Archive of Our Own

My entry for the 2026 Stranger Things Reverse Bang for Team 029! Art by RavenCL, check it out here!

Steve stares at the closed double-doors in front of him and heaves a sigh.

He’s been standing here close to five minutes, trying to dredge up enough motivation to walk in and meet his fate. Ten points. He had been ten measly points away from the C that could have saved him this one last humiliation before he could graduate and leave Hawkins High in the dust.

He wishes he could blame his teacher – too tough on him, a bitch for the sake of it. But she wasn’t and he can’t even pretend like she was. She probably doesn’t think of him as anything more than just another dumb kid in her class that hands in lazy, but at least on time, work for her to waste her time grading. He wishes he could blame the Upside Down, and all the bullshit that came with it. How he was stressed, and distracted, and just couldn’t concentrate on studying when he was too busy having waking nightmares about flower headed dogs. But if he’s honest with himself, he knows that would be a lie as well. Yeah, obviously all the crazy before winter break didn’t help, but his grades weren’t exactly good before then.

So here he is, about to volunteer himself for the Theatre department’s big end of year play, just to get himself enough credits to graduate with the rest of his class.

He cracks his neck side to side and gives his shoulders a shake.

Alright. He’s doing this.

The door bangs against the door, and Steve flinches, eyes darting around the auditorium in the vain hope that no one noticed it.

Not so lucky, apparently. Mrs Browne peers at him through gaudy winged glasses, the beaded chain hanging from them swinging from the quick turn she’d made to look at him.

Steve ducks down a little, mouthing ‘sorry’ at her, as he closes the door a lot gentler than he’d opened it.

“Mr Harrington?” Mrs Browne asked, rising from her seat. The tinkling sound of her various bracelets, and the beaded hem of her shawl, carried through the empty theatre.

“Uh, yes, that’s me,” Steve tells her, making his way down the stairs towards the middle section where Mrs Browne is set up, surrounded by papers and what looks like at least three empty Styrofoam cups of coffee. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and in the dimmed light of the auditorium the flashing reflection off them makes Steve inexplicably feel like he’s on the wrong side of exhibit.

“Mr Harrington, I’m afraid I’m in the middle of a casting session right now, so if Coach Benson has a message for me it’s going to have to wait,” she tells him.

“Oh, no, I’m not here with a message,” Steve explains, shuffling crab-like between the seats. “I’m actually here because of the casting thing?”

Mrs Browne frowns at him. “You… want to audition?” she asks, like it’s the strangest thing she’d ever heard. The Steve of two years ago might have agreed, but the Steve of now has a slightly better perspective on just how strange the world can be, so he can’t help but be a little offended.

“Yeah,” he says, defensively. “I mean, I heard you can get extra credit for helping out the Drama department, and it looks good on college applications… stuff like that. Plus, I got kicked out of baseball and basketball until next season ‘cause of the,” he gestures at his head, where the stitches from Billy’s attack are still visible.

Mrs Browne’s expression softens.

Steve waves his hand like he’s trying to guide the unpleasant topic out, clearing his throat. “So, I wanted something to keep me busy for the next couple of months while I wait this doctor’s note out, you know?”

“Well Mr Harrington, I certainly prefer my students to be a little more, shall we say, passionate about the arts,” she says, eyeing him up and down. “But in light of your honesty, I’ll do you the same courtesy. We are rather desperate this season. Not as many have volunteered their time as normally would, so there’s certainly space for you.”

“That’s great,” Steve says, grinning. “I know I don’t know much about plays or anything, but I can do whatever you need; painting sets, pulling the curtain open. I’ve got a dryer at home; I could wash costumes?”

“Oh no, Mr Harrington,” she says, shaking her head. “Everyone in this club has to try out first.”

Steve feels his face fall.

“I have to audition to do laundry?” he asks, a little incredulous, a lot concerned. He’d been expecting this to be an easy, if humiliating, way to graduate. If he has to pass an audition just to do chores?

Mrs Browne shakes her head. “Every student has to audition for one of the roles,” she clarifies. “There are too many very talented young men and women who miss their opportunity to shine on stage, because they assume they have no talent for it, and go directly to support work. I won’t have that happen under my watch, young man,” she says, waggling a finger at him.

Steve slumps a little.

“Mrs Browne, I really don’t think I’d make a good actor,” he tells her. He even means it. He’s a bad liar, forgetful, and while he’s no stranger to being the centre of attention, that doesn’t mean he actually likes it. “I was really just hoping to help out…”

“Nope,” she says, spinning around and dropping into her seat, skirts puffing out around her. “You want that extra credit, you’re going to have to earn it.”

She picks up a small stack of paper and hands it to him.

“There are few characters here, I want you to start at Dorran and work your way down.”

Steve flicks through the papers. There’s a big title on each, and then a bunch of text underneath. Dorran is at the top of the pile, with Tristen, Bethany, Bernando, Carmilla, Lucia, and Valmorwyn underneath. Steve tried to scan the text, but gave up pretty quickly.

“All of them?” he asks, eyeing Bethany.

“Some parts are already taken,” Mrs Browne tells him, flapping her hand. “But it’s very important to get a feel for the actor and what characters speak to them, so yes, you will read for all roles, Mr Harrington.”

“Oh,” Steve says, frowning. He shrugs, then clears his throat. “Ah-hem! But young master, the road tonight is too tret-tech, uh. Tree-cheer-ows?”

Steve looks up at her, and watches as her lips purse. He drops his eyes back to the paper, squinting.

“Treacherous. You must wait until morning,” he says, a little stilted.

“Stop, stop.” Mrs Browne says, waving her hands. Steve lets he arms drop to his sides. “Come with me.”

Mrs Browne gets up and shoos him back down the aisle towards the stairs. He’s lead down to stage, where she gets him to stand, right up front. Steve looks out at the dark auditorium, but it’s hard to see anything with the stage lights in his eyes.

Mrs Browne taps his shoulder and side, making him stiffen and stand a little straighter.

“You’re concentrating too hard on the words,” she tells him, once she’s happy with his stance. “I don’t care if you say the lines word for word, I care about the emotion you convey when you say them.”

Steve stares forlornly at Dorran’s script. “I don’t know how much emotion I can really put on for this guy,” he tells her. “He’s just like, a bossy dick.”

“Alright, then try another,” Mrs Browne tells him. She leaves him up on the stage and takes a seat in the front row. Close enough that he can still tell she’s there, but the light hides her and makes her seem more distant.

Steve looks through the other scripts, scanning for anything that he thinks he could actually pull off.

“Um,” he shuffles his feet. “I- I waited for you,” he knows his voice is soft, softer than it should be. “You promised me that we would leave this place, somewhere far from our families, from the expectations of this town that bind us in shackles.”

Steve pauses.

“He lives in a world so foreign to mine. A world I have spent my whole life trying to reach, but I know now that it’s a place barred to me. I cannot live a day longer in his shadow, or separated from your light.”

As Steve speaks, it’s like there’s a blanket that envelopes him. Muffling the sounds of the outside world, and cocooning him a space with no distraction, and no shame. His voice grows stronger as he reads, the words on the page making sense to him in a way that words rarely do.

“You say that there’s no hope for us, but is that truth? Or simply fear you speak from? Please my love, there is nothing for us here. Let us go, let us go tonight.”

“Thank you, Mr Harrington, that’s enough,” Mrs Browne’s voice cuts through the air. Steve blinks.

“Read from another page, please,” she tells him.

Steve nods, shuffling the papers and picking another script.

“The vile beast, it comes for our children, our sweet girls,” he says, and whatever emotion had taken him before is gone now, leaving him very conscious of the judging eyes in the audience. “Fellow townsmen, gather your tools and weapons. We will take the beast’s castle by force tonight. Wait, is the beast a guy or an animal?”

“Dorren is referring to the Vampire Prince, Valmorwyn,” Mrs Browne explains. Steve stares blankly at her.

“This is a play about vampires?”

