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It would be a bald-faced lie if Steve Harrington said he’d never thought about kissing Eddie Munson. 

Sure, the guy was louder than the garbage truck emptying the barrel at 7 AM on Saturday morning, meaner than Mrs. Davidson’s geriatric chihuahua, and straighter than the ruler Mr. Glendale threatened to break his knuckles with if he didn’t stop falling asleep in Algebra 1. But that didn’t mean that Steve hadn’t thought about it.

For the handful of years they were in the same grade, he’d kept a wide enough circle between them that no one would accidentally peg his staring for what it was. But in his head? Hell, they were practically married sometimes. He liked to think he could domesticate the guy, ok? Sometimes it was nice to daydream about a little cottage far away from Hawkins, with ample windows to let in plenty of sun, and the pitter-patter of little feet from little ones and perhaps a dog or two.  Eddie, with his hair tied back, would make scrambled eggs at the stove while Steve read the paper.  Eddie would play his music too loud and they’d bicker, but kiss and make up over coffee or an ice cream sundae. 

He knew it wasn’t ever going to happen, but, it didn’t stop his mind from wandering.  

Meeting Nancy had been a blessing and a curse.  He’d known how he felt about guys for… ever?  But he’d never told anyone; he had just enough wits about him to know better than that.  Except, it turned out that Nancy liked girls, and Nancy felt like someone safe enough that he could tell his secret too.  They needed each other, but not for love: for safety.  Safety that only came from the guise of a straight-passing couple.  Nancy was the only one who knew why he winced whenever someone threw around the f-slur.   The only one who knew his preference for long curly brown hair, but not the kind that was well-kept and smelled of lilacs.  And Steve was the only one who knew Nancy’s affinity for dirty blonds, but not the shade of Jason Carver’s perfectly combed locks.  

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Steve had never seen Eddie this riled up before.  He was atop the lunch table, face-to-face with some kid from the baseball team whose name Steve didn’t remember (Brad? Chad?).  Thad is close enough he can probably smell Eddie’s lunch on his breath, soggy cafeteria pizza, and a carton of chocolate milk.  Eddie says something Steve doesn’t catch and whatshisface winds up and punches him square in the jaw.  (Oh, that’s right, the pitcher’s name is Brett!) Eddie spits, Steve half expects to see a tooth skitter across the table like a Chiclet, but it’s just a light spray of blood that comes out. 

“Why don’t you go back to your own table,” Eddie snarls, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  “Your boyfriends are waiting for you.”

Nancy squeezes his hand under the table, Carol snorts and buries her amusement in Tommy’s shoulder, Steve can’t decide if he’s horny or going to hurl. 

Brett just shakes his head, smartly deciding to end this fight now.  Eddie may not be able to fight well, but everyone knows he’s capable of fighting dirty. Brett hops down from the table and stalks back to his table, the rest of the team immediately surrounding him like a protective swarm. 

Eddie surveys his kingdom, and Steve realizes too late that he’s still staring when they lock eyes.  Eddie smirks, blood smeared at the corners of his lips, and winks at him.  That asshole. 

“Dost the King want court with the jester?” Eddie says.  

Steve just grits his teeth. 

“Oh come on Big Boy, don’t play hard to get!”

“Someone needs to shut him the fuck up,” Kenny grumbles to his left. 

“Yeah, give him a taste of his own goddamn medicine,” Keith mutters to his right.

“Embarrass the fuck out of him for once,” Kevin huffs across from him. 

Something curls in the pit of Steve’s stomach.  He tries to tamp it down with a swig of Sprite, but it doesn’t work. 

“I have an idea,” Tommy chimes in, a wicked look creeping on his freckly face.  “Steve, you up for a little tomfoolery?” 

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“Look, all I’m saying is that it would be 'doth the king’ not ‘dost the king',” Jeff huffs, lugging the cardboard box through the door into the closet.  They’re trying to make room in one of the dressing rooms to set up their model supplies on one of the counters, which means moving boxes of shoes and makeup into the prop closet. 

“Dost it even matter? He doesn’t even know how to fucking read, Jeffrey.” 

“You don’t know that man,” Jeff groans, “You have got to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Assuming the worst of everyone, Munson!  Maybe we’d be able to recruit more people for our next campaign if you weren’t such a dismal dungeon master.”

“I have standards, Prescott. I’m not dismal, everyone else is.”

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They finish moving what they can in silence, thankfully, and start setting up to paint on the makeup counter in the girls’ dressing room.  Eddie fiddles with the radio someone left behind and finds a decent station, letting it fill the room with some ambient noise to work to.  He’s just about to sit down and start adding the details to his orc when there’s a light rap on the door.  

