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xiaq · 3 days

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Steddie Time Travel Fix-it pt. 13 [now complete!]

Ao3 Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt. 4 Pt. 5 Pt. 6 Pt. 7 Pt. 8 Pt. 9 Pt. 10 Pt. 11 Pt. 12

Good things don’t happen to Eddie Munson.

They just don’t.

His entire life up until the age of 18 has been a series of unfortunate events only rarely interspersed with positive occurrences: Wayne. His guitar. DnD.

So he knows from the beginning of whatever the hell this thing is with Steve, that at some point the other shoe will drop. Because boys like Steve Harrington do not fall in love with boys like Eddie Munson. And if they do, it certainly doesn’t last.

So when, on an otherwise near euphoric Saturday morning, Steve’s parents unexpectedly arrive home, Eddie thinks: this is it; this is where my sudden rash of good luck finally runs out.

Eddie realized early on that Steve’s parents were absent in a way that went past “absent” and veered into the territory of “neglect.” They show up once or twice a month for a few days, but thet’re never present in a way that parents should be for their child. The house is more of an item to check off a list than anything else––a place to call home in between travel, a place to keep the clothes they swap before departing again. Steve tries to play it off like he doesn’t care, like the empty magazine-pretty soulless house is a blessing––and it certainly has been recently considering the prefab walls of Wayne’s trailer do not prioritize privacy. But even if Steve genuinely doesn’t care now, no kid wants to be alone.

Eddie thinks about a younger version of Steve. Sixteen. Fourteen. Twelve. Coming home to silence. No one asking about his day. Cooking himself dinner. Eating alone.

Steve had mentioned, offhand, that he used to have a nanny before he was too old to need one. Eddie hadn’t asked how old was too old for a caretaker. He was afraid the answer might break his heart. Because Steve tells stories sometimes that he thinks are funny. Stories about leaving the television on at night to trick himself into thinking someone else was there so he wouldn’t have nightmares. Stories about missing the bus and getting sick and learning how to do his laundry. They’re self-deprecating stories. Like it’s his fault he got lost when walking the four miles home from school because he had no one to call to pick him up. Like it’s his fault that his fever got so bad that he ended up sleeping naked on the cool tile of the kitchen floor because there was no Advil in the house and he was too sick to walk to the store. Like it was his fault he used too much detergent because no one had ever taught him otherwise.

Eddie takes those stories and tucks them away and thinks that, at least now, he can ensure Steve has someone. That he’ll never be stranded or sick or confused with no one to call for help again.

They do take advantage of Steve’s parent’s absence. Eddie and Steve spend most Friday afternoons and weekends there, hosting the kids and their families: Steve cooking or Hopper and Wayne grilling, Eddie mostly getting in the way. And once summer break starts, they take turns staying at each other’s places. A couple days with Wayne, especially if there’s a sports game Steve and Wayne want to watch together, before a couple days at Steve’s house where they can feel free to…engage in their own athletic activities.

So. It’s a Saturday morning. After a slow, sweet, late-night Friday. The kind of Friday Eddie didn’t even know was possible, didn’t know he could hope for, until Steve came along.

They’re both in boxers and nothing else: Steve’s are covered in baseball bats—a gift from Max; Eddie’s are a plaid that is disconcertingly similar to the wallpaper in Steve’s room.

Eddie is sitting on the counter next to the bowl of batter Steve is dipping out of, trying to make pancake shapes and mostly failing. Eddie had done the first batch, which were nearly all dick-shaped, before Steve decided he should take over.

So now there are hearts and lopsided stars on the griddle being carefully monitored by Steve while Eddie has his battle jacket in his lap, finishing the final stitches on the back panel.

And while Steve pokes at the pancakes, Eddie is trying to convince Steve to re-join the basketball team.

This is what love has done to him.

“I don’t understand,” Steve is pouting. “You want me to quit Hellfire?”

“No, I’m saying that we can move Hellfire to a different night next year so you can do your sportsball shit and DnD.”

Eddie, unsurprisingly, is having to retake his senior year. He’s not that upset about it considering that means he’ll be graduating with his boyfriend. Nancy Wheeler and Robin Buckley’s sudden determination that he graduate with good grades is a little concerning, but there are worse things in the world than being cared about by nerds.

“The basketball guys are all assholes,” Steve argues, hands on his hips. He looks like a dad at a soccer game, only more naked. It shouldn’t be hot. But Eddie has resigned himself to the fact that he finds Steve hot at all times, and distressingly so when he’s being bitchy or bossy, which are his default settings.

“Yeah, but you’re better than most of them,” Eddie points out. “You’d be a shoe-in for captain. And if you aren’t on the team, Lucas said he probably won’t join when he gets to highschool. And,” the most important part, the part that Eddie really has had to come to terms with, “you love it. The way I love DnD. And I want you to do the things you love. Even if they’re with sweaty jocks. Who knows. Maybe you’ll even be a good influence and by the time Lucas gets there only half of them are assholes.”

Steve flips the pancakes. “You’d really move DnD for me?”

