Too excited to not share after finishing, so here's the full (unedited) Cheerleader Steve chapter of the Modern Steve in 80s Hawkins fic lmao
Featuring: Cheerleader Steve, Hellfire Club, Eddie's tragic split ends almost (almost) eliminating Steve's attraction to him, and Steve’s cheer routine living rent free in Eddie's head forever after (not that he knows it)
The theater room is mostly empty except for three more teens. A table is set up in the middle of the stage area, a DM partition at the head of the table and a grid-map spread across the middle. Little figurines are placed across the grid, each of them seeming to be in specific positions related to monster-like figurines. Steve can see two teens sitting at the table clearly, but the third one is behind the DM partition, slouching in their chair so only one hand with rings decorating the fingers can be seen dangling from the arm.
Flannel Teen leads Steve into the room just in time to hear the tail-end of someone saying, “-ill not convinced they won’t show up.”
“Eddie,” Flannel Teen says, cutting off whatever would have been said in response, “got a visitor for you.”
The one behind the DM partition---Eddie, Steve realizes---straightens up in his chair, a pair of brown eyes peeking over the top of the partition and landing on Steve. The eyes widen slightly, something like amusement and wariness dancing in them as Eddie stands and walks around the table and…
And Steve is fucked. He didn’t even know the whole metal-grunge-80s thing would do it for him, but here is with his heart skipping a beat. He wants to trace the rings on Eddie’s fingers, wants to study all the patches and pins on his vest, wants to grab him by the belt loop and wallet chain and pull him in close and kiss until they’re breathless.
The thing is, Steve doesn’t believe in things like love at first sight. But he does believe in things like his imagination and following his gut and knowing when the two are working together. Right now, his imagination and gut are doing a fucking tango with how they’re offering him visions of a semi-awkward dates, sweet kisses, incredibly satisfying nights, and little stolen moments together that make both of them smile for years to come.
He just knows in his gut that it could be so good, they could be good, but he still isn’t entirely convinced that Eddie isn’t a murderer. He’s, like, 98% sure, but that 2% is what keeps him in check, stops him from flashing a charming grin at Eddie. He’d really prefer to not be like those true crime girlies who want to fuck Dahmer, thanks.
“So,” Eddie says, effectively pulling Steve from his thoughts as he walks up to him, “what made you bring a stranger into our lair?” Despite looking straight at Steve, he knows the question is aimed at Flannel Teen.
“Some of the swim team cornered me in the hall,” Flannel Teen says, shrugging nonchalantly when Eddie glances over at him with a concerned, questioning look. “He…talked them into leaving and said he needed to talk to you.”
Steve thinks that’s an understated way of saying he implied they were all gay and then used high school social hierarchy and expectations to make them leave, but sure. Eddie hums with appreciation, apparently thinking Steve is worth a few seconds of his time, then, and asks him, “What’s your name, big boy, and what do you need from yours truly?”
“My name is Steve. It’s nice to meet you,” Steve says, smiling politely and ignoring the urge to ask how a theater room qualifies as a lair as he sticks his hand out.
The amusement in Eddie’s eyes instantly vanishes, replaced with indignation as he ignores Steve’s hands. His lips curl up in a sneer, circling Steve like he’s sizing up an opponent. “So, you’re the Steve I’ve heard so much about. How bold to show your face after making my campaign unplayable,” he says, coming to a stop in front of Steve.
This close, Steve is almost distracted by the absolute travesty that is Eddie’s hair. He wants to reach out, cradle the poor locks with their split-ends, and ask Eddie why he’d neglect something with such potential. He looks like he uses the 80s equivalent of a fucking 3-in-1 shampoo, and Steve almost loses all his attraction to Eddie in that moment.
Steve drops his hand, keeping his polite smile even as he raises an eyebrow. “Unplayable? You could just reschedule it, dude,” he points out.
Eddie’s nostrils flare slightly, a scoff coming from him in the next second as he leans back, waving his hand dismissively. “Of course you don’t understand the sanctity of DnD. Let me guess,” he says, spinning on his heel and raking his eyes up and down Steve. “A jock, right? Balls in laundry baskets or tidy-whitey swimming? I’m surprised you aren’t with the rest of the brainwashed conformists at the game right now.”
