Archive of Our Own

“Yeah, so that’ll be thirteen dollars, fifty cents.”

The woman frowns at him. She looks like she’s going to try and argue, which is just… why the fuck do people ever think that’ll work. He stares back impassively, and slowly folds his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes.

Go on. See where it gets you. 

“Thought that one was in your –” she waves a hand at the corner of the store covered in promotional labels, a paper SUMMER SALE sign peeling off the wall at the top left corner – “discount section.”

“Nope,” he says flatly. Neither of the Carole King records she’d picked out have a red sticker on them – obviously.

“Well,” she huffs, muttering under her breath about daylight robbery. One of the squalling brats at her feet starts tugging at her dress, and Eddie stares up at the ceiling, trying very hard to keep his mouth shut. 

Five minutes, he thinks. 

Five fucking minutes.

And then he’s on break.

About the only good thing about working here.

A bead of sweat rolls down his neck from where his hair is pulled up in a knot at the back of his head. One of the store managers is cool about his hair, but the other one, Ryan, is suuuch a prissy little bitch about it. Eddie’s noticed that he’s less snarky on days where he wears it up. Maybe he thinks it looks more professional, which is a complete joke – Ryan treats this place as though it’s the oval office, and he’s been elected to run it like his life depends on it. Pathetic.

Whatever. It pays shit, but Eddie needs the cash. It’s just until he has enough scrimped and saved away to get the hell out of this town and rarely look back (he’s not going to abandon Wayne, he’s not an asshole.)

The blonde lady in front of him is now emptying the contents of her purse across the counter, so he leans back lazily against the shelving unit behind him while he waits for her to either pay for her shit or pack up on out of here with her screaming brood of children (and hopefully never return. At least not when he’s back on shift).

If he leans back just so – and he angles his head, stretching up on the balls of his feet –

He can see him.

Just.

Well… he can see the entrance to Scoops. He can see the little row of booths and chairs, and if he gets very lucky, he can see behind the counter, see –

Oh yeah. He’s in luck today. 

Harrington’s far enough away that he can’t make much out beyond that stupid little hat he has to wear, that ridiculous shirt with its silky looking ascot. His arms flex as he scoops out balls of something with a doubtlessly over-complicated flavour title.

He sighs. Checks the clock on the wall opposite him.

Two minutes.

“Here,” the woman grunts, sliding a twenty dollar bill his way. He stands up, checks her out, double checks the change and makes a show of it, because he’s not about to have her go apeshit on him and accuse him of petty theft at the first legal job he’s been employed at (the tattoos never do him any favours in that regard). She seems satisfied, and she nods at him briskly before finally departing. 

Paul saunters out from the back room, eyeing him suspiciously as he slides behind the counter, box of unlabelled vinyls under his arm. He dumps it at Eddie’s feet.

“You not on break?”

“I am now,” Eddie grins lazily, saluting him. “See ya, boss.”

“In thirty, Munson,” Paul grunts. Eddie ignores him. Paul is harmless. All he ever does is hit on the two other women unfortunate enough to be working with them, and neither of them seem to care much. He gives Eddie a wide berth – Eddie’s pretty sure he graduated at the end of Eddie’s freshman year, but by then there were already rumours flying around about the trailer trash freak. That he carried a knife. That he’d eaten a frog in fifth grade, and it wasn’t even on a dare. That he’d broken Jason Carver’s nose during gym class.

That he was a dirty, cocksucking queer.

Everything is correct but the frog, obviously. Eddie had lied about that to get the group of kids who’d been trying to catch it earlier to fuck off. The fact it had caused certain people to avoid him in class was just a bonus.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and whistles as he makes his way over to the air-conditioned sanctuary of Scoops Ahoy. Sam Goody’s unit’s been on the fritz for the past couple of weeks, and it’s driving him round the bend. Makes his brain feel like soup. Minimum-wage-slave-to-capitalism-overheated soup.

He just needs a pick-me-up. And truly, there is nothing better than –

“King Steve,” he calls, grinning widely as he lopes through the entranceway. Steve catches sight of him and stiffens. He turns immediately. Coward.

“Robin!”

“Aw, come on. What, you’re too good to serve me ice cream now?”

“Robin,” Steve snaps again, yanking open the little window between his world behind the counter and what Eddie assumes is their staff room. Fucking christ, those shorts. They’re downright indecent.

Buckley appears a minute later as always, leaning forward on her elbows. She glances at Eddie and rolls her eyes.

“What, Steve? I’m doing inventory. It’s your turn to sling.”

“Yeah, Steeeve,” Eddie drawls, leaning both arms over the glass display case. Nice and cool, mmm. “C’mere and sling me some ice cream. What’s the problem here? Are you…” he gasps, holding a hand to his chest in mock outrage. “Are you refusing service?”

Buckley’s trying very hard not to smile. Eddie can tell – her mouth twitches at the corner. He hasn’t worked out whether or not she actually likes Harrington, but that’s besides the point.

“Because – now Buckley. Correct me if I’m wrong. But isn’t that against corporate policy?” he whispers, widening his eyes.

“You know what?” she muses. “Pretty sure you’re right, Munson. Want me to get the handbook and check?”

“Oh yeah, bring out the handbook –”

“Enough! Holy shit, fine,” Steve snaps, turning to face him, and Would. You. Look. At. That.

He’s red all over. Fuck, the way he blushes – he’s just edible. Eddie wonders how far that pretty shade of pink goes down his body.

He stares at Eddie dully, leaning forward on his hands. This might be the first time he’s met Eddie’s eyes in a while – it’s cute. Really, it is. Eddie cannot genuinely believe he was ever intimidated by this guy in the school hallways. Turns out being reduced to a minimum wage worker in a sailor suit is a surefire way to tumble down the social ladder. 

“What can I get you?” he asks, bored.

Eddie narrows his eyes.

“Is that the line? I thought there was a line.”

Steve groans.

“I’m not doing this today.”

“Oh but you are. C’mon, Harrington. Say the line.”

“I don’t -”

“Want me to remind you? I think I have it down by now,” Eddie beams, leaning over the glass again on his elbows. “Ahoy there!”

Steve stares at him impassively.

“Come on. I want the full scoops experience.”

“Is this not boring for you?” Steve hisses. “Don’t you have better shit to do?”

“Au contraire your highness, no. This is the highlight of my day,” Eddie says lightly, twisting one of the rings around his fingers. “Now shut the fuck up and say the line.”

“This?” Steve replies, pointing at Eddie. “This is like, harassment. This is definitely harassment.”

“Yeah? You gonna report it?”

“I might. I know where you work.”

“You do?” Eddie wonders, faking an aghast expression. 

Obviously Steve knows where he works. 

Eddie’s caught him staring into the record store on numerous occasions from the long stretch of distance across the mall behind his own countertop. He usually stops when Eddie returns the favour with a kind-hearted hand gesture, and Eddie’s pretty sure it’s only because he knows he’s been caught in the act.

“Lord have mercy,” he chokes out, “foiled again. Whatever will I do when popeye reports me to my underpaid, overworked, uncaring general manager? And all because I asked him to follow corporate policy and just… read me… the line….”

He sniffles, slumped forwards, and Steve shakes his head slowly, his arms crossed across his chest. How many moles does he have? They’re all over his forearms.

“So, Harrington,” he continues, his eyes glittering. “Let’s try that again, hm?”

Steve bites his lip. He taps his foot, his eyes narrowing - thinking - Eddie can see him weighing up the options, the pros and the cons, waiting, waiting – and!!

“Ahoy there,” he says, deadpan. “Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavour with me?”

“Why yes,” Eddie smiles widely. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Twenty minutes later (let no one say he isn't capable of maximising his thirty minutes of freedom) he's sitting in a corner booth with a fudgemallow cone and a self-satisfied smirk. Working at the mall might be the dreariest part of his summer by a country mile, but ever since Scoops Ahoy had opened its shiny new doors and stocked its staff in the stupidest outfits Eddie’s ever seen… well. 

It's a vast improvement to say the least.

The thing is – King Steve? Untouchable. He was high school royalty, swanning above Eddie’s social class to the point where they’d barely interacted save for Steve watching on derisively as Tommy H had come snapping at Eddie’s heels. He was too good to even give Eddie the time of day, not even in a bullying capacity. Un-fucking-touchable. 

And therefore, of course, an easy target for Eddie to daydream about. Sat at the back of the class staring daggers at his stupid, perfect hair while he made an ass of himself in front of Wheeler or Holloway or whatever other pretty girl he had falling at his feet. God, Eddie would have killed for the chance to bring him down a notch. Several notches. Down at his feet, under his heel. 

Pretty boy Steve.

And then he’d come into school one day with his face looking like a bag of ground meat. His hair was all limp. His eye was blacked. And Eddie had been dying to know who’d got their hands on him, who’d fucked him up.

It was actively irritating, how often Steve had lingered in his mind over the last two years. Downright distracting. Steve had barely taken notice of his existence, but on the rare days that Eddie had bothered to show up to class, laser focused on the back of his head – he’d just started morphing into more and more of an enigma. Ditching his thick headed basketball underlings. Avoiding Hagan (and later, Hargrove). Hanging around with his ex-girlfriend and the guy who’d supposedly punched his lights out, before sweeping Nancy Wheeler right out from under his nose.

So, whatever. It was at the very least amusing, watching him fall (very ungracefully) down the rungs of Hawkins’ social ladder. Nothing to Eddie. Eddie had made it his mission to put Harrington away in a box in his head: do not touch, and to go get it all out of his system by fucking a series of guys who looked a little too alike to Steve in dingy club bathrooms.

It had almost worked. 

And then two weeks into his mind-numbingly dull summer job, he’d looked up, and Paul had made some stupid fucking comment –

“Dang,” he’d whistled. Two girls in sailor skirts with knee highs walked into the Scoops storefront, carrying tubs of frozen dessert. “Wish they’d give the girls here uniforms.”

He’d shot Eddie a sleazy look, like right?

Eddie had ignored him, scathingly. Gross. Yeah, no fucking thanks, actually. He might be a freak, but at least he was above sexualising –

And then he’d looked up. 

And there he was. In his stupid little shorts. His stupid little hat. And Eddie had had to come to terms with the fact that he was actually no better than Paul, he was simply a man – a red blooded male, gazing open-mouthed at Steve Harrington in sailor socks.

Steve had seen him later that day – he’d squinted over and sort of did a little double take when he’d spotted Eddie lounging over the Sam Goody checkout counter. Eddie had thought about waving, but decided not to. It’s not like he and Steve had ever crossed paths before, other than Steve watching on silently in their former school years together while one of his miserable shithead jock sidekicks had upended his lunch tray or slammed him into a locker.

So Eddie had looked away. He’d tried to stop his heart from speeding up a little at the prospect of King Steve working opposite him on the regular, in that stupid little sailor getup.

Except.

The next time he’d seen Steve on shift, Eddie might have stared back. Look, he gets fucking bored at work – anyone would, peddling ABBA tapes all day – and when Steve had caught him doing it, he’d given him a real stink eye. Glared at him. Whatever. Eddie had left late that day after a closing shift, and when he’d passed by the back entrance to the mall on the way to his van in the parking lot, he’d spied Steve around the corner, smoking a cig with the girl he’d been on shift with that day, Vanessa something from the year below them at school. Eddie hadn’t meant to eavesdrop – he genuinely hadn’t, but he’d paused when he’d heard Steve’s voice. 

Heard his name.

“I don’t know what Munson’s problem is anyway. Why don’t you ask him?”

The girl standing across from him wrinkled her nose, twirling a lock of long blonde hair around her finger. “No way, he totally creeps me out! Like – some of the other girls at cheer think he’s nice and I’m like, um – have you seen the guy? He’s a total freak, and Brad told me he carries a knife.”

Steve had snorted. “Brad’s full of shit. Munson’s just a weirdo, he’s harmless.”

“He’s definitely staring at my uniform,” she whined in response, tugging at the skirt. Eddie rolled his eyes, jesus christ. Get your head out of your ass.

“I doubt that.”

“What, you don’t think it suits me?” she asked coyly. “Or do you just think he’s a nice guy too, Steve?”

Steve had kicked at the ground. “I don’t –”

“You totally do,” she snickered, “you think the freak is –”

“I think he’s gross,” Steve had cut in flatly. “Whatever. Can we move on from Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson? I gotta go lock up the freezer so I can get the hell out of here.”

Eddie had narrowed his eyes. Stared at the ground for a little while, and then quietly retreated to his van. 

Asshole. 

Whatever. So Harrington was still a prick who judged people before they’d even spoken a word to each other, what else had he expected?

