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Shane is handing Ilya something. It looks like? a pair of shoes?
“Here,” Shane places the slipper things into ilya’s hands.
“What are these?” Ilya asks.
“Water shoes.”
“Why do I wear shoes in the water?”
“Because otherwise your feet will get muddy and sandy and touch rocks and seaweed and gross stuff,” Shane explains.
“So? I will just wash them. After.”
“But it feels yucky? On your toes?”
“I will be okay Hollander.” He hands the shoes back to him.
Shane looks extremely wary. “But what if you get a scratch on your foot from a rock or a zebra mussel?”
“Oh no, not a scratch,” Ilya says, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Shane makes his ‘disgruntled frown’ face, which of course makes Ilya’s heart go all mushy.
“Fine. I will wear the shoes. Give.”
Shane looks at him like he suspects Ilya is about to chuck the shoes into the lake, never to be seen again.
“Shane, moya lyubov,” Ilya tries. “I am going to wear these stupid water shoes for you so I do not get cuts. Give them to me.”
Shane gets this soft look in his eyes. “What does that mean? Moya Loo-Bof”
He butchers the pronunciation, but Ilya knows what he means. He didn’t necessarily mean for Russian the term of endearment to slip out, but it did, naturally. His entire face blushes red.
“My love,” he mumbles, scared, even after their confessions last night, that he’s spooked shane off.
It’s Shane’s turn to turn red at that, but he has a small smile on his face. “Put the shoes on, idiot,” he orders, affectionately.
Yuna realizes that Shane and Ilya are in LOVE love when she hears singing coming from the kitchen.
“Chopping carrots with Ilya,” Shane sings under his breath. “Making salad with Ilya.”
Yuna smiles softly from the dining room. This is one of her favorite things about her son. From the time he could (barely) talk, he made up little songs about anything and everything. The first time he’d done it, he’d been strapped into his car seat and watching cars go by. When he’d caught Yuna’s eye in the rear view mirror, he’d smiled with all 8 of his little teeth and waved.
“Dwiving,” he’d sung, all of 18 months old and barely able to say the word properly. “Dwivin’ wi’ Mama. Wuv Mama.”
Yuna’s not sure if it’s Shane’s way of processing the world around him, just A Thing some people do, or something special about her baby boy. All she knows is that from the first time he’d made up a little tune about Driving With Mama, everything turned into a song. When he’s comfortable and feeling at ease, Shane turns little things around him into music.
Learning to tie his shoes? “Daddy’s teaching me to tie my shoes. One lace over the other. Make the bunny ears!”
Gearing up for practice when he was 8? “Going to practice. Gonna be great. Gonna score a goal!”
Studying for a science test? “Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. Everyone says it because it’s true. Moving on—organelles and cell walls.”
Gearing up for his first Metros game as captain? “Taping my hockey stick. Going out on the ice. Gonna kick some ass.”
It’s something so uniquely, adorably, perfectly Shane.
Today, though? As Shane’s in the kitchen preparing a salad for lunch? For the first time, someone else sings along. For the first time in Shane’s life, someone hears the tune and lyrics that only exist in his head and joins in.
“Making salad with Shane,” Ilya croons along, hooking his chin over his boyfriend’s shoulder and wrapping strong arms around his waist. “Preparing lunch with my love.”
Shane smiles and sings back as Ilya nuzzles his neck. “Being domestic with my boyfriend. Thinking of boring things we can do together.”
Ilya laughs and kisses his ear before finishing the song. “I love to be boring with yooouuuu.”
…okay, that’s a lie. It’s a tie for the best song Yuna’s ever heard. Maybe. It’s definitely at the top of the list.
Shane pauses on the other line, breath catching as he holds back overwhelming emotion.
“Mom,” he croaks. “I…fuck.”
Yuna stays calm. She mentally takes stock of the situation. Ilya’s fine—he just texted her, a few seconds before Shane called, to warn her of the incoming storm. David’s fine—he’s sitting right next to her, confused and alarmed as their son has some manner of episode on the phone. She’s fine. So what’s—
“—wi’ Dada!”
…oh. Oh.
It’s soft at first, but picking up in volume. Tiny pit-pats in the background accompany the most beautiful little voice Yuna’s heard since Shane made up his first song, Driving With Mama, from his car seat all those years ago.
