Archive of Our Own ^beta

Steve leans against the counter at Family Video. It’s a Wednesday afternoon in the summer, the world sluggish and slow. He’ll take it compared to monsters and his friends almost dying but, damn, he’s still bored. 

Plus slow shifts mean Keith only schedules one person to work, which means Steve’s alone. He doodles on the back of an old movie poster and wishes for something at least mildly entertaining to happen. 

Which is why he perks up when the bell over the door rings. Which is why he perks up more when he recognizes Eddie, his best friend these next to Robin, his wallet chain jingling where it hangs from his well-fitting jeans. Steve can’t read the band name on his shirt. It looks like a bunch of tree branches getting it on if Steve's being honest. But he supposes the shirt fits Eddie nicely in the arms. 

“Hey, man.” Steve waves. 

There are two deep, ragged scars on Eddie’s cheek, dipping around the sharp line of his jaw. He wears them well, his smile softening them when they need to be soft. His sharp eyes and crooked grin hardening them into something even more badass when he needs them to be that instead.

Steve gets the soft scars. Always. 

“How’s it hanging, hot stuff?” Eddie throws him a single finger gun. “I bring your wares back to you, fine shopkeeper of the Family Video.” Eddie slides him two video tapes in black plastic. That’s not all there is though. 

“What’s this?” Steve asks, picking up the cassette tape sitting on top of the videos. Homemade. A mixtape.  

The De-Sheepification of Steve Harrington Vol 1. 

“That, my favorite barbarian, is the beginning of your long overdue education.” Eddie taps on the mixtape with two fingers, rings glinting. Eddie hops up onto the counter, sitting, his legs swinging wildly while he tilts backwards into Steve’s space.“For I simply cannot abide your continued corruption of my flock with…” Eddie taps at the tee shirt beneath Steve’s work vest. “Duran Duran. Or, if you must corrupt them, I should at least try to bring some balance to the force, you know. A little rebel to your sith taste.” 

“I do not have sith taste.” 

“Consider it an anagram.” Eddie pushes the cassette tape closer to him and jumps down. “Listen to it. Study it. Learn it like your life depends on it. Because there will be a quiz on...” Eddie taps his chin thoughtfully. “Well, it could come at any time, couldn't it? That's the point of a pop quiz.” 

Steve scoffs. 

“Eddie…” 

Eddie leans on the counter, elbows on the formica, chin resting in his palms. He angles his big, brown eyes at Steve and pouts his lips. Steve squirms. 

“Please, Stevie boy. Consider it the first wish of an undead man.”  

“Yeah, except you didn’t die, dude,” Steve says. “Honestly aside from your face, you didn’t get it any worse than I did.” 

Some stitches, an unpleasant round of shots, a really unpleasant round of agents hovering until the latest batch of NDAs were signed. 

“Don’t tell anyone that. I’m starting this whole Undead Ed schtick. You know, for the music.” Eddie throws up metal horns and playfully sticks out his tongue. 

“Sure, dude. I’ve got your back.” Steve rolls his eyes, grinning. “If anyone asks, Eddie Munson played a guitar solo in hell, got half-eaten by demons, and came back like a zombie to, uh…?”

“Bring the world the gift of sick metal riffs, Stevie boy. What else?” He pushes himself off the counter, giving the cassette tape one last tap. “Study hard. Please, if you like even one song, Steve, it will be a victory for me as a father.” 

“A what?” Steve chokes. And then he remembers. “Oh, right, you mean the kids and their corruption.” 

“Yes, the kids, Harrington. Do it for our kids.” Eddie shakes his head, amused. “Besides, if I was talking about the me and you of it all, ‘father’ is hardly the patriarchal word choice I’d go with.” 

Steve doesn’t get a chance to ask what the hell that even means before Eddie, like, saunters right out of the video store. 

“Hey, wait a second! These tapes are late.” 

But Eddie’s gone, and Steve can hear the telltale rumble of his van cranking. He sighs and waives the late fees. 

Track 1: Metallica - Master of Puppets

Steve, well, he doesn’t really have a problem trying something new exactly. Eddie is his friend, and a mixtape is a time consuming thing to make, even if you half-ass it. 

Which he doubts Eddie did because when Eddie Munson cares about something, he fully invests. The dude commits. 

And Eddie cares about music a lot. Steve wishes he had that level of passion. Maybe then he’d know what the hell he wanted to do with his life. 

Steve ejects his worn out Journey tape and pops the mixtape into his car stereo. When the first song floods through the speakers, he laughs and shakes his head. 

He definitely should’ve seen that one coming. It’s Eddie’s favorite song. So beloved that even the Upside Down couldn’t ruin it. If anything, Eddie loves it more than he had before the shit with Vecna. Eddie talks about it all the time in the right company, how for a second he forgot to be afraid because how could he be with that song flowing through his veins? 

Metal gods are untouchable. Immortal. Or so Eddie says. 

Steve makes it through a good thirty seconds before he realizes he wants to relax on his drive home from work, and for Steve, relaxing is singing at the top of his lungs, drumming on the steering wheel, jamming out at stop signs. 

He feels a little bad about it when he turns it off, but it’s not the tape, and it’s not him putting it aside forever. It’s just that he doesn’t know the lyrics, and he only barely knows the beat or the melody. 

He pops it out and tosses it in the passenger seat before shoving a Boston album into the deck. 

The first notes of Don’t Look Back pour through the speakers as Steve tears down Cornwallis. 

Later. Steve will start his so-called education later. For now, he throws his head back and sings. 

Track 1: Metallica - Master of Puppets (attempt 2) 

Steve has been having nightmares since he fought his first monster. He thinks sometimes he’s kind of really good at them, like he’s gone pro in the sport of waking up from a bad dream.

Every night before he goes to sleep, he fills up a glass of water and places it on his night stand. It’s a ritual, like making sure a spiked bat is under his bed and always knowing where his car keys are. 

A ritual like reaching over to grab that water on those nights when the bad dreams come. When Steve needs the cool feeling of it down his throat to prove he’s found his way back to the real world. 

Monsters and interdimensional bullshit: it all really fucks up your perceptions, man. 

Of course, the water and his bedside lamp and the soft sweater only do so much. He always gets out of bed, always pads downstairs and opens the freezer and sticks his face inside the cool air. 

Tonight’s nightmare was one of the worst ones he’s had in a while. He tries to push it from his mind, resting his face on frozen peas, kicking the refrigerator door with his knees because it’s not fair to keep winning wars and still have to do this, is it? 

Winning shouldn’t feel a lot like you still lost. 

Fuck, he hates being alone in this house. He wishes he could do something else. Get a place with Robin maybe. Find the damn right girl so he could… what? Terrify her when he wakes up at night ready to fight the world? 

He's yet to tell Robin that’s the real reason things don’t work out. That he’s too afraid to spend the night with someone because he could never explain why King Steve has monsters in his head.

“Fuck.” Steve lets his forehead tilt against the ice trays, sucking in arctic air. For some reason, he thinks of the damn mixtape. 

