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i.
It’s cold. Freezing cold, actually.
Or — is it to Eddie, anyways. The rest of the ragtag little group seems to be doing just fine, bundled up in their heavy jackets and their thick sweaters, and Will and El even have matching pom-pom hats and knit gloves on (thanks to Joyce, Eddie is sure).
In his defense, it hadn’t looked that cold outside, when Eddie had spared the split second glance out the window as he was getting dressed that morning, and the rest of the week had been cool but not cold . He’d fared just fine without a coat so far. Figured today would be much of the same.
Given this, he hadn’t bothered to grab one on the way out.
A move that was now coming back to bite him in the ass.
It was October in Hawkins and that meant that the local pumpkin patch was finally open for business. The second the flyers started showing up around town, the kids had started asking. They were dying to go. There had been talk of a pumpkin carving contest between the seven of them, and that, of course, meant they needed their canvases. Ergo, a trip to the pumpkin patch.
Naturally, Eddie had been roped into it because of his van. (Well, it was more than just his van — the kids were his friends ; they liked him and enjoyed his company and they wanted him there, but the van definitely secured his invite.) The same could be said for Steve, too. He’d been carting the little squirts around for much longer than Eddie had. They had probably even asked him first. His car wasn’t big enough to squeeze all of them in, though, so that’s where Eddie came into the picture.
And since the two of them were tagging along, that meant Robin and Nancy were too. The four of them were more likely to be together than not, these days. It only made sense.
So now, he’s here.
They’ve been standing out in the pumpkin patch for half an hour now, probably closer to forty-five minutes, actually, and Eddie is seriously regretting not wearing his jacket.
It is so much colder than he’d anticipated, and the long sleeve shirt he’d dressed himself in does nothing to protect him from the chill. He can feel it biting through the fabric, seeping into his skin and settling into his bones. And it absolutely does not help that today, of all days, there is a god damn breeze . Little gusts of wind that blow through his hair and tickle the nape of his bare neck and leave goosebumps prickling his skin. Every time it picks up, he tries to turn against it, so his back catches the brunt of it, but that doesn’t stop him from wincing and clenching his jaw and his muscles tighter to try and keep from shivering.
Eddie thinks that an hour is more than enough time to find a pumpkin, but the patch is huge, and the kids are insistent that they scour every single inch of it . It’s ridiculous, totally and utterly ridiculous. Most of them have already found perfectly good pumpkins. There’s no reason to keep looking.
Eddie blames Dustin. He found a pumpkin he deemed good enough, but he continued to march around the dirt anyways, rolling over other pumpkins, hefting them up to get a better look, comparing them to the one already in his arms. When Lucas asked him what he was doing, Dustin told him he was still looking because “what if there’s a better one out there and I miss it because I stopped looking? I am not losing this competition to your sister because I don’t have the best pumpkin.” Lucas had nodded sagely and glanced over towards Erica, who had yet to pick a pumpkin and whose head was bowed together with Max’s (the reigning champion of the pumpkin carving contest) as they examined pumpkin after pumpkin. That, apparently, was enough to sway Lucas into joining Dustin in the continued hunt.
But that had been twenty minutes ago, and the pair of them are still looking.
“Hey, Henderson,” Eddie calls, bouncing from foot to foot as Dustin prods at a pumpkin to his left. “You, uh, think you’re about done yet?” He asks, and he tucks his hands under his armpits. He plays it off as nothing more than an exasperated pose, but he squeezes his arms to his sides to enclose his hands in what little warmth his underarms can offer.
“You can’t rush perfection, Eddie,” Dustin snarks back, and Eddie has to stifle a groan.
“Got a hot date to get to or something, Munson?” Steve questions from right behind him, making Eddie jump a little. Where the hell did he come from?
Eddie spins on his heel, nearly tripping on one of the vines, and he lets out a mixture of a chuckle and a scoff. “Oh, don’t you just know it, Harrington,” he responds sarcastically, mouth twisting into a rueful grin. He only just refrains from rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of that insinuation. Instead, he shakes his head and scuffs his foot into the dirt. “I’m only asking ‘cause we’ve been here for a while and it shouldn’t take this long to pick a damn fruit ,” he says, raising his volume pointedly. Dustin doesn’t even acknowledge that he heard it. Typical. “Just wonder—” a bluster of wind kicks up then, and Eddie winces and struggles to keep his voice steady, “—just wondering what’s taking so long, s’all,” he grits out.
His eyes flicker to Steve’s, and he doesn’t like the way Steve’s looking at him, eyes narrowed like he’s studying Eddie, like he’s trying to piece something together. Eddie squirms under his gaze, sways on his toes.
“Some breeze, huh,” Steve comments, and Eddie narrows his eyes at Steve now.
“Oh, is there? Didn’t notice,” he says, aiming for casual. Then he changes the subject. “You come over here to see what this side of the patch can offer you?” Eddie asks, sweeping his arm out in a broad gesture around him.
Steve shakes his head. “No, actually,” he answers. There’s more he wants to say — it’s obvious. But he doesn’t yet. Just spends another second watching Eddie.
Eddie furrows his brows, and he’s about to ask Steve what he did come over here for, when Steve starts to shrug out of his jacket. Rolls his shoulders back and lets it slide down his upper arms.
“I came over here,” Steve starts, and he gives his arm a shake when the sleeve gets caught around his elbow. Once it’s off, he bunches his fist into the fabric of the collar. “To give you this,” he finishes and holds out the coat.
Eddie blinks down at it. Then he looks back up at Steve. “What?”
“Take it,” Steve says, giving the jacket a shake. “You look cold. I’m not cold.” He gives Eddie a pointed look. “So I’m giving you my coat.”
Eddie lets out a laugh, only it comes out as more of a sharp bleat, like it was pushed out of him by the cold squeezing his lungs. “That’s where you’re wrong, Harrington,” he says. He holds his hands out, palm up, on either side. “I’m not cold.”
Steve fixes him with an unimpressed look — narrowed eyes, pursed lips — and Eddie is almost surprised that his free hand hasn’t found its favorite resting place on his hip. “You haven’t stopped moving since we got here,” Steve points out.
And — how the fuck would Steve know that? Unless… unless he’s been watching Eddie. Unless he’s spent all this time looking . Unable to tear his eyes away.
Eddie ignores the flop in his stomach at that. There’s no way .
