If you really want to write Steddie angst, you don’t need to summon monsters from the Upside Down or have Steve waking up screaming from nightmares.
Give them summer sunlight.
Let it spill across their arms, backpacks, across Eddie’s face as he lounges on the hood of the car, cigarette between his fingers. Steve’s nearby, in the shade, damp-haired and in a torn shirt like he’s just crawled out of the lake. They’re laughing.
Too loud for two people.
Too real for two people trying to keep their distance.
Give them warm water drops.
Steve jumps from the dock, Eddie splashes in after him. They surface together with curses and laughter. The water smells like silt and summer and that stupid shampoo Steve always forgets to rinse out.
Eddie watches it drip down his neck, then looks away.
Because looking hurts.
Because his heart knows what his mouth is afraid to say.
Give them smiles.
In stolen moments.
In mixtapes Steve leaves by the door. In the pack of cigarettes where Eddie hides a candy. In dumb nicknames, in backseat nights, in side-glances and “accidental” brushes of fingers.
Let them get to know each other.
Not completely. Just the edges. Carefully.
Through vinyl records and hated books. Through scars and unnamed memories. Through laughter, so they don’t cry. Through silence.
Silence is their mother tongue.
Let Eddie play a show.
Let the amps scream, let his guitar wail, let his voice crack.
Let Steve be in the crowd, where no one sees how he looks at him.
Not just looks — prays.
For Eddie. For them. For what can’t be said out loud.
Give them a library.
Old, dusty. Where they pretend to learn something.
Where Eddie takes notes and Steve flips through medical books like they hold answers.
Where their shoulders touch, but never stay touching.
Because someone might walk in.
Because “we’re not supposed to be.”
Give them antiseptic.
In the hospital smells Eddie comes home wrapped in — alive, but changed.
He doesn’t tell Steve right away.
He jokes too long, smokes too long, writes letters and burns them.
Then one night, he looks him in the eye and says:
"Maybe I deserved it."
And Steve — shatters.
But doesn’t leave.
Give them fear.
Eddie doesn’t kiss him.
Doesn’t let him.
Not because he doesn’t want to.
But because he wants to — too much.
Because it hurts even being close.
Because every touch feels like a tightrope over a chasm.
Because the news shows bodies.
Because the world whispers filth.
Because love — is lethal.
Give them loneliness, together.
Let Steve sit on the floor outside the bathroom while Eddie coughs.
Let Eddie lean his forehead into Steve’s shoulder while Steve pretends to read a comic.
Let them look the same way, but walk different paths.
It’s safer that way.
Give them lies.
"You okay?" Dustin asks.
"Yeah," Stive says.
"You and Steve are close," Wayne observes.
"He’s just a good friend," Eddie replies.
"You’re not...?"
"No."
"Never?"
"Never."
And no one knows each “never” leaves a carved mark in their ribs.
Give them love.
Muted. Unlived. Growing in between sentences.
In Steve wearing Eddie’s shirt.
In a note forgotten in a book.
In hugging with a pillow between them so they don’t get too close.
In the unsaid "if only."
Spring.
Eddie gets spots. Kaposi’s, the doctor later says.
He jokes, of course: “Thought I was just allergic to a boring life.”
Steve doesn’t laugh with him anymore — he’s still there, but cracked open inside.
Robin brings Eddie ice cream.
They sit on the roof, all three of them.
Like teenagers.
Like time could be frozen.
Steve washes Eddie’s dishes for the first time.
Not because he asks.
But because today, Eddie can’t get off the couch
The therapy changes.
New protocol.
New hope.
Not a cure — but a delay.
Eddie loses his hair.
Laughs: “Guess I’m only beautiful on the inside now.”
Steve buys him a hat.
Knitted.
Stupid-looking.
Eddie smiles for the first time in months — genuinely.
Not through the pain.
They dance in the kitchen.
Slowly.
To Elton John.
Gloves on their hands.
Hearts bare.
They have no future.
But they have now.
Eddie sleeps more. Talks less.
But whispers:
"If I’d been born later... would we have gone on a date?"
Steve nods.
"Would you have kissed me in public?"
"I’d have held your hand in the street," Steve says.
"Would you have married me?"
Steve smiles.
"The day it’s allowed — I’ll be the first one in a suit."
And give them time.
Just a little.
Imperfect. Cracked. On the edge.
Before the sun sets.
Before the body gives out.
Before Eddie vanishes into his own fear.
Before Steve stays, even if they’re no longer “together.”
Give Eddie one quiet line.
A small diagnosis.
Three letters after they saved the world — and for some reason, he lived.
HIV+
Give them a reality that would scare any monster.
And maybe—just maybe— give them a future.
A future where Eddie quietly hands Steve a mixtape.
No ceremony. Just glance that doesn’t last.
A future where Steve wears a suit for the first time in years,
and God, he looks stunning in it—like something out of a better world.
A future where Steve kisses him. No hesitation.
And in that future, the birds are singing.
The sun is shining.
And Steve Harrington, in that damn perfect suit,
kisses Eddie Munson for the first time
to the sound of a mixtape Eddie made month ago—
for his funeral.
✨ If you like my stories and vibes, you can support me here: [Ko-fi]
sorry about that. one of the reasons i dont read or write angst is my life and brain are full of that shit. if you want some more historical angst but with happy steddie, it's here
