#Tommy Hagan Sucks

[ayoooo3]

Baby, There Ain’t a Trail to Follow

By: MidnightRamblings & ResaKaye

Chapter 4: Where Rainbows Never Die

Summary:

A smile tugged at Steve’s lips when he thought about the day to come. He and Eddie had kissed, finally, and it felt like the floodgates had opened. Robin had pulled him aside almost immediately because he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. They’d huddled in the dining hall while the guests ate and Steve told her everything that had happened and begged her to help him plan something for tonight, nothing crazy, but something special. In the end they landed on Robin and Nancy taking care of getting the guests back to the airport and Steve and Eddie would be able to stay back at the ranch and just enjoy each other’s company, Robin was also working with the cook to make sure Steve and Eddie had something special for dinner, but she wouldn't tell him what, just kept saying “I’ve got this covered, you just get him back to your cabin and I’ll handle the food” while Steve grinned like an idiot thinking about what was coming.

With a smile and a sigh Steve pushed up and headed for the barn to get the horses and activities ready, and hopefully see Eddie too.

Keep Reading

[heavencasteel420]

For the director's commentary thing: the section of Tonight, Tonight ch. 1 that starts with "It took Nancy a moment to realize what they were talking about." and ends with "Something broke through the fog of bourbon."

(I'm just so intrigued by Tommy's whole deal in this story.)

Thank you for your ask! I have a lot of Tommy thoughts, so this is going to be split into (a) what's going on in the passage, (b) my headcanons for the Hagan family dynamics, and (c) additional history involving Tommy's older brother Robbie and other characters. I'm not sure how much of this is actually going to get into the story proper, since some of this is stuff I originally thought of for other stories and general headcanons, plus Nancy's view of all of this is pretty limited.

Discussion of Tommy's canon fucked-up behavior, a suicide attempt (the one already referenced in Tonight, Tonight), physical and emotional sibling abuse, bullying, homophobia, and attempted sexual assault.

The Passage

It took Nancy a moment to realize what they were talking about. (The bourbon didn’t help.) Then she remembered the horrible thing Tommy had said back when Will had disappeared, and even a couple of times after he’d died. The last time, he’d made the mistake of saying it within earshot of a teacher, who had berated him within an inch of his life for making up such a cruel rumor.

This is a reference to Tommy's sick joke about Jonathan killing Will. I don't think Tommy particularly has it in for Jonathan as a person. First of all, he wasn't thinking of Jonathan as a real person. Second, Tommy strikes me as someone who says dark or shocking shit because that's his contribution to the group. He's not as good-looking or as much of a star athlete as Steve, but he's tougher, smarter, meaner. He doesn't ever try to beat Steve at his own game--the most he'll do is gravitate to Billy--but he'll do and say sneaky things to undermine him or get him in trouble.

(Tommy's still loyal to Steve in this universe, or at least loyal to him over Billy, who's more subtle in his bullying of Steve because his reputation is more solid. Tommy also has some other stuff going on that’s causing him to reconsider his worldview, as discussed below.)

“If Jonathan Byers heard you and decked you right now,” the teacher had hissed at Tommy, “I would swear in a court of law that he hadn’t. You vile little shit.”

Hawkins is shitty enough that Tommy feels emboldened to make his horrible joke where a teacher can hear, but at least one adult is shocked. Her approach is still essentially to let the kids sort it out themselves, of course. Jonathan's pretty much on his own.

Which, of course, wasn’t how teachers were supposed to speak to students, but Tommy, for all his faults, had his own sense of fair play. He’d only whined about it to Steve and Carol, whose reactions had been, respectively, “man, I told you not to say that shit, that’s messed up” and “yeah, we know it’s a joke, but obviously some ex-hippie teacher who still listens to John Denver is gonna hate that shit, what did you expect.” (Nancy had been present for these conversations, but too busy going over all the terrible things that could have happened to Barb to offer a response.) Then Tommy had dropped the subject.

Tommy's also going to handle things himself, like the under-supervised Gen X kid he is. Steve remains squeamish about the child murder joke and, while it doesn't shock Carol, she doesn't have Tommy's attention-seeking tendencies.

(Jonathan actually did hear the "joke," but he had so much bad shit going on that he was kind of like "yeah, seems like the kind of blood-curdlingly cruel thing Tommy Hagan would say." Ironically, Steve's dismissive "that's depressing" bothered him more, because Steve wasn't trying to be shocking; that was a thoughtless expression of the town's opinion on his family.)

But, it turned out, he hadn’t forgotten it.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy said, staring at the carpet. “I know. Obviously Byers had a lot of reasons to check out early. I don’t know if he even heard that shit I said. Just…I don’t know, it’s too weird. One second, you’re going to school with a guy. Then he ends up in Pennhurst and you’re looking at his blood at the floor.”

It got a little too real for Tommy! Not so much because he thinks he's a major cause of Jonathan's suicide attempt (in reality the culmination of months of unresolved guilt and grief, plus despair at having to live with Lonnie, plus just not thinking clearly due to exhaustion and malnutrition), but because he thought for the first time what it'd be like to be Jonathan—a human being, not an unfeeling repository for rumors—and hear that comment.

2. The Hagan Family

Tommy is also experiencing some changes in his family life that are causing him to question certain things. His siblings, twins Robbie and Marianne, are two years his senior. His mother vastly, overtly prefers Robbie to her other children. In Mrs. Hagan's eyes, Marianne is an annoying, negative whiner who's jealous of Robbie and Tommy is just Robbie's younger brother who looks up to him So Much. (Mr. Hagan is kind of checked out, thanks to serious chronic pain issues that nobody really understands.) Robbie was universally hailed as an Ideal Boy during his time at Hawkins High, too. He looks like Rob Lowe, he was a star athlete who's still playing basketball for IU, and every subsequent popular boy is kind of compared unfavorably to him. Steve absolutely adores Robbie, who used to pontificate about girls and sports and life to him and Tommy, and he has a whole thing about how he'll never be as smart or as great at basketball as him. Jason has prayed a great deal on his unChristian envy of Robbie. And Billy has too much persona to admit it, but one time he overheard someone call him a "white-trash Robbie Hagan" and it really hurt his feelings.

At home, though, Robbie frequently bullied both Marianne and Tommy. With Marianne, it was obvious and ugly: constantly tearing her down verbally, ruining her things, sabotaging her schoolwork, even cutting off her ponytail after she yelled at him for leaving her to do all the chores. With Tommy, it was more plausibly deniable: playing very rough with him when they were younger, putting him in dangerous and even potentially fatal situations as a joke, cruelly mocking his masculinity to control his behavior or just to knock him down a peg. Marianne complained and was demonized by their mother, while Tommy sort of accepted this treatment as his due and viewed his relationship with Robbie as normal and positive.

Then Robbie left home to attend IU on a basketball scholarship. Marianne, the un-favorite and a girl to boot, got into college and received a pretty decent scholarship, but her parents refused to pay the rest so she's stuck living at home and attending community college for a couple years. Mrs. Hagan has been pretty down in the dumps since Robbie left for school, bemoaning that it's just not the same with only Marianne and Tommy around. Tommy finds these remarks increasingly dispiriting. Like, yeah, he misses Robbie, too, but he's not nothing, right? He's also come to realize that he has more room to breathe without Robbie constantly picking at him and sucking up all the air in the room. He's even started to see Marianne in a new light. Previously annoyed with her hostility towards Robbie and willing to join in on Robbie's bullying of her, he's coming to appreciate how difficult her life has been in their house and how little she's really held his allegiance with Robbie against him. She's still somewhat wary of him, but she gets why he did what he did and they've started to bond a little bit. He knows she's going to be leaving home in about a year, too, and finds himself feeling bummed out about it.

Finally, there was an incident at the Hagan family's 1984 Fourth of July barbeque that cemented his changing feelings towards his family. Which brings us to...

3. Robbie, Carol, and Jonathan

This is where the homophobia and attempted sexual assault come in. I'm going to put a caveat that I thought of this part before changing Jonathan's situation to be one of sexual exploitation, and now I feel like there might be a lot of sexual assault for a story that's not centrally about that. However: this was always a story about people, especially young people, being isolated and falling through the cracks in society, and rape culture very much ties into that. Also, I tried not to make it sensationalistic at any point.

So, Robbie has a certain kind of nebulous reputation among the girls (popular, pretty, around his age) that people expect him to sleep with. He's not violent or threatening, but he's a player and he always gives the impression that the girl has lost some contest with him by "giving in." It's subtle--he's not going "I don't respect you anymore because you had sex with me"--but even girls who went in with the attitude of "I want to have sex with Robbie Hagan because he's hot and have no expectation of a relationship" end up feeling kind of slimed on. He also has sexual relationships with girls whom he refuses to acknowledge in public--less popular, more insecure, slightly younger girls, mostly--and he's more devious and pushy with them. And he has ventured into even more sinister territory on a couple of occasions, once with Jonathan and once with Carol.

The incident with Jonathan happens in the summer of 1982, when Jonathan is a rising freshman working under the table at the Hawk and Robbie is a rising senior. Robbie finds him alone cleaning up the cinema and repeatedly asks him for a handjob. Another employee walks into the cinema before things can escalate, but, due to Robbie's superior age/strength and the isolated location, the situation is pretty volatile and frightening. Jonathan is basically like "well, nothing happened, ultimately, so I'm just never going to deal with that." But after Will's "death"--which appears to have been brought about partially by someone trying to run him off the road--Jonathan, especially in dreams, starts to mull over a bunch of rough shit that he went through, because he wanted to protect Will from going through that stuff (whether that meant Lonnie's bullshit or scarier bullying from older kids or the effects of poverty) and feels that he failed.

Tommy doesn't know about this incident, but Robbie--pretty confident that poor, crazy Joyce Byers's weird, possibly queer kid isn't going to tell anyone and that it would backfire on him if he tried--nevertheless makes a preemptive strike and makes sure to tell Tommy to watch out for that Byers kid, because he's a queer and you never know what they'll do. This isn't the first or last rumor of this kind about Jonathan, but it doesn't exactly make his life easier, either.

With Carol, Robbie came home from college in the summer of 1984 and attended his family's Fourth of July barbecue. Carol, Tommy's girlfriend since middle school, is invited. Robbie thinks she looks good, he feels entitled to her attention, and he's already in a resentful mood due to some family stuff (Tommy is glad to see him but not exactly worshipful, Marianne has come out of her shell which he interprets as being "full of herself," and Mrs. Hagan is falling all over him). So he tries to get his hand up Carol's shirt while her hands are full with some casserole dish. Unfortunately for him, Carol is not as scared or awed as most of the younger people he approaches, so she screams at him and dumps a terrifyingly Midwestern salad all over his ass. The rest of the Hagans come running, and the fallout is tremendous. Tommy isn't in a place where he can confront Robbie too directly, but he sides with Carol and takes her back to her house, where she tells her mom about it and they all end up having Fourth of July lunch together. Marianne knows Robbie's bad news and sides with Carol, too. Mrs. Hagan is livid, calling Carol a liar and a slut and her two other children ungrateful traitors. Mrs. Perkins (Carol's mom) calls to give Mrs. Hagan a piece of her mind.

In the end, it doesn't go beyond the two families. (Even Steve doesn't know.) Carol is assertive but even she can't deal with being the girl who tried to stir up shit between golden boy Robbie and his own brother. Her folks are furious on her behalf but are realistic and agree that it would play out that way. Mrs. Hagan gives Carol the cold shoulder but doesn't want to push things with her folks, or even acknowledge that Tommy has real reason to resent his brother. Marianne ends up absorbing most of her frustration, and she's just like, "Yeah, that's what I thought you'd do, you horrible fucking woman." Meanwhile Robbie's sulking because he's tired of all the drama that he caused.

This is obviously pretty elaborate for a couple of minor characters in this fanfic and I don't know how much this is going to show up in the story, but it kind of percolated in the back of my mind of its own accord.

[no-context-nonsense]

New year… same problems

[okaybutlikeimagine]

Don’t Give Yourself Away

Pt. 2 of the Low Life series that I started forever and a day ago! It’s just the enemies section of the enemies-to-lovers plot, bear with me here

TW: alcohol, underage drinking, driving under the influence, mentions of violence, violent thoughts, Billy just wanting to punch things basically