Padding barefoot into the garage, he grabs it out of the disarray in his passenger seat and takes it to the living room. There’s a big stereo in the cabinet by the TV, and Steve plugs it in and roots around for a pair of giant headphones. 

With all the lights on, he stretches out on the plush rug. 

Maybe he can borrow Eddie’s song for a minute. Just until his hands stop shaking. Maybe he can feel godlike and immortal too (like he can protect everyone without fail) for just a moment. He’s sure Eddie wouldn’t mind. 

It kind of works. The song is loud and intense at first. It anchors Steve like the glass of water and the cold air. 

He remembers that this song helped save the world, and that helps too. 

Then there’s this part where the music mellows out, and Steve finds himself just listening, breathing evenly. 

There’s a guitar solo in that quiet bit, and it may be because Steve’s half-asleep, but it feels nice to float along with the notes. Gentle and safe. Like when his dad used to take him sailing before he gave up on having a son. Gentle water, rocking, rocking. 

Steve takes a deep breath in. Lets it out. 

Thrown back into the noise, Steve flows with the song into the big guitar solo. Steve actually listens to just how complicated it is. Shit, Eddie can play this. Eddie, his friend , can replicate every note of this. 

Steve has never heard or seen it though. 

For good reason, Steve hadn’t paid much attention when Eddie played it that night, the notes squealing across the Upside Down–garbled but comforting because they meant Eddie and Dustin were there.

He pictures Eddie’s rings now, far away from anything dark or dead, catching the rainbows of stage lights. A god among men, his devotees alive and free. Steve would like to be there. Maybe he’d kneel at the altar. Maybe he’d leave a little money in the collection plate. Maybe he’d just watch Eddie preach to the masses. 

By his side, Steve notices his own hands have finally relaxed, all the trembling finally bled out of his limbs. 

So when the song is over, he stops the tape and crawls up onto the couch to sleep. 

Track 2: Black Sabbath - Killing Yourself to Live

It’s nearly a full 24 hours before Steve makes it past Master of Puppets. 

Steve likes Master of Puppets. God, he actually likes it. Does he admit that willingly to Eddie? Is it worth it? To tell him he keeps rewinding the tape and starting it over?

It’s that soft spot in the middle of the song’s chaos that does it for him. He listens to the whole song like it’s a race he has to run just to hit that finish line. Even removed from the hollow walls of his house and his late-night screams, those gentle notes make him feel like everything in the world might be okay in the end. 

And the chaos itself is comforting too because it’s controlled. Plus there’s the solos and knowing Eddie can play them? Has played them. Every time Steve hears them, he’s awestruck by that knowledge. 

If only real chaos had patterns and someone who could pluck at the strings and make them make sense. 

He does owe it to Eddie to try the whole tape though. 

So after work, Steve lays on the rug again. He listens to Master of Puppets one more time before he finally lets the tape play on. 

He gets a few notes into the next song and realizes he has no clue what he’s listening to. He pulls out the cassette jacket. Eddie has carefully written all the song titles in neat slanted handwriting. A few have little doodles beside them.

Black Sabbath - Killing Yourself to Live 

The song isn’t nearly as chaotic as Master. Steve closes his eyes, feels his foot bouncing along in some places, his head bobbing in others. 

When the song gives way to its first guitar solo, he huffs a little laugh, a grin spreading across his face. He wonders if Eddie can play this one too. Maybe that was the requirement for getting on the mixtape–songs Eddie knows how to play. 

Steve will have to ask, he thinks, as the song shifts. 

“Smoke it. Get high.” 

Steve laughs again. Because how very Eddie of Eddie. 

The phone rings before the song finishes. 

“Hello there, shopkeeper.” 

It’s Eddie. Speak of the devil and all that. 

“Hey.”

“So I was wondering if you want to come get high with me on this fine eve,” Eddie says. And wow, okay, double speak of the devil or whatever. 

“Sure,” Steve says. “But one condition.” 

Eddie huffs. “I offer you free weed, and you have conditions? Okay, Sir Steven, what is your condition?” 

“It’s just that I never got to see your performance.” 

A pause. “Here I thought you’d want a real favor, not a treat for me personally. Sure, big boy, I’ll give you a private show.” 

Something warm blooms across Steve’s cheeks. He ignores it. 

“Cool. I’ll be there in ten.” 

Track 3: Judas Priest - Breaking the Law

By the time Steve arrives, Eddie has a bowl packed and his guitar set up, the latter leaning on an amplifier. 

“What brought this on then?” Eddie asks, stepping aside. Steve’s eyes trip over his outfit–torn jeans, combat boots, a cropped Metallica tee that shows a strip of tummy. Scars like Steve’s. Dark hair that flows down into–

Steve thinks about Eddie naked. Like, he undeniably thinks about it. 

Fuck, is Steve gay?

He sucks in a breath. No, of course not. He can’t be.

Steve loved Nancy once upon a time. A lot. He’d loved her so damn much. 

He’s just appreciating. Eddie is a good looking guy, objectively. Steve’s allowed to think so. 

“Steve?” 

Shit. Steve’s staring at Eddie’s stomach. He meets Eddie’s eyes and finds a curious little look there. 

Right. What brought this on then?

“You invited me.” 

“I meant the performance, dude.” Eddie squints at him, making Steve feel a little like a bug under a microscope. “Wait, is it the mixtape? Have you…? Did you…?” Eddie shifts from one foot to the other. 

Steve takes a moment too long to answer. “I might have listened to a few songs so far.” 

“Holy shit!” Eddie laughs like he caught something in a claw machine. “Steve Harrington likes metal now. My life is complete.” 

“By a few, I mean one and a half songs, Eddie. You called in the middle of Black Sabbath.” 

Eddie leans close, arching his back to place his face somewhere beneath Steve’s chin. From there, he flutters his lashes, highlighting his obscenely pretty eyes. “And?” 

Steve sighs, knowing full well the can of worms this is about to open. “I maybe, maybe rewound Master of Puppets a few times.” 

Eddie whoops. “Yes!” A double fist pump and a victorious cackle. “Holy hell. Not only did you like a song, you liked Master of fucking Puppets. I win. I win forever. Who wins? Me. Eddie. I do.” 

Steve has to look away. It’s like staring directly at the sun. “So, can I hit that bowl or…?” 

“If you tell me what you liked about the song, you can.” And Eddie’s back, like Steve’s personal space is just a suggestion. So damn close, it’s making Steve’s heart race. 

“I like the slow part,” Steve says, figuring he may as well be honest. “I had a nightmare. It…”

Steve ducks his head and looks away from Eddie’s big brown eyes. He usually doesn’t tell people things like that. He doesn’t talk about how hard it is at night in that empty fucking house.

He wants to be someone they can all lean on, and people can’t lean on things that might break. 

“It’s like a blanket, right?” Eddie puts his hand on Steve’s arm. “A warm musical blanket. This is good info though. Even if you don’t like this tape, I can make you tapes you will like. Melodic, soft metal. I’ll put that on the mental list.” Eddie taps his temple and smiles at him warmly. 

