Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On record, Found Heaven is a music venue built out of an old church.

The wooden pews which once stood in rows for worship now line the outer walls to make space for a collection of bar tables and a dance floor. Old choir balconies with steep, narrow staircases hold VIP tables and stage lights, bright and aimed below. The shallow riser at the front of the sanctuary—the pulpit—makes for the stage, hardly removed from the dance floor but overwhelmingly separate, in part due to venue-typical lighting, but also because of the very nature of the building itself.

It's a church. You know where to look.

But even if, by some miracle, you’d managed to go your whole life ignorant of proper church-going ettiquet this close to the bible-belt in bum-fuck Indiana, it would still be pretty impossible to ignore the looming stained glass window that backdrops each musical act—Jesus with his staff, a golden halo, and a rainbow arched just above his head.

Off record?

Found Heaven is a gay bar. 

A finished drink appears on Steve’s tray and he swivels his head, peeling his gaze from the mass of bodies on the dance floor. It’s way busier than it should be on a Thursday night, but this place is always way busier than it should be, all things considered. He gets how gay clubs in Indianapolis get business, sure, but right now they’re forty-five minutes from any semblance of civilization (and it's a fiercely homophobic civilization at that). Steve is almost certain Hawkins’ gay population maxes out at him, Billy, Robin, Jon, and Argyle which is already a statistical anomoly. He doesn't see how Hawkins' surrounding towns, Granger and Bethel, could be harboring many more than that.

Despite this, there are a hundred people here tonight at least.

“You good, man?” Argyle asks as he cracks open a cold one to finish off the order, “You look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks,” Steve replies, as sarcastic as he can manage while half-yelling over Bowie, “I’m just tired… got the time?”

“Almost one,” Argyle answers promptly, and upon seeing Steve’s face fall— “Haven’t seen him?”

Steve shakes his head, sighing at the look of sympathy Argyle gives him. He really shouldn’t be surprised—it’s been like this for the last month and a half. Of course Steve would finally work up the courage to admit his feelings immediately after Billy decided this bar wasn’t doing it for him anymore.

He's a shoo-in for the patron saint of terrible timing.

“Can’t you just, like, call him? Or show up at his house?” 

Steve grimaces at the thought— “No way, dude.” 

Nothing like calling up a guy you’ve hardly had a conversation with (arguments and morning-after pleasantries excluded) to ask him out. And god knows Steve wouldn’t just show up and risk incurring the wrath of his psycho dad. Neil may act all “upstanding citizen” in public but Steve remembers seeing the bruises and cigarette burns that night, however dark it may have been. He’d been too drunk (and too excited to get his dick wet, of course) to ask about them, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what they were and who they were probably from.

Argyle holds up his hands, mocking surrender— “Whatever, man. I just think the whole thing stinks.”

Steve scoffs, “You’re one to talk, homewrecker.”

“Hey, man, I’m—!”

Not interested in letting him defend himself, Steve glides away from the bar and through the throng of people mingling. He’s gotten good at weaving through the mass of bodies, practice making perfect, and quickly finds himself on the other side of the crowd. He climbs the creaky stairs to the north balcony, dodges a few wasted girls who giggle as he passes, and alights to the booth at the end, the one with the best view of the pulpit, and clears his throat.

“Tip me or I’m kicking you downstairs.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Nancy mocks as he begins depositing their drinks in front of them—a "Madonna" on the rocks for Nance, a beer for Jon.

“Seriously, I lose so much money letting you guys have this table,” Steve complains, tucking the empty tray under his arm, “Robin’s always beating me in tips.”

“Robin’s also hot and funny,” Nancy points out, completely seriously—sometimes Steve wonders if she’s more in-place here than she lets on, “You, on the other hand, just whine.”

“Ha ha,” Steve mimics, pouting. She grins cheekily at him before her eyes zero-in on his chest.

“Nice shirt,” she teases, “Daddy’s girl?”

Steve looks down—he had almost forgotten about that, the two words branded across his chest in an offensive mustard-yellow. It had been that or “women want me, men fuck me,” both shirts being equally crude and uncomfortably tight. It had been a matter of which one Steve dreaded wearing less, not the type of employee to knock a uniform even if there probably wouldn't be a penalty for doing so.

If he could tough it out in tiny shorts and that freaking ascot-ribbon-thing, he can sure as hell survive a couple distasteful t-shirts.

“I need to do laundry,” he admits begrudgingly, “It was the lesser of two evils.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Jonathan grumbles, and Steve glares.

“At least I don’t smell like a blunt,” he snaps, and is it his best comeback of all time? No, but it is true. The guy reeks of weed, but then again, when doesn’t he? Ever since he and Argyle started… "spending time"  together it’s like all Jonathan wants to do is drugs. Steve is surprised Nancy isn’t more put off by it. 

But if Nancy’s not put off by Jonathan doing Argyle, how much worse could marijuana be?

Bloodshot eyes glare up at him. As much as Steve hates to admit it, he does actually sort of like Big Byers. Once you get past all the… creep stuff, he’s actually pretty cool. Is Steve still harboring some resentment towards him for stealing away his perfect girlfriend just to open up their relationship so he can “experiment” with the pothead behind the bar? Yes. Do Jonathan and Nancy, for some reason, still work a lot better than he and Nancy ever did? Unfortunately, yes. Do he and Steve bicker practically every time they encounter each other? Damn right. Will they ever stop? Nope. Even so, Jonathan's not the worst to be around.

Bickering is sort of their... thing. 

“Yeah, no shit,” Jonathan mocks, “Told that fucking psycho over there you're in love with him, yet?”

And to his surprise, Jonathan gestures. Steve’s gaze quickly follows, scanning the crowded tables and the bar for that pretty head of blond curls, fearing for just one moment that Jonathan’s pointing at nothing to fuck with him until—

Billy.

Billy Hargrove in a pair of sculpting Levis and his signature leather jacket already drawing the attention of multiple admirers in the crowd. Steve watches, transfixed almost, as a pretty girl in a tiny dress approaches him near the bar, sliding a confident hand over his forearm to get his attention. He looks over, and offers a smile so dazzling that even Steve’s heart skips a beat from across the building and up a flight of stairs. Who, on this miserable fucking planet or up in heaven or whatever, decided a man was allowed to look like that? Like some sexed-up, fallen angel fucking—

“I shouldn’t have fucking said anything,” Jonathan snaps, “You're better off single, dude.”

Steve doesn’t bother turning around or arguing. Billy’s nice to look at.

“I still don’t understand what your problem is, Jon," Nancy sighs.

“And I don’t understand why you guys don’t trust me. The guy is bad news.”

“You say that, but then you never—”

“I’m gonna do it,” Steve announces wistfully, interrupting the couple’s bickering, “I’m gonna tell him.”

