Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Intralinear.

Steve pens it in carefully, blue biro ink smudged in a line near the spiral bound edge where he’d rubbed his thumb over a word earlier. He frowns, shifting on the frigid bench- it really is kind of damp here, which is irritating. It’s taking him out of the zone. He’s forgetting the other words he’d wanted to collect.

Annihilate.

That’s a good one, he thinks. Obviously it’s not an unfamiliar term to him, sure- but not one that regularly makes an appearance in his daily vocabulary, and not one he’d thought of using before in his… well. Robin would call them poems. Or journal entries. Steve’s pretty happy to view them as word vomit on a page- a way to reach inside his skull when the static grows too loud and yank it all out until he’s clear-headed again. He’s not sure much of it makes sense, anyway. He’d never been much of a writer before this. Before Robin.

Because it’s down to her, that Steve has this now. Has the Notebook. The glossy red one with the silver spiralling edge. The blue biro tucked over the cover. 

The words.

He’s known Robin for a little over five months, befriended her for a little under four- and sometimes he honestly wonders what would have become of him without that chance meeting. Without their first day together on shift, when Steve had dropped a vat of Cherry-Chocolate-Swirl all over the staff room floor and he’d tried to crack a suave one-liner at her in an attempt to downplay the situation and she’d just. Looked at him. Chewing her gum, eyes unamused, unforgiving, and a little too all-knowing. Steve hadn’t made another attempt at flirtation again after that, and after some ups and downs (and interference from fucking Henderson, no duh), she’d taken him under her wing and that was that. Friends. The kind Steve isn’t sure he’s ever had before, to be perfectly honest, the kind where there don’t seem to be any borders on what you can talk about- especially after Robin’s drunken confession to him (the night after the mall had burned down and they’d both lost their jobs) that it was a damn good thing Steve had given up the ghost vis-a-vis flirtation because he was categorically and unequivocally not her type. As in- not within the realm of possibility of her type. 

And so Steve had realised- huh. This is someone who I can actually talk to. 

As in- talk about anything. Talk about the stuff he’d been keeping swallowed down under his ribs like a deadweight. The Nancy stuff. Stuff about his dad, and the scar on Steve’s back from the last time he’d been home and in one of those foul fucking tempers, and the scar under Steve’s eyebrow from when Jonathan Byers had beaten the shit out of him (rightfully so, looking back), and the scar on his chin from Hargrove getting physical with him after he’d had a go at Sinclair for some unknown (or very well known, and very much sinister) reason after Steve had been playing with him on the court for practice over summer, and the scar on-

“Jesus, Steve- how? How many times have you had the shit beaten out of you, exactly?”

Steve had laughed at that. Laughed until his stomach had cramped, and Robin had smiled at him with her too-knowing eyes and waited until he’d been able to stop.

He’d even told her about the reading thing. About school.

Steve can’t read.

Well- no. That’s bullcrap, he can read, ok- he just- it’s fucking hard. It’s slow, and the words just crawl around the page, letters sliding up and down and all over the shop until he gets a headache after trying to battle through two sentences. His mom had worried he’d needed glasses, but his dad had told her he’ll look like a fuckin’ pansy, he’s fine, he’s just slow.

He is slow, to be perfectly honest. He knows that. He’d stopped caring about that years back. 

But the reading thing- it’s kind of annoying. 

There’s the school issue, for a start. Sure, he’d graduated- by the skin of his teeth, and without any prospect of putting his diploma to further use at anything more than a very forgiving community college (hah!! Imagine the conniption Richard Harrington would have had over that), but it had taken every crumb of strength within him to do so. He’d quit basketball in an effort to spend more time pulling his grades up (his parents were gone for over eighty percent of the school year at that point, so Steve figured it was safe enough to do that), and had spent every second possible trying to pry advice out of his ex-girlfriend on how to study up for finals she wasn’t due to take for another year. It was a shitshow, and he’s pleased to see the back of it.

The second issue is Henderson.

Steve loves that kid. He’s such a little weirdo, but it’s hard not to feel an unimaginable level of fondness towards somebody who looks at you like you aren’t a total asshole and actually bothers to stick around and befriend you even when you’re a picture-perfect-stereotype-going-nowhere-small-town-washed-up-peaked-in-high-school-has-been. 

He’d imprinted on Steve after he’d started coaching Lucas- who’d begged him to help him improve on the court before high school started when Steve had still been hanging around the Wheeler’s house regularly- one of Mike’s little friends. Dustin had come as a sort of afterthought, a bonus child to babysit. He’d made really weird references that all went over Steve’s head and asked him way too many questions about himself in a gently endearing (albeit interrogative) manner. And he’d just- never left. Steve had blinked, and suddenly he was no longer a part time basketball coach- he was a bona fide cab driver, babysitter, host for movie nights and some weird dragon board game that took up way too much of Steve’s free time and living room. 

So yeah. Henderson’s cool. He’s kind of like what Steve imagines it’d be like to have a sibling. Someone in your life you get to look after and care about and it’s not weird. It’s okay. 

And he’s also a pushy little shit.

He couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that it wasn’t that Steve didn’t want to read, or share his interests- it’s just… he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it. He’d tried. 

He’d told Robin as much, playing it off like no big deal, whatever, man- but she’d clearly seen the pent up frustration underneath, because she’d just nodded at him, then asked- had he tried books on tape?

No. No he had not. Hadn’t been aware that was much of a thing, because the local library wasn’t exactly his favourite hangout spot. 

Robin had dragged him along anyway, and rented out a bunch of cassettes with him- and that was it. That was that. 

I mean- he hadn’t entirely shared Dustin’s tastes, per se. He’d got through The Hobbit alright- fine, not really his thing, but now he can pick up on a good twenty percent of the references Dustin and Lucas throw back and forth at each other now. He’d fared okay with Dune, although fuck that had been a slow start. Rambly. He’d started veering off course from Dustin’s prescribed reading list after he’d hit the Asimov titles- just not his thing, and at that point Robin was interfering, offering options outside the realm of dragons and aliens. She’d also been the first person to point him towards poetry, which Steve had expected to kind of hate. Didn’t see the point of it, really. Robin loves that stuff- she’d prattled on about Sylvia Plath and Maya Angelou until Steve had given in and let her read some of it aloud. 

And yeah- maybe a lot of it goes over his head, sure. But he also kind of got it. The point. 

The words. 

He’d started keeping the notebook after that. 

First just lists. Words he’d liked after listening to a book on his drives in and out to Family Video, to Dustin’s, to Indy. Words like dispassionate, canny, lissom. Some of them he’d asked Robin about, and some he’d looked up himself at home. Sometimes phrases, metaphors that had made him smile or drift off into thought during a shift. It’s like opening an entire new section in his brain after letting it lay dormant for so many years- Steve Harrington is not a reader. He’s not a wordsmith. He’s a three-time-concussed high school athlete with a two point three GPA. 

He’s a collector. 

And then after some time- he’s also a re-arrange-er. 

It comes after a pretty terrible nightmare. A livid one, sweaty and panting, the kind where you wake up thrashing in the sheets, splitting at the seams, the phantom squeeze of his father’s hand around his throat, useless, hopeless, bullshit ringing in his ears. He’d reached for the notebook to try and ground himself- to try and escape, even for a little. To read over the words.

And then he’d been writing. Just nonsense, really, just the words he’d collected that most aptly summed up the nightmare spilling out onto the page, dreadful diresome devastation. A living haunting.

Not exactly poetry. But not exactly just a collection anymore either. 

And so it continued. 

The notebook comes everywhere now. On shift, when it's quiet. After a drunken night out when the words are scrambled and blurry, and the prose read nonsensical and whimsy the next morning as he reads over it. After every bad night. After every phonecall from his mom, checking in, reminding herself he’s alive and in that big empty house, alone for months on end. 

