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"Come on, Harrington! One more day of refusal, and I swear I'll write a power ballad about the renegade sailor and his hidden uniform!" Eddie's voice, loaded with that mix of mockery and challenge that only he could master, echoed through the living room even before the door slammed shut behind him. He burst in like a whirlwind, his leather jacket creaking, hair tousled by the afternoon breeze, and a defiant grin that already made Steve's temple throb.
Steve, who was collecting empty beer cans from the coffee table, sighed deeply as Eddie flung himself onto the sofa as if it were his own, stretching out with the satisfaction of a cat who knows it has its prey cornered.
"Again, Munson?" Steve grumbled, stacking the cans with more force than necessary. "I thought we agreed that this issue was dead and buried."
Eddie laughed, a harsh, vibrant sound that filled the room.
"Nothing's dead if you sing it a good song, Steve! And I've got some killer lyrics waiting. All they need is… visual inspiration." His eyes raked over Steve from head to toe, lingering with obvious intent at his waist. "A very specific kind of inspiration, with nautical stripes and a little sailor hat. Robin said you kept it. Admit it."
Steve clenched his jaw. A wave of heat crept up his neck to his ears. The sailor uniform. He had kept it, actually. After the Starcourt Mall fire, the chain had shut down all its operations in Hawkins, but when he called to ask where to return the uniform and a tired voice on the other end told him to «keep it or burn it», he chose to keep it. Buried in the deepest part of his closet, wrapped in a black trash bag like evidence of a crime of bad fashion. It was a stupid reminder from a chaotic summer, of Robin joking behind the counter, of kids pestering him for free ice cream, of a simple job before the monsters came back.
Robin was the only one who knew about the uniform, and somehow she’d told Eddie. Next time he saw her, he’d definitely strangle her with her own phone cord.
"So what if I have it?" Steve shot back, trying to sound indifferent as he carried the cans to the kitchen. "Doesn't mean I'm gonna put it on. It's… a keepsake. And it’s none of your business."
Eddie sprang clumsily from the sofa, following him to the kitchen doorway.
"Oh, but it is!" he protested, blocking Steve's path back to the living room with arms outstretched like some eccentric guardian. "It's a matter of art! The public's right to witness beauty in its most unexpected form. And that uniform…" He lowered his voice, adopting a tone of fake reverence. "…On you, it’s a masterpiece of contrast. Steve Harrington trapped in the tackiest fabric Hawkins has to offer. It’s… visual poetry. Comic tragedy. And I need to see it!"
Steve closed his eyes. Eddie’s insistence on the same thing had been a constant for weeks. Passing jokes, scribbled notes on his assignments; «Nautical suit today?», even an improvised guitar song about ‘the lost sailor.’ It had reached a point where Steve was as fed up with refusing as he was intrigued by Eddie’s obsession. Why did it matter so much to him?
"If I do this," Steve said, opening his eyes with a warning look. "You never mention it again. Ever. Got it?"
Eddie crossed his ring-covered finger over his heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die. My lips will be sealed like a tomb. Well, like the tomb of a D&D side character who dies in the first session."
With another sigh, this time deeper, Steve trudged upstairs to his room. His heart pounded hard against his ribs—a mixture of embarrassment and a strange… anticipation? Nerves? He pulled the black bag down from the highest shelf in his closet, where it lay buried under a pile of forgotten baseball jackets. As he took out the uniform, the smell of clean cotton and nostalgia hit him full force. The bright navy blue shone under the lamp light, the red neckerchief knotted, the name badge embroidered with «Steve» on the chest.
He undressed with swift movements, as if afraid he’d change his mind. The blue shorts reminded him why he hated them: they were uncomfortable, restrictive, and rode up practically to his waist. The short-sleeved blue shirt fell over his torso, the collar a bit more stretched than when he’d worked at Scoops Ahoy. Finally, the little captain’s hat. He perched it crookedly on his slightly tousled hair and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked ridiculous. An adult playing sailor on an ice cream ship that didn’t even exist anymore.
"Harrington! If you’re not down in ten seconds, I'm coming up there myself!" Eddie roared from below.
Steve took a deep breath. This is for peace, he told himself. He walked downstairs slowly, feeling every imaginary gaze burning his skin. When he reached the living room, he stopped in the doorway, arms stiff at his sides.
Eddie, who’d been pacing like a caged tiger, froze. His mouth, always quick with a sarcastic remark, fell open slightly, but no sound came out. His dark eyes scanned Steve's figure, slowly, as if studying a newly discovered masterpiece. The silence stretched, heavy and charged, broken only by the tick-tock of the wall clock. Steve felt the flush scorch his ears and neck. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Why was he looking at him like that?
