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By the time Steve Harrington announces he wants a tattoo, the trailer smells like weed, cheap beer, and whatever metallic tang never quite left Eddie Munson’s bloodstream after the Upside Down spat him back out again.
They’re sprawled in opposite corners of the living area — Steve half-slumped on the couch with his boots kicked off, one sock missing, Eddie on the floor with his back against the coffee table, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. Music hums low from a cassette player that’s been looping the same side for at least an hour. Neither of them has noticed.
Steve squints at his beer like it’s personally betrayed him.
“I think,” he says slowly, carefully, like the thought might fall apart if he rushes it, “I wish I had a tattoo.”
Eddie blinks.
Once. Twice.
Then he tips his head back against the table and laughs — a loud, barking sound that rattles the change jar on the counter.
“Jesus Christ,” he says. “That’s what’s been brewing in there? I thought you were about to confess a murder.”
Steve frowns. “Why would I confess a murder.”
“I don’t know, man. Robin’s always saying you guys got into some crazy shit at Starcourt.” Eddie waves a hand. “Continue. Elaborate on your tragic lack of body art.”
Steve shrugs, unbothered. His movements are loose, languid, like gravity’s suggestions are optional right now. “I dunno. Everyone’s got something. You’ve got, like… all of them.” He gestures vaguely at Eddie’s arms. “Feels unfair.”
Eddie tilts his head, studying him with narrowed eyes. “Are you telling me Steve Harrington is experiencing tattoo envy?”
Steve nods solemnly. “Yeah. Pretty bad.”
There’s a beat. Then Eddie pushes himself upright, wobbling only a little, eyes suddenly alight with an idea that probably should not be encouraged.
“Hold on,” he says.
He disappears out the trailer door, letting it slam shut behind him. Steve hears the van door open. Close. Open again. A muffled clatter of metal.
Steve blinks at the empty doorway.
“Eddie?” he calls, voice echoing uselessly.
The door flies open again and Eddie barrels back inside, grinning like a man possessed. He’s holding a battered plastic case like it’s something holy. To him, maybe it is.
“I am so glad you said that,” Eddie announces. “Because, my beautiful, unmarked friend — I have tools.”
Steve squints harder. “Is that—”
“My tattoo kit,” Eddie says proudly.
Steve stares at it. Then at Eddie. Then back at the kit.
“You’re drunk,” he says, accusatory.
“So are you,” Eddie shoots back.
“I’m mostly stoned,” Steve corrects. “That’s different.”
Eddie snorts. “Not in a court of law, it’s not.”
He sets the kit down on the table, pops it open. The little machine gleams dully under the trailer light.
Steve’s heart does a strange little skip. Not fear. Not excitement. Something fuzzier.
“You’re not serious,” Steve says.
“Do you want a tattoo or not?”
Steve hesitates. The room feels very small all of a sudden. Very warm. Eddie’s grin softens, just a touch, like he’s checking the edges of the moment.
“Yeah,” Steve says finally. “I do.”
Eddie’s smile comes back full force. “Okay. Sick. What do you want?”
Steve thinks. This takes a while.
“I want,” he says, slow and deliberate, “one of yours.”
Eddie freezes.
“One of mine.”
“Yeah.”
“You want matching tatts?” Eddie asks, incredulous.
Steve shrugs, easy. “Yeah, man. Sure.”
There’s a long pause where Eddie just stares at him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.
“You are unbelievable.”
He flips through a stack of sketches, then stops. Looks stumped. Grins.
“I’ve got the perfect idea.”
Steve watches him set up with a kind of dreamy fascination. The buzz of the machine fills the air, sharp and electric. Eddie sanitizes Steve’s arm with exaggerated seriousness.
“Okay,” Eddie says. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
Steve nods. “Okay.”
“And if you hate it—”
“I won’t.”
Eddie glances up at him. “You don’t even know what it is.”
Steve smiles, loose and trusting. “It’s yours.”
That does something to Eddie. He swallows.
“Alright,” he mutters. “Here we go.”
It stings — not awful, but sharp enough to cut through the haze. Steve hisses, fingers curling into the couch cushion. Eddie’s touch is steady, careful, tongue poking out slightly in concentration.
It doesn’t take long.
When Eddie wipes the skin clean and leans back, Steve cranes his neck, squinting.
It’s simple. Black ink. Clean lines.
It says:
STEVE
Steve stares at it.
Then he laughs. Loud and startled.
“You tattooed my name on me?”
Eddie beams.
Steve presses a hand to his chest, wheezing. “Oh my god. You’re such an asshole.”
