steddie being Platonic Besties. steve gets it in his head that he needs to learn how to braid hair for his next gf and eddie is clearly the perfect model for him to practice on (steve refuses to admit that he just wants an excuse to touch those pretty pretty curls that he can't stop noticing lately). eddie, who's been secretly in love with his straight boy best friend for ages now, is suddenly in a whirlwind of heaven-hell where everytime they hang out, eddie ends up sitting on the floor in between steve's legs while steve plays with his hair. it only takes a couple attempts before "learning to braid hair" turns into massaging eddie's head and playing with his curls and steve gently scratching his short nails along eddie's scalp. eddie manages it for a few weeks until one night he's had one too many beers and a couple too many tokes and finds himself melting into steve and moaning softly as the man pets his hair. he doesn't even realize he's pitching a tent until steve laughs, soft and equally as cross-faded, and mumbles "want me to take care of that too after i'm done with your hair?"
Eddie and Steve have been dating for three months when Eddie introduces Steve to Wayne. Afterwards, Steve is just like, "Oh, wow. Wow. Oh god, he hates me. He hates me, doesn't he?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Eddie asks. "He shook your hand and invited you to stay for dinner."
"Yeah, god. It's so obvious. He hates me," Steve stresses. "Do you think he's going to make you break up with me? He hated me so much. Geez."
"Steve, he doesn't-"
"I've dated a lot of girls, Eddie. That's how dads act when they hate you," He swears. "Fuck, I gotta get out of here. Eddie, I have to go."
"Steve, calm down," Eddie starts. "He doesn't - don't go out the - yep, out the window. There you go. Okay...Bye. Love you!"
Eddie waits two full minutes before he walks out of his bedroom back into the rest of the house and asks, "What the hell, Wayne? You hate my boyfriend?"
"I never said that," Wayne scoffs. "I like the kid. Said he was good for ya. Does that sound like I hate 'em?"
"No," Eddie breaths out. "No, I knew he was making no sense. God, Steve is so weird. I love him, you know?"
"Told him that I loved him," He continues, grinning from behind his hair. "Told him when he was climbing out the window."
"He say it back?"
"No, I don't think he's realized what I said yet. When do you think-"
There's an insistent knock at the door.
Wayne grabs his keys to leave, "Probably about now, I bet."
Eddie starts wearing more rings, specifically on every finger but his left ring finger, because he finds it endlessly amusing to constantly tease Steve with "when are you gonna complete the set, baby?" as he wiggles his fingers at him, clink clink, whenever they've got a Safe audience.
It's amusing to a point, but when he does it at the little Roof-Gang-Reunion for the twenty-fifth time, when they're at opposite ends of the sprawl of adults across their Philly hangout, Jonathan turns to Steve and snaps, "would you just ask him already? It's been years, you're killing me, here!"
He stuns the room into a temporary silence, but Steve and Eddie look at each other quizically after a moment.
Eddie shrugs, palms up, clinking his rings deliberately, I dunno, what do you think?
Steve bounces his head side to side, shoulders lifting slightly, a high pitched "mh" escaping his nose. eh, why not?
Steve takes off his graduation ring, one of the few pieces of jewellery he wears outside of a watch (and a gym whistle at work, if that counts), and tosses it across their sprawled out friends to Eddie, laughing when he fumbles it.
It takes a second for Eddie to recover, but he soon has a green gemmed class of '85 Graduation ring on his finger, inspecting it somewhat dramatically before showing it to Robin and Nancy like a swooning bride-to-be.
The funny part is they're not even dating, they're just roommates.
Naturally they commit too hard to the bit to rile Jonathan up, and the air in the trailer is charged with a new but not unwelcome energy when they return home a few days later.
~
Bonus Lore:
The only reason Steve wears his graduation ring is because shortly after they put down a deposit on a trailer together, Eddie rummaged through Steve's old stuff on moving in day and found it, then proceeded to ask if he could wear it.
Part of Eddie's reasoning was, naturally, a big fat gay crush, but his excuse was he never got one of his own, and honestly that did always bother him.
Eddie's graduation was a mess, he didn't initially graduate in '86 because of the accusations. Then due to being declared dead during the rifts opening up, it turned out he miraculously had gotten the grades required to graduate so was post-humously graduated, and then, THEN, when it turns out he's not dead or a murdering cultist, Hawkins High tried to rescind his fucking diploma, and when the gang argued their way out of that, Eddie couldn't afford the bastard ring anyway.
But hey, it may have been via an unintentional proposal, but Eddie got his way eventually, and even when he goes back to less rings he keeps that one on.
much to Steve's chagrin tbh "can I have that back now? We're not fake-engaged anymore." "nuh uh no takebacks, Harrington, this baby's mine."
Eddie breaks into the biggest presumptively empty house in Hawkins and finds out real quick that it’s not empty.
He comes face to face with this (admittedly very hot) guy holding a piping bag of icing and wearing a flour covered apron in the kitchen.
They both just stand there.
Staring at each other.
This guy - Steve, he’ll learn - isn’t exactly the poster child for Stand Your Ground so, “Fuck it, I’m robbing you.”
“Hm,” Steve says. “No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m - what?”
“You look like a nerd,” He says, picking up one of the cookies he was icing. “Does this look like a Deathstar?”
“…It looks like a disco ball.”
“That’s what I thought,” Steve shakes his head. “Damn it.”
Eddie should turn around and leave. He should actually just leave town and change his name, and never come back but. He takes a stop closer, “If I can make a suggestion…”
Thinking about how Zuko almost never laughs in canon. And how Sokka takes alot of his identity from being the “funny one”, the one who can always lighten a mood and make people smile.
