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Apr 18, 2025

You're Pretty, Too

Rating: General CW: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Minor Character Death (Eddie's Mom, Steve's Grandpa) Tags: Different First Meeting AU, Met in Childhood, Post-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Happy Ending, Child Eddie Munson, Child Steve Harrington, Getting Together, First Kiss, Al Munson is an Asshole, Steve Harrington's Father Being an Asshole, Eddie Loved His Mom, Steve Harrington Has Absent Parents, Good Parent Wayne Munson, Meeting Again, Dialogue Heavy This is a fully fledged fic from this post, if you want some full context. Also on AO3 because it got really long.

🫂—————🫂 It starts like a horror movie in the dark and the cold.

In the shrouding darkness, in the only light being within a shaking hand, with yelling, with the brutality of living. He’s never been one to find the good in the bad—Munsons don’t do that, not much, not really. And his papa had a knack for showing them what their worth. Last wrung, the liquid at the bottom of a garbage can, in ash.

Eddie didn’t know what to do without his mama; who to run to, who to turn to, who to love. He’d be reaching for his papa’s hand even with the knife’s blade sharp, shiny, pointed at his pale-skinned neck. Growing up was a lot of chasing the pavement below his bare feet in the hot summer sun, letting it lick his heels, burn him in the soles. Running away from the conflict of a drunk, angry man and the grief webbed around his home—he never knew where he was going, to his mama’s headstone, or to the burbling ponds with their timid, bread-bloated ducks, or up in the bends leading narrow to alleys home to the gnarly stray cats with their raggedy fur. The world made it clear he wasn’t cut for it—not from the same cloth as some of the boys in his intermixed classroom; all those older boys always standing over his buzzed head and gangly limbs sent star-sprawled across the playground. He was a bug, the sun a magnifying glass, the kids like rubber boots, and his papa the glue trap.

His papa taught him how to start up a car when he was seven. Taking him on all the big scenes, handing him the flashlight already clicked on, telling him to hold it steady so they could get in and out. If they were running, then he was chasing his papa’s legs—he was holding his hand; the only time he was holding his hand—and in the aftermath, he was biting through the candy bar his papa managed to pocket in the chaos. His teeth ached from the sugar, but he knew better than to question the pain—he wasn’t dead, so he was thankful; even as hungry as he was, even though he watched his papa pocket the Sudafed to sell instead of the oranges to eat. They made money from these escapades and Eddie had no reason to challenge them. It’s not like he brought in anything.

The final job, his papa takes him to a restaurant. It’s spacious, glimmering, the music heard from the sidewalk. Every parking space occupied by cars shinier than Eddie’s fingernails, and he knows what they’re here to do.

He’s handed the flashlight. “Be steady,” his papa mutters, “‘m gonna get them wires, see if I can get ‘em to spark.” The car they’re in is black and all the seats are genuine leather. There’s shag on the ceiling, on the floor. Top of the line radio. In the backseat, a booster. Some crayons scattered on the middle seat—a coloring book that Eddie can’t quite catch the name on. His dad must see him stumbling away from the task, his calloused right hand grabbing for Eddie’s face, squeezing him tight enough that his teeth threaten to come loose, and he’s pulled back. “I said stay steady,” his dad grits, “or I’m gonna make you walk. You wanna hav’ta walk home? Huh, Edward?”

“It’s Eddie,” he quietly whines.

“Quit your cryin’ or I’m gonna give you somethin’ to cry about.”

“Sorry, Papa,” Eddie murmurs, “I’ll pay attention now.”

“You better.”

And that’s that. He holds the flashlight with both hands. And he hides his tears. Until—

There’s commotion. Yelling. Shouting. He’s yanked from the front passenger seat by a stronger hand than his dad’s, yet just as calloused. Whoever grabbed him smells like spice and that foul juice his papa is always drinking. They’re strong, burly. Tossing him to the side, to the curb.

It’s a whirlwind, but Eddie catches who must be the owner of the car—some important man, judging by his well-fitted suit—is holding his papa against the side of the restaurant, smushing his smarmy face against the bricks, growling words too low to catch in their entirety. There’s a woman, too, swaying on her feet—like it’s taking all her energy just to stay upright—but she isn’t saying anything, isn’t really doing anything. And there’s a little boy, most likely around Eddie’s age, who’s standing on the same sidewalk as him. The little boy is first knuckle deep in his right nostril, he’s holding a clamshell leftover container to his abdomen—also in a well-fitting suit, though the tie is too long for him, actively peeking out of the jacket—but he just stands there.

There’s police sirens whooping, getting closer and closer. It happens, again, in a whirlwind—all the commotion. His dad’s in handcuffs, forced to sit in the backseat of this patrol car. Eddie’s being asked to just stay still, being told he’s not in trouble despite holding the flashlight. So he’s cowered on the sidewalk, twisting his fingers around until they pop and then pop some more. The dad of this little family begins shouting again, he has a lot of fervor, a lot of passion he’s been bottling up—if his wide eyes and snarling lip and spray of spit are anything to go by through all this. And then—

“Why did you try to steal my daddy’s car?” the boy suddenly asks, flicking something off his finger. Eddie didn’t even realize he had left his spot. His voice is squeaky and bright and sweet, despite it all. He’s got an inch on Eddie, his hair seems to have been meticulously styled at one point—thought that’s more of a passing thought, it’s drooping and flopping now, strands getting into his face. He’s staring at Eddie with these big, also drooping, hazel eyes. The takeout container in his hands is passed back and forth between his palms, almost like he’s nervous. “My daddy paid lots and lots and lots of money for his car. At least, that’s what he told me.”

