Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You know what a love letter is? It's a bullet from a fucking gun, fucker! You receive a love letter from me, you're fucked forever!”

– Blue Velvet (1986)

Night after lonely night, we meet in dreams

As I run to your side

You wait with open arms, open arms

That now are closed to me

Through a veil of tears

Your vision disappears

And I'm as blue as I can be

— “Blue on Blue” by Bobby Vinton

🌹💙✍

Light streams in through the blinds of Eddie’s room. 

It heats his eyelids, an offensive reminder that it is, in fact, morning. 

Eddie keeps his eyes shut, unwilling to allow the day to start until he’s ready. 

His body feels strange, as if it hasn’t fully materialized, caught in between worlds—

The gooey, sleepy, place between dreams and reality. 

The first thing he notices is the taste in his mouth—

an acrid mix of morning breath laced with stale booze and dirt. 

He lets his eyes open enough to see he’s definitely in his room. He’s lying fully clothed on top of his bed, the navy blue sheets coming in and out of focus as his eyes adjust.

He slowly drags himself out of bed and over to the bathroom. 

He’s about to wash his face when he notices his hands—

dirt under his nails, dried blood on his thumb. 

He looks up at himself in the bathroom mirror and studies his disheveled reflection. He’s wearing his usual black jeans and a cropped muscle tee. His hair is wrapped in the remnants of a messy bun, stray tendrils of frizzy hair falling loosely around his face. 

He looks exhausted, bags under his eyes, smeared purple like makeup. 

And then he sees it—a dark patch of skin where neck meets collarbone. 

He sucks in a sharp breath as he leans closer to the mirror, confirming his suspicions. 

It’s a hickey. 

He’s had them before, it’s not like he’s a blushing goddamn virgin. 

But this one is thorough. A marbled mess of color. 

Like wine mixed with berry juice. A stain. The skin around it puffy. 

Eddie can already feel the bruise that lies beneath. 

He remembers a scrape of teeth and shudders at the thought. 

What the fuck was he doing last night? 

Who was he with? 

He presses his fingers into the mark, taking in the odd sensation of painful pleasure. His eyes shut, willing himself to make himself remember something, anything. 

A name comes to mind, only for Eddie to push it away out of habit. 

He remembers a patch of sky—

bits of bluish-gray peaking through the sprawling branches of a tree. 

Like the network of roots beneath the ground, ripped out and thrown into the atmosphere. 

The world turned on its orbit, and Eddie turning with it. 

But even that feels like some bastardization of the truth. 

He wills himself to find a detail. One thing he knows to be true. 

The name comes back, and this time Eddie lets it. 

Not even the whole picture, it’s  all just pieces— 

a broad hand wrapped around a beer bottle, deep hazel eyes, the shadowy scene of a party, an overwhelming feeling of a night gone horribly wrong. 

Come on Eddie, one thing you know to be true.  

He opens his eyes and lets the name out like a long held breath— Steve Harrington.

If I could make the world as pure

And strange as what I see

I'd put you in the mirror

I put in front of me

I put in front of me

Linger on your pale blue eyes

— “Pale Blue Eyes” by The Velvet Underground

🌹💙✍

Throwing up comes first—mostly bile, the aftermath of something tropical, a sucker punch to the gut. 

Steve’s on his knees. 

Not in any way that suits him. 

Not in the gruesome way that leaves Tommy pathetically moaning and ordering him to swallow, even though his cum tastes like a boiled vat of battery acid and canned tuna. 

Tommy—

Shit. What the fuck happened to Tommy last night?

He didn’t sleep over like he usually would after a night of drinking and debauchery. 

When he’s mostly certain that his body’s done torturing him, Steve brings himself to stand. Bones aching, head spinning out of control like a carnival ride gone wrong, the whole room smells of death and decay. 

Wobbly on his feet and shaking uncontrollably, he grips the marble counter. Searches for a corpse in the mirror and finds only himself. 

The lone wolf. 

The last survivor. 

The final act of a tragic comedy—

No.

Someone else was there. 

Someone else held his hand in an iron grip as they fled the scene—

Contrary to popular belief, Steve Harrington is not the biggest fan of his own reflection. 

He’s grown used to avoiding the distorted monster that yearns to stare back at him with its bug eyes, girlish pout, and leopard spots. It urges him to come closer. To give in. To let the creature consume him. 

The hatred runs deep. Guts him. Spoils his appetite. Gnaws at him through the glass and says matter-of-factly, “This is who you are. This is who you’ve always been. There’s no use in playing pretend.” 

It’s Tommy’s voice he hears. 

It’s Tommy’s spit spraying onto his unwilling tongue and forcing him to drink it down like expensive liquor. 

It’s Tommy’s nails digging into his spine like a million little sadistic knives. 

Steve has to get out of this fucking bathroom or he’s certain he’ll die here. 

But, before he can tear his bloodshot eyes away and reach for the golden doorknob—his ticket to freedom, he notices it—

A sapphire gemstone lodged in the center of his earlobe.

Swollen and bloodied and similar in size to the gritty tonsil stone he once choked on at the age of seven. The doctor gave him sympathy, a box of tissues to dry his tears, and a blue raspberry lollipop to reward his fickle bravery. 

He’d been awestruck. Touched by Heaven or some ethereal being. 

No one had ever told him raspberries grew in the color blue. 

To a seven year-old, it was life-altering. 

His ear throbs. Threatens to capsize his skull and toss him off the deck. It’s impossible to hide. Nothing like a hickey he can rub out with a silver spoon or bury under layers of his mother’s department store makeup. 

There’s a moment of consideration in which he debates removing the problem. Playing it like a game of Operator and hoping the noisy red alarm doesn’t blare. But, much like the heart thrumming maniacally in his chest, it’s too tender. 

More than that, it’s beautiful. It catches the sunlight creeping in through the narrow window and distracts from the monster. The creeping thing that speaks in cruel tongues. 

It’s quite possibly the only beautiful thing about him. 

Someone thought he was beautiful enough to put it there—

Drunk and afraid. 

The name comes back to him as his knees buckle and bring him down, down, down to the unforgiving floor—

Eddie Munson. 

“ 1. Suppose I were to begin by saying that I had fallen in 

love with a color. Suppose I were to speak this as though 

it were a confession…”

— Maggie Nelson

🌹💙✍

Hawkins, Indiana

September 1st, 1986—First day of Senior Year

Chapter Text

So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,

   He dreamed of the pretty toys;

And, as he was dreaming, an angel song

   Awakened our Little Boy Blue

— Eugene Field 

🌹💙✍

Hawkins High School 

September 1, 1986—Notes from the lockers of Steve Harrington & Eddie Munson 

Gonna have to be a bit more specific. I don’t remember all of it. Head’s been kinda

fucked up since I woke up this morning. Sorry.

— S 

Shit, man. I was hoping you could fill in some of the blanks for me. Last night feels

like some kind of fucked up fever dream. All I know is Frank’s dead. Everyone’s

talking about it.

— E

Who the fuck is ‘Frank’? Only ‘Frank’ I know graduated three years ago. 

— S

It’s a code name, Harrington. You know, like in the movies? Don’t wanna blow our

cover. 

— E

Says the obvious motherfucker who’s already stopped by my locker three times

today and it’s not even lunch. You’re gonna get us killed.

— S 

Oh yeah, Mr. “We need to talk”? What do you want me to do, answer in morse code?

Scream your name in the halls? Learn a different language? Just tell me what to do

Bright Boy, I’m following your lead here.

— E

Didn’t take you for a guy who likes to follow orders, but whatever you say, Munson.

Guess you’re not as anti-establishment as everyone seems to think. 

Sous les pavés, la plage! 

Can you keep up or do I need to dumb it down for you? 

Also, ‘Bright Boy’? Is that supposed to be an insult? 

—  S

I’m more of a self-preservation kind of guy when it comes down to it. 

Don’t know what the fuck that means but I’m guessing it’s in French you prissy

bastard. Neat trick Harrington, but it still doesn’t solve our little problem. Now that

you mention it, I’d rather die than have people think I’m leaving love notes for King

Steve. Kinda ruins my tough guy image. Can’t have people knowing I’m one of your

loyal subjects. 

And yeah, Bright Boy. Blue Velvet? David Lynch? Ringing any bells for you? 

I say we take this shit to the great outdoors. Got a hiding place in mind?

— E

Finally, we have something in common. Who would’ve thought?

Let’s be clear, I’ll save my own ass before I save yours or anyone else’s. Just

because we’re in this ‘together’ doesn’t mean I’m your Knight in Shining Armor,

jackass. Keep your head out of the clouds.

That said, I think it’s in our best interest to stay in contact while this whole ‘Frank’

thing unfolds. We need to keep our story straight.  

Blue Velvet? Is that the movie with the guy from Dune?

Anyways, if you want to keep our little affair going (which I think is in your best

interest), I suggest taking a drive down to the lake after school. Wait until after the

sun’s gone down—not a minute sooner. There’s an abandoned treehouse about a

half-mile north from the main dock. You’ll know it when you see it. Looks like it’s

about five seconds from crumbling into a pile of shit. 

Make sure to destroy any evidence of our correspondence. 

– Bright Boy

You’ve thought about my ass? Y’know, flattery works with me, Harrington. But I

digress.

I can hold my own under pressure, but I think you already know that. I’m no damsel

in distress, you can stay up on your high horse for all I care.

Don’t think I’ve ever kept anything “straight”  but I guess there’s a first time for

everything. 

Yeah it’s the fucking guy from Dune. Same writer too. Jesus fuck, your movie

knowledge is in need of some serious work. Lucky for you, I’m not afraid to get my

hands dirty.

I know the treehouse you’re talking about, what a piece of junk. Speaking of, I’ll

bring my old Star Wars lunchbox and a lighter. We can burn stuff in there and then

dump the ashes in the lake. If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it right.

How will we know when one of us has left something there? Not that I’d mind, but I

don’t think we can risk showing up at the same time and being seen together.

P.S. If you’re Bright Boy, who am I to you?

— E

Hard not to think about when I’m pretty sure I’ve had my hands on it. Emphasis on

the ‘pretty sure.’ Like I said, I don’t remember. 

Insult my film expertise all you want. Only proves you’re the real snob here.

Besides, I’ve seen plenty of movies—I just wasn’t paying attention during most of

them. If you catch my drift. 

Piece of junk? 