“Thanks, I think. And when do I get to make you a mixtape?” Steve plops down on Eddie’s squeaky sofa and picks up the spoon pipe and Eddie’s Zippo. 

“Never,” Eddie says, strapping on his guitar. “Kidding. Honestly I’d be touched. Mixtapes are a labor of love, yeah?” A loud note sounds through the living room. “Preview of track three on your tape. Judas Priest. Breaking the Law. It’s monster-fighting music. Or RV stealing music. Your choice.” 

“Not sure I enjoyed that bit,” Steve says, blowing out smoke. “Shit. Either of those bits, dude.” 

“Fair. Really it’s not either of those things lyrically. Maybe RV thievery under different circumstances. I don’t know what they meant it to be, but me, I think it’s about a guy like me, or a guy who I could have been. Somebody angry who thinks he can’t be anyone else but who people expect–trash, you know?” 

“You don’t think that anymore though? That you’re trash?” Because Eddie’s not. He’s so damn far from it. 

“No. Wayne believes in me, and I helped save the world. I think I can have a future worth having.” Eddie gives him a soft smile and starts playing. Steve takes another hit and leans back onto the sofa, following the movements of Eddie’s skillful hands until they stop. 

“I think your future’s right there, dude.” Steve gestures to Eddie, one leg up on his amplifier, highlighting the shape of his legs. “Gotta try at least. Like damn dude, you’re so cool.” 

Eddie’s happy guitar-playing smile splits wider. “Are you trying to flatter me, Steve?” 

“No. I’m trying to encourage you because you’re my friend and you're good at something. Especially if you can play Master of Puppets, and I’m pretty sure you can since Dustin won’t shut up about it. I’ve listened to it a lot, dude,and I’m pretty sure it’s hard. Is it hard?” 

Eddie stares at him, brown eyes sparkling. “You want me to play it so bad, don’t you?” 

Steve feels his cheeks flush–caught out liking metal music. He rubs at the back of his neck. “Maybe.” 

“I can just do the soft part if you want? It’s an eight and a half minute song, so…” 

“Bold choice for a mixtape. But play as much of it as you want. I just want to watch you nail those solos, man. So I can say I knew you when, you know.” 

“No pressure or anything.” Eddie unplugs his guitar and takes a couple hits from the pipe before throwing his leg back up on the amplifier and reconnecting. “Okay.” His tongue slides across his lips. “If I fuck it up…” 

“You didn’t fuck it up when you were being pursued by demobats, Eddie. I don’t think it’s happening tonight.” 

“Except you make me a lot more nervous than monsters, Steve.” 

“Me?” Steve asks, but Eddie drowns him out with a set of familiar notes, and all Steve can do is sit back and bear witness. 

It’s completely captivating. Eddie concentrates hard, his tongue regularly poking between his lips, sliding back and forth. When he plays the solos, it’s like he’s making love to his guitar, hips rolling into the up and down of the notes. 

A few times, Steve has the pleasure of watching him break into a smile of pure joy. A few more times, he has the pleasure of Eddie catching his eye and pulling a wild face before floating his fingers across the strings with unbridled passion, as though this is his sole purpose in life. As though he was put on the Earth to create and perform. 

And Steve thinks maybe he was. And Steve thinks he’d like to be there, holding him up along the way to make sure he gets where he’s meant to go. 

Eddie finishes with a sigh of relief. Steve starts a slow clap and stands up off the couch, putting his fingers in his mouth to whistle.

“Eddie Munson, everybody. The man, the myth, the goddamn rock star.” 

“I am… dangerously close to giving you free drugs.” 

“You already gave me free drugs. I’m actively working on getting high on free drugs right now.”

“Do you wanna stay over after you do?” Eddie asks. “The couch is comfortable enough, and you mentioned nightmares. Fuck if I don’t have plenty of those myself, dude. Even with the new trailer, even though Vecna's been dead for months, I keep thinking I’ll see…” Eddie shakes his head, replaces the haunted look on his face with a bitter smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“I’ll stay. I mean, I shouldn’t drive anyway if I get as high as I’d like to.” 

“By all means, help yourself.” Eddie gestures to the glass pipe–clear with swirls of black and red. “You want to sample a never before heard Eddie Munson original?”

“Eddie, I think I’d sit here all night and watch you play if you want.” 

“Well.” Eddie licks his lips. “I can finally see why everyone always found you so charming, Steve.” 

“Oh c’mon, man.” Steve pauses with the pipe nearly to his mouth, grinning with his thumb against the carb. “We've been hanging out for months. You had to have found me charming before now.” 

Eddie looks him in the eyes, face blank, stare heavy. “I know my fifth amendment rights, buddy. Anyway, this is called Scars Underground. Working title.” 

It’s super heavy, the song. But Eddie plays it well, fingers tap dancing the solo, waltzing with the chords. 

When he’s done, he puts the guitar away and joins Steve on the couch. They smoke until Steve feels like his limbs are gloriously light and heavy all at once. 

“What?” Steve asks, because Eddie said something a few minutes ago, he thinks.

“I said I’m going to bed. Do you need anything?” 

The words drip through Steve’s brain like molasses. 

“No,” he finally says. Eddie gets up and considers him a moment, and then bends down to press his lips to Steve’s forehead. Heh. And here Steve thought he was the highest of the two of them. 

“Thanks babe.” Steve giggles. 

“Uh-huh. Help yourself to anything you need. I mean it, Stevie boy. Anything in the kitchen, extra blankets in the hall closet. We saved the world together. If you need it, it’s yours.” 

Thoughts meander. Steve nods his head. “Thanks, Eddie.” 

He falls asleep on the couch not long after, the pleasant weight of his high dragging him under. 

Track 4: Dio - Sacred Heart

Consciousness hits Steve like a brick. It hits him like a nightmare about a demogorgon pouncing on top of him, face unfolding. 

It hits him like a dream Billy with a too-big mouth and too-long nails, face morphing into Henry Creel’s, eyes cruel, muscles showing. 

“You’ll fail them in the end.” 

Steve forgets where he is. He gropes for water that isn’t there, for a lamp that isn’t there to turn on. He bangs his knees on Eddie’s coffee table, whimpers, looks frantically around the room and spots the fridge in Eddie’s kitchen. 

He has his face shoved into a pile of freezer pops when he hears, softly, “Stevie? You okay?” And then, “I’m gonna put my hand on your back, alright?” 

The weight of Eddie’s palm settles between his shoulder blades. A sob escapes Steve’s mouth because it feels so good to be comforted. So so good. And the instant he thinks that, he loathes himself so much for it. Pathetic. He’s so pathetic, and now Eddie sees it. Eddie knows about his nightmares. Eddie knows Steve isn’t as strong and reliable as he needs to be.  

As they all need him to be. 

“I’m okay.” 

“You clearly are not.” 

“I have to be.” 

A scoff. “Says fucking who, Harrington?” 

“I…”

“You aren’t Atlas, Stevie boy.” Eddie’s hand trails gently up and down his spine. “So what you’re gonna do now is tell me something you need. Name something, anything.” 

“Water,” Steve says, shivering into the freezer. “Cold water.” 