Eddie just swallows and wrings his hands together again—his knuckles won’t pop anymore, but the stretch is enough. Then, he shrugs. “My papa said I had to,” he mutters, “so that we can have food. I didn’t know it was wrong, I’m sorry.”

“It’s very wrong.”

“I know,” Eddie murmurs, hanging his head. It’s a shame that his head is buzzed. His hair used to be long enough that it would dangle down and cover his face; it was hair that he could hide in, if need be. Until, well, his dad buzzed it near completely off, telling Eddie in this particular tone that long hair was only for pansies. (For sissies, he didn’t say. For pussies.) He can see his dad, even when he looks down towards the parking lot, can see his impatient feet dangling over the edge of the open patrol car door—tapping away in that furious way he always does; it’s saved for when he’s really mad—and when Eddie can finally catch his dad’s gaze, the anger is set on him, not the men in blue. “I shouldn’t have done it, but my papa said I had to help”—he continues to hold his dad’s angry stare—“I trust my papa.”

“My daddy has lots of money,” the boy abruptly tells him. “Don’t you have money? To get your own car?”

Eddie throws him a sidelong glance. One that wavers, still too timid in his boots to hold something steady. Be steady. Be steady. “I had a dollar from the tooth fairy,” he tells quietly. The kid tilts his head like a clueless puppy. “Had?”

He shrugs again. “My papa needed it. Said we had to get a candy bar so he can keep all the expensive stuff he put in his pockets.” When he looks back at his dad, there’s nothing there, except for his still tapping feet. Helpless, lost in the chaos, he can only look back to the all too curious kid. “Why’re you talkin’ to me? Aren’t your parents mad at me?”

“They’re mad at your daddy,” the boy explains, “not you. But…I don’t know, I can tell they don’t like you anyway. Sometimes, when my daddy is really angry, he looks at me like that”—he points shyly to his dad, who just finished giving a smoldering stare to Eddie—“that’s before he grabs the wooden spoon. It scares me a little. Says it gets his frus-tra-tions out—I dunno what that means. Maybe he’ll do it tonight.”

A pit has been gently forming, crumbling the sides of Eddie’s stomach, for the entire night. Now, it sinks like an airplane ready to crash. He’s got guilt the size of the moon in his soul, guilt that shouldn’t be his—but it’s not like his dad is going to take to it. “My papa does that, too,” Eddie quietly admits—like maybe if he can relate, the kid won’t blame him for what happens back home—“but he says it’s to teach me a lesson. He’s good at teaching lessons.”

“Hm,” the boy hums. “Daddy says that kinda stuff, too. I don’t believe him sometimes. Sometimes it just hurts.” Then, he looks at Eddie again, those droopy eyes soft and curious. “What’s your name? We’ve been talkin’ and I don’t know your name. Daddy says it’s good to get somebody’s name. For big connections. I also dunno what that means. He talks and makes money, so I guess I don’t need to know. He talks forever. Forever and ever! That’s why we were here tonight, he’s talkin’ to his partners from”—the kid puffs out his chest, deepening his voice to bellow—“The Branch.” And then he shoots Eddie a gap-toothed grin—his two front teeth are sitting apart from each other, just barely, and he’s missing a fang on the left side. It’s dorky. It’s sweet.

“I’m Eddie,” he speaks again, quietly, “what’s your name?”

“Steve!” he exclaims. “Or, well, I’m s’posed to be Steven. But my friend, Tommy, gave me a nickname. And guess what?!” Eddie doesn’t even get the chance to answer before—“Tommy is a nickname, too! His real name is Thomas, but he doesn’t like it. Says it makes him feel grown up. But we’re only six. We’re not s’posed to be big yet. You should see him sometime, I think maybe you guys could play trucks together—though Tommy likes the big yellow truck. Says it’s like his daddy’s work. I dunno what Tommy’s dad does. Buildin’ stuff, maybe. I wonder what he builds. Maybe those big, tall buildings in New York—I see ‘em all the time when my daddy wants to take me ‘cause he’s a law-yer and has to go—oh, sometimes my daddy says I gotta stay home when he leaves with Mommy ‘cause of his big work stuff”—Steve stops to take a deep breath, chuckling at the tail end of it—“but that’s okay. I get to be alone at home! It’s quiet when they aren’t there, no more yelling. And I get to eat my food in front of the TV, and I can have ice cream for breakfast and”—

“Eddie is a nickname, too. My mama named me Edward. Like my great-grandpa. Said he was a special man. That he was important to her.”

Steve grins big at him again. His hair is in his eyes. Something in Eddie makes him want to swipe it away—he only twists his fingers tighter, tighter until they pop. “That’s cool,” Steve says, “you seem cool. Your hair is different, though. Never seen such little hair before. ‘Cept from my teacher. But he doesn’t count. Not really.” He leans into Eddie’s personal bubble, lowering his voice. “He’s bald,” Steve whispers.