‘She may not look like much, but she’s got it where it counts, kid.’

Han Solo—I’ve always seen a lot of myself in him. Good-looking guy, charming,

knows how to get himself out of a shit situation? It’s like staring in the mirror. 

Gotta hand it to you, Munson, dumping the ashes in the lake isn’t half-bad. 

As for a signal, how’s this? If you leave a letter in the treehouse; grab an apple in

the cafeteria, take one bite, and leave it on the table when you clear the rest of your

tray. Don’t get greedy. One bite’s enough, otherwise it’ll get too confusing. 

I’ll do the same. 

Pleasure doing business with you, Little Boy Blue. 

— Bright Boy

Well fuck, Harrington. Guess we’ll just have to hammer out the details later—not

that your hands on my ass is something I’d soon forget.

Cute. Didn’t take you for a Star Wars guy but now that I’m thinking about it I can

see it. Han Solo—cocky as hell, always trying to save the day, and would probably

suck his own dick if he could. No shame though, I always had a thing for the guy.

I can get behind the apple thing, the nickname on the other hand, I’m not sure

about. Little Boy Blue? Like the fucking nursery rhyme? What are you trying to say? 

Try again. 

— E 

Cut me some slack, I’m not working with a full deck right now.

Fine. Scratch Little Boy Blue. 

How’s ‘Blue’? Simple enough for you? 

Don’t forget to check the treehouse tonight. 

– Bright Boy 

Alright, alright, I guess I can’t really fault you for that. My head is still spinning.

Blue? I still don’t think it’s as cool as yours but I guess I’ll take it.

See you on the other side, Bright Boy.

— Blue

🌹💙✍

“So we grew together,

Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,

But yet an union in partition,

Two lovely berries moulded on one stem.”

― William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

🌹💙✍

Blue, 

This is what I remember. 

For one thing, I woke up with a fucking ear piercing. Your handiwork, I presume? It hurts like hell. Figured I got a nosebleed in the middle of the night. Nope. Turns out, fresh piercings have an affinity for staining pillowcases. Might’ve been helpful to put a towel down if I wasn’t blackout drunk or had any idea how I managed to get myself to bed. 

I don’t know why I didn’t take it out. It’s likely infected, completely swollen, and jewelry's never been my thing. The pain’s good enough reason as any to borrow my mom’s tweezers and play surgeon. Fuck around with some rubbing alcohol and I’d probably be good to go. I contemplated making a doctor’s appointment, but I have a strong feeling he’d look at me funny. 

Maybe, I shouldn’t be telling you all of this. Maybe, I should stick to the facts and shut up about the rest—the baggage. I mean, we’re practically strangers and you didn’t ask. You have no reason to care. 

But, looking in the mirror—I realized something. That earring is pretty much the only thing I like about myself right now. 

It’s delicate, catches the sunlight, distracts me from all the other bullshit noise inside my head. 

Things have gotten worse lately—a lot worse. It’s the type of thing that could easily bleed me dry. It’s the type of thing that makes me want to go home, but I’m already there. Sitting in my room alone and screaming into the mattress, because if I can manage to be louder than him it’s okay for a minute. It’s not so bad. 

By now you’ve probably put it together that the earring and thinking about the fact that you might have been the one who put it there are the only things in this sick world that feel right to me. Like some sort of otherworldly antidote or intangible cure. 

When I twist the little blue stone, it stings and burns terribly, but it’s a reminder of the only moment in which I think I could finally breathe. Inhale, exhale. Breathe you in, breathe me out. Like partners in crime. Like two people with very ugly secrets. 

Without it, I think I would’ve faked a sick day, played hooky, or, at least, ditched first period. That earring saved me from a truancy call to my parents. They would’ve had a field day. 

The point is, I didn’t. I can’t explain it, but that damn earring and its awful side effects are the only reasons why I was even able to show my face at school. I guess I owe you a thanks for that if my suspicions are correct. 

Kinda sad, isn’t it? Start of my senior year and everything’s gone to shit. I never thought it would be this hard. I never thought I’d be so fucking scared. 

I guess we should talk about that, too. 

Frank. 

There’s this awful feeling in my gut. Like I just chugged a gallon of sour milk and followed it up with a marathon sprint. What if we’re responsible for what happened to him? I know we made a risky decision. I know we didn’t mean to, but still. In the eyes of the law, does intention matter? To an extent, sure, if it’s an honest accident. 

Problem is, it wasn’t an accident. 

And, is it fucked up to say that’s not even the part I’m most affected by? 

Yeah. I definitely shouldn’t be saying this, but it’s not like I have anyone else to tell. Sorry, you’re getting the brunt of it. This is the real me, I suppose. Not as shiny and perfect as you might’ve thought. 

There’s no use in beating around the bush.

I remember kissing you. I know I kissed you. I’m just a bit fuzzy on everything else that happened between the moment I decided to do it and the moment we apparently went our separate ways for the night. Off into the darkness without so much as a proper goodbye. 

I’ve kissed a lot of people in my life. Most of them made me numb. Filled my lungs up with all that sticky desperation and selfish need. You can’t breathe when someone’s shoving their tongue down your throat, especially when you don’t even know their first name. 

It becomes impossible to focus, I’m speaking from experience here, on anything other than that hopeless intrusion or the imaginary shape of the letters. I get stuck on it—the not knowing and suddenly, I’m spiraling into this awful place where I hardly recognize myself. The veins on the backs of my hands start to look like spindly tree branches and my tongue feels far too big for my mouth. Tastes real bitter like cheap vodka. Hard to swallow. 

I may not have all the details figured out, but I know kissing you was different.

I was drunk and dizzy and seeing stars. Bright ones, dying ones, yellow-tailed comets. You were there and you felt solid. Like someone I could fall back on. Like someone who would bandage up my knees if I scraped them on the pavement. 

Every other kiss felt like a slap in the face. 

Every other kiss hurt and not in the good way. Like scraped knees and cigarette burns and puking up cheap vodka. 

If we survive this, I’d like to kiss you again. 

Are you kissing anyone else? 

I just gotta know for my own sanity. 

And, maybe, there’s a part of me that hopes you’ll say you aren’t. 

Technically, it’s not even a fair question for me to ask, because I don’t know how you feel. I don’t know where your head’s at. I shouldn’t assume you want that to happen again. 

There’s also the fact that you’re not the only one I’ve been kissing. 

But, you already knew that. Didn’t you? 

Losing my mind at eighteen wasn’t really part of the plan, but I can’t imagine I’ll ever feel truly normal, again. God, this is so fucked up. I’m so fucked up. Sorry you don’t have a more level-headed accomplice who knows when he’s gone too far. 

I’ll keep an eye out for the apple, but I won’t blame you if you don’t write back. 

Stay safe. 

— Bright Boy 

🌹💙✍

Bright Boy,

When I got to the end of your letter, I realized I’d been holding my breath the entire time. 

Waiting for you to say something that proved this was all in my head. To confirm that I’d be fucking insane to think that someone like you would ever kiss someone like me. 

It’s funny, things always seem to start with an ear. 

Which, I know, what a weird fucking thing to say—but I’ll explain, I promise. 

There’s a reason I brought up the movie, Blue Velvet. You remind me a lot of the main guy, Jeffrey. 

He has a quiet kind of authority. He makes choices he doesn’t know how to live with but still finds a way to move forward. I guess you’ll have to take my word for it for now. 

To answer your question, I’m definitely the one behind your piercing. For starters, that earring belonged to my mother, so I’d say that’s about as big of a clue as you can get. But it’s not just that. 

I woke up with blood on my hand. Must have been from the piercing. I know you said jewelry isn’t your thing, but it’s a good look for you. 

Things are coming back to me in frames. Like shots of a moving picture, fragmented and delayed. 

I remember the sound you made when the needle pushed through the skin of your earlobe. 

Blue Velvet starts with Jeffrey finding a severed ear in the grass. It’s already showing signs of rot, the bugs crawling inside it. It’s the catalyst. The thing that starts his journey. I can’t help but draw the comparison. 

But you’re not the only one who woke up with a mark they can’t—or, don’t want to—get rid of. I felt it before I saw it. Like you left your teeth in me. I mean Jesus, I knew you had a rep for being good with your mouth but you really delivered. 

Shit, I didn’t mean that how it sounded. But I don’t want to cross it out either. I mean it. Fuck, you’re good with your mouth. That I remember. 

I know we were both drunk, and that’s not really an ideal time for a first kiss. But no amount of alcohol can change the fact that nobody has ever kissed me like that and meant it. God I hope you really meant it. Stars and comets. Yeah, I saw them too.

It’s been a while since anyone has given me a kiss, let alone a hickey. I’m not really Hawkins’ most eligible bachelor. So, yeah, you’re the only one.  

I think I know what you mean. About the piercing being the only thing you like about yourself. For whatever it’s worth, I know what that’s like. To look in the mirror and not like what you see. 

You really are more than meets the eye, aren’t you? 

I stood staring at the mirror this morning and pressing down on the mark. Is it fucked up to say that part of me is jealous of your earring? The permanence of it? A hickey is easier to cover, it heals quicker, the bruise fades. But it’s the same kind of pain. The kind that reminds you, you’re alive.

I may not remember a lot from last night but I know there’s a lot I don’t want to forget. 

But there’s also the “Frank” of it all. 

I have that feeling too. Like something hungry inside me that won’t be satisfied. Sick to my fucking stomach. I hate to say it but I think we had something to do with what happened to him. I know we did.

But if I’m honest, you’re the thing I can’t stop thinking about. It’s like this quote from Blue Velvet. 

“I have your disease in me now.” 

We’re both fucked up, we’re in this together—and for that, I’m not sorry. 

Until the next apple,

Blue 

🌹💙✍

Eddie climbs back down the treacherous ladder leading to the treehouse. The thing really is a piece of junk, no matter what Steve says. But it serves a purpose. It’s safe, and Eddie is comforted by the thought of being able to go somewhere hidden. 

He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. It’s September, but the heat of summer lingers in the humid air around him. He’s faced with a kind of dilemma. He could walk home, maybe sit with Wayne for a while and chat about his day. He could track down Gareth or Jeff and go somewhere to drink and shoot the shit. 

But Eddie isn’t ready to be around other people just yet. He can’t help feeling nervous about the letter—all the references to Blue Velvet, the talk of kissing and hickeys and blood. It’s a lot. 

