, maybe, did something stupid.”

Flopping down beside her, Robin swears when she lands on her walkman first. “Stupid like when you put Re-Animator in the romance section or stupid like when you tripped into the Back to the Future cutout and apologized cause you weren't wearing your glasses.”

“Stupid like I don't know, Rob, you know how at first I was pretending that I didn't know anyone when they came in right, cause I'm supposed to be new in town.”

“Like bad witness protection because they put you right back where you left.”

“Right, well I kinda forgot to do that this morning when I was working by myself?”

Looking now she can tell this is something that has had Stevie really worked up. The strands of hair at the front of her face have lost some of their beachy wave from where she's been fussing with it, pushing it back, tugging at it. Waiting for when she saw Robin again.

Sitting up from the bed, she grabs Stevie's hand in a too tight grip. “What happened? You're okay right? They didn't recognize you and do anything shitty, right?”

“Well that's the thing,” she somehow looks even more distressed, it gives Robin another clue. Stevie is afraid she's broken some unspoken rule of girlhood by doing whatever it is she's done. Which means the story will be interesting.

“So Roger came in, you know Roger right? Second stringer on the basketball team, his footwork was too slow to ever actually be any good on the court but he had an amazing three pointer as long as no one was ever anywhere near him. So he'd make a great professional HORSE player but not really going anywhere with the actual game. He came in with his girlfriend-”

“Mindy Peterson.”

“Right, and when did they even get together?” She shakes her head. “Not the point, I was flipping through the Tiger Beat that Cindy left in the drawer after her shift, cause this months Car and Driver was a total waste of money. And he wanders up, surprising me cause the bell over the door still doesn't work and I thought I was alone in there. He starts talking to me like he already knows me.”

“He was flirting with you in front of his girlfriend!”

“That wasn't flirting, he was just being friendly; and I didn't know Mindy was there, she was back in the romance section picking something out.”

“So he's flirting with you while his girlfriend is picking out something for date night.”

Stevie rolls her eyes, shoving not so gently at Robin's shoulder. “He was talking to me like he already knew me, and I do know him so I did the same. I mentioned the last game he played in, well we played in. And then he starts looking at me and I realized what I look like.”

She gestures down at herself, and Robin isn't sure if this is a compliment time or a diffuse the situation time. Stevie really doesn't look that much like she used to. Her face has softened, her hair is longer, and she's leaned into the blonde highlights that she had in the summer.

“He's all ‘Do I know you?’” She continues, and Robin laughs, it's crazy how deep she can still get her voice and even though Roger does not have anything approaching the bass that Stevie has given him. It makes the situation feel even more bizarre. “it's not like I can say, ‘What you don't recognize me from all the times I gave you advice on how to keep yourself open on offense so you could actually get a hand on the ball?’”

Robin reaches for the nail polish on her bedside table, the robin's egg blue Stevie has taken to and the taupe brown that she likes but doesn't clash with Stevie's. They both pick at their nails when they get nervous, and Stevie has definitely been nervous.

“You could have said that,” she says just to be contrary, Stevie hand held in hers it means Robin avoids the smack that would have come.

She puts blue on every finger but one, letting Stevie think as she caps the polish and grabs the taupe to finish the hand. “Hi remember me, I faked my death so I could get boobies without getting murdered in the pumpkin patch I already avoided almost dying in once. Did you know they give you a new social security number for that?”

“So what did you actually do?”

“I lied, obviously.” She blinks twice, opens her eyes wider so she looks doe-eyed and vacant. “Oh gosh, well I guess you wouldn’t remember me. I used to only come to Hawkins during the holidays to babysit my little cousin, and I always try to catch a basketball game when I’m in town. Sometimes I’d sneak out and go to the parties, but I’m shy so...”

“Oh my god, like you’ve ever been shy in your life.”

“I’m going to have to be now!” She throws her hands up, fingers spread wide to avoid accidentally smudging her fresh nails. “It’s not like I can lie my way out of admitting to sharing homeroom with someone next. I’m just lucky Roger’s never took his eyes off the bottom button of my blouse.”

“Do you remember that movie I made you watch a couple months ago, the black and white one?”

“Oh yeah, that really narrows it down.”

“Gaslight, the one with the opera singer’s niece and her new husband tries to make her think she’s crazy. We just lie until everyone is convinced that it’s the truth.”

“The truth being that Stephanie Henderson always existed?”

Eye contact isn’t easy, unless it’s Stevie. They hold each other’s gaze as the excitement bubbles between them. “Exactly,” Robin says, “and that if they think anything else, they’re crazy.”

“You’re ridiculous.” She says, but it sounds like ‘you’re on.’

“Can I be a bitch for a second?” Stevie asks. She doesn’t look up from whatever magazine she was already flipping through when Robin walked through the door. It’s too casual, too calculated.

Progress has been slow but she’s slowly getting Stevie to the point where she doesn’t feel like she has to be nice all the time just because she’s a girl. Where she still acts like the bitchy dingus she'd been before, just a happier version.  

“Obviously, just let me clock in.”

When she gets back Stevie has a stack of returns that she’s working on rewinding. One thumb in her mouth as she chews at the cuticle. “So what’s-?

“If I hear one more word about Eddie the Freak, I’m going to lose it, Rob. I mean what’s he got that’s so great? I could have taken us to the All State Championships if I hadn’t gotten that last concussion saving the twerps. I’ve saved all those twerps’ lives at least two times! I was cool. I am cool! But all I get to hear these days is ‘Oh, Stevie, Eddie just did the coolest thing in the campaign today.’ ‘Thanks for the advice, Stevie, but I’m going to go with what Eddie said instead.’ ‘I know it’s your only day off, Stevie, but could you pick us up late after school? There's Hellfire today.’ ‘Stevie, since Keith actually likes you could you hold Ladyhawke for us. Oh, no we’re going to do a movie night with Eddie.’”

She’s panting slightly when she’s finished, like she’s been holding this in for weeks. With all the quotes she’s racked up she probably has been.

“You know he kicked my tray off the lunch table last week,” she encourages. She snags a box of Sour Patch Kids from the candy counter. Popping one in her mouth before waving the bag under Stevie’s frowning face. She doesn’t even have a movie turned on. Well she does, but it looks like it was one of the weekend returns Stevie wasn’t going to put on Watership Down.

“Well he’s inconsiderate,” Stevie says, digging around in the box until she finds a red one and popping it into her mouth. “Everything is all fuck the man until he’s the man in question and then he’s the only one anyone should listen to about anything. Lucas is going to make the basketball team, he’s been working really hard on it with Jay and some of the other guys on the team.”

She’s basically taken the whole box of candy at this point. Robin doesn’t even care, just watches as Stevie picks out her favorite colors and lines them up on her magazine on the counter like a sweet and sour army. Completely oblivious to the quiet devastation that’s playing out on her face. Her brow furrowed and tight when she talks about Lucas, basketball another thing Robin wonders if she’s being unintentionally left out of.

“I just know Munson’s going to turn it into some us or them thing, like it isn’t possible to like more than one thing.”

“Maybe you-”

“And maybe that’s why they’ve been so cool with all of this,” she shrugs her shoulder in place of gesturing down at herself, too busy tearing apart a lone sourpatch general, “like it was a send off before they moved on to an actual guy who can actually do something for them. That’s probably a better send off than I deserve even right, like I mean, the kind of person I used to be. Maybe I don’t get more than one happy thing.”

Robin flattens the little red and green army underneath the flat of her hand, “Absolutely not. You are not going to let a… a… a dumpster raccoon with Mrs. Goble’s mystery meat on the bottom of his stupid shoes make you think that you don’t deserve the entire world.”

“But-” Stevie tears at the cardboard of the box between her fingers, leaving little pieces of it on the floor between her feet.

“But nothing, your little shithead kids might have latched onto the first giant nerd that looked at them when they crossed through the doors of the high school like freshly hatched ducklings but you’re the coolest person they’ve ever had the chance to meet and it’s their loss if they don’t notice.”

“I mean they’re in high school so-”

“So they’ve decided to get all the stupid decisions out at the start. It’s a bold decision but maybe that will keep them from-”

“From crashing their dad’s truck into half the cars at prom?”

“I wish one of them had been yours,” she steals the last red Sour Patch from between Stevie’s fingers, popping it into her mouth before her best friend can do anything about it.

“You’re never going to pass your driver’s test, I hope you like the bus.”

“You’re going to drive me to work forever because you love me,” she drags love out as she dances away from Stevie’s slapping hands, snagging a stack of tapes to return to the shelves as she goes.

There’s no way Stevie isn’t rolling her eyes, but Robin also knows that she’ll look all soft and pleased. Knows because a yellow candy smacks hard against the copy of The Breakfast Club that’s right beside her head.

“What the hell is going on with that rabbit?”

“Pretty sure it’s proof that you should never be trusted to pick the shift movie.”

“Stevie’s being a total headcase this week, will you tell her to chill out,” Henderson delivers what Robin is going to generously call a request after cornering her between fourth and fifth periods. Cause if it isn’t a request then it’s an order or a demand, and her small friend is not going to be happy with what she has to say in that case.

“Well that depends, Dusty, why are you calling my best friend a headcase?”

He rolls his eyes at her, a trait that Stevie might put up with but Robin is not about to. “Because she’s being one, every time I try to talk to her it’s like…” he trails off. That’s probably for the best.

“It’s like all you can talk about is your new best friend Eddie? It’s like you aren’t interested in her now that you’ve got some new brother that you can hang out with instead? It’s like all she’s good for is a ride to see the boys? It’s like you can’t ask her how to talk to girls anymore or how you should do your hair because she’s not the same anymore.”

“I didn’t say that,” he shrieks, hands waving between them like he can swipe away the thousand bees that are her accusations. She feels stinging mad actually now that she’s started putting words out there for the things that she’s feeling.

“You don’t have to say it, it’s what you’ve been doing.”

“Did she say that?” Robin gently swings her locker door just shy of closed. Dustin looks younger than she thinks she’s seen him since the first time they met. Looks smaller than she’s seen him in her life. Looking up at her with big watery eyes, waiting for her to make it okay.

Stevie’s gonna be pissed if she doesn’t at least try to make it okay.

She picks each word carefully, not wanting him to feel completely off the hook, “She didn’t say it exactly like that.”

Dustin looks at the floor, his hat obscuring his face enough that she can’t tell if he’s followed through on the watery eyes to full crying. The ambiguity makes him easier to talk to for a second, now that she doesn’t have to worry about watching what his expression is doing.

“She’s still the same person who walked down the train tracks with a kid she barely knew looking for his runaway science experiment. She’s still the person who did your hair for the snowball. She’s the person who went hunting for Russian spies with you. She’s the person that would like to keep giving you terrible advice on how to date.”

His next breath is phlegmy and ragged. “It wasn’t terrible advice.”

“Right, right, your Moonchild Empress or whatever.”

Dustin hasn’t been quiet once in the entire time that she’s known him so Robin assumes the quiet means he’s done talking. Swinging her locker back open she goes back to what she was doing before he interrupted, which had, coincidentally been Stevie related. Deciding whether or not she was going to bring her copy Watership Down to work with her so Stevie could see what was up with the rabbits.

“They should meet.”

Robin had also been leaning toward introducing her to Fiver and Hazel, but she doesn't think that’s what Dustin means.