“I’m always moving,” Eddie shoots back instead, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows as if asking Steve to challenge him on that.
And, well, Steve’s never been one to back down from a challenge.
“Not like this,” Steve replies, not missing a beat. “This,” he waves a hand in Eddie’s direction, “is an I’m trying to get warm kind of moving. Trust me.” He points at himself this time. “Try hanging around a pool in nothing but a swimsuit at five in the morning, before the sun’s come up — I know what I’m talking about, Munson.”
Eddie scoffs. He goes to shift his weight from his left foot to his right, but stops himself at the last second, lest Steve think he’s doing it just to keep his muscles moving and blood pumping to stay warm. (Which — he is, he absolutely is, but that doesn’t mean Steve needs the satisfaction of being right.)
“Come on, Eddie. Just take it. It won’t make you any less metal, or whatever, if you do.”
“ Steve . I said I’m fine,” Eddie responds. But then the fucking wind blusters again, and an involuntary shiver courses through Eddie’s body, the shake obvious enough that Steve sees it clearly. God damn traitorous weather. God damn traitorous body .
Steve takes a step closer to Eddie and presses the jacket into his chest. He holds it there, and Eddie can feel the warmth from his hand seeping through. “Please take it,” Steve says, voice soft, but still firm.
And, jesus , if he’d said it like that from the start Eddie wouldn’t have even put up a fight. There’s something about the way Steve says it — a request. A demand . But a gentle one. A tempered one. And the way he says please …
Eddie’s hand comes up to clutch at the fabric, but Steve’s hand stays put on the collar, and they both end up hanging onto it, neither one moving any further. “Since you asked so nicely,” Eddie says, giving the jacket a tiny tug. Steve’s hand finally falls away, letting Eddie take it.
Under Steve’s watchful eye, Eddie slips the jacket on. Slides it over his shoulders and digs his fingers into the lapels as he adjusts it. The inside is warm from Steve, and Eddie sinks into it. Pulls it tighter around himself and lets the warmth envelope him. The jacket is a little big in the shoulders, but Eddie kind of loves that. Kind of loves that Steve is broader than him, bigger. It smells like him, too. Like Farrah Fawcett spray and something a little bit citrussy.
Wearing the jacket is the closest Eddie has ever gotten to fulfilling the super secret super embarrassing fantasy that he’s held onto for years — the one where he wears Steve’s letterman jacket. The one where he’s branded by Steve’s name straight across his back. This one’s no letterman jacket, but it’s still Steve’s and Eddie still feels branded by it. And the fact that this isn’t a fantasy, well, that makes it even better.
“Looking sharp, Munson,” Steve comments with a crooked grin. There’s something else on Steve’s face that Eddie can’t quite name, but it makes Eddie’s insides squirm in that gooey, punchy kind of way.
He takes a step towards Eddie, swaying in close, and Eddie’s breath catches as Steve’s face stops inches from his own. His teeth flash, sharp and cutting, and his fingers curl into the front of the jacket before trailing down to give the zipper at the end a playful little tug. “Warmer too,” he adds. Then goddamn winks .
Eddie nearly swallows his tongue.
Before he can even think of anything to say back to that, Steve is back in his own space, a healthy distance between them once again. Steve must take Eddie’s silence as continued denial, though, because he shakes his head at Eddie, then tosses it back in a laugh.
“Steve!” Dustin calls, drawing Steve’s attention away from Eddie. “There you are! Which one of these says Erica, I'm going to kick your ass in this competition more?”
Steve scoffs out a laugh at the question and a warning about his language, but meets Eddie’s eyes again. “Duty calls,” he says, then brushes past Eddie to head towards Dustin. He gives Eddie’s shoulder a squeeze as he does.
Eddie feels it long after he’s left.
ii.
Eddie finds himself back at the pumpkin patch a few days later, only this time the kids aren’t there. It’s just Robin, Nancy, and Steve with him, and as much as he loves his flock of little sheepies, sometimes it’s nice to get a break from them and spend some time with people his own age. To do the things the kids would find immensely boring, but are exactly what Eddie wants to do.
That, in this case, is to explore the rest of what the pumpkin patch has to offer. Because, it turns out, it’s actually more of a ranch . One that just so happens to have a pumpkin patch on the grounds, amongst other things. Other things including: stands of apples and gourds and seasonal squashes; craft stalls with vendors selling everything from handcrafted jewelry, to whittled carvings and painted signs, to homemade candles and soaps; a barn turned bakeshop with display case after display case filled with sweet smelling turnovers and pies and donuts, sticky caramel apples and cookies and fudge; and a haunted hayride through the apple orchard on property that promises to “knock your socks off”.
They start with the craft stalls when they arrive, giving them all a cursory walk through, pointing out the pretty, intricately woven dreamcatchers at one booth and the funky tie-dyed t-shirts at another. Eddie sees one with a giant wolf’s face printed across the front that actually looks kind of badass. He might have to double back for it later.
The corn maze comes next, even though it’s labeled for kids. It’s almost laughable how easy it is, until they take one wrong turn and get totally turned around for a good thirty minutes. Fifteen of those minutes are spent listening to Robin and Steve argue about whether to turn left or right at the fork in the road. Nancy and Eddie share a bemused look and let them bicker, only finally stepping in to tell them, actually, the secret third path behind them is the right one when they start to look genuinely upset with each other. When they finally make it out of the maze, it’s a relief.
After the corn maze, they head to the haunted hayride. Eddie ends up squished between Steve and Robin, and every bump in the path jostles them into each other. A particularly sharp turn over a rocky patch of grass has Steve’s hand falling to Eddie’s leg to catch himself and stabilize. Even after he lets go, Eddie continues to stare at his leg, and he’s grateful that Steve is too distracted by the poorly concealed zombie that jumps out from behind a tree to notice. Robin, on the other hand, nudges his shoulder and gives him a knowing look. The haunted hayride ends up being kind of a bust otherwise — they’d gone too early, it hadn’t been dark enough to properly enjoy the spookiness.
When they climb out of the truck bed, the girls decide that they want to look through the craft stalls again — Robin saw a cool bent metal ring the first time through that he hasn’t stopped thinking about, and Nancy thought Mike might appreciate one of the little figurines from the guy leaned back in his chair carving a hunk of wood with his pocket knife.
