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The July heat had settled over the trailer park like a curse. Not the fun, D&D-style curse, the kind that made your dice roll snake eyes forevermore, but the sweaty, unrelenting “why do I even bother wearing clothes if they’re just going to fuse to my skin” kind. Eddie was sprawled across his bed, shirt peeled off hours ago, the rattling box fan in the corner doing about as much good as a damp paper towel in hell.
Notebook open, guitar leaning against his thigh, he looked like the picture of productivity—except the only thing on the page was a doodle of a skull with a cigarette, and the only sound in the room was the whine of the fan mixed with the occasional creak of the bed as he shifted.
He was considering the noble art of napping when the trailer door banged, footsteps clattered, and — without so much as a knock — Robin Buckley exploded into his room.
“Pool party,” she announced like a herald delivering doom.
Eddie cracked one eye open, letting his head loll dramatically to the side. “Wow. Stop the presses. Harrington’s got his wet t-shirt contest scheduled. Didn’t see that coming.”
Robin rolled her eyes and plopped onto the only chair not covered in laundry. “Not a contest. A gathering. With drinks. And people. And,” she drew out the word like she was dangling bait, “Vickie.”
Eddie snorted, dropped his head back against the pillow. “Ohhh. Now I get it. You want me to be the awkward third wheel at your gay panic field trip. Sorry, Buckley, but my schedule is booked solid with… literally anything else. I’m allergic to chlorinated environments. Doctor’s note.”
She ignored him. Of course she did. Robin Buckley ignored sarcasm like it was background noise, plowing forward as if he’d said nothing at all. “I don’t want to go alone, Eddie. I need backup. Wingman backup.”
He flung an arm over his face with the melodrama of a dying man. “Backup for what? In case Vickie tries to push you into the deep end and you forget how to swim?”
“In case I forget how to talk,” Robin shot back. “Which, reminder, is a very real possibility when she’s standing there looking...” she flailed both hands like words had abandoned her. “Like she looks.”
Eddie peeked at her through his fingers, smirk tugging. “Ah, yes, the universal sign for hopeless gay yearning. Very clear.”
Robin glared, but there was no heat in it. “You’re an ass. But you’re my ass, and you’re coming with me.”
“Hard pass.” Eddie sat up, reached for the guitar, strummed a lazy, dissonant chord. “Crowds? Jocks? Chlorine? Harrington holding court in his natural habitat, which I imagine is ninety percent teeth and chest hair? No, thank you. I’ll stay here where it’s safe, sweaty, and free of social torture.”
Robin’s mouth curved into something smug, which Eddie instantly recognized as dangerous. “Ohhh. I get it. You’re scared.”
“Scared?” he scoffed, trying not to visibly bristle. “Of what? Sunburn? Athlete’s foot? Harrington’s dazzling smile?” The last part slipped out sharper than intended, and Eddie clamped his mouth shut immediately after, praying she hadn’t noticed.
Spoiler: she noticed.
“You’re scared of seeing him in his element,” Robin said, leaning forward, eyes gleaming like she’d just found his weak spot. “Mr. King Steve, charming everybody with his cannonballs and his ridiculous hair. You don’t want to deal with it.”
Eddie forced a laugh, strumming another discordant note. “Yeah, nailed it. I lie awake at night trembling at the thought of Steve Harrington doing a backflip into a pool. Truly my greatest fear. Right up there with IRS audits and losing my Dio tapes.”
Robin’s smirk only widened. “Then prove it. Come with me.”
He slammed his hand on the guitar strings, letting them screech. “Absolutely not. This is not happening. I am not donning the chains of social obligation to march into Harrington’s chlorine kingdom. Find another sacrificial lamb.”
Robin huffed, crossing her arms. “What kind of friend abandons their fellow outcast when she’s finally trying to confess her feelings to a girl?”
That stung. Eddie hated that it stung. Because she was right: if anyone knew the feeling of standing on the edge of terrifying confessions, it was him. Still, he threw up his hands, hoping sarcasm would cover the pang. “This kind. The selfish kind. Congratulations, you’ve cracked the code. Munson: patron saint of cowards.”
Her chair scraped as she stood. “Fine. Be a coward. Stay here with your fan and your sad doodles. I’ll just tell Vickie you couldn’t come because you were busy writing love songs about your amp.”
Eddie pressed a hand to his chest, feigning mortal injury. “Low blow, Buckley. Very low. You wound me.”
But she was already halfway out the door, muttering, “Coward,” under her breath.
When the trailer door slammed behind her, silence settled heavy. Eddie let his guitar slide to the side and flopped backward onto the bed again.
Smug relief washed through him. He’d stood his ground. He wasn’t about to let Robin drag him into some fluorescent nightmare where he’d be surrounded by people who once stuffed him into lockers. No way.
Except...
Except his brain had already conjured an image. Steve, dripping wet, sunlight catching in his hair, laugh booming across the water. Eddie groaned and pulled a pillow over his face.
“Great, Munson,” he muttered to himself. “You’re picturing Harrington shirtless. Very metal. Totally normal. Nothing to unpack there.”
But even as he suffocated under the pillow, his chest tight, he knew Robin had been right about one thing. He was scared. Not of the chlorine. Not of the jocks.
Scared of what would happen if Steve Harrington actually looked at him the way he wanted.
Scared of what would happen if he didn’t.
And wasn’t that just the most pathetic thing in the world?
By the time Eddie’s van crunched up the long, too-perfect driveway of Harrington Manor, he was already cursing every single choice that had led him here. Somewhere between Robin calling him a coward and his own traitorous hands starting the ignition, he’d clearly blacked out, because there was no way in hell he’d voluntarily ended up here.