“It’s a story about love, Mr Harrington,” she tuts. “Star-crossed lovers who must fight against the world’s expectations to be together. To reject the fates and forge their own path to a destiny they build themselves,” she shouts grandly, arms raised.

“Wait, the vampire’s in love?” Steve’s getting more confused by the second.

“They’re all in love! Tristen is madly in love with his childhood sweetheart, Bethany. But she is unsure if she returns his affections, as he is but a poor farm-boy. Dorran is the dashing Lord that has come across the sea to marry Bethany, as they had been betrothed since birth. The Vampire Prince, Valmorwyn, lives in his castle with his two cursed wives, Lucia and Camilla. They claim to love him, but he knows is a false love, forged from the bite that turned them. His true love is Clarissa, his beloved wife who died many centuries ago, and who bears a striking resemblance to Bethany. He captures her, and tries to take her as his new wife, but Tristen vows to save her, even though he knows they can never be, due to her being promised to Dorran,” she sighs. “It’s very romantic.”

Steve keeps his face as neutral as possible, making a non-committal noise.  He’s not sure how romantic it is to chase a girl who’s taken, but whatever.

“Do you want me to keep reading?” Steve asks.

“No dear,” she tells him, standing up. “I think I’ve seen all I need to.”

“Oh, great,” Steve says relived. “So, what job do you want me to do? Curtains? Sets?”

“You shall play Tristen,” she announces with a flurry of clapping.

Steve gapes at her.

“What? But he’s like, one of the main guys!” he points out, baffled.

“Certainly, he is,” she says. “That’s why it’s been so hard to cast, my dear.”

She joins him on stage with a new batch of papers in her arms.

“We’ve struggled a little more than usual in finding the right person, a few less sign-ups than usual I’m afraid, but never mind. We’ve found our Tristen, and that’s all that matters!”

Steve frowns. He finds it hard to believe that he’s the only person who’s qualified for the role, considering his lack of experience. Unless… “Wait, am I the only person who tried out for this?”

Mrs Browne doesn’t meet his eyes, choosing instead to check her papers are lined up and tidy. “Don’t be silly, we had many applicants! You were just the best one.” She checks her watch. “I’m afraid we have to wrap this up, Mr Harrington,” she says, pulling a pen from her hair bun and offering it to him. “You’ll just need to sign this slip here, showing that you agree to take on the role and acknowledge that it’s an extracurricular class that may involve work outside of school hours. Just sign there,” she says, pointing to a line on the bottom of the paper before passing the whole lot to him.

Steve almost drops the pen with the speed and force that she shoves it into his hands.

“Uh, sure, yeah,” he says, fumbling.

There’s a sudden bang as the theatre doors fly open. Instead of an apologetic student, however, is a wild haired and panting Eddie Munson.

“Did I miss it?” he calls down to the stage, already leaping down the steps two at a time.

Mrs Browne winces, hard. She spins to face Munson.

“Eddie! Darling, so good to see you,” she gushes.

“Linda, sorry I’m late,” he says back, still gulping breaths. “I could have sworn you said the auditions were at 1, but then Jeff said that Josh said that Bianca tried out, and I figured I must have fucked up and written it down wrong in my journal.” Munson laughs, big and boisterous. “I mean you’ve seen that thing; it’s a miracle that I show up anywhere on time.”

Mrs Browne grabs his arm and steers him away from Steve and off the stage. “Oh, I’m sure it was my fault,” she says. Munson twists his head back to look over his shoulder at Steve, who’s dumping all the paperwork on a nearby chair, an arches an eyebrow.

“Is that Harrington?”

Steve waves, unsure what else he’s supposed to do.

“Uh, yes,” Mrs Browne says. “He decided to try out, do something different in his final year.”

“Oh,” he says, still sounding very confused. “Like, stage-hand work?”

Steve feels this is good point to butt in and maybe get himself out of the whole Tristen thing. If Munson was here for auditions, then maybe could do it instead of Steve. Guy was obviously a performer, and Steve obviously wasn’t. “Yeah, I wanted to do like, set stuff, but Mrs Browne said everyone had to audition.”

Munson turns his head slowly to look at the teacher. “Did she now.” Munson’s voice is as flat as his expression.

“Everyone should be able to have an opportunity to perform, Theodore, I am simply encouraging Mr Harrington here to explore new vistas of his own inner world.”

“She said I was going to play Tristen, but it’s cool man, you can have it – I don’t really care.” Steve’s crossing his fingers as he says it, hoping that Munson will take the job off his hands, and let Steve fade into the background with a support job.

“Yeah, thanks but no thanks, man,” Munson drawls. “I actually already have a role.”

“Yes, he does, and now so do you, and we just need to find a Camilla and we’re all set!” Mrs Browne babbles, still dragging Munson away.

“Yeah, it’s reeeally encouraging that our Tristen is so excited by the part that he’s literally trying to pawn it off to the first person he sees,” Munson drawls. He digs his feet in and turns to the drama teacher. “Linda, I know the part’s been hard to fill, but surely we can do better than Harrington.”

Munson says his name the same way Steve would say Hargrove, or bathtub hair clog. While he really doesn’t give a shit what job the drama club gives him, Steve bristles at the implied insult.

“Sour grapes much?” he says, crossing his arms. “Who are you playing, the loser freak that gets killed after five lines?” Steve scoffs as Munson scowls. “You want the role? You can have it; but let’s not pretend that you’re not jealous that I snap up a lead role I didn’t even ask for.”

The glare that Munson levels at him would intimidate a lesser man, but Steve Harrington has faced down a lot worse than Eddie “the Freak” Munson.

“Boys,” Mrs Browne snaps. She turns to Eddie. “This is really very inappropriate. Eddie,” she says. “Steven has graciously offered to accept the part with no prior experience, because without a Tristen, there is no play.”

Steve smirks at the other boy. But then Mrs Browne turns to him.

“Steven, Eddie competed against many others for the role and came out on top. He had his pick of roles, and both he and I are satisfied with his choice. I know the sort of things that happen in the hallways of Hawkins High, but it will not happen in my classroom, and certainly not my stage. Do you understand?”

Steve wilts under her disapproving stare.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Hm, guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, Harrington,” Munson says, crossing his arms and cocking a hip. “Tristen and Valmoryn have a loooot of scenes together.”

Mrs Browne is suddenly pushing Munson up the stairs towards the exit. “A normal amount of scenes!” she says. “You’ll barely see each other!”

“I mean there’s at least one scene where I’m putting my mouth on his-“

“Good-BYE, Eddie!” Mrs Browne says with a sing-song tone as she shoves him out the door. Steve can just see a flash of Munson’s smirk before the door shuts and Mrs Browne locks it.

“I’m sorry, what?” Steve asks in the silence.

Mrs Browne heaves a deep sigh. She takes off her glasses and polishes them on the hem of her shawl.

“Eddie is playing Valmoryn, the antagonist of our little play. You and he will have several scenes together.”

Steve frowns. “And the mouth thing?”

“There’s a scene where Valmoryn feeds off Tristen,” she says, grudgingly, but hastens to reassure the young man in front of her. “It’s very dramatic scene, the final climax! And you’ll have a high-necked collar – I promise you Eddie’s mouth won’t actually touch you.”

Steve thinks about how many times he’s seen Munson stick his tongue out in the course of a school day and finds that a frankly ridiculous promise to be making. “Yeah… I dunno,” he says. “I really don’t think I’m the guy you’re looking for.”

“Mr Harrington, I would never normally do this,” she says, expression regretful. “But please, please take the role,” she says, bringing her palms together and pressing her fingertips to her lips in a sign of prayer. “I have auditioned dozens of boys for this role, and not one of them would take it once they discovered who their co-star would be.”

Steve shrugs. “Kinda seems like you need a new Valmor-thing then, doesn’t it?”

Mrs Browne shakes her head. “No one else came close to his audition. The play lives and dies by the antagonist. I need him.”