“Yeah?” Eddie giggles out.

The hair in Steve’s eyes doesn’t get any better when he bobbles his head up and down. “Mhm! Yeah! Tommy says he has no hair from stress. I dunno what Mister…I dunno what his name is now. Somethin’ long, I think. Maybe that makes him freak out? Sayin’ his name all the time.” Steve tilts his head up towards the night sky—whatever little light there is makes his eyes shiny, and so much bigger than they seem—his lips are pursed, eyes squinted, tapping away at his chin in thought. Then, he shrugs and looks back to Eddie. “Doesn’t matter. I think he has no hair because his cat licked it all off. My nana has a cat and it licks my hair sometimes, it’s very funny. Like it’s cleanin’ me.”

Eddie quirks a small smile, to which Steve returns tenfold. “I like cats,” he whispers.

“You have to meet my nana’s cat! He’s grey with stripes and he’s loud and he has six toes on his front right paw and he’s very fat. His name is Goose, which is super silly because he’s a cat, not a goose and he likes to eat and sometimes I feed him cheese when Nana isn’t looking because it makes him happy”—again, Steve leans into Eddie’s space, his eyes wide, eyebrows shot up his forehead, a giddy and itching smile on his face that he actively tries to wipe away, to no avail—“I like cheese, too. I got mac and cheese from the big boy menu, but it was too much food even though it’s my favorite! Do you like cheese, too, Eddie?”

He nods his head, slower than Steve had, and softer. “Yeah,” he says, “my mama used to let me have cheese from the bag.” Eddie snorts. “But it was a secret, so don’t tell anybody, okay?”

Steve clumsily draws an ‘X’ over his chest. “I won’t tell anybody,” he swears. And then he pushes his clamshell container right into Eddie’s face. “You want some of my mac and cheese?! It’s got three different cheeses in it! I didn’t even know there were that many!”

“Um…” Eddie scratches at his arm, looking towards Steve’s dad again. Though, this time, he’s looking away. Still talking angrily with the police, shouting words that take the shape of profanities—the same kind of words that earn him peppers on his tongue—but he’s not staring. “Yeah, okay, sure.”

With no warning, Steve plops down heavily onto the curb, popping the box open with his little hands. Eddie has half a mind to track where his booger-picking finger goes. But he’s hungry, so it nearly doesn’t matter. “We have to eat it with our fingers,” Steve says—shit—“Daddy wouldn’t let me take the spoon. Said it’s un-gentlemanly. I dunno what that means, ‘cause Daddy’s always using words too big for me—sometimes it’s hard to read ‘em and say ‘em, but that’s okay, ’s what my mommy says—but I think the word is a bunch of poop. I liked the spoon, I should’a been able to keep it since my house doesn’t have spoons like this one—It had a big end for soup, but they gave it to me with my food—What d’you think that means, Eddie?”

He sits down next to Steve on the curb. Tucking his knees up to his chest. In a matter of seconds, he’s scooping up a handful of the cheesy macaroni, after Steve draws his hand to the container to do so. “I dunno,” he says.

Steve hums like he agrees. Then—“You’re quiet, which is nice. I like quiet. Tommy is so loud—always laughing and singing and screaming at everybody. And my daddy. Sometimes my mommy. Is your mommy loud?”

Now, this is where things get tricky. Nobody really asks Eddie about his mama anymore. Not about how they used to dance and sing and talk and talk and talk. They don’t ask what her favorite color was—baby green, a sage, he remembers: the color of her nail polish, her hair ties before she lost her hair, and the gemstone on her wedding ring. Or her favorite meal to make, which was always a big pot of chili that she’d invite his uncle over for, and he’d bring the cornbread, and his dad would smile with his eyes and they’d have sodas instead of the sour, bitter canned juice. They don’t want to know why she died or how it got that bad or if he believes whether or not his life would be better if she stuck through it, if she fought with everything. They don’t know that he cries and cries and cries and he seldom talks. There’s not much left without her—he wishes it was all different.

Her funeral was in their local church. And he wore a suit like Steve’s, pressed and prim and proper. He held his uncle’s hand. Said peace, hung heads in prayer, shared stories. And then they went out for Chinese food; the man who owned the shop had her plate made at the end of their lunch—assuming she was at home resting—Eddie had broke open his fortune cookie, which told him to stay happy, and he didn’t have the heart to tell the man what happened. They took the food home anyway, and Eddie let it rot.

“She…uh…she’s dead,” Eddie says, “but, no, she wasn’t very loud.”

“Oh,” Steve whispers, “I’m sorry, Eddie.” There’s a handful of sticky macaroni in his hand, his fingers tense around it. His eyes get impossibly sad. “My Grandpa Otis is, too. I miss him lots.”

“‘M sorry about your grandpa,” Eddie murmurs.

They sit in relative silence at that. Shoulder to shoulder. Eating their macaroni. The patrol car door slams, but Steve’s dad seems to keep dragging out the shouting. He wonders if it’s like this for Steve at home—it wouldn’t surprise him, but it’s hard to figure with how bright this kid is.