And yet—there he was. Staring up at the suburban palace lit up like the Fourth of July, music thudding so loud he could feel it in his teeth. String lights wrapped around the backyard fence, tiki torches blazing like sacrificial markers. Laughter spilled over the hedge, punctuated by the splash of bodies hitting water.
Eddie killed the engine, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles whitened. “Perfect,” he muttered. “Drive the freak straight into the lion’s den. Real smart, Munson. Darwin Award material.”
He should’ve left the second his boots hit the pavement. Should’ve spun on his heel, climbed back into the van, and driven far, far away... preferably until he hit a state border. But then someone shoved a beer into his hand before he’d even cleared the side gate, and somehow the bottle had become his lifeline. Cold glass sweating against his palm, one excuse to plant himself in a corner and pretend he belonged.
Except he didn’t.
He was the only one fully clothed, for starters. Shorts, bikinis, cutoff tees — everywhere he looked was bare skin slicked with pool water or sunscreen. Meanwhile, Eddie stood in jeans and a faded band tee, hair frizzing in the humidity, already regretting existence.
He muttered under his breath, “Behold, the kingdom of King Steve, in all its chlorinated glory.”
Because of course it was Harrington’s party. Of course half the town was here, orbiting him like he was still the reigning monarch of Hawkins High. People were splashing in the pool, girls laughing too loudly, dudes chest-bumping in some testosterone ritual. And in the middle of it all—Steve.
Eddie spotted him instantly, not that it was hard. Steve was a beacon: bare chest gleaming under the string lights, hair plastered wet but still somehow stupidly perfect. He was laughing, head thrown back, droplets flying off his skin as he dunked some guy Eddie vaguely recognized from Family Video.
Eddie looked away. Immediately looked back.
Great. Munson, you’re staring at Harrington like he’s the last cigarette on earth. Very cool. Totally subtle.
He took a long pull from his beer, the bitter fizz doing nothing to steady the low thrum in his chest. His eyes darted anywhere else: the grill smoking in the corner, the sticky patch of beer someone had spilled across the patio, the fact that Journey was blaring from the stereo like Satan’s own punishment.
But they always dragged back to Steve.
He told himself it was Robin’s fault. She’d planted the seed, waving Harrington’s name around like bait. She’d jabbed at him about being scared of Steve in his “natural habitat.” Well, congratulations, Buckley. You win. Because standing there, watching Harrington in his element, Eddie could feel every muscle in his body locked tight with… something. Not fear. Not exactly.
Want.
God, he hated the word.
“Don’t die,” Robin had said when she spotted Vickie, tossed Eddie a distracted wave, and vanished like smoke. That was half an hour ago. For all Eddie knew, she was making out under a towel somewhere, leaving him to marinate in his own misery.
So here he was. Alone. Beer halfway gone. Pretending not to notice that people occasionally glanced his way, like he was some strange zoo exhibit someone had forgotten to lock up. Freak in the wild, watch him sulk.
The humid air pressed heavy against his skin, beer bottle slick in his hand. Chlorine stung his nose, sharp and artificial, mixing with the greasy smell of hot dogs from the grill. Every sound felt amplified: the splash of water, shrieks of laughter, Steve’s voice cutting through it all like it belonged to a different frequency.
Eddie tilted his head back, let the buzz of it all crawl under his skin, too much, too loud. He imagined bolting. Pretended to invent fake emergencies in his head. Sorry, can’t stay, forgot I left my amp on and it’s probably burning down the trailer. Whoops.
But his boots didn’t move.
Because some masochistic part of him wanted to stay. Wanted to see how long before Steve noticed him skulking in the corner. Wanted to know if maybe, just maybe, Harrington would bother.
And wasn’t that the cruelest part? That under all his sarcasm, all his bitter little mutterings, Eddie was waiting.
He shifted his weight, drained the last swallow of beer, stared at the bottom of the empty bottle like it might give him an answer.
Why the hell am I still here?
Eddie had lasted a whole thirty minutes longer than he thought he would, which in his book made him practically a war hero. Medal of Honor for enduring bad pop music, sticky humidity, and the sight of half of Hawkins doing cannonballs like their lives depended on it.
His beer had gone warm in his hand, the fizz long dead, more like swamp water than anything resembling fun. Sweat stuck his shirt to his back, and the air was a thick soup of chlorine, sunscreen, and cheap cologne.
Enough. Absolutely enough.
He muttered to himself as he edged away from the crowd, “If Robin wanted a chauffeur, she should’ve left me her mixtape. At least that thing doesn’t ditch me for a redhead.” He tucked the empty bottle on some random patio table, wiped his damp palm on his jeans, and made a beeline for the side door.
Freedom was only a brass handle away. He could already picture the blessed silence of his van, the faint smell of weed clinging to the seats, the open road back to the trailer where no one gave a damn about chlorinated bacchanals.
His hand had just brushed the door when a voice stopped him cold.
“Leaving already, Munson?”
Eddie froze. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Of course it was. Because the universe had a sick sense of humor and loved nothing more than watching him squirm.
He turned anyway.
Steve stood there, fresh out of the pool, water still dripping from his hair onto his bare shoulders. His skin glistened in the low string-light glow, droplets rolling down his chest like they were on some goddamn pilgrimage. Eddie’s brain promptly short-circuited.
For one disorienting beat, all he could do was follow the path of a single bead of water as it slipped from Steve’s collarbone down to his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his swim trunks.