So naturally he’d spent every shift since that day tormenting Steve. 

It’s only fair. Guy was a grade A dickhead for most of their school years anyway, and you don’t look a gift horse (bearing humiliation rituals) in the mouth, do you? Riling Steve up and fantasising about him at like, three in the morning – all of it feels like a twisted sort of payback. Steve already thinks he’s gross, so who cares? Eddie only wishes the boys uniform had the same socks as the girls did. Maybe the skirt, too- that might be enough spank bank material to last a fucking lifetime. 

He watches now from the safety of his booth as a gaggle of girls saunters past, leaning back to watch Harrington’s play. God, this is the best part. Buckley lingers in the rear- no doubt with her scoreboard ready. She raises her eyebrows at Eddie, like – what do we think – will he succeed?

Eddie gives her a thumbs down and winks. He likes Buckley. There’s something easygoing about her – he’d only briefly interacted with her when they’d both been in band (before he’d figured that was a colossal waste of time), but she’s funny. It’s easy to gang up on Steve with her. And also – Eddie may or may not have taken note of some of the shit she’s got scribbled on her high tops. 

They might have more in common than she realises, or maybe she’s worked out why Eddie spends every single one of his breaks drooling over tormenting Steve, and she doesn’t give a shit because it’s entertaining her.

Harrington’s air of desperation isn’t quite as noticeable today, Eddie thinks. Eddie’s watched him fumble so many social interactions with women now that he’s ninety percent sure he hallucinated every time somebody had mentioned King Steve’s charm in school – he’s sort of a mess. Last time he dropped a cup of disposable plastic spoons all over the floor in his haste to give a girl her change, and when she’d left, he’d had to kneel down in front of the glass to pick them all up – again, those shorts are obscene. Eddie hasn’t jerked off to anything other than that mental image in the week since that incident, and he’s not sure that’ll ever change.

It’s too crowded and noisy to hear what Steve’s saying, but whatever it is? It’s not going down well. There’s too much shoulder shrugging. Too much trying-to-laugh-casually. The girls at the front giggle at him, and there’s that flush again – red cheeks to match his stupid red scarf thing. For a split second, he glances towards Eddie – they make brief eye contact, and then Steve ducks his head, abashed. Cowed. Interesting, very interesting. Harrington can’t perform with an audience, it seems.

He makes a last attempt before the girls leave, but ultimately-

Robin beams at him, and lifts the board. There are now four lines under you suck.

God. Eddie wishes. He’s seen Steve eat ice cream – there’s no telling what that mouth can do.

Steve pulls off the stupid cap, ruffling through his pretty brown hair. He scowls at something Buckley says, and then shrugs her off, whatever. 

She ducks out from the staff section and wanders over to Eddie’s booth, slumping in her seat.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She glances at him slyly. 

“Nothing. I’m just on my break.”

“Uh huh.”

“You looked like you could use the company.”

“Well I’m charmed,” Eddie says dryly, avoiding her eyes. Robin Buckley sees too much. She knows too much.

“Busy day for you?”

“Okay, Buckley – what is this?”

“Jesus, I’m just trying to make small talk. You’re so prickly. My mother’s always on at me to…” she flaps her hand between them, “you know. To be more social.”

“Uh huh,” Eddie continues, licking at his quickly-melting cone. “And your mother encourages regular interactions with the local freak?”

Robin wrinkles her nose. “I’m pretty sure you’re harmless. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Initially I was scared for both my life and Steve’s when you started coming over here – I figured maybe you’d be after our kidneys or something –”
Eddie chokes on his ice cream, sputtering in protest.

“– but then I realised why you were over here, and, well… I guess I figured we’re kind of friends now.”

“Friends?”

“Yeah. Well – allies.”

“How’d you figure that one?”

“Be-cause,” she says, flopping further back in her seat, staring absently at Harrington – who’s dejectedly cleaning an ice cream scooper. He’s got such a great kicked-puppy face. “Both of us sit around the same kind of level on the proverbial social ladder, believe it or not. And… both of us had a staring problem in Ms Click’s classes,” she adds lightly, her eyes still fixed on Steve. She stands.

“A problem you seemingly haven’t outgrown, by the way,” she sing-songs, dancing back to the front. Leaving Eddie with his melting ice cream, feeling decidedly less self-satisfied. 

Whatever. Leave it to Buckley to kill his buzz. He’s still going to come over here whenever their shifts align (Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays). He’s still going to try and make Steve’s life a little more miserable. He’s still going to push buttons. It’s not like Steve’s ever made any attempt to foray over to his side of the mall, so who cares? 

What’s the harm?

Eddie works one extra day a week where Steve isn’t on shift. It’s some uninspiring guy named Mark on those days (Saturdays), and he does not pull off the sailor shorts. Those days are just shit, boring, pointless shifts where he spends his breaks smoking out back and praying for something fun to happen – a meteor target-striking starcourt, or a portal to an alternate dimension opening up and swallowing him whole, freeing him from Ryan’s prissy comments about the stain on his boring ring-tee uniform shirt. 

No such luck.

Ryan leaves at three, grumbling a warning about locking up properly. It’s just Eddie and some girl named Melissa on the close – she looks at him as though he resembles a very chewed up piece of gum she tracked in on her shiny new reeboks. He slumps over the counter, head pressed to the cool plastic surface, humming along to the music filtering gently through the speaker overhead. Jesus. The Cure. He’s humming along to Boys Don’t Cry.

“That doesn’t look like a professional way to greet customers.”

Eddie doesn’t even bother standing up. He just cranes his neck to peer up from the counter at whoever the fuck has decided to blacken his already sour mood, and his stomach flips pleasantly, because it’s Harrington.

No sailor shorts in sight unfortunately. He’s in an ugly green polo shirt and soft blue jeans. He’s eyeing Eddie meanly, gripping a record in his left hand.

“Fortunately for me, I was recently promoted to head lead general manager in chief,” Eddie drawls. “So I’ve implemented a rule wherein I only bother to stand for customers I respect.”

“That’s pretty rude.”

“Is it? Do I owe you respect, Steve? Have you even got self-respect, wearing sailor socks three days out of the week for what – four bucks an hour?”

Steve’s face twitches, irritated. Eddie grins. 

“No… less than? Three bucks? God you’re cheap. How the mighty have fallen –”

“Can you just ring me up please?”

Eddie stands, leaning back on his heels and surveying Steve – his tight posture. The clench of his jaw. He’s the only customer in the store at present – they close in like twenty minutes. Maybe he was hoping Eddie would be gone by now or something. Bad luck, Steve.

“Come on then. Let's see your pick.”

He gestures at the record. Steve slides it over.

Of course. WHAM! 

He smirks.

“You’re such an asshole,” Steve scoffs, barely audible.

“Hm? What was that?”

“I said – why are you such an asshole?”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “Gee, I don’t know. Did you want me to treat you nicely, Harrington? Do you know how many times I had Hagan dump a lunchtray over my head? Call me a fag in third period math class? Throw me or some other unsuspecting bystander into a locker?”

Steve looks down. 

“Hagan. I didn’t – I didn’t do any of that shit.”

“Yeah, well – you didn’t exactly intervene. Whatever. You’re making up for it by looking extremely pathetic across the mall from my job, so far be it from me to complain.”

“God, you’re really tough, coming over to give me shit for some crap I didn’t even say or do back in high school,” Steve sneers. “You’re scaring off customers every fucking day you do that, you know.”

“I’ll send a check in the mail to whoever owns the Indiana franchise for Scoops Ahoy,” Eddie snarks. 

Steve rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Ring me up, Munson. I haven’t got all day, unlike you.”

“Yeah? Big plans? Somehow I doubt it. And I don’t think I will, actually. Not when you’re giving me an attitude like that.”

Steve looks as though he’s been hit over the head. Eddie guesses he just isn’t used to hearing somebody say no to him, but it’s sort of delightful, seeing him bewildered. 

Frustrated.

Bitchy.

“You’re refusing me service?”

“Told you earlier. I was recently made head lead general manager in chief, so –”

“No you weren’t,” Melissa chimes in flatly – she’s been standing there the whole time, Eddie realises. Sorting out LPs in the discount bin.

“Shut up, Melissa,” he beams at her. 

He turns back to Steve.

“Say please.”

“What?”

Melissa sighs and abandons the box. She slams the staff room door as she leaves. Good riddance.

“I said, say please, your highness,” Eddie repeats, slower this time, as if Steve was too thick to get it initially.

And he’s… blushing?

Eddie frowns.

What.

“I’m not gonna – come on, man. I just want to buy the fucking record, why are you –”

What.

“So ask me then. Nicely. Ask me to ring you up.”

What.

Steve opens his mouth, and then shuts it again. He scowls at the counter. At the record.

“Please. Can you ring me up… please Eddie?”

WHAT.

“Sure,” Eddie says lightly, as if the world didn’t just tip on its axis. As if the earth didn’t just fall out of the sky. As if Steve Harrington isn’t standing there in front of him, red in the face, polite as can be. 

God damn it.

He rings Steve up. Steve avoids his eyes the entire time, staring the other way when he slides a ten dollar bill over towards him.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Eddie purrs, sliding his change back. He leans forward on his elbows and watches carefully as Steve exits the store at lightning speed.

What.

Steve returns two weeks later. 

In that period in between, he’s become somewhat chattier whenever Eddie meanders over to his workplace – he’s stopped turning to Buckley as if she’s some sort of divine saviour, destined to rescue him from the big bad freak coming over to ruin his day. He’s meaner. He talks back.

It pisses Eddie off.

It also turns him on, which is deeply inconvenient. Fuck, he just wants to – he wants to fuck the attitude right out of him. Get him stupid and dumb around his dick. Make him beg, and then plead, and then maybe cry a little. All in his poncy little sailor uniform. He watches on with lead in his stomach as Steve continually hits on half of the female population of Starcourt mall on a daily basis. Recently he’s had a couple of marks under you rule, and Eddie has to force himself not to feel disappointed. What the hell should he be disappointed over? The fact Steve has game? The fact Eddie’s in a bit of a dry spell – has been for the past month of them all working here? The smug little expression he gets when he does score some lucky lady’s digits? 

The fact he looks at Eddie after it happens – smirks at him?

It’s getting under his skin. It’s ruining his fun.

There’s also the fact that Buckley seems to be warming up to him. Traitorous little –

Eddie should never have trusted her.

She still sits with him and makes fun of Steve, but there’s an undercurrent of fondness now. She looks at him like he’s some hapless puppy she’s recently adopted who’s chewing up her wallpaper whenever he’s left alone. She lets slip to Eddie that he’s offered to teach her how to drive. And he isn’t even hitting on her, which she’s very pleased about. 

God forbid they become friends. 

It makes Eddie sulk. It makes him mean, meaner to Steve than normal. He misses the days where Steve looked too nervous to meet his eyes properly – when Steve used to flush red whenever Eddie caught him staring over into the Sam Goody storefront, no doubt fantasising about cutting Eddie’s head off and putting it on a stick, or something.

So when Steve comes in – again, very close to closing time, when Eddie’s alone in the store, Eddie doesn’t say anything initially. He doesn’t even look at Steve – he has his walkman on (because the store’s been dead for the past thirty minutes), Dio blasting through his skull, and he glances up at Steve and then back down again. 

Let him browse. Let him pick out mediocre overpriced vinyls. Eddie isn’t in the mood for their little back and forth ritual tonight. After this, he’s going to drive out to the city, drink himself into a bilious stupor, find some guy who looks as close to Steve Harrington as he’ll get and choke him on his dick. Hopefully.

He taps his pencil up and down as he crosses off boxes on his inventory check, biting his lip. It’s hard not to be aware of Steve – who doesn’t seem to be doing much browsing. He’s actually doing a lot more staring – staring at Eddie over the racks separating them, trying to appear like he isn’t.

He’s not very subtle.

Eddie isn’t going to rise to the bait. No siree, he’s booked and busy, way too engrossed in his inventory list to –

Steve’s in front of him. 

Eddie looks up at him, unimpressed – and then looks down again, resumes pencil tapping. Steve says something – it’s muffled by the blast from his headphones. Eddie looks at him, widening his eyes like oops, gesturing to the headphones and shrugging. Mouths sorry! Can’t hear you!

Steve’s jaw drops open.

God he missed this. He basks in Steve’s righteous indignation like a cat lounging in the sun, warmth curling low in his gut. He glances up through his lashes – Steve’s got his arms crossed over his chest with a thunderous look on his face. His polo of the day stretches tight over his chest and biceps – delicious. Eddie wants to bite him all over.

Instead he hums along tunelessly, drowning Steve out further as he waves at Eddie, signalling at him like – take them off – take off your headphones.