“Whatever,” Jonathan grumbles, “At least we won’t have to listen to you bitch anymore.”

“You got this, Steve,” Nancy encourages, appearing at his side. She puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, so he takes a moment to look at her—she’s honestly even prettier now than when they were together, all wild curls and striking eyes. Her touch soothes him, his rapidly beating heart slowing to a more manageable pace like she's got superpowers, or something. He’s not sure that they ever really got over it, all the bullshit, but she’s so steadfast and kind all the same.

She always was the better man. 

“Thanks, Nance.”

“Yo! Daddy’s girl!”

Steve's gaze drops down, Robin waving her hands above her head to properly get his attention. The crowd on the dance floor is giving her a wide berth, probably a result of her staff t-shirt and apron. Presumably, she's noticed Billy, too, and has come to pester him into shooting his shot. For once, Steve’s one step ahead of her, already psyching himself up to—

“Can you get the lights?!”

The lights?

“It’s Thursday!” he calls back. 

“You guys don’t do live music on Thursdays, do you?” Nancy asks.

“Yeah, I fucking know it’s Thursday!” Robin shouts up to him, “Can you just get them, please?”

Steve squints down at her, his best friend just barely illuminated by the colorful house-lights of the bar, the way they're supposed to be on weeknights when nobody’s performing. He understands what she’s asking him to do, but he’s not sure why she’s asking him to do it. Maybe… someone lost something? Or somebody’s screwing around up on the pulpit where they shouldn’t be? Nothing like two-thousand watts of screaming spotlight to bully an idiot off the stage. He turns his gaze in that direction, but all he can make out is that shitty Yamaha—the electric keyboard with the twig legs that he could've sworn wasn't there a few minutes ago.

Is somebody playing?

“Steve! The fucking lights!”

“Yeah, whatever! Fine!”

Begrudgingly, he pushes away from the railing and shimmies around the back of Jonathan and Nancy’s booth to pull open a small panel in the wall. There aren’t a ton of things to mess around with—he just flips a few switches and presto! Stage lights on, house lights down. A ripple of confusion washes through the place, accompanied by some light booing when The Weathergirls are interrupted.

Rough and tough and strong and—

Oh, what the fuck?

Dead center-stage, (Steve swears he just appeared, somehow) illuminated by fiercely bright stage lights and backed by Jesus Christ himself is arguably one of the most gorgeous men Steve has ever seen. 

Ever. 

In his life. 

He's probably second only to Billy, and even then it's a really close second.

A dark, well-kept perm falls loosely over his shoulders, framing his unique features—big nose, pink lips, and a smile that can only be described as… pleasantly maniacal. He’s wearing probably the tamest outfit that’s ever been worn up there—a barely cropped tank with a thinly bedazzled star in the center and some baggy jeans—but it’s doing absolute wonders for him, anyway. When he shifts and lifts the microphone to his lips, a sliver of bare stomach appears and Steve is fucking stupified by it, especially the tease of coarse, dark hair that must trail down and down until—

Alright, control yourself, Harrington.

The mystery man surveys the crowd looking entirely too relaxed and pleased with himself for someone who must have requested the mic not ten minutes ago. You'd think the guy would be shaking in his platformed boots, but he's the picture of absolute calm. His voice doesn't even waver when he speaks:

“I am deeply, deeply sorry to interrupt your glorious night of getting fucked up and fucked out—”

Someone in the crowd whistles. The thought he's charming comes to Steve’s mind even though the guy has hardly started. It’s something in the way he carries himself, his easy grin, the nonchalance he seems to have even whilst being up in front of all these people. He meanders up and down the stage, gesturing with his free hand, leaning this way and that way like every word takes his entire body to say. It’s… it should be obnoxious and theatrical but it’s sort of just… hot.

“—but it can’t be helped. This morning, ladies, gentlemen, perverts… I was fucked... over. Fucked. Over."

He pulls the mic away from himself, splitting into that wolfish grin again as a pretty impressive mix of booing and jeering echoes through the bar—it’s lucky for most performances here to get a coordinated applause, nevermind genuine participation like that. Whoever this guy is, he’s damn good at rallying a crowd. He pouts performatively and shakes his head, mimicing a tear with one of his fingers, nails glittering gold against his pale cheek.

“Dude’s a clown,” Jonathan says, joining them at the railing.

The jester in question waits for the noise of the bar to die down before he brings the mic back up to his lips, parting them a moment before he actually speaks, something of a tease that has Steve reeling, rapt with attention, anxious for him to get to the point. He has, like, a job to be doing right now, but it’s impossible to turn away from the scene unfolding before him and the beautiful man unfolding it.

“My dearest boyfriend—the one who did all, the, ah… fucking ,” he says, oozing mockery and disdain despite the shit-eating grin he's still wearing, “I wrote you a song. I hope you like it, baby.”

And as the crowd bursts into a rumble of anticipatory applause, he clicks the mic into the stand, takes a seat at that piece-of-shit Yamaha, and starts to play.

Chapter Text

Packed my bags this morning, I hadn’t planned on leaving…

It surprises Steve, the sweet timbre of the stranger’s voice. Looking at him, all wild curls and tattoos and impish charm, Steve had been prepared for something more… hardcore . Then again, that’s sort of a stupid expectation to have for someone whose only backup is a keyboard. He should have known it would be a ballad, but he’s stricken by the softness of it, anyway.

It’s nothing short of incredible, the jester's voice, sliding from note to note with a practiced ease. It's clearly second nature to the guy. Nancy gasps sharply at Steve’s side when he starts, and yeah, that pretty much covers it—he’s talented. Beautiful, talented, charming… 

Suddenly, Steve recalls the introduction—

My dearest boyfriend, the one who did all the, ah… fucking.

98% snark with a hint of humor, all to insinuate that he had been cheated on this morning. How that could be possible is beyond Steve. He can’t imagine getting a shot with this guy just to decide the grass is greener on the other side. What other side? What grass? Piano man might as well be the whole goddamn prairie. 

Then again, he, Steve, cheated on Nancy Wheeler once upon a time. Nancy Wheeler! It's not like he's got any moral highground, here.

The only thing you’ve proven… is that there’s no one who ever has done better… at making me feel worse. Now you really are the winner…

“Damn,” Nancy comments, just loud enough to be heard next to him.

At a certain point, it starts to seem like the song should have more to it. There should definitely be a band behind this guy and Steve really doesn't get how there’s not. Surely a singer this good has other musically inclined friends. He can’t imagine what it might be like with more sound, but he knows it would be good. Record-breaking, even. A real one-hit-wonder making it's debut at Found Heaven, of all places. The reality of that, that specialness, tightens up in his chest—the stunning vocals, the petty lyrics, their absurdly hot delivery man…

If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d say he was witnessing the birth of a star.