He’d do considerably more than that.

“Baby, I may not understand your freakish desire to participate in team sports but I’m not going to begrudge the joy it will bring you.”

Steve grins and it makes him look young. Lighter, somehow.

“What if I make new friends? What if I bring them to DnD? You sure you’re okay with sweaty jocks infiltrating your inner scrotum or whatever.”

“Inner sanctum,” Eddie corrects.

“That’s what I said.”

“It’s really not.”

Eddie is 85% sure Steve is fucking with him. He likes to lean into the dumb meathead stereotype, mostly, Eddie thinks, because people underestimate him, but now with the additional bonus that Steve knows it drives Eddie a little bit crazy. And Steve, for all of his excellent qualities, is a bit of bitch.

“That being said,” Eddie leers, “you can also infiltrate my inner––”

“Okay, okay,” Steve says. He pushes at one of Eddie’s knees so he can step between his legs. So he can drop a kiss to either side of his mouth before pushing further into his space, one hand on the back of his head, holding him steady when he brings their lips together.

“If it means so much to you, I’ll call the coach tomorrow,” Steve murmurs. “Summer training doesn’t start for a few more weeks. Should be plenty of time for me to get back in shape.”

“Ehn,” Eddie manages.

Steve looks pleased with himself when he steps back to the stove, stacking his finished stars and hearts untidily next to Eddie’s dicks.

He ladles out the final batch––circles, clearly their creativity has waned––as Eddie holds up the vest for a critical once-over.

“Done?” Steve asks.

“I think so.” Eddie holds it out accommodatingly. “I need to see it modeled to be certain.”

Steve discards the spatula and turns, feeding his arms through the sleeves. He tugs at the bottom with a considering pout.

“Well, give me a spin, pretty boy,” Eddie says.

Steve spins. He peacocks toward the patio doors and then back in what is probably supposed to be a mimicry of a runway walk but is mostly just ridiculous. He pauses, just before he’s in reach, and pretends to headbang over an air-guitar solo.

“What do you think?” He asks, shoving his hair out of his eyes and somehow managing to keep a straight face, “is it metal enough?”

“Except for the goddamn ABBA pin,” Eddie grouses, like he hadn’t been delighted when Steve gave it to him last week with a shit-eating grin.

Steve sways just close enough that Eddie can reach out and grab the lapels, reeling him back in. “Only one problem, though,” he sighs.

Steve’s expression immediately sobers. “What?”

“It looks too good on you. I might not want it back. Might just want you to wear it forever.”

Steve kisses him. “Joint custody?” He suggests.

“For an only child you are shockingly good at sharing,” Eddie agrees.

And then, the front door opens.

And a woman’s voice calls, “Steve?

And Steve’s hands, cupped around Eddie’s hips, go tight before he releases them and steps back. Away.

“Mom?” He answers, looking lost.

“Steve, honey, come help me with this,” she answers, backgrounded by a jingle of keys and the clack of roller-suitcase wheels.

Eddie slides down off the counter to his feet and then just––stands there. Half-naked and wide-eyed and with a well of despair quickly drowning the quiet happiness that had previously filled his chest. And he thinks: this is it; this is where my sudden rash of good luck finally runs out.

There’s no making it up the stairs without passing through the front room. No way to get to the garage, either. He considers, briefly, just going out the back door, near-nudity be damned, but Steve must clock what he’s thinking and reaches out, grabbing his wrist.

“Did you mean it?” Steve whispers.

Two weeks before, they’d driven out to the quarry, laid a quilt on the hood of the beemer, and shared a smoke and a series of lazy kisses while looking at the stars.

“I don’t mean to be a downer,” Steve had said contemplatively, his fingers moving aimlessly through Eddie’s hair. “But this happy bubble that we’re in isn’t going to last. We should probably talk about what happens when it…” he paused, brow furrowed adorably with the deep concentration of someone stoned. “...pops.”

“Okay,” Eddie said, not following.

“The kids and Hop and Wayne knowing about us and being so cool about it––that’s not how my parents will react, when they find out.”

“When,” Eddie repeated.

“They will,” Steve had said, half resigned, half something else. He says it with confidence, maybe. Or maybe even pride. “Because if we keep spending all this time together one of the neighbors will mention it to my mom, or someone will see us too close in the grocery store and tell my Dad. Or they’ll show up unannounced one day to find us skinny dipping in the pool. And I’m not going to stop spending time with you, so. It’ll happen.”

“Okay,” Eddie repeated, understanding.

“So when that happens,” Steve said, “do you want me to deny it? And we start being more careful. Or do I give them an honest answer and probably get disowned? Frankly I’d rather do the latter but I know the house is a perk. Not just for us but for the kids. For everyone.”

“You think your parents might get violent?” Eddie asked.

Steve’s fingers went still in his hair. “My dad, maybe. I can handle him, though. If I have to.”

Eddie hated the look on his face.

“You’d be willing to give up the house and the money and everything?”

“Money won’t be an issue. The car’s title is in my name and I’ve been building a nice cushion in my savings account. Not planning to be cut off or anything but…”

“Just in case,” Eddie supplied.