Eddie stares at him.

“What?”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Sorry, it’s just – it’s too loud, I can’t – I don’t know what you’re saying!”

Steve growls. He leans over the counter, swiping at the headphone lead, and Eddie dodges back, still gesturing helplessly, theatrically – as though there’s some sort of invisible force requiring his headphones remain glued to his skull.

“Fuck, sorry, Steve, I can’t hear a word you’re saying! Maybe come back another time when I’m – hey! Watch –”

Steve vaults over the counter.

The notebook goes flying as he clatters over into Eddie, pinning him to the shelf – some shit falls to the floor, clattering everywhere in a mess. He snarls at Steve when Steve finally yanks at his headphones, pulling at them and trying to pin him down one handed – and look, Eddie’s only human. He’s not going to pass up the opportunity to touch Steve Harrington, so he pushes him back by the chest, tries to wrestle his bulky arm away from his shoulder, lifting the walkman slightly out of reach. He’s panting breathlessly, and when his headphones do slip sideways, all he can hear is the squeak of Steve’s sneakers on the lino floor as they grapple, his breath coming in frustrated huffs, grunting as he yanks at the cable, red in the face. All he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears over Steve’s proximity – over the way he feels as they roughhouse. Strong and sturdy. Immovable. Hot.

“Get – off,” he snaps, shoving Steve back, because he’s suddenly struck with the thought that Steve might actually break his walkman – and pretty as he is, it’s not worth the price of a new one or a repair. Eddie can’t afford that shit. He catches Steve off guard, jabbing him in the ribs – Steve’s definitely stronger than he is, but Eddie is lithe. Eddie is used to fighting off burly meathead jocks who think they can get the better of the skinny metalhead who stared at them for a beat too long in the locker room. Steve stumbles back, his eyes widening, and he trips over a box he must have dislodged when he’d clattered Eddie into the shelf.

He makes an oof sound when he goes down, landing smack on his ass. 

At least it’s a cushioned fall, Eddie thinks gleefully.

He slams the walkman onto the counter.

“Harrington,” he growls. “What on god's green earth was that?”

Steve glowers up at him. Eddie stalks forward, he’s standing right between Steve’s splayed legs now. Steve’s breathing looks uneven, his chest rising and falling as he opens his mouth to reply.

“Were you so desperate for my attention you decided to physically assault me?”

“That – you! You had! You were!”

“That,” Eddie simpers, “but – that – you – but – you – are you just going to lie there stammering at me?”

“Don’t act like that,” Steve scoffs, rolling his eyes. His cheeks are sooooo very pink. He’s trying to close his legs, so Eddie looms further over him. Why spoil the fun?

“Like what?”

“Like you weren’t – you were ignoring me!”

“An unusual experience for you, I imagine.”

“Don’t be such a prick,” Steve gripes. “I just wanted to ask you about – about…”

He trails off.

Eddie narrows his eyes. 

“You know what I think? I think you came in here because you were bored. Because you wanted to stir up shit – ah ah,” he tuts, when Steve starts to struggle upright – he presses his boot lightly against Steve’s chest, pushing him down again. “Because you wanted to start bitching at me about my god given american right to frequent visits to the only ice cream parlour in this fuckass mall, which is hotter than satan’s asscrack on a regular day – and you couldn’t even afford me the patience to finish my track before I listened to whatever shit you wanted to whine about.”

Steve’s eyes are so, so wide. His mouth is still gently agape – Eddie can see his tongue, all pink and wet. He looks frozen, stuck in time.

“Isn’t that right, Harrington?”

Steve shakes his head, slowly. He looks up at Eddie as if transfixed.

Eddie leans down, narrowing his eyes,

“Close your mouth,” he says in a low voice. Or I’ll spit in it.

Steve closes his mouth. 

He looks a lot less brave now.

“Since you caused that little scene, and – mind you, wanna take a look above us? Smile for the camera, princess – don’t you think it’s only fair you clean this shit up? Wouldn’t want footage of you assaulting a fellow mall employee getting back to your good comrades over at Scoops Ahoy Limited.”

Eddie waves up at the shitty little security camera overhead.

He’s bluffing. He’s pretty sure the camera’s dead – there’s no red light in one corner. And even if there was, he’d never have the balls to kick up a fuss over Steve pushing him up against a shelf. That might discourage him from repeating the action, which would be a complete and utter travesty. 

But Steve doesn’t need to know that. Steve looks at the camera – and then back at Eddie.

If Eddie isn’t mistaken- and possibly it's a trick of the ugly overhead fluorescents – his eyes look pretty dark. Pupils blown.

Weird. Steve is so weird.

“Pick it up,” Eddie demands roughly, kicking the box of spilled records over. “Clean up your mess, and we’ll call it even, yeah?”

He waits. He’s not even sure he breathes while he waits – stretching out that infinitesimal moment, the make-or-break decision that could determine the legitimacy of a suspicion beginning to grow and fester in the back of his mind.

Steve swallows. Ducks his head – and then he gets on all fours.

Eddie lets the breath exhale out of him in a quiet whoosh.

Holy shit.

He tries very hard to act natural. To act calm. He’s hard enough to cut glass, but thank the heavens above, his shirt is pretty long – they’d given him the only staff shirt they had left in the back when he’d started, an XXL thing that hangs off him, obscuring his crotch just enough to get away with it.

He scratches off something else on the inventory, literally just to appear bored and uninterested in Steve Harrington crawling on his hands and knees behind him to pick up another record and place it gently back in the cardboard box. Eddie breathes out slow. His skin feels a size too small – he’s so keyed up with adrenaline right now, he’s pretty sure he could lift a car. Could lift that big shiny red one on display at the centre of the small and toss it around like a toy.

He turns around to survey Steve. His ears are scarlet, his mouth drawn. Jesus fucking christ, he's so pretty. It’s unfair, so deeply unfair. His neck is so smooth and tan – unmarked. Eddie wonders if he’d ever let a girl bruise it up. Wheeler looks as though she’d be apt to do so – she walks Byers round like a dog on a leash. Easy to see who has the run of that relationship, and this thought adds further to the ever-growing suspicion in the back of Eddie’s mind – a guess at what Steve might be like in the bedroom.

Jesus. He isn’t going out tonight. He’s not going to do shit other than drive home immediately and strip his dick raw while the memory is still fresh.

Steve moves further away from him, and Eddie spies another box he hadn’t managed to spill – it’s sitting underneath the counter, three abandoned LPs inside. He nudges it out with his boot, yawning surreptitiously – and gently upends it, scattering them across the floor. 

Steve turns to look at him, scandalised. His mouth is open again as he glares up at Eddie.

“Whoops,” Eddie says, popping the p and smiling lazily. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Steve grits his teeth.

“Go on. Hurry up – I need to close soon.”

Incredibly, he turns back to picking up the records.

By the time he’s done, Eddie feels like a caged animal. The tension in the room is something scalding and unbearable, coiled and ready to snap – Steve’s been silent the whole time, just red in the face as he works. And sure, maybe it really is fear of the camera overhead – but Eddie doubts it. He spins to face Steve again, offering him a hand up. Steve eyes it suspiciously, but he takes it regardless, and Eddie uses all his strength to pull him to his feet, tug him forward into his orbit – so that they’re face to face, inches away from each other. He lets his eyes flicker up and down between Steve’s eyes and his lips – a universally understood signal. Steve stumbles back like a frightened animal, so Eddie just cocks his hip, leans against the counter.

“Good job,” he intones dryly. “I’d hire you here as a cleaner, but I think I’d miss seeing you in those sailor shorts a little too much.”

Steve sputters at him. “You’re such a freak, Munson,” he spits.

Oh? I’m a freak? I’m a freak, Steve? Then why are you the one standing there hard as nails after I made you crawl around at my feet for the past ten minutes?

He doesn’t say that though. Steve looks spooked, and Eddie’s pretty sure that might push too far – might actually tip Steve over the edge into getting physical with him again, and not in a fun, flirty way.

He just stares at him, hard.

Steve turns on his heels and stalks out. Eddie wonders if he, too, has plans to drive home, lock his door, and jerk off furiously.

A man can dream.

“See you Tuesday, Harrington!”

Whatever it was that dumped Eddie into the twilight zone last week – King Steve at his feet, blushing red like a tomato, hard in his jeans over seemingly nothing – doesn’t repeat.

Steve withdraws.

It’s not exactly unexpected, Eddie muses. If he’d been in Steve’s shoes – either straight, and apparently afraid of busted up security cameras, or a tragic closet case with a masochistic streak (yum), he’d probably avoid the entire situation like the plague too. 

Eddie can’t really relate. He’d worked out his staring problem around pretty boys was going to be a lifelong issue at a pretty early age, and everybody already called him a queer to his face anyway, so… it’s not like he has much to hide from.

Steve is a different breed though.

Despite his efforts to remain charming and aloof to his never-ending horde of female customers, it’s pretty obvious that the whole King persona shtick is dead in the water. Eddie sees him twice around town in the week following the camera incident, and both times have him even more puzzled than before – Steve at the arcade, picking up a little red-haired girl and two other preteen boys as they follow him back to his shiny burgundy beemer. Eddie’s in the parking lot because he’d offered Jeff a lift back from his shift there before practice starts, and he frowns at the scene – but the kids crowd around him like some kind of mismatched group of lost ducklings. Steve laughs loud at some shit the red-haired kid says, shaking his head when he opens his car door. He looks animated and relaxed. Happy.

Babysitting?

It’s bizarre.

The next time he sees Steve, he’s with Byers and Wheeler – the three of them are sat in a booth at the diner round the corner from the Hawk, and Eddie pauses across the street, watching as Byers slides a paperback over towards Steve’s side of the table, waving his hands aloft in the air like hey, don’t shoot the messenger.

Eddie’s too far off to see what the book is. But god he wants to know. He wants to see the book. To know what Steve’s reading. To know what he’s doing, and why he’s hanging out with the weirdest crowd of people he could possibly pick from, and all the other new traits he’s picked up on that make him more and more intriguing.

It’s like being transported back in time to middle school, the first time he’d encountered Steve in the playground – clean and polished and preppy, with those big stupid cow eyes and that mess of soft brown hair. Eddie could have watched him all day long. He’d never approach Steve – he wasn’t looking to start shit, and Harrington was constantly flanked by at least two of his bitchy little posse – but god, he wanted. Wanted bad. A doomed, pointless wanting.

Now it’s as though he’s haunted by those feelings again, Steve’s laugh on repeat like a loop in his brain. His seeming reform. 

It’s bullshit.

People don’t change like that. Not in any way that matters. 

Still, it’s enough to have him avoiding Scoops Ahoy for the week following their chance encounter. In that week, Eddie sees Steve staring across into his store no less than five times. He grits his teeth and swallows back his temper, aggravated for no good reason. Steve’s right. Eddie is an asshole.

But he doesn’t want to care about it. He doesn’t want to give a shit over whether or not Harrington thinks he’s a good guy. Not after so many years of being looked down on. Of being belittled, kept in his place.

He does revisit Scoops Ahoy, but only after Buckley pays him a visit.

She’s sly, Buckley is. She doesn’t bring up Steve at all. Eddie has no fucking idea if Steve’s mentioned anything to her – why would he? What is there to mention, other than a possible fear for his job if he genuinely believed Eddie would report him for something as stupid as playfighting with him behind the cashdesk?

She just says she’s bored.

“C’mon,” she wheedles. “Aren’t you on break soon? Come over and help me decide on which new flavour name is the stupidest. We’ve got U.S.S Butterscotch, Eddie – I actually have to call it that.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. 

But he does pay her a visit that day.

For the ice cream. No other reason. U.S.S Butterscotch sounds absurd, and tastes delectable. He also makes Harrington repeat the name three whole times before he leaves, making note of the fact that while Steve still can’t meet his eye, he doesn’t seem any more pissed than usual. He just looks irritated and sort of bitchy. Standard Harrington practice.

So Eddie figures things can return to normal. 

Except they don’t.

Steve seems intent on driving him up the wall.

The next time he goes over there, Steve takes his break – he’s tried to play this card before, but Buckley normally reminds him he can’t do that until he’s passed the halfway mark through his shift (which he never has). Today she just waves him away, and he spends the whole time flirting with some chick in the booth across from Eddie, shooting him sly glances the whole time.

Juvenile. Juvenile and pathetic – Eddie isn’t going to rise to it. What, does Steve think that’s going to bother him because of Eddie’s lack of female admirers? Jesus, that’s embarrassing. 

He leaves the store. 