Steve wrinkles his nose at the idea of a second walk through and says he could go for some apple cider. Then he turns to Eddie to see what he wants to do.
Even though Eddie wouldn’t mind another trip through the crafts, the idea of drinking apple cider with Steve is far more appealing.
So the girls split, and Eddie lets Steve drag him to the bakeshop barn.
The line is long, and the patio full of tables and chairs is packed. Steve offers to stand in line for their drinks while Eddie goes to look for somewhere to sit, and Eddie agrees easily. He weaves through the tables, eyes peeled for an empty one, but he isn’t having much luck. On his second walk through he keeps an eye out for families that look about ready to pack up and leave and lingers by their tables. The first two get snatched up before he can make his move, but when the third one is vacated, Eddie swoops in to claim it first. He catches a couple pouting and slinking away out of the corner of his eye and feels a little smug.
Eddie tries to spread out as much as he can so that no one else will try to sit with him. It works for the most part, and he only gets asked twice if he’s leaving or saving the seat — no he is not and yes he absolutely is.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait too long after snagging the table for Steve to find him.
“Alright,” Steve’s voice rings out from behind him, and Eddie turns in time to see him stroll up balancing two open-topped cups, filled to the brim. Steam rises from the one in his left hand. “One cup of delicious hot cider,” he says, setting the steaming cup onto the picnic tabletop, “and one cup of cold cider,” he finishes, wrinkling his nose as he places the second cup in front of Eddie.
Instead of rounding the table so he can take the seat opposite Eddie, Steve knocks Eddie’s shoulder to get him to scoot over, then slides onto the bench beside him. His upper arm presses into Eddie’s, his hip, thigh, and calf too, and Eddie feels each point of contact, the whole line of him, really, like a brand. He has to hold himself back from leaning into the touch. He reaches for his drink to distract himself.
“Nice gloves,” Eddie comments, jerking his chin towards Steve’s hands, which have just wrapped around his own cup. “Your little fingies get cold?” He teases.
Steve glances down at his hands, letting go of his cup so splay his fingers out in front of himself. He gives them a little wiggle. “Ha ha so funny,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes at Eddie, “but yes, actually . It is pretty cold out here, so there’s nothing weird about it. Plus, they came in handy so I didn’t burn myself carrying the hot drinks— or, drink ,” he corrects quickly, “because you really are a freak and got a cold apple cider. Who does that, dude?” Steve asks, looking personally offended by Eddie’s choice in beverage.
Eddie snorts and brings his cup to his lips, taking a big noisy slurp. “Mm,” he hums and licks his lips. He flashes Steve his teeth for good measure.
“Doesn’t that, like, defeat the whole purpose of apple cider?” Steve asks, brow furrowing. “Like, cold cider isn’t even cider . It’s just apple juice.”
“No, no, no, it is not apple juice,” Eddie interjects, holding a hand up. “There’s a difference. It’s subtle, but it is there.” He takes another long sip. “And cold just tastes better anyways.”
Steve shakes his head, but he’s chuckling to himself. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. “And wrong. So wrong, but I guess I’ll allow it.”
“Oh , thank you , good sir,” Eddie replies in a goofy, overdramatic voice, dipping his head in a mock bow. “How very kind of you.”
Steve shoves him in the shoulder, and Eddie just laughs.
They settle into a comfortable silence then, sipping at their drinks and people watching. It isn’t until Eddie feels Steve’s eyes on him that he turns his head to meet his stare. “What?”
Steve shakes his head again. “Nothing, nothing,” he says. Then, “It’s just— your ears are red,” he comments with a throaty little chuckle. His knee knocks into Eddie’s as he twists towards him, pulling off one of his gloves before he extends an arm to poke at the reddened tips of Eddie’s exposed ears.
Eddie swats at Steve’s hand, ducking his head and leaning away so Steve can’t reach. It makes Steve laugh again.
“You didn’t bring a hat?” Steve asks.
Eddie shakes his head. “Nope,” he responds, popping the ‘p’.
He very specifically did not bring a hat, in hopes that Steve would have one for him to borrow (read: steal). Really, he should have known that Steve isn’t a hat guy— why the hell would he willingly cover up his best feature?
Steve’s mouth dips at the corners. “Your ears are cold,” he states, and his frown takes on a pouty edge to it. He lifts his hand back up and starts to reach for Eddie’s ear again.
With a groan, Eddie sticks his arm up to block Steve again, only Steve catches his wrist and curls his fingers around it, holding him back instead. “No, stop, come on. I’m not gonna — just trust me, okay?” Steve says, meeting Eddie’s eyes. He raises his brows.
And Eddie does. Trust him. So he lets his hand go limp in a gesture of surrender, and when Steve lets him go, he allows him to go on.
Steve’s hand continues on its original path towards Eddie’s head, except instead of going to his ear, it sweeps past and settles against the knot of hair sitting at the base of his neck. With deft fingers Steve pulls the hair tie from around it until Eddie’s curls spill out, unfurling from the twist they’d been haphazardly thrown into. Steve loops the hair tie around his own wrist, then runs his fingers gently through the hair until it cascades down Eddie’s back again. He pulls some of it to the front of Eddie’s shoulders, making sure that it covers his ears. Then with a lopsided little smile Steve presses his palms over Eddie’s ear. “There,” he declares. “It’s not a hat, but it’s better than nothing.”
Eddie’s heart does a whole god damn gymnastics routine in his chest, and he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to control his face. He should not find this as endearing as he does.
Steve holds his hands there, and seems perfectly content to keep doing so, but after a few seconds of it Eddie laughs and snakes his fingers around Steve’s wrists so he can pull his hands away. “Okay, okay, you’ve made your point, jesus, I’ll bring a hat next time,” he laughs.
Except when he touches Steve, Steve’s eyes widen and he makes a slight yelping sound. “Dude, your hands are freezing !” He exclaims.
Eddie shrugs. “I mean, they’re a little cold, but it’s fine,” he says and wiggles his fingers to prove it. They’re sort of stiff, but Eddie can still feel them, and they move just fine. He raises an eyebrow at Steve as if to say see, told you, perfectly fine .