But you don't really wanna hear the truth, do you?

The uproarious applause that follows the performance as the stranger stands and gives these sarcastic, melodramatic bows, is more than earned. Steve joins in, not quite as enthusiastically as Nancy who sticks her fingers in her mouth and whistles her approval, but claps for him all the same. He half-expects the guy to step right off the pulpit and into the crowd, especially when he starts vigorously shaking the hands of the people at the front, grinning cheekily, starting conversations Steve isn't lucky enough to hear.

He doesn't, though. Instead,  he takes a step back and the noise dies down again, the audience definitely expecting an encore.

“If it wasn’t clear, eat shit, Billy. We’re done.”

And the world freezes to a standstill.

It doesn’t actually—the crowd is jeering and laughing, welcoming Eddie down into the fray with congratulatory claps on the back and drunken exclamations of support. Steve sees none of this, though, and the chattering of the bar fades out into white noise. He faintly hears the shattering of glass, and he honestly can’t tell if he's gonna have to break out the broom and dust pan or it’s just his brain malfunctioning.

No way, right?

It’s one thing to drunkenly sleep with Billy Hargrove on a whim in your formative teen years—it’s an entirely other thing to date him. As far as Steve knows, the guy doesn’t even do relationships, and while he'd been hopeful that admitting his feelings could have lead to something more serious, he hadn’t really considered it this end-all, be-all thing. The main issue in Steve’s case has been owning up to his crush in the first place. The stuff that comes later he can handle whether it's happily ever after or not.

But this stranger—this gorgeous, talented, funny, clever stranger—had said my boyfriend. He said he and Billy are done. Done! Done as in over! Done as in there was something to put a stop to in the first fucking place!

Was Steve seriously just about to go down there and confess his undying love to that guy’s fucking boyfriend ?

God bless mother nature!

Steve is jolted out of his head by the abrupt return of The Weather Girls, and cringes at how hard he’s gripping the railing in front of him. He eases his hands away, bringing one up to cover his jaw as the other folds over his torso. He stares down at the crowd for a moment, glassy-eyed, attempting to collect himself mentally before he faces his friends.

Nancy keeps her gaze very pointedly away from him, clearly stifling a petty grin. Jonathan is turned toward the bar, ignoring Steve's predicament entirely. It's definitely not the vote of confidence he'd been looking for, and he's about to remark about it when he notices what Jonathan is actually looking at. Steve follows his gaze and it lands back on Billy, who is... puffing off a cigarette... looking… unphased?

What the fuck?

“Do I… do I go talk to him still, or…?” Steve asks pathetically. Jonathan whips his head around so fast it actually make Steve flinch. The horrified expression he's wearing doesn't help.

“No! I mean, look at the freak,” Jonathan exclaims, gesturing wildly at Billy, “He doesn’t even fucking care!”

“Jonathan—”

“He’s a supervillain, Nancy. I’m serious. And I hate Steve—”

“Gee, thanks.”

“—but you gotta save yourself, man. Get with anyone else!"

Steve juts out his bottom lip, and flutters his lashes mockingly.

“No.”

Jonathan scowls.

“Whatever. I warned you!”

“Yeah, yeah--can you get the lights, Nance?”

“I don't work here.”

“Thanks!”

He wishes he had gotten more helpful input, but honestly that's a lot to ask of either of them, all things considered. What would anyone do in this situation? Has anyone ever even been in this situation before? If anything could be considerd an original experience, it has to be this: his long-standing crush has (had?) a boyfriend and that's objectively way cooler than him and he only found out about him because said boyfriend sang an incredible and original break-up song at his place of employment.

Doesn't get much crazier than that.

Does Steve go up to Billy and ask what the fuck that was, or avoid the bar entirely until he leaves? He’s still sort of in shock that he's technically been in competition with Elton John junior all this time, not that he's been putting up much of a fight. And, seriously, Steve is hot! He’s always been hot--his mother’s features and father’s build all sexed up in tight jeans and tees and an obscene amount of Farrah Fawcet hair spray. He’s not worried about whether or not Billy is attracted to him. That ship sailed a long, long time ago.

No, now he's worried about being boring.

Steve is no musician, no showman. He certainly doesn't have all that confidence. There’s no way the dude could do all that up on stage and not have more personality in his pinky finger than Steve has, period. The charisma, the movement, the drama. Hell, he’s still being mobbed by people!

Steve's boy-next-door schtick doesn't hold a candle to that sort of flame, and if that’s the kind of guy Billy settles down with, does Steve even have a chance?

“Hey, kid!” A man twice Steve’s size and hairier than an ape hooks an arm over his shoulders, roughly jerking him around like his dad would've when he was a little kid. It’s a lot less endearing when it’s a bear who reeks of booze, “Go on and get me another Bud. Tab’s under Big Man.”

“Very original,” Steve mutters, but he’s already been let go and turned away from. Damn it all to hell, Steve doesn’t have a choice whether or not he approaches Billy, does he? 

Fuck, he was so sure of himself ten minutes ago, and now he just feels out of place. He inwardly curses how small the bar is when he steps up to it, wishing it was a big, spanning thing that he was at one end of and Billy at the other. At least that way he could avoid—

“Harrington.”

He swallows, “Hargrove.”

—the awkward last name exchange. 

"Just a Bud, Argyle,” Steve says, clearing his throat before handing him the tray, “You can keep that, for now.”

Argyle nods at him, raises a brow, then glances pointedly towards the back of Billy’s head.

Steve shoots him a look back he hopes conveys something along the lines of: Yeah, yeah. I'm getting there.

Argyle, looking unconvinced, turns to get the beer.

Steve swallows.

“You, uh… you good, man?” 

Oh, god damn it, he used to know how to do this! Hell, he pulled Nancy Wheeler in a matter of weeks! Maybe even days. But he was a kid, then, and everything was so much easier before his "self-induced ego death” as Robin likes to call it. Don’t get him wrong, finding out that popularity was a bunch of bullshit is the best thing that ever happened to him, but at least when he was a cocky little asshole he had game.

“Hmm?” Billy asks, blowing smoke, “What, me?”

Steve frowns, “Didn’t you just get dumped?”

Billy scoffs in a way that it's almost a laugh, like the thought is completely ludicrous despite the entire club having just witnessed it happen, live and in stereo.

“You mean Eddie?” Billy brings the cigarette to his lips, smiling into it like the guy… like Eddie, is amusing to him, “This isn’t his first little stunt. He’ll come around.”

