Chapter Text
Eddie Munson was in the last place he thought he would ever be on a Wednesday afternoon.
After arriving in Chicago for the next stop on Corroded Coffin's Raising the Dead tour, their manager, Nancy Wheeler, presented them with suite tickets to the Chicago Cubs game. One of the player’s brothers was apparently a huge fan, and having Eddie and the boys photographed at the game would help sell the last few tickets and build hype for the concert over the coming weekend. It also gave Eddie a chance to scope out their venue, since they would be setting up the stage on the field once the home series ended. However, Eddie was not going to acquiesce to a sports game without a protest of his own.
"Nancy, we are not sports people. In fact, it was those same types that made our lives such hell in school,” Eddie bemoaned dramatically, emphasizing his sentences with sweeping arm gestures and accusatory finger pointing, pacing the hotel suite they all shared. “And yes, that was 10 years ago, but I have an excellent memory, and even a few scars to remember it by!" Eddie punctuated the end of his rant with a spinning sweep of his arms before collapsing dramatically onto the sofa, his long, gangly limbs spread akimbo.
Nancy sighed, shaking her head and pinching the bridge of her nose in annoyance, curled bob bouncing with the motion. "Look, it's 3 hours tops, there will be food and drinks in the suite, and if you get photographed at the game, I bet you sell out the rest of those tickets before the show on Saturday.” She lectured, tapping her pen on the clipboard she always seemed to have with her. “Chicago loves the Cubs, and Steve Harrington is their golden boy."
Eddie began to roll his eyes, then looked to his band members, his focus darting between the three of them. Gareth shrugged before resuming his near-constant finger tapping on his thighs to whatever music currently played in his mind. "Might as well, maybe it could be fun,” he conceded, not wanting to go against the advice of their long-time manager.
Eddie frowned and glared down at Jeff, who cut his eyes back to Gareth before he spoke. "Weirdly enough, I kind of like baseball,” Jeff added after a pointed look from Eddie, who loudly scoffed and threw his hands up before crossing them over his chest, a nearly identical copy to Jeff’s toddler niece, though he would never speak it.
Finally, Eddie leveled his gaze at Frank, who gulped before sputtering out, "I mean, free food and drinks are nice." Eddie slid down further in the seat, head thunking against the back of the couch before sighing deeply. Bold of him to assume that Frank would join with Eddie to split the vote. The man was a consummate people pleaser and a self-proclaimed hater of conflict.
" Ugh…fine!" Eddie snapped, throwing his hands up and letting them drop dramatically on the couch to either side of him," but don't expect me to be happy about it."
Which brings us to the present, where Eddie sits on a barstool overlooking the diamond in the cushy Legends suite at Wrigley Field, his left forearm leaning against the bartop as he tipped his head back to take a swig of the ice-cold beer recently pressed into his empty hand. At least the day was lovely, the sky a bright blue with wispy cirrus clouds floating in the breeze, the steady brush of wind just enough to cool the warm rays of the July sun without blowing Eddie’s curls wildly across his face.
A bat cracked, and Eddie flinched, ducking his head instinctively for a ball his body assumed was heading right for him. He knew there was netting keeping the balls from getting to them, but that didn't stop his anxiety from expecting every single one of those fuckers to come flying at his face like some kind of jock-powered magic missile.
“I would say you get used to it, but you really don’t,” a voice ahead of him soothed. Eddie looked up to see a woman with short brown hair and blue eyes seated ahead of him, a long, thin arm slung over the seat next to her so she could turn and speak. She had one leg propped up on the seat in front of her, the scuffed, high-top shoe covered in doodles and stitched with designs. She also wore a white-and-blue striped jersey, the seat obscuring everything but the name HARRINGTON in dark blue across the back, accented with red trim. “I mean, I’ve been going to Steve’s games since college, and I still flinch every time,” the woman remarked, chuckling to herself. “I’m Robin, by the way.”
“Ah, so you must be Harrington’s lucky girl!” Eddie exclaims, rising from the barstool and sweeping his hands open in a dramatic bow, one arm folded across his chest, palm resting on his heart. “Eddie Munson, pleasure to meet you.”