Steve’s still unsure. He just wants an easy class to get him enough credits to graduate. He doesn’t need to be dealing with whatever the hell is wrong with Munson on top of everything else in his life. Plus, this whole exercise was going to tank his standing in the high school hierarchy from the get-go, but there were ways to play it off. Being in front of the whole school while the Freak sucks on his neck? Steve’s not sure he can come back from that.

“What if I promised you full credit. A guaranteed A+ just for showing up,” Mrs Browne begs.

That… That was pretty tempting.

“I do expect you to know your lines, of course,” she adds. “But I’m not asking for a perfect performance. I’m asking for the absolute minimum.”

Steve stares into her big blue eyes, magnified by the thick lensed glasses she wears. He weighs up the jeering and teasing in the halls, dealing with Munson’s comments and shitty attitude, the hours he’d have to sink into this stupid role – learning lines, wearing an itchy, cheap costume.

Then he thinks about the look on his dad’s face when he tells him he didn’t graduate high school.

Steve grabs the contract and pen from the top of the stack on the chair and scribbles his name on the dotted line. He hands it over to the grinning drama teacher.

“So… Practice at 4?”

Steve hasn’t spent much time in the drama room over the years, since he’s never picked it as an elective, but he remembers a little bit from middle school. He might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he figures he can muddle his way through an elaborate game of pretend.

His castmates are clustered in groups, chatting. Some flick him a quick glance before going back to their conversations, some openly gawk. Steve looks around for a familiar face, but he’s out of luck. Most of the people here are either freshman and sophomores, or a senior that is activity ignoring him. A tall blonde girl wearing a red barrette that matches her shoes is being very obvious in her desire to not speak to him. Steve figures ignoring Sally back is the least he can do after the disaster that was their date last month.

He ends up just sitting down on one of the scattered chairs around the edge of the room and tries not to draw attention to himself.

He doodles in his notebook while he waits, starting out with a couple of plays for past matches, just imagining how they could have played it different. He gets bored with it quickly when he remembers he won’t get to play again for months; and instead switches to drawing himself in his baseball uniform, hitting home runs with his spiked bat.

“Metal,” says a voice directly into his ear.

Steve jerks and nearly flails right out of his chair, stopped only by the firm grip of Eddie Munson.

“Whoa there, big-guy,” he says, pulling Steve back into his chair. Steve brushes him off, scowling.

“You scared the shit out of me, Munson,” he grumbles, picking his notebook up from the floor where he’d dropped it.

Munson just grins at him, entirely unbothered. “Didn’t think King Steve was such a scaredy-cat,” he says. His eyes dart away for a moment and then flick back to him. “Forgive the lowly peasant for offering a compliment.”

Steve feels his brows draw together, more in confusion than annoyance. “Why do you have to talk like that, dude?” he asks.

Munson rolls his eyes. “Forgive me for being theatrical,” he groans, tipping back and balancing his chair on the back two legs. “Completely unexpected I know, especially from a guy who’s actively sitting in a drama class, waiting to practice lines for a play we’re both in.”

Steve turns back around in his seat and scoots it across the floor a little further away from Munson. He can hear the light scoff that it results in, but he ignores it in favour of Mrs Browne entering the room.

She breezes in dumps her binders on her desk, then turns around and sits primly on the edge of it.

“Good afternoon,” she says, and receives a scattered mumble of greetings back – except from Sally who gives a very peppy “Hi, Mrs Browne!” with accompanying blinding white smile.

Mrs Browne smiles at them all. “Well, I’m happy to announce that we now have our full cast!”

Sally claps.

“Thank you, dear. We’re going to start today with learning our characters,” Mrs Browne says. “Figuring out what makes them tick, getting to know them like a new friend. We’ll begin with finding a script buddy, someone to practice lines with. It’s one of the more difficult parts of the process, and a buddy will help immensely. Once you’re all paired up, you’ll find yourself a place to practice, and then it’s rehearsal over! We’ll meet every Monday for the full group, and every Wednesday for pairs.”

She reaches behind herself and grabs a binder, opening it and pulling out stapled copies of the script. “There was a bit of a line at the printer this morning, so you’ll have to share your scripts,” she says. She hops off the desk and walks around the room, handing out papers and dictating groups. “Andy, come share with Mary-Beth, you’ll share some scenes, and Mandy and Brett, you’ll obviously share…”

Steve watches a little anxiously as the class is paired off. Surely his luck isn’t that bad…

“Here we are Steve,” Mrs Browne says, handing him the script. Steve looks over to his left at the tall, freckled girl he’s pretty sure he shares English with. Come on, he thinks.

“Eddie, dear, come share with Steve.”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut as he hears Munson scrape his chair the short distance to Steve. He opens his eyes to stare forlornly at Mrs Browne’s retreating back.

“Howdy, partner,” Munson drawls, smiles all teeth and no warmth.

Steve decides he’s better off just sucking it up - Munson and this whole experience. When Mrs Browne finishes pairing them all up, she tells them to find an empty spot around the school to practice for the afternoon, something about not wanting to taint their performance with the weight of her judgement, or something. He tuned out for a bit there, too focussed on imagining all the ways this could go wrong.

When Munson scrapes his chair back and waltzes off to the door, Steve follows, not really caring enough to lend his opinion on their practice location and pretty sure that Munson would fight him on it no matter what he said anyway. So, he’s a little surprised when they get to the front doors and Munson spins around and actually asks him what he wants to do.

“I mean, school’s done dude,” he says. “We can stay here – quiet, lots of places to hole up in. Or,” he leans in close, all conspiratorial. Steve crosses his arms but doesn’t lean back, pretty sure the invasion of his personal space was just another one of Munson’s weird power-play things, and he wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of backing down or fighting him. “We could get out of here and go somewhere cool.”

Steve considers this. He’s pretty sure his and Munson’s definition of ‘cool place’ don’t exactly line up. But he could do with a snack…

“Yeah, alright,” Steve tells the other boy. They leave the school, heading to the carpark. About halfway there Steve realises that for once, he’s not the only one with wheels. He turns to Munson who’s absently bobbing his head around like he’s listening to music that only he can hear. “Are we meeting somewhere or taking one car?”

Munson raises an eyebrow. “Am I being offered a ride in the famous Harrington chariot?” he asks with mock surprise, one hand on his chest.

“Maybe I’m asking for a ride from you,” Steve replies, annoyed by the constant jabs.

Munson, surprisingly, laughs. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” He reaches out and grabs Steve, steering him in the direction of an old beaten-up looking van parked at the edge of the student car park.

Getting in, Steve’s surprised at how clean it is. Not like, spotless, but not the chaotic mess he’d pictured from someone like Munson. He looks in the back expecting to see either junk or band stuff – he vaguely remembers Munson was in a band, and he’d seen posters on the school notice board and the little troop that the other boy tended to hang out with – but there’s just a milk crate filled with cables tied to the bench seat, and a few pillows and blankets.

“Dude, do you sleep in here?” he asks, as Munson clicks in his seatbelt.

“Yeah,” Munson rolls his eyes. “Us trailer-trash love sleeping in our cars, right?”

Steve flushes. “Hey, no I wasn’t…”

“I’m fucking with you, man,” Munson says, shaking his head. “I do actually nap in the back some days, between classes.” He catches his eye and raises a finger to his mouth in a shushing gesture. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Steve nods. “I mean it’s pretty spacious back there. If the Beemer had that much room, I think I’d do the same.”

Munson pulls out of the parking spot and nods. “Honestly, it’s really helped with grades this year,” he says. “Last year sucked, obviously, since I’m still in this hell hole. But I feel like the midday kip helped. Except for the when I forget to set an alarm and sleep through the afternoon anyways,” he grimaces.

Steve can’t help but chuckle a little at the image of Munson snoring away in his van while the rest of them are in class. “Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t have a van then, since I’m barely passing as it is,” he offers.