Steve doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or unsettled by that, the fact that Billy does not seem to have care nor concern for the (ex?) boyfriend who is apparently upset enough with him to have written a fucking song about it. And not just written the song, but performed the song in front of, like, a hundred people! On a whim!

Now that Steve thinks about it, the timing is all over the fucking place, too. You’re telling him that this Eddie guy realized he got cheated on this morning and just whipped a smash hit out of his ass? Is that even possible? What the fuck kind of—

“Am I interrupting something?"

Steve's heart stops briefly in his chest.

Time slows for the second time tonight.

Argyle sets an open Budweiser down in front of him.

Billy puts his cigarette out on the bar.

Steve wants to chide him for it, but he can't bring himself to speak.

Piano-man, Eddie, steps up to them, fixing Billy with a challenging look.

Steve just stares.

He’s prettier up close. It’s fucking ridiculous. Without the distance, Steve can see the fiery glint of those big brown eyes. The bar lights cast defining shadows across his strangely elegant features, and there's a kiss of an alcohol blush across his cheeks. Seeing him right next to Billy feels even more deranged—he's a dark, lithe tease of a troublemaker staring down the sunkissed, arrogant swell of a jock. They are night and day different and yet they look so good on each other Steve forgets to be jealous for a second. He knows the tension between them isn't sexual right now, but there's an air of possibility that has Steve's fingers twitching.

It's like he’s staring at the cover of a porno, and if he were, it would be his favorite goddamn one. 

“It's fine,” Billy says smoothly, “Pretty boy has a job to do, doesn't he?"

When nobody moves, Billy raises an eyebrow in Steve's direction, and his cheeks explode in flame.

“Oh, I’m—I’m pretty boy—yeah, okay, yeah.”

He swivels his attention back to the beer on the bar and finds that Argyle has also supplied him with a pity shot. 

“Fuck off,” he snaps at the bartender, necks it, and throws the glass at him. Argyle catches it and sets into the nearest sink. Steve clenches his jaw at the burn and turns, letting his gaze flick over the couple one last time before he ducks into the crowd, "Merry breakup, or something."

For once in his life, he's grateful for the cover of sweaty bodies and the bustle of a busy night. As the bar disappears from sight, he wonders whether or not Robin would be willing to literally kill him--that interaction could not have gone any worse. And, fuck, an hour ago Billy Hargrove calling him "pretty boy" would have been the highlight of his night, but even that is very little consolation after he said merry breakup.

Merry fucking breakup!

It takes him a minute to find the bear, his brain is so topsy-turby, but eventually he manages to drop the beer down in front of "Big Man" from earlier while he wonders what the chances are of Argyle letting him have a second shot. He's untucking the towel from his apron to wipe the sweat from the glass bottle off his hand when an almost alarmingly massive fist curls around his wrist.

“Daddy’s girl, huh? Looking to prove yourself, kid?”

It’s not the proposition that freezes him, or even the objectively weird nickname—he gets hit on by dudes here constantly and most of them say a lot worse shit than that. No, what shoots his heart directly out of his ass is remembering, abruptly, those two stupid words splattered across his chest as loudly and obtrusively as possible, practically begging you to read it and weep. 

And they’ve been there.

The whole time.

“Not tonight,” he replies weakly, tugging his wrist free so he can hide his burning face behind his towel.

"Alright, sweetheart, don't be embarrassed. I'll be here if you change your mind."

Steve has been through a lot, you know? His parents straight up abandoning him at the ripe age of twelve, he and Nancy's bitter end, the entire year of 1984, and yet, somehow, this might just be the worst night of his entire life. He's been humiliated, upstaged, bamboozled, and all while wearing a t-shirt tight enough to asphyxiate a toddler that says fucking daddy's girl on it.

Nevermind if Argyle's willing or not. Steve is gonna need that second shot.

Chapter Text

On Thursday, Steve considers dying from embarrassment a feasible threat to his well-being.

On Saturday, his fate is sealed.

As Steve recounts his awful interaction with Bill and Eddie, Robin laughs so hard at him that she cries and crumples slowly onto the sticky bar floor in a delirious fit of hysterics. Jonathan offers him a few choice words and warnings about Billy that Steve characteristically ignores. Argyle, who had witnessed most of the interaction, vouches for how completely mortifying it was.

Nancy Wheeler has an idea.

I think I know how to fix your problem, actually. But I’m gonna need everyone with me for this.

At the time, Steve is too busy being relieved to properly think about who's offering him the solution. Or maybe he's just naive enough to believe the girl he cheated on and pretty much treated like shit as a result of his own sexual confusion has totally forgiven him and is being unconditionally kind—a better man, and all that.

He’s an idiot.

Before he has any real second to think about her supposed “plan" after she proposes it, Nancy's already mobilized the troops—Jonathan and Argyle hunt Eddie down to convince him to open for the main act Saturday night, she and Robin all but destroy Steve's closet in search of the perfect “rebound with me” outfit, and he tries (and fails) to wrap his head around the deal with the devil he's made.

Steve, we both know how Billy is. He wants things he can’t have, and right now, you’re so desperately available it’s actually pathetic.

Looking back, Nancy saying things like that probably should have been his first clue she did not necessarily have his best interest in mind.

So, if we make you look unavailable, you’re more likely to get his attention. Then you can tell him your pathetic feelings without worrying about being rejected, and we all get to stop listening to you bitch.

Insults aside, the crux of the plan is actually pretty decent. Nancy’s right—Billy does prefer to go after things he really shouldn’t. Steve himself is a great example. He was in a relationship the first time they hooked up and after it crashed and burned Billy lost interest in him altogether. It's the chase that hooks him, and, yeah, maybe Steve should take that glaring moral failing more into consideration when it comes to pursuing Billy in general, but…

Look, fine, he’ll admit it: Billy is probably not a good guy.

The thing is, it’s not about whether or not he’s good or bad, and it never was—it’s about the candle Steve's been holding for him since fucking 1983 . He's spent three miserable years dancing around with it like an idiot, trying and failing time and time again to come clean and say something more meaningful to Billy than his last name followed by petty insults. Three years, and he hasn't so much as tried to light the stupid fucking thing.

A candle can't burn out if nobody ever fucking lights it.

So he’s resigned to the fact that Billy probably sucks, and hopeful that maybe, by the grace of God or whatever higher power is willing to indulge him, he can turn them into something that’s mostly good. Something that’s… what they deserve, even if it doesn't last forever or isn't perfectly... healthy.

It's whatever. Steve doesn't really think he deserves a happily ever after, anyway. Especially not if he goes through with Nancy's stupid plan.

Also, don’t hate me… I think this will work best if you try to get with Eddie.