“Just in case,” Steve agreed. “The problem is that it could cause a lot of trouble for you. And I’m not eighteen yet in this timeline, so getting an apartment or something would be––”

“I love trouble,” Eddie interrupted, crossing his fingers and holding them up, “Trouble and I are like this. And obviously you’d move in with us until the end of the school year. Of course you’d move in with us. We’ve got two bedrooms in the new place and Wayne thinks the sun shines out your ass and he doesn’t try to make me watch sports with him anymore when you’re around. You might have to cut down your hair routine in the mornings, though, if we’re all sharing a bathroom on school days.”

Steve had laughed and kissed him, which was the response Eddie was angling for, and they’d settled back to continue their star gazing and Eddie hadn’t thought about it much since except for occasionally at night, on the rare nights when he wasn’t with Steve. And even then he only thought about it abstractly. Living together for real. Waking up together every morning. Making breakfast. Getting to touch Steve whenever the whim hit him. It’s too soon. And they’re too young. And it would be a huge inconvenience at best and actively dangerous at worst if other people like his parents were to find out.

But they’re careful when they’re in public. And Steve’s folks are never there and Eddie hadn’t thought––well he hadn’t been certain how serious Steve was, anyway, when they’d had that conversation.

Now, standing in the kitchen, listening to Steve’s mom enter the house, he can’t reconcile the question Steve’s now asking with the reality of the situation. Standing in the Harrington kitchen at the six-burner stove, surrounded by top-of-the-line appliances, while the water from the pool outside reflects sun through the double glass patio doors. No way Steve would give up all of this for––

“Eddie,” Steve whispers urgently.

“Yeah,” Eddie exhales. “I meant it.” He did. He does.

“Then call Hopper,” he says lowly. “Get him over here. Just in case”

And then he’s walking confidently into the front room.

Eddie reaches for the phone.

“What,” Hopper snarls after the third ring. “It’s my day off.”

“It’s Eddie,” Eddie whispers. “Steve’s parents got back early and––”

Hopper's voice abruptly loses its sleepy fuzziness. “Are you safe?”

“They haven’t seen me yet. But they’re going to. And it’s––they’ll know. And Steve isn’t going to deny it.”

“Five minutes.”

“Thanks, Hop.”

He hangs up the phone and, with one last, reluctant, look at the back porch doors, he walks around the corner into the front room.

Steve’s dad, wrestling a bag over the threshold, glances up at his entrance and goes still.

Steve, helping his mom collapse the handle of her suitcase, carefully moves to place himself between his father and Eddie.

Suddenly, all the little noises from before stop. Eddie watches as Robert Harrington’s attention moves from Steve’s inarguably defensive stance, to Eddie and Steve’s combined lack of clothing, to the riot of Steve’s hair and the red of his lips. From the tattoos on Eddie’s arms and his ribs to the mouth-shaped bruises that sit like a possessive necklace at the base of his throat. His gaze moves back to linger on the vest Steve is still wearing.

“Steven,” his father says.

“Dad,” Steve answers levelly. “I didn’t expect you for two more days.”

“Clearly. What’s happening here?”

“Are you sure you want me to answer that?” Steve says. “Because once I say it, I can’t take it back. Once I say it, we can’t pretend anymore.”

“Pretend,” his mother starts with a flighty little laugh. “I don’t understand.”

Steve is still looking at his dad.

“Steven,” Robert Harrington says.

“Ok, then,” Steve says. His voice is low and firm and devastatingly certain. “This is Eddie. My boyfriend.”

Steve’s mother sits, abruptly, on the couch, still clinging to her luggage.

“No,” Robert Harrington says.

Steve laughs, a huff of a thing with raised eyebrows and a disbelieving shake of his head. “I did give you the option of ignorance,” he says. “You didn’t take it.”

He glances behind him, meets Eddie's eyes with a crooked, if sad, grin, and nods toward the stairs. “You wanna grab your stuff? I think we’re probably going to be kicked out here in a minute.”

Eddie does not want to leave Steve alone, but Eddie also does not want to be nearly naked under the baleful gaze of Robert Harrington anymore. He gives Steve a look that is meant to convey ‘yell if you need me,’ and he goes upstairs.

It takes less than a minute for him to pull on his clothes from the night before and he laces his boots on the landing at the top of the stairs, ears straining to overhear the muffled conversation occuring downstairs. There’s a lot of swearing coming from Steve’s dad and maybe some restrained sobs coming from Steve’s mother but it doesn’t sound like Steve needs help. So Eddie shoves the rest of his stuff from the bathroom counter and the nightstand into his backpack and then pulls open Steve’s top dresser drawer to pick some clothes for him. One of his own shirts is front and center and it’s purely for expediency that he tosses it onto the bed, following it with a pair of jeans, socks, and a jacket.

And then––

Then he goes downstairs.

The voices are getting louder, not just due to proximity.