“Eating,” the little voice sings in the background. It’s garbled by what Yuna assumes are half-chewed remnants of an afternoon snack; probably organic peanut butter on apple slices. “Eating wi’ Dada. Eating wi’ Papa. Dada on phone! Who on phone, Dada?”
There’s wet laughter in the background, further from the phone. “Oh God, Shane. It’s genetic. She’s a little you!”
More tearful laughter, this time from Shane. “That’s not—she’s adopted, Ilya.”
“I don’t care what the papers say. She is you. Listen to her, she is perfect. She must be part you, sweetheart.”
Driving With Mama. Making Salad With Ilya. Top three songs for sure, as far as Yuna’s concerned. But this one? Eating With Dada and Papa, written and performed by her granddaughter for a live audience? A platinum hit. Give this baby a Grammy.
what if: high school steddie, where Eddie is all too aware of the social hierarchy of Hawkins High and his standing in it—the lowest of the low—versus a Steve who either doesn't know or doesn't care.
Eddie knows he's at the bottom of the food chain. Knows he's the first to eat shit when some jocks are hungering for some violence. Knows he's about as good as the dirt on their shoes, as far as they're concerned.
And at the top of that mountain, just about the other side of the world, really, is Steve Harrington. Steve "The Hair" Harrington. King Steve. Double Team Captain. Mister Harrington Charm.
They shouldn't EVER interact. It's against the laws of nature, or some shit, Eddie's sure.
Which is probably why it seems like the world's imploding when Steve "The Hair" Harrington—Mister Harrington Charm, Double Team Captain, whatever the fuck else Gareth has on his endless list—asks him to prom.
It's probably a good thing they're alone, in the middle of the woods, on opposite sides of Eddie's favorite deal-making table, so no one's around to hear him yell, "What the fuck?"
It echoes around the woods anyways, maybe louder than he meant to be, which is good, because it's definitely a 'what the fuck' moment.
They've literally never spoken before. Actually, they've done less than spoken—they could live on opposite poles of the Earth, for all the interaction they've had. They don't share any classes. Hell, they don't even see each other in the halls.
And now Steve Harrington is staring at him like he's actually waiting for an answer.
Again: What the fuck?
A record scratches in his brain and yup, there’s Harrington’s voice again, smarmy little smile on his face, asking: “Will you go to prom with me?”
As in, Steve Harrington just asked, in this existence, in this reality, on this planet, for Eddie Munson to go to Hawkins High Senior Prom with him. For real.
For real?
No. No way.
Harrington’s joking, Eddie knows. Figures the day’d come he decides torturing Eddie is just as much fun as the rest of his shit-jock cronies made it out to be.
And then, suddenly, Eddie knows what it is. Has seen enough of those terrible movies on early-morning TV with Wayne. Has seen the same damn plot enough times to smell it coming from a mile away.
“You know what,” he says, leaning into Harrington’s space, too close, brimming with irritation and a disgusting desire to one-up the smug, cocky bastard, “You get me a bouquet of roses as black as your twisted, festering soul, and I’ll wear a pretty little dress for you, too.”
Harrington’s frown makes anger tighten Eddie’s jaw. “Do roses… grow in black?”
“I guess that’s for you to find out and for me to know, Harrington,” Eddie sneers. He gets up, snatches his lunchbox, and stalks back through the trees to school.
He throws a “fuck you” over his shoulder when Harrington calls out “Benny’s at six?” but doesn’t turn around because the last thing he needs is to eat shit tripping over a goddamn branch. As it is, he’s already waiting for any of Harrington’s little friends to appear out of the shadows and jump him. That’s how it goes, right?
Only, it doesn’t.
There’s no swirlies, no shoving into lockers, no missing clothes after gym, no brutal beatdown on late days after Hellfire. Eddie’s almost worried the meatheads have had too many concussions and forgot he was next on the hit list.
And then he realizes—oh. Oh no. They’re waiting for prom. Actual prom night to fucking flay him open on stage in front of the whole school or something equally psychotic. Drown him in the punch. Stomp him to death on the dance floor.
Clearly, they HAVE had too many concussions if they think Eddie would EVER show his face there. Fuck Harrington, and fuck his minions. Like Eddie’d make it that easy for them.
Except, in the days leading up to prom, weird things keep happening. And Eddie doesn’t know what to think about it.