“Really?” Munson asks, tilting his head. “I figured you’d pass fine – golden boy and all.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I don’t know where you get that, dude. The whole golden-boy king thing. I throw parties and I captain two sports teams, that’s literally all I have to offer, and I don’t even have that anymore.”

Munson hums. “Yeah, I did notice a bit of a drop off on the party front, but I just assumed I wasn’t getting the invites anymore. Or that maybe Wheeler had you on the straight and narrow or something.”

Steve laughs. The idea of Nancy putting him on the straight and narrow was funny as hell. He’s pretty sure the only things keeping Nancy from shredding her NDAs was him and Byers. He’s also pretty sure she still keeps guns under her bed.

“Nah, man,” Steve says. “It’s just not my scene anymore.”

“Mm, you had a bit of a falling out with Hagan and Perkins last year, right?”

“Jeeze, Munson, you follow my social life that closely?”

“Hey, when you’re Hawkins’ youth’s main supplier, your business is quite literally my business,” Munson says, flapping a hand at him. “Your exit of the social scene cost me actual dollars, you know that?”

Steve scoffs.

“Yeah, right. Billy and Tommy are throwing more ragers than I ever did, dude. You can’t tell me you’re not making good money with those guys at the top of the heap.”

Munson’s expression darkens.

“Yeah, I don’t sell at Hargrove’s,” he says, practically spitting the name.

Steve’s kind of surprised at the vitriol. He knows why he hates Billy, but he kind of assumed that Munson would like the guy.

“Isn’t he a metal guy like you?”

“Oh, how fucking dare you,” Munson says, slapping his hand on the steering wheel. “It’s fuckwits like Billy Hargrove that give the rest of us metalheads a bad name!”

“Jeeze, sorry. Hit a nerve, huh?”

“He’s just some California glam-rock MTV loving poser with daddy issues coming out of his fucking pores and the most intense form of self-destructive, self-hatred I have ever seen, and that’s coming from me!”

Munson’s voice keeps getting higher and louder, and Steve watches nervously as the speedometer ticks up along with him.

“Thrash is fucking art, man! It has soul, and a story, and is way for us poor fucks in no-wheresville Indiana to get a taste of a world outside of the beige Christian capitalist conformity that sucks every ounce of joy from this life. But Glam? It fucking pedestals that shit!”

Steve grabs his seat as they skid around a corner.

“Okay, maybe not the Christian part, or the beige. But it makes up for it on the capitalist front!”

“Hey, Munso-“

“Metalheads are some of the most welcoming, friendly people you’ll ever fucking meet, but you wouldn’t know that from meeting Billy Hargrove! Do you know that guy beat up Jeff? Sweetest, nicest boy on the planet, Jeff? For nothing! Worse than nothing, he beat him just because he was black! How fucked is that? We wouldn’t even have metal if it wasn’t for black people!”

Eddie suddenly slams on the breaks, and Steve starfishes, just flinging limbs any direction they’ll go looking for something to hold on to. He’s breathing heavily as he stares through the front window at the diner Munson had brought them to.

“So that fucker waltzes around all ‘ooh I’m so tough, I’m so cool,’ while listening to the most corporate bland shit ever produced, while be beats up the people who actually made it cool in the first place, and isn’t that just fucking typical.”

Steve glances over at Munson, who’s red in the face.

“You feel better?” he asks. Munson just grunts. Steve waits in the awkward silence.

“It, it just shits me off,” Munson eventually says.

“That Billy’s a bad person who likes the same stuff you do?” Steve asks, wryly. “I mean, I can relate. Guy lifeguards at the pool and took my spot as captain of the basketball team after he beat me up.” Steve points to his head. “I still got stitches in and a note from my doctor that says the next hit to the head might be my last, so.”

Munson deflates a little. “I mean, I’m pretty sure my rant just then was about how we don’t like the same stuff, actually. But yeah, it’s kind of bitter pill to swallow that most people don’t know the difference, and while I’m here just minding my business and being friendly while listening to music I love, I get insults and the occasional beating, but Hargrove rocks up and makes everyone’s life a misery, and people still somehow think the sun shines out his ass.”

“I’m not disagreeing about Billy, but I don’t know how much ‘minding your business’ you’ve been doing. Weren’t you standing on a lunch table shouting about cheerleading being a cult like, six hours ago?” Steve points out.

Munson snorts. “Yeah, okay. Got me there.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt and hops out of the van, and Steve follows suit.

“Sorry for like, exploding,” Munson tells him, not quite looking at him.

“Hey, it’s cool,” Steve says. “But maybe Hargrove doesn’t get brought up while you’re driving again. Doc said no more head trauma for me, and trust me, if you haven’t had your bell rung yet I can tell you from experience that it’s not a fun time.”

Munson winces. “Hargrove really do that to you?” he asks. “I mean, I’m not surprised that he’d do that to someone, but you wouldn’t have been the person I’d pick for him to target.”

“Yeah, I got between him and his sister. Didn’t go well for me.”

Munson sniggers. “Wait, you tried to date his sister?”

Steve’s face screws up in disgust. “What, no! I wasn’t trying to date Max! She’s like, fucking twelve or something. I was trying to protect her date with Lucas.” Steve opens the door to the diner and ushers Munson in.

“Who the hell is Lucas?”

“One of the kids I sorta babysit. He’s friends with Nancy’s little brother, and he’s dating Max. Or was dating Max. I don’t know anymore, they’re really off and on.”

“I didn’t know Hargrove had a little sister.”

“They’re not actually related; his dad married her mom. They do not like each other.”

They take a seat at the counter, and the waitress hurriedly slaps a menu in front of both of them.

“Since you’re driving, I’ll shout you,” Steve tells Munson as he looks at the specials board. It’s pretty late in the day, but damn, some eggs sound pretty good…

Munson waves him off. “It’s Hawkins; I could do three laps of the town and not move the metre. I can pay for myself.”

Steve shrugs. “I won’t argue, but didn’t you say I owed you for lost customers or something?” Steve nudges him. “Plus, any enemy of Billy’s deserves a burger in my books.”

“Ooh, I am I actually getting the Harrington experience right now? Burgers, a milkshake for two?” he says, batting his lashes.

“Start laughing at my jokes and I’ll even throw in a sundae,” Steve quips back.

He does get a genuine laugh out of that, which makes Munson hide behind his hair.

“Alright then,” Munson says, dropping the menu on the benchtop. “I’ll grab a bacon and beef, and a strawberry shake.”

Steve nods. “Split some fries?”

Munson shoots him a thumbs up, and Steve flags down the waitress. While they wait for their order they settle into an easy silence, just people watching for a minute.

Steve’s surprised find himself beginning to enjoy Munson’s company. Maybe it’s just a feeling of ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ but it was kind of refreshing to find someone else who thought Billy was a raging asshole. It’d been getting him down just how many seemed to still flock to the guy.

They scoff down their meal, Munson occasionally making jokes about customers by putting on little voices and making up conversations between them and the waitress, or each other, just loud enough for Steve to hear. It cracked him up, and he had to tell the other boy to knock it off after he almost shot milkshake out of his nose.

They wrapped up, Steve handing over some cash to the waitress while Munson stacked their plates, and they headed back out to the van. Steve waited at the passenger door and then watched baffled as Munson walked right past the van and into the field next to the diner.

“Dude, where’re you going?”

“To our practice spot!” Munson called back. “We still gotta run lines, remember?”

Steve jogged to catch up.

“There’s a little picnic area over by the creek there,” Munson explained, pointing. “Wayne likes to fish there because no one else is ever around. Figured it’s a good spot to embarrass ourselves.”

“Wayne?”

“My uncle,” Munson says simply.

“I don’t even have the script,” Steve says, looking back at the van. Munson just shrugs.

“No problem, I’ve got it.” He taps the front of his jacket.

It doesn’t take long for them to reach the edge of the field, and Steve follows Munson’s confident, if a little erratic, trail through the forest to the clearing.  It’s a nice spot, with a couple of wooden tables, an area for campfires, and the sound of the creek bubbling away in the background. It’s also nice and cool in the shade, with just enough of a breeze to feel refreshed. Munson pulls out the papers from his jacket and makes himself comfortable on the top of one of the picnic tables.