“You miss your mommy a lot,” Steve pipes up.

“How’d you know?”

Steve shrugs. “Assumin’,” he says softly, “when Mommy leaves with Daddy, it always makes me sad. I like Mommy, she’s nice to me, and she shouldn’t have to go. Was your mommy nice?”

“The nicest. She liked to give me hugs and hold my hands. Papa doesn’t do that. Says it’s stupid stuff for babies.”

Again, with little warning, Steve is moving. He throws his non-macaroni, yet booger-riddled, arm around Eddie’s shoulders. Bringing him in firm and fast. “I like hugs, too,” Steve murmurs, “Mommy gives me hugs. Not all the time. Sometimes she’s busy. Sometimes she’s gone.” He sighs through his nose, then he rests his head against Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie wonders how lonely Steve must feel, hopefully not too much—thinking about it makes something turn sour and hard in Eddie’s stomach. “We should be best friends. So that we can hug all the time. Are you good at hugging?”

He lays his own arm across Steve’s shoulders. The comfort is…nice…and warm. “I think so?”

“Good. We can hug all the time. And we can be happy.” Steve nuzzles into Eddie’s shoulder, his handful of food dropping back into the container—he wipes the cheese from his fingers all over his pristine suit jacket, doing it until it’s completely clean. And then he squeezes his cleaned up hand, wrist, and arm over Eddie’s middle. A true hug. Softly, “If your daddy is in trouble and your mommy is…Who will you go to?”

“Uncle Wayne,” Eddie answers. “They said I’m staying with him for a while. They had’ta call him on the restaurant phone. I hope I stay with him forever. I love him lots.”

“I wish I had an uncle,” Steve whispers, “you’re so lucky.”

“I don’t think I’m very”—

“You have an uncle and a nice nickname and your hair is cool and you give good hugs and you like cheese and you’re nice”—Steve sighs—“you’re lucky because you’re Eddie.”

“Well, you’re lucky because you’re Steve.”

“I wanna be your best friend forever. We can see Goose and we can eat cheese from the bag and we can hug and we can talk and talk and talk.” Abruptly, Steve sits back up, looking deep into Eddie’s eyes. “When you go to your uncle’s, will you call my home so that we can set up a play date?”

“I don’t have your”—

Steve pulls away, retrieving a pen from the inside of his jacket. It’s a nice jacket, all things considered, though Eddie didn’t pay too much attention to it, too busy being entranced by Steve’s eyes…something about his face makes Eddie’s tummy feel funny. “Daddy says to always have a pen. I dunno why. I just use it to draw pictures on my arms. He doesn’t like it when I do that. But I don’t care. It’s my pen and I like to draw kitties.” He grabs at Eddie’s arm, bare and exposed from only wearing a t-shirt. Steve’s hands are wonderfully warm. “You’re so cold,” Steve comments. “I wish I had my coat. I’d let you wear it. But I gotta wear my stupid suit. It’s too tight. Your t-shirt is cool, but now you’re cold. And I’m gonna make it all better by drawing a kitty on your arm. What kinda kitty do you like?”

“I like…I like black cats. They’re pretty.”

Smiling, Steve murmurs, “Black cats are very pretty…you’re pretty, too. But don’t tell my daddy I said that…’m s’posed to think only girls are pretty.” The pen clicks and then Steve is pulling completely away.

Eddie’s arm reads a scrawling phone number, messy and nearly illegible. And, indeed, there’s a black cat, too. He gently traces the outline of the cat’s ears with his finger tip, as if he could will it to stay forever—maybe there’s a way he can.

“My daddy is waving me over,” Steve states, something sad around his words. “But we’ll play together one of these days, okay? Here”—he shoves the, now closed, leftovers into Eddie’s hands, forcing them into his lap—“keep the food. I probably won’t finish it. I’m too full. Now you don’t have to steal cars. But…maybe you should steal my daddy’s car again, so that we can talk and talk. ‘Cause I like talkin’ to you. I have to go now, though, but I’ll see you later, okay?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but once more, with no warning, Steve is encroaching Eddie’s space. He hesitates for a moment, as if looking for his dad—or his dad’s furious gaze.

A kiss is then pressed to Eddie’s forehead. It’s sticky and warm and short.

“Bye, Eddie,” Steve whispers, “be safe.” And then he gets up and leaves.

He doesn’t know it yet, but Eddie will cherish this day forever. The food, the suit, the boogered finger, and the little black cat. Though, he will remember this day for one other thing.

The day he fell in love with a boy named Steve.

——— “You should bring that Harrington boy over.”

Eddie startles on the sofa, bent like a shrimp over a mini figure. He hastily drags his magnifying goggles over his mane of curls. They’ll get stuck, probably, but that’s a fight he’ll train for later. Now, though—“Why do you say that, Wayne?”

His uncle shrugs, leaning against the corner wall leading to the kitchenette. He’s ready for work, it looks like, yet his face is slack with exhaustion. “Think it’d be nice for you to have company over here that’s your age. ‘Sides, that boy played a part in saving your life. Don’t you think he should be comin’ ‘round more often? Sure as hell would be better than you spooning macaroni from a pot, bent over one of those little characters of yours.”

“Hey! It’s a hobby, Wayne! It’s not like I’m miserable.”

