Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What d’you think this is about?” Steve asks, bouncing his leg against the tiles, “I mean, why interrupt our training?”

Jonathan doesn’t say anything. Just stares down at the floor, his short-cropped hair doing little to hide the sullen look on his face. 

Which, Steve is used to Jon’s surly silences. The way half of Steve’s questions never get answered, how their conversations are often one sided, Steve yammering on, but, over the weeks, he’s come to appreciate the quiet way his partner operates. Thoughtful. Never says a word he doesn’t mean, and when Steve talks? 

He knows Jon’s listening.

But this silence is different. This is not the quiet, contemplative silence Steve is used to. This is something else. Something he doesn’t understand, and he’s about to reach, to lay a hand on his friend’s arm, to remind him that whatever it is, they’re in this together, because they have a shot. He knows they do, and there isn’t anything Steve will let get in the way of that.

But the door to their left opens before Steve can, and Hopper comes out, looking grave.

“Boys,” he greets.

Jon doesn’t meet his eyes. He just follows Hop’s nod into his office, and Steve, with his own nerves beginning to grow, follows him inside.

Steve understands the moment he sees the officer. 

The anger doesn’t hit him all at once.

What’s the five stages of grief, again? 

Disbelief first, he remembers, detached, as Hopper eases him into news he already knows but can’t accept. Because Jon would never be so stupid. He wouldn’t. He would never risk this, risk gold, for—for what? An extra edge? An edge they don’t need? An edge they’ve earned, painstakingly and inch by inch they’ve earned it and Jon wouldn’t, he would never—

“—cannabinoids in your system—”

The anger hits him, then. So fast and so righteous he can barely hear what Hopper’s saying. It surges through him, so hot and boiling it makes his fingers go numb, and he forces himself to focus on his breathing, on a steady in and out so he doesn’t lose his cool in front of the uniformed police officer.

Do French police carry guns?

Failed drug test, Hopper’s saying, automatic disqualification, nothing I can do, it’s the rules, and Steve’s biting down so hard on his cheek he’s beginning to taste metal. 

First flight out of here, it’s what the officer is for, and Steve, pathetically, wants to cry. Weed is legal in Jon’s home state. Hell, the first thing Steve smelled getting out of the airport in this country was some good old grass and this just cannot be the thing that stops him from winning gold. 

His whole life, from when he was a kid, barely able to touch the shallow end, has been in preparation for this. 

And he’s not about to lose on a fucking technicality.

“We have an alternate set up for you,” Hop says, and Steve realizes these words are directed at him, and he blinks, copper still in his mouth, as his coach goes on. “He was just behind Jon in qualifiers. Steve, this doesn’t change anything. You can still win this. I’ll get you there.”

Steve swallows the copper. His fingernails cut half-moons into his palms. “This is bullshit,” he hisses, so tight and controlled he’s pretty sure he’d sound less pissed if he’d shouted, “and you know it. Failed a drug test? Those are meant for—for doping. For steroids! Not—not fucking weed. Has anyone given a shit about pot since goddamn Nancy Raegan? I don’t want an alternate, I want Jonathan.” 

Hopper sighs. Runs his palms over his knees. “Steve—”

“No.” Steve resists the urge to stand, to get up in somebody’s face, to rage against whoever he needs to get this undone. “Hopper, I’ve trained with him for weeks. We’re in synch. We’re perfect, our event is two weeks away and you expect me to do this with someone new?” He shakes his head, his chest tightening, his hands going staticky, “I won’t do it. It’s Jonathan. That’s how we win.”

“Stop being a child.” Hopper barks. He doesn’t shout, but only years of practice leave Steve unflinching at his tone. “Jonathan broke the rules. Like an idiot. He’s the one who fucked up. He knew the repercussions, and did it anyway.” 

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. It’s getting harder to breathe.

“I’ve already told the new guy. He’s meeting you in the weight room this afternoon.” 

Hop’s already told him. Steve’s the last to know. The last to know that everything, the blood and sweat and tears he’s put in since he could swim, since he could climb up onto a diving board, is down the drain. 

He needs to get the fuck out of here.

Hopper says more. About how the French government isn’t pressing charges, but the US government won’t be funding his return trip. 

Steve can’t find it in him to feel sorry, even as Jonathan’s gaze never lifts from the floor.

Fuck him. Fuck these stupid, archaic rules, and fuck the country for screwing him out of gold. 

Ten minutes later, after more words Steve doesn’t pay attention to, from both Hopper and the officer, they shuffle out of the room. Jonathan’s steps, slow and dragging, Steve’s tight and restrained, still afraid to step out of line in view of the officer behind them.

Still Jon doesn’t say a word. Not even a sorry as they break out into the noontime sun.

Hopper and Jonathan’s goodbye is stilted. Steve looks away, hovering, trying his best not to eavesdrop as their awkward farewells are exchanged.

He knows Hop wants to say more. Call him an idiot. Shake his shoulders and ask him why—but Hopper won’t. It’s a done thing. No sense in asking questions.

Steve follows Jon back to their apartment, silent as they ride up the elevator together for the last time. 

He wants to hit something. Someone. Still wants to dive off the board and have Jonathan be the one beside him. 

They’ll be on the news by the end of the day, if they aren’t already. No one knew Steve’s name before this, but his partner getting kicked because he was stupid enough to smoke?

Deported from the country?

They’ll both be famous by tomorrow. 

Steve helps Jon pack, because he doesn’t know what else to do, and still his partner says nothing. 

There’s not much. Clothes, mostly. Jon brought his switch even though Steve’s never seen him play the thing, and some toiletries he dumps unceremoniously into a plastic bag. 

It takes them ten minutes, at most, and then they’re staring at each other. Jon has his hands shoved so far into his sweatshirt Steve wonders if he hopes the pockets will swallow him whole, and as pissed as Steve is, he tries not to be an ass. 

This is worse for Jonathan, after all.

“We could’ve won,” Steve says, and his attempt to keep the bite from his voice fails. “You and me,” he adds, because he’s not going to shout, but he’s going to lay the guilt on thick.

Finally, Jon looks up at him, and Steve, despite himself, feels his anger soften. 

He looks like shit. Looks like he hates himself, if his raw bottom lip and sunken cheeks are anything to go by, and his shoulders are hunched in a way that looks like he’s trying to make himself disappear. 

And then, because he can’t help himself, because he isn’t Hopper, Steve adds, quiet, verging on desperate, “why?”

Jonathan looks away from him again. Out their tiny window and into the street below. 

He’s quiet for long enough that Steve doesn’t think he’s going to get an answer. That Jonathan will leave, and not even grant Steve this.

“It’s all so much,” he mutters, after too long, so quiet and hoarse Steve can barely hear him, “my mom and brother are so proud of me. And I love them, I’m grateful for it, but—” he shakes his head, his hands twisting in his pockets, “it’s been everything to them. Watching me come this far. Seeing me succeed. Like their happiness was rooted in my success, like the weight of their well-being rested on my shoulders.” He scuffs his toe on the floor. “And then for me to represent an entire country? Me?” He snorts, like he wasn’t chosen because he was the best, like he didn’t work his ass off to be here, like Steve and him hadn’t worked better than he ever could’ve hoped, “I wanted a break from it.” Jon mutters, and then laughs, humorless, his eyes shining, “got what I wanted, didn’t I?”

He picks up his backpack. Shoulders it. “Thanks,” he continues, “for everything, man. I swear I—” he sucks on his teeth, his jaw working, “I thought I could get away with it,” he adds. “‘N ‘m sorry.” He cringes around the words, his fingers now white-knuckling the straps of his backpack. “But that’s not nearly good enough, is it?”

Steve meets Jon’s sad gaze, sees the pallor of his cheeks and the bags under his eyes, and wonders how he hadn’t seen it before. 

It’s not that Steve doesn’t have his moments. Moments where he crawls into bed and wonders how he could be here, here, amongst the best athletes in the world, representing his entire country. 

In what reality is that him?

But Steve didn’t get here by letting his self-confidence waver. Didn’t come all this way to doubt. Hasn’t done what he’s done and accomplished what he has only to trip when the moment’s at its crisis.

But he understands how someone could. 

Steve picks up Jon’s duffle. Slings it over his own shoulder. “I’ll walk you down,” he says. 

They don’t talk any more on it. 

Steve tells him to keep in touch. To call him, if he’s ever in Steve’s neck of the woods. 

Jon promises he’ll watch him dive. That he’s rooting for him. That he knows, out of the two of them, Steve was always the one with the guts to. 

Steve doesn’t say anything back to that. Doesn’t know what he would say, so he watches Jon shut the door to his cab, and watches his best shot at gold drive away. 

Steve stands on the curb for far too long. Long past when Jonathan’s cab turns the corner and is out of sight, because as soon as it is, the well of emotion he’d felt at Jon’s words swells back into harsh, furious anger. 

How dare he get stuck with second best. After everything, after all he’s done and all he’s given, he gets stuck with an alternate because Jon smoked a joint?

Like weed would be the thing to give him an edge in anything. Like it fucking matters beyond the Olympic’s need to control, and now it’s screwed him, because whoever this new guy is, he’s not as good as Jon. Will never be as good as Jon, and now Steve is carrying the burden of picking up his slack. 

Not to mention the fact that they’ll need to train twice—three times—as hard. It’s taken him and Jon weeks to get to where they are.

Him and this new guy are going to have a mere two. 

He tries to quell his anger as he checks the time, as he head back to the training grounds. He tries to breathe. He tries counting to ten, and then thirty, and then a hundred, but his fury only builds as he makes his way back to Olympic Village. Because Steve can’t rage against the rules, or Hopper, or the Olympics as a whole, and there’s only one real embodiment to represent all he’s just lost, and everything he’ll have to work so hard to regain: 

Whoever this goddamn alternate is. 

Hopper’s waiting for him at the entrance to the gym. Arms crossed over his broad chest like he’s been waiting for longer than he’d wanted.

“Lemme introduce you.” Are the only words he gets, and Steve swallows down a biting reply that he knows will only piss Hop off. 

They pass rows and rows of other cross-training Americans, rows of leg and chest presses, and racks of free weights and medicine balls, treadmills and ergs, only to reach the end, sporting the bench presses. 

“Munson,” Hop barks, and one of the men, racking a bar, stops what he’s doing. 

He’s tall. Taller than Steve and his hair is buzzed into a short fuzz. Tattoos line his arms and legs, all in black, disappearing under the hemlines of his form-fitting shorts and shirt. The guy blinks at their approach, and Steve locks gazes with the largest, darkest eyes he’s ever had on him. 

He swallows, and for the first time since that morning, it’s not due to anger.

“Steve,” Hop begins, breaking him out of it, “this is Eddie Munson. Your new partner. Ed, think you already know who Steve Harrington is.”

The guy holds out his hand, grinning, and that’s all it takes for Steve’s momentary lapse to end, and for his anger to return. 

Because fuck this guy. Fuck him, for sliding in where he doesn’t belong. For getting where Steve is without doing the work. For skating by, while Steve’s going to be the one to carry his weight. 