“Do you wanna go first?” he asks Steve.

“Um, not really?” he replies. “I mean, I don’t actually know what I’m doing. Maybe you go first, and I’ll learn something.”

Munson tuts as he hops off the table. “Now, now, Harrington. You can’t be going around saying stuff like that. Flattery is my one weakness,” he says, winking.

He takes his jacket off, tossing it at Steve, who fumbles the catch. Munson flicks through the pages of the script as he stands in the middle of the clearing, humming to himself occasionally. He eventually looks up.

“Do you want to practice our main scene together? I figure if we can ace that, the rest’ll be easy.”

Steve nods. It seems like a good plan, and he doesn’t really know enough to argue.

“What, uh, is our main scene?” he asks.

“Your death scene,” Munson tells him absently, still flipping through the pages.

“Right,” Steve says, suddenly nervous. “Maybe a different scene then? Like, shouldn’t I get to be the character for a bit before I go to the dying part?”

Munson considers this, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth as he looks skyward. “Yeeeaah… Not a bad idea, actually.” He turns his attention back to the script, and flips to one of the earlier pages. “How about our first meeting?” he asks.

Steve nods, relieved. “Yeah, that sounds better. Start at the, uh, start.”

Munson beckons him over, and they start by just reading the lines out loud, getting a feel for the story. Munson occasionally makes a comment that makes Steve think less about what he would do, and more about what Tristen would do. Things like, why would he say that? Why would he do that? What is Tristen actually trying to say? He finds it kind of fun, actually, thinking about this fantasy person and building a whole backstory for him based around only what the script has him saying and what he and Munson come up with.

The second read-though Munson starts putting on voices, trying out different tones and pitches and accents, making Steve laugh at the truly ridiculous ones, like when he imitated Principal Higgins and then switched to the Count from Sesame Street.

Watching Eddie be so unselfconscious, and have so much fun with it, it made Steve feel a little more courageous, and he started trying his own voices for Tristan. He started with something romantic like the characters from the old telenovelas that his Nanny used to watch, even trying the heavy accent, which made Munson almost piss himself laughing at. Then he tried the boyish enthusiasm of Mark Hamill, which earned him a considering look and a seesawing hand. He tried out a cool, gruff Harrison Ford, which Munson got kind of quiet about for some reason, and that Steve didn’t like so much. His Ford felt more like he was imitating Hopper than Han Solo, and either way, it didn’t really match up with the picture of Tristen he was building in his head.

Eventually they settled into their characters; Tristen earnest but guarded, Valmoryn sly and cooly confident. When the shadows start getting long, Steve’s weirdly disappointed.

Munson stretches, his shirt riding up and exposing the little line of hairs that lead down past his belt-buckle. Steve quickly looks away.

“Alright, that’s probably good for today,” Munson says, stretching his neck side-to-side.

“Yeah,” Steve hurriedly agrees.

“I’ve got a shift tomorrow, so… same time Friday?”

Steve nods, giving the other boy a thumbs-up.

They gather their things and head back to the van, the setting sun bathing the landscape in yellows and reds.

“You know?” Munson says. “I give Hawkins a lot of shit. But it sure is pretty at times like this.” He says it so wistfully that Steve’s momentarily taken aback. It seems out of place on someone who looks and acts the way he does. But then, Steve thinks, he’s thought that quite a lot today. Maybe he should stop expecting Munson to do or say things, and that way maybe he’d stop being so surprised by him.

It’s late when Steve walks through the door. He toes his shoes off and shelves them next to a polished pair of black oxfords and buckled low heels. He strips off his jacket and backpack, hanging both on the rack, before wandering into the house.

His parents are actually home for once, and they’re already sitting at the dining table, halfway through their meal. All of the good feelings he’d been floating on since the practice session with Munson evaporate. It wasn’t that late; was it really too much to ask they waited a little longer to start eating?

“Hi Dad, hi Mum,” he greets.

Danielle Harrington looks up at him, and her lips purse. Richard Harrington continues to chew as he reads the financials.

“Stephen,” his mother says with a disapproving tone. “You’re quite late.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Steve says, still standing in the doorway. “I was doing some extra-curricular work for school. It ran a little longer than I was expecting.”

“Well, your dinner is in the oven. Go wash up and join us.” She dismisses him with a wave, and Steve doesn’t linger.

In the privacy of his room his shoulders slump and lets out a heavy sigh. He spends so much time missing them, but once they’re here, he remembers how hard it is to live with them and he starts looking forward to when they inevitably jet off again.

He jumps in the shower, quickly scrubbing off the day’s dirt. While he rubs the shampoo into his scalp, he finds himself mouthing some of the lines he and Munson had practiced, trying to recapture some of that good feeling before he goes and sits with his parents.

He tries not to dawdle, knowing that his father would already pretty annoyed at his lateness, and not that willing to put up with Steve wasting more time. He rinses and dries off in record time. He debates between a button down and a sweater, eventually settling on the dark knit sweater and a pair of tan slacks. He combs his hair, and heads to the kitchen, grabbing the alfoil wrapped plate from the oven and returning to the dining room.

His mother his daintily dabbing at the corner of her mouth, her plate still containing half of her already small meal that Steve knows she won’t finish. His father absently spears small chunks of potato on his fork, as he scowls at the newspaper.

“So, what’s this extra-curricular you’re doing now, Stephen?” his mother asks as he’s cutting his roast beef. “I thought the school wasn’t allowing you to participate in extra-curriculars this year?”

Mr Harrington scoffs, and Steve quickly chews his mouthful and rushes to answer. “Just sports, Mom,” he tells her. “I figured since I couldn’t swim or do any sports, I should still keep busy and try something new.”

“If you want to try something new, you could try a job,” his father mutters under his breath.

“Uh, yeah. Anyway, I signed up for the school play,” he says.

“Stephen, don’t say ‘uh’; it’s common,” his mother says, absently and without real care of enthusiasm. “I didn’t realise you had an interest in the arts?”

“Oh, I don’t really. I wanted to do stage-hand stuff, like building sets? But those roles were all taken, so I’m going to be acting instead. Kind of an accident,” he tacks on at the end before looking down at his plate and shovelling in a forkful of gravy-soaked peas.

“Are you really?” she asks, a note of actual interest in her voice. “Is it an important role?”

Steve nods, a little surprised. He’s used to a simple ‘that’s nice dear,’ before the conversation dies completely. “Yeah, I’m one of the main characters,” he tells her, a little proud. His mother nods slowly.

“Well, it’s good to see you continuing the traditional of Harrington excellence, even with your injury. A leading role with no experience, that’s rather something,” she says.

Steve can’t remember the last time his mother said anything close to that nice to him in the last ten, fifteen years. A warm flush of happiness begins to bubble up, and he’s just about to tell her about his practice with Munson when his father scoffs again.

“Dani, it’s a high school play in rural Indiana, not Broadway,” he drawls, finally looking up from the newspaper. “I’ll bet there wasn’t even an audition – no kid wants to be in with the theatre-geeks. Steve was probably the only one stupid enough to sign up to do it.”

Steve’s cheeks burn with shame, not just at his father’s words, but also at how close to the truth they were. He auditioned, but he knows he only got it because Mrs Browne had no one else who would do it, and she had to bribe him to do it by offering a passing grade – a grade he needed because he was, like his father said, too stupid to graduate without it.

“I’m sure that’s not the case, dear,” Mrs Harrington says, mildly disapproving. “And even if it was, I would think you’d be pleased that Stephen was at least doing something with his time now that his sporting activities have been… delayed.”

“They haven’t been delayed, Dani, they’re finished. Along with any hope of a scholarship,” Mr Harrington says.

  “They offer scholarships for excellence in arts, don’t they?” she argues. “And either way, Princeton does like to see a well-rounded applicant.”

