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florianniss · 11 months

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Trouble with Angels

It works. They believe him. Makes his dad’s lame ass excuse of working late instead of going to his game and his mom’s sudden migraine totally worth it.

Steve gets into the car on Saturday morning and drives to town. He walks into the video rental place feeling confident he’s going to nail it. He does, of course, and the manager gets him set on the schedule working weekends.

It sucks kinda, because he’s losing his only free days. But, like Robin said, at least he isn’t stuck at home with his parents.

Steve notices the initials ‘RB’ on most of the weekends he’s assigned to, which he sincerely hopes means he’ll be working with her. He knows shit about movies, never has time to go to the theater. He’s always at practice, or a game, or –

That’s when he’s slammed sideways with a scathingly brilliant idea, one Hayley Mills would be proud of.

He hasn’t thought it through, not really. But he’s here now and there’s no going back, because he’s made his decision. The parking lot is full, providing good cover as Steve plots the best way to break in.

Kids come and go through two entrances, the front, and the side. The doors don’t seem to be locked, which is a good thing. All he has to do it just pretend he lives there and –

Someone comes out, alone, and Steve has this moment of absolute kismet as he recognizes who it is.

“Dustin!” he calls out, plan tucked safely under his arm, heart pounding wildly in his chest.

The seventh grader looks over as Steve strides across the lot, breaks into the biggest shit-eating grin, and opens his arms wide.

“Hair-ington,” and Steve just knows how he’s spelling it. They do their fist bump, baseball bat greeting, and then Dustin hugs the literal stuffing out of him,

“How are you, buddy?” Steve wheezes, thinking the kid has grown in both height and strength.

“Better now that you’ve stopped being a dickhead.”

Steve steps back, nods his head in agreement. “Yeah, I know. I just haven’t had time to say hi yet.”

“Whatever,” and Dustin is already over it. “Man, that was a good game, huh? I didn’t see the whole thing, but I heard all about it!”

Steve thinks Dustin hasn’t changed much after all from that kid he used to babysit during the summer. He kinda misses his nerdy jokes and brainy games. But there’s no time for that; Steve is on a mission.

“Hey, can you get me inside? There’s someone I need to –” What does Steve need to do, really?

“What?” Dustin laughs. “Get you inside? Dude, the doors aren’t guarded by some Sentinel of Doom. Just go in.”

Steve blinks and wonders if maybe Eddie was telling him a tale, and then reality sinks its fist into his gut. They’re only not allowing Eddie visitors.

“Cool,” Steve says, covering it up with a smile. “Can you do me a favor and show me where Eddie Munson’s room is?”

Dustin’s face morphs from one of surprised happiness to utter awe. “You know Eddie Munson? ”

“Uh, yeah?”

Dustin tackles him with yet another hug. “Can you get me his autograph?”

Steve’s this close to losing it, laughing and making the kid who worships him feel like garbage. But he drops the videos and both spill out of their protective cases onto the sidewalk.

“Hey!” Dustin shouts, like a hamster on a wheel, and changes the subject. “I wanted to see Space Camp! But my mom wouldn’t let us go to anything PG this summer.”

Steve just picked whatever off the shelf, hadn’t even paid attention. He looks at the rating on the other movie and gets this spine-tingling idea.

He takes the case and hands the other one over; it’s rated PG-13. “Here. Use this to hide it. Don’t let them catch you watching it, though. I need that back on Monday morning, or I’ll lose the job I just got at the Video store. You hear me?”

Dustin takes it like he’s being handed the Holy Grail. “Thanks! I will, I promise.”

Steve follows him inside the unlocked side entrance and feels his knees go a little funny, exciting. All this breaking the law is strangely exhilarating.

Dustin stops outside a closed door and presses his ear to it. “He’s definitely in there. Thanks for the movie! See you later.” And he turns and hauls ass, presumably to his room where he’ll be hunkering down to revel in his treasure.

