Archive of Our Own ^beta

The doors to Scoops Ahoy swing shut with a final, mocking smack. Steve’s forehead meets his hands in much the same way. He takes a second to breathe and push through the immediate humiliation of getting laughed at by yet another pretty girl. Then he turns to face the music. 

“Wow,” Robin laughs, disbelieving. “Ladies and gentlemen, I simply do not believe it. We have hit a record high six tallies in the ‘you suck’ column. This is shaping up to be an exciting summer.”

Steve debates bludgeoning her with the scooper before he jams it aggressively into the water container. Some of the liquid sloshes out the side, warning a real trip hazard if he keeps it up. 

“How about we play a new game called ‘leave me alone’,” Steve grumbles. He collapses against the counter to face her, tucking his arms firmly across his chest. “How am I meant to do my best work with you leaning over my shoulder, huh? You’re scaring them all off with your crazy eyes.”

“Think that might be the hat hair, dingus.” Robin leans through the window in an attempt to ruffle her fingers through his hair. Thanks to the hat causing a veritable rat nest atop his head, it ends up being a painful tugging instead.

Steve scowls. “Hey! Fuck, lay off — you’re gonna scalp me at this rate.”

Robin seems impressed. “I’ve gotta admit, your hair really does feel like a fleece blanket,” she says, not particularly bothered by his complaints. She shoves another handful of pretzels into her mouth, no doubt scattering crumbs all over the backroom floor.

“So, any big plans for when you strike out a final time?”

Steve narrows his gaze. “I will not be hitting double digits. That was only strike six; I still have four chances. In fact, the next person who walks through that door is gonna have the full Steve Harrington Experience, all capitals, all charm, and with all the ocean of flavour.” He folds his arms with a promising, smug grin. 

“Ew,” says Robin, visibly recoiling. 

Steve pays her no mind. He can hear the door swing in. Time to knock Robin’s socks off, he thinks, and he spins around to face the door, hands pressed eagerly against the counter. 

“Ahoy! Are you ready to set sail with me—”

It’s not a lady who stands at the counter, but a guy. Not just any guy, but some kind of metalhead, judging by the literal layers of chain serving as his belt. His yellow shirt is sleeveless and says T.N.T. in huge, blocky black letters. He’s wearing jeans so ripped they look like they’re being held together with a prayer. Steve has never seen him before in his life. Whoever he is, he looks like he’s lost a fight with a hair dryer, a big mop of messy curls cascading over his shoulders. 

“Thought this was an ice cream parlour. Didn’t realise I’d signed up for a boat tour,” says the Metalhead, hands shoved in his pockets. He’s got horrible posture and a complicated, unreadable expression. 

Robin closes the partition door with a laugh, snickering over drawing up another tally, and fuck her, really. Steve’ll show her — the next person who walks through that door, he’d said, and he’s not gonna back down. He’s no coward. 

“Sorry,” he says, leaning over the counter a little. “As nice as getting all hot and sticky with you in the sun sounds, we’re actually setting sail on an ocean of flavour.” 

Robin’s laughter cuts off abruptly. The store plunges into silence, outside of the fucking Beach Boys and their crooning Surfin U.S.A. Steve doesn’t let his half-smile drop. He spins his scooper as he waits, lingering over the guitar pick necklace around the stranger’s neck. Looks a little DIY, he thinks. It’s kinda cool. 

“Probably a good thing this isn’t a boat tour,” the stranger says slowly. It’s acidic, just like his cutting stare. “Can’t imagine I’d be getting outta that alive. You’d sooner drown me than show me a good time.” 

Steve falters. He stops spinning his scoop and meets the stranger’s gaze properly. “Um,” he says, unsure. “I’m not in the habit of drowning people.” 

Metalhead rolls his eyes and pushes back his impressive mane. Steve catches the silver glint of several chunky rings on his fingers.

“Right,” says Metalhead, “just into making them feel like shit, right, Harrington?” 

Shame floods Steve’s guts like a thick, ugly sludge. His shoulders hike up, gaze cutting sharply to the display cabinet of flavours. Sometimes he’s reminded that just because he doesn’t recognise half the teens in Hawkins doesn’t mean they don’t remember him. Yet another person whose life he probably made hell. 

“Just Steve works,” he mutters. He nibbles on his bottom lip and imagines drawing the little line on Robin’s board himself. “Sorry. Whatever I did wasn’t cool, and I really fucking regret it, and I’d offer you a free scoop if it wouldn’t get me fired.” 

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” Metalhead shakes his head, sort of wondering, and folds his arms across his chest. “Don’t answer that. Maybe it’s a good thing you don’t remember me.” He hovers in front of the flavours for a few seconds, and says, “Triple scoop strawberry. No toppings, no sauce.”

Ew, what the fuck, Steve thinks, but wisely, he keeps his mouth shut. “Cone or cup?” 

“Cup.” 

Metalhead starts chewing on his thumbnail, rocking back and forth on his heels while he waits. He looks completely out of place in Scoops and he doesn’t seem to be enjoying the Beach Boys. Steve can’t place him and he really, really wants to. At first, he’d thought maybe this guy hadn’t attended Hawkins, because there’s no way Steve would forget someone like him. And yet, he clearly has. He’s wiped most of high school, thanks to Upside Down trauma and the realisation that quite literally nothing mattered. Whatever the case, Steve’s pretty sure he’s not gonna be forgetting this guy a second time. 

He peeks up to see if anyone’s watching. The store is basically empty, given it’s close to mall closing hours on a Thursday. He's ninety-nine percent sure their boss doesn't watch the cams.

“You got any allergies?” He thumbs at the scooper, plastic handle cold against his skin.  

Metalhead raises a brow. “Grass,” he says. “Sunlight, if you believe the rumours. God, too.”

“So, no?” 

“No.”

Steve nods. He lingers in front of the cabinet and then reaches for the mango gelato. He scoops some atop the strawberry and then deposits the cup on the bench complete with a little red spoon.

“Here. Buck fifty.” 

“This is a four scoop combo, one of which I didn’t ask for,” Metalhead says.

“I’m not charging you for the mango.” Steve dithers at the register and wishes, not for the first time, that he could go back and knock some sense into his pre-teen self. “C’mon, man. It’s part of the apology.” 

Metalhead whistles long and low. He curls his tongue around the spoon and sucks it clean of mango gelato. Heat builds in Steve’s veins, a prickle of interest making it difficult to drag his eyes away. That’s another reason, he thinks, that maybe he blanked this guy from his mind. See, Metalhead is sort of his type. Less feminime than usual, but big eyes, great hair, and long limbs. He looks soft despite the unimpressed lines across his face. The Steve of a few years ago wouldn’t admit it as readily as the Steve of current day, but he kind of wants to offer up his mouth instead of the gelato. Christ, he needs to get laid. 

“Shit, Harrington. If you’re gonna give me a free scoop with every apology, next time I’ll bring a list of shit you did. I’ll be swimming in strawberry.” 

Steve goes to straighten his hat, remembers it’s not there, and settles for carding his fingers through his hair. It’s a lost cause, but attempting to tame it soothes him anyway. He feels nervous, unsure in the face of such open dislike. He mostly sticks to the kids nowadays, and Nancy and Jonathan; they like him well enough. Steve settles for drumming his fingers on the countertop and keeping his stance as relaxed and honest as he can. 

“Yeah, yeah. I think I could probably make an educated guess. Did I call you some unsavoury words, maybe shove you into a locker, and stand by while Tommy gave you a toilet swirlie?” 

Metalhead scoops some strawberry into his mouth. He drops some coins on the counter. “Surprisingly,” he says, tugging the spoon away with a wet shlick, “you did not. Well, you did call me a freak, amongst other F words.” He taps the spoon against his bottom lip. “I don’t think you ever touched me though — probably worried you’d catch a disease.” 

Steve winces. “Please don’t tell me you got a swirlie.”

He tries not to think about what F words they could be. Deep down, hatred boiling in his gut, he knows exactly what they were. He can see his father’s mouth shape around the word — can see a terrified, thirteen-year-old Steve hiss it at himself in the mirror. 

Metalhead grins a little savagely. “I’d’ve gone loco if you’d dunked these locks in those shit-stained bowls.” He tugs at his hair absently and Steve’s privy to yet another ring-clad hand. “Nah, I think at worst you just gave me filthy looks and laughed when people spat at me.”

Steve despairs. He presses his hands against his face and lets his shoulders fall. “For what it’s worth, I’m not like that anymore.” He drags his hands down his cheeks, tired, and lets them land on his hips. “Sorry, man. Seriously.” 

There’s no way to convey how much he means it. There never will be. Metalhead seems kind; there are little creases around his mouth, laugh lines that Steve hates himself for wanting to see. You don’t get to romance people you bullied and harrassed, Steve tells himself, viciously. All you get to do is beg their forgiveness and not get upset when they deny it. 

Metalhead plays with one of his bracelets as he eats. He doesn’t look away from Steve’s eyes, making heavy, pointed contact.

“You really don’t know me,” he states with finality. He shakes his head. Steve catches a little bit of resignation and surprise in equal parts. “That’s kind of disappointing, really. Definitely taking a hit to my rep, right now.” 

Steve sucks on his bottom lip. “Um,” he says, “should I remember you?” He winces at how it sounds. “Not, I mean— not that you’re forgettable. Just.”

He stops himself before he can make the situation worse. He wonders how much it would cost to deep clean the ice cream bar were he to smack his head against it 'til he blacks out. 

Metalhead snorts. “Christ, don’t hurt yourself, Harrington.” He rolls his eyes. “I guess not. Dunno why I thought you’d keep a list of people you made miserable. You’ve always been arrogant.” 

Despite himself, it takes a lot not to snap. I get it, Steve wants to shout, shaking this guy by the shoulders. I was an asshole, a bully, and apparently upset more people than I’ll ever realise. But I’m trying. Can’t you give me a break? He doesn’t say anything though, because this is his penance. If he has to suffer through several awkward conversations, through harsh words and even worse stares, then he will. 

“I think I’d be top of that list,” Steve mutters. “But no, I don’t. Beginning to think I’ll never stop adding names to the apology list, though.” 

“Hm. Reformed bully?” Metalhead tilts his head, finishes off a scoop of strawberry, and says consideringly, “I remember your fall from grace. Not gonna lie — I just assumed you had a mental breakdown. King Steve… all that pressure on your shoulders. Guess it got too much, huh?” 

“Just Steve.” And pressure? You’ve got no idea. His mouth twitches into a weak grin as he leans against the counter. “I hated that nickname.”