“Oh give me a break, Eds. You’ve been nose deep in all these damn projects of yours since you got that call about your fuckin’ dad. Sleaze bag gets to breakout and fuck everything up again.” Wayne huffs, his arms crossed over his chest as if his heart is a fallen bird between his palms. “Motherfucker better stay away if he knows what’s good for him.”

They don’t like talking about Eddie’s dad—Wayne’s own brother—not since that day in the restaurant parking lot. It’s weird, he knows, considering that restaurant isn’t even standing anymore, yet the carnage has been spattered in its parking lot. The carnage aside from that boy with the sunshine-y, gap-toothed smile of his. Their playdate had never happened, the phone number had smudged on the way back to Wayne’s—and Eddie had sobbed when it finally disappeared; gone just like his mom, like his dad, like the life he once had.

Living with Wayne has been for the better, though. And he’s right, he should call up Steve. See if he’s busy. If he’s wanting to come over.

It’d do him better than moping around the only place that ever felt like home.

“I’ll call him when you leave, how’s that?” Eddie concedes.

“If you don’t, I’m dragging your stubborn ass all the way to that hideous house of his and making you climb up to his fuckin’ window.”

Eddie scrunches his nose and eyebrows. “Don’t say it like I’m in fucking love with him, Wayne!”

Wayne raises his eyebrows. “Aren’t you?”

“I mean, yeah, but I think I’d know”—

“Sure, right. Because writing Mr. Harrington”—he pitches his voice just for that, Eddie resists the urge to roll his eyes—“all over my steno pads is definitely not you falling in love with that kid. I swear, Ed, sometimes you’re more dense and exhausting than a twelve hour shift on Christmas—and that is saying something, considering I’m dead to the world as soon as I walk back in through that front door.” Wayne scoffs and pulls himself off the wall. His arms unfurl from his chest, dangling loose and long at his sides, before he—what Eddie has since known as an eerily similar Steve pose—sets his closed, wound fists on his hips. He’d look like he was scolding from any outside figure, but this is just Wayne. Good old passionate Wayne. He could run for mayor, at least Eddie thinks so, but the last time he suggested it, Wayne had gone to bed early—as if the day of his death had finally caught up to him. He’s still going with, “You’re more full of shit than a port-a-potty. Also, I hope you know, writing that boy’s last name like that makes it look like you’re talking about his vile dad—what’s worse is that it makes me look like I’m in love with good ol’ bag of Dicks.” He strides across the living room, stopping short beside Eddie. He sets a firm hand into the top of Eddie’s hair, shaking around his head until his magnifying goggles come loose and fall right back where they started. Wayne chuckles at it—the laughable sight Eddie must make right now. “Stop being a dumbass, Ed. Just invite the kid over. I know for certain that he’s probably doing fuck all on this shitty Wednesday evening. Considering, especially, that his parents aren’t home.”

“Oh my God, Wayne! Can you just shut the fuck up for a second?” Eddie finally rolls his eyes and completely removes his goggles, tossing them to the coffee table. “I will give him a call! I don’t know how you know about his parents, you fuckin’ weirdo, but if it’ll get you off my back about how lonely I must be, then fine! Fine!”

Wayne grins like the cat who got the cream. “Atta boy.”

Eddie scrubs his hands down his face, pulling exaggeratingly at the skin under his eyes. “Go to work, Jesus H. Christ. You’re gonna give me an aneurysm,” he mutters. When he looks back up at Wayne, he’s still smarmy and proud. “What? Stop looking at me like that…or else I’m gonna get Steve to come over and I’ll suck his dick right over there”—he points at the recliner under the window, Wayne’s recliner—“and force you to sit on this lumpy, sad couch while you watch reruns later. You want that, old man?”

It does exactly what Eddie hoped it would—Wayne’s face finally falls neutral again and all is right in the world. “If you make a mess on my furniture, I swear on everythin’ that I will make you replace it.”

“I’m gonna spill so much shit on your couch when you’re gone,” Eddie snarks. “Just leave a whole abstract painting made of blood, sweat, tears, and other…mediums all over the place.”

“Boy, I did not raise you to be so calloused.”

“No, but you did raise a hard-ass. This is me, being a hard-ass. If you want me to shut it, you’ll leave my hopeless heart twenty feet away from all conversations about Steve.” Eddie rolls his left wrist towards himself, catching the numbers on his watch. “Hm. You’re gonna be late for work if you keep standing here, Wayne.”

Wayne sighs. “You are both the best and most chaotic thing to have ever happened to me. I don’t know how I do it most days.”

Eddie smiles, teeth and all, a menacing shape to his features. “Because you love me.”

“That I do,” Wayne concedes. “But, uh, yeah, invite Steve over. Don’t use the beef in the fridge, I’m thinking of making a meatloaf tomorrow night. And…don’t be a nuisance for Ms. Madison next door, she’s under the assumption that you’re the one putting bugs through her window and if she catches wind of you doing something—oh, I don’t know…annoying as you are prone to do—then she’s gonna come complain and I do not care what she has to say. At least, not tonight.”

“Got it,” Eddie says, “I’ll put extra bugs that I somehow manage to carry in my pockets through her window and I’ll make sure they’re equipped with a speaker playing Metallica’s hits. Really set the stage.”