“Go away!” He shouts in the general direction of the hall. 

“Eddie,” Jeff hisses, “What if it’s someone who wants to join?” 

“Go the fuck away,” Eddie hollers even louder. 

The door opens anyway, revealing none other than the presiding King of Hawkins himself: Stephen J. Harrington, laundry basket phenom.  

“I uh,” Steve starts, “I need to-”

“Leave,” Eddie says pointedly, “Like, now, preferably.”

“Ask you a question,” Steve says, “If you’re not too busy.”

He sweeps his arms open dramatically over the paints and modeling compound spread out before them.  “No, not busy at all, my liege.”

Steve rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest.  “A word, Munson?” 

“Oh you want a private word, hmm?” 

This earns him another eye roll. 

“Fine, fine,” he sighs, getting to his feet and lumbering toward the door. Once in the hallway, he pulls the door shut behind him and spins to face Steve. “So, what can I do for you, your highness?”

“I wanted to ask if you’re free Saturday.”

The world stops spinning briefly, but when it resumes, Eddie lets out a loud, obnoxious guffaw. 

“I’m serious, Munson.  I’m throwing a party and I need you to show up.”

“Need me to show up, hmmm?”

“God why are you like this?” Steve groans. 

“Charming? Sophisticated? Delightful?”

“Annoying.”

Eddie just shrugs in reply.

“So, can you come or not?” 

“I can, but I don’t want to.  It’ll cost you.”

“Name your price,” Steve says, clearly regretting his choice to even ask. 

“A favor, to be used at a later date,” Eddie settles on. 

“Whatever man, you’re fucking weird.  Fine. Just show up, ok? Starts at eight.”

“I shall see you then, good sir.”  He bows dramatically before turning back to the dressing room and disappearing inside.  

He’s definitely not going. 

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He never thought this would work, he told Tommy as much when he’d schemed up this stupid prank, and yet, somehow, everything was slotting into place.  Sure, Eddie had brought a plus one to the party without asking, and that plus one happened to be Billy Hargrove of all people, but at least Eddie had shown up.  

Eddie, who seems hell-bent on getting as drunk as possible as quickly as possible. He walked in a half hour late, denim jacket over a plain black tee shirt, and his black threadbare jeans slung low on his narrow hips.  It wasn’t too far out of his norm, but he somehow looked even more intimidating (and hot).  Maybe it was because he had Hargrove tailing him like a bodyguard, or maybe it was because his voice rang loud and clear even over the throbbing music. Steve didn’t know how he managed it, but it was impressive. 

If the plan had been to embarrass Eddie for once, it was starting to look like Steve wasn’t going to have to do much.  The metalhead seemed perfectly capable of drawing hoards of unwanted attention his way, which worsened the drunker he got. 

But the big problem didn’t arise until an hour after Eddie’s arrival. Hargrove had split off and followed some little blond chick out back, leaving Eddie unmoored by the punch bowl.  One minute he was sloshing jungle juice onto the rug, and the next, Steve saw him dart for a closed door that was not the bathroom. Steve, not wanting to scrape vomit off the canned goods, darted after him. 

“That’s not a bathroom, dude,” he said, snatching Eddie’s arm before he could open the pantry. “Come on, this way.” 

Eddie didn’t say a word, clutching his stomach with the arm Steve wasn’t holding.  They walked two doors down, and Steve shoved Eddie inside, intending to shut the door and leave Eddie to do his business, but Eddie went crashing to the floor and yanked Steve down on top of him.  And, because Steve already had a hand on the door, it slams shut behind them.

“What the fuck man,” Steve yelps, scrambling to get up. “You ok?”

Eddie just groans and hoists himself up over the rim of the toilet seat.  Steve, for reasons he’s not willing to talk about, surges forward and pulls Eddie’s hair away from his face, and thus away from the puke that surges out of his mouth moments later.  He does’t have time to bemoan the fact that Eddie’s curls are dry as fuck and he kind of wants to toss him in the shower and deep condition th-

“Thanks, man,” Eddie sighs, shifting so he’s sitting on the floor rather than kneeling. 

Steve drops his fistful of hair and steps back toward the door. 

“Yeah, sure.”

“That jungle juice is potent.”

Steve can’t help but smirk. “Lightweight.”

Eddie just rolls his eyes. 

Once the color has returned to Eddie’s face, Steve offers him a hand up and drags him to his feet.  Eddie rinses his mouth out in the sink and rolls his shoulders.  

