Chapter 1: one.
Chapter Text
THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
did you guys know there’s a whole channel for sports?THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
cause i didn’tDJ JAZZY JEFF @therealjefffaugn
@eddievaninhaler yeah man, couple of emTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
@therealjefffaughn
[GIF: Lucille Bluth, nodding at the camera, saying, “Good for her.”]DJ JAZZY JEFF @therealjefffaugn
@eddievaninhaler what you watching?THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
@therealjefffaughn the 2023 world aquatics championships. i’m into it tbhDJ JAZZY JEFF @therealjefffaugn
@eddievaninhaler seriously? how stoned are you?THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
@therealjefffaughn rude!!! i’m not stoned at all!! ii’m legit fascinated by the sport i’m in it for the love of the game okayTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
@therealjefffaughn bc it’s a beautiful sport full of intricacy and intrigue ansd whatnot + it is deserviving of this prime time ESP spotTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
in unrelated news does anyone know if this guy is free to hang out thursday?MICHIGAN SWIMMING & DIVING @umichswimdive
Congrats to recent UMich grad and two time Olympian Steve Harrington on his performance at this year’s World Aquatics Championship!
[ALT TEXT: Harrington, pictured here with friend and fellow swimmer Heather Holloway, stands in his swim trunks with medals around his neck: four gold, two silver. Holloway has a gold and three silvers of her own. They are both damp, and grinning.]THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
because i’m free thursday if he wants to hang out on thursday night when i’m free
It was a little before eight pm when Steve let himself into the condo he shared with Robin. His shoulders were killing him, he was jet-lagged to f*ck, and it was blisteringly hot despite the fact that the sun had started thinking about setting, but something smelled absolutely delicious coming from the kitchen and Steve was also f*cking starving. Him and Heather had bought snacks at duty-free like it was going out of style, back in f*ckuoka and then again in Hong Kong while waiting for their connection, but there was only so much those snacks, plentiful they may have been, and two in-flight meals could do for athletes like them. They’d even contemplated just eating again at Logan together before getting in their respective Ubers home, but they’d both just wanted their own beds after nearly ten days of hotel rooms and living out of each others pockets — to say nothing of how you feel about anyone, even a good friend, after twenty hours of traveling together. So they’d split, air kisses and half hugs and Steve to his place in Southie and Heather to Jamaica Plain.
Steve had never been a big jet-setter guy, even with his chosen career path. He’d always been kind of a homebody, would much rather tool around Boston or visit the family back in Indiana than be constantly on the move. But such was life for an Olympic swimmer, he knew, especially one that had at least two more Olympics in him: next summer, in Paris, and then 2028 after that. Then he could start thinking about what the future would look like, if he’d go for Olympics number six just to say he beat Phelps at least there (but, listen, he was going for medals too) or if he’d retire after five trips to the parthenon or whatever.
(His own pool, he thought most days, when his mind wandered to the image of retirement. Usually on long haul flights like Hong Kong to Boston, honestly, after an equally long competition. He’d open his own pool, train some kids the way that Ben Hammond had trained him when he was that age, and probably live off all that sweet, sweet Wheaties money as long as he could before picking up some ESPN commenting gig like SVP was always trying to threaten him with — usually when Steve would remember Dustin and Erica had made him a Twitter so he could out of pocket during the NBA season to people who would, quote, actually care, thanks, Erica.)
But for now he was back home in Boston, and Robin was in the kitchen, and he was gonna eat his weight in carbs and take a minute before he quite literally dove head first back into training for the US Open at the end of November.
He was in the process of basically flinging his carry-on to one side and trying to float, cartoon animal style, to the source of the smell for whatever Robbie had cooking, calling, “Honey, I’m home” — like the slamming of the front door hadn’t already alerted her — when the sudden bark of her laughter startled the sh*t out of him.
For as much sh*t as she liked to give him about his laugh — “Like a goose getting strangled,” she once lovingly described it in an SI interview that he had never quite forgiven her for — she also had a wild one. It was loud, and kind of mean, and honestly he was just glad to be hearing it. They hadn’t been looking forward to the Championship and the World Cup overlapping, even before Robin had broken her ankle in training back in June. It had been made even worse when the surgeons and team doctors wouldn’t even clear her to fly to be with the team in Australia, let alone play.