Read it on A03 here! :D

~~~*~~~

Fuck Steve Harrington.

That’s the consensus that Billy’s brain has come to as he sits in the overcrowded, gratingly loud cafeteria of Hawkins High. It’s been half a day here and that’s the only thing ringing through his ears  as he picks at the hunk of ground up meat this school tries to pass off as “food”.

“I mean, who the fuck does he think he is anyway?”

That’s Tommy, grunting over a mouthful of applesauce, his girlfriend sitting next to him and twisting up her mouth in some kind of disgusted agreement. Or maybe it’s more so irritation at the very bitter topic of interest. Billy can only grunt wordlessly back at him.

Tommy’s been rattling off for the last ten minutes about how Steve “betrayed” them, Carol’s listening with vague disinterest, and Billy’s thinking of ways to crawl out of his skin. All it took was one long look at Steve Harrington this morning in the parking lot to tell him he was in some serious trouble. And when that wide eyed girl got out of the same car… Billy felt the bitter fire of jealousy lick at every corner within him. And lord did he hate it.

He hates even more how he can’t even convince himself in some kind of soothing reprieve that she’s just a friend or a sister because he saw them. In the hallway when he was walking from one dreary class to another. Billy heard the guy giggle as she hit his chest and reprimanded him for his “stupid” sunglasses. As he smiled the brightest thing Billy had ever seen and said something that sounded like “I missed you”. Said something like “Tell me about it” when she pointed out that it had only been an hour. He purred it out as he cradled the side of her neck and pulled her in for a kiss; pulled her closer, smiling like she was everything and he couldn’t be close enough. Right there in the middle of the hallway for everyone to see. For all the hope and potential to seep out of Billy’s body and pool onto the ground.

“Leaving us to be with those… freaks.”

The boy in question is about 2 tables over, talking with that girl and some lanky dude with a shaggy haircut who looks like he can’t hold himself upright. Billy thinks it’s the punk he bumped into earlier in the hallway as he stormed away from whatever show Steve Harrington thought he was putting on with that girl. The same kid who Tommy and Carol were picking on earlier as they entered the cafeteria- sending rude jeers and snickers his way about being “cursed” and “creepy”.

Tommy and Carol are jackasses. It doesn’t take a whole lot of time for Billy to put that together- they’re loud and inconsiderate, walking and acting like they have something to prove with everything they do. They look down their noses at everyone they can, despite Carol only being 5 foot and Tommy being not even a foot taller. They take up so little space but walk like they can make demands of the world. Small fish in even smaller ponds. Billy knows and hates the type.

But Steve Harrington… He’s 2 tables over and he’s laughing something loud and bright and handing the lanky dude some of his food in some kind gesture and he’s got his arm around that girl and he kisses her temple where her hair meets soft skin and- and Tommy is right. Who the hell does this boy think he is and why the hell does he think he gets to be that way so unabashedly? Where does he get off, shining so brightly that Billy can’t even hope to get near?

“Clearly he made a big mistake.” Carol mutters, paying adamant attention to her tray and looking pissed to high hell with the conversation at hand.

Ripping his eyes away from the laughing and joyful Steve Harrington does more harm than good, because it means Billy has to look at a sulking Carol and Tommy. Billy hates more than anything that these people are the best people for him to stick to. He’s not here to make life-long friends- he’s only got a couple of years until he can get the fuck out and back to California. He’s not clinging to any hope for happiness here, he just wants people who are popular enough to make life easy and tolerable enough to keep him sane. A year or two and that’s it, he’s out and can scrub all of this clean from his memory. And hell, maybe sharing a common enemy will give him something to do in the meantime.

Billy’s not even fully sure what Steve did to these two to have them bitching so much. Tommy’s been rambling uselessly and Carol seems about as sick of it as Billy is, regardless of her seeming to agree. Everyone else around them is paying no mind anymore.

 This shit must happen often…

The only information he’s gathered is that Steve was their friend and they had some violent falling out and now Steve walks around with the prissy girl and the punk-ass boy. It’s been a long 10 minutes already.

 Just two years...

“Not King Steve anymore.” Tommy bites out and that gets Billy listening.

“King Steve?” He scoffs at the title. “Are you serious? Who the hell called him that?”

“Everyone.” A girl chimes in- Billy doesn’t know her name. He stopped inputting information past a certain point.

“Why?” He asks over his orange juice carton.

Everyone at the table looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Because he’s hot.” Carol supplies like it shouldn’t need to be said. Billy holds himself back from comment.

“He’s never had an awkward day in his life.” Tommy says, sounding just as bitter as before. “He acts better than everyone and we all just… agreed.”

At that, Tommy turns in on himself. There’s guilt on his face.

“He practically ruled the school.” Another girl adds, doing a fuck all job of reading the room as she swoons over her words.

And with all that, they’ve answered Tommy’s question.

 He knows exactly who he is. He’s the King, because they told him so.

Billy sends another look his way, to the boy that seems to have everything he could possibly need. The boy smiling and laughing. Somehow Billy doesn’t think this fallen “king” made that big of a mistake. This boy looks like he needs nothing more in his life than these two “losers” and a place to be with them… and Billy feels bitterness in himself growing ever faster.

“Yeah, well not anymore.” Billy growls darkly.

The energy shifts at the table- all the dejected faces of these people who have lost their effervescent leader turn hopeful onto Billy. He couldn’t have guessed to overthrow the “king” of Hawkins High on his very first afternoon, but he can’t say he fully dreads it.

 People doing what I say? Could be nice. It’s good to have people on my side… and it’s only two years.

“Yeah, not anymore.” Tommy nods in agreement, grinning through something sour still. Billy can’t say he really gives a shit about whatever this dude is going through.

“Anyone else to avoid?” Billy asks dismissively.

“Underclassmen mostly.” One girl complains. “God they are so annoying.”

“Some of them are worth a good screw though.”

The girl smacks the guy who just perked up. “You’re so disgusting.”

“I’m right.”

“Stop screwing freshmen! Just because you can’t get anyone else to touch your dick-”

Billy tunes out their bickering.

“I heard Julie’s a pretty good screw, too.” Tommy says lasciviously, clearly feeling more normal again. Carol doesn’t seem to be having it, though.

“I don’t trust Julie as far as I can throw her.”

“Oh yeah? I’ve heard some pretty good things-”

“She talks too much.” Carol crosses her arms indignantly. “It’s the people who talk the most that have done the least. Plus her mother is the town gossip, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? She never shuts her trap.”

Billy hates a gossip. He makes a face that Carol must register, because she’s giving him a look like she’s been proven right.

“Yeah, exactly. So unless you want a single kiss and everyone to know about your dick that she’s never even seen before, you’ll stay away.”

“Jealous?”

Carol turns to Tommy with a gasp. “You’ve never even touched Julie Warner, so don’t you start.”

Tommy’s grin is feral and Carol looks about ready to deck him, but she just scoots in closer to him and continues to pick at her tray of food.

The brisk fall air coming in from the open window feels like an insult. Billy looks outside and wishes it smelled of salt rather than pine. Wishes the trees weren’t so fluffy but rather slim and impossibly tall. Wishes the world wasn’t quite so gray and brown and hopeless. Wishes, wishes, wishes…

He shoves his hands in his pockets for some protection and feels out the crumpled neon invite he dismissively shoved away before.

“What about... Tina?” He asks with general disinterest, reading from the paper in his hand. They shrug.

“Tina’s cool.” Carol admits. “Her mom is out of town on some business thing so the house is gonna be empty for the party.”

“Doesn’t really matter what Tina’s like though.” Tommy says, scraping the bottom of the applesauce container with his spoon like it’s his dying meal. “A party’s a party, right?”

Billy figures he can agree.

“You’re going, yeah?”

All eyes turn to Billy again, expectant. Suddenly, the weight of whatever “leadership” role he’s taken on has hit him. Maybe he should have just skulked in the corner and kept away from anyone’s attention. Maybe all those “freaks” they pick on had the right idea of lurking in the shadows and keeping your head down.

Then again, no. Talk is dangerous, and… Mr. Chief Hopper said it himself: “Not a lot to do around here but talk.” If they’re gonna talk, he’d rather control the conversation.

 Two years…

“Is there anything else to do in this piece of shit town?” He asks by way of an answer, with a sort of disgust he can’t wipe from his words.

They all laugh with mirthless agreement. Clearly, Billy was right. A boring old town full of cow shit and corn stalks- nothing to be proud of or excited about here. He’s surrounded by people itching to get out, just like him… except Billy’s not going to be like them. He’d bet his soul that at least half of these kids are gonna become burnouts trapped in the general area; like wriggling and desperate flies in a small town spiderweb.

“So, Billy…” The girl next to him purrs, scooting in and getting far too close for comfort. “Tell us more about California.”

Billy absentmindedly squirms out of her grip and silently begs for strength.

~~*~~

“I’m very sorry Billy,” Coach Walters or Wallens or goddamn Walrus says, not sounding very sorry at all. “But the roster was already decided over a week ago.”

They stop in front of his office, the man fumbling with a set of keys. Billy’s glaring down at them with furrowed and angered brows, feeling himself snarling at the clanging metal.

He looks up when the Coach does, his expression failing slightly at the almost sympathetic look on the coach’s face.

“I’m sorry. You’re just too late.”

“I can’t be too late.” Billy insists, voice straining a bit. He’s not going to say he’s been following the coach around desperately ever since school got out 20 minutes ago, asking and pushing and borderline pleading to try out for the basketball team… because no one’s here to see it anyway so he doesn’t have to admit to shit.

“You are.” The coach sighs, reaching out to grab the equipment from Billy’s hands. He offered to carry it, thinking it’d give him an edge of favor. Now Billy holds it back like it’s a hostage.

“You can make an exception for me.” Billy says assuredly. Coach Walrus shakes his head, bushy eyebrows low and deep frown unable to be hidden, even behind his abundant whiskery beard and mustache.

“I’ve given two exceptions already to other guys.”

“That’s not my problem!” Billy bites, holding back a wince when the coach frowns harder at him.

There’s a pause, a staring match that holds all of Billy’s hope for a decent time here in this wretched place. There’s nothing to do around here but wander the streets, and the temperature is dropping far too rapidly for that to be comfortable much longer. He doesn’t want to be huddling in the cold outdoors this fall, or god forbid by the time winter sneaks around. And there’s no way in hell that Billy is spending more time at home than he needs to. Billy’s got a few things going for him, but he could count those few things on one hand, and he’s not going to sit here and let one of those things be ripped away by being a week late when that isn’t even his fault.

He stares. He refuses to back down. He refuses to hand over the equipment.

“It is if you wanna make the team.” The coach says lowly. Threatens, if Billy had to guess… but there might be hope in that statement, and it keeps Billy from throwing the sports equipment down on the ground at his feet.

The coach stalks into his office. Billy follows.

“I was on my team back at home.” He tries quickly, heart pulling uncomfortably at the thought of it. He can’t think about things he misses, or he’ll get stuck.

“Alright, that doesn’t mean much.”

“We were in the best division in the state. We won championships.” Billy’s selling his former team way up. No one has to know, and certainly not this man. He only hopes he doesn’t look into it too hard.

The coach takes pause, eyeing Billy as he fiddles uselessly with paperwork on his desk.

“That says nothing about you as a player.”

Billy’s going to pull his hair out. He clutches the bag of dodge balls in his hand with a death grip.

“I can show you how I am as a player.” Billy grits out, vague recognition of threads breaking from under his grip. “If you just let me try out.”

The coach raises his eyebrow.

“You can put that equipment over in that corner.”

Billy looks down at the fraying bag and his popped out veins. He takes a few steps to toss the assaulted bag in the aforementioned corner.

“I just don’t have that kind of time right now, Billy-”

“Well I can vouch for myself.”

“I can’t just have kids vouching for themselves and getting onto our Varsity.”

“I was the best player on my team!”

Some would say that’s debatable, but-

“You were the captain?” the coach asks with a skeptical look. The words “best” and “captain” don’t have any correlation in Billy’s mind, but he nods his head anyway.

“Yes, I was.”

A lie. But it’s not like captain even matters, especially when the real captain was the son of the coach and mediocre at best.

“And do you have someone who can vouch for that?”

Billy reels. He hears a gruff, distant voice in his head.

 ... name and number… someone I can call… your best interest in mind...

He desperately wishes things could just be easy. He wishes it wasn’t such a witch-hunt to find someone who cares.

“You can call my coach.” Billy says, trying not to sound as lame as he feels. He’s fully aware his coach retired last year, it’s some new guy now that Billy didn’t bother to meet before the move. He knows if this man calls, he’s not going to get much by way of an answer. He’s hoping it’ll work in his favor- he seems so busy with fuck knows what that maybe he’ll just get sick enough of this to let it slide.

The exasperated sigh that leaves Coach Walrus seems like the nail in the coffin, Billy’s just not sure which coffin yet-

“Coach?” calls a voice, smooth and distant. “Coach Wallace?”

Another groan fills the room as the coach pushes past with an apologetic face to get back into the gym. Billy follows, feeling more flustered than he’d like. They’re not done here, they can’t be-

“Sorry Steve.” Coach Wallace laments.

 Steve.

The boy in question is standing in the door, mid-afternoon sun backlighting him with a glow that makes Billy want to hurt someone. Maybe him. Maybe there’s something to be said of Billy wanting to destroy every pretty thing he sees.

Steve looks at him with confused curiosity in his eyes. Billy can’t help but puff his chest out at the evaluation- maybe Steve even rakes his eyes up and down Billy.

But Steve looks away quickly. Billy tries not to deflate.

“Are you still coming by for dinner?” Steve asks, looking at the coach. Billy scoffs. Steve glares.

“Oh, yes, sorry Steve. I hope I’m not keeping your parents waiting-”

“Nah, if I know my mom she’s still mixing drinks and… making hors d'oeuvres or something.”

 The fuck is an “or derve”?

The coach and Steve laugh. Steve’s laugh is too damn pretty. Billy thinks about ways he can wrap his hands around a laugh.

“I just came by to ask if you still need help getting to my house.”

“Oh yes, if you could. I’ve been there so many times, you’d think I’d have the trip down by now.”

“Eh, it’s a little out of the way.” Steve shrugs, popping out his hip, hands in his pockets. His nonchalance is liable to drive Billy to murder. “I just uh… I’ve got somewhere to be tonight and I’ve kind of gotta… get ready for that. But no rush-”

“Ohhh… a nice date tonight?”

 Get ready, huh?

Steve rubs the back of his neck, smile sheepish. He’s just so polite.

“Eh it’s… it’ll be something.”

“Alright well then let’s-”

Billy clears his throat as loudly as possible.

“Oh! Sorry Billy uh... “ The coach heaves another sigh, like Billy couldn’t be any more of a burden. Billy fucking hates that sound. “Look. I’ve made a lot of exceptions already, but you seem committed to wanting to be on this team and lord knows we could use the commitment here. So… I’m taking your word for it just this once. Practice is right here every weekday right after school except for Mondays, alright?”

“Got it.”

“If I decide at practice that you’re not up to snuff, don’t throw a fit with me.”

“That won’t happen.”

Billy doesn’t specify which one he means. The coach seems to notice.

“I mean it.”

The coach points a thick, red finger in Billy’s face, his own very serious. And with that, he’s turning back towards Steve and leaving the gym. Steve is still standing there, backlit by the sun, leaning against the door and only shifting to let the coach leave first.

He peels his eyes away from Billy, looking impossibly and offensively disinterested.

And fuck Steve Harrington.

That’s the consensus that Billy’s brain has come to as he climbs into his bed that night, the nippy chill of the late October Indiana air seeping in through his drafty windows. It hasn’t even been 24 hours to come to this; it seems as though everything in this town can be ruined in a matter of 24 hours or less.

He’s fitful as he sleeps, as always. And as always, his sleep is mostly blank images and stressful feelings. However, every now and then, in between the anxious dark, he sees a sort of prettiness he wishes he could get his hands on and wring out- violently.

~~~~*~~~~

In his 16 years of public schooling, there’s one important lesson Billy has learned: being popular isn’t as important as being intimidating.

He could be the most friendless, insignificant sap on campus- in fact, Billy’s starting to think he would have preferred that option -but being feared is the only status of any worth. Being feared means no one talking shit about him. Being feared means everyone bending over backwards to get on his good side. Being feared means no trying to shove him around or trying to pick a fight because they know he’ll dish it out just as good as he can take it.

Back at home, Billy got into fights outside of school. Plenty of them. Enough to have all the students know he wasn’t one to be messed with. More than a few bruised faces and black eyes told everyone to never dare accuse him of empty threats. But here, in Bumfuck, Indiana with only the cows and their shit for company, no one knows a single thing about him. He’s just the latest newcomer who happened to ride in on a glittery California wave.

He figures this blank slate has given him a few options: hope someone starts a shitty rumor about him, start that rumor himself, or get in a fight.

He’d rather anything but that last one. No part of him wants to expel more energy than is absolutely necessary in this place. Everything’s easier when you let others do the work for you.

And for as angry as he’s been these last couple of days, he’s tired most of all. Tired from new homes and new time zones and new schools and new roads and new people and the same old expectations he’s always had to deal with… he’s just tired. There’s too much figuring out to be done. For as boring as this shitty town is, nothing’s normal here. He doesn’t want to have to do so much to exist comfortably. And he certainly doesn’t want to have to waste the energy on beating someone’s face in if he doesn’t need to.

He wants all of the benefits with none of the work. If he can get through this by staying low and having everyone assume more of him than he’s willing to give, things will be good.

He just has to get through it. And getting through it tends to be the hardest part.

He hears talk. Lots of it. None of it is quite what he wants yet. It’s only been a day, but every second counts when it comes to reputation, especially when that reputation is riding on a rumor. By the end of next week the momentum will die down and he knows he can’t wait that long. So he listens intently to the talk around him- mentions of “rockstars” and “roads paved gold” and “is that a scar?” and that’s what catches Billy’s ear the most. There’s hope filling in him that maybe he’ll get exactly what he wants.

“He doesn’t deserve an exception. He just moved here.”

The voice is coming around the corner from where Billy is shoving useless books into his locker. It almost sounds familiar, but in a way that grates at Billy’s ears.

“I don’t know, man.” A far less familiar voice responds.

“He’s cocky.” It’s spat out with disgust. The boys can’t see Billy if he can’t see them, but he knows the words are about him. He can feel it tugging in him. “Why does he think he gets special treatment?”

“You get special treatment, too.”

“What? No I don’t.” The familiar voice is a petulant little whine now.

“The coach visits your house all the time.” And that’s what seals it.

This guy is talking to Harrington.

“... okay but that’s different though.”

That’s Steve Harrington. With his self-entitled confidence and his irritated whine. He’s not getting what he wants and he’s pissed about it. Or maybe it’s more than that. Billy is clutching his last book with white knuckles, wondering why his being on the team means anything to this rich little prick.

“You weren’t even here for tryouts, were you?” It’s the other guy. Billy’s seeing red. “You were still on vacation, but Coach let you on the team anyway.”

He can hear Harrington stutter, grasping for straws on how to defend himself.

“Yeah but... But that’s just different c’mon man, you know that. Coach knows me, he doesn’t know this… asshole.”

“He might be good for the team.”

“Who cares? He’s a pain in my ass.”

Billy doesn’t realize how hard he slams his locker until he rounds the corner and sees wide eyes and open mouths. He realizes he doesn’t care far quicker, though. His fists are clenched hard, knuckles cracking. People are whispering. He can’t hear their words. He’s staring down this stupid boy with his pretty face and wants so badly to see it ruined. Wants so badly to take one of the many things this self-centered prick gets to have as his own. Wants to ruin what he has- wants to rid him of even half of that privilege.

Harrington’s face is shocked, but it washes away into dismissiveness. He raises his nose up.

“He’s just a worthless poser. He doesn’t belong on the team.”

Billy seethes.

But Harrington doesn’t see it, because he’s turned around and walked away. The other guy is still standing there, gaping, before he walks away too, but Billy barely realizes. He’s got laser focused vision on Harrington. Billy’s fists flex.

He wants to do something. He wants to hurt him. He wants to chase him down the hall and get his hands into him. Feel his flesh under him. Feel him writhe under him.

He wants him gasping for air and pleading.

His chest fills with bile just at the thought… the thought of wanting…

Billy turns and walks the other way.

He doesn’t know why he does it. He still sees Harrington’s face in his mind, dismissive and uninterested, and then it all morphs into just shapes… and there’s more energy coursing through him now than there has been since he first stepped foot on the soft and muddy Indiana soil- and it’s poisonous. It’s the sort of energy that wrecks through his body, making his limbs shake and his heart race until he’s finally got his hands on something. It’s the sort of energy that makes him feel sick when he thinks back on it afterwards… that makes him feel like a familiar monster. The sort of thoughts that make his heart race with anxiety alongside the adrenaline. There’s just a scary kind of freedom in roughing someone up- he’s big and he’s strong enough. He’s worked hard for it. There’s control in taking it into his own hands. It feels like all he can do sometimes. All he needs is to get a good grab. He can get anything within reach. He just needs a reason.

“Hey, Hollywood… what’s with the red face? Can’t handle a little Indiana sun-”

There’s a reason.

He doesn’t register anything until he’s in the front office, being sternly spoken to by the vice principal. He gathers from the conversation that he gave the guy a bruised stomach and he “should be lucky it only got that far” because “from what I’ve heard, you’ve got a new coach. And he doesn’t take kindly to this kind of behavior.”

Billy doesn’t even think about it until later that night, when he’s getting ready for Tina’s stupid party and hears those afternoon words repeat through his mind. Words questioning his worth, questioning his character, threatening to take away something he just barely got… all because he got angry. All because he couldn’t handle himself. All because he’s a mirror. He’s just a reflection of all the worst things he sees...

No, it happened because of Harrington. Because of Harrington most of all. Yeah. Because Harrington couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut or his shitty opinions to himself. Because Harrington has a face too pretty for his own good.

