Tell Me You Love Me, Like You Fucking Mean It

In Keds and Tube Socks

A/N; my own little take inspired by Teenage Dirtbag. Imagine Eddie, Steve, Robin and Chrissy are all seniors in 1985. 🥹 this will be mostly Eddie's POV.

TW; some internalized homophobia, some bullying around the same topic. Other than that this is a fluff piece through and through.

Every day, we have the same gym class. With the same douchebags who insist we play basketball. I don't fucking like basketball. I don't like running. I don't like any of this stupid shit, and yet here I am, sitting on the bleachers just like any other day, utterly destroyed by the sight of Steve fucking Harrington in gym shorts and mid-calf socks, with his stupid Nikes. Looking like he owns the damn court, and honestly, he kind of rocks it.

But there's not even the slightest chance he even knows who I am. I could probably name a million things that he would notice before he even gave me the time of day. Not saying that he doesn't ever not look at me, but it's almost like... he's looking through me? Like I'm not even there. And that's sort of heartbreaking but it's expected.

It wouldn't normally bother me so much, if he wasn't devastatingly fucking beautiful. Who's even allowed to have hair that perfect and a face and body looking like it's designed by the fucking gods themselves? Like someone sculpted what they consider the perfect man, and were like yep, here you go world. Do with this what you will.

I'm pathetic, truly. There's not even a chance we have anything in common outside of this gym class. We don't have the same friend group. We don't have the same interests as far as I'm aware. It's not like he would go around listening to Iron Maiden, or Metallica. I'm almost certain he doesn't even know who they are. He probably has zero to no interest in DnD.

He looks like one of those guys who learns one song on guitar to impress girls and that's about as deep as his musical talents go. Doesn't fucking matter because he's gorgeous and he doesn't even have to know anything.

"You're staring, dummy." Chrissy pushes her boney little elbow into my side.

"How is someone not supposed to stare? Have you seen those shorts?" I vaguely gesture at the god among us and Chrissy just smiles and shakes her head at me. "If you're not trying to announce your preference to the entire gym class, I would recommend controlling your eyes a little better."

"He's just so pretty it's not even fair." I put my face into my hands and she laughs. "You've lived this long."

"I've decided that the gods hate me and this is some kind of cruel joke. But a curse on the freak to be in a class with a literal angel."

"You're pathetic when you're obsessed."

"You're mean when you're right."

Even if she's being mean, she's right. I should be more careful with my glances. Someone's bound to notice me oogling Steve in his tiny shorts. And if they did, it'd be my head on a fucking platter for all the other shitheads in this school.

Averting my eyes seems to be a difficult process, however. I honestly would be more interested in sports if I could sit here and watch this man play all day and that may or may not be the most pathetic thing I've ever thought.

Before too long, our gym teacher announces that class is over and it's time to get back to the locker rooms and change. Great. I rush to get changed quickly to try to get out as soon as possible. I do not need time in here to work against me and for me to accidentally catch a full glimpse of Steve in the showers. That's not gonna help my truly unfortunate crush.

Head down, hands in my jacket pockets I walk towards to exit only to fully run into Tommy Hagen. "Sorry. I wasn't paying attention..."

"No shit you weren't. Watch where you're fucking going, freak."