Chapter Text
It's hot outside, hovering somewhere in the high nineties and Steve has been fiercely resisting the urge to complain that literally no one is wearing sunscreen. Mostly because he knows it's going to be a thing, and everyone will accuse him of being a buzzkill and make fun of him. The only reason he hasn't said something already is that for once everyone is having a good time. No one is worrying about the end of the world, or sulking because someone isn't speaking to them, or fighting because of secrets or relationship drama. That doesn't mean it's not bothering him though. Because El is the only one wearing a hat, Max is just a few months out of hospital and should probably be spending less time in the sun, Mike's arms are going to burn, and Eddie only comes out at night which means he is, at best, one shade removed from his mother's buttermilk walls.
But Steve's dealing with it, because it's summer and everyone made it here to see it, so for once he's determined to give no one an excuse to protest that he's ruining everyone's fun. He's just going to sit here, make sure no one drowns and listen to Robin give the most insane answers she can think of to the quiz in the magazine she'd managed to steal from Nancy.
There is one problem though.
The problem is that worrying about other people has been a helpful distraction from Steve's own shit for the last few years. Not always but more often than he'd wanted to admit. So when everything's fine and there are no missing pets, suspicious government vans, mysterious portals to other worlds, or other fucked-up monster bullshit that haunts them on a yearly basis - then he's forced to think about his own shit.
Which he's much less happy about.
To be fair, his own shit used to take up significantly less thought. He'd had his future mostly mapped out for him and hadn't had to think about it much, he'd had reasonable responsibilities, a stack of sporting trophies and awards and a relatively normal amount of teenage angst (though this may have been skewed by the impending years of absolute fucking insanity he got flung head-first into.) The point was, Steve had been good at all the things he used to care about, there was never more on the horizon than he could handle, and he'd had the safety net of his parent's money and his own charm and good looks to get him through the occasional crisis or period of crushing loneliness.
Until life had promptly set all of that on fire.
Today -
Today, in the heat of summer that's already been going on for far too long, Steve is forced to watch Eddie Munson catch his hair at the back of his neck and then slowly drag it all upwards in a spill of messy waves, before twisting the most stupidly overstretched purple hair tie around it and then letting it drop in a goddamn ponytail.
As if that wasn't the most infuriating thing Steve had ever seen.
Granted, it had at least halted the furious mental panic about sunscreen, because it was either that - it was either that or focus on the long, pale slope of Munson's neck, which, despite having been in the same schools for literally years, Steve cannot remember ever seeing before. He doesn't know why but that makes it feel like uncharted territory and he's kind of furious at his brain for phrasing it that way. As if he doesn't have a life.
It's not as if it's even lewd or anything, it's just new, it's different, and maybe he'd started viewing that with something like suspicion, noticing things that stood out more than he had before. Which is a really good excuse even if he knows it's not really the truth. Everyone outside today is currently showing more skin than Munson, who's still wearing his jeans and most of a shirt, though the doctor's recommendation to keep the healing wounds they both have dry and out of the sun stopped mattering months ago.
It's more than the fact that it's different, there's something about the way it turns Eddie's boisterous annoying mischief into something easy and relaxed, soft around the pool in a way that Steve wants to call flirtatious - even if he wants to say it through his teeth most of the time. He can see the side of Eddie's neck and his ears and the faint rise at the top of his spine, a wide half-moon of skin meeting the collar of his shirt. Which is almost a perfectly normal thought - what's not normal, is wondering whether that skin would be sun-hot under his fingers, and if Eddie would take a bite out of his fucking hand if he tried to touch it. Which is not as much of a deterrent as it probably should be.
So, yeah, Steve's own shit is currently a movie theater on fire.
"Season of the mango," Robin mutters next to him, but it sounds like a comment on something she's reading rather than a request for an opinion. He has very few opinions on mangos, though he thinks it would be a good lip gloss flavor.