“Well, Just Steve, thanks for feeling so fucking awful about your shit high-school attitude. I appreciate the mango. Total pleasure — what was it?” Metalhead starts to back towards the door, spoon hanging out of his mouth while he thinks. He drags his tongue obscenely over the plastic, grins, and says, “Oh yeah. Pleasure setting sail with you, Steve. You definitely gave me some flavour.” 

The door swings shut behind him. Metalhead’s jeans are tight, Steve realises, despairingly. He waits until Metalhead has disappeared from sight, and then he waits even longer, until the weird dizzy-nauseous feeling has settled, and he feels like can walk into the break room without collapsing into a puddle. He shuffles into the backroom and flops onto the couch. 

“Do you want the honours or should I?” 

He glances up to see Robin chowing down on an apple, feet kicked up on the table. The whiteboard sits mounted on the wall. Steve wonders if they should add a third category: Got What You Deserved. He tugs himself up off the couch and snatches the marker from Robin’s hand. His mouth is a thin, white-lipped slash across his face. Humiliation burns his ears. Robin is another one of the people he’d upset during high school. Not through bullying, but just by proximity to his chosen crowd. Just by fucking existing. Maybe he should add two lines to that Deserved column? 

“Hey,” Robin tugs it back. “Leave that one off. It doesn’t count.” She gives him a serious look. There’s none of the pity Steve hates so much. “Steve,” she says. “Don’t be mean to yourself.” It’s pointed. 

His shoulders slump. “Nah,” he mutters, “this is a pretty textbook you suck.” He drags a firm line down the column and steps back with an assessing squint. “Okay, well, I still have three more shots.” 

“You’ll get ‘em next time, tiger,” Robin says.

She smacks a hand against his back and then slings an arm over his shoulder. She’s almost the same height as him and it makes it difficult to win against her in wrestling matches. Still, he shoves an elbow into her side when she coos, “Didn’t realise the doors were open to both sides of the equation.” 

“Fuck off,” Steve mutters, but he doesn’t deny it, and he knows that surprises her. If he had anything left to protect — his dignity, his ego, his self-worth — then maybe he wouldn’t have parted with the information so freely. But Robin feels safe. So, “Did you see how fucking tight his jeans were? Jesus Christ.” He sags against the wall. “Fuck, I need to fork out fifty cents to cover his extra scoop.” 

Robin shoves him out the door. “He was dressed like he lost a fight to a bear in the middle of a mosh pit, Steven. That cannot be your type.” She tugs his scoop away and goes to flip over the closed sign. “Come on, you can count the register, Lover Boy.”

The further into summer they progress, the more Steve hates and loves the parlour. 

“On the one hand,” he says, pacing back and forth, “the air-con here is way better than it is at home.” He taps a wad of promotional fliers against his hand. “But on the other, I’m losing my glow. You know, my sun-kissed tan.” 

Robin rearranges the napkins for the fourth time. “You are the most vain person I know,” she muses, “which is pretty impressive given the extensive list of drama kids I’m friends with.” She’s taken up folding, convinced that by the time autumn rolls round, she’ll have the perfect swan for every customer. So far, they’re more like misshapen rectangles. They fall apart when someone so much as glances at them. 

“Robin, how am I meant to woo the ladies if I look like I’ve got one foot in the grave?” Steve tosses his hands up and almost sends a torrential downpour of paper over the two of them. “I haven’t hit on anyone in two weeks ‘cause I looked in the backroom mirror—” 

Robin starts to laugh. “Oooh,” she chokes out, “you make it so easy.” 

“I look sick, Robin. Sick,” Steve hisses, smacking at her with the pamphlets. “You are the fucking worst person in the world, I swear to God. This pallid face is gonna be the last thing you see.” 

“Pallid,” Robin says, impressed. “That’s a complicated word for you, Steve.” 

Steve wonders just how much his asshole dad would care if he got fired for tackling his coworker to the ground in the middle of the afternoon rush. He decides it’s not worth it for so many reasons, mainly because he doubts he’ll get another coworker quite like Robin. So, he ignores her jibes to serve too many samples to kids and then spends fifteen minutes in the backroom trying to smack some colour back into his cheeks. 

“I shoulda applied for the pool again,” Steve grumbles. “I coulda put up with fucking Hargrove if it meant actually getting to see the sun this summer.”

He stands forlornly in the corner, using the reflection of the scooper to stare at himself. His hair is deflated. The wax holding it up is unable to stand the oppressive summer heat from Steve’s car to the mall entrance, and the aircon has solidified it into a pathetic wave. 

“Speaking of pools and water, are you ready to set sail again?” Robin presses a hand against his lower back to shove him towards the register. Metalhead stands there, gaze trained on the cabinet. “Play nice with Eddie, Steve.” 

“Eddie?” Steve hisses, pulse jumping in ways he doesn’t want to examine. “If you know him, why don’t you go and serve him?”

He tries to edge by her and into the backroom, but she’s too quick, slinging him forward with a grunt. Steve stumbles to a stop at the counter, hip slamming into it. Fuck, he thinks, that’s going to bruise. His stupid little hat tilts halfway down his head. 

Eddie catches it before Steve can. “Hey Captain,” he says. He pushes the hat back up Steve’s head and then presses a piece of folded paper to the counter. “Brought the list.”

His voice is even, betraying nothing, but his face and body are animated. He can’t seem to hold himself still, shifting from foot to foot and tugging at his hair. His gaze never once shifts from Steve’s. 

Steve gives a thin, tight smile. He loves being humiliated in public, especially when he can’t get upset about it because he absolutely fucking deserves it.

“Yay,” he says, flatly, and then he smooths the paper out. He blinks, uncomprehending. The oncoming wave of mortification fades, tugged back out to sea. “This says ‘I prefer banana-choc ripple’.” 

“Huh, would ya look at that.” Eddie levels Steve with wide, surprised eyes. They’re a deep, hypnotic brown and Steve leans in a little, unable to help himself. “Looks like you know today’s extra flavour.”

His mouth twists into a smug, mischievous little grin. Steve’s heart kicks at his rib cage, elated. 

“I’m going to get fired,” he says.

He’s already scooping though, because he’s pathetic and ridiculous and he never quite stopped caring about other people’s opinions of him. He needs Eddie to like him and if that means extra scoops and docking from his own pay, then that’s what it means.

“Is that your game plan?”

Eddie places both hands against the counter and hovers over it a little. He’s tall. Just as tall as Steve. Maybe taller.

“If it’s going to get you fired, your majesty, then don’t do it,” he taunts.

It’s a dare, a challenge that Steve won’t back down from. For the first time in a long time, something kickstarts in his chest. 

“No,” he hums, impassive. He glances at Eddie through lidded eyes. “I’m sneaky. I actually got scouted for an elite spy program this fall.” He shoves a little plastic spoon in the cup of triple strawberry and solitary banana-choc. “I’m using this as my transition job, you know. Keep people from guessing.” 

Eddie’s laughter makes Steve feel dizzy. Pull it together, he tells himself, watching as Eddie’s face twists sour like he’s trying not to giggle. He gives up, hair tangling in his fingers, as he half-hides his face. His shoulders shake, breath all hiccupy and wheezy. It should be unattractive. It should make Steve roll his eyes. It shouldn’t make him want to reach out and push his fingers into the corner of that smile to cement it there just a little longer. 

“You’re weird,” Eddie says. He sounds delighted about it, and maybe annoyed, too. “How do I know this isn’t a test? Maybe you’re trying to recruit me ‘cause there’s like, a secret Russian base beneath the mall.” 

Steve’s laughter is nothing like Eddie’s. It’s a lot deeper, for one, and mostly breathless. Robin’s bullied him for ‘seal hands’ consistently this past month, enough so that Steve manages to keep his on the counter.

“You caught me, Eddie,” he snickers, missing the brief widening of Eddie’s eyes. “Don’t tell anybody, but we’re running a covert op right outta Scoops.” 

Eddie’s stance softens. He does his best impression of a cooked noodle, flopping half over the counter until he’s just a breath away from Steve. This close, Steve can see the little flecks of amber lining the deep brown of Eddie’s eyes. He’s got freckles too. Steve’s instantly besotted with the way they’re splattered unevenly across Eddie’s skin, like someone took a paintbrush and shook it a few times. Eddie disregards personal space with an ease Steve’s jealous of. 

“You better buy my silence,” he murmurs. He looks completely different than he had the other day, less guarded and far softer. “C’mon, Harrington. You think only one extra scoop is gonna pay to stop me from preaching Russian plots to the masses?” 

“I’m gonna go broke,” says Steve, flatly.

He places his hand against Eddie’s chest to gently push him away. It’s a calculated play that lets him feel the warmth of Eddie’s skin radiating through his thin, ugly shirt. It also gets Eddie far enough away that Steve isn’t tempted to lean in and kiss him, the entire store of patrons be damned. He’s never been good at moderation; his infatuation with Eddie is embarrassing but expected. 

Eddie readjusts without complaint. “You’re paying for the scoops?” He blinks, surprised.

Eddie’s eyes narrow a little as he tips his head, considering. He’s wearing the same ripped jeans as he had last week, but this week’s shirt is a hideous red thing. It says Iron Maiden in bright purple font. 

Steve ignores him. “Who’s the Iron Maiden?” he asks, instead. “Is she a metal artist?”

The font certainly looks like something off the cover of some skulls-guitar-drums record sleeve. Eddie stares at him for a long time. Steve, feeling a little self-conscious, actually starts praying for the midday rush to hit early. 

“I’m going to go,” Eddie eventually says. His ice cream has half-melted. “I’ve just had a really serious and awful realisation, and I need to leave so that I can begin rectifying this problem, or so that I can talk myself out of it.” He gives Steve an undecipherable look, eyes heavy and lingering. “I haven’t decided which option is best yet.”

“Um.” Steve’s lost. “I like solving problems,” he offers. “If that helps?” 

Eddie grabs his ice cream. He drops coins on the counter, enough to cover the fourth scoop, and starts to back away with squinty, suspicious eyes.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I think it does.”

Then he’s gone, slipping out and into the crowd. 

Steve picks up his scooper, gets back to work, and tries not to miss him. 

Eddie’s there for tally eight. 

“Harrington,” he hollers on a non-descript Friday, swinging back and forth on the little door that leads behind the counter. It groans beneath his weight. “Ahoy, sailor!” 