Thinking about a Sokka who makes it his mission to get Zuko to even so much as smile. Laughter is his goal, but he’ll take even just a soft smile if he can get it.
He doesn’t know why it irks him so much, that smiles so rarely grace Zuko’s face, that laughter is so rarely heard from the teen Firelord.
But Sokka knows he wants to hear it. Needs to hear it. He can’t explain it- maybe it’s because Zuko is the one person who doesn’t so easily laugh at his jokes- but it becomes an obsession for him.
Over time, Sokka becomes the only person who can wheedle out a genuine laugh from Zuko. The only one who can ease his worry-lined face into softness, who can make a smile appear on his pressed thin lips.
Zuko starts to seek him out, whenever he’s feeling particularly worn down. When pressure sinks into his bones, when tension weighs on his shoulders like the goddamn earth itself- it’s Sokka’s easy smile and quick wit that he seeks.
Before long, they’re both spending every free second they can find in eachother’s company. Sokka stops trying to get Zuko to laugh just to feel better about himself- he starts trying to get him to laugh just because he loves the sound. And Zuko stops seeking Sokka out just because he knows he’ll feel a little calmer from his jokes- he seeks him out because he knows he’ll feel at peace from Sokka.
It’s slow, the way they fall in love. It doesn’t happen overnight. It’s not a flash, no collision that leaves them dazed.
It’s a snowball of little moments. It’s shared laughs and small smiles, it’s leaned on shoulders and quiet evenings where neither utters a word.
It’s slow, but that’s the kind of love that lasts. They wade into the water instead of diving straight in, and by the time they reach the deep end- they both find that they’ve learned how to swim.
When Eddie decided to properly introduce Steve to Wayne, he was a little nervous.
Eddie didn't think his uncle would be mean to Steve or anything, and by now his uncle was more than aware of Eddie's dating preferences, but he just couldn't help it. Steve was important to him, Wayne was important to him. All Eddie wanted was for his two favorite people to get along; he wanted it more than anything.
He soon found out he worried for nothing. Wayne took one look at Steve, saw that whole posture that screamed jock! and asked, "Do you like sports, son?"
A little stunned by the question, Steve nodded, "Yes, sir."
Wayne hummed in approval. "There's a game on tonight, wanna watch it? Eddie can order dinner for us."
"Sure. I read the Pacers are down two players, both injured."
"Son, if they manage to avoid getting destroyed tonight I'm already happy. This team sucks."
Steve laughed, "True."
That's how Eddie found himself thirdwheeling and completely ignored in his own home, as his boyfriend and uncle screamed and cursed together at the TV every time a player messed up. There was a lot of screaming and cursing.
By the time Steve left, late at night, he and Wayne had already agreed to watch the next match together, and Steve promised he'd be bringing beer and snacks.
"Stop trying to steal my boyfriend!" Eddie said once he was sure Steve was out of earshot. Wayne just rolled his eyes.
"You were the one who wanted us to get along, so I'm trying to get along with your boy."
"But you don't need to get along that well."
"You're an idiot," Wayne sighed, messing his nephew's hair as he walked by him to go to his room. "Please, don't let this one go, alright? He's a keeper."
Eddie was smiling soft when he said, "Yeah, I know."
Ever since Steve found out that Eddie's still a virgin, he can't be cool around him anymore. He keeps checking out his ass when Eddie leans forward to insert a VHS. Every accidental brush of arms, fingers, or legs against each other has his blood heat, his brain running overtime with images of all the other places he wants to touch Eddie. When Eddie grins that big goofy grin of his, Steve can't help but imagine seeing him look like that after blowing his mind wide open.
He knows it's weird how obsessed he is with the idea of deflowering a good friend; that wanting to have sex with him just to be his first is not a normal thought.
Cue Robin telling Steve to lie on the couch in the WSQK, sitting across from him with a notebook in her hand, giving her best understanding therapist face.
"So, why do you think it matters so much to you if somebody is a virgin?"
"Not somebody. Just Eddie," Steve answers, because he hasn't cared for a long time if any of the women he'd been dating had experience or not. Most of the time, he'd even preferred it if they knew stuff in the bedroom he'd never tried before.
"Okay," Robin concedes. "Why do you care that Eddie is a virgin?"
Steve shrugs, thinks about it. "I just think it's hot?"
"And why do you think it's hot that your platonic friend has never had sex?"
"I don't know, Robin," Steve whines. "I guess because he looks so badass? So him being innocent in that regard, it's like... a dichotomy?"
Robin hums, clearly not satisfied yet with his answers.
"Okay, let's try a different angle. Why do you keep thinking of deflowering him if you don't like him like that?"
"Who says I don't like him? I do like him."
"As a friend."
"As a human," Steve corrects.
Robin hums again, scribbles something in her notebook.
"So, you want to be Eddie's first."
"Fuck," Steve groans, rubs his face in embarrassed frustration. "Yes."
"Let's try to dig deeper here, Stevie. Why do you want to be his first?"
"Because-" He hesitates, imagines Eddie beneath him, writhing in pleasure, hands buried in Steve's hair, lips swollen with Steve's kisses, pupils all blown with desire. "I just want it to be good for him. First times can be weird, awkward, disappointing."
"And you would make sure it wouldn't be like that?"
"Yeah," Steve agrees, slapping the worn leather beneath his hand. He feels like they're finally onto something. "I would make it so good for him. He wouldn't be able to stop himself from coming back for more."
"And you would want that? Eddie coming back to you for sex again and again?"
He imagines it then, imagines all the ways he could blow Eddie's mind. God, it could take years until they've tried everything Steve wants to try with him, decades if they get creative.
Steve nods, hesitantly, and Robin sighs.
"Steve," she says seriously, "I diagnose you with being a doofus."
