Chapter Text
"They say you've gotta fake it
At least until you make it
That ghost is just a kid in a sheet "
- Dylan Thomas, Better Oblivion Community Center
"If I ever get back to New York, girl
I'm gonna make you scream all night
Yeah, you're a starfucker, starfucker, starfucker, starfucker, star..."
- Star Star, The Rolling Stones
“It’s new,” Robin says, setting down two cups of coffee between her and Steve. “But I actually think it’s a really good opportunity.”
“To play in a band with my ex-girlfriend?” Steve says, raising a doubtful eyebrow as he blows on his cappuccino.
“She’s with Jonathan now!” Robin says, “And you’re enjoying the single life; it’s not going to be awkward. Their band is fantastic, and they’re in need of a bassist,” she gestures at herself, “I am a fantastic bassist, in need of a band.”
“And Hellfire is the band for you, huh?” Steve asks. “You’ve never been into heavy metal, Robin.”
“It’s not heavy metal,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Try classic rock. And everyone is really nice.”
“Yeah, nice to you ,” he mutters, taking a sip. “Jesus, this coffee is incredible.”
“Steven, you’re an adult,” Robin says. “Surely you can survive one night with your ex-girlfriend if it means supporting your very dearest friend, yes?”
He groans. “Yeah, but Jonathen Byers hates me!”
“He’ll be behind a drum set!” Robin says. “He’s not even going to know you’re there. Besides, maybe you’ll meet a hot stranger in the crowd and… y’know, get back on the horse, after Nancy.”
“The horse?”
“The dick?” she tries.
He snorts, coffee spilling across the table.
“Oh shit,” he says, still laughing as he sops up cappuccino with paper napkins.
Robin smirks at him, somewhat judgmentally, he thinks. “It’s been nearly a year since you guys broke up,” she says. “Come to the show. I promise you’ll have fun.”
“That’s what you said about that haunted house,” Steve says, “and then I had nightmares for a week.”
“I promise my band will not give you nightmares,” she says. “Well… Eddie might.”
“Who’s Eddie?” Steve asks her.
She laughs softly. “Oh,” she says. “You’ll see.”
“Fine,” he says. “I will come. I will be drunk and belligerent and you will have to walk me home.”
She rolls her eyes. “Thatta boy.”
He tries not to overthink it, though not overthinking things has never been his strongpoint.
In the past year, Steve’s romantic exploits have been limited to breakup sex with Nancy Wheeler after she left him for the drummer in her band (during which he cried), a few badly timed hookups (none of which he enjoyed), and an unfortunate come-on to his lesbian best friend (which he has since apologized for).
As far as he’s concerned, he doesn’t need to get back on the horse. He’s perfectly happy with his apartment, and his best friend, and his job at the local bookshop, and if one day he sees the perfect person for him browsing the shelves, then maybe he’ll consider it, but until then, he doesn’t like the idea of being on the prowl for someone, as Robin puts it. He’s holding onto a sort of stupid romantic notion that the right person will one day just bump into him on the street, and that’ll be it. He can’t stand the idea of posting shirtless photos of himself on dating apps and waiting for someone to message him with a creepy pick-up line. He wants to fall in love, though he knows he probably won’t.
He sells maybe ten books the whole day; mostly romance, of course. Happy little stories with cartoon people on the front and titles with the word ‘love’ in them.
It’s not like he’s opposed to love, and he’s certainly not opposed to people reading about it, God knows he understands a need for escapism, he just feels like books like that give people unrealistic expectations for life. These teenagers are going to spend their entire lives searching for the perfect person until one day they wake up and realize that people don’t act like that in real life. People don’t confess their love dramatically, or write songs about you, or show up at your door in the rain.
And if they do, you still leave them for the drummer in your stupid college garage band.
Steve’s genuinely not bitter about it. He’s happy for Robin, and if he can cheer her on, he will.
So, once he closes up the bookshop with a tinkling of bells, he makes his way back to his and Robin’s shared apartment and finds her in the bathroom hastily painting her nails black.