Robin whacks at him with a dirty cleaning cloth, struggling to balance three tasting spoons in her right hand. “Steve,” she yells over her shoulder, eyes wild, “your regular is here.” She stares down Erica’s squadron, Tina at the front, and says, “You do not need to try the lemon-lime twice.” 

Steve fiddles with his hair in the backroom and quickly presses moisturiser into his face for a healthy, well-kept look. Then, with an air of relaxation so fake it almost tastes plastic, he wanders out the front. Steve doesn’t bother hiding how giddy he is to see Eddie; it’s an energy that’s matched after near-daily visits. Steve leans against the wall and spins his scooper idly. Sure enough, Eddie lights up upon seeing him, brown eyes sparkling. 

“Stop swinging on the door,” Steve chastises, trying for mean but coming off exasperated.

He reaches out to tug at Eddie. Eddie lets himself be manoeuvred, flipping his hands palm-up so that he can slide them up Steve’s forearms. Eddie runs cold; his fingers are refreshing and stark against Steve’s skin.

“You break it, you buy it, Munson.”

“Au contraire,” Eddie declares. He taps his fingers rhythmically against Steve’s arm, some kind of beat that only he recognises. “The customer is always right. So, if I break anything, you buy it!”

“That’s not how it works,” says Steve, flatly. He doesn’t do a very good job of hiding how funny he finds Eddie, which is both embarrassing and predictable. Always so predictable when it comes to Eddie. “Is there a reason you’re in here early?” 

“You keep track of when I come in?” 

“You’re the loudest customer we have; of course I know when you’re coming in.”

Eddie squints. He walks his fingers up Steve’s arms, cups his elbows, and leans in over the door between them.

“I think you wanna see me,” he contemplates. “So much so that you keep track of my times up here in this handsome, vapid expanse.” He taps his index finger to Steve’s forehead, smack bang in the centre, and grins. “Am I right, Stevie?” 

Steve feels his face flush. “You think I’m handsome?” he says, stupidly, and then he follows it up with, “I thought I told you my name was Steve.” 

Eddie indulges him, eyes softening. “Sure, Stevie. You’re the most handsome little super scooper sailor boy I’ve ever seen.” 

“Flattery gets you everywhere,” Steve teases. “You gonna order anything or are you waiting in the booth? I need to save Robin before she strings me up by my little sailor booties.” 

Sure enough, when Eddie and Steve glance at Robin she’s staring back, eyes narrowed, lips curled in a thin scowl. She waggles her scooper threateningly, errant receipt stuck to her forearm. Steve winces, eyeing the steadily growing line of customers and the way he and Eddie are being side-eyed, and promptly cuts off all contact with his friend.

“Executive decision. You’re in the booth,” he tells Eddie. “Go sit down and I’ll bring you your banana tutti-frutti mess. Want extra sprinkles?” 

Eddie tucks his hands into his armpits and bounces a little on the spot. He reminds Steve of Dustin in a vague way, and he’s sort of hoping they never meet, because he thinks they might both take a little too much glee in bullying him. Eddie whistles an unrecognisable little tune and then shakes his head.

“Surprise me,” he says with an overly flirtatious grin. He turns to find a spare booth. 

Steve feels his face flush. Again, expected. Most things are at this stage, he considers, as he starts ringing up orders with an absent-minded robotic efficiency. He can almost proclaim this summer as one of expectations, outside of two very obvious deviations. The most unpredictable part of the past three weeks is becoming friends with Eddie Munson. The least unpredictable part is that Steve wants that relationship to develop into something else. 

Though Steve’s only been in love a few times  — and he wouldn’t label how he feels about Eddie as love — he recognises the shift from infatuation to adoration well enough. Somehow, after months of striking out, and even longer spent getting over his Nancy-induced heartbreak, Eddie is now the new object of his desires. It’s equal parts delightful and fucking awful. Delightful, because Steve likes having a crush, likes having that soft little flutter in his stomach, that desire to make someone laugh, the nervous little tremble to his hands. Awful, because it’s Eddie Munson, who is all gangly limbs and frenetic energy and ignores Steve’s personal space and has big brown eyes and freckles and a smile that’s too big and bunches his cheeks and, and, and. Steve could go on for hours. 

“Excuse me?” 

Steve is still working absently, head rampant with thoughts of Eddie. He smiles at the girl across the counter, her hair ash blonde and dead straight. It’s up in a high, sleek ponytail, and her cheekbones are sharp, like Eddie’s jawline.

He blinks and says automatically, “Ahoy. What can I get for you?” 

The girl glances down at his badge, dragging her eyes up slowly. So very slowly. Steve gets the feeling he’s meant to be falling over his feet for a look like that, but he can spot Eddie from the corner of his eyes, folding fliers into little origami frogs, aeons better than whatever Robin can do. So. Steve tugs himself back into the conversation. 

“Hi, Steve,” she says. Her smile is a slow, pretty thing. “I’m Lenora.” She presses her thumb against her lips, shiny from gloss, and hovers in front of the ice cream.

“Hi, Lenora.” Steve pops his hip against the counter. He twirls his scooper absently as his gaze catches on her top. It says WAR CRY in huge red letters. The rest of the shirt is jet black and stretched thin across her chest. It looks like something Eddie might like. “Cool shirt,” he says. 

Lenora’s grin broadens. She glances up at him from beneath her lashes. “You think so?” she asks, shyly. “I was worried it was a little too tight." 

There’s meaning behind that word. There’s a message in her eyes and her posture that Steve’s meant to be reading. Three weeks ago, maybe he would have cracked open that book, done his best to chase the words right off her mouth. Right now, however, Eddie is looking over at them, and he looks bored, but Steve can see how he spins his rings. The leg he typically bounces is frozen. 

Knowing Robin is staring him down, Steve says, “What flavour can I get you?” 

Lenora doesn’t give up. She doesn’t even falter. She leans against the cabinet, fingers pressing the glass, and says, “Can I try the raspberry?” 

Steve hands her the raspberry.

“Mmm.” Lenora drags her tongue up the spoon. She doesn’t break eye contact with Steve. Her lids are painted a really soft brown which makes her green eyes pop. Green eyes, blond hair, too sugar sweet. “Maybe I should try the mango.” 

Steve hands her the mango.

Again, Lenora drags it out. She’s more enthusiastic the second time, making these sounds like she’s drinking liquid gold rather than having subpar ice cream from Scoops Ahoy. Steve looks away, uncomfortable, to catch Robin’s wide eyes, pink cheeks, and gobsmacked expression.

What are you doing? She mouths, making tiny little flicking motions at Lenora. Make a move!  

“Maybe chocolate,” Lenora says, reaching out to hover her hand above Steve’s wrist. “Can I get a taste?” 

Steve hands her the chocolate.

Eddie’s entire form is stiff now. He’s fiddling with one of the colouring books they offer to under fives. Steve’s never told Eddie where they keep them, but Eddie always finds them. He hasn’t opened it but he stares at it with a steely, resolute intensity. Steve frowns, wondering what’s wrong. He normally takes his breaks when Eddie arrives, so maybe Eddie’s just frustrated with how long both Steve and the ice cream are taking?

“Stevie? How about strawberry?” 

Eddie’s elbow jerks and he accidentally sends the napkin dispenser flying. It clatters against the floor as he scrambles fruitlessly for it. Steve catches the sour twist of his lips behind the curtain of hair that hides him. He shoves the dispenser back on the table with shaking hands and digs around in his pocket to procure car keys. Steve can feel Lenora’s fingers around his wrist. He can hear her saying Stevie. Stevie, who no one gets to call him but Eddie. He sucks in a sharp breath, fumbling not to offend Lenora. It’s not her fault she’d gunned for him, unaware that his sights are set on someone a little taller. With darker hair. With too-tight jeans. Someone who is leaving. 

“Sorry,” he dismisses, smiling placidly. His eyes glaze and go empty in that way he knows Robin hates. “There’s a three taste policy for all customers. Maybe you can try again with Robin?” 

Eddie pauses with one leg out of the booth. He’s frozen, staring down at the table. Steve makes sure he’s not staring when Eddie jolts up, catching the movement from his peripherals. 

Lenora fumbles. “Oh, uh. Um,” she stutters. Her posture tightens, shoulders hunching a little.

Steve feels like slime. There had definitely been a kinder way to reject her, but he’d panicked. Seeing Eddie ready to run and not really knowing why, but having this thought, this feeling, that maybe, maybe, it was for the same reasons Steve wanted him to stay — he’d overreacted, maybe. 

Robin slides in like an angel. “Hi, Lenora, was it? You were saying you wanted to try strawberry? Why don’t I give you a sample across the board?” She cuts Steve a scathing side-eye. 

He pays her no mind, muttering that he's taking his break. He spends his time creating a double strawberry, singular hokey-pokey float, packed with mini marshmallows. He skips out on sauce, shoves a little flag atop the tooth-rotting pile, and rounds the counter without another word.

Lenora leaves with a single scoop of vanilla and a baleful glance that Steve does his best to ignore. He dodges Robin’s kick and her hissed, “Tally eight, loser.” 

“Wow,” Eddie says, delighted.

He leans over the back of his booth, arms piled on the headrest as Steve draws near. He’s nowhere as stiff as he had been and Steve’s relieved to see the car keys are no longer in sight. He looks downright cheerful. It’s such a one-eighty that Steve’s head threatens to spin. 

“I don’t really know what I just witnessed but it felt kind of sad and more than a little pathetic. That was like, next level awful.” 

Steve deposits the float on the booth table and slides in across from Eddie. “No,” he says, tossing his hands skyward. He really hams it up, because Eddie loves theatrics. He sighs forlornly and rests his chin on his palm with a groan. “By all means, keep going.” 

“Sure.” Eddie smiles serenely. He settles criss-cross applesauce on the seat, which is sort of impressive given how tiny the booths are and how tall Eddie is. He goes on. “It was kind of like a trainwreck, or I guess, a shipwreck, given the theme?” 

Steve hides his face behind his hands. It’s only a little from embarrassment and a lot because he doesn’t want Eddie to see his big, goofy grin. He rolls his eyes when he finally tugs them away, the threat of laughter under control. He’s glad Eddie hasn’t seen clean through him. He’d thought himself pretty obvious, but maybe he strikes out so often that no one has attributed this instance to him being lovesick. 

“Shut up,” Steve demands. “What you witnessed there was …”

He fumbles with one of the origami frogs, unsure how to continue. What you saw there was a pathetic, desperate display at keeping you in the store because I only get sixty minutes with you a day, unless you’re bored enough to stay through the mid-afternoon lull. Yeah, because that would blow over so well. Eddie and he might be on better terms now, but Steve still recalls Eddie’s acidic grin when he’d said not the only F word you called me. 