He lights his cigarette and starts to walk toward Lover’s Lake. It’s dark, and the bugs are out, sparking a half-formed memory. Steve’s face, close to his. The blinking of lightning bugs like flickering stars, the sting of a mosquito bite, a moth landing on his knee. The night and all its creatures. Steve and Eddie joining them, if only for a moment. 

Eddie takes a long drag, smoke hitting the back of his throat like a shot of whiskey. He knows it’s a bad habit, but he loves this part. The first drag always feels like relief. 

He sits down heavily on a rock near the edge of the water. There’s something blooming inside him—a feeling, a word, a humming in his veins. He knows he should be afraid of the things he remembers, the things he doesn’t. But his fear is overpowered by the thought of Steve Harrington.

Steve—the boy who apparently doesn’t know how fucking gorgeous he is. The boy who measures his worth in unsatisfying kisses. 

Charming, handsome, popular, confident Steve—a list of inaccurate, lazy words. 

Words he’s expected to swallow and embody. Even Eddie doesn’t quite know the right words for him yet.

Eddie stubs out his cigarette on the side of the rock, flicking the end into the water. Much as he’d like to just stay there for a few more hours, he doesn’t want Wayne to panic. The man has enough to worry about these days without Eddie adding to the list. It’s just as well, he’s got a big day ahead of him tomorrow.  

Go home, Eddie. Go home. 

He says the words in his head—like he’s trying to convince himself—until they finally move him to his feet. 

🌹💙✍

Eddie Munson is falling asleep in class. It’s not like he didn’t get any sleep last night, but it’s not enough. It’s not enough to push the thoughts away—thoughts that drive him up the wall and invade his dreams. Thoughts that swirl in his head and stick to his skin like sugar water. 

The lunch bell rings, snapping Eddie out of his stupor. He sits up in his chair. It’s apple time.  

By the time Eddie drags himself over to the cafeteria, lunch is in full swing. He glances at his usual table, nodding at his friends before picking up a tray and joining the line. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve. Steve is almost purposefully not looking up from his food. He takes a bite of pizza, the grease leaving a lip-gloss like sheen on his perfect lips. Eddie wants to lick it off of him.

Holy fuck. 

No. Not here. Focus.

Eddie absently puts food on his tray, his heart beating like some kind of erratic drumbeat. He zeroes in on the pile of apples at the end of the line and swipes the first one he sees. One more thought and he might talk himself out of it all together. 

He knows he should wait. Knows he should eat his food, talk to his friends, sit and relax. Be fucking normal . But his mind won’t let him—instead he imagines what it would be like to be at Steve’s table. To sit next to him, arms touching. To breathe the same air. To kiss him so hard it hurts. 

Without realizing, almost like a magnetic pull, his eyes land on Steve. 

Steve, who is staring straight back at him with a look Eddie can only describe as a mix of anger and lust. A silent warning. 

Eddie feels himself grow hot under Steve’s gaze. 

So he does the only thing he can think of—slowly, never once breaking eye contact, he lifts the apple to his mouth, and takes a huge bite. His teeth tear through the red skin, the juice dripping down his chin and wrist. He chews slowly, deliberately, before swallowing the fruit.

Steve’s eyes are heavy-lidded as he stares at Eddie like a man possessed. Eddie’s head reels from the power he holds. Steve Harrington, wrapped around his finger. It gives him a thought. One he should definitely not give into. But Eddie likes to play with fire, always has. 

He sets the apple down on the table, his hand now covered in sticky juice. He licks his fingers one by one, pushing them into his mouth in the dirtiest way he can. He imagines getting down on his knees for Steve—the pretty noises he’d make. 

Eddie wants him. Badly. 

He knows he’s being unfair, cruel even. But Steve can’t tear his eyes away. So Eddie takes his fingers out of his mouth and smiles, pausing one last time to lick a long stripe up the side of his wrist.  

All at once, he sees Steve’s expression change like he’s been punched in the gut. He looks around frantically, like he’s trying to see if anyone noticed their interaction. Nobody even bats an eye. They’re all too absorbed in eating and enjoying their lunch-time conversations. It’s almost like Steve and Eddie slipped into some space between dimensions—a stolen moment in time. Just for them. Or at least that’s what Eddie is thinking. 

Steve clearly has other thoughts, as he stands suddenly, snatching his tray from the table. He gives Eddie a withering glare and turns, dumping the entire tray and its contents into the trash. 

Eddie feels his stomach turn as Steve runs from the room. He wants desperately to run after him. To take his hand and tell him everything is ok. 

But he stays—frozen to his seat, spit drying on his hand, and shame taking root in his body. 

🌹💙✍

The Hawkins High theater is empty. 

Thank God. 

Otherwise, Steve would’ve had to jerk off in the boy’s bathroom which is a low he’s not personally prepared to stoop to. Anyone could walk in and the floor’s always sticky from piss. Not exactly the ideal environment for a guy trying to make himself cum as quickly and cleanly as possible. 

The stage lights are off. The props for the fall rendition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream are on display. Cardboard trees painted haphazardly. Tissue paper flowers and battery powered candles meant to create a whimsical ambiance. The stage is lined with twisted green pipe cleaners that are supposed to imitate vines. 

One lick from Eddie’s lighter would send everything up in flames. 

Fuck. 

Eddie. 

Eddie licking his fingers and staring at Steve like he was secretly imagining sucking his—

There it is. Hidden just behind the curtain. The throne— Eddie’s throne. Fit for a king. Accompanied by many-sided dice, a rickety wooden table, and silver figurines resembling mythical creatures. A dream or a nightmare depending on how you look at it. 

To Steve, in this moment, it’s a dream within a dream. 

The arms are covered in plush red velvet. Soft as Steve remembers Eddie’s mouth to be. It’s obnoxious. Loud. Adorned with odd embellishments that demand your attention. 

Sitting on it feels like an intrinsic betrayal, but he doesn’t stop himself. He needs this. Steve does. 

Levi’s unzipped to his waist, Steve’s lower belly grows warm as he spreads his knees wide and opens his mouth for the kill. Little prayers. Little sacrifices. Falling from his lips in sinful outcry. 

Truthfully, he doesn’t care if he gets caught moaning like a slut with a hand wrapped around his dick. 

This is about Eddie. This is about the point of madness to which he’s driven him. This is about pleasurable illusion. 

Steve pretends he’s in his lap. In his arms. Tracing his tattoos with the tip of his tongue. Grinding down on him. Sucking violet bruises into his neck. Savoring each touch like it’s his last day on Earth. 

Head tipped back, Steve’s eyes fall shut. His emotions come about two-fold. Layered beneath flushed cheeks, furrowed brows, a pinched up look of concentration. There’s candy coated affection bleeding into the white hot rage burning a hole in his chest. It heightens his desire to pull Eddie close. To knot a fist into his curls. To wipe that stupid smirk off his face. To draw apologies and adoration from his smart mouth.

Yet, the color blue paints over the violence. Floods his veins and cleanses the cruelty that so often takes over. Like a parasite. Like a wounded thing with nowhere else to go. Sick and full of hate. 

He rocks into his fist. Quickening his pace. At some point, he realizes he’s drooling. Leaking a pathetic puddle of spit onto the arm of the chair which won’t stain. An unfortunate reality. 

He’s overly sensitive. Pent up and threatening to spill over. It’s easy to get lost in it. He doesn’t think he could stop even if the entire drama club walked in on him. Thighs trembling, breath hitching, heart racing; he works himself over with a dedicated hand. Stroking his cock with a slight twist of the wrist each time he reaches the tip. 

If only Eddie knew where he was right now. If only he could have brought him here. Brought him anywhere to commemorate his public indecency—the performative bite and the way it drove Steve to near insanity. 

He’d make Eddie do the work.

He’d make Eddie kneel before his own throne. 

“Blue,” he murmurs to himself, knowing he’s gone too far—there’s no use in trying to fight it, “Blue. Blue. Blue.” 

He hasn’t broken the golden rule. 

He hasn’t spoken Eddie’s name aloud. 

But, it overtakes him. The true meaning. The memory of that night. The juice from the apple sealing his fate—leading him here. 

When Steve cums, he’s not careful. He doesn’t care about what goes where or consider the repercussions of not destroying the ‘evidence.’ 

“Serves you right,” he whispers as he zips up his pants and admires his handiwork. 

He’s got a letter to write. 

🌹💙✍

Blue, 

That shit you pulled with the apple was fucking deranged. What do you think this is? A game?

I’m trying to keep us out of trouble, but you just couldn’t help yourself. Had to be all doe-eyed and beautiful about it. Had to look at me like you were this helpless creature on the losing end of a loaded gun. You could’ve killed me. 

(I would’ve let you). 

It should be the other way around, but it’s not. 

Being in the same room with you is torture. To watch you lick juice from your fingertips—up the side of your pretty pale wrist—is a sweet death I’ll call out for again and again. In the middle of the night when my heart swells and threatens to break right out of my ribcage. Shatter the bones. Leave me with the aftermath. 

On those nights, I’ll think of you and the apple. 

On those nights, I’ll imagine your lips slotting into place against mine. 

It will kill me. Eventually. 

Suffice it to say that can’t happen again. It took everything in me not to knock it out of your hand and blow our cover.

It’s not worth it. 

If I wanted to risk it all, I’d have it my way. Your way. Our way. 

I’d shove you up against the wall—right there in the cafeteria. 

And, you’re right, the piercing is more permanent. Holds higher staying power than a minor flesh wound (that’s what a hickey is if you think about it). 

I’m lucky. Wasn’t born it. A lot of people might disagree, but I know the truth. Money isn’t luck. Sometime’s water’s thicker than blood. My parents are assholes—that’s what I’m getting at. 

I’d share the wealth if I could. I’d pierce your ears with my mom’s tacky diamond studs. They’re worth more than my car, but she’d never even notice they were gone. That’s what happens when you cannibalize your dreams. Too much of everything and somehow, you’re left hungrier than when you sat down at the dinner table. It’s a false starvation. A gold-plated facade. No one gets out without a lethal superiority complex and an appetite for excess. 

Something else came back to me last night. Woke up in a cold sweat and there it was. Tied up in a blue ribbon—this gorgeous memory.

You spat tequila into my mouth. Vicious with your hand pressing my jaw open. Molding me into this crazed creature of desire. I remember the slow trickle. I remember asking you to swish it around first. 