“Eww, no.” Robin clips, a disgusted look on her face, “Steve is my very platonic best friend. And roommate, but I am but a humble graduate student, and he makes fuck you amounts of money.” Eddie barks out a laugh at her statement as he collapses in the seat next to her, the lively organ music fading out. The announcer’s voice booms through the stadium to introduce the starting lineup. Eddie leans forward with tentative curiosity. Though he isn’t a fan of sports, he is a fan of a dramatic moment.
“Aaaand now the starting lineup for your Chicago Cubs!” The announcer bellowed, causing the crowd noise to swell in a cheer. The announcer called the first three batters, the organ music trading seamlessly with the announcer to play short ditties after each name. Pictures and videos styled like baseball cards flashed across the left-field video board to showcase each player, all of whom held a bat and took a slow practice swing in their announcement videos. None of them Eddie recognized. It wasn’t until number four that his eyes lit up in recognition.
“Batting cleanup and catching for the Cubs, number eighty-six, Steve Harrington!!”
The crowd roared after the announcer called Steve’s name, Robin whooping enthusiastically next to him. Eddie turned to glance at her, huffing out a laugh at her exuberance. He looked up to the video board to watch Steve spin the bat in his hand before taking a slow practice swing. He then brought the bat to his shoulder, the barrel tapping twice. Eddie could see why Steve was the popular one, golden-brown curls swooping artfully out of his blue baseball cap, hazel eyes sparkling with mirth, a lopsided grin creeping mischievously onto his face as the announcer ran through the rest of the team before the national anthem began.
“You look like the fourth of July,” Eddie hears Frank quote softly in a high-pitched voice, “Makes me want a hot dog real bad.” The other members of Corroded Coffin all snickered quietly at his antics, and Eddie cut his eyes over to Robin, whose face turned red at trying to contain her laugh. The anthem concluded, and the group laughed freely, turning to smack Frank on the arm, each playful swat making his grin grow.
“Made it just in time!” A young, curly-haired man exclaimed, plopping into the seat on the other side of Robin before he turned and made eye contact with Eddie. “Holy shit, you’re Eddie Munson!” The man reached across Robin with a proffered hand, which Eddie grasped. “The one and only,” Eddie grinned in response, clasping his free hand on the other side of the man’s hand to shake enthusiastically.
“Statistically, that’s highly unlikely,” the man stated with a slight lisp, “I’m Dustin, by the way. I knew Steve said he was giving you and the band tickets, but I didn’t think you’d actually come!”
“Dustin here is Steve’s little brother,” Robin informed, “and is the team’s resident stat-nerd.”
“Baseball operations analyst,” Dustin quips back, before driving rock music fills the stadium.
“And now, taking the field, your Chicago Cubs!” The announcer booms across the stadium as the players begin to run out of the dugout and take their positions on the field.
“That’s Steve,” Robin points, indicating a player wearing a caged helmet and a protective chestplate, who taps the pitcher twice on the chest with his glove before taking up a position behind home plate, squatting with one knee to the ground. “Hard to tell it’s him with all that gear on.”
Eddie’s eyes are locked onto their generous ticket-bestower as the pitcher winds up and sends a ball screaming to the plate. Eddie can hear the snap of the ball in the glove from their place in the suite, even over the music. His mouth hangs open slightly in shock before Dustin speaks up. “Those balls can top at over 100 miles an hour,” he informs, causing Eddie to whip his head back to Dustin, “Matt typically keeps it around 93 to 94 for his fastball, but lefty fastballs sit a bit lower than righties, but Luke has hit 105 before.”
“And he just stands in front of them?” Eddie asks in shock, looking back to the field as Steve takes more warm-up pitches, ball snapping into the glove loudly each time.
“Yeah, catchers are all a little crazy,” Robin chortles, “Steve especially, but that’s why we love him.” Dustin nods enthusiastically, though his eyes never leave the field. Eddie uses the moment to study Steve and all the equipment he is sporting to protect himself from errant balls. It almost looks like armor, the chestplate forming a Y over his shoulder blades, two straps linking to the end under his arms. Blue and red guards encase his legs and, to Eddie’s eyes, look akin to greaves, and he shields his face with a caged face mask that sits on a backwards blue helmet. Truly a knight of baseball.