Mr Harrington rolls his eyes. “There’s no way the boy is getting into Princeton, Dani,” he says. “Not without a sizeable donation that I can promise you I’m not paying.”

Mrs Harrington says something back, but Steve tunes them out, instead focusing on his potatoes. It’s always like this, but it’d gotten so much worse after ’83, when Steve’s ability to fake enthusiasm for what came after high-school fell to an all time low. He’s not proud to say that he’d latched on to Nancy as his only emotional raft – planning to go to the college she was going to, studying with her, moulding himself into a shape that could fit the future she’d planned for herself, because he couldn’t fathom planning his own. Once they’d broken up, he’d just become… aimless. His grades took the hit, and then Billy gave him another, and now the writing on the wall’s so big that even his mostly absent parents can see it.

Steve’s not going anywhere, graduation or no.

He finishes his plate, mutters a good night to his parents, and goes to bed.

One week before Opening Night…

“No, here, put your arm like this,” Eddie says as he twists Steve’s arm up and over his head. “See?” He points at the mirror, where Steve can see his reflection holding a foam sword high over his head, like he’s preparing for a final death blow, except-

“Dude, no, there’s no way he’d swing from here,” Steve argues. Eddie sighs and let’s go, stepping back.

“What d’you mean?” he asks, exasperated.

Steve readjusts himself and swings the sword a clean arc from his shoulder down to his hip, the same way he’d swing a bat. “Like this, see?” he says, looking over at the long-haired boy, who was leaning against Steve’s bed. “The other way he’d lose all the force of the swing, and probably miss the target anyway,” he continues, raising the sword again and making a chopping movement like Eddie’d positioned him to do.

“Yeah, but you don’t look half as cool this way,” Eddie complains, crossing his arms.

“Bullshit,” Steve scoffs. “I look way cooler if I look like I could do actual damage.”

“Oh, apologies my liege,” Eddie rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t aware his highness had such extensive experience with chopping off vampire heads.”

Its moments like these that Steve wishes he could break that NDA and tell Eddie about the amount of Demodog heads he’d bashed in with his bat. Maybe the guy would give him a little bit of credit then.

He can’t break the NDA though, so he goes with the next best option. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Steve asks, cupping his ear in his hand. “I can’t hear you over the sound of baseball trophy cabinet.”

Eddie groans and somehow rolls his eyes with his whole body, almost collapsing to the floor. “Satan spare me from another sportsball lecture,” he groans.

“I’m just saying, there’s one person in this room with experience swinging a long stick at a target, and it’s not you,” Steve points out, giving the foam sword a spin, just to show off.

Eddie grins up at him. “Well, I don’t know if I have no experience with uh, the handling of a long rod,” he says, wriggling his eyebrows. Steve sighs, shaking his head. “You know, like my di-“

“Dude, shut up,” Steve laughs, kicking him lightly. Eddie, typically, immediately cries in pain, rolling on the floor.

“Heartless!” he cries. “Cruel, evil jock! I knew the play was all a front to get me here, alone and defenceless, to take revenge on me from that shit weed I sold you back in ’81!”

Steve frowns. “You sold me shit weed?”

Eddie just laughs at him. “Dude, you were like, sixteen, and a cashed-up jock trying to look cool – of course I sold you shit weed. It was probably like seventy percent oregano!”

Steve does remember that first high smelling suspiciously like pasta sauce.

He waits for Eddie to pull himself together, getting up off the floor and brushing himself off, before he makes his move.

Steve launches himself at Eddie, knocking him down on the bed. The other boy might be a little older, but at their age it doesn’t make much of a difference, and Steve’s got a bit of weight on Eddie. Eddie thrashes, and Steve yelps as the tricky bastard tries to worm his fingers into Steve’s armpits.

“Oh, fuck you,” Steve laughs, breathless, and pulls a move from his one semester of wresting, pinning Eddie and flipping him. The other boy squeals as Steve gets his revenge, tickling Eddie’s sides with one hand, while the other pins his wrists behind his back. Eddie bucks up, nearly sending Steve flying, but he’s dealt with a lot worse, and just readjusts and pins him down harder. Eddie’s gasping with laughter, swapping between shouting insults and begging Steve to stop.

“I’ll show you an evil jock,” Steve grins.

“Stephen, I heard a noi- Oh dear,” Mrs Harrington says, her eyes wide as she opens the door to witness the scene. Steve scrambles off, red faced, leaving Eddie wheezing on the bed.

“Mom! I didn’t realise you were home,” Steve says, trying to will the blood from his cheeks.

“Hi, Mrs Harrington,” Eddie says, his voice muffled where it’s pressed into Steve’s covers. He sticks a hand in the air and waggles his fingers in an approximation of a wave.

“Hello, Mr…”

“Eddi-“

“That’s my friend, Eddie,” Steve says in a rush. “He’s my scene partner, for the play?”

His mother looks between the two of them, a furrow between her brows.

“Are you… Rehearsing?” she questions.

“Yeah, yep,” Steve says, and he stoops down and scoops up the sword. “That’s why I have this, we’re just uh, practicing for next week. Opening night!” Steve smiles at his mother, hoping that she’d be excited for the reminder, but instead, she looks nervous.

“Yes, opening night,” she says, smoothing her skirt. “Remind me, what night was that again?”

Steve feels his smile begin to dim.

“Saturday,” he tells her. There’s a part of him that already knows what’s coming next. Another, far more foolish part had hoped for something different this time.

Mrs Harrington winces. “Saturday morning?” she asks, with an upwards lilt.

“I don’t think they normally do an opening night in the morning,” Eddie says, turning his head to look at the increasingly awkward family moment unfolding in the room.

“No, I suppose not…” Mrs Harrington sighs, looking at her son. “I’m so sorry, Stephen,” she says, and Steve turns away and puts the sword down on the desk. “Your father got a call this morning, and-“

“It’s fine,” Steve says. “You’ll catch the next one, right?” Steve tries not to let the bitterness come through, but he knows he failed.

“There’s only one showing, though,” Eddie says, confused.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says. “So does she.”

“Stephen, your father’s job is very important, it-“

“’It pays for me to enjoy this life I have,’ I know,” Steve says, turning back around to face his mother. “Like I said, it’s fine.”

They look at each other for a moment, and his mother is the first to back down, lowering her gaze and nodding.

“I’ll, leave you to your rehearsal, then,” she says.

“Me and Eddie are going to go, actually,” Steve tells her. “Costume check, or whatever.”

She nods again, then looks like she might say something, then thinks better of it and leaves, closing the door behind her. Steve listens for her muffled footsteps to fade before he sighs and sits down the bed.

“Sorry about that,” he tells Eddie.

“Dude, no,” Eddie says, sitting up. “You don’t have to be sorry. I mean, yeah that sucked, but I feel like you deserve an apology way more than me.” He scoots closer, pressing up against his shoulder. “I know you were real excited when your mom bought tickets. This sucks.”

“I mean, I don’t know why I thought it would be different this time. It’s not like they made a single match, or meet, or anything,” Steve says, shrugging.

“Damn,” Eddie sighs. “My parents weren’t saints, but my dad did come to my talent show once.” He grimaces. “He was drunk as a skunk and got in a fist fight with another parent and got banned from the school grounds, but he did come!”

Steve can’t help but laugh as Eddie tells his story, exaggerating the tale with wild arm movements.

“And, I mean I do have Wayne,” Eddie says, picking at his rings, a nervous habit that Steve doesn’t often see Eddie engage in. “Even before I moved in, he’d show up at most of my concerts and shit. He doesn’t do so many now, just ‘cause he’s on night shift, but like, he still comes when he can.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Steve asks, dryly.

“Sure is,” Eddie says, swinging an arm over Steve’s shoulders. “I’m reassuring you that shit parents are dime a dozen, but there are Waynes out there, and I got one, and I’m willing to share.”

Steve laughs. “He got room for one more high-school dropout in his life?”

“Ah, ah, ah, Stevie,” Eddie tuts. “We are not dropouts, we are tenacious!”