 Fuck Steve Harrington.

~~~*~~~

Billy likes it loud.

Everything. Everything loud.  Loud music, loud sex, and certainly loud parties. Loud parties bring a comfort that quiet ones could never hope to grasp. Billy can’t be around this many people without his body vibrating from constant energy. Without his eardrums shaking from the wailing music.

There’s no thoughts to be had while inverted and chugging watery beer out of a dirty, spit soaked keg. He gets a high off of the overstimulation, his body rushing itself over with adrenaline. Then he kicks his foot, and the guys at his ankles let him down, and his ears are buzzy enough to drown out the cheering he can see is taking place in his honor. His heart is thumping heavily. The cheers get louder as his blood settles back into its regular flow. He can feel large hands patting and pawing his shoulders and back.

He cheers along with them, vibrating with the words he’s saying even though they’re gibberish to his ears. There’s no need to be coherent as he shouts, wandering back into the house and cutting through the crowd of people as he puffs his cigarette. He feels a hand- must be Tommy’s -lingering on his back and shoulder. Hit him there. Stay there. Lingering lingering. He’s too out of his mind, too out of place to care too much.

Being drunk makes it easier to stay at this lame party. Most of it is blurry to him, what with his stuttering movement and the way his eyes have started to water after being upside down for so long. He’s fixated on streamers hanging from the ceiling, figuring they must actually be toilet paper now that he’s got his hands on them, pulling them absent-mindedly from the ceiling like a cat with yarn. He’s dizzy with everything, suddenly aching for something for his mouth to do, thinking of going for his cigarette again or even tonguing at the paper when-

 Fuck.

He keeps a good grip on the toilet paper, hardly realizing that he’s bringing it with him as his focus is completely honed in on a figure leaning up against the nearest wall. He pushes past writhing bodies, vaguely hearing the music as it shouts over all of them. There’s only one person Billy cares about right now- maybe only one person he’s cared about all week.

He doesn’t have words and doesn’t feel he needs them. Tommy’s scratchy voice says all he needs him to.

“We’ve got ourselves a new Keg King, Harrington.”

Billy stares Steve Harrington down with fervor, but he can only see himself in the reflection of Harrinton’s glasses. He’s blurry even to himself, and it leaves him angry.

“Yeah, that’s right!” Is the voice of another guy Billy never bothered to remember the name of. “Yeah, eat it, Harrington!”

Harrington takes his glasses off then, face looking every bit as serious as Billy feels. They just stare as time vibrates around them. Or maybe it’s just Billy. Billy still has no words in his throat, and especially not with Steve’s eyes on his. Billy thinks, briefly and loosely, about how he still wishes he had something to do with his mouth right now.

And then it’s just as always- as if Billy couldn’t be more boring if he tried -because Steve looks away with disinterest. He shifts his focus over to Tommy and his lips curl into something that straddles the line of a smile and a sneer.

“Harrington, huh? Whatever happened to Stevie?” He asks it in a way that makes Billy’s blood run hot in a way that isn’t just anger. It gets Tommy shifting nervously. Harrington’s smirk just grows wider.

His eyes flick back over to Billy for a quick second, before leaning in and speaking seriously to Tommy: “You can tell your new King I hope he enjoys all my sloppy seconds.”

Tommy’s face burns a bright red but Billy can’t see that because he can’t look away from Steve. He’s a whirlwind of everything violent and intoxicated and overwhelmed and far too strong. He sneers, ready to lunge but his body won’t let him. His feet are planted.

“Happy Halloween!” Harrington chirps, looking far too happy and far too satisfied and far too bright in his all-black outfit as he walks away. And Billy wants to lunge at him. Wants to spit out all of his hatred. Wants to blame his whole life on this one guy as he saunters away.

But Tommy stalks away with a dark mutter. And then there’s a crowd sweeping Billy up and leading him back over to the dance floor.

And it’s times like these Billy is glad it’s loud, because he doesn’t need to speak to anyone. But it’s times like these where Billy hates it loud, too, because loud means people. Lots of people. People touching him and writhing against him and sweating on him. His stomach starts to churn with the way everyone is undulating around him.

He shoves his way towards the window, seeing most people have migrated either inside or out back, now that the keg seems to be empty. There’s a few stragglers still coming in fashionably late, lots of cars parked outside, but there’s a small patch of dried grass over to the side that’s completely vacant. It looks like a haven right about now. He pushes through the crowd until they part like the red sea for him, giving him the chance to stumble outside and lay out on the grass.

When he gets there and flops himself down, he laments how rough and scratchy it feels. He silently cusses out Tina and her folks, figuring there’s no way it can be drier here than it is back where he’s from, down near the border where they're in a drought most of the year and the heat dries up the plants. Figures they must just be cheap. Can’t even take care of their own lawn.

And Billy wonders who he’s kidding. His old man is the same damn way.

He lays back, head feeling woozy from leaving the heat of all those bodies and heading straight into the crisp fall air. While the grass is harsh and offensive against him, he’s still grateful for the stability now pressed against his back. For a second, quick and warm, he feels fully safe.

And if there’s anything to be said for Hawkins- for all of Indiana and the piece of shit Billy still firmly believes it to be -it’s the night sky. It’s every star above Billy that’s winking back at him crystal clear. It’s the hundreds of them… hell maybe thousands of them that are in view right now on the crunchy grass next to Tina’s house.

San Diego was vastly different. Even in the small towns bordering it, the stars could never be this abundant and bright. Only when Billy and his friends dared each other to paddle out into the ocean on their surfboards late at night could they see anywhere near this many stars. Only on the farthest and most secluded corners of the beaches, or the very tip of the more vacant piers.

There’s some comfort and some pain when Billy thinks about how these are the same stars that can be found in San Diego. Roughly. Right? It’s certainly the same Fall moon. It’s a different breeze hitting him right now, chilling him down to his bones and making him wish he was on that surfboard. Wishing he and his friends were talking about something stupid and childish. Wishing the harsh ground beneath him was rocking like a rolling wave.

Billy’s always hated wishes. Despised them. He never gets anything he wishes for. They’re not worth the breath.

Still somehow his brain never quite gets the memo.

He’s dizzy with booze and people and wishes. He’s staring at the stars, watching them twinkle, wondering how the real search out here in the boondocks is for a plane in the sky rather than a celestial body, and he wishes for things. He wishes for pretty things. Wishes for things he can get his hands on. Wishes for ease. Wishes for salty breezes. Wishes for seagulls. Wishes for seashells. Wishes for and wishes for and wishes for-

He hears the door open and slam- heavier now than it has been as people wander into the party late. He sits up quickly, immediately feeling that keg he chugged earlier and that joint he hit before getting here and those beers he had in the car ride over and-

Someone is trudging down the walkway, smacking bushes angrily as they go. Billy watches with unfocused eyes, noticing first the dark outfit and then the coiffed hair.

“Harrington!” Billy shouts after him, heart pumping quickly, watching as the boy doesn’t slow even for a second. He heaves himself off the ground, head feeling heavy, wondering if his eyes are deceiving him or not. “Harrington, you…”

The boy’s steps falter. He shifts his attention, just a little, in Billy’s direction and there he is. That pretty face. Billy hates the way Harrington shifts his attention away so quickly, just like always. As if Billy couldn’t be any more worthless if he tried. As if Harrington himself is the one deciding factor of something like that.

So Billy starts to walk after him, his own steps lazy versus Harrington’s urgent pace.

“How’s it feel? Huh?” Billy’s mouth feels like mush, so he yells louder to compensate. “Being such a loser? Losing everything you had?”

He watches as the moon illuminates the bit of Harrington’s pale neck exposed to the air. He wants his nails in this boy’s skin. He wants to dig into him and under him in every way. He wants a lot of things he can’t stand to put into words.

Harrington still isn’t looking. His stride still isn’t breaking. Billy is pissed, tries to walk a little faster, tries to yell a little louder.

“Must really suck doesn’t it, champ? Hm? Knowing you don’t mean anything to anyone anymore.”

If Billy isn’t mistaken, Harrington starts to walk faster. It feels kind of good and kind of sick to see him react. So he keeps yelling after him.

“Knowing you’re nothing to them now, eh hot shot?”

Harrington’s steps get heavier. Billy feels a cackle rising up through his throat.

“Knowing you lost it all-”

“God, no one gives a shit about you!” Comes a voice that startles Billy, knowing it’s not his own, but rather Harrington’s. He’s damn near screeching as he spins around quickly. His face is bright red, even in the dim light of the night, and his expression is folded into rage. “Not a single shit!”

Billy nearly falls as he stumbles back, suddenly being faced with a shift in momentum. He cements his feet to the grass as best he can, staring down Harrington and his dark eyes. His mouth falls open in his shock.

“They?” Harrington continues, gesturing wildly to the house behind them. “Aren’t worth anything. They’re gonna forget you in a month, tops. And then what do you have? Huh?”

Billy blinks, bewildered and suddenly boiling, Because how dare he… how dare he-

“Who cares what you have to say! You mean nothing! Just get the fuck away from me.”

And then Steve turns back around, stomping down the street, probably to find his car. And Billy watches after him, stumbles backwards a bit, clenches his fists tightly. The words stick to the cold air like a tongue to a frozen pole, rushing around Billy’s head in heavy, dark promises. In harsh and brittle words of truth.

 No one gives a shit…

His knuckles crack again with how hard he’s clenching them, and he moves to go after him with his fists- but he fumbles. His head is spinning with harsh truths now too. Everything feels wrong and sour. He tries to chase after him, go get his hands on him, to make him pay- but he just stumbles forward like he’s a deer with newfound legs.

And Billy wishes. Billy wishes with all his might to get his hands on something tangible and breakable and fragile.

He can’t help it… he watches Steve pull away and down the road, driving faster than Billy’s heart is beating. Billy feels wreckage inside of him.

He turns back to the party to shove his way through the crowd, to grab another drink, and to get the hell out of here.

[steddieas-shegoes]

He’s not sure why he even comes to these parties anymore. He used to sell at the frat houses, made his rounds until he was out of product, made more money than any minimum wage job he could find near campus.

But he hasn’t in a while. Months, at this point.

It’s just that every time he came to one of these idiotic showing of riches and popularity, the most beautiful man he’d ever seen was sitting in the corner of the kitchen watching with a faraway look in his eyes. Sometimes he stood in a group of people in the living room, but never contributed to the conversation. Once, Eddie saw him swinging his feet back and forth in the water of the hot tub on the back patio with three different couples making out inside it, completely zoned out.

Eddie needs to keep an eye on him. Hence, he attends the stupid parties.

And it’s stupid, to go through so much trouble for a guy he doesn’t even know, who probably doesn’t even notice him back. It’s stupid, but Eddie’s never claimed to be very bright.

Which is probably why he walks up to the guy when he’s about two seconds from punching Tommy Hagan, grabs his wrists, and tugs.

“The fuck are you?” He asks Eddie, reasonably confused and angry at being interrupted by a stranger.

Eddie could feel his pulse against his fingers, swore he could feel a spark of electricity flow between them.

“Eddie. Just leave him. Whatever he did isn’t worth it,” he said through clenched teeth.

His fingers tightened around Steve’s wrists as he considered trying to pick him up, throw him over his shoulder, and walk out of this party entirely.

“How the hell do you know?” Steve wasn’t trying to pull away.

Eddie didn’t let himself think about that too much.

“I just know nothing Hagan does is ever worth trouble for you. C’mon,” Eddie tugged on his wrists again, and this time, it seemed to catch the guy off guard.

“Didn’t know you were into freaks, Harrington,” Tommy said as they took a few steps away from him. “If you’re gonna be gay, you could at least have taste.”

Eddie froze.

The guy, Harrington, tried to pull his wrists loose, but Eddie didn’t let him.

He turned to Tommy, the guy who almost got him arrested for selling at his party only a few months ago, and smirked.

If he was gonna out someone to a stranger, Eddie had no problem doing the same right now.

“And you just sucked my dick because you wanted to add it to your résumé?” Eddie grinned at Tommy, who quickly looked around to make sure no one else heard.

“As if I would-“ he tried to say, but Harrington cut him off.

“You forget you say shit when you’re high. You told me about it already. I think your exact words were, ‘he had the best dick I’ve ever seen, Steve.’ Or am I mixing that up with another dick?” Steve pulled one arm loose from Eddie’s grip, brushed hair from his face, and let it relax at his side.

Eddie could let go now, he was sure if anyone would start something at this point it would be Tommy. But Steve wasn’t trying to pull his other wrist loose and Eddie liked the warmth of him in his hand.

“Whatever man, just go. You don’t even wanna be here,” Tommy turned and left before Steve could respond.

Eddie finally let go, but he didn’t like the immediate sense of loss that filled his chest.

“You always interrupt strangers before they fight?” Steve asked him, hands shoved into his pockets.

Eddie really looked at him, inspected him. He only ever saw him at these parties, so the lighting was shit, but he’d noticed the dark shadows under his eyes a while ago. He noticed that he held himself in a way that showed he was always ready for a fight. Steve’s hair had gone flat over the last month or so, not nearly as voluminous or shiny as it had been at the start of the year.

“Are you okay?” He asked instead of answering the question.

“I’m fine, dude.”

Eddie shook his head. “You don’t seem okay.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Just seems like something is bothering you,” Eddie wouldn’t push more, not if Steve was actually gonna get mad. But something told him that nobody pushed Steve to talk enough.

Eddie had Wayne back home, and his friends in his band here, and a couple coworkers at the bar he worked at twice a week now that he could joke around with. Steve didn’t even seem to have the people he hung around with.

“Why does it matter to you if something is bothering me?”

That’s a fair question. Why does it matter to him?

“Maybe because I just wanted to help. That’s what people do, right?”

“Not for me, usually.”

Eddie stepped closer, barely leaving space between them. “Well, I am.”

Steve stared back at him, shoulders dropping and eyes losing that angry fire.

“Why?”

Eddie was an idiot sometimes, but he was able to read people pretty well. It’s what kept him safe for most of middle and high school, and made him friends in college.

He knew what it looked like to be lonely and depressed, and Steve had check marks next to both of those.

“You wanna get out of here?” Eddie asked, once again avoiding his question.

“And go where?”

“I’ll show you my favorite getting high spot.”

“I don’t really smoke with strangers,” Steve seemed nervous.

“You don’t have to smoke. I’m just gonna show you the place.”

He watched Steve think about it, noting the way his brows scrunched together, how he bit his bottom lip, how he looked at the ground instead of at Eddie.

“Fine. But if you murder me in the woods, my mom will have you hanged,” Steve finally said.

“Hanged? Do they even do that anymore?”

Steve giggled. “Probably not. But she’d find a way.”

“Well, I’ve got no interest in murdering you, big boy.”

The blush that filled Steve’s cheeks was stunning. A perfect pink dusting his skin, giving him a healthier glow than what he’d had for a while.

“What do you have interest in?”

Eddie could say any number of things to flirt, make his true intentions clear, maybe even go straight back to his single dorm instead of showing Steve anywhere.

But Eddie figured that’s all Steve was used to, or maybe he was always the one who had to put an effort into things.

Maybe he wasn’t used to getting treated like a human being.

“I’d like to get to know you. Parties like this aren’t really a good place to learn about someone’s favorite song or what they snack on when they wake up in the middle of the night.”

Steve seemed shocked by this answer, but his features quickly melted into a soft smile, one Eddie would want to see every single day.

“Fine. But it’s not a date,” Steve held out his hand, ready to be led.

Instead of lacing his fingers with Steve’s, or even just grabbing his hand in his palm, he wrapped his fingers around Steve’s wrist again.

“We’ll see.”

———

On graduation day, Steve and Eddie found their way back to their spot, one they’d probably never visit again.

Eddie’s fingers were curled around Steve’s wrist as they stood facing each other, close enough to feel each other’s breaths against their lips.

Nearly two years together, nearly 300 trips to this spot, and more than 500 dates that they never called dates.

And it was just the beginning.

Eddie leaned in to press his lips to Steve’s gently, keeping it soft so they wouldn’t get carried away.

They had to meet Wayne at the Italian restaurant in less than an hour and then Steve’s mom expected them back at Steve’s apartment for a wine and dessert celebration.

They wouldn’t be properly alone like this again for at least a couple days, but they didn’t have time to do much about it right now.

“I love you,” Eddie whispered as he rested his forehead against Steve’s.

“I love you, too,” Steve said back.

He didn’t have dark shadows under his eyes anymore, spending more nights sleeping in bed with Eddie than awake at parties he didn’t want to be at. His hair had most of its shine back. He’d put on a few pounds after joining the gym again, using it as an outlet for stress instead of hiding in corners at parties where he would drink just enough to get buzzed four times a week.

He made friends with Eddie’s friends, plus some of his own when he got a part time job at the coffee shop on campus.

Steve never spoke to Tommy again, at least as far as Eddie knew. He didn’t seem interested in being his friend again, and once he told Eddie more about their “friendship”, he couldn’t really blame him.

“You ready to go see Wayne?” Steve asked him, probably more excited than even Eddie was.

Wayne and Steve bonded quickly and they’d probably spend most of the lunch talking about sports and where they would go fishing this summer.

Eddie nodded, but he pulled something from his pocket before Steve could pull away and start walking back to the car they now shared.

“What’s that?” Steve asked, pointing towards the envelope in Eddie’s hand.

“It’s a gift from me to you. Well, I guess both of us, but I really got it for you.”

He handed it to Steve, who opened it quickly.

He pulled out the paper inside and Eddie watched his eyes fly across the words written there.

“Eddie.”

“Stevie.”

“You got us a trip to Italy? How the fuck did you get us a trip to Italy?” Steve was looking at him, eyes wet with tears.

“Doesn’t matter how. Wayne gave us some money for it, so did your mom. I’ve been saving for a year. Want us to have something special before we have to start working.” Eddie kissed his forehead. “Plus I want any excuse to see you in some of those see-through linen shorts.”

Steve’s lips were on his, his arms wrapped around Eddie’s neck. Eddie wrapped his arms around his waist to hold him there.

“I’ll wear them every day,” he gasped as he leaned in for another kiss.

Eddie laughed. “You won’t hear any complaints from me, sugar.”

“I can’t believe you did this. All I got you was a t-shirt.”

“You know I love t-shirts. I know you love Italy. It’s a win-win for both of us.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but kissed him again.

His eyes widened. “Oh my god. Are you gonna propose in Italy?”

Eddie snorted. “Why would I answer that question?”

“Because! I have to know!”

“Why?”

“So I can make sure I have a nice outfit for pictures, dumbass.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see. You look good in everything,” Eddie kissed the top of his head before he wrapped his fingers around Steve’s wrist and tugged on it once. “Let’s get to Wayne before he sends a search party.”

Eddie smiled to himself as they walked to the car, Steve’s rambling about what he wanted to do in Italy keeping his mind from wandering too far. He couldn’t help thinking about the ring he had stashed away in his guitar case, though.

Italy was the perfect place to propose.