Eddie snakes a hand past his face and steals one of the ice trays. Steve catches a flash of chipped fingernails–acid green. No rings. 

Behind him–a cracking sound, glass tinkling, the sink turning on. 

Eddie presses the glass into his palm, and Steve finally stands up and closes the freezer, gulping down water. Real. He’s real. Vecna is gone. 

No headache. No visions when he’s awake. 

“Something else you want,” Eddie says. Go.” He snaps his fingers. 

“Music. Listening to your tape really helped.” 

“Done.” Eddie takes him by the wrist and drags him toward his bedroom. 

“Get comfortable,” he says, rooting around in drawers. He finds headphones–two pairs, a splitter. Telegraphing his movements, Eddie fits a big pair over Steve’s ears. Steve downs the rest of the water and sprawls on Eddie’s bed. Eddie lays down next to him, head by Steve’s feet, feet by Steve's head. 

Like they’re a pair of new shoes twisted to fit together in the box. 

A hand rests on Steve’s calf–warm, gentle pressure. Whatever tape Eddie chose starts playing, and Steve closes his eyes and drifts. In his ears, people cheer, there’s something about the ‘king of rock and roll,’ then more yelling. The feeling that Steve’s somewhere surrounded by an audience is oddly soothing. The music is loud, but the guitar–

Steve thinks about the gentle hand on his leg. About kings of rock and roll. 

The song ends. The next starts. 

At the end of the bed, Eddie laughs–a single note chuckle. “So I guess, technically, this is track four of your mixtape, but I wasn’t thinking about that at the time. Just you liking a little rhyme and reason in your musical chaos. Dio. Sacred Heart.” 

He might be right about Steve’s preferences. Steve already likes it from the opening notes alone. 

“Eds…?” 

The hand on Steve’s leg twitches. “Yeah?” 

“Can you turn around? It’s super weird talking to your feet.” 

A long pause. “Okay.” 

Eddie resettles, curling up next to Steve, both of them on their own pillow, knees V’d toward one another and almost touching. The headphone digs into Steve’s ear where he lays on his side, but that’s okay because Eddie’s big brown eyes are as soothing as ice water and chilled air. 

“This is my favorite so far,” Steve says. And he won’t say it to Eddie because Eddie might think it sacrilege, but the song’s like a heavier version of things Steve already likes. Amp up some hair metal and add a killer guitar solo. That’s what it feels like to Steve. Sorry to the gods of metal if he’s wrong. 

“I listen to this one a lot when I’m planning DnD stuff.” Eddie has his hand back on Steve, fingertips casually resting on his wrist. 

Steve nods. “Because of the dragon.” 

Eddie laughs silently. His smile crinkles his whole face and chases away the residual fear from the nightmares. “Sometimes…” Eddie shakes his head. “I wish we’d been friends sooner. But then, I guess neither of us were really ready for that.” 

“I barely deserve to know you now,” Steve says, stripping off the headphones. “I maybe still don’t deserve to know you, dude, but I do know you definitely deserve better than King Steve.” 

Eddie sheds his headphones too, unplugging the splitter and turning down the volume. Dio becomes background music while they stare at each other in Eddie’s bed. 

“I had my own shit, Steve. Hell, I encouraged the kids to skip the basketball game because what? Lucas can’t have two hobbies? Because I have such a hard time making and keeping plans that I feel like I might scream when the plans I do make change? Doesn’t matter. I screwed the proverbial pooch at any rate.” Eddie lets their knees kiss. “Point is maybe I’ve had my own King Steve moments, you know? Point is you have to let yourself be the person you’ve become instead of dwelling on the person you used to be.” 

“Eddie…”

“Point is you have to let go and let people love you back.” 

Eddie’s words claw their way into Steve’s mouth and lodge in his throat. He tries to swallow them down before they choke him out. The sound is audible even over the music. 

“People love me back,” Steve says, though it doesn’t even sound like he believes it, does it? Logic says they do. But people like Steve; they don’t–

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Eddie says, so fiercely that it derails Steve’s maudlin train of thought. “People love the ever-shitting hell out of you, Steve Harrington. But you have your nightmares alone in the end. Not because you deserve to be alone, not because people want you to be alone. But because you think you have to be. Even mighty Achilles had Patroclus, Steve. Even Frodo had Sam. Even warriors need hands to help hold them up at the end of the day.” 

“I’m not a warrior.” 

“Aren’t you?” Eddie asks, with a slight tilt of his chin. “Let someone help you carry it, Steve. Hell, let us all help you carry it. God knows this entire fucked up monster-fighting family would die for you tomorrow.” 

“I don’t–”

“Shut the fuck up before you say something ridiculous.” Eddie knocks his knees into Steve’s, jarring him. “First of all, everyone almost died for me, and most of you barely knew me then, so the idea the group wouldn’t fight for someone who’s been there from the beginning? Absurd, dude.

“Second of all, I love you, Steve. This is me looking you in the eyes and telling you dead to rights that you are loved. I love you, Robin loves you. Nancy, Dustin, the Sinclairs, Mad Max, even Mike. Joyce Byers would probably fight God for you, and Hopper would tag in. You don’t see it, and I hate it. Because there are a few people in this big weird group with their own gravity, and you’re one of them, and you can’t even see that.”  

Steve exhales. He’s getting bleary-eyed now that he’s relaxed–sleep trying to come in for round two. Eddie’s knees are still against his, his hand still weighing on his wrist. His big brown eyes are doing their absolute best to convince Steve that he believes what he’s saying. 

It’s just that…

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s tired, that there’s still weed floating through his system. Steve doesn’t know how he manages to say it, to put his darkest fears and thoughts into words and actually speak them. 

“Everyone likes me. I’m a person who people like. I’m just not someone people, you know, love. My own parents didn’t–still don’t–and Nancy never did even when I loved her so much, I thought I’d–Dude, you’ve heard them? What they really think. That I’m ridiculous and vain and stupid. If I couldn’t swing a bat hard enough, if I wasn’t the one willing to go into the lake first or whatever, if I didn’t drive them all around–what good would I really be?” 

Eddie physically flinches. His hands fly to Steve’s face and hold it so tightly it almost hurts. 

“Fuck, you really think all that, don’t you?”

Steve wants to worm away from him, from those prying eyes that make him want to spill everything. To break down the one thing Steve has–being the strong one. The crutch. 

“God.” Eddie takes a deep breath. “What good are you? What good is a body without a heart and lungs, Steve? Jesus Christ.” 

Steve tries to look away, but Eddie won’t let him. He holds on fiercely. 

“You know, the first time I saw you drop those three little shits off at Hellfire, I said something. It wasn’t very nice. I asked if you lost a bet, I think. Made a joke. Probably called you King Asshole or something. It was the first time any of them ever talked back to me, and they got down right aggressive. Henderson looked me in the eye and said, verbatim, ‘Shut the fuck up, Munson. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ 

“I remember laughing because he was so serious. And, like, he called me ‘Munson’ for fuck’s sake? Surely he couldn’t feel that strongly about Steve Harrington. We had to be talking about different Steves. Do you know what happened next?” 

