Steve: ... Eds, Do You Want To Talk About It?

Steve: ... Eds, do you want to talk about it?

Eddie: *laying face down on the floor* Why would you automatically assume that something is wrong?

i wish there were more than 24 hours in a day and beverages were $1 and growing up didn’t hurt so much

Eddie: When you're on public transit and start thinking "let me just rest my eyes a bit", that's the devil talking

Eddie: But she is very persuasive

Eddie: Where am I

Robin: *yawning* Can't believe ghosts are truly real

Eddie: Yeah, every time you yawn in October, a ghost puts their dick in your mouth

Steve and Robin have spent most of their shifts at Family Video, whispering and giving each other suggestive glances whenever a pretty girl walks through the door. Steve used to hate it whenever Tommy H. made him do stuff like this, but it's different with Robin. Less about objectifying and more about admiring a woman's beauty — at least, that's what Robin tells him when he brings it up one day. 

With his conscious clean, he leans into it, and the two have so much fun silently staring at pretty girls. They learn that they have pretty much the same taste in women — minus Tammy Thompson — which isn't surprising considering they share just about everything in common. 

And while it's fun sharing glances and watching each other blush red when the cute girl gives one of them more attention, Steve also wishes he had someone who would do that with him when he spots a cute guy in the mix. Steve tried to bring it up to Robin once, but she wasn't having it. 

"Stevie," she leveled. "All I see is a faceless blurb that smells too much like pine. You're the only guy for me." 

So, he let it go. 

- 

Eddie and Gareth have a similar game they play whenever they drive out to Indy. Gareth is usually the one to point out a petite blonde walking in their favorite record shop. If she heads to the metal section, Eddie can make a move. If it's anything else, Gareth gets to try. 

Nine times out of 10, it's Gareth who flirts his way to a phone number. 

Not that Eddie minds. 

He has just as much fun watching his friend hopelessly flirt while casually checking out the guys who wander in the record store. 

Gareth always gives him a friendly nudge whenever he notices Eddie staring too long at the back of some guy's short haircut, but it's not the same as the gentle ribbing they give each other when a cute girl walks in. 

Gareth isn't into guys like he is, and that's fine.

But sometimes Eddie wishes he had someone to compare his taste in men with. 

- 

When Steve and Eddie realize they're both bisexual, they rejoice. Finally, they have someone to play their silly games with.

 Except, it doesn't go at all like they'd except. 

See, Steve and Eddie are both so used to having friends share their tastes in women that they don't even consider the fact that they might have different taste in men. 

But they do.

They're hanging out in the lobby of the Hawkins Theater, waiting for the kids to finish getting their snacks, when Steve sees him. A guy with disheveled auburn hair and a black denim jacket cuffed at the sleeves with random patches on it. He's got a blue bandana tied around his forearm and bulky black boots. 

"He's cute right?" Steve asks, nodding his head toward the guy in question. 

Eddie scoffs. Scrunches up his nose like he's just smelt the worst smell imaginable and turns towards Steve. "You're kidding me, right Stevie? That dude is a grade-a-punk! A wannabe one at that! I bet he smells like cheap cigarettes and hasn't washed his hair in days." 

"You smell like cheap cigarettes and don't wash your hair every day," Steve says, rolling his eyes at Eddie's outburst. 

"Yeah, but I'm also broke. That guys doing it for the stupid aesthetic." 

Steve scoffs and lets his eyes follow the guy until he disappears inside one of the theaters. 

"Alright then, what's your type, Munson?" 

Eddie hums and takes a moment to scan the crowded theater and the stops. When he turns toward Steve, he's sporting a giant grin. 

"Guy. Six o'clock. By the butter dispenser." 

Steve slowly turns around and nearly buckles at the knee when he spots the guy in question. 

Short hair, combed back so every strand of hair is in place. He's got on a letterman jacket from one of the neighboring schools, crisp white shoes, and his left hand is tucked into the jean pocket of who he assumes to be his girlfriend. 

"Him?" Steve chokes. "But he's so…" 

"Pretty?" 

"Jock-ish!" Steve supplies instead. "I thought you hated jocks!"

"I hate what they represent," Eddie says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He tears his eyes away from the guy and stares right at Steve. "But I can't help it if they have a cute face that's begging to be corrupted." 

It isn't until days later when Steve and Eddie are both complaining to their best friends, do they realize that having different tastes might not be such a bad thing. 

Especially when their taste in men is each other.

Eddie has always loved music

Metal doesn’t entirely define who he is, but it helps him express who he is better than any other genre he’s known yet. Still, he loves other music, too. He loves the old country songs Wayne taught him, he loves the rock that crackles through on Hawkins’ only cool radio station, he loves the pop songs his mom would play in the car when she was still there to drive around with him in it

More than anything, though, Eddie loves the music of people

It sounds kind of dumb when he tries to explain it out loud (Wayne had at least humored him; his friends had looked at him like he’d been trying to sell them on a particularly outlandish D&D campaign), so he’s stopped trying, but every single person brings with them their own personal soundtrack – the little noises that come together in a way that’s unique to just them

Wayne has the rasp of sturdy denim, the gurgle of their old coffeemaker, the click of his lighter. It’s solid, earthy music, but not to be mistaken for anything common

Gareth’s is much faster-paced; a staccato beat. The rapid clicking of a pen, the squeak of slightly too-large boots, the constant drumming of his fingers on whatever surface he’s nearby

Dustin’s got paper: the whisper of turning pages, the crinkle of a crumpled sheet, the occasional, jarring pitch of its ripping into pieces. Something regular and constant that feels like it’s always building

Chrissy – Eddie hadn’t known her long, but he’d been left with the impression of something bright but… sad. The jingle of her jewelry, the gentle swish of her skirt, and the soft underscore of her tired sighs

But Steve’s– Steve’s is hard for Eddie to pin down. It’s hard to tell which parts are really his music. The clatter of pots and pans as he cooks, the sound of him mumbling to himself when he thinks no one can hear? The wood-metal clatter of a nail-studded baseball bat hitting the ground, the slam of car doors? Sure, steady footsteps and the absent, nervous knocking of knuckles on wood?

(The comforting rustle of bed sheets, the pitch of his voice when Eddie touches him just right?)

Eddie can’t pick just a few defining sounds. He can’t leave any of them out, he can’t bear to. He hears what Steve sounds like when he laughs—really laughs—and realizes he’s too greedy for all of Steve’s noises to settle for anything less than a symphony of them

“What?” Steve asks one night in bed, in the after, leaned back against the pillows and catching his breath when he turns his head to see Eddie staring. “What’s the look for?”

Eddie shrugs. “I like the way you sound.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, smiling like that wasn’t a weird thing to say, like he’s delighted that Eddie is saying anything at all, and isn’t that a fucking revelation? “What do I sound like?”

Eddie smiles back. “My new favorite song.”