How it tasted like watered down gasoline and lukewarm infidelity. How you stood over me like God’s favorite fallen angel. Every bit the saint. Every bit the sinner. 

It felt like you were in my blood—fizzing and popping and pushing me over the cliff’s edge. 

Like I said, I would’ve let you. 

Like you said, I have your disease in me now. 

— Bright Boy 

P.S. Your throne’s surprisingly CUMfortable. Left you a token of my appreciation after that little stunt you pulled. 

Don't fake it, baby

Lay the real thing on me

The church of man, love

Is such a holy place to be

Make me, baby

Make me know you really care

Make me jump into the air

Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe

Put your ray gun to my head

Press your space face close to mine, love

Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah

— “Moonage Daydream” by David Bowie

Chapter Text

You lock the door

And throw away the key

And there’s someone in my head, but it’s not me

And if the cloud bursts thunder in your ear

You shout and no one seems to hear

And if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes

I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon

— “Brain Damage” by Pink Floyd

🌹💙✍

Bright Boy,

Here’s the thing—this is a fucking game. One that you and I both started. One that you can’t pretend you don’t like playing. See, I thought I pushed you too far with the apple. I saw the way your face shifted, the way you squirmed in your seat, the way you couldn’t take your eyes off me—but then you left. Barreled out of there like someone lit a fire under your ass, like I was the one who lit the match. 

I actually convinced myself I went too far. 

Clearly I underestimated you, because if we’re talking about stunt-pulling, you sure pulled your own didn’t you ? 

Jesus fuck , I’m never gonna be able to sit in that chair again without imagining the way you jerked off. The great king, fallen from grace. More like a spoiled little prince on a throne that doesn’t belong to you, marking your territory like a dog . 

Don’t get me wrong, I like knowing what it takes to get you to lose some of that control, some of that preppy pretty-boy composure. Since all you left me was a suspicious-looking white stain, I had to make up the rest. I had to patch together the hazy memories I have, the echoes of noises I must have pulled from you on that night.

I’ve never gotten so hard so quickly, especially not from just reading. My body decided for me and I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t get the ache to go away. 

Didn’t even fully take my pants off—just popped the button, spit in my palm, and got myself off all quick and dirty. I even shoved your letter into my mouth to keep from making too much noise, wishing I had something else of yours to suck on.  

So, I’m writing this letter with cum still drying on my hand. Not ideal I guess, but you don’t seem like the type to care. Or maybe you seem like the type to like it. Either way, it is what it is.

Sometimes I get this odd sort of clarity after I cum really hard. It’s like a reset button or a metaphorical feather duster to the cobwebs that have gathered in my brain. I sound pretty fucking confident up there, in the first part of this letter. 

That’s what you do to me—I swallow down your confident tone so I can spit it back to you. 

So I can pretend I’m not sitting here coming undone, unraveling with each new word I consume. 

I can’t deny the sick pleasure I got from what you described—you shoving me against the wall to lick the juice from my tongue, that memory soaked in tequila—a thing I don’t quite remember but now won’t be able to stop imagining. But your memory made another one bubble to the surface.

I remember leaving the party. I remember the adrenaline taking hold of my body, and the way your face looked right before we decided to run. I remember the way you held out your hand, the way I grabbed it without hesitation—and even though we were running, your touch was gentle. Your fingers were soft and warm and comforting. Almost like we weren’t fleeing the scene of a crime. Like we were just nervous kids, shaky hands finding each other in the dark. 

I wish I was the kind of guy who got off on pure sexual fantasy—just imagining hot, wet, bodies or someone’s tongue in my mouth or lips wrapped around my cock. It’s not like that doesn’t turn me on, but sometimes it’s not enough. Sometimes there’s a moment so small that latches itself onto my psyche and drives me up the wall. 

Just now, as I was lying here in this shitty fucking treehouse rutting into my hand like a man possessed, it suddenly hit me over the head—-the image of my hand resting in yours, the way we stumbled together through the dirt and leaves, the way we both fell to the floor laughing. I remember your face so close to mine, murmuring these words I can’t quite make out, a smudge of blood on your lips as you spoke to me. 

I’m too afraid to write all the things I think you might have said—

like maybe I’m just rewriting our story in my own ink, going over the truth. 

But fuck , I could count all your freckles. I could smell your skin. I tasted blood on my tongue. 

And there’s one word that keeps coming back like a prayer— pretty, pretty, pretty. 

I don’t know which of us said it, I can hear it in both of our voices, our tones mixing and warping together—but that was enough to push me right over the edge. 

I saw stars, Bright Boy. Fucking stars .

Those pretty yellow ones we talked about before. They were all over the ceiling of this treehouse. 

Tell me you remember it too. 

— Blue

🌹💙✍

Steve Harrington is ugly. 

It’s a fact he’s always known. Stored in the back of his mind. Right alongside the pink matter, fucked up neural pathways from a shitty childhood, and the time’s tables he mastered in fourth grade. 

He shields himself from the bathroom mirror. 

He forces his eyes away from the glaring beast that claims to be his shadow. 

He recoils at the mere idea of having to pose for, yet another , family portrait. 

He spends post-practice showers analyzing the length of his toenails, so he doesn’t get caught up in comparing himself to the twenty-some-odd bodies rinsing off in his periphery. 

He sips— chugs, is more like it—from aluminum cans that have the good sense to blur his reflection past the point of recognition. 

Steve Harrington is ugly , because they tell him so. 

Mom. 

Dad. 

The redhead from the diner. 

Tommy. 

Each has left reminders, but Tommy’s the one who won’t let him forget it. 

Tommy’s the one who scars it into him and won’t let it heal. 

The fact. The wicked thing that dances around him and swallows him up every time he catches a glimpse of his own bulbous eyes and crooked smile. 

Tommy’s the one who pinches his sides, tugs on his baby fat, points fingers, spits insults. Mouths off about Steve needing to schedule a visit to the dermatologist to ‘deal with’ his moles. Lovingly advises him to get carved up on the exam table like a cadaver. Body donated to science, because he wasn’t pretty enough for an open casket. 

That’s just it. 

In life and death, he’s too fucking ugly. 

Sometimes, he forgets. Gets distracted by a compliment that’s been thrown his way out of pity. By a lab partner leaving her phone number in the margins of his chemistry notebook. By a teacher who says he looks nice in blue, even though he knows it’s a goddamn lie. 

It doesn’t matter. Relief is fleeting. The sting of self-hatred alleviated only for a moment. 

Because, as soon as that thought starts to lose its’ pop, carbonation, and fizz —as soon as, it starts to hit his tongue dull and unapologetic; Tommy’s right there to slap him on the wrist with the reminder of his bleak reality. 

Tommy’s right there to take a mean polaroid when Steve’s not paying attention and use it as a case study to point out every last one of his flaws. Like one of those diagrams in the back of his human anatomy textbook. Brought to ruin by an inescapable disease. Organs twisted, gut churning, skin tinted a sickly purple. 

Ugly. 

It wasn’t always like this. 

Tommy used to kiss Steve in the back of his car for hours on end. They’d drive off the beaten path, slide fingers over naked stretches of skin, confess their feelings through groans and sighs that fogged up the windows. Get lost in a world of their own. 

They’d lend clothing back and forth—only ever daring to shoulder the thick letterman jackets in the secrecy of their own bedrooms. Admiring the embroidered thread that spelled out Harrington and Hagan . Gold. Lasting. Or, so it seemed. 

There were moments. Many of them— enough of them for Steve to find some semblance of love within the current climate. 

Moments, in which Tommy brought Steve ice on the court after a particularly bad ankle sprain. 

Moments, in which Tommy played with Steve’s hair until he fell asleep on the couch while his parents were out of town. Never once moving despite the fact that his arms must have turned to pins and needles. 

Moments, in which Tommy presented Steve with a slice of cake on his birthday—the one his Mom and Dad forgot. Make a wish, he’d said like they were still little kids. 

But, somewhere along the way to the present, a bitterness seemed to rot the purest parts of Tommy. The very parts Steve loved most. 

Ugly—

Tommy reminds him at the party while they’re mingling amongst friends and ex-lovers. 

Tommy reminds him when he kisses Carol in front of everyone and compliments her red lipstick. 

Tommy reminds him when he passes Steve in the kitchen. Grabs the bowl of chips he’s snacking on and dumps them onto the carpet. Stomping them into pieces, wordlessly.

But, then, through a sweeping haze of violence, horror-worthy shrieks, and a bit of magic in the air; Tommy doesn’t exist anymore. 

Or, rather, time stands still, skips forward like someone’s fallen asleep on the wrong side of the remote, and Eddie Munson takes his place. 

Eddie Fucking Munson—

Steve’s not sure why he follows him. 

Steve’s not sure why he chooses to trust him—a stranger, more or less. 

Steve’s not sure what he says to make Eddie erupt with laughter in the midst of something so fucking terrible and obscene. 

Steve’s not sure which of them intertwines their fingers, but knows he feels more awake the second he’s holding onto someone solid. Someone who doesn’t hit him, who doesn’t curse his name, who doesn’t make him feel as overlooked as the dark side of the moon. 

For once, he doesn't think about Tommy. 

For once, he makes up his own mind—or, whatever’s left of it —and does the wrong thing on purpose. 

Eddie’s cackling. 

Howling as they tear through the overgrown trees like a wild thing who’s just made his first kill. 

It’s not that far-fetched. Anything’s possible. He watched Tommy evaporate into thin air less than an hour ago—or, was it ten minutes, a few hours, another lifetime? 

“Through the clearing,” he thinks he hears Eddie yell beside him, “It’s not much further. C’mon!” 

Steve nods. Blood hot with adrenaline and a fear he can’t define. 

A fear he can’t even begin to understand, because whenever he looks over at Eddie and his mess of curls—the earlier events of the evening run away from him. Impossible to grasp like the broken heart of a ghost who’s decided to leave town, once and for all. 

The jig is up. Memory’s broken just like the fucking rest of him. Useless. Ugly. 

Steve knows he should probably be afraid of a lot of other things, but the only thing he’s truly afraid of—in this moment—is Eddie letting go of his hand. Convinced physical separation will destroy the fantasy. Send him hurtling back through time and space to his rightful place as Tommy’s sidekick, confidant, punching bag. 

Thankfully, the stars seem to align in Steve’s favor. Winking at him. Wise beyond their years. Beholding goodness and truth. 

It’s sudden and it’s frantic. 