Steve takes a deep breath and prepares to knock, but the music coming from inside is loud and he wonders if Eddie will even hear it.

He turns the knob and slowly opens the door.

Eddie’s there, all right, seated at the edge of a bed with his head hanging low. He’s wearing a ball cap with headphones on top, listening to something pretty heavy, as loud as it will go. There’s no indication he even notices Steve entering, but Steve sees there’s something wrong. And he doesn’t want to startle his friend.

With the door closed, Steve steals inside and sits cross-legged on the floor before Eddie. He’s rocking back and forth, drumming his fingers against his thighs. Like he’s trying to get lost in the music, like he’s trying to forget.

He notices Steve and stands with a jerk, tossing his headphones and Walkman onto the bed behind him, a look of horror on his face.

“What are you doing here?” he shouts, upset. Steve scrambles to his feet and regrets his life choices for a split second, until he realizes Eddie is hurting.

“Came to see you, dumbass. You didn’t show at the dance, and I was worried.”

The terror and pain completely deflate and Eddie bows his head. “Oh.”

Steve feels awkward now that he’s here. Eddie’s response to his surprise doesn’t feel right.

“I — I brought you —“

And that’s when Steve sees it, really sees it. “Oh, my god. The bastards did it!”

His hair. They cut his fucking hair. His beautiful, luxurious long hair.

Eddie pulls the cap low over his eyes and shrugs. “‘S no big deal.”

But Steve knows it is, rips the hat off Eddie’s head and feels eruptive anger building inside. “What the fuck, dude?”

It’s all one length to his chin, like they just took the knot at the back and chopped it off.

Eddie tries to take the hat back, but Steve won’t let him. He’s pissed. “Fucking bastards!”

Eddie looks up and his eyes are — what are they? Not sad, definitely not angry. They’re meek and shy and, god damn, it’s Bambi standing in front of him.

Steve melts and all the disgust and hatred for the people who did this does too. He takes a deep breath and feels like the world’s biggest cad. “I – it’s not that bad.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie spits, without anger. The sides of his hair hide his face, almost the same length now as his bangs.

Something inside Steve hurts. “No, really. It just needs a little product.”

Eddie snorts. “And what, you can fix it?”

Steve gets another one of those twinges of regret, and he knows precisely what to do. “Sure do. You got anything?”

Eddie looks at him like he’s lost his fucking marbles, and then he realizes Steve isn’t playing around. “Serious?”

Steve nods fervently, looks around the bareness of the room. Sees the closet, slightly open, clothes spilling out. The dresser is in the same condition, heaped high with Eddie’s various jean jackets. There isn’t any bathroom, but there’s a towel slung over the only chair at a desk that clearly isn’t used for studying.

“Here,” Steve says, snatching the towel and slapping it around Eddie’s shoulders. “Go wash.”

Eddie blinks exactly like a deer in the headlights, and Steve pushes him toward the door. “Go.”

His friend moves hesitantly, looking back over his shoulder and gladly taking the cap as Steve hands it back. He moves slowly down the hallway, presumably to the showers, and Steve returns to the room to sit on the bed where Eddie had been.

The room is trashed, and not just in the usual way. It’s as if someone purposefully dumped everything out and threw it against the wall. Steve imagines Eddie, in a fit of rage over his haircut, taking it out on inanimate objects, and it makes him angry too.

Then he thinks of Eddie sitting in this very spot, consoling himself with music. Hiding from the world, from Steve; the real reason he didn’t show up at the dance. And Steve feels lousy.

Eddie returns with his head wrapped in the turban towel as he had done at the beach. He closes the door and avoids Steve’s eyes.

“Product?” Steve asks, his resolve wavering now that Eddie’s standing there, looking meek.

“Yeah,” he says and opens his closet. There’s stuff hanging up, so he didn’t completely gut the joint, and as he digs in the mess and comes up with a fucking bucket, Steve feels a surge of pride.