There’s pudding at his spot at the head of the table. Once a week, because the cafeteria only has pudding once a week. Eddie loves cafeteria pudding.
Steve Harrington grins at him from across the goddamn cafeteria and Eddie’s gut curdles.
One of the Hellfire posters he puts up monthly (and is always shredded by first period’s end) is still up a week later. Sure, torn and taped back together, but it’s not slush in a toilet, either.
Steve Harrington tells him that he looks nice when he finds him smoking just outside the school, and Eddie’s skin itches like he needs to tear it off.
There’s a flower on the driver’s seat of his van the day he forgets to close the window all the way, a day-old daisy with the petals stained a dark blue, the yellow center dulled.
Steve Harrington says he’s got a nice voice and he’s really good at playing the guitar and Eddie wonders how the hell he knows that.
One day, Harrington drops down to sit on the curb next to him, in the parking lot of the shitty little convenience store that’s a five-minute walk from the trailer park. He passes over a pack of his fancy smokes and nabs one of Eddie’s cheap beers so they can drink and smoke together and neither of them say anything. Eddie wants to say it’s because he doesn’t want Harrington to realize exactly what he’s done and get his shit beer cans crushed over his head, but in truth, it’s because he can’t get a damn read on the guy.
Another, Harrington and Hargrove both come to school looking like they’ve been run over, then backed up over, and then run over again for good measure. Hargrove doesn’t haggle him for weed again, and Harrington still smiles at him from across the cafeteria like the pull of his cheek doesn’t make his broken nose and black eye smart.
Again: What the fuck?
He asks the guys. “What the hell is going on with Harrington?”
He doesn’t like how they look at him, mouths twisted and uncomfortable and unsure.
“Heard he and Hagan beat the shit out of each other a while ago. Haven’t talked since.”
Hagan. Not Hargrove. A while ago.
“Ditched Carol P. and Stacy C., too.”
…
What the fuck?
…
The day of prom comes. Vaguely, Eddie remembers: Benny’s at six. Yeah-fucking-right.
He doesn’t go. Doesn’t have a suit, anyway, and wouldn’t have gone even if he did. Obviously. He might be stupid, repeating senior year, but he’s not THAT stupid.
An hour later, the phone in the trailer rings. When he picks up, Gareth is on the other end of the line. Distantly, Eddie can hear the shitty pop that makes up the school’s prom mixtape.
“What’d Harrington’s face look like?” he asks. “Was he pissed?”
“He didn’t show,” Gareth admits. “I dunno, man, maybe he was being serious.”
Eddie’s laugh probably pisses off half the trailer park. He can’t hear Gareth’s through the phone. “Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t kill the messenger.”
“Messenger might get me killed,” Eddie bites back, and then he hangs up. He hopes the punch is spiked and Gareth gets so drunk he falls asleep in a bush.
He grabs his keys off his nightstand and the trailer door slams behind him when he leaves.
Outside Benny’s diner is dark, shadows over the parking lot, but Harrington’s beamer is still there, clear as day. Maroon and hideous. God-fucking-damnit.
Harrington is in the driver’s seat, arms crossed over his chest as his head lolls back against his seat, half-asleep and definitely getting there. He’s wearing a nice shirt and nice pants and his tie goes flying like a whip across his cheek when Eddie knocks his fist against the roof of the car.
“The hell’s your damage, Harrington?” He barks, before the guy can even get his bearings.
Harrington fumbles, flailing limbs punch a short blare out of his horn, and his tie ends up over his shoulder.
“Eddie, hi. Hi, Eddie.” There’s drool at the corner of his mouth. Eddie’s lips curl.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps again. Harrington’s window is half-down—he can definitely hear him.
“Um.” Harrington looks sheepish, now, doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “It was—Benny’s at seven. I was waiting for you. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
Eddie’s jaw tightens.
“It was Benny’s at seven, right? I thought it was Benny’s at six, at first, but I can’t really keep dates straight up here, anymore,” he knocks against his head with a knuckle, “All the pointless melon-splits of American sports, or whatever.”
Vaguely, Eddie remembers a long-winded rant on the top of a cafeteria table about the same subject.
“It was at six,” he acknowledges. “I didn’t bother showing up.”
“Oh.” Harrington’s eyes drop, take in his pajama pants and his threadbare tee. “But you did. Now.”