“Who should-”

“Stevie and Eddie,” he looks at her with a wide grin. An expression she recognizes from shortly before she found herself in an elevator to hell. Dustin thinks he's just had a good idea. “Stevie can see that Eddie's super cool, Eddie will stop- And once they know each other we can hang out all the time, why didn't I think of this before!”

It does occur to her that she could remind Dustin that Stevie existed before July of 1985. That she went to school here and definitely already knows Eddie, that's where half the problem comes from even. But then she thinks of how much fun their next sleepover will be, when Stevie has brand new things to hate and make fun of.

“Maybe you're right Dustin, maybe that is the problem.”

He pumps his fist in time with the warning bell. “This is going to be great, I can't believe I didn't already think of this.”

He's still talking to himself as he starts to scamper off to a class he's going to be late to. But she isn’t about to let him leave without making sure he took away the real lesson he was supposed to. “And pass along to your little friends that her new meds didn't lobotomize her brain or amputate her legs. She can still tell you how to talk to girls, she can still shoot a free throw, she can still show you how to change a tire after it's blown out on the interstate.”

Dustin's staying with the Wheelers, Claudia has the night shift which means she and Stevie have the whole house to themselves.

Robin is making herself at home in Stevie's room, moving extra quilts and pillows from the linen closet into a fort she's making on the floor. Because today is going to be the best bitch day in the world, once Stevie makes it home from playing chauffeur. Because today Stevie gave in and went to lunch and a movie with Dustin and his new best friend Eddie.

She keeps trying to imagine what Stevie will say. Maybe Munson dips his fries in syrup or something disgusting. Maybe he showed up to the movie in his nerd brigade shirt. Maybe he showed up thirty minutes late! And the Stevie in her head has devastating things to say about all of those things, but she knows none of them are right. She just can't manage the right amount of even toned bitchery that Stevie can, the clever double entendre that makes the person she's insulting look all the dumber for getting upset at the blatant quips.

“Did you really bike here, you weirdo? You know I would have picked you up.” Stevie's voice carries down the hallway, accented by the sound of her keys hitting the bowl by the door and her shoes getting picked up from the floor and set down in the shoe tree.

“You got that bike rack for the Jeep. I wanted to make sure it actually got some use.”

The answering laugh is the one Robin possessively thinks of as hers, a little ugly, high pitched and snorting. It makes it to the bedroom just a second before Stevies face. A face that's wearing the lipgloss with the glitter in it, the one she saves for when she's trying to impress someone or make them look at her mouth.

“You look nice?”

“Such a charmer, Rob, no wonder you've got so many girls banging down your door.” She eases herself down onto the floor beside Robin, smoothing out a buttery yellow skirt that has to be new. She knows every single item in Stevie's closet, except this skirt.

She isn't going to think about how Stevie went out shopping without her though. She'd rather focus her attention somewhere more entertaining. “How was lunch?”

Stevie fusses with the edge of her skirt, rolling the hem of it between two fingers. Her face pinking though under that she's smiling. “Ugh you wouldn't even believe Henderson was a twerp, as usual. Insisted that he had to have one side of the table to himself, ordered two milkshake flavors so he could mix them together, and of course I'm paying for the whole thing.”

“Dustin being a dweeb is old news, what else happened at lunch.”

“I mean,” she trails off, making a face Robin has never seen before. Which shouldn't be possible, she thinks she is supposed to have seen all of Stevie's faces.  “Munson was a total freak, obviously. Kept calling me ‘My Lady’ and all that nerd shit. You’d think I came in with a cast with the way he opened every door and kept pulling out my chair.” 

It all sounds decidedly unfreakish to Robin, in fact it sounds like Stevie finds the guy charming. She realizes with something close to horror that she does actually recognize the expression on Stevie’s face. Just not on her best friend. It’s the bashful, twitterpated expression of a girl at a sleepover trying not to admit she has a crush. An expression that might as well be a death knell, cause the only time she’s ever seen it is right before date night started beating girl’s night.

“Not that it matters, the guy doesn’t know how to take a joke,” Stevie goes on, her smile still too shy to fully bloom but no less in place. Even as she pretends that whatever this is is supposed to be some dealbreaker. “I asked him what he gets out of playing Halflings and Half-wits with the dweeb squad and I thought he was going to climb on the table right there. Ed-weird went on for like five minutes on how the gremlins are some of the best players he’s ever played with, and they're an endless fount of creativity that keeps him perpetually on his toes.”

Stevie never actually stood a chance. And if Robin had been paying attention she would have realized that. 

There wasn’t anyone who loved passionate, nerdy people as much as Stevie.

Eddie Munson wore his king of the loud mouthed nerds crown with pride. And he was as obsessed with the gremlins as Stevie was 

“Why are we talking about him?” She flops over until her head is in Robin’s lap, flopping one arm outside of the pillow fortress to reach under the bed. She crows, victorious, holding a jar that's pond scum brown like it’s treasure. “Had to hide this after Dust put it in his hair. Put this goop on your face and tell me about what Vickie said in band yesterday again. Cause I'm pretty sure she was dating Dan Summers last year, and he didn't really seem like the type of guy to stay with his high school girlfriend.”

It's coincidence, pure and simple, that puts her right outside O'Donnell's fourth period class. Thompson's study hall, her own fourth period, was technically across the building but everyone knew Mr. Thompson came to work on Mondays too hungover to care about attendance.

And study hall didn't have a certain wannabe friend-dater standing outside it, debating whether or not he was going to go inside.

She is still figuring out her angle of attack when it looks like he's decided he is actually going to class. Considering O’Donnell is the type to write office referral slips to kids who aren’t meant to be in her room for ‘being a distraction’ there isn’t really any time for subtlety. Still, she’s surprised by the tone of her own voice when she shouts, “Munson!”

Heads turn in the hallway, of course they do. Faces she only knows by virtue of twelve years of school watching on with a lust for future violence she recognizes from that concrete bunker. But if Munson is concerned that a girl he's never spoken to is yelling at him, he doesn't look it as he turns on both heels to face her.

He smiles first, benignly pleasant. But Stevie taught her that trick, smiling to diffuse anger or hide how she has no idea how the person talking to her actually knows her. Munson is doing both, they had two classes together last semester and she was in the orchestra for the last school musical.

The blankness eventually clears from his eyes, “Bye Bye Buckley!”

Not about to be distracted by the dumbest reference she's ever heard, and with the eyes of at least two people she can see on her, she drags Munson away from class. It's bound to be all around the school by the dismissal bell, but rumor is less important than the mission.

The girls room by the library is always abandoned. The mirrors are dingy or cracked and it always smells like cat piss for no discernable reason. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He looks around the bathroom with an inquisitive eye like the grimy bluish tile is somehow more interesting than her. “I'm not actually carrying if you were-”

He doesn't have the decency to stumble when she shoves at his chest, trying to push him back into the stall doors.

“What are your intentions with Stevie?”

“Ah yes, the mysterious cousin Henderson. Who says I have intentions?” His only saving grace is that it takes her too long to get her thoughts in order. A miasma of rants at the tip of her tongue about Stevie and how she was too good for him and any thoughts he might be having about her. 

But in the time it takes to see through her friend based rage, she’s able to watch a transformation take place on Eddie’s face. The smug aloofness that had taken over his face from the moment she cornered him in the hallway washes away. Leaving behind something giddy and young, bright eyes and a flushed face. “Unless she was asking about me. You two are bosom friends, are you not Diana? That would make me Gilbert Blythe, hell of a role.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of people who wish they could break a slate over your head.”

“You’re probably right, doesn’t answer my question though. Was your dear Anne Shirley talking about me?” He scuffs a boot against the floor. Doing an impressive impression of a bashful school boy while standing in front of her in his ratted out, heavy metal glory. There are at least four chains that she can spot on his outfit right now but his face would be just as at home on Opie Taylor.

But she isn’t going to get fooled by some routine. She has something to say and she’s going to make sure she says it.

“She’s really special, Munson. She’s not some cheerleader you fuck in the woods because she wants to get back at her parents that are divorcing and you’re the scariest thing available that isn’t actually dangerous.”

“Tell me how you really feel, Buckley.” The retort seems to drag itself from his mouth on instinct. Cause the aw shucks routine he’d been giving is lying broken on the floor replaced by open mouthed shock.

“I am.” The bell rings, marking them both officially late for class. She glares him down, waiting to see if he’ll leave, effectively flinching first. He glares back. “She’s an athlete, likes sports.”

Maybe it’s wrong to list the things about Stevie that she knows Munson won’t like. But she also isn’t about to let her best friend water herself down for some stupid boy.

“Wayne will be thrilled to have someone who understands what he’s talking about. Go team.”

“She hates fantasy. Dustin loaned her his copy of Fellowship of the Ring and she gave it back when they kept singing.”

“I’m sure she’d like it if I sang them for her.”

“She isn’t going to become some demure, church mouse just because you’re around. She’s snarky and confident and, and…”

He sets a hand on her shoulder in a way that is so patronizing she wishes she were as good at being a bitch as Stevie was. But she suppresses her first instinct to bite him if only because she’s working at keeping up her record of 4578 days without biting a classmate.

“I don’t know what any of that means,” he says, “but it sounds like you and your hot best friend have been talking about me. So thanks for that intel, Bucks.”

People wearing leather and motorcycle boots shouldn’t be able to skip. The stupid hanky in his stupid pocket flaps behind him like a wagging tail as Munson leaves her in the girls room with the smell of ammonia.

Stevie has Breakfast at Tiffany’s playing on the TV when Robin makes it to work. Keith let them have most of their shifts together but drew the line at letting Stevie shut the store down to come pick her up after school. So on days where Stevie works a double, she’s stuck arriving to work sweaty and guessing at whatever movie will have ended up on the big TV.

And today she gets to catch Stevie standing in the middle of the floor, a stack of tapes in her arms, while she watches the party happening in Holly Golightly’s apartment. Audrey Hepburn swaying with her guest in the middle of the floor.

“Someone’s in a mood.” 

From over her shoulder, Stevie sends Robin a look. Something loaded with dry humor and a smugness that usually means something juicy happened in the time before Robin got there.

Usually.

There’s something about the look today that feels personally directed at her.

“Well it was this or Some Like it Hot, and the stay at home moms are weird about black and white movies that aren’t the first few minutes of Wizard of Oz.”

“That’s sepia.”

“Bless you.”

Making sure Stevie can see her rolling her eyes, she heads to the back to clock in. By the time she makes it back, Stevie has the volume turned down on Holly Golightly’s romantic disasters. She’s back behind the counter, head pillowed in her hands and Robin remembers why people used to be a little scared of her popular kid cabaret. Walking up the center aisle, she feels like she’s headed straight toward a tiger with its mouth open and she’s about to put her head in there. 

“So you’ll never believe what happened earlier,” Stevie taps her nail against her cheek.

“Paul Collins came in with his mistress to look at porn again?”

Humming, Stevie doesn’t say anything as Robin comes behind the counter with her. There’s a stack of tapes that need to be rewound and a roll of Be Kind Rewind stickers that need to be stuck to cases.

“Still time for that,” she says right as Robin started to think they were going to drop it. “Sally Tyler called from the payphone.”

“Sally from the basketball team?”

“Yeah,” that smile is even wider. This is almost certainly payback for the You Suck board. “I’m thinking about joining her rec team but we’ve played one-on-one in the park once or twice.”

“And she had a Family Video emergency that only you could solve?”

“Sorta. She was just really concerned, she’d heard a rumor that my best friend was dragging the guy she saw me having lunch with this weekend into the girls room.”