Great, Munson. Very metal. Whimper at Harrington’s torso like you’re auditioning for a Saturday morning cartoon.
Steve smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “Thought you were the life of the party.”
Eddie barked out a laugh, sharp and defensive. “Yeah, right. Because nothing screams ‘life of the party’ like the freak lurking by the exit. Real crowd-pleaser.”
Steve stepped closer, water droplets flicking onto Eddie’s shirt. “You don’t look like you’re having the worst time.”
“Oh no, I’m having the time of my life,” Eddie shot back, words spilling fast to cover the fact that his pulse had just skyrocketed. “Standing in the corner, avoiding sunburn, listening to Journey on repeat—it’s like Disneyland for people with self-esteem issues.”
Steve laughed, low and warm, and the sound did something dangerous to Eddie’s insides. He tried to roll his eyes hard enough to shake it off.
“Relax,” Steve said, still moving closer. The faint smell of chlorine clung to him, mixed with beer and something sweet Eddie couldn’t name. Steve leaned a shoulder against the wall near the door, effectively cutting off escape. “You didn’t even try the pool.”
“Yeah, well, some of us don’t thrive in water,” Eddie muttered. “I’m allergic to chlorine and social interaction, didn’t you hear?”
Steve grinned, and Eddie hated how it made him want to grin back. “So what—you were just gonna ghost without saying bye?”
“That was the plan,” Eddie said, lifting his chin in defiance. “Slipping out into the night, like a true villain. Smoke bomb, dramatic cape, the works.”
But his voice cracked halfway through, and he could feel the heat creeping up his neck. Because Steve Harrington, dripping wet and close enough that Eddie could count the drops sliding down his throat, wasn’t buying a single word.
Great. Ambushed at the door. Real heroic, Harrington.
Eddie’s brain screamed at him to bolt, to duck under Steve’s arm and run for his life. But his boots stayed glued to the tile, traitorous. Because underneath all the sarcasm, there was fascination — raw, unshakable and magnetic.
Steve tilted his head, studying him. “C’mon, Munson. You can’t leave without the full Harrington experience.”
Eddie snorted, but it came out too thin, too nervous. “Oh yeah? What does that involve? More Journey? Maybe a wet T-shirt contest in your honor?”
Steve’s smile widened, sharp and knowing. “You’ll see.”
And just like that, Eddie knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
Steve didn’t even give him time to muster another sarcastic quip. One second Eddie had his hand on the doorknob, the next Steve was plucking the empty beer bottle from his fingers and setting it on a side table like it was contraband.
“Hold up,” Steve said, grinning in that irritatingly confident way. “One condition before you go.”
Eddie narrowed his eyes. “Oh, this should be good. Let me guess: you’re about to try and sell me on the wonders of chlorine again. Sorry, Harrington, but this leather doesn’t swim.” He plucked at his soaked vest like a martyr. “I’m fragile, delicate. Like a vampire in daylight. I step in, I melt.”
Steve didn’t even blink. “You have to get in the pool.”
Eddie barked out a laugh, a little too loud, hoping the sheer absurdity would end the conversation. “Yeah, no. Absolutely not. You’ve officially lost it, man. I barely survived high school gym showers. You think I’m about to dive into your chlorinated frat ritual?”
But Steve was already closing the space between them, that grin stretching wider. And worse—he touched Eddie’s arm, casual as anything, fingers curling around his wrist like it was no big deal.
Eddie’s brain misfired.
His first thought: Why the hell is he touching me like it’s perfectly normal?
His second: Do not, under any circumstances, notice how warm his hand is compared to your clammy skin.
“C’mon,” Steve said, voice sliding into that too-easy charm that probably worked on half the county. “One dip. You’ll cool off. Then you can bail.”
Eddie tried to yank his arm back, but halfheartedly. He could’ve really pulled away if he wanted to. He didn’t. Instead he played it up, staggering a little, hand to his chest. “Unhand me, peasant. I demand freedom.”
Steve just rolled his eyes and tugged harder.
And suddenly Eddie was stumbling through the crowd, dragged like some kind of reluctant sacrifice. People were laughing, shouting encouragement, a few even clapping.
“Don’t you dare—” Eddie started, voice breaking on the dare as panic clawed up his throat.
It hit him then, sharp and clear: he was too slow to stop this.
Too slow to break free.
Too slow to realize that Steve had made up his mind.
By the time they reached the pool’s edge, Eddie was already sputtering out protests — “I’ll rust, Harrington! I’ll haunt you! I’ll write songs about your crimes!” — but it didn’t matter.
Steve gave one firm shove, and Eddie was airborne.
The splash swallowed the rest of his curses, the world going white-blue with water and burn. Chlorine hit his nose, his throat, his eyes. He came up thrashing, hair plastered to his face, choking on air.
“Goddamn—!” He wiped at his face, blinking furiously. “What the actual—?!”
Laughter erupted around the pool, a chorus of voices cheering the spectacle. Eddie flipped them all the bird, sputtering. “Yeah, real funny, laugh at the freak drowning!”
And then, of course, Steve dove in after him.
Smooth, graceful, like it was nothing. He surfaced in front of Eddie, water slicking his hair back, shoulders shining under the glow of the string lights. Golden boy in his natural habitat.
Eddie’s heart lurched in his chest.
He shoved it down. Hard.
“You’re a menace,” Eddie hissed, lunging at him. He tried to dunk Steve under, to claw back some dignity. His hands met warm, slippery skin, muscles taut under his grip.
Steve laughed, loud and bright, twisting free. “You’re terrible at this.”