“Yeah, well.” Eddie turns the words over. “Call it a lapse of judgment.”
Harrington nods. He’s not looking at Eddie anymore. It sours something in his gut that he doesn’t acknowledge.
Eddie looks past him. In the passenger seat, a bouquet.
Of black roses.
Harrington’s fingertips are stained a shade darker, black stuck underneath his nails.
What the actual fuck.
“What the hell was your plan here, Harrington?”
Harrington blinks up at him with those stupid big eyes that Eddie definitely, absolutely hates.
“Dinner, and then, you know, prom? Isn’t that how is usually goes?” He asks, like Eddie would have any fucking clue.
Eddie grinds his teeth. “You realize you’ve wasted your only senior prom on this dumb joke, right? And I didn’t even fall for it? Way to have your priorities in order, King Steve.”
Harrington’s face scrunches. Eddie bites his tongue.
“I’ve had the misfortune of having two, and I didn’t subject myself to either. So you can cut the shit—”
“Wait, hold on,” Harrington cuts him off. “It wasn’t—what joke, Eddie?”
Oh. Oh no. If Gareth’s right, he’s gonna have to throw himself from the quarry cliffs.
“You know,” he spits, like it doesn’t affect him, that every last goddamn person in fucking Hawkins sees him as a freak, like a bug to torture and then squash, “Lure me to prom. Dump a bucket of pig’s blood over my head or however that movie goes.”
Harrington—Harrington looks horrified.
Well. The quarry’s always empty at seven in the evening.
“Even I’m not that dumb, man.” He ignores how the words come out, slower, an edge of uncertainty.
“That’s fucked up,” Harrington whispers, “There’s a movie like that? I wouldn’t—that’s not what I—”
“Yeah, I think I’m starting to get that.”
Harrington’s jaw shuts with a click, and they’re both quiet for a minute. And then, like a curse he doesn’t want to say aloud lest he bring it to life, Eddie asks, “That was you, wasn’t it? With the pudding and the posters and the flowers.”
“I broke Tommy’s nose when I caught him trying to let the air outta your tires, too,” he says, hollowly, like it doesn’t matter anymore.
Fuck.
There’s no one in the parking lot, and Eddie tells himself its the only reason he rounds the car and drops into the passenger side seat. The flowers are saved by Harrington’s quick reflexes, and Eddie kind of wants to curse him out for having his doors unlocked.
“Okay.” He hypes himself up like he’s seen Harrington do in PE, a quick breath in and out. “I didn’t know you were being serious. I thought it was just a dumb joke.”
“Yeah, I got that part.”
He twists his fingers together. “Those were for me, right?”
Harrington hums. Hands them over. “Kinda makes it worse, but sure. Yeah, they were for you.”
“Worse?”
Harrington laughs, scrubs a hand over his face. “I thought it’d be funny. You said you’d wear a dress if I got you black flowers, but I—I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted to get you flowers you’d like.”
Fuck. Eddie does remember that, now.
The stems are still thorny and prick at his fingers when he hold them. He likes them better that way.
“You’ve been… practicing these,” he realizes. Remembers the little blue daisy.
“First ones came out a really gross kind of green,” Steve admits.
God fucking damn it.
“I don’t do prom,” Eddie says.
“Yeah, I figured that one out,” Steve replies. Dry. Still isn’t looking over at Eddie.
“No, I mean—I wouldn’t have gone even if I’d thought you were being honest from the get-go. I don’t DO prom. It’s the death of counter-culture and individuality.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“What I’m saying is,” he takes a deep breath, a little part of him still praying Steve won’t punch his damn lights out, “I’m not gonna go to prom. Ever. That’s an invitation to douchebags like Hargrove and Hagan to split my skull open on the gym floor. I don’t want my last breath to be weeks-old jock socks.”
He ducks, tries to catch Steve’s gaze. Doesn’t manage. He ends up pressed against the dashboard like a moron.
“But there’s this bar I go to,” he continues, “It doesn’t really check ID. I think they’d go out of business if they did. They let us play on Tuesdays.”
“I know.”
He knows? Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe Eddie needs to buy the flowers. About six dozen. Fuck him.
His leg jostles, knocks against Steve’s door. He finally looks up.
“That’s more my speed,” he admits, in a big rush. “It’s… probably better than prom as a first date, anyways.”
