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Chapter Text

Steve Harrington was absent-mindedly flipping through radio stations behind the wheel of his old car, crawling down Sunset Blvd.  Crawling was actually, probably too generous of a word for the traffic situation.  It was more like he was parked in the middle of the street in the Silverlake stretch of Sunset, trendy eateries and shops running in neat little colorful rows on either side of the road, catching his eye, making him curious to find out what goods were inside.  His car’s air conditioning was working overtime against the dry, late August Los Angeles heat, which was currently radiating through the sunroof directly down onto the crown of Steve’s head.  The AC was battling the heat; Steve was battling the traffic.  Both of them were losing.  A bead of sweat dripped out of Steve’s hair, rolling slowly down his neck.  At least something around him was in motion.  Idly, he wondered whether or not it was hotter outside the car than it was inside.  He knew that he probably should get a new car, one where the air conditioning actually, you know, worked (he could certainly afford one) but he couldn’t really bear to part with his old cherry-red BMW.  It was older than he was.  It had been his dad’s before it was his—one of the very few things his father had given him that was attached to an actually happy memory.  So, he held onto it.  Call him sentimental.

Steve was trying to at least keep one eye on the road as he anxiously changed the radio station over and over again, but it actually wasn’t too hard for him to fiddle with the dial and make sure that he didn’t crash his car at the same time.  You’d have to be actually moving in order to get into a wreck.  He squinted at his phone where he had Waze up and running.  According to the app he would—allegedly—be at the stadium in 12 minutes.  Steve gave the traffic ahead of him a rather skeptical look as he considered that overly optimistic prognosis.  His manager would kill him if he was late to batting practice because of traffic.  Again.  Only a month in LA, he was still figuring out the slow-moving beast that was LA gridlock.

Steve realized a beat too late that he must have somehow hit the AM switch on the radio when he had the strange out of body experience of hearing his own name spoken aloud.  He startled, wildly looking around for the source—Was someone in his car?—before he realized his name was coming through the radio.  “Shit,” Steve said with a scowl.  Sports talk radio.  He tried to turn the dial back to the safer waters of pop music and KIIS FM, but an annoyed honk behind him was already rudely pointing out that the light he had been gathering moss at had turned green.  He actually had the opportunity to move his car approximately 20 feet past the intersection.  A small victory!  So, it was unfortunate circumstance—and a little bit of pure masochism—that led to Steve listening in further to the radio show:

“Steve Harrington is expected to make his debut tonight at first base in Dodger blue.  He hasn’t played the position since his high school days in Indiana but, according to the Dodgers’ manager, this is an experiment meant to create depth in the roster with an eye towards October.  They have every expectation that Harrington will succeed in the new role. 

The Dodgers have sky-high hopes in general for Harrington as we get closer to the postseason.  You know, he’s a Gold-Glove outfielder by trade, but he can really play all over the diamond, so that’s why they’re willing to take a risk tonight with Harrington at the unfamiliar position.  He’s currently hitting with a batting average of .289, putting him squarely among the best players in the league and is sitting pretty with 28 home runs.  Harrington is, of course, one of the best players in the MLB and a real feather in the cap for the Dodgers’ organization: The four-time All-Star and former Rookie of the Year was acquired at the trade deadline by the Dodgers from his longtime club, Chicago Cubs—”

“Woof, that’s enough of that,” Steve said, wincing, turning the dial back to FM where Carly Rae Jepsen was singing about a beach house in Malibu.  Steve felt himself relax as he hummed along to the comforting pop music.  His car was at a standstill.  Again.

“Well, I’ve got to make it there eventually, right?” Steve asked no one in particular, leaning forward, his long arms draping over the steering wheel as he peered up through his windshield at the aggressively sunny sky.  He got even hotter—somehow—as he moved his torso closer to the glass.  Another bead of sweat dripped down his face.  He’d only been in LA for about a month but he was already missing the weather back home in Chicago.  Truly, like, his kingdom for a little bit of rain.  He’d even settle for some shade.

It wasn’t that Steve didn’t like living in LA (although he did find it pretty isolating at first, despite being constantly surrounded by people) but Chicago had really been all he had known outside of his childhood in Hawkins, Indiana.  He’d been scouted right out of high school to play for the Cubs, and, considering that it wasn’t too far from home, and that he’d been offered what felt like an astronomical sum of money to an 18-year-old, he gave the Cubs an eager “hell yes” and never really looked back.  He chose to forego college to give baseball all of his attention and effort.  He’d had been a Cub ever since, with a great deal of success.  That is, obviously, until about a month ago. 

Steve had been coming to the end of his current contract at the conclusion of the season and was approaching free agency.  But he was also one of the stars on the team (probably the star position player, if he was being honest) and he was definitely a fan favorite, if the roar of the crowd whenever he got a hit and the number of jerseys he saw worn around the stadium that had his last name stitched across the shoulders were any kind of indication.  So, he never thought he’d actually be traded away.  He’d heard the vague rumors of the front office considering him as a piece of a trade but he never thought it would actually happen.  He was too good for them to let them go, right?  At least, that was what his agent, Murray Bauman, was always telling him.  But then… he was.  It was an unexpected “blockbuster” trade announced right at the deadline: Steve Harrington was being traded to the Los Angeles Dodgers in exchange for three relief pitchers going to the Chicago Cubs.  He could hardly believe it when the Cubs manager called him into his office to share the news after a game against the Brewers.  It had been a game where he’d had two hits!  Two!  When he’d entered the office, he thought his manager had just wanted to congratulate him on playing a good game.  But then—suddenly and unceremoniously—he wasn’t a Cub anymore.  For the very first time in his career. 

Steve wasn’t exactly sure whether or not he would have wanted to stay with the Cubs at the end of the season, but it was the only organization he’d known in professional baseball for the last 12 years so he couldn’t deny that it smarted to be traded away.  Suddenly, LA was home.  For now.  But the Dodgers were a great team.  He knew they had a real shot at the title (way more than the Cubs did, if he was being totally honest).  They were already practically guaranteed to win their division; the Padres were something like 20 games back.  Plus, the other players on the team were cool as hell and the organization as a whole was like a well-oiled machine, bent on winning a title.  It made him feel good to know that they thought that he could play a role in that possibility.  The cheers he got from the fans whenever he got up to bat were deafening.  So, it could have been a lot worse.  Like, he could be in Houston right then.  But instead, there he was, inching his way along Sunset hoping against hope that there might be a break in the traffic soon.

Steve didn’t really mind the switch to first base, he was happy to do whatever the team needed him to, and he prided himself on the fact that he really could play any position in baseball, but he just didn’t want to fuck it up, you know?  He knew that the spotlight would be trained on him, so to speak.  It always was.  Thanks to his talent, his looks, even his hair—he was told by the Dodgers’ social media manager, Robin Buckley, who had become something like an instant best friend to him upon his arrival in LA, that there were several Instagram fan accounts (one of which was a burner account run by Robin herself in order to “rile up the masses, Harrington”) singularly devoted to his perfectly-imperfect and tousled hair which still somehow looked glorious even after being crushed under a baseball cap for nine innings—there were always a lot of eyeballs trained on Steve Harrington.    

There was also the teeny-tiny-okay-absolutely-humongous thing where Steve was openly bisexual: He was one of the very few out players in professional baseball.  Being queer was something that was usually hushed up in the MLB and in most professional sports, for that matter.  But Steve knew he had plenty of young fans who looked up to him, many of whom were queer themselves, so he didn’t see the point in hiding who he was anymore.  He came out after his first season in the bigs, not too long after he’d won Rookie of the Year in an interview with Vanity Fair.  It was Big News, perhaps bigger than Steve had been anticipating, but he never regretted it, not even for a second.  And he was good enough to shut the homophobes up.  Mostly.  

So, between his sexual identity, his square jawline, and being really fucking good at baseball, Steve Harrington was one of the higher profile players in the MLB.  He didn’t mind all the attention, not exactly, but it was a lot of pressure.  He just really, really didn’t want to let anyone down.

Absolutely nothing stressed Steve out more than the thought that he might let someone down.  It was what drove him to success, perhaps, on occasion, to his own detriment.  It kept him in the batting cage for a couple of swings longer than he needed to.  It kept him playing harder, pushing his body to and beyond its limit—even when he was not feeling 100%.  It also led to him beating himself up longer than was maybe mentally healthy whenever he made a mistake or when he struck out, even if the pitch that did it had been particularly nasty.  He knew that being bi also put an extra-large spotlight on him so he didn’t want to let anyone down on that front, either.  There were a lot of negative stereotypes about queer people and sports that Steve felt like it was his duty to confront head on.  It was all a lot to put on his young shoulders.  But it was okay, or at least, it might be, one day.  He was working on all of it with his therapist, Dr. Clarke.  Which, like, could he say thank God for Dr. Clarke?

It was Dr. Clarke who was helping Steve realize that a lot of his issues stemmed from his (pretty much non-existent) relationship with his dad.  Steve first stepped onto a baseball field because his dad signed him up for Little League back when Steve had been in elementary school.  It had, at first, been a way just to get a young Steve, with all his excess energy, out of a house that had never been particularly meant to house a child.  And then, when Steve turned out to be actually pretty good at the whole baseball thing, he kept with it because his dad paid attention to him whenever he played well.  So, Steve made sure he always did.  Richard Harrington didn’t show up to the games—no, he was far too busy for that—but Steve knew that his talent was a source of pride for his father.  It was something that he talked about in the business meetings he attended instead of showing up to dinner with his family and on the long trips he took with Steve’s mother in tow (so she could “keep an eye on him, but good luck at your games this weekend, sweetie”). 

Steve threw himself into baseball.  Anything to escape the neglect that he experienced at home and anything that might give him an ounce of attention from his parents.  He worked harder and harder at it until, suddenly, he was being drafted right out of Hawkins High.  And he kept working and grinding, quickly making his way out of the minors until, soon enough, he was a big leaguer and he had racked up a Rookie of the Year award, four Gold Glove awards, and had been an All-Star several times over.  He’d even come in third a couple of years ago in MVP voting.  Of course, when he’d called his dad about it, all Richard had to offer him had been: “Well, maybe one day you’ll get it, son.”  Yeah, that one stung.

But Dr. Clarke was helping Steve realize that he shouldn’t think that he would never be enough for his dad and that maybe he could get to a place mentally where he could tell himself things like “my dad’s love will never be enough for me” and “he doesn’t deserve to be a part of my success” and believe it.  He’d get there.  One day.

Dr. Clarke was helping Steve untangle his love for baseball from his drive to impress his father and his desire to constantly people please.  And he was genuinely making a lot of progress.  But sometimes events like an ill-timed phone call from home or that unexpected trade business set him back.  It was taking a lot of will power to change Steve’s thinking from “the Cubs traded me because I’m doing a bad job and I’m getting old” to “the Cubs traded me because they needed more relief pitchers and the Dodgers sent some of their best prospects over just to get me.”  And, besides, he was only 30, thank you very much.  He had his best years ahead of him.  But still… it was hard to rewire his brain, and it didn’t exactly help when he had all this free time to just think and spiral while sitting in LA traffic.

Steve sighed deeply as he finally turned onto Vin Scully Ave, making the final trek up the hill into the stadium, his car groaning with the effort.  He realized that all of his pondering about his father had caused a low-level sense of dread to cloud over in his brain.  He was actually thinking about giving Dr. Clarke a call when his station surfing landed him on something so strange and ethereal that it stopped him in his tracks, freezing his hand on the radio dial mid-turn.  Instinctually, he leaned in closer to the steering wheel so that he might better hear it.  His hand drifted from the station dial to the volume, raising it up. 