Steve should have left first.  Should have made sure to stagger their exit enough no one would notice.  But he was a little buzzed himself, and so instead they barged into the hallway together.  Eddie, still a little wobbly, crashes them against the wall.  They’re chest to chest, nearly nose to nose; Steve could just lean forward a little and-

“Oh my God! Steve, are you ok? Get the fuck off him you freak!” Carol appears out of nowhere, hauling Eddie back by his shirt with impressive strength.  

“Did everyone just see that? Munson tried to kiss Steve!” Tommy hollers, never more than a few steps away from his girl. 

Steve starts to reply, but he’s stopped by Tommy’s secretive wink.  That stupid big-mouthed jerk, he was going to use this as the “prank”?

He wants to explain to Eddie, who looks like he’s staring down the barrel of a 44, that this wasn’t the plan.  But it’s too late, Eddie’s making a run for it before Steve even utters a sound. 

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Eddie Munson does not cry.  

Not when his dad locked him out on a cold and rainy night.

Not when his mom died. 

Not when he had to move in with Wayne.

And certainly not in the hallway at the Harrington’s mansion while being stared at by a roomful of people who would just love a good reason to chase him down with pitchforks and Molotov cocktails. 

He should have known this would happen.  Should have listend to his gut when it told him, “Don’t go to that fucking party, Eds.”  But instead, he thought he’d beat Harrington at his own game.  If the invite had been a cruel joke, he was going to play one right back.  Bring along Hargrove and fuck some shit up.  Get drunk and disorderly, rile the crowd, get the cops called, or something like that.  But Hargrove, the horndog he is, slunk off after Chrissy Cunningham and left Eddie to his own devices.  And like any good Munson, he wasted no time at all fucking up his own shit.  

Hargrove, to his credit, didn’t even flinch when Eddie knocked on the driver’s side window of the Camaro and motioned that they needed to blow the joint, like, now. Chrissy politely excused herself and went back into the party, and Eddie slumped his sorry ass into the passenger seat.  Billy, to his credit again, didn’t ask; he just put it in gear and peeled out.  

And if anyone ever asked, or if Hargrove ever uttered a word, he’d start slitting throats; because Eddie Munson did not lean his head against the window and cry on the way back to his trailer. Abso-fucking-lutely-not.

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Wayne’s doing that thing where he’s pretending to do the crossword, but he’s actually just waiting for Eddie to split open like Clark Griswold’s turkey and spew whatever was on his mind.  He was an expert at this game, and somehow Eddie never lasted that long before he gave in and just started talking. 

Wayne takes a loud slurp of coffee. 

“If you’re gonna ask, don’t.”

Wayne looks up at him like he has no idea what Eddie’s getting at. 

“Don’t play coy, Pops, I know you wanna know.”  (And yeah, Wayne is not his father, but that doesn’t mean he’s not an important fixture a good guy as far as guys go.)

Wayne just sighs and sets the paper down. 

“I went out last night, shit went down, but I’ll be fine.  Just need to lay low, so no school today.”

“You missed two days last week, Eds.”

“Yeah yeah.”

Wayne takes another swig of coffee, knowing damn well that’s not all the juice Eddie has to spill. 

“Heya, Pops, would you uh… Would you be mad if I never brought a girl home?” His spine feels rigid enough it might pop out the back of his neck. 

“Would I be mad if I never had to listen to you fornicating in this here tin can? No, Eddie, I would not be mad about that at all.”

“Not exactly what I meant.” Eddie chews his lip thoughtfully, nervously. 

There’s a moment of confusion in Wayne’s eyebrow region, and then a wave of understanding. 

“Just don’t go bringing anyone around when I’m home, how’s that?  And use protection, for Pete’s sake.  I don’t think our insurance covers none of that.”

Eddie feels relief wash over him, and were he a hugging kind of man he’d bring Wayne in for a big ‘ol bear hug right now.  But he’s not, nor is Wayne, so he settles for an appreciative nod instead and sets about doing the breakfast dishes. 

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“Bullshit,” Nancy spits, finger dead center of his chest. 

“Nance, I’m serious, there’s nothing I can do about it.  I told the guys and Carol to lay off, but what’s done is done.”

“Bull-shit,” she says again, jabbing at his sternum. 

“I can’t-”

“No, you won’t; there’s a difference.  You just don’t want this to blow back on you, Steve. But Mike said Eddie’s really hurting, and whatever you think you know about Eddie Munson, you’re wrong.”