Steve scoffs and he forgets all about protecting Eddie’s ears from the elements in favor of taking his hands. He prods at the meat of Eddie’s palm and nudges his fingers, going down the line of them and bending each one at the first knuckle, back and forth, to test mobility. “You’re giving me shit for having cold hands when yours are practically iceboxes, holy shit . You’re gonna lose a finger or something, jesus. Here,” Steve says, dropping Eddie’s hands so he can pick up the discarded glove in his lap. He peels off the one still on his left hand too. Then he grabs Eddie’s hands again and one by one shoves the gloves on, not giving Eddie any further opportunity to protest.
The gloves are plain, brown, but they’re soft and they’re warm, retaining all of the heat Steve’s hands had to offer. Eddie flexes his fingers inside, already feeling the tingling cold start to seep out.
Eddie doesn’t have it in him to fight Steve on the gloves — and, really, it would be pretty hypocritical of him if he did, considering this is exactly the outcome he’d been banking on. So he just presses his hands together and turns a grateful smile towards Steve. “Thanks,” he tells him.
Steve smiles back. His hands are still clutching Eddie’s, but instead of letting go now that the gloves are on, he sandwiches Eddie’s hands between his own palms and rubs the backs of them to kickstart the warming process.
And, forget hypothermia — if Steve keeps this shit up, Eddie’s going to die of heart palpitations first.
That, or do something really stupid , like kiss Steve.
He’s close enough for it. Not much of any space between them, and Eddie can count all of the tiny moles and freckles scattered across his cheeks and smattered over the bridge of his nose and clustered at the corner of his eye. There’s something soft in those eyes, too, where they’re trained on Eddie’s, and he’s still holding onto Eddie, like he doesn’t want to let go, even though his hands have stopped moving.
Eddie lets his eyes drop to Steve’s mouth — can’t help himself, really. Watches his tongue dart out to wet his pretty pink lips. Eddie swallows hard, and he’s very seriously considering throwing all caution to the wind, just saying fuck you and fuck that to anyone or anything around him that objects — but that’s when Robin and Nancy find them, floucing up to the picnic table all red cheeked and giggly.
Robin drops herself unceremoniously onto the bench opposite of theirs and immediately steals Steve’s cider, taking a long sip. Nancy takes her seat a little more gingerly, and she keeps her hands to herself.
It’s enough to drag Steve’s attention away, and he lets go of Eddie so he can turn towards Robin and try to snatch his drink back, complaining at her to get her own.
Eddie doesn’t mourn the loss — he doesn’t. Except maybe he’s lying to himself because he makes sure that Steve is sufficiently distracted before he presses his palms together and folds his fingers, then closes his eyes. If he concentrates hard enough he can almost pretend that it’s Steve’s hand he’s holding, returning the warmth to Eddie’s hands instead of the gloves.
When he opens his eyes, Nancy Wheeler is looking right at him — right through him, actually. There’s a wry twist to her lips and a sparkle in her clever eyes, like she knows something he’s not telling her.
Eddie drops his hands to his lap, beneath the table, as if hiding the evidence will throw her off the trail. He knows better than that, but one can hope, right?
iii.
A few days after the pumpkin patch Eddie gets a call from Steve.
“Munson — what do you want?” Eddie greets curtly when he picks up the phone.
The punch of laughter from the other end of the receiver clues him in immediately to who the caller is.
“Oh, Steve. Hey, what’s up?” Eddie asks, picking at the bowl of dry cereal he’d poured himself. He didn’t have time to go for the milk before the phone started ringing.
“I never get used to how you answer the phone,” Steve says through his amusement.
It makes Eddie grin. “Cuts to the chase, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Steve responds. There’s a faint clattering sound in the background, like something’s being jumbled together or maybe even stacked, and it makes Eddie wonder if Steve’s calling from work.
“Are you on the Family Video line?” Eddie questions, shoveling another handful of cereal into his mouth. He chews and swallows and decides he definitely does need that milk.
“So what if I am?” Steve asks, not defensive, but something close to it. Challenging, maybe.
Eddie chuckles and tugs at the phone cord, stretching it behind him as he moves towards the fridge. “What was so important that you couldn’t wait to call little ‘ol me?”
The line is quiet for a couple of seconds, like maybe Steve’s really thinking about his answer here. Then, “I just wanted to know if you’re busy on Friday,” Steve finally says, voice carefully casual.
Eddie opens the fridge and reaches for the milk carton, squinting at nothing as he goes through his mental calendar. Wednesday, band practice. Thursday, Hellfire. Friday? Nothing he can remember. “Mm, don’t think so, why?” He kicks the fridge closed behind him and turns to his bowl.
“Good,” Steve says, brighter. “Movie night then?”
The cereal rises until it’s nearly at the top, probably a little overfilled, but whatever. The stream of milk cuts off, and Eddie frowns. The group’s usual movie night — the one with all the little gremlins and Eddie’s favorite trio of adult friends crammed together around the television in the Wheeler basement, or a few times notably, Steve’s living room — is on Saturday, not Friday. “Did someone need to reschedule or something?” He wonders, closing the carton and leaving it on the counter as he digs through a drawer for a spoon. Once he finds one he sticks it into the cereal and walks it back over to the tiny table, taking the chair closest to the phone.
“Uh, no. No rescheduling,” Steve responds with a stilted chuckle.
Eddie doesn’t need to see Steve to know that he’s probably running his hand through his hair, the way he does when he’s trying to come across cool instead of nervous.
“I just thought it’d be nice to hang out. You and me,” Steve continues. “And Family Video finally got that one movie you wanted to see. The, uh—” there’s a brief shuffling sound, like Steve’s going through some tapes, “ Invaders From Mars , that’s it. The one you missed when it was in theaters. We just got it in this week so, y’know, I thought I could snag it before we shelve it and we could watch it.”
Eddie’s spoon pauses halfway to his mouth. A drop of milk drips onto the tabletop. “Oh,” he says. “You remembered that?”
“Yeah,” Steve responds, like it’s not that big a deal. “You said it, and, y’know, I listen.”
And sure. Eddie knows that. Steve’s a great listener. One of the best there is, really. But that movie was something Eddie mentioned in a very offhand comment months ago. There was no reason for Steve to remember it. But he did. Because he listens. Because Eddie said it.
There’s no one else home with him, but Eddie still bites down on his lip to hold back the dopey smile threatening to eclipse his face, and his hands find their way to his hair, twisting it around a finger and tugging it over his mouth. “Yeah, you do,” he agrees. Ignores the fluttering in his tummy.
“So,” Steve says, stretching the word out. “Does that mean you’re in?”
