Archive of Our Own ^beta

1. I think your hair is so pretty

Steve sat directly behind Eddie Munson in English Lit for his senior year because he was late the first day of class, and no one wanted to sit in the wobbly seat at the back of the room.

He didn't mind though, if it meant he could spend all of class gazing at Eddie's hair. Looking at how it curls and the slight frizz to it— the volume, the shape, how some of it will sit bunched up on his shoulders while the rest drapes down around him. He'd watch as it would shift and fall as Eddie moved his head, how a few chunks at the back were still caught under the neck of his shirt. Steve would sit and wonder about what shampoo he used, if he had conditioner too. Would wonder if he was in a rush today, if that was why it looked a bit messier today, more wild.

He should be reading. Eddie's reading. Actually, it looks like he's further ahead in the book than most of the class, taking notes in the margins and scribbling more in his notebook. Steve had been surprised at first, at how dedicated Eddie seemed to be in class. He's a year older than him, repeating his senior year. He had assumed that Eddie wouldn't have paid a lot of attention in class, or if he did, that he would have difficulty understanding it; since he evidently failed enough classes to have to retake the year.

But it seems English must not have been one of them, Steve thinks, as he watches Eddie flip a few pages back to mark something in the margin before resuming where he was, maybe only a few chapters from the end.

Steve was still fumbling his way through the third chapter.

He sat back, trying to refocus on his own book in front of him, willing the letters to stay still and sharp long enough to power through at least a couple more paragraphs before the end of class. Except his attention was swept firmly back to the mop of hair in front of him with far too much ease.

Eddie had sat up and leaned back into his chair from his hunched position over his book, and was currently looping a couple of his fingers through a small section of hair just by the underneath of his ear, tilting his head to the side, repetitively swirling the stands around and around. Any attention Steve hoped he could corral for the last fifteen minutes of class was immediately co-opted into studying the dark chocolate colouring, the shine when it caught the fluorescence of the lights, the flick of the ends when they were twirled back into the repeated action. The way none of it caught on the bulky rings on Eddie's fingers, just sliding right past them.

Steve was captured by him, mesmerised.

Which was nothing new. It happens one way or another at least a couple times a week— well, day really, since the start of the year. He hadn't paid Eddie Munson much attention previously, barely aware of his existence since they were in different years, and Eddie had kept to himself. Quiet and head down in the hallways, avoiding the unwanted attention he gained from his unconventional appearance. Plus last year Steve had been much more focused on his infatuation towards Nancy Wheeler, (which had resulted in a whole six months of dating before she got drunk at a party and admitted to not loving him, which he was totally over and totally fine with... and totally didn't leave any lasting insecurities or anything. Really.)

But that didn't really matter anymore, because thirty seconds into his senior year, while he was frantically shoving his jacket into his locker— the would-be new object of his affections strode past him. In all his leather jacket, denim vest, long haired glory.

Steve was captivated the second he caught sight of Eddie marching to class, quickly slamming his locker shut in order to turn and keep watching him go down the hall. Maybe it was the way he held his head high, how he taunted back mockingly at any passing barbs, how his hair was longer, lending to his dramatics. Something had changed in him over the break, that much was obvious. And whatever it was had Steve feeling like he was being pulled to him like a magnet.

This fascination had only further solidified by the end of lunch that day after Steve had sat staring unabashedly the whole time as Eddie had launched himself up onto a cafeteria table, monologuing and gesturing, grinning as Tommy H a couple of tables down from Steve had jeered at him. And as Eddie was swaying his way back along the table to his seat at the end, grinning and still talking, he glanced up to where Steve was sitting. Steve knew he was staring, that his eyes were wide, his mouth a little open, but he wasn't sure what Eddie had seen in his face that had made him stutter for a second and look away fast. And perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Steve had thought he caught the sight of a blush decorating his cheeks before his long curled hair swept in front of his face and he jumped down from the table.

That was five weeks ago. Five weeks of staring in the hallways, in the cafeteria, in the back of English Lit. Five weeks of spending his other classes mulling over all the information he gathered from said staring. Observing. That sounded less stalker-like.

Kind of.

But Steve wasn't sure where to go from here. Anytime Eddie glanced over and caught his eye, he would turn away. Quickly. Which was a bit insulting if he was honest. With Nancy it had been so easy. A little wink here, a little compliment there, and she was blushing and smiling. She needed a little more effort and commitment to actually get her to date him, sure— but the flirting had been easy. But Eddie wasn't Nancy, in many ways, so he was going to have to approach this differently.

It had never really been a question on whether or not he was going to do something about his fixation towards Eddie Munson— he knew what it felt like to have a crush. Especially a crush Steve Harrington Style. He knew that he would moon and pine over them until they either fell for him too or totally shot him down. He obsessed over Nancy until she broke his heart. He obsessed over Katie Matthews in 6th grade until she laughed at the valentines day card he had made her, mocking the spelling mistakes and the crooked doodled hearts. And he obsessed over a boy in summer camp the year after, until he rejected him the night before they went home. (Steve hadn't told his parents why he was so upset on the drive home, didn't tell them why he looked like he had cried all night.)

Point is, Steve knew he liked boys, knew he liked Eddie, and knew his crush wasn't going away anytime soon. He was also aware, however, that he couldn't approach it the same way he had in the past, with public gestures and intense flirting. So he had The Plan. An excellent, totally solid plan that only had like a seventy percent chance of ending in total heartbreak.

Seventy-five percent.

Eighty.

Eighty-two.

Whatever. He knew he had to do something to help channel all of the intense feelings he had about a guy who won't even look back at him.

So, his totally genius and innovative plan goes as follows— he's going to write Eddie letters. Anonymous letters, secret admirer-esque letters, where he can write all his silly little thoughts down and stick it in Eddie's locker. That way he can still feel like he's flirting, like he's actually doing something to process his feelings, all while also doing something nice for Eddie. It doesn't escape him that while Eddie is more confident and bolder than last year, and while his table is filled with like-minded looking friends, he has moments where he looks solemn, quiet. Steve definitely watches him enough to notice. He wants to make him feel good and if he can't express his affections towards him in person, he'll just have to do it anonymously, through the letters.

Everybody deserves to know the good things people think about them. Hopefully it will bring Eddie a little bit of private happiness.

So with a couple minutes left of class, Steve drags his eyes away from a particular curl of Eddie's, flips to the back page of his sparsely filled notebook, and begins writing near the bottom of the page.

Steve smiles to himself as he finishes it and carefully tears it from the rest of the page, folding it in half and tucking it into his jeans pocket, ready to slip it into Eddie's locker on his way to his last class. His locker is just by here, and if Eddie doesn't stop at it before going to his next class, he could probably slip it in through the grates as he passes without anyone noticing, all too focused on getting to their last class of the day.

He leans back into his chair, a small grin charming his face, happy to finally be doing something positive with the crazy fixation he's been having. Hopefully if he rushes back this way after his next class, he might even see Eddie find the note, see a smile that it might cause.

That Steve might cause.

2. A Simple Admirer

It's no secret that Eddie wasn't great at the whole school thing. If not apparent enough through the abundance of failed tests, then definitely by the fact that he was currently sitting— as a senior, once again— in his first class of the school year.

His last senior year had been kind of clusterfuck— in the your only remaining parent goes to prison, you fully move in with the uncle that you had been staying with on and off for years, and finally coming to terms with being gay kind of clusterfuck. So sue him if he sort of lost a bit of "academic focus".

This year will be different though; mostly due to being settled in with his uncle Wayne full time now. Wayne had been his safe haven during the later years of living with his old man. After the fourth or fifth time of turning up on his doorstep with a tear-flushed face— Wayne had handed him a newly cut key. It was probably one of the best days of life when Wanye told him he was taking him in officially.

Plus, another year of high school meant he gets to have another go of running Hellfire. Another year at trying to figure out whatever the fuck is going on in Math. Another year to try and demolish his horrifying crush on—

The door to the classroom opened with a low groan as the latecomer tried to slip in unnoticed, handsome face wincing as the noise caused all eyes to swing towards him.

—Steve Harrington. Who unfortunately, despite Eddie's multiple prayers hoping against this, seemed to have gotten even more attractive over the break. Clearly, Eddie and God were not on the same page.

"Mr Harrington. I'm not surprised but I am disappointed. Please hurry to your seat. And do try to not make this a habit. Again." The teacher says, her back to the door and she sorts through her papers.

Eddie watches through his peripheral as Harrington scans the room for an empty chair, knowing the only one he'll find is the one directly behind Eddie. He had hoped that the space was still unattended due only to the shitty wobbly chair it hosts, but he suspects it's a tad bit more personal than that. Still, Harrington heads towards it without pause, passing by Eddie and falling unceremoniously into the chair.

Shit. Fuck. Bitch shit.

Just his luck.

Eddie had made a pact with himself this year about Steve Harrington. See, during his Senior Year from Hell, he took all the comfort he could get. And if that came in the form of sad little daydreams involving a certain pretty jock and himself then so be it. He wasn't delusional or anything, he knew it was impossible. And probably a bit creepy. But the little fictional Steve Harrington that only existed in his mind— that he would imagine movie dates with and make hypothetical mixtapes for— had brought him some slivers of happiness when he needed it most. A little bit of joy. So he didn't regret it.

But he was no longer having the shittest time of his life, so he was allowing no more Pretty Boy Delusions. They had served their purpose and he was determined to not let his weird infatuation get out of control. The actual Steve Harrington wasn't a cute lover boy, and certainly wouldn't have anything to do with Eddie. He was putting a stop to the silly romantic daydreams this year. Absolutely.

That declaration lasted all the way until lunch.

Look, Eddie was a simple man. He wanted simple things. And if a simple man glances up while making his way back along a tabletop after he gave a —quite frankly, riveting— monologue against compulsory sports, and see's the sight that is Steve Harrington wide eyed, mouth parted, with a strong blush spread over his face… then the simple man is falling right back under the spell. Luckily, he doesn't actually fall. Mostly just stumbling a little while getting back to his chair, hiding his own blushing face behind his newly grown out hair, nodding as his friends laughed about his spontaneous performance.