[sp0o0kylights]

I saw a video today that said, “It’s very uncomfortable as an adult when your friend starts to date somebody who sucks, and you’re all looking at each other going ‘Guys, if this is the person who makes them happy…I think collectively as a unit we can agree that we would rather see them sad. So what's the plan?’” 

And immediately went: modern Steddie AU were Steve dates his high school friend Tommy and everyone is tearing their hair out over how awful he’s being treated. 

Ft. the Party, led by Dustin, hounding Eddie “I could get a man in a SECOND, I just CHOOSE not to date” Munson for help

However:

Eddie is mostly thinking the entire thing is a joke (King Steve and Tommy Hagan? Gay? Together?? Nice try Henderson.) until he runs into Robin. She laments that yeah, they’re bi, but more importantly, Tommy is fucking awful and Steve refuses to see it. 

2. Eddie, maybe, kind of, still has a crush on Steve ("Stop laughing Gareth, everyone has--had! Had a crush on him!") and the guy was never THAT bad in high school---but Tommy Hagan definitely was and a little revenge would be fun.

and finally;

3. Instead of going with the kids' well intentioned but very misguided “Let’s get Eddie to Steal Steve” plan, Eddie meets up with the Robin/Nancy/Jonathan/Argyle/Chrissy dream team to figure out how to prove to Steve that Tommy is horrible. 

Bonus: Robin and Nancy come up with a full proof multi step plan that involves Eddie pissing off Tommy in ways that look completely innocent. The hope is that Steve will see how controlling and unreasonable Tommy is, and break it off.

This hurts no one and just highlights to Steve Tommy's behavior.

Of course, Eddie goes off the rails immediately upon meeting Steve.

Instead of following The Plan, he, with the kids permission and help, gets Tommy to get blow up about THEM.

This is far more successful.

Bonus x2: A large amount of shenanigan's with the kids vs Tommy are involved. As is a scene were Steve breaks down and admits he knows Tommy is terrible, but Tommy puts up with him and Steve "knows how he is."

Eddie goes home, prints out a picture of Tommy and throws cheap ren fair daggers at it for at least three solid hours while he tries to think up ways to prove to Steve Harrington that his parents are wrong, hes very lovable actually.

In fact Eddie would very much like a shot at trying it out, thanks!

(It is also, inevitably, successful.)

[ladykailitha]

Sir Steve, Knight Protectorate

Welcome to the little story I was working on during my move! Just a fun little thing to keep my writing streak going without have to dive into my heavy hitters.

The original idea is here.

I originally planned to go farther than the original idea like season 2-4 but as I was just needing something lighthearted it became a short little story three chapters long that might get turned into a series of What if's.

Summary: After the events surrounding Will Byers and his return to life, Steve has decided he can't control anything in his life but school, so he seeks to put a stop to the bullying. Cue Eddie getting heart-eyes over popular King Steve protecting his little sheepies. So he decides Steve needs a knew title. Sir Steve, Knight Protectorate will work just fine.

~

Steve was still reeling from actual fucking monsters and shit. And he actually had to go to school the following Monday like none of it had happened.

Fuck, they didn’t even offer therapy, just NDAs and money to keep their mouths shut. He had no doubt that the Byers family and Nancy had the worst of it, so he wasn’t even mad that she broke up with him.

He got it more than most people that she needed to time to grieve the lost of her best friend, be with family and hold them close for awhile.

It sucked.

Steve wasn’t going to pretend that it didn’t, because it absolutely did. But he understood. He told Nancy that if she ever needed a friend to give him a call.

His temper was short and his capacity for bullshit was low, that was the only reason he could come up with what happened that Monday morning.

He walked into the hall that held his locker to his books for the day when he saw Tommy H. having a go at some freshman. Like this kid still looked like he was in elementary, he looked that little.

“Knock it off, Hagan,” Steve huffed. “There is no reason to be harassing this kid.”

Tommy turned around and got in his face. “What’s it to you, Harrington? I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“Dude,” Steve said, stepping forward instead of back like Tommy thought he would, “why are you so angry all the time? Chill out.”

Tommy’s head reared back as though he’d been struck in the face. He pushed Steve away. “Again, what’s it to you? You want to be friends again now that Miss Priss is finished with your scaly ass? Because where was my loyalty? We’ve been friends for years and you threw it all away for some piece of ass!”

Steve didn’t even stumble, he just crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You know what you did was over the line and you did it anyway. Because that’s the problem, Hagan, isn’t it? You don’t know where the fucking line is, do you?”

Tommy frowned and tried to push him again, but Steve just let his body slide with the motion and it didn’t even hurt. Tommy stared at him for a moment before stalking off down the hallway to his own locker. Steve just shook his head and went over to the kid who Tommy had been bullying.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked gently, helping him pick up his books. “If he does that again, you come running for me. I’m Steve, Steve Harrington, just ask around, someone will know how to find me, yeah?”

The kid nodded and took the books back from Steve before he took off in a tear. Steve sighed and he put his hands on his hips like a disappointed mom.

He looked around the hall to see everyone staring at him in shock. And that was when he realized what he had done.

Last week, he might have called Tommy off, but not really done anything about it. But he had not only called Tommy off, he put him in his place, and then helped the kid.

Yeah that was quite the turn around. So he just did like he would have done at basketball game.

He clapped his hands together once, nice and loud to make sure everyone was paying attention to him even more now.

“Right,” he said loudly. “Nothing more to see here. Move along now.”

They stared at him in even further shock now.

“Come on,” Steve said impatiently. “Move along. Shoo!” He waved his hands in front of him, trying to get them leave, but it was like herding cats.

Someone slammed their locker and that broke them out of their trance allowing them to move about their day like that didn’t just happen.

Steve looked around and saw Eddie Munson leaning against his locker, with his arms crossed. A locker, Steve was pretty sure was open when he walked in that morning.

Huh.

That was certainly interesting.

~

Eddie had been having a rough morning. He spilled milk on his only clean pair of jeans. He was going to do laundry after school. He was! He just didn’t do it over the weekend because he had gotten a new book. A book that was currently being painstakingly dried out by Uncle Wayne with an old hair dryer, because Eddie dropped it in the sink. Then he almost forgot his homework and had to run back for it. He had managed to get to school on time, but Tommy H. had decided to chose violence that morning against a nerdy little freshman literally next to his locker.

He promised Uncle Wayne that if Tommy started something that he wouldn’t fucking finish it. He needed to graduate from high school and as it much as it sucked ass, he had to look the other way.

So imagine his surprise when Steve got in Tommy’s face and almost threw hands with the guy, telling him to back off. What was even more surprising was how quickly Tommy stood down.

But that wasn’t the last of Steve Harrington’s surprises, oh no...

He helped the kid gather up his stuff and offered himself as a white knight if Tommy did it again. But by then Harrington had drawn quite the crowd, but instead of soaking the attention like the full tilt diva the asshole jock most certainly was, he had tried to disperse the crowd. Like the attention had made him uncomfortable.

So he thought he’d throw the king a bone and slammed his locker shut. The loud noise startled the populous out of their stupor and sent them packing. He was more than a little shocked to see that maybe Steve had figured out who had rescued him.

And wasn’t that a kick in the head.

By the time he got to lunch news had spread that that morning’s incident was only the start of the king’s campaign to clean up the hallowed halls of Hawkins High. According to ye ole rumor mill, Steve had broken up a fight, called out two accounts of bullying, and stopped a class from rioting when the teacher had a medical emergency.

What was even more surp– he needed to find another word. Shocking. Astounding. Astonishing. Mind-boggling.

Anyway Steve sat down next to Carol and Tommy. Like even the great ex Nancy Wheeler dropped her fork, flabbergasted.

Tommy and Carol exchanged a glance.

“What are you doing here, Harrington?” Tommy growled. “Why don’t you sit next to your girlfriend? Oh that’s right she dumped your ass.”

Steve cocked his head to the side. “You made a valid point, we have been friends for years and I’ve decided I’m tired of running away from my problems.”

“And what,” Carol sneered, “we’re one of your problems now? Fuck off, Steve.”

Steve threaded his fingers together and rested his chin on his knuckles. “You didn’t use to be this way, you know. You used to be the sweetest girl and I’m trying to figure out if it was Tommy that made you this way or if you turning into a bitch is what made Tommy become such an ass?”

Tommy and Carol’s heads rocked back in unison. Tommy moved to stand up to hit him, but Carol pulled him back down.

“If we bother you so much why don’t you leave and stay gone?” she asked, low and menacingly. “We don’t need you, you need us. We made you king.”

Steve threw his head back and laughed. “No, you really didn’t. You need someone to keep you from your worst selves. And that’s what I’m going to do. You could be good.” He slid a piece of paper over to Tommy. “This is Miss Chen, the school counselor’s office hours. You will make an appointment with her by the end of the day.”

Tommy threw it on the table. “Fuck off, Harrington. You can’t make me.”

Steve leaned forward on his elbows. “Actually you’ll find that I can. After all they’re still trying to find the culprit who put the smoke bomb in the garbage in the principal’s office last year.” He slapped the table for emphasis. “It would be a real shame if they learned it was you.”

Tommy blanched and gulped heavily. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Steve confirmed. “I know too much about you to have you go against me.”

Carol folded her arms and huffed. “Like we don’t have information on you, too.”

“Do you though?” he asked, sitting back in the chair and lazily stuff his hands in pockets. “I was never directly involved in any of it. Including the buying of weed for all those parties.”

This time Carol’s color drained. “Shit.”

“So this how it’s going to go,” Steve murmured. “You two have become my pet projects. I’m going to see if you can be reformed. Become better people. And to do that, we’re going to have to be friends again.”

Carol frowned as she twirled her hair around a finger. “Why are you doing this, Steve? I mean really. When you think people aren’t watching you, you get this haunted expression. It’s a little freaky, honestly.”

Steve sighed. “I have learned the hard way that running every time things get tough will only lead to worse consequences and I hate to see you come to harm because you realized the same thing too late.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I do care about you guys, of course I do. But this behavior is frightening. What if you hurt someone so bad that they took their life or they died because of your direct actions? Do you really think you could live with yourselves?”

“Tha–that can’t really happen, can it?” Carol asked, holding up her hand to stall Tommy from scoffing.

Steve shrugged nonchalantly. “That something you really want to test?” He leaned forward again on his elbows. “Having someone’s blood on your hands?”

They were both thinking it but Tommy beat Carol to it. “Is this what this about? Barb Holland? You know that wasn’t your fault, right?”

Steve turned his head away.

Carol slapped her hands on the table on either side of her tray. “If that’s what Miss Priss said, blackmail be damned, Steve, I’m going throw hands, do you understand me?”

Steve’s head snapped her direction. “What?”

“Look,” Tommy said, “what happened to her was a shame, but you did everything you could to make sure she was okay before we went in to dry off.”

“Like, she wasn’t even supposed to be there that night,” Carol said, nodding. “That’s all on Nancy. Don’t carry her shit too, just because you loved her. You tried to include Barb and she was rude.”

Steve let out a shuddering breath and nodded, choking down tears. “Thanks, guys.”

“I suppose,” Tommy said with a put on sigh, “we could be nicer. I guess.”

Steve threw back his head and laughed as Carol shook her head. He stuck out his hand. “Friends?”

Tommy shook it first and then Carol.

“Friends,” they agreed.

~

Eddie wasn’t able to hear what Steve and Tommy and Carol were talking about, but whatever it was it had ripples that quivered through the halls of the school.

Word had it that Tommy was seeing the school counselor and Carol had stopped making snide comments in passing.

Like, you could tell Carol was fighting back every nasty word that came to her head, as Steve would nudge her side and she would whisper to him what she was thinking instead. You could tell she was still being nasty but at least it wasn’t aimed at the target anymore.

But there were starting to be other changes too.

The basketball team was the worst of the jocks when it came to harassing the masses, but when Steve caught one of the members bullying someone, the next day, the guy was too tired to start shit.

So Eddie decided it was time for a little research and that meant actually going to PE. Fuck, he hated high school.

He dragged his ass to PE and the coach merely raised an eyebrow, but wisely said nothing. He knew why Eddie was there. Same reason as all the other kids that never came started showing up.

Steve Harrington.

The coach blew his whistle to call a foul and the kid who had been fouled immediately got up and in the other guy’s face.

Faster than lightning, Steve was between before the coach could even take a step toward the mounting trouble.

“Come on, Kenny,” Steve was saying soothingly. “It was fair play, you were just in the right place at the wrong time. Walk it off, then take your shot. You’ve got this.”

Kenny glared at the other player, but did as Steve suggested. Steve turned to the other player and patted him on the chest, murmuring something Eddie couldn’t hear, but the other guy just nodded and took his place on the line.

Eddie laughed out loud when Kenny biffed both shots and the other team got the ball. He didn’t know enough about basketball, but he could still appreciate a good strategy when he saw it.

As the game wore on, Eddie was starting to see the pattern emerge. If it was malicious, Steve would be up in the guy’s face telling him to knock it off and to play clean. If it was a good play and the fouled player was pissed, Steve would calm him down and praise the other team.

It was almost freaky how well Steve seemed to know the difference. And Eddie loved freaky.

~

Part 2 Part 3

Tag List: CLOSED

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2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @justforthedead89 @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji

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6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

[unsteddie]

Tommy Hagan came back after Hawkins split open. He left college and came to help people in need. Because under all the posturing he was good, he always had been when he and Steve were kids, he just got a little lost in highschool. Not like Steve could judge.

Just a few hours after running into each other, an awkward hug, and unloading a million supply boxes out of a government truck together, Steve found himself with a lap full of his former best friend.

He knew he fucked up when he kissed down Tommy's neck and heard him mumble something about 'wanted this for so long.' He knew he fucked up because it wasn't Tommy's brown eyes or full lips he was seeing.

As Tommy melted in Steve's hands it was Eddie's fingers that trailed up Steves arm, across his shoulder and into the hair at the base of his neck. It wasn't Tommy's slightly high pitched moans he was hearing, but Eddie's lower timber. And it wasn't Tommy's familiar spicy cologne he was smelling as he unbuttoned his shirt to kiss down his chest, it was the lingering smoke of Eddie's last menthol.

He'd shared it with Steve against the side of the RV before they left for the Creel house. It was then that Steve recognized the way his stomach twisted when Eddie leaned close into his space, familiar and alarming at the same time. He nearly pulled Eddie in then. He wished he had.

Steve had fucked up and he hadn't stopped himself. He'd had plenty of chances, the first break for air when the two old friends took a moment to laugh awkwardly. On the way up to Steves bedroom, giggling and whispering to each other.

He really should have stopped, while he was undressing Tommy the rest of the way, and he had to push away the thought that he couldn't be kissing Eddies neck, sucking a deep purple bruise into it. Because Eddie's neck was a gaping hole rotting somewhere in the upsidedown where Steve had left him.

But in the dark of his bedroom it was so much easier to pretend. It was easy to bury his face back in Tommy's neck and hear eddies voice echoing every little sound and word that Steve was able to tease out of the boy under him. Easy to feel calloused fingers gliding along his back, digging in when Steve did something he liked. Easy to pretend he could taste that last menthol on the tongue in his mouth rather than cheap beer. It was easy and Steve was weak.

He barely kept himself from calling out Eddie's name. He bit into a freckled shoulder instead. Later, with Tommy sleeping soundly on his chest, a content little smile on his face, Steve cried silently. For what he'd done and for what he'd never get the chance to do.

[steviewashere]

I am itching to write a frat boy Steve Harrington fic. Definitely modern day, no upside down, no supernatural elements. But not one where he desperately wants to leave it or he's being shunned by the other guys or where he feels like he doesn't fit in. Just one where he does stupid shit because it's funny to him.

He's got an estranged relationship with Tommy Hagan, another one of the frat boys. But they both ignite at the opportunity to get drunk, challenge each other to stupid bets (with no real reward), and party with people. Tommy's kind of a dick, but mostly a class clown kind of guy—doesn't do a whole lot of bullying, maybe some friendly teasing that sometimes goes a little too far (because he sucks at gauging his limit).

Steve's a reformed bully. He's learning to just sort of go with the flow, which is aided a lot by being loose and free and goofy and out-of-his-mind stupid at frat parties. He wants to meet as many different people as possible, maybe not become friends with all of them, but he wants to at least broaden his horizons.

He's buddies with a sorority girl named Nancy Wheeler (who also happens to be an ex-girlfriend, but that's water under the bridge), but she's not into partying—more into having a group of girls who want to see her succeed as a journalist (her sorority consists of her high school best friend, Barbara Holland, Tommy's girlfriend, Carol Perkins, a giddy cheerleader, Chrissy Cunningham, and a band geek who wants to be a conductor, Robin Buckley). I think he also becomes friends with Jonathan (although a bit reluctantly) through Nancy, and Argyle through Jonathan.

Steve becomes friends with Robin Buckley. Slowly, but surely. Adores her rambling conversations, which increase when she gets even the slightest bit tipsy with him (she never exceeds a few shots, and when he's with her, he doesn't drink more than that, either). She teases him without hurting his ego, unlike Tommy. He appreciates when she tells him that he's being a meathead, when he's out of his depth, when he's doing something even the slightest bit offensive. With her, he learns about his own sexuality (when she eventually comes out to him during a rather intense frat party—they had too much to drink this time, both loose-lipped and teetering). He learns to appreciate the more nerdy aspects of her, Nancy, and the rest of their sorority. Realizes he's more catty than he thought. Plays soccer with Robin on the weekends, though he sucks in comparison to when they play basketball together.

And through Robin, he meets somebody entirely new to him. Eddie Munson, a metalhead with a raspy voice and a cigarette addiction that Steve can get into, who charms in this weird flirtatious (though unintentional) teasing, who's beyond weird and dramatic, geeky with a touch of defensive. He's got a bite to him that Steve barks right back at, though never meanly. They get along like a house on fire, not a match, a house. Sure, sometimes they drink and party. But Eddie likes quieter things, despite his loud and boisterous personality. They smoke weed and sit on the roof and point out stars, or they talk for hours and hours until they both lose their voice, or they smoke and lay in the grass—absorbing one another's warmth without realizing.

It knocks Steve down, how much he learns to adore somebody like Eddie. Stirring something in him, something he's felt in his drunkest moments with Tommy. But with Eddie, he's completely sober. He's sober with intense emotion and want for a guy he's never expected to orbit around.

