Chapter Text
It was probably the clothes that did it. At least, initially.
Before the change, Steve Harrington had always worn tight, form fitting chinos and jeans and polos and little jackets. It was a stylish choice, albeit one that made Eddie’s balls cringe upward in sympathy.
Steve fit in with the crowd he ran with—his basketball teammates, and his swim teammates, and his baseball teammates.
Reflecting, Eddie actually has no idea how he hid it from his friends for this long. Maybe they all knew, and just kinda pretended that they didn’t. Eddie can’t imagine Steve successfully hiding his vulva and tiny cock from his locker room buddies for long enough to pass as anything but a genuine, bona fide male omega, but maybe he did; maybe the jocks gave him a polite deference while he showered in a corner, while he swanned through the locker room wrapped securely in a towel.
But when he showed up fresh from heat, newly presented, fully developed and smelling like something fruity and spicy and mouthwatering, the jig was fucking up and the news flooded the school within a day.
Eddie’s seat in Mrs. O’Donnell’s English IV is one chair over and two chairs back from where Steve sits. It’s really the perfect place for observation—too far back to be caught in his casual stalking, just enough to the side that his view is entirely unobstructed.
So, he’s learned some things about Steve.
Steve always sat there. He was always a minute late. And he was always fucking eating. His throat flexed and his shoulders moved and his jaw delighted in peanut butter sandwiches, bagels and cream cheese, apples and grapes and packets of crackers. Through it all Eddie sat, looking.
Eddie would sit and look and think about mapping the moles near Steve’s hairline, up and down his neck. Maybe with his tongue. Maybe while Steve moaned and clutched at Eddie's hips with his thighs. Maybe it wasn’t the only time he had that particular fantasy.
However, when the bell rang, or when they broke into groups, or when Steve’s friends started talking—and it was unfuckingthinkable how gross it could be when the jocks started talking—it was always easy to snap out of it.
Then, a couple weeks after Steve presented, he started to look different.
At this point, it was a mystery to just about everyone what Steve was even doing at Hawkins High. He could withdraw, easily. It was just about expected of any omega once they presented—both for their safety and for the preservation of the academic atmosphere, or whatever. One day you’d know Stacy or Theresa or whoever just as some chick—and it was mainly chicks—and the next day they’d be gone. Especially someone with Harrington money, you could place a sure bet they were at St. Josephine’s, or Indiana Mothers’ Conservatory, or someplace with a big enough name and a big enough endowment to lend them some prestige.
Even with poor people, an omega in the family was enough to withdraw them from school and find something to do with their time until they could be married off. Y’know, for their safety.
Radicals sometimes talked about omega rights, and maybe they were on the horizon with all the medical science Eddie knew nothing about. But everyone knew it was for the best for them, the omegas. There just aren’t enough of them to go around—alphas like Eddie were fifty times as plentiful as their omega counterparts.
Male omegas? Forget about it. They were even more rare, and some people still considered them an aberration. They’d mostly been doomed to die in childbirth up until the advent of the c-section, and their kids doomed to die of starvation up until the advent of formula. Still, their scarcity now just leant them more prestige. A male omega, fully hermaphroditic and capable of fostering life—they were so in demand, no one could imagine letting them roam free.
Plus, with the way your typical alpha reacted to their scent, they couldn’t just be out in public like normal people—going to school, the mall, the grocery store, unbonded? Unchaperoned? A nice secure bond was the only way to keep them protected, keep the scent under wraps, the only way to prevent violent chaos from erupting between perfectly respectable alphas in polite society.
Eddie personally thought polite society, and for that matter, respectable alphas, could go fuck themselves, but that was the idea, anyway.
And there was money in it, for the omega. Well, not for the omega. Omegas couldn’t really keep property, though it could be held in trust for them. Eddie isn’t rich enough to really get those details; if he were an omega he’d probably have ended up hitched to some random off of the government registry, though hopefully his Uncle would be discerning enough to maybe hire a lawyer and get some help for the interview and contracting process—enough that he could at least leave his alpha’s house, and use birth control, and what have you. Eddie doesn’t like thinking about it, that kind of life.
So, the students, and even some of the teachers, could be understood for their concern. The outright gossip was a little much, and Eddie didn’t really like to hear or think about it. He had enough on his mind without listening to Tammy Thompson theorize that Steve was only hanging around because he was getting bonded to his own uncle after graduation.
Steve’s new smell had only really lasted for a few days. He probably still smelled like that up close—and that was something Eddie definitely tried not to think about—but in public you couldn’t really notice it. It was probably some kind of patch, something new and expensive that only arrived with a prescription impossible for people like Eddie to get a hold of.
If the smell had lasted—Eddie didn’t want to think about the drama that would’ve caused. There’s nothing to stand against a developed and presented omega in public school. That would be illegal, to keep them out. But it just wasn’t done. The smell alone would cause fist fights in the hallway and who knows what would happen to Steve after something like that? And who would be fighting for him? Would they care what Steve thought about it? Would his jock buddies flirt openly or would they be afraid of catching a case from Steve’s father? Anyone who fucked him before he was married could be sued for damages, and no fresh, aspiring college athlete wants a lawsuit fucking up prom season.
So, out of curiosity and not a little attraction, Eddie kept watching him, and the changes were gradual, especially at first. He was quieter, maybe a little shy, which was new for King Steve. He just didn’t talk as much, and his friends started to drift to the other side of the classroom, closer to some of the cheerleader girls. He ate less—down to a snack or two in a week, instead of each day. Maybe that had something to do with the sports, and Steve quitting everything, which Eddie would’ve known nothing about if it weren’t for the uniforms. All of Steve’s buddies would show up in uniform for a game night, and Steve would be there, quiet, snackless, just sitting in his normal clothes.
Speaking of clothes, if Eddie had to say it, he would say that was probably it—it was probably the clothes.
Everyone said omegas were super sensitive. Eddie hadn’t paid enough attention in sex ed to really know. The idea that he’d ever fuck an omega was up there with entering the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, or buying Wayne a mansion, or winning the lottery. Sure, he’d think about it sometimes, but it was stupid to spend more than a few seconds on the idea.