This is definitely payback for the You Suck board. Stevie’s looking a little too pleased with herself as she smiles at what can only be Robin’s slack jawed surprise.

“I get if you're mad,” she says and that’s all she can assume is happening, she isn’t sure how else to read what’s happening on Stevie’s face. “But-”

“Thank you.”

“I was just trying to- What?”

“Come on,” she rolls her eyes, swipes a half hearted smack to Robin’s shoulder. “I’ve been on the other side of that, you know. Well meaning friends pulling me aside to ask what my intentions are.”

“Oh my god, did she follow us in there?”

Delight makes Stevie’s eyes sparkle, “Did you actually? I love you. Did you give him hell?”

“I think he got the upperhand.”

“I think it’s all the playing pretend. The shitheads will run circles around the unprepared too.”

It seems a little too good to be true. “You really aren’t mad?”

Someone abandoned The Breakfast Club at the scene where Ally Sheedy gets the makeover. It had seemed like a stupid scene when she’d seen it in theaters, now it makes something weird pit in the bottom of her stomach. She doesn’t get the chance to hit rewind, to send Allison back in time so she can be strange and herself again, because Stevie is flipping her around and pulling her into a bone crushing hug.

“First of all,” she says into the side of Robin’s hair, “the only thing I’m even a little miffed about is you thinking I couldn’t kick Munson’s ass myself. But no one’s ever done anything like that for me before so I’m cool with letting it slide.”

“But we are acknowledging that you definitely have a thing for the guy with the rattiest hair in the school. Probably even Roane county.” Robin says, face pressed into the meat of Stevie’s shoulder.

Stevie shoves her away with a groan that Robin’s laughter is already drowning out. “Yeah, alright. He’s kind of okay I guess.”

“Such sweet words for the father of your brood.”

“He’s not the father of my anything,” she flips her hair over one shoulder, “anyway I think he gets off on it so I’m gonna keep being mean to him.”

“That was more than I wanted to know about either of you.”

“No it wasn’t, you like that I’m mean too. You get all sad faced when you think I’m trying to bury my impulses.”

For the second time today Robin is left too surprised to say anything. She’s left gaping, not that Stevie is looking at her now; too busy picking at the nail polish left on her pinky. 

“I like it,” she says quietly after a moment. Robin has shut her mouth by the time Stevie looks up at her again, something soft but serious on her face. She reaches across the counter to grab Robin by the hand, melding what’s left of their coordinating manicures by linking their fingers. “You’re my number one. Even if Eddie does anything about anything, he’s going to have to compete with you.”

Neither of them move as the weight of the moment surrounds them like one of Mrs. Henderson’s quilts. Heavy and homey and right. But they are still at work and as the bell beside the door dings, and they break their silence to greet their new customer in tandem, they shrug off the heavy sincerity for something more functional. Stevie’s smile turns sly, and she tugs Robin closer while keeping an eye on the man now browsing the comedies. “You’ll never guess who came in earlier to ask if we had Nine and a Half Weeks yet.”

A boy can dream, can't he?

The Party

tags: major character death, angst, grief, healing, Eddie POV, stobin

word count: 692

The Party throws a party.

for @stobinmonth prompt: Steve and Robin die

They don't talk as much anymore. Ten years ago, things were different-- he would hear from the East Coast gang once a month and at least one of the Cali group was always hanging around the house, shoe rack overflowing in the front hall.

Eddie gets it. That's why he's so grateful when they can all get together like this, everyone under the same roof, just like Steve and Robin always wanted.

It's the anniversary of their death today. They were barely 50 when the two of them left the house for work and never came back. Time has healed the very worst of the loss for Eddie, but it stings him sometimes when he isn't expecting it. He can't imagine ever living through this day alone.

The shoes are piled up around the shoe rack, all different shapes and sizes and styles. The children are playing a video game in the living room. There's a loud ruckus going on in the kitchen over the margarita recipe. He already knows what he'll hear if he walks in. Steve's disciples will bray on about adding jalapeno in his honor. Robin's group will defend her lasting belief that jalapenos have no place in a beverage. They'll get nowhere until Lucas breaks and makes a second pitcher.

Eddie slips upstairs to collect the decorations. He should have done this before they all arrived, but he was busy. Okay. He was wallowing, but you would too sometimes if your best friends had been dead for ten years.

There's the string of letters that spells out their names. The giant blown up posters of the worst pictures of them he could find. A box of random shit he keeps firmly shut every day but this one.

When he comes back down, they're all in the living room cheering on the kids. And Mike, who has commandeered one of the tiny controller things. It seems like he's losing to his own son, who looks about as smug and shit-eating as Mike always had at his age.

They all help him hang the names and the posters, laughing as they do. The box takes its place of honor on the coffee table for anyone to open and sift through if they want to. It's always El who dives in first, somehow unafraid to face her grief.

They spend the day and half the night together. The older children go upstairs to watch a horror movie when it gets late while the youngest (a mop-headed Henderson) falls asleep half on top of his mother. There's a plush alligator wrapped in his lanky arms.

"He should keep that," Eddie says. The words come off his tongue more easily than he feels they should. He fights the urge to snatch them back.

Suzie and Dustin stare at him. "Are you sure?"

"It's just collecting dust in that box. Robin would want him to play with it instead." The fact that it's true makes the idea of it leaving the house a tiny bit more bearable.

Dustin sniffles, his eyes suddenly wet. "He never got to meet them, you know. It kills me sometimes."

Suzie pats his left hand, Max grabs his right. "He knows them, honey," his wife tells him. "Why do you think he knows every single story in that box? Why do you think he loves coming over here to be with everyone each year? That's Steve and Robin, babe. They're still here."

Eddie finds himself joining the waterworks that spring up after that, everyone grabbing a tissue from the table to wipe at their eyes or blow their nose.

She's right, he knows. Steve and Robin are here every year when the people they loved the most come together to talk about them. To complain about how annoying they were in life and in death. I mean, who lives through five separate otherworldly monster attacks and then dies in a ten car pile-up? It's absurd.

But he knows this party, these people all laughing together, is everything Steve and Robin would have wanted.

Eddie slowly collects the items from around the room and closes the box for another year.

Mistake P2

TW: Angst, internalised homophobia, homophobia

Steve is scared. For two days. He's felt fear like this before. When Tommy had given him a funny look for looking at a skirt too long, or for not wanting to use fag, or for when Steve leant on him too long.

or around his dad.

He hated the way his belly churned, how his brain wouldn't stop coming up with different scenarios. The upside down was less scary than this. Robin called round once, but he didn't want her to see him, bleeding noes and hiding in fear.

He didn't want her to know.

It would ruin everything, their friendship.

He'd probably ruined it already, by being so stupid, by not thinking before he acted. Maybe if he had thought about it more, he would have seen that kissing Eddie Munson was not the best idea.

Steve curled tighter in his bed.

He thought….

He'd just thought. They were so close. Eddie liked to cuddle, Eddie touched him, so much more than Tommy ever did. Eddie was accepting of the weird and the wonderful.

Of Robin.

Steve sobbed. But not him. Not the kiss. Not them.

He cried.

Cried and cried until he had nothing left, until his face felt dry and his throat hoarse.

Then he got up. He got up and he washed his face, he put the peas from the freezer on his nose and he locked away his heart. It was fine. He would be fine.

Like he always was.

Robin hunted him down the day after, a million and one questions about his nose, but he just told her he walked into the door. Steve didn't want his stupid impulsive action to ruin what they all had, after all Dustin's birthday was tomorrow and he had to be fine.

He was fine.

He and Eddie looked at each other over the crowd at Dustin's, eyes catching one another. Steve feels his heart rate go up, but Dustin is pulling him away, dragging him over to something and he can breathe again.

He could breathe.

As long as he avoided Eddie. He could do that.

It was almost impossible in the small house, but Steve was good at mingling, good at talking to people and as long as he was talking to…

"Hey kid, was lookin' for ya. Got that repair kit you were looking for,"

Wayne. Fuck. Wayne.

Steve's shaking. He doesn't realise it till Wayne's looking at him funny. He liked Wayne, kind man, always talking to him about fixing stuff up, baseball.

He'd thought…

Steve doesn't know what he thought. He'd told Wayne, in the quiet of the night after a game they'd watched.

How he'd always felt a bit different, how he never felt like he fit in any one box and Wayne had said he'd understood. That sometimes love took different forms. That he was glad that he and Eddie had grown close, hasn't seen Eddie look at anyone the way he looks at Steve.

That Steve wasn't alone.

Because someone different had once meant something to Wayne, meant the world to Wayne even though it didn't mean nothing to society.

"Y-yeah. Ill come get it some time Wayne, thanks,"

"Nothing to it kid, you okay? Ya nose is kinda blue,"

Steve twitches, "Nah, it's fine, just walked into a door,"

"Steve,"

Steve whips around so fast he sends the tray of sandwhiches behind him flying. His back is pressed against the wall, body in flight before h can even think about it.

The room is silent.

All he can see are Eddie's eyes. Those big eyes staring back at him. Fear mirrored inside them.

Fear. Why would there be fear, Eddie's not the one who got punched in the face. Steve feels a sudden surge of anger churn his belly.

He needs to leave. Needs to get out of there.

"I have to- I have to go, Dustin sorry," he mumbles as he stumbles out of the house.

Away from the questions.

Away from Eddie.

"Steve wait!"

Steve doesn't.

"Steve please,"

"It's fine. I'm fine. Just let me go. I need to go. I can't. I can't do this right now Eddie. I'm sorry. I'll just.. i'll leave. thanks for not saying anything I guess,"

"Steve no. I- no. I'm saying sorry. I shouldn't have hit you. Even if you're queer."

Steve doesn't know how many times he'll flinch that day. He stares at Eddie who now that he's actually looking at him, looks a mess.

"Even if? Are you fucking serious?"

"No I meant-

"What the fuck?"

They both turn to see Dustin, who's staring at them with huge eyes. Steve's fear returns, a cold icicle in his belly. Fuck. Dustin. Fuck.

But Dustin isn't looking at him. He's looking at Eddie.

"You hit Steve?" Dustin repeats.

"No- "It's not-

"That's what you said. That's what you just said. You hit Steve for being queer,"

Eddie's mouth flaps helplessly.

"Get out. Get the fuck out of my party,"

"Dusty, no, it's fine. It's not like that," Steve tries, doesn't want this to draw a rift any further.

"How else is it Steve? What the fuck else would he mean?" Dustin says, Steve's never heard him so cold. "That's not fucking cool Eddie. I thought you were cool. But you're just another bully,"

Eddie runs.

And Steve watches.

and Wayne curses.

Here <- Previous Part | Next Part -> Here

--- Authors Note: this will have a good ending! I'm just trying to dig into that feeling of messed up emotions from being told one thing your life and not processing it properly. Please don't hate Eddie to much, he's going through it.

𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 [9.3k!!]; friends to lovers, forced proximity, mutual pining, kinda dialogue heavy, soft kisses, eventual smut, not much dirty talk bc they're really sweet about it, p in v (unprotected 😛) 18+! inspired by this beauty of a fic by @rebelfell

ALSO!! this is my submission for day one of @littlexdeaths twelve days of promptmas writing game!! 🫶🏻🎄

Your regularly scheduled movie night runs amuck when your friends ditch out because of the heavy snow. Everyone except Steve, that is. Trapped in your apartment during a freak blizzard, stuck together under a mountain of blankets with nowhere to go anytime soon, your night eventually leads to some confessions.

