Eddie lingers by the Lite-Brite, while Robin and Nancy thunder downstairs in search of the bikes; Steve can hear the echo of their voices as they go, Robin insisting that she get, “—the coolest looking bike, Nance, that’s only fair considering your goddamn outfit nearly strangled me,” followed by Nancy’s answering laughter.
Eddie doesn’t look like he’s heard them at all. Looks like he’s in a world of his own, actually.
His fingers trail through the air, creating a path of golden shimmers. His eyes are wide, entranced, and he suddenly looks so peaceful that the sight actually threatens to choke Steve up.
Maybe it’s a small thing compared to everything else. But Steve thinks it’s monumental: how despite every horror that he’s witnessed, despite everything, Eddie’s still reaching for the light.
The thought is familiar, a reminder of how he’d felt just minutes before, hearing Dustin and Erica’s triumphant giggles—hope and affection catching in his throat.
He’d almost forgotten that all of this could be fun, too.
Eddie’s fingers keep weaving—he doubles back on himself several times, like he’s trying to draw the light into his palm. There’s no discernible pattern to his movements, no half-formed words Steve can make out—he only sees Eddie’s complete and utter contentment in doing nothing but this: just drinking the moment in.
It makes Steve think of how he used to consider the Fourth of July as a kid. Before the big fireworks show, when it felt like time had slowed, like the whole world had narrowed down to just him and a dazzling sparkler in his hand.
Steve watches on, leaning against the doorframe; he wants—suddenly, desperately—to give Eddie all the time in the world.
But he has to settle for counting out increasingly long seconds in his head. Then he suppresses a sigh, gives a gentle tap, tap along the wall.
“Eddie,” Steve says softly. Then, when Eddie still hasn’t heard, just a touch louder: “Eddie.”
Eddie startles, blinking rapidly. His eyes refocus, land on Steve—but a slightly dreamy, captivated quality remains, as if he’s still seeing an afterimage of the lights.
“Oh,” he says, sounds almost sheepish.
“Hey,” Steve says, smiling. “You doing good over there? You look like you found proof that, like, Santa’s real or something.”
Eddie chuckles under his breath, but he doesn’t reply.
His hand returns to that spot again, dipping in and out of the light like he’s sat by a creek, fingers dragging through the water.
“Y’know,” Eddie begins, so quietly. Achingly wistful. “If it was all like this… I wouldn’t mind it.”
The feeling hits, tugs on Steve’s breastbone. It doesn’t hurt.
He keeps looking at Eddie, at the flickers of gold reflected in his pupils, and he silences the part of himself that insists he shouldn’t have time for this, and just thinks it anyway.
You’re beautiful, Eddie Munson.
That’s all. Nothing else, no qualifications.
Maybe here, things can be simple. Just this once.
Eddie drops his hand. The light fades away, but he’s staring at Steve, like something else has inexplicably been lit up right in front of him.
“What?” Steve says.
“Nothing,” Eddie says, almost a whisper. “Sometimes I just. I just think. You, um—you look at me like…”
Slowly, slowly, Steve steps further into the room.
“Like what?”
Another step.
Eddie shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. Adds nonsensically, “Must’ve been a trick of the light.”
“I don’t think so,” Steve says.
He reaches out a hand. Feels the warmth beneath his palm.
Eddie lifts his hand, so hesitantly. He edges ever closer, until the shimmery trails from their fingertips begin to merge into one.
Until their hands intertwine.
For a moment, Eddie stands frozen, and Steve’s ready to draw back.
But then Eddie inhales. He’s not looking at the lights, not anymore.
He’s looking at me, Steve thinks.
Perhaps has been for a while.
“Yes?” Eddie murmurs, lips barely moving.
“Yes,” Steve says.
He leans in.
The kiss is a small thing, really. Warm, tentative touches—a stumble before finding each other in the dark.
Such a small thing.
But to Steve, it’s monumental.
He feels it in his chest, like a tidal wave, and as he brings a hand up to cradle the side of Eddie’s face, he thinks that the lights are somehow in his chest too, like they’re both swallowing flecks of gold until they’re glowing with it, until the beams’ll shoot out of their fingers, their toes, the ends of their hair.
And here, in this house that’s frozen in time, it somehow feels like they’re stealing more of it, precious seconds, minutes—hell, give me hours, Steve thinks euphorically, give me years—
“Steve!” calls Robin’s voice distantly, and they both jump. “Get your ass in gear or I’m gonna slash your tires.”
“Uh, have a little patience, puh-lease!” Steve returns, a role reversal from all the times she’s run late for him to pick her up.
Eddie blinks, looks as if he’s holding his breath again; his eyes flicker over Steve’s face, like he’s expecting him to pull away.
Steve doesn’t.
A tender, lovely smile spreads across Eddie’s face.
And then they’re laughing into each other’s mouths.
And laughing leads to more…
“Harrington,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling too much for it to come across as remotely serious.
“Just a little longer,” Steve says—feels like he’s back in high school, joyful and silly.
Eddie laughs breathily; Steve presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, swallows the sound.
“If Buckley slashes your tires, you’re gonna have to, like, book it alongside us.”
“Or we could share a bike.”
A disbelieving, fond chuckle. “Steve.”
Eddie breaks away only to lean back in and kiss Steve’s cheek instead—and for some reason that’s the thing to make Steve’s breathing truly catch.
They’re still holding hands; he rediscovers that fact when Eddie grins slyly and pulls him to the door.
“Let’s go.”
“All right, all right, jeez.”
The room is left in darkness, but they’re laughing as they race each other downstairs—and though the shimmers have dissolved, they’re still leaving light in their wake, wherever they go next.
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