Steve sits up, offended. "Hey! You're supposed to be supportive!"
"There's no supporting the willfully ignorant."
Steve frowns at her.
"Lucky for you, there's an easy cure." She points her pen at Steve. "Ask Eddie out on a date. Right now."
He thinks about it, thinks of taking Eddie out for dinner, feels his heart climb into his throat.
"What if he says no?" Steve whispers, fingers curling into the leather of the couch.
"Then you come back for another appointment tomorrow. But I've got a feeling you won't have to. You're not the only doofus in the world, ya know."
"Who's a doofus?" Eddie asks, walking in on them. He looks so good in his worn leather jacket and combat boots that Steve's mouth runs dry.
"You are," Robin declares, getting up to give them space, wiggling her brows as she walks backward and mouths, "Ask him."
Eddie laughs at her weird behavior, then turns to Steve. "What was up with that?"
Steve shakes his head, grins an awkward little smile. "What would you say about going out to grab some dinner?"
"Dinner?" Eddie shrugs, clearly not aware that he's been asked out on a date. "Sure, let's go."
If someone told Steve a few years ago that he would regularly lift Eddie Munson into his arms, he would have advised the poor soul to take a long vacation at Pennhurst.
But here he is, holding Eddie against the humming fridge in his dark kitchen, fingers digging into the flesh of his thighs, with not a single inch of space between their bodies, Eddie's wide, dark eyes fixed on his.
"Two is a coincidence..." Eddie mutters, licking his lips, letting the rest of the sentence dwindle out as Steve's eyes fall shut.
It all starts here:
A hot summer day, them sitting on the lounge chairs next to the pool in nothing but swimming trunks, nursing two cold Coke bottles, when Steve notices something off with Eddie.
"What happened to you, man?" He points his bottle at Eddie's ribs, the large purple bruise on his pale skin enough to have him wince in sympathy. Eddie looks down at himself, then flushes, a pretty pink spreading across his sternum, climbing along his throat and into his cheeks.
"Oh, this?" he asks, sheepishly. "Just a little accident."
"What kind of accident?"
"Just, you know..." Eddie shrugs, turns his head away from Steve, hiding the heat in his face.
Steve frowns at him, unsatisfied with the non-answer. Then, it dawns on him.
"You mean that happened during...?"
Eddie blushes even harder if that's possible. Steve's never seen him like this. He's normally so shameless, flaunting his opinions loud and proud.
"Yeah, Steve, it happened during dot dot dot. Satisfied?"
Steve is, and he isn't. Because how would you even get bruised like that during sex? Unless...
"Did somebody do that to you? Like on purpose?" Does Steve have to drive all the way up to Indy to beat up one of Eddie's hookups?
"No, nothing like that." Eddie groans and rubs a hand over his face. "I fell."
"You fell?" Steve looks down at his Coke bottle. "You fell from what?"
Eddie thumps his head back against the chair, eyes rising towards the sky like he's praying for patience. "From the hot guy's arms I was in, okay?"
Steve chokes on the sip of Coke, he was just about to swallow. "You mean you had sex while standing up?"
"Not exactly sex," Eddie says and shakes his head. "Just making out, I guess."
"Somebody made out with you while lifting you up?" The words feel weird in Steve's mouth, tacky, as if they should have stayed glued to his palate.
"Seems impossible, right? Should've known it could only end in disaster," Eddie laughs. "It was hot in the moment, though. Before he let me fall, and I hit the dresser next to us. Being worried that I might've fractured a rib was kinda a mood killer. Don't think we'll see each other again."
"It's not impossible," Steve remarks, before he can think better of it. "I made out lifting the other person up before. Multiple times."
If possible, the heat in Eddie's cheeks burns even brighter now. Is he getting sunburned? Steve should probably get out the aloe for him later.
"With girls. It's not the same."
"I could easily lift your bony ass, Munson."
Eddie stares at him with raised brows, then scoffs. "Sure, Harrington."
Steve feels his fingers itch with the desire to prove himself, but before he can act on the impulse, Eddie's up and jumps into the pool, splashing water all over Steve's shins.
Steve's determined not to let it drop.
The first time he gets the opportunity is a few nights later when they hang out at the Munson trailer. They climb on top of the roof to split a joint between them, smoking and talking about nothing and everything, about their days, about their friends, about their random shower thoughts.
He likes that about Eddie, how easy things are with him. Eddie's one of those friends who can go on long tirades about the constraints of society, but he never judges Steve, even when they disagree. It's new for Steve, too, to hang out with someone who doesn't think his thoughts and ideas are stupid, even when he tries to estimate how many slices of pizza he's eaten in his lifetime.
So, when he finally jumps off the trailer's roof, a little higher and a little more giggly than before, and Eddie looks down from where he's sitting, worrying his lower lip, Steve doesn't hesitate to open his arms for him.
"Was this always this high?" Eddie asks, and Steve can't help but laugh.
"C'mon, Munson, I've got you."
Eddie doesn't look entirely convinced, so Steve adds, "I would never let you fall, promise."
Next thing he knows, Eddie pushes off the edge of the trailer. Steve catches him around the middle, Eddie's hands landing on his shoulder, fingers digging deep into his flesh.
Steve looks up at him with a happy chuckle, says, "See?" and Eddie's eyes get all wide and startled. He looks kinda pretty, Steve thinks while he keeps Eddie lifted off the ground for a moment longer, what with that star-sprinkled sky behind him.
Then he slowly lowers Eddie down on his feet, showing off his muscles and proving he can indeed lift Eddie without making him fall, even if only for a moment.
They don't talk about it afterwards. Just head inside, cook mac and cheese from the box.
