Archive of Our Own

As a child, Eddie Munson wanted to be famous.

Ridiculously, stupidly,  obnoxiously  famous.

The sort of famous where he couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized. Where he couldn’t leave his house without  someone  knowing who he was. Where everyone wanted him to pose for something or sign something. Where fans would bend over backward and plead on their knees to breathe the same air as him. Where people wanted to be near him.

In high school, hardly anyone wanted to be near him.

Hardly anyone wanted to hang out with the token freak, Eddie Munson.

Just the loser metalhead who ran a Dungeons and Dragons club and could barely manage to recruit a handful of freshmen…who might have been too loud in the cafeteria while joking with his friends, who got pushed around in the hallways during passing periods, who couldn’t keep his head out of lockers, who shrunk into the corner of classrooms.

Just a boy in a garage band who had a dream of becoming a rockstar, a dream that everyone considered outlandish. They would tear down his handmade posters in the hall, and on less bold occasions they would snicker at them, rolling their eyes and scoffing because in their minds they truly believed that someone as  ridiculous  as Eddie Munson could never be famous.

It was almost beautiful how he had proved them wrong.

For a while, at least.

For a while, it had been the best thing in the world.

Eddie could still remember hearing his song on the radio for the first time…doing a double take in his own van, hands tightening around the steering wheel as he forced himself to pull to the side of the road, practically trembling with excitement. He remembered watching his name slowly emerging in the media and entertainment industry, novice celebrity news outlets commenting on the sudden breakthrough of a wildly unknown rockstar who was ‘taking the music industry by a storm’.

There had been his first album, a collection of lyrics scrawled in old, nearly misplaced journals from high school that flowed like poetry. 

The next seven years following his first album were nearly a blur, a burst of recognition hitting him like a brick wall.

Swarms of paparazzi, flashing lights and shuttering cameras, amateur photographers shouting over each other as they asked him to look their way, to turn over his shoulder, to take off his sunglasses. Multitudes of fans who would recognize him in the streets, who would instinctively take out their phones and ask for a selfie, some on the brink of tears at the mere sight of him, as if he were overwhelming. As if he was their entire world.

Mainstream magazines with his face on them sprawled across coffee tables. Announcements and promotions for world tours flickering on the vibrant, electronic billboards of Times Square. Crowds of people gathering in amphitheaters across the country, proudly wearing crewnecks adorning his album cover, excitedly lifting signs into the air and screaming along to his songs.

Eddie remembered sitting awkwardly at his first award show, finding himself surrounded by celebrities he recognized but didn’t  know . Practically strangers. Shifting quietly in his seat, clapping for each recipient, soon finding himself standing with bewilderment when his name was announced as the winner of  Best New Artist . Finding himself standing on a stage, holding an academy awkward with a trembling hand, trying to remember the speech he had jokingly prepared because he didn’t think he could achieve anything like that…because no one had ever thought he could achieve anything like that.

It had been equally terrifying and beautiful, seven years of cameras and autographs and red carpets and trying to figure out which side was his good side. 

And for a while, it had been the best thing in the world. Until it wasn’t.

Until Eddie couldn’t spend a second alone unless confined to his apartment. Until the news outlets became less supportive and more superficial with each article, overanalyzing and assuming and misunderstanding, picking him apart as if he weren’t a person. Until he found himself releasing songs with hardly any meaning behind them because his managers decided what he was putting out just wasn’t good enough, that it didn’t fit who he was  supposed  to be. Eddie found himself dropping two albums that fans devoured but he could hardly stomach because the lyrics were mindless and pointless and trivial and could have been written by anyone in the world.

After a while, it seemed as if all anyone cared about was who he was supposed to be.

Eddie’s fabricated reputation was anything but who he truly was, and all the questions interviewers ever seemed to ask were about songs he never cared about, songs about drugs and money and sex. He had unfortunately gotten used to it. Gotten used to who he was supposed to be.

When Eddie had been invited to the annual Met Gala, his manager insisted he shouldn’t go. Something to do with maintaining a rebellious image, evading high fashion where he would set himself up to look boring at best and ridiculous at worst. But Eddie had wanted to go. For just a night, he wanted to forget about the next monotonous album he was supposed to be writing…allow the ‘bad boy’ persona to slip away for an evening.

There had been brands fighting over him and designers working around him who seemed intimidated by his presence, his manager looming over his shoulder and insisting that a rockstar would ‘never wear that’. But in the end, while Eddie peered at himself in the mirror, he liked what was staring back at him. For once, what he was wearing felt like him. The musician he  wanted  to be. The musician he had once been before his popularity had grown and everyone thought they knew him better than he knew himself.

