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steviewashere · 2 months

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Devotion in the Way We Sway

Rating: General CW: Brief reference to sex, but nothing is shown and it's very vague Tags: Established Relationship, Jazz Music as a Plot Device, Slow Dancing, Love Confessions, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Fluff, Tooth Rotting Fluff

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is the perfect mixtape."

💕—————💕

He found it while cleaning up the coffee table one evening.

The night had been long and lively. Their friends sharing the space, passing around boxes of pizza, huddled in close, watching a movie and cuddling. There were card games and charades. Raucous laughter. God, there was so much laughter, Steve hadn’t heard anything more delightful. It was chilly beyond the front door, but in the couple hours they were together, everybody’s chests were warm.

And yet, it had to end. Steve gave everybody extensive goodbyes. A warm hand on a shoulder or a tight embrace. Little teasing remark there, something sentimental and on the verge of tears here. Then, he retired back to the living room, garbage bag in hand, tossing what he thought needed to be thrown out.

Beer cans. Soda, half drank. Couple loose Redvine straws. Some sticky globs of slightly melted Junior Mints. The pizza boxes, of course. Bags from breadsticks. Red Solo cups.

But as he passed by the coffee table, bag still in hand, aiming for the front door and down his porch steps and over to the garbage bin at the end of the driveway—there was a little shiny, plastic thing sitting on the surface. He picked it up, recognizing it straight away as a cassette case. And pocketed it. He’ll take a look back upstairs.

And he nearly forgot about it until it clattered to his bedroom carpet, a soft thud. He picked it up once more, twirling it between his fingers. There wasn’t an album card. It was one of those covers for a homemade mixtape, Steve’s known plenty of those placards. Usually, they’d have some sort of name written in sloppy Sharpie. Something like: To My Love, or, For My Sweetheart.

This one didn’t. Which he thought was odd. But further investigation revealed a little scratchy line of text: S Jazz Comp (1).

He recognized it as Eddie’s handwriting. Though, it was still a rather unusual thing. It’s jazz, first of all. And, sure, Eddie’s a music guy, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s also into jazz or contemporary or funk or whatever. He’s typically rock or nothing kinda guy.

So, of course Steve is curious beyond comprehension. He drifts back down the stairs, pajamas on, freshly showered. And stands in front of his parents’ sound system. He pops the tape in, gently spins the volume dial. Stands back from the speakers, plops down onto the carpet, and waits for the sound to hit his ears.

The first voices, Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, flit to his ears. It’s their rendition of “Cheek to Cheek”. He knows this, he’s heard it before. In fact, he’d told Eddie about it. About the first school dance he’d gone to, barely twelve years old, dressed up in a little suit and tie, but no date. He’d been a wallflower. A sorry cup of sticky, all too sweet punch in his grip. Scuffing his shoes against the waxed gymnasium floor, eyes wandering the crowds of other school kids, all of them smiling softly, twirling in each other’s arms, them laughing. He didn’t like being alone. But the music was enough to satisfy him. He swayed where he stood, eyes pierced to the swirl of his juice. It danced with him. It was romantic, nearly. He was satisfied, he still went home happier than when he arrived.

Eddie promised after the story was told, “We’ll dance to it. I’ll find a way to get that song, and we’ll dance to it.” He brushed his palm over the side of Steve’s head, humming something familiar in his chest, and had easily lulled Steve to sleep. All their promises seem to be made in the dark of each other’s bedrooms, right before they drift away, right when they’re the most vulnerable they can possibly be outside of having sex. He preens at the thought that Eddie remembered. They’ve only been together for a handful of months, and he remembered.

The next song starts. Etta James’, “A Sunday Kind of Love”.

