Chapter Text
Steve shouldn’t have been surprised.
His life has been full of surprises.
Like when he managed to graduate on time. Like when he got into the college he really wanted.
The biggest surprise, really, was probably uncovering his sexuality. But thinking back, he shouldn’t have been surprised about that either.
With the way he would feel more than curious in the locker rooms.
With the way that he fell in love.
And later in life, he shouldn’t have been surprised when his daughter was born with dark curly hair.
Or when she grew up too fast and decided to study fashion in New York.
Or when she took him out to lunch and said with a shaky voice and tears in her eyes that she was gonna drop out early for an internship in Milan.
He probably shouldn’t have been surprised that after only four months of being in Europe, his daughter called to tell him that she’s getting married.
She’s grown into this beautiful, hopelessly romantic, curious adult human being and so, he should have really seen that one coming.
But, even as he lay here, the week before his daughter’s wedding, he certainly shouldn’t be surprised to see his ex husband walking towards him on the most secluded beach in Bellagio.
He knew his arrival was imminent.
But it still rocks him, of course.
Eddie Munson trudges along, scuffing his stupid big feet through the soft sand. There’s nothing elegant about this man, there never has been. He’s wearing almost knee-length denim shorts, a ripped vintage band tee that Steve is pretty sure he has seen him use to dry off their old dog, Yeller, after a walk in the rain about ten years ago.
May Yeller rest in peace.
Steve sits up on his elbows, digging them into the sand, swiftly pulling down his sunglasses to the tip of his nose so he can see this all in true color. The waves lap gently along the shoreline, the sun beats down, there’s a couple making out on a white towel in the near distance. Gorgeously peaceful, terribly romantic. And yet.
And yet.
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie huffs as he walks, sand spraying around his calves. He makes it to Steve slowly, like he’s walking on a backwards treadmill.
He stops about a foot away, like he usually does, always giving Steve space. Almost in a pedantic way, almost like he took Steve’s request all those years ago a little too seriously.
“Our daughter would like you to return,” he states plainly.
Eddie looks gigantic from this upwards angle. He folds his arms, then drops them, opting to rest a hand on his hip instead. The light breeze blows against his tee, rippling the cotton against his torso.
“No hellos?”
“Hello.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“Since when do you answer my calls?”
And Eddie has a point. Steve rarely answers his calls on the first go.
“You stalked me here, didn’t you?”
“Didn’t take long to find you. I have those Speedos on radar,” he says, nodding towards Steve’s crotch.
Steve laughs, dropping his head back in dismay. Eddie Munson might be the world’s biggest asshole but he is funny, he’ll give him that.
“So perverted.”
“Can’t divorce me from looking.”
Steve laughs again. He squints up at Eddie, who’s head and curly brown hair along with it is just blocking the sun. He’s wearing the sun rays like a halo.
“You’re blocking my sun.”
It’s hard to see Eddie's facial features but he thinks his face isn’t doing much of anything. He sighs heavily, then looks out to the water. Steve watches him for a few moments until Eddie steps aside.
And then the sun drenches him. Kissing his skin all over where he’s bare, which is basically everywhere but. He pushes his sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose and lays back.
“That’s better.”
Steve ignores Eddie’s defiant stance. He really can be defiant, but two can play at that game.
“I said our daughter wants you to come back. What if it was an emergency?”
Steve doesn’t bother to peek at him over his sunglasses, he knows the disapproving look that will be on his face.
“I know it’s not an emergency if she sends you.”
It’s Eddie’s turn to laugh. He’s not renowned for being great in an emergency, and he knows it.
“Yeah, I guess that’s true. She wants your help with the pasta making machine.”
“The pasta maker.”
“That’s what I said.”
Steve peers at him over his sunglasses.
“When did you get here?”
“Arrived a few hours ago.”
“And she’s already trying to get rid of you.”
“Is that what she’s doing? Jeez. Am I that uncool?”
“Depends how many times you’ve called her Pudding in front of her fiancé.”
“Firstly, she’s lucky Pudding isn’t on her birth certificate. Secondly, I haven’t met the fiancé yet and quite frankly I’m terrified I’m gonna gauge his eyes out.”
“He has very nice eyes. You shouldn’t do that.”
Eddie folds his arms across his chest.
“You’ve met him then.”
“I’ve been here a week already. So, yeah, I’ve met him.”
“Explains the tan.”
“I’m always tan.”
“You wish.”
“Don’t be angsty because I’ve already bonded with the fiancé.”
“I didn’t say anything about bonding. Nobody said anything about bonding.”
“Nobody said anything about a competition either but I know you’re already thinking it.”
“I am not. Anyway, we’re on our best behavior this week. Pudding’s orders.”
Steve salutes him.
“Yes, sir.”
Steve gets the feeling Eddie isn’t going to leave this little beach empty handed. So, with a dramatic sigh, Steve sits up, swiftly pulling on his tee and then his shorts.
“Oh, you do have clothes.”
“That I do.”
“Didn’t fancy giving the villagers a good look?”
“Not today, sweetie.”
“I’m just glad I got to see all that out in full swing.”
Steve ignores him, and walks ahead, shaking out his towel and then rolling it up, shoving it into his straw bag.
“How did you find me here, anyway? Don’t tell me I still share my location with you.”