Steve also spends a lot more time eating the Scoops Ahoy product now, despite his constant recycled and repetitive unfunny remarks he plays out to whatever victim he’s trying to flirt with – yeah, can’t eat too much of the stuff – gotta keep trim, you know?

That no longer seems to bother him – he’s eating a cone when Eddie’s next in, his tongue darting out to lick at a rivulet of vanilla as it melts down onto his hand. 

Eddie can’t look. It’s like a fucking car crash. It’s like his brain stops functioning- just switches off, the same way the power at the mall has been doing recently, dying for minutes at a time with no real cause.

“Gimme a scoop of cherry chunk,” he says flatly. He’s not even going to bother trying to humiliate Steve today. Not while he looks like that – his hat is off (blatantly flaunting corporate policy, character development), hair dishevelled, lips red and cold, his eyes challenging.

“That’s got to be the worst flavour,” Steve sneers. “It’s so artificial, it tastes like soap.”

“Did I ask for your opinion? No, Harrington. Give me a scoop, c’mon. I’m growing old here.”

“Jeez, sorry. Who pissed in your cereal,” Steve mutters, placing his melting cone down into one of those little metal stands to hold it.

“Better than vanilla anyway. What are you, six?”

“The vanilla here is good,” he frowns. “You haven’t even tried it.”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “You keeping track of my orders, Harrington?”

“No. Your loss, anyway. It’s a good flavour.”

“It’s not my thing.”

Steve stares at him a beat too long, the silence between them stretched taut and brittle. He swallows.

“No,” he mutters, “clearly not. Here’s your soap flavoured frozen muck, Munson.”

He hesitates a moment before handing it over, and then sticks a bright red cocktail cherry on the top. Eddie scowls. Something about the gesture feels aggravating.

“My treat,” Steve smirks. “Now fuck off, please.”

God, what an asshole. Eddie isn’t going to dignify that with a response. 

Buckley opens the window then, calling Eddie to wait there – she has a tape for him. They swapped one each last week after Eddie had bullied her over her pedestrian music taste born from fear of her over-protective mother (metal music is a one way ticket to sin, it seems).

Eddie puts the cherry in his mouth, stem and all. Steve’s still staring at him, angry looking and ruffled, his posture all tight again. It’s like his presence alone has the ability to get Steve’s skin crawling – something Eddie revels in, because attention is attention, and anything that gets Harrington to look fucked off is a win in his book. 

Buckley appears. Eddie puts his fingers in his mouth and removes the cherry stem, tied in a pretty little knot, slick with his saliva.

He presses it onto the countertop in front of Steve, and smiles, baring his teeth.

“Thanks, sailor.”

Buckley rolls his eyes as she strolls past him, muttering gross under her breath as she drags him out to their usual booth. Eddie can’t bring himself to care.

Eddie makes note of the fact that those kids Steve was driving to and from the arcade also seem to be a permanent fixture in his life. There’s more of them too – he’s ninety percent sure one of them is Byers’ little brother, the one that went missing a while back. Nasty as fuck rumours floating round about that case. He looks carefree now though, flocking into Scoops Ahoy with his other little gang of middle school buddies, badgering Steve, abusing the free sample policy in a way Eddie has to begrudgingly respect. 

Buckley doesn’t seem involved with his brood of children. She tells Eddie off-handedly that Steve is like, a babysitter, or a big brother, or something of that ilk – that the kids come in and walk him like a dog, demanding ice cream and lifts and access to the hallway behind Scoops which Eddie knows for a fact is a shortcut into the movie theater. 

So. Interesting. Weird, but interesting. He doesn’t actually encounter any of them until a week later, when he’s over on his Thursday break, also abusing the free sample policy.

“Gimme another stick with mango,” he hums, tapping the little sample stick against his lips thoughtfully. “Actually? Vanilla, since you keep singing its praises.”

Steve sighs dejectedly, leaning towards the vanilla.

“Actually… no, definitely mango.”

Steve glowers at him. Eddie has to bite back a smile, because he just looks like a stupid pissed off baby animal – and he has a smear of some kind of red sorbet near his mouth.

“Munson –”

“Steve!”

Steve looks up, and his expression stutters with something akin to fear. He freezes, and then sighs, as if readying himself for some oncoming horror, glancing sidelong at Eddie, and then back again at the incoming rush of middle schoolers invading his workplace.

“Again?” he hisses, “seriously? That’s the third time this week, dipshits!”

The tallest one – a skinny, sour faced boy with a mop of black hair, glares at him. “So? Who cares?”

“Wheeler, you’re on thin ice,” Steve snarls, pointing a sample stick of mango in his direction. “People are going to notice.”

“People are going to notice because you’re bitching so much,” he mumbles under his breath. Eddie raises his eyebrows, turning back to face Steve with a grin. Wow. Buckley was not kidding.

“You know what? Lucas, Max, Will – you guys go. Mike, you’re pissing me off.”

“I’m – what? That’s total bullshit!” 

The red haired girl snickers, pushing past towards the door.

“See you, Wheeler!”

One of the kids – Will, Eddie’s pretty sure, dithers between them. “Mike, c’mon. Just apologise.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “God, fine. You know, this is why I said no to running that oneshot. You’re such a buzzkill, Steve.”

“Yeah, because I really wanted to spend my free time in your greasy little basement paying demons and dragons with you twerps,” Steve snorts, hand on his hip. “It’s Henderson you’re gonna disappoint, not me.”

“See if I care. As if you have anything better to do after Heidi dumped you.”

“See if you get shit from me in the future,” Steve replies scathingly. “And who – did Nancy tell you that? Because that is categorically untrue, actually, I dumped her –”

“I’m sure she cried herself to sleep for a week after,” Eddie adds lightly. Robin snorts from where she hangs over the window, observing. 

All four faces turn to him. 

Eddie narrows his eyes.

“Dude,” one of the other boys says, a black kid with a bandana. “Is that a beholder? On your shirt?”

Eddie cocks his head. Yes, it is in fact a beholder. Yes, he did spill half a can of mountain dew on his work shirt five minutes before leaving this morning, and had decided to also flaunt corporate policy – he was working in the stock room all day anyway, so.

“Possibly,” he muses, drawing the word out long and slow, “maybe, yeah, maybe – but hang on a minute," he frowns, "let me get this straight.”

He points at them.

“You guys are trying to get him –” he points at Steve, not looking in his direction – “to play dungeons and dragons? Harrington, have you ever read a fantasy novel? Actually, scratch that – you’re literate?”

“You play?”

“How do you know Steve?”

“Where’d you get your shirt?”

“Are you a DM?”

Eddie blinks. They’d all started talking at once (bar the girl, who looks unimpressed as she scans him head to toe). 

“No,” Steve snaps, “we’re not doing this. Mike, just go. All of you – and do not get caught on your way in, for the love of –”

He corrals them out the door, Mike now staring with an awestruck look in Eddie’s direction before Will drags him through the exit. 

Wow. Okay. That’s….

“This is a lot to process,” he comments. “Demons and dragons? What alternate reality have I stumbled into –”

Steve groans, putting his head in his hands. “It’s nothing – they’re just – they’re just some nerdy kids I… look out for, okay? Drop it, Munson.”

“Oh no,” Eddie grins, “no way – you, playing DnD? God, if the cheerleaders could see you now, Harrington – want me to show you the ropes? On second hand, don’t answer that. I’m sure someone of your social standing wouldn’t be seen dead associating with a Hellfire club member –”

“If you guys are going to keep this shit up, can you at least do it somewhere else? I have a headache,” Robin snaps. Eddie glances at her guiltily. Steve looks sheepish too, so Eddie figures fun’s over – time to retreat back to the Sisyphean task of stocking the Sam Goody storeroom. 

“Actually, Munson – while you’re here, and while you’re busy rinsing us of samples – come and actually act useful for once,” Robin brightens. She flounces out to the storefront and drags Eddie by the arm into the little back room, and then – Steve in tow, hissing protestations about health code violations – into the back hallway. There’s a great big stack of pallets with boxes strapped down to them.

“New shipment,” Robin grunts, shoving the first pallet towards him. “Unpack it, Steve’s not going to be in top form today since he took a –”

“Robin.”

Eddie whirls round. Harrington’s mouth is drawn in a tight little line. Eddie scans him, head to toe – and his eyes alight on the lower edge of his silky blue uniform shirt sleeve. There’s a big bruise peeking out. Almost looks like… fingerprints.

“Well well,” Eddie murmurs, leaning forward to try and lift the sleeve up, Steve dodging back out of reach. “Tripped into a lamppost, Harrington?”

“He won’t say who he tripped into, don’t bother,” Robin rolls her eyes. “But he’s been wincing all morning whenever he has to use the big scooper. Least you can do is help me by unpacking this shit – I’ll owe you one.”

“I don’t need any –”

“For you, Buckley?” Eddie simpers, cutting Steve off from his muttered protests. “Anything.”

He curtseys theatrically and she leaves, rolling her eyes.

Steve huffs. He pulls a Stanley knife from his pocket and starts to cut away at the plastic cording holding the tubs of ice cream in place.

“Ah –” Eddie tuts, wagging a finger. “Thought you were on bed rest, your highness?”

Steve stares at him, disgusted. “Just get on with it, Munson. I’ll cut ‘em free, you lift them into the back room, I’ll open the freezer for you.”

He stares at Eddie appraisingly, a long, lingering survey over his arms and chest. His lip curls. “That’s if you can even lift them with those twig arms.”

Eddie smiles. He folds his twig arms over his chest, watching Steve’s eyes flicker as they track the movement of his biceps.

“Doubting me, big boy?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage one or two,” Steve says idly, inspecting the nailbeds on his left hand. “But don’t worry, I’ll sub in when you get tired, ‘kay?”

“That’s cute,” Eddie laughs meanly, hefting up the first tub. “You flirt like a teenage girl. Or is this a jock initiation ritual? How much do you bench, Steve?”

“More than you,” Steve snarls, pushing past him to get back into the staff room and unlock the freezer. 

Not when it looks like someone tried to rip your arm out of its socket, Eddie thinks. He follows Steve back and tucks the frozen tub away, labelled SHERBET DREAM. 

Sure, they’re heavy. But no heavier than the three amps Eddie has to lug back and forth every time they play their weekly show. No heavier than the entirety of Gareth’s drum kit, which he’s had to pack away on numerous occasions. No heavier than bits of engine block and other garbage he’s had to help Wayne shift around when he’d been trying to fix up his rusted project car – point is, Eddie’s pretty sure he’ll manage the whole lot.

Definitely sure – determination comes strongest when you have a sour-faced bitchy opponent at your side, ready to bite, ready to chastise you with snide commentary as soon as it looks like the tubs are just a little too heavy.

“Tired, Munson?” Steve asks innocently. Eddie stands up straight from where he’d been piling one tub on top of the other, and takes a step towards Steve, expressionless. It feels good when Steve stumbles back. It feels restorative.

“Why? This normally when you tap out, princess? You have to ask Buckley to sub in to save you breaking a nail?”

“What are you on about?” Steve shakes his head, bewildered.

Eddie smiles like a shark. He slows down his words, lowering his tone – as if explaining something to somebody who just isn’t getting it. 

Steve isn’t getting it. 

“I can come help you next time, Steve. Next time it's too much, too heavy – come give me a call. Could do this all day – you can just stand there out front and look pretty, hm?”

Steve opens his mouth and then shuts it again. He gapes like a fish – and his cheeks give him away more than anything else, slowly flushing pink while Eddie steps closer. 

“Freak,” he eventually stutters out – but his tone is allll wrong. His delivery exposes him, clear as day – soft and breathless. 

“Why?” Eddie muses, cocking his head to the side. “Because I’m offering to help? To act like a gentleman to those in need?”

He steps closer again. Right up into Steve’s space, almost nose to nose.

“Pretty girls shouldn’t have to lift heavy cargo, Harrington. Why don’t you run along back inside to go peddle your wares and let me finish up here, hm?”

And see – Eddie knows he’s pushing it. He is Toeing The Line. But it’s worth it, so fucking worth it – to see the myriad of complex microexpressions flit across Steve’s features. Shock and horror and confusion and something else – something far more complicated. Something primal.

“You’re fucked in the head,” Steve breathes, his eyes tracking back and forth between Eddie’s own. “I don’t – I’m not –”

“Not what?”

Steve’s bottom lip is quivering. It’s making Eddie want to take it between his teeth. He could do it – he’s so close at this point. He can smell Steve – expensive shampoo and vanilla ice cream, and something muskier underneath it like sweat. Eddie wants to lick him all over like an animal, to suck a collar of bruises around his throat. He wants to mark his territory.