“Don’t stress,” he says, as she looks up at him with wide, panicked eyes.
“I will stress, though,” she says. “What if I get on stage and forget my opening note and then I play everything in the wrong key and then I get booed off stage?”
“I really don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says. “Here, let me fix your hair.”
“Is it bad?” she asks.
“No, no,” Steve says, reaching over her head for the hairspray. “But it could be better. Hair can always be better. Except for mine, which is perfect, all the time.”
She rolls her eyes, but lets him tease her hair out until it’s done in a young-Debbie-Harry type bob.
“Looks great,” he murmurs as he sprays a final few puffs of hairspray. “The ladies’ll be falling at your feet.”
“The ladies already fall at my feet, asshole,” she says, smiling at him affectionately. “What about the makeup; is it too raccoonish?”
“It’s perfect,” he says. “Giving… 1972 Mick Jagger.”
“That’s so specific,” she says.
“He was my bisexual awakening!” Steve says, “Trust me, I could give you an oral history of his fashion choices.”
“Please don’t,” she says, standing up. “Jesus, I forgot I don’t have a fashion sense. I own zero acceptable outfits.”
“You have a great fashion sense,” Steve says. “I have to change, give me a minute.”
She groans as he walks out of her room, and into his own, deciding after a moment’s deliberation to wear black skinny jeans and a Ramones tee shirt. Just because he’s not actively looking to get laid doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to look good at the gig.
He checks his reflection in their shared bathroom mirror on the way out, running one hand through his hair to slick it back.
“Robin!” he calls. “I’m actually worried I’m veering into game-show-host territory with this hair volume!”
“You look fine ,” Robin says from her room, walking out in a baggy pair of ripped jeans with fishnet tights under them, and a black bra-type top.
“You look great! ” Steve says. “Leave some girls for the rest of us, will you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Come on, help me carry my amp, I’m already late.”
By the time they get to the backstage area of the bar, Steve has almost forgotten to be nervous.
“Listen,” Robin says, holding the door open for him with one hip. “I’ll introduce you to Eddie, but you have to act normal, okay? No jock magic shit, you’ll scare him off. He’s… not fond of your type.”
“Maybe he’ll scare me off, huh?” Steve says, holding amplifiers in both hands as Robin leads him to the stage.
“Come on,” Robin says, “you’ll like him, he’s just… a bit of an acquired taste. But once you get to know him I’m sure you two will hit it off.”
“Please tell me this isn’t a set up,” Steve says. “Guitar players with superiority complexes are not my type.”
He pulls a curtain aside to walk onstage and is met with a long haired guy in a leather jacket standing directly in front of him.
“Guitar players with superiority complexes?” the guy says, his voice mockingly soft. “My ears are burning.”
Steve looks him up and down. “Excuse me,” he says pointedly, holding up the amps.
“Name five Ramones songs,” the guy says, crossing his arms
“What?” Steve asks him.
“Your shirt,” he says. “Name five songs by that band.”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve mutters under his breath. His muscles are actually starting to burn under the weight of the amps. “Well… um, Blitzkrieg Bop?”
“Okay, that’s one,” long-hair says with a smirk. “Four more.”
“Um… Havana Affair ?”
“Good boy. Three more now.”
Steve shifts the amps in his hand. He’s not about to put them down and emasculate himself. But he feels like his arms are going to rip off. “There’s one about dancing… Just Dance?”
“That is a Lady Gaga song,” the guy says, smirk widening.
“Last Dance?”
“Donna Summer.”
“Fuck, I knew that.” Steve sighs heavily. “If I admit I’m a fake Ramones fan can I please get past?”
“Robin, you should be embarrassed of this guy,” the guy says over Steve’s shoulder.
“He’s just flustered!” Robin says. “Um, Steve, this is Eddie; Eddie, Steve Harrington.”
“So you’re Steve Harrington,” Eddie says, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I see it now. Nancy’s way better off with Jonathan.”
Steve feels his jaw drop, and watches as Eddie walks away, hair fluttering slightly behind him.