“Shut up,” Eddie growled, splashing him with both hands.
The chaos spun out fast: Eddie lunging, Steve dodging, hands sliding against shoulders, ribs, hips. They grappled, slipping and splashing, laughter breaking free from Eddie’s chest despite himself.
And every touch lingered just a second too long.
Steve’s hand on his waist, steadying him.
Steve’s arm brushing his chest as he tried to dunk him again.
Steve’s breath close when they surfaced, both laughing, both catching air like they’d forgotten how.
Very metal, Munson. Screaming like a banshee while King Steve baptizes you. Real intimidating.
Eddie tried to cling to his irritation, to the fact that everyone around the pool was watching, cheering. His skin burned with awareness. Not just because of chlorine, not just because of embarrassment, but because part of him liked it.
Liked the eyes on them.
Liked the way Steve’s attention locked on him, zeroed in like Eddie was the only one that mattered in this whole stupid backyard kingdom.
He hated it. He loved it. He couldn’t breathe around it.
He dunked Steve under again, desperately. Steve came up sputtering, hair plastered flat to his forehead, laughing so hard it turned to a groan.
And Eddie thought, don’t look at his mouth, don’t look at his mouth, don’t—
He looked.
The cheers around them blurred into white noise, fading into the humid night. His body buzzed, overstimulated, burning everywhere Steve touched him, everywhere Steve might touch him next.
And still—he didn’t break free.
Couldn’t.
Didn’t want to.
They wore themselves out faster than Eddie expected. Or maybe it was just him — lungs burning, arms aching, brain short-circuiting from too much Harrington in his immediate orbit. Either way, the splashing duel slowed, laughter thinning out, until they were just drifting in the current, carried toward the darker stretch of pool where fewer people bothered to hang.
The noise of the party dimmed to something softer, muffled. He could still hear Robin’s laugh spiking above the music somewhere near the deck, Vickie’s voice lilting in response. The occasional splash echoed when someone cannonballed at the shallow end. But back here, under the string lights shimmering against the water, it felt... private.
Which was ridiculous. It wasn’t private. They were still surrounded by half of Hawkins’ loudest, drunkest twenty-somethings. Eddie kept reminding himself of that. And then forgetting it every time Steve’s shoulder brushed his chest under the water.
“Not bad, Munson,” Steve said, grinning as he leaned back against the slick wall of the pool, arms stretching out to rest along the ledge. His posture screamed relaxed, but his proximity screamed something else. Close. Too close.
“Yeah, I really nailed the drowning thing,” Eddie muttered, pushing wet hair out of his face. “Very convincing. Should put it on my résumé.”
Steve chuckled, low, a sound that curled under Eddie’s ribs in the worst way.
Don’t look at his mouth. Don’t look at his mouth. Don’t—
Too late. His eyes tracked the curve of Steve’s grin, the glisten of water clinging to his lower lip.
“So,” Steve said, shifting closer under the water, his hand brushing Eddie’s waist as if steadying him. “You having fun yet?”
Eddie snorted. “Yeah, this is exactly my idea of a good time. Chlorine burns, public humiliation, and King Steve trying to drown me. Living the dream.”
“Funny,” Steve said. He wasn’t laughing now. Just watching.
Eddie’s mouth went dry. This—this wasn’t fair. Steve Harrington wasn’t allowed to stop being a loud, golden idiot. He wasn’t allowed to look like that.
For the first time all night, silence stretched between them. No jokes, no shouts, no Robin rescuing him with a distraction. Just Steve. Just the humid air and the faint sting of chlorine and Steve’s eyes holding his like Eddie was the only person left in the pool.
Eddie panicked internally. He should swim away, crack a joke, splash Steve in the face—something. Anything. But his body betrayed him, frozen in place.
Then Steve leaned in. Just slightly, like he was about to whisper something too low for anyone else to hear.
And Eddie — idiot that he was — turned his head at the wrong second.
Their mouths brushed.
It was nothing and everything all at once. Just the faintest press of lips, the shock of it lighting Eddie’s nerves like a goddamn firecracker. He froze, heart hammering, sure Steve was about to pull back, laugh it off, call him a freak.
But Steve didn’t move away. He blinked, surprised, and then... closed the gap again.
This time, it wasn’t an accident.
Steve’s mouth pressed firm and hot against his, and Eddie—Eddie kissed back before his brain could catch up.
Tongue, wet and desperate, sliding against his own. The taste of chlorine and cheap beer. The slick slide of Steve’s lower lip caught between his teeth.
A sound tore out of Eddie, high and broken: a whimper.
Mortified, he tried to shove Steve back, to break the moment before anyone saw—before everyone saw... but his traitor hands just clutched harder at Steve’s slick shoulders, pulling him closer.
Steve groaned into his mouth, and Eddie thought he might combust on the spot.
The water lapped around them, cool against his overheated skin. He was drowning again, but in the worst, best possible way.
They broke apart only when breathing became non-negotiable, both panting hard. Eddie’s chest heaved, water dripping down his chin, his hair clinging in heavy strands.
Steve’s face was inches away, lips swollen, eyes dark.
Congratulations, Munson, Eddie’s brain supplied viciously. You’re the star attraction in Steve Harrington’s chlorine-soaked circus.
And maybe it was true—maybe people were watching. Eddie couldn’t tell. He couldn’t care.
Because even now, even after pulling back, neither of them moved far. Their bodies hovered close, magnetized, knees bumping under the water, breaths still tangling together.
One wrong move — hell, one right move — and they’d be right back where they started.
And Eddie couldn’t decide if that terrified him or thrilled him more.