Steve pops to his feet quickly before rocketing the ball to the third baseman, who then sends it around the horn, as Dustin calls it, the ball following along the bases to each player in order before making its way back to the pitcher. A man in all black with a similar caged face mask takes his place behind Steve, who turns to shake his hand before taking up his squatting position as a player enters the batter’s box, taking slow practice swings before locking in to a ready stance. The pitcher kicked his leg high before twisting and whipping his arm out, ball flying across the field as it snapped into Steve’s waiting glove. The man in black behind Steve let out a sound Eddie swears he has heard in old kung-fu movies, then made a motion with his arms. The batter barely even moved, which to Eddie’s untrained eyes seemed impressive. He didn’t stay still for long as he cranked the bat through the box in front of Steve but missed the ball completely, causing another exclamation from what Eddie now knows is an umpire from the near-constant informative spiel from Dustin. The third pitch hits the dirt and bounces into Steve’s chest protector before the catcher snaps it up from the dirt and throws it toward the dugout, the umpire providing a fresh ball that Steve sends back to the pitcher.
Pitch four is when action happens: the batter finally makes contact, only to send the ball almost directly upward. Steve rockets up from his crouched position, whipping off his face mask, helmet tumbling away as he stares skyward at the ball, which floats in time before reaching the apex of its arc and beginning its descent, picking up speed. Steve shifts in small movements, tracking the ball and positioning himself skillfully under it before he lifts his glove to catch the pop-up with ease. It’s then that a dramatically timed breeze makes itself known, catching the golden brown of Steve’s soft waves as a smile splits his face before sending the ball back to the pitcher. He bends to pick up the helmet and face mask, putting them on with one hand before he returns to his position in front of the umpire as the second batter of the inning enters the box.
Eddie would never admit it to the other band members, but he was starting to see the appeal of baseball.
The top of the first inning ends with minimal action, the third batter grounding out to first (Dustin’s words), the only moment that sends a baseball away from Steve. The first two batters of the Cubs were quickly retired, one struck out swinging, the other a flyout to right field (also Dustin’s words). The third batter, the team’s shortstop, was now up to bat. Both Dustin and Robin pointed to the on-deck circle (again, Dustin), where Steve walked up sans catcher’s gear, holding his bat between his thighs just above his knees. At the same time, he adjusted his batting gloves and sprayed some kind of aerosol can onto the handle grip before fitting a tube over the barrel of the bat. He began taking slow practice swings, breaking down each movement into distinct motions to isolate his technique before speeding it up. After a few faster swings, the shortstop made contact with the ball, hitting a rocket between the first and second basemen to roll into right field, taking first base while the crowd cheered for the first hit of the game. Robin gently gripped Eddie’s bicep, shaking him with excitement as she pointed to the dugout, “Steve’s turn!”
Eddie’s jaw drops open as he hears a familiar drum and guitar riff before Jeff and his voice ring out through the stadium, the fans echoing his words as the guitar and drums kick into a fast and heavy riff. When Jeff explained the concept of walkout music to him earlier in the game, he never expected to hear one of their own songs blasted through the stadium. Eddie’s fingers moved in time with the music, muscle memory guiding his small air guitar moment as Steve tapped the handle of the bat against the ground to remove the weight before striding confidently into the batter’s box.
“Holy shit!” Gareth, seated directly behind Eddie, exclaimed in shock, shaking Eddie by the shoulders. “Harrington has our song as his walkout music!”
Eddie looks up to the jumbotron screens to see a close-up of Harrington as he steps up to the batter's box, nodding his head briefly at the opposing team’s catcher before he taps the end of the bat on each shoe, bringing the bat up to his shoulder and squatting slightly to get in batting position, his eyes focused like a laser on the pitcher.
The first pitch flies in just below the strike zone, Steve remaining completely still as the ball snaps into the mitt of the catcher. He steps back briefly, taking a couple of slow swings before dropping into his ready stance—the second ball curves toward him in a spiral motion before diving into the dirt. Steve once again takes a step back, this time adjusting his batting gloves before taking a practice swing.
“They’re scared of him,” Dustin remarked, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees, clasped hands propping up his chin.