An acoustic guitar was crooning it way through the car’s speaker system.  Steve was pretty sure there was only one guitar playing but the music it was making certainly wasn’t like any kind of sound he’d heard come from a guitar before.  Steve didn’t really know what to make of the song.  To call it unique would have been an understatement.  There was something about it that reminded Steve of a howl at the moon; it was melancholic but it was also strangely hopeful, too?  He felt the yearning melody of that single guitar loop and twist around his ears and head before making its way to settle deep within his chest.  It trailed off with a single lingering note—a haunting, drawn-out thing that echoed its way around Steve’s car and inside of his head.  The silence in its wake lasted just enough for Steve to miss it before the guitar’s lovely and lonely call was responded with something new, something bombastic and rollicking.  It was so overwhelming that it practically hurt Steve’s ears as he rushed his hand over to lower the volume back to something more manageable. 

It was the exact same melody that was first played by that eerie acoustic guitar but it was somehow even more now as it was played by an electric guitar joined in by a bass and drums.  Together, they were creating a boisterous harmony.  The rhythm of the song was a like a jolt of electricity, a jumpstart to Steve’s heart.  He could feel his pulse racing to keep up with the song’s demanding pace.  It was recognizably rock music but it almost felt out of time, too.  Steve, with his love of all things bubblegum pop, had certainly never heard anything like it.  He found himself turning the volume back up again, apparently willing to risk his hearing to better let the strange and haunting melody wash over him and drown out even the possibility of another thought in his head. 

And suddenly, as if the song couldn’t get any more fantastic, a voice was joining in with the harmony, flowing in and around the instruments, like water racing betwixt and between rocks and sticks in a stream.  The voice sounded like sounded like every deadly sin wrapped into one.  It was full of smoke and want and danger and whispered promises.  It set the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck on end.

Instinctually, Steve was nodding along with the driving beat cascading all around him, tapping the foot that wasn’t busy controlling the car right along with it.  He felt like his very blood was singing in his veins, pulsing with the music and matching that voice note for note.  A huge smile broke out across his face—What is this? he thought to himself.  The music made him feel good, it made him feel wild, he thought that the drum line alone would be enough to give him the adrenaline to hit a ball clear out of the stadium.  He was so mesmerized by that hypnotic voice crooning out the lyrics that his budding panic was completely forgotten. 

The song swelled to a rising crescendo as Steve pulled into his designated spot in the players parking lot; he fumbled for his phone with the intention of shazam’ing whatever that song had been but then… it was over.  Fuck!  He had been so tuned into that song that he couldn’t even remember a lyric to try and google but luckily, the radio DJ jumped in, saving Steve the agony of losing it—“That was the new single ‘THIS MACHINE SLAYS DRAGONS’ from Corroded Coffin.  Man, those dudes just rip, don’t they?  And aren’t we the lucky ones—they’re actually in town this weekend!” Steve’s eyebrows raised hopefully, his head tilting sideways like a puppy tempted with a brand-new toy.  His mind was already running away with the idea of hearing that song live, chasing the high he had just felt.  He even had an off day tomorrow and was, theoretically, free.  He wondered, idly, what that singer could possibly have looked like.  Probably something like a literal God. 

“That’s right, Corroded Coffin is playing three shows at the Forum this weekend—and they’re all completely sold out!”  Steve’s eyebrows dropped instantly, furrowing in the missed opportunity of it all.  Damn.  “I, for one, can’t wait to see those guys rock out live, can’t believe I was lucky enough to snag a ticket, I think they sold out in something like four and a half seconds?  Anyway, stay tuned after the commercial break for more Corroded Coffin right here on KROQ.”  A commercial for In-N-Out started up then as Steve killed the ignition, cutting off the radio.  He felt like that song was still ringing in his ears in the ensuing silence.

Corroded Coffin, Steve mused.  He’d never heard of them.  But, man, that music had made him feel invincible.  He pulled up the messages app on his phone and fired off a quick text to the stadium DJ, a funny and laidback guy named Argyle.  It was a very open secret that Argyle hot boxed the DJ booth every single game.

Steve: Hey man any chance I could change my walk-up song tonight to something by corroded coffin?

Argyle: Oh for sure my dude. any song in particular?

Steve only knew the one but it was the one he needed.

Steve: How about their new single I think it’s called this machine slays dragons

Argyle: Hell ya you got it bro

Steve was smiling to himself, still enthralled by the memory of that song, when he was startled by a tap-tap-tapping on his window—the Dodgers’ rookie second baseman, Lucas Sinclair, was smiling at him through the glass.  “Are you actually getting out of the car, Steve?  You know there’s gonna be a whole baseball game here in a couple of hours?  You’re supposed to be playing in it?” he asked with a teasing smile on his face.  Steve rolled his eyes, playfully waving at the younger man as he gathered the belongings he had thrown haphazardly on the passenger seat of his car when he’d left his house and started heading for the stadium before he'd hit all that traffic approximately seven years ago.

Lucas had just been called up two weeks ago from triple-A Oklahoma City following the record-breaking season he was having in the minors, hitting a home run in what felt like every single game.  Dodger fans and the organization in general had been eager to see what Lucas could do at the major league level and called him up to join the team.  During his very first batting practice, Lucas had asked Steve for some pointers and they’d been thick as thieves ever since, initially bonding over the fact that they were both new players on the team.  It pleased Steve to no end that Lucas looked up to him enough to think that his expertise was worth hearing.  Lucas was on a tear at the moment for the team.  He’d come off the bench in the later innings for his first couple of games with the big league team, but he quickly proved several times over that he’d more than deserved to be in the starting line-up.

“Did you think that if you didn’t get out of the car that you wouldn’t have to play first base tonight?” Lucas was asking him, still laughing as Steve opened the car door.  Steve liked that Lucas was never afraid to give him shit despite their age and experience differences.  It said a lot about Lucas’s character and readiness that he was just instantly at ease in the big leagues.  “Yeah, yeah,” Steve was shrugging back as he got out of the car.  “You caught me.”  Steve slammed his trunk shut after grabbing his bag.  They both headed into the stadium, joking around with one another.  Steve’s mind turned towards the upcoming game and the hypnotic song was momentarily forgotten.

…

As soon as Steve and Lucas entered the building, they were bombarded with the dirty blonde bobbed-tornado that was Robin Buckley.  Lucas, Steve noted, got lost with a quick, “See you later, Steve.”  He was clearly eager to avoid Robin’s rampaging energy.  She was wearing lime green overalls paired with a lavender t-shirt, something that would have looked tragic on anyone else but Robin made it look effortless and cool as hell.  Steve felt his usual wave of comfort he got whenever he looked upon his newly minted best friend.  Robin always parted his usual pre-game storm cloud of jitters. 

“Steve!  Thank God you’re here, hey, do you think you could go back outside so I can film you walking in looking all nonchalant and unbothered as hell and like you totally didn’t just already enter the building?  And where did Lucas just go?  He was right here.  Although, wait a sec, is this actually what you’ve chosen to wear today?  Is this… Steve, oh my god, is that a polo shirt?  We’ve talked about this.  You do know that you actually live in Los Angeles now?  I bet right at this moment you are literally the only person within city limits wearing an honest to God polo shirt.  Yikes, surely you make more money than this.  I know you’re from the Midwest but… yikes.  Just yikes.  Steve, do we need another fashion lesson…?”  Steve hadn’t even said hi to her yet.  Robin was a walking run on sentence.  Steve absolutely loved her. 

“First of all, great to see you too, Rob.  And, uh, funny enough, I didn’t think too hard about the shirt that I would be wearing for 17 seconds while walking from my car to the locker room,” Steve was saying, widening his eyes dramatically at his friend for emphasis.  “Do you want me to take my shirt off instead?” Steve was absolutely kidding, obviously he would not be doing that but then he saw the gleam in Robin’s eye.  Steve placed his hands on his hips with indignation. “Uh, no.  No, no, Rob, no way, I was just kidding.”  But Robin was gripping her phone with both hands and had a mad gleam in her eye.  Steve knew what that meant.  “I mean, that sort of thing does nothing for me, no offense, Steve, but imagine how many likes that would get on Insta…” Robin was saying, clearly not seeing Steve shake his head vehemently at her, lost as she was in her daydream of online engagement. 

Steve studied his best friend as she continued to wax poetic about the attention his bare chest would garner.  Robin was fierce in her friendship and in her work.  She seemed to be literally everywhere in the stadium: Whenever anything visually interesting was happening, Robin was there, too, capturing it all on the phone that was glued to her hand within the confines of working hours.  Every post from a Dodgers-related handle was crafted and spun through her distinct and acerbic voice, carefully creating a brand for the Dodgers that was one of the most fan-engaged within all of the MLB. 

Steve didn’t know how he would have made it through his first month in Los Angeles without Robin.  From their very first meeting when he joined the team and Robin explained to him her role within the organization, Steve knew there was something special about her, something in her soul that found and spoke to something similar in his that had immediately bonded them together.  They quickly uncovered what made them so compatible as friends from the small things like both of them loving ice cream to the big things like the fact that they were both queer (Robin was an out and proud lesbian).  It hadn’t taken long for their friendship to be forged through scoops of ice cream and long discussions about just how much their respective parents sucked.  Steve had been so lonely when he had first come to LA but Robin’s friendship made him feel like it was possible to carve out his own bit of life on the west coast, if he only had the guts to try.

Steve realized he had been weirdly smiling to himself when Robin broke him out of his reverie: “Steve?  Steve?  Earth to Steve?  Are you even listening to me?” Robin was waving her hand in front of his face; an exasperated look had entered her eyes.  “Sorry, Rob, but it’s a hard no on the shirtless thing.”

“Shirtless thing?  Steve, keep up, I was asking if you wanted to go see that horror movie at the New Beverly tomorrow night?  It’s an off-day so you really don’t have an excuse…”  A horror movie?  What?  How had she gotten there?  How long had Steve been spacing out thinking about Robin while Robin was actually talking to him?  Still though, a horror movie… much like entering a building shirtless while posing for a camera, they were definitely not Steve’s thing.

Then, much like divine intervention, an angel rounded the corner and entered the lobby right by where Steve and Robin were having this one-sided conversation.  It was Nancy Wheeler, the on-air reporter for SportsNetLA and the object of every single one of Robin’s desires—not that she ever did anything about it, much to Steve’s constant annoyance.  Nancy Wheeler was the third most discussed subject of conversation between Robin and Steve, right behind their childhood trauma and Steve’s aforementioned polo shirts. 

Steve had originally thought Nancy was cute too, for the first seven and a half of milliseconds after he’d met her.  However, all it took was one look at Robin as she introduced him to Nancy for Steve to delete that thought permanently from his brain.  There were literally heart-shaped fireworks exploding in Robin’s eyes as she looked at the other woman.  Steve would never get in the way of something like that.  And, besides, he felt lately like he was more into the dude side of his bisexuality. 

Nancy was tough as nails but she hid it well under a sweet “who me?” exterior, using her oversized blue eyes and huge brown curls to great effect.  Steve couldn’t help but notice (and if he hadn’t noticed, he never would have missed it because it was something that Robin never shut up about) that Nancy always managed to get the best sound bites out of him and his fellow players and coaches.  Steve had always felt a little nervous to be on camera (he preferred to let his playing—or even his hair—do the talking for him) but with Nancy he felt like he was talking to one of his best friends, even when there was a TV camera right next to her.  Nancy always asked the most hard-hitting and thoughtful questions, the ones that made you seem like a hero after a particularly good game or series or like an endearing underdog who was sure to bounce back better than ever if you or the team hadn’t played particularly well.  She knew just how to spin a line of questions to get you to say something interesting while making you feel safe and comfortable.    