The pool’s deep end was darker, quieter, muffled like they’d slipped underwater without actually doing it. String lights shimmered against the ripples, casting gold sparks across Steve’s shoulders. The party was still alive behind them, but all of it felt far away, distant. Too distant.
And Eddie Munson had officially lost control of the situation. Not that he’d ever had it in the first place — control and Steve Harrington didn’t exactly coexist in the same universe — but still, this was something else.
Because Steve had him pinned.
Chest to chest, wet skin to soaked shirt, Steve’s weight pressing Eddie back against the slick concrete wall. Eddie’s lungs forgot how to function. His hands hovered uselessly, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to push Steve off or drag him closer.
And Steve—sweet merciful Jesus—Steve was moving. Hips grinding forward, slow and deliberate, the water disguising the motion just enough to make Eddie wonder if he was imagining it. Except he wasn’t, because every nerve ending below his waist was ringing the goddamn alarm.
Christ, Harrington, Eddie’s brain sneered, you’ve got a whole audience out here and you pick me as your stage prop?
Steve’s mouth brushed Eddie’s ear, hot even in the chlorine chill. “Relax,” he murmured, voice low, a secret pitched just for Eddie. “Nobody’s looking. They’re too drunk. Too loud.”
Right. Sure. Eddie totally believed that. And pigs totally wore eyeliner and shredded guitars.
He muttered, voice strangled, “We’re surrounded. Anyone could notice.”
Steve’s lips curved against his skin. “They won’t.”
And god help him, Eddie wanted to believe it. Wanted to lean into that confidence, let it swallow his panic whole. But his heart was hammering too loud in his chest, loud enough he was sure it had its own beat competing with the music from the speakers.
He needed to stop this. Had to.
“Friends,” he blurted, because apparently his brain had decided to play Mad Libs with his mouth. “We’re—we’re friends. Just friends. Friends don’t…” He trailed off, because finishing that sentence meant admitting exactly what Steve was doing, and Eddie’s survival instincts vetoed that idea.
Friends don’t grind each other against pool walls? his inner voice supplied helpfully. Friends don’t swap spit and make embarrassing cartoon-character noises when they’re kissed?
Shut up, Eddie told himself.
Steve leaned back just far enough to meet his eyes, smirk tugging at his lips. “Friends, huh?”
Eddie swallowed. “That’s the word, yeah.”
Steve tilted his head, water dripping off the ends of his hair, sliding down his neck. “You’re an idiot, Munson.”
“Uh—rude?”
“If you think Robin dragged you here for Vickie alone.” Steve’s smirk softened into something sharper, more deliberate. “I told her to bring you. Because I was done waiting for you to make the first move.”
The words landed like a kick drum in Eddie’s chest.
Done. Waiting. For him.
Eddie froze. Every system went offline—lungs, brain, the whole disaster. Hope sparked so hot it was almost pain, tangled up with terror that he’d misheard, misunderstood, that Steve Harrington wasn’t saying what it sounded like he was saying.
“Wha—” Eddie croaked, and immediately hated himself.
Steve just looked at him, steady and maddeningly sure. Like he’d been waiting for Eddie to catch up this whole time.
Oh, Eddie’s brain said blankly. Then: Oh, fuck.
Something inside Eddie snapped, or maybe it melted... it was hard to tell the difference when everything was heat and water and the taste of Steve’s mouth still lingering.
Without fully deciding to, he shoved forward, flipping their positions, pressing Steve back against the wall instead. Concrete at his spine, Eddie’s hands braced on either side, caging him in.
“Stop me,” Eddie rasped, chest heaving. His voice barely carried over the muffled splash of the pool, but Steve heard. He had to.
Steve’s answer was to slip his hands under the waistband of Eddie’s soaked boxers, palms cupping his ass, dragging him flush against him.
“Not happening,” Steve said, and punctuated it with another grind of his hips that stole Eddie’s breath clean out of his lungs.
Eddie’s vision went white at the edges. His head thudded back against nothing, his whole body short-circuiting.
He wanted to laugh, scream, cry—something—but all that came out was another broken whimper, traitorous and humiliating.
And Steve ate it up, swallowing the sound with his mouth, kissing him like Eddie was the only air worth breathing.
The water clung cold against Eddie’s clothes, his shirt heavy and plastered to his skin, but Steve was burning under his hands. Every drag of slick muscle, every shift of wet skin—it was sensory overload, and Eddie thrived on it even as it unraveled him.
He should have stopped this. He should still stop this. But with Steve’s hands pulling him closer, with Steve’s mouth bruising his, with the whole goddamn world narrowed to this corner of the pool—Eddie Munson had never been less capable of stopping anything in his life.
So he didn’t.
He let it happen.
And he knew, with bone-deep certainty, there was no turning back.
Eddie wasn’t sure if he was kissing Steve or drowning. Honestly, same difference at this point.
His mouth had found Steve’s neck, almost by accident, and then—well. Accident turned into experiment, experiment turned into obsession. The first brush of lips had been tentative, almost shy, like he could pass it off as a slip. But the second? That was on purpose. By the third, his teeth were involved, scraping over warm, slick skin that tasted like chlorine and faintly of the cheap cologne Steve had probably drowned himself in before the party.
And Steve—Steve made a sound. A noise Eddie had no business hearing in public, low and rough, right in his ear. Like a whimper trying to disguise itself as a groan.
Great, Eddie’s brain deadpanned. Now you’re a vampire, Munson. Congratulations. Tomorrow the whole of Hawkins is gonna know Steve Harrington got mauled by Count Freakula in the shallow end.