There's a decent chance he's the one who's been in the sun too long.
He'd told Robin, on a slow day a few months ago, that there was a possibility he might be, maybe, a small percentage into people who weren't girls, and he'd wondered what that meant, and if it had to mean anything. He'd been hoping it would end up being a medium-sized crisis that Robin would help him deal with and then that would be it. Only instead it turned out to be a continuing series of smaller crises that would smack him in the face when he least expected it.
She'd told him he was growing as a person.
He still hated it.
-
The summer continues, and every morning feels like a hot towel in the face. Every evening is a frustrating slog waiting for the sun to go down, and for his own brain to stop overheating, or at least thinking about things it had no business thinking about.
Munson wearing his hair up has become a thing, a thing Steve feels personally victimized by because he's pretty sure this sort of weather happens every year and yet now there's a menace in too-tight black jeans and a frustrating series of inventively ripped and distractingly sweaty shirts, that keeps dragging long fingers through hair that always looks on the verge of losing a fight. It doesn't go into a hairband easily either. It's clear Munson does not have experience putting it up out of the way, a clumsy awkwardness to the way he pushes his fingers through damp curls. Which tells Steve that someone suggested it. Robin, or Nancy, or Max, and he's discovered that it's something that works in the heat. It feels unfair, some special sort of betrayal, or worse, a conspiracy.
He's suspicious of Robin especially, since she's supposed to be supporting him through his crisis semester and not handing him more coursework.
It might be easier if Eddie just showed up in shorts, or something sleeveless, some sort of appropriate-for-the-weather crop-top. They've all seen each other in various levels of disheveled, bleeding, grossly wounded and half dressed at this point and he thinks he could handle it - ok, maybe not the crop top because he's immediately forced to picture it and now he hates himself a little bit.
He just knows that this is too much to cope with, because it's not just the messy ponytail, it's the sweaty fringe that gets pushed to the side and then curls in the heat and the humidity. The fine trails and wisps of hair that never seem to manage to go in with the rest, curling at Eddie's cheeks and the damp skin of his neck like they're flaunting their ability to cling. And Steve thinks about sliding a thumb over that skin and dragging those damp strands up into the rest of his hair more than is probably healthy.
Steve's glad of his sunglasses at this point because no one can tell where or what or who he's looking at, which gives him the opportunity to try and work through this most recent crisis by... there was a word, for when you look at something a lot and then you're fine and it stops affecting you? He can't remember exactly what it was. But that's his plan so far. Get all his looking over with until it becomes normal. Until it just becomes Munson and his stupid, infuriating hair that leaves his whole face exposed and sticks to his cheeks and shows off the tower of his neck under a delicate necklace chain or the drape of a wet bandana. Steve is very quickly choosing to take it personally, especially every time Eddie bends forward to rifle through his bag. His throat all tendons and slopes and pale, faintly sweaty skin.
"You ok?"
Steve rolls his head sideways to find Robin squinting at him through her own sunglasses, which are more transparent than his. He can see her eyes and he knows he doesn't imagine the suspicion.
"Yeah, I was miles away, thinking about stuff."
"Anything I should know about?" she asks.
"No," he says, far too fast and not even close to casual. Because asking for advice is one thing but he'd prefer to put off confessing that he thinks he might be going insane as long as possible. For his own dignity if nothing else. Not that he has much dignity left when it comes to Robin.
She generously decides not to call him out on his obvious lies. Possibly because she's just as hot as he is.
"If it helps, I think this weather is perfectly designed to give you insane thoughts. It's a self-defense mechanism from your brain, so it can keep sending signals to remind you it's not boiling in your skull. Are you wearing sunscreen?"
"No, I forgot." He was too distracted while he was in the kitchen, because Eddie had been leaning on the counter, coke can pressed to the back of his neck, smiling like Steve was the best person he'd seen all day. And now no one's wearing sunscreen again and obviously it's his fault.