Eddie brushes his fingers through his hair and separates a curl to play with. “Am I supposed to fill in the blanks?” he asks, after the silence draws on. “Should I be giving you a pep talk? You’ll get ‘em next time, slick, except this is what … tally eight?” 

Steve smacks his hands on the tabletop and hisses, cheeks burning, “How do you know about that?” He sinks low in his seat. 

Eddie, clearly startled, says, “Robin. I came in the other week when you weren’t here and she let me chill in the backroom. I saw the board.” His brown eyes are huge like dinner plates on his face. He looks embarrassed and unsure, which is new to Steve.

Robin and Eddie hang out, Steve thinks. He blacks out at the thought. Only a little bit. Long enough for Eddie to snap his fingers in front of Steve’s face a few times with a concerned, “Earth to Stevie?” 

Steve catches Eddie’s hand, slips his fingers over the agile ligaments and spindly length of them, and tries to act like touching his friends tenderly is typical of him. Eddie doesn’t pull his hand away. He doesn’t do much beyond blink those big cow eyes and stare down at the limb Steve’s taken prisoner. 

Eddie shoves his spoon in the float and remarks, “Good thing I’m a lefty.” Then he demolishes everything but the marshmallows. “You’re not mad that I was in the backroom, right?” he asks after a bit, nudging the end of the float with the mallows towards Steve. “I didn’t peg you as a stickler for the rules, but then again, you did kick up a fuss about those secret fourth scoops.” 

“I am not my own boss,” Steve says. “Capitalism is not a pal to anyone.” Then, belatedly, “But no. I’m not mad. I just didn’t realise you and Robin were friends.” 

He and Eddie are properly holding hands now. Steve doesn’t know how to feel about this, nor what he’s supposed to do next. Is there etiquette when it comes to tender hand-holding with a friend? Should he be saying something like ‘no homo’ — even though from his angle this is very much a queer thing — or should he act unaware? He’s never held hands so gently with a friend before. He tries to picture holding hands with Tommy Hagan or Jonathan Byers past the second grade buddy system and grimaces. 

“Buckley’s in band,” Eddie explains. He waves his spoon around as he speaks. “I am also in a band, just not a school-run one. However, I do sometimes help by setting up the practice rooms. Mrs Pellion says she’s devastated that I never took an interest in trombone. Apparently I’ve got the lips for it.” He puckers them.

Steve tries not to lunge across the table. You’ve got the lips for a lot of things, he thinks feverishly, wishing he could shove his tongue into that perfect, pouty mouth. His hand starts to sweat which is the icing atop the humiliation cake of today’s everything.

“I have to pee,” he basically fucking squeaks, voice all pitchy. He tugs his hand away, steals a handful of marshmallows, and says, “See you tomorrow?” 

“Uh, sure.” Eddie frowns and gives Steve a contemplative look. His eyes dart about Steve’s face, probing, searching for something, before his expression smooths out. His mouth twists into Steve’s favourite type of smile, a private little thing given only to him. “See you tomorrow, Stevie.” 

Steve stands in the desolate mall bathroom, hands braced firmly against the sink, and gives himself five minutes to meltdown over how capable Eddie’s hands had felt, how pink his tongue had been against the ice cream, and how he’d never once looked away from Steve the entire fucking time. Then he splashes water on his face and meets his reflection eye-to-eye. 

“Pull it together, Harrington. You suck.” 

Outside of Eleven, Max is probably the kid Steve knows the least. She’s fiery, rides a skateboard, and doesn’t sugarcoat her words. She wears sneakers and never puts bandages on her torn up knees, because she says it makes her look like a punk loser instead of just a punk regular — whatever that means. Max also has a little something-something with Lucas. Steve knows this because he got his face beaten in by Max’s bullshit, racist brother over the whole matter. Right now, he’s learning something new about Max; she’s awful at gift-giving. Steve’s not exactly sure why she’s come to him, because he’s also fucking dismal at it. He prefers to show his love through touch and time spent together. He feels pretty good about Max’s trust in him, however.

He says as much.

“Yeah, yeah,” Max mutters, skittish. She folds her arms across her chest. Steve can tell she’s doing her best to appear bored, but she’s barely fourteen, and hasn’t quite figured out how to hide her discomfort. “So, are you gonna help me or not, Harrington?” 

Steve finishes his sandwich. “Sure, I’ll help. Do you have any idea what kinda gift you wanna give Lucas?” He licks some melted cheese off his fingers and then pinches a napkin to clean up the mess and wipe down the top of the booth table. “Something he can use or something he can look at?” 

Max rests her chin on her palm. She prods at her singular chocolate scoop. “I have no idea what teenage boys like,” she laments. “He uses a slingshot a lot. I think he also likes sports. Should I buy him one of those trading cards for baseball?” 

Steve considers it. “Not sure,” he settles on. “I get the feeling he’d like whatever gift you gave him, you know?” Max does not in fact know. Patiently, Steve explains. “It’s because it’s you, Max. Lucas likes you, ergo, he will like whatever you give him. You could glue googly eyes on a rock and he’d probably commission a gold plaque for it.” 

Distressingly, Max perks up. 

“No.” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. When did this become his life, he wonders. Sitting in his stupid sailor fit in Scoops Ahoy at ten in the morning, a random child across from him, workshopping the perfect gift for her maybe-boyfriend. More importantly, when did Steve start enjoying it?

“We’re getting Lucas something better than a rock,” he says, flatly. “Maybe we could get him a new cap or one of those braided bracelets? You guys could match.”

Max hesitates. “I don’t know,” she says slowly. “Don’t you have to braid those yourself?” She discards her spoon, giving up on eating the ice cream. “I know I’m a total badass, but I don’t think I have the artistic skill required for something like that.” 

Steve matches her pose, chin pillowed on hand, and grins. “I’ve never tried making one.” 

He thinks about Dustin and his summer camp and how bad he misses that little shit-head, and he thinks about Robin, who has the day off and is probably tanning at the pool, and who Steve is surprised to realise he misses just as much. He thinks about a blue bracelet on Henderson’s wrist, a red one on Robin’s, and both of the bracelets stacked atop each other on his. 

“Wanna figure it out together? Hey, I’ll even make you a yellow one ‘cause you’re so full of sunshine, Mayfield.” 

Max swipes at him when he tries to ruffle her hair, but her shoulders are loose and her eyes bright. She bites down on her smile. “Whatever,” she laughs. “I’m gonna make you a brown one, ‘cause you’re fulla shit.” 

Twenty minutes later, Steve’s ready to admit defeat. “What the fuck,” he hisses, staring down at papercut that has somehow formed on the tip of his middle finger. “This is string! How the fuck did I cut myself?” 

Max stares at the instructions with blank eyes. There are snippings of rainbow cotton all around them, black and blue and hideous neon orange and tropical pink. She stares down at the half-woven mess of bracelet in her hand and then looks up at Steve, dazed. 

“What are we doing?” 

Steve starts detangling the string from his thumb before he loses circulation. “We’re bonding,” he says, trying to inject some cheer into his voice. It doesn’t work. “We are having a great fucking time doing arts and crafts together.” He gives up on nails and tries for his teeth, coating the cotton in saliva. Good thing this was meant to be a practice run. 

Ring-clad fingers suddenly catch Steve’s wrist, rescuing Steve’s hand from his mouth. A warm thigh bumps his. The smell of musk and weed and sandalwood encroaches on Steve’s precious little bubble of oxygen. Steve’s heart catapults, mouth already shaping around a lovesick sigh. He reels himself in, however, aware that Max’s attention has also been diverted to their newcomer.

“Do you ever work?” Eddie asks, effortlessly detangling Steve’s mess. He doesn’t seem bothered by the damp string. 

“I’m on break.”

Max snorts. “You’ve been on break for an hour,” she informs him. “Dave looks a second away from collapsing.” 

Steve glances over his shoulder. Dave, his coworker, is picking his nose and staring blankly at the wall. There’s no one at the counter. 

“Yeah,” he says, slowly, “he’s in a real crisis. Dunno how he’s coping.” 

Eddie snickers. He glances up from beneath his lashes. As is usual for Eddie, he’s sitting so close that he’s practically in Steve’s lap. Today, his eyes are rimmed in black liner, lashes huge against his doe-eyes. There’s a little smudge beneath his left eye, like he’d maybe forgotten he was wearing make-up and accidentally smeared it. Steve’s thumb is smoothing it away before he even knows what he’s doing. Eddie stills, his lashes fluttering. Steve cups his cheek, staring back, and swallows past a lump in his throat that tastes suspiciously like a love confession. 

“Um,” interrupts Max, “wanna introduce me to your new …friend?”

Steve drags his hand back. It hovers in the air between him and Eddie. He lets it fall to his lap as he clears his throat and says, “This is Eddie.” It feels underwhelming. Maybe he should have said it a little more reverently. 

Eddie is still giving Steve an incredulous look. He says jokingly, “I’m his best friend,” and tears his gaze from Steve. 

Max lights up. “Oooh,” she coos, gleefully. “Henderson is not gonna like hearing that!” 

Eddie tilts his head, puppy-like. He rests his arm along the booth seat, right behind Steve’s head. His bicep flexes. Were Steve to lean over a little, he could rest his head on that warm curve of shoulder and neck. He doesn’t let himself move. He takes comfort in the feeling of Eddie’s thigh against his instead, the bare skin of their knees touching. 

“Who’s Henderson?” 

Steve shrugs. “He’s—”

“Steve’s brother.” Max pillows both elbows on the table. “Sort of. He’s thirteen, missing half his teeth from some medical thing, and is super smart, but also the stupidest person ever.”

“Wheeler,” says Steve. 

Max reconsiders. “Okay, you have a point. Mike is pretty dumb.” 

“A lot of names you’re flinging around,” Eddie says. He grins goodnaturedly and leans forward. His hand drops to cup Steve’s nape, his thumb moving rhythmically over the skin at the base of Steve's head. Wherever Eddie touches burns, tingling in a way that’s both pleasant and life-changing. “Anyone I should be worried about?”  

“No,” Steve says too quickly, shivering beneath Eddie’s sweet touch. “They’re all kids,” he admits. Then, heralding the spy joke of weeks past, “We start recruitments early in Russia.” 