The second time it happens, Eddie's drunk on Steve's couch. They made cocktails with the contents of his parents' liquor cabinet and exotic juices Robin brought from the store while watching Rocky Horror. Steve's not a big fan of sticky-sweet alcohol, so he's mostly stayed faithful to his beer and is thus the only one relatively sober among the three of them.
Robin's already headed up to crash in the guestroom, but Eddie's apparently content with falling asleep right here, in his uncomfortable clothes, without washing up.
"C'mon, Ed, get up," Steve groans, trying to pull him into a standing position by his arm.
"Just leave me here," he grumbles, "don't wanna move."
"Ah, ah," Steve chastises him. "We don't skip the bedtime routine in the Harrington household. You had a lot of sugar, so you have to brush your teeth. Either get your ass up yourself, or I'll carry you to the bathroom."
"Yeah," Eddie laughs, slumps down even further. "As if."
Steve leans down before he can rethink his decision, guiding Eddie's arms around his neck, then sliding one hand below his thigh, and the other around his middle, holding on fast. He lifts him up and into his arms with a grunt, jostling him up and resettling his grip by holding onto both of his thighs.
Eddie's not exactly heavy, but his drunken wobbliness makes it a bit of a challenge to carry him up the stairs to the second floor, still.
"What the fuck, Harrington?" he mumbles into Steve's shoulder, arms curled tight around Steve's neck. Steve turns his head, inhales Eddie's musk- tobacco, and something a little more spicy- tries to ignore the demanding beat of his own heart.
He kicks open the door to his bathroom, sets Eddie on top of the marble countertop, then searches for the spare toothbrush under the sink. He wets it under the tap, then squeezes a bit of toothpaste onto it and hands it to Eddie, who looks at it as if Steve just handed him a weird insect.
Steve ignores his skeptical look in favor of brushing his own teeth, then hands Eddie a cup of water to rinse his mouth. There's no logical reason for Steve to lift Eddie in his arms again afterward, besides wanting to do so.
Eddie curls around him like a koala, not even questioning Steve's motives anymore, holds on like he never wants Steve to let him go. Steve's stomach flips when one of Eddie's hands buries inside his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his strands, one of his rings snatching on a stand, the sharp pain enough for Steve to have to suppress a moan.
He puts Eddie on his bed before he does something he will regret later, tosses some clean sweatpants at him, then goes downstairs to clean up the total mess Robin and Eddie left in his kitchen. When he comes back, Eddie is already asleep, face pressed into Steve's pillow, like he's trying to soak up every bit of Steve's scent.
It gets a little more complicated for Steve after that. The kicking of his heart, the nervous flutter in his gut, are still there, and they're getting harder to ignore. There's not much chance to lift Eddie up, and Steve's feeling a little desperate to hold Eddie in his arms, to feel his breath against his neck, those strong fingers digging into his skin, holding onto his hair.
Opportunity finally arises a few weeks later, when they're in Steve's backyard again, playing Badminton (the only sport Steve could convince Eddie to give a chance).
Suddenly, Eddie yelps, tugging his bare foot around to inspect the sole of it.
"Shit, fucking ouch," he hisses when Steve hurries over, "I think I stepped on a bee."
Steve doesn't hesitate to pick Eddie up, just this time, he puts an arm beneath his knees and the other around his shoulders.
"Did I hit my head, too?" Eddie wonders, but is still holding onto Steve's neck as he always does. "I think I'm getting carried princess style by one Steve Harrington."
Eddie swoons and puts the back of his hand against his forehead. Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes in answer, doesn't know what to say to make it less weird. He carries Eddie into the kitchen, sets him on the kitchen counter, then gets an onion and slices it into half before pressing it to the swollen spot on Eddie's foot.
"Do you think the bee is okay?" Eddie asks, and Steve thinks he's a little bit in love with him.
The fourth time it happens, it's on Eddie. He comes storming into Steve's house, calling for him, calling, "Steve, Steve, I've got the job at the garage!"
Steve steps out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel, when Eddie flings himself at him, arms curled tight around his neck. Steve's got no choice but to drop the dish towel, curling his arms around Eddie's waist and whirling him around until they're both dizzy with laughter.
So.
Two is a coincidence.
Three is a pattern.
Five. Well. Five might be a bit of a problem.
That final time in his kitchen at night, happens like this:
The other side of Steve's bed is empty, even though Eddie stayed over. They haven't felt awkward about sharing a bed in a long time, which Steve realizes might seem a little strange in itself, but since they're both members of the regular nightmares club…
Steve heads down, finds Eddie in the kitchen refilling a glass with water from the tap.
"Did I wake you?" he asks, and turns to Steve, leaning against the counter. He looks so good like this, with Steve's shorts a little too big on him and slung low on his hips, hair all tousled from sleep, slim fingers ringless for once. Pretty eyes, pretty lips, even the exact cut of his chin is pretty.
Steve didn't plan for it to happen like this, didn't plan for anything to happen at all, really, but he tugs Eddie's glass out of his hand, places it on the counter, then bends his knees to lift him into his arms, slowly, fabric sliding against fabric.
Eddie's thighs come around Steve's waist like they've rehearsed this, like they've done this a million times before, will a million times more. Steve takes a few steps to the side, trying to find a surface he can secure Eddie against, finds the tall fridge to be perfect for that.
Eddie gasps when his back comes into contact with the cold metal, and he tightens his arms and legs around Steve. For a short moment, they only look at each other, breathing hard against each other.
"Two is a coincidence..." Eddie mutters, licking his lips. Steve lets his eyes fall shut, leans in until his nose slides against Eddie's. His heart is stuck in his throat at this point, his fingers tingling where they're digging into the naked skin of Eddie's thighs. He slides them a bit higher, high enough that they slip under the hem of his shorts.