Anyway, with the skin sensitivity, if that was even a thing, it was almost sensible to just ditch the whole wardrobe all at once. Only, it didn’t happen all at once. It was the shirts, first, and if Eddie had known Steve’s biceps were just going to disappear like that he’d at least have liked to say goodbye. Gone were the tight collared shirts of yore, replaced with the new: soft sweaters and worn cotton t-shirts, draped from his broad shoulders in a way that shouldn’t have been sexy because you really couldn't see anything. Then the pants. They stopped hugging his ass, stopped tucking his balls right into his crotch—the girls talked about how maybe he was gaining weight, but they were probably just jealous of Steve, the new competition for the alpha boys’ attention. If anything, Steve looked a little slimmer in the face, but maybe it was just the way he never smiled anymore.
It was the hair, too. Eddie doesn’t know if he stopped doing it up because he felt like a change, or maybe he was a little sad. Either way, it looked good on him. The lack of product made it fall to the side in a soft heap, touchable like a pet.
So all in all, it’s not like Eddie can see anything extra. In fact, he sees less than ever, and as much as he privately mourns the glimpses of Steve’s thighs from under his basketball shorts, his fantasies now are much worse. Steve just seems so touchable, so vulnerable. The soft textures of Steve’s loose weave sweaters and cotton pants are like a visual petting zoo, a layer of gauze over the touchable expanse of Steve’s body. If he approached, he could touch; if Steve wanted him to, he could wrap his arms around Steve’s waist and press the soft fabric until it suddenly halted at Steve’s warm skin, the firm muscle and bone of him.
The clothes make Eddie want to see Steve’s nest, lay with him in his home, where he is surrounded by comfort. They make him imagine lazy days and nights where he’d hold Steve close and gradually they’d touch each other, more and more permissively until Eddie could touch under the clothes and that’s where the fantasies have to stop, unless he’s in the shower or his room or somewhere private.
Or in the woods, at his customary picnic table where he sells mid-tier weed, while he’s getting a handjob from an unassuming beta gentleman.
It’s not that David is unattractive. He’s fine. Just like Eddie is sure that he himself is fine. Okay. Enough to get you there, if you’re a man who’s into men, the way Eddie is a man who is exclusively into men. Once he’d come out to buy some weed, Eddie had sensed something, tried his best to turn on the charm, and bam, some regular orgasms from a perfectly fine looking young man.
Neither Eddie or David is Steve-level, so while Eddie’s perfectly grateful to be having his dick pulled and quite willing to tug on David’s in return, he’s still thinking about something else. Steve, slipping his shirt off. Steve, sitting on Eddie’s hips. Steve, letting Eddie’s hands slip beneath his sweater, under his pants, the elastic of his underwear.
David is chatty, which compels Eddie to talk as well. Only, Eddie’s had to cut himself off more than once—David is nice enough, accommodating enough to give him a handjob in the woods, but probably wouldn’t take well to being called Steve.
“Thought about this big alpha cock all day,” David says, and he’s getting close, Eddie can tell by the way his rhythm on Eddie’s dick is stuttering. “I bet this thing feels amazing once you get it in.”
Eddie wants to laugh, but doesn’t want to offend David. He’s never had the time or the privacy with a willing partner to get past this: furtive handjobs in public places.
“You want this big alpha cock in your mouth?” he asks, because he’s actually more than willing to change up their dynamic, but that’s all it takes to make David come in his hand. Looking at what he’s done, the mess on his hand, still imagining carding his fingers through Steve’s pubic hair (he takes his time with his fantasies), he hurries to the conclusion—the look on Steve’s face when he comes, maybe with Eddie’s dick jammed so far into him he can barely move but to throw that head back, bare his neck in submission.
With a few swipes of his trusty bandana, they’re completely cleaned up, and within a minute it’s like they’d never touched at all—a quick minute, but not quick enough, because it’s still apparent from the way they’re zipping and buttoning up that they’ve been fucking, and that’s when Steve Harrington approaches.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” he says, almost a mumble, and Eddie must really have been out of it not to hear anyone approach.
“No, no, don’t worry about it,” he says, though Steve is already headed back down the path back to the parking lot. “We were just finishing up,” he says, with more bravado than he feels.
Steve could easily rat them both out to the entire school, but Steve doesn’t do much talking these days. Something in Eddie, maybe just his heart, or his dick, suggests that he can trust Steve.
“Um, okay,” Steve says, hand on the back of his head. He looks around for a second before heading back to the table, where David is picking up his backpack.
David slips past Steve and Eddie gives him a nod and a wide smile in goodbye. Eddie is kind of grateful, actually, for the stilted parting. Usually the goodbye with David is a little awkward. Eddie isn’t an asshole, and he likes David well enough, as a friend, so it kind of hurts that David wants to like, kiss goodbye and say stuff to each other, when Eddie would rather not.
“I, um,” Steve coughs, like to clear his throat, “I heard you’re… kind of an entrepreneur.”
Eddie beams. This part, he can do. It’s just now settling into Eddie’s post-orgasm brain that Steve is actually here, the object of his fantasies made corporeal. It’s like he skipped having to freak out and now Steve is just there, clearly looking to buy some weed, a completely normal part of Eddie’s life.
“You’d have that right, Harrington. I have it loose and I also have some freshly rolled joints for your convenience’s sake,” he says, popping open his lunchbox. “...with a special discount for the discrete gentleman… who knows how to keep a little secret,” he tacks on, better safe than sorry.
Steve laughs a little, the laugh lines next to his eyes appearing for just a second.
“You uh, you don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “I did hear… nevermind.”
“What’s that, Harrington?” Eddie asks, flipping through baggies. Looking engaged in his task means not looking nervous, he hopes.
“Okay, I shouldn’t have said anything, sorry,” Steve says, but continues, “I did hear a guy could get a blowjob out here as easily as a joint.”
Eddie’s hand fumbles on the box. He looks up to gauge Steve’s seriousness.
Steve has the decency to look humbled.
“A blowjob, huh?” Eddie asks, coming back to himself, smiling wide. So, Harrington could talk shit to his face. “Interesting, I don’t remember any blowjobs.”