Eddie snickers. He sways forward. Steve’s world goes flying off its axis so fast he feels motion sick; Eddie’s nose and lips brush against the tip of his burning ear, breathy laughter warm against the shell of it. He presses his face to Steve’s hair and laughs like this is something natural for them, like he can touch Steve wherever and whenever he wants, no questions asked. And he can, of course, but Steve hadn’t known that Eddie would want to. His breath catches in his throat like summer humidity, thick and cloying. Max glances back and forth between them, mouth pinched as she considers them both. Steve needs to intercept before she comes to any conclusions. 

Steve clears his throat and does his best to gently dislodge Eddie, already mourning the loss of his touch. “You’re crafty, right, Eddie?” He asks, thinking about the sewn patches on Eddie’s jean pockets and the paint that sometimes stains the tips of his fingers. 

Eddie tugs the instruction sheet out from under the spools of thread. “Sure,” he says, tapping his fingers along the paper. “Are we making friendship bracelets? Oh neat. These instructions are always written like they asked a five year old to do it. I gotta better way.”

Max beams at him. “You’re cool,” she decides. “You’re way cooler than Steve.”

“I’m right here.” 

Eddie pats his thigh. Steve tries not to melt into a puddle of bones and organs on the floor. “Hush, big boy,” he says, squeezing Steve’s thigh firmly, just once, before he gestures to the thread. “Pick your poison, Mayfield. We’re gonna make a professional weaver of you yet.” 

“Max,” she says, slamming blue and green in front of her. “You can call me Max.” 

Steve leaves them to it. He spends the rest of the morning shift watching them whisper conspiratorially, grinning until his cheeks ache. By the time Max flounces out of the store, Eddie’s got twelve bracelets up his right arm, and has somehow woven Max a fucking necklace. 

“Delivery from Miss Mayfield,” Eddie says, lingering at the counter. He holds his hand out, palm upturned, fingers a little curled. “Arm please.”

Steve drops his wrist into Eddie’s hand, treasuring the familiar press of cold rings, and watches as Eddie wraps a bright yellow and brown bracelet around his skin. If he squints, he kinda sees what looks like little shapes. 

“It’s a sunflower,” Eddie says, ducking his head. “Max uh, Max said you wanted matching bracelets. And well, you know, you’re — she’s all sunshine, so. Sunflowers.” Eddie dithers while tying off the knot, head bowed so Steve can’t see his face. His hair swings forward, however, so Steve can see the little pink tips of his ears. He grins. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, flipping his hand to squeeze Eddie’s. “Hey, you’ll have to make one for us, next. I’m a little jealous I didn’t get a Munson necklace.” 

Eddie tugs at his hair absently. “Sorry, man,” he boasts. “Me and Mayfield are bonded now. We Maxes stick together.” 

“Maxes?” 

“Sure. Maxine Mayfield. Edward Maxwell Munson. Max squared.” 

Steve shakes his head in awe. “Only you,” he says, wondrous, “could spend two hours with one of my cagiest rugrats and come out the other end singing each other’s praises.” 

Eddie wriggles, pleased. The pretty blush Steve’s so enamoured with spreads across his handsome face. “Yeah, well, if you like ‘em, then they’ve gotta be good kids.” He squeezes Steve’s hand, brushes his fingers against Steve’s pulse point, and then pulls away from the counter. “I gotta necklace to craft,” he says, with a wink. “Catch you later, Stevie.”

Strike nine is Steve’s worst strike yet. 

Steve normally has Thursdays off. Today, however, Dave calls in sick, voice snotty and gravelly down the line. Steve, who’s doing nothing with his life or his summer, takes the shift without thought. Thursdays are Robin’s opens, which means he’ll get to see her from eleven to three. This is exciting and nerve-wracking in equal parts, because Steve needs advice. He needs boy advice and he has no one to ask but Robin, no one who knows bar Robin. 

He spends the morning with Lucas and Max in the cinema, watching some God awful movie he nearly sleeps through. Max catches Lucas’s fingers over the top of the popcorn, and Steve glimpses matching blue-green bracelets. That’s my girl, he thinks, grinning to himself. He sucks at his cherry coke and thinks about the necklace Eddie had pressed into his hand the week before. It sits around his neck, a tiny woven chain of pastel purples and yellows. Steve loves it. He only takes it off to sleep and shower.

Steve sends the kids off with a fist bump each and slips in the back door of Scoops with thirty minutes to spare before his shift. He plans to spend it laying on the shitty little lounge he and Robin begged for, but is halted by familiar voices floating through the front. 

It’s Robin, obviously, giggling at something. “Eddie,” she hisses, sounding positively delighted. “You romancer, you!” 

Steve sits up on the couch, carefully. The leather is too old to crinkle beneath him, thankfully. He hesitates, unsure if the conversation is private. They’re having it out front, so it can’t be that bad, right?

“Shut up, Buckley,” Eddie laughs. He sounds odd, maybe a little embarrassed? “You can’t tell anyone.” 

“You wanna keep this a secret?”

Okay, Steve definitely shouldn’t be listening. 

“Yeah.”

He gets up off the couch.

“Let me rephrase, you want to keep this a secret from Steve?” 

Steve halts, left leg raised awkwardly. He stares blankly at the wall across from him, stomach churning without reason. There are a lot of secrets Eddie might want to keep, that he’s allowed to keep, from Steve. Something clatters against the counter. Steve has to strain to hear Eddie speak. 

“How am I meant to just tell him? This is like … big. C’mon, it’s not like you’re gonna tell him, either. Right?” 

“No, Eddie. Of course not. I would never tell Steve.” 

Steve sort of feels like he’s underwater. He tries not to read into the situation, because he’s stumbled across a conversation they were both clearly halfway through. They could be talking about something totally innocent, like a really embarrassing tattoo Eddie has, or about something band-related that only Robin would understand. Steve starts to gnaw on his nails, stomach whirlpooling in the cavernous expanse of his chest. Eddie is allowed to keep secrets, he tells himself, firmly. 

“It’s just a lot,” Eddie murmurs. “I never know how to read him and if I’m wrong about this … well. He’s Steve Harrington. This isn’t something I want to be wrong about.” Eddie hesitates. Steve imagines Robin’s gentle, probing gaze. “I don’t want him to know until I’m sure.” 

“Then I won’t say anything. We won’t say anything. I’ve got your back, Ed.” 

Steve stares blankly at the wall and tries not to spiral. He looks at the facts. One: Ed. Two: Robin and Eddie are good friends. Three: Robin and Eddie hang out at Scoops when Steve isn’t there, and they’re allowed to, but they also keep secrets. Four: Robin refers to them as a ‘we’, as a unit, as partners in crime. Five: Robin swears she won’t tell Steve Eddie’s secrets, which is a good thing, except, what kind of secrets would be bad enough to warrant Eddie’s fear? Six: Something about Steve still makes Eddie feel unsafe. 

Steve struggles to breathe. He doesn’t want Robin or Eddie to hear him; he doesn’t know how to escape the room without the door creaking; he really doesn’t want to work the evening shift when he’s feeling muddier than swamp water. 

Robin and Eddie are talking again, a hushed conversation that Steve deliberately pushes from his mind. He creeps across the room to slip out the backdoor, wincing when it squeaks against its hinges, and disappears into the corridor. Then he turns and walks — walks and walks and walks until he’s back in the cinema. Then he walks past the screen, uncaring that people shout for him to move, and out into the stale air of Starcourt Mall. 

“Pull yourself together,” he tells himself. “People don’t owe you their secrets, no matter how much you might like them.” 

After all, he’s Steve Harrington. He’s Steve. Harrington. There’s a very fucking good reason Eddie doesn’t trust him with the same stuff he trusts Robin with. Steve doesn’t have the right to be upset about that either. 

Harrington, the Eddie of two months ago spits. Not the only F word you called me. You into making people feel like shit, Harrington? King Steve. 

Steve drops his head into his hands with a tired sigh. He wishes Dustin were here. He needs someone to clock him around the back of the head and talk some sense into his stupid, sludge-thick mind. Steve stares up at the clock mounted near the fountain and watches the seconds tick by. He stands numb amongst a crowd of people and feels more alone than ever. Then he turns back to Scoops and prepares for the longest six hours of his life.

Robin and Eddie jolt away from each other when Steve enters Scoops Ahoy. It's only because he knows to look that he catches the tight pinch to Robin's smile and the panicked gleam swimming in Eddie's eyes. He plasters a fake yes, sir smile across his face. Placid, empty-eyed, plastic. He lets his shoulders hang loose and his stance twist confident. It's not very wise of him, but Steve's long made peace with being the stupid one — so much so the word no longer lingers caustic on his tongue. If they want him to be Steve Harrington, then he'll be Steve Harrington. Not the foul-mouthed hateful cretin of the past, of course — Steve's grown too much to ever willingly crawl back to that depthless hole. No, he summons the listless, void-like feeling that consumes him late at night, when one of the kids doesn't answer their walkie quickly enough, when his father takes a step forward that's a little too aggressive. He lets it settle over him like a bad smell. 

"You can take your first break if you want," Steve says. He pushes past the gate and leans through the window to swipe his hat off the hook. 

Robin blinks. "Oh, it's okay. It's been a slow morning." 

Steve smiles thinly. He catches his reflection in the silver cabinet that houses the spare cones and sauce bottles. He crouches in front of it. He wonders if they can see how brittle he looks too, or if he's still as good an actor as he used to be. 

"Why don't you take one anyway?" he suggests, calmly. He doesn't want to upset Robin; he likes her. He does. He doesn't want to upset Eddie, either. "You and Eddie can hang out outside of Scoops for once." 

"Aw, Stevie. It's sweet you think we don't already." Eddie teases the same way he always does, a lilting little tune, somewhat smug, somewhat pitying. Normally, it makes Steve want to chase the mirth right off Eddie's lips. Today, Steve's raw. 

"That's nice," he says, pleasantly, staring his reflection dead in the eyes. His fingers flex around a bag of cones as he shuffles shit aside purely for the sake of looking preoccupied. He squeezes too harshly at one of the packets, watching hollowly as he cracks a cone through the middle. 

Eddie and Robin trade looks over Steve's head. He knows, because he can fucking see them in the reflection too. He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows past humiliation and shame to tug up a familiar lie. Everything is fine, he tells himself, firmly. The sentiment fits around his shoulders like the companionable arm of an old friend. Steve rises. He smiles at Robin, rolls his eyes at Eddie, and tries not to feel empty when concern becomes relief in their eyes. 