"Five?" Steve breathes. "What is five?"
"Five is a confession," Eddie whispers back. Steve can't help but press his smile against the edge of Eddie's jaw. God, he likes him so much.
"Do you have any idea what this does to me?" Eddie groans, fingers curling in Steve's hair and tugging on it until Steve moans against his skin. "Lifting me in your freakishly strong arms like it's nothing? Promising me not to let me fall? Jesus freaking Christ, I thought I was going to spontaneously combust every time."
"Yeah?" He hums, pulls away enough to look at Eddie in the spare light of his dark kitchen. Steve's still grinning, his cheeks aching from it.
"Are you always this competitive, Harrington?"
"I like to be the best at whatever I do. Sue me," Steve shrugs, jostling Eddie in his arms in the process.
"Well, we haven't made out yet, so the jury is still out on whether you can do it without dropping me on my ass."
Steve's mouth lands on Eddie's true and right. Kissing the sass right out of him, kissing him pliant and soft, until Eddie's shivering and sighing in his arms.
True to his word, he doesn't let Eddie fall. Not even twenty minutes later, when their kisses have turned hard and heavy, when his hold on Eddie has gotten so tight, he's leaving his own kind of bruises on him.
Steve is intimately familiar with jealousy in a way he doesn't think most people are. He's been left before, replaced. He knows the burning, bile-inducing sensation of seeing your person with somebody else.
He is still absolutely blindsided by it when Eddie tells him that he's going to Indy the following weekend to meet his previous hookup from a few weeks ago.
Eddie is not his. Eddie can do with his time, with his body, with his feelings, whatever he wants. There's not a single reason in the whole of the universe for Steve to feel jealous.
And, still, knowing the feeling so well, having endured it for so long, he knows there's no other explanation for it.
It's jealousy that makes him snap at Robin when she makes a remark on how the humidity has made his hair explode into untameable curls.
It's jealousy that has him stewing in front of the TV that night with a bottle of lukewarm beer crushed between his knees. Jealousy that has him take a too-hot turned too-cold shower, and scrub his skin until it's an angry red. Jealousy that has him staring at the ceiling at night, kicking at his blanket.
Jealousy, the green-eyed monster that lurks in the dark corner of his bedroom. Jealousy that twists his stomach into a tight knot.
It's worse the next day, when Eddie's around the WSQK, going through their vinyl collection, planning a special late-night rock show together with Robin for all the freaks in Hawkins.
Steve's not done much to expose how he really feels yet, beyond flicking through a magazine about cars or some shit, occasionally frowning in their direction.
But it comes to a head when Robin leaves first to get ready for her date with Vickie and asks Steve to close up the station after Eddie. Eddie's being his usual chaotic self, pulling out Vinyl after Vinyl and taking them out of their sleeves without putting them back properly, forcing Steve to grumblingly clean up after him while Eddie rattles down the entire history of rock ' n ' roll.
When Eddie leans against one of the shelves with his shoulders, gesturing wildly with his arms while rambling about how Elvis was a truck driver before he became a star, Steve ruffs his hair in frustration, combs it back, then pins Eddie down with a glare.
"Do you ever shut up, dude?" he scathingly asks. Eddie's grin falters, his hands falling to his side.
"Seriously," Steve mutters, turns away because he can't stand seeing that hurt in Eddie's large eyes, "You should come with an off-button."
"What- What's crawled up your butt?" Eddie asks, but he sounds more shocked than angry.
"Nothing," Steve throws back, taking the Vinyls he's just put back in order and sliding them into the shelf next to where Eddie's still standing, frozen. "You're just a lot, man. Not really in the mood to babysit your loud ass every night."
He glances at Eddie from the corner of his eye, sees him clench his jaw, nodding along to Steve's words. They've been bickering before, made fun of each other, but never like this, never with any serious intent to hurt the other.
Steve feels like a prick. He wishes Eddie would just punch him, hurl something back at Steve that would hurt just as much.
"Yeah," Eddie says, laughs an almost inaudible, "Christ," to himself before pushing off the shelves. "I just get out of your hair then, Harrington." Another humorless laugh. "Ha, hair, get it?"
Steve doesn't. Steve doesn't get anything anymore. Especially not himself, and how he can act so carelessly with somebody else's feelings. Again.
He's the worst friend. Hasn't learned any of his lessons.
"Eddie," he calls at his retreating back. "You're not getting out of here before you clean up your mess."
Not what he wants to say, but god, he's still so angry.
Eddie throws him the bird over his shoulder and keeps walking.
"Munson!" Steve bellows, storming after him. He shoves Eddie's shoulder when he catches up with him at the entrance doors. Eddie stumbles around and shoves him back with a palm against his chest, hard. And, yes, fuck that's what he wants, Eddie angry, furious, pushing into his space, breathing hard.
"Don't be a fucking brat," Steve seethes.
"How about you stop being such a dick, then?"
Steve wrinkles his nose, steps in closer. Eddie backs away, colliding with the door behind him. His eyes widen, but Steve doesn't back off, gets right into his space, curling his fingers into the collar of his shirt.
"Jesus, Harrington. You're really itching for a fight tonight, aren't you?"
"Yeah," Steve agrees, sees no point in denying it. "Will you give me one?"
Eddie frowns at that, eyes flickering down to Steve's parted lips where he's panting. Then his hands come around Steve's wrists, and he's pushed backwards, sideways, shoved right into the wall next to the doors, Eddie's rings biting into his skin. Steve grunts at the impact, pulls harder on Eddie's shirt, lifts his chin in defiance.
"You're gonna explain the bruises to Henderson, then?" Eddie growls, and Steve can't help but remember the time he had him pushed against the boathouse, broken bottle at his neck, Steve's heart racing, running away from him, just like now, and still different.