Fuck him, for all of it.

~~~

Eddie has to bite back a grin as he shakes Steve’s hand. This is all unbelievable. It’s not like he’d hoped someone would get injured, or get disqualified, but Christ had he felt cheated with Carver as his partner in qualifiers. 

It was that douchebag’s way or the highway, and in the end, it’s what had cost them. 

So Eddie isn’t glad Jonathan Byers was disqualified, but damn is he grateful to be here. 

Steve’s grip is strong, nearly painfully so, and he gives Eddie’s hand only one curt shake before dropping it.

He’s also hot. Unfairly so. Eddie is currently surrounded by the best athletes of their country and still Steve’s body is eye-catching. 

Moles are what he notices first. They dot his arms, neck, face, and legs like stars and his broad shoulders are wider than Eddie’s. Certainly wide for a diver, but it’s obviously never hindered him. He’s shorter than Eddie, too, and he can see the miles of thick hair that Steve, for some reason, hasn’t cropped.

“Nice to meet you,” he starts, trying to moisten his rapidly drying mouth, “thrilled to be here.” But Steve’s gaze is icy, and he doesn’t even deign Eddie’s words with a verbal reply, just another curt movement, this time a nod, before turning to face their coach. 

All business, then. 

“Eddie performed best behind you in qualifiers,” Coach Hopper explains, and Steve’s back is ramrod straight, like he’s standing at attention, and Eddie wonders if this coach is far more strict than Eddie had gleaned. 

It would explain his clipped demeanor, at least.

“Steve will get you caught up on the training program, Munson. He already lost out on most of his morning training so I’m sure he’s rearing to get back to it.” Hopper grins, Eddie matching it, before seeing how Steve’s face is still as stoic as ever. “I expect you both to train together. To take your meals together. To spend every moment you can in each other’s company so you can get to know one another as best you can,” he goes on, counting his list off on his fingers, “that’s the best way to ensure you’ll be in synch come competition day.” 

Coach Hopper leans towards them, quieter, now, even though they’re the only ones in this area of the gym, even though there’s crappy pop blasting from the speakers, drowning out their conversation. “I won’t lie to you boys,” Coach says, and his gaze is hard, “you have a lot of work ahead of you. It took Steve and Jonathan weeks to get to where they were and you only have two, but I believe in you both. You both have the talent. The work ethic. I’ve seen both of you dive and train throughout qualifiers and I know—” Coach pauses to look them both in the eyes, “you can do this.”

He claps them on the shoulders, breaking them from the spell of his serious tone. “Now, Steve will get you started. They’re already riding me about the paperwork I need to submit after this morning.” Coach rolls his eyes, like whatever paperwork is needed is beneath him, and nods to them both. 

“We’re happy to have you, Munson.”

With that, the man leaves, and it’s just him and Steve. 

For a moment, neither of them speak, and it’s not a comfortable silence. It’s fraught, tense, and Eddie meets Steve’s eyes to find the man already staring at him. 

Assessing. 

“You can unrack those weights,” Steve says, his eyes dragging down and then back up to Eddie’s eyes, an expression on his face like he’s just found something on the bottom of his shoe, “we’re starting with legs.” 

With that Steve turns. 

Walks away.

Shame bellies in his gut and it takes everything in him to force it back down, to take a step forward, to call, “hey!” To Steve’s retreating form. 

The guy turns, and what Eddie saw as stoicism before has clearly broken into something deeper, something older than their few minutes of knowing each other, and Steve, in two quick strides, is back in front of him. 

“Listen,” Steve growls, and if it wasn’t for the dozens of other people in this room Eddie would think the guy was about to hit him, “I just lost my best shot at gold. Booted because of bureaucratic bullshit, and now the last two decades of my life could go up in smoke because I’ve been stuck with second best.” Again his dark eyes fall down Eddie’s frame and back up, sneering. 

It’s exactly how Carver looked at him, the fucking brute. Like Eddie was an ingrown hair on his ass that he couldn’t dig out. 

“So we’re doing this my way,” Steve goes on, clicking his tongue, “you listen to Coach but you also listen to me, and we might actually have a shot at this.” He stares Eddie in the eyes now. 

He can hear Steve’s breaths, even over the pounding music. See the rise and fall of his chest despite their close proximity and the flaring of his nostrils like it’s taken everything out of him to say these words. “Got it?”

For one moment Eddie doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want to give Harrington the satisfaction of bending his knee, but what else is he supposed to do?

He stares down at the hard line of Steve’s mouth. Notices the way the muscles in his jaw flex, and then he nods. Quick and sharp.

“Yeah man,” he confirms, “whatever you say.”

Steve huffs, one hot, gruff exhale, before stepping away. 

Cold air rushes between them. He nods towards the bench press. 

“Unrack those weights.”

Chapter Text

JONATHAN BYERS: DISQUALIFIED

In a shocking new development, American synchronized diver Jonathan Byers has been disqualified from the 2024 Paris Olympics, after testing positive for cannabinoids yesterday morning. 

The 26 year-old diver has been a rising star in the field of diving since his start in the 2016 Rio Olympics, stunning judges and fans alike with his impressive performance, the then-18 year-old having not yet graduated high school. While he did not walk away with any medals, it was clear to everyone that his future was bright.

When the delayed 2021 Tokyo Olympics were finally held, the diver tried his hand at synchronized diving, and this is where the Olympian truly started to shine. His ability to not only perfectly execute his own dives, but align seamlessly with his partner, propelled him past qualifiers and into water, where he won bronze with his then-partner Argyle Mendoza.

After Mendoza’s tragic accident in the winter of 2023, halting his dreams of returning to the Olympics, it didn’t look promising for Byers to be able to return in 2024 and fulfill his dreams of attaining gold.

That all changed when he met Steven Harrington, an accomplished diver who more than proved he was a force to be reckoned with after his performance in the 2021 Olympic Games, as there seemed to be no better match for either one of them. They performed head and shoulders above other synchronized divers in qualifiers, earning nearly top-marks from all judges. 

All thought that fate had brought them together. Not only did they synchronize perfectly, but both divers’ individual scores improved drastically at each others sides. Both Olympians were on track to win gold against staunch competition from Great Britain and the People’s Republic of China, both countries having taken medals for gold and silver just four years ago, however after yesterday’s failed drug test, it seems Byers’s dreams have not only gone up in smoke, but he’s lit ablaze his partner’s as well.

With only two weeks away until the date of the competition, Byers has sure kicked up quite the mess for Harrington to clean up. Not only must he find synchronization with a new partner, but seeing as said new partner did not make it past qualifiers, there is an even greater weight on the diver’s shoulders to pick up the slack.

If Americans didn’t care about Olympic diving before, they sure do now, as Twitter and TikTok have already caught onto the story, loading feeds regarding the Olympics with conspiracy theories and unverified rumors. It doesn’t help that the name of Harrington’s new partner has yet to be released, fanning the fire and adding further intrigue to the already enticing scandal. 

While there are still many uncertainties, one thing is for certain:

All eyes will be on Steve Harrington come the Men’s Synchronized 10m Platform event.

There’s a blown up photo of Steve’s face, along with Jonathan’s, at the bottom, and Steve can’t stop reading it. Over and over again. Line by line he reads Nancy Wheeler’s brutally honest report, his eyes always falling back to the last line:

All eyes with be on Steve Harrington come the Men’s Synchronized 10m Platform event.

He wishes he had a physical copy. Wishes he could crumple it up and throw it in the Seine with all the other supposed shit but it’s digital and on his phone and no matter how many times he closes the tab he finds himself opening it again, loading the comments. 

He’s trying to stay off TikTok. Off Twitter and Facebook, but this damn article is proving harder to set boundaries with.

A new comment comes in:

This will either be an embarrassment or an underdog success and tbh I’m here for either one.

Steve locks his phone. 

He can’t waste any more time caring what other people think. What other people are guessing at based on nothing beyond Jon’s disqualification. He can still do this. 

He just needs to make sure Eddie is up to snuff.

Steve gets to the gym early. Before Hopper. Far before they start their dryland routine and before the sun has risen so Steve can ease his muscles into warmth. 

There are other athletes already here, Steve can’t imagine the Olympic gym is ever totally empty, but it’s far more sparsely populated now than it will be in a couple of hours, so he finds a corner, puts on his headphones, and starts his flow. 

He’s sweating by the end. Can feel it collect at his temples and drip down his back, collect under his arms and at the column on his throat. 

He lays in Shavasana for too long, caught up in the first moments of peace he’s found since yesterday morning. He’s not thinking about diving. About Jon or Eddie or the fact that he knows his father has read that same Wheeler article. 

Steve just feels his heartbeat. The sensation of his spine against the mat. The light music playing through his—

Something nudges him in the arm. 

Cracking his eyes open, he sees Eddie Munson staring down at him, a hesitant look on his face.

Did the guy nudge him with his toe?

“What.” It’s not a question, and Eddie doesn’t even flinch. 

“Coach wants us.”

Blinking, Steve checks the time on his phone, and shit, he must’ve been lying there for longer than he thought, and his few moments of peace vanish with the realization. 

This will either be an embarrassment or an underdog success and tbh I’m here for either one.

Steve hops to his feet, his muscles warm, and wipes down his mat before hanging it up next to the rest. 

For some reason Eddie waits for him, watches as Steve cleans up, and he tries not to let his nerves show.

There is an even greater weight on the diver’s shoulders to pick up the slack.

Steve shoulders his bag and leads the way to where he knows Hopper is waiting for them.  

It’s on the same floor as the gymnasts, where the ground is soft and cushioned and no one has to bruise their ass doing a dryland routine, which Steve is eternally grateful for. He’s not sure he’ll ever recover from the thin training mats they used in qualifiers. 

Hopper’s waiting for them, a clipboard and timer in hand, same as always. 

He nods when he sees them. 

“Boys,” he greets, “glad you’re early. We’ve got a lot ahead of us.”

It’s all the prep they get before Hop puts them through the most brutal dryland routine Steve’s had since he’s got here. He sets his stopwatch, chants a new form every thirty seconds. 

Tuck! Kick! Hold the Hollow! Reach!

Over and over again until Steve’s legs are quaking and his arms are trembling, holding the form as Hopper’s piercing gaze holds him to his perfect standard, tapping Steve’s legs when he lets them drop too low. 

He doesn’t know if this is a punishment to Steve for allowing Jon to stumble or a test of Eddie’s skills, but Eddie, at least, isn’t as bad as Steve had feared. 

Not even close. Steve can hear his labored breathing, feel the vibrations of his movement through the mat, but Hopper only needs to correct his position twice, a different minor adjustment each time. 

It’s the duration of it that’s brutal. Their normally sixty minute-long routine of the mats, dryfloor, and trampoline extends to 80, and then 90, before, finally, after more time at the spotting rings than Steve thinks he’s capable of withstanding, Hopper lets them break. 

Steve tries not to collapse. Summons the last of his strength to drop carefully, to land in something resembling an upright position. His hair is fully stuck to the sides of his head. His neck. His shirt is clinging to him, and he longs for the cooling water of the pool. Something they won’t get to until this afternoon. 

“Let’s call it a fifteen minute break, and then you both can meet Chrissy in the Pilates room. ‘Ve already told her she can expect you.” He nods to them both. “Meet me at the pool at one.” 

With that, he leaves.

Steve’s still breathing hard. He can hear Eddie’s panting breaths behind him, and, for a moment, for a heartbeat, he feels a little better, knowing he’s not alone. 

Chrissy’s sessions always make Steve aware of muscles he hadn’t before known he’d possessed, but she must be in league with Hopper today, because Steve is shaking to hold his position within the first ten minutes of sitting down at the Reformer.

They’re working legs and core, as always, and Chrissy’s circling them both as she guides them from one exercise to the next, her blonde ponytail bobbing with every step.

Steve tries to focus. To hold and stretch and move the way he knows how to, the way Chrissy guides him to, but he’s getting in his head.

What if he’s not enough? What if, after all of this, after everything, this screws him? In four years, will his body be able to do this again? Be able to train like this? Perform like this?

Is this his last chance?

Steve isn’t used to feeling insecure. To doubting. To being unsure or feeling as though he isn’t enough. Always his life has been: if he tries hard enough, if he puts in the work, if he has control, then he gets there. 

He can’t let this be the exception. So he needs to work for it, yes, needs to pick up the slack and carry them as far as he can, but he can’t do this alone. And as he watches Eddie fold into the next position, he knows he’d rather be seen as a prick than lose. 

Steve’s ravenous by the time their session with Chrissy ends. Sweaty and with his muscles still trembling Steve heads back to the locker rooms, to a cold shower and the knowledge that, this afternoon, he’ll be in the pool.

Eddie doesn’t say anything to him, and despite Steve’s promise to himself that he’s doing the right thing: guilt still prickles at him.

His partner had been friendly the day before, downright chatty, really, had even tried starting conversation through spotting each other on the weight floor, but had stopped, eventually, when he received nothing but Steve’s stoic silences and curt replies. 

But Jonathan had been his friend. They’d talked about everything. Everything, apparently, apart from what was most important, so Steve isn’t going to repeat his previous mistakes. 

This is business, and nothing more.

The showers only offer them a modicum of privacy, and Steve feels acutely like he’s back in high school as he steps under the spray with only a tiled wall up to his waist to separate himself from the others.

The feeling of being back in high school only increases as he tries to avert his gaze from the man next to him. Eddie had left an empty shower stall between them, but still Steve has full view of the man’s figure. 

Steve knew he was pale, of course, but his chest is even more so, like marble under the fluorescents. His dark tattoos contrast starkly, and Steve wonders how much of himself he has to wax in order to train. If he ever kept his buzzed hair longer. If at any point it was as long as Steve’s or even longer, if he’s ever sad that he has to shorn it—

Eddie glances over at him, and Steve drops his gaze at once, feeling a hot burn on his cheeks.

He turns the water colder.

It’s nearly noon by the time they both exit the showers, and Steve, with his bag slung over his shoulder, heads straight for the mess hall.

Eddie nearly has to jog to keep up, despite his longer legs, and follows at half a pace behind. Steve’s about to snap at him, remind him that despite needing to ride Steve’s coattails these next two weeks he doesn’t actually need to follow him around like a puppy, when he remembers: Eddie has no idea where to go. 

He hasn’t been to the cafeteria yet. Not this one, at least, where all of the olympians eat. In fact, he probably doesn’t know where anything is. Now that Steve is thinking about it, what did Eddie do, last night, after weight training? Does he even have a room with the other olympians or did he have to go back to the quarters he was staying in when he was still just an alternate?

Steve shakes those thoughts away as they reach the mess hall, because if he had to choose only one thing to be grateful about in living here: he would choose the food.

More fruits than Steve had known existed. He’d never seen a fresh currant or fig before coming here, and now he eats both without abandon, no matter what Robin tells him about wasps. The protein shakes actually taste pretty decent, especially in comparison to the chalky ones he used to choke down back in the states. There’s an entire bar just for serving eggs, and Steve had never before been exposed to the delicacy that is a soft boiled egg until last week.

He’s pretty sure he’s eaten at least two dozen since.

“Anything I should steer clear of?” 

It’s loud in the mess hall, but Eddie’s still close enough to him that he can hear him over the cacophony, and Hopper’s words from yesterday ping in his mind. 

I expect you both to train together. To take your meals together. To spend every moment you can in each other’s company so you can get to know one another as best you can.

Steve, curtly, nods.

He guides Eddie through, and his partner gravitates towards the same foods Steve does. Which makes sense, Steve reasons, he and Jonathan did too. Protein shakes and yoghurts, complex carbs and lean meats, and as many fruits and veggies as they can pile onto their plates.

There’s always a line for the shakes, so Steve tends to hit them last.

A half-melted protein shake is not what he wants with his turkey burger. 

“Hey!” 

Steve jerks his head in the direction of the voice, finding a swimmer he recognizes, but can’t place, staring them both down. He glances to Eddie, but his partner is already looking back at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Steve nods towards the guy, and the blonde leaves his spot in line and his staring group of friends to approach. He’s grinning, white teeth shining, his eyes running over both he and Eddie like he’s found his next meal.

“Saw the reports this morning, but didn’t believe it until now.” His gaze flicks to Eddie. Stays there. “Don’t remember you from qualifiers, though.” His smirk broadens, and Steve has a very real urge to flick him right between his smarmy brows. “What’s the name, again?”

“Munson.” Eddie answers, before Steve can step in, and as self-satisfied as this guy looks Eddie looks just as disinterested. “Eddie.” His partner raises his eyebrows. “Funny you can’t remember me, though, you were pretty close with my old partner, Jason Carver? I seem to remember him mentioning you quite a lot. He never really said anything besides your name, though. Particularly at night.” 

Steve’s eyes widen, and he barely stifles his snort before blondie is taking a half step closer, raising his hand like he’s going to jab Eddie in the chest, his face suddenly so red and twisted even his blue eyes look tinged.

“Listen—”

But Steve grabs his wrist. Twists it back and away from Eddie so the guy’s knees buckle, so he’s practically kneeling at Steve’s feet, staring, wide-eyed, up at him, surprise and shock and something like fear in his features before Steve opens his mouth. 

“Go back to your friends,” he says, hushed but venomous, “and leave us alone.”

They haven’t made too big of a scene, not yet, but the other athletes are staring. Stopping to look, to see why this guy is half-crouched in front of Steve.

The guy gets his feet under him. Wrenches his hand free from Steve’s loosening grip, and takes a step back. 

“America will lose,” he spits, gasping, and he stands, face red, fists balled, gaze flicking between the two of them like he wants to say something else. But then, with that absolute zinger, he stalks away. Back to his friends, who circle him the moment he does.

Steve stares after him. Still feels his wrist between his fingers and thinks of how he let him off easy, how he could’ve—

“Lunch is normally this eventful?” 

Steve blinks. Tears his gaze away from the swimmer. “What?”

Eddie is grinning, now, a laid-back, carefree smirk resting on his lips. “Just wanted to know if lunch is normally food and a show.” He raises his eyebrows. “This is all starting to feel very high school. Guy threatens to beat me up, I make an innuendo that triggers his internalized homophobia and then he kicks the shit out of me.” He pauses, then nods in Steve’s direction. “Just normally don’t have a gallant knight to save the day.”

A gallant knight? What fucking century is this guy from? 

Steve turns back to face the line. “Let’s just… get our fucking shakes.”

For a moment, Eddie doesn’t say anything else. They wait, their plates of food still in their hands, when Steve feels a nudge at his ribs. “Thanks for being my gallant knight, Harrington.”