"Hmm," Robin says, because she knows him far too well at this point. She reaches down and rustles in her bag for a blue bottle which she squirts into her palm with a disgusting sound and then upturns on his shoulder in a way that throw flecks of it across his chest and down his arm. He would complain about the cold but it's really fucking hot out. "Lot of distracted people around lately."
Steve refuses to take the bait, though he does eye her over his sunglasses and reluctantly sun-protects himself while she continues to make unsubtle noises.
Fine, fine, he knows what it feels like to be bullied into letting your friends take care of you.
"Do you ever feel like you get stuck on a thought that's kind of stupid but you can't shake it and you make it a much bigger deal than it reasonably should be, and you end up feeling like if you could just eject it from your head then everything would be fine?"
"That's my feeling most days to be honest," she admits. "You'd have to be more specific, though the answer's probably yes either way."
He's not sure that helps. He was hoping for some support. But if he explains the whole thing he's worried that Robin will tell him he's putting too much thought into this. Or worse, she'll take it as an excuse to give him more coursework. He feels like he's working hard enough on this already.
It's fine.
He'll deal with it like he normally does. By ignoring it until it goes away or someone breaks a hole into another dimension...again.
It's fine.
-
Movie nights are usually fairly chill, long slices of time for them all to not think about disasters and just find a soft surface to crash out on. Then they'll spend the whole night rambling and watching something they can never all agree on, with too many beers and not enough snacks, and on nights without Robin, joints that get shared around until Steve can't remember exactly how much he'd even smoked.
It's good though. The long evenings never feel like pressure. The hours pass in as close to quiet, settled contentment as he's found lately. Which, considering the people he's sharing space with, would have been unthinkable a few years ago. That the people he likes best in the whole world are the people that have caused him the most heartache, or the people who were in close proximity to the very shittiest version of him that existed.
But here he is, wanting to be the best version of himself for all of them. He looks forward to movie nights, whether there's three, or four, or six of them together, and they can all pretend they're normal people who haven't seen cracks into other dimensions and horrific mangled corpses and actual monsters. They can just be a group of friends with no traumatic memories or lingering injuries, their only problems related to babysitting duties and their terrible minimum wage jobs.
It's still hot though, it's hot even with the side door open and iced drinks on the coffee table and a wet towel draped round the back of his neck. They're halfway through a movie about a small child ending up inside a TV set when Eddie snaps the band on his wrist and reaches up, drags his hair together and folds it untidily into that stupid, tiny piece of coloured elastic and misery and then he sprawls against the back of the couch, where Steve still has his arm stretched out so it doesn't stick to the rest of him.
Steve's fingers are literally three inches away from the naked slope of Eddie's neck. He could stretch out in one movement and have his hand wrapped around it. He could press his fingertips where the damp half-curls of hair still press to the skin, dark and wet where they stick. He could slide fingers up where Eddie's hair will be warm and thick, moving through it until Steve dragged a sound out of him, got him to tip back into the pressure, eyes falling shut. Instead he concentrates on not moving his hand, feeling the heat prickle on his skin.
He knows he shouldn't be looking, can feel the way this stupid crush has gone from frustrating distraction to something that feels much greedier. He needs to make himself stop before someone notices. Before it becomes too easy to picture himself reaching out.
Steve has no idea what's happening in the movie. Not that he'd been all that interested before. He takes some consolation in the fact that everyone else is still locked on the screen ignoring him spiraling in his own thoughts.
He lifts his beer to his mouth just for something to do, only realizing how dry his throat had been when the almost-warm spill of it is soothing.
But maybe that was a mistake because Eddie takes the opportunity to drink too, tipping his head back to do it, and making his whole throat roll in a swallow. Steve doesn't quite know how to cope with the realization of how much he wants to touch it. Not just touch it, he wants to wrap his hand around it, feel how warm and damp and naked it is, let his thumb trail down the side to feel the tendon flex. Use it to pull Eddie closer, to turn his head and kiss him.