It’s a tangle of limbs, a couplet of groans, points of contact across every plane. Hips bumping. Chests heaving. Hands scrambling to check for major casualties. He feels like a child— head, shoulders, knees, and toes. 

Eddie’s beneath him. 

Eddie’s lit up by constellations, lightning bugs, and willow trees that part with the breeze to make room for the moon’s guidance.

Eddie’s got leaves in his hair. Crunchy and dry. Too cold for much else to survive. 

Eddie’s face is smeared with dirt. Eyes lined by black makeup, a touch of blue, and gold glitter. He doesn’t wear it like the girls at school, who cover up the little things they hate about themselves. The little things Steve wishes he could cover up on his own face—blackheads, pores, crescent-shaped circles. 

Eddie wears it like it’s part of him. Like it’s embedded. Irreversible. Shimmering and glowing and somehow, never erasing the God’s honest truth that he’d be just as beautiful without it. 

But, fuck, isn’t it something special to see him like this? 

Steve’s world turns upside down. Head throbbing from the toxic concoction of too much alcohol and too little food.

If he throws up, it’ll be on Eddie, which shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. Maybe it’s because it’ll prove his ugliness. Maybe it’s because he thinks Eddie hasn’t noticed it yet, and when he does, he’s sure he’ll leave. 

“Oh, shit,” Eddie sits up, pulling Steve to kneel between his legs without letting go of his hand, “I’ve been shot. This might be the end for me, Harrington. Tell my family, I loved them. It’s the least you can do.” 

“Huh? What the fuck, man? What the fuck? Are you hurt? Do I need to call an—”

Ambulance dies as soon as he considers it, because Eddie’s clamping a warm palm over his mouth and the bite of silver feels inviting and strange. If not frightening. 

“Shh. Not taking an ambulance. Don’t need one. I’m fucking with you. I scraped my knee, ‘s all—I’m being dramatic. Putting on a little show for the King of Hawkins High like an unpaid court jester.” 

Steve drops his gaze. Tilts sideways to get a better look at Eddie’s leg. He’s bleeding. Soaking the surrounding denim with a deep crimson that trickles straight from the hole in his shredded Levi’s. 

Usually, he’d dispute the whole King nickname. List all the reasons why he’s ‘not that guy, anymore.’ But, Eddie’s injured and Steve’s too drunk to figure out how bad it is. Whether it’s got the staying power of a bullet wound or a papercut. 

“Shit. Looks bad,” Steve manages to slur out past the taste of post-party nausea and delirium, “W-what can I do?” 

Whatever he’s offering isn’t clear to him or Eddie, which Eddie only further confirms with a choked laugh. Short in duration and sharp as a snake’s bite. Venomous in a way that numbs Steve’s racing heart. Almost makes him feel euphoric. Like morphine or laughing gas. 

“ ‘spose you could kiss it better, Romeo. Unless you happen to carry ‘round a first aid kit,” Eddie hums and Steve gets frustrated when he can’t place the tune. Out of touch. 

An imaginary road forks out in front of him and the fact is he doesn’t have a first aid kit, so he falls back upon the first option. Thoughtless, bold, and unrelenting. Idiotic as can be. 

“Okay. One second.” 

Steve does the ugly thing. Ducks his head down and presses his lips fully against Eddie’s wound. Slots his mouth over the cut and lets his tongue slip out for a quick taste. As if he’s starving, dying, breaking into a million shattered pieces without it. 

Eddie grimaces and twists up his expression like he’s swallowed a bucket of sour worms. The kind Steve and Tommy used to steal from the candy store just for the hell of it. Not because they didn’t have the money. They had plenty of their parent’s cash in their wallets. But, because it allowed them to rebel against the neat and tidy lives they were supposed to lead. 

“Fuck, Harrington. Didn’t expect you to go full vampire on me. That hurts,” he jerks his knee back and wraps an arm around it.

Steve tries to apologize, but it gets garbled like marbles in his mouth. 

“Such a pretty mess,” he mumbles, instead. 

Giggling. Waiting for Tommy’s hand to jump out in the midnight bloom and slap his cheek as punishment. 

It never comes. 

“Pretty?” 

Eddie repeats the word as a breathy hymn and flushes to his ears. Embarrassed or ashamed or something in between. 

“Pretty, pretty, pretty—so fucking pretty —”

Eddie’s lashes flutter closed like he’s finally at peace. The day’s work is done. The night is long, but they’ve found a break in the madness. A loophole to the chaos that reigns in the echoed sounds of police sirens and war. 

“You’re drunk, man. You don’t even know what you’re saying,” Eddie murmurs like it’s any consolation for the fact that Steve’s heart is about to split in two over the way this boy looks in the moonlight. 

Beautiful—he’s beautiful, Steve thinks. 

“Doesn’t mean shit. Doesn’t make you any less pretty. I know what I’m fucking talking about, dude.” 

It’s probably fucked up that Steve finds himself realizing how pretty Eddie is while he’s licking blood from his lips. Likely stained cherry red like Carol’s stupid fucking lipstick. 

It’s probably even more fucked up that Steve finds himself wanting to clean the rest of the blood off with his own tongue. Drink Eddie down so he doesn’t have to lose him when all of this— tonight —is said and done. 

A reminder. A gift. 

Steve recalls the leaves. How they’ve threaded themselves into Eddie’s curls. They’re trying to steal away his beauty and Steve can’t have that. He works them out of his hair. Slowly, methodically, gentle as to not stir whatever evil lurks around the corner. Whatever happened at that fucking party. 

“Am I wrong?” Steve says simply, removing the last of the crumbled leaves as Eddie releases a soft sigh into the air around them. He wants to tuck them into his pockets, press them between book pages so he doesn’t forget. 

“No,” Eddie whispers, holding Steve’s gaze. Tracking him up and down. Spinning him in dizzying circles that make Steve yearn to tackle him back to the dirt and melt into his skin. Become one. 

It’s the first time he feels seen. 

It’s the first time he feels heard. 

It’s the first time he feels anything other than ugly. 

🌹💙✍

“She suddenly realized she was sitting in an apartment by herself late at night, eating an apple and watching a movie on TV that she cared nothing about, and doing it all because it was easier than thinking, thinking was so boring really, when all you had to think about was yourself and your lost love.”

 ― Stephen King, The Dead Zone

🌹💙✍

Blue, 

I haven’t been able to sleep lately. The stars keep me awake. Jump out at me like shiny little medallions. Mementos of a past that’s only half-formed. It’s a fool’s errand. This thing I do. Trying to chase after a light that was never mine to begin with. Swimming through dead dreams, night terrors, and the sinking feeling that, eventually, I’ll be the one to lose. Turn up empty handed and bloodshot like an undiagnosed insomniac. 

The stars, of course, are the same stars they’ve always been. Bright, blinking, and constant; despite it all. 

That said, without you basking beneath their glow and reflecting it back at me like Heaven’s mirror, I’m incapable of moving forward. Sleep never comes. Or, if it does, it’s in vicious spurts that leave me somehow more exhausted than I was when I first laid my head down on the pillow. 

The treehouse is the only place I find solace. 

Perhaps, because I know you’ve been here. 

Left your invisible fingerprints on the walls. Exhaled against the dilapidated wood. Rutting into your hand like a fucking wild animal. Untame and needy. Desperate enough to gag on my words and let yourself feel that crazed pleasure all the way to the bone. 

The kind—I can’t help, but deny myself on too often an occasion. 

Pleasure and pain are linked for me. Like dissolved salt in water. Remember those experiments in science class? Ninth grade? Impossible to separate. One and the same. The hurt is part of it—

—except with you. 

There was a bruise forming beneath my skin when I took your hand and ran for the hills.

Did you know that? Did you see it? Do you know who left it there and why it hurt so bad? Is that why you approached me in the first place? 

I don’t want to jump to conclusions. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. 

There’s more. 

These are the gory details I tend to leave out. The ones I want to gloss over with a thick coating of lead paint and inhale until it kills me. The gritty fragments that remain lodged in my chest only to ever show up in the autopsy. And, then, it’s too fucking late. 

I am only beautiful when I’m next to you and I don’t know how else to make you understand that. 

On my own, I’m dull, vacant, gray. I’m trying to give you the warning signs. Keep out, turn back, don’t proceed, abandon all hope ye’ who enter here. That sort of thing. Leave you room to run, before you’ve gone too far. Before I have my trap set and ensnared around your tender throat. Pulse fluttering like a rare moth pinned beneath my grasp. Pale with veins of blue. Stretching out like branches of a willow tree. 

I promise you, I don’t know how not to suffocate beautiful things. I never learned. 

Pretty. 

You’re pretty. 

I remember. 

I was the one who said it. 

I was the one who couldn’t stop saying it. 

That’s what keeps coming back. Just before I shut my eyes, I see the willow tree parting. Letting the moon through. Granting her permission to shine and illuminate the specks of space matter littering your dark brown eyes. Blue and gold and twinkling. 

Your hand was in mine. I didn’t want you to let go. I remember reaching for you—it was automatic. Like we’d reached for each other a million other times in a million other places. Like it was only natural for me to intertwine our fingers and bolt in the direction of darkness. You were a stranger. You were the rumors that preceded the truth. You were coincidence, happenstance, fate. 

Your blood was on my tongue. You’re right about that. 

But, I didn’t tell you—I didn’t want to scare you, you see —that I wanted more. I was starving, aching, bending to a will outside of myself. I felt alive, frantic, and something kept calling to me. Like a songbird’s omen in the dead of night. Telling me it was your blood in my mouth that made me whole. Trickled inside and filled in the cracks, gaps, and broken things. Glued me back together in a sense. 

I’m sorry if that’s fucked up. I’m sorry if I scare you. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t like the way you taste. Bittersweet and heady and gently violent. A hint of magic on my tongue, in the air, on your skin, and mine. 

That’s what haunts me. 

Well, that, and everything else that remains a mystery. Everything else I’ve forgotten.

I took leaves out of your hair. I couldn’t stand the way they tried to cling to you. The way they seemed to believe they were worthy enough to go home with you and wake up in your bed. It disgusted me. It made me furious. It made me jealous like a girl. 

I got drunk on this fantasy of you. You saving me, driving as far away from town as we could, and bleeding into each other like two wounded animals with nowhere else to go. I don’t care if it’s dangerous. I don’t care if it’s crazy. I want to sink my teeth into you and I don’t want to stop. 