“You mean stubborn?”

“Studious!”

“Stupid?”

“Soon to be superstars of the stage!”

Steve shoves him, laughing still. “Alright superstar,” he says. “Let’s get our costumes fitted.”

Steve grabs his sword while Eddie grabs his various belongings that have scattered around the room, and they head out to Steve’s car. He thinks about saying goodbye to his parents, but honestly, he thinks it would be a waste. They barely remember to say bye when they jet off wherever, and his mom already knows he’s heading out. Seems pointless.

Steve tries to lose the bad news, tries instead to let Eddie distract him with his newest tape and his usual chatter.

The night of the play…

“There, you look stunning, Mr Harrington!” Mrs Browne beams at him.

Looking in the mirror, Steve can’t help but agree. He felt a little silly at the first costume try-on, with the ruffles and the puffy sleeves, but seeing it on – the shine of the satin, the way the vest makes his shoulders look huge, and his waist tiny – he thinks he really pulls it off.

Even the pants are nice. Dark, tightly tailored slacks tucked into leather riding boots, it really shows off his calves.

“We just need a little makeup, and you’re done,” Mrs Browne says.

“Wait, makeup?” Steve says, spinning around.

“Yes dear, all actors must wear makeup on the stage, it helps the audience read your expression from a distance,” she explains. “It’s not much, just some powder for the lights, some liner for your eyes, a little blush. Barely anything.”

Steve’s suddenly relieved his parents won’t be at the show. He can’t imagine Richard Harrington being happy about his son in makeup, especially not in public.

“Okay, cool,” Steve says. “And then we go on stage?”

“I believe we’re just waiting on Many and Eddie, dear,” she reassures. “Their costumes are quite a bit more complicated than yours, so I imagine it’ll take a minute.” Steve nods. Valmoryn seems like the kind of vampire who’d be dressed to the nines, so that tracks. And Bethany was the star of the show, and even had two outfits, unlike the rest of them. Eddie’d been weirdly tight lipped about his costume, so Steve’s pretty excited for the big reveal.

There’s a bang as the side door bursts open.

“Cower, mortals! For it is I, the Prince of Darkness – his lordship Valmoryn!” Eddie strides into the room, and Steve’s mouth is suddenly dry.

He looks amazing.

His wild mane of curls has been piled up on top of his head, hair-sprayed to an inch of its life. Tendrils fall down to frame his face, which has been dramatically changed by the addition of makeup – his dark eyes, already piercing on a normal day, look otherworldly ringed in black liner with some kind of faint metallic red sheen on the lids. The pale face powder makes them stand out even more. His shirt is a dark wine red, silken and billowy like a character from the books Nancy’s mom liked to read. Unlike Steve, he doesn’t wear a ruffled cravat or high-necked collar, no, instead his shirt gapes halfway down his chest. The shirt’s tucked into high-waisted black pants that end in shiny pointed leather boots, that have just enough of a heel that Eddie has to look slightly down at Steve once he approaches.

“So, how’d I look?” he asks, spinning and making the huge black cape billow around him, the elegant gold rings – so different from his usual chunky silver – catching the light.

“Oh, simply wonderful, Eddie,” Mrs Browne gushes. He’s glad she can, because Steve can’t seem to speak. “You and Mandy will look wonderful together!”

Eddie grins, swishing his cape back and forth as Mrs Browne turns to heap praise on the costume department as they trickle in with the rest of the cast and crew.

When Mandy walks in, most of the room gasps. She’s dressed in a blood red gown, with layers of lace and beading that must have taken ages, and Steve, who’d spent more of his childhood than he’d liked being dragged around to various dress-shops with his mom and nanny, can’t help but be impressed as well. It’s surprisingly good craftsmanship for a school play.

His eyes keep drifting back to Eddie though.

Mrs Browne claps for their attention, and the low murmur of the crowd disappears.

“I cannot say how proud of you all I am,” Mrs Browne says, eyes shining. “There was a time I thought we’d never pull together in time to make this happen, but we’re here and we’re ready for it!” She puts a fist in the air and the crowd cheers. Steve even gives a quick ‘whoop!’ to the scattered chuckle of the crowd.

“Tonight will be the culmination of months of hard work from our actors, painters, sound and lighting experts, and costumers. Every single one of you an artiste. And tonight, for the first time, the wonderful special effects our dear Ms Buckley has prepared,” she says, bowing towards the tall, freckled girl that Steve had kept seeing at the rehearsals, but never been able to really place. “So, I hope you’re all ready, and excited, and ready to bring ‘The Rose It’s Thorns, His Bite a Kiss,’ to life!”

Another cheer goes up around her, and the crowd filters out as everyone goes to their places.

Steve lingers with Eddie, who’s bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Hey,” he says, getting the other boy’s attention. “You uh, you look great.” It sounds even lamer to his ears than it did in his head.

Eddie goes bright pink, and his hand moves to grab a chunk of his hair, and Steve can’t help but laugh at the look of confusion on Eddie’s face when his hand meets nothing but air. His hand flutters around for a moment, before he gives up and lets it drop. “You look pretty good yourself there, Stevie,” he says back, voice a little higher than usual.

“Pre-stage jitters?” Steve asks, very aware of his own nerves.

“Nah,” Eddie says, waving him off. “I’m pretty used to being on stage, and besides, this is no different from a run through. We’ve done this before, just not with the fancy duds.”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, I guess so. But doesn’t it feel different?” Steve certainly feels different.

“Hey,” Eddie says, suddenly serious. “You’ll be fine. You’ll be great even! Superstars, remember?” he says, punching Steve so lightly on the arm he barely feels it, just a brief touch of heat before it’s gone. “Come on, let’s get this show on the road.”

Steve follows him to the backstage, where the other actors are lingering. Eddie gives Steve a final grin before he walks off – his part’s not until the third act. Steve waves back, and then goes to stand with Mandy, who’s changed out of her final scene ballgown, and slipped on the simple blue dress she’ll wear for most of the play.

“Hey, Steve,” she whispers, giving him a toothy smile.

“Hey yourself,” he says back. “That dress looked amazing.”

“I know, it’s so pretty! But oh my god, so uncomfortable. It’s not even like, totally done – it’s held together with safety pins!”

“Oh, well it looks good at least,” Steve says.

“I’m just grateful this one is okay,” she says, gesturing at her dress. “How about you? I mean, you look fantastic.” Her smile turns a little predatory, in a way that Steve would usually find very, very appealing. He guesses that the nerves about the performance are interfering with his mojo a little bit. Hopefully tonight chances the last of his nerves away, because Mandy’s gorgeous, interested, and would make a fantastic break to his dry spell.

The lights on stage dim, and little freshman Drew comes out to announce the introduction. Mandy giggles when her cue comes, and she shoots him a grin before blanking her expression and gliding across the stage to deliver her opening monologue, and Steve stares out across the stage to see if he can see Eddie waiting in the opposite wing.

Mandy delivers her lines flawlessly, and the play continues. There’s a couple of errors, a few moments when someone stood in the wrong spot, or forgot a line or two, but at this point they’re a pretty well-oiled machine. Steve spends the first half of the play as more of a sounding board for Mandy, who as Bethany takes the lion’s share of the stage. She’s easy to work with though, and Steve finds himself getting really into character as he passionately speaks the few lines he does have.

As the first act winds to a close, Valmoryn captures Bethany and steals her away, and Steve applauds as Eddie scoops Mandy up and twirls his cape as Buckly and her crew pipe fog onto the stage and flash lighting from above. The curtain closes and the crew resets, and Steve mutters his lines under his breath. The next act’s his, really. Tristen lost and desperate to find his sweetheart. He has a couple of monologues, and even with all his and Eddie’s practicing, he’s still not quite getting them right every time.

His cue comes up, and he gives it everything he’s got.

And now, the final scene. Or well, his final scene anyway.