Steve never missed an opportunity to point Robin in Nancy’s direction so it was with extra layer of glee that Steve interrupted Robin, glancing over her shoulder, with a suave, “Oh, hey, Nance!  Ready for the game today?”  Robin, who usually talked a mile a minute, froze in place and went completely silent as she turned around to watch Nancy approach them, stiff as a board.  Steve turned to Robin and went for the kill: “Actually, Rob, you know horror movies aren’t really my thing but hey, Nancy, don’t you like horror movies?  Robin was just talking about going to see one tomorrow night and it’s an off-day for all of us…” Steve could feel the heat of Robin’s gaze, stabbing dagger-like into his face but then Nancy chimed in, “Oh sure, I love horror movies, the scarier the better.  What were you thinking of seeing?”  Robin just starred open mouthed until Steve gave her a subtle nudge to get going.  He felt a wave of relief as Robin seemingly came back to life and she and Nancy launched into a bit of witty repartee about the nuances of the horror film genre. 

Steve nodded to himself, feeling like his work there was done, and he slowly backed away from the two women, trying not to make any sudden movements and recapture Robin’s intense attention.  He had half turned around with the intention of heading towards the direction of the locker room when Robin’s voice froze him in his tracks.  Busted.  “Harrington!  You’re not getting away from me that easily, I need you to be on the field a little early today, you’re catching the first pitch.”  Steve inwardly groaned but he knew better than to let Robin see.  She rarely took no for an answer—and he had already won the shirt off picture thing by default—so he knew better than to press his luck for the day.  Talking to strangers before a game always made Steve anxious.  He much preferred to sign a couple baseballs for the fans and get on with things.  “Uh, sure Rob, whatever you need,” Steve heard himself saying.  “Who is it?”

“A musician, he’s cool,” Robin said.  Steve opened his mouth to respond but Robin had already gotten lost in the gravity pull that was Nancy, a clear dismissal of Steve.

A musician?  Must be a celebrity, then, Steve told himself.  Steve hated meeting celebrities.  There was always a level of phoniness to them that Steve refused to let himself buy into.  It took a bit of mental limbo for him to ignore the fact that he was kind of a celebrity himself—he got around it by never really considering himself to be famous famous.  He was more just, like, sports famous.  He was sure whoever he was about to meet would be just the same as all the rest and that Robin would come track him down and tell him when and where he was due to be on the field so he let the matter drift to the back of his mind, largely forgotten.  He settled in on the prospect of baseball, something much more exciting than some dumb anonymous celebrity, as he pushed the door to the locker room open.

He was immediately greeted by the guys already there with calls of “Hey, Steve” and “What’s up, Harrington?”  They’d all immediately helped him feel like he was part of the team when he first got to LA—the friendship of his teammates was another thing that Steve was deeply grateful for, another outlet that made him feel less alone.  Steve was absent-mindedly humming that Corroded Coffin song as he quickly changed into baseball pants and tugged on one of the brand-new novelty Dodger t-shirts that seemed to magically appear in his designated cubby every single day.  He would never understand how t-shirt companies were able to make the team’s meme-du-jour into a shirt practically overnight.  He tied the laces on his cleats, grabbed a couple of his bats, and headed out into the California sunshine, eager to begin batting practice. 

***

Steve was patiently waiting to take his turn in the batting cage set up around home plate.  He was idly swinging his bat back and forth and chatting with his friend Max Mayfield, one of the ball girls who sat along the foul lines every game.  She was responsible for running out to grab any balls batted foul and handing them over to whichever kid happened to give her the best puppy dog eyes when they all begged her for the ball.  But Max recently proved herself an additionally valuable member of the team when she happened to make an incredible diving catch of a foul ball right along the first base side, just moments before it had been about to hit an old lady taking a particularly ill-timed bite of a dodger dog.  The moment had been captured, improbably but, of course, inevitably by Robin and had gone completely viral.  When the players and coaches had congratulated Max after the game for a ball well-caught, many of them got to talking to her and realized that there was actually a lot of baseball knowledge floating around in that red-haired head of hers.  It didn’t even matter that Max was decades younger than the coaches and staff, sometimes game just recognized game.  Steve knew for a fact that even the manager of the team was known to ask Max for advice about his starting line-up.   

Just that afternoon Max was giving Steve tips about the starting pitcher for the other team, the Dodgers’ biggest rivals, the San Francisco Giants—“his sliders tend to land on the inner left part of the plate so you had better watch out for that”—when a loud commotion caught both of their attention, their heads turning in unison towards the source of the noise.  It wasn’t abnormal for there to be a lot of hubbub on a baseball field before a game, in fact, it was part of the charm.  There were the teams taking batting practice, there were reporters asking questions, there were fans shouting for autographs, there were guests of the organization taking pictures and meeting players, there was Robin running in between it all, working overtime in the name of content.  But this new excited intensity went above and beyond the usual din of pre-game activity.  All that loud excitement was concentrated on a small-ish group of people standing at the edge of the field and it was spreading row by row to the fans who had gathered early to catch batting practice.  The roar of the crowd was reaching a fever pitch as a confused Steve turned to Max. 

“What do you think all that is about?” Steve asked, eyeing it all, wondering what in the hell could cause such a reaction.  He turned to Max, expecting to see one of her signature eye rolls thrown in the direction of the noise but that wasn’t the case at all.  Wait a minute, did she actually look interested in whatever as going on? 

“Oh, I bet I know—didn’t you hear who’s throwing out the first pitch today?” Max said it in a way that clearly meant it should have been a foregone conclusion that Steve would already have had such knowledge.

“Uhhh… nothing other than I’m supposed to be the one to catch it?  From some musician, I think Robin said?” Steve said back to her.  Max turned and gave him a sharp look.  Steve knew confusion was written all over his face.

“Damn, Harrington,” Max said, whistling, and not elaborating any further.  Steve noticed that she was now standing on her tippy toes and bobbing her slight frame back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse of the sun at the center of the solar system of upheaval happening at the edge of the field.  It really wasn’t like Max to get caught up in these things—Must be someone actually interesting, Steve thought.

“Are you going to tell me, Max, or…” Steve said, a little bit of exasperation bleeding into his voice as he waved his hand along at her impatiently.

“Jesus, keep your hair on.  Think of what all your adoring fans would say if you lost it,” Max said.  Steve narrowed his eyes at the younger girl—they had fallen into a real big brother/little sister type of dynamic in recent weeks—but she was still too preoccupied with her spying into the crowd to notice Steve’s reaction.  She nodded her head as her suspicions were seemingly confirmed.  “Yeah, that’s him—oh my God, that’s Eddie Munson!”  She pointed as if that was going to help anything.  Steve couldn’t pick any particular person out of that group; they were all moving around too quickly.  But Steve had never seen Max so excited before and it took a lot to impress Max.  A well-struck baseball?  Sure.  An impossible-to-make diving catch?  Absolutely.  But a musician?  It just didn’t add up.

Steve continued to stare at her.  “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘what?’”

“Well, Steve, it just kind of sounded like you have no idea who Eddie Munson is?”

“Well, Max, I hate to break it to you but I have no idea who Eddie Munson is.”

“Uhhh, do you live under a rock?”

“Um, just, you know, 30 years spent living in the Midwest.”

Max narrowed her eyes at him this time.  “Don’t be so rude about the Midwest, not everyone is as lucky as I was to grow up in California, you know.  And besides, I bet 99 out of 100 people there know who Eddie Munson is.  Especially because they’re—“

“Then I guess I’m number 100,” Steve interrupted. 

“Hmmm, that’s right, I forgot you’re more of a pop music kind-of-guy.”  He turned to give her another sharp look, feeling a little annoyed at Max in a kind of kid-sister way because he knew that she hadn’t exactly meant that as a compliment and because he knew that she was a Kate Bush kind-of-girl herself.  Pop music was generally beneath her, as she frequently reminded him.

“Now that we have established that I am, in fact, lame, are you going to explain to me who the hell that is or…” Steve prompted her, waving his hand that wasn’t holding his bat impatiently again.

“Alright, alright, it’s just, you don’t see a real-life rock star every day, even in LA.  Eddie Munson is the lead singer of Corroded Coffin, you’ve at least heard of them, right?”  Max asked that question with a cocked eyebrow like she would have disowned him if he hadn’t known.  Luckily for Steve, he did.  Though Max never had to know that he had only discovered Corroded Coffin approximately 43 minutes previously. 

“Yes, I know who Corroded Coffin is.  I actually just asked Argyle to make “THIS MACHINE SLAYS DRAGONS” my walk-up song,” Steve huffed.  Max looked mildly impressed, actually.

“Good,” she said, nodding.  “We’ll make a cool person out of you yet, Steve.”  Steve crossed his arms, annoyed, as he turned to scowl at Max yet again but she met his furrowed brows with a sly ear-to-ear grin.  Steve continued to glare at her for a second longer before shaking his head and chuckling.  He could never be truly mad her, even when she was making fun of him.

Steve turned his attention away from Max and towards the commotion.  His thoughts drifted back to that song he’d heard on the drive in.  So, the lead singer of Corroded Coffin was in there, somewhere.  Steve remembered how that song made him feel, he could feel himself getting pulled under by it again from sheer memory alone.  It had been a heady, hypnotic thing.  What would the person behind that song look like?  Steve was… curious.  He felt himself drawn in. And just at that moment, the sea of overly eager people parted and Steve Harrington got his first look at Eddie Munson.

Oh no, he’s hot, was the first thing that popped into Steve’s lizard brain. 

The thing was, when it came to the people he was romantically interested in, Steve’s standards were as lofty as his hair was glorious.  His slutty tendencies were the fourth most discussed topic between him and Robin.  He may have been new to the city but that hadn’t stopped Steve from immediately jumping into the LA dating scene.  And he hadn’t been on the cover of ESPN Magazine’s body issue for nothing; Steve was well-aware of how hot he was.  He knew the effect that he had on those around him who were interested in what Steve had to offer.  Steve read the thirsty comments that were left under the Dodgers’ posts of him.  Robin was even known to do a dramatic reading of them from time to time; she paid special attention to the ones that said that Steve could run them over with his car and they would say thank you for it, which, shockingly, there were a lot of.  Steve privately doubted his old car could work up the moxie to run someone over in the first place, but he appreciated the compliment all the same.  Steve also knew that his hair had something of a cult following.  He knew that when he angled his face downward and wrinkled his eyebrows just so, he created the kind of lost puppy dog look that could knock a person’s socks clean off.  And he knew that he was incredible in bed.  Obviously.  It may have been somewhat difficult for Steve to lay claim to how talented he was on the baseball field but when it came to the romance and sex departments, Steve knew that he was an All-Star.

But even still, with all that… Steve looked at Eddie Munson and felt his breath catch in his chest.  He was, maybe, experiencing for the very first time what it was like to encounter someone who was—probably—incredibly out of his league.  Eddie Munson was more than hot; he was absolutely devastating. 

Eddie Munson looked like his song.  And like that song, Eddie Munson was something out of time.  There was so much about him that just didn’t fit within the confines of reality.  He was slender but Steve could tell from the way his arm muscles were slightly bulging from his leather clad arms that he was powerful.  His clothes were entirely leather—leather jacket, leather pants, leather boots.  It would have looked like a Halloween costume on a mere mortal but on Eddie Munson it looked like he had been made for it.  It didn’t even matter that it was the end of August in a desert; Eddie looked effortless and cool, despite the heat from the unrelenting afternoon sun.  Steve didn’t know how he did it; he was, himself, a sweaty mess.  The other man was talking, gesturing wildly with his hands—clearly a performer through and through—and Steve felt his mouth go dry as he spotted silver rings flashing in the sunlight.  It looked like Eddie had them on nearly every finger, huge and bold.  His hair was flying wildly right along with him, soft brown curls bouncing a split second behind the movement of the rest of Eddie’s body.  Eddie’s hair was an honest-to-God absolute mane of a thing, wild and free, like something straight out of the 80s—yet another thing about him that felt out of time.  Steve was getting lost.  His bat slipped from his fingers and fell to the dirt beneath Steve’s feet with a dull clatter, not that he noticed.  He was too busy wondering what Eddie Munson’s hair might feel like between his fingers.   