So, there Eddie was.

Walking underneath a line of propped-up porcelain white tents, trailing behind a handful of other celebrities, many of which he recognized as academy-award nominees and artists that frequented the radio. All of them were prepared to turn the corner and be greeted by the familiar, iconic set of front entrance stairs draped with freshly vacuumed carpets, although the carpets wouldn’t be  as  neat considering Eddie had arrived fashionably late, and roofed by yet another lavish white tent meant to conceal the event.

Eddie’s heart stuttered as they reached the end of the tent.

He paused. He waited. He breathed.

And then he turned the corner.

Instantly, Eddie was met with blinding, flashing lights from photographers that came from almost every possible angle, flanking the perimeter of the steps, climbing the length of the stairs. The attention of the room had shifted dramatically, suddenly everyone and their mother shouting over to him, asking him to look their way despite him only just getting there. Photographers were standing on their toes, waving in his direction, holding their cameras higher to shoot above the height of others.

As Eddie slowly ascended the slate-carpeted steps, the elaborate train of his onyx cape draped behind him, spilling over the edges of the steps, elaborate beadwork atop lace shimmering in the flickering light of cameras. The fabric stretched behind him like an elegant bat’s wing, a cape resting evenly on his shoulders, intricate beadwork adorning his collarbones. 

A crown of withered roses sat neatly above his ears, wrapping behind his head, thorns loosely tangled in his hair. Miniature, midnight black cross earrings dangled from his ear, dark chains hung from the belt loops of his pants, lace gloves hugged his nimble fingers as he slipped his hands into his pockets. 

Climbing the steps, Eddie found himself an undead prince…an elf…a vampire. Something straight out of a Dungeons and Dragons campaign, or a character from the extensive selection of fantasy novels he adored. Eddie felt magical. Beautiful. At that moment, he felt anything  but  what everyone assumed he was, and it was the greatest feeling in the world. 

The corner of his lips curled into a faint smile as he periodically paused, glancing over his shoulder to relentless photographers who wanted his attention, for once  basking  in the attention he found himself receiving. It was good attention. Better attention. 

And as Eddie reached the summit of the carpeted staircase, he noticed a man standing off to the side, tapping his ‘Vogue’ microphone absentmindedly against his palm, obviously waiting to interview someone. The man’s eyes flickered out of their gaze a moment afterward, locking directly into Eddie’s, widening and softening at the same time before hurriedly looking away.

Eddie might have seen him on television before. 

Steve Harrington. 

Some amateur actor who had gotten a big break in some movie and had even been nominated for Best Supporting Actor. He hadn’t won, but it had certainly put his name on the map and more than surely shoved his foot in the door that was the entertainment industry. Eddie recognized him, but didn’t know him, their circles never having crossed before. Partly because Steve hadn’t been in the industry for that long, but mostly because there was no reason for Eddie to interact much with actors.

Steve’s eyes lifted from the ground again, falling reluctantly on Eddie. 

He looked almost surprised…maybe in-awe was a better way of describing it, gaze trailing down the length of Eddie’s outfit, all the way to the cape that trailed behind him before sheepishly crawling back up to meet Eddie’s eyes once more. Seemingly astonished. No, that wasn’t it. Mesmerized was more like it.  Captivated  by Eddie’s presence alone,  enthralled .

So Eddie walked over, smiling politely as one would any other stranger. 

And for a moment, the other man simply glowed, posture straightening.

Eddie paused in front of him, waiting for the rehearsed questions to start. Who he was wearing, what his inspiration was, whether or not he recognized anyone else there, what the selected theme of the event meant to him, the whole nine yards of stereotypical questions that had been answered by nearly every celebrity before him. The same questions Eddie had rehearsed on the ride there.

“Eddie Munson,” Steve started slowly, timidly, “what’s your favorite color?”

Eddie opened his mouth to instinctively answer  Givenchy , quickly catching himself. His mouth hung open for a second before he quickly shut it, taken aback.

“Um,” he answered softly, nearly stammering into the microphone Steve had extended over to him. “Yellow.”

“Yellow?” Steve echoed, pulling the microphone back. “I don’t think anyone would have expected that from your outfit.”

For a moment, Eddie was dumbfounded. Not from the absurdity of the out-of-place question, but from the curve in Steve’s lip as he smiled.