Once he’s regained his wits, Steve sets the amps down on the side of the stage.
“This is not going to be a good night for me,” he says.
Robin clicks her tongue. “I mean, at least you have realistic expectations.”
Steve wanders off stage and out into the bar once enough people start filling in. The absolute last thing he wants to do is make awkward small talk with Nancy and Joanthan. Well, maybe second to last after making awkward small talk with Eddie.
He’s still kind of buzzing with the sheer amount of audacity he just encountered. It’s a cool shirt, there are no laws about who can and cannot wear shirts. Not in the real world anyway; apparently Eddie operates a little dictatorship backstage at his shows.
He’s not letting it preoccupy him. This night is about Robin. And her band. And if her band just so happens to be fronted by an asshole, Steve will just have to tolerate him.
He orders a beer and waits for the band to come out. Apparently there’s some problem with the equipment, and Eddie comes out a few minutes before they start playing to tinker with some buttons on a keyboard, shrugging off his leather jacket and pushing his hair out of his face as he kneels down to mess with the plugs on the electric keyboard.
Steve looks at him until Eddie meets his eye, then he turns his gaze to the floor, peeling absently at the wrapper on his beer bottle. A single piano chord sounds out through the hall and Steve looks up. Eddie is smiling to himself as he tries a few more notes, seeming satisfied with the sound quality.
Eddie gestures backstage and the rest of the band comes out, Jonathan and Nancy first, hand in hand, Jonathan in a black tee shirt and jeans, Nancy in a short black dress, her bobbed hair curling around her face in shaggy layers. She looks great. Robin comes out next, bass guitar slung over her shoulders. Behind her comes a short red haired girl in a green shirt and flowy white blouse, the only pop of color in the band; she’s holding a sea-foam green guitar and grinning at the audience.
“Hello, everybody,” Eddie says into the microphone. “Thank you for turning out tonight, we are the band Hellfire and we’re going to be doing a set for you guys.”
There’s scattered applause. Steve pushes up onto a bar stool and shoots Robin a thumbs up. She looks seconds away from throwing up.
“Before we start,” Eddie says, “we have a new member of our band up here tonight, our last bassist went… slightly crazy and moved out to Long Island, so everybody say hello to Robin Buckly!”
Steve whoops, clapping louder than any of the other drunken audience members. Robin smiles at him, a bit embarrassed. Eddie walks upstage to clap her on the back and then returns to the microphone.
“And then, the rest of the band, we have Nancy Wheeler on keyboard, Jonathan Byers killing it on drumset, Chrissy Cunningham on rhythm guitar, and myself, Eddie Munson on lead guitar and vocals.” Eddie winks out into the crowd, and Steve wonders who he’s looking at. Eddie clears his throat into the microphone. “We have a few original songs for you tonight, but I wanted to start off with a cover, get everybody warmed up. Alright.”
There’s some more applause, slightly louder this time. Steve claps, too, stopping abruptly as Eddie’s fingers move over a familiar guitar riff, the drums kicking in as he begins to sing in a surprisingly melodic voice.
“Baby, baby, I’ve been so sad since you’ve been gone…”
It’s Steve’s favorite Rolling Stones song, Star Star , and Eddie is playing it perfectly, smiling like he loves it too. Steve sighs to himself. Why does the asshole have to have good music taste?
He thinks vaguely that he should’ve worn a Stones shirt, then at least he would’ve looked like he knew what he was talking about in front of Eddie.
Steve looks at Robin. She looks a lot more confident, fingers running over the frets of her bass as she headbangs along to Jonathan’s drum beat.
He looks at Nancy, too, just for a second, watches her grinning at Jonathan as he plays, her own fingers playing jazz chords on the keyboard. He remembers getting a few hopeless piano lessons from her, consistently failing to remember which letter corresponded to which note.