Except Eddie didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. He kissed harder, sucked deep, tongue tracing the tendon in Steve’s throat until he knew, knew, there’d be marks. Bold, purple, obvious marks. The kind people would whisper about in hallways, the kind Tommy Hagan would probably choke on his own jealousy over.
Steve’s nails dug into Eddie’s back like he didn’t mind. At all.
Grinding. That was the word for what Steve was doing now, hips rolling against him with a precision that felt practiced—hell, maybe it was. Maybe this was Steve’s natural habitat: pressing people against walls, wringing noises out of them while the world looked the other way.
But this wasn’t people. This was Eddie. Eddie freaking Munson, certified disaster, clinging to him like he was the last cigarette in the pack.
Steve’s breath hitched, a tiny whimper slipping free, hot against Eddie’s ear.
His hand had been braced at Steve’s side, fingertips digging into muscle through wet fabric, but suddenly that wasn’t enough. Not nearly. Almost without conscious decision, Eddie’s fingers slipped lower. He fumbled — because of course he did — with the clumsy buttons of Steve’s trunks. Underwater made everything ten times harder. His pulse hammered, ears ringing louder than the muffled bass still thumping across the yard.
And then—pop. Button undone. Zipper shucked halfway. Eddie’s hand slipped inside, under the clingy fabric, into heat.
Holy. Shit.
Steve’s sharp inhale cracked the air between them, body jerking like Eddie had shocked him. Eddie nearly yanked his hand back out of pure panic. But then Steve’s hips surged forward into his palm, desperate, and Eddie realized: no, this was exactly what he wanted.
The weight. The heat. The way Steve fit in his hand, heavy and hard and slick already from the water. It was too much, and not nearly enough.
Jesus Christ, Munson, Eddie told himself, you’re jerking off the golden boy of Hawkins High in his natural kingdom. Hope you’re ready for your induction into the freak hall of fame. There’ll be a plaque.
He stroked once, tentative, just to test the reaction. Steve’s head tipped back against the concrete wall, throat bared, lips parting in a sound that was half-laugh, half-moan. His hair clung in wet strands to his forehead, the pool lights painting his skin gold and blue.
Eddie catalogued every second like he’d never be allowed to keep them. The groan, the way Steve’s hips moved to meet his rhythm, the tremor in his thighs. It was sensory overload on steroids: chlorine stinging his nose, water sloshing against his chest, Steve Harrington unraveling against him.
And still—panic gnawed at the edges. They were in the goddamn pool, people everywhere, maybe ten yards away. Eddie could practically hear someone shout Marco Polo in the distance. All it would take was one person glancing over at the wrong time, one drunk idiot deciding to cannonball too close, and the whole thing would explode like a firework.
He should stop. He had to stop.
But his hand tightened instead, stroking firmer, thumb brushing the head just to see what noise it would drag out of Steve this time. Spoiler alert: it was devastating.
Steve retaliated, because of course he did.
Both of his hands slid down Eddie’s back, bold and determined, until they found Eddie’s belt. Underwater fumbling was clumsy, awkward, almost funny if Eddie hadn’t been about three seconds from a heart attack. He wanted to crack a joke, defuse it—but then the buckle gave way, the button popped, and Eddie wasn’t laughing anymore.
Because Steve’s hand was inside his jeans, tugging him free, both of them half-hidden by the water, half-exposed to the universe.
Skin to skin. No barriers.
Eddie’s knees nearly gave out.
The friction was unbearable — slick, hot, desperate. Steve’s hand around him, sure and unrelenting, syncing with the rhythm Eddie had set on him. Their hips met clumsily under the water, grinding, sliding, stroking. The entire pool could have gone silent and Eddie wouldn’t have noticed.
He bit down on Steve’s shoulder, teeth sinking into warm flesh, just to keep from groaning loud enough to wake the neighbors. Steve hissed, then groaned in return, tilting his head to give him more.
Somewhere in the distance, music blasted. People laughed. The party went on like the world wasn’t ending right here, in the deep end.
Eddie knew better.
Because they’d crossed the line.
Not a little toe-over-the-edge line. Not a casual maybe-this-means-something line. No. This was full-scale, point-of-no-return territory. Eddie’s hand working Steve under the water. Steve’s hand stroking him like he’d been dying to. Their mouths colliding between bitten-back moans, leaving marks that would scream their secret tomorrow.
He’d told himself a thousand times he wanted this, in daydreams and nightmares and quiet midnight moments. But he’d never imagined it would happen here, like this.
Too risky. Too loud. Too good.
Eddie had been telling himself he was in control. Okay, telling was generous... more like lying, loudly, to the empty, echoing cavern of his brain while Steve Harrington pressed against him like some kind of aquatic fever dream.
And then Steve bit his ear.
Not hard, just enough to send a lightning bolt straight down Eddie’s spine. Then Steve’s voice, low and wrecked, whispered two words Eddie had definitely not been prepared for: “Fuck me, Eds—please.”
Eddie froze. Every neuron in his head stopped firing. If there was a God, He was somewhere laughing His omnipotent ass off at the sight of Eddie Munson, self-proclaimed metal god and dungeon master extraordinaire, malfunctioning in real time.
He pulled back just enough to see Steve’s face, searching for the punchline. Some smirk, some wink, something to prove he hadn’t just said the most deranged, perfect, ruinous thing Eddie had ever heard.
Nothing. No joke. Just Steve, wet hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted, pupils blown wide. Dead serious.