I taste cigarettes—burnt newspaper, a fucking forest fire, the lick of a match. Next to the memory of blood. Smoke and mirrors and macabre little visions. 

Do you smoke? Do you only do it when you're drunk like I do? Or, is it a vice? 

I see stars when I think of you, too. That’s the point. I see stars and the glitter around your eyes. The smudged black makeup and the way it felt like it was made for you or you were made for it. Either way. 

I’ve never seen a boy wear makeup, but, now, I find myself daydreaming about straddling your lap, rolling my hips forward, and putting all my faith into the spells you’d weave to make me into something lovelier. The biting kisses you’d pave down my neck and over my chest—a road to believing in the greater good. The curious way your hands would snake around my waist and find a place to stay. Gripping and grounding me so I wouldn’t lose myself in the small terrors on the horizon. Coloring me in vivid shades of blue and hushing my fears. 

I think I’d like it. 

I think I’d like it very much. 

Bet you never thought the jock would be begging you to paint his face with pretty colors, huh? 

Which, I suppose, brings me to my next thought. 

Becoming nocturnal is strange. It’s louder and quieter than I ever thought it would be. The crickets have built a symphony for me. Ongoing, vague in meaning, but I know they’re saying something important. 

It’s lonely. The house is empty. The mattress creaks with every turn I make. Back and forth and back, again. There’s a distant hum of wind or rain or Earth shattering declarations of love. Whatever it is, it’s the soundtrack to the night, to the wee hours of the morning, to the funny habits I’ve taken up this late in the game. 

I read. 

I pace the library during my free period at school and wait until my chest feels this odd tug towards a section of books that don’t at all seem like they’d appeal to anyone. Myself, included. They have dents, damages, water-logged pages that piss off the librarian and make her turn purple. They feel like home. They feel safe. They understand what it means to go through Hell and live to tell the tale. Literally. 

There’s no need for it—my parents aren’t going to scold me—but I hide the books under my pillow. It’s precautionary. A secret I keep solely because I can. Solely because it’s nice to have something that’s all my own. 

Over the past few weeks, I’ve traveled to so many different worlds, they all start to blur together in my head. 

I’ve sat with the Knights of the Round Table. I’ve stumbled through the land of the Lotus-eaters beside Odysseus. I’ve seen Gatsby’s green light and gotten entirely lost in it. I’ve held Romeo and Juliet’s hands as they made the ultimate sacrifice for love. 

I remember you calling me Romeo, by the way. I remember thinking it sounded like an insult. I remember thinking it sounded like a prayer. 

My most recent obsession has been a fresh love-affair with an art history textbook. Doesn’t sound like something anyone under the age of seventy-five would appreciate, but I’ve found great companionship within the bindings.

I’ve seen a lot of art. Traveled to the most exquisite galleries across the globe with my parents. Hated those experiences, because, as it turns out, the company you keep really does affect how you view the Mona Lisa in the stuffiest part of The Louvre. 

I thought I was going to die there. I thought she was going to peel off the wall and shove herself down my throat. It was underwhelming and surreal. 

I hope to never see her again. 

If it’s a story you need, if it’s a moment to latch onto, then, latch onto this. I was reading last night. Eyes heavy, mind a total mess, nothing to bring me comfort except the words on the page. They don’t move. They don’t leave. They don’t run away even when I’m at my ugliest. Even when I’m at my worst. I trust them, inherently so. 

It was within those pages that I finally found myself understanding what would drive someone to become an artist. What would motivate a man to stare lustfully at his muse and turn a blank canvas into a fucking masterpiece. From gentle brushstrokes to a heavy handed caress. Indulgent the entire way through until the piece was complete and hung upon a pristine wall. 

“Slowly, the Egyptians spread their blue dyes throughout the world, passing them on to the Persians, Mesoamericans and Romans. The dyes were expensive—only royalty could afford them. Thus, blue remained rare for many centuries…”

That’s what caught my eye last night. That’s what made me think, deeply, about who I am and what I want. If I’m a terrible person for wishing I could keep my Blue underwraps. Maintain a sense of underground whimsy. Obscure your identity— your beauty —with wickedly distorted layers of paint. Hide you in plain sight. Make you mine and let everyone else regret that they never got the chance to swim in that gorgeous crystal sea. 

Blue rarely occurs in nature. 

You can probably count on one hand the amount of times you’ve come across it on a walk around town, through the woods, behind the school when you were supposed to be in class. It’s hard to define. Even harder to encapsulate without employing the word, itself, to describe the hue of the sky on a sunny day or the shade of a certain bird’s breast.

My mother covets precious stones. My father yearns to get his greedy hands on Macallan’s finest. I’m spoiled. I’m a brat. My inheritance means nothing to me. It’s a big number. It’s a loss. It’s the little kid who’s still waiting for his parents to come home and tuck him into bed so he can rest. 

I have no use for expensive liquor, precious jewels, or astronomical stock holdings. 

You are the rare thing I dream of possessing. Of wearing around my finger like a blood diamond. Of languidly sipping and savoring like top-shelf whiskey. 

My Blue. 

You have utterly ruined me. 

You said this is a game. 

You said you wanted moments, feeling, touch that transcends the physical. 

Then, follow my lead. 

I broke a rule. Just one. Nothing crazy. Nothing that’ll land me in jail like all the rest of this. It’s a childish thing really. You’ll know it when you see it. My handwriting in the textbook. I won’t tell you the name. I’ll let you wonder. I’ll let you linger in the stacks and inhale the places I’ve been. The words I’ve loved and hated. 

Look for blue. Look for art. Look for the secrets I’m too afraid to admit out loud. 

Let me know when you find it. 

I’ll be waiting. 

—Bright Boy

🌹💙✍

Bright Boy,

It took me all of a half an hour to find your secret book. The librarian was eyeing me like I was fucking Satan incarnate but I’m used to that by now. You’re the only one who’s ever looked at me like that and made me feel like it was a good thing.

The History of Blue . 

I never really imagined colors having histories, but it makes sense. 

I like your handwriting—

it’s unhurried, loopy in ways mine isn’t, full of a grace I don’t possess. I don’t know how to tell you that you’re pretty in a way that will mean something.

At first, I was confused by your choice of book—but now that I’ve read your careful notes, now that I’ve run my fingertips over the pages, I think I understand. All this effort, just to weave an elaborate metaphor for the way you see me. 

You talk about me as though I’m already yours. Like there’s no question, no hesitation. I can feel the wanting in your words.

I was sitting there in the library with this giant book in my lap, but I could feel your hands all over me. I could feel your lips pressed to my skin. Your Blue. 

I’ve always loved libraries. 

As a kid I’d spend hours searching the shelves, picking out a stack of books to read. 

I don’t go as much anymore, but now my dreams are filled with stories and the smell of old pages and ink. 

Sometimes I dream about a library in the sky—one that floats on a cloud, has books that rearrange themselves and velvet armchairs to read in. And then there’s another consistent dream, one where I’m in the library with someone sweet, someone telling me to be good and quiet while they suck bruises into my skin. 

I used to think it was because I liked the idea of getting caught, maybe some exhibitionist fantasy. 

But now I think it’s because libraries are safe, to me. 

Libraries are places that exist for the sole purpose of housing and preserving knowledge. 

They’re meant to be explored. 

It’s more sacred, more spiritual, than any house of god I’ve ever entered. 

I like the idea of holding hands with someone as we read about the proper mechanics of kissing. Giggling as we flip through pages of sex positions. Fucking slowly with hands pressed tightly over our mouths to keep from making too much noise. Basking in the post-sex afterglow while we read aloud from a book of french pastry recipes—imagining that we were elsewhere, licking the sugar from each other's lips and kissing under street lamps. 

There are so many places I’ve never been. But that’s the great part about books. There are entire worlds pressed between those pages. I’m glad you’re going on your own adventures now. 

I dream a lot of weird shit. Sometimes I go through the motions of an entire day, having fake conversations and creating memories that don’t exist, only to wake up and have to remind myself none of it actually happened. Other times, it’s something so far from reality that my conscious brain can’t begin to process it. 

Sleep and me, we don’t get along so great. I’ve found ways to tire myself out enough to let my eyes close—reading, playing guitar, jerking off—but I don’t think I’ve had a satisfying sleep in years. 

It’s always nice to find someone else who knows about the nighttime world—the shadowy, cool-colored, slow-crawling, stretched out hours where consequences become insignificant and your lizard brain takes over.

That’s the way things were when we ran into the woods. We were running into that world, leaving the wreckage behind, out of the nightmare and into the fever dream. Defying the stars. 

I think, in some way, I knew I wanted to be yours on the night we met. Maybe that’s why I decided to pierce your ear with something so precious to me. I wanted you to wear it proudly , almost like we were sweethearts and I was giving you my pin. Or maybe I just wanted to show that you can wear an earring and still be manly—you know, like Jeffrey from Blue Velvet.

Like I told you before, the earring belonged to my mother. 

When I got my ears pierced, I was 13 and I let Gareth do it after one of our Hellfire meetings. We were full of adrenaline and TaB, just fucking around without a care in the world. 

Wayne was livid at first. 

Not because I had piercings, but because I could have easily gotten some kind of infection. 

I didn’t even have a real earring—Gareth took a safety pin, stuck it right through my earlobe, and left it there. 

Wayne cleaned my ear with some antiseptic, and once he was done grumbling about how reckless I was being, he gave me the earring. 

My mom died when I was really young. Not old enough to recall anything more than a flash of her smile, the way she always smelled like roses, the calming tone of her voice. 

I remember running to the bathroom, pushing the earring into the already open wound, and just standing there staring at my reflection. I couldn’t take my eyes off the stone—smudged with blood but still, a peaceful blue. Such a contrast to my wild hair and near-manic demeanor. 

I was pretty . 

I guess that’s the real reason why I gave it to you—you remind me of the stone itself. 

This ethereal entity that found me in the middle of something stinging. 

You’re both, though. 

You’re the cut and the bandaid. 

You’re the bite and the kiss. 

You’re the sharp needle piercing through soft flesh, and the gorgeous gem that turns the wound into something beautiful. 

That night, I wore makeup for the first time in a while—well, out in public anyway. 

I don’t usually aim to wear a sign on my face that says “Look out, here comes The Freak,” but it felt different somehow. There was this feeling in the air. 