"You're gonna mess me up, Munson?"
"Only if you keep running your mouth," Eddie says, even lower, eyes flicking down again, fingers tightening around Steve's wrists, callouses pressed right into his throbbing pulse in a way that almost hurts.
"Do your worst, asshole," Steve hurls back, tugging so hard on Eddie's shirt collar that a seam pops.
Eddie seems at a loss for words, his frown deepening. Then, he pushes a thigh between Steve's, tilting his head.
"This is what you want?" He pushes his thigh higher, high enough that it comes in contact with where Steve is rapidly hardening, chokes all the air out of his lungs.
He shakes his head, and Eddie's about to move away, eyes troubled with regret, but Steve puts his jock reflexes to good use and grabs him with hands on both sides of Eddie's face. He pulls him back in, muffles the gasping moan that flies from Eddie's mouth with his lips, and kisses him hard.
Eddie gives back as good as he gets, hands still locked around Steve's wrists like a vice, bruising him with a kiss that feels more like an extension of their fight than any confession.
When Eddie's teeth dig a little too hard into Steve's bottom lip, he pushes him away again with a hand against his shoulder.
Eddie looks completely dazed, pupils blown to shit, brows still knitted together.
"What the fuck is even happening right now?" he asks, sounds less angry and more anxious now.
"Don't go to Indy," Steve blurts, then pulls himself away, so he doesn't have to look at Eddie for the fallout of that declaration. He turns away from him and thumps the side of his head against the wall. "Fuck, I'm the worst."
He can't believe how impulsive he still is, that nothing ever brings out the worst in him more than fearing that the person he wants could want somebody else.
Did he just let Nancy go, so he could make the same mistake with the next person he's... he's- well, no point denying it anymore- falling in love with?
"Steve."
Steve cringes, keeps his eyes shut tight. He doesn't want to look at Eddie after making an absolute fool out of himself.
"Jesus Christ, Harrington, you're unbelievable."
Steve shrugs, can't bring himself to answer. Where's Robin to slap him over the head with some sense when he needs her?
He waits for Eddie to leave his stupid ass like he deserves, waits for the telltale sound of the glass door sliding open, then shut, but it never comes. When he finally opens his eyes, Eddie's right in front of him again, leaning sideways against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest, mouth open wide in a shit-eating grin.
"So, this is your jealous side?" he asks, grin growing even wider.
"My worst side," Steve huffs, scrubs his hands over his face in embarrassment. Eddie catches his wrists again and pulls his hands away.
"Cute."
"You're unhinged if you think that was cute."
"Yeah, what a couple we make, huh?" Eddie laughs, then his mouth is back on Steve's, softening their fight into something warmer, gentler, until finally it feels like the confession it was meant to be from the start.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Harrington. What are you doing?"
"Obviously, I am sitting in my living room. You're the one with a jacket on at midnight in a town on lockdown."
"Yeah. Well. I'm going out."
Steve sighed. Pointed out the window. "Military. Lockdown."
Eddie surveyed Steve's lounging form and realized he hadn't moved. The statement wasn't a challenge. Genuine curiosity was sitting in his gaze.
"And do you always do what you're told?" Eddie teased, dark and low. "Night, Harrington."
"Wait."
Eddie paused, hand on the doorknob.
"Can I come?"
"Lockdown," he mocked. "Remember? Not to mention this isn't exactly the type of thing I want company for—no, God. Wait. Don't. Twist that."
Eddie turned and found Steve's head curiously tilted. His cheeks were also bright red in the dim lamp light but Eddie didn't think he'd realized that yet.
"I'm going to get a tattoo," he continued. "So. Hurry up. You're gonna need shoes and shit and I don't want to be late."
Eddie knew the whiplash he'd caused in this interaction was his fault, but, Harrington's scramble was still hilarious. He accidentally giggled as Steve tried to lock the door while also shoving his foot in a shoe.
The drive was short and uneventful, and Steve was uncharacteristically silent. Even his facial expressions were neutral, no late night bitchiness in sight. It was a little bit unnerving, but Eddie could ignore quite lot. Had decided to ignore Steve, if he could. Midnight always brought out weird interactions between them. Letting him come was a terrible idea, but he was stuck now.
He marched into Tom's garage side door like he owned the place, with Steve in his preppy fucking jacket trailing behind him like a whipped puppy. He felt the back of his neck heat uncomfortably. He really should not have caved.
"Thought you'd bailed on me, Munson. Who's the narc?"
"Chill, dude. He's...just here to observe."
"You never used to need hand holding for this," Tom sneered.
Steve snorted and Eddie glared at him. He held his hands up in surrender.
"Sorry. Just. Is this guy for real? Does he have any idea where he's living? And he's trying to insult you for what...? Needing people? Insane."
Steve stared at Tom; they locked eyes for a moment, and Eddie was reminded unpleasantly of two buck deer sizing each other up before locking horns and attempting to kill each other. Just as he had decided that he'd made a grave mistake and that they would leave, Tom let out a rauccus laugh and held out a hand for a shake.
"Alright, dude. You pass. You can stay. You getting inked too? Eddie can vouch for me. Pretty decent with a needle."
Eddie sighed and collapsed into Tom's chair, already prepped and covered in clean plastic. "For fucks sake, man, why are you like this."
Tom chuckled again. "Jerry asks the same thing every damn day, but I don't see him moving out, do you? So. What we doing."
"Well," Eddie said with a wince, reaching down to pull his shirt up. "I broke your shit."
The scars on his chest had not started to look better. They were a little less painful these days, mostly from constantly massaging them with Vickie's magic concoction. But still. The tattoo beneath them was gone. Tom sucked in a breath.