Steve is a bit pink, now. Eddie can’t believe this is his life. The neck of his sweater droops to the side a little bit, enough for Eddie to see the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. He feels his mouth get a bit wet.
“Well, y’know, just dumb gossip,” he says. “I don’t know why I brought it up.”
“Maybe you’re interested?” Eddie says, hoping the tone of his voice doesn’t give away the fact that he’s scared shitless.
Steve is still smiling. “Oh my god,” he says, shaking his head.
“What?” Eddie says, “Am I actually tempting you over here? I can up the ante; joints are still full price, but know that I don’t charge for sexual favors.”
“No, I just, I think that’s the first time someone’s actually flirted with me in… months. Since, well, you know,” he says, and he actually seems a bit shy.
“Since… you stopped blow drying your hair?” Eddie tries, and Steve laughs.
“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” he says.
“You didn’t think anyone noticed?” Eddie asks, stunned. “It sent shockwaves through the Hawkins community.”
“Well shit, if that’s the reason no one else is offering me random blowjobs, maybe I should change it up,” Steve says, but Eddie shakes his head, dredging up all of his courage.
“Absolutely not. You look way better like this. More relaxed,” he says.
“You’re joking. This can’t be it,” Steve says, gesturing to himself. “I mean, maybe if you’re into bums.”
“What can I say? It’s my thing,” Eddie says, “Not that you’re trying to get with the school drug dealer. I’m sure you have much higher aspirations, as of late.”
Steve’s face falls a little bit, and Eddie feels a pinch of regret, something that says wrong fucking move, jackass.
“I don’t fucking know what I want,” Steve says, shaking his head.
Eddie feels an intense vulnerability shining out of Steve like a headlight. No one told him he would have this chance, but he’s willing to get to know Steve if it’s going to keep being this fun.
“That makes two of us, sweetheart,” Eddie says, the name slipping out naturally.
“Hmm,” Steve starts, “I would’ve thought, from what I just witnessed, that what you want is random beta dudes.”
“Again, may we be discreet about my personal relations?” Eddie asks. “He’s okay. He’s a decent guy. He doesn’t deserve to catch any shit for this.”
“Don’t worry,” Steve says. “We’re alone in the woods right now. You could say anything about me, Munson. You could ruin me. We’re even. I won’t say anything.”
Eddie blinks. He hadn’t considered that. The two of them are alone out here, and while Eddie would be the one catching a lawsuit if Steve’s guardians could prove anything, Steve is the one who would have to live with the hit to his reputation.
“Okay, well, shit; I guess we’re even,” he says.
It turns out Steve hasn’t actually done any drugs before, which shocks Eddie, but he’s smoked cigarettes, and Eddie sets him up with a half price joint on the condition he’ll come back to Eddie if he wants any more.
They’d been shockingly friendly. Most of the deals Eddie has with Steve’s friends feel way too much like he’s selling a barbeque to a middle aged father. The guys are cagey, polite but trying too hard to be casual. Steve just seemed like a person, talking to Eddie like you would to a friendly acquaintance, something Eddie appreciates after years of either blatant bullying or the eggshell treatment.
So he’s overjoyed, kind of has to tamp down his excitement, when Steve comes by again.
He’s wearing a thicker sweater, this time. October snowfall is not unheard of in their part of Indiana. His sneakers are a little beaten up. It looks good on him.
“So you know my office hours,” Eddie says, conversationally.
“Easy to figure when you miss the same classes every day,” Steve says.
“Didn’t realize I was so easy to figure.”
“I wouldn’t say that, actually.”
“What does that mean?” Eddie asks, in disbelief that he’s spitballing with Steve Harrington.
“Um, I’m not sure,” Steve says, sitting down at the bench. He runs a hand through his hair, still no gel or spray or anything but softness. “Class skipping drug dealer, I mean, that is what it is. But then you were out here macking on David Harris—”
“Oh hell no, not this again,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling. “Leave David outta this. He’s not even… he’s not even anything.”
“Can I have one of those?” Steve asks, gesturing to Eddie’s open pack of Marlboros, and Eddie nods. “So David was just a one time thing?”
“Not exactly,” Eddie says, lighting his and Steve’s cigarettes. “Why so curious?”
Steve shrugs, “Never been with a guy,” he says, and Eddie nods, slowly, trying to ignore the sparks that light up in his stomach. “But with the way things are looking, y’know, the way the market is set up… it’s probably going to end up being a guy, for me.”
The sparks die and turn sour in his gut. Steve had always dated girls before, but with his presentation as an omega, he wouldn’t get much choice in his bondmate, if any. While it’s perfectly possible that some wealthy alpha woman would be in the market for a male omega to have her children, Eddie is entirely unsure of Steve’s chances. He feels bad for him. More than bad, actually—kind of terrible.
“You uh, not much a fan of that idea, Harrington?” Eddie asks, curiously.
Steve shakes his head, “It’s not really… that’s not really the bad part, seriously. I doubt I’ll catch a Tom Cruise or whatever—”
“Ah, so Top Gun is your type.”
“No!” Steve laughs. “Well, maybe. You know what I mean. I just haven’t thought about it.”
Eddie is tapping off ashes, deliberating. He has no reason to be open with Steve, but really no one else to talk to about any of this, either.
“David is, uh, a friend. Not a one time thing. I, um. I feel kinda bad actually. Because he seems to like… want more. From me,” Eddie stutters out, awkwardly.
“More like.. Boyfriend stuff?” Steve prompts.
“Precisely. Well, kind of. He wants to sit around and make out, and talk about stuff, y’know.. afterward. I’m not an asshole, or I don’t wanna be, so I haven’t really told him I’m just looking to keep things simple.”
“So you’ve been doing the making out and the talking about stuff anyway?” Steve asks.
“Pretty much, yeah.” Eddie sighs, shrugs. It’s not like it’s a big deal, just makes him feel impatient.
“Why? You just wanna keep getting your dick wet?” Steve asks.
Eddie’s taken aback by the sudden tone shift, but at the same time, wants to laugh. He’s not really getting anything wet with David.
“Well, I don’t really care so much about that,” Eddie says.
“So… what happens if you tell him?” Steve asks.
It’s simple. “He’s going to feel like garbage, and I’m going to feel like an asshole.”