Sometimes when I was little, I’d be having the best day at school and I’d just get filled with this overpowering feeling of joy. Suddenly I was able to talk to people, I noticed patterns in the eraser shavings on someone’s desk, and even the jello at lunch seemed like a food from a far off planet. 

Now that I’m older, I feel it in other ways. 

It’s the rollercoaster stomach flip, or when you’re driving and all the lights are green, or when you learn a new word and suddenly see it everywhere. I think it’s called synchronicity . Life falling into place in ways that seem like fate. 

I got that same feeling when I was getting ready for the party. So I smudged royal blue eyeshadow across my lids, lined my eyes with a black pencil, and finished the look with gold sparkles scattered over the blue.

There was this moment. Somewhere out there in the mess and magic of that night. We were sitting across from each other, and you looked at me like I was something to marvel at—like a painting at an art museum. 

You said, “It’s like you’ve got the whole Milky Way swirling around in your eyes.” 

You said I looked like Starry Night. 

You called me Galaxy Boy .

I brought my hands up to my eyes, dragged my fingertips over the mess of blue and glitter. 

It was like you knew exactly what I was about to do—

your heavy lidded eyes closed and you leaned forward as I smeared the makeup over your eyelids. 

Black and blue—like ink, like blackberry juice, like a bruise.

You looked so happy, so goddamn beautiful . 

You know, I think those are the stars we keep seeing. 

The ones that spiral in our memories. 

Yellow stars and cerulean swirls.

You say that I’ve ruined you, but baby we’ve ruined each other. 

You’ve painted the walls of my lungs in shades of blue.

It’s there every time I breathe, and especially when I’m gasping for air. It’s there when I see the image of you on the ground in front of me, when you kissed the blood from my knee. 

Now it’s there in the fantasy of you climbing into my lap—

my fingers digging into your hip bones, pulling you down, rocking against each other. Making sure you know you’re fucking made for me. How well we fit. How much I want this, want you .

You wouldn’t have to ask. I’d paint your face anytime you want. Though I wouldn’t say no to you begging for it, not with those bedroom eyes and gorgeous lips of yours. 

I called you Romeo, not because I see myself as Juliet—I’ve always been the envious moon. 

The ever-changing, crater-filled celestial body in the sky. 

But maybe that night, I was your Juliet. 

Star-crossed lovers, from opposite sides of the tracks. 

Poison on your lips, a dagger in my gut. 

We all have vices, and now you’re one of mine—but yeah, since you asked, I smoke cigarettes. 

Who wants to live forever anyway? 

— Blue

🌹💙✍

It’s been two weeks since the party. 

Long enough for the whispers to die down, long enough for everyone to notice the first signs of autumn, and long enough for the hickey on Eddie’s neck to heal. Almost . 

The once purple flesh is now nothing more than an easily overlooked blemish.

So faint, you’d surely miss it—unless you knew it was there. 

The mark will disappear, but Eddie will know. It’s his to keep. A sweet nothing whispered into pierced ears. Eddie can still feel Steve’s sharp teeth and the soothing wetness of his tongue. 

It’s also been days since Eddie last heard from Steve. 

He keeps a subtle eye on him—waiting on the edge of his seat for Steve to bite into an apple, for any sign that there’s an answer waiting in the treehouse. 

Usually he’d chalk it up to Steve just taking his time, or maybe he’s been particularly busy with his school work—but this feels different. 

This feels deliberate . 

From time to time, Eddie can usually feel Steve’s eyes watching him from across a room or in the halls. But for the last three days, it’s like Steve has been actively avoiding any kind of interaction. It confuses him, sends him into detailed bouts of overthinking, spiraling until he convinces himself that Steve doesn’t care about him anymore. 

Or maybe it’s about what they did the night of the party—something so bad they need a fucking codename just to talk about it— Frank. 

Eddie wears his Stephen King shirt—navy blue with The Dead Zone emblazoned on the front in sky blue lettering. It’s an obvious nod to “King Steve,” and Eddie hopes it’ll finally make Steve look at him. 

Just in case the metaphor is lost on Steve, he brushes a thin layer of blue eyeshadow over his lids. To complete the look, he ties his hair up in a messy bun, taking special care to frame his face with a few loose curls. If this doesn’t work, Eddie doesn’t know what he’ll do next—but it’ll probably be something reckless. 

—

It doesn’t work. 

Steve practically treats him like a ghost, eyes staring blankly ahead, looking through him. 

Eddie looks good. He looks really fucking good. 

Like “I want to slam him against the wall and kiss him” kind of good—so why is Steve being so cold? 

It’s like Eddie has snakes growing out of his head, a freaky version of Medusa, and Steve has turned to stone. 

Eddie feels something bubbling under his skin, like an itch that can’t be scratched. 

He’s had this in him for as long as he can remember—

a need to quiet the beast inside him with anything in his reach. 

But Steve’s tricky. 

Eddie knows Steve won’t respond to any bold declarations or expressions of intense emotion. Eddie doesn’t know everything about Steve, but he does know one thing—Steve is a jealous motherfucker. 

He’s seen the way Steve seethes with quiet rage whenever someone else talks to his newest flavor of the week—random girls, ones that Steve probably doesn’t even care about. 

Eddie’s mind lands on an idea. 

It’s stupid. Beyond fucking stupid, it’s practically a deal with the devil—

except the devil is inside him, at war with his good senses. 

—

Jonathan Byers is a nice guy. He’s the kind of person you can trust to hold your drink at a party—a real standup kind of dude. He’s also the reason Steve lost out on the only girl he’s ever seemed to give two shits about. It’s like, common knowledge at this point. Even for someone like Eddie. 

Eddie has made it his business to memorize Steve’s schedule. He’s almost 100% sure that Steve has done the same, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to avoid him the way he has been. 

Steve has soccer practice after lunch. He’s a forward, best one on the team if you ask Eddie (who doesn’t know jack shit about sports, but he sure as fuck likes the uniform. Steve’s ass looks obscene in those tiny shorts, and Eddie has found himself imagining what it would be like to take them off—slide them down his hairy legs and suck him off in the locker room.) 

Eddie makes his way over to the alley behind the gym with one thing on his mind—Jonathan Byers. 

Not like that, ok. 

Eddie doesn’t have a death wish. It’s more of a morbid fascination with stepping over the line. The line in this case, is the one between a friendly conversation and what might be misinterpreted as calculated flirtation. 

It’s not that Eddie wants to make Steve angry per se—just jealous enough to stop ignoring him. It’s unfortunate to put Jonathan in the middle of something so petty, but there’s no going back now. 

Eddie marches up to Jonathan who is leaning moodily against the wall, cigarette in hand. He has his camera around his neck. Eddie’s seen him taking pictures all around Hawkins, so he figures it’s fully loaded, and Eddie’s ready for his close-up. 

“Byers, how goes the day?” 

He tries to sound casual, but it comes out a bit forced. Jonathan has just taken a drag and he chokes on the smoke, coughing and breaking out into a confused grin.

“What-uh, hey Eddie. What are you doing out here?”

His tone is lighthearted, if not a bit wary, and he holds out his cigarette, motioning for Eddie to take it. Jackpot . Like taking candy from a baby. 

The real baby in question is running around the field behind them in his slutty little outfit. Eddie sneaks a look, feeling the familiar sting of smoke as it hits the back of his throat. 

Steve stops in the middle of the field, another player crashing into him and knocking him to the ground. He shakes it off, but goes to sit on the bench, clearly feigning an injury. Eddie smiles to himself and steps closer to Jonathan, passing the cigarette back. 

“Well, the hours have been moving at a glacial pace today, and I found myself wanting to give into one of my many vices. You know how it is.” 

Jonathan raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I get it, I was falling asleep in class earlier. So, um…what do you want—I mean, I think this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had,” he stammers. 

Eddie brings his hand dramatically up to his chest and answers in mock indignation.

“I don’t want anything, I just have a few questions about that fun little contraption around your neck.”

Jonathan glances down at his camera and then back at Eddie.

“My camera? Since when are you interested in photography?”

“Since always.” 

“You strike me as the kind of guy who likes to be in the pictures, not behind the camera.”

Eddie chances another look in Steve’s direction, and watches as Steve unconvincingly pretends to tie his cleat. This really couldn’t be going any better. 

“See that’s exactly my point. I do like to be in pictures. If I’m ever gonna make it big I need to get used to having cameras in my face,” he laughs, trying to make a joke out of his strange request. 

Jonathan narrows his eyes and quirks a small smile.

“Uh, yeah man, I mean, if you want me to take a picture of you, I can do that. It’s no problem.”

“Perfect. So, should I pose? You’re the expert.”

Jonathan ashes his cigarette against the wall and drops it to the ground, lifting the camera strap over his head. 

“Just do whatever feels natural. All the best portraits are candids, at least that’s what I’ve been told,” he instructs, pointing the camera in Eddie’s direction.

Eddie tries to think of the best possible pose, maybe something to fuck with Steve even more—but instead he just finds himself looking over at Steve again. Staring at his perfect hair, which shouldn’t be perfect because he’s sweating, but it’s so fucking perfect and Eddie just wants to run his hands through it and maybe kiss—

Click

Eddie is wrenched out of his thoughts by the sound of Jonathan snapping the picture. 

Candid, it is then. 

Jonathan is staring at him with an odd expression on his face, his eyes drifting over in the direction of the field. He looks back, and Eddie can see him put the pieces together. Jonathan isn’t an idiot.

“I think I got a good one. The other thing that makes a good portrait is when the subject is focused on something or…some one else—almost like nobody’s watching,” he says carefully—clearly trying to be sensitive. 

Eddie’s hit with a sinking feeling, finally confronted with the weight of his actions. This isn’t even about Steve anymore—it’s about Frank . He’s putting them both in danger. Jonathan’s a good guy, but that’s not a guarantee that he’ll keep their secret. If anything, it’s the opposite. But if he knows something, he doesn’t say it.

“Listen, I uh, I’ve gotta go. But it was nice talking to you. I’ll let you know when I develop the film.”

He holds out his hand, and Eddie takes it—it’s a handshake, a very formal goodbye, but that’s Jonathan. 

No hug, no kiss on the cheek—but he lets Eddie hold his hand for just a moment too long. 

Not long enough to be weird, but definitely enough to be noticed by someone paying close attention. 

Someone like Steve. 