Another long, heavy sigh emanates from Wayne, but he doesn’t have anything to say. He simply meanders to the front door, slips into his work boots, ties them up all neat and tidy, and promptly lets the screen door hit him on the way out—if the, “Ah, shit,” he yelps is anything to go by.

After a little tidying, and a lot of consideration, Eddie finds his way to the phone on the wall. Sitting down in one of their rickety dining chairs. Dialing Steve’s number.

That’s strange, he notes, this number always looks so familiar.

On the third ring, Steve finally answers. “Hello?” It’s gruff and tired. Like he just—

“Aw, did I wake you up, man?”

“Nah…just…” Steve gives an unwavering, hard sigh. “Finished getting chewed out by my dad. Didn’t even realize he still knows how to use the phone, it’s been so long.”

“Hm. Would it make you feel better if we hung out? I could…uh…pick up a movie and come to yours?”

“Oh, uh, sure. Yeah, that would be…that would be nice. I was about to make some macaroni and cheese, if you wanted some. There’s three cheeses in it. I just needed something that was gonna make me feel better.”

“Well, a guy’s favorite food is definitely going to make him feel better, yeah?” Eddie chuckles just as Steve snorts, too. “You sure you want me to come over?”

“Please, Eds. It’s so fucking quiet over here,” Steve says softly, “I mean, I guess I get the house to myself, but…feels like the novelty ran out a long fucking time ago.”

Eddie’s always wondered how a guy like Steve manages to stay mostly sane in a setting like that. How he manages to not feel as alone…but considering how many people are in his corner now, it’s no wonder that he’s getting by a lot better these days. At least a lot better than what he heard of Steve growing up.

“I’ll be over in, like, fifteen minutes. Just gotta change my shirt—hot weather and all that.”

“Ooo, you gonna show me your big biceps?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, big boy?” Eddie tries to snark, but—

Steve goes eerily quiet on his end for a long moment. Worried that Eddie overstepped, he goes to correct himself, then—“Of course I would, Eds. You’re pretty and I think you know that.”

“I’ve been told once or twice, yeah. Doesn’t rival to you, I’m sure”—

“Oh just shut up and come make me feel better. Just having you over here would be the highlight of my day, your good looks are a bonus.”

“You’re certainly feeling flirty today.”

“Maybe I just want to flirt with you, you ever thought of that?”

“If you’re being serious, I could turn it up a few notches.”

“You could kiss me and make me feel better.”

“Yeah?” Eddie reaches for a strand of his hair, curling it tight around his finger until his knuckles pop. “I could do that.”

Steve’s voice is finally bright and energetic when he responds with, “Really? That worked on you? I thought I’d have to keep sending you subliminal messages until the day I died.”

“Hey! I’m very observe—wait! What do you mean messages? Have I been missing”—

“Okay, come over, bye!”

And then the dial tone screeches out.

Screw Steve and his stupid pretty face, for leaving Eddie on such a cliffhanger. Even his own novels couldn’t rival something like this. It’s enough, though, to have him scrambling around the trailer—putting all his mini-figures away, changing his Hellfire shirt for a muscle tank, and throwing his hair up so it’s out of his face on the drive over.

While he did say he’d be over in fifteen, it’s realistically ten with how fast he tears through stop signs. Not that Steve needs to know that. He’d have a cow if he realized how reckless Eddie was being to get over here.

Especially considering Steve worked damn hard to keep Eddie’s heart beating.

It’s another odd thing in a sea of odd. This isn’t the first time somebody named Steve even gave Eddie’s heart purpose. Something tangible and willing to hold onto.

Not that the little boy from almost fifteen years ago needs to know. Hell, Eddie’s not even sure if that kid still lives in Hawkins. If he does, he’s well older now. Hopefully still as sweet, if his parents didn’t muck around. It’d be a bitter thing, finding out if that kid suffered more in breathable silences than he did on the surface of what Eddie saw and heard.

That kid had a lot to say, though. And Eddie, contrary to now, would’ve rather been quiet.

When Steve finally opens the front door to his place, he’s as exasperated as Eddie’s heart feels. “Did you even stop on the way over here? I’m not gonna kiss you at all unless you tell me you were marginally safe.”

“I was buckled. And had both hands on the wheel. Can’t do any better than that.”

“Eddie.”

“What? I was excited! You can’t tell a dog to stay down when they’re excited!”

Steve levels him with a questioning stare. “You’re the dog in this scenario?”

“I’ve got puppy eyes! So, yeah, I think I’m objectively the dog.” He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps flexing with the movement. Steve’s eyes dart to his left bicep, something like pride sweeps over Eddie. There’s a different thing that flashes over Steve’s face, then, a lot like shock—belated surprise at what he sees. “Well, with how you’re trackin’ me right now, I’d say that maybe I’m the bone, and you’re the dog.”

Abruptly, Steve pulls Eddie inside, hands flexing around Eddie’s left bicep. The door slams shut behind them. And then Steve is just ogling the chicken scratch tattoo on Eddie’s arm. “Where’d you get this drawing?” Steve asks, tapping on the tattoo.