So hearing her laugh at something was good, in his opinion, no matter how it made him clutch at his chest like a Victorian maiden.
“Jesus,” he said, rounding the “what the f*ck was that for?”
“Oh my god, Steve!” she crowed. She was sat at the kitchen table, a huge f*ck off thing penne alla vodka from the place he liked in front of her, and her left leg kicked out and up onto a chair layered in throw pillows. She’d been cut out of the plaster cast two days prior, and she’d already begun to cover her new air cast in Sharpie doodles of strange little people, Keith Haring style, and an endless array of artistic boobies. “I am so glad you’re back because, like, a, I’m starving, and b, you are going to die over these tweets.”
She held out her phone in one hand and a fork of penne in the other.
Steve slumped into the free chair, leaned forward, and said around his mouthful of pasta, “What am I looking at here?” as he peered owlishly at her phone. In what Heather had said was classic Harrington fashion, he’d left his glasses in the airport in Hong Kong by accident and he’d always been too much of a wimp for contacts. Plus, even with goggles, his constant chlorine exposure sort of f*cked with that too, so why bother, he figured.
“Tweets,” said Robin, significantly. She grabbed a forkful of pasta for herself and then fed Steve more. “Want me to read them to you? They are a-mazing. You’ve gotten some good ones in the past, but these.” She fanned herself, only a little mockingly. “PG-13, to say the least. And I’m not even into that kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing?”
“Penises.”
“Oh,” he said. “Those kinds of tweets.”
“Yes,” she said. Clearing her throat with the air of someone who once tried to do college theater to impress a girl before realizing being a pro-soccer player would probably net her more babes in the long run, just by the law of large numbers, she began to dramatically read the tweets aloud to him. It started simple enough, just some guy watching the Aquatics Championships on ESPN — he honestly hadn’t realized they’d been streamed or taped or whatever — before he left turned and asked Steve if he was free Thursday, then left turned again and things went exactly in the direction he thought they were about to go.
THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
wtf are swimmers supposed to be that caked up is it for buoyancy either way i’m a fan alright never change bébéTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
look at that, i mean makes you believe in a kind just godTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
or maybe not because i can’t touch it. someone should invent a tv where you can touch stuffTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
how is this sh*t allowed on cableTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
like how is this legal is what i want to know this adonis is. he’s WET and his hands are the size of dinner platesTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
this feels targeted frankly and i won’t stand for it. i mean, i would, but he looks like he could have that handle for the both of us if you catch my driftTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
i want him to break my back like a glow stick. or. like. i could break his back like a glow stick whatever he’s into i’m gonna be intoTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
(preferably: i wanna be in TO him nah mean)THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
jesus stop talking about wingspan and the breaststroke i’m already turned on enough espon manTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
i want him to [redacted] me in the [redacted] over a [redacted] [redacted] with a — excuse us while we cut to our commercial sponsors!!THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
[GIF: Kate McKinnon asking, “What is that, a big ole robot?”]THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
he could make me bark like a dog and i’d thank him tbhDJ JAZZY JEFF @therealjefffaugn
@eddievaninhaler bro get on private or something lorne is gonna fire you manTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
@therealjefffaugn he knew what he was getting with me
[GIF: Lady Gaga performing Born This Way ]THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
@therealjefffaugn plus it’d be like discrimination if he did because it’s like retaliation for me being queer afDJ JAZZY JEFF @therealjefffaugn
@eddievaninhaler i don’t — i don’t necessarily think that’s how it works but i don't know enough about HR to dispute itTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
@therealjefffaugn plus he’s not on twitter soDJ JAZZY JEFF @therealjefffaugn
@eddievaninhaler who lorne or the poor guy you’re objectifying rnTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
@therealjefffaugn lorne. hottie mcspeedo has one he only uses for two weeks every june (what’s up with that) so i’m in the clear until next yearTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
it’s a masterpiece by the way. his profile pic is a michael phelps meme + the link in his bio is to the itunes terms of service i love himTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
anyway is it a crime that i just wanna choke on that chlorine flavored [gunshot]
“Wow,” said Steve.