I don't proofread my work before posting, so please be forgiving of any mistakes.

"Can you let me in? S'fucking freezing out here".

Steve's shivering voice carries tacky through the tannoy, receiver pressed to your ear as you buzz him in to your apartment complex.

He's right, it was fucking freezing. It's not like you had left the safety of your small apartment today, but the snow had been falling heavy since around 5am. A particularly loud snow plough had awoken you in the early hours, not that it had been back around since, sheets of sparkling white caking the road outside. You didn't know where the sidewalk ended and the street began.

It had become something of a ritual, twice monthly movie nights where your friends flocked to your place on a Friday night with snacks galore in hand. It was cramped, delightful sure, but cramped. You, Robin, Steve, Nancy, Jonathon, Argyle, and Eddie, all crowded into your living room that barely had capacity to house but one visitor was something out of an SNL sketch. Your second-hand sofa wasn't big enough and despite the regularity of their company, you never quite had enough glasses to go around.

Sometimes the kids joined, sometimes they didn't. It was easier when they were absent, since space was scarce and Eddie could turn up proud as punch with an obscene amount of beers tucked tightly under his arms. Jonathon and Argyle never failed to provide generously fat pre-rolled joints of their precious Purple Palm Tree Delight. Even Nancy sometimes brought a couple bottles of wine to liven the party.

But Hawkins, Indiana had been under attack by a particularly intense snow storm the past week. Gradually with each passing day, you would receive phone calls that one of them couldn't make it, which in time lead to all but one cancelling on you. Firstly it was Jonathon and Nancy, explaining that Joyce would be frantic if either of them even attempted to trudge across town in this weather.

Argyle followed soon after, something about the biting chill giving him bad vibes. Eddie the next day, apologetically explaining that he didn't want to leave Wayne considering there was the promise of a blizzard on the horizon. Then Robin only this morning. She didn't even need to provide a reason, you let her off the hook regardless, the night was a total flop anyways.

You hadn't actually told Steve that the others had dipped, assuming that Robin would have filled him in. They were roommates after all, they shared everything with each other, and you had obviously wrongly supposed a cancelled movie night would've been included in that everything.

"Robin not tell you?" you huff at him with your arms folded, not with impatience or annoyance, more guilty with the knowledge that he had driven through mountainous reams of snowfall just to get here.

"Tell me what?" Steve glances up at you as he's dusting off his coat outside the door, melting pearlescent beads of remnant snowflakes twinkling at the tips of his hair.

"Everyone canceled," you shrug, a small tremble engulfing you as you face the icy breeze, and Steve easily picks up on the disappointment laced within the words. You had been in your comfy clothes all day, a cream long sleeved cotton shirt and some baby blue checkered pyjama bottoms, well accustomed to the snug safety of your apartment, so the bite of frost outside your front door was a bit of a shock.

His cheeks are speckled a deep candy floss blush, no doubt chilled to the bone considering the plummeting temperature outside, the tip of his nose that one shade darker.

Pretty, you think despite yourself, gaze lingering a little too long, the sensation of a heated flush spreading along your chest beneath your cotton lounge shirt.

"Haven't seen her," he shrugs back. "Since work closed until this weather lightens up, she sleeps like... all day," his eyes widen in a side glance, pausing the ruffling of his sleeves to affix his stare to you in emphasis. You chuckle, standing to the side where he shuffles past into the hallway to kick off his sneakers that were entirely inappropriate for this time of the season.

"Sorry, you travelled all this way in that shit just to go right back out there again," you cross your arms over yourself a second time, eyebrows furrowing, leaning slack against the radiator that buzzed with delightful warmth.

He eyes you then, confused, as he hangs his coat casually beside yours, clearly not in any rush the step back out into the barrage or sleet and powder white. Steve turns in your direction, his hand through his damp hair that flicks droplets of water onto the floor below him.

"You want me to go?" he responds flatly, a curious tilt of his head, and you immediately redden with panic. Jesus, did you just hurt his feelings? Was it wrong of you to presume he didn't want to stay? But why would he? The two of you never hang out alone.

"No, no. That's not what I meant at all" you assure him in a hurry, tripping over yourself with a small breathy chuckle following swiftly behind in an attempt you save yourself. Steve's lips tighten into a line, though the corners lift into the wisp of a smile nonetheless.

Your heartbeat thrums in your chest, right up into your throat so intensely you were sure that Steve could see your skin pulsing. Though he's just nodding in thought, training his gaze at anywhere but you, and you're both subdued into a terribly long beat of silence. Great, now we've fucked it. God, if you're listening, please let the ground swallow me whole.

Steve had been someone you admired from afar. Of course you considered him a friend, but that type of friend you only hung out with when others were around. You would be lying to yourself if you said that a crush wasn't mingling there at the depth of your belly, a feathered flutter of wings circling around your heart whenever he would beam all pearly white teeth and glossy lips.

Everyone but him seemed to know it, sense it, as if cupid had physically manifested themselves and shot you square in your left ass cheek. Maybe that was why Robin didn't tell him, knowing in her plotting mind that Steve would for sure turn up at your door anyways. Robin knew Steve as well as she knew herself, souls connected at the heart, and you could picture the evil smirk on her face when the lightbulb moment hit.

Steve was kind of the blueprint, not just in your book, clearly. You knew how popular he was with the ladies, and goddamn you couldn't blame them. Angled jaw and olive skin, constellations of espresso freckles that complimented him so nicely. He was also so kind, goofy and silly, bitchy when he wanted to be but mostly raw sugar and candy apple sweetness.

But it was Steve. And you were you. The feeling would not be mutual, as much as your heart swelled at the thought of any maybe's, you had come to terms with that. It was easier that way.

"Well, I brought these," He fills the suffocating gap and you're snapped from your enraptured trance, digging into a blue plastic bag that was swinging from his wrist. You're watching him fumble, a deep crease between his brows and he's frowning. At least you can stare at him that little bit longer.

Steve eventually pulls out two boxes of Nerds, shaking them enticingly in your direction. There's that flutter again, seduced by his natural charm even when he wasn't trying. "I know they're your favourite. Watermelon and cherry, right?".

You were taken aback for a moment, you didn't even know that Steve payed so much attention to you, especially to the things you like. You're a little puzzled but you take them from his grasp with grace nonetheless, your fingertips brush faintly, noting the breath that hitches at the back of your throat that you force yourself to ignore.

"Right. Thanks". Your heartbeat pumps violently beneath the skin of your cheeks that were now a fiery shade of red. You probably sound a tad ungrateful right now, but the tips of your ears were burning and your mouth had run dry and you couldn't help it when the radiator was this hot at your back.

"No problem. Oh and this too". It sounds like he didn't notice your tone, either that or he chose to not pay it much mind. He's handing you a VHS tape then, surely one he had taken from work without hiring it out as he was supposed to. Fast Times at Ridgemont High. You hadn't seem it, four years late to the hype, but this works for you.

You smile back at him, those growing embers of fondness stoke a little wilder in your tummy, and Steve returns the grin just as kindly. The small pause of discomfort fizzled out as quickly as it came, no longer looming when Steve's eyes lifted with affection, platonically of course, glinting handsomely at the corners.

"Perfect. Come in, make yourself at home". You're ushering him inside, socked feet pattering down the hallway with Steve following a pace behind. He knew your apartment like the back of his hand, which wasn't exactly hard. If your group had an assigned headquarters, it would be your place that only had two windows and a bathroom so miniature you could barely take a shower in it.

Your evening set in motion like clockwork. Steve was busying himself with setting up the VHS player, proudly stationing your couch cushions just right on each end, a generous selection of candy littering your coffee table.

Nerds, red vines, milk duds, and cherry sours. The only thing missing was popcorn, which you were hastily shoving into your microwave that would pick and choose when to work. Thankfully, it was on your side tonight. It must have known you were a nervous wreck as it was, which feels dumb to think of in the moment afterwards.

"Uh... No alcohol tonight, though. That okay?" you call to Steve through the walkway after searching through the fridge, twinging with guilt again when you pull out a half empty bottle of cherry soda, as if it was difficult for him to hear you from the next room.

"You think I need alcohol to have a good time with you?" Steve chirps, a cocky eyebrow quirking as he appears through the kitchen doorway, and damn him you were scorching something sickening again.

Steve had turned up in some well fitting grey sweats and a navy blue-black sweater, with some mismatched socks to complete. An attire you couldn't miss when you first opened the door to him merely fifteen minutes earlier. You try not to stare, honestly you do. But those sweats fit him so well in all the right places and he was leaning so slack against the door frame, sleeves shifted up a quarter with his arms criss crossed. Damn him, damn him, damn him.

"I didn't mean it like that," you have to turn away from him before the staring became too apparent, focusing your attention on the dwindling pop pop popping in the microwave. "You warmed up enough yet?", you ask in desperation to change the topic.

It was only half a lie, that you didn't mean it in that way. The majority of social situations you had experienced with Steve involved alcohol; hangouts, parties, afternoons lounging around at community pool, that one summer where you all took a spontaneous day trip to Michigan City beach.

Where a set of sunburst hazelnut eyes peered at you fondly over the lip of a beer bottle, cheesy grin dripping in admiration that you had only taken in chaste. Steve had let it linger too, comfortable enough in your presence around friends, observing your doting smile and sing-songy laugh. But the thought of being alone with you made his heart skip, enjoying your company at arms length because of course he didn't like you like that, right?

Of course you wouldn't feel the same even if he did... right?

"I don't know, have I?" he's trialing, voice carrying closer the longer he speaks, and with your back turned, head bubbling over in thought and vulnerable to his actions, Steve presses the frozen back of his hand to the nape of your neck. His fingers hook absentmindedly beneath the collar of your shirt, and you yelp loud in response to his icy touch.

"You jerk!" A shrill floods his ears as you jump away from him, mouth agape and hands flying to swat him away. Steve is laughing, really laughing, and it's so chocolatey rich and sickly sweet and fucking intoxicating.

"Jesus christ, your hands are purple," you announce when you calm, discreet alarm hidden beneath your swift once over of him, chuckling with half the heart since your spine had ricocheted in a white-hot tremor. You reach for him then and he lets you, stepping into his space to encompass all eight fingers and two thumbs around his.

Steve watches you with a kind of intensity you weren't used to, the soft swipe of your fingertips kindling where you were burning, ice to your fire.

You nibble at your bottom lip, the corner of it dipping where you're gnawing at the skin on the inside. A tender dip atop the bridge of your nose, and Steve could count every blemish, every freckle, and every smile line this close up.

You couldn't look at him, losing your nerve at the mere thought of meeting his honeysuckle gaze, and he's thankful for it. Because now he can stare a little longer at you, too.

"Anyway..." you trail off distractedly, a brief glance up at Steve then back to your intertwined hands again. He clears his throat, a harsh swallow then he’s dropping away from where you linked. The room was colder when he took one step back into his own space, purposefully creating that distance.

"Popcorn?" he adds with a breath of finality and a small smile, mentally challenging himself to pay no mind to the lingering warmth of your touch. He shoos you out of the kitchen once you nod, eyes a little sparkly and rounded at the edges.

Steve finishes up in the kitchen as you collect an extra blanket from your bedroom, grabbing two full glasses he had filled with a generous helping of ice and soda in each on your way past again.

Dimming the lights in the living room like you do every movie night, you stand back to admire the sheer cosiness of it all with the snow flurrying down through the window above the television.