It's a lifeline. 

Which is why he had it on his person when this afternoon unfolded, messy and despairing. 

Steve had been expecting them home. They'd warned him this time at least- and he also knows how long they're here for, given it's a drive-by visit (only 53 hours and 14 minutes to go give or take), so he'd been able to prepare. The house is spotless. The kitchen stocked. The pool clean, usable. And he himself scarce- that had been the plan. 

Of course- that plan had blown up within around fifteen minutes of their arrival. Steve had left his work fleece on the couch, and the shiny flash of the orange Family Video badge had been enough reminder for his father of the way he currently occupies his time as a useless no-good waste of space who couldn't even get into the lowest rated business school he'd applied for. Wastrel, Steve had thought, the word unbidden and swimming to the forefront of his thoughts as he stood there with his father’s spittle on his cheek, rage in his ears. Fucker can’t even get funky with his vocab as he loses his temper with me. 

He doesn’t try and hit Steve anymore- Steve reckons it’s because he knows Steve might hit him back at this point, edging him out in both height and weight, in muscle, shoulder width. He just gets up in his face, egging on an argument, spitting at him with fury, and eventually those words go, fuck off out of my sight, can’t stand the look of you, useless good for–

He guesses that’s partly why his parents never come home anymore.

Problem is, this time he’d thrown Steve out bodily with no jacket. Which meant no keys- car or house. It’s early October, not that cold- and he’s in a sweater anyway, a thick cotton one with a big green stripe in the middle. But he’s locked out, with no prospects of traversing past the dragon to rescue his car keys from the clutches of his denim jacket in the hallway in order to spend a cramped night sleeping in the bimmer. He’d just groaned, feeling a little numb, a little exhausted. Figured he could crash with Robin after the school day ends at least, but that’s a few hours off. So he’d started walking. 

Through the woods, out down the main road- Hawkins is relatively small, all things considered. It had been easy enough to make his way towards the High School- he’d walked it before, when his dad had pulled this stunt a few years ago, and Steve hadn’t had his car anyway and couldn’t call anyone for a lift. It’s a familiar route, and an hour later he’s in the woods behind the school, killing time before the bell signals the end of the day, and Robin’s arrival.

There’s a picnic bench here too. Steve’s been here before. People use it for shady shit, he’s pretty sure- Tommy buys weed here, and Davy’d told them all he’d fucked a girl after a pep rally against a tree in this very shaded grove- but Davy chats a lot of shit, so Steve’s pretty sure that was a lie. 

It’s nice. Calm. The early autumn sun paints the bench in a soft light, taking away from the chilly, damp air- it had rained this morning. The bench is still a bit wet, but Steve doesn’t give a fuck. He sits down, kicks at the trash around the table- people are such assholes, littering here. Broken beer bottles and cigarette butts.

He plucks out his prized possession. The notebook was in his back jeans pocket, and he’s penning down the words he’d got this morning as he’d listened to the tape in his walkman, finishing cleaning the bathroom. Catch 22. Robin’s pick.

Monotonous.

That was the last one, he’s pretty sure. It’s a good one too. Steve is intimately familiar with monotony. With mundanity. He doodles a spiral onto the page corner, thinking- lets his brain drift into that comfortable space where the words start to come, ebb and flow, water from a well. Scrawls out some lines that- yeah. Not half bad.

He’s so entirely engrossed in the endeavour that he misses it. Ears shut off, dead to the world- he misses the heavy trudge of somebody making their way into the clearing before pausing behind the bench- waiting. Steve is still writing, still unaware.

“What the fuck-”

He jumps out of his skin, cursing and whirling round- there’s a guy there. Staring at Steve with an expression crossed between irritation and disbelief.

“Jesus, fuck, you tryna give me a heart attack?” Steve hisses. The guy frowns, gritting his teeth. He’s riddled with hostility- back up, posture rigid and unfriendly.

Arms over his skinny chest, with a bunch of curly dark hair frizzing up all over the place. He’s familiar in a way that tugs at Steve’s brain, but his name evades Steve- he’s still all scrambled up from this guy’s unnecessary sneak attack.

“You’re at my bench,” the guy replies, eyebrow raised. He sneers at Steve, and the look on his face jolts Steve into two realisations:

1). This guy does Not Like Him. He’s wearing an expression that says: I know who you are, and I think you’re an asshole. And I’m going to treat you as such. Which- yeah, Steve gets that. He was a total asshole for a long time. And he’s used to it, but it still rankles. 

2). This guy is Eddie… something. Eddie the freak. Dustin’s Eddie, the guy he talks about near obsessively, the one who used to climb on cafeteria tables to deliver long-winded monologues about the man and forced conformity. Steve wonders if Eddie’s ever read any Emerson. Any Orwell.

“This isn’t your bench,” Steve scowls. “It’s just a bench.”

“Pardon me, my liege- am I not correct in thinking you graduated from this hellscape last year? ‘Fraid you no longer rule over this part of your kingdom anymore- and this is my bench, dickwad. This is my place of business. So unless you’re planning on purchasing my wares, fuckin’ scram, Harrington.”

He knows my name, Steve thinks. Which- fair. The kingdom reference- yeah, this is definitely Eddie. Eddie he’d gone to school with. Steve’s not sure they’ve ever actually spoken prior to today, but he knows that Tommy liked to rag on the guy in the corridors, that Billy gave him shit too- not as bad as the shit Billy gave Steve in the end, but still. Eddie’s face is cruel, unforgiving. It’s a life sentence.

“I’m not- I don’t want to buy weed, dude. I’m just…”

“Reliving the glory days?”

“Fuck off.”

Eddie laughs. It’s a pretty laugh, mean and snarky. His eyes flash as he dumps his bag on the bench, and Steve wonders if he’s about to climb up on top of it. Loom over Steve and make speeches about jock hierarchies and conventionality. At least Steve would actually understand the references Eddie might make this time. 

He doesn’t, though. He stands beside Steve, looking down at him with ill-disguised dislike on his face.

“Move.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. I fucking told you, you’re on my bench. And-”

He pushes at Steve- actually pushes his shoulder, jabbing- “more importantly, King Steve- you’re on my lighter.”

Steve blinks. 

“What?”

“Jesus fu-”

Steve moves. 

He’d been sitting on a divot in the slightly rotting wood- and lo and behold, there is indeed a tiny lighter stashed in there. Stuck in the crack, squirrelled away.

“I’m not giving you any,” Eddie tells him, waving the joint he’s fished out from behind his ear. Silver glints over his fingers as he does so, the light bouncing off them. “Any weed.”

“I told you, I don’t want any weed. I’m waiting for the bell.”

Eddie snorts. “Jesus. Bit sad, isn’t it? You really miss those hallowed halls that much?”

Steve breathes through his teeth. He’s not going to rise to Eddie’s- whatever this is. 

“I’m just waiting on a friend.”

Eddie hums, lighting the joint. 

“Can you do it somewhere else?”

Steve looks at him, incredulous. This fucking-

“I was here first, asshole.”

Eddie scoffs, exhaling smoke. This is the first time Steve’s been up close to him, come to think of it- he’s very interesting to look at. He’s a collection of patches and pins and studs and silver, frayed edges and frizzy strands of hair backlit in the afternoon sun. A riot of colour, a mess.

Steve looks down at his hands. 

“It’ll ring in like, ten minutes,” Eddie tells him. “So you can fuck off now.”

And okay. Steve is used to it- he’s used to the resentment. He’s had it from some of Robin’s friends, from Dustin’s new, older companions- from people in the grocery store who remember him from the days before Nancy Wheeler broke his heart and he’d had to speedrun becoming a decent person, unlearning everything he’d been taught from the hand of his father.