~~~~~

Eddie has Steve Harrington’s number. Because under all that pomp and attitude, under that insane mane of hair, Steve Harrington is nice. Steve Harrington risked the punishment of injuring another player just because he was about to get into Eddie’s face. 

Also, he totally nearly smiled when Eddie called him a knight. Eddie swears it. 

He was actually surprised Somov decided to show his face, but apparently the guy is even dumber than Eddie gave him credit for because he came up to the both of them and started mouthing off like Eddie wouldn’t have any problem discussing what he and Carver tried so hard to keep as their dirty little secret.

Not without cause, at least. Not without provocation, Eddie knowing full well what the Russian government is like. Honestly, though, they should’ve been quieter if they didn’t want him opening his fat mouth.

Steve, though: Eddie can win Steve over. You don’t stick up for someone like that unless you’re a good person. Unless you like them. He dealt with enough in his grade school years to understand this, at least.

So Eddie is going to wear Steve down. Eventually. They have nothing but time, if Hopper has anything to say about it.

Eddie doesn’t shut up throughout their entire lunch. Their entire walk to the pool.  At some point he really even forgets what he’s talking about, but goes on as if he hadn’t. 

He tells Steve about Carver. Complains endlessly about the guy, really, because while Wayne and his boys had listened, they hadn’t got it, and despite Steve’s feigned disinterest, he catches, more than once, the way the guy’s eyes flick to him when he shares something particularly juicy.

Like how Carver used lemon juice to keep his hair blonde, and how he shaved, not waxed! His entire body.

“It took forever,” Eddie moans, the both of them now walking to the pool, “he’d spend all morning and all night in the bathroom, and wouldn’t let me in while he was in there! Honestly, man, even with the big bad and brooding thing you’ve got going on you’re still way better than that asshole.”

Steve splutters. “My what?”

Got him.

Eddie smiles, pushing open the double doors to the muggy scent of chlorine. “C’mon, Harrington, don’t play coy.” He wiggles his fingers in Steve’s general direction. “All I’ve been stuck with second best.” Eddie frowns, jutting his bottom lip out in a mock imitation that he can see ruffling the guys feathers. “Just you wait, big boy, I’ll show you what second-best is capable of.” 

Steve’s face screws up, and for a moment Eddie’s not sure if he’s going to laugh or explode, and then he mumbles, “that’s not what I sound like.” 

Eddie shoulders open the locker room doors, grinning wider. “Harrington, that’s exactly what you sound like, trust me, it’s all I’ve been hearing for the past 24 hours.”

They open their lockers, and begin to strip. 

“That’s not what I normally sound like.” Steve corrects, not looking at him, and Eddie takes the risk of needling further. 

“Right, yes, because we’re doing this your way.” Eddie mimics, repeating Steve’s words from yesterday in the same tone he used before, “so we can actually have a shot at this.”

Steve pulls on his swimsuit, and Eddie doesn’t even take a glance. Not one. Because bitchy, cocky guys have never done it for him.

Ever.

Eddie swallows, and pulls on his own suit. “Besides,” he goes on, “you were missing the point of my earlier statement entirely, I was giving you a compliment. The fact that you’re not like Carver is a good thing.”

Steve shuts his locker door. “I’m not in need of your compliments.”

Then struts away, and Eddie gets to watch his freckled back leave the locker room.

He’s going to make Steve Harrington eat his words. Because this? The pool? The muggy, stifling smell of chlorine?

This is where Eddie is home. This is what he knows, what he understands better and more intimately than he’s ever understood anything. More than DnD, more than his guitar or books, Eddie knows how to dive. Knows how to be in synch with the person next to him and after lunch Eddie knows, without a shadow of a doubt:

They can win this.

He knows Steve is watching him. Watching him each and every time they jump off the board instead of watching his own dive, his own platform and his own feet, but Eddie doesn’t press. For once he lets his actions do the talking for him, because just as Eddie knew, they’re doing great.

Not perfect. Not yet, but they will be. They will be, and as training goes on, as they dive through routine after routine, Eddie can see Steve realizing the same. 

His gaze stops analyzing Eddie’s every movement, by the end. Starts to trust that Eddie will hold up his end. That, even without Steve’s eyes on him, Eddie knows what he’s doing. 

Practice is long. Grueling. Hopper offers little praise and his barked instructions come off more as reprimands than anything else, but Eddie has never felt more invigorated in his life. Every time he steps out of the water Hopper has something new to say, to both of them.

More arch to your back, Harrington.

Munson, tighten that pike.

Too early, Munson.

Harrington, tuck in that chin.

Eddie thought Dmitri was an excellent coach, and he was, but nothing escapes Hopper’s sharp eyes.

“Harrington! If I catch you making eyes at Munson one more time I’m getting you boys a room! Eyes on your own board!”

Eddie looks behind him to see Steve’s flushed face, his cheeks and ears going red at Hopper’s words, but he doesn’t rise to it. Not like Somov did. Not like Carver would’ve.

Interesting.

After training, showered and dressed, Hopper meets them outside the locker rooms, clipboard in hand. 

“We have a lot of work to do,” Hopper begins, his gaze hard, “you boys are good, great, even, but I don’t need to remind you that this is the Olympics. Great isn’t good enough. Perfection nearly isn’t, and the gap between great and perfect is vast. I don’t need to tell you that you need to work on your synchronization. Munson, you’re too early on nearly every jump but only half of that is your fault considering Harrington didn’t take his eyes off of you until the final three jumps.” Coach turns his gaze to Steve. “This will never work if you don’t trust each other. Trust him.” Coach Hopper stares him down, until Steve lowers his gaze. 

Then he takes a deep breath. “It’s been a long day. Get some dinner. Get an early night. You both have massages in the morning.”

Massages. Eddie’s eyes nearly close at the very thought, his aching muscles in sore need of it, when  Coach Hopper speaks up again.

“Also, Munson, you’re moving apartments. You belong with the other competitors. You’re bunking with Steve.” 

“What!?” 

But Eddie’s already grinning. “Slumber party!” Eddie cheers, and holds his hand up for a high five that Steve doesn’t even glance at.

“Hop—”

“Don’t you Hop me,” Coach interrupts, “he’s taking Byers’s place. The only reason he didn’t join you last night is because of that damn mountain of paperwork. It slipped my mind.” Coach drags one meaty hand over his face. “Munson’s bunking with you, and if I hear one word against it, you’re sleeping in the locker rooms.”

Steve looks like he wants to say more. His jaw flexes, like he’s grinding his teeth, before taking a half-step away. “Fine.”

Coach glares at him for one more moment before addressing them both again. “Massages are at 7:30. We’re hitting weights after. See you in the morning.” He nods, and walks away.

“So,” Eddie begins, once coach is out of ear shot, and already he has to pick up his pace to catch up to Steve’s quick strides, “sleepover. Haven’t had one in years, man. Think my hair might be too short to braid but yours—” he brings up a hand, and before he really understands what he’s about to do—Eddie’s always been better at acting than thinking—tries to run his fingers through Steve’s locks. 

He nearly does. Nearly brushes their damp ends, is nearly able to comb his fingers through, to touch, to know what that hair feels like, before he gets batted away. 

Steve glares at him. “You are—”

Eddie waggles his eyebrows. “What am I, big boy?”

Steve looks away from him, and picks up his pace. 

“We’re supposed to get to know each other, you know!” Eddie calls, nearly jogging in his attempt to keep up with Steve. “So we can be in synch with one another. How can we do that if all you do is snap at me?”

Steve says nothing.

“That’s okay,” Eddie goes on, “I’m good at chatting, man. I can do enough for the both of us.” 

So he does. Eddie, now moved on from the topic of shit-talking Jason Carver, goes on to discuss his second-favorite hobby.

“And then—” Eddie goes on, loading his bowl up with pasta, tomato sauce, and turkey meatballs, “our cleric ran out of spells, so we were really in a fucking pickle at that point—” there’s no way Steve cares. No way he even understands the majority of what’s coming out of Eddie’s mouth, but he keeps talking, anyways. Steve isn’t glowering at him, at least, like he was all afternoon yesterday, and if Eddie knows anything about his personality, exposure therapy really is the best route into liking him.

Hell, after dinner Steve even follows Eddie to his previous apartment to grab his things. Sure, he stands with his arms crossed and a put-upon expression on his face the entire time, but Eddie takes it as a win. He’s not grumbling about having to deal with second-best, at least.

Steve’s apartment is immaculate. So clean and clutter-free Eddie wonders if they put the both of them in a new room, before he notices a small laundry basket at the foot of his bed. 

It’s one of the only signs of life in the place.

Steve, at once, flops on his made bed, pulls his headphones from his gym bag, and clicks on his phone, leaving Eddie to his own devices. 

Eddie unpacks. Folds his clothes and tucks them away in the small dresser they were both provided, before his own phone begins to ring.

He’s grinning before he even picks up.

“Wayne!”

“Hey, kid. Everything alright?”

Eddie starts, checking the time, just past seven, which means—

“Yeah,” he begins, “everything’s good. Just a busy day, sorry,” Eddie explains, “first full day with the new coach.”

“Mmhm?” Wayne questions, which more prompting than Eddie’s ever needed.

He talks about—gushes about—Olympic Village. About the gyms and Coach Hopper and training under someone who knows so much. Raves about the options of food—they have soft boiled eggs, Wayne, you know how I feel about a soft boiled egg—until there’s only one glaring thing he hasn’t mentioned.

“N’ the new partner?” Wayne questions, “didn’t mention him last night neither.”

Eddie’s gaze flicks to Steve, who’s still sitting on his bed, headphones in. Eddie spins away from him. “My partner!?” Eddie clarifies, nearly shouting, as if Wayne’s words hadn’t been perfectly clear, just so Steve knows he’s talking about him, can hear him over the sound of whatever he’s listening to, “oh, Wayne, he’s a peach! Friendliest guy I’ve ever met. Welcomed me with open arms, the whole nine yards!”

He can feel Steve’s eyes on him as he leans back in the desk chair. As he spins, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. 

“I mean just a really great guy. Gave me this whole speech when we met about how he believed in us, how he remembered me from qualifiers, said how excited he was to work with me.” Eddie sighs dreamily, like Steve is straight from a fairytale. “I just wish you could meet him!”

“Why’re you talkin’ like that?” Wayne grumbles, “nearly blowin’ my ear off.” 

“I just can’t praise him enough!” Eddie goes on, spinning again on his chair, “what do you want me to do Wayne, lie?”

Eddie hears Steve shift his weight on the bed.

Wayne sighs on the other end of the line. “He’s in the room with you or somethin’, ain’t he?”

“Why, yes!” Eddie agrees, “he is!” 

“He like that Carver boy?” Wayne asks, and Eddie’s cheesy smile morphs into something softer.

“Nah, Wayne. He’s good people.”

Wayne grunts, neither a confirmation nor a denial of Eddie’s words. “Not a very high bar.”

Eddie stops spinning in his chair, beginning to feel a little sick. He’s still not facing Steve. “Steve’s way above that bar, Wayne, promise.” Because he is, Eddie just needs to bring it out of him.

Again Wayne grunts. “Well. Alright. Still feel like I gotta protect you, is all.” His uncle clears his throat, and changes the topic quickly. “Got that damn Peacock just for you,” he grumbles, “’splain to me why this’s better than cable, again?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay you back for it, that make you feel better?”

“You gonna pay me for all my wasted time in gettin’ it set up?” Eddie can hear the grin in Wayne’s voice, and knows he’d spend way more to see Eddie compete. That he still feels guilty he couldn’t afford to come out here.

“Yeah, what’s your rate, again? $7.25 an hour?”

Wayne curses him without heat, reminds him that he’s gotta get up the next morning to make far more than $7.25 an hour, and begins his goodbye. 

“Love you, kid.” Wayne tells him, same as always.

“Yeah, love you too. Bye, Wayne.” 

His uncle hangs up, and Eddie tosses his phone to his desk.

“Good people?” Steve repeats, and Eddie nearly jumps, forgetting, for a moment, his game.

But Steve is staring at him. Standing at the side of his bed, his headphones off, an unreadable expression on his face.

Eddie rises from his desk chair, still slightly dizzy, and picks up where he left off. “You’re my gallant knight, remember?” He grins, then dips low, into a bow, swinging an arm out to his side in gravitas. 

But his sense of vertigo intensifies, and he regrets spinning so fast on that desk chair, because he feels himself stumble, and he can’t catch himself, he—

Steve catches him. Around his arms. And oh boy, does Steve have large hands. They nearly circle Eddie’s biceps. Steadying and firm.

“You’re an idiot.” Steve sounds breathless. Entertained. Steve sounds—sounds like he’s smiling.

Eddie gets his feet under him. Stands on his own two legs to meet Steve’s gaze, only to find the same straight mouth he always does. “And I’m getting the bathroom first.” Steve releases him. Lets him go and heads to their bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

Eddie lets go of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Feels the ghosts of Steve’s hands on him.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Dad 

7:12pm

Does he listen to you

You have more to teach him than that coach of yours

7:20pm

How long did you train today

?

7:25pm

Clients have asked me if I’m the same Harrington as the diver.

7:31pm

Do not embarrass me.

Steve grips hard to the edge of the sink, and still can only feel the warmth of Eddie’s skin. Hear the bubble of his laughter as he dipped into that ridiculous bow and—

He turns on the sink. Splashes water on his face. Grabs his toothbrush and more than likely causes damage to his gums with the force of his brushing, anything to distract himself from what just happened. 

And just as quickly reminds himself he doesn’t need to. Doesn’t need to ignore or justify because it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything because Eddie, objectively, to anyone with a pulse, is attractive. He’s attractive, and Steve has eyes and a brain and so his reaction is completely normal.

So what.