Steve still couldn’t wrap his head around Mike knowing Eddie of all people; it was news to him that Eddie had friends, let alone that he ran some kind of club people willingly joined.  Max Mayfield, who lived with Billy Hargrove, was apparently friends with Nancy’s little brother, and she was the link between the two.  She hadn’t joined Eddie’s stupid club, but she knew about it and all the middle school nerds clambered to join after she’d told them about it.  

“You need to apologize to him, Steve.”

“I didn’t even do anything!”

Nancy puts her hands on her hips, finally relieving his chest of sharp stabbings. 

“It was all Tommy’s idea, I wasn’t even going to go through with it.  Muson was too shitfaced for it to have been a fun prank, I was just going to send him home.”

Nancy chews her lip the way she does when she’s choosing her words all too carefully. 

“You kind of sent him into a tailspin,” Nancy mutters, “Please just talk to him?”

Steve shakes his head but says, “Yes,” anyhow. 

“Thanks,” she says, smile not reaching her eyes. 

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He’s never been in a trailer park before, and he’s got to admit it’s way cleaner than he’d have anticipated.  Sure, the grass is sparse and yellow in spots, and the trailers have bits of rust and fraying awnings, but the overall atmosphere is neat and neighborhoodly.  A few older ladies with curlers in their hair wave at him as he walks by.  A man with a prominent gut gives him a nod as he waters the flowers in front of his home.  He had parked in the tiny gravel lot that said “Visitors” and was doing his best to find Eddie’s van from memory, since he really didn’t know which trailer he was looking for.  A younger woman with short dark hair stops him when he walks by. 

“You lost handsome?”

“No, just visiting a friend.” 

She eyes him suspiciously. 

“Eddie Munson,” he supplies. 

“Well, if that’s the case, you’re on the complete opposite side of Forest Hills.”

Steve tries not to look shocked. 

“They live back by the main road,” the woman says with a wave toward where Steve just came from, “Turn around and follow this path back. When you see the trailer with the giant sunflower painted on it, take a left.  The Munsons are two down from there.”

“Thanks,” he says sheepishly. 

The trailer park isn’t that big, thankfully, so it doesn’t take him long to get to his destination.  He finds Eddie up on a step ladder, hair haphazardly tied back with a piece of twine and a pencil jammed through it.  His midriff is showing, the arms of his shirt are cut off so severely Steve can see his chest through the holes.  He looks-

“The fuck do you want?” Eddie snarls, pointing his screwdriver at Steve. 

“I came to apologize,” he says, putting his hands up.

Eddie shoves the screwdriver through his bun and hops down.  

“What Tommy did? He shouldn’t have done that.”

Steve can feel the heat radiating off of Eddie’s skin, he’s inimidatingly close. 

“And I should have said something when it happened, I was going to say something when it happened, but-”

“I ran,” Eddie finishes, folding his arms over his chest, “As I am wont to do.”

“Exactly,” Steve nods. 

“Didn’t want to wait around and find out what the rest of the party had in store for lil ‘ol me.”

“Nobody would have done anything,” Steve tries to assure, “I swear, man; it’s not like you actually tried to kiss me, they’d have taken my word for it.”

Suddenly, Eddie’s nose is almost touching his.  

“And what if I had, huh? What then, Harrington? Don’t act like I don’t know why you invited me to your little soiree, I’m not as dumb as people make me out to be, yaknow.”

“I don’t-”

“Why’d you follow me into the bathroom?”

“What? I didn’t follow you, you dragged me in behind you.”

“What was the goal, Steve? Butter me up, make me think we were cozy, and then stab me in the back?”

“I didn’t have a goal, Eddie.  Tommy had this dumb plan to embarrass you, give you a taste of your own medicine, but it never even got that far.  You were too drunk, man, I was just trying to be nice.  Didn’t want you vomiting on my parents’ canned goods.  I was going to make a pot of coffee and send you home.”

Eddie’s stance loosens, only slightly. 

“Really dude, it’s all good. I told everyone to lay off you at school, they’ll listen.  Everyone’ll forget about it, ok?” 

“But I won’t,” Eddie mutters. 

“Look, would it make you feel better to deck me or something?” 

Eddie takes a step back and folds his arms over his chest again, eyeing Steve warily. 

“I owe you a favor anyhow, don’t I? Go ahead.  Or would you rather do it at school so everyone can see it? Punching Steve Harrington in the face’ll definitly quell the rumos that you’re- a, uh-” His brain is scrambling for a polite way to say what he was aiming for, but the only thing coming to mind is fag and he can’t bring himself to utter that. 

“Homosexual?” Eddie supplies, venom in his tone. 

He nods, throat suddenly dry as a communion wafer. 

“And what if it wasn’t just a rumor?” 

