This is the party scene/full Robin convo that was bracketed in Part 2
I can’t stop writing while I should be studying lord help me.
The apartment is small, but tonight it looks good.
They’ve done what they can with it. Mismatched secondhand couches have been pushed into an L-shape and a set of string lights are draped around the curtain rod and along one wall.
The overhead light is off; instead, a couple of lamps are providing the mood lighting, one with a crooked shade, one with a bulb a little too yellow. Eddie insisted on plugging in his lava lamp “for ambiance,” so there’s a slow, gloopy red glow in the corner like the room has a pulse.
Music hums from Eddie’s battered stereo: The Cure fading into Talking Heads, then something heavier Steve doesn’t recognize but nods along to anyway. There’s a constant undercurrent of chatter—ten people squeezed into too little space, voices overlapping, someone laughing too loud from the hallway.
The coffee table is a battlefield of snacks: two big bowls of chips, a smaller bowl of pretzels, a tray of baby carrots and celery that no one is touching, a couple of dips (one store-bought, one made by Steve and proudly labeled “GOOD DIP” on a post-it), a half-open pizza box with greasy napkins stuffed inside, and a plate of brownies Robin brought in a suspicious-looking Tupperware.
The kitchen counter features a lineup of bottles that include cheap beer, a couple of nicer craft things someone brought to impress Eddie, Carol’s “absolutely not cheap” bottle of white wine, a sticky bottle of rum, a two-liter of Coke, and a mismatched set of glasses.
The kitchen itself is tiny square linoleum, white cabinets that never quite close all the way, and a stove with one burner that’s emotionally unstable.
Steve moves through it all like he’s hosting a real, grown-up party and not two dudes in their twenties overexcited about an apartment with no weird stains on the ceiling.
Every now and then he catches sight of himself in the hallway mirror. His hair is behaving, his shirt fits snugly around his arms, and his blue Levis make his ass look great.
He’s refilling the chips when the front door opens.
Eddie steps in backwards, arms full of plastic grocery bags. He’s dressed up in black jeans, the new vintage leather jacket he thrifted last week, a dark band tee, and smudged eyeliner that’s slightly imperfect in a way that makes Steve’s chest feel weirdly tight. His hair is a little frizzy from the cold, rings flashing as he juggles the bags.
Behind him comes a guy. Blonde. Tall-ish. Band tee, denim vest with patches, tight jeans, scuffed boots. Eddie spins around, pushing the door closed with his foot, beaming.
“Steve! Snack reinforcements arrive!” Eddie declares. “And this is—uh, yeah, this is Kyle.”
Steve steps forward, wiping salt from his fingers onto his jeans, and plasters on a smile. “Hey, man. Nice to meet you.”
Kyle’s handshake is firm, his smile easy. “You too. Thanks for having me.”
“That’s all Munson,” Steve says, jerking his chin toward Eddie. “I’m just the guy who puts things in bowls.”
Granted, not his best line, but Eddie laughs and bumps his shoulder against Steve’s as he hands over the grocery bags. The contact is casual, familiar. Steve finds himself leaning in without a second thought.
“Hey, you are a talented artisanal drip maker.” Eddie corrects. “Show some respect.”
Steve snorts and starts unpacking. Chips. More chips. A bag of cherry tomatoes he absolutely did not ask for. “What, you brought salad to our housewarming?”
“That’s called balance, Stevie,” Eddie says. “Rock ‘n’ roll, but also, like, vitamins.” He turns back to Kyle, and he loops a finger through one of Kyle’s belt loops in a thoughtless, easy move. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
Steve watches as Eddie leads Kyle into the living room, talking with his hands. The leather jacket creaks when he moves. Kyle leans in, attentive, laughing at something Eddie says.
Something coils and tightens in Steve’s stomach, and he suddenly feels hot. He frowns, worries his bottom lip, and follows them into the living room with two bowls of chips.
Later, the kitchen fills briefly with people on drink runs and smoke breaks. Right now, it’s just Steve and Robin standing by the sink while she rummages through the cabinets.
“Why is Carol here?” She asks, blowing the dust out of the bottom of a glass. “I thought we agreed not to invite chaos goblins.”
“Carol brought the fancy wine,” Steve says. “And also, reminds me of someone else I know.”
Robin straightens, giving him a flat look. “Wow. Calling your best friend a chaos goblin in your own home. In our home.”
“Emotionally, I do,” she says, opening the fridge. “Where’s the good beer?”
He plucks one from the counter and hands it to her. “Here. And she’s not that bad.”
“She’s going to say something brutally honest and ruin someone’s night,” Robin insists. “I can feel it.”
“Again,” Steve says, “reminds me of someone else I know.”
She kicks him in the ankle.
The music shifts to something heavier from Eddie’s tapes. Laughter bursts from the living room as someone (Gareth, from the sound of it) yells about cheating at something.
Robin leans against the counter, sipping her beer. “So,” she says. “How do we feel about Eddie’s new beau?”
“‘We’?” Steve asks innocently.
“Obviously,” she says. “So, do we like him?”
He shrugs, opens the fridge just to look inside, even though he doesn’t need anything. “He seems fine.”
Robin’s eyes narrow. “Fine?”
Steve tries a casual tone. “Matches Eddie to a T. Blond metalhead. Patches. Boots. You know. Clone number four.”
“What’s his name?” Robin asks.
Robin cackles. “Wow. Brutal.”
Another long pause. It stretches on.
Robin nods as if Steve is saying something.