"No kidding. What happened?"
Eddie gulped. Froze.
"Fire," Steve said softly, settling on a rolling stool beside him and inching closer to his side.
Tom nodded solemnly. "Okay. We putting the same thing back? Where?"
He nodded. "Shoulder."
Without anymore questions or concerns, Tom got to work. Settled him with his belly on the table, arms above his head. The stencil was quick. Tom knew what he was doing.
Eddie had ten tattoos, not including the one that had been destroyed by the bats. He didn't actually find them painful. But as the needle hit his skin this time, as the outline of his beloved demon returned to his body, he felt his eyes prick with tears. It was annoying. Especially when Harrington rolled even closer, so that his knees were in Eddie's periphery. Eddie swallowed, cleared his throat.
"I was just kidding before," Tom muttered, concentrating. "You can hold his hand. It's safe here."
Eddie choked on a chuckle. "That's not—Steve's not really...we aren't..."
He gave up, letting a second chuckle be the real response. To his horror, the stool moved in again. Steve's cool, dry hand lifted Eddie's. Hooked their fingers together. Placed them on his knee.
"Been a pretty shitty few months," Steve said to Tom. "Think it's just a lot of feeling. This freak here can definitely handle pain."
The needle paused and Eddie could practically hear Tom smile. "Everyone needs a little hand holding sometimes, right? No shame in that."
"Yeah," Steve replied. "Yeah. Everyone."
Tom worked silently for another forty minutes, as Steve rubbed circles into the back of Eddie's hand. He entered a strange, liminal space, one that only existed in the tattoo chair. The twitchy burn of the needle was counterbalanced with Steve's soft touch, and Eddie, exhausted from the weight of living, promptly fell asleep. He only woke up because Steve was releasing his hand, gently pulling away.
"Think you have time to give me just a small one? It'd be...well, it's my first, so I don't know what I'm gonna be like," Steve said.
Tom enthusiastically agreed, pulling a clean kit out of his cart. Eddie sat up and put his shirt back on gingerly, avoiding the plastic wrap as best as he could. That done, he turned all his attention to staring at Steve.
"You don't have anything to prove, you know."
Steve smiled at him, sweet and gentle. It was the most sincere facial expression Eddie had ever seen on him. "Don't worry, dude. That's not what this is. I've had this planned for months, just didn't know I had an opportunity."
He pulled Eddie's arm closer to him, turned it to show Tom.
"These. Along my pec. Don't gotta be identical, obviously. But. The bats."
Tom smiled. "Didn't take you for a bat kind of guy."
Steve grinned up at Eddie, his face wide and open. Hopeful. Scared.
"Yeah. Me either."
Eddie sat beside him as the stencil was placed. He offered his hand before the needle even hit skin.
"Hell of an opening gambit, there, Harrington," he murmured softly, echoing Steve's earlier gesture, writing lyrics into the skin of Steve's hand with his thumb.
"I don't know what you mean, Munson. This is like, our third or fourth date, by my count. I just forgot to tell you. Still. Definitely time for permanent reminders of you etched into my skin."
Tom snorted. "Yeah, alright," he said, glancing at Eddie. "I get it now."
And since Eddie had almost completely forgotten that Tom was there, the blush this time melted down to his toes. Luckily, Steve Harrington, never one to back down from a fight interlaced their fingers and closed his eyes, just as the needle hit his skin for the first time.
thinking about that one HC of eddie being originally from appalachia before moving to hawkins and steve going absolutely feral every time the accent slips out, so here’s a tiny ficlet about steve realizing it’s basically his kryptonite
They’re in the horror aisle at Family Video, doing what they always do when it’s dead: finding the worst covers known to man.
Robin holds one up that looks like it was drawn in crayon. “This one,” she announces, “is a crime.”
Eddie barks out a laugh. “Lord, have mercy,” he says, and it rolls out of him warm and thick, a little different than usual.
Steve freezes.
He’s heard Eddie talk a million times. Ranting, scheming, flirting, yelling over amps. But this is… softer. Rounder. It hits his ears and lights up some stupid part of his brain like, oh. Oh, that’s new.
“Okay, where the hell did that come from?” Steve blurts.
Eddie blinks. “What?”
“That.” Steve points at him like he’s just witnessed a crime. “You sounded like, like a whole other guy for a second.”
Color crawls up Eddie’s neck. He shrugs one shoulder, all defensive and twitchy. “Nowhere. Hush.”
“No.” Steve is immediately, deeply annoying about it. “Absolutely not. Say it again.”
“Not a chance, Harrington.” Eddie shoves a VHS into his chest. “Go alphabetize something.”
“Robin,” Steve whines, turning on her like a traitor witness. “Did you hear that? He did a voice.”
“Oh, yeah,” she says, gleeful. “Country boy jumped out.”
Eddie groans, shoving his hair back. “I hate both of you,” he lies, and stalks off down the aisle.
Steve follows, grinning, tossing movies back on the shelf. “C’mon, just one more ‘Lord, have mercy.’ Just for me. Just a little one.”
“Drop it, Steve.”
He does not drop it.
By the time they close up, Steve’s said “Lord, have mercy” in three different terrible impressions, and Eddie’s told him to shut up in at least five creative ways. The accent doesn’t come back, though, and Steve goes home weirdly, stupidly disappointed about it.
—————————-
Later, they’re at the trailer, door propped open to let in the night air. Some crappy late-night talk show mumbles on the TV, volume low. They’re half lying, half sliding off the couch, feet tangled on the coffee table.
Eddie’s flipping through a battered magazine. Steve’s not even pretending to do anything else; he’s just watching him.
“You’re staring,” Eddie says without looking up.