Eddie pauses, just for a moment as he descends the last few steps, assessing the situation. Steve’s dad is in Steve’s face, hissing something about disgust and embarrassment and Steve’s mother is crying about knowing they were leaving him alone too much which Eddie thinks is rich. He might be shit at school but even he knows that correlation doesn't equal causation. If neglectful parents were the only requirement for homosexuality, gay marriage would probably be legal and politicians opposing it would only have themselves to blame.

“I can make you a list of house stuff you’ll need to deal with,” Steve is saying with an aloofness that has to come from the few extra years he’s lived, tucked secretly behind his too-young face. “You’ll need to hire a pool company and lawn service, to start. And there’s a guy who’s coming to look at the gutters next Tuesday, so you’ll need to reschedule that since I’m assuming you aren’t staying that long.”

Eddie goes to the kitchen. He turns off the stove, bins the final, now blackened, batch of pancakes and loads up the rest––dicks, stars, hearts––into a tupperware. He tucks that into his bag, has a brief argument with the zipper, and then returns to the sitting room.

“The only place you’re going,” Steve’s father is snarling, “is someplace they can fix this.”

“That’s not one of the options I gave you,” Steve says patiently. “Either you let me stay and you get to keep pretending I’m whatever you want me to be, or I move out and I make it clear to anyone who asks that I don’t consider myself a Harrington anymore. Your choice.”

“There’s a place in California,” Steve’s dad says. “Harriet, where was it that Marge sent her son?”

Steve’s mom just continues to clutch her luggage and sob.

“We’ll sort it out on Monday,” he continues. “You can spend the summer there and be back before your junior year. And you––” he points at Eddie, you will leave and you will not associate with my son anymore. God knows what you’ve put in his head––”

“Senior year, dad,” Steve sighs. “I just finished my junior year. And I was the one that seduced Eddie. If that matters to you.”

“It’s true,” Eddie says, summoning a brashness he does not at all feel. “I was there.”

“Harriet,” Robert shouts. “Stop crying and go find the number of that place in California.”

“No point,” Steve says evenly. “I already said I won’t go.”

“You’re my son. You’ll do whatever the hell I tell you to do.”

“No,” Steve repeats, like he’s talking to an obstinate child. “I’m not. And I won’t.”

“Yes you fucking will, or––”

The doorbell rings.

Everyone goes still for several seconds until it rings a second time, accompanied by a brusque knock. Steve’s dad mutters a string of expletives under his breath and goes to answer it.

It’s only when Eddie hears Hopper's voice saying, “Robert, I didn’t know you were in town,” that Eddie finally feels like he can take a full breath.

He thinks, absently, that his intense relief at the arrival of the chief of police is more than a little hilarious, considering the same chief of police has arrested him on more than one occasion. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though.

“We just got back,” Steve’s dad says. He’s only cracked the door enough to speak to Hopper, trying to shield Steve and Eddie from view.

“That’d explain it, then,” Hopper says. “The boys invited me over for some breakfast before we go on our weekend fishing trip.” He raises his voice, “Pancakes or waffles this morning, boys?”

“Pancakes,” Steve calls.

“Fishing trip,” Robert Harrington says.

“A-yup,” Hopper says, hooking one thumb in his belt. “Steve said he was interested in learning and obviously Eddie volunteered to join.”

“Obviously,” Robert Harrington says.

“Joined at the hip, those two,” Hopper continues. “Nice to see.”

“Is it.”

“Anyhow, are they about ready?”

“We need to finish packing a few things up,” Steve calls. “You want to come in and help? I don’t know what pants would be best.”

Hopper steps forward and Steve’s dad grudgingly opens the door enough to admit him.

“Good grief,” Hop says, taking in Steve’s appearance. “I should have known you wouldn’t be ready on time.” He casts a critical eye over Eddie. “At least you’re dressed. Come on, you two, let's go. We’re burning daylight.”

***

Twenty minutes later, they pull up in front of the trailer and Hopper parks his truck with two suitcases of Steve’s stuff in the bed next to Steve’s beemer.

Before Eddie can get out of the car, before Hopper can even get the tailgate down on the truck, Steve is hugging Hopper with nearly the same desperation that he hugged Robin in the hallway all those months before.

He’d been so calm at his house, methodical as he packed his bags, reserved but steady as he drove them back to the park.

But now he’s got his arms wrapped around Hopper, hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, head ducked, just enough, so Hopper can tuck Steve under his chin and hold him back. Now, he’s––he looks like a kid whose parents just confirmed their love had limits.

And Eddie aches for him.

He can’t help but think about Wayne’s careful, leading, assertions. His stories about his gay friend in Indy. His belief that people ought to live and let live. His enjoyment of queer musical artists and his constant, constant reminders that he would love Eddie no matter what. That his love was not transactional or conditional and that even if Eddie said he didn’t want it, he’d always have it. No matter what.

Eddie wishes, so much, that Steve had a Wayne.

Then again, he thinks, watching Hopper’s mouth move against Steve’s year, watching him holding Steve back just as tight, if Wayne has taught Eddie anything it’s that you get to choose your family, if you want. You’re not stuck with the ones you’re given.