Why was he looking at me like that? Was he even looking at me, or just like, my general direction?

While blushing.

Such a pretty blush.

Eddie shook his head as he refocused on his meal, mostly picking at what was left as he wedged himself back into the conversation, eager to distract himself. He had made a deal with himself, and he wasn't about to dive straight back into that mess because of one measly moment. He was stronger than that. He owed himself that.

And God must have finally felt a tiny bit bad about all the colossal shit that he'd thrown at Eddie his whole life, because five weeks into the school year— five weeks of totally, absolutely, not thinking about Steve Harrington— Eddie gets a note in his locker.

From a secret admirer.

Like an actual real life secret admirer.

What the fuck.

Eddie had gone to his locker at the end of the day to grab a few of his Hellfire notebooks— yeah he had more than a few, obviously— so he could work on the campaign at home, but paused when he noticed a folded scrap of paper sitting atop one of the piles. It wouldn't have struck him as odd as his locker was filled with scraps of paper— in a very organised manner of course— except he almost exclusively used gridded paper. It came in very useful when plotting out maps and dungeon layouts, he found.

But the folded paper was lined, so it wasn't his. Eddie glances back at the door of his locker— someone must have shoved it through the horizontal slats. Curiosity taking over, he picks up the note and unfolds it. The writing is slightly slanted, but neat enough. Nothing standing out as odd, except for the fact that it was a fucking secret admirer note.

Eddie,

I think your hair is so pretty, I look at it all the time. You've been growing it out haven't you? It suits you. Super cool.

From, a simple admirer

Eddie stared. He read it again. And again. After the third time he glanced up and around the hallway, seeing if there was anyone hovering, watching him.

Just in case.

But he's like, eighty percent sure it's real and not just a shitty prank. Purely due to the fact that it's clearly a very spur of the moment, impulsive note— but don't get him wrong, it's super cute and lovely; his heart practically leapt out of his chest when first read it. It's just so nice. Like whoever wrote it had been thinking of him and gave into the urge to write down their stream of thought. Their thoughts that had been about Eddie, about his hair that he refused to cut, about how much they liked it, how much it suited him, how cool they thought it was.

Like, if it was a prank, surely there would be cheesy poetry to laugh at him for getting all worked up over. Or a request to meet somewhere where sketchy jocks could jump him.

But the note was brief. Simple. And nice. It wasn't wasn't asking anything of him. Like the only reason it was written was to compliment him, to make him feel good. It probably wasn't a joke. He was like eighty-seven percent sure it wasn't a joke. And anyway, he was willing to take the risk that it might be a prank, especially if it got him more notes like that. Cause holy shit, they made him feel good.

3. You've already got the rockstar look down

Steve had been wallowing around in his bad mood all morning. His eyes drooped, dark shadows weighing them down. His hair was beyond hope and he just wanted to find a cool, dark corner to slink into. Escape to a place where he wouldn't have to put any effort in; where wouldn't have to force a fake smile on his face for the few people who still paid him any attention after he stopped performing as King Steve after he started dating Nancy. Sometimes he regrets shunting off Tommy and Carol so harshly back then. It's not like he had anyone else to fall back on now that Nancy avoids him too.

He hadn't had the chance to see Eddie open the note he had left the other day. Instead he got held back in Biology by the teacher in order to discuss the poor quality of his lab report, claiming he failed to make any valid observations. Which, Steve's pretty sure, was bullshit. He was great at observing, obviously, just maybe not so great at explaining said observations.

But that whole thing and missing Eddie's reaction was only a small part of the reason behind his poor mood— His parents had left again that morning, after being home for an unusually long time of ten whole days. Without waking him to say goodbye, of course. That had stopped after he turned fifteen, instead he's left with brief notes detailing their trip length and hotel number. The note his mom had left on the kitchen counter this morning had said they'd be gone for three weeks.

His birthday was next week.

She didn't say anything about it in the note.

He was starting to get a little tired of feeling so lonely.

But still, Steve was determined to keep his head down and avoid any awkward interactions as he walked through the school's front doors that morning. That was, until he heard an excited shout from the corridor ahead of him.

"Eddie!"

Steve should have been embarrassed by how fast his head had shot up at the sound, but he was far too focused on focusing in on the scene happening a couple metres ahead of him. A sandy haired boy, a bit on the short side, perhaps a year or two younger than Steve, was jogging up to Eddie, who had been pinning something up on the school's notice board. Steve watched as Eddie turned to greet the boy with an excited grin. It only made Steve feel a tiny bit jealous.

"You finally finished the poster?" Steve could hear the boy ask as he reached the board, eyes wide.

"Yeah, last night! Check it out man, looks totally awesome, right?" Eddie replied loudly, stepping back to let the boy admire whatever poster they were talking about.

Steve briefly considered approaching them to ask about it, hoping Eddie's clear enthusiasm about the poster's subject would override whatever animosity he could have towards Steve in that moment. That he would aim that smile towards him, the excitement. But he kept walking, not having the emotional stability today to handle even the possibility of Eddie's cold shoulder.

He risked a glance over as he finally passed them though, because of course he did, he's an idiot, and caught Eddie's eye for a split second. Before Steve could even think to wipe whatever melancholy expression he had off his face— to enact the previously infamous Harrington Smile— Eddie had already looked away, his attention focused back on the poster, hands gesturing all over.

Steve will just have to check out the poster at some point between classes.

It was a band poster.

A really fucking cool band poster.

The words CORRODED COFFIN were etched out in big rough letters in the top half of the page, sketches of bats and lighting bolts haloing it. There were more drawings below the title, depicting various band instruments, carefully shaded and detailed. Just underneath had, more neatly, the name of a bar with a few dates and times, obviously advertising the band's shows. Eddie's band's shows.

Steve wishes he could go to one of them. If Eddie was even half as dynamic and theatrical performing on a stage as he is on cafeteria tables, it'd be an incredible show. He's definitely the frontman, Steve thinks as he hurries to his last class before lunch, having spent far too long staring at the poster that Eddie had made. Probably lead guitar or vocalist, he seems like the kind of guy to have learned guitar. Steve ponders what Eddie's voice would sound like singing as he slides into his English Lit class, only slightly late.

Eddie's already there, hunched over his book, spinning his pen between the fingers of the hand not holding the book open. Steve feels his face heat a little when faced with the boy he had just been thinking about. He made his way to the back, settling in his wobbly chair, and pulls out his book and notebook despite knowing he wouldn't be able to concentrate with the mix of emotions in his head.

He was tired of feeling lonely. He wished he could lean forward and ask Eddie everything about his band. How long have you played together? Do you write your own songs or do you do covers? Can I come to see you? The answer would probably be no, Eddie had never talked to him, obviously deciding long ago that he didn't like him, and Steve couldn't even blame him for it. Steve had been so desperate for attention and praise that when he entered high school he had spent all his energy getting in with the popular crowd— who aren't exactly renowned for their kindness. Tommy especially had never had a problem with shouting insults across the hallway, shoving and teasing and yelling his way through the day. And Steve would watch on and laugh and act like he was above it all. And while he wasn't proud of his previous actions— having so many friends was something he missed. Now, there were sometimes days where he barely even uttered a word.

His gaze focused in on the slope of Eddie's shoulders, the curve of his back through his shirt as he leant over his book, the way his hair fell down around the sides of his face. He had so many things to say to him.

Steve flipped to the back of the notepad once again, hoping that if he got out a chunk of his thoughts onto the page for another note to Eddie, that maybe he'd be able to trick his mind into thinking they might actually be communicating. That he's not actually as lonely as he is.

It was a bit more indulgent than the first note. Longer, more detailed in his compliments. But fuck it— he was feeling a bit sappy and a bit reckless; not a great combination but it's what he's got to work with. He gently tore the note out of his notebook and folded it into his pocket, eyes on the curling mass of hair before him. He gave a little smile, his dark mood from the morning finally starting to lift. He pulled his attention back towards the book he had laying open waiting for him to stare the letters into cooperation until the bell rang.

This time, he saw Eddie's reaction to his note.

Steve had slipped the paper into his locker right after English Lit, having seen Eddie head in the opposite direction, towards the cafeteria. He had then spent his lunch break bouncing between stealing glances at Eddie's theatrics from across the room, and trying to catch up on his reading. He sometimes found it easier to read when there were background noises— nothing too distinct to pick up on, but enough to occupy the part of his brain that always started to wander as soon as he tried to focus. The cafeteria was perfect for it, the idle chatter slowing his frantic mind.

Steve was so focused on pushing his way through the book that he almost missed Eddie leaving the cafeteria. He had reflexably glanced up towards the table where Eddie sat just as he finally finished up a chapter, only to just catch sight of the back of Eddie's vest disappearing through the crowd towards the hallway. The idea that he could be heading to his locker, the locker that contained Steve's note, rang through his head. He wanted to see. He needed to see.

Steve hastily shoved the book and his scattered belongings back into his bag as he clambered to stand, quickly weaving his way to the other end of the cafeteria. He kept up a brisk speed as he caught up to Eddie, seeing him round the final corner before his locker. Steve slowed his pace as he reached the turn, sliding over to lean casually at the inner corner of the junction, trying to appear as if he was merely waiting on someone, rather than spying on a hopeless crush like a creep.

From his vantage point he could see Eddie briefly fiddle with the lock on the door before swinging it open. Steve held his breath for a moment as he caught sight of his note, fluttering out and towards the floor. It didn't get a chance to reach the ground however, as Eddie's ringed fingers moved to snatch it out of the air before it could. Instead of immediately opening though, Eddie paused to tuck his hair behind his ears and stare at the folded paper in his hands for a moment, shifting his weight slightly.