And, oddly enough, it's not Robin that tells him to go for it.

It's Tommy. He says something like, "Hey, we may not be best friends anymore, but I know what love looks like, man. And, y'know, considering all your past relationships, maybe it's time that you get something that makes you happy?" His voice is serious, unusually so. And Steve sort of clings to it, like a warm blanket on a camping trip. Tommy then adds something along the lines of, "Be stupid with me, Stevie-boy. Don't be stupid about your feelings. That gets you nowhere. And...I don't know this Eddie guy, not really, but there's something to him. Like a...one of those cloud things that Carol's always talking about—an aura? I could see him drawing you in before you had the chance to get his name."

Steve probably retorts with, "Shut up." And then blushes stupid about it. Because Tommy's never been wrong about these sort of things, no matter how much of an air cadet he can be. And he's also not wrong because when Robin first described to Steve who Eddie was, without giving a name initially, Steve was hooked like one of the fish he catches. (He goes on frat boy fishing trips and has a million photos in his phone of all the trout he's caught. Holds them up to the camera in that Straight Boy Way™️ (trademarked in case you can't see that on your dash), all proud as if the fish is his degree he's going out for.)

Also, I imagine that Steve goes to school to get a bachelor's degree in something like sports science? Or like physical education? Even something like family and human services?

So, line up of fields of study/options because now I want to come back to this:

-Nancy: Journalism -Robin: Music Education or Music Composition -Eddie: English or Music Production or Art -Steve: Sports Science or Physical Education or Family and Human Services -Tommy: Economics -Barb: English or Art History -Carol: Architecture -Chrissy: Special Education and American Sign Language (S.E. is typically a minor, but ASL is almost always a major) -Jonathan: Photography and Composition -Argyle: Neuroscience (I just feel it in my bones that he's like secretly crazy talented in sciences)

I can also think of some of the scenes being texting in group chats. And like with illustrations of Steve holding up his fish? God, my brain is on fire tonight.

[rigginsstreet]

i beg you don't embarrass me, motherfucker

the upside of dating steve harrington was that he was hot as shit.

the downside of dating steve harrington was that he was hot as shit. and also kind of a bitch.

it's billy's fault, really. he should've known better when dating a guy nicknamed king.

the one good thing about being gay in indiana, though, is that secrecy is a requirement, which billy doesn't have a problem with. the thought of publicly displaying his affections makes his skin crawl. he's got no problem doing it with the girls he pretends to be interested in because that's all it is - pretend.

but when he really means that shit... it's a harder pill to swallow.

and none of this really bodes well with steve harrington's style of dating. billy knows from his brief overlap of being in town while harrington and wheeler were still a happy item that the guy likes to be clingy, needs constant attention and validation of his affections and he wants to put it all on display for the world to see. and billy can't give that to him.

so he goes looking for it elsewhere.

the one good thing about being gay in indiana is the secrecy, but that rule doesn't extend to billy's sister or his best friend.

heather was never supportive of billy's taste in men. warned him plenty of times that steve was a dick and a leopard doesn't change its spots. but billy had waved of all concerns by saying they weren't even in a serious relationship and that heather didn't know steve like he did. heather and steve hated each other, of course she was gonna see the worst in him.

max was supportive. at first. until dustin started coming around with stories of steve and the new girls he was picking up, gloating about him like he was some golden god of women. and max would come fuming into billy's room asking if he knew about this shit, and billy would sigh and explain to her that it was just steve keeping up appearances to throw the scent off their trail.

"oh, is that why he had his tongue down tina's throat?" max accused.

and billy would have to pretend like he wasn't embarrassed. like he was in on the joke.

the thing with billy is that he doesn't let himself fall often, because when he does it's like a ten ton boulder down the side of a steep cliff. and shame isn't a color he wears well. he's gotten enough of that for a lifetime from neil, and since he's thankfully fucked off now, billy doesn't want to face it ever again.

which is maybe why he snaps at tommy's party.

he came here with steve, but now he's currently watching him dance with some chick with ten pounds of hair and double the makeup. laughing his preppy little ass off as she gyrates her dainty little lady parts all over him.

and yeah, billy can handle a bitchy attitude and some temper tantrums. and he can even wave off vague flirtations that he only hears about secondhand.

but this shit? right in front of his face? that's where he draws a line in the sand.

so he crumples the red plastic cup in his hand, not caring that beer spills out from the top, spotting the hagans' carpet, and throws it full force at the wall beside him, causing those nearby to jump, probably wondering what the hell set him off, if there's gonna be some grand billy hargrove performance.

but no. they'll just have to make due watching his ass walk out the door.

-

billy's sitting on the steps outside his house the next day, smoking a cigarette, when the beemer pulls up.

it's half expected, half not. billy braces himself for a fight anyway.

"you ditched me last night," is what steve says once he's up the sidewalk, a few feet in front of billy. he doesn't sound mad really. maybe a little offended.

billy sucks on his cigarette. blows out the smoke, his eyes never leaving steve. "got hit by a sudden wave of nausea," he says. "didn't wanna ralph in front of the party. didn't think you'd notice."

"why wouldn't i notice? we came together. i was looking all over for you."

billy shrugs, taking another pull of his smoke. "you seemed preoccupied."

it looks like steve's playing a tape in his head of the previous night, trying to pinpoint what exactly the fuck billy's talking about until it must finally click. "man, are you talking about that thing with cindy?" he laughs. like billy's fucking joshing him. "that was nothing!"

billy finishes his smoke, flicking it into the grass before standing up. "yeah, well, it something to me." he turns to walk up the steps, leaving this conversation - and steve - behind, but he's stopped with a hand on his arm.

"aw, billy, c'mon-"

"don't!" billy spins around, hands shoving steve square in the chest. watches his face go from jovial to nervous in two seconds flat.

good. the prick should be fucking nervous.

"you think you can walk around doing whatever the fuck you want like you own this town, but guess what? you don't! and you sure as shit don't own me!"

steve watches him with wide eyes, clearly out of his depth. this isn't the meeting he came here for. billy doesn't really give a shit. "billy, i-"

"i stood up for you, motherfucker," billy seethes, shoving steve again with two pointed fingers. "you know how many times heather's tried getting me to leave your ass alone? how many times max has threatened to castrate you because you can't keep it in your fucking pants?"

"i haven't slept with anyone else!"

"i don't care!" billy bellows. he's making a fucking scene. he hopes the neighbors aren't home. "i'm prime fucking real estate, baby! back in cali i had guys lining up the fucking block to get a piece of this! you think i just give this up to anybody?" steve opens his mouth, but billy cuts him off. "don't answer that! i defended you, asshole. and you make me look like a fucking idiot."

"i didn't think you cared..." steve says after a moment of stunned silence.

and that stuns billy. but he recovers quickly. "of course i fucking care. i wouldn't be doing this-" he gestures between the two of them, "-if i didn't."

"well you don't exactly express feelings very well." it's mostly teasing, billy thinks, but still that undercurrent of signature harrington bitch. "but-" he takes a step closer. "-if you're serious about this, then i am, too." another step.

"i swear to god if i have to sit through an 'i told you so' speech from maxine or heather because of some shit you pull-"

"is this your way of saying you love me?" steve grins, all cocksure and obnoxious, closing the distance until he and billy are standing toe to toe.

"don't press your luck," billy breathes in the space between them. "i'm serious, steve. i don't do thi- this is new for me, alright? and, i don't know if you've noticed, but i don't really handle rejection well."

"yeah, no shit," steve chuckles. "i'll be on my best behavior from now on. scout's honor." he holds up the three finger scout salute in mockery, but billy thinks, hopes, there's a sincerity in his eyes that he can hold him to.

billy rolls his eyes, mainly at himself for wanting to kiss the idiot right now. he almost does, too, until he remembers where they are and prying eyes could be watching.

he settles for another shove, this time to steve's shoulder, before turning back towards the house. "c'mon," he says, nodding his head towards the door. "nobody's home. you can give me a proper apology."

billy hears footsteps behind him before he even gets his whole sentence out.

[abyssal808]

S1 Soulmate Au prompt inspired by @subbaculture 's prompt wherein "Eddie learns Tengwar just to be special and so Steve's been kicking around with "What's Kickin', Sexy?" on his body

What Tommy Hagan hadn’t been blessed with in terms of intelligence. God - in his allegedly infinite wisdom - had seen fit to redistribute into shoulder width.

Tommy, in turn, swanned around Hawkin’s High shoulder-checking every freak, geek and nerd into nearby lockers; with the kind of wingspan better suited to weirdly proportioned monkeys.

Hellfire members were no stranger to it. Two weeks ago Hagan had run into Gareth hard enough to leave a bruise. A “bump” with enough force behind it that he’d bounced off the lockers and landed on the floor.

Which, fine, two could play at that game. Even if Hagan could barely get his hand off Carol’s tits to realize there were counter-moves to be made at all.

A grade A dick move, even if it was also incredibly boring and pedestrian. The kind of thing jocks who barely had two braincells to rub together saw as peak comedy. Giggling like a cross between a group of cavemen and a flock of pre-school girls whenever their ring-leader du jour started herding freaks like a neurotic border collie.

“Watch it, freak.” Hagan hissed, skirting around Eddie without bothering to shove him at all. Giving a wide berth to whatever zone of contagious freak cooties being Eddie Munson brought to the table.

Behind him, Gareth - blocked from the rest of the hall by Eddie’s leather jacket, in a way only freshies were short enough to pull off - buried a laugh in a cough, muffled into the heel of his hand. Not missing the way that even Hagan - the most infamous asshole of them all - looked ready to bolt as soon as Eddie waved him off in a jaunty salute.

Victory tasted sweet and electric. Fizzing under his skin the way Wayne’s Miller Lites would bubble in the back of his throat, whenever Eddie stole a sip from the half open cans in the back of their fridge. It made him stupid in a way those brief tastes of beer hadn’t managed to yet.

Being The Freak came with perks. An untouchable radius that left Eddie drunk with power. Riding the high of knowing that maybe Highschool didn’t have to suck all the time. That he could play at being a rabid guard dog for the lost little sheep of the world, rail against dickheads like Hagan and win.

Maybe he could use it to plead temporary insanity for what he did next. Riding the high into a really, spectacularly stupid idea.

Everyone had their words.

Eddie’s were tucked away, hidden along the curve of his rib. A curly chicken scratch that mixed print and cursive into a barely legible mess.

‘Is that like, yiddish?’

A weird-ass question, until Eddie had pulled an all nighter on a now infamous school night, falling in love with Middle earth. Head filled with nothing but the dark halls of Khazad-dûm, the sweeping boughs of Lothlórien.

Speak friend and enter.

Pedo mellon a minno.

He’d traced the words over and over. Thrilled by the lilt, the cadence, the beautiful rise and fall of consonants no one else would understand.

Setting his heart there and then on the dorkiest greeting anyone could have come up with. But hey, it was original, which was half the battle people went through when picking soulmate greetings.

He’d gone through several variations. Always in Sindarin, because why the hell not.

People usually saved them, tucked them far away from casual conversation. Bizarre phrases, always non-sequitour, brought out only for special occasions. That lightning strike of instant attraction. People you could see yourself connecting with. Hoping they would be a part of you as much as you were theirs.

He couldn’t see himself connecting with Tommy Hagan in a million years. Not even if they waited in that hallway until the heat death of the universe.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t terrorize him with the possibility.

“What’s Kickin’ Sexy?”

He yelled after Hagan’s retreating back, with its fuck-off wide shoulders; elvish mangled, but passable. Enjoying the rictus of horror on his face, going from anger to fear and back again.

He shifted on his heel, pushing Gareth further behind him in case things got ugly. Herding him back towards Jeff with little bumps, as both of them tried to muscle down their cackling. Nerdy enough to piece together the gist of what Eddie had been hollering about. Even if Jeff was better at Quenya, because he was a weirdo and a purist about that kind of shit.

All in all, a job well done, assuming Hagan didn’t flip his shit and start throwing punches to assert dominance.

Or at least, it felt like it, until Harrington - trailing behind Hagan - sucked all the air out of the room. Hands on his hips, a furrow on his brow, blurting it out without even thinking about it.

“Is that like, Yiddish?”

You could have heard a pin drop.

Panic clamped around Eddie’s throat like a vice. The same way Gareth’s hand, tiny and tense - he had yet to hit his growth spurt - wrapped around the edge of Eddie’s leather jacket. Pushing past the waistband of his jeans to claw at skin.

The side that mattered, one they both knew had those words that wrapped around Eddie’s chest. Curving towards the sternum.

Whatever face he was making gave it away instantly.

Harrington’s face shuttered and fell. A whole host of micro expressions that passed through in a second before he scrubbed them away. A pair of shaking hands that rubbed at his eyes and dragged down his face. Peeking at Eddie through a gap in his fingers.

“Jesus Christ it’s you; isn’t it?”

Behind Eddie, Gareth tugged him half a step back, nails digging into his hip. Little half-moon crescents he barely felt now, but would find later.

“Steve?” The waver in Hagan’s voice would have been funny if it wasn’t nauseating.

Terrifying, when Steve waved him off and stepped towards Eddie. Jerky and halting, like a puppet with half it’s strings cut.

“I can’t fucking believe this Munson. You gotta tell me if it is.” Steve bit out, with a wobble that sounded too trembling and confused to be anger. Even if it would come later.

It was probably coming later.

Anger always got there in the end, with boys like Harrington. Sharp comebacks and sharper right hook always winning out, spurred on by that bone-deep, animal fear of losing your place in the social food chain.

King Steve didn’t seem worried it yet though. Adding to the bizarre hilarity of the situation as he undid his belt and untucked his shirt to the concerned shouts of everyone left in the hall, witnesses to this trainwreck.

If Eddie hadn’t been convinced he’d died and gone to purgatory a minute earlier. He would have been convinced there and then.

As Steve Harrington turned around, bunched his striped polo up high and his khaki’s down low. Stripping down to show the athletic curve of a hip. The dip of a waist that looked small next to his swimmer’s shoulders - almost wide enough to rival Hagan’s - a scattering of moles that dusted across his lower back, framing his mark.

There, on King Steve’s back, bracketed by dimples, low enough to count as a truly slutty tramp stamp sat Eddie’s words. The swooping curves of Tengwar branded into his skin.

“What’s kickin’, Sexy?”

[feralxsteddie]

Blah blah blah something about Steve and Eddie going out on a date to the movies or smth, they're walking down the street and get stopped by a small group of former jocks Steve used to run with years ago

Something something they jeer and laugh at their fallen King, stooping so low as to associate himself with town trash ect- saying that Tommy knew he was right to dump Steve to the curb, he tried to continue to be his friend but then Steve had to go and turn freak on him and- and-

The mean girl just jumps right out of Steve's skin, he doesn't throw a punch or spit on their shoes . He turns to them, partially shielding Eddie with hands on his hips and signature "devil may fucking care" bored expression on his face.

'Tell Hagan that if he's dying to suck my dick as much as he's always wanted to, then to get in line, that goes for the rest of you too- congrats! We all peaked in highschool so you don't have any new fucking material.'

Then he smiles, does a little wave with a wiggle of his fingers, then continues walking off. Leaving a shocked but also thoroughly impressed Eddie behind to pick up his jaw and follow after him, not before flipping off the group that became frozen by Steve's whole ice queen bit. Because even after everything, Harrington might not be the king anymore, but he's still untouchable to the lesser characters of Hawkins.

[weird-an]

When Robin first met Steve, she thought he was all arrogance and confidence, thought he was bullshit.

She got to know him, looked behind the picture of King Steve, the fallen jock of Hawkins High. She likes Steve. Loves him like a brother sometimes.

She's surprised though that he's so oblivious sometimes. That guy dated half of the school, okay, all of them girls, even though she knows that Steve Harrington's virginity will forever be Tommy Hagan's greatest steal, but how can Steve be so blind?

Steve's face is flushed when he finds her after the last period, when they are supposed to spend the rainy afternoon on the couch, watching Disney movies or whatever.

"I think Billy is theatening me!" Steve says, eyes huge. Like always when he's talking about Billy. Which he does a lot. Most of the day.

Because they are rivals, he says.

Because he's got a big fat crush, Robin has inferred after the last "Billy Hargrove is disgusting" ramble Steve annoyed her with for two hours.

She suppresses a grin that wants to mix with a sigh which leads to a weird hiccup.

"What's going on?"

"He sent me notes today. This one says 'I'm watching you, pretty boy.'" Steve waves a piece of paper in front of her. Billy's handwriting is surprisingly neat.

That's not really a surprise. Billy stares at Steve as if he's an oasis in the desert. Steve stares at Billy like he's a cake and there's only one piece left.

There's her hiccup again.

" … and the other?" she asks. It's amusing, she has to admit. At the same time she wants to smush them together like the Barbie dolls she had played with as a child. She created epic love stories - lacking Ken the whole time, because a Barbie deserved another Barbie, not some boring ass dude.

Steve ruffles his hair. "It’s even worse. It says 'I'm waiting for you in the parking lot!'"

Robin snorts. That's it. She's glad Billy apparently had gotten around to the realization that it's not a rivalry but the exact opposite. Of course Billy Hargrove can't just say "I like you". That would be too easy.

"I think you're both idiots," she hiccups. Damn, that's getting out of hand.

Steve puts his hands in his hips. "What?" he asks.

"Go to the parking lot!" Robin points at the door.

"I don't wanna fight," Steve begins.

Robin can't stand this hiccup any longer.

"He doesn't want to fight - he wants to fuck," she almost yells.

Steve gapes at her.

"Maybe it's a joke," he manages.

"What if it isn't?" she asks.

Steve's moles drown in the pinkness of his cheeks.

"I… should go," he says. "Thanks, Robin."

"Welcome, dingus."

She shouldn’t follow him, but she still does, because he’s a bit of an idiot and she loves him. She wants to make sure, she isn’t wrong. She peeks around the corner. It's still raining a bit, more a drizzle than anything.

Billy is wearing his tightest pair of jeans. He's leaning against the Camaro, sucking on a cigarette. Pretending he isn't soaking wet. It's almost adorable.

"Harrington, I bet your lame ass still hasn't seen Terminator, " he says, stroking a wet curl out of his dace.

"You don't know that," Steve grumbles.

Billy tilts his head. His face flushes a bit, too. They are matching tones of pink.

"'M drivin'," Billy mumbles.

Steve grins. "I'm buying, then."

Billy nearly drops his cigarette.

"Cool," he says, face still red.

She watches them drive off, high-fiving a very confused Jonathan Byers who just happens to walk to his car.

Her hiccup is gone. Finally.

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER THREE — EDDIE MUNSON COMMITS TREASON (BREAKS UP a CAT FIGHT)

