Chapter Text
The letter arrived on a Tuesday morning, which Steve would later decide was somehow the worst possible day for a government-mandated life-altering announcement to arrive, because Tuesdays carried none of the dread of Mondays and none of the anticipation of Fridays. They simply existed in the middle of everything, quietly and unremarkably, which meant a person could wake up expecting an ordinary day and find themselves staring at an envelope that effectively informed them their future had already been decided.
Steve discovered the letter when he stumbled downstairs after eight, sleep still clinging stubbornly to the corners of his mind. The kitchen was silent but for the hum of the refrigerator and occasional tick of the expensive clock his mother had bought years ago because she thought it made the room look sophisticated. He could tell by the way their scents had started to fade in the air that his parents had already left, which was hardly unusual. He hadn't expected them to wait around for him to wake before leaving to whatever city in where-ever.
The envelope sat neatly on the granite counter top, most probably placed there by his parents, his name printed across the front. Steve stopped. For a moment he simply stared at it while slow unease crept down his spine. Printed meant official.
There was something inherently threatening about government stationery. Maybe it was the seal stamped on the corner. Maybe it was the stark white paper. Maybe it was the fact that nobody ever received a government letter containing good news.
After several seconds he crossed the kitchen, picked it up, and immediately dropped it. The return address belonged to the Department of Population Stability.
"Jesus Christ." He sighed and ran his hands down his face. The scent blockers he'd put on after showering that morning suddenly seemed inadequate against the wave of panic settling in his stomach. This had been hovering over his life for nearly two years.
Officially, the Bonding Initiative was voluntary. Nobody was legally required to participate, which was a fact politicians loved repeating whenever criticism became particularly loud. What they conveniently ignored was that participation came with enough incentives to make opting out feel less like a choice and more like a punishment. Housing assistance, tax benefits, healthcare, educational grants, legal protection, and enough other perks to fill several brochures had transformed the programme into something most people found difficult to refuse.
For families like the Harrington's, however, the incentives had very little to do with money, and all to do with status.
The Bonding Initiative had become fashionable among wealthy families almost immediately. High compatibility scores were discussed at country clubs, and charity galas with the same enthusiasm people reserved for university acceptances and business acquisitions. Participation signalled trust in the system, confidence in one's lineage, and membership within a social class that assumed the rules were designed to benefit them.
Steve's parents had signed him up before he even had the opportunity to decide whether he wanted to participate. The decision had been presented when he was eighteen. Not discussed. Presented.
His father informed him the paperwork had already been submitted. His mother had remarked that every reasonable family they knew were doing the same. The conversation had ended there.
Steve had briefly considered objecting before realizing nobody at the table was interested in hearing his opinion.
Two years later, the results had finally arrived.
He picked up the envelope again. It felt heavier than it should have.
For all his irritation towards the programme, he had spent the last few months wondering who would eventually appear on the other side of the matching process. The government liked to advertise compatibility percentages that bordered on ridiculous. Their promotional materials claimed that over ninety percent of the bonded pairs remained together long-term.
Steve had never completely trusted the statistics produced by the people selling the programme, and he certainly didn't appreciate having been signed up without his consent. If his parents had bothered to ask him before filing out the paperwork, he probably would have told them exactly where they could shove their compatibility assessments.
At least, that's what he liked telling himself. The truth was way more complicated.
Steve had spent enough of his life watching other people build the kind of relationships he wanted for himself. He wanted a family one day. Not the polished, distant version he had grown up with, where affection arrived in the form of expensive gifts and parents more likely to know their assistant's schedule than their son's.
He wanted something real. A partner who actually wanted to be in the same room as him. Kids who knew they were loved without having to earn it.
The Bonding Initiative wasn't how he would have chosen to find that life, but a small part of him still hoped the system might accidentally get something right.
Settling into a chair at the kitchen counter, he slid his thumb beneath the seal and unfolded the letter.
The opening paragraphs were exactly what he expected. Congratulations. Compatibility match finalized. Projected household stability. The language was so clinical that Steve felt less like a person and more like a research project.
His eyes skimmed over most of it before landing on the name. For a moment, he thought he had misread it. His gaze moved back up the page before returning to the line again. The name remained exactly where it had been.
Eddie Munson.
Steve blinked, read it again, then read it a third time.
There was absolutely no chance that after years of assessments, screenings, interviews, and enough invasive questionnaires to fill an encyclopedia, the Department had concluded that Eddie Munson was the person most compatible with Steve Harrington.