He’s almost over the precipice of caring –

“Wow, you guys work fast,” Robin comments dryly, pushing the door open. Steve flinches comically at the sound, jumping backwards and almost sprawling over an empty pallet – Eddie grabs for his arm, steadying him.

Steve’s still staring. Wide eyed, transfixed.

“Last two,” Eddie replies to Robin, letting Steve go. He turns away and hefts both in his arms, ignoring the twinge in his muscles – he is pretty damn tired out. Robin slaps him on the back, murmuring her thanks as she holds the door open.

“Offer’s still open, Harrington,” he calls as he walks through the door, not looking back. He’s pretty sure Steve isn’t following them. He’s pretty sure Steve might be stalling out.

Eddie leaves Scoops Ahoy feeling particularly vindicated that day.

Eddie isn’t honestly expecting anything from Steve after that – he figures he’ll get the silent treatment, or Steve backing off at the very least. He’s off work on Saturday anyway because he has a gig in the city, and he traded shifts with Melissa so that he was free to drive them all into a dive bar in Indy and make a racket on stage. He drinks himself stupid after. He makes eyes at a guy across the bar who he’s pretty sure was checking him out earlier – but his heart isn’t in it. 

They’re all boring now. Any opportunities he stumbles across. 

He’s drowning in Steve Harrington. 

In the way he looks, and sounds, and smells, and laughs – the way he babysits dungeons and dragons playing middle schoolers. The way he makes Buckley smile. The way he looks at Eddie when Eddie pushes a step over the line – like some kind of prey animal. Those big stupid cow eyes. 

Nobody else is going to compare.

When Tuesday rolls around, he’s pretty wrung out – he’d smoked himself into a brainless haze last night at Rick’s, the type where you still wake up kind of slow and stupid, dry mouthed and out of battery. Work is going to suck.

He spends his break outside in the back alley just for the fresh air – it’s actually a cool day for once, so he squats down against the wall with his walkman on, smoking, eating a slightly bruised apple that Wayne had pushed into his hand on his way out. Wayne’s latest thing is worrying Eddie’s going to develop scurvy. Which is stupid, because Eddie does eat vegetables. Pickles are a vegetable. 

He doesn’t get much of a chance to try and ogle Steve from across the mall, because he’s once again been relegated to working in the storeroom for most of the day – that is, until Paul decides he wants to knock off early, and asks him to close alone.

“Please, man? I’ll owe you big time. Got a date with Katy Carr, and I’m like, ninety percent sure I’ll score.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose. He’s kind of pissed at Paul – not only is the guy a total creep, but he’d ratted Eddie out to Sarah, the corporate lady who stops by their store from time to time to check in on things. He’d got in big shit just because Jeff had been with him behind the counter a while back, pretending to do Eddie’s job to show him how easy it was. Paul had snarked because he’s a rat, and because he told Eddie that Sarah had apparently walked by that day and seen anyway and then interrogated him about it – which Eddie doubts.

Still. It’s not worth the mental energy to argue.

“Whatever, dude.”

He slides behind the counter. Only half an hour till close anyway, and the place is dead – it’s always quiet on Thursdays. He wiles away the time stickering discount LPs, figuring maybe he’ll get away with shutting shop a little early – only ten minutes at least, bare minimum… and no one is here –

Eddie looks up as someone marches through the doorway, storming up to the cash register with a thunderous expression.

Eddie raises his eyebrows.

“Harring –”

“Where have you been?” Steve hisses. “What have you – first you weren’t here on Saturday – and then today you just – you didn’t – on your break, I mean –“

Eddie feels his mouth drop open. Steve is moving without thought, it seems – pointing a finger in his direction as he stalks round the side of the cash desk, infringing on Eddie’s space, stepping forward.

“– you were just gone, didn’t see you here either, are you like – were you sick? Or do you ditch work as well as class? What kind of –”

“Why the hell does it concern you?” Eddie asks, baffled. “Why do you give a –”

“You can’t just! You can’t just come over there and say – say crazy shit like that, and then disappear like –”

Eddie snaps his head towards the entrance.

Fuck.

He knows that sound. Heels, stalking towards the store- a spot check. 

“Get down,” he hisses, shoving Steve frantically by the shoulders, “duck, moron! My boss is about to come in here and rag on me, and she’ll totally chew me out if she sees you behind here, down!”

Shockingly, Steve obeys – ducking quickly as Sarah waltzes into the store, narrowing her eyes at the sight of Eddie, who has a winning smile plastered on his face. His hand is still in Steve’s hair, from when he’d shoved him down under the desk.

The good thing is – the counter is pretty tall, and close to the shelf behind him. You can’t really see shit below it unless you were right up close, peering over it – and something tells Eddie that Sarah won’t bother. She’s kept her distance in the two times they’ve met, her button nose wrinkled as though encountering a bad smell. 

Priss.

Steve shuffles at his feet as she approaches – Eddie chances a glance down and almost dies – he’s literally kneeling there, in the stupid sailor shorts – his hands clenched into fists on his thighs. Eddie’s hand still fisted in his hair. He shuffles again.

So Eddie tightens his grip.

There’s a very quiet muffled noise – he pulls Steve’s head against the side of his leg, keeping him from moving. 

Jesus fucking christ. 

This is insanity. Has he lost his mind? This is too far, he wouldn’t be surprised if Steve tried to beat the shit out of him after this.

“Edward, right?”

Sarah’s in front of him now, eyeing him up and down with a disgruntled look on her face. Eddie thanks his lucky stars that he’d bothered to wear a staff shirt today. His hair is up, too – he watches her eyes scan over his mismatched tattoos. His dirty silver rings on his free hand.

Her lip curls.

“Yes ma’am,” Eddie intones dully. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe you can, yes – I just popped by to let you know that starting next month, we’ll be extending the hours at this branch to close at eight, rather than six – only on weekends. Several other stores will be implementing this change, and of course we’ll re-arrange shift patterns… I had hoped there’d be a store manager on site today, no Paul or Ryan?”

Eddie’s barely present right now. Fucking Paul. All he can focus on is Steve – warm under his hand, still fisted tight in his precious hair. There’s product in it, Eddie can tell. He cards his fingers through it gently, and feels Steve press a little closer to his calf, rubbing his cheek against the denim of Eddie’s jeans. Warm. So warm.

Sweet jesus.

“Oh, um. Actually – you just missed Paul,” Eddie shrugs, widening his eyes like what can you do? 

“He left like, five minutes ago.”

“Hmm,” she frowns, clearly displeased. Her hair is simply enormous. Eddie wonders what she has to do to get it to sit like that all day, teased and frizzed into place perfectly. “Well. I suppose I’ll have to just… call by another day. If you see Paul when you’re next in, do tell him to call me, please.”

She frowns suspiciously. “Edward?”

Fucking Edward. He feels Steve move a little again and curls his fingers tight, pulling at his hair – he coughs, in case Steve makes another little choked noise (which he does. Christ alive, he does.)

“Yeah?”

“You should really have your staff name badge pinned on your shirt,” she says flatly. 

“Of course, ma’am. Sorry ‘bout that.”

She nods stiffly, and turns on her heels. Stalks out.

Eddie lets the air escape his lungs like a deflating balloon. He hadn’t even realised he was holding his breath. He lets go of Steve, peering out into the emptying mall and watching Sarah vanish into the distance up the escalator.

“Fuck,” he mutters, “okay, you’re good. She’s gone, sorry about –”

He stares, choking off mid sentence.

Steve looks up at him, on his knees, his mouth slightly open. His eyes black with pupils blown wide – his cheeks pink. His hair is a total mess, fuck.

He looks fucked out.

“Woah,” Eddie murmurs. “O-kay. C’mon, Steve –”

He offers him a hand, and Steve stumbles to his feet – and oh boy.

Eddie can’t help it. He’s only human, and Steve’s in the shorts which are hiding absolutely nothing – least of all his dick, straining hard against the fabric. There’s a tiny damp patch towards one side, and Eddie’s eyes hone in on it with laser focus.

Like… Eddie was ready to apologise.

He was ready for Harrington to come up spitting and fighting, to maybe try and sock him one for that shit – but this?

“Wow,” he smirks. “You feeling lightheaded, princess? Should I catch you if you swoon? All the blood in your body seems to have travelled, uh –”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Eddie closes his mouth. He leans his hip against the counter, waiting for Steve to make a move. Steve does, his mouth in a bitter line, his hands still fisted – he steps into Eddie’s space, breathing hard, his fists curled up at each side.

Eddie has just barely an inch over him. Just enough to stare him down. Try to make him feel small. He waits for whatever vitriol Steve has planned to throw his way – braces himself for Steve to shove at him, even –

“So are we doing this, then?”

Eddie narrows his eyes.

Okay. Fine. Skipping foreplay, sure.

“Doing what, Harrington?”

Irritation flickers across Steve’s features as steps forward again, still breathing unevenly. Still red in the face.

“You’re really going to make me say it?” he whispers. “You need me to ask?”

“No,” Eddie grins, reaching up to tug at the red ascot tied around his stupid little sailor shirt. He leans in closer, hooking a finger into the waistband of his stupid little sailor shorts. His lips brush the shell of Steve’s ear as he speaks, voice pitched soft and low.

“You’re not going to ask. You’re going to beg.”

And then Steve moans.

All Eddie can do is try and remain upright. He’s dizzyingly hard – his hand comes down in a vice grip on Harrington’s hip, and fuck is he – is he shaking? Is Eddie actually awake at this point? He moves Steve back to stare at his face – to check that this is real, this is actually happening –

And then CLICK!

The lights go.

Both of them jump – Steve jumps back, moving away from Eddie, and everything is so pitch black –

“Power cut,” Eddie manages to say, his voice a little strangled. “Another one.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Eddie wishes he could see him – he can just hear him, panting in the dark. He wonders if he’s still shaking. Still hard.

He reaches out.

“Steve, I –”

“Steve?! Steve?!”

He turns his head to the entranceway. Robin’s voice calls from far off – it feels like a million miles away. It might as well be metres away, for the effect it has on Steve – Eddie sees him, formless in the dark, staggering back and then out towards the direction of Robin’s voice.

Eddie sinks into a crouch, raking hands through his hair. 

“Fuuuck,” he hisses. 

Son of a bitch. 

Did he fuck this up? Did he fuck that up? Did that actually happen? Did Steve really say –

The lights flicker back on, one by one. Eddie has no idea why the power keeps dying – it started happening over a month ago, only in the evenings. It’s strange, because from what he’s heard, nowhere else around the mall seems affected. Maybe it’s on its own special private grid or some shit. Incredibly irksome timing.

He shuts the store up dejectedly, taking longer than usual – dragging the task out so he doesn’t have to face going home. By the time he pulls down the shutters and locks up, the place is well and truly empty. It feels like a liminal space – lit overhead with fluorescents, the faintest sound of footsteps echoing somewhere nearby – probably maintenance, or some cleaning staff. Eddie’s never normally in here this late. Between Sarah, and Steve, and the power cut – he checks his watch. Six thirty four. Whatever. Wayne’s working late at the plant tonight – not like anyone’s waiting up for him at home.

He scowls as he walks towards the escalators, because they’re frozen – he’s noticed that they get all stuck after that powercut thing happens, won’t work for a while. And yeah, sure, maybe he’s feeling lazy – but sue him. It’s been a day and a half, he cannot be bothered with climbing the unmoving stairs. 

Elevator it is.

He calls it down to the ground floor and waits. Pretty sure he can hear someone nearby, but there’s no one there when he turns round, so he gets in alone, facing the row of buttons as the doors close.

“Wait!”

He hears him approach as though running. Sprinting. 

Eddie slides his fingers over the doors before they shut, wide eyed, his heart in his throat. Steve’s footsteps pound towards him as he weasels his way into the spacious elevator, panting furiously.

He doesn’t look up at Eddie from where he’s bent over, his hands on his knees, but he flaps at him like, go, press the button.

So Eddie does.

Maybe this is it. Maybe they’ll talk now, in the parking lot or whatever. Maybe he’ll get an answer to the big, glaring question between them.

Eddie presses the first floor level.

The elevator judders as it rises, and maybe that should be, like, some kind of foreboding omen, maybe that should have warned him shit was about to go sideways. Because the elevator doesn’t reach the first floor. 

It squeaks, and then grinds to a halt – 

And then it happens again.

CLICK.

They’re plunged into darkness, and he hears Steve gasp sharply – seconds later, they’re both bathed in a softer, dimmed glow. Backup lights.