"I'm serious. Go and get lunch together," Steve laughs. He twirls his scooper to hide the tremor in his left hand, and shoves his right into his pocket. "I'm here 'til close. Plenty of time with little old Stevie." 

Eddie lingers at the counter. His beautiful brown eyes track across Steve's face like he's searching for something. Steve stares back, bold, refusing to back down. He wonders if Eddie can finally see his rotten core, if the summer whirlwind is finally coming to an end as July rushes in towards them. In a few weeks Eddie will gear up for his (hopefully) final year of high school. So will Robin. Steve's days will fill with solitary nine to fives in this backwater little town that he once-upon-a-time thought he would escape. Robin and Eddie will fade to memory, distracted as their own lives unfold. All Steve will have left is a shitty little tally board, a necklace he refuses to part with, and a heart heavy with regret. It's time he cuts his losses early, all things considered. 

Eddie sucks on his bottom lip. He's unconvinced with Steve's performance. "Stevie," he starts, mouth open and closing as he struggles to word what he wants to say. 

Steve saves him the trouble. "The sooner you guys leave, the sooner you can come back." 

Eddie relents. "Fine," he sighs. He caves at the waist theatrically, splaying himself half across the counter in a fluid motion of errant limbs and beseeching eyes. "But I will miss you," he moans. "You and your beauty, your smell, your taste." 

Steve's face goes pink, despite everything. He swallows past the lump that hangs in his throat. 

"Oh," Eddie blinks. "Sorry, didn't mean to confuse you, Steve. I'm talking about her." He jabs at the strawberry ice cream, sighing down at the tub wistfully. "I'll see you soon, beautiful," he murmurs, and then Robin gives an equally dramatic sigh and slings her arm around Eddie's neck.

"Let's go, dipshit. You can tell me more about the — uh, about, the thing. I want details!" 

Steve loses himself to thumbing through the receipts and running records of their cleaning chemicals. He serves a group of six, two kids on their first date, and a crotchety old woman who only calls him a waste of space once. All things considered, it's a pretty easy start to a shift. It does have the unfortunate side effect of giving Steve a lot of time to think, which he hates, because he's really good at spiralling. Where Eddie, Robin, and Dustin are all physical restless energy, Steve is more mental anguish. Put that way it sounds dramatic, but it's true. He's great at sitting still, but his mind is a consistent whirring mess whenever given the chance. He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs at a finnicky stain on the counter top, lost in one of those spirals. 

"Excuse me? Sorry, Steve?" 

Steve jolts when an unfamiliar hand falls on his. He glances up. "Hey," he says, meeting brown eyes. "Sorry, got lost in my thoughts."

The girl smiles at him. She drops her hand away from his, little gold rings scattered across her fingers. Her hair is black and thick, springing around her face. She's beautiful. Really, really beautiful. 

"It's okay," she says. "I'm Elaine. My sister was in your grade." 

Steve smiles. He doesn't particularly care. "Guess you've heard all about me then?" he asks, and surprisingly, it doesn't come out bitter. He pillows his elbows on the counter and discards the cloth, meeting her eye-to-eye. She's pretty short. "Sorry in advance."

Elaine presses her hand against her mouth to hide the curve of her smile. It reminds Steve of Eddie so viscerally he almost bites clean through his tongue. Elaine's eyes are chocolate brown, more black than Eddie's amber. Her hair is darker too, and shinier. She's wearing a pink ensemble and has matching glasses on her face. She's exactly Steve's type. 

"I base my judgements of people off my own experiences," Elaine says. She attempts to tuck her hair behind her ear but it refuses to settle. Unbothered, she pushes her glasses up her nose. "What do you recommend, Steve?"

The doorbell chimes but Steve pays it no mind. He's too busy gazing down at Elaine, at the features she shares with Eddie, at the interest that's not-so-carefully hidden behind her glasses. He has a chance with her, he realises, and a better one than anything he could offer Eddie. He hesitates. Does he want to have a chance with her?

"Chocolate and vanilla swirl is a crowd favourite for a reason," he offers. He leans in a little closer, catches a glimpse of Robin from the corner of his eyes, and isn't thinking when he says, "But there's an ocean of flavour I could show you." It comes out suggestive, coy, flirtatious, and surprises even Steve himself. His mouth works without him, like someone else is controlling the sensitive muscles of his throat and tongue. "Wanna set sail with me, sweetheart?" The final nail in the coffin.

Robin freezes. Her face drains of colour. Her gaze tracks left and there stands Eddie, winded, pallid, stiff. His face is a hurricane of emotion. Mortified, stunned, confused, wounded, resigned. He's an open book that Steve has spent weeks perusing the pages of, touching reverent fingers to. Eddie sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, makes a noise like he's been gutted, and then swipes a hand down his face. His brown eyes squeeze shut like he's trying to ground himself. Steve opens his mouth. Lets it fall shut. He doesn't know what to say. It doesn't matter anyway; Eddie's gone in a matter of seconds, rushing out the door with a maniac energy that leaves Steve wanting to give chase. He doesn't. He turns back to Elaine.

"Oh?" She glows pink, brow lifting. "What's your flavour of choice?" She leans in. Her breath puffs warm against him, teasing, like the glint in her eyes. 

"Strawberry," Steve says, like an idiot, trying to patch everything together. The remaining puzzle piece is dangling above him, taunting, and no matter how high he jumps, he just can't reach it. "I like strawberry, Eddie." 

He doesn't even realise what he's said until Elaine is reeling back, confused. She gives an awkward little laugh, tittering, and closes in on herself. "It's, it's Elaine," she reminds him. "I think maybe I'll take caramel." She presses her thumb against her teeth so hard that Steve catches the little dent it leaves in the skin. 

"Sorry," he says, scrambling numbly. "I didn't mean ..." 

Elaine drops some coins on the counter. She doesn't meet his eyes. "It's fine," she says, in a way that suggests it really isn't. "Maybe you should stick with terms of endearment. You know, if you can't be bothered to remember a girl's name."

It's not that I can't remember your names, Steve thinks, despairingly. It's just that if you were to crack my head open, you'd probably see Eddie scrawled across every inch of my brain in permanent marker. He watches Elaine leave. Things are really not fine at all, he thinks, slamming his forehead against his forearms and popping to a squat behind the counter. 

"Steve," Robin fumes, dropping to a squat beside him. He meets her gaze balefully, feeling pathetic. "What the hell was that." 

Steve presses his palms against his eyes and says, very quietly, "You suck, tally nine." Except not because of Elaine. Just like tally eight. Just like tally seven. 

"I'm going to kill you," Robin says, measuredly, sucking in a deep, stabilising breath. 

Steve's hand darts out to wrap around her wrist. "Before you do, can you make sure he's— Eddie's okay?" he asks, unable to meet her gaze. He feels like climbing into the garbage dispenser out back and letting it flatten him to dust. "Please, Robin? Just ... I can cover you. You were right; it's a slow morning." 

"There's no point," she says. "He's probably tearing out of the car park as we speak." She folds her arms across her chest. "He was just here to drop something off, anyway."

Steve's shoulders sag. He feels drained. 

Robin stares at him for a long time, gaze boring into the side of his head. Finally, she says, "So. You wanna tell me what that was all about?" 

Steve stares blankly at his hands. "No," he says. "No, I really don't." 

The bell rings before Robin can probe any further, saving Steve from doing something really mortifying, like trying to bludgeon himself to death with a scooper. He pushes himself up off the floor to serve the next round of customers and comes face-to-face with a familiar group of dipshits. "No free samples," he mutters before Mike Wheeler can ask. "I'm not in the fucking mood."

Robin works until three. Then she corners Steve against the counter.

"I am going to go shopping," she says. "When I get back, you and I are going to sit down in that breakroom and unpack the absolute soap opera that was today's shift." 

Steve knows better than to complain. He sends her off into the mall with a face still burning from humiliation and a tight-lipped grimace. 

It storms later that afternoon, a maelstrom of Hawkins dust and rain so sharp it comes down sideways. Steve stands in the entrance to Scoops and listens to the rain beat down on the roof of the mall. The court is, unsurprisingly, near empty. There are stragglers near Hot Topic, and some more in the main food court, but Scoops is deserted. Steve doesn’t feel bad about shoving the closing sign up early. 

Robin knocks on the door forty minutes later, bag slung over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. She mouths something unintelligible through the glass. Steve puts down the spray bottle of bleach, giving up on scrubbing away a particularly stubborn stain on the gate. He lets her in. 

“Hi,” says Robin, carefully. She drops her bag on the nearest booth and then sits atop the table. It’s a good thing Steve hasn’t started cleaning it yet. “Are we flooding or something? Why’s the joint shut at four?” 

Steve gestures around the room. “Thank God you’re here,” he rejoices, hand against his heart. “I’ve been under so much pressure to serve this overwhelming crowd.” He dodges her flailing arm and settles beside her, except he’s on the chair like a normal person. 

“Live a little,” Robin groans. 

He clambers onto the table beside her. They sit in silence for a while, staring out into the desolate expanse of Starcourt Mall. Then Steve, who’s never really been good with silence, says, “Can we talk?”

Robin, he remembers, is also not good with silence. She rocks forward with a desperate, blurted, “Yes.” Her hand settles on his wrist immediately. It’s a tentative touch; despite how close they’ve grown, Steve’s always seen the line drawn in the sand between them. They’re coworkers. Friendly coworkers, but not friends. "You have no idea how badly I want to talk."

Steve flips his hand over very carefully, and gently takes her fingers in his. Their shoulders press against each other, legs swinging over the edge of the table, and it’s a little cramped and a whole lot uncomfortable, but something about it feels right. Robin’s probably his best friend, Steve realises, outside of Dustin. It’s a terrifying thought, only because he’s not certain Robin returns the sentiment. After his little moment earlier, he’s not sure that’s even on the table anymore. 

"I'm sorry," Steve says. He's apologising to the wrong person, maybe, but he is sorry she had to witness ... whatever that had been.

Robin squeezes his hand. “Cards on the table, I didn’t know you liked him,” she says. "You do like him, right?" 

Steve’s head hangs a little. He presses his palm against his left eye, hard enough it sends starbursts careening across his vision. “Yes. I like him. Did you not believe me because he’s a dude?” He asks, trying his best not to feel annoyed. “I think I implied pretty heavily—”

“No.” Robin cuts him off sharply. Her fingers curl around his so tightly his knuckles threaten to pop. He winces, catching the crescent moon bite of her nails against the back of his hand. “No, Steve. I promise, it’s not because he’s a guy. I don’t care about that.” She licks her lips, stares down at her knees, then up at the ceiling, and then, very quietly, voice wavering, she admits, “I’m more of a Tammy Thompson girl.” 