Why was he waiting? Steve couldn't decide if he looked excited or apprehensive. Fuck— what if Eddie hadn't liked the first note, thought it was creepy or too personal. If Eddie wasn't enjoying the notes Steve wouldn't want to continue them— the whole point of them was to bring them both a little joy, to help him process his swirling emotions, not to cause any extra stress to Eddie.

Just as he was starting to spiral, Eddie flipped open the paper.

Steve studied the side his face as he watched Eddie read through the note, noticing the way he bit down on his bottom lip halfway through, the way his head ducked down closer to the paper, the way his fingers tightened their grip slightly. Steve stared as the corners of Eddie's mouth creased as he tried to hold back a smile, eyes squinting, face warming.

Steve let out a breath. Eddie liked the note.

Oh thank god.

Eddie must have read over the note a few times with how long he held it, before seemingly coming back to himself with deep breath and refolding it carefully, sliding it into an inner pocket of his vest. Eddie turned his attention back to his locker to start rifling through the towering piles of notebooks, folders, and books. Steve took this as his cue to slip back the way he came, satisfied that not only was Eddie reading his notes, but that he was reacting like that. While his purpose for the notes was to try and ease the consuming pressure of his crush, it may end up doing the opposite and increasing his affections because holy shit was Eddie so cute when he blushed.

4. Hopeless Idiot

Sometimes, Eddie noticed, Steve Harrington looked sad. Sometimes, Eddie would catch a glimpse of him in the hallways, or sitting at the near empty table in the corner of the cafeteria, and he just looked so far away. Like he had a million things going through his head, and none of them looked so great.

Like, earlier that day, when Eddie had been showing Gareth their band poster he'd drawn up the night before, he had glance up and locked eyes with Harrington just as he passed. Eddie had quickly whipped his head back around, still committed in his don't think about Steve Harrington plight, but he couldn't get the look Harrington had on his face out of his head. And he knows he's not supposed to ponder him, because pondering leads right back to obsessing. It's a very slippery slope.

But god did that boy look miserable. Well, more weary that outright miserable. It wasn't far off though. It was like he was exhausted; like he barely slept, or when he did it was not a fruitful, heavy sleep— but rather a strained, shallow one. Eddie felt for him; he had quite the fall from grace last year from what Eddie could tell. Couldn't be easy to suddenly become one of the common folk. Although, it was more like being the exiled prince, rather than just being like everyone else.

He seemed lonely.

No. No no no. No no. No. Not going down that road again. Sympathy turns into empathy and empathy turns into feelings. And he wasn't going there, he had much more pressing emotional shit to deal with.

Mainly, the whole secret admirer thing.

Which was driving him absolutely fucking insane. Eddie wasn't the kind of guy to just go with the flow. He couldn't just let things run their course or put things out of his mind. As soon as he received the note, he'd been obsessing. He had spent the last few days watching people out of his peripheral in the hallways to see if anyone looked at him differently. Well, more differently than they usually do. He would check by his locker between every class, hoping for either a new note or to catch someone in the act. How was he expected to act like a normal, calm, rational human-being with the knowledge that there was someone casually roaming the halls that was his secret admirer. Someone who thought about and liked his frantic hair so much that they had to not only get it out onto paper but to make sure he knew about it. To make sure Eddie knew that there was someone out there thinking such nice things about Eddie of all people.

And he was expected to not be obsessed with them? Absolutely not.

But as a few days passed with no new note sitting in his locker, and no charmingly shy person coming up to him to confess, Eddie was starting to dread that it was just a one-off.

And then came the second letter.

Eddie had left the cafeteria early to sort through the mass of notebooks, novels, scrap paper, and folders that filled his locker, needing to find one specific notebook in all of that. But as he swung open his locker, his eye caught a glance of folded lined paper fluttering out and down towards the ground. He grabbed it excitedly, knowing exactly what it was. He took a second to brace himself before opening it. The note looked longer than the initial one, which only made him more giddy.

Eddie,

I hope you don't mind that I wrote you another letter.

I saw your band poster, it looked so cool! I didn't know you were in a band, I'd bet you're the front man huh? You've definitely got the charisma for it. And you've already got the rockstar look down. Those drawings were so cool too— I didn't know you could draw as well.

Wish I could say this to you in person, shower you with compliments like you deserve, but this will just have to do. Good luck at your shows, bet they'll be amazing!

From, a hopeless idiot

Eddie had tried to hold back a crazy smile but he totally failed. The generous compliments were one thing —that still got him ridiculously flustered— but guessing he was the lead of the band based on his personality and looks, the flirty tease about him being looking like a rockstar, and wishing him luck in the shows— he was getting overwhelmed. Obsessed. Who was this person? How much attention must they pay him? And to think of him so fondly.

He was going to figure it out, no way was he going to let such a kind soul escape him. To spend their time pouring these thoughts into the letters purely to give Eddie some compliments, to make him happy, and receive nothing in return? He has to know. Has to find out who they are.

The evening after the first letter Eddie had tried to start a list of people he thought could be the admirer, but that just turned into a mindfuck the more he thought about it. He liked guys, very very much, and when he had read the note initially, he had read it like it was a guy writing it. That's just what made sense in his mind. It also made sense as to why the person was sending notes instead of just going up to him like a girl would. Except— he wasn't exactly the most approachable person, with the whole loud, metalhead, Satan worshipper vibe he had going on. He really hoped it wasn't a girl though, not just because he'd have to let her down, which just sounded like awkward agony, but because he would lose the possibility of the notes turning into something real. It was a small possibility, but a possibility nonetheless. Right now, the notes represented so much potential. He didn't want to lose that.

That's also why he wanted to stop thinking about Steve Harrington. Again.

After suffering through the last few classes of the day, and re-reading the second note a few hundred times, Eddie had started to walk over to where he held D&D at the end of the day. He had decided to cut across the parking lot to avoid the masses in the hallways, and to protect his tower of materials he had gathered for the session. His head had been bouncing between where they currently were in the campaign and the swirly, happy feelings from the second note— when he thought he heard his name. He looked up and around until he caught sight of him. Harrington was standing by his car with one hand on his hip, the other reaching for the door handle, along with two middle-schoolers. It must have been the boys that had said his name as Harrington looked stunned to see him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. Just like that first day of school in the cafeteria.

He stumbled a little as Harrington lifted his hand to shoot him a little wave, a small smile on his lips. Still managing to look like a deer in headlights however. Eddie returned the gesture, trying to smile a bit as the kids waved at him also. He thinks he heard them say something about Hellfire; must be fellow nerds excited to join when they move up to the high school. He'll have to keep an eye out for them— there's like a sixty-seven percent chance he'll still be around next year based on his performance so far.

He startles slightly at the sudden car horn —there seems to be a third child already in the car— and takes it as he cue to walk on. But not before seeing the terribly endearing sight of Steve Harrington sticking his tongue out at the kid in the car.

Oh god that was cute.

Eddie tried to fight off the smile that was wrestling its way onto his face as he walked away— but the swirly happy feeling from the second note was now joined by the fuzzy conflicted feeling that comes with seeing Harrington surrounded by a bunch of nerdy kids.

No. No no, he must stay strong. He doesn't think about Harrington anymore. Doesn't think about his big brown eyes. Doesn't think about the soft curve of his mouth. Or the angle of his chin. Or the hue of his blush. Doesn't matter how many times he's caught Harrington staring at him across the cafeteria, or in the halls, or as he walks into class— he doesnt think about him then, he won't think about him now.

God never mind— that's all total bullshit. Eddie's going fucking insane.

Absolutely insane.

Harrington just stares at Eddie because he's the school freak, right? He just gets that cute blush, and wide eyed look because he's put off by him, right? There's no way Eddie's going to have to add Harrington to his list of secret admirer suspects… right?

Oh god he is, isn't he?

When Eddie reaches the drama room where they hold the weekly D&D sessions, he slams his ridiculous pile of papers on the table and digs through it to grab his personal notebook. He flips to the most recent page and huffs as he scrawls Steve Harrington??? to the suspects list.

No freaking way.

5. I hope you like the notes even though they're not as good as your books

Steve had spent the rest of that day in a happy daze. Eddie liked his letter. Eddie smiled at his letter. The lingering sadness from his morning has almost entirely lightened as he sits through the rest of his classes, lips curling up at the thought of the joy his words had brought Eddie.

Steve's warm, calm mood continued as he made his way to the carpark, sliding through the groups of students still hanging by the door. When he broke free from them and began to cut across the already emptying spaces, he caught the familiar sight of three short figures hovering by his car, seemingly in deep, dramatic discussion.

He's not sure when he officially, and totally accidentally, adopted the kids. It had started near the end of his stint of dating Nancy, when he could feel her pulling away from him. He wanted to gain her favour back, her affection, so he would go even more out of his way to help her with things. Not that there was much to help her with, she was pretty self sufficient. So when the opportunity arose for him to offer to give her younger brother's friends a ride home one stormy evening, he jumped at it.

It quickly developed into giving them rides home all the time, and seamlessly shifted into shuttling them around everywhere even after he and Nancy broke up. Nowadays it was mostly just Dustin, Max and Lucas, the other two having older siblings more readily available than calling up Steve. But that suited him just fine— they were his favourites anyway. He would never tell them that though, especially Max, he had a feeling she would mercilessly tease him for that.

By the time Steve neared the car, Lucas had noticed and was waving at him, leaning around Dustin who was still furiously trying to continue a debate with an uninterested looking Max.

"Hey, Steve! You have to drive us to the arcade!" Lucas says as soon as he's close enough to hear.

"Y'know, a please would be appreciated at least every now and then." He snarked as the other two turned to greet him.

"Oh please, Steve, please drive us to the arcade pleeease." Dustin chimed in, in a far too sarcastic tone, rolling his eyes.

"Like he has anything else better to do." Max snorted, already lining herself up by the passenger door.

Steve made to quickly unlock the car before she started aggressively yanking on the handle as she was prone to doing if he took too long. "Those are harsh words for the guy who's really going out of his way for some kids he's not even related to."