“Oh fuck,” Steve moans, “oh no no no nonononnono-”

“Shit!” Eddie hisses, jabbing at the first floor button again – and then the ground floor, and the second floor, and then the emergency alarm bell – all of it is fruitless, because the panel isn’t backlit anymore. The buttons are just buttons, leading to dead ends.

“Press the alarm!” Steve says, appearing next to him looking frantic, “Munson – the bell, press –”

“I am! What the fuck do you think I’m doing over here, having a picnic?”

“Why the fuck isn’t it WORKING!”

“The power’s gone, shitbrain - it’s not going to magically summon a mall cop –”

“Why the fuck does this keep happening?!” Steve groans, sinking into a ball on the floor, sliding hands into his hair and tugging. “Why haven’t they fixed the goddamn generator, or whatever the hell –”

“Harrington –”

“– causes this bullshit to fuck up the power, like – this is dangerous! This is totally a health code violation! Or a safety –”

“STEVE!”

Eddie’s on his knees. He crouches in front of Steve, his hand hovering above him – somehow touching him now, while he’s this frantic and panicked – it feels different to the usual charged atmosphere between them. Eddie’s an asshole, but he can still tell that Steve is freaked.

Steve doesn’t look up. Eddie sits back, and then stands again. Moving to lean against the wall where the buttons are.

“Look,” he says shortly, “it’s okay. It’ll be okay, Steve – the power always comes back on, right?”

Steve doesn’t move.

“Like… what, the longest I’ve seen it out for was five minutes. Even if it comes back on and the elevator’s still fucked, people will come to get us out. There’s maintenance, and cleaning crews – we’ll be out in no time.”

Steve looks up at him, tired looking. Eddie notices he’s digging his fingers into the bruises around his upper arm and frowns.

He looks away.

“You’re not gonna call me a little bitch for freaking out?” Steve eventually says, dryly as he glances away from Eddie.

Why, Eddie thinks, do you want me to?

He clears his throat. “Uh, no. Pretty sure I shit my pants just as bad when that went down, Harrington – you didn’t see me playing whack-a-mole on the button panel?”
Steve snorts.

“Wish I’d just given my twig legs the workout and taken the dead escalator,” Eddie mutters. He tugs at a lock of hair hanging in front of his face.

Steve’s staring at him.

He watches his eyes flicker down over Eddie’s thighs. To his feet, in sneakers today – one lace undone and fraying at the end. Eddie taps his foot restlessly.

“It’s been five minutes,” Steve murmurs after a time. “You think the power will be on soon?”

Eddie has no idea. He’s guessing yes, but who’s to tell? Maybe it goes out for longer periods of time at night, by the time he and Steve have already left?

“Sure,” he says easily. “Bet it’ll be on any second.”

Steve snorts again. “You’re a shit liar, Munson. I thought drama kids were meant to be good at like, improv, and stuff.”

Eddie narrows his eyes.

“Drama kids?”

“Yeah,” Steve looks up at him. “You were, weren’t you? You took drama. You look like the type.”

Eddie reels back as if shot in mock outrage. “Stereotyping, Harrington? What, because of my tendency to –”

“Perform long winded monologues to the poor fuckers just trying to eat lunch at the caf? Yeah, I’m making an assumption.”

“Of course you are. Everyone has to fit into your conformist little regimen – maybe I was just trying to educate the masses.”

Steve smiles wryly. “That, and I’m pretty sure you were in the school show one year. You were, right?”

Eddie stops moving.

Right.

He was. 

Back in middle school. 

He’d still had his head shaved. He played a ghost in the christmas show – the ghost of christmas past, starring front and centre in a christmas carol. Wayne had come and everything, because it was the first year he’d lived in Hawkins.

But Eddie barely remembers it.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I was.”

Steve nods.

He presses his fingers into the bruise.

“Probably shouldn’t do that,” Eddie comments. “You put arnica on it?”

Steve blinks at him. “What?”

“On that mess on your arm. Who’d you piss off, anyway? Don’t give me the lamppost spiel. I’m not Buckley, I’m not gonna let you off that easy.”

Steve shakes his head slowly, folding in on himself a little more – but he does at least relinquish the grip on his arm.

He sighs, stretching his legs out – Eddie tracks the movement. Long and tan, with his dumb sailor socks sliding down his calves.

“Hargrove gave me some shit,” he admits. “He’s, uh. You know that girl – one of the kids you met last week? Red hair? She’s his little sister.”

Eddie frowns.

“So?”

“He… it’s complicated. He kind of has a problem with another one of the kids she hangs around with. He was always a bit of a dick to me – but he saw me with the two of them at the basketball court out near the fairground a week back, practicing – Lucas wants to try out for the team when he’s a freshman, you know? Lucas is… he’s the kid Billy has an issue with.”

Billy.

“Anyway. He just came over and started in on him, and me and another guy at the court had to get him to lay off. He’s a… a real piece of shit, to be honest,” Steve spits, “I fuckin’ hate that guy.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “He sounds like a grade A asshole.”

Steve glances at him.

“He give you any shit last year? At school, I mean?”

“Hargrove? Nah. I wasn’t even on his radar, dude. Bigger fish to fry than the town freak,” Eddie sighs. “He tried to fuck you up then?”

Steve shrugs. “He’s done it before.”

“Before?”

Eddie’s voice is steely. He’s not trying to – it’s just – the way Steve’s talking about this so casually, as if it barely affects him…

“He put his hands on you? Before this?”

Steve swallows. Shrugs again.

“It’s whatever, man. He’s too much of a pussy to try anything for real. I just worry about Max. I… I worry about all of those little dipshits, to be honest. Like, when they start freshman year… I dunno.”

He frowns. Opens his mouth as if to continue, and then closes it again.

“That’s… sweet,” Eddie admits. Deliberately staring away from Steve, up at the ceiling.

He closes his eyes. 

This feels tantamount to torture.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Steve asks quietly. Fuck, that kicked-puppy face is doing legwork. Eddie wants to die. Wants the elevator to plunge him – and only him – into oblivion.

“What do you mean?”

“Like… normally you’re kind of a dick,” Steve smirks. “You going soft, Munson?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “God forbid I try and converse pleasantly with you, your highness. I kind of figured… well. Not really the time, is it.”

He gestures at the elevator, still dimly aglow in red light. Steve narrows his eyes.

“The time for what?”

Is he being obtuse? Deliberately dense? Eddie’s pretty sure he isn’t – pretty sure he just wants to poke the bear.

“Well,” he mutters, “we kind of have a thing going on, no? A rivalry? And I just don’t think-”

“A thing?” Steve grins, sitting forward, his eyes glittering. “What – what do you mean, thing? You’re normally so direct.”

Eddie stares at him, hard. “Do I really have to say it?” he drawls, twirling a frizzy lock of hair around his finger. “Do you need me to say it, Steve?”

Steve slumps a little. His posture loosens as though his strings have been cut – the way he’s looking at Eddie now is something dangerous and hungry. Something indecent considering the circumstances – trapped together in a public elevator. 

Then again – the camera in one corner looks entirely dead. There’s no little red light- Eddie supposes it’s not part of the backup system.

No, he thinks, you cannot try and fuck Steve Harrington in an elevator at the place where you are both employed. Do not do that.

“I thought that was my job,” Steve adds softly. “What, you’re shy now?”

“Do I look shy?”

“You’re not acting as brave as you were behind the cash register, that’s for sure.”

“Why should I?” Eddie asks, looking down on him as Steve shuffles forward. He lets his eyes scan lazily over the shirt, the shorts – his tan thighs. The moles scattered across his neck. The bruise on his arm.

Eddie’s eyes harden.

“You haven’t asked me nicely yet, have you? For whatever it is you’re acting so desperate for.”

“Thought this wasn’t the time?” Steve asks smugly, cocking his head to the side, his hair flopping gently over his forehead. Oh, how Eddie wants to get his fingers back in that glorious tangle of brown hair. Pull it until Steve starts acting a little politer.

“It isn’t,” Eddie replies, his lip curling. “Stop acting out.”

Steve blinks at him softly.

And then he crawls forward.

Eddie’s helpless to the pull – he’s entirely at Steve’s mercy now, despite what it might look like from an outside perspective – he shifts his feet apart as Steve crawls on his hands and knees, kneeling between his legs and staring up, a challenge glittering in his wide brown eyes.

He slides a hand down into Steve’s hair – then down his face, ghosting over his cheekbone softly, his breath hitching when Steve nuzzles sideways into his palm. Eddie can hardly breathe for how beautiful he is. For how bad he wants.

His hand cards into Steve’s hair, and pulls.

“Ah –” Steve hisses, his eyes fluttering shut – “fuck –”

“Did you have something you wanted to say, sweetheart?” Eddie asks softly, angling his head up, yanking on his roots. There’s tears smarting in the corners of Steve’s eyes already. His mouth is wide open.

“Please –” he whispers, “Eddie, I – please –”

“Do you even know what you’re begging for?” Eddie wonders, smiling slightly as he moves Steve’s head to and fro.

Steve’s eyes drop from his face to his dick, lightning fast. 

Oh shit.

“Who would have thought,” he muses, his free hand drifting to his belt buckle. “Steve Harrington is a cocksucker, huh?”

The wallet chain click-clacks as he undoes the buckle, sliding the belt free, and Steve breathes harder, his eyes still fixed on Eddie’s crotch. On his hand.

“Is that it, princess? You want me to fuck your mouth?”

Steve’s eyes flicker up as Eddie lets go of his hair, freeing him so he leans back a little, faltering. He undoes his top button, shimmying the zip down, and Steve makes a sort of strangled, cut off noise again.

“God, you’re drooling,” he marvels, palming himself over his jeans while he slides one hand back down to Steve’s face, parting his lips to wipe a line of spit from the corner of his mouth. He puts his thumb, coated in Steve’s saliva, into his own mouth and sucks, eyeing him appraisingly, and Steve gasps, squirming on the ground. “You want it that bad?”

Steve tries to look pissed, which, really – it’s cute. Fuck, Eddie wishes he had a camera. He’s not sure he’s ever seen a more arousing image in his entire life.

“No? You don’t want me to fuck your mouth? Where’d all that attitude go, hm? You were acting so brave when you started crawling over here like a whore. Put your money where your mouth is, sweetheart. Beg me for it.”

“Fuck you,” Steve snarls, and Eddie laughs, fisting a hand into his hair again.

“Try again,”

“I don’t – ah –”

“You don’t what? You don’t want it? You’re such a little liar. Look at you,” Eddie grins, nudging Steve’s knees apart with the toe of one sneaker, gently pressing his foot forward against his dick, straining against the blue fabric of his shorts. “You’re leaking over the fucking idea Harrington. S’that all it takes to get you off? I get a little rough with you and you cream your pants?”

“You’ve barely touched me,” Steve sneers. “Guess the whole freak thing is bullshit, huh? You’re all talk, but I bet you fuck like a blushing virgin-”

Eddie pulls his dick out. 

Steve finally stops talking, and his mouth opens up again – great. Well, that’s the first step, Eddie thinks.

“I haven’t even started, Steve,” he says softly. “What, this your first time touching a cock? Let me give you a closer look –”

He grabs at Steve’s hair again, rubbing the head of his dick all  over his cheek as Steve squeezes his eyes shut, gasping. There’s a string of precome sliding like snail slime across his face, and Eddie groans softly when Steve sticks his tongue out, eager and un co-ordinated, letting him run the head over the entrance to his soft wet mouth. He’s fucking quivering again – he really is leaking into his shorts now. Jesus, like a leaky faucet.

“Gross,” Steve shivers, choking on the word, “you’re gross –”

“Oh, you think so? Guess I’ll just… put this away then –”

Steve lets out a strangled little noise in response, trying to shake his head – he stares up at Eddie through his lashes.

“No?”

He bites his lip.

“No,” he says, “let me – I want –”

“You want,” Eddie repeats, sliding his thumb into Steve’s mouth, watching as his eyes flutter shut. “This your first time sucking cock, Harrington? Doesn’t look like you have a clue what to do.”

Eddie feels the soft muscle of Steve’s tongue suction tight against his thumb, as if in challenge – his eyes narrow defiantly as he stares up. He presses down until Steve’s forced into opening his mouth wider.

“I can be a whole lot more gross,” he murmurs, tipping Steve’s head up, bending lower to get closer to him. “If you ask politely. I know you can. Be a good girl and ask me nicely.”

Eddie has him, hook, line, sinker. His eyes flutter shut again and he whimpers, trying to close his mouth – Eddie lets his thumb slide out again, dragging a long line of saliva with it, back into his own mouth while Steve watches on, fixated. Entranced.

“Please,” he breathes, “I – please –”

“That’s better,” Eddie smiles, eyes half lidded, cradling Steve’s jaw. “Tell me to stop if you don’t… if you don’t like something. Or tap me, whatever.”