His mouth worked uselessly. “Steve. Jesus. You—people are—this is—”
Steve turned his head just enough, lips brushing Eddie’s cheek, calm in a way that made Eddie want to scream. “Most people are inside,” he murmured. “Nobody’s watching the pool anymore.”
Eddie’s brain lit up like a pinball machine: alarms blaring, red lights flashing bad idea, bad idea, bad idea—and at the same time fireworks, neon signs, a giant banner screaming best idea ever.
“Christ, Harrington,” Eddie muttered under his breath, “you’re trying to kill me.”
But then Steve moved, and whatever resistance Eddie had been clinging to dissolved like sugar in hot water.
Steve braced himself against the pool wall, palms flat on the concrete lip, shoulders flexing under the glow of string lights. He shifted his hips back, lowering his trunks just enough, baring himself to the water—and to Eddie.
Rational thought? Gone. Dignity? A corpse on the battlefield. Sanity? Never knew her.
“Goodbye, dignity. Goodbye, sanity,” Eddie thought numbly. “Hello, worst decision of my life. Or best. Who even cares anymore.”
His hands shook as he fumbled with himself, pulling down his soaked jeans just enough, lining up with a clumsiness that would’ve been funny if it wasn’t about to end him.
And then—Christ.
Heat. Pressure. The water buoyed them, but it didn’t soften the reality of Steve pushing back onto him, inch by inch. Eddie clung to the wall with one hand, nails scraping rough concrete, the other splayed hard over Steve’s mouth when the first broken groan slipped out.
“Shut up,” Eddie hissed against his ear, voice cracking. “You’re gonna get us caught.”
Steve’s only answer was another muffled moan into Eddie’s palm, body arching, back pressed flush to Eddie’s chest.
The world narrowed to that single point of connection. Music thumped somewhere far away. Laughter floated across the yard. Chlorine burned his nose. But all Eddie could really hear was the wet slap of water against their bodies, the stutter of Steve’s breath under his hand, the frantic beat of his own heart trying to break free of his ribcage.
They found a rhythm, messy and desperate, hips colliding under the water. Eddie’s thighs trembled with the effort of keeping them both steady, his free arm crushing Steve to the wall as if letting go would mean floating off into space.
Steve gasped against his palm, voice muffled, wrecked. Eddie bent forward, teeth sinking into Steve’s shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. His own groan tore out, smothered into skin, disguised as violence when really it was surrender.
Every nerve screamed with overstimulation: the slick slide of water between them, the way Steve clenched around him, the hot bite of teeth on skin, the muffled sounds vibrating against his hand.
Steve bucked back, reckless, shameless, driving Eddie against the wall hard enough to rattle his bones. Eddie tried to curse, but it came out a whimper swallowed into Steve’s shoulder.
“Fuck,” he panted, the word slipping free before he could stop it.
Steve’s hand groped blindly behind him, finding Eddie’s hip, urging him harder, faster. Eddie’s vision blurred, stars crowding the edges. He wasn’t sure if it was the chlorine, the lack of oxygen, or the sheer insanity of what they were doing.
Their rhythm turned frantic, sloppy. Eddie’s arm ached from holding Steve’s mouth shut, but he didn’t dare move it...not with the way Steve kept making those sounds, high and ruined, each one threatening to carry across the pool like a flare gun.
Water splashed around them, echoing louder than it should’ve. Eddie prayed—actually prayed—that no one wandered outside right now. Because there’d be no explaining this. None.
And yet the risk only fed the fire, twisting tighter in his gut. Exhibitionism, masochism, plain old stupidity—call it whatever. Eddie was gone.
He bit down harder on Steve’s shoulder as release tore through him, muffling his own groan into flesh. His hand slipped from Steve’s mouth at the same time Steve’s body shook around him, stifled cries breaking free into the humid night.
They clung to the wall, trembling, water lapping in frantic ripples that slowly settled back into rhythm with the pool’s surface.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Just gasps, just the burn of chlorine in their lungs, just the weight of what they’d done sinking heavier than the water pressing against their skin.
Eddie’s forehead dropped against Steve’s damp hair. He was laughing silently, breathless and wrecked, because what else was there to do?
So much for friends, his brain whispered, dazed. Guess we’re officially something else now. God help me.
And for once, Eddie didn’t argue.
Right. Okay. Breathing. That was important. Oxygen, essential to life and all that jazz.
Eddie’s chest heaved like he’d just sprinted laps around the trailer park, lungs burning with chlorine and something far less explainable. His forehead rested on the back of Steve’s wet head, both of them clinging to the wall like a couple of shipwreck survivors.
The water sloshed lazily against their bodies, mocking in its calmness. Somewhere beyond the hedges, laughter rose and fell, a beer bottle clinked against another. The party thrummed on, oblivious.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse — made him more aware of the aftershocks still rattling through him, the faint tremor in Steve’s muscles against his own, the sticky warmth mixing with pool water. Jesus. He was going to hell.
Eventually, inevitably, they had to move.
Untangling was a disaster. Limbs bumping, clothes clinging like needy seaweed, Eddie’s jeans fighting him with every stubborn inch. He managed to yank them up underwater, fumbling like a drunk octopus. Steve, naturally, looked unfairly composed despite the fact that his trunks were half twisted and his hair plastered to his skull like a drowned golden retriever.
For a beat, neither spoke. The silence was worse than any noise, heavy and suffocating. Then Steve, of course, had to go and break it.
“Guess that was… not in the program.”
Eddie barked out a laugh that sounded too much like a choke. “The program, huh? That what this was? Part of the Harrington Pool Party Itinerary?”