“I know,” Robin said gleefully. “There were some really thirsty ones that got deleted pretty quickly after but I have a Google alert for your name, and screenshots are forever, so we'll dig into those later. Though there was apparently also one that got taken down for a community violation — I’m pissed I missed it. Now I can only imagine it.”
“They’re actually kind of funny,” he said.
“Are you surprised?”
He shrugged. “I mean, usually they’re just uncomfortably graphic. These are, like, good jokes or whatever.”
Raising an eyebrow, Robin asked, “Did you miss the part where he was talking about Lorne?”
Steve stared blankly at her.
“Lorne Michaels?” she said. She rolled her eyes. “He’s the creator of SNL! Dingus, you’ve met him! You and your relay team were in a cold open! You, like, totally shook his hand probably!”
“Well, okay, sure, SNL, but, like, I was like seventeen then,” he defended. “And high off being a f*cking Olympian! I don’t remember a lot from then!”
“Fair, but still,” said Robin.
“So have I met that guy then? Was he around then? Oh, no, wait, I wouldn’t care for that.”
“No, you’re in the clear. Well, I mean,” she said. Her smile was growing wide again, and a little more manic. “Of, like, a particular grossness. I’m pretty sure you have met him though. Or, at least, you knew of him. We both did. Not in the capacity that he was really famous for when we were teenagers — you were pretty regularly getting drug tested, so you never had cause to cross paths with him when he was the premier teenage plug of Hawkins High. More, though, in a I can’t believe my kids are betraying me for that Munson asshole kind of way.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Wait.”
“I know!”
“Munson?”
“Uh-huh!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“The f*cking Dungeons and Dorks guy Dustin was obsessed with in school? The guy who used to walk on the lunch tables and yell about conformity?” said Steve. “That Munson? He’s the guy asking me to blow his back out?”
“Yes!” Robin all but wailed. If she’d been able to fall out of her seat and roll around in mirth on the ground without ending up back in the hospital, he knew she would be. “Yes, the guy who you had that weird one-sided rivalry with despite the fact that it was pointless because you were an Olympian at seventeen and Dustin still thinks the sun shines out of your waxed asshole! You’re parents just f*cked you up, like, hella bad.”
“What the f*ck,” he said. “What the f*ck?”
“I know! This is genuinely the funniest thing to ever happen to me, I want you to know that.”
“Thanks,” said Steve. “Glad I could be of service. But, like — does he not — does he not remember me?”
“Babe,” said Robin, eyes huge. “That’s what you’re deciding to get hung up on? That he doesn’t remember who you are even though you didn't remember him, and not, you know, the fact that he got on main to talk about how he wants you to make him, and I can’t quote this hard enough, bark like a dog?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “People say sh*t like that on the internet about me all the time, you know this.”
“Yeah, and I’m actually starting to get a little concerned about how you react to that, dingus —”
“I just like to think I was kind of memorable in high school —”
“Oh, you were, I think maybe he was just high a lot. Probably burned off a few brain cells. It took him like three tries to graduate high school.”
“I mean, I probably wouldn’t have graduated if my parents weren’t throwing money at tutors so they could get a famous son, I don’t think it’s fair to judge —”
“No, you’re right again, ugh, don’t remind me how much your parents sucked. Twice in one night. Yuck. Also when did you get all noble?”
“When Coach Hammond threatened to stop training me if I didn’t get an attitude adjustment? And I decided you seemed like a cool person to be friends with despite the fact that you’re meaner to me than Carol Perkins ever was —”
“You sure know how to charm a girl —”
“Don’t act like you're not proud of that. Anyway,” he said. They’d finished their penne alla vodka a while ago, with Steve housing the lion’s share, but Robin had also gotten like six cannoli for them and he figured he’d do some extra cardio in the morning to make up for eating the lion’s share of those too. He stuck a cannoli between his teeth and went to toss their plate and fork in the sink. “Munson’s on SNL now? That’s where walking on all those people’s lunches got him?”
“Right?” said Robin. “Apparently he’s been a regular for a little while now. Look.”
Steve turned back to her and leaned over her shoulder. She’d pulled up a Google image search of Munson, showing an array of goofy wigs and goofier expressions as he presumably mugged for the SNL cameras, and he had a vague memory of someone who looked like that, though younger, he thought. Weedier. He’d been too, back then, even with all the training, didn’t quite grown into the promise of his shoulders until Rio as he took up Phelps's mantle. Maybe it had been the same for Munson, narrow still but with a weight to him, corded muscles hidden in thin forearms.