Steve’s eyebrows jump up into that famous hair, perfectly styled. Eddie’s is a mane of despair and hopelessness, wilder than a tornado.
“Really?” he asks, like Eddie didn’t just say he’d thought he was a piece of shit in seven different ways. “That’s—you’d—really?”
“I mean, not right now,” Eddie scoffs, and Steve’s face drops. He hurries to amend, “I’m not really dressed for the occasion. But maybe, like… tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Steve repeats, and Eddie flushes. “That’s soon.”
“Or never,” he snaps, because he’s a goddamn moron, “That works too.”
Steve’s grin splits his face and Eddie has to look back at the flowers in his lap. “Tomorrow’s good,” he agrees, too easy.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, kicks the door open, probably leaves a scuff, but Steve doesn’t say a word. “Better be.”
Steve’s still grinning as he gets out of the car, slams the door closed, rounds the side again. He’s not scared of a gaggle of dipshits ready to jump him because they’re not there. And he’s got a bouquet of black roses pressed to his chest.
“See you then, Eddie,” Steve chirps, as Eddie climbs back into his own van, and Eddie—Eddie has to hide his smile behind a curtain of hair as he throws the piece of shit into reverse and backs out of Benny’s diner.
…
He leaves the flowers on their tiny kitchen counter and the next morning, Wayne’s put them in a vase Eddie didn’t know they had, with water and that weird flower-food crap and everything.
The way that 5000 Trump supporters and Klan members got drowned out during a really bad storm when they were gonna march in DC... and they had to seek shelter in the- wait for it-
The African American Smithsonian.
The writing hasn't been this good and pro-Black since Charlie got Kirked 🤣 But seriously, like... Imagine! Imagine marching in your hatred and fearmongering, having to seek shelter bc even nature rebuked your presence, AND you had to seek aid in a place where the people you hate... STILL gave you shelter. It couldn't be more obvious.
Steve is curled up in the center of his bed, pillow clutched tightly to his chest. Today all of the six and seventh graders gathered to watch the eighth grade talent show. Most of the acts sucked, but one stuck out to Steve.
There was a boy playing with his band, Steve doesn’t remember their name, but he remembers watching this kid play his guitar. It was like he was the only person in the entire universe. He kept whipping and shaking his head. Steve is sure that if his hair wasn’t buzzed, it’d be wild and big.
He knows the kid gets picked on, it’s because he stands out. But he doesn’t seem sorry for standing out, he wears it like a badge of honor. It makes Steve’s cheeks burn with jealousy.
They’re burning now just thinking about it, so he pushes his face into the pillow he’s holding. Steve has never felt like this about anyone in his life. He knows it’s not possible though, because the kid on stage was a boy, and Steve is a boy. He’s supposed to like girls.
But as he lays awake in his room, late in the night, he thinks about holding that boys hand. He thinks about touching his buzzed hair. He thinks about standing in the boys space.
Even worse, he thinks about taking up space. He thinks about meeting the boys family, he wonders if he has any siblings. He thinks about meeting his friends. He thinks about going to the movies, and secretly holding his hand in the dark.
But, of course, none of this happens. Steve can’t like boys.
Instead, he loses his virginity as a freshman at an upperclassman’s party. He gets popular. He gets a reputation. He gets girls.
He doesn’t get Eddie “The Freak” Munson because he’s King Steve “The Hair” Harrington.
(That is, until they save the world together and Steve has to breathe life back into Eddies lungs)
When Eddie needs someone to drive him home from getting his wisdom teeth pulled Steve volunteers. He doesn’t expect to spend the afternoon changing ice packs and spoon feeding pudding a loopy, swollen cheeked Eddie staring up at him from the couch. The sun catches Steve’s hair and Eddie dazed mumbles “You’re an angel… Stevie. You’re my angel, right?” Steve blames the anesthesia. Eddie doesn’t remember much the next day but Steve can’t forget the way Eddie looked at him, or how badly he wanted to say “yeah, yours.”
I just had a thought: Steve gets kicked out of home in his final year of high school by his parents, but is trying to hide it.
Eddie is ranting to Wayne at home about how rich and entitled Steve is.
And Wayne is like "Eds, you know I volunteer at the Hawkin's Food Bank?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So, Steve Harrington has been getting groceries from us every Thursday. Why would he queue up for an hour every week if he was still getting everything on a silver platter?"