There's a scatter of laughter and if his bottle had been any fuller then half of it would have ended up in his lap. His pulse kicks briefly but they're not laughing at him, something's happening in the movie.
He tells himself he's being a creep and he needs to get a fucking grip - but then he imagines that in a way he never meant and has to squeeze the bottle he's holding instead, because the last thing he wants is to make this a whole awkward thing where he's half-hard watching a horror movie for no damn reason.
Eddie sets his beer down on the table, kicks his legs back up, feet bare on Steve's mom's eight hundred dollar coffee table, then leans back further than he did before, right into the cushions. The trailing end of Eddie's hair spills across Steve's fingers, it's warm and light and it tickles where it curls across his knuckles when Eddie drinks again. Steve can't even remember if he finished his own, he's scared to lift it, staring at the TV with absolutely no idea what's going on, except that someone's room might be possessed by skeletons.
The thing is, if Eddie was a girl Steve wouldn't have thought twice about seeing if he was interested, he might have shifted a little closer, chanced slipping an arm round his shoulders, made up some excuse to share snacks, offered him a ride home, somewhere to stay for the night, which which eventually lead to maybe making him breakfast.
But Eddie is not a girl - Eddie is also Eddie and Steve is not entirely sure what his reaction would be to any of that. Steve doesn't have enough experience with guys to be in any way confident asking one out, or to know what he's doing after that. The fact that Eddie likes guys is not a guarantee that he's interested in Steve.
So instead he draws his hand down into his lap, wiping at the bottle for cover that he knows he doesn't need.
He's way out of his depth here.
-
"The way I see it you have three options," Robin tells him. She'd come over for breakfast and hadn't made him feel bad over the fact that his crisis had become enough of a spiral that he'd confessed everything. She had made him put the parasol up though, because it was ninety degrees at eleven in the morning.
"And what are those?"
She sticks out a thumb, clearly intending to tick them off as she goes.
"One, you act like it was your plan all along to use the stupidly hot weather to engineer scenarios where he'd have to come lounge by your pool and flaunt his stork-like neck at you. Eventually hoping your desperation becomes so obvious that he notices and picks up what you're putting down."
Steve pulls a face at her phrasing.
"I don't like that choice," he admits. Honestly, he's against any choice that forces him to confront this head on. Or one that accuses Eddie of basically making him crazy, even though it's kind of true.
Robin lifts another finger.
"Two, you invite him round and confess that his new fashion choice is destabilizing your ability to function like a normal human being, and also cementing the fact that guys do it for you too. Then you bullshit your way through asking him out."
"My ability to bullshit reduces in proportion to the amount of neck on display," he complains, worrying a little bit at how much he sounds like Dustin there. God, that little shit is contagious now.
Robin lifts a third and final finger.
"Three, you wait until the weather cools down and hope that returning everything to normal breaks the spell Eddie has over you."
That does seem like an easier, if slightly more depressing, option.
"Though he's definitely going to notice if you ignore him for a month. Which I know and you know will hurt his feelings and leave him thinking he's done something wrong and there will be puppy eyes and awkwardness and distance, and then you will mope and guilt at me about how much of a terrible person you are and how it's your fault, why didn't I stop you etcetera etcetera. So my choice would be option one or two."
"Can we take into account that I don't want to take option one or two?"
"I took that into account when I gave you the options," Robin says, because of course she did.
"Can I get a second opinion?"
Robin scrunches her nose up.
"Sorry, that's part of the platinum friendship package only, you get what you pay for, I'm afraid."
Steve sighs and drops his head onto the back of the lounger, honestly cannot believe he doesn't qualify for the platinum package at this point. He thinks he's earned it.