“Well, there’s a lot people don’t know about me, Steve,” he returned slowly, gaze never slipping from Steve’s eyes. 

Steve blinked wordlessly. Eddie watched his Adam’s apple bob sheepishly in his throat, his expression maintaining polite, professional composure. 

“Well, I wish we had the time to go over all of that here,” Steve continued, glancing beside him, “but I’m getting the feeling that someone  somewhere  is nagging me for not addressing the elephant in the room. So, Mr. Eddie Munson,  who  are you wearing tonight?”

“Givenchy,” he finally stated.

Although, at that moment, Eddie suddenly wished he could be talking about anything else, as long as he was being interviewed by the amateur actor before him. It must have been the only time someone interviewing him had ever dared to ask him anything other than what he was wearing or what albums he would be releasing, or who he would be taking home after the event.

It was refreshing.

It made him feel like a person, like a true human being who existed outside of everything everyone knew him for.

“Who are…um, who are you wearing?” Eddie returned.

“Me?” Steve asked hesitantly, looking down at his ivory suit. “Oh, uh. Miu Miu.”

“You look amazing.”

Steve didn’t say anything for a moment, mouth curling into a wide grin which he hid behind the microphone.

“Well, thank you,” he said, shy laughter littering his words. “But I think I speak for everyone watching at home when I say your outfit is… incredible , really. It’s refreshing to see you wearing something so elegant. I–I mean,  you  are magnificent.”

He said the last part so breathlessly, practically  whispered  it. But best of all, it wasn’t about Eddie’s outfit. It was about  him . 

According to Steve Harrington,  Eddie  was magnificent. 

“This is your first time being invited to the Met Gala, and I know everyone online was raving about seeing you here,” Steve continued. “Are you excited? Is it everything you expected it to be?”

“I think it’s everything I expected and a bit more,” Eddie answered.

It was almost mesmerizing how perfectly Steve Harrington’s gaze melted into his.

“What was your inspiration for this evening’s look?” he continued. “Was it your designer’s decision, was it yours, do you think that both of your creative visions sort of, um, became one?”

“Well, a lot of the people I was working with at the time sort of envisioned something, uh… rugged ,” Eddie said, clearing his throat. “But I sort of wanted something that I think represents my earlier albums, something that I don’t think people see a lot of or remember, at least with my newer albums. An, uh…I guess an homage, of sorts, which I thought was fitting given the theme of the event.”

“Very fitting,” Steve hurriedly agreed, and there was that smile again. That mesmerizing grin, that flash of perfect teeth. “And I think it’s amazing to see such a prevalent artist finally entering the fashion scene and doing it so passionately and so thoughtfully. Do you think we’ll see a bit more of this side of you in future award shows?”

“Well, I think anyone can recognize this side of me already if they look close enough.”

“Believe me, I’m sure  everyone  will be looking at you closely for these upcoming events,” he said.

Steve opened his mouth to continue before cutting himself off, gaze finally flickering away from Eddie to someone over his shoulder, another celebrity who was waiting to be interviewed, the pair obviously having gone over time. Eddie glanced behind him, hurriedly stepping out of the way.

“Sorry, I think I zoned out there,” Steve continued apologetically.

The interviewer’s attention shifted from Eddie to the woman who had been standing behind him, an actress he recognized as having starred in some dramatic HBO mini-series who would undoubtedly be nominated for an award. She was irrefutably stunning in her raven-black gown, practically shimmering underneath the light of shuttering cameras that clung to her obsessively.

“Now, I think I’m asking the question  everyone  is dying to know,” he went on, gesturing to her dress dramatically, laughing alongside her, “but who are you wearing?”

Eddie’s gaze lingered wistfully for a moment, watching how Steve looked at her dress, gestured to the beadwork, jokingly pretended to take the microphone from her too early. His gaze lingered as the man’s eyes slipped from the actress, shifting back to Eddie just for a moment, seemingly distracted from the conversation. 

Their eyes met for a moment before Eddie reluctantly looked away, cape trailing behind him. Their conversation had been nice, but he recognized well enough it wasn’t anything special. Merely that elaborate, fabricated charm each interviewer washed themselves with before talking to a celebrity on camera. 

Glancing over his shoulder once more, Eddie watched them converse for another moment before finally entering the building.

–

A lot could happen in a year.

The last thing Steve Harrington expected, of course, was to find himself placed so blatantly in the public eye.