Wayne comes out the door, looking confused, and Steve wrenches himself away, busies himself with pulling out his bags while dragging the back of his arm across his eyes.

Hopper steps up to the porch and has barely said a dozen words to Wayne before Wayne stopping across the yard and pulling Steve into a hug too and––

Oh.

Eddie is going to need a moment.

“Hop,” Wayne says over Steve’s shoulder. “Thank you. For bringing my boys back safe and sound.”

Eddie is not going to cry. He’s not.

He might. Just a little.

“Sure,” Hopper says. “You let me know if they cause any trouble.”

For once, Eddie is pretty sure the “they” Hop is referring to is not, in fact, Steve and Eddie.

“Will do. You want to stay for breakfast?”

“We brought the pancakes with us,” Steve says wetly.

“I might stay for some pancakes,” Hopper muses. “What kind?”

“Uh,” Eddie says. “Blueberry. But fair warning, about half of them are dick-shaped.”

Hopper squints at him. “What other shape options are there?”

“Hearts and stars.”

“I’ll take stars,” he says.

“Hearts,” Wayne says.

“Done,” Eddie agrees.

He and Hopper each grab one of Steve’s bags from the truck and Wayne pulls away from Steve only so he can open the door. He keeps a hand on the back of Steve’s neck as he leads them inside and Eddie follows with so much love in his chest that he feels buoyant.

“We’ll take care of it, kid,” Hopper murmurs behind him. “It’ll be okay.”

And Eddie believes him.

***

Tag list:

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#steddie fic #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington/eddie munson #myfic #stranger things fic

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xiaq · 3 days

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Twenty years ago, February 15th, 2004, I got married for the first time.

It was twenty years earlier than I ever expected to.

To celebrate/comemorate the date, I'm sitting down to write out everything I remember as I remember it. No checking all the pictures I took or all the times I've written about this before. I'm not going to turn to my husband (of twenty years, how the f'ing hell) to remember a detail for me.

This is not a 100% accurate recounting of that first wild weekend in San Francisco. But it -is- a 100% accurate recounting of how I remember it today, twenty years after the fact.

Join me below, if you would.

2004 was an election year, and much like conservatives are whipping up anti-trans hysteria and anti-trans bills and propositions to drive out the vote today, in 2004 it was all anti-gay stuff. Specifically, preventing the evil scourge of same-sex marriage from destroying everything good and decent in the world.

Enter Gavin Newstrom. At the time, he was the newly elected mayor of San Francisco. Despite living next door to the city all my life, I hadn’t even heard of the man until Valentines Day 2004 when he announced that gay marriage was legal in San Francisco and started marrying people at city hall.

It was a political stunt. It was very obviously a political stunt. That shit was illegal, after all. But it was a very sweet political stunt. I still remember the front page photo of two ancient women hugging each other forehead to forehead and crying happy tears.

But it was only going to last for as long as it took for the California legal system to come in and make them knock it off.

The next day, we’re on the phone with an acquaintance, and she casually mentions that she’s surprised the two of us aren’t up at San Francisco getting married with everyone else.

“Everyone else?” Goes I, “I thought they would’ve shut that down already?”

“Oh no!” goes she, “The courts aren’t open until Tuesday. Presidents Day on Monday and all. They’re doing them all weekend long!”

We didn’t know because social media wasn’t a thing yet. I only knew as much about it as I’d read on CNN, and most of the blogs I was following were more focused on what bullshit President George W Bush was up to that day.

"Well shit", me and my man go, "do you wanna?" I mean, it’s a political stunt, it wont really mean anything, but we’re not going to get another chance like this for at least 20 years. Why not?

The next day, Sunday, we get up early. We drive north to the southern-most BART station. We load onto Bay Area Rapid Transit, and rattle back and forth all the way to the San Francisco City Hall stop.

We had slightly miscalculated.

Apparently, demand for marriages was far outstripping the staff they had on hand to process them. Who knew. Everyone who’d gotten turned away Saturday had been given tickets with times to show up Sunday to get their marriages done. My babe and I, we could either wait to see if there was a space that opened up, or come back the next day, Monday.

“Isn’t City Hall closed on Monday?” I asked. “It’s a holiday”

“Oh sure,” they reply, “but people are allowed to volunteer their time to come in and work on stuff anyways. And we have a lot of people who want to volunteer their time to have the marriage licensing offices open tomorrow.”

“Oh cool,” we go, “Backup.”

“Make sure you’re here if you do,” they say, “because the California Supreme Court is back in session Tuesday, and will be reviewing the motion that got filed to shut us down.”

And all this shit is super not-legal, so they’ll totally be shutting us down goes unsaid.

00000

We don’t get in Saturday. We wind up hanging out most of the day, though.

It’s… incredible. I can say, without hyperbole, that I have never experienced so much concentrated joy and happiness and celebration of others’ joy and happiness in all my life before or since. My face literally ached from grinning. Every other minute, a new couple was coming out of City Hall, waving their paperwork to the crowd and cheering and leaping and skipping. Two glorious Latina women in full Mariachi band outfits came out, one in the arms of another. A pair of Jewish boys with their families and Rabbi. One couple managed to get a Just Married convertible arranged complete with tin-cans tied to the bumper to drive off in. More than once I was giving some rice to throw at whoever was coming out next.