An incredulous laugh escaped him before he could stop it, the sound sharp and disbelieving.
"Eddie fucking Munson?"
The empty kitchen offered no response.
Steve pushed away from the counter and stood so abruptly his chair nearly toppled backwards. This was insane. Objectively. Insane.
He had spent years carefully avoiding Eddie Munson. Most of Hawkins probably had. The guy had been loud, dramatic, impossible to ignore, and seemingly incapable of moving through life without attracting trouble.
Steve remembered cafeteria tables, leather jackets, metal music blasting from a van that looked perpetually one pothole away from complete structural failure. He remembered the theatrical speeches, endless sarcasm, and how Eddie always seemed to be performing for an invisible audience.
And apparently, the government had looked at all available options and concluded that this man was Steve's ideal life partner.
"Absolutely not! No way, no way."
Steve grabbed the wireless phone in the hallway, and walked back towards the counter. Robin answered on the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
"Tell me you're busy."
A pause. "Well that's a weird way to start a conversation."
Steve waved the letter around in the air. "Tell me you're busy because if you're not busy you're about to become busy."
Another pause, then Robin sighed. "What happened now, dingus?"
Steve stared at the letter like it had personally offended him, then looked at the ceiling with a deep sigh. "The government wants me to marry Eddie Munson."
Silence answered him. A very, very long silence. Then finally, Robin responded, "Wow."
"That's all you have to say? 'Wow'?" Steve asked incredulously.
"I'm trying to decide if this is the worst thing that's ever happened to you or the funniest," she replied, a smile evident in her voice.
"Robin."
"Give me a minute."
Steve could practically hear her processing. Then she burst into laughter. And not even a polite or sympathetic laugh. No, the kind of laughter that made breathing difficult.
Steve stared deadpan at the wall. "You're an awful friend."
"I know," she wheezed.
"I'm having a crisis here," Steve practically whined. He dropped the letter, running his now free hand through his hair.
"I know. I can practically smell your stress through the phone."
"You are literally my emergency contact."
"And this may be the funniest emergency you're ever had," she said between deep breaths, trying to calm down.
"Robin."
She laughed harder. Steve considered hanging up. The only reason he didn't was because Robin was the only person on the planet who would understand exactly how catastrophic this situation felt.
Eventually, she managed to regain control of herself.
"I am so sorry," she said.
The complete lack of sincerity ruined the apology.
"Are you done?"
"No."
"Robin."
"Okay, yes, now I'm done," she said feigning seriousness. He could hear her trying— and miserably failing— to compose herself.
"Well, you sound disappointed," Steve remarked sarcastically, rolling his eyes even though she couldn't see that.
"I'm trying very hard to be supportive."
"Yeah? You failed."
"Me? Fail? Never," she said teasingly.
Steve dropped back into the chair, the letter waiting patiently where he had dropped it on the table earlier. Permanent. Official. Legally binding.
His entire future condensed into two neatly typed pages.
"What do I do?"
Robin was quiet for a moment. Then, more seriously this time, she said, "You appeal."
"I can do that?"
"You can try."
Steve looked down at the letter again. Buried near the bottom was a section explaining the appeals process. His eyes narrowed. "I'm appealing."
"Good."
"I'm appealing," he scrambled for words to describe just how serious he was about this, "aggressively."
Robin snorted. "Even better."
"And if that doesn't work?"
Robin hesitated. Then she sighed. "Then I guess you're getting bonded to Eddie Munson."
Steve felt a headache forming.
For some reason that possibility sounded significantly worse when spoken aloud.
Eddie found the letter when he got home.
It had been a long shift, one that left grease beneath his fingernails no matter how thoroughly he washed his hands, and all he wanted was to collapse onto the couch for an hour before figuring out what to do about dinner. The July heat had settled over Hawkins like a damp blanket, turning the trailer into an oven whenever the lone standing fan decided to stop working, which unfortunately seemed to be happening more often lately.
His scent blockers had long since begun losing the battle against the heat. He could smell faint traces of himself beneath the grease and sweat, something warm and spicy.
As soon as he stepped inside, another scent greeted him. Warm cedar and coffee lingered throughout the trailer, drifting lazily from the kitchen. Wayne was home and, judging by how strong it was, had long since taken his blockers off.
