This is NOT a spoiler-free blog and NSFW. It may contain spoilers, feels, fangirling, and slash of all kinds. This is a multi-fandom blog. Enjoy at your own risk! 8)
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michelle.31
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Been here way too long
Thinking about Eddie, who’s known he’s gay since the first inkling of burgeoning crushes in middle school, but who still has partial blinkers on when it comes to how he views Steve.
Because to him, Steve fits right into the picture perfect story of high school. It’s easy to play a game of self-denial whenever they cross paths by the lockers, and Eddie’s eyes are drawn to him; easy to say it’s just because it’s the Steve Harrington, everyone takes notice if he’s around, it’s just the way it is, it’s…
And Steve in The Upside Down, listening to Eddie weave this lyrical picture of an archetypal popular boy, feeling a tinge of amusement and a growing vulnerability, an ache in his chest; he smiles when Eddie enthuses, like a reverent narrator, about tales of The Harrington House, where his parties were apparently the stuff of legend.
And Steve kinda laughs a bit, even though he feels… not sad exactly, but…
The thing is, he’s only ever had one proper party: in freshman year, just a kid, so eager to be liked. It had been gatecrashed by seniors and college students who took advantage of a large empty house with no authority figure.
Since then, sure, he’d acted all cocksure, still called them parties even if it was just him, Tommy and Carol.
In Steve’s eyes, he’s sort of always been a little try-hard, perhaps—reaching for something he could never quite grasp. Something he wasn’t even sure he wanted in the first place.
He doesn’t know how to express that yet. It’s too much to chip away at, while him and Eddie are tiptoeing over vines. Tiptoeing around each other.
It comes out as a scoff, “I don’t think I’m as cool as you think I am,” which isn’t what he means, really.
“But people adored you,” Eddie says sincerely, and he’s off on another tangent, another one of his stories.
But this one feels a little different.
He’s talking about winter, about how some teachers would ask Steve to help set up Christmas trees in the cafeteria, how girls would watch him with stars in their eyes; how Steve would pause and hold up the ornaments, in a world of his own, waiting for them to catch the light.
When Eddie’s finished, Steve realises that somewhere along the way, he’d started holding his breath.
“Yeah, I, um. I really don’t think people noticed all that, Eddie.”
“Well, they should have,” Eddie says, almost indignant, thinking, why the hell wouldn’t they? There’s so much to notice about you.
And then he stumbles, narrowly missing a vine; Steve flings out a hand to keep him upright, and oh.
The story—the big one—falls away.
“I noticed,” Eddie says softly.
Steve’s hand is still on his forearm.
“I know,” Steve says, struck by the thought that he’s been seen by someone—perhaps before he even really knew himself.
As that long-haired guy walks away - his friend onstage called his name, but Steve didn’t catch it - Robin nudges Steve.
“Asshole roadies,” she says, sing-song.
“Get fucked,” Steve says with her.
It’s tradition, that little chant. Every gig, there’s always one venue where someone with far less experience says something. Steve knows he was blunt and probably shouldn’t have said anything with that tone, but after too many times, his patience is exhausted.
He can’t even blame the blunt thing on ASL. If anything, he’s meaner in English.
It makes sense. He knows English a lot better. He and Robin only started taking the ASL classes two years ago, when he really needed it. His left ear had been pretty much gone for a while (fuck you Billy Hargrove for putting ceramic in his scalp), but he sucked it up and started learning when his right ear started going, too.
Honestly, he has no idea what caused that.
Two years of ASL means he and Robin aren’t fluent yet. Not even close. But between that, his residual hearing, and the lip reading he’s relied on for longer, Steve does alright. If he wasn’t at a gig, he’d bring his hearing aids, but that’s a recipe for disaster and broken equipment.
Plus, he’s learned he can’t focus on his job when he hears as well as feels the music.
Robin taps his arm again. You good?
I’m good, he signs back.
They finish setting up before they grab a snack. The venue is pretty tiny, a standing room only place that serves pizza and a few drinks, and that’s it.
The pizza is really good though.
They finish up their slices before they go back to the booth. Robin is particular about not eating around the equipment, and Steve has long given up on fighting her.
Their jobs are pretty easy, in all honesty. The light cues are pre-written, and sound check was an hour ago. All Steve needs to do is hit the cues, and all Robin needs to do is adjust mic levels and turn them on and off as needed.
This leaves plenty of room for a healthy amount of fucking around.
As Robin, always on his right side, starts telling him a story about her friend’s ex’s (who is also her friend, because lesbians are just like that) latest date, Steve watches the crowd file in and nods along.
His mind, however, goes back to that guy. Someone always says something, and it’s always someone new to touring. Steve can just tell. All the rookies do the same thing; they look at the stage with wonder in their eyes. This guy was no different. Just some rookie giving Steve a problem, like always.