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summary: you deal with the fallout of your fight at steve harrington's party... in the passenger seat of eddie munson's van. so much for pretending you didn't exist to one another, huh? content warnings: as always, MINORS FUCK OFF, because we have *deep breath* implied fantasy smut, lots of swearing, confused yearning, themes of threat, heavy snark, another mention of the drink tab which i feel like is/was gross word count: 7.2k

Dear Dio, Tommy Iommi, Gary Gygax, Pee-wee Herman, Ronnie Ecker — forgive me for what I’m about to do. 

I know I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life. Like the time I lit all my hair on fire and spent middle school with a buzz cut. Or the time I almost trapped myself in a spread eagle with my own handcuffs. Or the time I got my arm stuck in a wall for an entire afternoon when I was trying to rescue a feral cat. 

I’ve done a lot of stupid shit. But the stupidest among it all has got to be saving this girl from the bare knuckle wrath of Carol Whatsername. You know the one. 

Tonight, for whatever reason, this insane ex-rich chick has decided to teeter on the edge of a pool of boiling hot lava and for whatever reason, I feel like it’s my responsibility to yank her back.

Which sucks, because she’s a total bitch to me. 

Even if she just told everybody Tommy Hagan had crabs and has been cheating on his girlfriend in such a deranged way that it almost made me pop a semi. 

Anyway. Tell my guitar I love her. 

The world around Eddie slows to the tick of a football game replay as you let the last incendiary word you speak to Carol bounce around the goddamn Roman amphitheater Harrington’s back yard has become. 

This is insane. What he’s watching is insane. Like, he knew you and your dumb little court of Hawkinsites bickered back and forth, but you’re the last person he’d ever expect to air their dirty laundry like this. 

It’s incredible to watch the fascist leadership that he and the rest of the social nobodies have suffered under for so long rupture in real time. 

What’s even more incredible is how little hesitation there is on his part, shoving through the crowd when he sees Carol leaping for you. Eddie’s nearly jostled backwards by some slobbering roid heads— they’ve already called CAT FIGHT! and a crowd is clamoring. But Eddie’s got years of thankless equipment lugging behind him, giving him deceptively strong arms.

And thank god, because you are not an easy girl to hold onto. 

Carol lands a decent punch to your face, slamming with a dull knuckle-on-cheekbone crunch that makes all the onlookers, including him, go ooof! You stagger back in a state of shock (though, c’mon, you heard what you said just now, right?) and Eddie takes his shot just as you dive forward to retaliate.

He grabs you under the arms so you can’t like, elbow him in the fucking nose, a pale imitation of an illegal wresting move that Al Munson had forced him to learn at the tender age of seven. His dad had fancied himself a wrestling manager at the time— you can imagine how that worked out. 

But Jesus, can you ever squirm! Your body writhes against him—stop—hips bucking—don’t go there—as you try to get free. He doesn’t even think you realize who’s dragging you away from the screaming harpy, otherwise you’d probably turn your fury on him. 

He takes full advantage of the rage blackout and manhandles you through the party, earning a baffled look from Steve Harrington, who’s finally graced his own party with his presence. A pinch-faced Nancy Wheeler lingers behind him, but then again, Wheeler’s always all pinch-faced.

“What the fuck?!” Harrington breathes, exasperated. 

Eddie struggles against you struggling, just about dragging you over the front doorstep. Trust this guy to be upstairs in a domestic dispute, missing all the action while getting no action. 

Even in the chaos, Eddie will never pass up an opportunity to fuck with Harrington.

“You gotta start hidin’ your bath salts, man! Chicks are going crazy in there–Evil Dead type shit!” 

—

“You’re dead, Lacy! Monday morning, you are fucking dead!” Carol screams down the hallway. 

“It’s a date, bitch!” you screech, Munson’s nelson hold on you stronger than your thrashing. With a lot of work, he manages to haul you as far as Harrington’s front yard before you wriggle out of his grasp. You shove him, hard, all white hot and punch drunk and regular drunk on top of that. 

He yelps, high and frightened. You weren’t expecting a noise like that to come out of a surly-looking dude like him. 

So you do it again. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” you spit, and Munson flinches.

“Cutting you off!” he exclaims, this half-yell, half-laugh. It stings, the way he’s looking at you– like your anger isn’t anger, like it’s just amusing to him. 

“Well, who gave you the right? Who died and made you my parole officer, Munson?!” 

“Oh, I’m not– but I also didn’t feel like being woken up at home when the cops come looking for you after you go all Raging Bull on Carol. You haven’t been around the park long enough to hear ‘em, but those sirens really perforate the eardrums!”

Your jaw sets itself stiffly and you bind your arms over your chest. Unfuckingbelievable. “I would’ve, you know,” you breathe, seething, “Beat her up.” 

Munson’s dark eyes glide over you, like he’s checking you for concealed weapons or signs of a zombie bite— you avoid his gaze entirely, staring square into the middle distance. 

You promised that he didn’t exist to you, yet here he is. Driving you off the road. Breaking up your fights. Existing.

“Yeah, I know you woulda. You’re scary,” he says. You shrug, and he reaches to massage his shoulder. “And strong. Shit.” 

Your eyes flick over to him, but you don’t feel bad. You don’t feel bad because he’s grinning at you now and despite yourself, despite everything that’s transpired and the everything about him, you’re trying your hardest not to grin back. Adrenaline and vodka are still burning a hole in your chest. 

“Stay out of my way, then.”  

“Noted, but,” a couple of steps from Munson’s end closes some space between you. He’s peering at your face, right where Carol clocked you. A hand reaches out, angling your chin closer to the Harrington’s glaring porch light with his fingertips. You stiffen and squint, performatively wary, but you don’t stop him. You just let his eyes pan over you, looking anywhere but into them. “You might need a little first aid first. And a ride home.” 

“I was actually planning on carjacking Hagan,” you say coolly, the smile you were trying to beat away edging its way across your face. Munson releases your chin and the spot where his fingers were buzzes. It’s just the cold. It’s just your slutty librarian outfit, you tell yourself. You have to swallow in order to speak again. “Seems like fitting payback.”

“Jesus, sweetheart, what did I just say about cops?”

—

Eddie tolerates your eyes rolling back in your head when he props the passenger door open for you, helping you into the cluttered van with an outstretched had. 

See, I’m not the kind of asshole who doesn’t open doors for girls wearing stilts for shoes.

Those things were not made for clambering into a vehicle like this, sure, but they’re– nice. For what he knows about shoes, which is nothing. They make your legs look more… leggy, and for whatever reason this is making his brain soft. 

In your other hand is a cold can of High Life, which is the closest thing to an ice pack he could nab. That bruise blooming under your eye is going to be nasty, and he’s a little curious how you’re gonna look with it. You, with nary a hair out of place on a bad day, with a big ol’ purple shiner in a place that’s hard to hide.  

Gunning out of Harrington’s hood, a silence settles between Eddie and you. The radio hums in the background– a mainstream station for once. He thoughtfully figured that an aural assault by Sabbath would kinda rub salt in your wound. 

He’s thoughtful, but he’s not not nosy. So, of course he’s gonna ask– 

“That whole… verbal smackdown back there,” Munson starts after clearing his throat. “With Tommy H and everybody.”

On your end, the adrenaline has worn off and the numbing effects of the booze have amped up. You feel loose and warm, apart from the beer can cooling your bruise. There are twice as many streetlights streaming past you as usual. This is going to blow later– if you don’t blow chunks first. 

“All that about your dad pimping me out?” God, I mean, Hagan couldn’t compose a written sentence to save his life but maybe he had a future in speculative fiction. Did he just come up with that on the fly? “Take a wild guess, Munson.” 

Eddie recoils in his seat– gross. Gross. “Not the– the shit with Tina and Carol and–”

“Oh, the crabs? Yeaaaah, that’s true,” you slur, “But I rejected Tommy waaay before I knew that. Call it my brilliant instinct. And then he has the nerve to call me frigid, which– trust me, I’m anything… anything but.”

Munson seems a little surprised at this. You can see it in the way his eyebrows dart under his curly bangs. 

But you’ve had your share of disappointing experiences with the blandly acceptable boys in your circle– it’s par for the course, it’s part of advancing in the field. You can’t throw your cat into the street completely, but god forbid you be choosy about the boys you want to copulate with. The ones you’ve hooked up with, all unremarkable and perfunctory, always seemed so smug afterwards. Like they’d conquered something. 

But from Eddie’s purview, you always held yourself like you were above everyone else; not just the underclassmen and the social rejects, but even your own friends. He’d watch you sometimes, because it’s hard not to watch you. He’d wait for the few flickering moments you let your guard down, when you thought no one was paying attention as you sat at the lunch table or walked the hallways. So achingly unamused by the guffawing, the backslapping, the forced camaraderie of your forced high school persona and your forced high school friends. Then, one of them would say something like, Right, Lacy? and your brow would unarch and you’d be right back in the groove with the rest of them, giggling dumbly and glossing your lips. 

He always wondered how you did it, tolerated it. And why.

“Now, far be it from me to agree with a shithead like Hagan–and I don’t, before you get scary–but I kinda get where he’s picking that up,” Eddie winces, throwing a glance to you, glassy-eyed with your head against the window. You’re looking at him with narrowed eyes, eyeliner smudged. Even that look could cut down a man with twice his ego. “You’re a little bit frosty. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day– which, y’know, could be–”

You absolutely do not let him finish the thought.   

“It’s caaaalled being aloof, Munson,” you drawl, shuffling your shoulders against the passenger door and pulling a stray thread from your skirt with a sharp snap. “Playing hard to get, duh? Leave them wanting more? You wouldn’t get it because you’re so goddamn big and obvious all the time…”

“Obvious!” he brays, letting his jaw hang open with theatrical flair, “Obvious! Lacy, you wound me, I–”

“Obvious,” you bark back, “Obvious like a neon sign, obvious like a circus tent, obvious like– like– look at me, look at me, I’m a weirdo!” Your Munson impression, complete with devil horns, is a little dorkified but it shuts him right up. That loose little tongue of yours has trasmuted your mood from wrath to barbed silliness. “So obvious you wouldn’t know that kind of subtlety. Not if it hit you in the face.” 

A familiar tune whistles from the radio, distracting you. “… or cause you’re a virgin.”

“Okay—!“ Eddie starts, immediately assuming the position of point guard. His hackles are raised, but to be honest, he’s so willing to let you ramble on. It’s the first time he’s heard you talk this much, ever, save your little tête-à-tête by the lockers the other day. 

Eddie doesn’t want to stem the flow just yet. He’s not thinking about it too hard.

“Oh shit, do you hear that?” Like a Virgin pumps from the tinny speakers and you reach to turn it up, your head drunkenly bobbling on your neck. Eddie winces; it’s so weird, watching you like this. It’s like dream logic. It’s like opposite day. “Munson’s a virgin! I’m gonna touch him for the very first tiii-iime! Munson’s a vii-iir-gin—“

“First off, no I am not and no,” he audibly swallows, positive you didn’t realize what you just sang, “no, you are not, ‘cause— well.” He clears his throat. A flare of heat burns around his collar. “I’m not the type to bone and tell.”

“Bone and tell.” You guffaw, a sound so unbecoming yet so endearing coming from you, and slump back in your seat. That tight little skirt you’re wearing rides up about an inch and a half. “Sounds like something a virgin would say.”

Eddie huffs; no way around this. You’re fucking with him, and it’s the indefatiguable male ego that’s not going to let him let you win. 

He fucks, okay? Or has fucked, prior to this. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with not fucking. 

But he’s done it.  

Eddie’s eyes dart between you and the road, and you’ve got him like a stuck pig with that expectant glare. His eyes linger on your exposed upper legs for a half a second. 

Christ, you’re annoying. It occurs to him that wants to bite the soft flesh of your thigh and hear you squeal about it, but you are annoying as hell. 

“Fine. Fine. You wanna know?”

Your head lolls against the rough upholstery of the seat and you bat your lashes at him. “I really wanna know.” 

And Munson will tell you, you know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to. 

“Nicole Summers.”

“Bullshit. Nicole Nicole? My Nicole?”

“Nicole Nicole. Nicole, formerly yours. The only-girl-meaner-than-you Nicole. It was tenth grade,” he snorts bitterly. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life.”

“Nicole told us she got her v-card stamped by a board waxer in Maui.”

“I’ve got a lot of side gigs. You don’t know about me.”

You snort too, despite yourself. That’s a lot of despite-ing tonight, Lacy. You sit up in the seat a little, interest catching. Flame to a candle wick. 

“How was it?” you press. 

Munson furrows his brow, like duh. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life, I just told you.” A beat. “Until— …Cass Finnigan.”

Now, an encounter like that is less surprising, but still you holler, “Bullshit!”

“I’d say the same shit if it hadn’t, y’know, happened to me,” he stage whispers, “In this van.”  

Your eyes widen, a flicker of a grimace sailing across your face. You wonder how he pulled that off, but all that comes to mind is the start of a bad porno– Cass meets him at that dingy little bench out back of the school to pick up and he’s, I don’t know, test driving some of his new supply and offers her a toke. She’s all, why the free samples, Munson? and he’s all, I only let the prettiest girls test the product. And because Cass is notoriously insecure–who among us, girl–she’s all, who, me? and he’s all, come back to my van, and she’s all, but I’m going steady with Mikey B, and he’s all, I won’t tell if you won’t and then he fucks her in the ass. 

Because Cass is saving the first hole for marriage and you know that. You’re the kind of person people tell things to. 

What you don’t expect is a weird pull of… envy. Why, in this imaginary scenario, had he never invited you back to his van? Well. You know why. But you’re drunk, so logic begone. “When did all this go down?”

“Uh, right before school got back,” Munson answers, kind of apprehensively. He could be lying, you figure.

“Well, Cass has been having a weird year,” you mumble, meaning to think that rather than say it. You know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to.

“What’s that supposed to imply exactly?” Eddie says, an edge in his voice. He can’t help the way something in his chest flares; like he forgot to wait for the other shoe to drop with you, and now it’s dropping. 

“It stands to reason that she’d wanna, like, do something stupid,” you explain, and you know how it sounds. It’s mean. But honestly, you’re so drunk, and so past the point of attempting to spare people’s feelings.

“Like hook up with the local freak,” Eddie finishes for you, tone flat. You couldn’t not put him in his place, could you? Not that he thought Cass liked him or anything, he could feel her (literally feel her) going through the motions like a social experiment but– God, a little delusion doesn’t hurt now and again. 

“Exactly!” and even in your inebriated state, you can feel the tension in the air, hanging between you like a balloon full of noxious gas. Rather than cut it, you want to poke at it, unfeeling as to whether that’ll make it worse or better between you and the boy in the driver’s seat. You hike yourself up further, leaning toward him, pulling the can of High Life from your face. 

Munson’s profile is this beguiling mix of hurt and irritation, lit by the scuzzy orange hue of the passing streetlights. 

“What, did you want me to act impressed? Did you want me to lie to you?” 

“What? No– look, I know what girls like that– think of me, but,” Eddie’s voice shrinks in his throat, making him sound completely pre-pubescent. He notices you lean forward in his peripheral vision, like you have to strain to hear it, “that doesn’t make it any less shitty.” 

Oof. He did not need to unleash that little piss-shake of earnestness right now. He mentally steels himself for a ribbing from you, a cackling, piercing laugh like you let out before Carol punched you. 

“Of course it doesn’t!” you froth, “Just like it doesn’t make it any less shitty when guys act like they’re settling a bet with their buddies when they hook up with me.” You cross your arms to your chest with a quickness, slamming back into the seat. “Bet you couldn’t make it with Lacy, she’s got a combination lock on her pussy. Fuck you, dude.”

That coaxes a bark of a laugh from Munson, which makes you giggle a little in turn. It’s a weird feeling. It’s not quite relief; more like satisfaction. One point to Lacy, you made him laugh. 

“Combination lock, huh?”

“Allegedly.”

“Bet none of those losers even know how to crack a lock.” 

Your head tilts in his direction, forward this time. “And you do?”

Munson’s eyes flash at you, a dangerous orange glint sparkling in the darkness of his irises. “My criminal skillset is pretty diverse.”

He pins you down with this look from the driver’s seat and for a heartbeat or two, and you let him. Just long enough that a stab of sobriety sneaks in– and you can’t deny it, but you wish it didn’t. 

You’re drunk. 

If you can stay drunk, all bets are off. 

If you can stay drunk, whatever you do doesn’t matter, because you were drunk. 

You could reach over and press your fingers into the soft denim between his legs, make something hard there. You could squeeze the thickness of him over his zipper and kiss the shock of alabaster skin on his neck, where his pulse goes all jackrabbity under your touch. You could make him forget he ever heard the name Cass Finnigan. 

And it would mean nothing. 

And you wouldn’t have to justify it, because you were drunk. That’s what you’ve always been taught.

But you uncross your arms and you pull at the hem of your skirt and look to the road, just as the van swerves into the trailer park. Munson doesn’t take such a hard turn at the corner this time, probably wary of your risk of ralphing all over the van if he does. He pulls into that negative space between your trailer and his and instructs you to wait in your seat. 

“Trust me, the descent out of this baby is much trickier than it looks,” he assures you, jogging to the passenger door, a jingle of keys and pocket chains and belts on leather, “and you’re way too gone to make it in one piece, princess.”

So he holds his hand out again (“M’shitfacedlady,”) and gingerly you take it, and it becomes very apparent very quickly that your legs have turned to rubber on the drive home. 

“Oh, shit!” 

Your attempt at gracefully exiting the van is ruined by an unsteady ankle, sending your weight right into Eddie Munson’s chest. Luckily, he was braced for it– just about. “Told you you couldn’t make it without me,” he breathes as you clutch a handful of his Metallica shirt, vision quadrupling. He’s warm, and you suddenly realize that you’re freezing.

Trembling.

“Stop flirting with me,” you hiss to one out of the four Munsons in front of you. “I need to go to bed.”

Eddie forces himself to bite back another double entendre, which is a shame, because they’re doing an awesome job of covering up how goddamn nervous he suddenly is. He moves his arm to your waist, helping you haul ass to your front door. He’s got to keep one arm outstretched behind you in case you lose your balance again– which you almost do, a couple of times, wavering around like a dashboard Jesus. 

He watches you like he’s trying to commit this to memory, the rare case of you being so beyond your usual composure. He’s even got to intervene after the first five minutes, making unlocking your front door a two idiot job.

Eddie’s about to wave you off and disappear to scream and something else into his pillow when he sees you take a dangerous lunge into the darkness of the trailer. “Woah, girl–” 

But you recover, in a kind of brainless way, taking a measured Bambi-like step forward. One after the other. 

Fuck. He can’t leave you like this. 

You’re gonna trip and brain yourself on a Fabergé egg or whatever the fuck it is you and your mom have in there. 

“Uh– Lacy?” 

The trailer is eerily quiet. You feel like you’re trespassing in your own place. Boxes of out-of-place, too-expensive ephemera are still strewn everywhere, but you navigate the maze of them like it’s nothing. Sense memory. You don’t even entirely register that Munson is following you inside, that he’s frantically whispering after you, until you reach your bedroom door. 

A coldness shoots up your spine as you turn on him. You didn’t invite him in here, did you? 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask for the second time tonight. This time, it comes out a little fearful. 

Eddie picks this up, right where you’ve erroneously dropped it. His chest gets a little tight. You didn’t think he was trying to–? 