“Wha-”

“I said,” Eddie’s back in his face, “What if it wasn’t just a rumor?”

He makes a split-second decision that he’s sure he’s going to regret as soon as he opens his mouth.  

“Well, I’m not as straight as people make me out to be, yaknow.”

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He blinks once, twice, maybe six times.  Doesn’t help that the late morning sun is now piercing his retinas. Really doesn’t help that Steve doesn’t seem shaken in the slightest at Eddie’s confession.  (Granted, he didn’t know about the part where Eddie lay in bed, stoned out of his mind and naked as the day he was born, jacking off to his open yearbook just to test his theory.)

“Was really expecting you just to run off, Harrington,” he mutters, fishing in his pocket for a smoke. 

Steve just shrugs, stuffing his own hands in his pockets. 

“Why’d you have to go and hold my hair back, man?”

Steve cocks an eyebrow. 

“People don’t do shit like that.”

“Yeah, they do,” Steve replies, “That’s just common courtesy.”

“For a chick, maybe.”  He lets smoke out through his nose, leaning back against the sun-warmed aluminum siding. 

“Didn’t think much of it,” Steve says with a shrug. 

“It was just so…” intimate, kind, caring, “Dunno, man.  And your hands were all up on my neck and it was…” hot, like, holy hell? Why are your hands so soft?! “That jungle juice fucked something up in my head.”

Steve’s other eyebrow pops upward.  “Wait, did you not know you were… into guys?” 

“I am not into guys!” he hisses, slapping a hand over Steve’s mouth.  Which was a mistake, he realizes, since now he can feel the sticky residue of his chapstick against his palm and he kind of wants to know what flavor it is.  

“You lost me,” Steve sighs, “I thought you were trying to tell me you were g-”

“Don’t!” Eddie warns, “Don’t say it. Just get out of here.”

“Ok, ok, fine. Just, tell Mike I apologized, ok? Nancy’s been hounding me because he keeps telling her you’re mopey.”

This isn’t how he was expecting this conversation to go, primarily because he wasn’t expecting to have this conversation at all.  It’s too damn early on a Saturday for him to be having an existential crisis on his front lawn.  All that was supposed to be on his agenda was fixing the gutter that had come loose during the last bout of strong wind they’d gotten.  

Cornered, he’d assumed making it more obvious to Harrington that he’d been having impure thoughts would make the guy slink off back to his castle.  It had always worked before, puffing his chest and amping up the bravado.  Saying something nasty just to get people to piss off.  People tend to leave you alone if you do enough weird shit. And quite frankly, he liked being left alone.  Meant he could deal with only the individuals he wanted to. 

Meant it was easier to shove down any voices in the back of his head that tried to propose an alternative reason as to why he hadn’t gotten laid in years. It wasn’t for lack of trying, or anything else; it was because he had purposely set it up this way.  Can’t get your heart broken by plebians if they want nothing to do with you in the first place, right?

But it had never, not ever, been because girls just didn’t do it for him.  

Not until Steve Harrington came along, anyway. 

“You always been a fag, Harrington?” 

Steve’s face sours.  “Don’t say shit like that.”

He takes another drag in favor of a reply. 

“I’ve always known I was gay,” Steve replies quietly, “Ok? You happy now? You did try to kiss me, and I did kind of want you to.  Blackmail, right? Neither of us can blabber.”

He pretends to mull it over, like he’s not still stunned at how freely King Steve just gave up his biggest secret so fucking easily.  Like it doesn’t make him kind of want to just admit it too.

“Truce,” he lands on, thrusting a hand in Steve’s direction. 

Steve rolls his eyes but shakes on it, before shoving his hands back in his pockets.  

“Figure your shit out,” Steve grumbles as he walks back down the gravel path toward the parking lot.  

He’s not sure if it was directed at him or not.

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He always kind of figured he’d die young, in some sort of blaze of glory type situation.  He used to have dreams where the neighbor’s dog, Baxter, came back from the dead, missing his head like some sort of mindless zombie.  Sometimes Baxter ate him, with what teeth he wasn’t sure.  Sometimes he’d be able to comfort the demonic dog, telling him he was sorry he’d been hit by that dump truck, but that Steve had literally nothing to do with it.  Baxter would crawl back into whatever portal from the underworld he’d escaped from, and Steve would wake up sweating his balls off. 

This? 

This is not how he anticipated dying.  

It had been a month since he’d stood toe-to-toe with Eddie in his driveway, dumbfounded at how he’d misread the situation so profoundly.  They’d walked wide circles around each other since then, but two days ago, he’d gotten a phone call. 