But it still stings, when it’s this unguarded, this obvious. He’d never even spoken to Eddie before, he barely spoke to anyone in school last year after shit had blown up between himself and Tommy and Steve had been exiled- and to be painted like this without any real prompt, with no room for grace whatsoever- by someone Dustin looks up to, who’s probably a nice enough guy to people who aren’t King Steve-

“Go fuck yourself.”

Eddie blinks. 

Steve stands up, shaking. He can’t even look at Eddie. 

He climbs over the bench, bitter in his throat, breathing shallow.

“Thanks,” Eddie says, and Steve can tell he’s rolling his eyes. He can tell Eddie’s one of those people who just can’t let it lie, can’t not poke the bear, have the last word- 

“-ever so much for those kind parting words, my lord. I do hope this visit to your previous kingdom has been everything you’ve ever-”

Steve shoves him, blink-quick. It’s overwhelming, the rage pushing at him now- the culmination of the last few hours, the rude interruption during a place of vulnerability, the harsh judgement in Eddie’s tone, the ghost of his father’s voice in his ears again. 

“Don’t,” Steve hisses, teeth gritted. Eddie stands, fire in his eyes, and he shoves back. “You gonna fuck me up, King Steve? Back for more hunt-the-freak, back to-”

“I told you don’t, don’t fucking call me that!”

“That’s rich,” Eddie sneers, and he’s really up in Steve’s space now, chest to chest, poking him hard- they’re almost perfectly evenly matched in height, but Eddie edges him out, a little taller, all spiky untethered anger, big dark eyes gone mean, cruel. “None of you fuckheads ever listened when I said those words, huh? What, you don’t like that title anymore? Not here to reclaim the throne after-”

And then suddenly the words are gone, replaced by physical action, physical affirmations of hate, and judgement, and bitterness. Steve shoves him so hard Eddie nearly topples back, and something must have really riled him up because he’s on Steve like a ton of bricks, hurtling them both to the mossy ground and rolling around, kicking Steve in the thigh and yelling at him, and Steve is yelling back- the words spill out from a broken dam, contempt and fury and suddenly Eddie pauses- he’s got Steve on his back, eyes wide in shock. His mouth hangs agape, and Steve’s brain registers- wow. God he has nice lips. Full and plush.

“Did you just call me a pompous big-headed wiseacre?”

Eddie blinks at him- and Steve shoves him off, roughly. Stands, shaken, brushing off his front. He kicks at a broken bottle, away from where he and Eddie had been rolling in the dirt.

“Do you want me to repeat it?” he sneers. 

“No,” Eddie says, slowly. “Just. Who the fuck says wiseacre these days?”

Steve doesn’t deign to respond. He’s cold, sore, and royally pissed off. He gives Eddie one final scornful look and then finally obeys his earlier instruction- fucks off, leaving Eddie on the damp ground, staring up at Steve as though he’d grown two heads.

The bell rings soon after, and Robin hugs him tight. Calls her mom for a lift home, and she’s perfect, she doesn’t ask any stupid questions. Doesn’t do anything other than act normal, just like Robin. 

It doesn’t hit Steve until later on. Past one in the morning, right when he’s about to drift off on Robin’s fold out sofa-bed downstairs. He jolts upright, cursing softly.

The notebook.

He’d left the fucking notebook behind. At the bench.

He puts his head in his hands and sighs. Groans.

It’s fine.

It’s totally fine.

He’ll go pick it up tomorrow. 

Eddie won’t have noticed it. Eddie won’t have read it. It has to be that way, Steve thinks, because nobody else has read it. Not even Robin. It’s for Steve’s eyes only, a tunnel into his brain, the most vulnerable parts. 

So Eddie can’t have read it. He just can’t have. And Steve will pick it up tomorrow. 

It’s going to be fine.

(It’s not.)

*

That, Eddie thinks- might honestly have been the weirdest fucking encounter he’s had in months. Is his weed laced with some shit? Is Rick selling him something super psychedelic? Because surely that was a grand delusion. A hallucination. A King-Steve shaped one.

Pompous big-headed wiseacre.

Harrington had spat it at him. Bared his teeth at Eddie, his handsome features contorted with fury, spouting grandiose insults like some eighteenth century aristocrat- his big hands shoving at Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie had been so taken aback by the whole ordeal that he’d just let Steve do it. Rolled over and then lay there on the ground looking up at him in shock.

He knows he was being kind of an asshole. He’s had a shit day, had actually skipped out last period after Jason Carver had put gum in his hair on his way to class, hissing insults at him and promises for more after school if he didn’t quit it with the lunchtime serenades. Eddie’s pretty sure Carver was only acting like that (more vicious than normal) because his pretty little slip of a cheerleader girlfriend finally grew the balls to dump his ass last Wednesday, and Eddie had made the mistake of snickering a little too loudly as he’d passed by Carver and his group of cronies afterwards. 

Fuck that guy. He's an asshole to everyone, his girlfriend included, so. Whatever.

And in the same vein, fuck Steeeeeve Harrington. 

I mean- valid question to ask, Eddie thought- why was he even here? What was he actually doing at the dealer’s bench? Looking all morose and shit, like someone had pissed in his gold-flake encrusted cornflakes. Perfect, pretty boy Steve Harrington. Eddie’d already had a bone to pick with him after Henderson had spent the last two goddamn weeks singing the guy’s praises- fucking annoying, actually. That little twerp had been preaching about Steve’s character and his integrity and oh how he’d changed- and sure. Eddie had noticed. Noticed over the past year, when Steve had seemingly retreated from high society, shrinking into the shadows after years of living it up as Hawkins High Royalty. 

But sorry- nobody changes that fundamentally. Steve is still a preppy princeling rich boy who’d been friends with some of the worst creatures inhabiting Eddie’s orbit over the past few years (Hagan and Hargrove are getting name-dropped in a Corroded Coffin diss track as soon as humanly possible, actually). He’s still a jock asshole. If it looks, walks, talks like an asshole- it’s an asshole, end of story. 

Steve had reacted badly though, Eddie muses. He’s still lying back on the forest floor, legs akimbo, eyes to the sky. He’d really ticked Steve off with that king shit, which was kind of surprising. Eddie figured he kind of owned the nickname, but still.

And he’d looked so… tired. 

Bitter.

Maybe he really had been just- waiting here. Adrift and alone.

He’s not going to feel bad for Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington. He’s just not. 

He pushes to his feet, head a little woozy from the high, from exhaustion, from the entire weird-ass situation that had unfolded no less than ten minutes ago. He can hear the bell ring distantly, far off, as if in a dream- figures it’s time to scram, and he goes to pick up his bag from the table.

And there it is.

A little shiny red notebook. 

Eddie squints at it. It’s not his. Too clean. Brand name too, fancy shit, nice paper. Biro stuck onto the front. It’s well worn, well loved- the pages are puffy around the edge, it looks to be the kind you carry everywhere with you, jotting shit down on. 

And since it isn’t Eddie’s, that means it can only be-

“Huh.”

Of course he opens it.

Obviously.

Eddie’s a nosy fucker, and hey- Steve left it here, so can’t be too important, right? What could the exiled king be keeping in here that wouldn’t be fit for plebian eyes? 

Turns out- rather a lot. 

It’s… bizarre. At first, it kind of reads like a dictionary. Some of the words have meanings beside them, definitions. Others don’t, just listed down on a page headed with a date. Many of the pages have book titles- some of which Eddie recogises, and holy fucking shitballs, Harrington’s read Tolkien?? And Le Guin?? Jesus. He’s read Earthsea. He’s fucking made notes.