"Sounds like a you problem." Max smirked as she jumped into the front seat, slamming the door behind her before Dustin could try and wrestle her out. Again.

Steve rolled his eyes, sighing loudly to get the attention of the chattering boys. He was about to gesture for them to get in the car, when his attention was snapped up to the side of the parking lot.

Eddie was walking along the edge of it, his chain accessories glinting in the sunlight, hair floating gently behind him. He had his head down, focused on the pile of notebooks stacked in his arms, shuffling them into a certain order. Steve felt his chest twist for a moment at the surprise sight of him.

"What're you staring at?" He blinks, most of his attention still on Eddie as Lucas speaks. "Oh my god that's Eddie Munson, he runs the Hellfire Club!" Lucas hisses excitingly, having caught sight of him, effectively cutting off Dustin and he twirls dramatically to look.

"The what club." Steve mutters as he finally drags his eyes away from Eddie long enough to frown at the boys.

It's Dustin that replies to him, previous subject forgotten in the wake of a clearly more important one. "Hellfire! It's the D&D club! I'm so excited to join when we get to high school. I've heard Eddie writes these crazy campaigns, makes them super hard and elaborate. It's gonna be awesome!" Dustin keeps chattering loudly, going back and forth with Lucas discussing what they heard about the club.

But Steve's attention was back on Eddie.

Who was now looking over at them, having clearly heard Dustin's terribly loud exclamations.

Shit.

Steve lifts his hand in an awkward imitation of a wave, hesitant smile twitching onto his lips. Eddie fumbles midstep and clumsily re-adjusts his notebooks before lifting his hand in acknowledgment, a confused frown on his face. It's only when Dustin and Lucas wave back happily does Eddie let out a smile, though it doesn't fully erase the frown upon his eyebrows.

Probably wondering why Steve's only friends are middle-schoolers that he carts around everywhere so that they keep liking him—

Steve's little spiral is cut short by Max slamming on the horn, clearly fed up of waiting. He turns to glare at her through the window, just to see her already sticking her tongue out. He sticks his tongue out back, of course, because he's mature and responsible. Obviously. He glances back up just in time to see Eddie turning back to his papers as he continues on his way. Steve was probably imagining the smile on his face.

The boys were still chatting excitedly about Hellfire as they got in the car, Steve following suit after he finished watching Eddie push his way through a door in the adjacent building, managing not to drop any of his papers.

He slid into the front seat, pausing for a second before turning the engine on and pulling out of the lot. "So how does the whole D&D thing work anyway?" He asks, already regretting it when he hears Dustin's deep inhale.

Max groans and slams her head back against the headrest as the boys both turn forwards and begin their enthusiastic explanations.

Steve's sitting at his sparsely populated lunch table a few days later, desperately trying to read more of his English Lit appointed book. He's managed to get through a few more chapters but he's not sure how much he's actually taken in. It frustrates him to no end. He tried to tell his parents about his difficulties reading when he was younger, only to be dismissed as lazy, lacking focus. Same results when seeking help from his teachers. Maybe he was just lazy. Maybe the swirling letters that blend together was just his brain not bothering to sort them out. He just found it so difficult to focus when he wasn't invested in the subject. His mind drifted so easily. Drifted to something he actually cared about, that made him feel something.

Like Eddie.

Eddie was reading too. Across the cafeteria, he was sitting at the head of the table filled with people from that D&D club he apparently runs, leaning back in his chair with a book resting open on his thigh. He had one hand loosely holding the book open, fingers glinting occasionally when his rings would catch the light. Most of his hair was tossed back over his shoulders, but a few strands hung around his face. God, he was gorgeous.

Dustin and Lucas had been all over the place when they explained their nerd game the other day. Steve wasn't quite sure what charisma and initiative had to do with slaying dragons in dungeons, but he gathered that it was a role-playing story game at its core. Stories that Eddie wrote for his club. Dustin had put a lot of emphasis on how infamous Eddie's stories, or uhh, campaigns, were amongst the local community of dungeon nerds.

Steve imagines he must spend a lot of time on them. Those piles of notebooks he has stacked haphazardly in his locker were probably filled with his writings. Does he gleam inspiration from the books that he reads? He must, right? There's barely a day where Steve doesn't see Eddie with a book or two in his hands along with his notebooks. I wonder what his favourite book is.

With thoughts of Eddie swirling around in his mind, Steve glances around. The closest person is a few seats down from him, concentrating on their own work. It's probably safe to write Eddie another note, and maybe by doing so, Steve will be able to grant his own book some attention— get his thoughts out before they get too loud. Too indulgent. He flips his notebook to a new page, abandoning his poor attempts of literature analysis on the previous page for the time being.

He felt unsure about this one, hesitating as he finished it. It was more vulnerable. And he explicitly told Eddie that he liked him. Well, that his secret admirer liked him. Not Steve Harrington. He wasn't sure how Eddie would feel about that. But hopefully the knowledge that someone out there noticed those things about him, appreciated them, and liked him for it, made Eddie feel good. All Steve wanted to do was make him feel a little bit happy with his words. Even if that was all it was ever going to be.

He looked up again at Eddie, now consumed in a passionate debate with the rest of the table it seemed, based on the sweeping hand gestures and bold expressions. He was so enthralling to watch. Maybe if Steve got desperate enough he might join that D&D club of his, experience the dramatic campaigns for himself. Maybe not the best idea though, he'd probably just end up falling further into an already far too deep hole of infatuation.

Steve sighed as he put his things into his bag, the new note safely tucked into his pocket. He slid out of his chair and headed out of the cafeteria, on his way to deposit another tiny part of his heart into a locker.

6. Foolishly, yours

Now that Eddie's thought it, the idea that Harrington could possibly— maybe, have a slight chance of being a contender to being his secret admirer— the idea wouldn't leave him.

It circles his mind while he's practising on his guitar that night, sprawled back against his accumulation of pillows. Every press of his fingertips to the strings, every vibration from the amp, every hum at each correction he makes— is tainted with the thought that Steve Harrington might be my secret admirer. It's all-consuming. Brain rotting. Mind melding.

So Eddie decides to do what he's failed to do in almost every class of his high school career; he studies. During the next few days he makes mental notes, observations, gathers data— analyses. It's a very intellectual process, really. Eddie watches Harrington— he notes how often his gaze turns to Eddie in the halls; notes the slight flush to his cheeks as he walks past him in English Lit to sit behind him; notes how often he'll glance up in the direction of Eddie's table at lunch.

All of which was the data Eddie had set out to collect. What he hadn't expected to see were also the frowns of frustration that crossed Steve's face as he attempted to read during lunch; the lines deepening as he went back and forth between his book and his notes. Or how often he seemed to give those three nerdy middle-schoolers rides to and from school— was he even related to any of them? Though Eddie had to admit, while watching covertly, it seemed more like a parental-like relationship than sibling-like, with the way he had to coral them into the car, bemoaning their loudness and fussing over them. He seemed less morose when he was with them at least.

Theories and thoughts of Steve Harrington were still swirling around in Eddie's head as he was having lunch a few days after the second letter. He had his current book balanced on his lap as he engaged in a very passionate discussion— not an argument, thank you very much, Gareth— with Jeff and David about their newest song, when he glances over to Harrington's table just in time to see him look back down at his own book. Had he just been looking over at him again? Eddie watched as Steve stood, one hand in his pocket as he picked up his notebook and English book with the other, before he weaved his way out round the tables.

"Please don't tell me you're back to obsessing over Harrington again, Eddie." He heard Jeff say, quickly followed by the sound of Gareth letting his head hit the table as he moaned mournfully.

"Hey! No, I told you I left that shit behind this year!" Eddie whined back, batting at Gareth's head to get him to sit up again as he continued to groan. How dare he be more dramatic than him.

"Yeah, sure," Jeff continued, raising an eyebrow, "So then why did we all just witness you stalk him with your eyes as he left the cafeteria, huh?"

Eddie huffed as he looked away, crossing his arms after dumping his book onto the table. "I was just—" So, he hadn't told them about the whole secret admirer thing. It was probably a breach in friendship law or something, but it felt too delicate, too fragile, to share. It was also deeply personal, not only to himself but also to his admirer. He wasn't sure if he'd let anyone else ever read those letters. The letters that he had carefully folded and placed between the pages of his favourite book on his bedside table.

Yeah no, not telling them about all that.

"I can see you trying to formulate a lie, Eddie," Gareth sneers, nose scrunching. "Can't believe you still have the hots for a shitty jock, of all people."

Eddie rolls his eyes as goes to stand, gathering his things. "You're right, you're right, I'm a terrible stereotype, I've failed you all." He rambles sarcastically, tucking his book under his arm. "I just have a… theory, that I'm working through. Nothing to trouble you all with."

"And what sort of theory involves lovingly staring at Harrington?" Jeff says back, a teasing smirk on his face.

"I wasn't lovingly staring— whatever! I'm going, enjoy the rest of your lunch, you bastards." He says, giving Gareth another bat on the head when he snorts a laugh as he passes.

Eddie was still muttering rebuttals to his friend's teasing comments as he reached his locker, opening it on autopilot to exchange his books, when the sight of crisp lined paper halted him.

Another note.

Eddie gently picked it up as he slid what he was holding into his locker, turning his full attention to the note as he unfolded it.

Dear Eddie

I hope you enjoy reading the notes I write you. I noticed you read a lot, that you always have a new book. You must be so smart to be able to read so much so fast. I hope these are something you look forward to reading. I'm not so good at writing, I don't think, it's hard getting them to sound good— to express the way I feel about you in writing. Into something understandable.

I find reading quite difficult. How do you get the words to stay put? I want to get better at it. You seem to enjoy it so much. What are your favourites, I wonder. Do you like fantasy? To go with the stories you write for your D&D club?

I think I would enjoy reading more if I knew it was one of your favourites, or if you had written it. I bet you'd write such lovely letters to the person you like. I like you, so I'm trying my best.

I hope you like the notes even though they're probably not as good as your books.