“What?” 

“Fucking Baby Wheeler, all up in my face. Do you know what he said?” 

Steve swallows, shakes his head, feels like he might cry. 

“He said–spat, to be more exact. ‘We like you Eddie. You’re a great DM. You’re cool and Hellfire is awesome. But Steve’s our family and we love him, so watch your goddamn mouth.’”

“Mike?” Steve asks hoarsely. “Mike said that?” 

“Mike.” Edde nods. “Do you want what Sinclair said too? Because I’ll tell you. It was something like, ‘Steve has done more for you than you’ll ever know, Eddie. Not another word, man.’” 

Steve inhales sharply. 

“Those kids never ever talked to me like that. Ever. They’d swear at me about the game, sure, but never anything like that. I should have started paying attention to you right then. But it took a few months and a lot of shit. I’m paying attention to you now though, Steve. I have been for a while.” 

Eddie slides his hands from Steve’s face, pressing one to the center of Steve’s chest. 

“Do you want to sleep in here?” Eddie asks. 

“No, I’m okay. Don’t wanna steal your bed, dude.” 

“Let me rephrase that. Do you want to sleep in here with me? I’ll have your back and you can have mine. Fight each other’s nightmares.”

Eddie’s hand is so warm, the pressure comforting like a hug. 

“Can we leave the music on?” Steve asks. 

“Yeah, Steve, we can do that.” Eddie switches over to the radio so the sound won’t die when the tape ends. “Lights on too?” 

“Yes.” 

He pulls his hand away from Steve and closes his eyes. With the smell of Eddie in his nose, Steve drifts off to radio rock and the warmth of Eddie’s knees against his.

In the early light of morning, he wakes up with his head on Eddie’s chest, with Eddie’s arms around him and Eddie’s hair tickling his cheek. Steve gently moves those few dark strands away from his face and goes back to sleep. 

Track 5: Ozzy - Mr. Crowley
Track 6: Megadeth - Killing Is My Business…
Track 7: W.A.S.P. - Animal (Fuck Like a Beast)

By the time Steve wakes up, Eddie has disentangled them, and Steve basically has to bail. 

“Sorry to run out so fast.” 

“Not a problem. You can come back anytime, Steve. Any hour of the night, okay? You’ve got my number too.” 

Steve pulls him into a tight hug, inhaling the salt-musk of Eddie’s skin and the simple, clean smell of Eddie’s shampoo.

“Thank you for the free drugs,” Steve says because that’s easy. “And…” He trails off. Because anything else is harder with the sun out, with the high gone. 

“You’re welcome. But try, okay? Everything I said.” 

“I will.” 

Steve will. For Eddie. 

Back at home, he showers quickly and snatches up the mixtape on the way out the door. In the car, he fast forwards past Judas Priest and Dio, catching the tail end of Sacred Heart. He still likes it. It’ll probably be on the rewind list for sure. He also needs to give the Judas Priest song a proper listen with all the instruments and vocals, but he wants to finish up the tape. 

Getting through all the songs–that’s for Eddie too. 

For the way Eddie lit up when Steve talked about Master of Puppets. 

God, maybe Steve is a little gay. 

Except, no. Again, he likes girls. If anything, it’s probably some need to feel special and different in some way, compensate for the way he sort of peaked in high school. For feeling out of place in his family of misfit nerds. 

Or maybe because he thinks Robin is so cool. Maybe he wants to be more like her. 

Gay. 

Great for other people, but Steve would just be stealing it. 

Even though Eddie is… 

Probably not even gay himself, so it doesn’t matter. And if he was, Steve would only hurt him because Steve isn’t gay. 

And oh, the way that makes Steve’s chest clench up. The very idea of hurting Eddie. He’d rather throw himself into the goddamned quarry at full speed. 

Shaking away his thoughts, Steve cranks up the stereo as the eerie church organ of Mr. Crowley begins to play. He hits the stop sign on Cornwallis and Mt. Sinai by the time the guitar solo plays the song out. 

His thoughts are all Eddie in a crop top and tight jeans, his leg on an amplifier, his soul weaving around a fretboard. 

Killing Is My Business … plays next. Steve, admittedly, is pretty whatever about it. He would love to see Eddie play it though, how his wild energy would relate. 

Wow, he’s thinking about Eddie a lot today. 

Which makes sense, he supposes. After last night and considering the fact that he’s rocking away on the mixtape Eddie literally made him. 

He’s halfway through Animal by the time he pulls into the Family Video parking lot. It’s, well, it sure is a song. 

Damn. 

Now he has a whole other host of thoughts, and a lot of them are about the handcuffs Eddie often wears as a belt buckle. 

“Still not gay, Steve,” he mutters, turning off the car. 

Robin’s leaning against the counter inside, blowing a massive bubble with her chewing gum. She pops it with her tongue when he blows past her so he can punch in. 

“Okay, you’ve got weird Steve energy this morning. What’s up, Weird Steve?” 

Steve groans. “How the hell…?” 

“Steve.” She pops her gum again, her brows going up, her face saying, C’mon dingus, it’s me. Your platonic soulmate. I know you.

Steve processes one of the returns sitting in the stack, relaxing into the now-simple set of repetitive actions.

“Can I ask a, well, kind of pathetic question?”  

“Can I make fun of you?” Robin responds. Steve looks over at her and she pauses in her bubble-blowing. “Scratch that, strike it from the record, forget I even said it. I will not make fun of you. What’s your question, Steve?” 

“When, uh, when you talk about me, assuming that you talk about me, what kinds of things do you say?” Because somewhere behind his running thoughts of Eddie, Steve can’t stop thinking about Mike. Mike, of all the shitheads, standing up for him. It’s jarring to think about. That anyone loves Steve at all, but Mike? That’s enough to shake the foundations of his world. 

Steve can’t look at her while he waits for her to answer. He starts on another tape, typing in the numbers on the label. 

“Well, I say you’re my best friend. My soulmate minus the romance.” Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see Robin counting on her fingers as she talks. “I say that you’re brave and selfless.” She drops her hands and then crosses them over her chest like a hug. “If it’s someone who I can talk about Russians to, I talk about how you got yourself tortured so it wouldn't be me. If I can’t, I say we were in a bad situation once, and you probably don’t know I realized it, but I did. That you took a punch for me. So many punches. Sometimes I’m not even sure you realize that you did it because that’s just you. You always think it has to be you.” 

Steve’s hands hover frozen over the keyboard. The screen goes blurry. 

“I say you’re funny and kind, that you’re there for me in the best and worst moments, that I can trust you with my deepest and darkest secrets. With my triumphs and joys. And of course, that I can always count on you for relationship advice or hair tips.” 

Steve laughs wetly. But she’s not done. 

“I say that I love you so much, and I would be an absolute wreck if I lost you. Which, by the way, you should really stop throwing yourself tits first into danger, Steve. I’m always so scared.” 

“Robin.” Steve meets her eyes, and she’s got a few tears wobbling on her lower lids too. She opens her arms and, grateful beyond measure for that stupid Scoops job (cursed uniform and all,) he steps into them. 

