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sundaynightlive · 1 year ago

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august of ‘85 (Steddie, Part 1)

Steve’s hands are shaking, which is not entirely conducive to safe driving. His legs, too—he’s trembling all over. He’s had (and seen) enough panic attacks to know what’s happening. He feels like he’s going to throw up. He feels like he’s going to pass out.

He drives.

He struggles to maintain an acceptable speed, struggles not to plow through stop signs and over curbs to take corners a little sharper, get there a little quicker. He curses his parents for building a house so far from Hawkin’s tiny little doctor’s office, stupidly wishing he could’ve run there, because maybe that would’ve gotten rid of some of this nauseating adrenaline. He can’t tell if he’s building or crashing.

He coughs. It’s half a gag. Now is not the time to be gagging.

Steve tries desperately to take his mind off it, but all he can think about is Eddie. Eddie.

And August of ‘85.

But first, the end of July—

“I’m sorry, pumpkin,” his mom is saying over the phone.

It’s not like he’s all that upset—he had expected this. At least this time his parents had had the decency to warn him they wouldn’t be joining him at their beach house in Maine. The last three years, it had been a crapshoot, and if they did show, they stayed a week, max, and left Steve alone for the majority of August. This would’ve been fine, if Steve had brought anyone down there with him, but he always chickened out of inviting people, false hope overcoming harsh reality each time.

Being alone wasn’t so bad. He had all the time in the world to watch movies, visit the sights, walk along the beach, and read old books (that he suspected were meant to be decorative) he found around the home.

And he cleaned. He cleaned and managed the upkeep. He hired people to paint and he moved furniture around sometimes or bought something new if he decided his mother’s tastes had changed—he’d be damned if he was going to let them sell this place, not when all his happiest childhood memories resided here, and not when it was his only real escape from Hawkins, Indiana.

No, the house would be kept and it didn’t matter if his entire trust fund went towards it. He wasn't going to college, wasn’t moving somewhere expensive, wasn’t buying sports-cars or a thousand-dollar engagement ring for a long-time girlfriend.

He was keeping this damn house.

It’s all he had left of them.

“I’ll still go down,” he tells her, “But, yeah, that’s alright. I figured.”

“Aw, pumpkin, have fun, okay? I know you love it up there. Maybe take Nancy?” Steve flinches. Had he forgotten to tell them? Or had she just forgotten? He can’t remember.

“Right, okay. Love you, mom.”

“Love you, too, pumpkin. I’ll talk to you later.”

And by later, she means sometime within the next few months or so.

Steve hangs the phone on the receiver and sighs, stretching a little bit and mentally shuffling through possible outfits. It’s almost noon, and he has plans. Well… half-plans. He hadn’t exactly agreed to meet Dustin and Munson for lunch, but Dustin would be expecting him, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to disappoint the kid. He’s pretty apprehensive about being seen in public with the local drug-dealer and town-pariah, but Dustin has been insisting for a couple months now (all summer) that Eddie is ‘cool’ and Steve should ‘get to know him.’

How did you even fall in with this guy? He’s, like, greasy.

Freshman orientation—and he is not. Greasy. He’s really, really cool and funny and I want my two best-friends to also be friends.

Why are both your best-friends full-grown adults?

Why’s your best friend a 14 year old?

Touché. But I’m not wrong about Munson—he’s sketchy. He sells drugs.

This sounds like ‘King’ Steve talking.

King Steve wasn’t wrong about everything, Dustin.

Yes. Yes he was.

And the argument had gone on, but Dustin is impossible to outsmart or convince, so Steve had ultimately been roped into this whole ‘coffee date’ situation.

Not date. It’s not a date. It’s coffee. He’s not sure why he put it like that.

In fact, this is so casual and so pointless and so stupid that Steve is going to wear his least-expensive pair of jeans, and a t-shirt.

That’s how much he doesn’t care.

He puts some version of that on, and then immediately decides against it. He’s not used to looking so casual, and he will be in public, and despite the fallout with his friends, and his quest to be okay with being unpopular, he’s not exactly willing to also be unattractive. Not that clothes are always what makes people attractive, but it is what makes him attractive.

The nice jeans that sculpt his ass, the polos tight against his chest and working wonders for his arms—yeah, that’s Steve.

Nice jeans, blue and green polo shirt—he checks himself over in the mirror a couple times. He feels good, normal, right.