Foolishly, yours.

Oh god.

Oh god.

What an angel, what a sweetheart. How did he get so lucky? They noticed how much he reads— they wanted to know what his favourite books were. They asked about Hellfire. And were trying so hard to write such lovely letters— that were not only so personal and raw but also so obviously out of their comfort zone. (Especially due to that comment about keeping the words still— he's sure he's heard Wayne complain about that before, too). And yet still they wrote, still they said they would love to read something Eddie wrote.

And they called him smart. Him. Super-senior Eddie Munson. Smart.

He could feel the infatuation building, the affection for the nameless sweetheart who writes such lovely things to him. For the person that signs their love notes yours. For the person that wrote so plainly I like you.

He needed to meet them, talk to them— communicate with them at the very least. No way could he go on with his life not knowing who they were.

Eddie spent his last few classes of the day practically floating. The sweet words of his latest note bobbing to the surface of his mind the second he tried to sway elsewhere. It was made no better at the sight of Steve Harrington already at his seat when Eddie, eventually, wandered his way into his final class. And while he still really wasn't sure about who his— lovely, darling, sweet— admirer was, he did check another mark in column Harrington at the way he blushed and quickly ducked his head when Eddie paused to smile at him before turning to sit in his chair.

Cute.

He had already read the book they were studying thrice over, and took extensive notes, so Eddie allows himself to drift back to thoughts of the note that he'd already basically memorised. Something was different about this one, like his admirer was letting themselves be more vulnerable and transparent with their feelings. It excites him, like maybe with time, his admirer would reveal themselves. Let him in.

He hears shuffling behind him, and a quiet frustrated sigh. He peaks over his shoulder, through his hair, to see Harrington hunched over his book. He was staring far too hard at the pages, face scrunched in concentration. It was only then that Eddie realised that it looked like Steve was only a third of the way through the book, despite the fact that they had been working through it for weeks now and were due a test on it pretty imminently.

How do you keep the words still?

I think I would enjoy reading more if I knew it was one of your favourites, or if you had written it.

Eddie shook his head slightly as he looked back at his own notebook before taking a breath, making a decision, and turning back around fully— notebook in hand.

"Hey."

Harrington's head shot up as he blinked his big, ridiculous, deer in headlights eyes at him.

"Hi?"

Oh cute, a blush.

"I uhm— see you don't have a ton of notes going on there, and I was wondering if you would… wanna borrow mine?" Eddie gensures a bit with his rather stuffed full notebook, a couple of loose pages almost slipping free. He had liked the book, alright? And he had some pretty strong opinions that needed voiced.

Steve's blush deepened, but so did his frown.

"Oh, you— you noticed that?" He wasn't looking at Eddie anymore, and had slunk back down in his chair, arms crossing over his body self-consciously. He was clearly embarrassed that Eddie had brought it up, despite the fact that Eddie wasn't exactly in any position to poke fun at anyone struggling in class.

So he leaned in further, arms crossed over the top of the backrest, notebook hanging from his fingertips. "Yeah, but like, I totally get it. If I don't give a shit about a book there's no way in hell that I'm getting through it. Hence this being my second time around." He twirled his other hand around, letting a smile form on his face when Steve looked back up at him. "Just got lucky this time that we're doing a book that I have some very pointed opinions on."

Steve wasn't looking like he wanted to sink into the floor anymore, but was still holding himself like one wrong comment would send him into a tailspin. Which was so unlike the old Harrington that Eddie was having to do some serious recontextualising on the fly.

"I just thought," Eddie continued, "To save you from toughing it through the book— you could just go over my notes? Though I gotta warn you man, I have some heavy opinions that you better commit to." He shot Steve a cheeky grin, hoping to ease his still anxious position.

To his delight, Steve cleared his throat and sat back up, ducking his head a bit to try and hide the blush that Eddie was oh so fascinated with. "I— yeah, yeah that would be great actually. You're really okay with it?"

"Yeah sure Harrington, no skin off my back to help a dude out." Eddie said, letting a softer smile slide onto his face. He dropped his notebook onto Steve's desk— honestly a little proud with how heavy it sounded, he'll have to show Wayne when he gets the book back.

Steve reached a hand out to slowly start flicking through the pages, careful to tuck in any strays. "Even if it's me? I don't exactly have a history of being the nicest guy around here." He says, not looking at Eddie again. "I thought you hated me."

He hums for a moment, looking at the curve of Steve's jaw from this angle, before saying softly, "But you're different now, right?" Steve looks up through hair. "You don't hang out with Tommy H and those guys anymore, and you help out those nerdy kids? The ones who were screaming about D&D the other day in the parking lot?" He asks, tilting his head in question when Harrington continues to stare.

"Yeah." He whispers, eyes wide and glued to Eddie's.

"Right, so no, I don't hate you, Harrington. You're different now."

"Yeah, I'm different now." Steve says, gently.

"Good. So take the notes and say thank you." Eddie's teases.

Blush.

"Thank you."

The second Eddie gets home he heads straight to his room, shoves on the first cassette he can grab, and then promptly falls onto his bed face first, and screams.

At what point did Eddie fall into an alternate dimension where he not only has a secret admirer writing him lovely, sweet letters— but also where Steve Harrington is that adorable? That blushes and gets so shy when talking to Eddie?

He turns his head to glare at the wall— isn't it like, statistically impossible to be that fucking lucky? To have both those things going for him?

Yeah, actually, it is. For two completely separate miracles to happen to him? Absolutely impossible.

But for one miracle with multiple facets to happen, however, is far more likely.

Eddie pushes himself up to knees to reach over and grab his personal notebook from where it landed on his bed, and flips aggressively the most recent page to score through his (admittedly small) list of secret admirer suspects, and begins to write below it.

Evidence that Steve Harrington (formerly known as 'King Steve', now Reformed Good Dude) is my Secret Admirer:

1. Blushes and stutters when I smile and tease him??

2. Hasn't dated anyone since the whole Wheeler debacle??

3.Sits behind me in english class, where he'd get a pretty good look at my hair. (see note #1)

4. Saw me that day putting up the Corroded Coffin poster. (see note #2)

5. Struggles in class, especially with reading. (see note #3)

6. Close with those middle school kids who were screaming about D&D/Hellfire. (see note #3)

7. Looks at me all the damn time!!

8. I want it to be him

Eddie sits back to look over the messy list. Looking at all his evidence all laid out and written down, it feels both less and more plausible now. Like, yeah all these connections exist— but how much of it is just wishful thinking? He had spent the majority of last year mooning over Harrington— maybe he's just finally snapped after all the stress and officially gone crazy. Maybe he's just imagined all the staring and blushing, and all the connections from the notes are coincidence…

But Eddie really hopes he's not imagining things though. Really, really hopes.

7. Give me something real, please

Holy shit what the fuck was that.

Steve has been sitting in his car for twenty-four minutes going over every last detail he could remember from last period English.

Eddie had talked to him. Had smiled at him, teased him. Leant him his notebook— his extensive notebook. Every moment washed back and forth through his mind; the smile lines on Eddie's cheeks, the way he said Harrington, the grin. But the moment that kept coming to front, that held the most weight was—

But you're different now, right?

No, I don't hate you, Harrington.

Steve threw his head back against the headrest, and then forward into his wheel, letting out a long groan. It was safe to say he was freaking out a little bit.

As he raised his head in preparation to throw it back down again dramatically, his eyes caught on the notebook sitting carefully in his passenger seat.

Eddie's notebook.

And like, yeah, it was just a class notebook, but it was still so personal. Just from his brief initial flick through Steve was able to gleam so much about Eddie that he never would have know otherwise; how he's done little sketchy drawings of some of the characters and places described in the book as if to provide a visual for himself, and how his handwriting becomes sloppier the longer the paragraphs are, like he gets so lost in what he's writing.

He's holding something that Eddie has evidently put a lot of time and work into, that he trusts Steve with enough to borrow and bring back in good condition despite barely knowing him and, until today, never even having had a good experience with Steve before.

The more Steve thinks about it the more it confuses him. What motivated Eddie to do him such a favour unprompted? And he was so kind, even casually teasing to keep the mood up when Steve was obviously self conscious about being so behind in class. And his smile— Steve can't figure out how a week or two ago Eddie wouldn't even glance at him from across the cafeteria but now he's doing this and sending Steve's heart into cardiac arrest with his dimples.

The only difference between now and a few weeks ago is— Steve's notes. But, there's absolutely no way that Eddie would know it's him, right? Like, totally impossible. Massively improbable. And even if he had somehow figured it out— it's not like he would reciprocate his feelings. He doesn't even know if Eddie likes guys— well, like there's been a few rumours, but people also say he's a freak who's sacrificed cats to the devil so what the hell do they know.

Eddie was maybe just in a good mood. Steve had dropped the third letter into his locker that lunchtime— maybe he'd already seen it and it'd made him happy. That was the goal after all; to make sure Eddie knew how incredible, and pretty, and smart he was. Give his day a little bit of extra sunshine.

It seems maybe he's achieved that.

Despite the elation he had felt earlier in the week, it was two days before Steve's birthday when his bad mood reached a whole new low.

In the years previous, right about now he would be in the middle of inviting everyone to his huge party at his giant empty house. He would be roping Carol and Tommy into picking up booze and other party favours to ensure everyone had a great, drunken time. He would've had girls coming up to him in the halls all week to flirt and giggle while touching his arm— just to secure an invite. Guys slapping him on the back and complementing his plays in basketball to get the same. And while his parents had stopped making an effort to be home for his birthday after he turned fifteen, the last few years they had at least thought to leave expensive, apologetic gifts that had definitely softened the blow. Like the keys to his car.

This year however, there was none of that. No friends to plan a party with, no people buttering him up for an invite. No pre-planned present waiting from his parents.