He’s snapped out of his memory as Eddie whoops, playing Keith Richards’ guitar solo flawlessly, the rings on his fingers making them glint in the stage lights. He laughs as he plays, totally carefree. At one point, Chrissy and him turn to face each other, Eddie’s red death-metal guitar contrasting her tiny stratocaster, but they’re both giggling as they bend out the final few notes of the solo chest to chest. Steve wonders if they’re dating. He never came to Nancy’s gigs when they were dating. Looking back, he’s not sure how he rationalized that.
After the first song draws to a close, everyone on stage is laughing, including Robin. Eddie has one hand clapped over the neck of his guitar to mute the strings, and drags the other one through his hair.
“Alright, glad everybody was into that,” Eddie says with what sounds like a slightly nervous laugh, and his eyes dart to Steve for a second. “We’re going to start with some of our original songs now, written by yours truly. Hopefully it measures up.”
Steve raises up his beer bottle in a one-sided toast, leaning back against the bar as the band cycles through a few guitar and drum heavy songs. Eddie likes heavy beats, it seems. Robin’s been playing exclusively on her lowest string for nearly two songs now. However loud it all is, though, Steve actually thinks the band has talent; that Eddie, regrettably, has talent.
His lyrics are a little weird, but they flow over the melodies surprisingly well, Eddie’s voice blending in with the guitar melodies. Everyone onstage seems to really be enjoying themselves, too, like even if the audience wasn’t there, they’d still be playing together and having just as much fun. Steve feels like he’s being allowed to witness something; being invited into their little group of friends for a while.
Also, they’re all really good. Steve knew Robin was a descent bass player, but he didn’t understand how incredible she would sound playing with a band. Eddie’s riffs and Chrissy’s chords blend together perfectly, with Nancy’s piano chords tying the melodies together and Jonathan and Robin holding down the bass lines. They’re actually kind of mesmerizing when they play together, all head-banging in sync as they strum the final chords of a song.
When they’ve played through a bunch of originals, and Steve has peeled the label off of a second beer, Eddie turns to the crowd.
“So, for our closer,” he says, “a song that we have barely rehearsed, which we are playing solely on vibes.” He looks at Steve, holding eye contact as he says, “This one’s called Loudmouth by The Ramones.” He smirks, leaning into the microphone as he strums a power chord and sings, “ Well, you’re a loudmouth, baby. You better shut it up.”
Steve stares at him, unable not to smile back as Eddie sings.
“You were fucking amazing!” Steve cries the moment Robin climbs down the front of the stage after the show, gear safely stored backstage. He picks her up into a bear hug, spinning her around.
“Put me down, put me down,” she says, through laughter. “Thank you!”
He grins at her, setting her back on her feet. “Robin, that was so good!”
“It’s all Eddie, really,” Robin says, looking over her shoulder to where Eddie and Chrissy are talking in a corner of the room. Steve hasn’t seen Nancy and Jonathan. He wonders if they’re avoiding him. “He’s the brains behind the operation.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Steve says, eyes lingering on Eddie. He’s not looking back; too wrapped up in Chrissy’s conversation. “You all sounded incredible.”
“Well, we’re still practicing,” Robin says, “obviously. But I didn’t make any actual mistakes, so I’ll call it a win.”
“It was a win,” Steve says. “Let me buy you a drink. We can celebrate.”
“Oh, I was going to drink at the party, I should probably get there first.”
“There’s a party?” Steve asks.
“Oh,” Robin says. “Um, it’s at Jonathan’s. That’s where him and Nancy went; they’re at home setting up. You’re totally invited, but I mean, I sort of thought you wouldn’t want to come, considering… the obvious. Though I’m sure it’ll be fine if you do come.”
“I’ll come,” Steve says definitively. “It’ll be fun. It won’t be weird.”
“No,” Robin agrees. “Of course it won’t. I mean, as long as you stay out of Eddie’s way.”
“Oh, Eddie’s coming?”
“Yeah,” Robin says, chuckling awkwardly, “I mean, it’s kind of his band.”
“Right,” Steve says. “It’ll be fine.”
“Totally fine,” Robin echos.
“It’s fine,” Steve murmurs to himself as he walks in the front door of Jonathan Byers’ apartment. He is immediately proved wrong.