At some point in the mid-afternoon, there was a sudden wave of extra cheering from the several hundred of us gathered at the steps, even though no one was coming out. There was a group going up the steps to head inside, with some generic black-haired shiny guy at the front. My not-yet-husband nudged me, “That’s Newsom.” He said, because he knew I was hopeless about matching names and people.

Ooooooh, I go. That explains it. Then I joined in the cheers. He waved and ducked inside.

So dusk is starting to fall. It’s February, so it’s only six or so, but it’s getting dark.

“Should we just try getting in line for tomorrow -now-?” we ask.

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.” One of the volunteers tells us. “We’re not allowed to have people hang out overnight like this unless there are facilities for them and security. We’d need Porta-Poties for a thousand people and police patrols and the whole lot, and no one had time to get all that organized. Your best bet is to get home, sleep, and then catch the first BART train up at 5am and keep your fingers crossed.

Monday is the last day to do this, after all.

00000

So we go home. We crash out early. We wake up at 4:00. We drive an hour to hit the BART station. We get the first train up. We arrive at City Hall at 6:30AM.

The line stretches around the entirety of San Francisco City Hall. You could toss a can of Coke from the end of the line to the people who’re up to be first through the doors and not have to worry about cracking it open after.

“Uh.” We go. “What the fuck is -this-?”

So.

Remember why they weren’t going to be able to have people hang out overnight?

Turns out, enough SF cops were willing to volunteer unpaid time to do patrols to cover security. And some anonymous person delivered over a dozen Porta-Poties that’d gotten dropped off around 8 the night before.

It’s 6:30 am, there are almost a thousand people in front of us in line to get this literal once in a lifetime marriage, the last chance we expect to have for at least 15 more years (it was 2004, gay rights were getting shoved back on every front. It was not looking good. We were just happy we lived in California were we at least weren’t likely to loose job protections any time soon.).

Then it starts to rain.

We had not dressed for rain.

00000

Here is how the next six hours go.

We’re in line. Once the doors open at 7am, it will creep forward at a slow crawl. It’s around 7 when someone shows up with garbage bags for everyone. Cut holes for the head and arms and you’ve got a makeshift raincoat! So you’ve got hundreds of gays and lesbians decked out in the nicest shit they could get on short notice wearing trashbags over it.

Everyone is so happy.

Everyone is so nervous/scared/frantic that we wont be able to get through the doors before they close for the day.

People online start making delivery orders.

Coffee and bagels are ordered in bulk and delivered to City Hall for whoever needs it. We get pizza. We get roses. Random people come by who just want to give hugs to people in line because they’re just so happy for us. The tour busses make detours to go past the lines. Chinese tourists lean out with their cameras and shout GOOD LUCK while car horns honk.

A single sad man holding a Bible tries to talk people out of doing this, tells us all we’re sinning and to please don’t. He gives up after an hour. A nun replaces him with a small sign about how this is against God’s will. She leaves after it disintegrates in the rain.

The day before, when it was sunny, there had been a lot of protestors. Including a large Muslim group with their signs about how “Not even DOGS do such things!” Which… Yes they do.

A lot of snide words are said (by me) about how the fact that we’re willing to come out in the rain to do this while they’re not willing to come out in the rain to protest it proves who actually gives an actual shit about the topic.

Time passes. I measure it based on which side of City Hall we’re on. The doors face East. We start on Northside. Coffee and trashbags are delivered when we’re on the North Side. Pizza first starts showing up when we’re on Westside, which is also where I see Bible Man and Nun. Roses are delivered on Southside. And so forth.

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We have Line Neighbors.

Ahead of us are a gay couple a decade or two older than us. They’ve been together for eight years. The older one is a school teacher. He has his coat collar up and turns away from any news cameras that come near while we reposition ourselves between the lenses and him. He’s worried about the parents of one of his students seeing him on the news and getting him fired. The younger one will step away to get interviewed on his own later on. They drove down for the weekend once they heard what was going on. They’d started around the same time we did, coming from the Northeast, and are parked in a nearby garage.

The most perky energetic joyful woman I’ve ever met shows up right after we turned the corner to Southside to tackle the younger of the two into a hug. She’s their local friend who’d just gotten their message about what they’re doing and she will NOT be missing this. She is -so- happy for them. Her friends cry on her shoulders at her unconditional joy.

Behind us are a lesbian couple who’d been up in San Francisco to celebrate their 12th anniversary together. “We met here Valentines Day weekend! We live down in San Diego, now, but we like to come up for the weekend because it’s our first love city.”

“Then they announced -this-,” the other one says, “and we can’t leave until we get married. I called work Sunday and told them I calling in sick until Wednesday.”

“I told them why,” her partner says, “I don’t care if they want to give me trouble for it. This is worth it. Fuck them.”