It still felt strange, collapsing onto the couch as Steve follows shortly after with a rather large bowl cupped in both hands, towering with buttery popcorn. Though you relax a little in each other's company rather swiftly, cosying a respectable width apart with the bowl secured between the side of your thigh and his.

You settle back into the couch once the movie develops full swing, revelling in the opportunity to steal greedy glances at Steve from the corner of your eye. Mocha blemishes and eyes flashing sparkly with the reflection of the television screen. Your gaze flits to where his silken lips stretch wide absentmindedly, chitters of laughter through his teeth and huffs through his nose.

You don't think you have ever watched him this long, especially not in in the security of nobody else clocking your ogling. Your head lolls back, attention flicking back to the movie when he would readjust or reach for more popcorn.

You didn't stare at him too long, just in calculated intervals. But you revel in him despite yourself; his left arm is stretched along the top of the sofa, fingertips a mere inch or so from the tilt of your scalp in his direction, thighs spread wide beneath the blanket, taking up far too much room, and the back of your neck prickles with some sort of ferocious heat.

You concentrate on the movie again, the possibility of Steve catching you mouth parted and lids heavy, blatantly undressing him with your eyes made your stomach twist. He's just a friend.

Neither of you had said a word in about 40 minutes, not that you had to. The silence was comfortable enough and the copious amount of snacks before you kept your hands occupied.

Though Steve snook at few peaks your way too, soft features and fluttering lashes, fingers twitching when he studies the strands of hair that illuminate silver and blue. He knows he shouldn't, and he curses himself as he surveys the cushioned push and pull of your lips as you chew on a red vine.

Another couple minutes pass, reaching into the bowl beside you to grab a fistful of popcorn, fully engrossed in the flicking scenes in front of you at this point. Steve's hand was digging into the pile too, though his movements considerably slow when his fingertips brush with yours.

You pull back with a clipped "Oop", darting a glance that meets his, and you blush where he pales. Steve's skin is alight, all firing nerve endings and dancing senses.

You're leaning forward then to grab a sweating glass of soda from the coffee table, shuffling to the edge of the couch and shifting yourself unintentionally further into his space. The plush of your hip nudges a fraction into his kneecap, enough for you to both notice, but neither of you move away this time.

You picture Robin beaming down at the scene, the air electric and thick with an unspoken eagerness to be close, so close, closer. Whether this was a wicked plan or not, you knew that the rest of your group would be sighing in relief that the two of you were even just alone together, for goodness sake. Because if you both stewed long enough in this growing familiarity, this growing fondness, face to face with temptation, maybe then these seemingly unrequited feelings would come to a head. At last.

50 minutes in and Steve knows the scene that's about to flash up, literally, because who doesn't pause Fast Times at 53 minutes and 5 seconds? The pool scene. Red bikinis, dripping wet hair and bare tanned skin, you can't look away. Your eyes are fixated on the screen but Steve's are glued to your face, noticing the way your lips part wet at the centre and you grip your glass that tiny bit tighter.

Though as fate allows, it never reaches the crescendo, the iconic segment coming to a close and just as Phoebe Cates goes to undo the front of her bikini top, the screen cuts to black. The lights do the same, no warning, just complete darkness with the only saving grace being the amber streams of light cutting through your window from the street lamps outside.

"What?!" you exhale harder than you meant to, glancing up at the ceiling where the filament of the bulb still glows bronze at the centre as it dies out. Steve rests his head back, a short laugh rattling in his chest in disbelief.

"Goddamn, haven't seen a tit in at least 6 months and this is how I'm treated?" he's rubbing the space between his eyebrows, harshly wiping his palm down the centre of his face and stalling over his mouth.

"Fuck, sorry," you heard him but weren't exactly listening, though you're apologising and he's confused by it, knees knocking with his when you shimmy forward and stand with purpose.

"This happened before?" Steve asks gently without judgement, trained on your movements as you pace over to the light switch to flick it up and down once, twice, three times, to no avail.

"Once," you glower, immediately grumpy and frustrated. "And my dumbass landlord never got the backup generator fixed either, so I doubt that'll save us". Steve grins at the way your expression crumples, petulant and stroppy but he wants to iron the creases out with his thumbs.

"You're laughing" you tell him pointedly, hands on your hips and one brow raised in a terrible display of sternness. Steve holds up his hands in surrender, voice as smooth as silk, "I would never laugh at you".

You believe him and feel your shoulders relax, running your hands over your face amidst a heavy sigh as you collapse back on the couch with him again. "Sorry that this has been a lame movie night," you're apologising once more and Steve is already sick of it, not in a irritated way, he just doesn't like the fact that you're clearly stressed.

"What?" Steve turns himself toward you, left leg triangled underneath him. You're pouting, shiny bottom lip pressed forward with your arms crossed over yourself. "No it's not. Honestly, I don't know why we don't hang out more."

"We hang out all the time, Steve" you remind him.

He rolls his eyes, head craning around and back onto his shoulders without any meanness in it, and you know him well enough to realise there was no intended hostility. "Yeah, but I mean... like, just the two of us," he corrects as if his initial intent was obvious, hands gesturing between the two of you.

Your hand reaches up to scratch at your cheek, concealing your giddy expression from him, skin warmer than the baking sun during mid July. God, your heart was in your throat. Just chill out.

"Did you only choose Fast Times so you could see a fucking tit?" you direct the conversation elsewhere before the iron grip of nerves rusts you beyond compare, like tin in a rainstorm. Your arms are still folded, the corners of your mouth twitched upwards in feigned disgust.

"Listen, I know that's on brand for me. But it was the first thing I saw on the shelf before I closed up the other day, okay?". Liar.

His cheeks are painted beetroot, that kind of dusting of deep rouge he got whilst four beers deep, a look you were familiar with at least two friends apart with music or blurred chatter overtaking any opportunity to absorb the sheer handsomeness of him.

Your skin prickles all over and the hairs on your arms stand on end, whether that be from the quickly dwindling heat in the cramped space, or from feeling like a organism under Steve's microscope, you weren't sure. Probably both. Definitely both.

Frost had now crystallised and diamond-dotted around the corners of the window, not helping any that it was merely single-paned. So the heat that did collect declined twice as fast.

"Okay, slick. I'll let you off easy," you prod, matching his eye-roll, nails scraping up and under your sleeves in an attempt to smooth out the goosebumps taking over. Steve follows your hands, a dip in his expression, a very illustrated sort of look.

"You cold?" he asks, then continues before you could answer, "You not got any candles or something?".

Your eyes light up at first, back straightening when you realise that you in fact do have some candles, ones you had collected over the years from birthdays and Christmas gifts. Though the hope is short lived, slumping back down even further into the cushions when you remember, "Fuck, I don't have a light though".

"I have some matches in my car," Steve sticks a thumb to the door, and the way you beam up at him from your turtled position has him heating up from the inside out.

"Wait there, I'll be right back," he's stumbling up off the couch, trudging down the hallway with a purpose, completely skipping his coat. He was a man on a mission.

It was the couple minutes that you were alone where you could finally fucking breathe. An ant under a magnifying glass being singed till your antennas smoked this entire time. It wasn't awkward, it was something in-between, like you couldn't exhale all the way out but also couldn't inhale all the way in either.

Two flights of stairs separate your front doorway and the complex lobby, therefore you were unable to hear Steve barging himself into an extremely stiff, absolutely without a doubt, frozen solid plexiglass. The at least two feet of snow that had collected in a pile-up right outside was no help either.

So Steve trudges back upstairs where you wait for him criss-cross applesauce, just as he had asked, chin ducked to his chest and hands running across his clammy face. Sweaty and exacerbated, he breaks the news that you were positively, doubtlessly, maybe or maybe not unfortunately, snowed in. Together. Trapped. With Steve. Alone.

"So what now?" you ask him when your face drops, no electricity and no heat with no way to get out of the building made your heart leap up into your throat for all of the wrong reasons.

"We uhhhh, we wait," Steve declares with a flair of certainty, trying to offer that sense of security you were gasping for in that moment. Though you didn't quite like that answer, no offence to him of course but you just couldn't accept waiting. So you hop up off the couch and call your landlord so that he could get his sorry ass up and actually call a goddamn snowplough or something.

"No answer. Of course he doesn't fucking answer," the last two words are accentuated by a pitiful slam of the receiver into the wall beside your telephone, a tilt into the more dramatic side but Steve kept his mouth firmly closed with that one. It was well past nine o'clock at night at this point, so neither of you expected to be able to leave until the early hours of the morning at the very least.

How utterly unfortunate.

You position yourself closer to Steve this time, swallowing over the nerves that wad up good and tight in your throat. He's sitting spread eagle as per usual, head leaning into the heel of his palm where his elbow is propped up on the arm of the couch, the other crossed over his lap.

"It's cold," you tell him bluntly as you bite the bullet and cosy yourself into his side, head on his shoulder, softening when he's peering down at you a little too skittishly. "Too close?" you question, then you're lifting your head up, a small gut punch when he doesn't respond immediately but it was one that you could probably manage.

"No! No, you're fine," Steve rushes to say and you were glad of it, unsure you could take the sting of rejection now that it didn't come, not when you had been shoulder to shoulder all evening.

You slip into silence then, one where neither of you were compelled to fill the gap.

His head is dizzy with you when you ease into him, floating into a dreamlike place when the smell of you overwhelms him. Vanilla and honey, a buttermilk richness that makes him want to press his nose into your hair. He won't though, that'd be weird. Since you were friends and all.

You could smell him too, bergamot and sage. Masculine and expensive, a scent you had picked up on before, but not one that filled your nostrils and sent you dumb with every inhale. Steve could undoubtably say that your breathing had changed, deepened. His mouth perks up into a faint smile.

Just friends.

Explicitly friends, even when Steve's hot palm skates over the back of your hand, fingers splaying out and catching at your wrist. Your pulse ramps up and you gawk up at him doe-eyed and pliant. He's swift with it, ensuring that you weren't caressing him in any way, just a quick slip up the shirt where your skin meets the forest of chest hair.

Steve must feel the bob of your throat as you swallow, because the sensation of his heart clattering under his ribs vibrates your nerves. "This too much? Sorry, I shouldn't've-" he grips your hand again but you resist him, pads of your fingers anchoring into his thatch of hair.

"No, no, it's okay. I'm fine with it if you are," You whisper to him in earnest, as if sharing a secret, scooting your head down so the shell of your ear closes right over where his heart sits. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Each beat comes in rapid succession, especially so when your fingertips flex inattentively against his balmy skin.

"You're so warm," you mutter tenderly into the sanctuary that was his sweater, and Steve's breath almost hitches. Your voice is caramel smooth, comforting like a hot bath after a long day, as soft as feather-down pillows and fresh cotton sheets.

"And your hands aren't so purple anymore," you're thinking out loud at this point but Steve is listening, extending his arm you were leaning on once more so that you dropped into his side, head cradled at the dip where his armpit begins.

"Think you've helped me warm up just fine," he's speaking low, the verbalisation mulling over his tongue and purring at the back of his throat. It was enough to make you tremble, the deepness of it when he shushes to match you.

Despite the tip of your nose numbing from the chill, the intimacy of your circumstance cancelled out any bitter altitude. Never in a million years did you think you would be cuddling up to Steve Harrington like this. The Steve Harrington you admired from at least six feet away, the Steve Harrington that you were only in the presence of, at the very least, in the company of his shadow, Robin.

"It's late," you comment after a few minutes, charting the rise and fall of his chest, the steadiness of his heart that fell back into a somewhat regular pace once he acclimated to the weight of your palm.