“I asked where the nearest sand beach was. Most of them are pebble beaches. I figured…”
Steve stops, turns and looks at Eddie.
He knows him.
There may have been lies and heartbreak and years of bullshit but he knows him. Only Eddie Munson can recite the tiniest of details into Steve’s soul. Steve Harrington doesn’t like pebble beaches. And Eddie Munson knows that.
Eddie doesn’t move. He stands still in his spot, feet buried in the sand, hiding his hideous crocs.
“C’mon,” Steve breathes, reaching for him with one hand. “Let’s go see our Puds. And take my arm, you look fucking ridiculous trying to walk on sand.”
Steve finds his daughter, Mabel Munson, in the kitchen of her fiancé’s family villa.
The place is in the hills of the Bellagio commune, not too high, but high enough for a beautiful view of the lake. According to Mabel, it’s only used as a vacation home in the summer months which explains the cobwebs that Steve’s been itching to dust away in the guest bedroom that he’s claimed as his own. Not that it’s a bad thing. The dustiness gives it an edge of bourgeois.
“I’ve returned, darling,” Steve says as he steps into the kitchen, edging past a suitcase that he recognizes as his ex’s, all battered and covered in stickers. It’s a bit of an eye-sore in the lovely, old kitchen. Not that it’s perfect - it isn’t.
The kitchen itself has clearly been crafted by a local carpenter, using scratchy wood and a huge polished concrete worktop. Dark red tiles cover the walls behind the open misshapen shelves, ordained with copper pans and dried garlic.
The old terracotta floor tiles are freezing to the touch first thing in a morning Steve has learned over the last week, but it provides a nice, light relief from the beating sun down at the bottom of the hills. It’s surprisingly dark inside despite the huge windows, the light barely able to creep in through the gaps in the surrounding trees. But it’s beautiful, much different to his place in Vancouver and honestly, the change is welcome.
He needed a vacation.
“You’ve caught the sun,” Mabel says disapprovingly. “You better have put SPF on.”
Steve smiles, can’t help it when Mabel is all judgemental and bossy on him. That she takes after him.
“I did, baby,” Steve says, kissing her on her sun-kissed cheek as he moves around the kitchen table to put his beach bag down.
“Dad found you quickly,” she notes.
“He did.”
“I didn’t even tell him which beach you’d be at.“
“He can sniff me out anywhere,” Steve remarks. “Like a pig hunting for a truffle.”
“Are you calling me a pig?” Eddie says, appearing in the doorway, huffing out a huge breath after the inclined walk. “And thanks for waiting for me, by the way. Much appreciated.”
Steve catches Mabel rolling her eyes, but at who, Steve isn’t sure. She pours Eddie a drink of water from an embossed glass jug and passes it to the disgruntled man, who takes it with one hand, the other pushing back his sweaty hair off of his face. He always did get sweaty after any kind of excursion.
“You know, it’s fruit and veg you’re supposed to have five times a day, not cigarettes,” Steve says, busying himself with the steel pasta maker displayed in the middle of the table. He turns his attention to Mabel, “what’s wrong with it, darling?”
“Nothing. I just couldn’t remember how to use it, or how to make the pasta.”
“You have YouTube tutorials for that.”
“I’m trying to have a detox week. Limited screen time.”
God, Steve loves her.
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll join you on that one.”
Eddie takes a seat at the table and they chat between themselves while Steve measures and sorts the ingredients. It’s nice, Steve thinks, that they can do this.
Steve and Mabel move over to the polished concrete worktop, because it’s much easier to make pasta from scratch if they can use a big, clean surface. He feels sentimental, thinking of all the times he and Mabel and Eddie would bake and cook together in their little kitchen back in Indiana, when Mabel was a kid. Flour fights, egg fights, too. It almost always ended in Steve completely covered in ingredients, with Eddie and Mabel ganging up on him. But that’s the way he liked it.
Steve showed Mabel how to make pasta once or twice when she was a teenager, but they haven’t made it since. It’s the way his mom would make it, the way her mom would make it, and probably her mom, too. Steve doesn’t know if it’s even the right way, but he guesses he’ll find out tomorrow at dinner when his daughter’s in-laws try it.
Mabel is 22 years old now. 22 whole years since the best day of Steve’s life. And now he’s making pasta with her, in an old, Italian villa owned by her soon-to-be husband.
“Are you crying?”
Steve pulls himself out of his trance, wiping his fingertips under his eyes.
“Almost,” Steve admits, sniffling, knowing he won’t be able to hide it now.
“Well, stop. I don’t want tears in the pasta,” Mabel jokes softly, nudging Steve’s shoulder with her own.
“How do you know that’s not the way I make it?”
“I think I’d remember that.”
They continue for a little while, until it's almost dark out, folding the pasta dough and then running it through the roller of the pasta maker.
“So, did you two get to talk about much?” Mabel asks quietly when they’re finished, staring down at their freshly made pasta hanging from the drying racks. Steve notes the gentle tone. She won’t want to ask for too much, too soon. She’s probably just glad they’re even able to be in the same room as each other, these days.
“Mmm. Nothing of interest, would you say, Eddie?”
They both look up across the kitchen, to an empty space at the table where Eddie once was.
Steve didn’t even notice Eddie leave.
He wishes he didn’t notice the first time.