Eddie stares down at his arm, twisting it in Steve’s grip.

The tattoo in question is a simple black cat. Some little thing he had Wayne take a photo of, what felt like, eons ago. That kid had a lot more impact on Eddie than he probably realized—why not hold him forever in a way that matters…through art, of course. First loves and all that, people who change the perspective on a life that had felt so hopeless. It was a lesser known tattoo, one he wasn’t freely waving around. It didn’t match his hard exterior, not that he had much of a chiseled outside as he thought he did.

Honestly, he thought he could get by with nobody seeing the black cat. Just one of those little shitty pieces that no one wants to pay attention to, especially when he’s got so many other tattoos that take the cake. The bats may have been taken by those other-worldly bats. But the puppet on strings and the skull head and the spider all remained. Those ones people were drawn to.

He figured Steve would be the same. Ogling Eddie’s puppet with questions on what it means, what it represents. Why the hell would a cat catch his eye, though? As far as he knows, Steve’s a dog person through and through. He whines constantly about wanting his own little lap dog to cuddle up with and he loathes the way cats ignore him.

“It’s just a drawing,” Eddie says, “some kid drew it on my arm years and years ago.” He swallows hard, muscles spasming around his words as Steve’s finger begin to gently trace the cat’s ears. “It was the same night my dad went to jail. When I started living with Wayne. Kid was so nice to me. He tried to give me his phone number, but…it smeared away. I never did see him again. But he sorta made that night worth it.”

The reverence in Steve’s touch is enough to make Eddie weak. But he was already a weak, weak man. Every part of Steve makes him weak—in the knees, in the stomach, in the heart. He’s pumping enough blood at the sight of Steve alone that he may just die—can you do that? Die from too much love?

Steve’s face makes Eddie’s stomach flip, though. His droopy eyes. Equally droopy hair. The moles, the smile, the way his scruff grows in patchy before it becomes uniform.

“What else do you remember about that night?” Steve then asks. His voice is soft, softer than Eddie’s ever heard it. He doesn’t take his eyes away from Eddie’s tattoo, but there’s a small grin on his face. Almost like he’s welcoming in the cat as his own, a cat he hasn’t seen in forever.

“Umm…he had macaroni and cheese. We ate with our hands because his dad wouldn’t let him keep the spoon. There was this suit he was wearing. He wiped his cheesy hand on it. He also picked his nose, I watched him do it—I thought it was gross.” Eddie chuckles at the memory. How cautious he had been about where that kid’s fingers were going while they ate. “And he hugged me…he…he kissed me on the forehead before he said goodbye to me.”

The hands on Eddie’s bicep travel down slowly to his left hand, holding and squeezing it in place. Then, without warning, Steve drags them upstairs to his bedroom. He shoves them inside quickly, with little to no care. And then he begins rummaging through the back of his closet.

“What’re you”—

Something is tossed at Eddie.

It’s fabric, starchy, and wrinkled. He flicks it with his wrists to get the full image of what he’s been given. It’s a suit. A tiny suit. With a giant patch of orange-yellow crusted sauce on the left side, where, when Eddie turns it to closer inspect, it looks like finger tracks have made themselves home.

“We talked about your mom,” Steve murmurs, “about how she was nice. She let you eat shredded cheese out of the bag. And my nana had a cat named Goose. You told me you liked cats, you thought black cats were pretty.”

Eddie’s eyes widen at the fabric, what he’s hearing. “That was you,” he whispers.

“Yeah…yeah, that was me.” Steve stands behind the suit, where it’s being held up in the air. Eddie lowers it to better look at him. “I…I told you about my dad. About how he”—

“He’s mean and scary. Threatens you with that stupid spoon. You were worried it’d happen that night.” Eddie swallows hard. “I never forgave myself for that,” he speaks quietly, “you were so nice that night. You gave me your leftover dinner. And I…I was there to steal your dad’s car with my dumb dad. But you sounded so…so scared when you were telling me about when your dad gets angry. And he was…god, he was really angry that night.”

Steve’s gaze has fallen to the floor. His hands twisted in front of him in a nervous knot. “It happened all the time, it’s not your fault. It’s just who he was.” He goes to try and mend that ugly of a statement, but—“I waited for you to call me. So that I could play with you. Or so that we could…could…I don’t know, really, I just wanted to be your friend or…or something. I thought you were so pretty. Your eyes were huge and shiny and I could see your ears, they didn’t quite fit the shape of your head yet, but they were so cute. And your voice was so quiet. Your giggle was so raspy, so small, I wanted to hear it all the time. I prayed I’d hear it on the phone, y’know, like maybe I could get my tape recorder and hold it up to the speaker.”

He shuffles side to side on his feet, scrunches the fabric of the suit jacket in his hands. “I’m sorry I never called”—

“Did you get to stay with Wayne? Or did you have to go back to”—

“No, no…I stayed with Wayne. My home’s been with him for years.”

Steve gives an enthusiastic, yet slow nod. “I’m really glad you got to where you were supposed to.”

“Yeah, Wayne’s been”—

“No, back with me,” Steve murmurs. He quirks a small smile, teeth and all. There isn’t a gap between them anymore and his fang grew back in. But it’s still a dorkishly sweet smile. “Now we have all the time in the world with each other. And…and you got my cat drawing as a tattoo…you’re so cool, Eddie.”