Within a year, his world had been turned completely upside down. Suddenly, almost everyone wanted to know everything about him, the charming new face in Hollywood whose appearance in a low-budget independent film had earned him critical acclaim and an Oscar nomination. He hadn’t expected much from his role other than rent money, but seemingly overnight the internet couldn’t stop talking about him.

Brands wanted to work with him, producers wanted to hire him, people wanted to get a selfie or an autograph.

Being invited to the Met Gala as an interviewer was just part of the surprising turn of events that was Steve Harrington’s life, taking the day off from filming his current project to make an appearance at the event, and he couldn’t have been happier to do so. After all, it was every celebrity’s dream to make an appearance, experiencing a taste of the fashion scene even if they weren’t entirely a part of it. 

Similarly, Steve hadn’t known much about high fashion before. The suit he had worn to the Oscars had been from Bloomingdales.

Nonetheless, it had been an exciting, breathtaking experience to be faced with a sea of photographers, each of them turning to him excitedly as if he had been in Hollywood for ages. Of course, that never stopped him from feeling impossibly out-of-place, having to consciously stop himself from awkwardly shoving his hands in his pockets. It was something he wondered if he would ever get used to…the absurdity that was being semi-well known. 

Standing at the top of the steps, Steve had gotten a nearly perfect view of the scene before him, celebrities with far more experience in the industry entering the event as if they were the only ones invited, broad smiles and thoughtful poses, glancing gracefully over their shoulder as if it were second nature. Surprisingly accustomed to their life of fame. And they had climbed the iconic staircase, some of them choosing to stop near Steve, answering his rehearsed questions of who had designed their outfit and why it was important to them and what the theme meant to them. What everyone would expect.

But none of them ever said his name.

None of them ever  asked  for his name.

Because, in their eyes, they saw just another person who was interviewing them, someone hardly any better than paparazzi clawing for gossip. Not a person. And Steve would brush it off, smile, laugh along with whatever they said, mention how impossibly stunning their outfit was before sending them on their way, someone likely already waiting behind them and filling the vacancy. 

Until the event had started to slow, the evening drawing to an end before the afterparty would commence, nearly everyone already having arrived and gone inside. Steve had found himself standing at the top of the stairs, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other after having stood for so long, making small conversation with staff beside him and photographers who didn’t care much about the selection of fashionably late B-listers who had arrived.

Steve had practically been zoned-out with boredom when someone entered his field of vision.

He had glanced over, eyes falling on someone he almost didn’t recognize.

Eddie Munson. 

One of the most significant rockstars in the industry, possibly to ever live, standing only a few feet away from him and dressed like he was meant to be somewhere far more important. And he was impossibly gorgeous. Those were the only two things Steve could think at that moment as he hurriedly glanced away, the fact that Eddie Munson was standing there and the fact that he was gorgeous. 

So, despite feeling as if his entire body had been engulfed in flames while trying to prevent himself from melting into the carpet, Steve had asked him what his favorite color was. It was silly, but part of him wanted Eddie to remember  him  as the out-of-place actor trying to do an interview and making a fool of himself. But Eddie had answered with a response that caught him off guard, and the interview had continued.

But by the end all Steve could think about was the fact that Eddie had said his name. And it was more than just the fact that  Eddie Munson  knew him. It was the fact that he wanted to, the fact that when he looked at Steve he saw a conversation, not an interview. Of course, the second the other man had uttered his name, Steve had forced himself to hide his flushing cheeks behind the microphone, trying to remember what words were in the first place.

Of course, the smooth-talking rockstar was just another celebrity being interviewed, and after hardly three minutes Eddie had to step aside for someone else to take his place…and Steve had to act as if that was perfectly fine and that he  didn’t  want to talk to Eddie Munson for another hour, possibly for another  forever .

Then he was gone.

And that would have been the worst part of the evening if it weren’t for the  actual  event and the indisputable fact that Steve Harrington, the new face in Hollywood, didn’t know a single person there. Sure, he  recognized  them. Had either grown up on their extensive filmography or had listened to their albums on repeat during road trips, seen their faces on the cover of popular magazines, or embarrassingly read  Buzzfeed  articles about them. But he didn’t  know  them.

Steve silently kept to himself, his eyes mostly staring down at the floor. He took another sip of whatever drink they had handed him, biting the inside of his cheek and awkwardly tucking his free hand in his pocket. It felt strange….being well-known and invisible at the same time. It felt isolating. With another sip of his drink, Steve sighed, trudging off to find a bathroom to linger in, turning the corner and eventually finding a men’s room.