Oh, Steve has been handed such a golden opportunity on a silver-platter here. He could blow Eddie’s assumptions right out of the water. But what would be funnier? Blowing the expectations out of the water now, or playing into them for now and confusing the hell out of him later? Well, it’s easier for Steve if he’s just honest and himself right now. Plus, he can't wait to see Eddie's face when he truly realizes he was wrong.
“I did play basketball,” Steve admits, ignoring the absolute elation on Eddie’s face that’s probably from being right and getting to rub it in, “and I did swim. But I’ve also played DnD a few times. I’ve been told my DM was shit, though, so I probably wasn’t playing right. Oh, I was a substitute cheerleader my senior year of high school and joined the chess club, too. I’m not at the game because Dustin asked me to talk to you. And because I just didn’t want to go.”
Eddie’s elation morphs into confusion, then curiosity, and then disbelief. “Somehow, I’m doubting the cheerleader and chess club part of that, Stevie,” he says, drawing out the nickname into something that’s supposed to be mean and goad him into reinforcing Eddie’s initial assumptions.
“What, want me to prove it to you?”
“Sure, Stevie, prove you were a cheerleader.”
Steve sighs, nods, and takes a few steps back. “You know, I fail to see what any of this has to do with Dustin and his friends asking you to postpone the campaign,” he says, shrugging off his jacket. He glances around, notices Flannel Teen standing next to Eddie, and holds it up questioningly.
Flannel Teen starts to reach out for the jacket only for Eddie to snatch it up himself. “Careful, Gareth, we don’t want you getting infected,” he jokes, flashing a grin that makes Gareth snort and tells Steve this is some kind of inside joke. He looks back at Steve and adds, “This has everything to do with it, big boy. I gotta make sure you aren’t a liar leading poor little Henderson astray.”
There’s genuine concern in his tone, so Steve bites back his sarcastic response and nods. He thinks for a moment, looking at the space around him and counting the syllables in Hellfire. After cycling through the few cheers he still remembers well enough to recite, he finally chooses one that doesn’t require too much movement.
Steve shakes out his arms, rolls his shoulders, and takes a deep breath.
“Hold on!” he shouts, plastering a bright smile onto his face and holding his hand out in front of him. He then spreads his legs to be shoulder-width apart and uses his right index finger to tap his left wrist in an exaggerated manner as he says, “Wait a minute!”
He’s barely started, and the entirety of Hellfire Club is staring at him like he’s an alien. The looks only get more confused as his grin becomes a little more genuine and he shouts, “Hellfire puts some boom into it!” As he says the club’s name, he pushes his arms out to the side, and he jumps as high as he can when he gets to “boom,” touching his toes mid-air.
Steve manages to land steadily, subtly letting out a breath of relief as he places his hands on his hips. He keeps up with the momentum, bringing his fists in front of his face. “Ramp it up!” He punches above his head with his left fist. “Knock it out!” He punches the air in front of him. Gareth slides his foot back slightly when Steve punches forward, and he’d feel bad if not for the clear fascination in the guy’s eyes.
“Hellfire Club always stays on top!” Steve brings his arms up and flexes them, a little proud of his muscles when he sees the way Eddie stares at his arms. “Hellfire Club never drops!” Steve, however, does drop. He drops into a split (and holy fuck, he’s grateful he wore the looser jeans today) with jazz hands thrown up in the air.
Silence reigns supreme in the wake of his cheer, and Steve can’t help his intense satisfaction at seeing the way Eddie’s grip on his jacket tightens, his knuckles surely turning white under the rings. Steve drops his arms, carefully moves out of his split, and stands up. “So, good enough for you?” he asks.
Eddie stares at him for a few seconds before looking away and roughly throwing his jacket back. “Yeah,” he says, his tone significantly less combative than before, “I guess we can fucking reschedule the campaign.”
Steve smartly refrains from asking what his cheer routine has anything to do with rescheduling the campaign when he was originally doing it to prove he wasn’t, in fact, leading Dustin astray. If this works in his favor, then he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, he shrugs on his jacket and says, “Maybe everyone could tell me their names now.”
And so Steve learns their names are Gareth, Jeff, Asher, and---of course---Eddie.