Now, this one was just in passing. They walked past a record store on a day trip in Indianapolis. Seems like their day trips always land there. Steve heard the song playing from the entrance of the store. Maybe it’s the hopeless romantic in him, but he was immediately drawn to it. To the soft instrumental. Etta’s crooning, beautiful as a lake voice. He prevented himself from going in, from buying the song for himself. Prevented his innate urge to sway on the spots. Just patted Eddie on the shoulder, as much contact that wouldn’t be considered suspicious, and told, “I wish we could dance right now.” And kept on walking, leaving Eddie rooted to the spot outside the record shop.

Okay, so the ’S’ on the title of this tape is beginning to make sense. They’re songs that Eddie’s gathered because of Steve. They’re Steve songs. They’re jazz Steve songs.

He wants to cry. Wants to roll around on the floor. Kinda wants to do a few laps around his house.

Just as he gets up to do so, to expel some of the manic energy that’s overcome him, a knock sounds on the door. He doesn’t bother turning the tape off. There’s an easy excuse: “Oh, just going through my mom’s record collection.” But finds that he doesn’t need to explain himself, at least not completely, it’s Eddie on his porch stoop.

The door opens wider, letting Eddie slip through without words. Yet, when it clicks softly back into place and Steve turns around, Eddie is just standing in the foyer. Standing, hands fluttering at his sides, eyes soft and wide, mouth slightly agape. He stutters, “You—You, uh, you found the tape?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, I was cleaning up. It was on the coffee table. Got curious.” He steps into Eddie’s space. Leaving barely a few inches between them. “I didn’t think you remembered,” he whispers.

Eddie guffaws. “You think I wouldn’t?” He asks, wounded. “Think I wouldn’t remember all the times you told me you just wanted to dance? Baby, that hurts,” he states. It’s not genuine hurt, Steve knows this, but it stings a little all the same.

Song switching again—“P.S. I Love You” by Billie Holiday—Steve sways a little closer. “Maybe instead of remembering, we could…actually do some dancing?” He offers, hand already inching to Eddie’s right shoulder blade. He’s not the best at asking people to dance with him, he gets a little awkward, a little clammy. But his sentiments are the same.

His face must be doing something funny, something wonderful. Eddie looks at him in gentle adoration, eyes glistening, relaxed smile. A hand lands on his right side. Fingers rubbing slightly over Steve’s t-shirt. And, for a moment, Steve realizes he must be especially goofy. In his baby blue plaid pajama pants, barefoot against the carpet, a ratty Hawkins High P.E. t-shirt. Hair soft and free of product. In comparison to Eddie’s frizzy hair and his dark blue jeans, a flannel thrown over a black undershirt, his scuffed Reeboks.

The contrast shouldn’t make Steve weak in the knees, but he finds himself collapsing into Eddie’s careful embrace easy enough. They step in tandem. Knees nearly knocking each other. Their free hands grasping to one another, Steve’s arm wrapped under Eddie’s armpit, Eddie’s hand still soft on his waist.

Eddie positively glows in the pale amber light of the foyer. Smile soft, still. He’s all soft. He’s gentle and quiet and wonderful. He’s leaning a little bit closer, whispering against the shell of Steve’s ear, “You’re cute when you get flustered.”

Steve lolls his head into Eddie’s left shoulder. He chuckles. “Never danced before,” he admits shyly. “I skipped prom, y’know?”

“Really? Figured you’d do it at least once,” Eddie breathes. He sets his own head against Steve’s. Leaning into one another.

Shaking his head, Steve states, “I’m a bad dancer. It’s my least charming attribute.”

“Could’a fooled me,” Eddie chuckles. “You’re a natural, sweetheart.” He goes quiet for a little bit. Melting into the dance, relaxing against Steve just as Steve relaxes against Eddie. They’re boneless to one another. “What d’ya think of the tape?” He hesitantly asks.

“I like it so far,” Steve answers.