“You keep saying that; you don’t wanna be an asshole,” Steve says, “But if you’re just letting him think that’s what you want—when you don’t, really… that’s kind of the asshole move, right there, right? One day you’ll have to break it off, and he’s just going to be confused.”
Eddie nods, considering, then shakes his head, laughing, “Fuck, Harrington, when did you turn into Dr. Love?”
“I’ve just… I’ve been there,” he says, “You really don’t wanna be in the same place six months in when they ask about meeting your parents.”
“Okay, well, fat chance of that,” Eddie says, “But still, I see your point.”
“Well, it’s good to know some things don’t change, whether it’s guys or girls,” Steve says.
“Yeah, I guess not,” Eddie says, blowing smoke out of his nose easily.
“Though, making out and talking about stuff sounds pretty nice right now,” Steve says, “I haven’t gone this long without a girlfriend since middle school.”
Eddie tries not to imagine making out with Steve. He’d give him making out, talking, the boyfriend treatment—all of that, in a second.
“No takers among the Hawkins elite?’ Eddie asks, instead. “Surely the girls aren’t afraid of banging an omega.”
It almost hurts, saying the designation aloud, like this is a safe place, one where he’s not supposed to acknowledge the outside world.
“It’s so different now,” Steve says, “I could kinda get away with stuff before, like not letting them see certain things, or just not doing certain things. Now I’m just so nervous. It’s not a good look.”
“You’re nervous?” Eddie asks. “You’re the King, Steve.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me,” he says, shaking his head.
Steve even seems nervous now. Eddie gets the feeling there’s a lot to unpack here, so he sets about his work unpacking.
Over the next couple of weeks, after he’s effectively put Eddie in his place regarding his love life, Steve comes to visit him pretty regularly. He reveals that he doesn’t care as much about his grades anymore. As long as he passes his classes and exits with a diploma, it’s as good as anything else to his father, who hasn’t ever expected he’ll attend college. Steve stopped being disappointed in his low expectations a long time ago. Eddie personally knows that nothing requiring any academic certification is what’s in store for him—maybe a diploma, maybe trade school, even, but that would be it, though his big dreams are all outlandish—a bestselling novel or an unprecedented metal album. Something big and creative he can pour his heart into, so that the whole world can see it. Steve says he sees it happening. Even if he’s just being nice, which he probably is, Eddie appreciates the thought.
Then, Steve stops showing up.
Eddie’s not an idiot; upon reflection he knows there’s no way Steve has dropped low enough on the totem pole to actually want him around as a friend, so he’s settled on the idea that Steve’s eked whatever it is he wanted out of Eddie’s friendship, and has moved on.
Then, Steve sits next to him at lunch.
Just sits. Like he does it every day. Like it’s natural.
“What can I do for you, Harrington?” he asks, aware that his friends are staring holes in their heads.
“Damn, really giving me the customer service treatment here, Munson,” he says, and actually seems offended.
“Just here for a friendly chat then?” Eddie asks.
“Just a little chat and chew, if it wouldn’t offend you or anything.”
“Damn, well, if you aren’t too worried about your reputation, I can’t very well stop you.”
“What reputation?” Steve scoffs. “Tammy Thompson has half the school convinced I’m screwing my own uncle.”
And so Steve sits with him, just the once—long enough to say that his father has found a way to keep tabs on him during the school day, plus he no longer trusts Steve to be on his own after school hours. He’s even started calling the Harrington house at odd intervals, just to see if Steve is there to pick up.
It explains why Steve is no longer dropping by after school. It also means that Steve invites him over, like they’re friends, like it’s natural. He gets kind of a look from Gareth and the guys, but ignores it.
When Eddie shows up to Steve’s after school—an absolutely palatial estate, by Eddie’s accounting—Steve is making actual cookies. Like, in the oven. They’re chocolate chip, and it makes the house seem like a dream world. Everything is clean and smells good. Eddie feels suddenly like he should’ve taken his shoes off.
As for Steve, he’s not wearing shoes. He’s padding around in his stocking feet, making cookies, and he has a full account of just how overbearing his father is being–despite living in an entirely different state.
“Chicago?” Eddie repeats, stuffing a still-warm cookie in his mouth. “They’re surveilling you from Chicago?”
“Yes!” he says, with enough bite that Eddie wonders if he’s been able to complain about this to anyone else in his life, if anyone realizes the severity of his situation—or is willing to acknowledge it.
“Steve, why are you even here? How long have your parents been in Chicago?”
“My dad moved last year,” he says, hands on his hips. “My mom followed him when he started acting, uh, strange.”
“Like… scumbag strange?” Eddie asks. Steve is pouring glasses of milk. Apparently he bakes when he’s stressed, which is probably the most stereotypical coping mechanism an omega could have, but Eddie wouldn’t point it out on pain of certain death.
“Precisely,” Steve says, putting the bowl of cookie dough back into the refrigerator.
“And they’re just.. Keeping this house? With you in it? Alone?”
“I get it; it’s weird,” Steve says, joining him at the counter. “My dad is a numbers guy. Rather than take me to Chicago, where he’d have to get a place with another bedroom, and then put me in some private school for omegas, once I presented—”
“I was wondering about that,” Eddie says, “Didn’t wanna be rude, but you’re kinda slumming it around here, in public school, y’know?”
“Well, he figured it was cheaper to keep the house for a while and have me go to Hawkins, where he knows everyone,” Steve chews a cookie, looking into the middle distance. Eddie turns around to see what he might be looking at, but it’s just a dining room, an empty table.
“So, everyone in Hawkins can like, spy on you and shit? And that’s why you haven’t been able to skip class anymore?” Eddie asks. Steve is nodding. “That’s kind of fucked up, Harrington.”
“What about this situation isn’t fucked up?” Steve asks. “We’re talking about my dad’s harebrained scheme to save money by not sending me to a goddamn convent.”
He angrily dunks a cookie in his glass of milk. It’s so fucking cute.
“But isn’t part of the idea…” Eddie stops, thinking. He has a tendency to plow through delicate topics without regard to anyone’s feelings. He knows he’s blunt, and usually wields that bluntness with pride, but talking about Steve like he’s human property feels like a step beyond the pale, even if it’s Steve’s living reality.