“We should hug more, dingus.” 

“I’m for that.” 

“Of course, Dustybun might keep trying to plan our wedding if we do.” 

“Please. Like I wouldn't marry you and be your beard for life.” 

“Only if you wear that frilly pink apron hanging in your kitchen. Every morning. As your wife, I demand daily pancakes.” 

“Okay, that’s my mother’s apron, and it’s purely decorative. Blueberry or chocolate chip though?” 

“Variety is the spice of life, hubby pooh.” 

“Ew,” Steve says, at the same time as Robin says “gross” to her own words. Still hugging, they both dissolve into laughter. Steve slides to the floor, some big, ugly thing in his chest deflating ever-faster. 

Love. 

Steve has so much more than he thought. 

“Can I ask another question?” Steve plays with the seam of his jeans. 

“As my wife Pat Benetar would say, hit me with your best shot.” 

Steve huffs, amused, before going quiet and gathering his thoughts. He shouldn’t have this conversation. He– 

“How did you know? That you…” Steve picks at the seam harder. “That you like girls?”

Robin casts a quick glance out at the store, still empty. 

“Steve, buddy, is there something we need to talk about?” 

“No,” he says quickly. “No, I’m just curious.” 

Robin leans her back against the counter, elbows resting on either side. “Well, common pattern for me here. My best friend got a crush on–God– Mike Lewenski in seventh grade. I felt so weird about it. I thought I was just worried, you know, that her wanting to pay attention to him would mean maybe she’d have less time for me or whatever. But then another guy in our class–Daniel, moved away before high school–liked her, and she started dating him in eighth. I saw them holding hands, and I just felt this overwhelming feeling of, like, jealousy. Sadness. And something in my head said ‘you’ll never get to hold her hand.’ And that really sucked. Knowing that.” 

None of it sounds familiar. Except the jealousy and sadness. Steve knows those feelings well, just not the way Robin means. 

“Of course, it took a while,” Robin continues. “To actually let myself, like, internalize those feelings. I kept telling myself it was something else. Being a lesbian, being gay–you’re not supposed to be those things. I told myself I couldn’t be or that I could choose not to be. That I just needed to meet the right guy, and I’d stop wanting to hold girls’ hands and kiss them when that guy finally came around. Super gay of me honestly. I think pretty much every queer person goes through some big ‘I can’t be’ denial phase. Which, honestly fair. It’s not like anyone would really, genuinely wake up one day and think ‘Yeah, I’ll be gay today’ because, fuck, it’s so hard. And scary.” 

The world spins. 

Denial, she says. No one would choose it, she says. 

“Steve?” 

“Gay and lesbian, is that, uh, all the things?”

“What?” 

“Straight or gay. Are those the only options?” 

“Oh, dingus, no.” She says ‘dingus’ the same way Joyce might say ‘sweetheart.’ “Steve, are you sure we don’t need to talk?” 

“No,” Steve says, but he’s shaking, and he's chipped his short thumbnail on his jeans. “No, it’s okay.” 

Because Robin had admitted to him drunk one night how fucking hard it was to be the only gay person she knew about in Hawkins. How she felt like she’d die alone sometimes because how was she even supposed to find a girl? She couldn’t even find gay friends.

He should be one hundred percent certain before he gives her that kind of hope. 

Denial. No one would choose it. Hard and scary. 

But Steve could probably convince himself, couldn’t he? For her. Steve could do nearly anything for Robin Buckley.  

“Veto,” Robin says. 

“What?” 

“Calling a friend veto. You remember the friend veto?” 

“That’s for ending conversations, leaving parties, and changing my tapes when you hate them.” 

“And now it’s for this. Veto on whatever it is you’re thinking. Steve, what are you thinking?” 

“I don’t want to lie to you.” 

“About?” 

“Rob...” 

“About?” she asks again, more insistent. 

“It’s… God, I realized I can’t stop thinking about…” Steve scrubs a hand over his face. “But I like girls, and I’m probably just, like, imagining it, right? Maybe trying to be more like you. I don’t know. We’ve gone through a lot of shitty things the past few years, and there’s someone who cares about me, so of course I’d think I’m attracted to him or whatever. Because, well, the real reason I don’t successfully date anymore is all that shit, isn’t it? Because I have all these secrets no one would understand if they didn’t have the same secrets. Convenient. He’s convenient.”

“Oh, Steve.” Robin sighs. “Nancy’s convenient too, but you aren’t running back to her.” 

Steve lets his head thump back against the counter. 

“I did kind of try.” 

“Did you? Is ‘I want you to pop out six whole kids for me with your cute, miniature hips’ really peak Steve Harrington charm?” Robin makes a face like she’s imagining it. Six kids. Steve blows out his cheeks and makes what he imagines is a pretty similar face back at her. 

“Did you mean it?” she asks. 

“God no. Six would be a nightmare. I used to though, back when we were dating. I wanted the family I never got, you know? Loving. I wanted a wife and a lot of kids so I’d never be alone again.” 

“Well, you got the kids.” An old joke, but Steve never gets tired of it. 

“And I love them.” 

“Everyone knows that, Steve. They know.” 

And now Steve knows they love him too. Even Mike Wheeler. 

“I think I might want one or two someday. If she does. Or if…if…” 

“If he does?” Robin suggests. Kindly. Softly.

Encouraging. 

Steve thinks of Eddie, cooing at a baby, bouncing them on his knee. Playing guitar for them at bedtime. Reading books to them alongside Steve, both of them doing funny voices. 

Oh. 

Oh.

It knocks the air right out of Steve’s lungs, the thought of a life with Eddie. Their clothes tumbling together in the dryer. Steve packing him lunches for work or talking to him on the phone while he’s on tour somewhere. 

He takes a stuttering breath in. How long? How long has he been falling in love with Eddie Munson? 

Shoulders knocking–’don’t ya, big boy’–eyes on his mouth–seeing him with Dustin–guitar notes squealing through the void–blood and 'not him, not like this.'  

Smiles across a counter–late nights, weed smoke–silly waves at the grocery store–Eddie on his DM throne when he drops the kids–mixtapes–soft touches–exposed skin–skillful hands.

“If he does,” Steve agrees, heart aching in his chest. “Rob, what are the other options? What…?”

“What are you?” She looks down at him, face soft. “I can’t tell you that. I can tell you some people never label. It’s okay not to label. I can also tell you it’s okay, so okay, to try them on like shirts. Really, it is. You’re not lying or faking if you need to do that. But if you want one–a label–I’d say maybe bi, Steve. Bisexual. Guys and girls and other people too.” 

“Bisexual,” Steve says, wrapping his lips around each syllable. 

Liking guys and girls is real. So real there’s a whole damn word for it. 

It’s like Steve has been teetering on a cosmic rim his entire life, the final buzzer a constant noise in the back of his mind, the hush of the crowd sticking in his lungs. 

“Bi,” Steve tries it on again, and the ball tips into the net and falls through, washing him in sweet relief. 

The bell over the door rings, Robin spinning around at the counter. 

Like his entire life isn’t shifting–again–Steve gets to his feet. 