Once again, Nancy is objectively correct, and man does he hate her for it. What better way to get Billy’s eyes on him than to make eyes at his ex? It’s absolutely going to work, but God, at what fucking cost? Eddie is so far out of his league that it’s actually laughable—charming, talented, gorgeous. Trying to exercise his (very small, very weak) gay muscles with Billy, the only guy he’s ever been with, is one thing, but trying that with Eddie? 

Eddie, the guy floating effortlessly across the pulpit right now, preparing to belt his big gay heart out? Eddie, the guy who’s bound to have stolen the hearts of every boy and girl in the bar before his set is even done? Eddie, whom Billy has been seeing and is still trying to see despite the circumstances?

Fat. Fucking. Chance.

“Hey, you good?”

No. He’s not drunk enough, but then Rob’s here to fix that. When she sidles up next to the booth she looks decently dishevled--her hair is sweat-slick and stuck to her forehead and there are wet patches of what's probably alcohol drying on her untucked shirt. She's stuck working an awful shift--Saturday night, for Christ's sake---all by herself because of Nancy’s dumb plan. He owes her big time. He can’t believe she’s up here to deliver him free alcohol instead of kicking his ass, which would've been totally deserved.

Is every woman he knows a better man than him?

“He’s shitting himself,” Nancy answers, and he’d argue except she's exactly right.

He’s never been this anxious in his entire life.

“Look,” Rob says, handing Jonathan his beer before firmly grasping Steve’s shoulder, “Chug that shit—it’s a Dirty Mercury. I’ll bring you a second one, and you’ll be totally fine, okay? I’m sure you’ve still got some of that “Harrington charm” or whatever backed up somewhere. Probably up your ass.”

Steve sighs, ignoring the slight insult. She's earned that much at least— “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Even if Rob's right, it won't be enough. He’s got no experience with this kind of thing and after nearly two hours of tearing up his closet, Nance and Rob had gone completely rogue and left him to go shopping. He should have known better than to let them go themselves—they came back with a fucking crop top.  

It's like Johnny Depp in Nightmare on Elm Street. He's hot in that movie, Steve. Just put on the shirt!

So not only is he completely doomed, but he’s wearing some ridiculous faux-jersey crop-sweater thing that completely exposes the bottom half of his torso and is so. Not. Him. He doesn’t even have the body for it! He’s athletic, sure, but there’s still a layer of fat over that muscle, not to mention he’s by no means smooth. Steve hasn’t seen the movie, but he would bet the girls a hundred bucks each Johnny was totally waxed before exposing so much lower-torso. Plus, Johnny Depp is all tan and lean and pretty and...

Maybe he should rent that film, sometime.

“Or this could just be a horrible idea,” Jonathan posits, the beacon of optimism that he is— “Maybe you should just, I don’t know, move on ?”

“You shut up,” Robin snaps at him, “I’m not working a Saturday night by myself for nothing, okay?”

Steve groans, and rubs his hands over his face. She’s not completely serious, but it’s added pressure, anyway. Now he really can’t chicken out, or he’ll never hear the goddamn end of it. At least if he get's rejected, that means he tried. Robin can't be mad at him for that, can she?

“How many songs is he playing?” he grumbles.

“Just three,” Rob answers, releasing his shoulder to pat him lightly on the head, “I’ll be back with more booze.”

“You’re an angel, Rob.”

“Don’t you forget it.”

Taking deep, quiet breaths, Steve is able to force his focus back over edge of the balcony. Eddie—his target for tonight, goddamn it — is speaking animatedly with a guitarist. Apparently, with a little more warning, the guy can get a band behind him, which Steve isn’t all that surprised about. He is surprised, however, to recognize them.

All three of them go to Hawkins' High.

“Is that Gareth Emerson?” Jonathan asks, just as Steve is thinking it. Nancy scoots forward in her seat and turns around to get a better look at the stage.

“Yeah, it is,” Steve answers, “Isn’t he still in school?”

“He’ll be a senior,” Nancy confirms, “Ted and Frank just graduated, though. Same as me and Jon.”

“I wonder how they know the guy."

Steve lets his gaze drift back to the man in question as if looking at him some more might drum up some answers.

Okay, maybe he just wants to look at him some more. Sue him.

He looks incredible tonight, not that Steve had expected anything less. The outfit’s nothing fancy, but it suits him—ripped jeans, little tank, and this denim vest overrun by patches and pins. Steve can’t make out what they mean from all the way up here, but it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s already tracing the lean, inked muscle of Eddie’s arms down to his big hands, ringed fingers, and painted nails. Lithe fingers adjust the collar of his vest, flatten the right breast pocket, then dip lower to adjust his belt. Steve's mouth fucking waters as he's assaulted by a wave of want, not unlike the kind he gets when he watches Billy thumb alcohol off his lips or run his fingers through his hair.

Where do these assholes get off being so hot?

He snatches up his drink. It's cold on his tongue, and soothes some of his anxiety down his throat.

It’s gonna be a rough night.

“Long time no see, ya fucking animals.”

A chorus of whoops and hollers and anticipatory applause brings the chatter to a stop. Eddie rallies the crowd effortlessly, and Steve is no exception. It's like the guy was forged under a spotlight, made to be the center of attention. Hell, Steve wouldn’t be surprised if it was the spotlight that did the forging.

“I’m Eddie, this is my band,” he gestures backwards to acknowledge the three familiar boys as he continues, “We’re Corroded Coffin. We’re supposed to be a Metallica cover band but Jeff has so graciously agreed to let me sing my whiny little pop ballads. Everyone say thank you, Jeff.”

Not unlike a troup of attentive kindergarteners, a "Thank you, Jeff" rumbles through the crowd. Eddie's grin is wolfish, cocky, but still gorgeous. He folds both hands over the mic and shakes his head.

“Got three songs for you tonight. A couple breakup anthems, just cause you liked the last one so much—”

This earns Eddie a racous applause. Steve resists the urge to join in, bringing his drink back to his lips instead. Whatever Argyle puts in this thing, it fucking delicious and almost comically strong. He doesn’t usually go for mixed drinks, but he’s starting to rethink that as the world dips out of focus, and his tastebuds sing each time he takes a sip. This tastes miles better than beer and he’s already half-way to tipsy.

Fuck, is he a lightweight? 

“—and trust me, I've got no shortage of those. So sit back, relax, maybe touch yourself a little, I won't tell... this is The Cut That Always Bleeds.”

Steve recalls thinking Eddie would be even better with a band behind him.

He was right.

It's a broken record at this point, constantly reiterating to no one that this pretty stranger is all kinds of unbelievable. He's got the voice of an angel, the looks of a God, and the charisma of the devil himself. Robin delivers Steve a second Dirty Mercury somewhere in the middle of the short set but it goes to waste. He’d argue he’s already drunk on good music and barely-contained awe.