"You wanna head to bed? I can sleep out here," he's asking with sincerity, but you wish he wouldn't. Steve huffs out a laugh through the nose that strokes at the climbing butterflies begging to fly out from that space between the cage of your ribs and the plummet of your stomach.

You shake your head, eyebrows dipping with two harsh tucks of skin that he has to hold back a laugh against, forced to restrain himself when all he wanted was to keep you this close for as long as humanly possible.

"Steve?" the mutter of his name climbs higher at the end.

"Hm?"

"You really think we should hang out more?" your voice errs on the side of doubt, as if you didn't believe him the first time round, and Steve takes in a stunted breath as he mulls over the question.

He stills for a moment, then takes a more even inhale through his parted lips, and you can hear the grin that accompanies his answer. "Duh. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it".

You perk your head up to peek at him for the first time in a little while, chin prodding sharp into his breastbone but he doesn't say, not when you're so wide-eyed and breathtakingly beautiful in a way that would put Gia Carangi to shame.

"You're full of shit," you're chuckling and Steve wants to swallow every breeze of it, the whites of your teeth twinkling and eyes shining twice as bright. He can't fasten his attention to one specific part of your face, flitting down to the pull of your lips, watching the rosy hue flood over your cheeks, back up again to where you peer at him almost expectantly.

Your stares interlocked then, his golden gaze outpouring with the heat of a bonfire, pressed this close you could both feel the kick up of your hearts. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Quadruple the speed as before and double the ferocity, your ears burned with it. Neither of you made a move to look away, not a chance.

"I uhm... I really wanna do something right now, but-" Steve cuts himself short when you stretch your neck up toward him, moving up as he's leaning down. Jesus christ, you feel sick with the nerves. Sick with the intimacy of him, sick with the scorching brush of his fingers behind your ear along the curve of your neck.

"It's okay," you're mumbling, the wash of your permission running over his lips that were so close you could already taste him. Steve's mouth twists up at the corners, the satin stroke of where he's teasing you with the promise of a kiss he's not giving you just yet.

But only for a couple seconds, unable to hold back for long when you suck in a desperate sort of noise, and your grip solidifies at his chest to the point where your nails are casting crescent moons in his skin.

The seal of your lips is courteous, joint satisfied and relieved exhales a tsunami over the flesh of your cheeks and lower jaw. It's nothing more than one long press, nothing too crazy, an ebbing wave of give and take.

"Sorry..." he mutters when you part, merely an inch or so, and you're almost compelled to punch him. The main thing you had been doing all evening was apologising to each other.

"Why are you sorry?" you're whispering and he's desperate to kiss you again, longing to erase that hint of disappointment in your eyes that squashes your pretty features.

"I dunno," his laugh has an edge to it, shy, and you never thought the boy had any capability of being shy of all things.

"You don't want to do it again?" you squint at him, loaded with insincere scrutiny that has his fingers clasping fully to the back of your neck to reel you right back in. A breathy laugh escapes him, his intent as clear as the blooming sunrise shedding light upon a tangerine coloured sky.

The second bump of your lips has more purpose behind it, teetering on the edge of unforgiving, brimming with unspoken truths and wordless confessions. You heave through the nose at this harsher descent onto one another, slipping your hand from under his shirt to bury your nails into the mess of hair behind his ear instead.

He really tastes you then when you open up to him with a muted smack of your lips, artificial cherries and candied watermelon. You can taste him too, lingering milk chocolate and sickly sweet berries. The sweep of his tongue over yours crack fireworks behind your eyes, nothing too hot and heavy just yet, still gentlemanly in his approach, knowing you can cut this short whenever you wanted.

You push yourself up after a minute of wet sloven kisses, begrudgingly having to separate yourselves so that you can shift onto your knees. Steve is watching, grilling you with the fire of his blown out pupils.

The timidness remains deep within the barren of your chest, swallowed by your determination to bring to life all of these wants and desires that had loomed over you for as long as you had known him. Of course the fear is still seated within you, especially when it comes to Steve. Because it's Steve. Handsome, charming, just out of reach Steve who carried a torch for you at the back of a crowd.

He's contemplating you as you move, not entirely certain of where to look; your dreamy expression, already swollen lips that are now twice as inviting, the warm spread of your doughy thighs as you position yourself over him.

He decides then to spread his palms over the fall of your waist, fingers binding to the hills of flesh hidden beneath cotton. You encapsulate his face in your hands, thumbing over his cheekbones, burning up again when his tongue dips out to wet his bottom lip.

Slick, pink and polished with your mixed fervour, noses bumping somewhat clumsy when you take this time to just drink each other in for a second. You chased where he dipped, the curve of your lower lip skating up over his cupid's bow.

It was deafeningly quiet without the blare of the movie in the background, sounds of dreamy sighs and lovesick panting permeating the air and drowning out the whistling howl of the blizzard wind. You were smothered under the safety of the night, cast in raven shadows and the silvery glows of the moon being your only witness.

You can feel it, the growing tent of him under those goddamn grey sweats. You test the waters, weighting yourself down further to nudge your centre right over his lap. Steve's mouth dries up almost immediately at the contact, fingers digging into you with a sudden cruelty and it is the first time you hear him moan.

God, you wish you could capture it on tape, and you choke on a breath when he does it. The richness of it, testosterone and roughness that demands you to press down on him again. Steve rolls his hips as you squirm above him, gasping into his waiting mouth as you ramp each other up into one giant needy mess.

"You're on fire. You wanna stop?" His question comes to you through the thick smog of want eventually, noticing that he's pulled back to inspect you like a bird with a broken wing, palm cupping the underside of your jaw, tipping your head from side to side as your bated breaths mingle into a simultaneous heave.

"You just made a noise like that and you're asking if I wanna stop?"

He swallows, swears at himself then his lashes are fluttering when he meets your eye. He's stumbling over a response, totally disbelieving that he's finally in this situation in the first place. So many fantasies and wet dreams come to life at long last.

"I don't want you to think-" almost combusting when you lean forward again and tread your lips along his jawline. "Fuck- that I just came here to, to..." he whines into your hair as he succumbs to the slide of your teeth at his pulse point, arms wrapping around your back now to force you closer into him.

"Shut up, I don't think that," you display your honesty with a feathery kinder press of your mouth to the bulge of a vein in his throat. Steve releases a pleased sort of sound, grateful and comforted in the clarity that you wanted this just as much as he did.

"But if you don't want to anymore then that's okay," you're sad when you murmur it into his collar, not in a pressuring manner, and Steve knows you well enough to realise you would never pressure him.

His hands are searching for your face, revealing you from your hiding place of the clammy skin of his neck. Your forehead shines from the outpouring of sheer want and need, shining eyes glazed over and gem-like.

He traces the outer corner of your lip with his thumb, dipping into the crease when you part them slightly for him. He tugs lightly at the pillow of your lower lip, focusing entirely on the way it bounces back and leaves a sheen on his thumb in it's wake.

"Shut up," his abdomen shakes with laughter when he tugs you back to him, and a wrecked sigh overcomes you when your hot mouths meet again. You lick over his tongue with urgency, wild strands of his har wadded up in your fists so tight it almost hurts.

Steve shifts beneath you, arms cascading up and around you, fingers tracing down the curve of your spine and back up again. The delicate touch of skin on skin juxtaposed the meanness of his kisses, noses bruised in a crush together, not even leaning back when you close and part your lips over and over again.

It was like a well oiled machine, accustomed automatically to the seam of his mouth and where you slot perfectly against him. You rock your hips over him again and wish that you could drag this out further, but the way that he's stuttering under you, his movements becoming messier and less calculated, you had to tear his clothes off and get this done with before you both erupted.

You were the first to tug off your shirt, escalating this further and curse you, your hands are shaking as you do so. Steve's ministrations follow your lead, large hot hands spreading flat to take in this new exposed skin.

He treads over the pillow of soft tummy, revels in the feel of the cushion of fat over your ribs under his thumbs, up further until his knuckles are brushing at the underside of your breasts. He hadn't even looked, his eyes are squeezed firmly closed and his features overcome with a look of pure anguish.

Because it was almost too much; the see-saw of your hips over where he was straining in his pants, the softness and heat of your tongue in his mouth, the furnace of your skin in this freezing room, and those fucking sick sounds you were making. You were breaking his will, crumbling chalk beneath your fingers.

"Jesus christ" Steve groans into your open mouth, and you finally pull back so he can eat up your naked torso, feasting on your mouthwatering form. That's it, he's died and gone to heaven. There's no way that this was real.

You’ve seen a tit now, haven’t you, Harrington? You keep that one to yourself, he didn’t need to be embarrassed about it.

But damn you it is real, made even more apparent when you take his hands in yours and guide him to the perk of your breasts. He stills there for a moment, mouth agape and hips grinding up into you without meaning to.

You push his mess of hair away from his face, heart skipping a beat of two, lurching up into your throat when he beams up at you. Full ear to ear grin, teeth and all, large hands kneading into you. Another shift underneath you and your eyes are rolling back, cotton on cotton, the height of your clit prodding right over the grooves of his tip.

Steve slouches from the back of the couch, burying his face into the glossy juncture of your neck, you have to glue your nails into the nape of his hairline to trap him there.

You can't remember the last time you had been kissed like this, or ever in fact, greedy and harsh yet he was only give give give.

He's clumsy as he fondles you, suffocated under the bareness of you but it still wasn't quite enough. His tongue works over where your artery is screaming for him, groaning and tilting your head to the side to jam his mouth even further into you. You arch your back when his teeth ghost over you, not fully biting, just there to tease and make you want him more.

"Steve. Take this off, for fuck sake" you're mewling a plea, scampering to hook your fingers under the hem of his sweater. Steve is more than compliant, anything for you to keep sighing his name just like that. He's chuckling at your urgency, cock kicking up to meet your centre for another countless time. He needs to get these fucking sweats off like five minutes ago.

Your hands are trembling twice as hard as you undress him, and Steve takes laces your fingers in his once he's shirtless.

"It's okay," he soothes, rich and buttery smooth and your heart lurches up into your throat again. "You're okay," he tugs your interlocked hands up to his mouth, stippling one two three kisses across every knuckle and back again. He tucks your fists into his chest, that same soft thatch on full display and you never could have guessed that he was this hairy. It was a pleasant surprise.

"You wanna lay down? Hm?" he's cooing at you, forehead to forehead, but you don't feel chastised by it. You nod, nose bumping with his when you go to tease his lips again. A flush strikes you right from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes when Steve shimmies to the edge of the couch, grip strong as he holds you to him, not once hit with a falling sensation when you glides you to the side to settle you on your back.

He's on top of you then, crowding into your space and you're struggling for breath. He's so close and you still can't quite believe it. Can't believe that he feels this way, can't believe you're about to fuck on the couch where you've spent countless evenings admiring him like a lovesick puppy dog.

"If you wanna stop, you can tell me, 'kay?" your chest concaves and you could actually cry right now, the sweetness of him, so tentative and gentle and alluring.

"'Kay" you mirror back, swaddling his hair in your fist again as you tug him down to your waiting mouth, "Same goes for you". Your knees spread wide to allow him access, lowering himself onto you further, abdomen pinning to yours.

The sweep of his cock hiccups a gasp in your chest that Steve devours in earnest, lips enclosing around your tongue and he sucks. You keen something vicious, any remnants of self control now shattered glass beneath your feet. Steve moans twice as loud, abandoning pleasantries when you're mewling so good for him.