Eddie Munson is standing on a chair, pointing at him the second he walks through the door. “Steeeeeeeeve Harrington,” Eddie calls out. Everyone in the apartment; maybe twenty people total, turns to look at Steve. “Bold of you to show up around here in that tee shirt, Loudmouth,” Eddie says, hopping down off his chair.
Steve holds up a hand to awkwardly wave at everyone in the crowd. Nancy and Jonathan are standing in one corner, staring at an iphone and a bluetooth speaker like they’re an insurmountable puzzle.
“Hi, Eddie,” Robin says a bit tiredly.
“Robin, darling,” Eddie says, taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles. Steve watches them doubtfully. “Wonderful job tonight,” he tells her. “Absolutely stellar. Even if you did bring this annoyance along with you.”
“Hey!” Steve says, “I’m right here.”
“Did you like the Stones song, Steve?” Robin asks him.
He looks away from Eddie, smiling at her. “Yeah, I did. Was that your idea?”
“Nope,” she says, “all Eddie’s.”
With a smile, she turns around, flitting over to help Nancy and Jonathan with the speaker.
“You know a Rolling Stones song?” Eddie asks him. “I’m shocked.”
“I love that band,” Steve says, annoyed. He doesn’t have anyone else to talk to at this party, and he’s not about to go up to Robin when she’s standing between Nancy and Jonathan. “You know you don’t have a monopoly on good music?”
“You are just full of surprises, Harrington,” Eddie says. “Should I quiz you on their songs, too, or would you just embarrass yourself again?”
“I’m not embarrassed,” Steve says. “What if I just really like the two Ramones songs I know, isn’t that enough to wear the shirt?”
“The shirt is a privilege to be earned,” Eddie says. “Joey Ramone is rolling in his grave right now, Stevie.”
“Oh, do not call me that,” Steve says.
“Can I get you a drink?” Eddie says.
Steve narrows his eyes. “Are you going to poison me?”
“Oh, only if you ask nicely,” Eddie says, turning around and walking towards the refrigerator. Steve follows, because he supposes talking to an enemy at a party is better than standing alone in silence. “You like beer?” Eddie asks.
Steve laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I like beer.”
“What’s so funny?” Eddie asks, handing Steve a can of some fancy craft beer.
“No, it’s just, I was kind of famous for drinking beer in high school.”
“How does one get famous for drinking beer?” Eddie asks, kicking the refrigerator shut and leaning his back against it. If Steve were flirting, he could put one hand against the fridge and box Eddie in. But he’s not flirting.
“Well, they called me the Keg King, actually,” Steve says, scoffing at himself. “I guess I just drank so much beer, it became a personality trait. And like, I could do tricks and stuff, I could do insane keg stands.”
“Wow,” Eddie says. “I never got invited to parties in high school. I was a total freak.”
“That… sounds about right,” Steve says.
“I mean they literally called me ‘The Freak,” he says. “Like, that was my nickname, they called me ‘ Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson.”
“That sucks ,” Steve says with a scoff. “I mean, they called me ‘King Steve’ so I’m not really one to talk.”
“You are talking, though,” Eddie says.
Steve laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, do you want me to stop?”
“No,” Eddie says. He’s smiling placidly. “How long have you known Robin?”
“Since senior year of high school,” Steve says. “So, five years? Give or take?”
“Still kind of can’t believe she’s best friends with someone as lame as you,” Eddie says. “She’s way cooler.”
“Yes, I’m aware,” Steve says. “You’re not hitting on her, are you?”
“God no,” Eddie says, furrowing his brow, “not at all.”
“Oh, good,” Steve says. “Some guys are weird about lesbians.”
“Yeah, I know,” Eddie says, looking at Steve like he’s missed something. “Some girls are weird about gay guys,” he says.
Steve blinks at him. “Oh,” he says. “Are you- you’re gay?”
Eddie laughs. “Yeah, guilty as charged. I sort of thought you knew already.”
“Eh, Robin has a bad habit of forgetting that some people are actually straight,” Steve says.