"Happy now?" Steve growled, crossing his arms over his chest—a defensive posture that only made the shirt fabric stretch across his shoulders. "We’re done with this, like you promised."
But Eddie couldn't hold back. He advanced towards him, not with his usual careless swagger, but with a soft, steady determination.
"My god, Harrington…" he murmured, his voice deeper than usual, almost a raspy whisper. "I’d heard some interesting rumors about this, but none of them do justice to what I’m appreciating right now."
His gaze was intense, disarming. It traced the line of the shirt collar where the red neckerchief contrasted against Steve’s skin, trailed down his lean arms veiled by the blue fabric, paused at the narrow waist emphasized by the high, snug cut of the shorts, and finally returned to his face, now closer than ever.
"You look like…" Eddie searched for the word, his usual smirk replaced by an expression of genuine amazement. "A nautical fantasy. The captain of an ice cream ship sailing straight into my sweetest dreams. Those damn shorts… should be illegal."
Steve tried to hold his gaze, but Eddie’s intensity, combined with the absurdity of the situation, made him feel vulnerable, exposed in a way he hadn’t felt since… well, ever.
"It’s just a stupid uniform, Eddie," he retorted, trying to sound indifferent. "Uncomfortable and hot."
"Well, I don't see any of that," Eddie let out a low, resonant laugh. "Nothing except the... Hot part..." He reached out a hand to adjust the crooked hat on Steve's head with surprisingly gentle fingers. "Perfect."
The touch, slight as it was, made Steve catch his breath. Eddie’s proximity, his scent of tobacco, leather, and something indescribably Eddie, was overwhelming.
"Alright, you’ve seen it. Now I'm going to get changed," he said, turning away.
"Wait!" Eddie’s hand closed softly around his wrist, stopping him. His grip was warm, firm. "Just… one more minute. Please."
Steve turned back, meeting that dark, intense gaze again. The initial embarrassment was being replaced by a flicker of discomfort, satisfied vanity, and an attraction that had always been there—simmering beneath layers of denial and jokes. Eddie wasn’t joking now. He meant it. He liked it. He liked it a lot.
"Why the intense interest in this?" Steve asked, his voice lower.
Eddie held his gaze. "Because I see you, Steve. Normally, you’re too busy being the tired hero, the babysitter, the guy who cleans up everyone else’s messes. But this…" He gestured at the uniform. "This is pure Steve Harrington. Unfiltered. The guy who put on this ridiculous outfit for a summer job and wore it with more dignity than it deserved. The guy who, even if he denies it ’til the world ends, has a heart bigger than Hawkins and a…" His gaze drifted downward again, slow, appreciative. "…a butt that these shorts celebrate like a Renaissance masterpiece."
Steve burst out laughing, surprised and embarrassed at the same time. "Munson, you’re impossible!"
"But you gotta admit I’m right," Eddie insisted, a mischievous grin returning to his lips though his eyes remained serious. "Now…" He took another step closer, erasing nearly all the space between them. "Let’s make a deal. Stay like this just a little longer… and I promise eternal silence. Or…" His voice dropped to a seductive whisper. "We could renegotiate the terms."
Steve felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool evening air. The atmosphere had shifted. The persistent joke had turned into something tangible, electric. Eddie was too close, his warm breath ghosting over the skin near Steve’s ear. The uniform, once a source of embarrassment, now seemed like a costume that Eddie was determined to peel away layer by layer—not with mockery, but with an admiration that made Steve’s blood race faster.
"What kind of renegotiation?" Steve asked, defying his own caution.
Eddie smiled, a glint of triumph in his eyes. "That you stay like this… and sit down here." He pointed to a chair, but his eyes never left Steve’s. "With me."
It was the way he said it—the combination of the direct request and the unmistakable warmth in his tone—that shattered Steve’s last defenses. The weeks of insistence, the look of genuine amazement, the blatant compliment about his butt… it all merged into one reckless impulse. With a movement that was half resignation, half something far more daring, Steve let Eddie guide him toward the chair. Eddie sat down first, legs spread wide, and tugged gently on Steve’s hand. A moment of hesitation, and then Steve yielded, letting himself tumble awkwardly sideways onto Eddie’s lap, one leg bent on the chair, the other dangling slightly. The position was intimate, ridiculous considering the uniform, and overwhelmingly real.
The contact was immediate and electrifying. The heat of Eddie’s body through his jeans, the firmness of his thighs beneath Steve’s buttocks, the way Eddie’s arm instinctively wrapped around his waist to hold him, anchoring him there. Steve felt his whole body tense, a wave of scorching heat rising up his neck, more intense than any previous blush. The hat tilted precariously.