So he leaves.

On the drive over, he finds himself nervous, and understandably so. He gets along with most people easily, but Eddie Munson isn’t most people. Eddie’s like Robin, and Robin didn’t come to him easily at all. On the bright side, Steve had never been one of Eddie’s tormentors—that had been reserved for ‘popular’ upperclassmen. Eddie was technically a grade ahead of him and therefore higher on the high school food-chain despite his well-known loser-ness. Steve didn’t deal in making kids older than him miserable—just younger.

But Steve was still a well-known ass, and Eddie knew that, and if it was going to be anything like talking to Rob was, then Steve was in for a barrage of snide little side comments that he ultimately deserved, but made him uncomfortable, anyway.

Might as well prepare all his sincere responses—

I’m not like that anymore.

I’m sorry.

I know. I was stupid.

He parks. He sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. He steps out of the car.

He freezes.

Dustin and Munson are standing outside the coffee shop, chatting, and the sight sends something incredibly foreign into his guts, something he wants to clock as jealousy, but doesn’t feel like jealousy. It feels more like—

No. Nope. Nada. Not that.

Eddie Munson doesn’t look the way Steve remembers at all. He remembers choppy brown hair, wiry limbs, and clothes that never fit him—most of this is from ages ago, though, when Steve was a freshman. Eddie was in his home room that year, but after that, he rarely even saw him in passing.

This Eddie Munson, on the 20th of July, 1985, is not wiry, and wearing clothes that definitely fit him, with brown curls (like Nancy’s) clipped back to keep them off his neck in the heat. His outfit—this cropped band tee and jeans and boots—flatters him. It does more than flatter him, but Steve doesn’t think like that, so no it doesn’t.

It just flatters him.

Anyway—

Steve unfreezes. Dustin finally spots him and grins, waving him over. Eddie spots him, too, which is greatly unnerving, but whatever. Steve runs his hand through his hair again, trying to ground himself.

What is happening?

“Hey Steve, this is Eddie. Eddie, this is Steve.”

Steve extends a hand—sort of a peace offering—and is relieved when Eddie takes it.

“Dustin tells me you’re not a douche anymore,” Eddie says.

Oh, here we go.

“Trying not to be,” Steve answers, politely.

“Cool,” Eddie replies, dropping his hand, “How do you feel about Star Wars?”

What? Star Wars? Steve’s brow furrows of its own accord. He looks over at Dustin, who’s trying and failing to feign some sort of innocence.

“You told him I like Star Wars?”

“It’s the only thing you two have in common,” Dustin admits, and Eddie grins—blinding. His smile is blinding. That’s all Steve has to say about that.

“Luke Skywalker or Han Solo?” Eddie asks, and Steve’s brows raise this time, instead.

“Solo. Obviously.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong—“

And it comes alarmingly easily to them. Talking with Dustin and Eddie is like spreadable butter on toast, and it has Steve in a daze of disbelief for about the entire time. The conversation doesn’t even cease when Dustin gets up to go to the bathroom—they’re arguing about the band on Eddie’s t-shirt, whether or not Steve would like metal if he tried it, if it’s “the future of music” or just a bunch of screaming. Eddie doesn’t get mad about it, just insistent.

Steve concedes, eventually, that he doesn’t actually know what he’s talking about, and that most of his opinions are just other people’s opinions.

“We’ll listen, sometime,” Eddie says, “I have tons of tapes—I’ll bet you a hundred bucks you like it.”

“Are you free tomorrow?”

And that’s how Steve and Eddie end up hanging out at Steve’s the next day, listening to all sorts of stuff—a lot of the harder stuff isn’t really Steve’s thing, but he has to admit, at the end of the day, he did like a vast majority of what Eddie played for him.

And he really enjoyed Eddie’s company. A little too much, maybe.

“Pay up, Harrington.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve relents, “I owe you.”

“Good thing, too,” Eddie jokes, “I do not have a hundred bucks handy.”

Steve laughs. He had suspected that, but it didn’t matter to him. He liked Eddie’s company. Spending the day with someone he actually liked would’ve been payment enough. Steve doesn’t usually get to do that unless he’s working—he and Rob hang out sometimes, but her mom’s so goddamn strict trying to convince her to let Robin hang out alone with a guy is near impossible.

Hopefully, when summer’s up she’ll let Steve drive Robin to school or something.

“Figured that,” Steve replies.