Steve doesn't even know why it's hitting him so hard. It's not like he expected anything different — he barely talks to anyone anymore, why would he expect them to care? The only friends he has to speak of are middle-schoolers who don't even know it's his birthday. He hadn't told them about the upcoming special day because he honestly couldn't take telling them that no, he wouldn't be having a party or be getting any presents; he doesn't have any actual friends.

So really, he shouldn't be this broken up about it. Shouldn't be rolled up in a cocoon of his bedsheets on a Wednesday evening, tears drying on his face. He must be such a pathetic sight, no wonder no one sticks around.

In a desperate effort to not let himself sink further into that thought, Steve thinks of his only comfort; Eddie. And even though it's a mostly fictitious dynamic— it works. He thinks of Eddie's hands, his hair, the way they both fly through the air when he enacts one of his rebellious rants. He thinks of the shape of his back when he's hunched over a book, band shirts stretching and folding over his form. How it must feel to touch him; to place a gentle hand on his shoulder, his waist, his arm— feeling his warmth through the softness of his well worn clothes. Steve thinks of his voice; loud and dynamic in the cafeteria and the halls, but he wonders if Eddie lowers it to a soft tone in private. If it gets deeper or lighter when he's no longer performing, when it's just him alone with someone. How it sounds when he sings. Would he sing to him?

Whatever relief Steve had began to feel at the thoughts of Eddie, immediately started to sour at the realisation that he may never know any of those things for sure. That it all lived in his head, in his indulgent fantasies. None of it was real. And the more he thought about it, even the notes began to feel like they weren't tangible. It wasn't like he had anything to show for it; sure he had seen Eddie smile at the second one, but who was to say that they weren't more than a passing compliment to him? That he didn't throw them out at the end of the day. That they even meant anything to him— that Eddie thought about the writer of those letters with any fondness or care.

Steve needed more. He needed confirmation that he wasn't just throwing his feelings out into the void. He didn't need them to be reciprocated— that was an unfair ask, but just acknowledged. To be sincerely seen and appreciated. Not that he would think Eddie would be so blasé about receiving something so heartfelt, but he needed something. Anything. Validation— acceptance that Eddie understood the depth of feelings.

He slid out from under his blanket pile and made his way over to his desk, unearthing a notebook from one of its drawers. He sunk back down onto his bed, pen gripped in his slightly clammy hand.

It's the longest letter he's written. The most vulnerable one too. But he feels lighter for it and, hesitantly, a tiny bit hopeful. He's laid himself bare as much as he could without fully revealing himself, and if anything were to spur Eddie into responding– it would be this. Eddie's a nice guy under all his performances, even if he doesn't feel the same way about Steve, he would probably still be nice about it. Hopefully.

Steve gets up from his desk and goes downstairs to his father's study, raking through the untouched drawers for an envelope. It feels appropriate.

He scrawls for Eddie on the front, and carefully places it in the inside pocket of the bag he takes to school, ensuring its safe journey for tomorrow. He'll deliver it to Eddie's locker first thing, before he loses his nerve.

8. Sweet thoughts, Love

Eddie's late. Very late.

He stayed up too long for far too many nights in a row— jumping between firmly believing in his very concrete evidence, and then lamenting about his apparent fall into insanity. He's still undecided.

But hey, it's not like there's a time limit— Eddie will just continue to greedily receive lovely letters and make connections until he has a watertight case. Easy.

And yet he's still caught off guard when he flings open his locker to quickly grab his math notebook— and see's an envelope with his name neatly written on the front. Eddie pauses, and stares.

This is different. Why is it different?

He can't help but to feel a shot of anxiety at the presence of the envelope.

But he's late, very late, so he just gently slides the envelope (which feels larger than the usual letters) into the inside pocket of his vest, grabs his math book, and heads to class.

He'll read it later.

Eddie spends the entirety of his classes that day being too nervous to open the envelope. It feels like a Big Deal, alright? So either it's a Good Big Deal and he should wait to open it until he'll be able to properly enjoy it— or it's a Bad Big Deal and honestly he doesn't want to handle that at this godforsaken school.

So Eddie holds off on reading it— though the envelope stays in the inner pocket of his vest the whole day, where he'd play with corners of it whenever he zones out, idly pondering what could warrant the importance of the envelope.

Steve doesn't look at him in English class.

He makes it all the way until the last bell, where he dumps all his books in his ridiculous locker before basically sprinting to his van. The second he slides in and slams the door he's pulling the letter from his pocket. The parking lot's good enough, right?

Dear Eddie,

I think about you all the time. I can't stop. Everytime I feel sad or lonely, I think of you and I feel so much better. Isn't that so pathetic? You don't even know who writes these notes to you but just the thought of you makes my troubles feel lighter.

It's my birthday soon, on friday, and my parents are away and I don't have any friends, yet all I want is to see you smile at me. To wish me a happy birthday.

You are enjoying these right? I'm making you happy? I'm trying my best at them. I wish I could talk to you, instead. Tell you all this in person.

Don't think you would like that though, don't think you like me. But that's understandable. I'm not really the kind of guy that makes people stick around.

Oh. Yeah, I'm a guy, sorry if that's a disappointment. I mean, I've heard rumours about you, but people also say you're a freak who worships the devil, not the nicest, cutest guy ever, so I don't wanna jump to conclusions. And even if you do— you don't have to like me the same way I like you. But it would be nice if you didn't hate me.

Could I ask something of you though? For my birthday, could you write to me? So I have something from this, something real that I can hold. So if I have to stop, if you find out who I am and don't want me back, that I have evidence that this happened. That it was real.

I need something real from this. Something I can keep forever. To hold on to.

It can be about anything, just you acknowledging this would probably make my whole year.

Sweet thoughts, Love.

Eddie couldn't move, could hardly breathe properly. He hadn't realised how heavy his chest was rising and falling until he finished the letter— the heartbreakingly lonely letter.

Usually his admirer's letters leave him feeling elated; flattered, intrigued in the mystery, and soft. But this one— god. The loneliness, the desperate reach out to him— it was striking him harder than it probably should. But he feels close to them, the rawness of their letters making Eddie feel like he knows them. They've continuously laid out a very private part of themselves, bit by bit through their letters, especially this one. He wants to speak with them, comfort them; read them his favourite books and campaigns, listen to them talk.

His heart aches for whoever his sweetheart of a secret admirer is— though, after this note, he only feels more certain of his theory. It feels right, no one else feels right.

Eddie wants it to be Steve. Needs it to be Steve.

There is no question of if he was writing back.

Eddie has been agonising over what to write for— for five hours, according to his shitty digital clock.

After reading his most recent love letter from St— his Secret Admirer, he had driven home in a daze. Made dinner in a daze, said goodnight to Wayne in a daze. Various parts of the letter would rise to the forefront of his mind for him to agonise over only to be interrupted by a different part. Every time he'd try to put pen to paper, Eddie would end up just re-reading the love letter, bouncing between feeling lovesick and feeling heartache for them.

He wanted his letter to ease them. To soothe their pain and loneliness. To confirm to them that yes, he does adore their letters, that they mean everything to him. That they aren't alone, won't ever be, if they would let him in.

But with it nearing midnight, and the sweet sounds of Dio filling the air, Eddie let himself stop overthinking, and began to write.

Dearest Stev—

Shit.

Start again.

Eddie threw himself backwards on his bed, dragging a pillow over his face to scream into, yet again. He's sure his face was already red anyway.

It was probably too much. Too indulgent with the pet names, bared too much of his feelings. But isn't that exactly what Stev— the admirer had done? Gone out on a limb, bore so much of his heart to the paper?

It was only fair to return the favour.

9. Love, Eddie

As expected, when Steve rises to consciousness on the day of his birthday, he feels like shit. Like crap. Total crap.

And while purging his feelings into his latest letter to Eddie a few days ago had momentarily led him to feel better, more settled, it also meant that he then ferociously avoided Eddie the next day. Whenever he saw him in the hall, Steve would turn heel in the other direction, practically sprinting away. He even ended up skipping lunch to hide away in the library— and if he took that opportunity to carefully flick through Eddie's English notebook, gazing at the drawings and pouring over the chaotic tangents he'd take— that's his business.

Steve felt like he'd bared part of his soul in that letter and he knew he'd try and dissect every little facial expression that Eddie displayed if he saw him. Was he freaked out, had he taken it too far? The whole point of the letters was to make Eddie feel good, and he can't imagine that him moaning about being lonely on his birthday would've resulted in that. And asking, no begging, for Eddie to write back to him? What the hell was he thinking! Eddie knew nothing about the person who wrote him letters, what was there to even say?

Steve groaned and rolled over onto his belly, shoving his face fully into the pillow. Maybe if he lay like this long enough he'd suffocate himself and wouldn't have to face the inevitable no-response from the guy he was kind of stupidly in love with.

Yeah, there's no way he's going to school today. If Eddie so much as looks at him he'll have a breakdown. Plus, Steve really doesn't want to walk around the same halls as he did in previous years where he had got claps on the back and happy birthday's swung at him all day— only to not receive any of that this year.

Absolutely not. He's staying in his pity party bed and the only thing getting him out will be to go the store later to buy an ungodly amount of ice-cream.

Solid plan.

A solid plan that lasts a whole beautiful four minutes before the shrill of the phone ringing shatters it. Steve contemplates leaving it, but the tiny little voice in his head wonders if it could be his parents— calling to apologise for being away, calling to say his present hidden away somewhere.

So he hauls himself out and over to the phone, blankets and all.

"Hello?"

"Steve! Why do you sound like you're just out of bed? Come pick me up!" Dustin's voice reaches new heights of shrill over the phone that Steve will never get used to.

So. Not his parents then.

"What? Why?" Steve's frowning, he can't remember agreeing to play pick up today.

He hears an indignant huff before, "'Cause it's your birthday, you asshole! We have your presents? Obviously?"

Oh. Damn, this kid's never going to stop surprising him.

Wait.

"Who's we?"

Twenty minutes later, Steve watches as Max swings into the front seat in a flurry of hair, clutching what looks like a ball of scrunched up wrapping paper.