And then they go quiet again. Really letting the music drench their skin. He’s content in the moment. Drawn into Eddie’s embrace. If you had asked Steve of several years ago about his future, he’d probably say something stupid like working for his dad. Maybe getting married to a girl, settling down. As if he isn’t freshly twenty. But, he likes the—favors the—detour his path took. Eddie Munson is a hopeless romantic, much to his surprise. He’s warm and gentle when he wants to be. His fingers know how to soothe the aches in Steve’s coiled tight soul. Brushing his skin with his fingertips, squeezing his waist. Humming in Steve’s close ear.

The song shifts. This time, it’s “I Love My Baby” by Nina Simone. Yet, instead of her voice through the speakers, it’s Eddie’s slightly rough, deep voice. His low timber, as if he recorded this laying in bed, middle of the night. As if he sang into his tape recorder between nightmares, trying to find the come down. As if he sang because all he could think about, as Steve likes to think about, the warm embrace they share.

Eddie tenses slightly in Steve’s hold. But Steve only squeezes in tighter. Shifting his head against Eddie’s shoulder, kissing the joint through the flannel. He sighs, “You must really like me.”

“Hm?” Eddie squeak-hums.

“You must really like me,” Steve reiterates. “Y’know, to sing for me?” He sighs again. “Must love me.” There’s only an ounce of insecurity to his voice.

But Eddie susses it out. Because of course he does. Because some days, when Steve gets too deep in his own conscious, Eddie knows him better. “Yeah, baby, I really do. Love you, I mean,” he whispers. They sway for a few beats more. Before, abruptly, Eddie states, “I used to hate the idea of marriage.”

“What?” Steve finds himself laughing out. Out of nerves, mostly. Out of humor from the extreme change in subject. “What are you—“

“My parents, their marriage sucked,” Eddie speeds through. His voice only a hushed thing. Almost tiptoeing, pulling apart Steve’s brain to see if what he’s saying is okay. It is, of course it is, but Steve fills with sadness still. “It sucked. They were awful together. But I—Despite that, some days I think marriage is nice.”

Steve presses his cheek against Eddie’s. His rough stubble scratching Steve’s freshly shaven jawline. “Why’s that?” He finds himself breathing. “Feel like that would be your nightmare,” he explains a little, “the conformity of it, or whatever.”

Eddie chuckles lightly. “You’re right a little bit. Maybe I don’t like the idea of spending too much money on basically just the paper to admit my love. But…With the right person, I could be convinced.” He turns his head, pecking Steve’s cheek. Resting back into their swaying hold, he whispers, “With you, I’m convinced.”

He can’t help it, the tears that sting the corners of his eyes. The lump that he has to swallow past in his throat. He clears around it, croaking, “Really?”

Eddie nods. “Yeah,” he easily whispers. “If we could, right now, I’d marry you in a fucking heartbeat, Stevie. It’s—“ He laughs at himself. His little condescending, self-deprecating one. One that crumbles Steve a little every time he does it. “It’s stupid early for that kinda thing, I know that,” he breathes. “I know that, but I—God, Steve. With you, something’s different. You feel like…You’re love personified, I don’t know.

“Am I fucking everything up? Please—Actually, don’t tell me. Just dance.”

With every fiber in Steve’s body, he wishes they could meld souls or something. He can’t get any closer in this hold, there’s no more places to be pressed, but if he could reach out and massage Eddie’s soul, he would. By God, he would.

He sniffles something wet and that’s when Eddie pulls away. But before he can ask anything, Steve is setting both of his hands on Eddie’s cheeks, pulling him in. Pulling him in close, enough that when their lips meet, his nose plunges into Eddie’s skin, popping it, smashing it into oblivion. He kisses with fervor, yet holding him gently. He may break with the sentiment.

Eddie’s own hands come up, one over Steve’s right, the other caressing the back of his head. He responds, he always responds. But when he pulls away, “You’re crying,” he utters, “Baby, why—You’re crying.”

“Happy tears,” Steve chokes, “Eddie, god, they’re so fucking happy.”

In return, Eddie can only smile. He pecks the tip of Steve’s nose. His thumb sweeps over Steve’s skin. His right hand tangles into his hair. “I want everything with you,” he whispers, “I want it all, sweetheart. You make me so fucking happy.”

