For @steddiebingo | Mini Event: “Thirteen Fright Nights” | Prompt: CH
Rating: T | Word count: 623 | Tags: aged up, established relationship, fluff, Eddie POV
AO3 Masterlist | Tumblr Masterlist | Ask Box
Eddie’s sitting on the bleachers with a paper cup of coffee. The gym smells the same as it always has: sweat, rubber and teenage adrenaline — but somehow, when it’s Steve’s gym, it’s different, softer.
He watches Steve whistle through his teeth and point at a bunch of middle schoolers running suicides. His voice echoes sharp and steady: “Let’s go, Johnson! Knees up!”
God, the irony still kills him: Coach Harrington, yelling at other people’s kids. Eddie takes a sip, burns his tongue, and smiles into the rim.
He’s never really gotten sports. He’s learned the rules of basketball over the years — because of course he did, Steve quizzed him until he could name positions like spells — but it’s still mostly a blur of bouncing orange chaos. What he does get, though, is that Steve’s good at this. Not just good, but home in it. The whistle, the clipboard, the stupid backwards cap he wears like he’s still twenty.
The whistle blows again. “Alright, water break!”
Eddie claps a few times, partly because the kids do and partly because Steve’s looking his way now, that post-game glow already making him unfairly hot in the worst fluorescent lighting known to man. Steve jogs over, grin splitting his face.
“You came early,” Steve says, breathless and flushed.
“Traffic was light. And, you know, I like to watch you yell at children. It’s a real turn-on.”
Steve laughs, that kind that makes his shoulders shake. “Yeah, I bet. You’re lucky you didn’t have to see me break up two fights earlier.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Eddie says. “I’ll make sure to pick a fight next time just so you can practice.”
Steve rolls his eyes and sits beside him, still radiating heat. His hair’s damp at the temples. Eddie’s tempted to lean in and taste the salt there. Instead, he passes over the cup.
“Coffee,” he says. “Extra sugar. For the hardworking coach.”
Steve takes it and pauses. His thumb brushes over the side, where two letters are scrawled in Eddie’s messy handwriting: CH.
He quirks a brow. “What’s this? CH?”
Eddie grins. “Coach Harrington.”
Steve snorts. “You labeled my coffee like I’m in kindergarten.”
“Please,” Eddie says. “That’s not labeling. That’s branding. You’re official now. Local legend. I’m thinking merch: mugs, shirts, maybe a whistle that says ‘World’s Hottest Coach.’”
Steve hides his smile behind the cup, trying to look unimpressed, and failing miserably. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” Eddie says, eyes glinting. “And yet, you still put up with me, Coach.”
That earns him a shove to the shoulder, gentle and familiar. Steve doesn’t even realize he’s still touching him — hand lingering, thumb tracing circles like it’s second nature.
Eddie looks at the kids — laughing, sweaty, alive — and then back at Steve, who’s watching them too. There’s that look again: proud, a little wistful, and totally his.
He thinks about how Steve used to be so terrified of ending up like his dad: all bark and silence, all expectations and no joy. But now, standing in front of a bunch of loud, messy kids who adore him, Steve’s become everything his father never was: patient, kind and quietly fierce.
Eddie leans closer, voice soft. “You’re good at this, you know.”
Steve hums without looking at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “You found your thing.”
Steve finally turns, eyes catching his. There’s that stupid, heart-melting smile again, all sunshine and disbelief. “Guess I did.”
The whistle blows again, and Steve’s up, jogging back to the court. Eddie watches him go, shaking his head. He lifts the empty cup Steve left behind, tracing the inked initials with a thumb.
“Coach Harrington,” he mutters to himself, grinning. “Never thought I’d fall for a jock twice.”
Sometimes out of nowhere I just realize. I love colors. I adore them. I also love monochromes. But at times, it just hits different. Yellow mood, clouds and chill.