He releases you with a sickly pop, not even giving you a beat to recover before he's kissing you deeply again. Steve rocks the length of his cock along your clothed slit, and when you look down between your sandwiched bodies, there's a darkened patch of grey where he's beading with want.

"Steve, please, just -" but he's already fumbling for your pyjama bottoms, manhandling your hips up without you even needing to do anything. His stare bores into you when he slots his fingers beneath the elastic waistband, honey molten eyes replaced by a marbled inky black.

You whimper at the sight of him, lustful and without restraint, a demeanour you couldn't even conjure up in your daydreams with your hand tucked between your legs. You couldn't get enough of it.

Steve peels back your bottoms and panties in tow, achingly slow and methodical. He breaks eye contact to peak down at where you're fully exposed to him, an etch crumpling between his brows when he Ooh's out loud. You could scream you were so pent up.

"Look at you," he purrs, and your stomach twists with an aching need. He takes your ankle in his hand to pry one leg up and out, your lips blossoming open with the stickiness of your arousal.

"So fucking ready, huh?" he drags his pointer finger over your slit, spreading the mess you had already made of yourself. But you don't let him play for long, you can't, beckoning him up with a curve of your two fingers.

Then you're swallowing each others sounds for another time, Steve's biceps are tensing as he scoops one arm under you, arching your back and bearing your chest to smoosh into his. He's all over you all at once, the underside of his cock rutting through the seeping folds of your cunt.

He kisses at your jaw, murmuring curses and sweet nothings into your blazing skin as he travels down to suck on your neck. There's those teeth he had promised earlier, bruising a spot right beneath your earlobe ivy and plum. He laves over the area in apology, hot mouth softening the blow.

You hiss through the teeth and sway yourself back and forth to meet him, the tip of his cock probing into your aching clit with each overwhelming sweep.

He wanted to love on you more, take his sweet time with you, but the way you were near ripping his hair from the roots and sobbing his name, he was nearing his end much quicker than he intended.

"You ready?" he asks wholeheartedly, waiting on your reply before he did anything else.

"Yeah. Please," your eyes are wet and glassy when they sear into his, and he wasn't a man that would deny the pleas of a beautiful woman.

"Okay, baby. I got you," there was that gentleness again, that practiced well-polished dance of sweet and sour. Rough around the edges with a caramelised sugary centre. Steve grasps himself at the base, angling your hips up so that your opening meets his tip.

The first push of his length into you was easy, of course it was, you were dripping like a fucking faucet. You open up to him no problem, and it only took two thrusts before he bottomed out completely.

You're suspended in time then, the falling snow coming to a halt, the stars cease their twinkling, just so you can bask in this ultimate intimacy for as long as possible. Sucking in his exhale, foreheads leaning together, all either of you can do is just stare and smile.

The kindness resumes, still unmoving, Steve descends his lips back onto yours and the world begins to turn again. "Okay?" he whispers against your lips.

"Okay"

Then you squeeze your gummy walls around him and his angelic exterior shatters a little. Steve plants his hands on either side of your head before he's moving again, dragging his entire length out before sliding right back in to the hilt.

You gasp when he knocks his weight into you right at the end of his thrust, your body prodding upwards into the arm of the couch. It wasn't mean, or cruel, just pleading, carving the shape of himself so he fit perfectly and then some.

"More," you plead, unable to catch the breath it takes to tell him what you want and Steve doesn't half oblige. Your mewling spurs him on, retreating half as much this time but he ruts back into you twice as fast.

He pants out your name, eyes saucered and bottom lashes kissing the skin beneath. One leg is hiked up over the back of the couch, the back of your other knee resting in the crook of Steve's elbow where he's spreading you wide.

It was downright pornographic, the way you opened up for him without shame, but he adjusts his angle the faintest amount and then he's hitting that spot that erupts white light behind your eyes.

Steve mouth drops open when you squeal. "There?" he accentuates with a particularly hard snap of his hips and you almost black out. Tears brim at your waterline, stuffed to the brink of him, overrun with the sensation of having Steve fucking Harrington everywhere. He's watching you like you've hung the moon, tongue drawn between his teeth as he charts every reaction you bestow on him.

If he weaves his fingers with yours again, what would you do? You're grasping onto him as if you would fall into the abyss if you let go, is what you did.

If he bent your leg up that little bit higher and slowed his rhythm, what would you do? You cry his name and crush his fingers between yours until they're contusing indigo, is what you did.

He committed it all to memory, condemning your body to scripture that he would keep under lock and key, tucked snugly into the corner of his mind that he would dig out another time. Maybe even add another page or two, if you'd let him. Please, God, will you let him?

Steve kisses you firmly, with a finality that tells you the end was in sight. With you way you rotate your lap against him, chasing your high, head fuzzy and drifting into a euphoric peak that Steve is climbing to right along with you.

"You feel so, fuck, so good" he praises, pinching the tip of your chin, thumb swiping along your bottom lip. You have half a mind to take it into your mouth, though you can't help but be a little selfish when you can taste your orgasm on the horizon. You just needed one final push.

"I'm really close," you admit, releasing one of his hands to snake your fingers down where your middles meet. Steve's brain completely shuts down as he follows your movement, straightening his back so he has a better view of where you're rubbing tight circles into the bead of your clit.

He's ignited with a new sense of determination, your moans becoming a quiet mess of jumbled pleas and his name, cascading as fluidly as a waterfall. Steve is one for eye contact, you note, pocketing that confidential piece of him just for you.

Your stomach is billowing with pleasure, knot tightening and you swear you can feel Steve's cock swell inside you the closer you get to the edge.

"You gonna cum? Please cum, i'm right fucking there. Goddammit" he's seething through his teeth, another snap of his hips, a second third and fourth, so deep that it aches all the way into your chest. Your fingers are furious the way you tune yourself with the pace he had set, less forgiving and drowned in pure animalistic need.

His name slips off your tongue in prayer, kicking up at the last letters when you fall over that edge for him, exactly in tune to the final drives of his cock, scoring the throbbing veins of his shaft into the grip of your walls.

Steve slows as you both unravel, buried deep where his head nuzzles to the opening of your womb. You close those few inches where his lips sat just out of reach from yours, throaty moans echoing into open mouths, so sloppy that your teeth clack together.

"You are fucking insane," Steve chuckles when he stops twitching, his release already dripping around the base of his cock that's still seated inside you. You kiss him in turn, that wash of shyness overtaking you once more when the buzzing in your head starts to die down.

Steve goes to shift backwards because he knows you're ruining the couch right now, but you make a sort of pathetic sound from the overstimulation, and he settles right back down over you.

You didn't really care about the sore ache in your legs, or the cold globules of cum that were gliding down your ass onto the material below you. You just wanted to lay here with him for a little longer.

When it was all said and done, the rise and fall of your chests steadying, the gravity of the situation catching up with you in the post-coital haze, Steve buries his nose into your hair, lax fingers twirling three quarter circles into your bare shoulder.

He's still hovering over you as his hushes absorb into your scalp, his next words soak into your skin so they can live and breathe as a part of you. Seeping into your pores, coagulating with the warmth of your blood that rushes in and out of your heart.

"I really like you" he confesses, mouth curled into a giddy grin and you can feel it.

"I couldn't tell," you grin when he does, adding, "I really like you too, Steve".

"I'm glad we got snowed in together", he presses a small kiss to your temple and you beckon him down so he's laying on top of you full weight, the shake in his forearms subsiding when he does.

You expect the skin over your ribs to unfold and stitch back together again, sealing him with you for good. Now wouldn't that be lovely.

"Me too"

The flurry slows outside the window, a closing curtain on your first night together, one of many, the sky swirling with amber and lavender hues.

The morning came much sooner than you expected.

holy fuck i'm so sorry this took longer than intended. but ahhh!!!! I loved writing this, II can't tell you how many hours i've put into this, I just have very limited time :( hope you enjoyed regardless <3

gonna tag a couple peeps who have been waiting for this 🫶🏻 @losingmygrasponreality @professionalpromqueen

(Same universe as this, this, this, and this)

Wayne is at the stove.

The skillet sizzling. The air is thick. He’s got the window up and the screen door propped open, and he can hear those boys out there fussing under the hood of Steve’s car.

It’s a good day. One that they needed.

“One of yous boys get in here and set the table,” He calls out. “Supper’s almost ready.”

“Steve’s doing it!”

Heavy footsteps follow and when Wayne looks over, Steve’s tromping into the house fiddling with his hearing aid. He looks at Wayne and gestures at the door behind him, “Unfair advantage.”

He starts moving, washing his hands and grabbing the dishes before adding, “Eddie didn’t like, force me to help. I wanted to.”

“Didn’t think he did.”

“Right.”

“Have a seat when you’re done,” Wayne says and then calls Eddie in to scrub up. He gets an ‘lemme finish’ back and knows it’s a loss cause to do anything else so he goes back in and plates the food.

He sits his plate down, then Eddie’s, and then hands Steve his, but it’s not Steve’s hand that grabs it.

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks, taking the plate. “He can’t eat that. He’s allergic to fish.”

Wayne shoots Steve a betrayed look, “He brought the fish.”

“Technically Hopper gave it to me,” Steve cuts in. When he gets hit with two Munson stares, he adds sheepishly, “It’s a mild allergy.”

There are also the Plotshots.

When you write only the plot and nothing more.

You’ve heard of one shots, now get ready for none shots! It’s when you think of an idea for a fic and then don’t write it

pt 3 of steve "dies but doesn't stay dead" harrington and eddie "ferryman of the river styx" munson // 2.5k // pt 1, pt 2 ♡

—

july 1985

Eddie’s not obsessed with Steve Harrington. He’s not. There’s just not much to think about between guiding souls to the boat. Not much in the way of entertainment in the Underworld. And Steve’s appearances—twice in as many years—were the most interesting things to happen to Eddie since his own death. And his returns to the living world are worth space in Eddie’s mind. At least that’s what he tells himself, to justify how much time he spends thinking about the guy.

Still not entirely convinced of the answer he was given by his superiors about souls that sometimes return to the living world, Eddie finds himself constantly thinking about the possibilities. So Eddie seeks out the last soul that held his position. The previous ferryman of his boat is more than happy to answer his questions. Turns out Eddie would eventually retire—after a 500 year tenure—so that’s something to look forward to. The older man tells Eddie that yes, some souls died and then returned to the living world, but what Steve was experiencing was something different. A curse. To die and never stay dead, it took its toll on the spirit. Chips away at it. Weakens the soul. Eddie thinks it sounds a bit dramatic, but still holds some apprehension as he wonders when Steve might return. Steve’s voice echoing in his mind long after he’s disappeared: I’ll see you next time.

This time it’s only eight months.

The spot that Eddie fixates on constantly between carting souls onward could be lit on fire by the intensity of his gaze. He stares and stares, part of him believing that if he stares long enough, he can force Steve to return through sheer force of will. The other part of him is ashamed for wanting that at all. What kind of guy wanted another guy—a good guy, a friend, even—to die again? How selfish was that? It’s just when Eddie is running down another thought spiral like this when Steve Harrington appears again.

Groaning, holding his head, Steve sits up slowly. Groggily. Eddie takes in just what he’s looking at. Steve looks the same, but different. The same in that his hair is still somehow perfect, his eyes are still hazel, and his face is once again bashed to hell and back. (Eddie wonders if he even remembers what Steve looks like without bruises on his face.) Different in that his hair is a bit longer, he looks so confused about where he is, and the outfit…

“Harrington?” Eddie ventures cautiously. “You alright, man?”