An offended gasp— “Are you calling me poor, Steve?”

There’s a beat of silence, Steve’s heart sinking a little. Had that been presumptive? Why had ge automatically assumed Eddie wasn’t good for it?

Shit.

What? No, I—“

“Steve. I’m joking. I am poor. Obviously.”

Steve glares.

“Asshole.”

“You really have changed, huh?”

It feels really good to hear someone like Eddie say it.

The rest is ancient history. They’re friends, good friends, for the rest of July. And sure, that’s only eleven days, but nine out of eleven of them Steve sees, or at least talks to Eddie. He comes into family video, they chat over the phone, Steve even goes to one of Eddie’s goofy ass garage-concerts.

It’s not half bad. Eddie’s a fantastic guitar player. That part is impressive. More than impressive.

Maybe.

“You really won’t come?” Steve whines a few days before he’s set to leave for Maine, and Robin glares at him, obviously annoyed. He’s asked about twenty times in the last two days, and for the last twenty-times, it’s always the same answer—

My mom would never in a million years let me be alone with you for an entire month. And I have to work, idiot.

The idiot part seemed unnecessary, but it is kind of his fault for asking a billion times.

“We have talked about this, Steven.”

“That’s not even my name.”

“Didn’t ask, don’t care,” Robin says. “I’m not going.”

“But maybe you could meet a cute girl or something! I’m sure if we told your mom my parents will be there—“

“Steve! I. Am not. Going.”

“Going where?”

Steve jumps. He had been so busy begging he hadn’t noticed the door open, even with the bell on it, and somehow Eddie was already right next to him at the counter, leaning over on his elbows. Steve huffs.

“I’m going to Maine for the month,” Steve says, shooting a glare in Robin’s direction, “And someone refuses to go with me!”

“You’ll be fine by yourself,” Robin argued, exasperated, “You’re always by yourself!”

“But it’s boring.”

“I think you can handle boring,” Robin snaps, turning around, “If you need someone to go so bad, ask Eddie!”

Ask Eddie.

Right. How has he forgotten about Eddie?

Steve turns to him, and Eddie immediately straightens, hands up in mock surrender.

“I like ya, Stevie, but alone together for a whole month,” he chatters, nervously, backing away, “We’re basically strangers. We just met, what? A week ago?”

Steve pouts. He puts on his very best puppy dog face. He doesn’t wanna go alone—not this time. It’s fine and productive, sure, but knowing that his parents won’t be there and there’s not even a sliver of a chance of spending quality time with them? He doesn’t wanna be alone.

“Please?”

Eddie blinks. Then, he hangs his head dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Fine.”

“Ha!” Steve cries, pointing a finger at Robin, “You’ve been replaced!”

“Please,” she says, unphased, “You could never replace me.”

She’s, ultimately, correct.

And then, August—

“You wanna do a 16 hour drive in one go?” Steve asks incredulously. Eddie shrugs.

“I mean, why not, man? You take eight, I take eight, and bam, we’re there.”

“Dude, we have an entire month to be down there. Taking a couple days to travel—“

“I hate motels,” Eddie insists, “I sleep in a shithole, but at least I don’t pay to sleep in a shithole.”

Steve can’t help but grin a little at that, despite how it’s mostly sad.

“Your uncle pays to sleep in a shithole,” he points out.

“Are you calling my home a shithole?”

“Eddie—“

“Kidding… I’ve gotta tell you something before we commit to this.”

“What? You snore?”

“I’m gay.”

Steve frowns, and glances over. They’re sitting together on his couch, almost an entire cushion apart, which is weird, but Steve supposes it’s comforting for Eddie in this moment of vulnerability. He looks awfully pretty today, in his sweatpants and baggy band t-shirt.

Steve is totally confident in his sexuality. He can totally, casually think his friend is pretty.

“And that’s important… why?”

Eddie is clearly surprised by this response. He opens his mouth to explain himself, and then closes it, and then matches Steve’s frown.

“You don’t care?”

“No,” Steve says—he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He might have in high school, but he has changed. Extensively. He thinks about telling Eddie Robin is also gay, but realizes before he does that’s probably rude and also a breach of privacy.

“Oh.”

There’s a brief awkward silence.

“So… what’s that like, anyway?” Eddie giggles a little and then bursts into full laughter. Steve should be offended because he’s being laughed at, but he can’t help but grin along with it, anyway.