“Hey, Harrington, I need to call in that favor.”

“Eddie?”

“Yeah, dumbass, who the fuck else do you owe favors to?”

“No one, it’s just-”

“I need you to pick up some of the Hellfire kids and drop ‘em off at the high school, ok? Bessie’s in the shop and I can’t be ferrying them on my bike.  Billy’s got shit to do, plus parents would be shitting bricks if they knew he was driving their precious little cherubs.”

“What the fuck is Hellfire?”

Eddie lets out an overly dramatic sigh. “Dungeons & Dragons, ever heard of it?”

“Wait, is it that stupid club that Mike Wheeler is in?”

“The very one,” Eddie replies, “And I’ll let it slide just this once that you called my pride and joy stupid.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, can you? Thursday, right after the middle school lets out.”

“Yeah, whatever. Sure.”

“Thanks for your help, Big Boy,” Eddie says just before the line goes dead.

And now, here he is, dropping these random children off at the drama room, like some sort of babysitter chauffeuring service.  Eddie greets him at the door like they’re friends, like this is normal.

“Heya Stevie, thanks for fetching my sheepies for me.”

“Uh, you’re welcome?” 

“Hope they didn’t give you too much grief.”

“They don’t know me well enough,” he shrugs, “Except Mike, but he hates me.”

“Fear not, baby Wheeler’s just a tough nut to crack.  He probably just has a supermassive crush on you, poor thing.”

“Wha-”

“Forget it,” Eddie says hurriedly, “Just, intuition, habit, something like that.”

“Ok?”

“Good man, Harrington,” Eddie says, slapping his shoulder. 

Steve just rolls his eyes and starts to walk away.

“See you at seven, my liege,” Eddie singsongs behind him.

“What?” Steve says, turning on his heel. 

“To pick the kids up?” Eddie cocks his head. 

“I never agreed to that-” Steve starts. 

“Aw come on, Stevie! What’re friends for?” 

He bats his eyelashes at him, thick and dark, lining those endless brown eyes better than any false lashes he’d ever seen.  Steve’s heart slingshots into his throat.  He knows Eddie’s just teasing him, trying to ruffle his feathers.  They are not friends.

“I thought we were cool, man.” Eddie looks wounded. 

“I don’t-” he starts, but he realizes he has no legitimate excuse not to pick up the kids after Hellfire, “Ok, fine.”

“You’re the best, sweetheart.” Eddie punches his shoulder and whirls into the drama room.  

He’s going to die, right here in this hallway, because Eddie Munson just called him sweetheart, and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

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“Well, I tried,” Eddie muses, kicking his feet up on the railing and tipping back in his chair.  A freshly lit joint slotted between his fingers swirls smoke up into the quickly dimming sky. 

“Really dude? I don’t think that even remotely counts as trying.”

Sometimes he hates Dougie.  He’s a year older, and while he’s lame as shit, he’s also far smarter than Eddie and shockingly better at being a functional human.  

“You said what, three words to the guy?  And you made him bus little kids around, man; how is that friendship material?”

“I let him into my inner circle, Douglas.”

“You used him as a taxi service,” Dougie replies, snatching the joint for a drag. 

“I introduced him to my friends!”

“So he knows Gareth now?”

“Well-”

“And Leo?” 

“No, but-”

“Cassidy?”

“Dougie, come on-”

“I haven’t met him,” Dougie continues, “And I thought we were friends.”

“In a minute you’re gonna be my arch nemesis,” Eddie grits out. 

Dougie knows that’ll never happen for several reasons: one, he’s the best goddamn bassist Eddie’s ever heard, and two, he’s Dougie Ricketts, AKA the one and only son of The Reefer Rick. (Maybe that’s how Dougie was so popular, huh…) If Eddie blew up their friendship, Rick’d have his head. 

“If you wanna be friends with Steve Harrington, you’re gonna have to do better than asking him to be your nanny.  I don’t even know why you want to be friends with that guy, he’s a prick and he’s been making our lives miserable since he could walk.”

Eddie’d been doing some ruminating on this very ponderance for a while now.  See, he’d gone back through his mind archive and really thought about every “bad” interaction he and Sir Harrington had ever had.  And, much like at the end of The Sixth Sense, he realized all those interactions hadn’t actually happened.  Harrington had been there prior to every swirly, fist fight, locker stuffing, etc, but he hadn’t been the initiator or the perpetrator.  And the more he really thought about it, the more he remembered Steve dragging people aside and giving a stern word that Eddie hadn’t managed to hear. He realized now it was a warning, to lay off and shut up. 