“I’m in,” Eddie tells him. Has to refrain from tacking on it’s a date . “I’ll be there. Your place or mine?”
“Come to mine,” Steve says. “My parents are out, so we can take up the whole living room.”
“Cool,” Eddie says. “See you Friday, Steve.”
“See you Friday, Eddie.”
Eddie’s van is in the shop. She’s been out of commission for nearly the whole week, and even after spending a whole day under her hood, Eddie hadn’t been able to figure out what was wrong. Despite his best efforts, he ended up having to cave and bring her in to Thatcher Tire and let the professionals have a look.
Unfortunately, that leaves Eddie with nothing but his rusty old bike as his only means of transportation for the time being. It’s not exactly ideal, but it works well enough for now.
That is, until Friday night rolls around and Eddie finds himself riding his bike to Steve’s place for their movie night.
The trip isn’t long — just fifteen minutes, ten at most if he pedals really really fast — but, evidently, it is long enough. Because only a minute or so after he leaves Forest Hills, the sky opens up.
“ Shit, shit, shit ,” Eddie curses, tearing his eyes from the road long enough to look up and watch as the rain pours down around him, on him. And it’s no sprinkle either. It’s coming down hard , buckets of rain in heavy sheets. “Where the fuck did you come from?” He cries out, moving his legs faster.
It’s no use, though. Within seconds he’s soaked through.
By the time he makes it to Steve’s house, his clothes are sticking uncomfortably to his skin, heavy with rainwater, and his hair is a wet, tangled mass against his scalp. And to top it all off, he’s fucking freezing .
Eddie drops his bike in the grass by the driveway, not really caring about it as he beelines for Steve’s front door. He hurries up the two, short steps and immediately knocks on the door. A couple of seconds pass and he knocks again. Eddie bounces from toe to toe as he waits, rubbing at his arms. He isn’t wearing a jacket again, figured the ride would be quick enough that he wouldn’t need to worry about getting cold. He was fucking wrong. The rain is still beating against his head and his shoulders, and he curses the Harrington’s for not having a god damn overhang above their front door.
He’s about to raise his fits to knock again when he hears a, “Jeez, I’m coming, I’m coming,” then the sound of the lock turning, and finally, the door swings open.
“God, you have no patience, do you? I was— woah, hey,” Steve cuts himself off as he finally registers Eddie, drenched and dripping like a god damn wet fucking cat on his front porch.
Eddie offers him a tight, miserable smile.
Steve takes a step forward and wraps his hand around Eddie’s bicep to pull him inside and out of the rain. “What the hell happened to you?” He asks, worry clear in his tone. He scans Eddie from head to toe, like he’s looking for injuries or anything out of sort. Leftover habit from the Upside Down days, Eddie thinks.
“I’m fine,” Eddie assures. “Just fucking wet. And cold, jesus.” He curls his arms around himself, rubbing at his arms again. “My van’s in the shop, so I’m stuck on my bike and the fucking water cycle couldn’t wait ten goddamn minutes,” he grumbles.
Steve frowns. “You could’ve called me to come pick you up,” he says.
Eddie makes a face. “It wasn’t raining when I left.”
The frown disappears, replaced with something more sympathetic. “Oh,” Steve says. “Well that sucks.”
Eddie snorts. “Sure does,” he agrees and pushes his dripping bangs out of his eyes.
He glances down at his feet, where a sizeable puddle of water has started to collect, right there on the pristine floor of Steve’s front hall. Eddie shifts awkwardly in the middle of it and feels a little bad about the mess. And even though it’s much warmer inside than out, he can’t stop himself from shivering.
“Shit, let me get you a towel or something,” Seve says. “Or— actually, you know what, why don’t you just use the shower.”
Eddie’s eyebrows fly up. “What?”
“Yeah, come on, you remember where it is, right? Doesn’t matter — just follow me, I’ll show you again,” Steve says, turning towards the stairs. He stops at the foot, gripping onto the balustrade, and he throws a glance over his shoulder at Eddie. “Come on. You can clean off, get warm.”
“Oh, uh, I— I guess, sure. Okay,” Eddie says after a moment. Might as well. He toes off his shoes so he doesn’t track any mud through the house, and kicks them to the side. He considers peeling off his socks too so he doesn’t leave wet footprints either, but figures what the hell and just follows Steve.
They climb the stairs and Steve leads him down the hall to the bathroom at the end. He shows Eddie how to turn the water on and how to get it hot, then he points out his hair products and the soap.
“You can use as much of it as you want,” Steve says with a shrug, setting the shampoo and conditioner bottles back down before turning back towards Eddie. “And, uh, if you want to leave your clothes outside the door, I can toss them in the dryer. I’ll bring you a towel and some dry clothes for after, too.” He sticks his hands on his hips, casts a glance around the bathroom to make sure he’s not missing anything else, then looks at Eddie. “Yeah, cool. So I’ll just—” he points at the door and makes to squeeze past Eddie so he can let himself out. He stops in the doorframe, fingers curling around the door itself. “Just give a shout if you need anything, ‘kay?”
Edide nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Thanks, Steve.”
Steve smiles softly. “Anytime,” he says. Then he pats the doorframe twice and disappears around the corner, leaving Eddie to his own devices.
Once he’s sure Steve is gone, Eddie strips out of his wet clothes, wincing as the cool air of the bathroom hits his damp, bare skin. He bunches his clothes together and drops them outside of the bathroom door, then moves to the shower to turn it on. It doesn’t take long to heat up, thank god, and before he knows it Eddie is stepping into the steaming spray.
The hot water feels good against his skin, thawing out his limbs and bringing feeling back to his frozen fingertips and toes. He tries to be quick about cleaning himself, just giving his body a cursory scrub, but he does indulge a little and use some of Steve’s shampoo and conditioner. It smells nice, like apples. No wonder all the girls love Steve’s hair.
Eddie tries not to think about Steve as he washes himself. Tries not to picture Steve in this same shower, under this same spray of water, using these same products. He doesn’t let himself think of the other things Steve could have done in this shower — the things he’d want to do with Steve in this shower…
No, nope, no ! Do not go there, Munson, jesus christ.
Eddie smacks the handle to shut off the water, then covers his face with his hands, taking a few deep breaths behind them to collect himself. He’s just using Steve’s shower. He doesn’t need to make it weird . Doesn’t need to be thinking about things that will make him fucking blush if Steve were to look at him downstairs — which he most certainly will, so.