My husband-to-be and I look at each other. We’ve been together for not even two years at this point. Less than two years. Is it right for us to be here? We’re potentially taking a spot from another couple that’d been together longer, who needed it more, who deserved it more.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Says the 40-something gay couple in front of us.

“This is as much for you as it is for us!” says the lesbian couple who’ve been together for over a decade behind us.

“You kids are too cute together,” says the gay couple’s friend. “you -have- to. Someday -you’re- going to be the old gay couple that’s been together for years and years, and you deserve to have been married by then.”

We stay in line.

It’s while we’re on the Southside of City Hall, just about to turn the corner to Eastside at long last that we pick up our own companions. A white woman who reminds me an awful lot of my aunt with a four year old black boy riding on her shoulders. “Can we say we’re with you? His uncles are already inside and they’re not letting anyone in who isn’t with a couple right there.” “Of course!” we say.

The kid is so very confused about what all the big deal is, but there’s free pizza and the busses keep driving by and honking, so he’s having a great time.

We pass by a statue of Lincoln with ‘Marriage for All!’ and "Gay Rights are Human Rights!" flags tucked in the crooks of his arms and hanging off his hat.

It’s about noon, noon-thirty when we finally make it through the doors and out of the rain.

They’ve promised that anyone who’s inside when the doors shut will get married. We made it. We’re safe.

We still have a -long- way to go.

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They’re trying to fit as many people into City Hall as possible. Partially to get people out of the rain, mostly to get as many people indoors as possible. The line now stretches down into the basement and up side stairs and through hallways I’m not entirely sure the public should ever be given access to. We crawl along slowly but surely.

It’s after we’ve gone through the low-ceiling basement hallways past offices and storage and back up another set of staircases and are going through a back hallway of low-ranked functionary offices that someone comes along handing out the paperwork. “It’s an hour or so until you hit the office, but take the time to fill these out so you don’t have to do it there!”

We spend our time filling out the paperwork against walls, against backs, on stone floors, on books.

We enter one of the public areas, filled with displays and photos of City Hall Demonstrations of years past.

I take pictures of the big black and white photo of the Abraham Lincoln statue holding banners and signs against segregation and for civil rights.

The four year old boy we helped get inside runs past us around this time, chased by a blond haired girl about his own age, both perused by an exhausted looking teenager helplessly begging them to stop running.

Everyone is wet and exhausted and vibrating with anticipation and the building-wide aura of happiness that infuses everything.

The line goes into the marriage office. A dozen people are at the desk, shoulder to shoulder, far more than it was built to have working it at once.

A Sister of Perpetual Indulgence is directing people to city officials the moment they open up. She’s done up in her nun getup with all her makeup on and her beard is fluffed and be-glittered and on point. “Oh, I was here yesterday getting married myself, but today I’m acting as your guide. Number 4 sweeties, and -Congradulatiooooons!-“

The guy behind the counter has been there since six. It’s now 1:30. He’s still giddy with joy. He counts our money. He takes our paperwork, reviews it, stamps it, sends off the parts he needs to, and hands the rest back to us. “Alright, go to the Rotunda, they’ll direct you to someone who’ll do the ceremony. Then, if you want the certificate, they’ll direct you to -that- line.” “Can’t you just mail it to us?” “Normally, yeah, but the moment the courts shut us down, we’re not going to be allowed to.”

We take our paperwork and join the line to the Rotunda.

If you’ve seen James Bond: A View to a Kill, you’ve seen the San Francisco City Hall Rotunda. There are literally a dozen spots set up along the balconies that overlook the open area where marriage officials and witnesses are gathered and are just processing people through as fast as they can.

That’s for the people who didn’t bring their own wedding officials.

There’s a Catholic-adjacent couple there who seem to have brought their entire families -and- the priest on the main steps. They’re doing the whole damn thing. There’s at least one more Rabbi at work, I can’t remember what else. Just that there was a -lot-.

We get directed to the second story, northside. The San Francisco City Treasurer is one of our two witnesses. Our marriage officient is some other elected official I cannot remember for the life of me (and I'm only writing down what I can actively remember, so I can't turn to my husband next to me and ask, but he'll have remembered because that's what he does.)

I have a wilting lily flower tucked into my shirt pocket. My pants have water stains up to the knees. My hair is still wet from the rain, I am blubbering, and I can’t get the ring on my husband’s finger. The picture is a treat, I tell you.

There really isn’t a word for the mix of emotions I had at that time. Complete disbelief that this was reality and was happening. Relief that we’d made it. Awe at how many dozens of people had personally cheered for us along the way and the hundreds to thousands who’d cheered for us generally.

Then we're married.

Then we get in line to get our license.

It’s another hour. This time, the line goes through the higher stories. Then snakes around and goes past the doorway to the mayor’s office.

Mayor Newsom is not in today. And will be having trouble getting into his office on Tuesday because of the absolute barricade of letters and flowers and folded up notes and stuffed animals and City Hall maps with black marked “THANK YOU!”s that have been piled up against it.

We make it to the marriage records office.