There’s just- there’s no way. It doesn’t make any sense- Eddie was in Harrington’s English class for his senior year. Guy could barely read a fuckin’ McDonalds menu back then. Was he like- hiding this? 

And then he starts hitting prose. 

It’s no longer lists of words, phrases, or commentary. It’s original work. It’s new life. 

Steve’s writing is bizarre. Some of it straight up doesn’t make any sense, and his spelling is really very patchy. His grammar’s touch and go too- but the actual lines themselves- well.

It’s pure poetry. Some of it is genuinely mindblowing. Eddie has to sit down as he reads, scanning hungrily. It’s just so emotive, so utterly compelling- and also, regrettably and very obviously deeply fucking personal. 

Vulnerable.

It’s disguised in layers of metaphors and pretty adjectives, but it’s there. Heavy Fucking Shit. Eddie’s not well versed enough in picking through prose like this, but he’d put money on shitty parents, shitty friends, shitty love life- damn. Who would have thunk it- even Kings have problems. 

Besides all that though- this entire thing is just dripping in potential. 

Steve is a lyricist. That much is obvious- and hey, look at that, yet another thing to add to the tally list of shit Eddie burns with jealousy over now. Because Eddie’s wicked when it comes to stringing together chords, and whipping up riffs- but his words fall flat when put to music. 

It’s infuriating.

Corroded Coffin have been gigging at the Hideout for a while now. Over a year, plus some random events in Indy and other nearby small town. It’s fun, and they do okay. Capital O Okay. The main takeaway Eddie gets whenever they chat to more experienced artists, producers, signed people? 

The lyrics suck.

People go wild for their covers. They cheer madly for the instrumental numbers. But Eddie knows they’re dragging when it comes to verses people want to sing along to, and that shit is difficult to fix. The rest of them are hopeless- Eddie’s always been the writer. He writes campaigns, short stories- long form fiction is an art he’s decently versed in, but lyrics? Man, that’s a whole new kettle of fish. They’re always clunky, predictable, stereotypical. Dull. He just doesn’t massively enjoy it to be honest. He likes writing the music, and writing other stuff. Song lyrics are a hard pass when possible.

But this.

There’s gold in here. Real, usable, mineable gold. 

Eddie wants it. Wants it bad. Wants it enough to overlook Harrington’s character profile, and their very rough chance encounter earlier. Sure, he could be a total dick and just… thieve this. Harrington might assume it had got cleared out by some other wasted drug-dealing loser, or the wind or some shit. 

But.

That’s cutting off potential. If this is how Steve writes now… once it’s a little more polished? Refined? It could be show-stopping. It could be the break they’re looking for, really. The big break. 

He wants that bad enough to try.

He takes it home. Yes, yes- bad idea, he’s sure. Whatever. But he can’t help it- he’s drunk on Steve’s words, poring over each turn of phrase as if mesmerised- putting chords to some of the lighter, less angstier lines- trying them out on his tongue. It feels strangely intimate (not that strange, actually- this is kind of like reading Steve’s diary, he thinks- feels a stab of guilt over that). It’s odd, having this one-sided personal connection to somebody who distinctly Doesn’t Like You. Shame, because Eddie would never have riled him up like that if he’d known earlier. Harrington really does seem nice through the lens of Dustin Henderson, and- well. He’s very pretty. Refined and well built, nice eyes. Eddie’s always thought that, which is an uncomfortable truth he’d rather not acknowledge, actually- but it’s besides the point. Steve probably hates his guts after earlier, and is definitely going to hate him even more after Eddie rips off this proverbial bandaid and asks him- hey, dude, could I like- pick your brain? Use your words? After I peered into your personal word journal like a peeping tom?

He’d bet money on Harrington returning to the picnic bench the next day at least- this notebook seems personal enough that if it were Eddie? He’d come back for it. So he sets off, decides to skip first period. He’ll wait out the whole day if needed, he’s got an apple and a campaign session to write and two joints and-

And Steve is already there, when he arrives.

Eddie slows his footfalls as he approaches, cautious- Steve is facing away from him at the bench, shoulders fraught with tension. He’s wearing his Family Video vest. Eddie’s seen him there on shift, laughing with that Buckley girl- weird pairing, now he thinks on it. Maybe Steve’s character change is down to a kick up the ass from a nice new girlfriend.

He’s… cleaned. 

He’s cleaned around the bench. Gathered some of the trash from the ground and put it on the table, putting it into a bag. Weird. So fucking weird. He stiffens as Eddie approaches. 

Eddie has no idea how to act. Steve looks at him warily, scanning for something- his eyes lock onto it immediately, a flash of red in Eddie’s fingers.

The notebook.

His gaze hardens at once, and Eddie raises his hands in gentle surrender, and tries, very hard, to placatingly smile.

“Fancy seeing you-”

“Did you read it?”

Steve’s breathing hard. He’s still holding trash in one hand, and the other fist is curled up tight- and really, that should have been more than enough fucking warning, actually, Eddie should have realised-

“You read it,” Steve affirms, voice choked up with something indecipherable, something cosmically bad.

And suddenly he’s on Eddie, and Eddie’s back is pressed up against a tree, his eyes squeezed shut, yelling, shrieking- Steve’s holding a fucking broken bottle to his throat, pinning him in place and near-on growling at him, livid with rage.

“You fucking ASSHOLE! What the fuck!”

“FUCK- wait, wait wait wait, please, jesus-”

“You read it! You fucking read it, you took it- you took it home, you fucking creep! You-”

“Steve- Steve wait-”

“FUCK!”

Steve drops the bottle suddenly, releasing Eddie to spin away from him, chest heaving, hand raking through his hair. His face is all twisted up, despairing.

“How much.”

Eddie swallows.

“How much did you read, Munson?”

He knows my name, Eddie thinks distantly. Well. That’s nice.

“Steve-”

“Forget it,” Steve laughs. “Fuck. Whatever.”

“Dude- please. Can you just-”

Steve turns to him, dead eyed and tired looking. He looks as though he hasn’t slept right, all rumpled and pale faced. He reaches over quickly and yanks the notebook out of Eddie’s hand, and Eddie lets it go, shame colouring his cheeks. 

I mean- it was never going to be easy, this.

“Steve,” he tries again. Tentative.

“I- I shouldn’t have. That was really uncool.”

Steve laughs, dryly. “Yeah. Colossal understatement.”

“I didn’t know-”

“What? You thought it was like- a list of my bullying victims? Every time I’ve tried to give a kid a swirlie? A record of me learning my ABC’s?”

Steve groans, and rubs at his stomach as though soothing nausea. He looks bad. Really, really pale. He’s breathing hard, hard and fast.

“I- I have to go,” he chokes, and he’s trying to move, stumbling, and Eddie can see it now- something strangling him from the inside, forcing his breaths out, heaving, rapid, rib-breaking breaths. He stumbles forwards and then leans against a tree, cursing under his breath, doubled over. 

He’s going to be sick, Eddie worries. Fuck what have I done. Jesus.

“Steve,” he says, approaching slowly.

“Go- away-”

Steve groans, sinking into a crouch, breathing hard.

“Why,” he gasps, “why did you have to read it?”

Eddie shakes his head, back and forth, fast and hard, sorry, I’m sorry-

“I had no idea, Steve, I had no clue- and I won’t- I didn’t-”

“Nobody,” Steve croaks, “I haven’t showed anyone that shit, and- and I-”

He cuts off, breathing jagged. Eddie’s seen this before, this breathing. 

His mom used to get like this. Before she left. Sometimes he’d wake up to the noise, the panting like a dog, loud across the same dingy mattress they’d both slept on on the floor.