It turns out the so what is the fact that it doesn’t stop happening. The so what is that Steve catches himself watching Eddie as he climbs out of the pool. Finds himself becoming distracted by Eddie’s grunts and gasps and straining noises when they train, his laugh and smile when he so obviously gets on Steve’s nerves.

And maybe Steve sets himself up for it a little more than he’d care to admit. Just to hear it. See the way his grin breaks across his face or—

He tries to rein himself in. But with Hopper’s continued insistence that they spend every waking moment together, Steve doesn’t have a single breath to get himself together. To center things. To remind himself of the reason for the distance he’d put between them, especially with his earlier reasoning of needing to pick up Eddie’s slack so quickly crumbling beneath his feet.

Because Eddie is good. Great, even, and under Hopper’s tutelage, he’s quickly becoming excellent. Steve doesn’t need to watch his dives. Doesn’t need to analyze or scrutinize the way he jumps, critique his pikes or his tucks, because without meaning to, without being able to pinpoint the moment it happens:

Steve trusts him. Finds himself knowing Eddie’s movements before they happen. Finds himself moving to match, finds Eddie moving to match Steve’s own. 

It’s easier than it ever was with Jon. It had taken them weeks, months of preparation and training and diving together, as one, before they ever reached where he and Eddie are now. Steve doesn’t need Eddie to listen to him, because he already does, in ways that matter so much more than how Steve had meant it that first day. 

They’re in synch. They move together, as two parts of the same whole, as one each and every time they jump off the board. 

Hopper’s critiques, his corrections and comments, dwindle as the day of their event draws closer, sometimes only giving them a curt nod as they climb from the pool. 

Which, in Hopper’s language, is the highest of praise. 

But the worst of it, what is most unbearable: is Eddie himself. Because the man doesn’t shut up. Not in the mornings. Not during training. Not when they’re eating and certainly not at night. Steve doesn’t understand how one person can have so much to talk about, but he does, and all of it—

All of it—

See, Steve had thought he’d know what Eddie would be like that first day. Thought, with his buzzed hair and deep set eyes and black inked tattoos, he would be like Jon. Quiet, and slow to warm up to. 

Steve could’ve handled that. Would’ve been able to put his head down and tolerate the next few days of their stoic silences if it meant he got out of it what he put in.

Gold.

But Eddie is not any of the above. 

And it’s unbearable.

And Steve is beginning to wonder how he’s ever going to live without it.

Live without Eddie’s quick smiles and easy laugh. His unyielding optimism and unrelenting enthusiasm. It’s so unlike anyone Steve has ever trained with. Not since high school, at least, to have someone that is so quick with praise. So fast to congratulate. Could smile and laugh and celebrate. 

Because that was never, and never will be, his father. Was never Jon and is certainly not Hopper, and, despite himself, Steve finds himself softening. 

He knows Eddie sees when Steve smiles at his jokes. That Eddie can hear it in his voice when he’s looking away. Can feel it in Steve’s silences when he’s trying not to laugh, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. Certainly doesn’t know how to manage this, whatever this even is, and Robin’s quick reply to his distress was an over-simplified, four word text.

Just fuck him already

Which was the least helpful advice Steve has ever received. 

How does one bridge that gap?

Sorry, I was such a fucking prick. I actually knew exactly what I was doing, but see, some people online were stressing me out and I thought this was the best course of action!

Horrible. Steve never wants to have to look at him ever again. 

Steve never wants to stop looking at him. Actually wants to do far more than just look. Wants to pull him close and shut him up properly. Wants to reduce that mouth to nothing but panting gasps that have nothing to do with ab work. Wants to feel the flex of his muscles that goes far beyond spotting him in the gym. Wants to hear him—

But that’s exactly what this scandal they’re both embroiled with needs, an affair on top of it all. Rumors that they’re sleeping together. 

True rumors that they’re sleeping together. 

His dad alone would—

It would never work. 

“Good work boys.” Hopper nods as they exit the pool, dripping and out of breath. 

Steve’s muscles ache just carrying him to his towel and he’s so hungry he’s pretty sure his skin trembles with the force of his stomach’s growl. 

He wants a hot shower and enough carbs to put him to sleep.

“Meet you tomorrow morning in the weight room.” Hopper nods again, and, with that, leaves. 

“Could lead men into battle with words like those,” Eddie grumbles, and Steve glances away with a grin he knows Eddie sees. 

“A modern King Théoden,” Eddie goes on, the both of them now heading to the locker room. 

Water is dripping down Eddie’s temples. Collecting in his eyelashes. 

“Who needs the Rohirrim speech when we have our very own Tolkien as our coach?”

Steve has no idea what he’s talking about.

And Eddie can tell. Clutches at his chest as their wet feet slap against the tiles. “Oh, Stevie,” he starts, because Stevie has somehow become exclusively what he calls him, “don’t tell me you haven’t heard King Théoden’s speech as the Riders of Rohan charge into battle!” He clears his throat, placing his hand against his bare chest, against the demon that’s tattooed there. Glistening under their harsh lighting.

“Fell deeds awake, fire and slaughter!” He begins, and Jesus Christ he must know this whole damn soliloquy because he doesn’t stop. “Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered! A sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!” Eddie looks to him. His pink lips quirked and his dark eyes sparkling, tinted red from the chlorine. “Ride now, ride now, ride to Gondor!” He thrusts his arm out in front of him, in front of Steve, like he’s throwing up a sword, and Steve has to bite down on his cheek. 

“Now, in the movie, they add this,” and just as Steve opens the doors to the locker room Eddie bellows,

“DEATH!”

The dozen or so other athletes stare, and Eddie is undeterred.

“DEATH!” He shouts again, as they approach their lockers, and again, one last time, as Steve unlocks his. 

“DEATH!”

“If you still have this much energy you’re not training hard enough.” Steve tries not to look at him as he says it, but Eddie’s grinning. His cheeks are dimpled and pink, like he knows Steve’s full of it. 

They dress, Steve pulling on his sweatshirt over his sopping hair and promising himself that after food, he’ll rinse the water from his skin.

“One always has energy for King Théoden,” Eddie counters, struggling to pull his sweatshirt over his own still-damp skin. 

His abs flex. Steve looks away, and checks his phone. 

He has ten missed calls. Thirty-two unread texts.

It only takes opening Robin’s linked message to know why. 

EDWARD MUNSON: 

OLYMPIC MURDER SUSPECT?

Steve doesn’t read the rest. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He nearly drops his phone in his haste to lock it, to put it away, do something—

Only to look up to see Eddie already staring down at his. 

His partner doesn’t meet his gaze. Eddie stares at his lit screen, his jaw set, his hand flexing at his side and Steve, useless, says nothing to Eddie’s silence. Says nothing as he watches Eddie’s gaze scan his phone, an unnerving quiet settling between them that he hasn’t felt since that first day. 

Eddie doesn’t spout a witty comeback. Not a quick smile or a lazy shrug to what Steve knows he’s seen, and he’s only just managed to open his mouth when Eddie closes his locker without a word. 

He doesn’t make a noise as he walks away. Doesn’t stomp his feet or slam his locker or make a sound before he’s gone.

Eddie’s not at dinner. Steve waffles back and forth on plating up his usual to go for a whole five minutes before finally just doing it, loads it up with pasta and meat and veg, the box buckling at the sides as he takes it back to their apartment.

But Eddie isn’t there either. 

Steve knows it, before the door is even fully open, that his partner isn’t there. He looks anyway, and when he fully meets their empty bedroom, cold worry begins to creep up his spine. 

Steve thinks about texting him and then doesn’t. Thinks about calling and then doesn’t. 

What would he say?

 His phone buzzes again, and Steve finally checks his messages.

Some are from Robin. Worried texts and one missed call that ends with call me back when you can. 

Messages from Hopper, telling them to ignore the media hubbub. That this isn’t why they’re here.

From his mom, telling him to be safe. 

From Jon, even, which Steve doesn’t open.

And the rest from his dad. 

Steve turns off his phone, and goes to find his partner. 

He goes back to the pool first. Hopes that when Eddie had left the locker room he’d maybe come back, had stayed in the water and kept on diving. 

It’s what Steve would’ve done. Stayed and practiced and not let himself think too long or too hard about anything, but Eddie isn’t there. He searches twice, anyway, looks down every board and every lane to make sure Eddie isn’t the one using it. 

He doesn’t know where to search, after that. Tries the gym. The Pilates room. Tries the mess hall and their apartment again, just in case Eddie returned. 

He hadn’t.

Steve doesn’t even know what he plans on saying. On doing once he finds him, because Eddie definitely doesn’t even want to be found. Certainly not by Steve, and yet he doesn’t stop. He walks up and down the streets of the Village in the hopes of spotting him, runs into the same prick who’d accosted Eddie that first day and somehow manages to keep his head down. To not engage with him. 