Because if Steve was in the closet, then all the veiled threats made against Eddie and his crowd could have easily been spun around and thrown back at the King himself. 

“Whatever you think you know about Steve, it isn’t true,” Eddie muses, “I’ve seen behind the veil, Douglas. My expanse of knowledge has been deepened.” 

“Whatever, freak,” Dougie sighs, “Just don’t get the rest of us fucked over, ok? Tread lightly. And for the love of God, maybe try a little harder to quit being such an asshole.” 

Eddie feigns being shot in the heart and falls out of his chair for theatrics.  Fuck Dougie, Eddie is very personable … when he wants to be. 

And, as luck would have it, he does want to be. 

Because he’s pretty sure he wants to fuck Steve Harrington. 

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Eddie goes from being a passing wet dream to a constant presence in Steve’s life almost overnight.  His merry bunch of munchkins had formally adopted Steve as their mother, which meant he was suddenly busing around pre-teens when he would normally be shooting hoops with Tommy.  

That was the other thing that had changed overnight: his friendship with Tommy and crew.  Tommy and Carol, especially, just seemed… distant.  He couldn’t pinpoint what had changed, but if he had to wager a guess, Tommy was still butthurt that Steve had “ruined” his planned prank at the party.  The guy never could let a grudge go, and he was probably poisoning the rest of their group with his sour attitude. 

But, if he was being honest, he didn’t even miss hanging out with that guy.  He’d always been the third wheel, since Carol was never far away, and Nancy would rather scarf a toad than hang out with them.  Plus, it was aggravating having to micromanage Tommy’s mean streak in order to preserve some sanctity in his inner circle.  He wasn’t proud of himself for not intervening before incidents even happened, and he wasn’t exactly squeaky clean in his own right, but he still tried to keep his friends and teammates in check.  A King is nothing without his court, and Steve really didn’t want to leave a legacy of hurt behind.  Was he succeeding? Maybe not.  But, he still had the better half of a year to work on it; longer, if Mrs. Beavers kept failing him on her exams. 

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Eddie sidles up next to him in the hallway between periods, easily falling into step with him like they’ve done this before.  (Well, they have, Eddie keeps showing up for the last two weeks now.)

“Stevie,” Eddie says with a nod. 

“Hey, Eds.”

“Are we friends?” Eddie asks, an air of nervousness to it that Steve’s not familiar with, at least not from Eddie.

“I guess so,” he says, “We see each other enough anyway.”

Eddie chews his lip pensively. 

“Don’t tell me you need another favor.”

“No, it’s not that, I just… Dougie, you don’t know Dougie, but he says I’m not being friendly enough still.”

He’s not sure what to say, so he just shrugs.  Eddie hasn’t been barking slurs in his face, so, as far as Steve’s concerned, he’s being plenty friendly. 

“You maybe… want to hang out or something? Without the kids?” Eddie says it like he’s being held at gunpoint, his shoulders creeping up to his ears like he’s about to shed his skin. 

“Sure?”

“You’re little posse won’t be upset with you? Stepping off the throne for a little could be-”

Eddie swallows whatever he was about to say, his eyes growing larger by the second as he stares over Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve turns to look and is met with a very smug-looking Tommy.  Behind him, there are a few other basketball players, and Carol, of course. 

“Time to make a decision, Harrington,” Tommy sneers. 

“The fuck are you talking about?” 

“You know exactly what I mean,” Tommy grits, “It’s time you stopped undermining the upper class.  Don’t think we haven’t noticed you’ve gotten soft on all the fucking losers around town.  And now hanging out with The Freak? That’s crossing a line, man, and we can’t allow you to keep this shit up.  So either give up your throne, or deal with your parasite.”

“You’re out of your mind, Hagan.  Scamper off, now, or-”

“Or what?” Carver chimes in, “Face it, man, you started your descent months ago.”

“Get it over with,” Tommy says, “Either walk way, or deal with your shit.”

It’s at that point Steve realizes Tommy’s offering him a Swiss Army knife.  

He can’t be serious, he wants him to stab Eddie, in the middle of the hallway? 

“You’re off your rocker, dude. I’m not-”

“If you don’t, I will.  Throne’s open, Harrington, and it’s mine for the taking.  Whoever deals with The Freak wins.”

Any remnant thread holding him in his seat breaks loose.  And so does any resolve, or common sense, for that matter.  He’s over top of Tommy, pinning his hands behind his back, before Tommy can even utter another word.  