He acts on instinct. Squats down beside Steve, who has his eyes closed now, his mouth clamped shut as though he’s trying to slow the breathing down by swallowing it back into his lungs. Eddie breathes with him, long and slow, loud as he can.

In and out. In and out. Count two beats. In and out.

It takes a minute, but Steve catches on. Matches the breathing, until they’re both just sitting there on the damp earth, breathing slow and loud, and Steve looks at him then, his big brown eyes all wet and tired looking. Eddie can’t look away. It’s like looking at the fucking sun.

“How much?” Steve eventually repeats, voice quiet, achey.

Eddie stares at him. 

“All of it.”

Steve nods in resignation. Solemn. He sits back against the tree, and exhales, so very slow and long, deflating.

“Tell me to fuck off,” Eddie says, “but I- fuck. I think… you’re really brilliant, Harrington.”

Steve blinks at the sky for a second, and then frowns as the words sink in. He whips back to look at Eddie.

“What?”

“I just- I had no idea. No fucking idea, that you could write like that.”

“Write like what?”

“Like a lyricist.”

Eddie clucks his tongue against his teeth as Steve stares at him. Stares and stares, like he’s trying to read something in Eddie’s face. He thinks I’m mocking him, Eddie realises. That’s pretty heart breaking, actually.

“I’m being deadly serious.”

“Fuck off.”

Eddie laughs weakly. Fair enough.

“Where’d you learn to write like that?” he tries eventually, after a little intermission of quiet. Just the rustling of the wind through the leaves, and Steve’s breathing, rattling but evened out now. Steve shrugs, still looking away.

“Is it like-”

“Just- drop it, Munson.”

Eddie kind of wishes Steve hadn’t sussed out his last name. He’d definitely called him Eddie before, and he sort of wants to hear that again.

“Sorry,” he says again. “I really am.”

Steve shrugs again, and then gets shakily to his feet. He’s going to leave, Eddie realises- he’s going to leave, and I’ll never be able to ask him.

“Harrington-”

“Look,” Steve sighs. “It’s- it’s whatever, okay? Let’s just fucking- let’s pretend this never happened.”

Eddie frowns.

“I get if you- I get you probably hate me, and want to hang me from your little… basketball hoop, or whatever, but-”

Steve snorts. “I don’t… it’s fine. I don’t hate you.”

He looks at Eddie, finally. It’s really very unfair, the effect he has- does he even realise? Does Steve know what he looks like at this moment? Wet eyelashes and pink in his cheeks, dark circles and rigid jawline, sunlight threading through that carefully styled mess of hair. 

“I don’t forgive you, either. I won’t.”

Eddie nods, mouth dry.

“But you didn’t- it’s not like you knew. I’m sorry for-” he waves a hand in the direction of the tree, the broken bottle- “that stuff. It just freaked me out.”

“Hey,” Eddie smiles, “I survived unharmed. You’re okay, dude.”

Steve nods at him stiffly, breaking his gaze. 

“I’m gonna head-”

“You- you said you’ve never shown anyone them before?” Eddie bursts out, desperation beginning to frazzle his nerves. “The… poems?”

Steve narrows his eyes. 

“No- I just mean- look,” Eddie groans, pressing his face into one hand. “I’m gonna sound like a fuckin’ prick when I say this, so feel free to come at me again with the bottle. But… I really meant what I said earlier. The lyricist thing.”

“I’m not following.”

“You- have you like, heard of my band?”

Eddie glances at him hopefully, which in hindsight- real pathetic move. Very sad, especially because Steve clearly hasn’t. Guy probably doesn’t venture much further than Tears for Fears or Duran Duran in terms of taste, if Eddie’s sticking to prescribed appearance-based judgement (which is little unfair, given how Steve has been entirely subverting that thus far).

“Your… band?”

“Yeah. Corroded Coffin? We, uh- played the middle school talent show like every year running? We gig at the Hideout?”

Eddie mimes a little air guitar motion, leaning sideways so his hair falls into his eyes. He looks up through his lashes at Steve, who looks a little nonplussed.

“Uh. Maybe?”

“We used to play mostly covers. Metal, hard rock stuff- but we play original shit too.”

Steve is kind of dithering now- Eddie’s losing him, he can tell that much. Social cues are a bitch sometimes, but still.

“Anyway,” he hurries on, “basically- what I’m trying to get at- I mean-”

He sighs, why is this so fucking painful, and shit- he must have hissed that under his breath aloud because Steve fixes him with a look.

“I’m kind of dogshit at writing lyrics,” he manages eventually. “And you’re kind of genius at it.”
Steve blinks. Clearly hadn’t been expecting that- man. The main takeaway Eddie’s getting from this whole thing is that Harrington’s ego is way smaller than he’d expected.

“I’ve never written-”

“You have, though. You don’t even realise it- but you have.”

“I don’t- I barely even listen to music, man. I just listen to whatever’s on the radio. Most of the time I play books on tape when I’m in the car and stuff.”

Ahhh, so that explains it, Eddie thinks. The sudden increase in reading. Fair enough.

“Yeah but- you’re like a fuckin’ poet, dude. I’m serious.”

Steve’s cheeks turn a little pinker. Eddie hates the fact he notices that, and barrels on.

“Again- feel free to tell me I’m an asshole again. But I’m out on a limb here- and I’ll like… compensate you, and stuff- free- or at least cheaper weed, the good shit- and obviously if we ever get anywhere with the lyrics you’d get credit, and-”

“Wait,” Steve frowns, “woah- hang on. What are you asking here?”

Eddie swallows. “I’m asking… I’m asking for your words, man.”

“You want my-”

“Your help. Your lyrics. Your lines- I mean fuck, Harrington- you’re wasting this shit here. It’s a goldmine. This notebook alone- and again,” Eddie grimaces, “I’m like, really sorry for snooping- but-”

“You want to turn that into songs?”

Eddie nods. 

Steve’s mouth is agape. Eddie can see a little of his tongue like that, pink and wet, and he looks away quickly.

“What? No. No fuckin’ way.”

Eddie groans, and drops to his knees. Steve looks bewildered, staggering back a little.

“Dude-”

“Steve,” he tries again, “I’m fucking begging you, okay? Like- I’m not saying you need to use any personal shit. It can be made up bullcrap, whatever you want. Write about fuckin’ Family Video for all I care. As long as it's all flowery and like… concise, and shit, the way some of the stuff is in that notebook…”

Steve looks down at him, disbelief and something else colouring his expression. Apprehension, Eddie reckons, which is understandable. Eddie blinks up at him, eyes wide, and Steve averts his gaze, covering his hand with his mouth. His cheeks are still very pink. It’s colder out today, Eddie supposes.

“No,” he repeats. “Sorry.”

“What?!”

“What’s not computing here? No. Not gonna happen.”

“But-”

“Sorry, Munson. But I don’t write… songs, or whatever.”

“I’m not saying you need to- I’ll write the songs, dipshit! I mean- no, wait- Steve- hang on, Harrington-”

But it’s too late. He’s already walking away, without so much as a backwards glance- notebook gripped in his left hand, stalking off through the woods towards god knows where. 

Eddie sighs.

Fine. Sure. He knew this wasn’t gonna be a cakewalk, and that’s just fine. Peachy, even. He’ll just have to try again. He and Steve may not have crossed paths much before this (mostly it had been Eddie trying not to stare, and Steve ignoring Eddie as one of his basketball goons had hurled insults at him in the corridors- but they’re about to get real fuckin’ friendly now. Hell- maybe Henderson can even help, in this weird little twist of fate. Eddie wants those lyrics. He wants Steve’s words. 

So he’ll just have to work a little harder for them.

*

Eddie, Steve thinks, is like a bad fucking penny.