The sun begins to set, and Steve’s worry is growing a desperate edge when he spots him. 

~~~~~

He was promised the records were redacted. 

Because he was a minor. 

Because he was innocent. 

But the fact that he hadn’t done it is still something those small-town policemen have trouble wrapping their minds around, even a decade and a mountain of evidence later.

His DNA didn’t match. He had an alibi. And still Callahan thought him a killer.

Anonymous source his ass. Callahan told the press. No doubts on that. Blame Eddie, instead of their inept police work that aided in the real killer getting away. 

Anything to help them sleep better at night. 

And Eddie can’t even smoke. Had tried, valiantly, to bum some, but no one in this entire godforsaken village was a rule-breaker. 

Or at least willing to out themselves as one.

So Eddie, his skin itching, bought himself a lollipop. And then another.

It doesn’t help.

He doesn’t check his phone, and feels guilt eating at him for it. Knows that Wayne has called. Has texted. Probably used that speech to text function so his messages are borderline unintelligible, filled with concern and worry and offers of a listening ear, so Eddie takes out his phone and puts it under the bench. So he’s not tempted to check. To let his morbid curiosity get the best of him. Out of sight out of mind, and all that.

Because he already knows what the full article says. The same things that were said about him twelve years ago. Ritual sacrifice. Satanist. Devil worshiper.

Like Eddie has ever been able to stomach the sight of blood. Like he hadn’t nearly passed out in gym class sophomore year when Gareth bloodied his nose on a stray basketball. 

He should’ve stayed at the pool. Should’ve stayed in the water where he’s home and found solace in the space between the board and the water, let his brain turn off into the rhythm of it. 

But he hadn’t wanted to be around anyone. Other divers, especially. 

Steve, specifically. 

Because there’s no way he would back Eddie up, concerned as he is with the media. Concerned as he was with the Wheeler article that exposed him and Jon to the world. 

Steve would refuse to work with him, and Hopper would have no choice but to back him, and Eddie would return to the States with his tail between his legs, and whatever Eddie had convinced himself had been forged between them over the past week would be forfeit. 

Because Steve’s a bit of a prick. Cocky. Pigheaded. Vain and prideful, and Eddie—-

Eddie wants him. 

Far more than he ever thought he would. Far more than just as his diving partner. Feels himself getting all hot and bothered whenever Steve gives him a bitchy little eye roll or a snide comment they both know he doesn’t mean. Every time he scoffs or turns up his nose to hide the fact that he wants to laugh makes Eddie’s whole insides go all fluttery, like he’s just won a prize. Found the diamond in the—

He crunches down on the last bit of the sucker. Swirls the shards around in his mouth until they’re smooth and his spit is syrupy and then he swallows, their blunt edges dragging on their way down, and forces the thoughts of Steve from his mind. 

It will never happen. Not before today, and especially not now. 

Callahan made sure of that. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays out there, watching other Olympians walk past, wondering for how long he’ll be one of them. 

He’s not generally one to wallow, one to throw himself a pity party, but now, all things considered, he thinks he’s earned it. To come so far only to be cut off at the knees is something he needs to digest. To be alone with, before he can face the music. 

The sun is setting when Eddie hears him. Knows it’s Steve before he even looks up, the sound of his footsteps alone enough to signal to Eddie exactly who he is.

They know each other too damn well.

Steve doesn’t say anything, which isn’t exactly uncommon, just takes a seat next to him, even though Eddie is kinda sitting in the middle. Makes their arms and thighs touch. 

Steve seems unaffected by it. Just sits himself down and doesn’t say a word, and Eddie takes the chewed up stick out of his mouth and crams it in his pocket, because call him a murderer all you like, but he doesn’t litter. 

“What’d Coach say?”

This, apparently, wasn’t how Steve expected him to break their silence, because it’s several moments before he replies. 

“That we focus on why we’re here,” Steve says, “and let the media circus blow over.”

Now Steve’s the one who looks uncomfortable. Starts drumming his fingers on his knee, his foot bouncing, and Eddie wishes he’d just spit it out. 

“You don’t need to start pulling your punches now, you know,” he grumbles, and really wishes he had a cigarette. Just one. Coach wouldn’t even know. Just one, after nearly a decade of not. 

It wouldn’t hurt.

Steve, finally, looks at him. He’s frowning. And not the usual way he frowns at Eddie, with his nose upturned. He’s frowning at him with his brows pinched in confusion, his lips twisted to the side like he’s trying to work out what Eddie’s just told him. 

“I don’t—” Steve begins, then shakes his head, and it’s the softest Eddie’s ever heard his voice. “I’m not.”

It’s Eddie’s turn to scoff. To roll his eyes. He pushes himself away from Steve and the press of his thighs so he can look at him properly. “Don’t bullshit me, man.” His fingers twitch around nothing, even after all these years. “I’m not exactly expecting you to be my knight with this one.” Eddie looks away again, shame curdling in his chest. “You’ll find a new second-best. One that doesn’t drag your good name through the mud. Didn’t think I could do worse than your last partner, but I think old murder accusations trump drug—”

“I shouldn’t have called you that.”

Steve’s not looking at him. He’s looking down at his hands, resting in his lap.

“You’re not,” Steve swallows, his adams apple bobbing, “you’re not second best.”

It’s probably the nicest thing Steve’s ever said to him. 

He stops reaching for a cigarette that isn’t there.

Steve meets his gaze. “And you didn’t hurt anyone.” 

He sounds so sure. So positive, like there’s no other way to look at it, and Eddie feels hope for the first time since he left the locker room.

“The article said that?” Because he finds it hard to believe that article painted him in a particularly positive light, that it’s doing anything more than whipping up hysteria, thought the best he could hope for is some fact-checker coming in a few days after the fact to correct the record, far past the time the public had already convicted him.

But now Steve does roll his eyes, and Eddie feels his lips twitch at the familiarity of it. 

“I didn’t need to read any article.” Steve says, so begrudgingly Eddie’s lips twitch further, lightness beginning to creep into his chest. 

His partner crosses his arms over his chest. Looks up to the sky like he’s going to need salvation for whatever he’s about to say. “I know you better than that.”

He’s such a prick. Such a gorgeous, stubborn asshole, and Eddie never wants to let him go.

“You know me better than that?” He parrots, scooting closer, back to the middle, so their knees knock together. “You know I wouldn’t have the heart to hurt anyone?” He nudges closer, so their thighs touch again, and pokes Steve in the side, watches his lips turn into the closest thing Eddie’s ever seen of Steve’s smile.

It’s a nice smile, if small, just a quirk to his lips but his cheeks grow rosy. His eyes go bright and when he looks up at Eddie again it’s under a fanning of dark lashes, the faintest of smile lines appearing around his eyes. 

“Seeing as you didn’t hit me once over the past week and a half?” Steve nods, like that proves his point, and his small smile disappears as quickly as it came. “And I deserved far worse than a punch to the face.”

Eddie shrugs. Kicks his legs out in front of him. Throws his arms over the back of their bench like it’s all water under the bridge. 

Because it is. Because Steve’s got his back. The obstinate dick that he is. And they’re going to compete in five days. 

And they’re going to win.

“Eddie, I owe you—”

Eddie yelps, turning, startling Steve into silence as he whips up his hand, smacking it hard over Steve’s mouth.

“Please don’t apologize,” he begs, “we only just got through you pretending to hate my guts. Don’t make it awkward by whatever stilted-ass apology you were about to give me.”

Now Steve does smile. Properly. Eddie can only feel it, the stretch of his lips and the pull of his cheeks, but Steve smiles with his eyes, too. All glowy and warm, crinkled at the corners. 

Steve opens his mouth, his warm breath hot against Eddie’s palm. He says something Eddie can’t hear. His lips are wet. Brush up against Eddie’s fingers.

“What?” Eddie takes away his hand, his palm now cold despite the heat of the evening. 

“I’m that bad of an actor?”

Now Eddie can see his mouth too. How his cheeks turn pink against the sunset. The shine of his perfect teeth. 

“I think you should stick with diving, sweetheart.”

It’s always Eddie’s fat mouth that gets him in trouble. That nearly got him punched his first full day here. That will get Steve to turn away from him now because who the hell calls their partner sweetheart—

“I think that’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Steve sniffs. His eyes roll again, exasperated, his smile still all full and rosy. 

Eddie bursts out laughing. At the absurdity of it. At Steve’s self-satisfied smirk, at his pretentious little sniff and the fact that they haven’t made this awkward at all, in that this was all it took for all of today to weigh a little lighter on him. 

And then Eddie’s stomach growls. Loudly.

Steve raises one perfect eyebrow. The man must wax those too while he’s at it because really they’re impeccable—

“I have your dinner back at the apartment.”

He says it so haughtily. Like Eddie not eating dinner is the most embarrassing thing he’s done today.

Eddie might be obsessed with him.

“Yeah?” He questions, “‘cause you remembered my favorite, didn’t you?”

Steve stands, pretends to dust off the front of his tiny little shorts. Golden thighs all on display. “Can’t have you missing meals,” Steve huffs, and then crosses his arms. “So are you coming with me? Or are you going to continue your temper tantrum out here all by yourself?”

He’s such a bitch. Such a snotty brat and Eddie wants to throw him up against a wall. Wants to put him in his place. Wants to hear him whimper and beg—

Eddie stands. Crams his hands in his pockets before remembering the spit-covered stick he has in there, and immediately takes them out again. “Well now it’s not gonna be any fun, knowing you’re not even looking for me.” 

Steve turns on his heel. Begins walking away without another word.

Eddie’s insane. Has to be. Who’s attracted to people like this? 

He is. He so is, because the moment he stops staring at Steve’s legs, he’s jogging after him.

Chapter Text

Opinion: We All Should be Rooting for Edward Munson

Opinion by Nancy Wheeler

It appears that we, as Americans, have become so desensitized to misinformation that we no longer recognize it when it’s served to us on a silver platter. While the effects of this are far more expansive than what has occurred this past week, the fact that it’s happened on such a global scale means it’s worth addressing.

So let’s address the fact:

Edward Munson is innocent.

That is not only the opinion of this journalist, but an undeniable truth. It does not take a judge, a jury, or even a detective to determine this. 

In review of the un-redacted records that have become illegally available to the public (an incident of which that is currently under review), not only did Munson have a corroborated alibi for each night of of the tragic murders, but DNA evidence exonerated him within weeks of the initial investigation. 

The facts are: charges were never filed. A trial never took place. Time was never served, because the true perpetrator in this cold case is not currently an Olympian. A fact that the police force of Hawkins, Indiana, is still wrapping their heads around. They have had their hat hung on the same innocent man for the past decade, who was, at the time of each of the crimes, not a man at all. 

Seventeen-year-old Eddie Munson was, at the time of the murders, playing a game. At school, with his friends. There are six eyewitnesses to this fact, and unless we have regressed as a nation back to 1986, where roleplaying games such as Dungeons And Dragons is seen as admittance of wrongdoing, Eddie Munson is not guilty of anything.

What Eddie Munson is, is the American Dream. From a small town in the Midwest, growing up in poverty, Eddie Munson represents what we all still hope to be true:

That we can do anything, if we set our minds to it.

This journalist is eager to see him perform his 10-meter dives with partner Steve Harrington, unburdened by the demons of his past, and will be watching from her couch, cheering them both on. 

Steve doesn’t like feeling nervous.

Not that it’s a particularly pleasant emotion for anyone, he supposes, but he’s so unused to the nerves that bite at him as their event begins that their teeth feel especially sharp, saw-like in his chest. The smell of the pool, so usually a comforting blanket, is suffocating and oppressive despite the high ceilings, and he has to force his breaths to come deep and slow as the first of the eight countries begin their dives.

His hands are clammy as he watches the Chinese duo, Lian Junjie and Yang Hao, climb, as they pause at the top, as they jump off the platform, their first of six.  

They’re perfect. A nearly flawless forward dive. They appear weightless, controlled by puppet strings, their splashes so small Steve actually winces, and it’s all he can do to focus on Hopper’s words as he talks them through it.

“I’ve seen dives like that from both of you,” he reminds them, “you both just get out there and do it again.”

Steve swallows thickly. Watches the two divers swim to the end, lifting themselves out with thick arms and broad chests and Steve wonders how the hell they’re going to—

Eddie, to his left, pinches his side. He’s grinning. Cocksure and laidback, his mouth quirked. “We’ve got this, Stevie.” 

Steve breathes. Wipes his palms on his bare legs. Watches as the judge’s scores illuminate. 

9.0 overall

Dread pools in his belly, and Eddie murmurs to him, again, “We’ve got this.” 

Steve nods. “I know.” His voice is thin. Reedy. Obvious he’s trying to convince himself, and Eddie doesn’t call him out on it. 

He knocks their shoulders together, instead, and starts mouthing off about how he’s faced worse odds than this in some game his buddy ran back in college, how they were caught fighting a Banshee with nothing but short-range weapons, a fact that Steve doesn’t understand the relevance of but Eddie portrays as a vital part of his tale, hands gesticulating and mouth curling around his story as they watch Great Britain. As they watch Canada, Mexico, and Ukraine. Then Australia and Germany, Eddie going on about nothing, about HP and their cleric and a storyline that Steve could never hope to keep up with but settling him all the same. 

Eddie holds his nerves at bay without Steve ever asking him to, knowing exactly what he needed without Steve ever verbalizing it.

Until their names flash on the screen overhead. 

“You’re a nerd,” Steve murmurs, as they stand, and it sounds too soft, even to him. Sounds like a thank you.

 Eddie’s smile broadens, like he knows. 

And then Hop’s cuffing them both on their shoulders, pulling Steve back to where they are, spouting more words of encouragement than Steve’s ever heard from him.

“As you’ve always done,” Hop is saying, “just like you’ve always done, boys, and you’ll be taking home gold.”

The floor is damp beneath his feet. Damp, but not slippery, and Eddie practically bounces on his toes as they walk up to the ladder, still grinning, his belief unwavering, his optimism undeterred, infectious as anything. 

He doesn’t bounce his way up the ladder, thank god, the last thing Steve needs is to worry about Eddie’s safety as they climb their way up, but ascent soothes Steve’s frayed edges, the motion of it baked into his very bones, and when they reach the top, he finds anxieties were left ten meters below.

The walk to the edge. The forward dive comes first. In pike position. 

He knows it better than his own breath.

To his right, Eddie, his voice just loud enough to carry over the din of the space, whispers, “death!”

They dive. 

They’re suspended for eons. For seconds. For the length of his life and for but a heartbeat, until they break through the surface of the water.

He can feel the rightness of that dive in the very marrow of him, the position of his arms and the arch of his back, the way the water enveloped him and the sensation of Eddie next to him—

He’s grinning before he even breaks through the water.

He knows it had to have put them in neck with Canada at least, and Steve had wanted gold, yes, had wanted to win, but being here, in Paris, in meeting Eddie, Steve would—

He would be happy with bronze.

Eddie’s right behind him when he reaches the edge, his breath close and heaving as he exhales off his own assessment, filled with goddamn amazings and fucking incredibles and Steve grins along to the joy of it, letting it buoy him, letting Eddie into his chest as they make their way towards towards Hopper, and await their score.

It doesn’t take long. Seconds, and Steve nearly stumbles when he sees it. 

9.4 overall

They’re better than Canada. Better than Great Britain, better than China and he can feel Eddie next to him, fidgeting as he tries to contain himself, tries to remain professional as all cameras turn to them—

But Steve doesn’t care. 

He hugs his partner. Lifts Eddie off his feet and spins him around in front of all the world because for once he’s not trying to rein himself in or tamp himself down and he knows, now, that they should celebrate their wins as they come and holy shit what a win: they’re in league for gold. In lead for gold and giddy laughter bubbles in his chest, light and fizzing and he holds Eddie tighter, presses his face into his chest and—

All at once Steve feels Eddie against him. The heat of his body and the dampness of his skin, the rumble of his laugh and the press of his arms, the kick of his feet as they rotate—

Steve slows. Sets his partner down. Can feel the redness of his face when he does, see the giddy delight on Eddie’s. 

“Fantastic, boys.” 

Steve tears his gaze away from Eddie to see Hopper’s approach, tablet in hand as he undoubtedly watches replay after replay of their dive, analyzing and re-analyzing those few short seconds. 

They watch their recorded descent over Hopper’s shoulder as China climbs back up the ladder, their coach pointing with thick fingers to their frame-by-frame dismounts, their leaps into the air and their entrances into the water, his voice all business as he finds every flaw within their 9.4 score. 

Eddie stays close as he does. So close their elbows knock. His smile lingers. His head tilts towards Steve with every word he says and Steve feels tingly with it, his nerves now washed away from their earlier jump.

Their next dive comes all too quickly and not fast enough, the German divers barely out of the pool before they’re being guided to the ladder for their second climb.

Eddie says it again, right before their inward dive. 

“Death!”

And Steve is smiling on his descent.

It’s the longest hour and a half of Steve’s life. It’s the shortest hour and a half of Steve’s life. He never wants it to end and wishes it could just be over, every climb out of that pool a new swooping in his stomach.

9.6 overall

8.9 overall

9.4 overall

8.5 overall

Until they have one dive left. Down to the last one, the final one, to know whether or not they’ll take home gold. 

But they’ve won silver. Robin’s going to lose her mind. Is probably already losing her mind, probably blowing up his phone with a live reaction to each one of his dives.

He can’t wait to call her.

Eddie’s nearly vibrating beside him. Keeps bouncing from foot to foot, shaking out his hands, keeps mouthing things to himself as they wait for China’s dive.

Steve grabs his hand. 

Eddie stops moving.

“We’re gonna win.” He sounds much more convinced of this fact than he did an hour ago. He feels much more convinced of this fact than he did an hour ago.

Eddie smiles at him, bright and lovely as anything. He squeezes Steve’s hand. 

“Hell yeah, we are.”

Lian Junjie and Yang Hao jump. 

They’re phenomenal. A nearly perfect pair of forward 4 1/2 somersaults, and for a moment, for a beat, Steve thinks about how it would feel to take home silver. To stand to the right of the podium, to have the medals of silver slid over their heads, to stand in front of the world as second-best.

And for a beat Steve knows he would be happy with it. Knows, at the end of the day, second-best is not all that bad of a place to be.

But Eddie starts dancing again. His little hops from foot to foot, bouncing on his toes, his lips red from where he’s bitten them down, and fuck that. They’re better than that.

Eddie’s better than that.

“You need an overall score of 9.2 to win,” Hopper explains, coming back with his iPad tucked under his arm, and it’s the most excited Steve’s ever seen him. He’s smiling. Properly. His face actually looks distorted with the force of it. 

“Boys,” he begins, and he puts his tablet down to take their shoulders in his hands, bringing them all into a huddle. “You’ve done the hard part. Overcame more than any of these others out here.” He looks at them both imploringly. “Now it’s time for you to show them all what that means.” He claps them on their shoulders, the sound loud and echoing even with the cacophony around them, and straightens from his crouch. 

The order stays the same. Great Britain. Canada, Mexico, and Ukraine. Australia and then Germany. No one else is close. It’s down to this dive. To this span of only a few seconds. 

As they climb up the ladder, walk down the platform, as they reach their marker, Eddie’s beside him. Inches away, and Steve promises himself, that after this, when there’s gold hanging around their necks, he’s going to kiss him. He’s going to do what he’s imagined himself doing since that second night, when he caught Eddie around the arms. 

If he can win gold, he can kiss a boy.

“Death!” 

They take their running jump to the end. Into the forward 4 1/2 somersaults, and into the water.

The first thing Steve thinks of when the sound of the audience disappears, is that it’s over.

It’s done.

There are no more dives. No more days training in the Olympic gym. No more Pilates or debriefs with Hopper. No more alarms or early nights or eating only what will fuel him, and eventually, when all of them go home, no more Eddie.

Steve won’t wake to his form across the room or fall asleep to the sounds of his tossing and turning. Won’t have him at meals or at training.

He may never have him again at all.

Steve opens his eyes. Blinks through the chlorine to see the dark mass of Eddie’s figure swimming toward the wall. Toward him. 

Steve pumps his arms. Kicks his legs, feels the water rush past his limbs as he propels himself to the wall, his partner now in front of him. 

He doesn’t surface until he reaches the end. Eddie’s already there, pulling himself out of the water. 

Steve follows, sloshing water over the lip.

He can’t hear the crowd. Only watches Eddie’s hopeful face as he looks up to the screen. Watches until Steve reaches him, and turns himself.

It takes a second. Two. Until their final score is announced.

9.4 overall 

The crowd, what Steve had blocked out, roars, and still the sound is distant compared to Eddie’s shocked gasp, to the quiet exhale of, “holy shit,” compared to the pounding of Steve’s own heart in his chest, the thrum of his pulse in his ears.

9.4 overall

If it wasn’t for Eddie next to him he wouldn’t believe it. But he turns, and Eddie is there, is smiling shocked, starry-eyed, is already reaching to pull him close, and Steve falls into his chest.

Eddie’s arms wrap around him. Damp and cool and strong. Their chests touch and Steve swears he can feel his own heart thundering against Eddie’s, following the pattern of each other even now, and when he feels Eddie tilt, Steve follows. 

Gladly. Thinks he’d be happy to follow Eddie anywhere.

They collapse into the pool. Where it’s just them. Just them, and the sounds of those above and the cameras they will have to face feel a long ways away.

Eddie holds him. Doesn’t let go. They sink, and everything is quiet. Water presses to his ears and when Steve opens his eyes into the chlorine for the second time in as many minutes he finds Eddie’s face only inches away. 

His eyes are open. Their faces so close their noses brush and Steve, his movements slowed by the water around them, brings up his hands to cup Eddie’s cheeks.

It should be horrible. Should be strange and cold and wet in the very worst way—

And it is. It is, but when Eddie’s lips touch his, he’s all Steve can feel.

They don’t open their mouths. But he strokes his fingers along the bones of Eddie’s face and his partner keeps his arms locked around him until they run out of breath.

They’re gasping as they break through the surface of the water for the seventh time. For the final time, the crowd around them screaming, Hopper jumping up and down on the poolside, throwing up his arms in an unbridled show of triumph that have the cameras aimed towards him.

When they lift themselves from the pool, when they climb up on the podium, when they bow to receive their medals, when they pose for photos and hold the flag behind them, it’s as one. As two halves of the same whole and every touch of Eddie’s is molten, leaves scorch marks, leaves Steve’s skin ablaze.

He knows everyone saw. That there are cameras under the water. That there’s no way all of the world didn’t just see what happened, and he doesn’t care. He won. In far more ways that just the medal around his neck, and that is all that matters.

They shake hands with the other athletes. Congratulate China on silver and Great Britain on bronze, and accept their congratulations in turn.

The medal rests against his chest, the metal warmed to his skin, and he can’t stop touching it. Can’t stop running his fingers across the gilded edges, looking down to see the way it glints in the bright lights of the room. 

Eddie keeps catching him staring. Keeps nudging him and nodding like he needs confirmation that this is all real and every time he does Steve can’t control his own grin, can’t control the way he nods too vigorously in confirmation, can’t control the way his damp hair sticks to the sides of his face as he does, feels overexcited and giddy in a way he can’t remember ever feeling before, not with his previous medals and not with his previous performances, never with Jonathan and never with Hop, and it carries him through. Carries him through until the cameras and journalists begin to leave for the next event that needs covered, the crowd emptying in a slow-moving mass towards the doors.

Hopper can’t stop clapping them on the backs. Does it, Steve thinks, because he doesn’t know how to verbalize what he really wants to say, translating it to a manly clap to their upper backs until Eddie brushes him off and hugs him, Hop’s arms freezing at his sides before coming up to mirror, before they’re both pulling Steve in to the most awkward and tensely happy group hug he’s ever been a part of. 

“I’ll let you two rest,” Hopper says, ending their hug in the most intensely un-subtle way Steve’s ever heard someone dismiss themselves, “and call your families.”

Eddie starts bouncing again, foot to foot, like he did before, making something warm and disgustingly soft erupt in Steve’s chest.

“I gotta call my Uncle Wayne,” he says, so excitedly Steve wonders why the hell he’s still standing in front of them at all.