Eddie, apparently taking their new-fangled friendship seriously, hauls Carver off of him when he tries to pigpile on.  Realizing Eddie’s no match for Carver, he growls in Tommy’s face and tells him to stay down or else.  He’s on Jason in seconds, dragging him away from Eddie.  Eddie, who had quickly become backed up against the lockers and was now sporting a bloodied nose.  

In the end, Steve won the fight, but lost his claim to fame.  Everyone had seen it, how he chose not to dispose of Eddie in favor of turning on his own ‘friends’.  But sitting in the nurse’s office, knee-to-knee with Eddie, matching icepacks pressed to their temples, split lips caked with blood, he decides his fall from grace was worth it.  Because Eddie’s grinning at him like he hung the moon in the sky, something Tommy had never done.  None of his friends had ever really looked at him like that, like he mattered. 

There was only one problem: he was realizing all too quickly being friends with Eddie Munson was going to be a lot harder when he also wanted to fuck Eddie Munson.   And he knew that would never happen…

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“Ohmygodyeahrightthereohfuck-”

As it turns out, Eddie Munson is way gayer than he thought.  He’d kind of assumed that he was experiencing a bout of transference, or a “rescue romance” as fiction was oft to call it.  Except, time hadn’t made it go away.  Kissing Steve Harrington hadn’t made him snap out of it. And, having Harrington’s nuts slapping against his ass cheeks wasn’t doing it either.  

Instead, he was just… more gay.  

“Comeonebigboygiveittomerealgoodfuckfuckfuck-”

Steve’s cum dripping down his nuts made it worse too, it turns out. 

“I think I’m gay,” he pants, watching Steve make his way to the bathroom, presumably for a washcloth. 

Steve stops dead in his tracks and turns back toward the bed, dick limp between his hairy ass legs. 

“What?”

“I said I think-”

“Eddie, we’ve been fucking for weeks now.”

Ok, yeah, that was true.  But still! It was a lot to come to terms with in three months or so, ok?  He’d figured he’d get it out of his system and Wayne could go back to not having to worry about hearing squeaking mattress springs ever again.  But getting it out of his system had turned into alternating bedrooms, and one time his DnD throne, and his system wasn’t getting rid of it.  

“Well, that orgasm solidified it,” he says haughtily.

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.” 

“I fucking hate you,” Steve groans, scrubbing a hand over his face as he returns to his search for cleanliness. 

“You love me and you know it!” Eddie shouts toward the en-suite. 

“Of course I fucking love you- wait, I didn’t-” Steve steps back into view, washcloth now forgotten entirely. His face is as red as the god awful plaid of his bedroom curtains.  

Eddie can’t breathe.  It’s just like he felt when Steve followed him into the bathroom, and then when they almost kissed, and then like he did two weeks ago when he’d finally caved and asked Steve if they could try kissing (and then, well, try fucking…)

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Steve says quietly. 

“Why not?” Eddie blurts. 

Steve’s stunning hazel eyes go wide.

“I mean, I just-”

“I don’t think it could be anyone but you,” Eddie says hesitantly. 

“What?” 

“I don’t think I could be gay for anyone but you, idiot.”

Steve scoffs, snatches the washcloth off the counter, and then saunters over to where Eddie is still sprawled, naked, on the bed. 

“Nice try, Munson.”

Steve, without hesitation, starts wiping the quickly solidifying cum off Eddie’s inner thigh.  His dick gives a feeble twitch at the thought of a round two. 

“I’m not kidding,” Eddie says, deciding it’s now or never.

“I know I’m just your sounding board or whatever,” Steve sighs, “I didn’t mean to spring that on you. Of course, you’re going to fall for the first dude you have a crush on. That’s how it was for me with- with, uh- Nevermind. My point is, you get over it, ok? You don’t have to make me feel better about blurting out stupid shit like-”

“I love you,” Eddie says, with as much conviction and sincerity as he can muster. 

“Eddie-”

“So say it back, or I’ll knock every pearly tooth from your pretty mouth.”

Steve’s expression softens, a grin slowly spreading across his face. 

“You really mean it, don’t you?”

“Been waiting for someone like you my whole life, just didn’t know it.”

Steve rolls his eyes affectionately. 

“So?”

With a flick of his wrist, Steve pitches the used towel into the hamper across the room, before putting a hand on each of Eddie’s shoulders. 

“I love you,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to Eddie’s swollen lips. 

“Good,” Eddie whispers back, “Because I like your pretty mouth with all your teeth in it.”

“Shut up, Munson,” Steve mutters against his lips.

“Make me,” Eddie threatens. 

Steve just sighs and straddles him.

It’s going to be a long night.  Well, it’s going to be a long 60+ years, but, for now, it’s going to be a very long night… 

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