“People like you?” Eddie asks, raising an eyebrow.
Steve smiles, “Um, no, not me, actually.”
“Oh,” Eddie says. He’s quiet for a second. “I just thought, because of you and Nancy’s thing.”
“I only came out as bisexual last year,” Steve says. “A few weeks after we broke up, actually. I’ve always known, but it just sort of felt like something I didn’t have to address, I guess. I sort of just thought I’d end up with Nancy.” He forces a laugh. “When that didn’t work out, I was like, alright, maybe I shouldn’t be limiting my dating pool for the sake of good old fashioned internalized homophobia.”
Eddie smiles, then actually laughs too, his smile bringing out laugh lines around his eyes. “Good to know, Harrington.”
“Not that it’s working out for me,” Steve says, taking a long sip of his beer.
“Well,” Eddie says, eyes flicking down, and then coming back up to Steve’s. “Never say never.”
Steve narrows his eyes, but before he can follow up, Eddie ducks around him, and out into the party, meeting up with a beaming Chrissy.
Why is that girl always so happy?
Steve searches the crowd for Robin, but doesn’t find her on a first glance.
On a countertop near the fridge, there’s a plate of brownies. Steve picks one up and takes a bite before really thinking about it. Thinking that maybe he shouldn’t eat a random brownie he found laying around at a band’s after party. He’s already swallowed it when he thinks that last sentiment through. He can taste a faint earthiness on his tongue and curses under his breath.
It’s not like he has a problem with pot brownies, it’s just maybe not the best idea to get fucked up at your ex’s new boyfriend’s house.
It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s fine.
As the party goes on, and Nancy and Jonathan finally get the music (a slightly cringey playlist of early 2000’s party hits), to come through the speaker, Steve thinks it actually might be fine.
He has another beer, and makes polite conversation with Chrissy for a while, tactfully avoiding the host couple.
“How long have you been playing guitar?” Steve asks her.
“Since I was sixteen,” she says cheerfully. “Eddie taught me when we were in high school together.”
“Oh, really?”
Eddie really doesn’t seem like the teaching sort. Besides that, Steve really can’t imagine Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson and shiny cheerleader-looking Chrissy hanging out in high school enough to learn an entire instrument.
“Yes,” she says, nodding seriously. “He sort of saved my life with it, actually.”
“How’d he do that?” Steve asks, not sure if it’s prying or friendly conversation.
“Well… when he met me, I was just having such a hard time,” she says. “I had all of this anxiety, all the time, plus all these eating issues. I was just so unhappy. And Eddie…” she laughs, “well, I met him because I was trying to buy drugs. At first, I was terrified that smoking weed would only make me eat more, but it sort of got to the point where I couldn’t take the pressure in my chest, so I thought, why not try it? And Eddie was just the best. He told me that it’s physically impossible to use the part of your brain that causes anxiety while you’re shredding on guitar, which is true, so he invited me over to his house, and I learned how to shred on guitar.” She giggles. “The rest is history, I guess.”
“That’s incredible,” Steve says, smiling at her.
“We were the founding members of the band,” she says. “It used to be just me and him in his garage. He bought me my first guitar, you know. Which… he didn’t have a lot of money in high school, so I was so flattered.” She brings a hand to cover her mouth. “Sorry,” she says. “I talk too much.”
“It’s fine,” he says, “Robin does the same thing.”
She smiles at him. “Robin’s the best. I mean, girls who play bass are just… otherworldly, you know?”
He laughs. “Yeah, I do know.” He breathes in deeply, head feeling a bit floaty. “I think I ate a pot brownie,” he says.
“What?” Chrissy asks. Then Eddie is at her side.
“This guy bothering you, Chris?” Eddie asks her. Steve is seventy-five percent sure he’s joking.
Chrissy only laughs. “He’s nice!” she says. “Steve, do you play an instrument?”
“I can do a mean tambourine solo,” Steve says.
Chrissy laughs. Steve is pretty sure Eddie smiles too.