“Yeah, do you get it now?” Max asked him.  Steve turned briefly to look at her, wide-eyed, as he saw that her own eyes were still glued to the rock star in their midst.

Just then, to seemingly specifically torture Steve, Eddie Munson threw his head back to laugh heartily at something someone in his entourage had said.  It was melodious; Eddie laughed in a genuine way like he had never heard anything funnier in his entire life.  Steve felt a pulse of jealousy pang through him at that.  He wanted to be the one making Eddie Munson laugh like that.  He wanted to feel what it was like to have all that leather-clad attention turned upon him, and he didn’t even know the guy.  Yet.  Steve remembered that he was due to be the one to catch the first pitch that day, which meant an introduction to that man was inevitable.  Steve immediately felt nerves set in.  Actual nerves!  Him!  Someone who was asked regularly in interviews if his hair was insured!  Someone who Instagram user @baseballlllboyz4life had once said that you could fry a literal egg on his ass!  He was Steve Harrington.  And yet… he was actually nervous.  Eddie was just so much.  Like… beyond.  Like, Eddie could run Steve over with his tour bus and Steve would say thank you.

But the thing was… Steve Harrington loved a challenge.  Eddie Munson might just be his most significant one yet.  And he didn’t even know if Eddie Munson was into dudes but he was suddenly willing to die trying to find out.

“Harrington!  You’re up,” the batting coach gave Steve a well-needed break from the way he had been practically drooling.  Right, he was there to play a game. Not to ogle impossibly hot rock stars.

…

A baseball hurtled its way toward Steve awaiting it in the batting cage.  Steve was in his element.  This is what he knew.  When a ball was pitched at him, his eyes were perfectly attuned to the various flight patterns it would and could make through the air.  He knew exactly when to swing and how hard to do it.  When that ball was at the perfect position over home plate, Steve swung.  His built and strong torso twisted around itself from the momentum of his bat swinging gracefully and powerfully through the air.  His hands, encased in their supple batting gloves and firmly gripping his bat, led the way as his arms followed through with the motion of the swing across his body.  With the crack of a bat, the ball was flying through the air, well on its way towards the brilliant green grass of the outfield.  Steve smiled to himself, pleased from the simple accomplishment of a job well done.  The next ball was already flying its way toward him.  Steve picked up his left foot in anticipating of swinging again. 

He'd been at it for about 10 minutes or so.  He knew that he looked good when he swung a bat.  It felt right to move his body in that way, as if the most natural thing it had ever done was hit a baseball clear across an outfield.  He never trusted his body more than when he was playing baseball.  He felt strong and he felt powerful as he returned pitch after pitch.  He felt his arm muscles ripple as he gripped his bat harder, preparing for yet another ball to come sailing towards him.  There was power packed into his frame. 

Steve’s internal baseball clock was ticking down to the perfect moment to strike as another ball was tossed over to him when everything in his brain came to a grinding halt.  The ball whizzed past the middle part of his body.  He felt something otherworldly wash over him, a keen sort of fixated attention.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he felt a set of eyes come to rest on his back.  He didn’t know how he could feel something like a gaze but he just… knew.  It was like an instinct, like something dormant inside of him coming to life.  It was not unlike how Steve had felt when he’d heard the Corroded Coffin song on the radio earlier.  Steve had a funny feeling that when he turned around, he would know exactly who it was that was looking at him.

Sure enough, when Steve turned the trunk of his body slowly to look, Eddie Munson was still standing at the edge of the field, still surrounded by people clamoring for him, but his attention was focused solely on Steve.  Steve’s eyes sought Eddie’s, drawn in by something inexplicable and magnetic.  Steve felt hot and sweaty but he knew it had little to do with the LA sun.  He was shocked to feel a slight blush rising to his cheeks, one that he willed to go away.  Steve Harrington didn’t blush and yet… there he was.  Blushing.  Eddie Munson just smirked at Steve, inclining his head slightly.  The slight upturn of those lips said it all—I see you, I know you—and suddenly Steve felt wild, like he was ready to risk it all just to get inside of the other man’s head but then someone in that mass of people grabbed Eddie’s arm and Eddie turned away, breaking the moment that had been strung between them, as taut as a violin’s string.  Steve was honestly thankful for the interruption.  Who knew how long he might have stood there like a deer trapped in the headlights.  Steve turned away himself, trying and failing to clear his head from the power of Eddie Munson’s gaze.  Another ball whizzed past his hands, a ball that he needed to be concentrating on.  He was supposed to be warming up for the game that was set to start in little over an hour.  He needed to focus.

“Look alive there, Harrington,” the batting coach called out to him.  Steve shook his head as he walked out of the batting cage to let someone else take their turn.

He walked past Max as he went, a low chuckle from her fully broke him out of his reverie.  “Well, you definitely know who he is now,” Max said looking at him with a knowing grin.

“Shut up,” was all Steve said in return.

It was about to be a very long day.

***

Steve was heading in the direction of the locker room.  Despite how his practice session had ended, he had managed to get in a couple of pretty good swings, he sent a couple balls well over the fence, and he was feeling pretty confident about the prospect of the game.  The only thing going on in that head of his was baseball.  Nope, he wasn’t thinking about Eddie Munson and his wild hair and his silver rings at all.  It was just baseball.  Baseball, baseball, baseball.

“Steve!” A voice was calling, interrupting all that “baseball” floating around in Steve’s head, cracking slightly with its insistent shrillness.  Steve turned around and spotted the familiar sight of Dustin Henderson sprinting down the hallway to catch up with him. 

Dustin worked in the Dodgers’ front office; he was some kind of moneyball wunderkind the Dodgers had recruited immediately upon his graduation from Harvard.  Steve never fully understood what Dustin did no matter how many times Dustin explained it to him with increasing impatience. 

They’d first met when Steve happened to be walking past when Dustin was trying (unsuccessfully) to flirt with Suzie, the head mechanic around the park.  Suzie was young but, like Dustin, she was smart as hell (freakishly so, Steve had gathered), and she was the one everyone trusted when any and everything needed fixing.  At the time, she had been hunched over, peering at an electrical box through thick glasses, flashlight in hand, her hair pulled up in a knot at the top of her head and Dustin was standing just off to the side of and behind her, offering pointers in what Steve could tell was a genuinely well-meaning way but it was doing nothing for Suzie other than flustering her.  Dustin’s attempts at flirting were like watching a baby deer try to walk for the first time, all wobbly, knocked knees—earnest but just a little bit pathetic, too.  The whole interaction had immediately tugged on Steve’s heartstrings, so he hid around the corner from where Dustin was striking out in his own way.  Steve had winced in sympathy—he’d been there too plenty of times, after all.  Just because Steve was drop dead gorgeous (thank you very much), it didn’t make him immune to rejection.

When Dustin gave up and rounded the corner Steve had been hiding behind, his shoulders slumped in defeat, Steve had stepped out in front of him, stopping the younger man in his tracks.  Steve considered Dustin as he stood in front of him from his dorky novelty t-shirt (It honestly read “Are You Looking At My Balls?” and was covered in baseballs. Clever.) to his trucker hat that boldly declared itself a “Thinking Cap” while doing very little to tame a head of wild curls to his eyes that were watering with the shame of defeat.  Steve knew in that moment that he would stop at nothing to help this very sweet and very awkward younger man.

“Hey, man, I’m Steve,” Steve had said, holding his hand out to Dustin.  Dustin just looked out his outstretched hand, almost dumbfounded.

“Um, I know who you are, Mr. Harrington,” Dustin said, his voice sounding rather small.  “If you need help with hitting against the shift, I can go grab my notes, I was actually just watching some old tapes of your last night, I was noticing—” Dustin was covertly trying to wipe at his eyes, he hadn’t been able to look Steve fully in the face yet.  Steve felt his heart melt further. 

“What? No, well, wait a minute, now that you mention it, if you have any tips… but that wasn’t—listen, you know the secret with girls is to just ask questions and listen to them, right?  And maybe not interrupt them when they’re trying to work…?  And maybe consider a different shirt next time,” Steve had said with a slightly horrified look down at the balls t-shirt.  Dustin finally met his gaze then, his eyes widening.

“What?  Girls?  Oh no, tell me you didn’t hear that…” Dustin’s face reddened with embarrassment. 

“Uh, I may or may not have witnessed something just a few minutes previously…” Steve was saying as Dustin’s shoulders somehow slumped even lower.  But Steve just kept going, reaching out to land his hands gently on Dustin’s shoulders.  He leaned down a bit so Dustin was fully looking him in the eye.  “But, hey, stick with me kid and we’ll get you that date with Suzie in no time.”  Dustin just looked up at Steve like he couldn’t believe this hugely famous baseball player was taking time out of his day just to help him—an early-20-something-terminally-nerdy-baseball-geek—learn how to flirt with a girl. 

But Steve had been true to his word.  He had helped Dustin and, in return, Dustin helped him.  From that moment in the hallway onward, Dustin had become something like a kid brother to Steve.  Their friendship might not have made any sense on paper but Steve quickly realized he didn’t know what he would do without Dustin’s presence in his life.  Much like Steve’s connection with Robin, his friendship with Dustin gave him a sense of comfort and purpose.  And slowly but surely over the past few weeks, under Steve’s influence, Dustin’s flirting game had improved, there was a confident pep in his step, and even his hair had started to look a little more styled and tamed (in the surest mark of their friendship, Steve had told Dustin the secrets of his hairstyling routine after he swore the younger man to absolute secrecy first).  Dustin’s first date with Suzie was scheduled for the following Thursday night.  Steve had already been thoroughly consulted on everything from outfit choices (“Anything but the balls shirt, dude, but maybe a nice button down?  And no hat!”) to restaurant recommendations (“Um, I’ve lived here for a single month, maybe you should ask Robin?”) to toothpaste brand (“you’re on your own for that one, kid.”).  Next Thursday was looming large in both their brains.  Steve was incredibly nervous on his friend’s behalf, he just really wanted things to go well for Dustin.  But, for now, on that day, Dustin was sprinting to catch up to Steve. 

“Steve!  Son of a bitch, you have a long stride and are hard to catch up to.  I just heard—are you really catching the first pitch from Eddie Munson?” Steve looked down at Dustin’s novelty t-shirt of the day.  He had to squint at the complicated and fiery script but then, duh, of course—it was a Corroded Coffin shirt.  Jesus Christ, does everyone know them except me?
“Uh, yeah, bud, I guess so?” Steve said back.  Dustin was holding his hand to his heart dramatically, trying to calm his breathing.

“You ‘guess so?’  Steve!  This is so totally awesome!  Eddie Munson is, like, the coolest person on planet Earth!”  Dustin was working himself up all over again.  Steve may have spent the last tens of minutes trying to not get lost in the gravity pull of Eddie Munson himself, but he still smarted a bit at hearing Dustin declare someone other than himself to be the “coolest.”  Was he actually jealous of Dustin’s adoration of this complete and total stranger?  Maybe.  A little bit.  Not that he would ever admit it. 

“Uh, yeah, sure, I don’t… I don’t exactly know who he is to be honest?  I just saw him for the first time at batting practice.”  He hoped that Dustin wouldn’t notice the slight blush (another one!  Ugh!) that bloomed on Steve’s face as he remembered just exactly how Eddie Munson had looked in the afternoon sunshine.  Luckily, Dustin hadn’t picked up on it, leveling him with a look instead.

“Steve. I know you lived in the Midwest forever but this is a new low, even for you.”