There was one picture of a dark eyed, dark haired man on a red carpet that caught his attention, pulled him out of the past and into the present with alacrity. He clicked on it over Robin’s grumbles, enlarging the image so that he could stare. He was in a plain black suit with a white shirt, opened practically to his navel as he showed off an array of inky black tattoos on his chest, the gentle swell of his pecs and concave of his sternum shadowed by the lights of the red carpet, and his hair, long, was pulled back in a bun, curling in the humidity of whatever movie premier he was at. He had a toothpick in his mouth, and a wicked little smirk on pink, soft looking lips, and a small silver ring glinted from his nostril, shiny and bright.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, no, he’s hot.”
Robin whipped her head around so fast something audibly cracked in it. “Steven Anne, are you —”
“Don’t!” He held up a finger.
“Oh my god, you are,” she said. “Faster than a speeding freakin’ bullet, you’re developing a crush on the guy who was publicly horny about you in a speedo who was also a teenage f*ckin’ dork, and honestly probably still is!”
“Robin,” he whined, dropping his face into her hair, hoping to suffocate.
She cackled. “Oh my god, this is the most you thing you have ever done! You wanna f*ck the horny goblin man!”
“I want the horny goblin man to f*ck me,” he muttered.
“You are the gift that keeps on giving,” she said seriously, reaching back to grab his head in both of her hands. “I’ve never been more platonically in love with you than this moment. God, you’re the biggest UHaul lesbian in all of Christendom. I’m thrilled this is happening for you. I can’t wait for you to get f*cked by the horny goblin man.”
“I’m not actually gonna, though, is the thing,” said Steve. “He all but said so!”
“What?”
“I don’t do the Twitter thing,” he said.
“Except for two weeks in June,” she said.
“Or like any other social media. I don’t want to. I like my two weeks in June. I don’t think I even remember the password, actually, so! So, like realistically, I was never supposed to see this, and he’s on SNL, right? It’s probably, just, like, a bit.”
Robin scrunched up her nose, and he said, “It’s not gonna be a thing. Plus, he deleted a bunch of the tweets too. Right? I doubt anyone else saw it, so, like, he’s cute, and I’m gonna move on. Now, c’mon, these cannoli aren’t gonna eat themselves.”
Chapter 2: two.
Notes:
half of a joke was borrowed from a december 2023 episode of the real weekend update mainly because the roast of a certain house republican was too funny to not borrow + put a slightly different spin on
Chapter Text
A video montage of still, black and white photographs of Kali and Axel looking mock professional, thoughtful, and at work plays, before cutting to the news desk set.
ANNOUNCER
Weekend Update, with Kali Prasad and Axel Landry!Crowd laughing, cheering. Kali and Axel are dressed smartly, almost studiously — though Kali’s eye makeup remains, as always, heavy, and Axel’s mohawk is bright hot pink this evening, slicked down to one side.
KALI
Thank you, thank you. Good evening, everyone! I’m Kali Prasad —AXEL
And I’m Axel Landry. Welcome to Weekend Update —KALI
And here are tonight’s top stories.AXEL
This week saw us saying goodbye to several political luminaries from the modern era: a former First Lady, a former Secretary of State, the groundbreaking first female Supreme Court Justice, and a man who was probably about to say he was all three of those things, and the long lost Grand duch*ess Anastasia.A picture of George Santos replaces a triptych of images of Rosalynn Carter, Henry Kissinger, and Sandra Day O’Connor.
AXEL, con’t
George Santos was expelled from Congress after House Speaker Mike Johnson revealed that he had two representatives before him, but only the photograph of one in his hands — it remains to be seen if allowing Marjorie Taylor Greene to stay in the House will be better or worse for our ratings than Santos.KALI
On Thursday, the Russian Supreme Court called the international gay rights movement an “extremist organization.” So I guess they’ve been to some of the same drag brunches in Brooklyn that I’ve been to.Laughter.