Eddie tossed his keys onto the small table beside the door and immediately froze. An envelope sat in the centre of the kitchen table. Official-looking and threatening. Eddie narrowed his eyes. There was absolutely no reason for a single envelope to look that smug.
Slowly, and with all the caution of a man approaching a potentially explosive device, he made his way towards the table. The envelope remained motionless, which somehow made it worse. Once he was close enough to the table, he caught sight of the logo stamped in the corner of the envelope.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Wayne looked up from the newspaper he was reading at the table, an empty plate sitting in front of him. "What?"
Eddie pointed accusingly at the envelope. "The government," he said with all the appropriate disdain.
Wayne glanced at it, then nodded. "Oh, that came this afternoon."
"You touched it?" Eddie asked affronted.
"I moved it two feet." Wayne replied deadpan, used to the dramatics of one Eddie Munson.
"You could've at least hidden it then."
Wayne folded the newspaper and sat it on his lap. "Eddie."
Eddie continued nonplussed, "You could've burned it."
Wayne's scent remained infuriatingly calm. "Eddie."
Eddie had started pacing up and down, "You could've even told them I died."
Wayne moved the plate and crossed him arms, placing them on the now empty spot. "Believe you me, I considered it," he responded with an eye-roll, but scenting of amusement.
Eddie narrowed his eyes, affronted this time, "You did not."
Wayne shrugged, "Briefly."
Despite himself, Eddie laughed. The sounded faded quickly once his eye caught the envelope again. It was still sitting there. Waiting.
Twenty-one years old, and he still felt sixteen whenever the DSP got involved. The Bonding Initiative. Just hearing its name was enough to make him roll his eyes.
The advertisements were everywhere. Happy couples, happy families, happy children. Smiling alphas and omegas staring lovingly at each other while some voice-over explained compatibility percentages and partnership success rates.
According to the government, the system worked. According the the government, people were happier. And, according to the government, carefully selected matches produced stronger families and healthier children.
According to Eddie, the government had entirely too much free time.
The only reason he'd signed up at all was because Wayne had talked him into it. He hadn't been aggressive or pushy, but that somehow made it worse.
It had happened during one of those late-night conversations that started with entirely different topics and had somehow wondered into life plans before either of them realized it. Wayne had asked what Eddie intended to do in ten years. Eddie had answered honestly.
No clue.
Wayne went quiet for a while. Then he'd said something that Eddie hadn't been able to stop thinking about.
"You deserve a future too, son."
It wasn't a particularly dramatic, or complicated statement. Just honest. The problem was that nobody had ever really said it before.
So, Eddie had signed the paperwork. Mostly because the housing benefits looked nice. Partly because healthcare that didn't bankrupt people sounded suspiciously appealing. And a little bit because Wayne had looked relieved. The last reason annoyed him the most. Now the consequences had arrived in an envelope.
Eddie sighed heavily and dropped into the chair opposite it and Wayne, who watched him. "You nervous?"
"No," Eddie said like a lying liar.
"You look nervous."
"I look handsome," he replied petulantly.
"Handsomely nervous," Wayne said with a pointed eye roll.
Eddie pointed at him, "You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am on your side."
"Then tell me this is stupid."
Wayne considered that, "It might not be, son."
"Oh," Eddie huffed, crossing his arms, "Betrayal. Nice."
Wayne laughed while Eddie groaned dramatically and let his head fall back against the chair. He reached up absently and peeled off the scent blocker from the gland on the side of his neck. It only took a few seconds for his scent to unfurl properly, no longer muffled by synthetic suppressants. The smell of cinnamon and clove, carrying a nervous sharpness that hadn't been there when he first walked through the door.
The truth was that he was nervous. Not because he expected romance, or destiny. Not even because he believed half the nonsense printed in the programme brochures. He was nervous because somebody was about to become part of his life. Some stranger. Some alpha somewhere in Indiana who had never met him and probably had a completely different idea of what their future looked like, was about to become his mate.
As an omega, the thought carried a particular weight. The Bonding Initiative liked to market itself as a modern partnership programme. Reality was far more complicated.
The country had spent decades insisting that things were changing, that omegas had more rights than ever before, more opportunities than ever before, more freedom. While some of that was undoubtedly true, Eddie had never been particularly impressed by statistics when they contradicted what he could see with his own two eyes.
Most households were still run by alphas. Most companies were still run by alphas. Most politicians were still alphas. People liked pretending the old expectations had disappeared, but they hadn't disappeared nearly so much as they'd learned to wear new clothes.