Alright, yep, good as new. Here we go .
When Eddie pulls back the curtain, he spots a fresh towel and a clean set of clothes, neatly folded on the counter by the sink. They weren’t there before, but he hadn’t even heard Steve sneak in to drop them off.
He grabs the towel, draping it over his shoulders as he dries his back and his arms, then drags it down his chest and legs before wrapping it securely around his waist. He leans back a little and squeezes his hair out over the drain. Satisfied that he won’t leave too bad a trail of water everywhere, he finally steps out onto the bath mat.
The sweater is soft, when he picks it up, deep red in color and cable-knit. The fabric is frayed in some places, worn in that comfortable sort of way — the way that tells him this one is a favorite. This one is loved . Eddie flattens a palm over the front, traces a fingertip down one of the thick, braided ropes there.
He holds it up, rubs it against his cheek. Then buries his face into the wool and sniffs deeply. It’s not weird , he tells himself as he inhales hairspray and pine. As he inhales Steve . But then he catches sight of himself in the mirror — shirtless, dripping wet, cuddling a pretty boy’s sweater — and he laughs. What a picture he makes. Jesus. Get it together, Munson .
Eddie sets the sweater back down and reaches for the underwear instead. He doesn’t let himself think too hard on it as he pulls them up his legs (Steve’s underwear, he’s wearing Steve’s underwear ), followed by the threadbare gray sweats. They’re a little short on him, stopping just above his ankles — are probably a little short on Steve, too — but they’re miles better than sopping denim, and they do the trick just fine.
He takes the towel to his hair once more for good measure and tries to brush out some of the tangles with his fingers. Then, finally, he pulls the sweater over his head. It’s warm against his skin, cozy and snug, almost as good as a hug. Eddie allows himself one last fleeting moment to close his eyes, nuzzle in, and pretend that it’s Steve wrapping him up.
When he opens his eyes, he grips the edge of the sink, lets out a breath, and gives himself a mental shakedown. Back to reality.
He leaves the towel on the sink, not really sure where else to put it. Retraces his steps down the hallway, past Steve’s door (cracked open) on the left, his parents’ (untouched) on the right, until he hits the staircase. Takes them two at a time until he’s at the bottom.
Steve’s waiting for him in the living room.
He’s bent over the television, squinting at the buttons and fiddling with the dials, trying to change the screen from static. The Invaders From Mars VHS is in his hand.
“Hey,” Eddie says, stopping behind the couch. There’s a stack of blankets teetering on the arm. It looks seconds away from toppling over.
Steve spins around at the sound of Eddie’s voice, straightening up. “Hey,” he says back, and Eddie doesn’t miss the way his eyes flicker up his body. The way they linger. Almost like he’s… appreciating Eddie in his clothes.
That alone does more to warm Eddie from the inside out than the shower or the sweater or the fire, which — that’s new. Eddie’s seen the fireplace here in the living room, has even commented on it once or twice, teasing Steve for being a proper little rich boy because of it, but he doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen it in use. Eddie was kind of under the impression that it wasn’t functional, that it was just another useless piece of pretty decoration.
Apparently, though, it does work. Steve must have lit it while he was in the shower.
“Feeling better?” Steve asks, leaning an elbow against the top of the tv. The screen is still static behind him.
Eddie curls his fingers into the hem of the sweater and nods. “Yeah. Thanks again for the shower — it, uh, it was actually nice,” he says, gesturing nebulously behind him towards the direction of the stairs and the bathroom. “And for the clothes,” he adds, touching the sweater again.
Steve shakes his head and smiles. “Yeah, of course, man,” he replies. He nods towards the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. I just gotta get the stupid input to change and then we’ll be good to go,” he says, turning back to the television. He kneels in front of it and presses one of the buttons again, then smacks it on the side.
Eddie rounds the couch, snagging one of the blankets as he does. His hair’s still wet, and it’s a little cold against the back of his neck, so he pulls the blanket around his shoulders. He drops onto the couch then, but still asks, “Need some help?”
“No, I think— I almost got it. Damn thing always does this. I don’t know what’s wrong with— oh, there we go,” Steve says, perking up when the screen finally flickers off of static. He flashes Eddie a grin over his shoulder, showing off all his teeth, then he pulls the tape from the sleeve and pushes it into the player. “And we’re in business,” he announces triumphantly, standing back up and dusting off his pants.
The couch is big enough for the two of them to share and still have plenty of space between them, but when Steve walks back over, he plops himself down right next to Eddie.
He grabs a blanket for himself and spreads it across his lap, then pulls another one from the stack. When he unfolds this one, it’s big enough to cover them both. Steve still scoots closer, though, and holds one end out for Eddie, tucking the other end around himself.
“Oh,” Eddie can’t stop himself from saying. “Getting cozy, I see.” He laughs a little, and whether he’s referencing the multiple blankets each thing or the fact that they’re sharing this one, even he doesn’t really know. His brain feels slower, muddled from the heat of the room and Steve’s proximity. He takes the proffered blanket and tugs it across himself regardless. Lets his body relax, too — melt into the sofa and into Steve’s side. It really is cozy.
“Just making sure you’re all thawed out,” Steve replies, bumping his shoulder into Eddie’s. Except then he leaves it there instead of pulling back. “Can’t have you catching hypothermia on me, now, can I?” He asks. “Dustin would have my ass.”
Eddie laughs and raises an eyebrow. “Only Dustin?” He asks. “I’d like to think all of those little shits would go up to bat for me.” And as he says it, he realizes that it’s not even really the joke he’d been trying to make it out to be, because it’s true . Those little shits would go to bat for him. They have .
“They would,” Steve agrees without hesitation, pride clear in his voice.
Eddie doesn’t know what makes him say it, but he does. “And you?” He asks, turning his head to face Steve, to meet his eyes. “Would you miss me?”
Steve’s eyes bore back into his own, a pretty hazel color, softened by the firelight and the glow of the tv. Eddie wants to reach out and press his fingertips against the three little freckles by his eye.
“Of course I would,” Steve says.
Of course, of course, of course .