“So I’ve heard,” Steve huffed, crossing his arms in annoyance for the second time that afternoon.

“Anyway, his music is like—” Dustin erupted in a fit of excitement, waving his arms around dramatically, pretending to play both the guitar, the drums, and sing on an invisible microphone, all at the same time.  “It’s like that.”

The thing was, Steve actually kind of understood what Dustin was trying to convey if the song he’d heard on his drive in was any kind of indication for what the rest of Eddie Munson’s oeuvre sounded like.

“Yeah, actually, it’s funny, I heard that new one, “THIS MACHINE SLAYS DRAGONS,” on the drive in today, it was definitely… good?”

“Good?  Corroded Coffin is beyond good they’re like… incredible.  Indescribable.  They’re definitely more than just ‘good.’”  Dustin was fixing Steve with a hard stare.  Steve held his hands up in defeat, “Okay, man, whatever you say,” Steve offered.  Dustin nodded, placated.

“Do you think you could introduce me to him after you meet him?”

“Dustin, I’m only gonna be with him for like 30 seconds tops: take a picture, catch a ball, say hi, say bye, that’s about it.  And I don’t even know the guy myself—”

“Yeah, actually, it’s kind of weird though that you don’t know who Eddie Munson is, you’re both—”

“HARRINGTON!”

Steve whipped around as he heard his name being yelled down the hall.  It was the pitching coach, someone who, as a position player, Steve usually had pretty limited interactions with.

“Uh, yeah?  What’s up?” Steve asked.

“Manager is asking for you.  He wants to see you in his office.  Now.”  Steve felt his stomach drop slightly, anxiety instantly pooling there.  Steve’s mind was already off and running, imagining the worst.  These sorts of chats always made him nervous, especially after that unexpected trade.  Steve took a deep breath.

“Hey Dustin, I’ll see you later, okay, man?”  Steve slapped Dustin lightly on his chest in parting, he didn’t pay attention to whatever Dustin had said in reply.  He felt like his feet were leaden as he headed towards the manager’s office. 

Steve knocked on the door, his heart panging along with each wooden knock.

A curt “Come in,” called in response and dread washed over Steve.

He cracked open the door, spotting his manager seated behind his desk.  An illicit but unlit cigarette was in his hand, the manager’s signature vice.  He might not have been allowed to smoke anywhere inside the stadium but it never stopped him from threatening to do so.

“You wanted to see me, coach?” Steve asked.  He could hear his anxiety in his voice and he winced, coughing a little to cover it up.

“Harrington!  Just the man I was looking for.  Come in, come in.  Shut the door behind you.”

Steve’s heart rate reached a zenith as he settled into a chair in front of the manager’s desk.  He felt like his vision was tunneling slightly as he idly read the nameplate on the edge of the desk.  It boldly declared its occupant to be JIM HOPPER.   

Hopper had been the manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers for the last six seasons.  He was known for being gruff but fair, and a hell of a good manager.  He had an uncanny sense for building a successful line-up and, even though he had only been there for a month, Steve could tell that Hopper paid attention to and actually cared about his players.  During all of Hopper’s time at the helm of the team, the Dodgers hadn’t missed a post season appearance, though the World Series title had remained elusive so far.  It was something that Hopper was constantly grumbling about and reminding the team. 

At first, Steve had been extremely intimidated by Hopper’s grumpy exterior.  It had taken him a couple of games to decide whether or not Hopper even liked Steve.  But a pep talk after a particularly rough game changed that.  Steve had struck out three of the times he was at bat, a rare feat for him.  He had been mentally raking himself over the coals for it until he heard a knock at his hotel room door, a knock that turned out to belong to Hopper.  Steve thought for sure he was about to be sent down to AAA, or something, but instead he learned that underneath Hopper’s grouchiness was a heart of gold and a genuine concern for the mental well-being of the players he was in charge of.  Hopper’s leadership was another thing that Steve was grateful for upon his unanticipated arrival in Los Angeles. 

For the moment, Steve waited on him to him to pronounce his judgement.

“Listen, kid, I wanted to ask—are we putting too much pressure on you with the switch to first tonight?  I wanted to check in and see how you were feeling before the game?”  Steve felt his mouth open slightly in surprise, his eyebrows raising slightly.  How was he feeling?  Relieved, for one.  He wasn’t in trouble.  He wasn’t being cut from the team or sent to triple A or whatever manner of nightmare his brain had just conjured during the 2-and-a-half-minute walk to Hopper’s office.  Hopper was actually just bothering to make sure he was okay.  Steve should have known that would be the case but he couldn’t help but always fear the worst.  He took a steadying breath, nodding his head emphatically.

“Uh, yeah, coach, I’m feeling good.  Ready.  Might be a little rusty but I can do it,” Steve said.  Hopper let out a barking laugh.

“Good man, I know you can, I believe in you.  We all do.  You’re here to be a difference maker, Steve.”  Steve just nodded back, the only thing he was capable of doing, apparently, feeling his face flush slightly at the unexpected praise.  Hopper raised his eyebrows at Steve.

“Now get the hell out of my office, we have a game to win, don’t we?”

“Yeah, coach, we do.”  Hopper was showing Steve to the door.

“And I heard you’re catching the first pitch from that Munson kid.  How groovy.  My daughter, El, is a huge fan, apparently.  She asked me to get his autograph and everything.”

“Yeah, I am.  And I’ve been hearing that a lot today, actually.”  Christ, truly everyone knew who Eddie Munson was.  Maybe Steve really had been living under a rock.

 Steve left Hopper’s office feeling pounds lighter than he had when he walked in.  

He headed over to his locker, stripping off the sweaty t-shirt he had been wearing during batting practice and threw it unceremoniously to the bottom of his cubby.  He tugged on an undershirt before grabbing his bright, white jersey.  He held it in his hands, idly tracing the Dodgers logo with his fingers before shrugging it on, hands fumbling to do up the buttons.  He had just been about to reach for his hat when Lucas strode up next to him.  He had the locker next to Steve’s.

“Hey man, I saw you talking to Max before… she didn’t… did she say anything?  About me?” Lucas looked so hopeful.  Steve knew that Lucas had been carrying a torch for Max since the moment he first saw her when he’d joined the team a few weeks ago.  He knew her from that viral catch already but, when Lucas met her in person, he learned that his exact type was apparently prickly redheads who deigned to give him the time of day.  He’d been slowly but surely working on melting her icy exterior ever since then.  The thing was though, for all of Max’s cool behavior towards Lucas, Steve had caught her vision straying over to Lucas a not insignificant number of times whenever Lucas was on the field so Steve had a feeling that the two of them were really only a matter of time. 

“No, man, sorry, she was just making fun of me, you know, her usual M.O.” Steve laughed a bit as he reached up to grab his hat again, gingerly placing it on top of his perfect hair.  He peeked in the mirror in the back of his cubby, carefully picking out pieces of hair here and there to artfully stick out ‘naturally’ from under his cap.  Privately, he mourned the fact that a hat was a requirement of the baseball uniform.  It was totally blowing his best feature.  And he was NOT thinking about Eddie Munson as he mourned his covered hair.  Definitely not.  It was just that he had a brand to maintain.  Yep.  His brand.  That was all.

“What was it this time?” Lucas asked, shaking his head, oblivious to the tiny funeral Steve was holding in his head for his hair.  “Taps” was playing and everything.  Not that Steve was being dramatic, or anything.

“I didn’t know who Eddie Munson was,” Steve said through a shrug.

“Steve,” Lucas said, shaking his head, his eyes widening at his older friend.

“I know, I know, trust me, you’re like the 83^rd person today to give me this lecture.”

“Okay, well, as long as you’re aware.  Aren’t you catching the first pitch from him tonight?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Jesus, Steve.”  Lucas was giving him another one of those I-can’t-believe-you-don’t-know-who-Eddie-Munson-is looks he had been getting left, right, and center that day.  Steve held up his hands in a placating gesture.

“I know, I know,” he said.

“Steve?  Steve!  Where are you?” Steve’s attention was caught by a familiar voice in an unfamiliar place as he heard Robin call out his name from across the locker room.  He looked over towards the door and, sure enough, there Robin stood.  She was shielding her eyes from the horrors of a male locker room.

“Over here, Rob,” Steve called back, openly laughing at his friend.

“You know I can’t—Steve!  Just get over here,” Robin said exasperated, stamping her foot.  A couple of the other guys in the room laughed at the exchange.

“I guess I’ll see you out there, man,” Steve said, turning to Lucas.  They nodded at one another.  He jogged over to where Robin was standing, two hands still shielding her eyes.

“Boo,” Steve said, getting right to Robin’s ear.  Robin shrieked in return, jumping a foot in the air while still managing to keep her eyes shut tight.  “Christ, Steve, don’t do that!  You could have killed me.”  Maybe Robin was being a little dramatic, too.

Steve lightly pushed her backwards through the door and out in the hallway.  The door snicked shut behind them.

“It’s okay, you can look now, there’s no more risk of any loose appendage sightings.” Robin peered at him through a slit in her fingers.  When she saw the coast was well and truly clear she grabbed Steve’s arm with the hand that wasn’t clutching her phone.

“Come on, we’re late.”

Steve and Robin walked up the stairs from the dugout out onto the field.  They were greeted by the dull roar of the stadium.  There were a lot more people buzzing around than when Steve had been out there for batting practice earlier; the seats in the stadium were really starting to fill up in anticipation for that night’s game.  Robin grabbed his arm and made a beeline for the group of people still orbiting around the little sun that was Eddie Munson.  Steve felt his heart rate spike with nerves as the two of them got closer.  He told himself that it was just his pre-game jitters making themselves known and he even almost believed himself.

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Munson?  We’re ready for you?” Robin said, calling out uncertainly into the throng of people gathered near home plate.  Steve heard nerves make themselves known in her voice, too.  Clearly he wasn’t the only one affected by Eddie Munson’s star power, though he suspected Robin’s reasons were entirely different than his own.

“Oh, please, Mr. Munson is my uncle.  Call me Eddie, sweetheart.” 

The sea of people parted and then there he was.  Eddie Munson.  The rockstar.  The God.

Steve had hoped that seeing Eddie Munson up close would help cure his brain from its instant attraction to the other man.  He hoped it would reveal a disgusting zit, buck teeth, anything… but Steve just watched as all those hopes slipped away, dancing in the wind of the early evening, heading somewhere towards the mountains behind the stadium.  Nope, it turned out proximity just made things worse. 

Unfortunately for Steve, the beauty of Eddie Munson was only further illuminated in close-up.  Now that he was standing right in front of the other man, Steve realized that Eddie was a good three or four inches shorter than he was but it wasn’t like it mattered—the otherworldly aura that radiated outward from Eddie’s body was more than enough to make up for their height difference.  If anything, it left Steve feeling slightly off-kilter.  And the hair that Steve had admired before for the way it moved almost like it had a mind of its own was pulled up in a messy bun, with a couple of stray curls artfully framing one of the most beautiful faces Steve had ever seen.  Eddie had a strong jawline, darkened with the hint of a beard.  His face had broken out into the dopiest yet loveliest of grins—one that stopped Steve’s heart entirely.  It was the kind of smile that took over his whole face.  He smiled with his full lips and with his dimples and with his eyes, a warm and inviting dark brown that Steve could feel himself getting lost inside of.  You’d probably have to be dead to not be affected by that smile, some far away part of Steve’s mind thought.  Steve felt an overwhelming urge to place his fingertips on those dimples.  The full wattage of Eddie’s smile was currently trained on Robin.  Steve knew that there was almost zero part of Robin that was interested in men but he could clearly see how even she had been stopped in tracks by Eddie’s tractor beam smile.