Steve blinks. “Tammy Thompson?” He’s appalled, but not because Robin’s into women. No, because she’s into Tammy fucking Thompson. And she has the nerve to say shit about Eddie looking … unique? Eddie’s in a band, he thinks, smug. Eddie can probably sing way better than Tammy. Because Steve’s a good coworker — friend? Does mutually coming out cement a friendship? — he says none of this. 

“Not the point, Steve,” Robin hisses. Her face boils red, freckles standing out stark against her cheeks. “I didn’t realise you genuinely liked him. I thought you just found him hot and that you were just, you know, flirting to pass time. I had no idea you were falling in love.” 

“I’m not in love with him,” says Steve, stupidly. Not yet, his heart sings, slamming away at his rib cage with glee. 

“Not yet,” Robin echoes. 

Steve twists to check the table is clean behind them, and then he slumps backwards. He gives Robin a sharp tug and she follows him, exasperated. Then it’s the two of them lying atop a sticky Scoops Ahoy table, staring up at the god awful roof of their capitalist hellscape. 

“Sorry I got worked up,” Steve mutters. “I know this morning was … um, fucked. I just ... I was spiralling. I have a lot of thoughts — I know, I know, Airhead Steve manages to think — and they weren't particularly kind ones. To me. I wasn't being ...kind to myself.” 

Robin snorts. She rolls her head so that her temple bumps his shoulder. She smells like lemon and her hair is very soft against his cheek. Steve’s heart flips in his chest, but not in the way it does for Eddie. He loves Robin, he realises, fingers tangled with hers. He can’t imagine life without her. 

“You should be kind to yourself," Robin chastises. "You're not an airhead, Steve." She means it too, eyes genuine. "Why haven’t you asked him out yet?” Robin thumbs at the skin of his hand. It’s tender, the softest touch he’s had in a long time. “He likes you as much as you like him. I’m sure of it. He made you a fucking mixtape, Harrington.” 

Steve jolts. “He what?” He meets her gaze, grey-blue eyes, a storm of confusion and vexation. “Eddie made me … he made me a mixtape? Do you have it? Did he leave it here?” He feels a little frantic, patting at his pockets as if it will miraculously turn up there. How many tracks, which songs, what’s it called? 

“Yes, he did.” Robin’s eyes light with realisation. “He didn’t give it to you. Oh my God, of course he didn't. He didn't get a chance!”

She scrambles off the table so fast that Steve goes partially with her, whiplashed. She doesn’t let go of his hand and they go flying towards the backroom in a stumbling mess of desperation. 

“Come on, come on, come on! ” Robin near-shouts, falling to her knees near the storage unit. “Where the fuck did he hide it?” 

Steve rocks back and forth on his heels in the doorway, biting at the cuticle of his thumb. He tries not to sink into sour anxiety; Eddie had made him a mixtape and all the thanks Steve had given him was blatantly flirting with some woman in front of him. Steve can’t even remember her fucking name or the way she'd smiled. Her nails weren’t painted and she spoke in an even cadance and she wasn’t Eddie. All he remembers is she had brown-black eyes instead of brown-gold, and black hair instead of chestnut and that Steve had been searching for the traces of Eddie in her. She never had a chance against Eddie, except Eddie never knew that, and Steve’s a fucking idiot.

Robin whoops. Steve drops to his knees beside her before he can think, both of their hands cradling a tape. S.H. it says in surprisingly neat writing. Below it, AHOY, SAILOR. Steve’s cheeks burn, his ears glowing red. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and gently turns the tape over. There’s no tracklist scrawled on it and nothing else left behind. The tape is a mystery. 

“You were probably meant to listen to it together,” Robin says. She winces. 

Steve folds his legs beneath him and slumps until his forehead meets the wall. “I was such an asshole to him in high school,” he says. “A total piece of shit. How the fuck did this even happen?” He laughs humorlessly. He fingers the tape with reverent touch, breath catching a little as he thumbs the S.H over and over. "I heard you guys talking earlier, you know? I left when I realised you were having a private conversation. But I heard him. I heard him say, Steve Harrington, like it was a bad thing, like I'm ..." Dangerous. 

“Okay.” Robin settles behind him, back to back. “So you overheard something and came to conclusions?"

Steve slumps. "I tried not to. I started spiralling. I do that, remember? I kept thinking, I was such a piece of shit, and who's to say I've really grown past it? Why would he think I'm trustworthy? What about me is ..." 

"Steve?"

Feeling very small, Steve tucks his knees up to his chest. "What part of me is good enough for him?" He whispers, feeling an embarrassing rush of heat behind his eyes. 

Robin twists to catch his hand, splaying their fingers against the floor. It's not very comfortable.

"Well, you're not a piece of shit. You're not. And it’s not up to you whether or not he forgives you.” She thumbs at his skin. "We really need to work on affirmations or something, Harrington. Be nice to yourself."

Steve ignores that to say, “I still feel guilty.”

Robin lets him. “Have you apologised to Eddie?”

Steve thinks about extra scoops of ice cream and surprise me and seven weeks of almost daily visits. “Yes, but—”

“But nothing. I repeat: it’s not your choice to decide if he should forgive you. Eddie is kind, Steve. I get the feeling he’s a lot more understanding than he lets on. You know, they call him the Freak. Like, capital F.” 

Steve winces. He presses the tape against his chest like some lovestruck Victorian maiden with a letter from her betrothed. “I fucked up,” he admits. “I owe him another apology, ‘cause I seriously fucked up, you know? By flirting with … with that girl.”

“Elaine,” Robin snorts. “Not that you’d know, given you fucking called her Eddie. You call that flirting?” 

Steve breathes through his mortification, chest hot beneath his shirt. He’s burning up so much it feels like he’s got a fever. He tugs at his hair to ground himself, a soothing motion he does over and over until he feels like he can speak without puking from embarrassment. 

“How did you hear me say that and not realise I was — am — serious about Eddie?

“That actually clued me in,” Robin admits. She laughs at herself, stunned. “You know, somehow I overlooked the extra scoops, and you shelling out your own cash, and the too-long breaks, and the hand-holding, and the eye-fucking, and—”

“I don’t eye-fuck him!” Steve valiantly holds back from slamming his head through concrete.

“Steven.” 

Steve gently discards the tape in his lap and presses his hands against his face. They’re blessedly cool against his melting skin. “Okay fine,” he despairs, “but it’s more of an eye-making-love him.” 

Robin giggles. She snorts a little, a cross between a pig and a frog croak, and it’s just so funny and sweet and Robin that Steve starts laughing too. Then it’s just the two of them, the raging storm outside, and Steve’s stupid seal-clap hands. Eventually they come back to Earth, breathless, and sprawled partially beneath the break table. 

Robin takes his hand again. She says, “Steve? I think you should just talk to him.”

Steve gives a tired sigh. “I want to,” he assures, “but how? There’s no way he’s coming back now. He knows my schedule. I fucked up — I don’t even know his phone number!”

“Ignoring the fact there are phone books, he knows you’re not working tomorrow.” Robin sits up. She cards her fingers through his hair and smiles at him. “You’re taking my close, Harrington.” She presses the tape into his hands. “No need to thank me.” 

Steve’s speaking before he can think, heart overflowing out of his mouth and refusing to be shoved away. “Love you, Robin.” 

Robin startles. Her eyes go big and shiny and her mouth follows, bursting into a bright beam. She tucks some hair behind her ear and laughs, a little abashed and shy. “Um, I love you too, Steve,” she says, pleased. 

Steve grins. “Come on,” he says. “Lemme drive you home.”

The storm doesn’t let up overnight. So, Steve rocks up to a desolate Scoops, waves goodbye to his coworker, and settles behind the counter with the leftover bracelet kit. With the radio turned off — there’s only so many times Steve can listen to Barbara Ann before he wants to die — the only backdrop to Steve’s braiding is the heavy downpour of rain. Steve manages to cobble together two truly awful blue bracelets within the first hour. By hour two, he’s managed another set of two for him and Robin, but red. By hour three he’s debating napping in the backroom. He’s served a record one customer. 

Finally, at four, Steve lies down on the couch in the backroom. This is for two reasons: one, so he stops staring at the clock and two, so he stops staring at the doors. With every minute that passes where Eddie doesn’t rock up, Steve feels his gut sink. Maybe he’ll need to flip open that ancient phonebook on his kitchen table. But then, what if Eddie hangs up on him? Steve gnaws at his nails. 

Sometime after half four, the door rings. Steve’s convinced he’s hallucinating at first, scribbling another one-sided game of tic tac toe into the underside of the table. There’s an obscene cluster of gum on the left leg, pink and oozing, almost. It reminds Steve of the demodog’s putrid, rotting corpse. Yuck.

Someone taps the Ring For Service bell. Steve flies up and nearly smacks his head against the table and the gum. Jittery, he scampers up from the floor and peeks around the breakroom door. Black shirt, long, wavy hair that’s being nervously chewed on, ring-clad fingers, downcast expression. It’s Eddie. 

Steve swallows. He looks down at his stupid little sailor outfit and adjusts his socks. Then he tells himself to stop being chicken shit and steps out behind the counter.

“Hi,” he says, weakly.

Eddie jolts like he’s been electrocuted. He stumbles over his words, some hurried mess Steve can’t understand, and grips tight to the counter. He looks guarded, just as closed off as he had all those weeks ago, except Steve can see the wounded look in his eyes. 

“Hi,” Steve says again, firmer. He cuts through Eddie’s babble. “Take a breath, man.” He doesn’t reach out and touch, no matter how bad he wants to take Eddie’s hand in reassurance. “Can you let me throw up the close sign? I … I really want to talk to you.” 

To be honest, Steve’s expecting Eddie to run again. He flips the sign over slowly. He doesn’t lock the door. He stands to the side so that Eddie has a clear path. But Eddie doesn’t move. He stays pooled against the counter, tense and skittish, like an alley cat. Steve’s shoulders slump. 

“Come into the backroom,” he mutters, brushing by Eddie to hold open the gate. “I swear I just wanna talk to you.”

Eddie gives a shrill, reedy chuckle, following after Steve because he has no other option. “Sure, we can talk. I’d … I love talking. I’m great at it.” 

Steve can’t stop his smile. He settles on the couch, wincing as it puts the you rule/you suck board into his line of sight. Nine big, fat tallies. God, what a flop. 