Eddie sings three songs, just like Rob said he would. The Cut That Always Bleeds, Fight or Flight, and Jigsaw. 

They’re so good, Steve remembers their fucking names. 

All three are jilted-lover anthems, just as Eddie'd proclaimed them to be. They're pretty similar in tone but that doesn't stop each one from leaving an impression. The Cut That Always Bleeds is the slower of the three, he'd say, but not so slow it's boring. It's got a good beat and Eddie's got a way with words--

Bittersweet, 'cause I can't breathe inside your arms...

Not to mention, just watching Eddie sing is upwards of enchanting. He closes his eyes, sways with the words and nods with the drum, falls into the music so fully anyone with eyes can see it happen. Steve's never been fortunate enough to love something that much except maybe swimming, but he was never as good at that as Eddie is at this. He wants to be jealous, and is for a few, stubborn moments, but eventually the music washes that feeling away. It's impossible to feel anything negative while Eddie's singing, like he's a fucking siren or something.

Eddie bleeds that first song straight into the second, and this one's a bit heavier on the guitar. It's the type of song Steve thinks one might headbang to, which must be a result of Eddie's metal roots. It's nowhere near the kind of heavy, scary shit Steve thinks of when he thinks of Metallica, but it's... loud. And dramatic.

He wishes Robin were not so busy so she could come up here and put all his half-baked thoughts into better, band-geekier words.

"That was Fight or Flight--" Eddie pauses for applause, then finishes-- "This next one's called Jigsaw. It's a work in progress, started writing it real recently, so cut us some slack, okay? Thanks for having us, tonight, you little freaks."

This last song is angrier. Darker? Whatever--all Steve cares about now is Eddie's fingers curled over the mic and stroking up the stand as he fixes the crowd with absolute fuck me eyes. It's the hottest thing Steve's ever seen in his life, and Jigsaw pretty much instantly becomes his favorite song of all time. He spends the entire second, louder half of the song mourning the fact that there's no tape he can buy that'll let him listen to it on repeat forever. That way, he could close his eyes and picture the look on Eddie's face with no shame at all, because he's just remembering a great act.

There wouldn't have to be anything aching, longing, or hopeless about it.

When it's over, Eddie takes some time to acknowledge his band and hype up the headliner, and Steve selfishly hopes he'll do a tiny little encore for the couple people who are shouting for it. 

When he remembers what happens now, that hope increases tenfold.

“You ready?” Nancy asks. It's almost disorienting. The three of them hadn’t uttered a single word to each other during Eddie’s performance.

“Fuck no,” he answers, shaking his head vigorously, "This is not gonna work."

“You know what, I think I do like this plan,” Jonathan announces, at the behest of all his previous bellyaching.

“What? Seriously?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” he says, lifting his beer, “Here’s to Steve falling for Eddie instead. Fuck Billy, hallelujah.”

Right, that makes more sense. Nancy gives her boyfriend an unimpressed look, and nobody cheerses with him, but he takes a celebratory swig of that beer anyway. He looks so happy with himself Steve actually get's annoyed.

Fine then, if that's how it is, he's gonna make this plan work if it kills him. God forbid Jonathan get what he wants. If he's hoping for this shit to go sideways in act one, Steve's going to make absolute sure this thing goes all the way to the finale, or he'll die trying. So what if Eddie's out of his league? So what if Billy sucks?

Shit, alcohol must make him even pettier.

“Fuck off,” he tells Jonathan, and then to them both— “I'll see you guys later, okay? Let you know how it goes.”

“You got this,” Nancy affirms.

With liquid courage flowing through his veins and an unfettered desire to irk Jonathan Byers as much as possible, he almost believes her.

Hoping to ride his newfound confidence (pettiness) as far as it will take him, he exits the booth and slips down from the balcony and into the crowd. He expertly avoids several hip and shoulder checks, booze spilling and people falling over wasted all around him as the next band sets up and people chatter. Take on Me drones on in the interim, only fueling his conviction. When his palms finally hit the edge of the bar, Argyle turns to him immediately, as though sensing his presence.

"Can I get another Dirty Mercury?"

Argyle's brows scruch up at him.

"Dude, aren't you a lightweight?"

Steve scowls.

"It's not for me."

Argyle seems even less impressed with that, but shrugs and begins pouring it, anyway. Steve tips his head, turning his attention towards the back hallway where the greenroom is, knowing Eddie will make his grand entrance to the masses any moment now. His heart skips a beat as the door opens, but it's only one of his ex-classmates--Ted, he's pretty sure. The door shuts behind him, and he heads for the back exit.

Argyle sets the finished drink down in front of him.

The next time the door opens, it's Jeff, heading out into the venue to mingle.

Steve's confidence begins to taper.

The third time the door opens, Steve thinks: This is it. 

But it isn't. It's Gareth, who leaves like Ted.

The headliner takes the stage. Eddie still does not emerge.

But someone else does.

"Harrington."

So... this is bad.

"Hargrove," Steve acknowledges, barely suspending the urge to jump out of his skin when Billy appears next to him seemingly out of nowhere. Alarms blare inside of Steve's skull, fight, flight, faun, and freeze all vying for control of him. He swallows how badly he wants to turn and run and tries to focus on how hot Billy is instead, swiftly reminding himself that Billy has no idea of Steve's intentions with his ex tonight.

Although... wouldn't it be better if he did?

Billy folds his arms on the bar, leaning back and into one hip, toothpick hanging loosely off his bottom lip. Steve nearly groans outwardly at the sight.

"You seen Eddie yet, pretty boy?"

Oh, christ.

He flounders for a moment, grasping at the concept of a response for a while, until...

Until it hits him.

"I was just about to bring him a drink, actually," Steve answers, plucking the (slightly sweaty) glass of Dirty Mercury off the bar, flush with awe at his own genius in this moment, "Can I take a message?"

Billy's head jerks, genuine confusion drawn across his pretty face.

"You... what?"

Oh shit... is he actually pulling this off?

"I bought him a drink," Steve reiterates, gesturing to the one in his hand, "Something wrong with that?"

Billy stares at him for what feels like an eternity. Then scoffs, feinging unaffectedness.

"Didn't take you for a "sloppy seconds" kinda guy."

Steve shrugs, firing off his next quip easily-- "Thought I'd get you back for Nance."

Billy just blinks at him, dumbfounded. Steve holds his ground.

A moment passes.

Then another.

And then, by some cosmic miracle, the blond's face actually splits into this handsome, devilish grin.

"I've missed you, Harrington."

If Steve had a tail, it would be swinging so wildly behind him he'd fucking fly away.

"Prove it, sometime," he challenges, buzzing with the high of a successful interaction (fucking finally), "See ya around, Billy."