"Alright, we're grabbing Lucas before we get to Dustin's, yeah?" She says as she secures her seat belt, looking up at him expectantly when he doesn't answer right away.

"Right, sure." He pulls away from the curb, heading to the other side of town. "When exactly did you guys plan this?"

Max scoffs, fiddling with the wrapping paper in her lap. "Last night, after Dustin heard from Lucas, who heard from Will, who overheard Nancy talking to Jonathan about how she felt bad about not getting you anything for your birthday this year. And then Dustin freaked when he realised we hadn't got you anything, so— sorry in advance for the shit gifts." She looks down as she says the last part, probably aiming for uncaring, but her tone had softened as she continued to try and neaten the paper.

Huh. Steve hadn't realised how little he had thought about Nancy since he had started the whole sending Eddie love notes thing until now. He hadn't even considered the idea of Nancy getting him a present. Seemed a bit far fetched when she did little more than awkwardly wave at him in the hall.

"You guys didn't have to get me anything, you know. But I still really appreciate the gesture. I bet I'll love whatever you guys came up with." He lets a soft smile curl onto his face when he glances over at Max, seeing her smile down at her bundle of paper at his words.

Soon, he's pulling up the road in front of the Sinclair household just in time to see Lucas bounding out to meet them.

He slides into the back seat, with a couple of pages folded over together held carefully in one hand, as he stuffs his bag in between his feet with the other.

Lucas looks up then, greeting both Max and Steve with an excited grin. Before swiftly prompting Steve to hurry up and get Dustin.

With all of his miscellaneous kids collected, Steve parks in the back corner of the school's joint parking lot, and turns to them expectantly. They had spent the whole ride arguing who got to present their gift first. Max won, obviously.

So she cleared her throat and thrust the wrapping paper ball at him. It's much heavier than he expected. He starts to wrestle the paper free of the copious amount of tape as she speaks.

"So, uh, I was gonna get you one of those World's Best Babysitter mugs, but you're a sucky babysitter and I didn't want to waste my pocket money on that so— I just, yeah."

She trailed off as he pulled the last of the wrapping off to reveal a palm sized rock, its smooth sides painted very carefully with an array of colours, the words World's Worst Babysitter splayed across the top of it. And on the underneath, very neatly:

happy birthday Steve

love Max

Oh god.

Oh no.

"Don't you dare cry, you asshole!" Max screeches, knowing the look on his face as his eyebrows bunch up and he presses his lips together. "If you cry, I'll cry, and I am not crying in front of those two idiots."

At that, Lucas and Dustin break their patient silence— Lucas with a teasing coo and Dustin with a snort.

"I don't believe you can cry, Max. You didn't even cry at the end of E.T.!" Dustin argues, leaning on the back of Steve's seat.

Max rolls her eyes. "That's because I didn't care that the weird puppet was going away."

Dustin goes to sneer something back before Lucas, thankfully, interrupts him. "Anyway! Steve! It's time for me and Dustin's gift!" He says, trying to see him around Max and Dustin making faces at each other.

Steve was thankful for the momentary distraction their little argument had caused, so that he could pull himself together a bit. His head had gotten stuck on the image of Max staying up late last night, hunched on her bed carefully and thoughtfully painting him something— on whatever she could find.

Just as he thought this, Dustin broke their ugly face contest to ask, "Hey, why a stone? You just had that sitting about in your room?"

Surprising, Max blushed a little before looking down at the centre console, fiddling with quarters in the cup holder. "Yeah I— well, actually it's one of the rocks I took from California. From my favourite beach."

God this kid is trying to kill him.

Steve sniffed hard as he reached over to ruffle her hair, blinking hard as he nodded at her. She nodded back, patting his arm. "Thank you, Max. I love it." He whispered, laughing then when she huffed and pushed his arm away, all embarrassed.

"Okay, okay! Our turn!" Lucas says as he's finally able to thrust the papers he'd be holding the whole ride over to Steve. "Me and Dustin worked on it last night over our walkies. I drew the picture and wrote down the backstory Dustin came up with!"

Steve was confused about what he was talking about until he unfolded the pages— a stylised drawing of himself in mix-matched armour and holding a beaten up sword, looking back at him.

"We designed you a D&D character! I know you said you'll never play it but now at least we can have you as a recurring character in our campaigns!" Dustin says excitedly. He and Lucas then started taking turns on explaining the meanings of the weapons and objects that were drawn around his character, as well as the stats at the bottom of the page. "Your backstory is on the other page, we had many disagreements on it."

Lucas scoffed at that. "Can't believe you wanted to make him Rogue, seriously? He's obviously a Paladin."

Steve didn't know what that meant but he was too focused on directing all moisture in his body away from his eyes, again.

"This is— You guy didn't have to do this. But thank you. Really, I'm— this means a lot to me." He turns to look back at the boys, giving them a grateful smile. They both grin back, happy to see him appreciating their efforts.

They finally all get out of the car to go to their respective schools, after Steve carefully re-folds the papers and places it safely in the passenger cubby, along with Max's painted rock. He can't wait to display them in his room— the rock on his shelf next to his swimming awards, right at the front, and the character papers on his wall, right above his desk.

He gives them all quick one armed hugs as he holds his bag in the other, saying thank you again before saying goodbye, wishing them a good day.

He's so damn lucky to have those kids in his life.

The warm fuzzy feeling manages to carry him halfway through the school day before the heaviness from the morning starts to seep back in.

Earlier in the day, as he had expected, Nancy gifted him an awkward wave from across the hall on his way to second period. He had smiled politely and waved back, but had hurried on— he was still holding onto the warmth the kids had placed upon him tightly, and any failed attempt at normal conversation with her would have swiped it swiftly from him.

His hold on it completely evaporated however, on the way to his last class before lunch— when he caught sight of Eddie. He had been standing with a couple of his friends at the corner before the English classroom; gesturing loudly, smile on his face, hand on his friend's shoulder. And while he was gleefully unaware of Steve frozen in the hallway behind him— Steve was brutally reminded of the topic he had been hastily chasing from his mind since picking up the kids.

Fuck, Eddie read my note. The note where I whine and cry about being lonely on my birthday, which I told him is today. The note where I beg him to write me back, desperately.

Did he?

Steve took a sharp right into the bathrooms, heading straight to the furthest stall. He slammed it shut, locking it, and leaning his weight against it. He pushed his head against the door, smooshing his hair, and let out a long breath.

He hadn't realised he'd been avoiding Eddie locker all day. He wasn't sure what he expected honestly, but if he walked past it, then he'd know for sure.

And that terrified him.

After sulking in his cubicle for seventeen minutes, effectively deciding to skip his English class, Steve decided he might as well spend the rest of his sulk in the library. He should at least try to keep up with the class.

So he gathered himself, and trudged his way over to his locker. He started shifting through his clutter to grab his book and his notes, before freezing.

Eddie's notebook.

The one he had offered Steve out of nowhere, after never even saying a friendly word to each other before. Eddie had smiled at him that day. Winked at him, teased him. Went out of his way to make him feel better, and then lent him his notebook that he had clearly spent a lot of time on. That contained both silly doodles and passionate arguments.

Steve swiped up the overflowing notebook, tucking it under his arm as he marched through the halls towards Eddie's locker. He had faced far tougher things than a cute boy not writing him back. Or a cute boy writing back only to break his heart. Either way, he wasn't running from this anymore. Not if there was even a small possibility that it could lead to something good.

He stopped in front of the slightly beaten locker, slowly lifting his eyes to the grates near the top of the door. He lifted his hand, and gently threaded the tips of two of fingers into one of the slats. He felt the smoothness of paper, a corner. He curled his finger, causing the tip of the corner to fold and stick out of the grate, where he was able to grip it. He had to give it a few tugs to get it through, the artist tape sticking from it evidence on how it was placed— just for him to find.

It was gridded paper, neatly folded twice, with the words Dearest Secret Admirer scrawled on the front.

Holy shit.

Steve was in the very back alcove of the school library, palms flat on the table, mouth pressed into a line, staring at the still folded note.

He took a slow breath out.

And then a panicked breath in.

And unfolded the letter.

Dearest Secret Admirer,

Baby. You're killing me here!

How am I supposed to read that last letter and not respond? After all the lovely words you've written for me, of course you deserve the same in return.

But, most urgently, I want to wish a happy birthday sweetheart! Had I known earlier I would have made you a gift! Though if you'll accept a late one I'll be right on that.

I must say, your letter kinda broke my heart a little, darling. I hate the thought of you being lonely or so sad, but I'm so glad you reached out to me. Your previous letters have made me so happy, so seen and appreciated, and I want you to feel the same. So, to answer some of your questions; no, it isn't pathetic that thinking of me brings you comfort— that's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me, baby. And yes, I am enjoying your letters. I look forward to checking my locker at every chance I get, praying for another one of your lovely notes. They have been the highlight of my year, darling, thank you so much for them. I truly treasure them. And you.

And I must say, I've been hoping you were a guy, so it's a relief that it's confirmed. The rumours are true, Eddie Munson likes boys! Specifically, boys that want to read my campaigns and say I look like a rockstar. You're a real charmer, baby.

You've spent so much time saying such lovely things to me, and I want to return the favour. I don't want to spook you sweetheart, but there's nothing I want more than to speak to you in person, to look into your eyes when I tell you how much I like you, how much I think about you and care for you.

Please let me know who you are, although I must admit, I have an idea. I thought it might have just been wishful thinking, but I think I'm right, baby.

You know that wooden table out past the field, in the woods? Meet me there after school tomorrow? Please?

Love, Eddie

X X X

Steve couldn't breathe.

He kept sucking in breaths, but they were pulled right back out of him too fast. He could feel his heart aching with the strain, his eyes watering, unfocused.

Fuck. Shit. Holy fucking shit!