“Mr. Munson—Eddie—,” Robin corrected herself with a small shake of her head.  “This is Steve Harrington, one of our star players.  He’ll be doing the catching for you tonight.  Don’t worry, you’re in very good hands!”  Christ, Steve thought to himself as Robin’s seemingly innocent choice of words twisted and illustrated themselves in his brain.  “If you guys could wait over here for one second, I just want to make sure that the team photographer is ready, too.  Jonathan?  Jonathan!  Does anyone have eyes on Jonathan Byers?”  Robin looked around for the absent photographer before she was off in a flash.  She was small but she was pushing her way through the crowd of people like nobody’s business in loud search for the team’s photographer.  Both men watched her go.      

Eddie looked away from Robin as she disappeared into the crowd, turning his full attention on Steve, now that they had been introduced.  As their eyes met, the sound from the stadium dulled into white noise.  Steve could practically feel the chord progression of Eddie’s song zig zagging its way around his brain, scorching everything in its wake.  The tiny village of Eddie’s entourage faded into the background, even Robin disappeared from Steve’s vision from where she was bobbing in and out through the throng of the crowd.  The only thing left in Steve Harrington’s world was Eddie Munson.  Eddie Munson and his impish grin and his brown eyes that glittered with amusement as they took in Steve in return, looking him up and down.  His eyes were lined in a smudged and smoky black that only further emphasized the sincere and enticing brown.  Steve felt his mouth run dry as he got lost in those eyes.  He gulped. 

“Steve Harrington!  It’s great to meet you, man!” Eddie Munson was saying to him.  Steve felt like he had been struck dumb.  Eddie Munson knew his name?  And now Eddie Munson was coming closer to him?  Eddie Munson had his arms held out?  What?  And then Steve realized—A hug, Harrington.  You can do this.  Don’t be weird.  And, before he knew it, he was wrapped in Eddie’s embrace.  Had he died?  Was this heaven?  What was going on?  Steve just allowed himself to be enveloped into the warmth of Eddie Munson, the smell of spicy cologne and campfire and ozone bombarding his every sense.  Eddie’s arms wrapped further around him, his hands giving Steve a couple of friendly pats on the back.  Steve’s brain only went further offline as he gripped Eddie in return, placing his hands gingerly on the other man’s back.  He could feel strong muscles underneath his hands, rippling as Eddie pulled Steve in tighter still.  And then, just as soon as it started, their hug was over and Steve was released from Eddie’s hold.  Steve felt himself lacking at the loss of contact.

“I’m a huge fan, obviously,” Eddie said, gesturing down at his body with another barking laugh but Steve could hardly pay attention.  He was too busy wondering if they bottled that laugh and sold it in stores.

His brain was practically screeching at him at this point.  STEVE!  HOT GUY IN FRONT OF YOU!  FOCUS!  He mentally shook himself by the shoulders and thrust himself back into reality, the activity in his brain reminding him of when the Millennium Falcon jumped to hyperdrive from a complete standstill (Yeah, Dustin had made him watch Star Wars on what felt like was a weekly basis, what of it?).  The world around Steve moved in extreme fast forward, rushing to catch up. 

He was slammed back into the land of the living.  It’s fucking go time! Steve’s brain was urging him.  Eddie Munson, world famous rockstar, might be standing directly in front of him, but he was Steve Harrington for crying out loud.  Determined and accomplished flirt extraordinaire.  Steve licked his lips as he looked at what Eddie was trying to show him, tasting the salt lingering from the sweat of batting practice, his eyes drifting from those striking eyes down to the other man’s leather boots.  Eddie was still gesturing down at his body—uh, yeah, Steve had clocked that, thanks Eddie—but then his brain processed what it was that Eddie was wearing.  The leather jacket was gone, revealing arms covered in swirling black tattoos.  But Steve could hardly even begin to process them as he took in the number stitched on the left part of Eddie’s abdomen.

“Is that… my jersey?” Steve asked, his eyes sparking with something feral, his face breaking out into a grin of its own.

“Yeah, man!” Eddie was saying, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet, sounding excited to show Steve proof of his apparent fandom.  “You’re my favorite player!” 

A savage rush of pleasure flooded Steve’s brain as Eddie spun around to show him the rest.  Something inside of Steve absolutely roared to see the bright blue HARRINGTON embroidered across Eddie’s shoulders on the back of the jersey.  It was Steve’s name, Steve’s number—

“86, baby!”  Eddie said, with another wide and mischievous grin.  Steve had never heard his number sound better than hearing it come from Eddie’s lips.  86 had been the number he’d been assigned in the minors and he never got around to changing it when he reached the bigs, despite his skyrocketing fame.  He could have had a much lower number but he just felt like 86 suited him.  And now, on that day, he was glad he never changed it, just so that he got to hear what it sounded like when it came from Eddie Munson’s lips.

“It looks good on you,” Steve said, turning up his lips in a half smirk, looking Eddie directly in the eye.  He was pleased to see Eddie swallow at the compliment.  If Steve wasn’t wearing his accursed hat, he would be casually running a hand through his hair right about then just to see if Eddie’s eyes would track the movement.  Curse that goddamned hat! 

“Thanks, man,” Eddie was grinning at him.  “I really am a big fan.”  Eddie’s eyes were glittering at him and Steve could feel himself falling inside of them, getting lost…  “Yeah, man, I’m a big fan of yours, too.  Huge,” Steve said.  At least, he had been since about 2pm that afternoon, not that Eddie needed to know that.  No, that was privileged information between Steve Harrington and God.  Besides, it wasn’t Steve’s fault that he was half distracted.  Eddie’s eyes just didn’t play fair. 

“Us Hawkins boys have to stick together, you know,” Eddie said, nudging Steve’s shoulder with his own like they were old friends.  Like the imprint of his shoulder didn’t just leave a sear of heat in its wake that Steve could feel through his own jersey.  Wait a minute.  Did he just say—

“Hawkins?” Steve couldn’t comprehend the situation in which a literal rockstar would ever say the name of his small home town in rural Indiana.  It was in the literal middle of nowhere.  Nothing happened there.  Ever.  No one knew Hawkins, they had no reason to.

“Yeah, dude, I’m from Hawkins, too!  Didn’t you know that?”  Eddie was furrowing his eyebrows at Steve in confusion.  But Steve could hardly admit to this enigmatic man that he hadn’t heard of him until that very afternoon!  Plus, he’d already told him he was a big fan.  Deflect, Steve!

“Uh, no, sorry, I must have missed that somewhere along the way.” Smooth… you absolute idiot.  “Wait though, are you really from Hawkins?  Like Hawkins, Hawkins?  As in Hawkins, Indiana?  Like, Hawkins High?  The quarry?  The pharmacy on Main Street?  Lovers Lake?  Hawkins High?  That Hawkins?”
“Yeah, man,” Eddie was half-laughing, just shaking his head at Steve.  

Steve thought hard about his high school years, trying to place the otherworldly creature in front of him into the beige-bricked walls of Hawkins High.  Taking Mrs. Click’s class.  Going to pep rallies.  He couldn’t.  Eddie didn’t belong there.  He belonged in a high school on Saturn or in the Underworld, maybe. 

“Hawkins High and everything, although I was a couple years behind you,” Eddie was saying, idly running his hand up the back of his head and tugging a bit on his bun.  Steve clocked the movement.  Obviously.  He recognized hair choreo when he saw it.

“What are the—that’s crazy!  I’m sorry man, I was kind of a dipshit in high school?  There wasn’t much going on for me beyond baseball.”

“Now, I know that’s not true, didn’t they used to call you ‘King Steve’ back then?”  Eddie was giving him a wolfish grin and waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Holy hell this guy really did come from Hawkins. 

Steve absolutely hated that nickname and felt his face flush slightly with embarrassment to hear Eddie call him by it.  When he he’d been in high school, in between baseball practices and games, Steve had kind of been the main character of every party and had been somewhat determined to sleep his way through a sizable portion of the female population at Hawkins High (he was nowhere near ready to admit to himself at the time that he was interested in some of the male population, too.  That would come later).  There was nothing wrong per se with underage drinking and sleeping around but, unfortunately, he had also been something of a bully.  It made Steve ashamed to admit it now, but the residual parental-shaped frustration and unhappiness he couldn’t get out on the baseball field or in the batting cages, he took out on those lower than him in the social standings of Hawkins High.  And, considering he was the designated king of the school, that meant pretty much everyone else.  Something about being closeted in rural Indiana might have had something to do with it, too.  That, and his shit head of a former best friend, Tommy Hagan, who had been an actual bully.  Steve himself hadn’t done anything horrible, but it was just enough name-calling, the occasional fist fight, and silent bystanding to Tommy’s bullshit to leave Steve with a low-level sense of shame regarding his non-baseball related memories from high school.  It didn’t matter if you were the prom king if everyone who voted for you secretly thought you were an asshole, you know?

When Steve left Hawkins to join the Cubs, he soon realized how dumb the persona of ‘King Steve’ was, and he had been determined to leave it behind him ever since.  It was yet another thing that he was working on with Dr. Clarke.  Even though he spent a lot of his charitable attention on anti-bullying efforts and was the face of the league’s anti-bullying initiative, he kind of felt like a part of him would always be atoning for the sins of ‘King Steve,’ but maybe that was what he deserved.

“Uh, yeah, I guess they did.  Call me that.  I’m sorry, man, I was kind of an asshole back then?  I wasn’t… I’m not… between baseball and… um, I guess I’m just trying to say that I’m not King Steve anymore, you know?”  Steve felt himself floundering at the feet of the gorgeous man in front of him.  Eddie was just staring at him.  He felt like he was a fish dangling on Eddie’s line.  The other man let him sweat for a couple of seconds before his face broke out into a grin.  Steve felt flooded with relief as he watched those dimples make themselves known again.  It was sort of shocking though that Eddie Munson knew that part of him and, what’s more, didn’t seem to totally hate him for it?  At least he was still willing to smile at Steve.

“It’s okay, I won’t hold your high school self against you, Harrington,” Eddie was saying.  “We all did crazy shit back then.”  And then Steve felt his breath catch in his chest as Eddie leaned in close.  Steve’s arms erupted into goosebumps as Eddie’s cool breath whispered into his ear.  Eddie had to practically stand on his tiptoes to meet Steve’s height, something that gave Steve another rush of savage pleasure.  “When I was a junior and senior, I may or may not have been known to sell drugs out of an old metal lunch box in the woods behind the soccer field in between classes,” Eddie said under his breath.  He then leaned out of the bubble of Steve’s personal space, winking as he went.  Steve was dazzled. 

“No shit?” asked Steve.

“No shit,” confirmed Eddie.  “Allegedly.”  He waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially.

“Still though… it sucks that I don’t remember you,” Steve said.

“That’s okay, I wouldn’t remember me either, Harrington” Eddie said with a self-deprecating laugh.

“Absolutely not, man.  You’re sort of unforgettable.”  Steve thought, all things considered, he probably could have come up with something better than that, but it was the simple truth.  He bit his lip shyly and blushed (there that stupid fucking blush was again!).  But he couldn’t help but notice Eddie’s eyes catch on where his teeth met his lower lip, a pretty pink blush blooming across his own face (Ah!  They were even!) so maybe it wasn’t a total loss. 

It was probably nearing time for Eddie to throw out that pitch but Robin hadn’t returned and Steve wasn’t ready to let him go yet.  “Hey, so, what neighborhood did you grow up in?  Maybe we ran into each other back then?  My parents still live in Loch Nora, actually.”

“Oh, we definitely crossed paths, Steve,” Eddie said with yet another devilish grin, his eyes sparking—What the hell did that mean?—before he sobered a bit.  “But…I grew up in, um, Forest Hills?”  Eddie said with another small blush that Steve knew had nothing to do with him.  That time.  Forest Hills… Steve racked his brain trying to place it before he remembered—it was the trailer park.  Steve furrowed his brows.  Now that was nothing to be ashamed of.  Eddie couldn’t help that he probably had grown up without money.  Besides, Steve had grown up with money and his childhood was still pretty fucking miserable. 