Steve looks at the kit. Then at Eddie.
“Can I do yours?”
Eddie snorts. “You have never tattooed anyone in your life.”
Steve nods. “Correct.”
“And you’re high.”
“Extremely.”
Eddie considers this. Then shrugs.
“Fuck it.”
He strips off his jacket and shirt, only to hold out a strip of his arm that would’ve been visible if he’d just rolled up the sleeve. Steve pointedly ignored the silver glint of piercings on Eddie’s chest.
“Okay,” Eddie says, sitting back against the couch. “Same thing.”
“You want me to put my name on your body?”
“Won’t be the stupidest tattoo I have, if I’m being honest.”
Steve stares at the machine like it might bite him.
“You’re gonna have to help,” he says.
Eddie smirks. “Obviously.”
He settles behind Steve, one hand over Steve’s, guiding the machine. The closeness is… a lot. Steve’s brain short-circuits a little.
“Okay,” Eddie murmurs near his ear. “Just follow the lines.”
Steve nods too hard. “Okay. Yeah. Got it.”
The machine buzzes.
Steve’s letters are… not good.
They wobble. They tilt. The S is too big. The T leans like it’s trying to escape. The E looks vaguely haunted.
Eddie laughs through clenched teeth as the needle digs in. “Jesus, Harrington, are you writing with your feet?”
“I’m doing my best!” Steve protests. “You keep moving!”
“I have not moved an inch in, like, five minutes.”
“Bullshit.”
“I am literally holding you.”
“Emotionally you’re not!”
Eddie laughs.
When it’s finally done, Eddie leans forward to inspect the damage.
It’s bad.
Uneven. Crooked. Deep in places it shouldn’t be.
It says St e v E, like the letters couldn’t agree on whether they wanted to be friends.
Eddie stares at it.
Then he starts laughing. Hard. Full-body, breathless laughter.
“Oh my god,” he gasps. “It’s perfect.”
Steve winces. “It’s terrible.”
“It’s yours,” Eddie says. He looks up at Steve, eyes bright and warm. “I’m never covering this.”
Steve’s chest tightens in a way he doesn’t have a word for.
They sit there, drunk and buzzing and inked, the machine still humming quietly between them.
Steve looks down at his own arm. At his name, permanent and real.
“Hey, Eddie?”
“Yeah, Stevie?”
Steve smiles, slow and soft.
“I’m really glad we lived.”
Eddie’s laughter fades. He nods once, throat working.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
“Come here,” Steve says, or maybe he just thought it loud enough to hear.
Regardless, Eddie doesn’t need to be told twice. He surges forward, clumsily knocking the tattoo kit aside in his haste to get his hands on Steve. He grips the back of Steve’s neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape, and pulls him in.
The first press of lips is desperate, uncoordinated, all teeth and sharp inhales. It tastes like cheap beer and adrenaline, messy and open-mouthed. Steve groans low in his throat, his hands coming up to frame Eddie’s jaw, thumbs dragging over the sharp bone there as he tilts his head to deepen the angle.
Eddie licks into his mouth like he’s starving, sliding one hand down to grip Steve’s shoulder, digging in hard enough to bruise. There is no technique, no rhythm — just the frantic, desperate heat of two people who have spent too long pretending they didn’t want exactly this. Steve’s teeth click against Eddie’s, and neither of them care.
They just lean closer, chest to chest, inhaling each other’s gasps, laughing breathlessly into the kiss when their noses bump.
Eddie’s hand moves to Steve’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer, and Steve chases his mouth with a soft, broken sound. For a long, heady moment, the world narrows down to the slick heat of Eddie’s mouth and the pounding of his own heart in his ears. It was perfect, it was dizzying, it was—
Steve pulls back so fast he nearly topples off the couch.
He presses a fist to his mouth, eyes wide and a little glassy, staring blankly at the wall behind Eddie’s head. He swallows hard, throat bobbing.
“Stevie?” Eddie asks, breathless and blinking, leaning forward. “You okay? Did I bite you?”
Steve holds up a finger, his other hand still clamped firmly over his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep, stabilizing breath through his nose, and then slowly lowers his hand.
“Is it,” Steve croaks, his voice raspy, face pale, “is it possible to throw up from being too high?”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Eddie stares at him. Then his eyes crinkles. Then his shoulders start to shake. A snort escapes him, uncontrolled and ugly, and then he’s full-on cackling — throwing his head back, howling with laughter, the sound bouncing off the thin walls of the trailer.
“Oh my god,” Eddie says, wiping a tear from his eye. “Only you, Harrington. Only you.”