~~~~~

Eddie all but sprints to the locker rooms, not even bothering to wash the dried water from his skin before he starts tapping on his phone, his shaking fingers making the number difficult to dial.

“Ed.” Wayne doesn’t even say hello, just dives right in, his voice blubbering and wobbly. “I’m—” His uncle sniffles, wet and trembling, and Eddie presses the phone tighter against his ear, like the force of it could bridge the gap between them. “I’m so proud of you.” 

Eddie closes his eyes, lets his uncles words wrap around him, his golden medal hanging heavy around his neck.  “‘M so proud you’re my boy,” he goes on, and Eddie wraps his fingers around it, the golden-plated silver now warmed from his skin, “I always knew,” Wayne says, voice still shaking, “always knew you could do it. Knew it from that first time I went with your mommy and daddy to the lake. Took to the water like a fish, never saw anythin’ like it.” There’s a shuffling on the other end, and then the harsh sound of Wayne blowing his nose. “Just wish I could be there, kid. ‘M so sorry ‘m not, I—”

“None of that.” Eddie admonishes, and his voice is croaky, a well of emotion tightening his throat. “I know, Uncle Wayne. I know you’re proud of me.” His spit feels thick, and he has to swallow down before he can speak again. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you,” he murmurs. And it’s the truth. Wouldn’t have had a bed to sleep in let alone a pool to swim in if it wasn’t for Wayne. If it wasn’t for Wayne, who showed up in every way that mattered, every single time.

Again, his uncle sniffs. “Alright,” Wayne coughs, and he clears his throat, his voice steadier. “You take a picture n’ send it to me,” he says, and Eddie smiles at the abrupt change in subject, “wanna show everyone at work. Show ‘em I’ve got the best kid.”

Eddie laughs, and agrees, and talks to Wayne for as long as he can before calls from Grant and Jeff and Gareth become too frequent to ignore, and ends their call only to be assaulted by his best friends’ three screaming voices. 

All of them talk over each other at once. Shout praise and questions and congratulations as the phone speaker does its level best to keep up, their voices going tinny as it attempts to transmit as much as possible. 

So Eddie promises them that yes it happened. Promises he’s currently wearing gold around his neck, that Steve is too.

“But what about—”

“—Eddie didn’t you—”

“—we saw—”

Steve, to his left, closes his locker door. Raises a perfect eyebrow at him as he waltzes over to their rows of showers, and Eddie watches Steve’s toned legs and caked ass flex and bounce before all three disappear behind a corner. 

He feels the ghost of Steve’s hands on his face. The way they held him under the water, thumbed across his cheekbones, and very suddenly Eddie remembers he can call his friends back. 

“I gotta go,” he interrupts, not at all paying attention to whatever his three friends are saying, “I’ve gotta go celebrate.” Not a lie, but he’s definitely not going to be celebrating in the way they all expect him to.

“Eddie don’t you dare—”

“—swear to god—”

“—I will never—”

“Get ready for me to rub gold in your face when I get stateside!” He hangs up, with that, and follows his partner to the showers.

Steve is already under the spray when Eddie approaches. 

He wishes they were the only ones in here. Wishes they were alone. Wishes he could come up behind Steve and dare him to utter a bitchy comeback as he wraps a hand around—

Eddie turns on the shower. The water is cold, makes him jump and hiss under the spray, sees Steve’s smirk to his right when he does.

“Thought you’d have gotten used to that by now.”

Eddie grins, the water already running warmer. “I was distracted.” He lets his eyes run up and down what he can see of the man next to him, down the slope of Steve’s shoulders and the cut of his abs, the v of his hips before it’s cut off under the waistband of his suit. 

The water runs in rivulets down his skin, a sight Eddie has seen so many times before but has never been allowed to so obviously appreciate.

Until now.

Steve clicks his tongue, his attitude obviously back now that they don’t have an audience. “You’ve always had a one track mind.” He combs his fingers through his hair, forcing the chlorine from the strands, untangling the locks, and Eddie didn’t get the chance, earlier, underwater, to fist his hands through it, to twists his fingers through his soft hair and pull—

Steve snorts. “One track mind,” he repeats, and stops playing with his hair. 

“Like you’re any better,” Eddie volleys back, Steve turning off his own shower. “With the way you spun me around earlier like we were in the goddamn Princess Bride.”

Steve towels off. “Please.” His voice is haughty, like the very idea is ridiculous. Eddie wants to eat him. “Purely celebratory.”

“Mm-hmm,” Eddie hums, turning off his own shower. “I watched you, you know. At qualifiers.” He lets that statement hang until Steve looks at him, doe-eyed and wanting. “You never acted like that with Jonathan.”

The tips of Steve’s ears turn pink. He throws his towel over his shoulders. “Well,” he begins, and his voice is light, feigning curiosity, egging Eddie on. “Do you want to stay someone who watches?” He asks, taking a step away, towards their lockers, finally sparing him a glance. His eyes are dark, molten, his perfect mouth quirked, “or do you want to finally do something?”

They can’t get to their apartment quickly enough. Eddie’s never really tested the structural integrity of the cardboard frames of their beds, but supposed if it can house dead-lifters, it shouldn’t have too much trouble with the both of them.

Even if it means going milder than Eddie hopes they could. 

Steve keeps on playing with the hems of Eddie’s clothes as they make their way back, fingering the edge of his shirt and shorts, keeps brushing his hands over sensitive skin and then raising his eyebrows like Eddie’s the one who’s crazy for reacting.

It’s driving him up the wall. 

The lobby is packed, filled with Olympians as they go to or come from other places, training or events Eddie doesn’t care, not sparing them a second glance as he taps his foot, waiting for the damn elevator to arrive.

“Do you ever stop fidgeting?” Steve murmurs, his hand once again playing with the hem of Eddie’s shirt, “or do you just need something to focus you?” His hand goes under Eddie’s shirt. Starts playing with the waistband of his shorts, his fingers coaxing, teasing as they play with the strip of fabric. 

Eddie stops tapping his foot. 

“Thought so,” Steve murmurs, his grin so self-satisfied Eddie sort of wants to take him right here, pin him up against the wall—

The elevator dings. 

Eddie pulls Steve after him, hitting the close door button so quickly and so forcefully that Steve snorts beside him, but there’s no way in hell Eddie’s letting someone else ride this with them.

The second the elevator doors close Eddie’s on him. Curls an arm around Steve’s waist to pull them flush, tangles his fingers in Steve’s thick, damp hair and presses his lips against the mouth that delivers nothing but venom, and licks into it.

Steve melts. 

It’s intoxicating. Makes Eddie lightheaded, the way Steve so easily follows his lead. He’d expected a tease, had expected Steve to push back, to demand control, but he—

Steve nearly falls into him. Scrunches up his shoulders to cup Eddie’s face in between his palms, careful and sweet as anything. 

It nearly makes Eddie slow down. To match Steve’s pace, to meet this unexpected way he’s being kissed, but his moment of hesitation has Steve whining, has him pulling himself closer, slotting a leg between Eddie’s and he might’ve graduated high school by the skin of his teeth but he’s smart enough to understand this—

The elevator lurches to a stop. 

Steve jumps away from him. His lips are red and his face is flushed and his eyes are blown wide as the elevator opens its doors to their floor, his chest rising and falling with panting breaths before grabbing Eddie around the wrist, and pulling him down their hallway. 

Eddie can barely get his key out of his gym bag, Steve’s fingers already sliding under his shorts, stuttering his movements. 

Steve just huffs at him, the breath of it ghosting over his neck as Steve presses against his back for whoever walks down the hallway to see, nosing along the line of his jaw before Eddie’s finally able to turn the lock. 

Still riding high on the adrenaline from earlier, Eddie wastes no time in closing the door behind them.

In pushing Steve onto his bed. 

He lands with a bounce, hands already pulling off his shorts, followed by the gold medal neither of them have yet taken off. 

Eddie follows suit, his shorts dropping quickly—

“Don’t,” Steve interrupts, as Eddie begins to slide the medal from his neck. “Keep it on.” 

Steve’s legs are spread. Fallen open, his cock just beginning to tent his briefs and Eddie thinks he would jump through rings of fire to be able to bite down on those thighs.

Keeping on his gold medal is small potatoes. 

He wrestles around in the bag still nestled at the foot of his bed, pulls out his small box of condoms and lube, meeting Steve’s teasing grin when he does. 

“Knew you were gonna get lucky?” Steve asks, smirking when Eddie rolls his eyes. 

“Better safe than sorry, sweetheart.” He climbs back over Steve, dropping the box and bottle on the nightstand when he does. 

He hovers over him, golden medal hanging between them. “And aren’t you glad I did?”

Steve hands go to his sides. Warm and strong they clutch at him under his shirt, his fingers running across the lines of his ribs. “Just hurry up and take your shirt off.” 

Again it’s so soft. Like earlier, when he called Eddie a nerd like he was declaring his love for him.

So Eddie doesn’t take his shirt off. Not yet. 

He kisses Steve, instead. 

Again Steve melts. Opens his mouth almost passively as Eddie licks inside, arms nearly slack as his hands clumsily move to cup Eddie’s face, his broad, calloused palms large enough to nearly cover the sides of Eddie’s head, his fingers curling around the base of his skull.

It feels possessive. Feels territorial and Eddie sinks his weight, drapes himself over Steve so they’re skin to skin—

And that’s when Steve break their kiss. “You’re not fucking me with your shirt on,” he grumbles. His eyes are blown wide. They blink up at him, glassy and wide, his lips reddened and spit-slick. 

“Such a brat,” Eddie huffs, and it’s too fond, can’t find it in himself to say it any other way, not with the way Steve’s lips curve at the words.

It’s a hassle getting his shirt off and not the medal, and he can hear Steve snickering at him as he gets stuck in pulling it off, wiggling fruitlessly until Steve’s hands eventually guide it the rest of the way. 

He’s smiling at Eddie when they finally toss his shirt to the side. Small, again, but there, like he’s amused. Maybe even fond.

He pulls Eddie back down and onto him. Cants his hips up and Eddie can feel the hard length of him against his thigh, the gold medal knocking into Steve’s sternum, before they’re kissing again. 

Kissing Steve is all-consuming. Blurs his one-track mind down to only the feeling of Steve against him, under him, down to the reflexive grind of his hips as begins to slide himself over Steve’s growing cock.