“Lady Buckley, Sir Steven.” Eddie waves. Steve’s heart threatens a prison break for all that it demands to go where it belongs. 

“Eddie, what are you doing here?” Steve asks, and Robin kicks him under the counter. Steve grimaces and clears his throat. “I mean hello. Welcome to Family Video, where the theater comes to your living room. I’m Steve Harrington. Are you looking for anything in particular today?” 

“Dear God,” Robin whispers. 

Dear God is right. 

It’s late June, and summer has already blasted into Hawkins. Eddie has his hair pulled up in a messy knot on top of his head. He’s in an old Hellfire shirt with the sleeves cut off, the armholes open down to his hips. Steve can see ink and scars and studs on his belt. A flash of silver in his nipple. 

Eddie’s hot. He’s so goddamn hot. 

So, yeah, Steve is bi actually. Steve is bi as hell. 

And he wants to kiss Eddie and cook him breakfast and maybe lick from the line of his belt all the way up to the black text on his rib cage–In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. 

Wait, does Steve want to put his mouth anywhere else on Eddie’s–

A hot flare in Steve’s gut. 

Okay. Yep. Yes, he does. 

“Robin, dearest, could you give us a second?” Eddie asks. 

“Of course, Eddie bear.” Robin pushes off the counter and makes to leave. 

“Oh c’mon now,” Eddie says. “I won’t achieve bear status for decades, babe.” 

Robin chokes and looks at Eddie wide-eyed. He just inclines his head in return. 

Okay, Steve is definitely missing something. Especially considering the way Robin is grinning when she traipses off to straighten the shelves. 

“Came to check on you, Stevie boy. Figured if you rushed out this morning it was either work or Dustin.”

I’m bi and I want to have babies with you. Well, adopt, I guess. I want to adopt babies with you. I want to go to your concerts, watch you DM, watch sports on TV while you read a book in the corner.

And you know what? Robin’s hand-holding thing from middle school? Totally valid. Steve wants to hold the absolute hell out of Eddie Munson’s hand. 

“Thanks, man. I’m okay. I’m…” Steve nods, biting his tongue. He gets it now. The fear Robin had about Vickie. 

The fear Eddie might reject him, that he’d lose him altogether. 

He doesn’t think Eddie’s that kind of person, but he doesn’t know . 

And even a hair of not knowing is, wow, absolutely fucking terrifying. 

“I’m at W.A.S.P. on the mixtape. Wanna explain that one?” Steve grabs another return from the pile, punching in the numbers from the label. 

“Shock rock,” Eddie says “Not hard to explain though. Killing Is My Business … I put that on the tape in honor of the most metal guy I know. Steve Harrington, monster assassin, the boy with the bat. And Animal, well, that one’s about someone else you know. Me, the town freak, the guy with the rope.” Eddie winks. 

Steve chokes on his own saliva, sputtering. 

“Eddie. ” 

Eddie’s laughing his ass off on the other side of the counter. “Jesus Christ, your face. I’m kidding, Steve. I haven’t tied anyone up in bed.” Eddie grins at him, then gives him the wildest eyes. “Yet.” 

Steve rolls his eyes, smiling, his stomach flipping in circles.

“You’re almost done then,” Eddie says. “Only three more songs.” 

“I thought it was two?” 

“Hmm.” Eddie pokes his tongue out and counts on his fingers. “Right, so it is.” A rap on the counter, rings tapping on the formica. “Oh yes, you get that killer Iron Maiden song next. Okay, no pressure, but I need you to like that song. Put in an effort, Stevie boy. It should be up your alley anyway.” 

God, it’s like being stuck on the first drop of a rollercoaster. Steve's stomach just won’t stop trying to shoot up into his chest. 

Anything. Anything you want, Eddie Munson. 

“I will try my absolute best as an apology for sticking my face all over your popsicles.” 

“Popsicle violation was forgiven instantly anyway.” Eddie pillows his head on the counter. “But you are okay?”

“I’m okay. I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Steve considers one of the returns. Super new release. Super something Eddie would like. He checks Eddie’s account just in case, finds no record of a rental.

Hmm. It would be nothing to click the “customer used coupon” button, nothing at all. “Thank you again, Eddie. I didn’t know. I didn’t know they said shit like that.” 

“Someone needed to tell you.” Eddie shoves himself off the counter. “I should get out of here. Band practice. Gareth is a nightmare when I’m late.” 

“Sure. One sec.” Steve gives into the impulse, clicking the button and sliding the tape over to Eddie. “I think this one might be your thing. No charge. Our little secret.” 

“For me, Steve? You shouldn’t have.” Eddie takes the tape and pretends to zip his lips. He reads the title, brows shooting up in excitement. “I actually did not know this was out yet.” 

“Well, now you know.” 

“Now I know.” Eddie salutes him using the video and turns on the heels of his sneakers. “See ya Steve. Lady Buckley.”

“See ya, cub.” Robin makes little bear claws at him. 

Eddie laughs, the bell over the door jingling when he shoves through it. 

Track 8: Iron Maiden - Prodigal Son
Track 9: Ozzy Osbourne - One Up the ‘B’ Side

Steve said he’d give Iron Maiden a real effort. So he saves it for the living room, sprawling onto the rug with his big headphones. 

He focuses on nothing else. He worries, when he hits play, that he might hate it. Like that would be the thing that would make Eddie stop talking to him. 

But he doesn’t hate it at all. 

It’s not super heavy. It feels like an adventure, like Steve’s sailing along with the rhythmic ups and downs of the music. 

Steve does want to ask what Eddie thinks it’s about, like when he gave his thoughts on that Judas Priest song. 

Like. Who is Lamia? Is Lamia a thing in another song? Would Steve know that if he liked Iron Maiden?

Steve rewinds it when it’s done, clicking buttons several times until he manages to stop in the right place. (Or close enough anyway, Animal almost over and just as filthy as it had been that morning. God.) 

Fuck, the guitar solo in Prodigal Son is absolutely killer though. 

He wonders if Eddie–

And he always ‘wonders if Eddie,’ doesn’t he? Has been wondering about Eddie for a long, long time.

It’s so damn good though, the solo. File that away for conversation later. 

Hey Eddie, talk to me about the solo in Prodigal Son. Hey Eddie, please play for me again. Hey Eddie, does your stomach do cartwheels when you look in my eyes too, or is that just me, dude? 

All in all, Steve listens to Prodigal Son half a dozen times before he finally stops playing the rewind game. 

One Up the ‘B’ Side is okay. Fun. Nothing Steve feels the need to write home about. 

He wonders if it’s about, like, anal or something. More shock rock stuff.  

Decent solo action, as expected. Eddie’s fingers would have to really fly. 

God, if only Steve’s rib cage was a fretboard, huh? 

And on that note, the mixtape is over. Dead air takes up what little is left on the A side of the tape. 

Steve takes the headphones off and draws his knees close, reaching for the cassette jacket and reading over the titles again, looking at Eddie's mini doodles. 

What he now realizes is a nail bat beside Killing Is My Business … A little pair of handcuffs next to Animal . 