Eddie’s exhale is shaky, and despite his efforts, he can’t stop the tiny upturn of the corner of his lips, the deep press of his dimples. He feels oddly shy, looking at Steve, and sort of exposed, too. Like Steve’s words and his stare have stripped him bare. He shifts in his seat a little and finally tears his eyes from Steve so he can focus back on the television screen. “We, uh— we gonna start the movie or what?” He asks, clearing his throat.
He can feel Steve’s gaze lingering again, before finally he too turns back to the tv. “Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.”
Eddie isn’t sure what it is — maybe the crackling of the fire or the steady drone of the tv, maybe the coziness of Steve’s sweater and comforting weight of the blankets or the warmth of Steve’s body, pressing into his own, or maybe it’s some combination of it all — but they’re barely halfway through the movie when Eddie’s eyelids start to grow heavy.
He tries valiantly to keep them open, to stay awake. Tries subtly pinching himself on the leg and blinking rapidly to will away the sleepiness, but before long, he doesn’t catch himself as his eyes slip shut, and he drifts off to sleep.
He’s too far gone to notice his head lolling to the side, right onto Steve’s shoulder, or the way that Steve leans back into the cushion and lets Eddie fall further into him.
He’s too far gone to register Steve’s arm snaking around his shoulders, pulling his body impossibly closer, into a proper cuddle.
He’s too far gone to feel Steve’s head tip back against his own as he too gives in to the tempting tendrils of sleep, right there on his coach, curled up with Eddie.
The movie plays on, but they sleep.
i
Eddie wakes up to the sound of rain pattering against the sliding glass doors that lead out to the pool and the hum of the tv static.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he tries to think back to last night, his memory gets kind of fuzzy around the edges after Steve hit play on the movie. It hadn’t been Eddie’s intention to crash on the couch, to even spend the night at all, but Steve hadn’t woken him to send him on his way once the movie ended, so it must not have been that big a deal that he did.
It’s still raining, but Eddie doesn’t feel cold. The fire has long since died down, but the warm clothes and the layers of blankets and the combined body heat do wonders to keep him nice and toasty.
Eddie blinks slowly, sleepily, and lets himself adjust to wakefulness. He stifles the urge to stretch out like a cat, not yet wanting to leave his little couch cocoon or disrupt Steve, who he’s pretty sure is still asleep next to him. (And still cuddled up to him, and, jesus, when did that happen, and be still his beating heart before it wakes him up .) Except when Eddie starts to carefully shift away, just a little, just enough, a hand slips out from beneath the blanket to curl around his arm and stop him. To anchor him in place.
When he turns, he finds Steve already awake. Alert enough that he might have been awake for a while now. Oh.
“Hi,” Eddie whispers. He doesn’t know why he whispers. It’s just the two of them here, there’s no one else to disturb. But it feels right, to stay quiet. Speaking any louder will pop this little bubble they exist in right now, and that’s the last thing Eddie wants to do.
“Hi,” Steve says back, eyes twinkling and a syrupy soft smile playing on his lips. He rests his shoulder against the back of the couch, head tilted to lean against the top. Some of his hair sticks up at the back, like he’d tried to tame the rest when he woke, but missed a piece. It’s cute. He’s cute.
He’s watching Eddie with patient eyes, like he’s got all the time in the world to just sit here with him. To wake up slow and exist even slower. To bask in the molasses of morning and just be for a while.
Eventually his nose scrunches as a silent laugh shakes his shoulders. “You look cozy,” he comments, still quiet.
Eddie nods and ducks his head to nuzzle into the shoulder of the sweater. “Mm, I am,” he murmurs into the fabric. Lets the sleeves fall past his palms so he can tuck his fingers around the ends. “I like this sweater,” he finds himself saying, and he doesn’t even care if his earnestness is embarrassing. It’s true. He really likes this sweater.
Steve’s smile grows. “I like you in that sweater,” he admits.
Eddie can’t tell what time it is — the curtains are open, but there’s no sun streaming through, just a dreary gray drizzle that doesn’t give him any sort of clue. It feels early, though. It feels early, and he’s sleepsoft enough that his tongue is loose. His brain to mouth filter not quite up and running yet.
“Careful there, Stevie,” Eddie says, nickname slipping out unbidden. He’s never used that one with Steve before, but he likes the way it sounds. And if the glow on Steve’s face is anything to go off of, so does he. “A girl could get the wrong idea.”
One of Steve’s eyebrows arches. “What kind of idea might that be?” He asks.
“That you might wanna make her yours,” Eddie breathes.
Steve pauses. Hesitates for the first time since they started this little back and forth. He worries at his lip. Looks between Eddie’s eyes. Searches their depths. He must like what he finds, because he steels himself and says, “Would that be so bad if I did?”
And maybe Eddie’s isn’t the only tongue that’s loose.
Eddie hears the words, but he doesn’t hear them. Not until one second, two seconds, three seconds pass. Then they smack him right in the goddamn face . He sits up, suddenly, more aware than ever. His heart hammers hard in his chest. “Steve,” he says, slowly, seriously. “Are you— is— don’t— quit messing around, man,” he says, trying to play it off. Trying not to get his hopes too high.
A tiny crease forms between Steve’s eyebrows as they furrow, and the corners of his mouth turn down. “I’m not,” he says. “I’m not messing around.”
“You’re not messing around,” Eddie repeats, like the implications of that haven’t quite sunk in yet. Like they’re sinking in now . “You’re serious,” he says after, when Steve continues to look at him without an ounce of jest anywhere on his face. “Are you saying you want—” he cuts himself off, not wanting to lead Steve. He tries again. “Steve, what are you saying?” His heart is in his throat as he asks it. He thinks he knows the answer, but he has to be sure. He has to hear Steve say it for himself.
Steve sits up too, pulling his legs onto the couch so he can cross them beneath himself. He rests his elbows against his thighs and leans forward, not taking his eyes off of Eddie. “Eddie,” he says, and the confidence that’s carried him up to this point wavers, just a little. Eddie can see it in the twitch of his mouth, the quiver of his lip. Can hear it in the warble of his inhale. “I thought I made it pretty clear, y’know, the last couple of times we hung out, but I guess maybe not as clear as it could have been,” he starts. “But I thought— I think that maybe I’m not the only one. That feels like this. This way. And, uh, I could be wrong, I could be ridiculously, embarrassingly wrong, but I don’t think I am, and, um, I think that, well, even if I am, it’s a shot I have to take because if I don’t then I’ll never know and never knowing is probably worse than—” he interrupts himself with a laugh and runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m rambling, jesus, I’ve turned into Robin,” he laughs again, then flashes Eddie a sheepish smile. “ The point is , Eddie,” and he smiles, soft, sweet, then blows Eddie’s mind with three little words: “I like you.”