He’s got good stuff; Prell shampoo and some fancy conditioner, Dep hair gel and fucking Aqua Net hair spray. There’s a big-toothed comb and a black pick, and those little black scrunchies that Eddie uses so religiously.

Used religiously.

Eddie sits on the floor with his back to the bed, and Steve takes the towel off to get a good look at what’s left of Eddie’s hair.

It’s curly, curlier than normal. Freshly washed, smelling clean and looking good enough to fucking eat, Steve’s stomach does a little dance as he realizes he’s going to get to finally touch Eddie’s hair.

Steve goes for the big comb and contemplates where to begin when Eddie opens his mouth and blows Steve’s mind. “Don’t be gentle. I can take it.”

There’s a moment where he whites out and remembers a porno mag he saw once at a friend’s house. A guy, his hand fisted in some chick’s long, curly blonde hair, with his massive dick in her mouth and fucking her throat with what looked like reckless abandon. Her eyes were watering and she was drooling, and –

Fuck. Steve’s gone hard with Eddie sitting between his legs.

Steve’s gentle because he can’t help it; it’s a religious experience, combing Eddie’s hair. He starts at the top by his temple, leaning forward and not caring that his shirt is getting wet. That Eddie rests his elbows on Steve’s knees. That they’re in Eddie’s room and he shouldn’t be here, and they could get in a load of trouble.

The first time the teeth catch and Eddie’s neck snaps back, Steve feels a little closer to god. “Sorry.”

“‘S’OK.”

With the tangles sorted, Steve unscrews the lid of the gel and works its stickiness between his palms. He smooths the sides back, then runs his fingers through it. He reloads the gel and does the top, and then the back, scrunching up the curls and thinking he’s died and gone to heaven.

But when Eddie’s neck goes slack and he’s practically asleep in Steve’s lap, and he can’t use any more gel or it will get too heavy, but he doesn’t want to stop –

“OK. Done. And, uh, I brought a movie,” Steve tries, finishing by smoothing the stray hairs behind Eddie’s ears, being careful not to catch the earrings he’s never fucking noticed before now. “Haven’t seen it yet.”

“Oh?” Eddie’s answer is a little delayed, like he’s drunk, like he’s fucked out on MJ and can’t be bothered to care. “Which one?”

Steve’s painfully hard inside his jeans, and he so wants Eddie to lean back a little further and press into his zipper. “Uh, Big Trouble in Little China?”

“That’s a good one,” Eddie purrs, taking in a deep breath and relaxing even more into Steve’s lap. He’s literally millimeters from touching Steve’s dick.

“W - what? You’ve seen it?”

Eddie chuckles, actually chuckles. It vibrates up his back and Steve can feel it where his knees are digging into Eddie’s ribs.

“Yeah, I mean. All summer long I snuck into the movie theater, watched from behind the curtains. I think I saw everything that was worth seeing.”

Steve’s Big Plan suddenly isn’t as great as it seemed, and as Eddie leans forward to get to his feet, there’s a blank emptiness inside his chest.

“Be right back,” he says, striding across the room and throwing the closet wide. There’s a mirror, and Eddie turns his head so Steve can see his reflection too.

Damn, he’s fucking hot. Like Ralph Macchio hot.

“Shit,” Eddie rasps, admiring Steve’s handiwork with disbelief. “Not bad.”

Steve is having a full-on sexual crisis.

Eddie rummages through the closet again and comes out with a VCR hefted against his chest, cables dangling like massive spider legs. He turns with the world’s biggest smile and Steve’s heart does this fluttery thing.

“Stole this from the RA. They’ve been looking for it for weeks, haven’t figured out where it went.” Eddie laughs softly, evilly. “Nobody without a machine in their room can watch anything.”

He sets it on the desk that isn’t being used for anything but a small TV and snakes through the cords. Steve wipes the quickly drying gel from his hands on the still-wet towel to keep from imagining things by staring at Eddie’s ass.