It's only after he turns away from that dizzying smile that he realizes while part of that's a massive win, he has also majorly screwed himself. He can talk a good game, sure, but now Billy's going to watch him walk to the green room, where Eddie is definitely not expecting him

For fuck's sake.

But what a small price to pay for those pearly whites--that demon look in Billy's gaze that shifted so deliciously when Steve suddenly became something desireable. He's something to chase, to win. As he makes his way expertly through the crowd, careful not to spill a single drop of good 'ol Freddie, he could honestly care less how well his coming advances are recieved. One fleeting conversation, and he's already making strides where before he could hardly crawl.

Fuck you, Jonathan.

Let's fucking do this.

Chapter Text

Steve doesn’t spend time debating whether or not to knock, just turns the knob and swings open the door, daydreams of Billy dancing behind his eyes.

Prove it sometime.

Leave it to Rob to predict the impossible—he really does have some “Harrington Charm” leftover.

Let’s hope there’s enough to go around.

“Busy?” he calls to the lone occupant of the greenroom—ex-boyfriend Eddie himself, splayed out on the couch with a cigarette hanging haphazardly between his middle and pointer fingers, wrist bent over the open window. He looks to Steve, surprised, but that’s to be expected when a total stranger barges in on your post-show smoke-sesh unannounced. Steve tries not to let Eddie's visible annoyance at being interrupted shake his fleeting confidence.

“Uh, no?” Eddie responds, raising a brow, “Can I help you?”

Feigning nonchalance, Steve leans up against the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest, full drink still held precariously by his fingertips. The crop-top rides up. The alcohol in his system is the only reason he doesn't jump to yank it back down.

“Can I come in?”

There are a few reasonable moments of hesitation—Eddie looks him up and down, clearly suspicious. Steve doesn’t press his luck by saying anything else, just stands there, trying to hold on to the rush of his previously successful flirting. It's not exactly easy under Eddie’s scrutiny, though. He feels his nerves begin to crawl back into his throat—there’s only so much a buzz can do to curb the awkwardness of this situation.

Eventually, Eddie gestures an affirmative. Relieved, Steve steps into the room.

Here goes nothing.

“Brought you a drink,” he says as he approaches, holding it out. Eddie quirks up that brow again, and Christ, even judgmental looks good on him. 

“Do I look like the kinda guy who takes drinks from a stranger?”

Steve blinks. He's joking, Steve can tell by his tone, but he's just not entirely sure.. why. This is a bar. A club, even. Buying someone you want to get to know a drink is kind of the thing to do. Eddie's definitely the type of guy who knows gay bar (or just any bar, really) ettiquette... so what gives?

Perplexed, but not discouraged, Steve switches tactics. He holds out his empty hand for Eddie to shake, “Steve Harrington.”

There’s more hesitation, but thankfully not as much. He takes Steve’s hand firmly, the cool metal of his rings sliding pleasantly along his palm. It’s difficult not to shudder. Eddie's grasp is firm and his hands are warm but not sweaty—it's jarring to feel both temperatures at once, and of course his animal brain instantly begins imagining what the senesation would feel like elsewhere. On his waist, his hips, his thighs...  

Christ, Harrington, focus.

“Eddie Munson,” he sighs, “To what do I owe the pleasure, your highness?” 

Oh—wait, what?

Steve falters. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that that nickname in particular was actually referring to something… but how would Eddie know about his embarrassing high school moniker? He didn’t go to Hawkins. Steve is pretty damn sure he would’ve remembered him. Pretty. Charming. Show-stopping. Cool. Miles and miles and miles out of his league…

To be fair, though, Steve wouldn’t have thought about it like that in high school, and it’s not like he kept very close track of the band, choir, or theater kids...

Shit… does Eddie already know him? Should he know Eddie?!

“You good, man?”

Steve comes back to reality with a start, dropping Eddie’s hand. He’d forgotten to let go after they stopped shaking, distracted by his thoughts.

“Sorry,” he says, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, mentally sifting through every nameless face he can remember from high school in hopes of pinning Eddie Munson to one before it's too late— “Just… nobody’s called me anything like that in a really long time.”

More than three years, probably. 

Despite his (partial) social redemption in ‘84, things never actually went back to the way they were when he and Tommy were still cool. His entire senior year, the student body kept him at an arm’s length, celebrating his strides with the basketball team, but not daring any push the popularity envelope any further. Nobody really knew what to make of the guy he’d become—only hanging out with Rob, never throwing, steering clear of relationships and drama. There were crowns at homecoming and prom, sure, but he was never “King of Hawkin’s High” again.

And he preferred it that way. Honest.

Apparently, though, this Eddie Munson guy never got that memo, which makes Steve feel at least a bit better about not recognizing him. Eddie probably didn’t go to Hawkins, then, but somewhere close—Bethel or Granger. Hell, he could have even been homeschooled, in which case it’s definitely not on Steve for not remembering him.

It is a little weird, though, to have been so locally infamous that even the ex-boyfriend of your longtime crush—the cool, charismatic, sexy, talented ex-boyfriend of your long time crush, to be exact—knows who you are without having to be introduced.

Steve’s heart sinks. If Eddie knows who he is (was?) then he probably knows exactly how much Steve sucks, too. It makes total sense why he’s being so unreceptive. In this guy’s eyes, a letter jacket and a gaggle of evil groupies could materialize over his shoulder at any moment. Eddie’s bracing himself for Steve to start throwing around jeering, homophobic insults like a proper bully—like the guy he used to be.

As much as that stings, it's his own damn fault.

“Fell from grace, huh?” Eddie muses, unconvinced. He takes a drag of his cigarette— “How the hell did that happen?”

Steve shrugs and sighs, once again resigning himself to the fact that he never stood a chance. Nancy and Jonathan (fucking Jonathan) are going to be so disappointed. Poor Robin is suffering a horrible Saturday night shift alone right now just for him to pursue this stupid scheme that never would have worked in the first place.

What a mess.

Feeling defeated, he sets the Dirty Mercury down on the nearest flat surface, and takes a few steps back, giving Eddie space. He doesn’t want to crowd him and give the guy get the wrong idea, like he's gonna beat his ass, or something.

It's times like these it becomes incredibly clear how much "King Steve" fucking sucked.

“Long story,” he replies half-heartedly, “Tommy Hagan did some dumb shit and I beat the snot out of him. Unsurprisingly, fucking up the mayor’s kid is a pretty solid way to go from Mr. Popular to Town Pariah in, like, a day. If you're ever looking to ruin your reputation, definitely a good place to start.”

Despite his bitter sarcasm, Eddie perks up a little when Steve mentions Tommy. A surprised little grin appears on Eddie’s face--breathtaking. It has Steve eager to try and surprise him even more. 