“That’s cool man, not too far from me, right through the woods, I think.”  Steve mentally searched for more fodder in their unlikely connection to slowly build a foundation between them.

“Hey, did you ever go to… what was the name of that bar?  I think—was it called the Hideaway, maybe?” Steve asked, tilting his head, and trying to remember the name of the tiny dive bar in a small corner of Hawkins.  It was the kind of place where your feet practically stuck to the floor because everything was terminally sticky.  He’d only gone a couple of times when Tommy had wanted to go because they never carded.

“Oh my God, do you mean the Hideout?!” Eddie was practically shouting, spinning around in place in excitement.  Eddie reacted to things with his entire body, Steve was learning.  “That’s only, like, the birthplace of Corroded Coffin!  We played our first shows there to a crowd of about five drunks.  Man, those were the days,” Eddie had a wistful smile on his face.  That sounded about right to Steve for the clientele of that place.  He didn’t remember ever seeing live music, though. 

“Damn, I wish I could have seen you back then.  I think I would have liked to see the origins of all this,” Steve said, gesturing his hand lazily down Eddie’s body.

Eddie’s eyes narrowed playfully.  “Is that so?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Steve said, meeting Eddie’s gaze directly, his lips turning up into a small smirk.

“Steve…,” Eddie said, another playful smile blooming on his face.

“Eddie…,” Steve said back, shaking his head a little in confusion, lifting his eyebrows, waiting for the other man to get to the point of what he was hinting at.

“Our first album, the one that won not one, not two, but three Grammys is called ‘Night at the Hideout.’  The very first track on said album is called “Shotgun at the Quarry.”  The fourth song on that album is called “Indiana Boy.”  Didn’t you ever wonder…?”   Eddie grinned like the Cheshire cat who had just caught a very unfortunate mouse.

“Oh, um…,” Steve was realizing that Eddie was maybe, kind of, absolutely seeing through him.  If he was such a big fan, he should probably know the name of their first fucking album, right?  And the songs?  Steve could feel his face getting redder and redder as Eddie left him to dangle again.  “I guess I hadn’t…”

“Didn’t you, Steve Harrington, say, and I quote, “I’m a fan of yours, too?”  I believe you used the word “huge,” didn’t ya?” Eddie said, playfully making like he was about to elbow Steve in the ribs, slyly grinning away like anything, clearly gleeful in catching Steve in his white lie.

“Okay, fine, you caught me, I’m sorry, dude, but I’ve never actually, um… heard of… um, you or Corroded Coffin before…?”  Eddie gripped his chest like Steve had shot him, spinning in place from the momentum of it all.  Steve couldn’t help but laugh at the other man’s theatrics.  Eddie just threw his head back and joined in.  It was a joyous, unfettered thing.  Despite Steve’s lingering embarrassment at having been caught, he couldn’t deny that it felt fucking good to make Eddie Munson laugh like that.  The beast in his chest was practically purring with satisfaction.

“Wow, Harrington, you really know how to make a guy feel special, don’t ya?”  Eddie was still laughing.

“I’m sorry!  I mean, if it makes you feel better, I think I’m the only person who hasn’t.  Everyone was giving me shit about it today.  Like—everyone.  Honestly, you’re the first person who’s even been halfway cool about it and you’re literally you.  But hey, congrats on the Grammys and everything.  That’s really cool, man.”

“‘Congrats on the Grammys,’ he says!  Damn, Harrington, what am I going to do with you?”  Both Steve and Eddie were chuckling until the temperature of the moment heated as Steve’s jaw worked Eddie’s query over.  Eddie clocked it, tilting his head sideways at Steve, sending errant tendrils of his hair into his face.  Eddie’s own laughter settled down into a rumbling and sultry simmer.  Whatever you want, was the reply that Steve had to literally bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying.  He had a feeling that Eddie could see it written all over his face anyway.

“It’s alright, Stevie, it doesn’t hurt every now and then to be knocked down a couple of pedestals.  Keeps me from getting a swelled head,” Eddie said, reaching out to lightly push Steve’s shoulder.  Steve felt the touch reverberate through his entire body.  His brain ground to another halt around the shape of “Stevie.” He had never been one for nicknames but he had a feeling Eddie Munson could make him see the light on any number of things.  Stevie, Stevie, Stevie, it was still echoing around inside of Steve’s head.  Eddie’s eyes were doing that twinkling thing again, as if he could hear his own echo, too, in between the spaces of Steve’s mind. 

Steve gave an internal roar of frustration.  How could he be falling this far behind?  He felt like Eddie was practically running laps around him!  He wanted the beautiful rockstar in front of him to feel as flustered as he was.  Steve was annoyed.  He was usually pretty good at this, or at least he was, with any mere mortal person he was attracted to.  But that was the thing, wasn’t it?  Eddie Munson was clearly beyond the purview of ‘mere mortal.’  He was literally his song that Steve had heard earlier; he slipped past your defenses and under your skin, weaving a melody in your mind, one that it was only too easy to get lost inside of.  Steve wasn’t sure if they were even still in the stadium anymore.  He was lost in the melodic woods of Eddie Munson’s presence and he honestly never wanted to leave. 

Dustin had told him earlier that Eddie was the coolest person on planet earth and Steve was honestly kind of starting to see his point.  And Steve may have been Steve Harrington but he was still just a regular, normal person.  Eddie Munson was the stuff galaxies were made of.  Steve never stood a chance.

Still though, he had to try.  He had a feeling he might regret it if he didn’t.      

He racked his brain for something—anything—that he could say to help even the score.  But Eddie beat him to it—again.  “So, I hear you’re playing a new position tonight,” Eddie said with another sly smirk.  Baseball themed flirting?  Alright, Munson, you’re on.  I can run with this, Steve thought to himself.   

 “Yeah, first base,” Steve said as he leaned in closer to Eddie.  Eddie gamely grinned up at him, playfully tilting his head to the side, as if daring Steve to keep going.  Steve got another heady whiff of smoky campfire and ozone as he got further into the other man’s personal space.

“But can I tell you a secret?” Steve half-whispered.

“Oh Stevie, you can tell me anything,” Eddie said back with an honest to God giggle.  A fucking giggle.  Steve was so gone already.

“My favorite base is third.”  Steve Harrington had never played third base a day in his goddamn life but that didn’t stop him from letting his tongue lightly press against the inside of his cheek, pushing it out just enough to catch Eddie’s eye.  Eddie’s smile got even brighter, lovely patches of red appearing on his cheeks (another victory!), his eyebrows shooting up into his bangs in apparent and delighted surprise.  There you are, Steve thought to himself.  Maybe he had more of a shot here than he had initially thought…

“Oh Stevie, I bet you’re really good at it.”

“Yeah, I am,” Steve said back cockily, flashing for Eddie his most charming and winning smile.  He knew his smile was known to stop a heart or two itself and, if the flush on his cheeks were any indication, Eddie was pretty dazzled.  What they were saying was cheesy as fuck but clearly neither of them particularly cared.  They were both too busy stewing in subtext, in the unspoken thing that they were gingerly dancing around.  But… maybe it was time to stop dancing.  They locked eyes, both of them clearly wondering what was happening next.  Each had opened his own mouth, ready to keep this thing between them going, adding fuel to the fire that was starting to crackle and pop between them when—

“WELCOME TO DODGER STADIUM!”  The announcer’s voice boomed out around the stadium, breaking the taut Thing that had been building between Steve and Eddie.  Because oh, yeah.  The baseball game.  Right.

“Hey, Eddie?  Steve?  We need you two to come over here,” Robin was saying, visibly having located the previously lost Jonathan as he was currently standing at her side.  She gave Steve a funny look as she directed the two men on where to go.  Steve just shrugged in return, batting his eyelashes innocently.  Who me?  Robin narrowed her eyes at her best friend.  Yes, you.  We’ll talk about this later, she said silently.  Obviously, Steve’s eyes said wordlessly in return. 

“Eddie,” Robin was saying.  Eddie turned the power of his full attention on her.  She had to blink a couple times to make her way back down to earth.  Steve knew exactly how his friend was feeling. 

“Here’s a baseball,” Robin said handing him the small white ball.

“Wow, never seen one of these before,” Eddie joked, earning a smile from Robin.  She continued, “All you need to do is walk out to the pitcher’s mound, smile and wave when they announce you and then just toss the ball at Steve.  Now, easy does it.  You’re not trying to take out our first baseman before the game.  Please be careful, he’s fragile.”  Jesus, Rob.  “Just pretend you’re at one of your shows and you’ll be totally fine.”  Eddie confidently nodded and smiled at her, gripping the ball he held in his hand.  Steve was absolutely not looking at the way the tendons in Eddie’s hand were flexing underneath his skin and the way his silver rings were flashing in the lights of the field.  Nope, no way.  “You got it,” Eddie said.

“And Steve,” Robin turned to him, “Just, like, go over there, IDK.”  Steve heard Eddie snort with laughter.

“Okay, thanks, Rob,” Steve deadpanned.  Thank God he’d done this before.  But never quite like this, huh?  It was time.

Eddie looked at Steve and Steve looked back at Eddie.  They both nodded at one another.  There was nothing in their little nods.  There was everything.

Eddie gave Steve one last dopey grin before he turned around and walked away, heading in the direction of the pitcher’s mound.  The beast in Steve’s chest roared again at the reminder of the HARRINGTON emblazoned across Eddie’s back.  Steve’s eyes keenly followed Eddie’s every step as he walked out onto the field.  He hoped that Eddie could feel it, just as Steve had felt Eddie’s gaze during batting practice earlier that day.

“DODGER FANS, JOINING US TONIGHT TO THROW OUT THE CEREMONIAL FIRST PITCH IS THE GRAMMY AWARD-WINNING MUSICIAN AND LEAD SINGER OF CORRODED COFFIN, EDDIE MUNSON!”  The crowd in the stadium erupted in ear-piercing shrieks and cheers as Eddie took his place on the mound.  Robin followed closely behind him, filming everything on her phone.  She circled him, capturing the moment.  Eddie was clearly in his element, waving to the crowd, blowing kisses and waving to the tens of thousands of screaming people all clamoring for his attention.  Just an average Friday night for him, Steve figured.  Eddie turned to look at him, bringing the ball up to the ready position. 

Steve got down into a low crouch from where he stood at home plate, ready to catch the ball from the other man.  Robin had already handed him his mitt before she followed Eddie out into the field, giving him another capital-L Look that read that they clearly had much to discuss.  But for now, Steve had a first pitch to catch.

Eddie gripped the baseball in his hand, staring out across at Steve.  He grinned again, his biggest one yet, one that was infectious enough that Steve couldn’t help but return, something in his chest soaring with delight as they shared that moment.  Steve realized that, for some reason, he was laughing.  And Eddie was laughing too.  After doing a rather dramatic wind up (as only someone like Eddie could), Eddie threw the ball.  Steve watched its graceful arc as it hurtled through the air, right towards Steve’s outstretched mitt.  It landed harder than Steve thought it would with a loud and satisfying thump and the fans in the stadium went wild.  Steve gave Eddie a rather impressed look, cocking an eyebrow at the other man who only stuck his tongue out at Steve with amusement in return.

Eddie waved to the crowd some more as he half jogged back over to where Steve was waiting, still clutching the ball in his mitt.  Robin was following along closely.  When Eddie reached Steve, both of them gave over to a spontaneous and clapping hug.