“Hey—I’m just curious!”

“Curious!” Eddie repeats, giggling up another storm. Steve sighs, shaking his head.

“God forbid a guy try learn something—“

“No, no,” Eddie breathes, putting a hand on Steve’s knee. Something jolts through his spine like lightning.

Woah.

“It’s just such a stupid question.”

“Ouch?”

“You know how you like girls?”

“Yeah.”

“Well I like guys. That’s it. You’ve got the hots for the Leia Organa’s of the world, and I’ve got it for the Luke Skywalkers.” Steve raises an eyebrow.

“The Luke Skywalkers? The goody-two shoes golden boys?”

“You’ve got a problem with my type?”

“No,” Steve says quickly, hoping not to appear judgemental, “I just thought—you just seem like more of a “bad boy” kinda guy.”

“Maybe I am,” he teases, “Maybe I like to do a little corrupting, first.”

Steve swallows hard. Eddie’s tone takes him totally off-guard—all low and suggestive. And the smile he’s wearing is so cocky. Steve should be used to this, as Eddie is often a cocky, theatrical bastard, but when it’s directed straight at him talking about “corrupting good boys” it’s just… a lot.

He doesn’t stop to think about why that might be a lot—just accepts that it is.

“Just kidding,” Eddie says. Then, “I really do just like nice guys.”

Nice guys like me? Steve wants to ask.

“Noted,” he says instead. He’s not sure which one of those was worse. “So. I take it you’re not backing down on the 16 hour drive?”

“No, sir.”

“Do not call me sir.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Jesus Christ, maybe this is a bad idea.”

“Too bad,” Eddie sing-songs, “You’re stuck with me.”

They actually do make the trip all in one go, much to Steve’s surprise. 8 hours and 8 hours isn’t totally awful when you’ve got someone to talk to (or occasionally glance at while they sleep, fighting the feeling you get when you realize just how pretty and peaceful they look).

Yeah, it’s not terrible.

“Holy. Shit,” Eddie says when they finally make it. It’s coming up on three in the morning, but Steve isn’t even remotely tired. He’s too excited to be back, happy to finally be out of the car and far, far away from the town they came from. “It’s on the beach?”

“Oh—did I not—“

“We’re going swimming. Right now.”

“We can’t right now.”

“Why the hell not?!”

“Sharks,” Steve says, putting the car in park in the driveway and popping open his door, “But there’s a pool.”

Eddie looks over at him, incredulous.

“Why would you have a pool right next to the entire fucking ocean?”

Steve grins— “For when you want to swim at 3 in the morning and not get eaten by sharks, duh.”

Eddie pops the handle and kicks open his door which is something he has been consistently doing for the last 16 hours, and Steve cringes every single time. He also doesn’t bother going for their bags—just bee-lines for the front door, Steve hot on his heels, fumbling around in his pockets for the keys.

“Holiday House?” Eddie asks as Steve steps past him. A fancy metal name-plate with those very words rests below the number on the door.

“My parents name all their properties,” Steve says as he fumbles around. This lock has always been a little fidgety, but he hasn’t had the heart to fix it. It’s too nostalgic to jiggle the handle the way his father used to while his mother told him all the fun things they had planned for the month of August.

That feels like forever ago.

“They have an apartment in New York called The Skyline and a flat in London called Elton.”

After Elton John, who Steve’s dad often called ‘the piano fairy.’ Steve’s pretty sure Eddie wouldn’t enjoy that bit of information, though.

“What’s the one in Hawkin’s called?”

Steve finally gets it. The door swings open into the hall and he steps over the threshold. The windows need to be opened and the shelves need dusted—it’s stuffy.

“The Kid,” he answers quickky, hoping to avoid any further conversation about that. He flicks on the lights in the hallway, and heads straight for the windows and blinds and curtains as Eddie shuts the door behind him and follows slowly, taking it all in—the foyer, the great room, the sun room, the dining room, the kitchen.

Unlike Steve’s house, the place has a more “lived in” feeling, with soft rugs thrown over the hardwood, fabric couches with throw pillows and blankets, and little trinkets lining the walls. There’s family photos, his mother’s art, awards won by his father, candles, memorabilia. It’s still grand, and boasting wealth—

But it’s still cozy, with white and blue tones and more windows than were probably necessary and a lofted upstairs that opens into the main area so it never feels like you’re truly away from everyone else.