“You know,” Steve says to Eddie. “You should really label the brownies if you’re going to put drugs in them. What if I were allergic to weed? Or religious?”
“Are you?” Eddie asks.
Steve shakes his head with a smile. “It’s just been a while since I was high.”
“I feel like you were a ‘just-say-no’ guy in high school,” Eddie says with a smirk, stepping closer to Steve. “Like you went to parties, but if anyone offered you drugs you retreated back into your shell like a little prude turtle.”
Steve barks a laugh. “What?” he asks. Chrissy has wandered off somewhere and Eddie is only getting closer to him. “No, I told you, I was cool in high school. I used to trick girls into kissing me by shotgunning weed with them.”
“Like you had to trick anyone into kissing you,” Eddie says.
Steve smiles curiously. “Are you drunk or something?”
“Just a little,” Eddie says. “God, I hate this song.”
Steve tilts his eyes to the ceiling, like that’ll help him hear better. His stomach swirls around pleasantly, the atmosphere of the party spinning around his head like smoke.
“Oh my God, I love this song,” Steve says, looking back at Eddie. “You just hate fun .”
The song is Feels by Pharell Williams. It’s objectively incredible.
“Why isn’t anyone dancing?” Steve asks the room at large.
Eddie laughs. “I think that brownie went straight to your head, Stevie.”
“Come ‘ere,” Steve says, stepping closer to Eddie. The chorus is coming, and Steve knows he’s a good dancer, even if he’s incredibly intoxicated.
Eddie laughs indulgently, watching as Steve moves his hips and shoulders, nodding his head, the signature move of the jock-douchebag at every house party.
“You’re not a good dancer,” Eddie says.
“How dare you ,” Steve says, mouth falling open in offense. “I’m a great dancer.”
“You’re-”
“Shh,” Steve says, pressing a finger to Eddie’s lips. “This’s the best part.”
Eddie laughs as Steve sings along to the lyrics, dropping his finger from his lips. “ Do you mind if I steal a kiss? A little souvenir? Can I steal it from you?”
“Stop it,” Eddie says, still laughing.
Steve laughs, too. “Come on, this is a good song.”
“It’s not though,” Eddie says.
“You know the words though,” Steve says.
“Yeah, cause it’s repetitive!” Eddie says, smiling.
“Liar,” Steve says.
Eddie shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, I know,” Steve says. “I’m reverting back to my high school self.”
“High school Eddie would’ve been a puddle on the floor at your feet,” Eddie says. “Would’ve been fighting for my life.”
“Is present day Eddie not a puddle on the floor at my feet?” Steve asks, eyes narrowed. “Would he like to be?”
Eddie laughs once. “Thought I wasn’t your type, Harrington.”
“You heard that?”
“Yes,” Eddie says. “I did.”
“Shit,” Steve says. “Sorry.”
Eddie shrugs. “Seems like you spoke too soon.”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “I guess I did.”
Eddie laughs softly. “So what are you going to do about it, Harrington?”
Steve’s stomach twists.
Eddie leans up, lips coming so close to Steve’s, Steve can feel his breath. He shivers, standing frozen. Eddie laughs lowly, lips moving away from Steve’s to hover over his pulsepoint, still not touching. Breath after breath ghosts across the spot and Steve feels like he might die.
“ Eddie ,” Steve says.
Eddie brings his lips close to Steve’s ear. “Next time you want to fuck someone, you should think about that before you talk shit in their immediate vicinity.”
Steve’s mouth falls open. “ What?” he says.
“Didn’t it ever occur to you that you might not be my type, pretty boy?”
“I-”
Eddie presses a kiss to the spot just beneath Steve’s ear, lips lingering for just a second. Then he pulls away, claps Steve once on the shoulder, and walks away from him, towards the refrigerator.
Steve gapes at him, skin buzzing where Eddie’s lips were pressed, heart racing.
“I apologized! ” Steve shouts over the crowd. Eddie turns around and meets Steve’s eyes, mock-pouting for a second before he turns back to a random hot guy he’s started chatting up in the corner.
Fuck. Steve is so screwed.