“That was perfect, guys!  Do you mind if we steal you for a little while longer for some pictures for socials?  Could you both go stand over there so we can get a good background of the stadium?” Robin asked, her voice straining a bit to rise above the din of the crowd. 

“Yeah, sure, Robin,” Steve was saying, he was down for anything that would lead to photographic proof of this otherworldly moment when Steve Harrington met Eddie Munson.  “Totally, anything you need,” Eddie said as he turned around to stand right next to Steve.  Eddie reached up.  Steve had been expecting the other man to wrap his arms around his shoulders but he surprised him and placed his hand on his lower back.  His fingers spread out as he gripped Steve through his jersey.  It was almost like a caress.  Heat was radiating outward from Eddie’s hand, licking its way along Steve’s back and lower down, racing down his lean legs.  Steve suppressed a shiver.  It had been a very long time since Steve was so affected by something as simple and innocent as a touch.  Maybe, actually, that was the very first time, at least it was being so affected.  Steve could feel every inch of his body where Eddie was pressed against it.  His nose was full of that intoxicating smoky scent.  Steve reached out with his own arm, wrapping it around Eddie.  The other man was the perfect height for Steve to press into the place where his own name was inscribed across the other man’s back, using his hand to wrap around Eddie’s shoulder and tug him in close.  There was a pretty good chance that Steve was getting literally drunk on the presence of the man tucked in at his side.  He heard a small intake of breath come from Eddie as he drew him closer into his body and Steve hoped against hope that he wasn’t the only one.  Jonathan clicked away on his camera and Robin held up her phone doing the same as Eddie and Steve posed for the photographs–this was one in time in particular where Steve didn’t need to be reminded to smile.  There they stood on the field, frozen amidst the fury of the various pre-game activities, arm-in-arm, side-by-side, the baseball player and the rockstar. 

“Great pitch, man,” Steve said.  How many pictures did they need to take?  Not that he was in any rush for their session to end; honestly, Steve hoped that it lasted all night just to prolong the moment that they were in each other’s arms.

“Oh, really?  You looked pretty surprised when you caught the ball,” Eddie said, his head halfway turning towards Steve.  He could hear the teasing amusement bleed through Eddie’s voice.

“I don’t know, I guess you’re stronger than you look, Munson.  The ball hit harder than I was expecting.”  Steve was lying through his teeth again–as if he hadn’t already noted every single one of Eddie Munson’s defined and chiseled muscles.  

“Oh Stevie, you have no idea how hard I can go.”  Steve felt his jaw drop in delighted shock as Eddie said it.  He turned his head to look at Eddie who was looking up him with a pleased grin.  Steve had been about to retort; something like ‘Why don’t you show me sometime?’ was floating hazily right there at the forefront of his mind when he was interrupted.  Again.  All this goddamned baseball was getting in the way of his flirting. 

  “That was great guys, big smiles, perfect.  Thanks for that Eddie, you’re free to go now, we’re all done with you,” Robin said. 

Steve felt a pang as he realized that his time with Eddie was drawing to a close.  That couldn’t be it, could it?  He was still looking down at Eddie who was gazing right back up at him.  They both realized a beat too late that they still had their arms around one another.  Steve let his arm drop quickly, he could feel his cheeks heating.  Eddie looked a little off-kilter too, a rare crack in his unfazed veneer.  Panic was inexplicably overloading Steve’s brain as goodbye hung between them.

“Well, uh, it was so great to meet you, man,” Steve heard himself say.  So great to meet him?  Ugh, here lies Steve Harrington.

“Yeah, dude, likewise.  It was… most invigorating.”  Eddie was grinning again.  That goddamned smile.  All toothy and clever, it set off a swarm of butterflies in his stomach.  Steve could feel rather than see that Eddie’s entourage was preparing to convene upon them, they’d be with the pair in seconds and then were sure to whisk Eddie away to whatever rock stars did after they threw out the first pitch at a professional baseball game and Steve would probably never see the other man again.  And wasn’t that just a goddamned tragedy?  Panic was taking root in his chest.  He needed to do something—anything—to prolong this moment, to make Eddie stay.

 “Have a good game, Stevie,” Eddie said.  Oh, Christ.  And then, as if he could hear the utter panic in Steve’s brain, Eddie miraculously kept going: “I’ll be watching.”

Wait, what?  Everything in Steve’s brain came to yet another screeching halt.

“Oh, you’re… you’re staying?”  Steve hoped that not too much of his elation was reaching his voice.  He still wanted to play this thing cool.  And had his voice cracked?  Jesus Christ.  Oh, who was he kidding?  Steve had left cool way behind, back when Eddie found out that Steve had been lying through his teeth about being such a big fan.

“Yeah, gotta see my favorite baseball player in action, don’t I?”  Eddie’s eyes sparkled, the dimples out again in full force. 

“Yeah, you do,” Steve said back, nodding.  “Wouldn’t want you to miss out on the full Steve Harrington experience.”

“Oh yeah?  And what exactly does that entail?”

“A goddamned good time,” Steve said, using his best, most dazzling smile as the period at the end of that sentence.  Steve could feel the promise of his statement making his pulse run, and to be honest he was kind of out of breath.  And he was a professional athlete for crying out loud!  Having good stamina was one of the key parts of his job.  But he could see the rhythm of the rise and fall of Eddie’s chest pick up too; he felt like the two of them were on the precipice again of Something Next, both of them grinning at each other until— 

“Munson.  You’re needed.”  One of Eddie’s crew had reached them, a tall man with long, stringy blonde hair so bright that it was almost eerie.  The cold boredom in his voice couldn’t have been more pointed; it was clear that he held nothing but utter disdain for Steve, for the game, even, possibly, for Eddie himself.  For some unknown reason, he gave Steve the absolute creeps, although maybe it was his whole everything that Steve took in as he turned to look at the man more fully.  It struck Steve that there very well could have been a storm cloud, or something, hanging over his head.  His whole vibe, to put it simply, absolutely sucked.  The intruder was staring daggers down at Eddie, who, to Steve’s relief, only had eyes for Steve and didn’t look to be in any hurry to end their time together.

“Yeah, one minute,” Eddie replied vaguely, his gaze still locked on Steve’s.

“No, Munson.  Now.  Let’s fucking go.”  That certainly got Eddie to stop staring at Steve.  Eddie’s eyes darkened with something like genuine anger as he turned to face the chilling blonde man, his easy features hardening into stony-faced annoyance. 

“I said, one minute, kay?” Eddie snapped.  His voice had gone darker and harsher than Steve had heard it before.  Eddie and the stranger had a wordless battle, the moment stretching between the two of them.  Steve held his breath to see which one of them would break first.  His money was, obviously, on Eddie.  The other man must have also realized that he wasn’t going to get anywhere before he nodded stiffly and turned around, leaving Eddie and Steve behind him, heading back towards where the rest of Eddie’s entourage lingered (clearly they had no problem waiting until their sun returned to their orbit).  Steve suppressed a shudder as he watched the stranger go.  

Eddie took a deep breath and turned back to Steve.  “Sorry about that.  He can be a real asshole sometimes, you know?” Eddie said.  Steve was nodding like he had any kind of idea what it was like to be Eddie Munson.  “But he’s harmless.  Well.  Mostly.   I do have my suspicions, but that’s nothing for you to worry your pretty little head over.”  Steve willed the moment with that man to go away, instead savoring the sound of Eddie calling him ‘pretty.’   “Anyway, I’ll hold you to that good time, Harrington.  Looking forward to seeing you in action, superstar.”  Eddie tilted his head and winked at the other man.  Steve was dazzled again.  Eddie laughed in farewell as his entourage, refusing to be further ignored, swallowed him whole, dragging him away with them.  In his wake, Eddie left Steve with nothing more than a sweaty face, a racing heart, and the lingering aroma of campfire in the air.

Steve stared at the place Eddie had been occupying just a few seconds previously before he shook his head in amusement and turned around to head towards the direction of the dugout. 

Robin was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. 

“What the actual fuck?” she demanded.  A look of awe had overtaken her entire face.

“What the fuck,” confirmed Steve.

“Was that what I thought it was?”

“I actually think it might have been?”
“Wow.”

“Yeah… wow.”

“But you didn’t even—”
“I know.”

“And he was wearing—”

“I know.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I hardly know.”

“That man is—”

“I know?!”

“And you’re—”

“Yeah… I know.”  Steve was slowly starting to come back down to Earth, adrift in the wake of his interaction with Eddie.

“Hey.  No, that’s not what I meant,” Robin was saying.  “At all.  You’re incredible too, Steve.  Any person would be lucky to have you.  And that includes drop-dead gorgeous rock stars.”

“Thanks, Rob.  And, right?  He is stupidly attractive, huh?”

“You know I absolutely do not swing that way but I don’t know, man… maybe he could tempt me.  Actually… he kind of looks a little bit like Nancy?”

“Robin.”

“What!  Something in the hair…”

“Maybe,” Steve hedged.  He felt wistful as he thought back on his conversation with Eddie.  “I don’t know, Rob.  Do you think I’m crazy?  That I could actually have something like that?  I’m not, I don’t know, reaching way too high?”

Robin tilted her head side-to-side as she mulled things over.  “First of all, Steve, there’s no such thing as you reaching too high.  But I do think you’re like a little kid trying to stick his fingers in an electrical socket.  It might be fun for a moment but…” Robin just shrugged.

“I don’t know, Rob, sometimes it’s fun to stick your fingers in places where they probably don’t belong.”  Steve gave his best friend a sly grin.

“STEVEN!” Robin shrieked, turning more than a couple heads in their direction.  Steve was just cackling at her, sometimes she made it only too easy to wind her up.  “Don’t be disgusting, it’s unbecoming of a man of your fame and stature in the community.”   

“Okay, okay, but… really though.  I mean, maybe he was just being nice?”  Steve half winced.

“If that’s what he looked like when he was being nice… we’ll probably need to call you an ambulance when he actually flirts with you.”

“Hardy, har, har,” Steve deadpanned.

“Steve, obviously he was into you, dingus!” Robin said, annoyed that Steve wasn’t immediately getting the picture.

Steve just held up his hands in a surrender.

“Well, if you don’t believe me, you have an entire game to keep pressing the issue, don’t you?” Robin asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Steve, there’s this thing that happens here at the stadium, it’s called baseball.  It’s where young men such as yourself swing these bats around to try and hit balls as far as they can and then they run around these little white pillowy things called bases.  It’s pretty entertaining.  You know, it’s wild that you don’t know about it, I could have sworn I’d heard that you’re actually pretty good at it?” She was giving him an overly dramatic confused look.  Really laying it on thick, was Robin.  Steve just gave her a Look.

“Are you done?”

“Yeah, I’m done,” Robin confirmed.

“Seriously though, Robin, what did you mean?”

“I meant, Steven, that he’s sitting in the first row right behind the on-deck circle.”  Robin pointed there for dramatic emphasis.  Steve followed her finger to the place where he usually stood to take practice swings before he was due up to bat during the games.  His eyes drifted approximately three feet behind the designated space where a set of seats sat behind protective netting.  Uh oh.

“Yeah, uh oh,” Robin said back.  Steve must have said that out loud.  He turned to look at his best friend who was giving him a sly grin.  She laughed a little before saying, “Have a good game, Stevie.”  She winked at Steve and with that she walked away from him, heading towards where the other places were congregated around a gigantic Gatorade jug.  She was pulling her phone out of her back pocket, ready to capture some fresh content.

Steve was still staring at the seats, now realizing that people he had recognized as being part of Eddie’s entourage were now starting to sit down.  The blonde man was already there, his nose buried into his phone.

Uh oh, indeed.

Alexei, another Dodger player, clapped Steve on the back as he headed out onto the field to start the game.  “Are you ready, Harrington?”

Was he ready?  There was only one way to find out.

Time to play ball, apparently.