“Isn’t part of the whole thing, with the private schools,” Eddie continues, “to uh… like, raise your value? So he can make more money?”
Steve keeps chewing. Either he’s entirely unaffected by the idea or he’s doing some hardcore compartmentalizing.
“Usually. If you’re not socially… up there? but you can afford it—you can maybe push your kid to a higher tier of value,” Steve says, and Eddie thinks in a different life he might’ve been some kind of executive, the way he can talk about this shit like it’s as simple as a game of ping pong. “But my dad already has people lined up, and they know my family. They don’t care if I go to St. Margarets’ or Hawkins, as long as I’m young and breedable.”
A pang sets off under Eddie’s breastbone and he coughs, raising a fist to his mouth and his eyes to Steve, who looks casual, contemplative still.
He’s known this is how it works. Unless your parents are some kind of hippie freaks, if you’re an omega, this is just how the cookie crumbles—suitors are really just bidders; your body is really just a commodity.
Eddie just never thought he’d know an omega like this, as a person, with individual circumstances and thoughts and feelings. He never thought he’d be friends with an omega looking down the barrel of a long life in domestic servitude.
“You can’t feel bad for me,” Steve says suddenly, breaking Eddie out of a thoughtful staring contest with the kitchen counter. “I’ll be set up for life, yada yada. I won’t be secreted away someplace where I don’t know anyone. There are omegas from Ghana and Iraq and shit literally paying to come to this country for a bond.”
Eddie nods, considering. This is probably what Steve’s been telling himself for a while. It’s probably given him some type of comfort, too, so he stops himself from shaking his head and fighting back.
Steve isn’t the one who should have to hear what Eddie has to say about that. He shouldn’t have to placate Eddie, on top of everything else.
“So, do your dad’s spies keep track of what movies you watch?” he says, instead.
“What? No,” Steve says, taking another tray out of the oven.
“Excellent,” Eddie says, pulling his backpack toward him.
An hour later, they’re sprawled on Steve’s sofa, a plate of cookie crumbs and an ashtray with the remnants of their shared joint on the coffee table, Star Wars: A New Hope onscreen.
“Why was it so fucking important that I see this, again?” Steve mutters from the couch. His words might sound bitchy if he weren’t grinning from ear to ear, sunk into the corner of the couch with his sweatshirt just slightly bunching up around his shoulders.
“You’re trying to tell me you’re not hooked?” Eddie asks, genuinely incredulous.
“I don’t like… get it?” Steve says, and he might be shrugging, under the massive sweatshirt.
“What’s there to get?” Eddie asks. “Good guys, bad guys… the good guys are just now banding together. They have to fight the bad guys.”
“Yeah, but… why, again? Did this have something to do with all those words at the beginning?” Steve looks at him, and his eyes are a little red. It makes Eddie want to wrap an arm around him, hold onto him.
“Steve, the whole movie has to do with the words at the beginning,” Eddie says, but he’s trying to tamp down a righteous giggle. “You genuinely don’t know what’s going on?”
“Listen,” Steve says, “I know that babyface and old guy wanna do what the lady said, and that hot guy is going to help them—”
“Then you literally know everything you need to know,” Eddie says, then catches up to what Steve was saying. “You think Han Solo is hot?”
“That’s the guy in the vest, right? Hot guy. Yeah. He’s good looking.” Steve looks at Eddie, who’s just smirking at him. “What?!”
“You would,” Eddie says, simply. “So much for never thinking about guys like that.”
“That’s not what I said,” Steve says, kicking his knee with one sock-clad foot. He’s wearing white athletic socks. His whole outfit screams ‘comfort’. Eddie kind of wants to lay on top of him, but even feeling high, he shoves the thought away… for later. “I said… Okay, that is what I said.”
Eddie laughs, and Steve laughs, and for the rest of the movie they call Han Solo “hot guy”.
Over the next few weeks, Eddie’s visits to Steve’s become a regular thing. It’s starting to get cold, so the walk from his van—parked down the block for privacy from spying eyes—is getting old fast, but there’s nowhere he’d rather spend his free afternoons than Steve’s. Steve can cook, like, actually cook, mostly Italian food, but also desserts—and he’s more than willing to share this food in return for help cleaning the kitchen and a little weed here and there. So Eddie falls into a routine—school, “office hours” by the picnic table, and Steve’s house for dinner, probably a movie, maybe a smoke if they’re feeling the roughness of the day. They plough through the Star Wars movies before moving on to horror, a genre Steve has taken an unlikely shine to.
One night, Steve makes lasagna. It’s an involved process; Eddie can tell by where he’s at in the preparation stage when he arrives.
“It’s trickier than people think it is,” he explains. “People think it’s like making a sandwich, but it needs to be perfectly proportioned. A serving needs to stand up by itself on the plate! And you can’t use the pre-boiled noodles or whatever, that’s fucking cheating.”
Eddie just nods, watching entranced as Steve finishes up his work and puts the pan in the oven.
Of course, as soon as it’s done, Eddie is actively drooling and begging him to just cut the damn thing already, but Steve insists on the requisite cooling time. The wait is worth it, just for the look on Steve’s face when he places one perfect square on his dinner plate—the layers all beautifully visible, the thick and rich serving standing proudly even while it’s still warm, and the cheese still looks soft and gooey.
“I’m never going to move again,” Eddie says. They were unable to leave even half the pan for leftovers. Now they’re curled up on opposite corners of the couch, what Eddie has come to think of as their stations, feeling comfortably full.
Steve grunts in agreement, arms wrapped over his stomach in a protective hold. He’s wearing another giant sweater, another pair of loose sweatpants. The pose makes Eddie think about how Steve would look with his stomach swollen in a different way, lounging on the couch, feeding his growing child with pasta and freshly baked cookies. The way he’d reach out for a kiss from Eddie, if Eddie were just coming home from work, coming home to Steve.
He’s high, at least, a little bit. He swipes the thought away, blinking to refocus himself on the movie.
“Never thought I’d be sitting here watching slasher movies with Eddie Munson,” Steve mumbles to himself.
Eddie reaches over with one foot to give Steve’s knee a nudge.