He does his best to stamp that urge down. 

There’s no use trying to impress someone who would have to be self-destructively empathetic to actually want him.

Eddie shakes his head with something like disbelief, taking a final drag of his cigarette before snuffing it out on the window sill. That's almost as disrespectful to the establishment as Billy putting his out on the bar, but once again, Steve doesn't have the proper bandwidth to say anything about it.

“My reputations already pretty crap, but thanks anyway," he says, and then, "For what it's worth... I think it's pretty brave, standing up to a Hagan like that.”

Despite himself and his circumstances, Steve glows (both figuratively and physically sort of pink) beneath the praise. The way Eddie says it is almost condescending, like he would’ve expected Steve to do the wrong, easy thing instead, but all that’s eclipsed by his sincerity. Mostly, Eddie sounds pleasantly surprised, and that means a lot to Steve given his reputation. And, also, he might have a tiny little thing for praise, especially coming from very, very pretty men...

But that's neither here nor there.

Truthfully, this guy owes him no further consideration at all. There are plenty of people out there who still hate his guts and for good reason. He was a bully. Sure, he might not have bullied Eddie directly, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t socially torture a whole bunch of people exactly like him—rock music fan, theater kid (based on his stage presence), queer, it’s all the same.  Just because it wasn’t Steve and Eddie personally doesn’t mean that Eddie never heard, second-hand, exactly how he might have treated him if they ever crossed paths.

Selfishly, Steve is grateful the universe spared him this one torture—imagine he had made Eddie’s life absolute hell just to find him so mind-bendingly attractive down the road. Probably would’ve served him right, but still.

“You know the Hagans?” Steve asks, pivoting. 

“Not quite. Just Howard, actually,” he answers cooly, “But any enemy of a Hagan is a friend of mine, Stevie.”

Okay so that... doesn't make any sense at all. Even he doesn’t really know Howard, and Tommy had been his best friend, for like, forever before they fell out. The elder Hagan boy graduated before Steve reached high school, and he wasn’t around much before that, anyway, always whisked away from Tommy’s house by crowds of friends doing cool older brother shit. Howard Hagan was (and still is) something of a mystery to Steve, so it’s weird to imagine that Eddie, who didn’t go to Hawkins and doesn’t seem near as old as Howard, could know the guy at all.

An awkward silence falls between them as Steve tries to think of something else to say to keep the conversation going, but he gets stuck half-way between Howard Hagan and Eddie’s pretty eyes. As the quiet stretches, his brain melts and sloshes around in his skull—he’s completely blowing it. He fidgets nervously with his own hands, opening his mouth and then shutting it again a number of times. He should just leave. He should turn around and go, apologize for the bother and for his wretched reputation and the whole “merry breakup” situation, but as he parts his lips one last time, something else comes out instead—

“I’m sorry, man,” he blurts, “You’re just—you’re so… I don’t know how to talk to someone so… to someone like you.”

“Someone so what?” Eddie prods, gently, and then with another signature grin, “Spooky?”

“No, just…” Steve rubs his hands over his face, burning, and he can't believe he's actually gonna say it-- “You're so pretty .”

He shouldn’t have drank before this. The compliment is humiliatingly honest, but at least when he peeks between his fingers, Eddie’s expression has gone soft… and somewhat… determined? He rolls his shoulders a little, stretches his neck to either side, and then hauls himself up off the crappy couch. Steve drops his hands away from his face even though his flush hasn’t receded.

They’re the same height.

Steve doesn’t know why that sort of… does it for him. Then again, everything about Eddie Munson does it for him. Just looking at him is like sucking liquid horny up through a bendy straw.

“Alright, princess,” Eddie says—and what the fuck? Out of nowhere he’s got this sultry fucking tone that has Steve’s eyes bugging out of his fucking head before he can think to mask his shock. To his utter dismay, Munson plucks the Dirty Mercury up, downs at least half of it while maintaining eye-contact with him (which is equal parts hot and really fucking scary), then drops the glass back down so he can get all up in Steve’s space— “We won’t talk.”

Woah. Holy fuck—woah, woah, woah, woah—

“Let’s dance.”

It’s not a suggestion. Before Steve has any time to properly protest, Eddie is dragging him out of the room by the wrist and onto the dance floor. It's like he's portaled into another dimension, almost. There's a whirlwind of sound, then light, then feeling—first, the worship-esque style of tonight’s main act, then the glare of the stage lights contrasting with the dark of the pit, and then bodies and bodies and more bodies. 

Then Eddie’s body.

Flush together, front to front, it’s cliche to say they fit together perfectly but they do. Steve begins to drown in sensation—he’s drunk, he’s dancing, he’s gotta be dreaming. Eddie’s tattooed arms circle his neck as he fits his hands to the taper of his waist, in shock but so startlingly present. By some merciful cosmic decree, Steve is pressed firmly against the body of another person for the first time in… weeks? Months? It has every neuron pulsing, every synapse firing, every beat of his heart quicker and harder than the last. This feeling is burning itself into his memory, searing across his soul like a brand.

What the fuck?

“Not really dancing music!” he half-yells over the noise, surprised at the sound of his own voice—how the fuck is he able to speak with Eddie so close to him? How the fuck is there enough air left in his lungs to make any sound at all?

Eddie huffs a ghost of a laugh— “Is that a challenge?”

The band seems to think so.

As if on cue, they transition from something sad and ballady (not unlike Eddie’s own style) to something with drums, with groove. Lord help him, he’s not going to survive this—certainly not when Eddie starts moving his fucking hips like that, holding Steve’s gaze with an intensity that threatens to shake him apart completely.

Fuck.

For his sanity's sake he has to look away, desperate to orient himself with something, anything.

He catches a flash of gold, far away, by the bar. The pair of pretty blue eyes beneath it blink at him, intent but unphased, hardly visible from this distance but there all the same. 

Billy.

It’s enough to sober him, even just a glimpse. It’s enough to remind him who he is, where they are, and what he… wants.

Eddie is good.

Good with his looks, with his hips, with his words, with his hands.

Too good. 

For him. 

For Billy. 

For all of it.

And just like that, Steve’s nerves settle, and his head clears. He rights his chin, meeting Eddie’s big dark eyes again, and this time, he's resolute.

If anything, he's doing this guy a favor. 

So he dances, swaying and slightly grinding as the song drags to its dramatic end with the chanting vocalists, choir-like in their delivery of "Doesn’t it seem so spiritual?" In the brief reprieve between songs, he leans forward near Eddie’s ear, pressed so close now even their chests are touching, but he feels nothing at all.

Only the stifling heat of Billy's jealous gaze.

“Let’s get out of here.”