Steve blinks at him, his eyes glazed over. 

“Nod, Steve. Do you get it? Yes or no.”

Steve nods.

“Good. Open your mouth again. Yeah, like that – show me your tongue. Wow, what a fucking picture – you were just made for this, huh?”

Eddie leans a little closer. Tips Steve’s face up again, his eyes flickering down to that pink expanse of shiny wet tongue –

And spits on it. 

Steve makes a garbled, whining noise when he does, his legs squirming – he must be fucking chafing against those shorts, Eddie thinks. He looks about ready to burst. 

“Nice and wet for me,” he sighs, stroking himself leisurely as he rubs the head of his dick over Steve’s tongue, wiping it around in the pool of saliva there, slowly dripping from Steve’s mouth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, feeding it further in, “close your mouth, good boy – what, you don’t like that one? You’re so cute. Pretty girl – fuck, your mouth feels good. Oh – yeah, that’s it –”

He fists a hand in Steve’s hair, pulling it again – that seems to be a winning move, because Eddie can feel him moan around his cock, and then gag slightly as he pushes in a little too fast. Jesus, that’s hot. He hopes Steve doesn’t mind if he tries again, just –

“Poor baby,” Eddie coos, pulling back as Steve coughs, wiping a tear from one eye. “Too big? Too much?”

Steve glares at him, red in the face. He reaches down and rubs at his cock through the shorts, hissing – Eddie nudges his hand away with his shoe again, tutting.

“Did I fucking say you could do that? No. Keep your hands off, or I’ll tie them back. Want to try again? Yes or no.”

“Try again,” Steve sneers, his voice rough and broken, “that was pathetic. You talk all this shit about rough and you’re barely sticking it in. Thought you were gonna smack me about, freak –”

Holy shit. Harrington’s attitude is never going to cease to amaze him – Eddie has to stop himself raising his eyebrows.

“Nobody mentioned that actually,” he says lightly, winding a fist back into his hair, sliding his cock back into his mouth and groaning at the feeling, hot and wet and slick. “Think that’s you projecting, sweetheart. You want smacked around? I’m not sure you should be the one calling me a freak – isn’t that gross, Steve? Answer me, c’mon. Tell me what you want me to do – yeah, fuck –”

Eddie doesn’t give him a chance to reply. He doesn’t pull back when Steve gags again, just holds his head in place and fucks in with short, fast thrusts, feeling the beginning of an orgasm start to curl low in his gut. He laughs meanly at the noises Steve makes, the way his hands clench into fists on his shorts- the way his hips twitch forward in a desperate attempt at friction where he needs it most.

“Not gonna answer? Guess – ah – your mouth’s kinda full, isn’t it baby? Is this better, Steve? Rough enough for you?”

He pulls out, ignoring Steve’s protesting whine, rubs his dick back over his mouth again. Smacks it against his cheek.

“C’mon, answer me. I wanna hear it. Wanna hear you give in.”

Steve squeezes his eyes closed, scrunching up his face as Eddie maneuvers his head to rub his cheek against his dick, pulling his hair.

“Pathetic,” he pants, “you’re – I’ve had wet dreams hotter than this – mmf –”

“You dream about me a lot?” Eddie grins. Steve bats his eyelashes, looking up coyly.

“Sure. Not gonna lie, turns out the real thing is definitely a let down in comparison.”

Eddie slaps him.

There’s a split second moment where he realises that was probably too far – Steve’s head whipping to the side, his cheek bright red now –

“Oh,” he moans, “yeah - Eddie – please, again –”

It takes everything in him not to come. He has to squeeze the base of his dick, swearing under his breath as he slaps Steve again, open handed, and Steve wails, his hand back at the front of his shorts, panting heavily, desperately, his face screwed up in pleasure. 

Eddie isn’t sure how much truth was behind that whole dream thing, but christ alive – nothing he’s ever thought up in his own head past midnight has ever compared in the slightest to having Steve Harrington act like this. 

He’s fucking feral. 

It’s like fucking an actual pornstar, having him there on his knees in that stupid uniform, begging Eddie to slap him around.

“What did I tell you about touching,” Eddie growls, nudging Steve’s hand away again – and then yanking him up by the hair, pinning him face first up against the wall of the elevator. 

Steve writhes beneath him, whining like some kind of cat in heat, arching back and struggling against his grip – Eddie’s pretty sure Steve could easily overpower him if he wanted, but there’s something about the way he whines and wriggles pathetically that sells the idea that he couldn’t. 

“I warned you,” Eddie snarls, wrapping his bandana around Steve’s wrists, once, twice, tight – maybe too tight –

“Okay, yes, no?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Steve groans, “shut up and do something, fuck –”

“You need to learn – to – be – patient,” Eddie grunts, knotting it tight, then spinning Steve round so he’s facing him again, holding him down loosely by the throat. He presses his body right up against Steve’s, leaning in to press his face into his neck – Steve bares it for him so easily, sighing when Eddie bites down, finally, intent on leaving a bruise. He palms Steve through his stupid shorts, squeezing him until he wriggles again, thrusting forward and whimpering Eddie’s name softly, as if trying to hold it back.

“What was that?” Eddie asks, smiling dazedly. "Couldn't hear you, princess.”

Steve stares away from him, biting his lip as he shivers. “I said touch me, asshole –”

“That’s a lie,” Eddie cuts in, idly tightening his grip around Steve’s throat. “Try again. Sounded a lot more like my name, actually.”

“You wish.”

“Say it. Say it and I’ll touch you.”

“Freak –”

“Want me to hit you again instead, Steve? I’ll make the next one really hurt. Say it, now. Who’s gonna fuck you up? Tell me.”

Steve bites his lip harder – Eddie can see a tiny bead of blood welling up there, and makes a mental note to lick it off him in a minute – for now he bites down hard on Steve’s throat again, sucking another bruise there as Steve pants, writhing – he licks a stripe up to his ear, and Steve finally gasps out Eddie, Eddie please, please Eddie, please pleasepleaseplease –

“There we go, good girl, was that so fucking difficult?”

He shoves Steve’s shorts down – woah. Tighty wighties. He snorts, pulling those down too, letting them puddle around Steve’s ankles, rubbing a thumb over the slit of his cock as he bucks his hips and groans.

“Would you look at that,” Eddie muses. “That’s cute.”

Steve stares at him, outraged- his mouth drops open. “Wha – fuck off, Munson! Pretty sure I’m packing more down there than you –”

“Aw, you wanna measure with me? Is that what goes on after basketball practice, honey? You guys touch tips and argue over who’s bigger? I was talking about the fact that you’re wetter than a fucking girl,” Eddie coos. “Look at that, baby- you’re fucking begging for it, aren’t you? All wet and no one to touch you up. Bet you’d get even wetter if I touched you here –”

He slides his hand down towards Steve’s taint, lower to his rim – Steve squirms and gasps, but his legs spread wider instinctively. Eddie rubs over him, back and forth.

“You ever touch yourself here, Steve?” he asks softly. “Ever have a girl stick a finger in while she sucks you off?”

Steve blinks at him, shakes his head back and forth. Eddie can see a steady stream of precome leaking from the head of his dick – he swipes at it, then returns to Steve’s rim. Leans in so his face is right up against his ear again.

“I could fuck your little virgin hole till you’re bent over screaming, Steve. Till nothing else does it for you – till you can’t get off again without my cock in your ass and my hand around your throat. Gonna get you hooked on it, begging for a fix – gonna make you my little housewife. You want that? You wanna let the town freak break you in, fuck you nice and hard? Promise I won’t be gentle.”

He slides the tip of his middle finger in, slowly – fuck, he’s tight. Utterly unyielding as he pants and gasps in Eddie's grip, Eddie's other hand stroking him root to tip, slick and wet.

“No bitchy little comments?” Eddie wonders, sliding his finger out and reaching up to shove his shirt up high on his chest, palming at his pecs, his nipples pebbled in the cool air. “Nothing to say?”

“Nothing,” Steve huffs, “except –”

“Nope,” Eddie cuts in flatly, rucking his shirt up and using his other hand to pinch Steve's jaw until he finally gives, mouth lolling open – he stuffs the shirt inside. “Think I like you better with your mouth full. Let me feel you up – fuck, look at you,” he moans, “you look like such a little whore. Any chance you’d be able to swipe a girls uniform, baby? I’d kill to fuck you in that skirt. Stockings, too. Don't look at me like that,” Eddie grins, squeezing his cheeks again until the shirt falls out from his mouth, damp with drool, Steve’s tongue hanging out. He presses down on it with his thumb, slick and wet.

“As if you aren't getting off on the idea," he murmurs. "You're such a fucking princess, pretending you haven't been thinkin’ about me calling you a slut while I screw you raw. Get down on your knees again, go on. I'll make it good for you if you do.”

Steve drops like a rag doll, his hands still caught behind his back – Eddie pulls him back by the hair to face him, breathing hard as he strokes his own neglected dick. Any second longer and he might have come untouched, just from the image of Steve with his shirt pulled up over his chest, hands tied back, dick leaking obscenely with Eddie's handprint on his cheek.

“Tell me, ah, who you belong to,” Eddie grunts, close now – fuck, it feels good, and Steve's big brown eyes are all glassy and stupid now. 

“Say it, go on. Say it and I'll give you a treat. C’mon, puppy –” 

“I’m not,” Steve whines, “I'm not gonna – that’s too –” 

“S’not that complicated, sweetheart. Just tell me. Tell me who's gonna make you come. C’mon.”

He fists his hand firmer in Steve's hair and he gasps, his eyelids fluttering – his mouth hanging open, and god, shit, shit, Eddie's almost there, about to barrel over the finish line.

“Eddie,” Steve moans, “just – please – I'll let you – you can be the only one, I only ever – I only wanted you anyway, only you, Eddie –”

Regardless of how truthful Steve's being as he whimpers and wriggles against his grasp, Eddie feels pleasure building fast, a cresting wave – he gasps Steve’s name breathlessly, all drawn out, coating his face and mouth in ropes of come. 

It's all over his cheeks.

All over his chin.

All over his pretty, wet mouth.

“Can you still fuck me? Or – or your fingers?” Steve asks weakly, his tongue darting out to lick at some of the come near his lower lip. Eddie shakes his head slowly, near struck dumb – once again, he's pretty sure he’d sell his own kidney right now for access to a goddamn camera. 

“You want me to fuck you that bad?” he asks softly, stroking a thumb over Steve's bottom lip. Steve whines, his mouth hanging open – he's fully gone now, floating up beyond reach. His eyes are all glassy. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, “please, Eddie. Need it. Need you inside – show me how good it feels. Haven't let anyone else fuck me, only you, only –” 

“Gone all sweet for me now,” Eddie murmurs, wiping come from his face, cool on his hand now. “C’mon then honey, turn round. Wow, out of it, huh? Let me help –”

Steve’s already wobbly on his knees with his hands still bound behind him, so he goes down easy when Eddie pushes him, face forward, onto the floor. He just lies there, whining like an animal – his shirt sliding forward as he arches his back, his legs spread, his ass in the air – it's obscene. He's still wearing the fucking sailor socks. 

Eddie’s wordless for a moment, smearing his own come over Steve's rim – he works a fingertip in, and Steve groans, pushing back. 

“More,” he whines, “just – put your finger in already, c’mon.” 

There's that shitty attitude, Eddie thinks, leaning forward to spit on him, hot and wet and dirty – Steve makes a choked sound as he does so, bullying one finger inside. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grits his teeth. “Not gonna get two fingers in here, open up for me, baby. Relax.” 

Steve's whining around his finger though, wriggling as Eddie takes his other hand and presses him harder against the floor, his face all squished, panting and gasping with his eyes closed. 

“Can't believe you're letting me,” Eddie moans, “can't believe you're letting me touch you like this. God, I bet every fucking guy who's ever looked at you wanted this, didn't they? Would have given anything to break in King Steve.”

Whatever he's babbling about seems to be going down well, Eddie realises – Steve's a lot more relaxed now, his legs spread wider, Eddie's finger firmly sliding in and out, pushing his own come and spit into Steve. The sight of it all makes him dizzy – makes him feel like honestly, there's a minor chance of round two happening pretty soon, just from this. He isn't going to fuck Steve here – not even if he cries and whines and bitches and begs – he's just too tight. But maybe – a second finger –

Steve gasps. Eddie stills for a moment and then smirks, curling his finger up again to rub over that spot he'd just brushed up against – he leans down to spit on him again, and works his index finger in alongside his middle, pressing Steve down in the centre of his back and grinding his fingers up, firm and rhythmic, hard against his prostate. Steve keens, shaking – Eddie can see a little puddle on the floor where he’s been steadily leaking precome. 