"I really, really don't want to say anything," he says, because that's the only thing he knows for certain. Rejection from any random girl he could handle, but this feels bigger somehow and the thought of Eddie doing the whole 'I'm not into you like that, Steve' and genuinely feeling bad about it, makes him want to crawl into the dusty cupboard under the Family Video counter and never come out again. Not to mention admitting to any serious interest in a guy still feels only moderately less terrifying than popping into their friendly neighborhood hell dimension one more time. "We're friends, Robin. I don't want to fuck that up."
"Then you have no choice but to suffer."
"How is that my only option? I don't like that option."
Robin sighs and throws her arms out.
"Ok, fine, fourth option, you tell Eddie he looks stupid with his hair up and he never does it again." This is clearly not a sensible option, she's making a point.
Steve doesn't know what expression he's wearing right now. But he doesn't think it's helpful.
"I'm sorry I'm making this a you problem," he says.
"I'm always here for you problems, Steve, just like you're always here for me problems." Robin turns enough that she can slump against his shoulder. "Honestly, I get it, you'd think after the literal end-of-the-world problems we've dealt with, the stupid relationship problems would be easy. But, no, apparently the skills are not transferable. Though at this point I feel like we might actually be better at the serious world-altering nonsense than the awkwardness of social interaction, so I feel like having each other as back-up is a good idea."
"I can socially interact," Steve protests. "I have experience."
Her face doubts him and he hates it.
"I may be a little rusty," he admits.
"Look, if everything goes tits-up - and I honestly have never understood that expression - then feel reassured in the knowledge that you've made awkward passes at, and/or slept with, several people who are now your friends and still talk to you."
Steve thinks that's supposed to be reassuring, but instead it's just really depressing. Mostly because it's true.
"I think maybe I actually suck at this." He never used to, that's the worst part.
Robin slumps back into her own lounger, legs pulled up out of the sun.
"We can suck a little sometimes, Steve, we've earned it."
"I don't think that's as comforting as you meant it to be."
"No," she says, which he knows is agreement. "Still true though."
-
Steve has mostly settled on option three, ignoring the feelings until they go away, which he has some experience with. Though he still can't help prodding at them because he's apparently a glutton for punishment. He lets it stay prodding, mostly, he knows when he thinks about this sensibly that it's the best thing for everyone. Steve does not want to be the one responsible for making the friend group awkward and uncomfortable. Neither does he want to force one of his friends into awkwardly rejecting him. He'll get over it eventually, it's just because it's new and he genuinely likes Eddie. His brain will chill out once it realizes he's not going to make a move.
But his resolve is being severely tested.
Munson seems to have developed some sixth sense - though not really, at least he hopes not really - about Steve's whereabouts on what might be the hottest last days of summer. Worse, he seems determined to remind him at every opportunity what a constant restless ball of energy and noise he can be. Because now it's like Eddie is everywhere. There are hair ties in the passenger footwell of his car and on the coffee table in his living room, and a new chain necklace for Steve's weekend pool party that he keeps rotating around the back of his neck, hair tangling in the silver links. There is even a very difficult evening where Eddie lets El braid his hair and he spends the rest of the night with it dangling over one shoulder, catching on the collar of his shirt until there's a notch of collarbone on display.
Steve's trying.
He's really trying to be normal about this and he's getting no help from anywhere. Which he should have expected.
The worst part is, Steve discovers something new when Eddie drags the band out of his hair and snaps it around his wrist post-swim to lounge on a pool chair, the tangled cascade of wet curls spread behind him. Eddie's hair doesn't even have to be up anymore, which feels like a terrible escalation on his part. Steve would appreciate a few days to cope with this, to complain to Robin that Plan C, or Option 3, or whatever the fuck they'd called it wasn't working.
What's making it worse is that the long, hot summer and the resulting closeness while they all heal and settle back into normality, had gone a long way towards cementing their burgeoning friendship into something from end-of-the-world camaraderie into genuine bond for life. And, honestly, Steve feels like he knows Eddie well enough by now to find half his expressions familiar and if he didn't know any better -
If he didn't know any better he'd think the absolute shit was doing it on purpose now.