"Holy shit, Steve," Eddie murmured, his voice rough right beside his ear. "Like that… like that is perfect. Better than I imagined."
His arm around Steve’s waist tightened. Eddie’s other hand, covered in rings that glimmered faintly in the evening light streaming through the window, lifted. It didn’t touch the uniform immediately. Instead, his index finger traced a slow path along the edge of the red neckerchief tied around Steve’s throat, just barely grazing the exposed skin at the base of his throat. The touch made Steve hold his breath. A shiver ran down his spine.
"The red…" Eddie whispered, his warm breath on Steve’s skin. "It suits you. Dramatic. Like blood on snow. But hotter. So much hotter." His finger trailed down, following the edge of one of the white stripes to Steve’s chest. There, it stopped, resting lightly on the fabric, over the breastbone. Steve could feel the slight weight, the pressure, the heat radiating through the thin cloth. "And then that ridiculous little hat that somehow works... God."
Steve tried to find words—something sarcastic, something that would bring the situation back into the safe territory of jokes. But his mind was blank, flooded by the sensation of sitting there, on Eddie’s lap, dressed like an ice cream captain, while Eddie dissected him with words that were more punk poetry than anything he’d expected.
"Munson…" he managed, his voice strangely hoarse. "You’re… exaggerating."
Eddie laughed softly, a vibration Steve felt directly through the contact of their bodies.
"In the slightest." His hand on Steve's chest moved, not downwards, but upwards, sliding along the shirt seam, over the shoulder, to the hemline of the short sleeve. "I'm just being realistic." His finger touched the rough seam where the short sleeve met Steve's shoulder, a spot where the lingering summer tan still marked a slight contrast against the normally covered skin. "See this muscle here... tense. Defensive. Like you're expecting me to mock you." His finger now traced a slow, almost hypnotic circle over the curve of the deltoid. "But I won't mock you, Steve. Never again. This is... art. Living art, smelling of old cotton and faint vanilla."
Steve held his breath. Every touch of Eddie’s was a spark skittering across his skin beneath the fabric. Eddie’s hand at his waist squeezed gently, anchoring him more firmly against his lap. Steve could feel the firmness of Eddie’s thighs beneath his shorts, the heat emanating from his body, the slight pressure of his abdomen against Steve’s side. It was overwhelming intimacy, dizzying.
"Eddie…" Steve’s voice sounded like he’d swallowed sawdust. "You’ve seen what you wanted…"
“Nuh-uh,” Eddie laughed again, a low, vibrant sound Steve felt in his own bones. “Steve, I’m just getting started to see.” His finger abandoned the shoulder and descended down the short sleeve, grazing the exposed skin of Steve’s bicep. It stopped in the soft crease of his inner elbow. "Here…" he murmured. "The skin’s softer. More vulnerable. Did you know this suit, ridiculous as it is, shows you off in a way your hoodies never could? It makes you… accessible. Touchable."
Steve tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. Eddie’s gaze was like a laser, burning through the fabric, through his defenses. Weeks of insistence, the persistent jokes, had morphed into something dense, tangible, filling the air like smoke from the Starcourt fire.
"I already told you it’s just a fucking uniform," Steve protested, but without conviction.
"And I say it's a revelation," Eddie corrected, his voice a hot whisper near his ear. "It reveals the shoulders that carry the weight of Hawkins. It reveals this waist…" His hand at Steve’s waist slid forward, just a few inches, fingers brushing the warm skin where the shirt had ridden up slightly as he sat. "…that’s criminally narrow under all that fabric. It reveals these legs…" His gaze swept down, burning, over the tight shorts stretched across Steve’s thighs. "…that could kick interdimensional ass or crush hearts with equal ease. But mostly…" Eddie tilted his head, his warm breath brushing the line of Steve’s jaw. "…it reveals that Steve Harrington, the former king, the guy who survived bats from the Upside Down, has a weak spot. And that weak spot, unbelievably, is a sailor suit from an ice cream parlor."
Steve turned his head, forced to look at Eddie up close. The proximity was electrifying. He could see every detail of Eddie’s dark, bright eyes, the tiny cracks on his lower lip, the shadow of his lashes. The scent of tobacco, leather, and clean sweat enveloped him.
"My weak spot isn’t the suit, Munson," Steve said, his voice a rough whisper. "It’s your goddamned insistence."
Eddie grinned, a flash of sharp canine.