“Robin?” Steve asks, still dazed as he blinks repeatedly.

Who? “Uh, no, dude. Eddie, remember?”

Steve’s eyes focus on Eddie, who gives him a little two-finger wave, hoping that his face doesn’t give away just how concerned he is right now. The previous two times, Steve was never confused about where he was. Knew exactly what was going on. This time though…

“Oh, no…” Steve drops his head into his hands as he groans his… disappointment? Eddie tries hard not to take that personally. Watching as Steve continues to mumble curses and grievances under his breath, Eddie waits awkwardly on his boat.

“…Steve?” He finally offers. “You good?”

“Ugh, yeah, I mean…” Steve grumbles. “I know I’ll be fine. Just Robin, and the kids… I don’t know if they’re safe.” Eddie’s unbeating heart aches at how earnest Steve is about ensuring his friends’ safety. “And now I’m not there to make sure.”

Eddie nods sympathetically. “But… you’ll go back, right?” Steve glances up. It’s the first time Eddie’s verbally conceded to Steve’s ability to return to the living world. “I mean, you have every other time.”

“Yeah.” Steve nods distantly. “Yeah, I assume so.”

The guy looks so disappointed, so… distressed by his being here. It’s so unlike him. Steve has always been very casual about his deaths. There must be some real stakes at hand this time. More than monsters, which is crazy to think about.

“You, uh…” Eddie falters when Steve looks up at him, big hazel eyes shining. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

A little smile pulls at the corner of Steve’s mouth, and Eddie settles himself over the edge of the boat, crossing his arms. Steve slowly pulls himself closer, sitting right on the edge of the river, as close as he can get, and tells Eddie the whole story. Everything from Dustin Henderson—a middle schooler sounding oddly like he was Steve’s best friend—arriving at his workplace with a weird recording, to his coworker Robin Buckley translating it, to roping in Erica Sinclair—and god, Steve regretted that so much—to the elevator, to them finally getting caught.

Nodding along and only asking a few questions to clarify the story or who Steve was talking about, Eddie found himself wondering what the hell Steve Harrington’s life actually was. This didn’t even have anything to do with the monsters Steve had mentioned in his previous visits. A whole secret base of foreign soldiers hidden under a mall? It’s unbelievable. Were it not for how seriously Steve was telling the story, the fear in his eyes, the concern for his friends, Eddie would say he was making it up.

“…and they kept asking, y'know? Who do you work for? And they just wouldn’t believe me.” Steve sniffs, resting his chin on his bare knees, arms wrapped around his legs. “Last thing I remember is getting punched in the face.” He glances up at Eddie with a sad half-smile. “Again.”

“How does this keep happening to you, man?” Eddie asks, concern bleeding through his words.

“I blame Dustin.” Steve tilts his head to the side, joke falling flat. “Or maybe I’m just. Really, really unlucky.”

Eddie takes in Steve’s injuries. The horrifically bruised and swollen eye. The split lip. The dried blood under his nose. It wasn’t as bad as last time, but Eddie didn’t know how many injuries were hidden under that blue shirt. The previous ferryman’s words echo in his mind. A curse.

“Nah.” Eddie says. “I blame Dustin, too.” The kid sounded nice enough, maybe too smart for his own good, but Eddie hadn’t met him, so he didn’t feel too guilty about it. Steve gave him a look that said he knew exactly what Eddie was doing. “I’m sure they’re gonna be fine, Steve.”

“Hope so. Just don’t want them to go after Robin if I’m dead up there.”

Ah yes, Robin. Steve had spoken so highly of her. How smart she was. Brave, for joining them. Funny, though Steve didn’t want to admit it since most of her jokes were targeted at him. She sounded cool, but something about how he spoke about her made Eddie weirdly sad. Part of him wonders if, in another world, the three of them would have been friends.

“You think they will?”

“Hopefully I’ll get back before they do,” Steve says with a sigh. “Time works different here, anyway.”

Eddie frowns. “It does?”

“Yeah, it’s never as long up there. Much shorter.” Steve shrugs. “Probably a good thing.”

Brows pulled together, Eddie thinks back to the previous times Steve had visited. He was only around for thirty minutes tops. Less the first time, probably. What would that have translated to in the real world? Half that time? A few minutes? 

Silence settles over them, Steve staring into the middle distance with a look of worry etched into his face between the lacerations and bruises. Eddie fixates on the cut over his lip, swollen and red. When Steve notices him staring, Eddie clears his throat and quickly looks down, then back up.

“So, what’s up with the outfit, man?” The subject change is clunky at best, but Eddie’s curiosity was getting the better of him. And it was better than the staring.

Steve finally laughs. His good eye crinkles with it, the smile wide on his face. “I told you man, it’s an ice cream shop!”

“But why are you a sailor?” Eddie matches his grin.

“It’s called Scoops Ahoy, the whole thing is like, nautical themed.”

Eddie raises a brow. “Nautical?”

“Nautical,” Steve confirms with a nod. There’s a beat of silence before both of them dissolve into giggles. “You should see the stupid hat they make us wear.”

“Wish I could.” Eddie sighs, his laughter tapering off. His brain moves faster than he can stop it, and suddenly it’s presenting him with a scenario. Eddie waltzing into the ice cream parlor, with its weird little nautical theme, leaning over the counter and getting into Steve’s face as he asks for a free sample. Steve might blush, and say that usually they’d charge for that, but for Eddie it’s free. He might adjust the hat, which Eddie pictures as a little white thing, classic sailor costume, with a blue stripe. Eddie might say that he can think of a way to pay Steve for it, taking hold of that little red tie and pulling Steve closer over the counter.

“You picturing it?” Steve asks, head tilted and a bemused look on his face.

Eddie jolts out of his fantasy, feeling hot in his cheeks. “Mhm, yep, I’m picturing. Looks pretty stupid.”

Steve snorts in response. “It is.” He sighs. “But, y’know. S’not all bad. I met Robin there.”

Robin again. Eddie identifies a feeling rising up in his chest and forces it back down, pointedly not giving it any attention. “Yeah, she, uh. She sounds… pretty cool.”

“She is.” Steve smiles, looking down at the grass.

“You… like her?” Eddie tries. He’s torn between his desire to know more and his desire to never talk about her ever again.

“Hm?” Steve’s head snaps up. “Oh, uh, I mean. She’s… in… band.” He trails off, looking unsure.

“She’s in band?” Eddie clarifies with a raised brow. “Ah, so, not your type?” Hopefully. Eddie shoves that thought down and compartmentalises it into a neat little box alongside his weird feeling to deal with later.

Steve sighs. “I don’t know, man. She’s cool, and funny, and smart. Maybe too smart for me. I guess I’m trying to, y’know, let go of all that—stupid high school shit.” He waves his hand as he says it.

Eddie’s surprised by this response. He thought Steve would say he was into cheerleaders or something like that. “That’s… cool, man.” He pauses and takes in a low breath before continuing. “You should ask her out.” He says it before he can convince himself it’s a bad idea.

“You think?” Steve looks up at him and genuinely seems unsure. Seems to want Eddie’s honest opinion.

“Yeah. I don’t think she’d go through all this and follow you into danger if she didn’t like you as well.” Eddie swallows the thing inside him that’s clawing up his throat and begging him to stop talking. “Tell her how you feel.”

“Thanks, man,” Steve says, like he’s thanking Eddie for more than just his advice. “You’re a good friend.”

A pang hits Eddie right in his chest and he smiles despite it. “We aim to please, down here, Stevie. All Inclusive Underworld Service.” He tilts his head exaggeratedly and holds his arms out, leaning heavily into his joke.

“I mean it, Eddie,” Steve continues earnestly. “It’s… nice, y’know? Having you here when I die. Familiar face. Makes me feel like it’s all gonna be okay.”

Eddie softens at his words, letting his arms slowly fall to his sides. “It is, Steve.” Eddie leans one the edge of the boat again, arms folding under his chest. “I’m glad we’re friends.” And he does mean it, despite the other feelings fighting for attention inside him.

Steve grins back at him, wide and genuinely happy amongst the cuts and bruises on his face. A few moments pass and Eddie briefly wonders how much time they have left. How much time before Steve disappears before his eyes again and leaves for an unknown amount of time. Once again torn between his want for Steve to stop getting himself hurt and killed, and his extremely selfish desire for Steve to stay with him, Eddie silently argues with himself.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve’s question once again draws Eddie out of his own mind.

Eddie shrugs. “Sure, man.”

“How did you… die?” Steve looks unsure as he asks. “Is it okay if I ask that?” He quickly adds.

“Uh, yeah.” Eddie feels himself draw in a little, retreating into himself. “I mean. Kind of a shitty story. But it’s, y’know. Whatever.” His hands flick and wave around with his words. “Um, I was doing this job with my dad and it just. Went bad.”

“You don’t have to tell me if…” Steve trails off, eyes going unfocused, pausing for a moment before he looks up again. “Damn it!”

Eddie feels disappointment crawl across his chest, knowing before he asks. “What?”

“I’m going back. I can hear Robin on the other side.” Steve sighs, seeming genuinely upset. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Oh, it’s—it’s fine.” It doesn’t feel fine. Eddie hopes it doesn’t show on his face.

Steve gives him a half smile. “Tell me next time?”

Not wanting to get his hopes up, Eddie tries to force his expression into one of mild admonishment. “Don’t let there be a next time, Steve.”

His half smile turns to a full grin. “I’ll try not to.” Steve slowly pulls himself up, brushing dry grass off his blue shorts.

“Steve, wait.” It comes out before Eddie can stop himself. “Could you… do something? For me?” The words come out stilted, and even as he’s speaking, he wonders why he’s even asking.

“Sure, man. Anything.” Steve looks at him wide-eyed and attentive.

“Just, uh.” Eddie cringes at himself, forcing the words out before he can change his mind. “Could you, maybe, check on my uncle? See how he’s going? I just—I wanna know that he’s okay.”

A beat of silence sits between them before Steve responds. He sounds so determined. Like Eddie was entrusting him with something precious and important. “Of course, Eddie. I will.” 

Relief washes over him at Steve’s words. Eddie lets out a breath as the tightness in his chest fades. “Wayne Munson. He lives over at the Forest Hills trailer park.”

“Wayne Munson, Forest Hills” Steve repeats dutifully, giving a single nod. “Got it.”

“Thanks, man,” Eddie says with sincerity, looking up at Steve from the boat. “Means a lot to me.”

Steve looks at him for a moment, like he has something on his mind, but then jolts out of it. “Sorry, I gotta go now.”

“Yeah.” They continue looking at each other, somehow feeling closer now that Steve is standing, and Eddie feels the odd urge to reach out to him. Unsure what to do with that, he pushes that urge down into another compartment alongside the others to deal with later.

“Thank you, Eddie. Seriously.” Steve smiles at him, bright and sincere through the bruises and lacerations on his face.

“Anytime,” Eddie says, slightly breathlessly. And then Steve is gone, leaving Eddie with an unfamiliar emptiness inside him.

Why does Eddie suddenly miss this man he barely knows? This awful feeling inside him that begs for attention and demands that Steve return reaches through Eddie’s chest and rattles against his ribcage. A strange sadness resting within him, waiting to be dissected.

Hours later, when he’s still feeling weird and sad, a realisation hits him. Eddie didn’t even ask Steve to get in the boat.

After many years, my „first“ Day on tumblr again.