“Mm-hm, mm-hm,” she says, still nodding, “So we don’t like him. Got it.”
Steve shrugs again. “Didn’t say that.”
Robin watches him for a moment, and he can feel her filing everything away. She rolls her eyes, lets it go.
The next time the kitchen becomes a pocket of quiet, it’s between rounds of cards. Voices echo from the living room, music a little louder now, someone shouting from the hallway about where they left their lighter.
Steve stands at the counter, tipping chips from one bag to another, when Eddie slides in, shoulder-first, already reaching for the fridge.
“Hey sweetheart,” Eddie says. “How’s the snack economy holding up?”
“Inflation’s rough, but we’re managing,” Steve says. “Beer?”
“Grabbed.” Eddie pulls one from the fridge, then another. “One for the boyfriend,” he adds, waggling it.
Steve’s stomach flips at the word. He smirks instead of screaming. “You better be careful throwing ‘sweetheart’ around,” he says lightly. “Might lose the boyfriend if he hears you flirting with the help.”
Eddie’s grin sharpens, delighted. He bumps Steve’s hip with his own. “Are we flirting?”
Eddie laughs, tilting his head back, throat bared for a split second. Steve’s gaze lingers on instinct, snagging on the curve of Eddie’s jaw, the subtle shadow of stubble he didn’t bother to fully shave.
“So,” Eddie says, pressing his hip against Steve’s. They’re close enough that Steve can see the smudge of eyeliner at the corner of his eyes. “What do you really think of him?”
There’s a pregnant pause. Eddie holds Steve’s gaze. It’s intense. It’s questioning.
Steve feels heat creep up from his chest to his neck, reaching his face.
“He seems nice,” He clears his throat, pulls away a little. “Matches you. Patched vest, tragic boots. Very on-brand.”
Eddie holds his gaze another beat before making a wounded noise. “On-brand? Knife to the heart, Stevie! Knife to the heart!”
“You know what I mean” Steve says, then reaches out to touch Eddie’s leather jacket again, pushing some of Eddie’s hair behind his shoulder as he does so. “ I like your jacket.”
Eddie has that look again, like Steve’s said something that needs to be studied.
His eyes lock onto Steve’s fingers as they trace the black leather, then lift back up to Steve’s face. They lock eyes. Eddie opens his mouth like he’s about to say something before deciding against it and tugging at the lapel instead.
“Thrift store miracle. Five bucks. I practically mugged an old man for it.”
“You clean up nice,” Steve says, too honest, so he barrels right on. “The earring, too.”
Eddie’s hand lifts unconsciously to the dagger that dangles from his left ear. “Yeah?”
Eddie seems to be considering him again, but only for a moment. His gaze softens, bottle dangling loosely from his hand. “You’re a good man, Harrington,” he says suddenly. Then, without warning, he leans in and wraps Steve in a quick, tight hug.
Steve freezes. Then melts.
“Love you, sweetheart,” Eddie says against his hair.
“Yeah,” Steve says, voice thin. “Love you too.”
Eddie pulls away, smile wide and easy, then grabs the other beer and heads back into the living room.
Something queasy and desperate curls under Steve’s ribs, like he swallowed a live wire.
He stands in the kitchen a moment longer, then forces himself to rejoin the party.
The card game ends up being President—the one where whoever wins a round is “President” next round and whoever loses hardest is “Asshole.” It’s technically simple, but the group has injected complicated house rules, mostly involving drinking and swearing.
Gareth is thriving as some kind of middle-ranking something. Robin is loudly accusing everyone of forming alliances. Nancy and her girlfriend—short hair, cool glasses, indie band shirt whose name Steve doesn’t recognize—are sharing one end of the couch, knees touching, quietly demolishing everyone.
Steve sits cross-legged on the rug beside Robin, leaning back against the couch, while Eddie has claimed a spot directly across from him. Kyle sits to Eddie’s left, close enough that their shoulders brush.
Steve suddenly feels like he’s staring. He focuses on the cards in Eddie’s hands instead.
The living room is hazy now. Someone cracked a window, but the air still smells like smoke, beer, and pizza. The string lights cast soft halos over the room. The lava lamp burps another blob of red behind Gareth’s head.
Eddie shuffles the deck one-handed like a show-off, cards snapping together in quick, practiced bursts. Steve watches his fingers: the rings, the calluses, the way his hands move with easy precision. His nails are painted black, chipped at the edges. His eyeliner has creased along his lids, making his eyes look darker, softer. He’s pulled his hair back, and a few strands of hair curl against the back of his neck.
He’s smiling as he deals.
Steve’s whole body goes still.
“Oh fuck,” he says out loud.
It’s not that loud, but Robin is right next to him, and she hears it. “What?” she asks.
He doesn’t answer. He can’t. He’s too busy watching Eddie, who is in the middle of explaining a house rule to Nancy’s girlfriend, gesturing with the deck, entirely unaware that Steve’s internal architecture just collapsed.
He doesn’t just love Eddie.
“Ew,” she says, scrunches her nose. “Munson?”
Steve lets out a long, miserable sigh.
She leans in closer so no one else can hear over the music and Gareth yelling about strategy.
“You could just blow him,” she suggests, waggles her eyebrows.
Steve chokes. “I love him, Robin!” he whispers, horrified, still in shock from the realization.
“All the more reason to,” she says, tipping back the rest of her beer.
Across from them, Eddie looks up, smiles wide, one ringed finger tapping the top of the deck.
“Ready, sweetheart?” he asks.
Steve’s heart somersaults.