An omega was still expected to compromise more often. To be accommodating, and agreeable. To make sacrifices in the name of stability.
The language may have changed, but the expectations hadn't. Eddie had seen enough bonded pairs in this town to know that some alphas treated the word partner as a suggestion rather than fact.
Maybe not all of them, but enough that every omega he knew had grown up hearing the same warnings. Choose carefully, pay attention, don't mistake possessiveness for affection. A bad alpha could make your life miserable for years before ever crossing a line obvious enough for anyone else to notice.
The Bonding Initiative loved advertising compatibility percentages. It spent considerably less time explaining what happened when two supposedly compatible people wanted different lives.
The thought sat heavily in his chest. Because, sooner or later, the name inside that envelope would stop being a stranger, and start being a person. An alpha.
Someone who would have opinions about where they live, how they lived, what kind of future they built together. Someone who might look at Eddie's clothes, his battered van, his loud music, his tendency to collect stray teenagers, and decide he needed "fixing".
The possibility made his stomach tighten.
For all his jokes, Eddie liked his life. As messy and as complicated as it was, it belonged to him. The trailer was his. The van was his. The music was his. The routines he'd built with Wayne were his. The idea of surrendering pieces of that freedom to someone he'd never met was terrifying.
Which was precisely why he had spent the last few months hoping, despite himself, that whoever the Department chose would be kind. Not perfect, just kind. Someone patient, and willing to laugh at his jokes. Someone who understood that being an omega did not mean he needed permission to exist. Someone who would see him as a partner instead of a responsibility.
The problem was that hopes were easy when they remained hypothetical. A nameless future couldn't disappoint you. A sealed envelope couldn't reject you. A possibility couldn't look at everything you were and decide it wasn't enough. Once he opened the letter, all of that uncertainty would collapse into a name.
A real person. A real alpha.
The thought made his pulse jump.
"Eddie, open it," Wayne said, knocking Eddie out of his thoughts.
Eddie glared at him. "You make everything sound so easy."
"Usually because it is," Wayne replied decisively.
"It absolutely is not."
Wayne picked up and unfolded his newspaper, "Open the letter, son," he said before resuming his reading. Despite his dismissive attitude, he flared his scent through the air to comfort Eddie.
Eddie stared at the envelope. Then he reached forward and tore it open. He pulled out the papers, and immediately regretted every life choice that led him to this moment.
His eyes had landed on the name first, and the world stopped. There was a sudden spike to the cinnamon of his scent. Because, there was no possible universe in which the Department of Population and fucking Stability had looked at Eddie Munson in his entirety, and decided his perfect match was Steve Harrington.
The trailer, which moments ago smelled comfortably of cedar, coffee and cinnamon, now carried the sudden, unmistakable scent of shock. The cinnamon in Eddie's scent turned sharp and spicy.
"Absolutely not," Eddie thought aloud.
Wayne lowered the top of the newspaper to raise an eyebrow at him, "What?"
Eddie handed over the page, "Look."
Wayne accepted it and read the name, raised the other eyebrow, and looked back at Eddie. "Huh."
Eddie shot to his feet. "Huh is all you've got?"
"What would you like me to say?"
"I've been matched with Steve Harrington and all you can say is 'huh!" Eddie exclaimed while slamming his hands to lean over the table. "No confusion? No concern? Not even 'what the hell'? Just huh!"
Wayne studied the pages again. "It says ninety-seven percent compatibility."
Eddie nearly choked. "Ninety-seven," he repeated slowly with a disbelieving tone.
Ninety-seven. Anything over eighty was considered exceptional.
Wayne nodded, unphased with Eddie's reaction, "Seems pretty high."
"That," Eddie took a deep breath, "is not helping."
Because Steve Harrington wasn't just the Former King of Hawkins Steve Harrington. He was the kind of alpha people expected omegas to want. Popular, confident, athletic, the son of one of the wealthiest families in Hawkins. He was the sort of alpha who looked like he'd stepped directly out of one of the Bonding Initiative brochures.
The idea that they were supposedly ninety-seven percent compatible felt less like science and more like a personal attack. Somewhere in Hawkins, Steve Harrington was absolutely opening the same letter. And if Eddie was horrified, he could only imagine how Steve was reacting.
The thought should not have made him grin. Unfortunately, it did.