Steve pushed open the door, eyes finally lifting from the floor.

They settled on Eddie Munson.

Steve straightened up with surprise, allowing the door to close behind him. Eddie had been sitting absentmindedly on the vanity counter, one leg dangling off the side as he leaned against the adjacent wall, obviously only there for leisure. Upon further inspection, a cigarette hung from his lips, although he was already making quick work of pulling it free, holding it between his fingers, a thin trail of smoke climbing to the ceiling. Steve must have been staring at him like an idiot because Eddie finally spoke.

“I’m not watching, or anything.”

“Oh, um,” he quickly hurried. “I’m not here to…you know.”

“Let me guess,” Eddie said after a second, a thin smile curling onto his lips. “You don’t wanna be here?”

“Not really,” Steve admitted, smiling shyly despite himself.

“I guess that makes two of us, doesn’t it?” he hummed in return, eye contact breaking as his gaze drifted away.

“I thought it was everything you expected and more.” he joked.

“Hm, I guess not,” Eddie decided after a pause, shifting on the vanity counter, fiddling with the cigarette between his fingers. 

“I mean, it wasn’t all bad,” Steve mentioned reluctantly. “I guess part of me liked getting dressed up…having people who  wanted  me to wear their brand, who wanted to design something for  me . And, I liked interviewing people…some more than others.”

Steve hoped Eddie realized he was the  some  and not the  others .

“Sure, the fashion stuff is fun,” he admitted, shrugging loosely. “Brands fight over you, everyone online loses their mind waiting to see what you look like, you spend months with designers and fittings and final touches. Then there’s everyone who wants to look at you and take your photo, and you get your six minutes on the stairs before you have to go inside.” Eddie sighed. “And then if you’ve been in this business long enough, everyone tries to get all close to you without even knowing you, 'cause they know  about you  and that’s enough.”

“I don’t really have that problem,” Steve said sheepishly.

“No celebrities out there fighting for your attention?” he hummed, that familiar smile just as present, letting Steve know he already knew the answer.

“Not really,” he acknowledged.

“You’ll be there in no time,” Eddie reassured him, as if it were so simple. “Give it another academy nomination and everyone you could ever dream of meeting will want to know who you are. With a pretty face like yours, won’t be much of a problem.”

“You…” Steve started, voice trailing off.

Think I have a pretty face?

“…think so?” he finished awkwardly.

“Easily,” he confirmed, a charming glimmer in his eyes. “You deserved it.”

“Deserved what?” Steve asked slowly, eyebrows furrowing with dull confusion.

Another step into the bathroom.

“The Oscar,” Eddie returned as a matter of factly, as if painfully obvious. “I mean, really, Austin’s performance was so… predictable . He only plays himself. Only reason you didn’t get it is cause you’re new, the Academy has this weird… seniority  thing. You’ll get ‘em next time.”

“Thanks,” Steve said softly. “It’s just weird I guess. I mean, everyone knows who I am. Well, maybe not everyone, but a lot of them. And they want my photograph and they invite me to events and afterparties and talk about me online. But they don’t… talk  to me like I’m a person.”

“Mm, I remember that,” Eddie recalled, glancing off momentarily in a daze. “Too famous to go somewhere without being recognized…not famous enough for celebrities to take you seriously. It’s a rite of passage.”

Eddie paused again, taking a short drag of his cigarette.

“There are good ones, though,” he continued. “You know…celebrities who don’t get swept up in it, who don’t care about it too much. Who treat you like normal people, and you can see them as just normal people.” He shifted. “I mean, I’d like to think maybe I’m like that sometimes.”

“You are,” Steve reassured quickly. Maybe too quickly.

“Really?” Eddie mused, cocking his head, eyes squinting ever so slightly. “Then how come you’re clinging like a wallflower as if I’m gonna bite you?”

There was a small silence before Eddie simply laughed, Steve’s lips curling into a small smile. Eddie reached for the faucet, turning on the tap and drowning out his cigarette, flicking it aside to the trashcan. It missed, falling damply to the floor. Steve glanced at it before his eyes crawled back to the rockstar, their gaze meeting again. Eddie cocked his head again, eyes never faltering from Steve’s, seemingly challenging him to walk closer. Daring him. Beckoning him.

“I don’t bite,” he promised, flashing that grin of his.

Steve’s cheeks flushed whilst he silently prayed it wasn’t noticeable.

Reluctantly, he trailed over.