“That's it,” he rasps, “there's a good girl, taking it like a champ – gonna open you up, Stevie. Gonna wreck you, gonna fucking ruin you –” 

He drives his fingers in, faster and faster – Steve’s begging again, babbling and choking on his words, pleading, whining his name, moaning Eddie, oh, fuck, Eddie, Eddie please.

“Look at you,” he groans, “all stupid on my fingers – god, when I fuck you properly, Steve… gonna have you wordless, brainless, just a cockdumb little slut.”

“Touch me,” Steve sobs, arching back, pressing up against Eddie's hand. “Please, Eddie, I need it  – I need to –”

“I am touching you, princess,” he laughs, “what, you don't think you can come on my fingers? Guess you won't be coming at all then –”

“Mmf – please, just – please –”

“You can come like this,” Eddie grunts, “I know you can, baby. You were made to come like this – that's why you came to me, wasn't it? No one else is gonna touch you like this, Steve. No one.”

“No one else,” Steve chokes, whining, “only you, only –”

“Come on,” Eddie hisses, curling his fingers up again until Steve bucks, mewling under him. “Show me how much you need it. Gonna let the town freak fuck you raw – I'm gonna fuck you full – I'm gonna knock you up –”

Steve quivers, arches tight as a bowstring, and his mouth opens in a wordless cry. First time Eddie’s seen him quiet in a while – he works Steve through it, stroking punishingly against him inside while Steve comes, and comes, and comes. It's like Eddie’s just milking it out of him, Eddie thinks, struck dumb as Steve's cock twitches, mess of come puddled all over the floor, tears streaming silently down Steve's face. 

He eventually makes a pathetic sort of whimper at the overstimulation, and Eddie slides his fingers out, wiping them on his jeans before he deftly undoes the bandana, roping an arm around Steve's middle before he can collapse forward. 

“C’mere,” he mumbles, pulling him upright like a rag doll – it's as though all the strength’s been sapped from Steve, limp in his arms. “Let me clean you up, okay?” 

Steve's boxers are already a mess, so Eddie just chucks them over the mess on the elevator floor, letting Steve tug his shorts up shakily after so he isn't ass out. He kneels in front of Steve to wipe at his face gently with the bandana, cleaning off tears, remnants of his own spend – Steve looks absolutely wrung out. Exhausted. He's all slumped over, his hair sticking up in every direction, bruises littering one side of his throat, his lips bitten and red.

When Eddie sits back against the elevator, Steve won't even look at him.

“Harrington,” he sighs. “Come here. I'm serious. Serious order, don't make me resort to… unsavoury tactics.”

He spreads his knees from where he's sat on his butt, and Steve (still not looking at him) shuffles over and sits between them, his back to Eddie's chest. 

He's all stiff.

He's all wound up.

Eddie winds both arms round him and squeezes until the tension in his spine melts and he relaxes back against him, boneless.

They sit there for a little while. Eddie closes his eyes, and presses three soft kisses to the back of Steve's neck. Possibly, this is the scariest part of all. He focuses on the fact that Steve's the one who likely feels way more vulnerable right now – and that just isn't fair. He doesn't want Steve to feel like that. 

“So,” he eventually murmurs, his voice low and rumbly. “It’s definitely been longer than five minutes now.”

Steve huffs weakly. He tries to move to get up, but Eddie tugs him closer, splaying his palms across Steve's stomach and pressing his forehead against Steve's shoulder. 

“Not yet,” he whispers. “Stay still.”

Steve goes limp again. Eddie hears him exhale slowly, and his hand comes up to press over the top of Eddie's. 

“You think, uh,” Steve clears his throat, “we’re stuck in here?”

Eddie shrugs. “Guess so. For a little while. I gotta say, I'm kind of glad they didn't come and uhm. Fix the issue sooner.”

Steve snorts. “No?”

“Exhibitionism isn't really my thing,” Eddie smiles, closing his eyes, face still burrowed in the collar of Steve's shirt. He smells like tide, and sweat, and shampoo, and Steve. 

Steve’s breath hitches, and he shivers – when he speaks, his voice comes out kind of wobbly.

“You're like…” he trails off quietly, biting his lip again. “You're way clingier than I expected.” 

Eddie strokes his thumb in idle circles across the soft skin of Steve's stomach under his shirt, humming in reply. 

“Are you okay? Sorry if I… if that was kind of a lot,” he asks, and Steve stiffens a little. 

“You don't need to do this,” he says in a small voice. “If it was just a – a hate fuck, or whatever –” 

Eddie lifts his head, frowning. He tries to peer round to see Steve's face, but Steve turns away from him – he doesn't make any move to try and pull away though, so that's something. Everything feels so unsure – so heavy. It's like the temperature in the room has dropped another degree, even though all that's happened is a climb in humidity, if anything. 

“It wasn't,” he urges. “Steve – I don't hate you. Really. I'm… I shouldn't have just…”

“I would have kept trying to piss you off if you'd tried to like, talk me down there,” Steve interrupts him dryly. Eddie chuckles.

“Yeah, baby. I got that. Did you actually think I hated you?”

Steve shrugs. “Not… no. Not really. I didn't think you liked me either – I figured you thought I was an asshole, like – a total bitch –”

“I like that you're a bitch,” Eddie grins. “And I did. I did think you were an asshole. In a way… I guess maybe I still do, but… recently I’ve come to the realisation that you're also a total sweetheart.”

Steve goes rigid, and then turns to face him – he's all red again. God, it's like – it's like looking into the sun. Even now, tear stains on his pink cheeks, his eyes wide – he's just so – Eddie’s never seen anybody more – 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. 

Steve leans in. 

Eddie honestly isn't sure how long they spend there on the floor – at some point Steve turns round to wriggle up into his lap, straddling him while he makes these delectable little noises, kissing Eddie senseless and stupid. He kisses like the elevator is due to plummet them down into a quick death at the start – desperate and sloppy, like he's trying to taste Eddie inside, licking at his tongue, pressing closer and closer. Like he's trying to absorb him. Meld into one creature, sharing blood and bones.

Eddie slows him down after a little, and some time later – maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour, who even knows – he's barely pressing soft kisses back – Steve breathing heavier, his lips all swollen from making out, his eyes half open and glazed over as Eddie leans in again, again, again. 

“Does it, uh. Does it look like I hate you?” he murmurs, and Steve finally smiles.

“I guess you're hard to read.”

“I'm an open book, man – fuck, you're hard to read. If anyone should be asking why… I mean, I thought you thought I was a prick.”

“I do,” Steve laughs, tugging at his hair. Eddie gazes up at him, and he knows that right now – whatever’s showing on his face is probably far too open and vulnerable. It’s giving everything away. How much he wants Steve.

“So why…”

Steve shrugs, ducking his gaze. “I just… I don't know. I don't actually think you're a prick. I, uhm. I used to watch you. In school, I mean. I wish I’d… I liked looking at you. Like… even in middle school. I remember you had that caterpillar farm in the playground.”

Eddie feels his mouth drop open. His eyes bug out of his head, what kind of fucking – what parallel dimension did I –

“Behind the jungle gym,” he says faintly, still gently mind blown. He remembers now. The caterpillars. He'd only had them for a week in the summer, and then he'd felt bad about keeping them in a box so he'd let them go.

“You're gonna have such an ego about that,” Steve grins. “Such an ego.”

“You – but –”

“Woah. Are you finally speechless? This is what it takes to get you to shut the fuck up?” Steve laughs, poking Eddie in the cheek. 

He shuts his mouth. “Forgive me, my liege. I'm processing. Like – this might take a while actually – you liked looking at me?” 

“I'm not in the habit of fucking people I don't enjoy looking at, generally,” Steve adds snidely. “I just… I think you're really weird.”

Eddie frowns.

“But also kind of funny. And a total dick. But I'm kind of into the whole smartass thing so…”

He shifts in his lap, shaking his head and smiling again. “Plus, you’re just… man, how do you even come up with that stuff? The shit you were saying earlier – have you like, spent half your life watching gnarly seventies pornos?”

“No,” Eddie says weakly. “I'm just deeply perverted. Uh. Can I – can I get a do-over?” he asks, squeezing Steve’s hips. “Please. I honestly wasn't sure if you were gonna want to be within five metres of me after this, but – I know a great taco truck a town over. Or – or there's a drive in over near Muncie screening a bunch of – well, I guess you've probably seen everything they're screening right now on account of your little backdoor into the mall theater, but – you can pick. The movie, I mean. I won't even rag on you about your choice, even if it's shit – well… I'll try not to. Unless you want me to, like if that's –”

“That depends,” Steve grins, leaning in and biting gently at his earlobe, rolling his hips. He's commando right now, Eddie realises, I'm never gonna get used to this, ever – 

“I can maybe find the time,” Steve whispers, “if you promise to fuck me after in that piece of shit loser van you drive. Will that thing even make it to Muncie? Besides,” he purrs, grinding forward again, “you made a lot of big promises back there. Gonna fuck me raw if I beg for it nice enough?”

“Holy shit,” Eddie breathes, staring up at him in amazement, “you’re just –”

CLICK.

It's like coming out of a dreamlike haze, a harsh slap of reality. Eddie blinks rapidly as the lights flood back on and the elevator judders again – Steve scrambles back off his lap, landing with a thump on the floor, staring at Eddie.

They both look at the tighty wighties.

“Shit,” Steve hisses, scrambling to mop up the mess on the floor and then rolling them up, cramming them into his pocket. He looks…

He looks dishevelled. Well fucked, basically.

“You think maintenance will be up there?” he asks worriedly, and Eddie shrugs, swallowing.

The elevator dings.

When the door opens, the entrance way is deserted. 

Empty.

Cool.

Steve exhales in a big burst, sagging in relief. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “I gotta get home. I have a shift tomorrow, and Robin’ll kill me if I'm late again.”

Eddie stares at him. 

For a brief moment – he sort of wishes they were still stuck in the elevator. He isn't sure where to go from here – it's like being dropped into a dream so surreal that you know it can't possibly be your real, actual life… and then woken harshly, a bucket of water over your head. He swallows.

“Well,” Steve glances at him, sidelong. “C’mon then. I think I'm parked near your rustbucket anyway. You know I'm pretty sure the white smoke it spits out is, like, a bad sign.”

Eddie follows him wordlessly, like a dog. He stares at Steve, aware that he probably looks spooked to all hell and a freak to boot – Steve seems unbothered by it all. 

He's still, in some ways, untouchable.

They get to his van first, the beemer parked two spaces over. 

“Munson,” Steve says gently. “Did I lose you?”

Eddie blinks, shaking his head as if waterlogged, trying to clear the fog of self doubt beginning to niggle at him again. This isn't the time or place. 

“No,” he sighs, “I'm just wondering how soon I can ask you out again without coming on too strong.”

Steve gapes at him, and then bursts out laughing. 

“Smooth,” he grins, reaching out to lift Eddie's hand up and inspect his rings. He stares down at them thoughtfully. 

“Tomorrow’s a big day for me, y’know.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Get a load of this – one of my child friends is returning from science camp. Go on, laugh. I know you want to. He's my favourite, actually. He’d fucking hero-worship you I bet,” Steve rolls his eyes. “He's a massive nerd. Into all the dragon stuff.”

“All the dragon stuff,” Eddie says quietly, smiling. “And you're not? Into that?”

“Not really,” Steve wrinkles his nose. Eddie reaches out to smooth some of the craziest sections of his hair back down. “But. I am – at the risk of sounding really, really lame- kind of into you. So. I wouldn't worry too much. In fact – tomorrow might not work, because I know for a fact there's a risk of Henderson monopolising every spare second I have, but… I am free Thursday. After work, I mean. If you're free. If you’re around after your shift, I guess, then –”

“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs, his hand coming down to cup Steve's jaw, “‘m free.”

“Cool.”

“Cool. Well… I’m gonna –”

Eddie pulls his face in one more time. He can't help it – it's like someone’s set a fire in his ribcage. It's like something’s fizzling through his veins, clean and new and warm and so, so fucking good. Steve goes pliant when he kisses back, opening his lips, letting Eddie's tongue brush his own, humming as he licks back, sloppy and unhurried, concealed by the side of the van in the dark, empty parking lot. 

When they break apart, there's another string of spit between them, and Steve lifts his thumb up – he swipes at it, and pushes it back into Eddie's mouth, biting his own bottom lip. 

“Wow,” Eddie grins, leaning in again for another, whispering softly – “gross.”