“Scared of him?” Eddie questions, tilting his head at Dustin before turning back to watch the action. This pitch speeds toward home plate, noticeably faster than the previous pitch, prompting Steve to torque into a powerful swing toward the ball. The bat cracks in connection with the ball, arcing behind him and over the net to land in the bleachers between home plate and third base. Foul ball.
“They’re scared of him because he’s a damn good player,” Robin fills in, lifting her propped foot off the back of the seat to lean forward similarly to Dustin, elbows on her knees, and eyes forward toward Steve.
“Yeah, they don’t want to give him anything he can get a hold of,” Dustin muses as the crack of the bat against the ball rings out through the stadium. The ball rockets up the middle, cutting a line between the second base and shortstop and rolling through center field. Steve cruised around first base, the turn dislodging his batting helmet as he ran and stopped at second. Steve was beaming as he began pulling off his batting equipment, running a hand through his messy waves as soon as he took off his gloves, then looking to the bench and raising both hands into the air. Equipment removed and helmet acquired, he took his place just off second base, ready to run at the next base hit.
“Hell yeah, Steve!!” Dustin shouts, with Robin whistling. He heard the Corroded Coffin boys celebrating too, Jeff grabbing Eddie’s shoulders from behind and shaking him in his seat. Eddie smiled at their antics and yelled along with them, riding the high of the crowd as their team got their second hit of the game with two players on base. Steve was fun to watch, entirely in his element with a boyish charm that offset his skill - he knew he was good, but he also enjoyed the game.
The next batter took advantage of the pitcher's caution, wanting to get the strikeout to end the inning. The batter anticipated this, though, and hit a missile to deep right field, bouncing off the wall just shy of a homerun. As soon as they heard the crack of the bat, Steve and the other runner were off, both of them sprinting around the bases, pushing for a run. The first runner made it with ease, and as soon as Steve rounded third, he kicked it into overdrive to get the run home. He dropped into a slide as soon as the ball bounced back in the infield en route to the catcher, his batting helmet lifting off his head, honey waves whipping in the wind before sliding left foot first into the base, right leg bent at the knee to cushion the fall before spinning upward into a stand. The two scoring runners high-fived each other before turning to the player who made it to second and giving long-distance high-fives to him. The player returned this gesture to the dugout, many of whom were standing and cheering at the runs scored. The opposing team finally managed to earn the third out on the next at-bat. Eddie clapped his hands onto his knees to stand, sauntering back into the suite to grab a fresh beer before the next inning began.
Eddie spent the next couple of innings talking to Dustin and Robin about a variety of topics. Dustin attempted to describe what he does with the team, but all Eddie got out of it was that sabers were involved. He also learned Robin is working towards a graduate degree in linguistics at the University of Chicago. Eddie talks to both of them about his music, their tour, and a few early song ideas, the Corroded Coffin boys chiming in with quips, stories, and misfortunes of a traveling group of musicians.
The group always stops when Steve comes up to bat. It’s endearing how much the pair cares about Steve, in contrast to how they react to the rest of the game. Dustin manages to nitpick every detail about almost every player as they come up to bat, like he has some kind of statistics database in his brain, but never once critiques Steve in the same way. Robin barely pays attention to the game, only breaking their conversation to look at the field when they hear the ball make contact with a bat. Steve’s second at bat is what Dustin calls a sacrifice fly, a move that means Steve is out but pushes a runner across to score. A productive out, he exposits, diving into details and analysis way over Eddie’s completely beginner understanding of how baseball even works. His second at bat was a line drive, but it rocketed directly back to the pitcher, who snapped it up quickly just to the left of his face. Steve seemed impressed by that, a slow-motion replay on the scoreboard showing the hit from his perspective, a quick snap of the glove from the pitcher to nab the ball, and a close-up of Steve’s face, eyebrows raising in shock slowly before he nodded his head in appreciation of the quick reflexes of the catcher.
His time as a catcher is equally entertaining to Eddie; the skill and confidence with which Steve moves are impressive and a little sexy. He knew nothing of the sport, but watching Steve leap up with the ball and hurl it to second base to tag a runner out was an impressive feat, as was watching the reaction afterward, the pitcher running up and tapping Steve on the ass with his glove, and boy, how those baseball pants hugged just right. Eddie was a weak, weak man, but he should have known better than to crush on the straight jock. But looking was fine, right?