“What’s weirder?” Eddie asks, “Me or the movie?”
“Definitely you,” Steve says immediately, chuckling, and Eddie has to pretend to be offended.
He’s only telling the truth. It is weird—these two guys who would’ve never talked, and now Eddie is coming to his house several nights a week just to talk and eat. He likes it. They slip into an easy silence, as comfortable as it always is.
Throughout high school, Eddie had seen couples get together, walk the halls hand in hand, speak each other’s names with reverence, and then of course, dissolve. His first thoughts would always be What do they talk about? Why do they like each other? Eddie had always been so strange, so unlike anyone else at school, that when he found a friend with any similar interests he just held on for dear life. Steve doesn’t seem to like the vast majority of the shit Eddie likes, so why does it feel so good to be around him? Why is he so comfortable watching this movie he’s barely into just to watch Steve jump slightly when he’s scared? Why was Steve’s face when the lasagna stood by itself more satisfying than the actual food?
“Do you ever feel like that?” Steve asks, and when Eddie looks up, he’s pointing to the screen. A barely visible, lurching black and white corpse is lifting themselves from the ground. “Like you’re just… going through the motions? Like you’re supposed to be dead?”
Eddie snorts. “Only every day of my life,” he says.
“Ever since I presented, it just feels like everyone knows I shouldn’t be here,” Steve says. It feels like a lit match in Eddie’s gut. He nudges Steve’s foot with his. “Like we all know, and I know, that I’m going to just graduate and be out of here. So what am I even doing?”
Eddie swallows. He feels the same, but it’s not actually the same. In his case, leaving Hawkins would be liberating. In Steve’s, it’s just another step toward his confinement.
“Did anyone know, before?” Eddie asks. He’s digging, and it’s kind of rude; he knows it is.
“Like, besides my parents?” Steve asks, and Eddie nods. “Nancy was the only one who knew.”
Eddie remembers Nancy, but only a bit. He would recognize her in a lineup, but they’ve never talked.
“How long were you dating?” he asks.
“Like a year?” Steve says. “She knew when.. When we started to have sex and stuff; it didn’t seem like she cared too much about it. But like a month or two after that, she just wouldn’t shut up about omega rights. I think it got to be too much, knowing what would happen. And it’s like, can it, there’s nothing anyone is going to do. Half the senate is married to omegas. Not just the conservatives, either. But she couldn’t let it go. She couldn’t just enjoy the time we had left.”
“It sounds like she really cared about you,” Eddie says, and Steve looks to him, clearly not anticipating that.
“She did,” he sighs, like it hurts to admit, like all he wants to feel is anger. “I cared about her, too.”
“Do you still love her?” Eddie asks, not that Steve needs any more reason to be glum about his situation, but Eddie wants to know.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t love her anymore. It was nice to be with her. It was a nice distraction. But when it ended, that was it. It was over.”
Eddie becomes sort of obsessed with Steve. It’s before he even realizes what’s going on. He just knows that classes are hell, being alone is torture. He wakes up in the morning, and his first thoughts are about Steve. He walks through the halls, thinking about the last time he talked to Steve. He sits in class, wanting to know how Steve slept and what he ate for breakfast.
He’d talked to Gareth about it, and after Gareth warned him not to get his ass sued, or disappeared, considering Steve’s family is apparently the type for son-monitoring espionage, he’d tentatively asked Eddie just how much of this was just… the omega thing.
And like, sure, omegas were supposed to be tempting—-creatures of awe inspiring beauty, capable of enchanting the most resistant of Alphas. But Emily Ganther presented as an omega last year, and Eddie saw her at the grocery store afterward and she was just as ugly and zitty as she’s ever been. He’s seen pictures of omegas the world over, in celebrity magazines and on tv and such, and it’s not like your typical omega looked any different from your typical girl or guy. And sometimes, Steve even did gross stuff, and it was just gross. He farted openly in front of Eddie multiple times and when he had a beer he burped just like anyone who’d had a beer, and Eddie didn’t think it was particularly sexy or anything. It was just a hot dude who was capable of a gross fart. So there was the attraction piece, but it wasn’t overwhelming his simple desire to just be around Steve, talk to him, eat his food, ask what he thought about movies, and about life.
Would he kill something small and innocent to be able to bury his face in Steve’s neck and just breathe? Yeah, probably. But he wasn’t rabid with it.
“But he’s on like, some hardcore pills,” Gareth says, bringing Eddie back to their conversation. “You don’t know what it would be like if he weren’t.”
“Well yeah,” Eddie says. “But like, exactly? He’s not some kind of siren to me. I just… like him.”
Gareth shrugs. He says, “That sucks.”
Eddie snorts, “Yeah.”
“So, where’d you learn all this?” Eddie asks. It’s something that’s been on his mind, maybe because he feels guilt that as someone who is actually older than Steve, he doesn’t know how to cook… anything. Steve hardly even uses recipe books. He just does it.
They’re eating spaghetti with pesto at the kitchen counter while Steve consults one such recipe book. Steve gestures wordlessly to the book.
“So everything just comes from that?” Eddie asks.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Steve says, still studying the recipe for a fancy looking cake.
“So no saucy Italian grandma who taught you everything you know?” Eddie asks. It’s a little daydream he’s been nursing—child Steve in a flour coated apron, following the instructions of a stern but loving older woman, someone with crepey skin who kisses his forehead with a prickly mustache.
Steve scoffs. “No one in my family cooks,” he says. “It’s just something I do.”
“For no reason,” Eddie clarifies. “Just decided to feed the local freak better than he’s ever eaten in his life. Just picked up a book and went with it?”
“Okay, asshole,” Steve says, grumbling. He sometimes gets this way when Eddie hits a nerve, but it’s never kept him from answering… so far. “I know it’s stupid, of course it’s stupid, but, when I was a kid, I thought this kind of thing would be… valuable. Like, if I could cook it would be something that could get me a better match. Someone who wanted, yknow, a family. A mom who knows how to cook, that sort of shit.”
He’s looking at the recipe with more intensity than he needs to. Eddie feels terrible, like he ripped off a bandaid and the blood just started pouring. All his fault.