Steve’s grin wobbled, nervous around the edges but still infuriatingly bright. Eddie wanted to hate him for it. Instead, he felt like his ribcage was collapsing in on itself, crushing his heart into pulp.
Awkward laughter spilled out anyway, jagged and hysterical. Steve joined in, the sound rough and breathless, like he couldn’t quite believe himself either.
“Oh sure,” Eddie said, voice high and cracked with too much adrenaline, “just your average Tuesday night activity. Friends drown each other in chlorine and heavy petting. Totally normal. Happens all the time.”
Steve stopped laughing first. His gaze sharpened, cutting through the haze with unnerving clarity. “You think I’d do this with just anyone?”
And just like that, Eddie was flayed open.
The sarcasm jammed in his throat. He wanted to say yes, obviously, you’re Steve Harrington, half the girls in Hawkins would form a line for you, but the words wouldn’t come. Because the way Steve was looking at him — like Eddie was the only one in the goddamn universe — made that argument a joke.
He broke eye contact, staring at the ripples spreading across the water instead. “It was reckless,” he muttered. “Stupid. Dangerous. You—Christ, Harrington, you don’t even care, do you?”
Steve’s shrug was maddeningly casual, but his voice was steady. “Nobody saw. Nobody’s going to. I want you. That’s all.”
Eddie’s stomach dropped, free-fall fast. Want. Present tense. Not past. Not mistake. Not some chlorine-induced hallucination.
Bad idea. Bad idea. BAD IDEA. His brain screamed it like a siren. This was supposed to be a one-time, blackout-worthy, never-speak-of-it-again mistake. Something to shove into a mental closet and barricade with steel chains.
But the warmth spreading through him didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt terrifyingly good.
Water lapped gently against their chests. Steve shifted closer, just a fraction, until his damp breath brushed Eddie’s cheek. The sting of chlorine burned Eddie’s eyes, but he didn’t dare blink.
Their foreheads touched, tentative, water dripping between them.
So much for keeping it a secret from myself, Eddie thought bleakly. I’m screwed.
He closed his eyes anyway.
Getting out of the pool should have been simple. People did it all the time without existential crises. But then again, most people hadn’t just—
Yeah. That.
Steve’s hand found his wrist, strong and unshakable, and suddenly Eddie was being hauled toward the edge like some half-drowned kitten. He tried to plant his feet, but wet jeans clung heavy and awkward around his legs, dragging at him with every step. He stumbled gracelessly up the concrete lip, arms flailing. Real smooth, Munson. Olympic-level grace.
Steve, on the other hand, looked like he’d been carved out of marble and left to glisten under the pool lights. Bare chest gleaming, hair wild and dripping, the hickeys vivid and unmistakable along his throat. Eddie’s handiwork, screaming louder than any amplifier.
They didn’t get two feet before the crowd noticed.
The party surged around them: people laughing too loud, shoving drinks into each other’s hands, the air thick with beer and perfume and chlorine trailing off Eddie’s skin. And yet somehow, impossibly, the room tilted. Eyes followed them. Mouths whispered. Eddie saw the widening stares, the quick elbow nudges, the oh-my-god expressions traded between cheerleaders and basketball players.
Heat scorched his cheeks, worse than any bonfire. His skin prickled like he was walking naked. Every hickey on Steve’s neck might as well have been neon.
He wanted to disappear, sink straight through the polished Harrington tiles into the basement and never crawl back out. But Steve? Steve was smirking. Like a king returning from battle, pleased with the chaos in his wake. One hand steady on Eddie’s back, steering him forward like he owned the damn place. Which, technically, he did.
Eddie muttered under his breath, “Oh sure, this is subtle. Nothing screams low-profile like parading the town freak through your living room while sporting Dracula cosplay on your jugular, Harrington.”
Steve didn’t even flinch. Just kept pushing through the bodies, head held high, that infuriating smirk carved into place. Eddie had to fight the twitch of a laugh. Because, God help him, it was magnetic.
They hit the stairs. Steve didn’t pause, didn’t look back... just tugged him up step after step, Eddie’s soaked jeans squelching unpleasantly with every motion. He felt like the lead character in a bad sitcom: Brilliant. Nothing says subtle like a walk of shame through Harrington Palace while half of Hawkins watches.
And still, he didn’t pull away.
The hallway was quieter, the music downstairs muffled into a dull bass thump. Steve shoved open his bedroom door, tugged Eddie inside, and clicked the lock shut.
The silence hit like a punch. Just the sound of both of them breathing, water dripping from their clothes to the carpet in slow, treacherous drops.
Steve leaned back against the door, eyes burning with that same steady heat that had undone Eddie all night. Voice low, deliberate. “Fancy a second round?”
Eddie’s brain short-circuited. Spark, sizzle, blackout. Panic clanged like a fire alarm in his skull. This was insane. He was insane. They were—
And then Steve grinned. That grin, reckless and shameless and bright enough to torch every reasonable thought Eddie had left.
“Christ, Harrington,” Eddie rasped, throat raw, “one day you’re gonna kill me, and I’m gonna thank you for it.”
He should have worried about what came next, about the town, about reputations, about the way his heart already felt stitched too tight in his chest. But Steve’s smile burned away everything except the word yes, thrumming through him like feedback from an over-cranked amp.
The bass from downstairs rattled faintly through the floorboards, but it might as well have been a thousand miles away. Steve pushed off the door, closing the space between them. Eddie’s pulse stuttered, then surrendered completely.
If this is drowning, Eddie thought, his last coherent spark as Steve’s hands found him again, I’ll stop fighting it.