Steve loves it here.

“This is insane,” Eddie says, plopping down on the couch. Steve feels himself being watched as he begins opening windows, running his hands along the sills to wipe away some of the dust before he breaks out an actual duster tomorrow.

Later today, actually.

“Welcome,” Steve says, “You’ve got a month to get used to it.”

“I’ll never get used to this,” Eddie says, breathless. Steve turns to look at him, all wide-eyed and awestruck by a house that, for Steve, is just house. A house full of good memories and comfort, but still just a house.

Eddie looks like he’s seeing the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for the first time.

Steve kind of wishes it was his first time coming here. He wishes he knew what Eddie was feeling in some way.

He wishes he could forget what this used to be for him.

“You gonna swim?” Steve asks, turning back to the windows. Eventually, he reaches the curtain pulled over the sliding glass door, pulls it away, and reaches for the outdoor lights. “Hopefully these—“

The pool, patio, and steps to the beach spring to life in warm light. Steve’s happy to see none of the string lights have fallen or broken—those were a new addition last summer and he’s actually quite fond of them.

“Are you?”

Steve hums, considering it.

Why not?

“Yeah, sure. Just let me get these open, first.”

Eddie moves past him, and at first, Steve’s unbothered at the notion of Eddie swimming out there while he’s opening windows and turning on lights in here, but then pale skin catches his eye—

He’s captivated.

Eddie’s just… taken off his clothes, fully stripped down to his boxers, and Steve probably should’ve assumed that’s what he was going to do, but it didn’t even cross his mind until it had already happened. Eddie’s standing at the edge of the pool, tying his hair back behind his head.

Oh wow.

Steve’s done a very good job of pushing it down, but this is the last straw. It floods over him, just how hot Eddie is, and sets his heart into a full race—

You like him.

You think he’s cute.

You like boys.

You like girls and boys.

But you like boys.

You like Eddie, who you’ve invited to spend an entire month in a house with you alone.

You’re screwed.

Fucked.

Ruined.

Steve only feels the tears on his face after they’ve fallen. He takes a shaky breath and wipes them away, because how stupid to be crying over this? He knows better—he’s past the point of thinking it’s wrong or unnatural, Robin made damn sure of that.

But now he’s… now he’s stuck here with Eddie. And he likes him. And he can’t have him, because how would that even work? Logistically, they can’t date in Hawkins, they can’t get married—

God, who’s even thinking about getting married? They’re nineteen and twenty!

Steve. Steve’s thinking about getting married.

But who’s to say his feelings are requited? No one. And he shouldn’t just assume because Eddie’s gay that he automatically has a shot. He’s probably the exact opposite of—

I really do just like nice guys.

Is Steve a nice guy? Lately, yes. Before? No. And does Eddie think of him as Old Steve or New Steve? King Steve or Babysitter Steve? Who’s to say?

Why is he even getting worked up. Why doesn’t he just open these windows and go outside and get in the pool? Just be normal. He should just be normal. And he should ignore all this, because it’s too much to deal with right now, at the beginning of his vacation.

Their vacation.

The last thing he’s gonna do is ruin Eddie’s vacation by having a crush on him—god, a crush? This can’t be happening.

The universe fucking hates him

Steve finishes with the windows and heads outside. Eddie’s already in the pool, and he looks downright blissful, floating around running his hands over the water like he can’t believe it’s real.

When’s the last time he went swimming?

“Don’t pee in there, or anything,” Steve says, which is stupid but he’s flustered and he wants to say something but he doesn’t know what— “Because then I’ll have to drain it and no more night time swimming, unless you’re risking the sharks.”

Eddie scoffs, turning to face him, “Steve, why the fuck would I piss in your pool?”

Fair question. Steve’s cheeks burn.

“I don’t know!”

“Too late, anyway. I already did.”

Steve, in the middle of unbuttoning his jeans, freezes.

“Are you—“

“No, I’m not serious,” Eddie laughs, coming up to the edge and dropping his chin onto his arms, grinning up at him.

It’s beautiful. And blinding. But mostly beautiful.

“You really need to figure out jokes, Harrington.”

“Maybe you’re just bad at making them.”

“That,” Eddie says, “Is not possible.”

There’s something in his voice as Steve pulls his pants over his feet that nearly knocks him off balance. Something… breathy and… Steve’s not sure. Just something, something more than teasing. Steve wants to believe it’s because he’s seeing Steve almost naked for the first time, but he’s afraid to read that far into it.