“It doesn’t matter,” Steve says, “it’s something to do.”
“Steve,” Eddie breathes. It’s like his daydream of child Steve has taken on a sour note; just a kid mixing, baking, reading a recipe, alone, trying desperately to influence something over which he has no control.
“I know it’s stupid,” he says, again, taking mixing bowls down from cabinets. “It’s just that I do actually want to be a mother? At some point? I just want to do it on my own terms. I just wish I could do it the way I want to do it. I’m sorry; this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.”
“It’s not dumb,” Eddie says, and he can’t believe Steve is still moving: taking down the flour, the sugar, the baking powder. “Steve, that’s not some stupid dream; you’re not some freak for thinking like that. Everybody else gets to do it that way, wait for the right person, plan out their lives. You’re at the mercy of something cruel. It isn’t fair.”
“Of course it’s not fair,” Steve says. He’d started measuring flour while Eddie spoke; now he’s cracking eggs into the mixer. His voice sounds a little choked, a little wet. “But life isn’t fair. I don’t even know why we’re talking about this. It’s not gonna change anything. I just picked up a stupid hobby because I had some stupid idea—
Eddie’s put his fork down and before he can stop himself, he’s behind Steve, arms out to catch Steve’s wrists in what he’s doing. He brings in Steve’s arms, crosses them with his over Steve’s chest, holding him. Steve is just a little shorter than he is, enough that Eddie’s nose could brush the crown of his head, if he wanted to.
“It’s not stupid,” Eddie says, “I’m sorry for digging. I just wanted to know more about you.”
Steve’s heart is hammering; Eddie can feel it under his hands, under Steve’s hands. His breathing, though, is returning to normal.
Eddie says, with his jaw pressed into the side of Steve’s hair, “It’s not fair, and you don’t deserve it. But we don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”
Steve nods, and takes a deep breath. It stutters, at first, then drags in. Eddie feels the rise and fall of his chest under his arms and tries to intentionally log it in his memory. He knows he’ll be replaying the feeling in five minutes, in an hour, tonight and tomorrow morning.
“You should, uh… probably let go of me,” Steve says, just barely audible.
I don’t want to, Eddie wants to say. Let me hold you. Let me give you what you want.
He lets go, letting Steve’s arms drop gently to his sides. Eddie picks up his fork and winds up another noodle, suddenly not very hungry.
After that, it’s easier for Steve to talk about his future, and his designation. It’s like Eddie cracked a hole in a dam and is watching the water spill out, bit by bit, waiting for the wall to break.
One day, Steve isn’t in school. It’s not like they talk in the halls, but Eddie notices when he’s there, and today, when he’s not there. He takes his usual trek to Steve’s in the evening, and isn’t surprised to see Steve open the door with a tissue wadded into his nose.
“Sick?” he asks, as Steve steps aside to let him in. Steve is barefoot, dressed in plaid pajama pants and a soft looking sweater. Eddie tries not to think too hard about Steve’s feverish skin under the loose weave of the sweater. He heads to his usual station at the kitchen counter.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Steve says, following him. “I’m gross as hell. And I’m gonna give you my cold.”
The kitchen is empty. Of course Steve hasn’t cooked; he’s probably been in bed all day. Eddie can’t do much, he thinks, but he can open a can and warm it up—if rich people buy Campbell’s?
“And then I’ll come over and you’ll make me soup. Win, win,” says Eddie. “Besides, I’m not worried. I never get sick.”
Steve scoffs, making the tissue in his nose shake. “Don’t give me that macho bullshit. You’re just as susceptible as the rest of us.”
“It’s not macho!” Eddie says, stepping toward Steve’s cabinets. “I just don’t get sick! Or at least, shit is rare, ok? I don’t even have any allergies. Do you have any soup?”
“You’re going to make me soup?” Steve asks.
“Eureka!” Eddie says. He’s seen Steve rifle through this pantry enough times, but never toward the cans in the back, which are dusty but blessedly not yet expired. “How’s chicken noodle?”
“Ugh, gag me,” Steve says, sitting down at the counter. He sounds like his throat was run over with a lawn mower. “It’ll do.”
Eddie shoos Steve to the couch, dramatically tucking a blanket around him and under his chin. He sets up Steve with a Monty Python movie, thinking it’s time for a shift into nerdy comedy, if only to hear Steve complain that it’s unfunny and to savor the moments when he laughs anyhow.
He’s thinking this might be his only opportunity to pay Steve back for the constant meals he’s provided over the past month or so. He heats the soup, reading the can intently to make sure he doesn’t skip any vital instructions, and even finds it in his brain to toast some bread, to go with. He’s so proud of himself, looking at the bowls that he set on actual plates, with pieces of paper towel tucked under the bowl with the toast.
“Jesus,” Steve says to himself, watching Eddie prance into the living room carrying the two plates. “Someone’s pleased with himself.”
Eddie notes with delight that Steve is still tucked into the blanket. He hasn’t moved. Eddie wonders if he dozed off while Eddie was playing chef in the kitchen.
“Bon appetit, darling!” Eddie places the plates on the coffee table. He would have sworn that he would drop something before this point.
“My hero,” Steve says wearily, but he brings the bowl directly to his face and sips the hot broth, and Eddie feels accomplished, like he finished a race, or an essay, or something equally unlikely.
They sit, more quietly than Eddie’s used to, which means every few minutes he can’t help but look to Steve and check that he’s okay. Steve looks more like a pile of blankets than a young man—a pile of blankets that occasionally chuckles at the movie they’re watching.
Soon, in the movie, they’re burning a witch—an omega accused of seduction, hilarious because she’s obviously elderly and wearing a giant fake nose and warts, besides.
“It’s jokes like this that first tipped me off… that a lot of the stuff they say about omegas is just kinda bullshit? Like the whole uncontrollable lust thing,” Eddie says, and he should be beyond embarrassment with Steve, but he feels a little warm in the face and doesn’t look at Steve, in case Steve is looking at him.
“It’s not like.. 100% bullshit,” Steve says, congested and tired sounding. His soup is gone. Eddie should’ve gotten him some water. He wonders if Steve has any straws.
“What do you mean?” Eddie asks. “Do you feel like… sexier? Since you presented?”