Steve doesn't know whether he's tentatively encouraged by this or furious. At the moment he's leaning towards a little of both, which is doing wonders for his ability to concentrate.
Either way, he declares Sunday his day off. No visitors except Robin. He's going to lay in the sun and kick off his shoes and not get into the sweltering box that is his car today to ferry anyone anywhere that it's too damn hot to be. He's not going to go on a snack run, he's not going to answer anything that isn't a legitimate code red, and he isn't going to -
A magazine slaps him on the chest and he opens an eye to find Robin, wearing sunglasses pushed all the way up into her hair.
"I hope you put sunscreen on today, there's no excuse to get lazy about that just because we're now hurtling unstoppably towards fall."
Steve would really like to know why he's the bad guy who's ruining everyone's fun whenever he says it but when it's someone else it's 'just because they care.' He rolls up the magazine and pokes her with it.
"It's supposed to rain later, let the sun do its worst."
"You say that now but who would you come crying to when you're shriveled and your skin has the consistency of old leather and you're rustling like paper every time you move, all the moisture baked out of you. Hydrate and protect your skin, Steve. If not for you then for me."
He gives her a look, because, Jesus, when Robin goes she goes hard. His skin is plenty hydrated, he'd also spent significant time in an alternate dimension with no sun, which probably counts in some way. Reverse-aging or something, ultra-violet something literally sucked out of his skin.
The vague sound of something clinking inside the house has him raising an eyebrow at her.
"Is Eddie raiding my fridge?"
"Don't worry, he won't steal your gross juice," Robin tells him. "I told him you wouldn't mind if he came over too. And if it's any consolation his hair is normal today."
Steve doesn't have the heart to tell her that doesn't make a difference anymore. She steals her magazine back before he can make any comment at all.
"I'm picking a movie, and I'm making snacks, if you're still broiling out here by the time I'm done I'm pushing you in the pool."
"It's a Sunday," he complains. "And for once I have no one screaming for me to go here, or do that, I should get to lay in the sun if I want."
She's already heading for the door, not listening to him - no, that's a lie she's listening, she's just pretending that she isn't.
He shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back again, he'll give it fifteen minutes and then he'll complain his way inside and lay in the humid expanse of his living room with her, drink whatever icy concoction she'd made from the contents of his fridge and listen to his two best friends pick apart the movie he probably would never have chosen on his own. He might even like it, which is sometimes the worst part.
It's significantly less time than that before his face ends up in the shade again.
Steve opens his eyes, only to find a familiar grin less than a foot away, damp curls of hair trailing down free from sweaty temples, the ends of it sliding over Eddie's neck to spill ticklishly across Steve's collarbone and left shoulder. He looks ridiculous, and stupidly hot, and Steve's resolve crumbles into the sea.
"Fuck it."
He reaches up and catches that spill of hair, following it back to where it comes from and pulling until Eddie has no choice but to sink into him with a sound that's half shock and half amusement, and then he's pressing his mouth to that stupid infectious grin - until it dissolves and then he's kissing Eddie properly, tugging him in tighter until his neck bends and Steve can grab that instead. He stretches his hand out over all that bare skin, finds it as hot as he'd always thought it would be, the curls of his hair damp. The angle is weird and it's a hundred degrees and there's a too-hot, sweaty hand spread on the bare curve of his waist, right across the deepest scar - fidgeting like it's shocked to be there, and it might be one of Steve's favorite kisses ever.
The heat makes it slow, trading pushes that open just enough to tease. Eddie's mouth is just as stupidly soft as Steve knew it would be, and the chair creaks when Eddie puts his other hand down on the frame and sinks into an awkward sit so he can keep kissing him.