A star next to One Up the ‘B’ Side . 

Why? Is it, like, Eddie’s favorite? No, that has to be Master of Puppets . 

And then Steve notices the same star on the other side of the jacket. Right next to the B in 'B-Side,' that side of the jacket otherwise blank. 

He hears Eddie say he’s almost done. ‘Only three more songs.’

That motherfucker. Steve flips the tape over. 

Hidden Track: ??

The first thing he hears is Eddie’s voice. 

“Sorry I don’t have studio quality recording equipment, Steve.” 

“What the shit?” Steve sits up ramrod straight, hands on either side of his headphones like he’s afraid he’ll miss a single sound. 

“Hmm. Do I lie and say I’m recording this in an attempt to appreciate your music since I’m forcing you to appreciate mine? Or do I tell you the truth, Stevie boy? That since I met you at the end of the world, I’ve been living in slow motion. Tripped, fell, still fucking falling.” 

Steve’s breath catches in his chest. 

“So yeah, fuck it, right? We survived the end of the world. We should try to be happy.” 

The living room spins. 

“This is a love song, Steve Harrington. Cut and changed and rearranged, all for you. I don’t know how to be any goddamn clearer than that.” 

Steve feels the entire world fade out, swirling like he’s smoked an entire bowl on his own and had an edible on top of that. On the tape, Eddie plucks out a few familiar notes, making them sing in a new way with his guitar. 

A cover. 

Hidden Track: Tears for Fears - Head Over Heels

Eddie fucking sings. 

He fucking sings. 

His voice is gravelly and scrapes like gentle fingernails down Steve’s back where he croons familiar words and words he changed. 

“I love it when I’m with you alone. At home or just wherever. Fuck traditions, expectations, the demands that we face. You have all my attention. At night, I dream about the kiss of your touch. Those thoughts are pervasive. I’m lost in admiration, could I need you this much? Or am I wasting my time? I hope I’m not wasting time.

“Something happens, and I’m head over heels. Trust this when I say that I’m head over heels. Something happens, and I’m head over heels. Oh, don’t take my heart, don’t break my heart, don’t, don’t, don’t throw it away.” 

Steve’s gonna throw up. 

Eddie adds a soft guitar solo to close it out. The song fades into dead air, and Steve rips the headphones off. 

Eddie did this before he gave him the tape. 

Tripped, fell, still fucking falling. 

The whole past few days, Eddie knew their lives were hurtling toward this moment. When Steve would find the song tucked away–one up the damned ‘B’ side. 

Steve drops his keys five times before he manages to get them into the ignition. 

A summer storm has rolled in, and Steve curses it when the garage door opens and he has to drive fifteen under the speed limit. Luckily the trailer park isn’t far. 

Steve pulls up behind Eddie’s van and parks, relieved to see it there, that Eddie is home from band practice.

Steve's chest is heaving. 

Oh dear God, he’s going to kiss Eddie. 

It feels inevitable, like fate. 

His heart thumps against his sternum like a basketball hitting the floor again and again and again. 

He gets out and jogs through the rain, banging on the door. 

He’s soaked by the time Eddie opens it. 

“Steve.” Eddie looks like he was probably taking a nap. He’s wearing cutoff pajama shorts, a black Corroded Coffin tee that’s been cropped with the sleeves cut off. He’s not wearing socks or shoes, and there’s a little cat tattooed on his foot. With a soft hum, Eddie rubs his eyes. His hair is still in a bun–several of the strands sticking out, falling messy around his face.  

Fate. 

Steve’s heart clenches in his chest. 

I love you, Steve. This is me looking you in the eyes and telling you dead to rights that you are loved. I love you.

Steve pushes Eddie into the trailer with one hand on his chest, kicking the door closed. His wet hands slip on Eddie’s cheeks. Damn, even Eddie's nose is beautiful. Steve never noticed it for his eyes and his lips, but it is. 

“Steve, holy shit.” 

Something passes across Eddie’s face. Something a lot like hope. 

Damned if Steve’s letting it go anywhere. 

“I found your love song, Eddie. Here’s mine.” With sure hands, Steve pulls Eddie’s face to his. 

It takes Eddie a moment to respond, and then he whimpers desperately into Steve’s mouth, hand flying up to curl in Steve’s hair. It’s already ruined from the weather, but Steve wouldn’t care anyway. 

Eddie Munson can screw up his hair beyond fixing all he wants. He can screw it up every day forever. 

Steve answers with a whimper of his own. 

God, he wishes he knew exactly when. How long has he wanted Eddie? When was the moment? Maybe it was all along, back there in the woods of the Upside Down or at Skull Rock or even in the boathouse. 

He laughs into the kiss. Original lyrics, I never find out until I’m head over heels.  

Pretty damn appropriate. 

“Steve,” Eddie breathes. “Pause. Stevie boy, you’re shivering.” 

Steve tries to stop, tries to pull away, but it’s magnetic to kiss Eddie Munson, and he keeps being drawn to that mouth again and again. It’s not enough. It’s not. 

Love swells inside of him, rattling his soul around in his bones. 

Steve is in love, and Eddie loves him back. Eddie loved him first. 

“Steve…” Eddie holds him away. “Come on. Let’s get you something dry to put on.” 

“Anything. Anything you want.”

Which is how he ends up pinned beneath Eddie on his couch in loose black sweats and a cropped Dio tee. Eddie rucks it up higher, tracing Steve’s scars and freckles while they continue to kiss away the hours. They talk in between make out sessions. 

The talk a lot. About life, about things that matter and things that don't. 

“Do you want kids?” Steve asks, sliding his hand up and down Eddie’s back. 

“Yeah, I really do. Not tomorrow or anything, but someday.” 

“Yeah. Not tomorrow.” 

“Got enough damn kids at the moment.” 

“Vultures, all seven of them," Steve says. "What do you want tomorrow though? What do you want in general?” 

“Tomorrow, the whole day with you. In general, some absolute knockout told me I should try my hand at making music professionally, so I think I might.” 

“I want to see you play a real show” 

“You will, Stevie baby." Eddie kisses each freckle on Steve's cheek one by one. "Hey, did I ever tell you about that time we played a Friday the 13th show and I ripped the fuck out of my pants on the first song? I had to play a whole show like a floor lamp because it was laundry day, and I wasn’t wearing any underwear.” 

“Go on…” 

At some point, Steve falls asleep, telling his own random story–the time a live duck wandered into the town pool with a gaggle of babies, and Steve was expected to round them up with a skimmer. Eddie’s laugh is a gift. Steve will never ever hate unwrapping it. 

When Steve wakes up, he’s not sure if he even told Eddie the ending. He just knows his hand is twined with Eddie’s, that Eddie’s a soft weight on top of him. 

“You’re right, Eds,” Steve says quietly, petting his hair, earning a muffled grumble. “Your couch is pretty comfortable.”

The nightmares don’t come that night. Steve knows they'll be back–his, Eddie’s. Either. Both, maybe at the same time. 

But he doesn’t have to hide them with Eddie. 

He just has to love him–love everyone–and let himself be loved in return.