“You’re avoiding,” Steve shoots back. “Say it again.”
Eddie drops the magazine onto his face for a second like he wishes for death. “You are so persistent.”
“Yes,” Steve says. “I am. We’ve established this.”
Eddie peels the magazine away and eyes him. Steve is sprawled out, hair a mess, socked toes nudging his thigh. He looks… annoyingly sincere.
“One word,” Steve says. “One. Then I’ll shut up forever.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, I’ll shut up for, like, ten minutes.”
Eddie snorts. He should say no. Dig his heels in. But there’s this warm, fizzy feeling in his chest that he doesn’t want to look at too closely, and Steve’s looking at him like he hung the damn moon.
“You’re real persistent, ain’t you, sweetheart?” Eddie says finally, letting it come out the way it wants to, vowels soft, consonants a little lazier, the word sweetheart wrapped up in the drawl he’s been choking down for years.
Steve’s brain short-circuits.
It’s like someone unplugged and replugged him in a different outlet. His stomach does this weird swoop. His face goes hot. Something about the sound of it, about Eddie saying sweetheart like that, all slow and easy, hits directly behind his ribs.
“Oh,” Steve says, a little breathless.
Eddie raises an eyebrow, already smirking. “There. You happy now?”
“No,” Steve says, and then he’s moving before he really decides to, leaning over the tiny space between them.
He kisses him.
It’s not planned. It’s not smooth. He just goes on impulse, mouth landing on Eddie’s with a soft, shocked sound like he surprised himself. His hand catches on Eddie’s shirt, fingers fisting in the worn fabric without thinking.
Eddie makes a tiny noise, half gasp, half laugh, and kisses back on instinct, then pulls away just enough to see Steve’s face. Steve’s flushed, wide-eyed, looking at him like he just handed over the Holy Grail.
There’s a beat where Eddie could pretend he doesn’t know exactly what just happened. Then he feels the grin pull at his mouth, slow and sharp.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, letting the vowels go loose on purpose now. “I can work with this.”
Steve swallows. “Eddie.”
Eddie leans in again, close enough that Steve can feel his breath, and drops it low, sweet, a little smug. “Watch me, darlin’.”
Steve practically launches himself into the next kiss, and that’s when Eddie realizes he’s just unlocked the most unfair advantage in the world.
The Death of the Digital Ecosystem: Why Decoupling Notes Destroys Tumblr
@staff (Edit: I already sent this to Tumblr Support under the feedback option. I encourage everyone to send feedback on how bad this feature actually is).
For years, the total note count on a post served as a universal metric of a piece of content's impact. Whether a user liked the original post or a reblog fifteen branches deep, that engagement flowed back to the source. This ensured that the original artist, writer, or editor received the full credit for the viral success of their work.
Under this new system, engagement is trapped within the specific reblog a user happens to see on their dashboard. If a massive, high-traffic blog reblogs a piece of art from a small creator, every like and reblog that occurs through that larger account stays with them. The original creator is left with a stagnant note count on their own dashboard while their work generates thousands of interactions for someone else.
Erasure of Creator Visibility
Instead of seeing one post with 10,000 notes, a creator may now have to hunt through dozens of different reblog chains to find where the conversation is actually happening.
If the notes no longer flow back to the original post, the creator loses the ability to see who is enjoying their work, what the tags say, and how the community is responding.
On a platform where engagement often dictates visibility, splitting that engagement into tiny, unlinked fractions makes it significantly harder for original works to gain momentum compared to the high-reach blogs that reblog them.
Incentivizing the "Big Blog" Monopoly
This system rewards accounts that have already established a large following at the direct expense of the smaller accounts that actually produce the content. It transforms reblogging from a method of sharing into a method of acquisition.
When a reblog functions as its own independent post with its own note count, the incentive to click through to the original source disappears. The platform is transitioning from a collaborative ecosystem into a standard social media feed where the person who posts the content last—not the person who made it—reaps the rewards.
Impact on Collaborative Conversations
Tumblr’s unique culture is built on the reblog chain: a chronological, evolving conversation. By allowing users to like or reblog "any part" of the chain as an independent entity, the platform is breaking the narrative thread.
If engagement is siloed into specific branches, the incentive to add to a conversation is replaced by an incentive to simply own a piece of the engagement. This change doesn't encourage conversation. It encourages the commodification of individual posts within a chain, making it harder for the original voice to ever be heard over the noise of the rebloggers.
The Disincentive to Create
Perhaps the most damaging aspect of this update is the psychological toll on the creative community. When the platform actively diverts credit and engagement away from the source, it destroys the motivation to share original work at all.
For many, the reward for posting is seeing how far their work travels. If that travel is now invisible or attributed to others, the labor of creating becomes thankless.
This system makes creators want to share nothing. If the platform is built to harvest a creator's effort for the benefit of curator blogs, the logical response is to stop providing the raw material. I am one leaning into this category. Without us creators, the curator blogs have nothing to curate.
By making it harder to protect and track one's own work, the platform is effectively telling creators that their presence is secondary to the conversations happening around their work: conversations they may no longer even be able to find.
Tumblr recently announced an update where all reblogs get their own notes, and really, it's pointless and nobody asked for it, and also this makes it so that none of the reblog's notes contribute to the original post's, and this is really weird because it eradicates the sense of community, and now a reblog could get way more popular than the original post.
Anyways I made a change.org petition go sign it right meow
Undo the Tumblr Reblog Update
optional tags (sorry if you didn't want to be tagged I just tagged my moots who were in my notes most recently)
Just signed, please please please there’s only like 100 signatures rn,
if you don’t want staff to make a change that is going to destroy a fundamental function of community and communication on this hellsite then we need to show them how much this fucking SUCKS