Later, when they’re tangled in bed—sweat drenched, cooling on the sheet, passionate with hickeys to show for it—Eddie holds Steve to his torso. Laying him over the length of it. Their hearts rabbit against each other. A hand runs soothingly over Steve’s back. Another scratches at his scalp. “The mixtape,” he starts. “What’d you really think of it?” The insecurity is gone from his voice. Lost somewhere between the last dance and clothes being peeled.

Steve’s fingers sketch the outline of Eddie’s scars. He sighs in contentment. “It’s perfect,” he whispers. “You’re perfect.” And he kisses Eddie’s chest, his pulse hot and fast over Steve’s lips. “At Last”, Etta once more, flitters from downstairs.

💕—————💕

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddielovemonth #day 8 #the perfect mixtape #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #jazz as a plot device lmao

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dameronology · 2 years

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buckingham fucking palace (e.m)

a.k.a the one where steve harrington gets sick of you and eddie fighting so he locks you in a room til you make up

warnings: language

hope u enjoy. this has not been proof read lol

-jazz

Steve Harrington was a meddler.

He couldn’t deny it - even though he vehemently tried to do so, with red-tinged cheeks and his brow furrowed deep. It was just natural for him to want to be involved with everyone else’s business. It came from a good place, and almost always a caring one, but minding his business was simply not an option. It was a fact that had been proven multiple times; his forever ongoing involvement in every single one of Robin’s relationships was a testament to that. He had no success stories on that front so far but he bragged to anyone who would listen about how he was single-handedly responsible for the love affair between you and a one Edward Munson.

Ah yes, Eddie Munson. The love of your life; the apple of your eye; the biggest pain in your ass. He was your heart and your soul and everything in between and you were certain you would have ended up with him, with or without Harrington's help. Maybe he had been the catalyst, that one fateful day in senior year science class, but gone were the days of young, stupid love. You were committed now, existing solely with Eddie in the little bubble you'd built for yourself. It consisted mostly of smoking weed and watching films in the trailer - Wayne worked upstate now, so it was essentially yours - but it was the escape you needed from the dull life that Hawkins brought. You were both muddling through community college, trying to make a life for yourselves: any life. Your dreams were a little bit more ambitious than Eddie's, though you were determined to drag him by the ear, probably kicking and screaming, to bigger and better things.

That had been the cause of your latest fight. You didn't often argue - not over serious things, anyway - but what had started over a bicker on the subject of Halloween costumes had turned into a heated debate about the future. It wasn't like you had proposed any ideas of illusions of grandeur; just mentioned something about moving out of the trailer someday. Maybe going to a state college instead of community college.

It had ended in you leaving - not without flipping Eddie off and throwing a chain of swear words his way - and neither of you deciding on a Halloween costume.

The day of the party rolled round and things still weren't sorted. That wasn't a surprise to anyone: you were both stubborn, fiery individuals. Most of the time it was a bonding point but god only knew it could be your weakness as well. The five days of silence had been suffocating but you certainly weren't going to crack first - just as long as Robin was okay with you crashing on her sofa.

It felt weird not being home. It felt even weirder not waking up beside Eddie - your lives and routines were so deeply intertwined that it felt like half of you was missing. Even brushing your teeth in the morning without him beside you was an odd feeling. Still, that didn't stop you from standing on either side of Steve's living room, giving each other the most loving evils ever as The Monster Mash played in the background.

"When are you two going to make up?" Robin asks. She was dressed, perhaps unironically, as Robin Hood.

"When he apologies," you muttered. "I haven't done anything wrong. I just asked like...one mildly vague question about the future. Not my fucking fault that he had to freak out and run off. We've been together since we were fucking freshman, Robin. Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck him-"

"- okay, you are being loud. And sweary," she cut you off, pulling the solo cup from your hand. "You guys are the best couple I know."