It was soon the bottom of the ninth, and the Cubs trailed 6-3 when Steve came up to bat, bases loaded. After Steve’s walkout music cut off, you could hear a pin drop in the stadium. Pitch one was a fastball, rocketing in right down the center of the strike zone, the snap of the ball in the glove echoing across the field. Steve stood utterly still, taking the strike. The next, a breaking ball down and left, outside the strike zone, and barely snapped up by the opposing catcher: one ball and one strike.
“Holy shit, this is stressful,” Eddie said through clenched teeth, twisting the rings on his fingers nervously. How he had gotten so invested, he didn’t know, but all of them sat forward in their seats, Robin clutching her hands together in an almost prayer-like motion. Dustin, hands interlocked on top of his head, had turned his hat inside out for some reason (he called it a rally cap, some kind of baseball superstition, which Eddie was learning happened often). If he had turned around, he would have seen Jeff, Frank, and Gareth all holding hands in some sort of unholy prayer to the baseball gods, all of them jittering with tension.
“No kidding,” Robin mumbles, her knee bouncing anxiously as Steve steps back into the batter’s box. He was laser-focused on the opposing pitcher, eyes slightly narrowed as he searched for any potential signs of what pitch was to come as the pitcher shook his head at the first two pitch calls from the catcher before nodding at the third. Pitch three zipped towards Steve, a fastball that floated just outside the strike zone for a ball. Pitch four was a twisting curveball, fouled off into the first base stands. The count was even, and it felt as if the stadium itself was holding its breath.
Pitch five was where the pitcher made a grave error. It flew straight down the center of the strike zone, but Steve was ready for it this time, lifting a knee to give him more torque as his body twisted, bat cutting toward the ball. The ball cracked off the bat, rocketing towards right field. Steve began to run, dropping the bat but watching the ball's trajectory. The stadium erupted, growing louder and louder the further the ball flew, until it landed in the right field bleachers. He threw his arms up in celebration, slowing to a jog as he rounded the bases, feeding off the energy of the crowd.
“Holy shit, that was a walk-off grand slam!!” Dustin screamed, as all of them jumped to their feet, shouting and cheering as Steve and his teammates all rounded the bases. Dustin grabbed Robin by the shoulders and shook her forward and backward. The Corroded Coffin boys all lifted their interlocked hands in triumph, momentarily pulling the much shorter Gareth off his feet. Eddie cheered along with them, bringing his fingers to his mouth in a piercing whistle before Jeff once again slammed his hands down in excitement on Eddie’s shoulders. The entire stadium was also whipped into a frenzy, surging up and down like waves from a distance (but not THE wave, which was apparently a faux pas according to one of Dustin’s many lectures). Music filled the stadium, the booming bass and percussive explosions of fireworks made Eddie feel the celebration as much as he heard it, giving him the same energized adrenaline rush he got before running out on stage to perform.
The team seemed just as excited, all crowded together around home base, leaving just the path between third and home open for Steve, who was beaming as he rounded third. He held his arms out to each side like he was a little kid imitating a plane before grabbing his batting helmet and sending it skyward, jumping down onto home plate, and immediately getting mobbed by the team. He disappeared in the center of the chaos for a brief moment before a group of players lifted coolers of Gatorade, and the other team members parted, Steve getting drenched in ice-cold blue and red drink. He whipped his soaking hair back before running a hand through it, beaming madly at the other players, who were patting his back, grabbing and pulling his jersey, and attempting to tousle his hair, which he somehow managed to dodge. The players began to separate and spread out, though many remained on the field as a new song began to play over the loudspeakers, the crowd eagerly joining in to sing along. Eddie noticed many of the players on the field were also either singing along or hyping up the crowd. Steve did a combination of the two, holding a hand up to his ear before joining in on the chorus.
“Go Cubs Go! Go Cubs Go! Hey, Chicago, what do you say, the Cubs are gonna win today!”
“They have their own theme song?” Gareth exclaimed in excitement. The band members all turned to one another, their shared brain cell all coming to the same conclusion: they had to make a cover of this song. “Do other teams have their own songs?” Gareth asked Dustin, who shrugged without breaking his own shout-singing. “Pantera wrote one!” Jeff shouted over the crowd, slinging an arm around Gareth’s shoulders, “The Dallas hockey team plays it when they score goals!”