It’s actually hard to remember a time in his life when he wasn’t acutely aware of Eddie Munson’s presence. A peaceful and quiet time, unencumbered by clumsy loud-mouthed frizzy haired nonsense seemingly trailing him all over Hawkins like a very misled duckling. 

Like- isn’t he supposed to still be at school?

Steve had sneered that question at him when Eddie had shown up for his third shift in a row at Family Video. Does he want to go for round- what, three? That badly?

“It’d be round four then,” Eddie replies cheerfully. “Super senior to the power of four. What is that, anyway? Cause three is cubed, right?”

“Munson.”

“Steven.”

“Don’t fucking- that’s not my name, asshole.”

Steve is starting to get pissed off by week three. It’s tiresome, always being on edge like this- he’s honestly beginning to question if Eddie’s tagged him like a dog at this point, because he has a spookily uncanny knack for knowing Steve’s exact location at any given time. 

He’s pretty sure it’s partly down to Henderson, who’s in the dog house for this exact reason. Goddamn traitor. Dustin can’t seem to fathom why Eddie is so hellbent on stalking Steve to within an inch of his life- and Steve isn’t exactly jumping at the prospect of telling him oh- you know, he’s just after a shot at me writing some pretty cringeworthy and very personal… prose, to try and turn into whatever bullshit rock ballad he wants to croon down at the Hideout every Thursday.

Steve knows it’s every Thursday now. A fact he learned entirely against his will, because Eddie’s about as subtle as a brick to the face, and he seems to think that Steve’s going to magically change his mind and come around if he just comes along and listens, please- just one gig, Harrington. 

Steve is so sick of it. So tired. And the worst part of it all? Robin.

“You like it,” she tells him pointedly after their last shift. They’re locking up after Steve had to physically chase Eddie out of the storefront. 

Steve glares at her. 

“I like what?”

“You like this-” she gestures at the door, occupied moments before by Eddie, clinging on to it’s frame- “stalking shtick. You’re enjoying it.”

Steve’s mouth drops open, cheeks aflame.

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Oh come on, Steve,” she laughs. “Just admit it! You’re having fun.”

“Fun?? Are you being serious right now? Robin. Robin, look at me. Do I look like I’m having fun?”

“You look like you’re having a temper tantrum, actually. But yeah, when Munson comes in- sometimes you do.”

“You need your eyes checked,” Steve grumbles, slamming the final empty return tape crate onto the ground behind the counter. Fun. What is wrong with that girl?

She knows everything, obviously. She’d already known about the notebook- she’d even been kind of nice about it, dropping it quickly after Steve had made it pretty clear he didn’t want anyone to see the bizarre little writings inside. She’d been angry on his behalf too, initially- angry, and kind of shocked, when Steve had brought up the whole ‘song lyrics’ thing.

“Munson’s kind of known for being a bit… out there,” she’d reminded him. “It’s kind of on brand. And isn’t this a good thing? Aren’t you always going on about Henderson singing his praises? Maybe you guys can like… cordially co-parent. Share dropoff lifts, free up the bimmer a little.”

Steve had scoffed at that. “Yeah, no. Dustin’s not riding with him in that van- you know he sells?”

“Uh, yeah, Steve- I do. Because your friends buy from him? Kind of a double standard.”

“Whatever,” Steve had scowled. “I don’t wanna be like- buddy buddy with the guy. I just want him to leave me alone.”

He’d repeated this sentiment so often to Eddie that Steve had felt like an actor rehearsing a play. I mean, christ- Eddie seems like a reasonably smart guy, all things considered- if you looked past the academic record (and Steve could hardly fault him there, since apparently the reason he kept failing was lack of attendance, not intelligence). But he just wasn’t getting it.

And yes, the main reason Steve wanted him to fucking drop it like a good boy and fuck off back to standing on cafeteria tables and preaching against people like Steve’s existence in life- that was obvious. Inconvenience. Embarrassment. Annoyance.

But also- if he was being really honest with himself?

It was partly because Robin (irritatingly) is correct.

He is enjoying it. A little. Against his will.

It’s not the whole attention thing- which Robin claims it is, she regularly calls him an attention whore (and okay, maybe it’s an attention thing in a roundabout way)- it’s just-

It’s kind of nice, to be wanted that badly. Not like that! Steve reminds himself as he ponders over it, red faced as he cleans the window as Robin whistles to herself in the staff room. Not like that. Just- somebody wants Steve’s brain. That’s kind of a revelation. That’s never happened.

Steve likes being useful. He likes having a place, and helping people, and feeling nice about it, and looking after his friends. It’s nice. And people do rely on him- he’s trustworthy, pretty good at showing up on time for stuff, good with kids, a safe bet to take home, good for a lift, good at protecting someone physically (sometimes). And he’s desired, sure- Robin is constantly bemoaning the steady stream of girls willing to date him after he switches on the ol’ Harrington charm- he’s friendly, tall enough, good hair. Good in bed. Humble, too- that’s what Robin would say here. They spend too much time together, Steve realises- Robin’s inner monologue in his skull is almost as loud as his own at this point.

But nobody ever comes to Steve for something like song lyrics. That’s pretty far out.

He’s never the guy to help with homework, or come up with plans. He’s the one having to have shit explained twice to him, extra instructions, repeated details with people rolling their eyes. Steve’s thick, whatever. It’s not something that really bothers him much.

But it actually feels pretty good that Eddie wants this that badly. Bad enough to dog Steve around town, wheedling at him and trying to win him over with really terrible jokes and references to Dustin and those big brown eyes. And the dimples- that’s just- it’s kind of an unfair weapon. Steve loves girls with dimples, and Eddie has long hair, so- yeah. Maybe that’s why he notices them. Dimples are just… they’re a noticeable trait. It’s normal to think about them late at night, and the person they’re dimpling in. 

So basically- Steve needs it all to stop. To end. Because it’s feeding his ego, sure- but it’s also fucking with his head, and making him all spacey, and making Robin act really fucking weird around him, and- it’s just too much, being around Eddie. 

And it’s not as though he can give in. Imagine- Steve Harrington, songwriter. Like- what the fuck. Hilarious prospect. The kids would give him so much shit for it.

And also, it wouldn’t take long for Eddie to realise he’s mistaken. That Steve isn’t a lyricist. He’s not even a writer- he’s just a guy with a notebook, writing down long words and sometimes spilling all the anger and the hurt inside his ribcage out onto the paper in scrambled incoherent shortform. It’s better for both of them if Steve doesn’t try.

“I need a break,” Steve groans. 

“A break from what exactly?”

Robin glances at him slyly as they head back towards his car.

“I dunno. Everything. I wanna get smashed.”

“I thought that was the whole point of tonight?”

“Yeah,” Steve hums. “I guess.”

Robin swallows, looking down at her sneakers. 

“And you’re sure it won’t be weird?”

Steve sighs, facing her and clamping his hands down over her shoulders, shaking her gently.

“Rob. Yes, I’m sure. No, it won’t be weird. You know Bradley! You met him, like-”

“Once-”

“Yeah, but I barely know the guy anyway, and besides, half the fuckin’ town is going. His house is huge, it’ll be fun! And I found out from Sarah that Lindsay found out from Jessie-”

“When does it become a problem- you sleeping with half their inner circle?”

“-that Vickie is definitely going! And we already know she broke up with that loser, so-”

“God, fine, fine Steve- I get it, get in. Get in the car! I need to get ready.”

“What? We have like, three hours.”

“Exactly!! That’s like- barely enough time to panic about this all! I need my freakout time, Steve- hurry up and drive, dingus!”