I take a picture of my now husband standing in front of a case of the marriage records for 1902-1912. Numerous kids are curled up in corners sleeping. My own memory is spotty. I just know we got the papers, and then we’re done with lines. We get out, we head to the front entrance, and we walk out onto the City Hall steps.

It's almost 3PM.

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There are cheers, there’s rice thrown at us, there are hundreds of people celebrating us with unconditional love and joy and I had never before felt the goodness that exists in humanity to such an extent. It’s no longer raining, just a light sprinkle, but there are still no protestors. There’s barely even any news vans.

We make our way through the gauntlet, we get hands shaked, people with signs reading ”Congratulations!” jump up and down for us. We hit the sidewalks, and we begin to limp our way back to the BART station.

I’m at the BART station, we’re waiting for our train back south, and I’m sitting on the ground leaning against a pillar and in danger of falling asleep when a nondescript young man stops in front of me and shuffles his feet nervously. “Hey. I just- I saw you guys, down at City Hall, and I just… I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of what you could do. I’m- I’m just really glad, glad you could get to do this.”

He shakes my hand, clasps it with both of his and shakes it. I thank him and he smiles and then hurries away as fast as he can without running.

Our train arrives and the trip south passes in a semilucid blur.

We get back to our car and climb in.

It’s 4:30 and we are starving.

There’s a Carls Jr near the station that we stop off at and have our first official meal as a married couple. We sit by the window and watch people walking past and pick out others who are returning from San Francisco. We're all easy to pick out, what with the combination of giddiness and water damage.

We get home about 6-7. We take the dog out for a good long walk after being left alone for two days in a row. We shower. We bundle ourselves up. We bury ourselves in blankets and curl up and just sort of sit adrift in the surrealness of what we’d just done.

We wake up the next day, Tuesday, to read that the California State Supreme Court has rejected the petition to shut down the San Francisco weddings because the paperwork had a misplaced comma that made the meaning of one phrase unclear.

The State Supreme Court would proceed to play similar bureaucratic tricks to drag the process out for nearly a full month before they have nothing left and finally shut down Mayor Newsom’s marriages.

My parents had been out of state at the time at a convention. They were flying into SFO about the same moment we were walking out of City Hall. I apologized to them later for not waiting and my mom all but shook me by the shoulders. “No! No one knew that they’d go on for so long! You did what you needed to do! I’ll just be there for the next one!”

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It was just a piece of paper. Legally, it didn’t even hold any weight thirty days later. My philosophy at the time was “marriage really isn’t that important, aside from the legal benefits. It’s just confirming what you already have.”

But maybe it’s just societal weight, or ingrained culture, or something, but it was different after. The way I described it at the time, and I’ve never really come up with a better metaphor is, “It’s like we were both holding onto each other in the middle of the ocean in the middle of a storm. We were keeping each other above water, we were each other’s support. But then we got this piece of paper. And it was like the ground rose up to meet our feet. We were still in an ocean, still in the middle of a storm, but there was a solid foundation beneath our feet. We still supported each other, but there was this other thing that was also keeping our heads above the water.

It was different. It was better. It made things more solid and real.

I am forever grateful for all the forces and all the people who came together to make it possible. It’s been twenty years and we’re still together and still married.

We did a domestic partnership a year later to get the legal paperwork. We’d done a private ceremony with proper rings (not just ones grabbed out of the husband’s collection hours before) before then. And in 2008, we did a legal marriage again.

Rushed. In a hurry. Because there was Proposition 13 to be voted on which would make them all illegal again if it passed.

It did, but we were already married at that point, and they couldn’t negate it that time.

Another few years after that, the Supreme Court finally threw up their hands and said "Fine! It's been legal in places and nothing's caught on fire or been devoured by locusts. It's legal everywhere. Shut up about it!"

And that was that.

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When I was in highschool, in the late 90s, I didn’t expect to see legal gay marriage until I was in my 50s. I just couldn’t see how the American public as it was would ever be okay with it.

I never expected to be getting married within five years. I never expected it to be legal nationwide before I’d barely started by 30s. I never thought I’d be in my 40s and it’d be such a non-issue that the conservative rabble rousers would’ve had to move onto other wedge issues altogether.

I never thought that I could introduce another man as my husband and absolutely no one involved would so much as blink.

I never thought I’d live in this world.

And it’s twenty years later today. I wonder how our line buddies are doing. Those babies who were running around the wide open rooms playing tag will have graduated college by now. The kids whose parents the one line-buddy was worried would see him are probably married too now. Some of them to others of the same gender.

I don’t have some greater message to make with all this. Other then, culture can shift suddenly in ways you can’t predict. For good or ill. Mainly this is just me remembering the craziest fucking 36 hours of my life twenty years after the fact and sharing them with all of you.

The future we’re resigned to doesn’t have to be the one we live in. Society can shift faster than you think. The unimaginable of twenty years ago is the baseline reality of today.

And always remember that the people who want to get married will show up by the thousands in rain that none of those who’re against it will brave.

#lgbtq #gorgeous #the pure joy in this

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