The crowd continued singing as they all filtered out of the stadium, even long after the song finished, the celebration spilling out into Wrigleyville. The suite that Eddie and the others were in continued their libations, all toasting to a win before Frank suggested shotgunning a beer in celebration. After a few minutes and six fewer beers, the door swung open, and Dustin and Robin turned to see Steve enter. Both called out his name and booked it towards him.
Eddie may as well have looked right at the sun, as bright as Harrington was beaming, as both Dustin and Robin threw their arms around his shoulders. Both were speaking lightning fast at him in their excitement, one in each ear. His eyes crinkled in mirth before they darted between the two of them, trying to keep up with the separate streams of conversations, finally settling between the two of them on Eddie, Gareth, Jeff, and Frank.
“You must be Corroded Coffin!” He greeted, slipping between Robin and Dustin and walking over to shake hands, “I’m happy you could make it, Dusty and I are both big fans.”
Steve gripped Eddie’s hand firmly, palm warm and surprisingly dry considering he was still in his damp uniform, Gatorade dripping from his hair, “Gotta say, I didn’t expect a pretty boy jock like yourself to be a metal fan,” Eddie quipped, giving Steve a salacious smile before scanning him appreciatively head to toe. Steve’s cheeks flushed a dusky rose, his hand lifting to rub the back of his neck bashfully before his eyes lifted to stare at Eddie through long lashes, “Yeah, well, Dustin was the one who got me into it, in all honesty. That plus a smidge of teenage rebellion was the right combination, I guess. Plus, it makes great workout music.”
A woman’s head popped into the door as the group chatted, announcing that Steve had a post-game press conference in five minutes. “Guess that’s my cue,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder at the door, “If you don’t have plans after the game, we are doing a barbecue at my place.” Steve glanced between all the Corroded Coffin guys, but his eyes lingered on Eddie, warm hazel flicking up and down quickly before winking at the rocker, a lopsided smirk plastered on his face. The Corroded Coffin boys all looked at each other, Jeff nodding enthusiastically. Frank shrugged, and Gareth smiled mischievously at Eddie. He didn’t like that look one bit.
“I guess we can swing by,” Eddie said, eyebrows knitted together in confusion and concern at whatever mischief was soon to head his way as he clocked Gareth’s expression. Still, he shook away the expression before turning to smile at Steve. That blinding smile returned, a sparkle in Steve’s eyes. “Great!” Steve acknowledged, clapping Eddie on the shoulder, warm hand squeezing lightly before sliding away to perch on Steve’s hip. “Robin can give you the details.”
Steve walked up to Nancy just before leaving, whom Eddie only now realized had essentially disappeared as soon as she shepherded them into the suite and had suddenly materialized again. He swept her up in a crushing hug, lifting her off her toes. Nancy kicked her feet and swatted at Steve playfully with a soft chuckle, then realized he was still wet from the end-game cooler dunk as she snipped at him to put her down, eyebrows furrowed and a slight pout to her face. He laughed and set her down, and she immediately pulled her shirt away from her body to assess for any stains or wet patches, the whole front of her shirt lightly damp from his uniform.
“It was good to see you, Nance Pants,” he grinned playfully, flipping his hair out of his face before sauntering towards the door and raising a hand to wave at them all without looking, “See you at the barbecue!”
Steve disappeared through the door, and Nancy immediately grabbed napkins from the suite to begin blotting her shirt before she looked up in concern at the silence.
"Nance Pants?" The band choruses in unison as soon as she makes eye contact. Gareth had his shit-eating grin plastered on his face, Frank pointedly was not making eye contact with Gareth and was biting his lip in an effort not to laugh, and Jeff was still looking between her and the door, trying to solve the puzzle that was Nancy’s familiarity with the star baseball player that just won the game, sauntered into their suite, flirted with Eddie, then quite literally swept their manager from her feet (of which she clearly took little pleasure in). Jeff then cut his eyes over to Eddie, whose eyebrows were furrowed in confusion, before he shook it off and gave a toothy grin.
"We are NOT talking about it."