—

Eddie’s on his third cigarette of the day. He’s in his usual spot—a bathroom on the furthest edge of campus that most students don’t dare frequent due to the toilets not actually working. It’s the perfect place to go when he doesn’t want to be found. 

He inhales deeply, pacing back and forth as he pictures the furious look on Steve’s face as he walked away from Jonathan. He looked like he was about to throw a punch, his cheeks an angry shade of red. 

This is bad. Like, really fucking bad. 

Like, worse than Eddie going down on that apple in the cafeteria kind of bad.

All he wanted to do was ruffle Steve’s feathers a bit, but he should have known better than to mess around with Jonathan Byers. 

He drops the cigarette to the ground and stubs it out with his boot. 

It’s not like he kissed the guy, but he was clearly flirting, and there’s no way Steve didn’t notice. 

He stops pacing to set his box of cigarettes and lighter down on the edge of one of the busted sinks. He doesn’t know where to go from here, his body filled with regret and shame. What if Steve never writes to him again?

He hears a noise coming from outside, like someone approaching.  

Eddie doesn’t want to see anyone right now, he can’t. 

Whoever it is yanks the door to the bathroom open just as Eddie manages to slip into one of the stalls. 

He quickly closes the lid and climbs onto the toilet seat, bending his body into a half-standing half-crouching position. It’s horrendously uncomfortable, but hey, anything to protect his anonymity. Whoever this is will probably leave soon and then he’ll be good to go. 

Eddie peers through the crack in the stall, unable to stifle his curiosity. His optimistic outlook comes crashing down completely when he realizes who it is—Steve fucking Harrington. 

There’s no way he doesn’t know that Eddie’s in here. This is it. He’s done for. Steve is going to kick down the door and then everything will be over—the tenuous bubble of attraction, obsession, danger, and mystery will pop and fizzle out into the surrounding air. 

Before anything can really happen, the bathroom door swings open a second time. 

“Well, if it isn’t Steve Harrington! What’re you doing here?”

Eddie knows that voice. He knows it all too well. 

He can hear the word Freak as it’s hurled at him over and over again. Always in that voice.

Jason Carver —asshole extraordinaire. 

Eddie sucks in a breath, panic starting to spread through his body. He watches as Steve hastily picks up his cigarettes and lighter. Steve sounds surprisingly calm when he answers Jason.

“Hey, man. I come in here to smoke sometimes. Not a lot of people know about this place,” he answers, somehow managing to keep it together.

“Haven’t really seen you around much since that party,” Jason says, conversationally.

Eddie’s stomach lurches and he feels a wave of nausea. This is bad.

“What a night,” Steve says in a casual tone. 

Eddie watches Jason lean against one of the sinks, cracking a smile.

“Yeah? What’d you get up to Harrington? Thought I saw you go into a room with someone. Who’s the lucky girl?”

Oh shit. Oh fuck. 

Eddie doesn’t think he has it in him to listen to Steve talk about some random girl, but there’s no escape.

“Oh, um. You don’t know her. She doesn’t go to Hawkins High,” he awkwardly dances around his response. 

“Well don’t hold out on me man, how was it?”

“It was a night to remember, that's for sure. She had these big brown eyes and perfect lips,” Steve sounds confident, like he’s finally found his footing. 

Eddie shuts his eyes, trying his best to tune out the conversation. 

“You fuck ‘er?” 

“Uh, well…” Steve hesitates, losing some of his cool.

“It’s a yes or no question, you fuck her or not Harrington?” Jason sounds accusatory, an edge to his voice.

“Yeah, actually I think I did. We were both pretty wasted but I gave it to ‘er good—I think she was a virgin, had to keep my hand over her mouth cuz she was so loud,” he sounds like the King Steve Eddie’s always heard about—bragging about his conquests.

All at once, a memory flashes behind Eddie’s eyes—they were on the ground, at Skull Rock maybe?

It’s clearer than any of the missing memories so far. He can feel the weight of Steve’s body as they kissed. He can feel Steve’s skin against him, broad hands on his ass. 

But it doesn’t stop there. 

Eddie can’t bring himself to admit what he finally knows to be true. Jason’s voice cuts through his thoughts—

“Damn, that’s hot.”

It’s difficult to hear Steve and Jason interacting like this, and it makes him question how well he actually knows Steve. It’s as though “Bright Boy” and “Steve” are two different people.  

“Yeah, she had these cute rings all over her fingers and wild curly hair.”

Did he just say rings?

Steve continues, his voice dripping with arrogance, “Such a fucking slut dude, a real bunny in the sack.”

Steve’s fucking with him now, he has to be. 

“Was she tight?” Jason sounds impressed, which is fucking gross.

“Oh yeah, she felt fuckin’ amazing around my cock. Best pussy I’ve ever had.”

Eddie claps a hand over his mouth, barely managing to stifle an uncontrollable moan. He feels all the blood in his body rush to his core. 

He remembers Steve’s fingers inside him, he remembers the way it felt as he slid down on Steve’s cock. 

It’s too much, this is too much. 

“Well shit, that’s high praise coming from you ,” Jason says pointedly.

“She was just next level, man. I had ‘er on top for a while, and the look on her face —it was like I was her god. Kept saying my name over and over again like a fuckin’ prayer,” Steve’s relentless in the way he recounts every graphic detail. 

“Oh so this was a religious experience,” Jason laughs.

Eddie rolls his eyes at that. God, what a dick. 

“More like a one way ticket to hell. She let me cum inside ‘er, dude. You ever done that before?” It’s like they’re recapping last night’s football game, shooting the shit like it’s no big deal. 

“Nah, Chrissy would kill me if I pulled that shit.”

Steve ignores him in favor of sharing more intimate details of his sexual escapades,“It was so fucking hot, like she belonged to me after that. I gave ‘er this giant hickey on her neck and that’s when she lost it, came so hard I thought she was gonna cry.”

If Eddie wasn’t hard before, he sure as fuck is now—because Steve isn’t making this up. He’s speaking to Jason in half-truths, hiding Eddie’s identity but sparing no detail of what happened between them. 

Eddie’s trapped—quite literally unable to run from the truth. 

I had sex for the first time—with Steve Harrington.  

Steve was inside him, and Eddie can’t remember all of it, but he knows it felt good—so fucking good . Eddie can’t stand it anymore. He quietly unbuttons his pants, sliding the zipper down so he can slip his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. He wraps a hand around his cock, getting lost in the feeling of wet and heat and—

“Shit, yeah that sounds like a riot,” Jason’s voice is a goddamn boner killer. If only he’d shut the fuck up.

“That wasn’t even the best part. She let me fuck the cum back inside her after I pulled out.”

Eddie bites down on the inside of his cheek. He wants to kick the door down, punch Jason in the face, and kiss Steve. He wants Steve on his knees sucking him off. He wants so much. 

“Jesus, fuck .” 

Eddie thinks to himself that Jason should probably reevaluate his definition of a normal conversation between two straight dudes. 

“I went down on her too, ate her out all slow and shit,” he says proudly.

“Nasty, man,” Jason seems a bit turned off by Steve’s latest addition. 

“Nah, you don’t get it—she kept squirming around and she had her hands in my hair like she wanted to keep me there forever.”

Forever. 

Forever, forever, forever.

Eddie nearly cums right then, but he stops himself—knows he won’t be able to be quiet if he does. He can feel Steve’s name on the tip of his tongue, he wants to whine and fall apart. He wants to stick his fingers into Steve’s mouth and make him clean up the mess he’s made—but he can’t get caught. He’d rather die than have Jason Motherfucking Carver catch him with his pants down.

“I’ll take your word for it, you seem to know what the fuck you’re doing. You gonna see her again?” Jason sounds impressed again, deferring to Steve’s better judgment. 

“I wouldn’t say no. Been picturing her every time I jerk off.”

Oh, have you, Stevie? That’s news to him.

“Sounds like a keeper to me.” 

Yeah, that’s fuckin’ right. At least that’s one thing Eddie and Jason can agree on.

“Yeah, h- she drives me crazy.”

Eddie’s eyes go wide. Steve almost said he instead of she.  

He feels his heart swell with affection for Steve—that beautiful, maddening, extraordinary boy.  

“I’ve gotta go but cool catching up with you, man. Good luck with your mystery girl,” Jason teases.

“Thanks, I think I’m gonna need it.”

Jason leaves, muttering something like Damn, Harrington, before the door shuts behind him.

Now there’s nothing between them but a stupid stall door. 

Eddie still has his hand down his pants. 

Now that Jason is gone, it should be safe to keep jerking off. 

Steve doesn’t have to know. 

Eddie watches as Steve takes a cigarette out of the box. Steve doesn’t smoke, besides the odd cigarette here and there. He said so in his letter. But he lights it, taking a deep drag. 

The smoke curls up around him. 

Steve looks like a fucking cigarette ad—he’d put the Marlboro Man to shame. 

Eddie can feel pleasure building inside him. 

Steve looks so unbothered, almost proud of himself. It’s driving him wild. 

But then he does something strange. He takes another drag of his cigarette and places it carefully on the edge of the sink, taking care not to drop it. He walks towards the door, pausing right before it to turn back in Eddie’s direction.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Steve’s voice echoes. He says it so softly, in such a teasing voice. 

It sounds like a challenge, it sounds like permission.

Eddie cums hard, finally allowing himself to let go. He moans Steve’s name, not caring that Steve can hear him. His hand is covered in cum and he’s breathing so hard he almost misses it—

Steve laughs, a low breathy sound, and whispers,“ Good boy.”

He leaves, not bothering to wait for Eddie to come out from his hiding place.

Eddie climbs down, wiping himself off with some toilet paper. He’s a strange mix of horny, annoyed, confused, and satisfied. 

Then he remembers the cigarette.

He unlocks the door, walking on shaky legs over to the sink. 

It isn’t lit anymore, but it’s still sitting exactly where Steve put it. 

He picks it up, and brings it to his mouth. 

Steve just had his lips wrapped around the same spot. It’s an almost kiss, laced with spit and smoke. 

Eddie stands there, smoking the rest of Steve’s cigarette, staring at himself in the dirty mirror. 

His hair is still up in his now very disheveled bun, eyelids smudged with blue—

a version of himself he’s just starting to understand. 

The version of himself that now belongs to Steve Harrington.

🌹💙✍

A cigarette left unattended

still burns.

Its white ashes hold

their shape as long as they can and

I think I have been 

that cigarette before.

— Sunshine Meyers