“Making sure you lie down in the recovery position, that’s all,” he throws his hands up in total surrender, Scout’s honor, all that shit. “I’m not tryin’ to pick any locks tonight. I swear.” 

“I don’t need your help, Munson,” but just as you twist the doorknob, you keel over through the door, hitting the floor like a lead balloon. 

“Yeah, you keep telling me that,” he blearily smirks down at you, “And yet.”

But Munson’s not such an asshole about it that he just leaves you there. He hauls you up, again, and you stagger towards your bed, flopping face down on top of the comforter. He says some variation of okay, well, that’s how you choke to death on your own vomit, Jimi Hendrix and bullies you into the recovery position. 

“Don’t freak out, I’m just–” and Munson sits gingerly on the edge of your bed, taking one of your high heeled feet in his hands. 

What the fuck, you mumble, either aloud or in your head. But he’s fiddling with the tiny buckle at your ankle, gently undoing it. Another chill runs through your body but you don’t move, not an iota. You just… let him do it. His hands on your aching feet aren’t a totally unwelcome touch. He’s being featherlight about it, almost afraid to touch you even though he had no problem sheepdogging you into bed. 

“You could do anything to me right now,” you hear yourself saying. “No one would even know. No one would even care, I bet.” 

It’s meant to sound like you’re goading him, or even flirting with him, but it comes out sounding pitiful. You cringe, your hands creeping up to cover your face. 

“I’d care.” Munson’s voice is a tiny mumble– you know he’s just defending himself, but it kind of sounds like something else. He slips your right shoe off and sets it on the floor next to your left one. He hesitates for a moment before getting off your bed. 

“Alright, well– we can forget this ever happened. Resume being assholes to each other on Monday. Don’t, like, die in the meantime.”

“You say resume like we ever stopped being assholes to each other.”

“Have a fun hangover, Lacy.” 

–

You do not have a fun hangover. You wake up late Saturday afternoon after Friday’s bacchanal and don’t emerge from your room save from the occasional bathroom trip to puke up what little dignity you’ve got left. Sunday morning is when your mom hammers on the door and drags you to the kitchenette after confirming that you’re still, y’know, alive. 

“This is your game face, hm?” she says, pulling at your chin to examine your violet bruise that seems to have developed its own heartbeat. She doesn’t hold your face the way Munson did, gentle and searching, just tugs into the sparse light streaming into the dingy kitchenette.

You attempt to steel your jaw, but your bottom lip is starting to waver. 

“What happened?” your mother asks, and beneath all the jagged broken glass, there’s a tiny sliver of tenderness. 

Call it your pride, but you don’t reach for it. 

“I went out,” you say tightly, “and I made a fool of us.”

She hacks up a scoff through her smoker’s cough and disappears into her bedroom, leaving you alone to pick at a cold waffle. The few moments of consciousness you’ve had since Friday night have been spent trying to piece the party together– you remember clearing the better part of a bottle of cheap, cheap, shitty vodka with Robin Buckley’s help (weird), you remember getting into it with Hagan and Carol and getting wailed on. You remember getting a ride home with Munson, but the finer details of that are fuzzy. 

You think, and this is a thought that turns your already 180’d stomach, you let him into your bedroom, but you can’t be one hundred percent sure. All you know for an absolute is that your shoes came off that night, and you would never bother to take your shoes off after a night like that. 

So somebody must have. 

Meanwhile, Eddie’s been having a hell of a meanwhile. 

Fact of the matter is that you managed to detonate a nuclear bomb at Harrington’s party just under an hour after your arrival, which has got to be some kind of world record. It was also a world record for how little product he’d managed to sell during one of those parties, because he was preventing the manslaughter of a teenage girl– could’ve been you, could’ve been Carol. He nearly wishes he let that fight play out, as he stares into his empty wallet. 

Eddie’s gotta busy himself somehow, gotta do something– weirdly, he’s not in the mood to make a whole lot of noise. It’s not such a terrible day for working on his van, so he slams his toolbox on the ground and gives a couple dozen casual glances toward your bedroom window.

Your blinds still aren’t fixed. That’s got to have been shitty when you woke up with a splitting vodka headache and a shiner the size of Canada. 

Eddie keeps finding excuses to pace back and forth in perfect view of your window. Not in a peeping Tom sort of way, but in a way where he’d kind of like to see any sign of life from you. Even if you just rose from your bed like Nosferatu and gave him the finger. Then, he could relax. 

“Ed,” a gruff voice comes from the makeshift trailer porch, “fuck’re you doin’.” 

Those dulcet tones would belong to his beloved Uncle Wayne, who, ever since his hours got cut at the plant, has become unbearably observant of Eddie’s every movement. Wayne’s not a neglectful kind of father figure, not like his blinders-wearing real dad is, so he actually gets concerned when Eddie’s acting out of sorts. 

“Engine,” Eddie mumbles, pivoting fast like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t, “Engine’s making hinky noises.”

“Sounded alright last night,” Wayne levels him instantly, “when you came home.” 

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he twists an oily rag in his hands, avoiding Wayne’s stony stare. 

“I was up.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. God, whenever Wayne susses him out, it’s like drip torture. He’s slow as molasses with the confrontation on purpose, making Eddie sweat and out himself on every little fuck up he’s ever made. “You go in there?”

Chin jerks towards your trailer. Eddie’s shoulders shrug towards his ears, head tilting back. “Wayne, it’s not– she was real drunk, like blotto, I just–”

“You steer clear of that one.” It’s the definite nature with which Wayne says it that makes Eddie’s stomach drop. No prelude to it, no I know, kid, you were just tryin’ to do right by her. Nothing. 

“Wayne–”

“She ain’t what you think she is. Not if she’s anything like her bloodline.” 

He says this like the realization hasn’t hit Eddie like Carol hit you on Friday fight night. 

He says this like people haven’t been saying the same thing about Eddie for years.

–

Monday morning comes and you’re still somewhat suffering. A headache nags at your temple, but you pin that down to anxiety rather than an extended play of your hangover. 

It occurs to you that you should dress as down as possible today– realistically, of course, as you’d never be caught dead in sweatpants. You need comfort, you need something that feels like a well-worn blanket so you opt for a deep burgundy sweater dress that actually belonged to your mom in the 60s. 

You’d found it in the back of her closet when searching for a belt you knew she’d stolen from you and pulled it out. Mom! you chirped, How cute! How come you never wear this?

Oh, God, she’d cringed, batting the garment out of her way as she passed you in a cloud of Shalimar, Just throw that ratty thing out for me, would you?

But you didn’t. You kept it tucked away in the back of your closet and took it out when you needed it. When you needed to bury your face in it. Substitute it for a comfort she refused to give you. Which you realize is terrifically sad, but so’s life. 

The warm red is a distant cousin in the color family to the bruise under your eye. That bruise, it’s a glaring reminder of what a fucking loser you’ve become. The old you, the real you would never have stooped to that level– never had let them drag her down like that. But now you’re the kind of girl that screams and starts fights at parties, you guess. 

Your rage feels ugly in the cold light of day. 

You’re locking the door of the trailer behind you just as Munson emerges from his humble abode and it’s nothing short of awkward. Like you’d both seen each other naked or something.

You both stand there, in your relative doorways. His mouth gapes like he’s about to say hi, say something, and a memory comes back to you. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day. No one likes that. No one wants that. 

Regret stabs at you.

“Can you see it from there?” It’s the only thing you can think of to say, because you’re sure as fuck not saying hi. 

“What?”

“The bruise. Can– can you see it from over there?” 

Munson sort of half-snorts. “Not from here–”

“Ugh, thank god.”

“--but this is like, over fifteen feet away.” 

You roll your eyes, which hurts a lot, thanks guy, and walk toward his van. 

“Now?” you say, waving a hand under your eye, right where you’ve applied and blended and applied and blended a criminal amount of concealer. Munson leaves about a foot of space between you, on purpose, and you crane your neck back, on purpose. Reinstating the forcefield between you. 

“Oh yeah, you can barely even see that you got your ass kicked.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning, Munson. Do you really want to start your day with a knee to the balls?”

“You’re right. That’s usually an after-dinner activity,” he grins and jerks his head toward the van. “Need a ride?”

Need a ride? Like it’s the most ordinary, everyday thing in the world, Eddie Munson offering you a ride to school in his deathtrap of a van. Your stomach pulls at the sense memory of being in there on Friday night, and what you’ll look like getting out of it in the parking lot of Hawkins High. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head, definite and resolute. “I’m walking.” 

He scoffs. “C’mon. It’s too late to start walking now. You’ll be late for first period.” 

You scoff back, imitating him. “So what?”

“You’re never late for first period.” 

“I can be late– how the hell do you know I’m never late for first period?” 

“Because, dummy, I’m always late for first period,” he tells you, yanking open the passenger door, “And I sit behind you in History, and you’re always there when I come in, leaning back with your nose in some dumb book and your stupid hair all over my desk.” 

It’s true– you are always reading in history, because Kaminsky can’t teach for shit and you’ve already read ahead on the coursework anyway. You liked to rub that in his face by pulling out some unprescribed literature during class. Plus, no one you really care about is in your class, so you don’t have to worry about getting made fun of for having your nose in some dumb book. Illiterate jocks would never try that shit with you– nobody there would. 

Until now. 

And it’s true that Eddie Munson sits behind you, and barrels in like an idiotic excuse for a hurricane with some idiotic excuse for being late that you always scoff at, because does he ever get tired of his own bullshit. But after that brief cameo appearance in your day, you really do forget about him. 

Until now. 

“So?” he says, all expectant. 

And you consider it for a second, you really do– but you don’t think you can handle the blowback of leaving a party with Eddie Munson on Friday then turning up with him on Monday. Going to the same class. Where he sits behind you. It’s just… overexposure. 

The same realization must hit him, because all of a sudden he’s slamming the door shut with a roll of his eyes. “Whatever. Your tardy slip, babe.” You can’t help but think he sounds a little wounded. 

But fuck it. Fuck it! Since when do you stand around feeling sorry for Eddie Munson? 

Before you know it, the van roars out and leaves you in the dust. 

You don’t make it to school until after second period, because that so-called bus route a fifteen minute walk from the trailer park must not even exist, so you forge a note from your mom in the parking lot. 

As your fountain pen hovers over the paper, brainstorming an excuse, you consider pulling out the big guns– say you had to attend visitation day at the penitentiary. Use this disaster to your advantage for once; but you pull back. Scribble something about a doctor’s appointment and dot your mother’s ‘i’s with eerie precision.  

You make quick work of dropping the note off in reception– the uptick of being the kid of the town’s gossip beacon is some people still feel sorry for you. Some people weirdly include Janice, Principal Higgins’ secretary, who snatches the note from you before you can even reach the actual receptionist’s desk. 

“I’ll file that for you, dear,” she says, all coo-cooey with an unwelcome hand on your shoulder, “How are you and your poor mother doing these days? And your,” her croaky voice drops to a whisper, “dad? How is… he being treated?”

You blink at her, gripping the fountain pen in your hand. “Do you know what a shiv is, Janice?”

Just then, the bell trills and you take your leave, stepping out into the linoleum. 

Someone calls your name from down the hall. You crane your neck to see Ronnie Ecker jogging toward you, paper in hand. 

Now look, you’ve never had a problem with Ronnie Ecker. You can’t say you’re particularly fond of her but she’s smart; she keeps to herself and she was a decent lab partner during your junior year of dissecting frogs together. Squeamish, but that’s why you were there, to handle the scalpel. As much of a social outcast as she is, she’s not nearly as odious as the rest of them. That’s pretty goddamn remarkable amongst the Hawkins student body. 

She is also, you’ve come to notice, a resident of Forest Hills trailer park. 

“Hey!” she says, “Um, I noticed you missed first period and Kaminsky was handing our papers back so I figured you’d want yours…” 

“Why is everyone so obsessed with me missing first period?”

“Huh?”

“No– nothing,” you huff, taking the paper from her. A solid B on A+ material– told you Kaminsky couldn’t teach for shit. He’d be hearing from you about this. “Thanks for this, Ronnie.”

You start down the hall but notice Ronnie’s keeping in step with you. “I also just wanted to say– I heard about what happened Friday. And I think it’s sick, you standing up to Hagan like that. Asshole needed to be put in his place.” 

Well, there’s only one person she could have heard the nitty gritty of that news from. You know she’s trying to flatter you, but all you feel is a flame of embarrassment, plus a touch of anger– even though the news has easily circulated the school hallways by now. 

Along with the rumors of you taking Hargrove, Buckley and Munson, and not in a fight. 

“Well. Y’know. I was pretty wasted,” you attempt to brush it off and you see Ronnie deflate a little. 

Like you’re not the blazing hero someone made you out to be. 

“Okay, but is it true you had a threesome with Billy Hargrove and Robin Buckley and Robin was wearing the Tigers mascot suit?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

–

Classes pass in a monotonous blur, like most Mondays, but worse. That would be thanks to the extra shot of dread that’s served with your cafeteria meal of a wilted salad and soda. Last week at lunchtime, you at least had a tenuous standing with your former circle– you could still sit between Tina and Nancy Wheeler and suffer Tina’s thinly veiled jabs at you with a semi-placid look on your face. Nancy would look at you with eyes full of pity, and you’d want to punch her face in, but you’d be fine. 

But now, as you stand in the cafeteria swirling with people and catch the death glares from your old table (save for Nancy and Steve Harrington, who just straight up refuse to make eye contact with you), you’re just about ready to snap. 

Your flight instinct tells you to toss the tray out of your clammy hands and run, and keep running, until you disappear into the woods behind the school, never to be found. Your body becomes mulch before anyone remembers to look for you. Maybe you make really good fertilizer and a couple of pretty weeds sprout up from where you die. 

Your bruise, under its flaking layers of concealer, throbs twice– as if to say, don’t you fucking dare.

You make a confident beeline for the table, chin tilted and eyes set in a stare that could be categorized as withering, if only it was trained on anybody in particular. You grab a chair that some dumb underclassman is about to sit in and drag it with you, legs screeeeeching across the waxed floor. 

Who gives a shit who you were on Friday night. 

“I can sit here, right?” you say, and place your tray on the table next to Ronnie Ecker. 

She just stares at you for a hot second. That’s too long to stay standing in uncertainty, so you settle your stolen chair at the table and sit next to her. 

Ronnie isn’t the only one staring, however– the rest of these dorks, all in their matching t-shirts with Satan’s fiery head emblazoned across them, are watching you with their mouths agape. 

“Is this a prank or something?” one of them, a curly-haired freshman, says. 

This question is directed toward their fearless leader, decked out in denim and leather at the head of the table. That is to say, the direct opposite end of the table that you’re sitting at. 

“That’s no way to greet a lady, Gareth,” Munson says, feigning coolness but you can tell he’s a little flustered. The dead giveaway is in the way he misses his mac and cheese with his fork, the way his solid gaze double-blinks. You’ve thrown him off game– and because he’s impossible not to overhear sometimes, you know that game is all he’s got going on at this table. 

There’s that feeling again– point to Lacy. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

This is Munson’s version of what the hell do you think you’re doing, but you choose to ignore him. It’ll drive him insane, and you know that, glaring red warning sign that he is. Instead, you flash a smile at the freshman that almost makes him pass out, Cupid’s arrow struck straight through the heart. 

You cross your legs and angle your body toward Ronnie– and by extension, in the direction of your old table. You can see Carol burying her face in Tommy’s shoulder, the both of them on the verge of losing bowel control with laughter. Laughter at you. 

Who gives a shit who you were before Friday night.

“So, Ronnie,” you say, taking a sip of your Tab, “You get up to anything fun this weekend?”

author's notes: let me get ahead of everything and say yes, i am absolutely fucking with the timeline. suspend your disbelief, my beautiful babies, and enjoy steve, carol, tommy and ronnie ecker still being in high school because I SURE WILL. but on an absolutely serious note, thank you so much for all the support and each and every note you’ve put on the chapters so far. i seriously, seriously appreciate it. now, the notes: - you think eddie munson doesn’t fuck with pee-wee herman heavy? you think he didn’t watch this movie in reefer rick’s, high out of his gourd, and think oh yeah i love this freak? get REAL! RIP paul reubens, this one’s for you. specially every time i mention a handjob - eddie munson also has charlie kelly disease - speaking of iterations of always sunny characters, much like frank reynolds, there’s not a get rich quick scheme al munson hasn’t tried. we’ll get into that a little more… later - admittedly, the whole ‘face eating on bath salts’ thing didn’t gain traction until the 00s, but if hawkins is going to be ahead of its time in anything, it’s fucked up shit happening to people! - did you notice how i blended eddie and lacy’s povs in the van? i’m going to continue doing that in moments where they’re on a similar ~wavelength~ - jimi hendrix did unfortunately die of asphixiation, but instead of thinking about that, watch this sick video of him playing guitar that eddie definitely has committed to memory - RONNIE ECKER KLAXON. i know that in flight of icarus she’s described as tall, but that hasn’t stopped me fancasting her as ayo edebiri in an eddie munson wig - at this point, you might be thinking damn, everyone sure seems to hate each other in this story. like, why is nancy wheeler catching strays? i’m here to remind you it’s the 1980s and teenagers kind of suck. play the track - thanks again for all the love! you can keep this crazy train going by liking, commenting, reblogging and generally showing me the same kindness you’ve shown me so far. love u my little hellcats

[unfinishedslurs]

jock on jock violence (past steve/tommy)

“Just leave people alone, Tommy,” Harrington says lowly. Dangerously. Harrington’s always been dangerous, in the way that straight, entitled jocks have always been dangerous to Eddie, but sometimes Eddie thinks he dropped the crown to pick up a sword. There’s something sharper about him now, something that wasn’t there before Halloween. Different from the fake smiles and shifty eyes after the Byers kid went missing. Not that Eddie’s been looking. 

“Leave them alone?” Hagan demands. “Like how you left me alone?” And wow, is he delusional? Did he just completely forget about his girlfriend, Hargrove, and the entire fucking basketball team?

“Not everything is about you! Seriously, man? You’re just gonna twist what I’m saying like that?” Harrington snaps, and oh, Eddie doesn’t want to be here for this. If the former king and his old lackey duke it out, he does not want to get caught in the crossfire. “Jesus, grow up. Sorry I got sick of being a total dick.”

“Oh, yeah, now you’re just sucking Byers’s—“

“You want to go there? Do you really wanna go there, Tommy?”

Shit, Eddie should not be here for this. 

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Hagan says, suddenly panicked. 

“I thought you liked my mouth.”

Eddie has to practically stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from sputtering. 