Eddie’s world stutters to a halt.
He’d sort of been expecting those words, that confession, but it’s one thing to imagine it and another thing entirely to have Steve Harrington sitting in front of him, in the flesh, saying those words to his face — saying them and meaning them .
But Steve’s not done there, apparently. “I like you,” he repeats, “as in, I want to hold your hand and take you out on dates and I want to— I want to kiss you and I want to fall asleep with you in my arms and wake up in yours, and I want to let you steal all of the clothes out of my closet if it makes you happy.”
Oh .
Eddie’s tummy does a happy little flip at that, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek. It’s useless, though, to try and contain his joy. It bursts across his face, unbridled and unabashed. “Against my better judgment, I do like your clothes for some reason,” he says and laughs. He doesn’t know why he decides to narrow in on that part of Steve’s big declaration; maybe because it’s the easiest to wrap his head around. Because hearing that Steve wants to hold his hand and kiss him just blows his mind completely.
Steve preens, chuckling a little, but then something almost shy comes over him. He toys with the edge of the blanket and looks at Eddie through his eyelashes. “And me?” He asks. “You… you like me? I’m not— I’m not wrong, am I?”
Eddie laughs then — throws his head back and lets it bubble up and out like an overflowing pot. “No,” he says, reaching out to take Steve’s hands in his own. “You are so far from wrong, Steve.” He gives his hands a squeeze, then decides fuck it and lets the blankets fall from his shoulders and legs as he lifts himself onto his knees — a butterfly shedding it’s cocoon and taking flight. His hands slide up to Steve’s elbows, using his grip to steady himself. Then without warning he throws a knee over Steve’s waist and settles into his lap.
“Woah, hi,” Steve laughs, eyes going big but hands immediately finding their way to Eddie’s waist. His thumbs dip beneath the sweater to press against his bare skin, and oh that does something to stoke the fire in Eddie’s gut.
He loops his arms around Steve’s neck, fingertips playing in the longer fringe at his nape. Steve’s been growing his hair out a little, and Eddie’s kind of obsessed. Eddie gives it a little tug, then smiles sweetly at Steve. “For the record,” he says, leaning closer and closer until he goes cross eyed trying to hold Steve’s gaze. “I like you so much.”
That’s when Steve swoops in — barely even lets Eddie finish his sentence before he tips his head up and surges forward and catches Eddie’s mouth with his own in a searing kiss.
Eddie has dreamed. Eddie has fantasized. Eddie has imagined. But nothing could prepare him for this — for the reality of kissing Steve Harrington.
Steve’s lips are a little chapped, but still so unbelievably soft, and Eddie’s head spins as they fit against his own, two pieces of one puzzle. Steve kisses his bottom lip, his top lip, the full of his mouth. Sweet and unhurried, as syrupy as the morning.
It’s good, it’s so toe-curlingly good , and it drives Eddie mad with the need to be closer . He presses in, pushes his chest into Steve’s, and cradles the back of his head, clutching at his skull. He can’t stop himself from sinking his teeth into Steve’s plush lower lip, biting soft and soothing softer with a wet kiss. He nips at Steve’s lips until they fall apart, until he lets Eddie in.
His mouth is warm, and wet, and wonderful , and Eddie wants to crawl inside of it and never leave. He wants to kiss Steve for the rest of his life, food be damned, water be damned, breathing be damned.
Eventually, they do need to breathe, and they have to break apart. Neither one of them goes far, though, knocking their foreheads together as they catch their breath, as they share the air between them.
“I’m still asleep,” Eddie declares, letting out a fluttery little laugh. He can feel Steve’s nose scrunch up against his own, and he scrunches his back. “I’m dreaming. I’ve got to be.” He finally leans back, just enough to properly meet Steve’s eyes, then he shoves the sleeve of his sweater up and sticks his bare forearm out for Steve. “Pinch me.”
Steve snorts and curls his fingers around Eddie’s arm. “If you’re dreaming, then so am I,” he replies, smile lopsided and sweet.
“God damn charmer,” Eddie mutters and buries his face into Steve’s neck, laughing into his skin.
Steve wraps his arms around Eddie again, and in a move far too quick and far too practiced for Eddie to figure out, he gets Eddie flat on his back on the sofa. He’s holding himself up by his arms, propped above either one of Eddie’s shoulders.
“Hi,” Eddie says, practically giggles as he beams up at Steve, and jesus fucking christ. Steve’s turned him into a lovesick fool with one goddamn kiss. Eddie doesn’t even care.
“Hi,” Steve says back, and he dips down to steal one quick little kiss. Then he lowers himself onto Eddie’s chest, folding his arms over Eddie’s sternum and resting his chin on the back of his hand.
Eddie slips his arm around Steve’s waist this time, and he flattens his palm against the small of his back. Can’t help himself as he nudges his knuckles at the hem of Steve’s shirt so he can slide his hand beneath it. Sweep gently up and down the knobs of his spine.
Steve hums happily in response. He tilts his head to rest his temple against the crook of his elbow and lets his eyes flutter shut, a peaceful smile spreading across his lips. He looks perfectly content, like he could slip right back to sleep like this. Curled up with Eddie.
There are still plenty of blankets strewn about the couch, and Eddie reaches for the closest one with his other hand, tugging it up until it covers their legs and settles against Steve’s shoulders.
Steve nuzzles into the blanket, nuzzles into Eddie, and he hums again. “Cold?” He asks, cracking one eye to raise a brow at Eddie.
Eddie shakes his head and wriggles back into the couch cushion, getting comfortable. “Mm, no,” he answers. “Can't be cold when you're so warm,” he muses. “You’re like my own personal heater.”
The lazy smile pulls at Steve’s mouth again, and he laughs softly. “Good. M’doing my job then,” he says. “Keeping you safe and warm.”
Eddie’s heart squeezes in his chest, and he tightens his arm around Steve. He ducks down to press his lips to Steve’s forehead, letting his kiss linger.
That’s not something Steve ever has to worry about. He always feels safe with Steve, and with Steve by his side, Eddie doesn’t think he’ll ever be cold again.