"Exactly!" you exclaimed. "We're great together and we're both really hot."

"And stubborn," Robin muttered. "So I assume that you're not going to apologise to him?"

"Not in a million years."

"Right, brilliant," she couldn't help but roll her eyes. "C'mon, let's get another drink."

Linking her arms with yours, Robin led you over to the drinks table. Your other half - who you considered right now to be your worst half - was no where to be seen. The inflatable guitar that was part of his Ozzy Osbourne costume was abandoned in the corner, which meant he can't have been that far.

"Aw, damn," Robin muttered. "We're out of lemonade."

"That sucks. Just have coke instead-"

"- no, I really specifically wanted lemonade," she over-dramatically sighed. "Do you mind grabbing some from the basement? Please?"

"Are you really that lazy?"

"Yeah."

"Eugh, fine."

Rolling your eyes, you turned on your heel and made your way through the drunk crowds and towards the basement. You weren't even entirely convinced that Steve knew half the people here - after all, like eighty percent of his friends were still in high school. That was the price that came with being Hawkins designated babysitter.

You opened the door to the basement and hopped down the steps, turning the corner towards the fridge at the back. As you did, you crashed straight into someone, letting out an oof!

"Eddie, what the fuck are you doing down here?"

"Steve sent me down for lemonade," he replied. "Why are you-"

You both froze when the click of the lock came from the door. As in the lock on the outside, that neither of you could get to. Your initial reaction was to panic, but it wasn't until you heard the dulcet tones of Harrington that you realised what was going on.

"You can come out when you two make up!" he called. "There is a whole fridge of food and a toilet down there so no excuses, guys!"

"You are a MEDDLER, Steve Harrington!" you called. "I will make you pay for this!"

"Bit rich considering I have the key, don't you think?"

You spun around to face Eddie, who held up his hands in defence. It was clear that he was a little tipsy - definitely not drunk, but definitely not sober - from the way his eyes were glazed over. Also from the way that he didn't start on you as soon as you were alone in the same room. Alcohol normally mellowed him a little.

Your heart hurt a little to see him. You should have been in matching costumes - Jareth and Sarah from Labyrinth, if you were wondering - but instead, he was Ozzy and you were in a half-arsed Stevie Nicks costume. He'd noted as soon as he'd seen you earlier that you looked hot as hell, but his anger had quickly subsided any horniness.

"Ozzy Osbourne and Stevie Nicks, huh?" Eddie was the first to break the silence. "That would be the scandal of the century."

"Yeah, biggest thing since the time you were an ass and-"

"- here we go," he muttered. "Why am I always the ass? Why can't you be the ass? Why can't we both be asses?!"

"Because you were an ass, Eddie!" you shot back. "I can't even talk to you about the near future without you freaking the fuck out. Do you even want to be with me?"

"Are you stupid?" he asked. It was a serious question, but one that came from a place of love. "Of course I want to be with you! I just worry that you don't want to be with me."

You frowned. "I'm confused."

"You have all these...ideas," Eddie began. "About college, and moving away, and getting out of Hawkins. I want that more than anything, even if I'm just tagging along for the ride, but I just..."

"You just what, Eds?"

"I worry that I'm not enough for you," he quietly admitted. "We're perfect where we are - in a trailer park, in Hawkins, just as we are. What if that changes and you realise that your love for me is just...y'know. In a trailer park, in Hawkins, as we are."

"Eddie, I'm gonna love you whether we live in a cardboard box or Buckingham fucking Palace, okay?" you couldn't help but let out a soft laugh. "I just want to be with you. I don't care where it is."

He took a step forward, taking your face in his hands and softly pressing a kiss to your lips. As always, he tasted a little of cigarettes and ever so slightly of the cheap spiced rum that Steve had supplied. Whatever tension had been between you was melting away now by the second.

"I love you," Eddie said. "So let's just stop being scared and start being together, yeah?"

You smiled. "Yeah."

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