If he does, he’ll never make it in the water.

“Is it cold?” he asks, carefully sitting himself down on the edge.

“No,” Eddie replies, so Steve sinks his feet into it, and Eddie’s right. It’s a nice temperature, probably from the sun. “Is it always full?”

“No—somebody filled it last week,” Steve answers, kicking his feet a little. The water’s nice, Eddie’s nice, the warm summer air is nice.

He’s feeling a little too nice, actually.

“Are you gonna come all the way in, your highness?”

It’s Steve’s turn to scoff, then— “Stop calling me that.”

“Make me.” Eddie pushes away from the wall, and good thing, too, because he’s too busy floating away to see Steve malfunction at the insinuation. Insinuation? Maybe Eddie wasn’t insinuating anything—he has a tendency to be a bit of a drama queen.

Maybe it’s nothing at all. It’s probably nothing at all.

Steve pushes himself off the edge and into the water.

“Fuck,” he groans. He hasn’t swam in awhile, either, he realizes, and the wet feels nice and relaxing around all his limbs. Eddie is spinning in languid circles, trailing his arms through the water. He looks ridiculous, but Steve’s only thinking—

Cute.

“We have to get groceries tomorrow,” Steve says, an effort to keep a conversation going. He can’t help himself. He wants to keep talking to Eddie—it’s been like this since he’s met him.

Eddie’s just so good to talk to.

“Hmm,” Eddie hums, “You gonna cook for me, big boy?”

Steve burns. Even hotter.

“Unless you wanna waste all your money on takeout,” Steve confirms.

“Tempting,” Eddie replies, which is like him. If Steve’s learned anything about Eddie in the past 12 days, it’s that he loves Chinese food, and he’s very good at convincing Steve to get him some.

Or maybe Steve is just very eager to please him.

“And we should probably check if we have toilet paper, sunscreen—and wash our sheetd, even though I—“

Steve is cut off abruptly by a wall water smacking him in the face, getting in his mouth and up his nose. He coughs, sputters, wiping himself off and mourning the loss of what had been a really good hair day.

“You’re so—“

Steve’s turn. He splashes Eddie back, and from there it’s an all out war. Steve hasn’t been in a splash fight in a swimming pool with anyone in probably a decade, and here he is, barely breathing, laughing uncontrollably, shouting unintelligible nothings until Eddie’s seizing both his wrists and lifting them above his head—

“You lose.”

“Yeah, right.” Steve wrenches easily from his grasp and tackles him in the water, initiating some form of wrestling until Eddie's pinned to the wall, arm twisted (as gently as the angle will allow) behind his back, both of them wheezing for air.

“Asshole!” Eddie gasps.

“You started it,” Steve snaps back.

“Ow—let me go—“ Steve does as he’s told. The last thing he wants to do is—

Oh.

When Eddie turns, they’re practically nose to nose. Steve’s breath blows out of his lungs like it doesn’t belong there, and he finds himself unable to keep his eyes on Eddie’s eyes—it’s too intense.

Fingers brush over the side of his face.

This can’t be happening.

“Is this okay?” Eddie whispers.

More than okay. Perfect. Kiss me. Fuck me. Have me. Marry me.

“I—uh—yeah, yes. Please—“

Eddie silences him finally with his mouth. Steve’s eyes flutter closed—the boy tastes like pool water, spit, and morning breath, but Steve could honestly care less. He melts into the kiss, pressing into Eddie as closely as he’s afforded.

Until Eddie pulls away from him.

“Two things,” the metal-head says, breathless, but firm, “One—I refuse to be the thing that ruins your life.”

Ruin his—what does that—?

“Two—wait a week. If you still want me for the rest of August, I’m yours.”

Eddie pulls out of his grasp.

Now, today, July 18th, 1986, Steve knows in this moment, he should have snatched Eddie back and told him all sorts of things—

You won’t ruin my life.

We could be good.

I’m not waiting for you, I want you now.

Let’s do this.

But then, in the small hours of August 2nd, 1985, Steve could barely breathe, let alone think, and as he watched Eddie push himself out of the pool, boxers clinging to his ass and thighs, hair tied up and dripping, smooth skin and more smooth skin and so much skin, all he could think was that September 1st was an eternity away.

And he would take what he could get.

End Part 1

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