“You stick it in, I’ll get the door.”

If Eddie hears Steve’s squeak, he doesn’t show it. He busies himself by dragging the bookshelf that looks like someone knocked over in front of the door. And Steve realizes something else.

“There’s no lock?”

“Nope,” Eddie straightens up and makes a move to flip his hair, realizes it is no longer there, and grabs the video off the floor. He tosses it to Steve like he didn’t just reveal the saddest damn thing in the world. “Don’t trust me not to lock myself in, I guess.”

Eddie sits on the floor again facing the TV and watches Steve struggle to get the tape out of the case. He keeps his mouth shut, though, doesn’t tease Steve when he fumbles and puts it in backward, waits quietly as Steve fast-forwards over the previews.

They sit side by side propped up against the bed, Steve on the closet side so he can hide inside if anyone comes.

Steve barely watches the movie. He’s too busy watching Eddie rub his thumb over his own knee, too invested in how Eddie smells, how his voice sounds when he tells Steve, “Oh, this is a good part.”

They take a pee break halfway through. Eddie makes sure the hallway is clear, the bathroom is empty. He waits outside while Steve does his best to not touch himself; it’s painful, so painful.

But Eddie is his friend, and Steve is not fucking this thing up.

Just as predicted, the RA shows up and knocks on Eddie’s door.

“Just a second,” he shouts, slamming the ball cap on his head, backward, while Steve scrambles up on the floor. He hides in the closet, bumping his knee on the doorframe. Eddie shoves a load of clothes on top to cover him up and closes the door.

Steve holds his breath against the sharp waves of pain as whoever it is talking in a muffled voice to Eddie, praying they don’t check inside. It strikes him as funny, hiding in the closet, a space that smells entirely like Eddie, a whirlwind of a tornado of Eddie’s possessions dumped on top of him. The metaphor for his life is fucking complete.

Eddie’s smiling as he helps Steve come out of the closet.

“I think I’ve found my new favorite thing to do,” he grins, yanking off his cap and tossing it to the floor. “Wanna come by tomorrow and do it again?”

Steve allows himself to be pulled from the space, collapses back on the floor next to Eddie. They’re a little closer this time, in proximity and in friendship. And Steve knows what he’s going to be doing every weekend after work for the rest of the year.

“Just make sure you bring a movie I haven’t seen next time, OK?”

Chapter 4 on AO3

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #highschool au #stranger things #chapter 4 #florianniss

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florianniss · 11 months

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Trouble with Angels

Chapter One

It’s eighteen days into Steve’s senior year, and he’s feeling trapped.

The only thing good about the all-boys school he’s been sentenced to are, well, the boys. Hundreds of them, most straight, but some not. He’s had his dick sucked by more people in the first part of this year than he’s had his whole life.

Course, that could be the fame, too.

Because all of the teachers know who Steve is. “Oh! You’re Richard Harrington’s boy.”

Yep. Dick’s son. That’s him. Because the staff knows him, so do the students. And hey, at least his father’s name is getting him blown.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

“Amen,” Steve repeats, watching as the others open their eyes and their books. Everyone, that is, except for the new guy.

He’s been there for the first three periods, and Steve’s had him in every class. A quiet guy with big eyes, he sorta stands out amongst the others.

For one, he’s late. He didn’t start right away when everyone else did, so he’s a virtual unknown. For another, the teachers don’t interact with him like they do with the other students. They ignore him as he sits down and don’t call on him at all, even though he doesn’t volunteer.

(Steve never volunteers and he always gets called on.)

And then there’s his hair.

Long and curly, it’s pulled into a knot at the base of his neck. It shines coppery gold in sunlight, lighter on top and darker underneath. It looks soft and luxurious, and Steve wants to touch it to see if it actually feels that way.

It’s not a normal thing to wish for.

New guy’s head is still bowed as Mrs. Anderson begins with instructions for the quiz, reviewing the finer points of Calculus, and Steve can’t stop thinking about the dude’s hair.