"Insist— what?" His hand, which had been on Steve’s chest, slid upward, grazing the side of his neck, until it framed Steve’s jaw with a gentleness that contrasted with the cold metal of his rings against Steve’s skin. "You think it’s just insistence? Harrington, this is appreciation. It’s… longing." The word fell heavy, charged, between them. "I’ve had this image in my head since Robin let slip about the uniform. Steve Harrington, the tired hero, trapped in his most ridiculous armor, and yet, somehow, most genuinely him. Because you wore it, you know? Not ’cause you loved it, but because it was your job. And that… that’s sexier than any studied pose."
Steve couldn’t look away. The intensity in Eddie’s voice, the raw sincerity beneath his usual layer of sarcasm, made his head spin. The world had narrowed to the chair, to Eddie’s warm lap, to the pressure of his hand on Steve’s jaw, to the dark gaze that was stripping him bare more completely than any absence of clothing.
"Longing?" Steve repeated, trying to process the word, to fit it with Eddie Munson.
"Yeah," Eddie affirmed, without a hint of doubt. His thumb stroked softly along Steve’s jawline. "Longing to see you like this. To have you like this. To know that under all that denial and shame, there’s a guy who can make even this look… lethally attractive." His gaze dropped to Steve’s lips, and the air thickened to the point of suffocation. "So yeah. Longing. And now that I’ve got you here…"
Eddie didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he closed the tiny distance left between them.
The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative. It was a demand, a confirmation. Eddie’s lips moved with a confidence that disarmed any lingering resistance. He tasted like tobacco, Coca-Cola, and something unexpectedly sweet beneath the edge. Eddie’s hand on his jaw held him in place while his other arm tightened around him, pulling him deeper against his body.
Steve froze for a heartbeat, the world stalling in the surreal absurdity of kissing Eddie while wearing the goddamned Scoops Ahoy uniform. But then, something inside him gave way. Maybe it was Eddie’s relentless persistence, maybe it was the genuine admiration that had shone in his eyes, maybe it was simply the heat and the pressure and the taste of him. With a ragged gasp, Steve responded.
He kissed Eddie back with matching intensity, his hands finding purchase on leather-clad shoulders. The uniform, source of so much shame, became an irrelevant second skin under the fire of contact. All that mattered were Eddie’s lips moving against his, the teeth gently nibbling his lower lip, the tongue seeking entry that Steve granted with a choked moan.
Eddie groaned theb, a deep vibration Steve felt in his own chest. The hand that had been on his jaw slid into his hair, tugging gently, while the other hand moved down his back, exploring the curve of his spine through the thin blue fabric, coming to rest possessively on the high waistband of the shorts.
"Fuck, Steve," Eddie gasped as he broke the kiss, only for a moment, his lips brushing the corner of Steve’s mouth. "This suit… should be illegal. You’re… a dangerous temptation."
"You started this," Steve reminded him breathlessly, his forehead pressed against Eddie’s.
"And I’ll finish it properly," Eddie promised, his voice a rough vow. "But first…" His hand at Steve’s waist moved, sliding forward, over the flat of his tense abdomen beneath the shirt. Fingers playfully lifting the hem of the undershirt. "…we should do something about this undershirt." With surprising deftness, given the urgency burning in his eyes, Eddie hooked the edge of the undershirt with his fingers. "Permission to dismantle this armor, Captain?"
Steve looked down, seeing Eddie’s ringed fingers toying with the hem of his undershirt. The embarrassment had been replaced by a vibrating warmth, an anticipation that made his heart race. The uniform wasn’t a joke or a source of mortification anymore. It was an obstacle.
"Only if you promise not to write a song about this later," Steve murmured, a shaky smile appearing on his lips.
Eddie grinned, a wide, dazzling flash. "Scout’s honor, King Steve. My musical inspiration…" His hands tangled now in the red neckerchief. "…is busy with far more tangible matters right now." He tugged gently on one end. "Like, for instance…" The knot slowly came undone, the thin fabric stretching. "…how exactly I’m going to show you how much I love this stupid, wonderful suit…" He finally released the knot, pushing the fabric over Steve’s shoulders. "…and the incredible man underneath."
The red fabric slid down onto the chair back. Eddie wasted no time. His hands returned to the blue shirt, finding the warm skin of Steve’s abdomen.
"Eddie…" Steve whispered, the name a sigh in the heavy air.
"Relax, Captain," Eddie murmured, his warm breath against the newly exposed skin of Steve’s neck. "Relax and enjoy the voyage. I promise…" He pulled the neckline of the undershirt down, revealing Steve’s sternum, dark hair curling over the muscle. "This decommissioning service will be far more satisfying than any ice cream you ever sold..."