Tristen creeps into Valmoryn’s castle, his eyes darting around in the dark for any sign of his beloved Bethany. The lightning flashes provide just enough to see, but make it impossible to hear the looming figure that creeps up behind him.

Suddenly, talons around his neck! The hard, unyielding body of the vampire prince pressed up against his back as the monster drags him to the ground. Tristen cries out and tries to twist in the creature’s grip – raising his sword high in the air to bring down upon the head of the foul demon that had taken his sweet Bethany.

But the prince is too strong. His hand snaps up and wretches the sword from Tristen’s grip. His long fingers, covered in gold rings, easily crush the blade.

The prince chuckles darkly, the sound seemingly pulled from Hell itself. The long black claws trace down Tristen’s jugular, and the prince leans him back and exposes his neck. The flash of white fangs is the last thing Tristen sees, before Valmoryn plunges his teeth into the neck of his victim, draining him of life.

As the curtains close on the two young men on stage, Steve lets out an embarrassing moan at the feel of the cheap plastic fangs pushing into his neck. Eddie’s cloak envelopes him, hides him in the darkness of the stage as Eddie continues to cradle him. At Steve’s moan, Eddie had frozen in place, and Steve can barely feel the heat of his breath on his neck. Eddie’s hair, loose now, falls across Steve’s reddening face, and he’s so incredibly aware of every square inch of them that are touching.

Steve wishes he could say his mind flashed to all the times they’d hung out over the last few months. Wishes he could say that he’d thought through his next action, but Steve’s brain has never really done him many favours. When he grabs the sides of Eddie’s head and pulls him up into a kiss, he can honestly say he wasn’t thinking at all.

Steve kisses Eddie with the same passion that Tristen kissed Bethany, that Bethany kissed Valmoryn – more passion than Steve had ever kissed anyone. But Eddie’s like a statue, and it dawns on Steve that he maybe just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

He starts to pull away, but that’s when Eddie suddenly comes to life with the tiniest noise of protest, before aggressively, hungrily, kissing Steve back. Steve melts into it, half from pleasure, and half from relief. Their kisses turn hungrier, hands reaching and grabbing whatever they can, as months of what Steve’s suddenly realising was pent-up longing overflow.

Steve’s barely aware of his surroundings, but enough trickles in that he remembers Drew’s end-act expository monologuing isn’t actually that long, and he wrenches himself back. He looks up at Eddie, who’s gasping, mouth open, plastic fangs half dangling out of his mouth.

“Curtain,” Steve says. “Eddie, the curtain,” his voice urgent and eyes wild.

“Wha?” Eddie says, eloquently.

Steve slaps the back of his head.

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says, sense returning to him. He quickly shoves his fangs back in while Steve tries desperately to fix their hair, now completely messed up. Drew’s voice trails off, and Steve only gets the brief warning of a thin band of light as the curtain rises to slam his eyes shut and fake dead as hard as he can.

Eddie’s performs pretty well, Steve thinks. Especially considering the hard-on he’s sporting. Steve’s glad he just has to lie still as Eddie does the heavy lifting, dragging him off stage while he monologues about the unworthy human who had stolen his long-lost bride.

He’s also pretty happy about Eddie’s cape, that thing’s probably doing a lot to hide their new situation from the audience.

Steve hitches his backpack a little higher as he exits Hawkin’s High into the cool night air. He’s back in his comfortable jeans and polo, and he’s got his bouquet of flowers under his arm. He doesn’t think any of them were expecting a standing ovation, but especially not Steve. When they’d gone out to take their final bows, he’d expected the polite applause of a crowd, not the howling cheers of Dustin and his mom, who’d apparently bought tickets to come see him. When they met him backstage, and Claudia had handed him the flowers, he’s not ashamed to say he’d cried a little.

There are lots of families milling about in the carpark, but it doesn’t take long for him to find the person he’s looking for.

Eddies’ being heartily squeezed by a man in trucker cap and shearling jacket – an embrace that ends with a slap on the back and gruff, bearded kiss to the head. Steve falters, not wanting to interrupt Eddie’s moment with his uncle.

Eddie grins, big and unselfconscious, and says something to his uncle. He gets another backslap, and the two men separate, making to get in the old truck Wayne drives. Steve shouts Eddie’s name, and jogs over, not wanting to miss him.

Eddie stops and looks at him, then looks at Wayne. There’s some unspoken conversation happening, because next thing Steve knows is Wayne is climbing into the truck and turning up the radio, and Eddies’ looking at Steve.

“Hey man,” Steve says. “I uh, wanted to give you these.”

He holds out the flowers for Eddie to take. The other boy looks at him in surprise, but takes them, cradling them in front of him like they’re something precious.

“I wanted to thank you for all your help,” Steve tells him. “You know, with the practicing, and all.”

“Ah, come on,” Eddie says, blushing faintly. “You nailed it. Didn’t need me at all.”

“Nah,” Steve corrects. “Couldn’t have done it without you. And even if I could’ve, I’m not sure I would’ve wanted to.”

Eddie blushes even further, and Steve has the pleasure of watching him hide behind flowers instead of his hair for once.

“You know, uh,” Steve starts, kicking at gravel. “I know the season is over and all, but I think maybe I still need some more practice?”

Eddie raises and eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers, warming up to his own idea. “Yeah, especially that last scene? I think I need a lot of practice to really uh, nail that.”

Eddie snorts into the flowers. “Nail that? Really?” he laughs.

Now it’s Steve’s turn to blush. He hadn’t really intended the innuendo, but he can roll with it.

“You think I’m that easy?” Eddie says, putting his hand on a cocked hip. “What kind of a girl do you take me for, Harrington? I don’t put out on first dates.”

“If you count the weekly Diner runs, I think we’re well past first date, don’t you think?” Steve fires back.

The truck horn sounds, making them both jump, and Eddie spins around as Wayne’s head pokes out the window.

“Come on, boy,” he says, with his southern drawl. “I aint’ spending my whole night off listenin’ to you and your boy pussy-footing around. Either ask ‘im to dinner or call ‘im tomorrow.”

“Wayne!” Eddie screeches, face like a tomato. Steve just laughs at him.

“Pick you up Friday like usual?” he asks.

Eddie shoots him a sheepish grin. “Yeah, Friday as usual.” He starts to turn around, and then thinks better of it, plucking one of the flowers from the bouquet and handing it to Steve.

“Oh, thank-”

“Yep, well, see you later, Stevie.” Eddie salutes him with the flowers, then clambers into the passenger side of the truck, already berating his uncle for being a ‘meddling old man.’

Steve waves at them as they drive off, and then walks over to his own car, where Dustin and Claudia are waiting.

“Dude, what the hell was that,” Dustin asks, frowning in the direction that Eddie and Wayne had driven off in.

“What d’you mean?” Steve says, slapping his hand down on Dustin’s head and roughing up his hat. Dustin slaps him away.

“You gave away my flowers!” he shouts. “I went to the florist for you and everything, and you give them to the guy that killed you?”

“He seems nice,” Claudia says with a smile. “I thought his performance was wonderful, very passionate,” she says, a slight twinkle in her eye.

Steve blushes, and shoves past Dustin. “Yeah, no Eddie’s very, uh, passionate.”

Claudia nods. “That’s good, I’m glad you have someone like that in your life, Steve. Will we see you for dinner?” she asks.

“Mom, don’t ask dumb questions like that, of course Steve’s coming for dinner.”

Claudia shakes her head fondly and ambles away to the Henderson’s station wagon, while Dustin barges his way into Steve’s passenger seat. “Mom’s made your favourite, tater-tot casserole, so she knows you’re coming,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, that’s called being polite, dipshit,” Steve says, rummaging in the glove box. He grins when he finds what he’s looking for, one of the many abandoned hair-ties left by various dates over the years. He wraps it around the stem of his flower and then hangs it from his rear-view mirror.

He lets Dustin’s chatter wash over him as he reverses out of the carpark, and looks at the flower again, and starts picturing what his life’s going to look like on the other side of graduation.