Steve doesn’t hear a word she says. Either the new guy is serious about his prayers, or he’s fallen asleep.

It seems Mrs. Anderson thinks it’s the latter. She touches his shoulder gently and says his name.

“Mr. Munson? Mr. Munson.”

The boy stirs, nodding his head and saying quite clearly, “Amen.”

There are smiles all around Steve, and he can’t help himself from pulling one too. Mrs. Anderson makes a huffing noise and just continues on with her directions.

Mr. Munson ends up in band with Steve fourth hour, and it’s the only time the guy doesn’t fall asleep. He sits in the drum section two chairs down from Steve with his hands fisted on his thighs, leg vibrating with anxiety or happiness, or something.

As the bell rings and Steve waits for his turn out the door, he spies the band instructor, Mr. Norman talking to Mr. Munson in a very animated way. And he’s smiling.

(Mr. Norman never smiles. At least, not during fourth hour.)

Steve sits with the football boys during lunch and listens to them chatter about the upcoming Homecoming dance. They’re all excited because the school is teaming with the local public school for the event. And lord knows the religious officials are pushing the heterosexual event so they can raise a whole new generation of church donors.

Steve is jaded and he knows it.

Munson doesn’t show up for lunch, not that Steve is looking for him. (He’s looking because he wants to know what the deal is with him and Mr. Norman, that’s all.)

Jazz band proves interesting since there’s a new student there, too. He stands off in the far corner as students file in, watching with an aggressive expression that dares anyone to fuck with him. Steve feels something in his stomach that has nothing to do with the tacos from lunch, but he can’t help but notice the dude’s eyes are brown.

Mr. Norman waves Steve over, unsmiling. He crosses both arms over his chest and looks down his particularly long nose at him. “Mr. Munson is going to join you on guitar. You’ll share the parts, take turns. I would appreciate it if you work it out with him on which ones after class today. You think you can do that?”

Steve glances back over his shoulder at Munson who continues to glare at the other students. It’s not the best way to make friends at a new school.

“Yes, Mr. Norman.”

His music teacher was once quite the trumpet player. Steve looked him up. He was in a band and everything, a very non-christian band. Steve had hoped they’d play some interesting songs, but, no luck yet.

Steve doesn’t mind sharing. He is delighted, in fact. Solos always make him nervous, and he’d much rather play bass guitar or piano anyway. Munson can have the lead, for all he cared. As long as he was good.

They do their regular warmups and start a new song, something from the sixties that sounds exactly like the type of song his dad would listen to. Steve hates it, but he endures, because Munson watches his goddamn hands as he plays.

It’s incredibly unnerving.

After class, Steve zips his instrument back into its case and waits for the rest of the students to go. Even Mr. Norman disappears down the hallway, leaving the two of them alone and setting the scene for the turning point for Steve’s whole life.

“Hey, I’m –,” he begins, waving awkwardly and then shoving his hand quickly in his pocket. His voice cracks and he has to start over again. “I’m Steve.”

Munson nods with his hands at his sides. He pushes up his sleeves in a menacing move, showing his skin inked with the kind of tattoos Steve’s dad would immediately have a stroke over.

“Eddie,” he says, his voice deeper than Steve imagined. He brushes the curls off his forehead, something that’s probably a reflex, and assesses Steve with wide-eyed intensity.

Steve can feel his insides crawling as this guy takes in his perfectly sculpted hair, the brand-new clothes, the unscuffed white shoes. He’s drawing conclusions about Steve before he even knows him, just like everyone else.

“So, Steve,” Eddie says, big brown eyes focused dead-center on Steve’s. There’s something there that isn’t entirely hateful. A hint of mischief. A splash of pain. “You got a car?”

Steve’s mouth falls open and he stammers a reply. “S-sure. Y-yeah, I do.”

“Cool.” Eddie nods as if he approves of the answer. “I’m dying for a smoke.”

