Chapter Text
Eddie needed one Gym credit. Just one gym credit and he’d graduate come June.
Only one hang up, Eddie fucking hated Gym. He hated all of it. The running, the physical injury, the hierarchy of idiots who took a few too many to the head. It was a waste of time.
“Listen up, shirts versus skins dodgeball today.” The coach announced. “Mckinnley, Hagan, Harrington, Ross, Carver and Suarez shirts. Beckett, Williams, Quinn, Lucker, Allman and Munson skins.”
“Yeah, no, I’m not taking off my shirt.” Eddie protested, wanting to protect the design on his chest that meant so much to him.
Call Edward Wayne Munson a romantic, but one of the few things he believed in, was his soul mark. An intricate design of a spiked baseball bat crossed over the neck of Eddie’s prized Warlock. The illustration was always in the back of his mind. He knew his Warlock symbolized him, but he wondered about the boy with the bat.
That was the other thing. Eddie Munson was without the shadow of a doubt, gay. Like hopelessly, and boy did he know it.
“Off, now. Or I fail you on the spot.” The couch rolled his eyes.
Eddie felt his face burn. “Please, there has to be another way-”
“Coach, I’ll switch with Munson.” King Steve Harrington volunteered.
Eddie rolled his eyes, but secretly hoped the coach would listen.
“You just want to show off your six pack again, don’t you?” The coach chuckled.
Steve put up his hands in a mock defense. “Caught me.”
The coach looked at Steve with a smile before shaking his head and waving a hand. “Fine, try not to get out in the first three minutes would you, Munson.”
Eddie nodded before turning to Steve, intending to thank him but instead was met with the shock of a lifetime.
There, on Steve’s right pectoral, just over his heart, was the same soulmark over Eddie’s own.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Eddie breathed quietly.
“What’s wrong, freak? Never seen a guy shirtless before?” Jason Carver came over and slapped Steve on the back. “Stop staring.”
Steve sent Carver a look. “Get lost.” before looking to Eddie. “You okay?” He seemed genuinely concerned.
Eddie felt his body flush before bile rise to his throat. He couldn’t believe he was this fucked.
“Fuck.” Eddie breathed before making a run for it. He couldn’t believe what he’d seen. He decided this had to be a joke as he dropped to his knees, emptying his stomach into the toilet.
This has to be a joke, right? It has to be make up on his chest, right? Yeah...Yeah it has to be
But the even black lines, those lines he’d been staring at since they appeared on his sixteenth birthday, they were too perfect. They matched too well.
Eddie heard the coach bitching as he came into the locker room. He spit into the toilet again for good effect, hoping coach would let him sit out.
“Christ Munson. To the nurse. Disgusting. Harrington, help him there.” The coach complained before leaving the room.
“You okay?”
Eddie shook his head before wiping his mouth with the back of his hands, still sitting on his knees in front of the toilet.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, man.” Steve offered a hand up.
Eddie shook his head, muttering something about being ‘fine’ and ‘not needing help.’
“Hey man, did I do something?” Steve asked quietly as he watched Eddie stand on shaky legs before walking toward the sinks.
Eddie said nothing as he turned on the sink, gathering water in his cupped hands to splash on his face.
“Munson?”
“What the fuck do you want, Harrington?” Eddie snapped.
“Sorry, sorry.” Steve backed down, raising his hands in a mock surrender.
Eddie’s heart squeezed as he looked up in the mirror and saw the hurt that flashed across Steve’s face.
It dawned on Eddie, Steve didn’t know. There’s no way King Steve was that good of an actor, he didn’t know.
Eddie’s eyes slid down to the black lines again, feeling even more anger well up. He shrugged off his vest and tossed it at Steve. “For your modesty.” Eddie took a deep breath.
Steve looked at the vest, before looking at his chest. Something seemed to click. “Oh my god, I’m such an ass. Does my mark make you uncomfortable?”
Eddie shook his head, but Steve seemed to see through that.
It wasn’t a mystery. Only about a quarter of the world’s population even developed soulmarks anymore. Even then, most were basic shapes or simple words. The more details in the mark, the stronger the connection and fuck was their matching marks detailed.