Eddie’s eyes followed him. Heat pooled in Steve’s stomach. There was something oddly intimate about holding eye contact while walking over to him. Something that made him tingle, that made him twitch. Something that made him nervous and giddy at the same time.

“It’s kinda weird seeing you up close,” Steve admitted softly, nervously laughing. Eddie’s umber eyes shimmered. “I guess I’m just so used to seeing you in…you know, magazines and music videos.”

Up close, Steve could see the careful, intentional smudges of Eddie’s eyeliner, the faint dimple from his mischievous smile, the way the amber light of the bathroom danced in his dark eyes. As Steve leaned against the vanity counter, Eddie’s gaze crawled down his figure and then back up, studying him. 

“You saw me up close earlier,” he mentioned. “The interview.”

“This is different,” he returned, nearly breathless, words softer than the hammering of his heart which echoed loudly in his ears.

Steve wondered if the other man could feel it too…the nearly unexplainable, feverish warmth that had consumed him, that threatened to engulf his entire being, that made him feel almost nauseous. There was a rapid beating in his heart, a twist in his stomach, and a knot in his throat. Steve had  seen  Eddie before, nearly obsessed over his music videos, but it had never been like this.

It was almost unreal.

Eddie was only two feet away from him, close enough to touch.

“Why did you ask me what my favorite color was?” he finally asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly. “It was the first question that came to mind I guess.”

“No one’s asked me that before.”

“Figures,” Steve said with a weak laugh, glancing away. “It was a pretty stupid question.

“I don’t think it was stupid,” Eddie insisted. “I don’t think there’s been a  single  time in the past seven years where anyone has ever asked me anything about  me . Nothing about my hobbies, or my favorite movies or books, or–or my favorite color. I mean, sometimes it feels like they don’t even  care  about the person they’re asking questions about because they get so caught up in my career, like-like I never existed before I became a musician.”

Eddie shifted on the counter, sliding a bit closer. Steve glanced back at him, straightening up.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

Steve almost laughed because how could he  possibly  mind being closer to Eddie Munson?

“No,” he hurried, hoisting himself onto the counter for good measure. “No, I don’t mind at all.”

“Good,” Eddie decided. “Me either.”

Steve nearly had to hold himself upright to prevent himself from melting into the marble counters, catching his shoulders from rising dreamily, although he could hardly catch the stupid, giddy smile that curled onto his lips. It made him feel like he was in high school, exchanging glances from across a classroom. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

“Can…can I ask you another stupid question?” Steve asked hesitantly, glancing back at him.

“Go for it.”

“It’s not really a question,” he admitted, feeling the presence of the other man mere inches away from him, practically hearing his soft breathing. “More of a statement, but…um…well, you know…” his voice trailed off foolishly as he brushed a hand through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts. “You know, I used to be good at this part, back in high school.”

“Good at what part?” Eddie questioned slyly.

“Good at asking people out,” Steve blurted. A pause. “Which I guess isn’t a problem now because I…well, I just  did , but in a way sadder, way lamer way than I used to in high school. Jesus, that’s…that’s not my point. My  point  is that I think you’re very…well, you’re very… cool .”

“You think I’ve very cool?” He mused teasingly.

“Give me a second, it’s been a while,” he insisted, smiling regardless. “I think you’re…I mean, I think you’re very charming, and you’ve been really nice to me. I’m not really good at this whole words thing, usually I prepare something. You’re hot. If that helps. But that’s not the main reason, obviously. But back to what I was saying…I got invited to some afterparties. Maybe we could…go together?”

“ Or ,” Eddie suggested, sliding closer, their shoulders finally brushing together. “We could go back to my hotel and just…get takeout delivered. Watch whatever shitty movies are playing? Maybe find…I don’t know, something else to do that doesn’t involve leaving the hotel.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” Steve returned, grinning. “One last stupid question?”

“Shoot.”

“Would that be considered a date or a one-night stand?”

“Date,” Eddie decided as a matter of factly, laughing softly. “I don’t think my heart could handle the latter.”

They sat there in silence for a moment. Just looking at each other. At that moment, Steve truly believed that Eddie was the most beautiful thing in the world, dark eyes shimmering under shitty bathroom lighting, and that was all they needed. 

“What’s your favorite book?” Steve finally asked. “You…said people don’t ask you that sort of thing.”

“ The Fellowship of the Ring ,” Eddie answered. 

“Favorite movie?”

“ The Two Towers .”

Steve laughed.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?” Eddie asked.

“Sure.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Steve smiled stupidly.

“Yes.”