Steve keeps expecting one of them to pull away, this is really new for him, and they're kind of on display for anyone that comes through the house and into the back. But instead they just keep kissing, and Steve can't resist pushing a hand right up into Eddie's hair until his fingers are buried in it. He curls them shut, lets them grip in the half-wet length of it and feels something like relief when Edde makes a sound into his mouth. It's enough for them to finally slide apart.
"Jesus Christ -" Eddie mutters, words hot against Steve's open mouth, he tries to draw back only to find Steve's hand too tangled to go far. The little catch in his breath on that tug feels pretty good. "Hmm, ok, so I'm going to optimistically hope you're not suffering from heat exhaustion right now." There's a hot exhale of nervous laughter. Eddie's eyes are drifting over his face, clearly hoping to read something in it.
"You have been driving me crazy," Steve says simply, something that's been scratching inside his chest for weeks finally settling. "And I'm pretty sure you've been doing it on purpose."
He watches white teeth dig into Eddie's lower lip, the first flickers of uncertainty washing over his face.
"The teasing may have been a little bit on purpose," Eddie concedes. "Just a touch, entirely for my own amusement - well I say amusement but there may have been a smidge of indulgence there too. But, in my defence, your interest was pretty fucking unexpected to say the least and maybe I wanted to revel in it a little without actually confirming one way or the other, ok. Which made the craziness kind of mutual, believe me. I didn't, ah, I really didn't actually expect you to do anything about it though, at all, or ever." He shuts his mouth, the edges of it twitching like he's trying to shut himself up. Steve lets his hand relax, he doesn't pull away though.
"And now that I have done?" he wonders, because he'd really like to know.
"Depends, I guess." The words come out slow, careful.
"On what?"
"On whether this is some experimental thing you need to get out of your system, or -"
"Or," Steve says, because he knows it's not that, and he needs Eddie to know it too. "Whatever the other thing is, it's that."
Eddie's eyes widen, eyebrows going up.
"Really?" He clearly didn't expect that, which is funny, since he's the one who asked.
Steve draws him down again because that seems easier than trying to have more of a conversation in the heat. The kiss is shorter than the last, though the way Eddie's mouth presses down into him is firmer, a little more confident, the hand settling more easily on the scars at his waist.
"Robin is going to come looking for us soon," Steve points out.
"Right," Eddie says, leaning back immediately out of his space like that was some sort of 'stop-kissing-and-touching-me' code. He can't go far because Steve still has a hand around his wrist, the strap of his watch hard under his palm. Eddie gives another nervous laugh when Steve lets his fingers curl rather than letting go. "Right, movie, snacks, drinks, lazy Sunday camaraderie with friends." The words are a little loud, a little theatrical. But Steve thinks Eddie was no more prepared to be kissed than he was today.
He really hopes that kissing is also on that list now.
It takes him a second to find his voice again.
"You're always welcome to stay." Steve wants him to stay, rarely wants him to leave if he's being completely honest. He isn't quite sure how to ask that yet though. "Robin's choosing the movie."
"She still intent on broadening your horizons?" Eddie never fails to be amused by the idea and today is no different, which is oddly reassuring.
"She won't be content until I fall off the edge," Steve confirms with a nod. "I have no idea what was going on in the last one."
He lets his thumb drift back and forth across the soft skin underneath it, indulgent in a way he's wanted to be for weeks now and Eddie lets out a shaky breath. He doesn't seem to mind the fact that Steve is just going to leave them balanced on this edge. Doesn't mind at all if the color on his cheeks and his smile is anything to go by. The way he murmurs a curse under his breath.
An impatient ice-based blending noise from inside the house has Steve laughing.
Eddie leans back and, after a fidgety moment of indecision, drags Steve up by his hands. He dares to sway in and press one last kiss to the corner of his mouth when he's upright, though judging by the way he slips away almost immediately with a flustered noise, that was the extent of his daring.
The blistering weather somehow feels like less of a problem as he watches Eddie's shoes work their way back to the house.