Robin does, in fact, panic at him for two and a half hours out of the three. Steve sits in her room, staring up at the pale purple ceiling while Robin rants and plots and panics as she swipes on makeup and changes top like fifty times- he himself spends half an hour on his hair, removes the family video vest, and deems himself good to go. 

“Ugh,” Robin groans. “It’s so unfair that you get to put in that little effort.”

Steve smirks at her. “And the ladies will be lining up-”

She shoves him. “Don’t count on it,” she replies sweetly. “You haven’t been on a date in like two months, that’s got to be a record.”

Steve scowls. “I just got bored of the whole…”

“Screwing around with no emotional intimacy?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Something like that, maybe.”

“Well don’t worry, Harrington,” she grins at him, skipping out the front door. “I bet if you get lonely, your stalker will keep you company!”

She’s skipped down the road to drown out his retort, laughing as he tries to keep up. Robin lives a few blocks away from Bradley’s sprawling McMansion, on the poorer side, as she says. Walkable distance means it’s fine to get shitfaced at least and not have to crash on a soiled area of carpet, so all in all- Steve’s ready to let loose. To try and drown everything out- the words, and his parents (departed, but never really fully gone from that big empty house he has to look after), and his job prospects and his love life- and Eddie. Eddie too.

Things begin going awry as soon as Steve arrives. 

Firstly- there’s something wrong with the punch. Steve can’t track down any beer, and he and Robin had only brought a four pack, because Bradley had bragged to Steve when he’d invited him to this shindig that there’d be unlimited booze man- no BYOB crap, just bring your liver and prepare to get it fuuuucked.

But the punch has some really deeply nasty taste to it, and someone’s throwing up in a bush when they arrive- and the only beer available is in the kegs- which are currently surrounded by swarms of Billy Hargrove’s cronies, and Steve knows the leader himself must be in there somewhere. He spies Tommy after a while- who gives him a cold, assessing look, and Steve ducks his head, moves into the shadows. He can’t be fucked dealing with any of that tonight.

He tries chatting up a girl he’d run into in Melvads last week- Katy something, but realises about five minutes into the conversation that actually- he really doesn’t want to talk to her anymore. She’s making eyes at him, pouting her lips, sticky with red gloss. Steve is tired. The conversation is empty, banal- it’s a courting ritual he’s played out enough times that he could likely do this in his sleep, and yet- there’s just nothing there. Meaningless hookups have felt like that recently- empty and dead, to the point where there’s no pleasure involved, so why bother? He detaches himself quickly and tries to find Robin- and finds her giggling in a corner with Vickie, the two of them bowed over a shared beer bottle. Robin looks pleased with herself, flushed and kind of bewildered- Steve smiles for a minute, feeling a pang of jealousy. Must be nice, to want someone like that. To be wanted.

He swings away, scans the crowd- maybe Nancy and Jon are about, might be nice to say hi- he stumbles outside as he does so, and bumps chest to chest with Billy fucking Hargrove.

“King Steve,” he grins, and he shoves Steve in the chest, hard. His eyes glint playfully in the porch light, his breath reeking of something strong and sour, beer and smoke and maybe fucking paint stripper, god he looks hammered. He’s also way too close- Hargrove never quite got the memo on personal space, Steve thinks, he’d always crowded Steve up in such an uncomfortable manner- on and off the court.

“Been a while.”

“Sure has,” Steve says flatly. He really wants to get out of here. Two of Billy’s meathead friends are flanking him like guard dogs, and he feels shut in. He scans for Tommy, but he’s nowhere to be found. Maybe that’s a good thing.

“Where you been hiding out?” Billy inquires, chest all puffed out like some ridiculous bird of prey. “Daddy found you a job, huh? You fuckin’ vanished off the face of the-”

“Yeah- something like that,” Steve interjects, pretending to catch the eye of somebody further out in the backyard. “Listen, I have to-”
He tries to push past Billy, and their arms brush momentarily. Billy tracks his movement like a shark, and Steve feels his skin crawl.

“Why the hurry?” Billy asks, and his tone is dead. Low and monotone, his lip curling. “We haven’t caught up yet, Harrington.”

“Yeah, well-”

“Don’t fucking shove me, you fuckin’ pussy,” Billy snarls- Steve had made a desperate attempt to get by again, and he feels panic coil in his gut as Billy pushes him back. He’ll take a swing if needs be, but the last time Hargrove had cornered him like this it really hadn’t ended well, and Billy’s goons beside him look just as tall, just as drunk, just as much assholes as their ringleaders. 

And the suddenly Billy springs back, jumping up- he nearly slips in the two overturned cans of beer all over the floor, cursing loudly and skidding in the puddle. Someone had spilled them over the slatted wooden deck- Steve doesn’t waste any time trying to look for who, he just skedaddles.

Word for the notebook, he thinks, skedaddles, slipping out into the darkness and near-on sprinting into the large expanse of back yard as Hargove yells in rage, kicking his sneakers- whoever dropped those cans must have almost thrown them like grenades, because it looked as though the liquid had splashed all over his feet, legs. 

Steve finds himself against a copse of trees, head spinning a little despite the lack of alcohol in his system. He sighs, sinking down against a trunk. Figures he’ll lie low here for a few minutes and then head back towards the exit once the porch is free of assholes. There’s a few people milling about nearby, but none of them are interested in Steve as he sits, catching his breath, closing his eyes. He can hear the thrum of music in the distance, the muted chatter of the crowd. Someone yelling, jeering- the splash of a cup sliding off a table, a clatter, groaning. And-

“Well, well, well. What a coincidence.”

Steve opens his eyes, and glances up. And there he is.

Of course.

Eddie’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Steve fucking hates that he’s familiar enough with the expression to know this, that his stupid overstimulated brain has apparently decided that that information was important enough to catalogue away for safekeeping.

He groans.

“Don’t act too pleased to see me,” Eddie beams, flopping down beside him on the grass. His hair is loose around his shoulders, partly tamed under a satin bandana. With his open-side cut tank top, his silver rings and earring, and the hair- he looks kind of like a pirate. His treasure chest is small and rusty though, Steve muses. A little black one with a padlock, and Steve can smell that  familiar pungent weed odour even with the lid shut.

“I mean- I saved your ass back there, man,” Eddie blinks at him, owl-eyed. Steve frowns.

“Y’know- with Hargrove? You looked reeeeal cozy, but I figured you weren’t really into him spitting in your face like that, so I-”

“That was you?” Steve laughs, “with the beer? Dude. How are you not beaten to a pulp right now?”

Eddie shrugs, looking pleased with himself. “Oh ye of little faith. This isn’t my first rodeo-”

“What, avoiding assholes?”

“-I was gonna say rescuing damsels in distress,” Eddie grins, and Steve scowls at him. “But yeah, sure, that works. Man he is foul. I had to throw those motherfuckers like grenades and then slip away. I think it’s all the black,” he gestures to his outfit, “gives me like- ninja skills.”

Steve snorts. “You’re pretty terrible at tailing me for a ninja, Munson.”

“I’m not tryna hide from you though.”

Steve looks at him, and feels an uncomfortable warmth unfold in his stomach. Eddie’s so unlike any friend he’s ever had- so unlike anyone he’s ever interacted with, really. It makes him feel so unsure. So uneasy. Nervous, for an inexplicable reason.

“Can’t a guy have a night off from being stalked?”

“Sure,” Eddie says, all casual. “I just was gonna offer you weed, anyway.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m not giving you the notebook.”

“Hey,” he says, hands held aloft and looking at Steve like truce? “No strings. Seriously. I’m offering you free weed Harrington- I’m sure a man of your means can spring for a joint any ol’ day, but this is the really good shit. I normally keep this strain all to myself.”