Steve snorts. “Do I look sexier?”
Yes, Eddie wants to say. Of course, but he also acknowledges that sweatpants and tube socks aren’t exactly the omega uniform most of society dreams about.
“I don’t know, I think you look better now,” Eddie says, “But I think that’s mainly the clothes.”
Steve is definitely looking at him now. “What about my clothes?”
“I don’t know. You just look, like, more comfortable. Don’t look at me like that.”
Steve lets out a little sound that’s like a laugh.
“In the books, uh, like Your Omega Body, stuff like that, they talk about it like it’s a weird little love potion. Your pheromones, you know. Like whoever you’re with can’t help it, they’re under your spell. Then it’ll wear off, then you’ll be sorry. Y’know, if you did anything they wouldn’t want, or whatever. Like you can’t trust anybody who can smell you.”
That can’t be right, Eddie thinks. He’s never felt it, the full strength of Steve’s scent up close, but he knows it can’t be that bad. Steve is speaking again, slowly, carefully.
“It makes you realize, y’know, I’m never gonna be able to fall in love like a normal person. Like I wouldn’t know if a person that I like, they’re just… feeling the effects of biology. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m going to end up sold to the highest bidder, so hopefully he’s a good guy, but if he’s not, well, I’m fucked anyway.” Steve sighs, a sound made more pitiful with his congestion. “I don’t even know if you’re here because you wanna be hanging out with me or because I did something to your brain chemistry to make you wanna be here.”
Eddie can’t help but laugh.
“Steve, what?”
“Don’t laugh. I’m serious,” he says. The tissue in his nose twitches.
“Steve, you’re obviously on some type of suppressant. I can barely smell you,” Eddie says.
“You can, a little bit,” Steve says. “It’s always in the air.”
“Still, you know, it’s really not that serious,” Eddie says, and he nudges Steve’s blanket pile with his foot. “I’m not tearing through doors to try and get in your pants. I just like hanging out with you.”
Steve looks at him, obviously skeptical.
“Okay,” he says, “But why?”
“Why?!” Eddie says, “What do you mean, why?”
Steve is rolling his eyes, a crumpled tissue in one hand waving around like a weapon. “Why do you like hanging out with me? Why do you like me?”
“Your good looks,” Eddie says, deadpan. “Your incredible, intoxicating odor.”
“Hilarious,” Steve says with a sniff, and blows his nose.
“So, what about my smell?” Eddie says. “If all of this is so inevitable, wouldn’t you be, like, intrinsically attracted to me? And the rest of us Alpha knotheads? Do you spend all day trying not to fuck Tommy H?”
“Fat chance,” Steve says in a mumble. “You smell good, though.”
“What?!” Eddie says. It’s not like he has a history of people lining up to compliment him. With only one or two people in the last year wanting to touch him, neither has said much about his smell. “You’re joking. I probably smell like weed maybe— 90% of the time.”
“Yeah but like, with some leather and wood in there too,” Steve says, looking drowsily away from Eddie and pointedly toward the tv.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Eddie says suddenly. “I totally smell like toddler vomit and old fish.”
That hits its target and Steve laughs, looking relieved.
“I have no reason to lie,” Steve shrugs. “You smell good to me. It’s biology. That’s what I’m saying though.”
“You’re saying you have me over and make me food cause I smell like a tree?” Eddie asks, bewildered.
“No, asshole. I’m saying you can’t discount it,” Steve says. “I can’t even smell you right now. I can’t smell anything.”
“And do you like me less?”
“What? No.”
“So.. maybe you kinda want to hang out with me, but also I smell amazing, so you’re just acting like we’re friends?” Eddie’s smiling. He thinks he’s winning, but he doesn’t even know if they’re arguing.
“What? I don’t even know what you’re saying. Of course I actually like you. You’re cool,” Steve says.
“That’s what I’m saying!” Eddie attests, slapping the arm of the couch. Steve looks spooked. “You’re cool! I like you. It’s not like I only sorta like you but you smell good. I just like you. You’re just going to have to trust me.”
“Yeah, okay,” Steve says, and Eddie feels his heart rate start to slow. He didn’t mean to get so worked up, suddenly wonders if Steve can smell it on him: the slowly roiling anger, but also the anxiety, the worry that Steve genuinely thinks he isn’t able to appreciate Steve for who he is: caring, funny, gorgeous in more ways than just physical—at this point, his best friend, the boy he thinks about more than anything, or anyone, else. His first thought in the morning, his final thought at night.
“You like me,” Steve says, sudden, from the other side of the couch. He’s repeating Eddie, from earlier.
“Yeah,” Eddie exhales. “Yes, of course, and it’s not because of the way you smell. Listen, Steve. You’re attractive. But that’s—obvious, okay? I wouldn’t have been coming over here just to look at you. You’re so, so nice to me. You’re funny, too. But in a kind of bitchy way. You let me show you stuff and you make fun of it but it’s… nice? It just feels good to talk to you, alright?”
Eddie’s knee is bouncing, his foot nearly shaking the floor with energy. He can’t look at Steve, can’t stand to think he could just be sitting there, rolling his eyes. He sits back, mustering his courage, continues, “I don’t want you to think you’re just… a body. You’re so much more than that. You mean so much to me.”
“Eddie,” Steve says, simply. Eddie feels warmth on the side of him, against his arm.
Steve has gathered himself up, with all of his blankets, his sweats, his soft hair, to sit next to Eddie. This hasn’t happened before. They usually just stay in their opposite corners. His breath hitches.
Eddie opens his arms, and Steve, the pile of blankets, the warm human, gathers against him.
Eddie closes his arms around Steve and lets out a shaky breath, the last of his fear leaving with it. Steve’s head leans onto his chest and shoulder. Sparks of bliss shoot from Eddie’s heart to his stomach and along his limbs, holding Steve against the couch and he wouldn’t be able to move if he wanted to; it’s too comfortable, the two of them melted there, having been more honest with one another than Eddie ever expected of them. He brings his hand to Steve’s hair, carding his fingers through the tangled mass. Steve sniffs and wipes his nose with the crumpled tissue. It’s a little gross, fully human, and everything Eddie could want. It’s perfect.