A gasp from under him breaks their kiss, Steve’s mouth parted and panting, and Eddie uses the moment to kiss his way down his jaw, licks against the sweat already collecting in the hollow of his throat, down his chest and across his abs so Eddie can bite against the v of those perfect hips. 

He nips and sucks, massaging Steve’s thighs as he teases along the seams of his briefs, ignoring the bulge in the fabric as he lightly sinks his teeth into the thighs he’s been ogling for two weeks.

For much longer than that.

“Are you a leech?” Steve asks, but his voice is breathless, quaking and high, “or are you going to get on with it?”

Eddie bites down on the soft, pale flesh of Steve’s inner thigh and sucks, just long enough that he knows it’ll bruise, licking the flat of his tongue over the reddened flesh when he’s done. 

“That’s a lot of lip from someone who’s done nothing but lie there,” Eddie murmurs, into his skin.

Steve squirms under him, his cock nearly hitting Eddie in the face, even under the confines of his briefs. “Like you’d want me any other way,” he breathes.

Eddie’s exhale shudders out of him, his arousal deepening as Steve blinks his satisfied smile, like he has Eddie right where he wants him.

Which he does. 

Which is exactly where Eddie wants to be. 

But Eddie can also edge this out a little longer. 

He mouths along the outline of Steve’s cock through his briefs, darkening the already black fabric, licking him through the cotton.

Steve jerks under him, his hands fisting into the starched sheets, his breathing becoming heavier, and Eddie has barely begun this show. 

He slips his fingers under the seam, watching the flex and heave of the muscles of Steve’s stomach, and stays there. Teases the skin of Steve’s hips. Suckles around the head of his cock until his chin is damp, until he hears the first whimper of his name.

“Eddie.”

Steve is panting. The muscles of his thighs jerk around Eddie’s ears.

“C’mon.”

Much better. 

Eddie can get on with it now. 

He pulls Steve free, his already spit-soaked cock bouncing as the waistband is tugged down his thighs, Eddie sliding the fabric the rest of the way down his legs. 

He’s beautiful. 

Of course he is, but it’s different than what Eddie’s witnessed before. Perfect and toned and confident Steve Harrington was always hot. Always mouthwateringly attractive, but here, under him, flushed and naked and very nearly trembling, Steve Harrington is beautiful.

“Take a picture,” Steve breathes, “it’ll last longer.”

Eddie grins. “Such a bitch,” he exhales, and dives back down to kiss him. Cups his face like Steve did to him earlier, runs his thumb along his cheekbones, presses the pads of his fingers into his still-drying hair.

Steve wraps his arms around him. Pulls him down until they’re chest to chest, the warmed gold medal pressed firm between them.

Steve’s hands slide, down his back and into the dip of his waist, along his spine until they reach his briefs. Without hesitation Steve slides his hands under, his warm palms cupping the globes of Eddie’s ass he goes, squeezing tightly. 

“‘Ve wanted to do that for way too long,” he breathes, against Eddie’s lips, squeezing again for emphasis, “now get these off.”

Eddie huffs, leaning back on his knees. “Demanding.” 

He loves it. Thinks he’s obsessed with it. Is obsessed that Steve, with his eye rolls and his smirks and everything he is, hasn’t changed a lick now that they’re here. Can’t get enough of the fact that Steve Harrington doesn’t change himself for anybody. 

He pulls down his briefs almost as awkwardly as he pulled off his shirt, has to sit back on his ass to pull them all the way off, his legs kicking off to the side on the uncomfortably small bed. 

Steve stares at him when he’s done. And not so much as him really than—

“Is your dick pierced?”

Steve sits up. Looks down at the silver barbel on the ridge of Eddie’s cock. 

“Oh,” Eddie exhales, “yeah. Honestly, I kinda forget about it sometimpph—”

Steve kisses him. So hard their teeth clack. Grips him around the jaw so firmly he’s sure it’ll bruise. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he breathes, into his mouth, “Eddie, shut the hell up and fuck me.”

Eddie doesn’t split hairs, after that. Gets Steve on his hands and knees. Drips enough lube on his fingers that its spills onto the sheets. 

He’s perfect from behind, too. The way his back arches and the spread of his legs, Eddie has to grab one full cheek to the side to smear the lube across him, and his mouth nearly waters.

Steve trembles when he does. Whines when Eddie curls his first finger inside. Starts panting as Eddie explores him, as he twists and presses his finger deeper, Steve quickly falling from his hands down to his elbows.

Eddie leans over him. Presses his mouth against his ear as he curls his finger again. “Arms giving up on you so soon, sweetheart?” He kisses against the soft skin behind Steve’s ear as his partner pushes his ass back into the finger Eddie has in him.

“Would have me on my chest if you hurried up,” he bites back, his voice breathy. 

Eddie tuts. “Where’s the fun in that?” 

He curls his finger again, and this time Steve cries. High and whining and lovely, burying his face in the pillow under him to muffle the sound. Eddie does it again, just to watch the way Steve’s entire frame trembles under the sensation of it, his hands fisting into the sheets and his toes curling, shoulders shaking as Eddie traces a second finger around his rim. 

“You havin’ fun, Stevie?”

Steve breathes into his pillow, regaining control, before twisting to look at him. 

“Fuck you,” he breathes, but he’s smiling, nearly laughing, and leans further into the press of Eddie’s fingers. “And fuck me.”

Eddie does. Works a second finger in, and then a third, until Steve is squirming under him, his breathing nothing more than ragged inhales and exhales, his back lurching with the feeling of it. 

Eddie tears the condom open with his teeth, the foil sticking to his tongue, and he’s glad Steve is lying face down so he doesn’t see the graceless way Eddie scrapes it off with his nails.

He rolls on the condom, pouring more lube over himself, watching the rise and fall of Steve’s sculpted back before lining himself up. 

Steve shudders at the press of Eddie’s cock, his hands still twisted in the sheets. 

It takes all of Eddie not to thrust himself inside with one go, even with their prep the last thing he wants is to actually hurt Steve—

Who whimpers as the head of Eddie’s cock, as the barbel, slips inside him. 

Guys always told him the metal hit their spot better than any dick ever did—like that wasn’t the entire reason Eddie got it to begin with—and he hopes that’s the case for Steve, too. 

Eddie grabs onto the sculpted meat of Steve’s hips, digs his fingers into the dip of his bones as he fills him, Steve’s perfect ass a vice around him as he sets his pace, going only halfway inside before easing out again. 

Steve squirms again, his toes curling and head tossing, whimpers escaping. 

Eddie pets his hair, smoothing it back out of his eyes before grabbing a fistful, making his back arch as he pushes in again, quicker this time, deeper, and Steve cries his name again, loudly.

Eddie doesn’t have it in him to shush him, just thrusts again, picking up the pace now that he knows Steve’s adjusted to him, knows there’s nothing to the trembling of Steve’s muscles save the pleasure rocking through him.

His gold medal rocks against his chest with each thrust, the sound a rich thunk each time it hits his breastbone. 

Sweat beads on Steve’s back. His arms tremble and Eddie sees the way they’re almost giving out, with his own pleasure already mounting to something nearly unsustainable. 

The moment he lets go of Steve’s hair he collapses, down to his chest, and Eddie maneuvers his hand to grip Steve tightly, his fingers still slick from earlier. 

Steve’s hands scramble as Eddie pumps him, rocks into him, and Eddie hesitates for only a moment before taking Steve’s hand in his free one. 

At once Steve stills. Hands no longer searching, just squeezes his hand back as he tilts his head to the side, his cheek now pressed against the pillow. 

Steve’s mouth is open. Pink lips parted and eyebrows pinched in pleasure, and Eddie grips him harder at the sight, slides his thumb over Steve’s leaking tip, his own orgasm beginning to close in on him.  

Eddie bends lower, a different angle, the medal knocking into Steve’s spine with each of Eddie’s thrusts, Steve now gripping his hand hard enough to hurt as he cries:

“I’m—”

But Steve doesn’t finish his sentence before his muscles tense, his cock twitching in Eddie’s grip as he releases across the sheets under them, painting them sticky and white.

Eddie pumps him through it, cock twitching against his palm for long seconds until Steve goes lax under him. Eddie releases his hold to fold into him, to press his chest into Steve’s back and drive into him at a much more frantic pace.

Steve gasps, whimpering at the overstimulation as Eddie’s thrusts turn animalistic, nearly rabid, little ah ah ahs escaping Steve’s parted lips as Eddie drives forward again and again, the sweat on his knees nearly making him slide down the bed. 

Steve cries his name, voice trembling around the motion of Eddie pounding into him, and with one final thrust Eddie comes. 

His vision blurs as pleasure envelopes him, Steve’s noises under him it out, his little ah ah ahs continuing as Eddie’s cock fills the condom. 

Eddie’s legs give out. He collapses fully on top of Steve, his limbs tingling in aftershocks, mouth dry and muscles spent. 

His heart thunders in his chest, his sweat-damp skin sliding along Steve’s as his chest expands with his slowly steadying breaths. 

“Shit,” Steve breathes, under him, and Eddie smiles, clutching his hand tighter. “We should’ve been doing that way before now.”

Eddie exhales a laugh into Steve’s neck, noses along his jaw. He smells like chlorine and sweat, and Eddie’s sure if he gave himself five minutes he could go again, based just on the smell of him alone. “Totally could’ve,” Eddie reminds him, “if you weren’t such an ass.”

Steve’s laugh rumbles under him, and he presses himself against Eddie’s softening cock. 

He hisses, and Steve laughs harder. “You like it,” he volleys, and Eddie kisses him on the shoulder, because he’s right. 

Slowly, Eddie eases himself up, pulling out of Steve—

Only to gasp at the state of his back. 

Purple marks are already forming where the medal knocked against his spine, and, where Eddie had collapsed against him, thrust into him like a dog in heat, there’s a red, circular outline. The hexagonal center scratched and bruised into his skin. 

Eddie strokes his thumb over it, and Steve hisses.

“Sorry,” he breathes, and, at once, slides off his medal, tossing it onto his heap of clothes beside his bed. “I didn’t know I was—”

“I did,” Steve hums, and he stretches, hissing again as he turns. His face is pinched, somewhere between pain and satisfaction. “Why’d you think I wanted you to keep it on?”

Eddie shakes his head, wiping a hand over his face. “You’re insane.” Again it’s too soft, far too fond, but Steve smiles when he says it. Properly. All sparkling eyes and round cheeks. 

“Gonna grab something to clean us up,” he murmurs, and climbs off the bed to Steve’s nod. 

He ties off the condom, throws it in the trash before grabbing a washcloth, dampening it before wiping himself down. 

He grabs a fresh one for Steve, makes sure the water is running hot before he soaks it. 

Steve’s lying on his phone when Eddie returns, his brows slightly furrowed as he taps away, putting it to the side with a grin when he hears Eddie’s footsteps. 

Eddie cleans Steve up. Wipes along his skin to clear away the spend, an act that feels, in a way, more intimate than everything they just did. 

Steve seems content with it, though, actually closes his eyes when Eddie strokes the warm cloth over him. 

There’s still a giant wet spot on the bed, though. 

“Guess we weren’t thinking about laying down a towel,” Eddie murmurs, and Steve cracks his eyes open with a soft, questioning noise, like he’s already half-asleep. 

“We can use my bed.” His voice sounds thick with sleep, like he does in the mornings before he’s had his pre-workout, and Eddie helps him up as they leave their cum to dry on the sheets. 

Sorry, housekeeping.

Steve collapses with a quiet grunt, his eyes already closed again. 

Eddie hovers, unsure, suddenly, whether the invite was for him as well, until Steve’s eyes crack open again. “Babe, we’ve just won Olympic gold. I just had the best sex I’ve had in far too long. If you still have energy after that I don’t know if this is going to work out.”

Babe. It’s really the only word Eddie heard and Steve might really be onto something with this one-track mind business because it takes Steve grabbing his hand and pulling before he gets the message.

The bed is too small for the both of them, but Steve curls into Eddie’s side, foregoing his pillow in favor of Eddie’s shoulder. 

Eddie wraps his arm around him. Feels as Steve sighs, settling, his legs finding their way to intertwine with his own. His hair tickles Eddie’s nose. He still smells like chlorine and sweat, and Eddie wonders if they’ll shower together tomorrow, wonders—

A kiss, so light Eddie can barely feel it, is pressed to his sternum. Along the red imprint of his medal. 

Eddie closes his eyes. Lets his breaths deepen, and falls asleep to the feeling of Steve pressed against him.

Chapter Text

It’s dark when Steve wakes. No sunlight filters in from under their curtains and he wonders how long their impromptu nap became.

Eddie is warm beneath him. His breathing is slow, and measured, and his arm is still wrapped around Steve like it was when they first fell asleep. Eddie’s face is turned towards him, lips slightly parted around his gentle inhales and exhales, the distant glow of a streetlamp casting soft shadows on his face.

He’s so pretty. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever met a guy that embodies that word as well as Eddie does, with his dark eyelashes and plump lips, his rosy cheeks and soft jaw. He’s the prettiest man Steve’s ever met and he wonders how many more nights he’ll have to appreciate that fact. 

Steve’s never done long-distance before. Never met someone worth ignoring distance for, but as Eddie holds him, in their room that will only be theirs for another week, he thinks Eddie might be. 

Hopes Eddie finds he’s worth it in kind.

When Steve opens his eyes again, Eddie’s awake. 

He’s tapping furiously on his phone, his fingers moving quickly enough Steve wonders where the hell the fire is.

He curls tighter into Eddie’s chest, bringing up his legs so they’re bracketed around his naked hips. “Shush.” His voice is gravelly. Rough with sleep and he bats half-heartedly at Eddie’s phone to emphasize his point. “We don’ have—” he yawns, his sentence broken, and his eyes water against Eddie’s bare chest before he can speak again. “Have’ta do anything for the next week.” He holds Eddie tighter, so his message is clear:

Anything but this.

Eddie shudders out a sigh. Drops his phone with a clatter before his other arm comes to circle him. “Steve,” he murmurs, and Steve opens his eyes at the apprehension in Eddie’s voice. 

His brows are furrowed. His lips bitten red. “I have to tell you something.”

Icy cold pricks Steve’s fingers. His chest. Makes his stomach go hollow and slowly, and then all at once, pulls himself from Eddie’s hold. 

“What.”

Because this is the part that doesn’t go well for him. The morning after. When people realize they like him for night but not to keep, that he’s obstinate and bitchy and cocky and while that’s fun for an evening he’s not worth it for more.