He unlocks the lunchbox, fishes out a skinny little joint. It’s squished at one end, but Eddie offers it to him like a white flag. A night off. 

Why not. It’s kind of nice to have the company anyway, and he figures Eddie will stick around longer if they smoke.

Steve lights up, and at the first draw thinks- yeah. Damn. This is pretty smooth, actually. It reeks though. He leans back against the tree and sighs a plume of smoke into the night air, cold and frigid at this point in the year. Takes another one, and by the time he stops staring into space- Eddie’s gone all quiet for some blessed unknown reason, just staring at Steve as he smokes- the cherry’s no longer lit, smoke but no fire. Eddie takes it anyway, tries to inhale hard enough to get it going again, but no dice. Steve takes his own lighter out, beckoning him forward. Not sure why I did that, he thinks- he can light his own joint. 

But he leans in anyway, lets Steve light it up for him, and his eyes flicker up to meet Steve’s as he leans in, glancing up through those ridiculously long eyelashes.

Words flicker through Steve’s mind, unbidden and uninvited. Fair, comely, alluring, bewitching.

He blinks, leaning back, horrified with himself. It’s just because of the notebook, he reasons. Because his brain is so overloaded with words these days, the walkman on when the storefront gets quiet, on in the house to try and block out all the empty silence. 

Bewitching.

The orange glow from the lighter flickering across his face, licking over the bridge of his nose, his dark curly bangs. His eyes, so big and gloomy- jesus christ Steve needs to get laid. And fast. Fucking- what. Maybe it’s because his hair is kind of like Nancy’s, he ponders. Steve’s always had a thing for curly brunettes with delicate features and sharp tongues. For girls who fit that bill.

Eddie is decidedly not a girl. 

Steve watches his hands as he smokes. They’re always moving- gesticulating and waving and cursing and clenching, his long slender fingers dressed in chunky silver rings. As hands go, they’re kind of nice. If you’re into that stuff. And he’s tall, tall and all angular in that distinctly masculine way Steve associates with guys who hit a growth spurt but never hit the gym. Skinny and planar. Pale, too, he’s super pale. And fuck, fuck why is he paying so much attention? Maybe it’s the weed. It’s got to be the weed.

“You good?” Eddie asks, quirking an eyebrow at him. His voice is a little rough from the smoke, and Steve’s mouth feels dry, dry and heavy. 

“Yeah,” he manages, clearing the gravel from his throat. “Yeah, ‘m good.”

Eddie nods once.

“Dustin told me you guys are watching Star Wars this weekend,” Eddie tells him, still staring forwards into the quiet back yard. 

“Dustin’s a little snitch,” Steve sniffs. “You gonna try show up at that too?”

“What- your house?” Eddie teases. “I’m not that creepy, am I?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Steve grumbles. 

“You guys doing like, a marathon?”

“Think so. He only asked because his little mormon wife is too busy to radio call that day.”

“Nah,” Eddie replies, leaning back against the wide tree trunk. His hair tickles Steve’s shoulder, he can feel it over his bare bicep under his polo sleeve. Feels it, but finds himself unable to move away, glued in place, tongue glued in his mouth, all fuzzy in his brain.

“Hmm?”

“That kid worships you, dude. He was buzzing about your hang sesh all through Hellfire.”

Steve tries not to smile. Fails miserably, feeling his mouth tug upwards automatically.

“Truth be told, I was getting a little sick of hearing about your many charming faculties, Harrington,” Eddie snickers. “He doesn’t shut up about you.”

“And you think I’m a total asshole,” Steve reminds him. “Did that fuck with your little set-in-place-pre-notions?”

Eddie looks at him then. His face is way, way too close. Steve can see the palest smattering of freckles over his cheekbones.

“Sure it did.”

“That must be very inconvenient.”

“Oh you have no idea.”

But Steve does, kind of. Have an idea. Because despite every effort he’s made- he just can’t seem to find a reason to really actively dislike Eddie. Yeah, he is kind of a freak. And yes- he’s a nosy one too- and one that accidentally stumbled into the most vulnerable section of Steve’s brain, and didn’t even have the decency not to try and exploit that for his own musical gains. And yet- 

Steve doesn’t really want to get rid of him. Not really. 

He sighs, looking forwards again.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” he starts- thinks of Robin, and the way she’s always lecturing him about people-pleasing-tendencies, and then barrels on anyway. “But… if you really, genuinely- if you’re actually not fucking with me…”

“You’ll do it?”

Eddie grabs his arm, eyes lighting up as though Steve’s just announced that christmas is occurring tomorrow and then forever. “You’ll help me? With the lyrics?”

“...Sure.”

Eddie whoops, flopping back on the grass, releasing Steve to throw his arms above his head. Steve kind of mourns the loss of contact. It feels good to see somebody so happy over the prospect of Steve’s help. To see Eddie- who’s been haunting him for weeks over this, trying and trying and showing up to prove how much he wants it- happy over it.

“I can’t promise it’ll be any good,” Steve cuts in, but Eddie waves him off, interrupting him.

“It’ll be good. I know it’ll be good.”

“What about your band?”

“What about them?”

“Will they like… know?”

“Uh- yeah. I told you dude, I’m not an asshole. I’m an artist. I respect other artists, you get full credit. And weed. Lemme know if you need any.”

Charming, Steve thinks. Great payment for my emotionally revealing services. 

“But will they be like… cool with it?”

Cool with me?

“Course,” Eddie shrugs, sitting up and jostling Steve’s shoulder. He’s a pretty touchy guy, Steve thinks. It’s nice. Reminds him of the friendship he had with Tommy, before Tommy became the world's biggest dick, and Steve grew a pair and had to drop him. “Once they hear your stuff, dude. Crazy. Man, you’re doing me a real solid, Steve-”

“Chill out,” Steve rolls his eyes. Tries not to let it show on his face how pleased he is. How warm his chest feels over Eddie’s excitement, his enthusiasm. “Just- tell me when you wanna… meet. Or- do I just- how do we do this? Do I write, and you just use the lines? Or-”

“I have a feeling it might require collaborative sessions,” Eddie tells him seriously, eyes twinkling. Collaborative. That’s a nice word, Steve thinks.

“Sure,” Steve says, all casual and unaffected. “I guess- you know where to find me, if you wanna organise one of these… collaborative sessions, then.”
He stands, his joints complaining- but it feels good to escape Eddie’s orbit. Steve is drowning, sinking into Eddie’s joy and his passion and his hands, gesticulating and waving, alive with motion. It’s too much. 

“Gimme a hand up,” Eddie whines from the ground. He looks pretty baked- he smoked a lot more than I did, Steve realises. He offers Eddie a hand, and he grasps it firmly, wobbling to his feet and then tipping off balance so they both stumble against the tree- and oh-

“Whoops,” Eddie murmurs, as Steve bumps against him- and there’s a brief pause, a microcosm, where they’re almost nose to nose- Eddie’s eyes all wide, pretty, dark dusky velvet allure- 

And Steve jumps back, hot around the collar, his hand pulling from Eddie’s own, sliding against the rings. Eddie looks at him curiously.

“You okay there big boy?”

Steve cannot stand it.

“Gotta run,” he manages, voice a little strangled. “Gotta- Robin.”

He turns hastily and jogs off, ears burning with shame, burning with that other unidentified feeling that twists around his guts. He heard Eddie in the distance, calling out, see ya around, and fuck he will, won’t he? He will see Eddie around, and it’s all his own goddamn fault. 

It’s fine, Steve assures himself, spotting Robin dithering around the door looking anxious. It’ll be fine. I was just too high, and Eddie was just- being Eddie. I can work this out. I can make this normal, and maybe we can even be friends. It’ll work out. 

It’s going to be fine.

(It’s not.)