“What the fuck, man,” Hagan hisses. Eddie knows he’s looking around, even though no one’s in the bathroom except them and Eddie. And Eddie’s never going to breathe a fucking word of this to anyone, on account of not wanting his face rearranged ten times over. “What, are you some kind of fag now? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Harrington almost sounds bored when he replies. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

“I told you to watch your mouth.”

“You gonna shut me up?”

“What has gotten into you?” Hagan finally asks the million dollar question. Harrington’s acting like he’s got a fucking death wish. “One minute we’re calling out Byers for being a creep, and the next you’re dumping me like it’s nothing. And now you’re suddenly best buds? Even after he stole your girlfriend twice? You know how pathetic that is, right? What, do you share her or something? The slut putting out—“

There’s a rustle of clothes, and then a thud, like something—someone getting slammed into a wall. 

“Don’t talk about Nancy like that,” Harrington growls. “This isn’t about her.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, man, it’s about you being a total asshole, and I’m telling you to leave people the fuck alone.”

“Or what?” Hagan almost sounds amused, over obvious nerves. He’s not even trying to escape the hold he’s in. “I’m stronger than you, and we both know it. You’ve still got a concussion, don’t you? Hargrove told me he beat your face in.”

“Hargrove this, Hargrove that. You sound like you’ve got a crush or something. You suck him like you sucked me?”

Jesus fucking Christ. 

“You can’t win this fight, Steve.”

“I don’t need to. Mutually assured destruction, asshole. You stop hurting people, and I won’t tell the entire town about us.”

Oh shit. Oh shit. Harrington sounds serious. It almost makes him sick to his stomach, even as a hysterical laugh tries to bubble out. Who woulda guessed that the former king of Hawkins High had enough guts to paint himself as a queer to their conservative, stick in the mud town?

That is, if Hagan doesn’t fucking kill him first. 

“You wouldn’t.” Hagan sounds panicked now, and for good fucking reason. He’s been on the “right” end of what happens to their kind of freaks for years. How quickly would the vultures turn on him? They descended on Harrington pretty damn quick. 

“Wanna bet?”

“You do that, you lose everything. Peace, daddy’s money, your precious sports scholarships…”

“I’m not going to college,” Harrington says. “Look in my eyes, Hagan. Do I look like I’m bluffing? I’ve got nothing to lose.”

Eddie has to keep in a scoff at that. If there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that there’s always something to lose with shit like this. Namely your life. 

This is fucked. This is so fucked. Eddie wants out of this stall, Jesus H. Christ. He’d take Mrs. Smith’s class anyday over knowing one wrong move will end with two jocks beating his fucking face in for hearing something he wasn’t supposed to hear. Or potentially having to jump in to try and save Harrington’s stupid fucking mug. 

There’s a long pause that does absolutely nothing for Eddie’s nerves, before Hagan finally spits out, “Fine.”

“What was that?”

“Fine.”

“Good man,” Harrington says, as if they’re discussing some kind of business deal and not outing themselves in front of God and Mrs. Jenkins and everyone. “Now get the fuck outta here, Tommy.”

Rustling, quick footsteps, and then the door opens and shuts without a word. 

Silence.

Eddie sighs in relief. 

“Hello?” Harrington asks, voice on edge. 

Shit. 

His stall door swings open, and there he is, in all his fallen kingly glory. Bruise over one eye, scowl on his face, and dangerous set to his shoulders that Eddie knows all too well. 

“Uhh, hi?” Eddie squeaks. He’s still sitting like fucking Gollum, feet on the toilet, unlit cigarette in hand. He drops it, and neither of them look away from each other as it rolls behind the toilet bowl. 

Excellent first impression, really. 

“What the fuck, man?” Harrington asks. “Were you just listening to that?”

“Look,” Eddie says quickly. “In my defense, I was here first. Also, if he saw me, Hagan was definitely going to beat me up. Except, uh, you’re definitely going to kick my ass anyway for hearing that, so I probably should just cut my losses and accept death at this point.”

Harrington doesn’t seem to know what to say to this, mouth opening and closing slowly. 

“Also, for the record?” Eddie says. “I won’t say anything. I know you have, like, zero reason to trust me, but I’m really good at secrets, dude, like you wouldn’t believe. I haven’t even told Jeff that Gareth—anyways, secrets? What secrets? I didn’t hear anything. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

He gets a scathing look in return. “If you tell anyone—“

“Wait, wait, wait! You said something about mutually assured destruction, right? I get it. I get it, Harrington, fuck, you know I do. Who would believe me if I blabbed, anyway? Who are they gonna believe, the King or the Freak?”

Harrington sighs, but he must see the truth in what Eddie said because he moves away from the stall. Takes a wad of paper towels and starts running them under the sink. 

It emboldens Eddie enough to follow him. “I mean, really, they’d probably just call it wishful thinking or something. Plus, I’m pretty sure most of the school would rather die than talk to me, so, like, you’re safe, man. I’ve already blacked it out in my memory, it’s gone.”

It seems like Harrington has tuned him out, pressing the wet paper towels to his forehead and eye. That’s good, because Eddie doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. 

“Also, for the record? That was badass. I don’t think I’d have the guts to do that, even if the entire town kind of knows about me anyway. Which, wow, you were really good at hiding it. Hagan I kind of suspected, given the giant fucking boner he had for you, but you—“

“Do you ever shut up?”

Eddie’s mouth shuts with a click. Harrington sighs again and pinches his nose, looking almost like a mother trying to herd her seven rambunctious children into the minivan. His hands are shaking.  

“You okay, man?” Eddie finally asks quietly. 

Harrington doesn’t say anything, just presses the paper towels over both eyes, like he’s trying to stave something off. Oh, shit, is he…

“Are you…crying?”

“What? No,” Harrington says, obviously lying. “It’s the light, I get headaches. Concussion.”

“Right.”

“Look, can we just forget this ever happened?”

“Already forgotten,” he promises. “But, uh, for the record? That was really brave of you, man.”

“I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

“That actually kind of surprises me, because I could not tell from your voice. You sounded like you were ready to march up to The Post then and there and spill all Hagan’s dirty little secrets. All ‘I’ve got nothing to lose,’ and shit.” He pitches his voice lower, in a mimic of some action movie hero or something. 

Harrington finally laughs, and something in Eddie thrills at it. “I pulled that outta my ass,” he admits. “I knew he would believe it, ‘cause to him I already did lose everything. My friends, my girlfriend, my…”  he waves his hand around, “my status, or whatever. And a few screws, probably.”

“Well I can attest to the screws, because I think you might be actually insane. You cornered him in an empty bathroom without checking to see if it was actually empty and threatened to out him to the entire town? I thought I was going to have to save your life, Jesus shit. Don’t fucking do that, do you have a death wish or something?”

“I did check,” Harrington snaps. “I looked under the stalls, and none of the doors were locked. Who the hell sits on a toilet like that anyway? You looked like one of those ugly stone fuckers, the ones they put on buildings and shit.”

Eddie bursts out laughing, too incredulous to be offended. “You mean gargoyles?”

“Whatever. Besides, Hagan won’t kill me. He’s too much of a coward.”

“I hate to break it to you, Harrington, but cowards are dangerous too.”

“Not Tommy’s kind of coward” Harrington says. “Not to me.” He wonders about the surety in his voice. Does he think Hagan still has feelings for him? Ex-boyfriends can be the worst kind of assholes. Hell hath no fury like a man scorned. Harrington gives him a look, like he knows exactly what he’s thinking. “He’s a bully and an asshole, but he doesn’t have the guts,” he insists. “He’s no Hargrove.”

Eddie sneers. “Hargrove. The guy’s a fucking psycho.”

“Tell me about it,” Harrington says dryly. He finally looks at Eddie, eyes him up and down. Eddie could take him, honestly, he’s scrappy and Hagan wasn’t lying when he said everyone knows Harrington can’t win a fight. Pair that with the concussion he’s sporting, and it’d probably take a love tap to take him down. But he doesn’t want to. 

“You’re probably better off without Hagan anyway,” he offers helpfully. It doesn’t work, just makes Harrington look like a kicked puppy, damaged and sad and cold. It makes Eddie want to take him in as one of his little lost sheep, honestly, which is an impulse he pushes far, far down. Abdicated or not, a king is no fit for a freak’s friend. Even if he and Byers have been pretty friendly. 

“I know,” he says. “But he was still my friend, you know? Like, the first one I ever had. Maybe that’s why it took me so long to realize.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. There’s an awkward silence, where Harrington turns his focus back to the mirror. Eddie clears his throat and tries to lighten the mood. “So, you and Byers…”

The look he receives could make the Demogorgon shake in his boots. “Don’t you have a class to fail or something? You should probably go to that before—”

The bell interrupts Harrington perfectly, and he snaps his mouth shut. Eddie snorts. 

“Think it’s a little late for that, but I know a dismissal when I see one. See you around, Harrington.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Hey, remember—“

“I know,” he calls behind him, striding for the door. “Mutually assured destruction!”

Leaving the bathroom feels like being reborn a whole new man. He swears the air is cleaner than it ever was before he went in. His last glance behind himself shows Harrington looking in the mirror, no sign of moving as the door shuts. 

As he’s walking to his next class, he spies Wheeler and Byers huddled together, whispering. They look worried. 

They both startle when he speaks. “If you’re looking for Harrington,” he says quietly, stopping next to them, “check the smoke bathroom, by the band hall. I think he’s still in there.”

Wheeler’s brows furrow, but Byers gives him a nod, already moving. Eddie moves along as Wheeler shoots him a quick look of gratitude before following, books hugged to her chest. 

Eddie doesn’t know what’s going on between the three of them, but he kind of wants to now, especially considering Harrington’s non-answer when he asked. He doubts Wheeler is a cover-up, not after her and Harrington’s breakup and the quiet, lovey-dovey honeymoon phase she and Byers seem to be having. The one that kind of seems to tear Harrington to pieces sometimes, even as he sits with them and walks to class with them and even hangs out with them outside of school, if Jeff really saw the three of them at the diner together last week. Maybe Steve Harrington’s a secret masochist.

Then he remembers the bruise yellowing around his eye, the weird tension he has with the guy who beat him up last year. The way he damn near begged Hagan to beat his ass in the bathroom. Not so secret, then. 

Whatever. It’s none of Eddie’s business. He’s gonna soil his reputation if he keeps focusing on Hawkins royalty like this. Never mind the way Harrington’s soiled his own reputation enough. So what if King Steve isn’t king anymore? He’s still just another pretty face. 

A pretty face, with nice arms and big eyes and thighs. And he’s queer, and doesn’t seem like the kind of closeted that would have the usual jock shove him away after getting a blowie. Shit.

His lungs itch for the cigarette he never got to smoke. Too bad the bathroom is occupied.

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Back for More

Written for @steddieangstyaugust - days 9 (Upside Down) and 11 (Temporary Character Death). They just happened to merge and I didn't stop them.

It was eerily quiet in the Upside Down. The rustling of demobat wings had died down, black tendrils lied still as their master fled to God knows where to lick his wounds. Only the constant storm that would never bring rain loomed over them.

Steve's vision was still blurry after the near strangulation at the Creel house, and Eddie? Well. Eddie was dying.

"Wait here until we can find help," they'd said. "Keep him safe. Keep him alive and talking." Robin and Nancy dragged Dustin away, screaming, crying, and Steve made a reckless promise to make sure that his favorite twerp of the twerp troupe (also known as the Party, the most annoying kids known to mankind) was out of danger. Or at least as much as one could be when the world was ending.

So, the promise? Keep Eddie from dying.

That was easier said than done. Demobats made Eddie their free buffet - Steve hated himself for thinking that, but maybe he could blame it on the dizziness - and now Eddie was even more full of holes than a golf course. Minus the flags.

Yeah, maybe Steve was panicking a little. But hey, who wasn't?

"Come on, man," he muttered as Eddie's hand dropped, letting go of the blood soaked cloth. "Keep it on the wound. I'm not an octopus, I can't plug in all of these, uh…"

Eddie laughed, but it made such a horrendous gurgling sound that Steve hoped he hadn't done that. "New entrances to the temple that is my body, Harrington?"

Steve's brow furrowed in disgust. Which was funny because, you know, they were covered in blood and grime, so this shouldn't have even fazed him. It still did. "Ew. Don't…just don't."

He still reached out and repositioned Eddie's hand to cover the less severe wounds. Which really weren't less severe, all were gnarly and jagged, but at least Eddie could reach them. Steve's hand didn't leave the most dangerous looking one on his neck, pressing down and slowing down the bleeding.

"Aww. Harrington is shy," whispered Eddie, but obediently used the last of his strength to cover the wound on his side.

"Am not. Your innuendos just suck. Where did you get those, in a history class?"

Eddie's mouth twitched into another smile. "Nah. In front of the mirror, like all proper men. Which might be…why they don't work. On other men."

Other men. Huh. Steve had never suspected anything.

His eyes were starting to close, his breathing more shallow, and yep, this was the moment that Steve would normally get up, get punched, get in the harm's way so the others could escape. But this time it wouldn't work. It was just him and Eddie and so much blood that just wouldn't stay on the inside where it belonged.

Keep him talking. That's what he promised to do.

He nudged Eddie with his knee. "Hey. Hey, Munson! Now I'm curious. How do you know they don't work? Have you tested them?"

Eddie groaned, but one of his eyes opened again. "Jesus H Christ, Harrington. Can I just die from blood loss and not embarrassment?"

"Nope. No dying either way. Tell me."

Another groan, another gurgle. "Didn't test anything, man. This is Hawkins. I never even told anyone. Shit, I didn't even want to tell you, but I'm feeling kinda lightheaded…"

Not good. Not fucking good at all. "It's fine, we're bonding, right?" But Eddie didn't respond, and Steve didn't have a third hand to slap him awake, so he just went for the conversational jugular. "I mean. I kinda get it. I saw a lot of stuff in the locker rooms and I've always thought Tommy has some nice shoulders and back. And…below."

That got Eddie's attention. His eyes opened again, and the bloodied grin he showed Steve was worth the mortifying admission. "Well well well. Who would have thought we have the same taste in men, King Steve? Type, I mean. Hagan's an asshole. But jocks…hmmm. Good for you to…have such a nice view."

Now he was talking too much, and his breath was getting even more shallow. Shit. "You'll get it too, man. Not all places are Hawkins. So stay awake, keep pressure on your…ugh, fine…new entrances to the temple of Munson, and I swear that when you're all healed up, I'll drive you to wherever you feel more comfortable, and we'll get you a jock to smooch or admire. Or both."

"Sounds nice," whispered Eddie. Then, after a pause: "being smooched, I mean. It's so lame, dying without being kissed. Ever."

Look, Steve was running out of options. There was no sound, no indication of help coming, and he had to keep his promise. The world was ending anyway. "Would you like not to?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"I mean," said Steve and even attempted his signature hair flip, which earned him a weak chuckle from Eddie. "I know I look like shit now, but I was a jock. And I'm pretty sure I'm a better kisser than Tommy."

"…have better ass too…"

Steve burst out laughing, and perhaps he managed to hide the slowly rising wave of hysteria. "Yes, thank you! I knew someone would eventually have good taste and say it out loud. But seriously, uh…I'm offering. I mean, as far as first kisses go, this whole scenario will be pretty memorable."

Eddie smiled at him from the ground, and it was so sad that Steve wanted to punch Hawkins, his younger self and everyone who made Munson look this self-deprecating. "You don't have to, Steve. Pity isn't a good look on you."

"It's not," he said quickly, with more force than he'd intended. "Seriously, Eddie. It's not. It's…curiosity for me too. And maybe I also need to take my mind off things, because this whole week has been so incredibly shitty, more for you than me, but still, and it's not like we have anything better to do anyways. So I'm asking again, a bit more tactfully this time - may I kiss you before you change your mind and stop liking jocks?"

"Not gonna happen," whispered Eddie, but his smile was wider now. There was a strange sheen to his eyes, but Steve was only focused on buying just a bit more time, a few more minutes, even seconds. "Come on, big boy. Deflower my lips. Or something."

"You just had to make it weird."

Steve leaned down and inspected Eddie's face. It was covered in drying blood, so were his lips, but it didn't matter. He moved even further, still maintaining the pressure on Eddie's neck wound, and pressed their lips together.

It wasn't much, he was careful not to obstruct Eddie's breathing, but it felt nice. He imagined what it might have been like under different circumstances - Eddie's stubble against his chin, maybe taste of his cigarettes instead of blood, hand in his wild hair and around his slender waist. He winced as Eddie's tongue darted out and licked the cut in Steve's lip, but he met him halfway without hesitation.

As he started pulling away to give Eddie more space to breathe, Steve had a sudden realization. Despite his loudness and abrasive behavior, Eddie deserved the gentleness, the caution. Steve wondered if he could have given it to him in another time, another life.

"So," he asked, still hovering over Eddie, "was that everything you dreamed of?"

Eddie's voice was barely more than a sigh now. "Bit…less blood in my dreams. But…yeah. I really wish…"

The hand on his wound was slipping again. Steve moved it back. "Yeah?"

"I really wish I could have come back for more."

His hand dropped again, and this time, no matter how much Steve threatened, argued or pleaded, it wouldn't rise again.

"Eddie." Steve nudged him again, but his body was still. "Hey, Eddie. Wake up. You can come back for more anytime you want. Just…just hold on, get better and then you can have as many kisses as you want. Come on. Don't…"

When Nancy and Robin finally made it back with supplies, they found Steve still covering Eddie's wounds, not leaving his side. When they tried to move him, to make him let go of Eddie's body, Steve could only say one thing - "I made a promise."

..

Two weeks passed. The world was still ending, Max was in a coma, and Eddie was gone. It felt wrong, being able to summarize so much pain in such few words. Steve couldn't look Dustin in the eye, grateful for the return of the California crew so that Dustin had someone to support him apart from Lucas. He broke two promises in the same day, probably the most important ones he'd ever made.

His body functioned on autopilot. Donations, disaster relief, he did it all to keep busy. He slept very little, but when he did, he no longer had the intense, terrifying nightmares. Instead, he dreamt of Eddie, alive and well, meeting him in a bar, at Skull Rock, kissing him again and again.

Every day he woke up, had a blissful moment when reality was hazy, and then it hit. Eddie would never kiss him again.

It was yet another night full of tossing and turning in his bed. When Steve finally fell asleep, he was in a familiar dream. Sweet and soft kisses, Eddie's hair tickling his face. But this time, his lips felt more rough, and there was sharp pressure on his lower lip.

When he woke up, he thought he was still dreaming. His head was gently cradled by slender hands, long hair was tickling his face…and Eddie was in his bed.

He was dirty, covered in crusts of dried blood. His clothes were torn and the unnatural sheen in his eyes that Steve had noticed back in the Upside Down made it seem like the whites of his eyes were glowing. His nails were sharp, his canines were peeking out from under his upper lip, but it was him, in flesh. In scarred but miraculously healed flesh. 

"Eddie?"

"You said," he whispered, and it sounded raspy, rough. "You said I could come back for more."

It might have been a dream - or maybe not, Steve would find traces of mud and a familiar looking bandana in his bed the next day. But Steve didn't know that yet. What he knew was this - even if it was a dream, even if he was about to have yet another painful realization the next day, he'd take it. Because Eddie was worth every single second of that pain.

He wrapped his arms around the dream visitor's neck and pulled him back into his bed. "I did say that. And I'm a man of my word."