That, or Eddie has a nasty STD that he’s about to break to Steve the condom may not have protected against.

Eddie sits up. Gets all bouncy again, like he did before their event, shaking out his hands. “I promise I didn’t know,” Eddie starts, “I wouldn’t have—not that I regret—” he drags a hand over his face, and begins again. “I wouldn’t have done that so publicly if I had known.”  He cringes, and picks up his phone again, and hesitates for only a moment before showing Steve his screen.

It’s them. Kissing. Underwater, from just a couple of hours ago. 

It’s a great shot. Shows the both of them clearly, despite the bubbles. Shows how tenderly Steve had been holding Eddie’s face.

Steve looks at him again. “Known what?”

Eddie’s eyes bug. “That they could record us like that!”

What?

“What?”

Eddie clicks his phone off, tossing it towards their feet. “I just know how—how stressed you were after that article with Jonathan, and then the publicity around me and I just made it all the worse by planting one on you where I thought cameras couldn’t see us!” Eddie reaches for one of Steve’s hands, clasping it tightly as he goes on. “I’m sorry.”

He’s so earnest. His face twisted into genuine distress, holding Steve’s hand like he’s going to pull away.

All because he didn’t know they have underwater cameras?

“For the record,” Steve begins, and Eddie’s not even looking him in the eyes, has his gaze downcast to Steve’s hands, “I was the one who planted one on you.”

Eddie blinks, his hold loosening as he meets Steve’s gaze. 

His mouth is actually hanging open a little, his eyes still wide, and he’s such a total moron Steve wants to fold him up and tuck him in a locket so he never has to go anywhere without him ever again. 

“You—” Eddie brows pinch, like he’s connecting the dots. “You knew?”

“Got it in two.” Steve scoots back over to him. Lays his head back down on the pillow they were sharing not five minutes before. “Had to lay claim on you somehow, didn’t I? Can’t have you running off the second we’re kicked out of Paris.”

For a beat, Eddie says nothing. Doesn’t even move. And then he giggles, bright, and delighted, and he collapses back down to meet Steve’s gaze.

He’s smiling. Like he always does. Happy and lovely and… hopefully all Steve’s.

“Like I’d run anywhere but towards you.”

Steve hooks a leg over Eddie’s, pulls him close even as he rolls his eyes. “You’re a corny loser.” He says it too soft. Says it like honey, and Eddie just grins wider. 

“You like it.” Eddie accuses.

And Steve kisses him, because he’s right.

Their final days in Paris are spent doing exactly what Steve had wanted:

Fucking. Fantastically. 

Eddie takes him on their beds. On their desks and against the wall, takes him in the shower which is somehow both borderline unpleasant and the hottest thing ever. Takes him slow and sweet and rushed and desperate, but presses kisses to his skin and holds his hand through it all, and never minds when Steve curls up to his side after. Eddie even likes to wrap his arms around him and pull him closer, press kisses to his temple and then bite his shoulders because his shoulders are so bitable.

Steve has no idea what that means, but Eddie says it like a fact of the universe, so Steve doesn’t argue. 

Especially when he can still see the bite marks even hours after.

They do some other things too, of course. Walk around Paris as much as they can with the games still going on, eat enough croissants to put them out of the race for the next summer games, and go all the way out to Giverny to see Claude Monet’s gardens, a trip that Steve was nearly indifferent to before seeing Eddie amongst the flowers.

He’s becoming down right saccharine, as of late. 

They still haven’t talked about it. Not since their vague conversation of Eddie saying he’ll always run towards him. The looming date of August 11th that will mark Eddie’s departure to Illinois and Steve’s return to Southern California, a distance of a whopping two thousand miles and two hours of time difference, hangs heavier and heavier as the days pass, and Steve’s too chickenshit to bring it up. 

Doesn’t know how to stay cool and collected around words of I’d try long distance for you, doesn’t know how to sound not completely pathetic when he asks do you like me enough to try? 

The earnestness of the conversation sets his goddamn teeth on edge, and with his father still holding a grudge regarding their more-than-public kiss, Steve is feeling more and more anxious about it all.

“I dunno,” Eddie comments, and there’s chocolate collected in the corner of his mouth, “I mean it’s good and all, but—” he shrugs— “not really sure what Henrik was going on about.” He brings his thumb up to his mouth, sucking off the smear of chocolate, and Steve finds himself far more entranced by that than the chocolate muffin in his hands.

Eddie’s gaze flicks to him. “What d’you think?”

Steve blinks, and takes his first bite. It is good. Moist and rich, the chocolate thick enough that it sticks to the roof of is mouth. 

And not to toot his own horn, but:

“I can make better.” He says it through a mouthful, but it’s the truth. Robin would back him up. 

Eddie’s eyes widen, his chocolatey smile spreading. “Really?” 

Steve swallows, and nods. “I’ll make them for you sometime.” 

He takes another bite before he realizes the implications of what he’d said, and he very pointedly doesn’t meet Eddie’s gaze, suddenly very entranced by the wrapper on his muffin. 

Eddie scoots closer. Their thighs touch. And then their shoulders. And then Eddie is holding his arm, and he’s swiping his thumb over Steve’s pulse point, getting chocolate all over his wrist. 

“You’d want that?” Eddie asks, “for me to come and visit you?” His tone is searching, his question genuine, and Steve watches Eddie’s thumb go back and forth across his wrist. 

“Yeah,” he answers, honestly, “I would.” He smiles, and knocks their shoulders together. “You’ll hate LA,” he muses, “so sometimes I’ll have to come and visit you. Make it fair.”

Eddie rests his head on Steve’s shoulder. Sprawls his long legs out in front of them. Brings their hands up to kiss his knuckles. “And we’ll just have to FaceTime all the days in between.”

Steve hums. “Maybe even twice a day.”

Eddie nods, the top of his head brushing Steve’s neck. “Only reasonable,” he adds, and then, in the same tone, continues, “and only reasonable to not see anyone else.”

Steve shifts their hands. Takes Eddie’s in his. 

“Only reasonable,” he agrees. 

One Year Later

Eddie’s starting to wonder if bringing Jeff was a bad idea.

“I think the sign is too much,” his friend says, gesturing at the poster board that is currently raining glitter all over the airport carpet.

Eddie, defensively, turns it away. “You are here for moral support and as chauffeur because I already know I’m going to be too much of a blubbering mess to take on I-90.”

Jeff rolls his eyes, and Eddie wonders if these are just the type of people he’s doomed to surround himself with.

“You’re such a simp,” Jeff mutters, but he’s grinning, lips quirked to the side as he crosses his arms over his chest.

And okay. Maybe Eddie is. Maybe he’s a little bit too obsessed with his boyfriend. Maybe he’s a simp or whipped or down bad or all three, but shit, he’s in love. 

And Steve loves him back.

Through the windows, Eddie sees passengers begin to trickle out of the arrivals gate, and he holds the sign over his head, feeling the glitter fall into his hair. Already emotion is welling in his chest, tight and burning, nervous excitement fueling his bounce from foot to foot.

He can’t believe it’s happening. That it’s here, that after a year of long distance and trips spent together that ended far too quickly for either of their likings: Steve is moving in. Had insisted on it, really, picking up from his hometown in California to join Eddie in Chicago. Said it would bring him closer to Robin and further away from father, and Eddie hadn’t needed a word more of convincing. 

He already can’t wait to see Steve all bundled up for his first winter outside of the sunny west coast. Can’t wait for all Steve’s hair products to overwhelm his bathroom counter, Steve’s teas to fill up his kitchen cupboards, Steve’s clothes to fill up the dresser he’d purchased for him.

And then Eddie sees him. Rumpled and groggy, Steve’s wearing his sweats and the Dio shirt of Eddie’s he’d stolen the last time they were together. His hair is pushed back, longer now than it ever was last year, a neck pillow askew on his shoulders.

Eddie holds his sign up higher, glitter be damned, and watches as Steve blinks behind his glasses, searching for him.

It only takes him a moment, the disco ball Eddie has over his head is not particularly subtle, before he spots him. 

His face breaks into a smile, glowy and warm, and Steve’s first few steps towards Eddie quickly turn into a run. His duffle knocks against his legs and his backpack swings on his shoulders and it only takes Eddie a moment before he’s running to meet him.

They collide. Eddie lets out an ooph as Steve’s arms wrap around him, lifting him off his feet to spin him around in a move that feels achingly familiar.

This time, though, Steve holds him for much longer.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, into Eddie’s hair. 

Eddie wraps his legs around him, squeezing his hips so his longer legs don’t drag on the ground. “I missed you too.” He feels tears begin to trickle out of his eyes, his nose burning, and Steve holds him tighter.

“It’s okay,” Steve breathes, “Eddie, s’alright.”

He nods into the crook of Steve’s neck. “I know,” he sniffs. 

“I love you,” Steve murmurs, so quietly Eddie knows those words will only ever be meant for him. 

“I love you too,” he whispers back, and, slowly, releases himself from Steve’s hold. His boyfriend keeps him close, and wipes the stray tears from his cheeks. 

“I’m stuck with you now,” Steve murmurs, and his smile is still all soft and lovely, his moments of seriousness fading into the attitude Eddie loves so much. “Mainly because I’m fully dependent on you for housing.” He raises an eyebrow, his eyes red. “So you’re not going to be missing me again anytime soon.”

Eddie barks a wet laugh, and attempts to wipe the last of his tears from his face. “You’re the one who signed the lease,” he reminds him, “I think we’re stuck with each other, now.”

Steve kisses him. And god, has Eddie missed him. Missed his touch and the way he smells and the way he kisses, missed the way Steve holds him, his fingers scratching his scalp as he cradles Eddie’s face in his hands like he’s the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“Your hair is so long,” Steve marvels, whispering against his lips. He tugs on Eddie’s short curls for emphasis. “I think I get why you like grabbing mine.”

Eddie laughs so he doesn’t think about that more than he should in a public space. “You saw it last night.”

Steve shrugs, curling his fingers in it. “’S different in person.” His gaze flickers, from Eddie’s hair to behind them, and all at once Eddie remembers Jeff is with them. 

Reluctantly, Eddie steps away from his boyfriend. Just enough that it no longer looks like they’re sucking face at the arrivals gate. “Jeff was kind enough to drive us,” Eddie explains, “because—”

“Because he was worried he’d be too much of a blubbering mess to do so.” Jeff interjects, grinning, and brings Steve into a gruff hug. “Glad you made it safely, man.”

Steve hugs him back, patting him in that way bros do, in the way Eddie’s never quite mastered. 

“Let’s just hope my luggage did too,” Steve exhales, and, breaking away from Jeff, takes Eddie’s hand. “How much d’you wanna bet it made it safely through Denver?”

Fortunately, both of Steve’s suitcases made it safely to the carousel, and the trip back to Eddie’s apartment is uneventful, save for the handful of times Jeff had flipped off the car next to them. Or in front of them. Or behind them.

But Jeff is nice enough to help carry all of Steve’s luggage up to Eddie’s third story walk-up, and is then even nicer to fuck off immediately after.

“You owe me dinner,” Jeff reminds him, in Eddie’s—their—entryway, “but I’ll cash in later.” His gaze flicks to Steve. “Don’t break his heart and all that corny garbage, alright?”

Steve’s arm circles his waist. “I think I’m contractually obligated not to. I have a security deposit invested in him.” Steve grins, and holds Eddie a little tighter. “Plus I could never, and all that corny garbage.”

Jeff, seemingly satisfied with that answer, grins, nods, gives a final “bye,” and then they’re alone.

Steve, at once, leans into him. Rests his head on Eddie’s shoulder and releases a jaw-popping yawn. “We should take a nap,” he murmurs, hands already fumbling their way up Eddie’s shirt, “‘m exhausted.”

His hands slide across skin, and for the first time since Paris, it’s without hurry. 

They have so much time. 

“Couldn’t sleep on the plane?” Eddie asks, knowing Steve must’ve gotten up at least by 3 to make his flight.

“Couldn’t sleep at all,” Steve huffs. “Fuckin’ babies on planes. Headphones couldn’t even drown the thing out.” He lets more of his weight fall, and Eddie has to circle his arms around him so they don’t both go toppling. “Wouldn’t’ve been able to sleep anyway though,” he confesses, quieter, “too excited.”

Steve’s warm breath ghosts over Eddie’s chest. His long hair tickles his nose and Eddie never thought he could leave with anything better than a medal from Paris, but here they are.

“Do you actually want to nap,” he begins, quiet, “or are you just horny?” He pinches Steve’s arm, the one whose hand is currently sliding down the back of Eddie’s pants.

His boyfriend whines, and does not move his hand. “Both.”

Eddie hums. 

“Shouldn’t‘ve dressed like such a slut if you didn’t want to fuck the moment we got back,” Steve huffs, sounding genuinely distressed. 

Eddie is wearing jeans a a teeshirt. 

“So sorry about that sweetheart, I’ll cover up more next time.”

“No use,” Steve sighs, resigned, “you make everything you wear indecent.”

Eddie hums again. “How about this?” He murmurs, dipping his head to whisper into Steve’s ear, “you shower. Get the airport smell off you. I’ll get some of your stuff organized, and give you time to—” it’s Eddie’s turn to grab ass, cupping Steve’s cheek over his sweats and dragging his thumb across the seam— “prep.”

Steve shudders. Swallows. “Lube’s in the same spot?”

“Right where you left it,” Eddie confirms, and bites down on Steve’s lobe.

His boyfriend hisses, and slowly withdraws his hands. “Don’t keep me waiting.” He kisses Eddie’s neck, and then, smirking, makes his way to Eddie’s bathroom.

Their bathroom.

It doesn’t feel real.

When he hears the shower turn on Eddie pulls Steve’s two suitcases into his room, knowing they’ll have to make space for the movers who will deliver his U-Box tomorrow. 

He pulls a change of clothes for them both, then rifles through the first suitcase, searching for the mousse Steve hates his hair without. 

He’s pulling out the bottle when something gold catches the light. 

Eddie grabs for it, the large, flat medal unearthed by his shifting around. 

He grins when he holds it up to the light, the reflective surface casting bright spots on his walls, before standing, and hanging it next to his own. 

They shine together. A pair, as one.

Two halves of the same whole.

“This counts as keeping me waiting!”

Steve’s voice, muffled through the spray of water and the walls between them, breaks Eddie’s attention away from the medals.

Such a needy brat. 

Eddie grabs the mousse from the suitcase, and very nearly bounces as he joins Steve in the shower.