His hands shook where he held the letter, gently. The letter was everything he'd ever wanted from this exchange; confirmation that Eddie loves his letters, that they make him feel good and seen. That he's happy Steve's a boy, that he was charmed by what he's written. And not only does Eddie's letter fulfil his greatest hope for the whole thing, but the letter is also everything he's yearned to hear for god knows how long. That someone treasures the effort he's put in, that they look forward to seeing what he's written, that they like him.

Eddie likes him.

But no, no— Eddie likes the guy that wrote the letters. That told him he likes his hair, likes his drawings, that he thinks he looks like a rockstar. Eddie doesn't know that was him, doesn't know he was saying that he likes Steve.

Except.

Except, fuck— except he did.

Although I must admit, I have an idea.

Steve was out of his chair before he could finish that thought— before he could calm himself down and think rationally about this. All that was going through his head right at this moment was that he was caught. Eddie figured him out— he's exposed. He knows who wrote those delicate, vulnerable notes he poured his aching heart onto.

And that's never gone well for him before. No one who's seen the raw, needy insides of him have stuck around— have returned how he felt. Not his parents, not Nancy—

Just as Steve reached the last flight of stairs— the ones that lead to the back exit of the school, where he'd be out and safe and able to breathe again— he had to skid to a stop at the top of the stairwell to avoid colliding with someone heading up the same stairs.

Not just anyone. Eddie.

Eddie had stopped a few steps from the top, one hand on the railing, the other clutching a few books to his chest. His already large eyes were wide, mouth slightly open, as he took in the frantic sight Steve must be exhibiting at that moment.

He could feel himself stiffen— seeing Eddie so suddenly like this, when he was already panicked and caught out—

Eddie's eyes flickered down to the letter, still clutched in Steve's hand. His letter. Fuck. Fuck.

Before Eddie had a chance to say or do anything, Steve sprang down the rest of the steps— right past the boy who, if he wasn't sure already, definitely knew now who had been writing him love notes, baring their soul— and flung himself out the back exit door.

10. Happy birthday, baby

Eddie couldn't get the look on Steve's face out of his head.

He'd spent the entire first half of lunch staring at his untouched food— frown deep, mouth tightly pressed together— as images of Steve's terrified eyes and shaking hands flashed in his mind.

Fuck.

Eddie just— couldn't go after him. Couldn't try and stop him from running when he had looked at him like that, while holding his letter.

He had been holding Eddie's letter— when Steve had been looking so panicked and freaked out he had been holding Eddie's stupid letter.

He had gone too far. He had written too many pet names, too many affections. Had pushed too hard— mentioning seeing him in person, maybe knowing who he was? God what was he thinking? Steve's notes had been so personal and vulnerable, of course he would panic. Of course he would run.

And Eddie had let him. Had let him run off in a panic, run off to deal with it alone, probably thinking the worst, had let him spiral.

Eddie groaned as he shoved his tray away from him so he could mush his head down onto the table, hair splayed everywhere.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

"Hey, uh, you good, man?" He hears David ask, probably unsure if there was actually something wrong or if Eddie was about to start up some dramatics. He should really calm down with all that before it bites him in the ass.

"No." He mutters into the table. "Fucked something up."

He hears a snort. Probably Gareth.

"When don't you?"

Definitely Gareth.

Eddie raises his head to shoot him a glare through his dishevelled hair.

"Oh, so this is an actual problem, not a 'I'm a failure because I didn't notice a plot hole in my latest campaign' problem?" Gareth says, grinning just on the side of mean.

"That was an actual problem, Gareth. I had to completely rewrite it!" He throws himself against the back of his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, already too wound up for this.

"Okay, okay, what happened?" Jeff says as he leans forward, bringing Eddie's attention towards him and away from whatever face Gareth was making.

Eddie hesitates. "I can't tell you." He frowns at Gareth rolling his eyes. "It's not my shit to tell, asshole. But I— I think I said some stupid shit and I don't know if I should just back off— or try and fix it." He mumbled out the last part, eyes on the table.

"Who'd you even say shit to? We're the only people who talk to you."

"I'm getting real tired of your shit today, Gare-bear." Eddie sneered back, before noticing Jeff half standing up to peer around the cafeteria. Seemingly satisfied, he sits back down.

"So, no sign of Harrington— what'd you say to him that would make him bail, huh? A little confession, perhaps?" He wiggles his eyebrows as Eddie splutters. "You should probably go find him though, he may be done with his gay panic soon and might be ready to make out with you. 'Cause there's like, a zero percent chance he doesn't like you back." He lifts his hand as Eddie goes to argue. "I've seen the way he stares at you, we all have— it's an insane amount, actually. Like borderline obsessive. He probably just wasn't prepared for you to be obsessed right back." Jeff shrugs as he finishes.

Eddie stares at him.

Gareth cackles.

Eddie launches to feet to point down at Jeff, "I'm leveling up your character next campaign."

"You better." He huffs, leaning back in his chair to avoid any collisions as Eddie frantically grabs all his shit. He's got a panicking pretty boy to find.

After confirming Steve's stupidly shiny car was still in the parking lot, Eddie checked in all the classic hiding spots around the school; the storage closet behind the boys changing room, the deserted classroom by the pool, the unused drama rooms— nothing.

When they all came up Harrington-less, he moved his search outside. He skirted round the building before heading over to the field. He was halfway done checking under the bleachers when he walked by the trail that he'd usually take to his wooden table in the woods. He paused, eying it.

There's no way Steve would hide from him in the same place Eddie had asked to meet him at, right?

Unless he was done hiding.

Eddie pivoted away from the field, and headed to the woods. He didn't really have a plan— he should really have a plan. Steve had looked ready to jump out his own skin earlier, and Eddie never wanted to see that expression on him again, especially not directed at him.

But any sensible thought left his head as he weaved his way through the trees, closer to the clearing.

There was someone at the table.

Someone with pretty hair and a pretty face, sitting on the table, feet on the bench, hunched over, reading the paper they had on their knees.

Branches snapped under Eddie's feet as he approached the edge of the small clearing, and Steve's head shot up. His eyes were still wide, and he still looked nervous, but something seemed more settled. Less desperately frantic.

"Hi." Steve says, a little unsure.

"Hey. Uhm, I was just— just wanting to see if you were okay? Sorry if I— spooked you, or something, earlier." Eddie stutters out, unsure how to navigate this. Unsure if they were acknowledging the letter Steve still held in his hands.

"No, no, sorry I—" Steve looked away from him, into the woods and then down at the letter. "I just got into my head, earlier. I wasn't uh, prepared for uh—" he gestured a little with the paper in his hands. So they were acknowledging it. "It was a lot." He finished, with a small breathless laugh.

Damn it.

"Shit, look, I'm sorry about all that." Eddie winces, moving closer and shoving his hands in his vest pockets, shoulders hiking up by his ears in shame.

Steve looked up sharply. "Did you not mean it?" He asks, hurt creeping into his tone.

"No, no, I definitely meant all of it! I just, like you said, it was a lot to just— throw at you." His hands were already back out of his pockets, gesturing. "You, at least, eased me into it. I just went straight from zero to a hundred." He threw one arm in the arm in emphasis. Steve had blushed at the mention of his own notes, which only continued to darken as Eddie went on. "And I kinda went crazy with the pet names."

Steve ducked his head down, laughing lightly as looked over the letter again. "Yeah, I don't think anyone's ever called me baby before."

"Well, that's a damn crime." Eddie teases with a huff, forgetting himself a little.

Steve looks back up at him, a bashful smile gracing his lips, even as he fidgets. "You really meant all of it?"

"Yeah, of course."

"And you— guessed it was me?"

"Well," Eddie began, as he slowly moved even closer to Steve where he sat on the table, until he was standing right in front of him, almost touching knees. "After the first one, I had a whole investigation thing going on, but honestly— the more I got, the more I hoped it was you." Steve's eyes widened as he continued. "I've had such a crush on you, man. It was impossible not to— the hair, the eyes, having to watch you run around during gym in those little shorts."

"It's the uniform." Steve argued bashfully, playfully shoving his shoulder.

Eddie grinned. "And I thank whoever decided that." He placed his hand lightly on Steve's shin, feeling his warmth through the denim. "What I was meant was— I've been crazy about you for like, years, so when I started getting this insanely lovely notes and was looking out for who it could be and I notice you, you, staring at me all the time, and blushing and giggling when I talked to you— well I was really fucking hoping I was right."

All of the uncertainty had drained from Steve's wide eyes, leaving only hope as he curled his fingers around the sleeve of Eddie jacket, where his hand was still resting on Steve's leg. "So you weren't, like, disappointed when you knew for sure, when you saw me with your letter?"

Eddie couldn't handle hearing Steve doubt, even for a second, that he wasn't the only person Eddie had wanted the notes to be from.

"Oh sweetheart, it was a dream come true."

Steve made a small noise before tugging on the sleeve he still had in his grip, pulling Eddie into him as he dropped his legs from the bench. Eddie got with the program real quick, wrapping his arms around Steve's shoulders, curling him into a hug.

"Happy birthday, baby." Eddie murmured onto the top of Steve's head, resting his cheek on his soft hair. "Sorry I didn't get you a present."

Steve hummed before pulling back enough to look up at him, a cheeky smile on his face.

"How about a birthday kiss?"

Eddie laughed as he moved his hands to gently cup Steve's face. "Oh, I think I can manage that." He grinned as ducked his head in, moving to press his lips to Steve's cheek, and then the other, lingering on the feeling of his soft, warm skin beneath his mouth. Eddie continued on to place light, joyous kisses along Steve's jaw, pausing with a slower one on his chin before lining up their mouths, almost touching.

"Thank you." He whispered, barely a breath from Steve's lips. He was saying thank you for all the lovely, attentive things Steve had written in his letters to him, for caring about him so much that he felt the compulsion to write them in the first place. He was saying thank you for waiting for him here, even though he was scared.

And Steve knew that, knew what he was saying with those two words.

"Thank you, too." He murmured back, threading his hands through Eddie's hair, fingers curling into the strands as he gently tugged him forward, through that last space between them.