“Funny, I feel like I’ve heard that before,” he gently teases. “I’m honestly shocked you recognize the drawing. It’s been so long.”

“Not too long, though.” Steve steps closer, getting into Eddie’s personal bubble. He takes the suit back, when Eddie relents his grip on it, and then tosses it over the back of his desk chair. Then, he places his hands—shaky, they are—on either side of Eddie’s face. They aren’t small hands anymore, bigger than he could’ve figured. His palms are calloused, but not cruelly. And his face, so darling, so open, and oh so honey-sweet. “My dad told me that I was only supposed to think girls are pretty,” Steve whispers, “but I could never get your face out of my head. I don’t know if you’ll ever truly know how much I wanted to hold you that night.”

Eddie matches his volume. “Tell me?”

“Forever,” he answers immediately, “I wanted us to be happy.” His thumbs make little circles in Eddie’s soft cheeks. Gentle. Reverent. “Do you think we’re allowed to be happy now?”

“We can be whatever we want, Stevie.” He places his hands on Steve’s waist. Be steady. “And we can do whatever we want now. Nobody is here to stop us.”

Steve’s eyes bounce. They’re half-lidded and shiny. But, mostly—

Happy.

Quietly, “Kisses really do make me feel better,” Steve says, “will you kiss me now?”

And who is he to deny them this gentle pleasure?

He leans in, slow and hesitant just as Steve did all those years ago. Their breaths puffs against each other, mingling. Steve closes his eyes first, expectant. And when Eddie closes the gap, he knew he made the right decision to let himself fall in love—all those years ago, even when he didn’t have the language, the understanding, the momentum of crushes entering and exiting his life like revolving casts; there was always something there, though, about Steve. Something fragile and unearthed, yet just as necessary as breathing.

There had been a lot of unnecessary pain before Steve. Lots of what-ifs and whens and hows. Unknowns that took ruling over his life—when that next meal was going to be, where the money would come from, if he’d be learning a lesson for not holding the flashlight still enough.

And then there had been the sharp in and out of the needle going through his skin as he marked himself with the only remnants of a boy lost to time he had. Never to expect an outcome or an ever-after; not like those fairytales his mama would read to him; not like the sure tell that he’d be hugged at the front door by his mama’s arms.

This kiss is warm, soft, delicate between them. It’s the curtains pushed aside for the sun to pour in like lemonade and quench the room in light, in summer, in smiles. A million eyelashes on the cheeks and wispy wishes blown from the pale fingertips of summers spent with Wayne. Canned jam on early morning toast, a pot of coffee burbling, knowing he made it out alive in time to graduate—to unearth greatness from the soul in the aftermath of so much bad. This kiss is, in metaphor, a lot like coming home.

To forever with little boundaries, clouds taking the shape of smears above them, nothing to define them. Because black cats are pretty, and Steve thinks of Eddie the same.

Because there’s good, nestled and dormant, in the bad.

He had been looking to Steve a lot in the Upside Down—as if there was a pull, a need to do so. Steve was the safety, the calm within calamity, and actually a good dude; case in point, good within the bad.

Steve resuscitated Eddie twice.

And kissing him feels like the third.

When he pulls back and opens his eyes, Steve is smiling quietly to himself, eyelids shut against his flushed face. His eyelashes spread wide, fanned. Eddie could make wishes from his eyeballs and be none the wiser, he’s got his hands on the everything else he needed. What more could he want?

“You can look at me, pretty boy,” Eddie whispers.

Steve chuckles, but does what he’s told. “I was worried I’d be six years old again,” he murmurs, “waiting by the phone.”

“Well, you don’t have to do that anymore, do you?”

“Hehe”—yes, Steve actually giggles at him when he asks. “Yeah, I guess I don’t.” His smile, the rosiness of his cheeks, the squint to his eyes—it makes him look drunk; tipsy with pride.

“You feelin’ better?”

“Peachy,” Steve answers. “And you?”

“Feel like I never have to steal anything again. Like a million bucks, baby. Rich.”

Steve leans again, noses against Eddie’s. Whispers, “I’ve got macaroni and cheese downstairs. You wanna eat it with our hands?”

“As long as you don’t pick your nose anymore,” Eddie returns at the same volume.

“I don’t, but…I’ve also got those soup spoons finally. You wanna do that?”

Eddie’s hands tighten over Steve’s waist. “Sure, yeah…yeah, okay.”

“Good.” And then Steve pulls away, gliding back to the door to head downstairs.

Except—

“Hey, Steve?”

Steve looks back. And he’s shrouded by the warm, yellow light from the hallway. There’s a smile on his face. He’s not exasperated or tired or afraid. Just…just happy. Eddie’s sure he matches.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Eddie murmurs, “like…half-way there.”

“Yeah?” Eddie simply nods his head. “I think I’m half-way there, too.”

It started like a horror movie in the dark, yet it ends…

It ends romantically in the light, in warmth.

On the day he fell impossibly more in love with Steve.

🫂—————🫂

#rewriting my brain chemistry #sometimes love is stored in the macaroni #stranger things #steddie #different first meeting