They ditch. Steve sneaks out the back door of the band room with Eddie close behind. They stick close to the trees and hurry behind the big utility building that’s used to store school vehicles. Steve runs the short distance to the parking lot where his BMW waits in the shade. (Thank god he has the keys in his pocket)

“Holy shit,” Eddie whistles as he climbs in the passenger side and slams the door. “You rich or something?”

Steve starts the car, heart pounding not only from the sprint, but also from the thrill of escape. “It’s my dad’s.”

Steve figures he’ll be buying the guy’s cigarettes, but that’s not the way it goes. Eddie pays for them with an ID that has a birthday listed as sixty-five, and Steve does a little math inside his head.

(Yeah, that kind of math he can do.)

“That ID yours?” Steve asks as they pull out of the gas station and drive for the park. Eddie doesn’t light up inside the car, which is kind of a relief. Steve’s dad would make him clean it inside and out if he smelled even the faintest whiff of smoke.

“Yup,” Eddie confirms with a sideways glance. “What? You got a problem driving around with an older guy?”

It’s a good thing Steve’s seated because his knees felt a little funny thinking about the way Eddie said ‘older guy.’

“No. Just wanted to know if it was real.”

Eddie turns quick and looks out the window. “It’s real. Nineteen-year-old loser here.”

It’s spoken as if being older is the real problem, and not the loser part. And Steve doesn’t know what to say.

They perch on a picnic table top at the park and garner irritated looks from a couple of moms who are there not watching their children play. Eddie sits downwind, blowing the smoke away from Steve’s face, which is such a thoughtful thing to do that Steve resets his own preconceived notions of the guy.

“Want one?”

Steve looks at the opened pack with a watering mouth. He hasn’t had a cigarette in months, not since the spring of last school year. Training for baseball kept him dry from both booze and smoke, but since it’s just football now, he figures, what the hell.

“Thanks.”

Steve takes it slow, determined to not embarrass himself in front of Eddie. He’s nineteen. He’s tatted. His hair is fabulous and he hasn’t said one thing about Steve being a rich daddy’s boy. And Steve will not choke.

“Well. What’s your story, Harrington? You’re the first person to introduce yourself to me since I came. You don’t seem a bit fazed about skipping class with a shoddy-looking burnout whose own foster family shipped him off to a Jesus-loving boarding school because he did some bad things. You fuckin’ stupid?”

Steve lets the confession make its way through his skull, working the words over and over again, and finds he isn’t the least bit offended.

Eddie takes a long drag and holds it inside, blowing it skillfully out of the side of his mouth. He watches Steve’s hand while he does it, studying the fingers holding the cigarette. The end has gone all dry and it’s about to fall off onto the bench seat. Steve taps it off and self-consciously runs a hand through his hair with his unoccupied fingers.

“Not totally.”

“Not totally, huh? Well. What then?”

Steve finishes his cigarette and puts it out beneath his foot. “My parents are super religious and enrolled here this year because of the scare at the high school about satanic rituals.”

Eddie’s eyebrows peak and he looks more carefully at Steve, as if he can see right through his eyes into his soul. “That so?”

Steve shrugs. “That’s what they say. But actually, my dad is pissed they gave my football scholarship to somebody else.”

Again, Eddie scrutinizes Steve’s face. He frowns a little and opens and closes his mouth twice without saying anything. Steve fills the silence with a question of his own.

“You live in the dorms? What’s that like?”

Eddie’s frown intensifies. “You don’t live on campus? I thought everyone did.”

It’s like every single one of Steve’s worst nightmares. “No. My old man called in a few favors so I could drive home every night. He likes to keep an eye on me, likes to know where I am.”

There’s something in Eddie’s eyes that says he understands. “He doesn’t trust you.”

“Nope,” Steve laughs and doesn’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Heaven forbid I go out and have fun and get someone pregnant before my long and successful career in ball is over.”

“Did you get somebody pregnant?”