Eddie settles across from Steve. He’s wearing those tight ripped jeans that Steve drools over. He’s also wearing a long-sleeved shirt. Steve misses Eddie’s tattoos already, especially the edgy bats. Eddie’s shirt is covered in damp patches. Steve takes a closer look at Eddie’s hair and finds it’s wet too, glimmers of light refracting off the raindrops. So Eddie’s only recently arrived at the mall; Steve had assumed he’d been killing time shopping, perhaps.

“Cutting it close to closing,” Steve remarks, unsure where to start. “Um, Robin needed the evening off. I … I guess you were expecting her?”

Eddie hovers. He doesn’t sit down on the edge of the couch until Steve reaches out, all carefully projected movement, to tug him down. Even then, he curls up as tightly as he can, avoiding every inch of contact with Steve. This is impressive given the couch is a glorified loveseat. Regardless, Steve wriggles back to give Eddie more room.

“Yeah.” Eddie starts chewing on his hair again. “I … left something here yesterday. With her. I need it back.” 

Steve plays innocent. “I can help you find it,” he offers, knowing the tape is sitting neatly on his bedside table. 

Eddie shakes his head. Little flecks of water fly off. “No,” he says, dropping his hair. He starts playing with his rings instead, twisting them over and over until Steve’s fingers feel raw for him. “It’s fine. I’m pretty sure only Robin would know where she’s put it.”

“What was it? What did you leave here?”

Eddie doesn’t meet his eyes. “Just something stupid.” He gives an empty, mean laugh. “Don’t know what I was fucking thinking,” he mutters, dropping his head into his hands. He looks so tense and uncomfortable and upset and Steve fucking hates that he’s the reason. 

He lets his legs fall open, knee resting against Eddie’s foot. “Eddie? I’m gonna apologise to you now. I need you to do me a favour and like, not say anything until after I’m done.” 

Eddie frowns. Suspicious, he says, “Why are you apologising?” 

Steve presses his cheek against the couch’s pillowy backrest. He nibbles at the inside of his lip as he thinks about how to start, and then just decides it’ll be easier with his eyes closed. 

“I fucked up,” he says, staring into the inky void behind his lids. “In high school and yesterday. I was such a piece of shit to you in school, and it kills me every day that I acted that way for so long, that if I hadn’t … had the experiences I did in senior year, then I’d probably still be like that now.” Steve starts picking at the skin of his cuticles. He’s teetering on the edge of a precipice, the murky waters below threatening a spiral. 

“I treated a lot of people like shit. I promise this isn’t a pity party thing.” Steve cuts himself off to rub his wrist over his mouth, lips pursed. Eddie waits, patiently. “When I heard you talking to Robin yesterday,” he starts again, carefully, “I panicked. I didn’t hear much, and I swear I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but you … you said that I was Steve Harrington.” He enunciates the words, spits them like poison. “I know what Steve Harrington represents. I don’t want to be Steve Harrington to you.” 

Steve opens his eyes. He meets Eddie head on, unable to read the expression across his friend’s face. “I don’t want to be King Steve, or Harrington, or Steve Harrington. I want to be Stevie. I want to be Stevie to you,” he pleads, desperate for Eddie to understand. He doesn’t know how else to word this. Growing frustrated with himself, Steve springs from the couch and starts pacing. If it helps Dustin, it’s gotta help him. 

Eddie leans forward. He says, quietly, “When Robin told me about the ‘you rule/you suck’ board, she told me about your promise. ‘The next person who walks through that door,’ you said, ‘I’m gonna romance.’ That person was me. Robin said as much. Except you didn’t … you didn’t really romance me. I kept waiting for it, and I kept thinking that hey, maybe when he touches my hand it means something. I started flirting, touching you, getting into your personal space, calling you big boy.

“The first time you blushed, it was like I won the jackpot. I made you a fucking necklace, Steve. I made you a—” Eddie trails off. He’s standing now too, fingers twisting and winding in his hair. “I made you a mixtape,” he mutters. “And I brought it here, ‘cause I’d been working on it for two months. Originally it was just going to be like, songs to educate you on Iron Maiden and a few other metal bands. Then I actually got to know you.”

Eddie goes pink. He won’t meet Steve’s gaze, and his hands start to tremor. He shoves them in his jean pockets. “After that…” He laughs, humourlessly, shaking his head with a wry, sad smile. He doesn’t continue. 

“I called her Eddie,” Steve blurts. He freezes. He wants to die. He leans against the table, burying his face in his hands with a mortified noise like a deflating balloon. 

“Who?” 

Steve wets his lips. He stares down at the floor, over at the board mounted on the wall, and then finally, at Eddie. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thinks. His laugh is a helpless, hopeless thing. “The girl. From yesterday. She asked me my favourite flavour and I said, ‘strawberry, Eddie’ just like that. She had brown eyes with little flecks of black in them. Know how I know? Cause I was trying desperately to find the amber in them. You have amber in your eyes, Eddie.” 

Eddie takes a step closer, realisation blooming across his face. He's beautiful. Handsome. Gorgeous. “Steve,” Eddie says. He pauses to correct himself, lips pulling wide, hesitant. “Stevie.” 

Steve sways into Eddie's orbit, unable to help himself. He grazes Eddie’s shirt, hand sliding so that his index finger slips into one of Eddie’s belt buckle loops. Steve’s throat bobs. He tracks the way Eddie sucks in a startled breath, lashes fluttering obscenely. Eddie leans in a little. Steve tries to remember to breathe.

“Hey, Stevie, you got that pen Buckley uses?” 

Steve halts, confused. He slams on the breaks, lust-fuelled fog dissipating from his brain. He leans back, ears and neck burning, and nods. “Um, sure, yeah, it’s just … It’ll be…” He tugs his finger free from Eddie’s belt loop, tries not to feel miserable about it, and rummages about in the stationary box to toss Eddie a marker. “Here, I guess?” He sucks his lip into his mouth and tries not to curl pillbug defensive into himself.

Eddie pivots and smacks a firm black line on the board, the first on the side of ‘you rule’. He wets his lips and drops the pen onto the desk. Then, he faces Steve. His face is all trepidation, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his lips pursed. He won’t quite meet Steve’s gaze, eyes trained over Steve’s shoulder. He looks like he’s ready for war.

“Huh,” Steve says. He takes a step forward and traces the steadily building red that cascades across Eddie’s face. His own realisation comes pretty quickly and with it, a tidal wave of warmth flooding his stomach. The final puzzle piece slots into place, Steve's fingers gripping tight to it. “Holy fuck,” Steve whispers, reverent. “I got you?” 

Eddie’s stance becomes defensive. He backs up as Steve advances on him, posture even worse than the first time Steve had seen him. He’s curled into himself like he’s waiting for Steve to shove at him, or let loose a bunch of vitriol, and it’s so obvious, Steve thinks. They’re so obvious. He feels so, so stupid. 

“I told you,” Eddie mutters. “Robin already told me about the tally system. You had me hook, line and sinker from the second you told me you were paying for my extra scoops.” He swallows. “Congrats. You rule.” 

“Eddie,” Steve murmurs, wondrous. He walks them back until Eddie’s bumping into the wall, and then he reaches out to steady Eddie, fingers firm around Eddie’s hips, pinkies sliding into those belt buckle loops. He squeezes Eddie's sides, revelling in the way Eddie twitches beneath him. 

Eddie sucks in a sharp breath, says, “Stevie,” and presses a hand against Steve’s lower back, and another against his jaw. His fingers are trembling, warm from his pockets, and they fit perfectly to the curves of Steve’s skin. “You drive me insane,” he admits. “You and these stupid little sailor shorts.” 

Steve tilts his face into Eddie’s touch. He takes a step back, dragging Eddie by the hips. Eddie stumbles after him, fumbling to catch himself on Steve’s chest. Steve manoeuvres them, Eddie as lax as he always is, letting Steve have his way. Steve grows dizzy with desire. He presses Eddie against the table and squats to lift him. 

Eddie makes an audible, punched-out noise when Steve places him atop the table. Heat coils in Steve's gut; it sends fire racing through his veins. Eddie stares Steve down with glassy, wide-blown eyes. His entire face is vermillion, fingers lodging firm against Steve’s jaw. He looks starstruck and wondrous and delightfully shy. 

Steve’s hands linger against Eddie’s sides again. He's hooked on the lean muscle beneath the shirt, desperate to ruck the material up and suck kisses across Eddie's beautiful, freckly torso. Steve drags his hands up Eddie's broad chest and pushes them firmly into Eddie’s thick, gorgeous hair. “I drive you crazy, Eddie?” He grins, wicked, deliriously happy, when Eddie groans an affirmation. “What are you gonna do about it?” Steve asks, Eddie’s knees either side of his waist. 

Eddie tugs Steve forward by the chin and stops just short of kissing him. He gives Steve another deep, searching look, and when Steve only tilts his head closer, eager, he gives in. “God,” Eddie murmurs. “Steve.”

“Stevie,” Steve reminds him, breathless. “Or sweetheart,” he considers and then he swoops in.

Eddie’s mouth is hot like a brand. He smears wet kisses against Steve’s jaw and throat, dragging his tongue against Steve’s skin shamelessly. His calloused hands cup Steve’s face, cradle his head, press firm against his upper back. He holds Steve like Steve’s something precious and desirable. His tongue carves out a home of its own against Steve’s. 

“Eddie,” Steve groans, pushing past the heated tenderness for something richer, headier, and just as addictive. He draws back long enough for a heaving breath, lips spit-slicked. “The tallies, the girls — you, it’s not a game. Okay, yes, it technically is for Robin, but for me, it isn’t. You’re not a game,” he says, hands falling to rest on Eddie’s thighs, kneading absently. Eddie lets his head tilt down, brushing their foreheads together. “It’s not a game to me. Tell me I can have this,” Steve murmurs. “Please, tell me I get to have you.”  

Eddie loops an arm around Steve’s neck to play with the errant waves of hair at the back of his head. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing his lips sweetly against the little mole at the corner of Steve’s eye. “Didn’t you hear, sailor? I’m strike ten. The first in the 'you rule' column. You’re stuck with me.”

Steve's heart soars. He swoops in and presses his lips to the creamy expanse of Eddie's throat, pulse jumping the same way Eddie's does. Good luck getting me to let you go, he thinks. 

Aloud, he says, "I guess I can make do," and finally, finally chases Eddie's laughter off his tongue.