KALI, con’t
But, in all seriousness, this is just another thinly veiled attempt from that country to silence the voices of the marginalized, and if the Russian Supreme Court does want to see some gay extremist activity, I’m open to flying over there and showing them what I’m about.Audience cheering.
KALI, con’t
Let me know, fellas. Winter break is almost here, and I’m feeling a certain kinda way.AXEL
In a debate on Fox News, California Democratic Governor Gavin Newsom and Florida Republican Governor Ron DeSantis, seen here in his secondary form as my personal sleep paralysis demon —An image of DeSantis with a pained, rictus grin from the debate. Laughter.
AXEL, con’t
— clashed over blue and red state politics. “Neither of us will be the nominee for our party in 2024,” said Newsom at one point, and also told him he was “nothing but a bully.” Which was ironic, seeing as that entire debate was basically just Newsom taking DeSantis’ lunchmoney, giving him a swirly, and then telling his mama about it.KALI
Merriam-Webster announced that one of its most looked up words for 2023 is rizz, which is slang for charisma. Here to comment on his startling lack of it, as well as his new found obsession with sports and the US Open Swimming Championship, is SNL’s own, Eddie Munson.Eddie rolls onto camera behind the desk, waving his hands at the crowd, cheering at his appearance. He’s got his hair pulled into a loose bun, and wears a big leather jacket over a t-shirt that once began life as USA Swimming merch and now is more crop top and shredded fabric than anything, a custom Munson original.
EDDIE
Kali, Axel, thanks for having me. I do resent you saying I’ve got no rizz, though, because I think I do.KALI
You do?EDDIE
Yeah.KALI
These tweets are rizz?A series of tweets appear on the screen as Kali flatly reads along.
KALI, con’t
“I want to bang him like a screen door in a hurricane.” “The fact that I can’t get my little paws all over that damp expanse of man is a hate crime, TBH.” “Lick it.”AXEL, off, laughing
That one is my favorite.KALI
Don’t encourage him.EDDIE
Yes, encourage me! I need all the help I can get. Look at him.A picture of Steve Harrington, wet, in a speedo, appears on the screen. Eddie leans over Kali so that he can pretend to point at it.
EDDIE, con’t
Look at him! Behold his glory! What — what do you want from me? Look at him! Listen, you’re right. Kali, you’re right! Okay! Is that what you want to hear? I have negative rizz. I have the rizz of, of a wet raccoon you found living in a trash can eating soggy Chipotle tortilla chips! But the people! The people are into it. Do you see those likes? I really tapped into the zeitgeist.KALI
Zeitgeist?EDDIE
Yeah! The zeitgeist of banging hot, wet men.Audience cheers. A new tweet appears.
KALI
“Really puts my childhood obsession with King Trident into perspective.” “I want him to — redacted — my — redacted — on,” yeah I’m not finishing that. [Flipping through her note cards.] Ugh. Not reading that. Can’t read that. Can’t read that one either. Or that one. Jesus Chirst, Eddie. These are — what the [censored], man!The audience is losing it. Axel leans into frame, looking over her shoulder. His eyebrows shoot up.
AXEL
I didn’t know that was physically possible.EDDIE
I’m willing to die trying.AXEL
Well, I guess that explains the Twitter suspension.EDDIE
[Proudly.] I know. The one that got me was pretty graphic but poetic. Some say it belongs in the Louvre. We are fully not allowed to say it on air, and also Lorne would fire me for real this time, but you guys can look it up at your leisure, because screenshots are forever — or even look it up right now, actually. Whip those phones out! I promise it’s worth it.KALI
Do you have anything of substance to add about actual swimming? Or do you wanna talk about that guy’s abs more? And maybe get Congress to bring back the Hayes code for your hubris?EDDIE
Oh, why not all three? It’s called multitasking, Kali, look it up. Plus, did you know I went to high school with him? I did not, at first, I’ll be real, but I’ll also be real: I did smoke a lot of weed. Back then, of course. [Winks broadly.] So, you know. I’m just supporting my hometown, when you think about it. Just putting him on the map. With my funny, funny, not at all obsessive and/or weird tweets! No restraining order necessary! As some may have said.KALI
He has like twenty gold medals, and has been on as many Wheaties boxes, I don’t think he needs your help to get on the map —EDDIE
It’s seventeen, actually, he’s one behind Phelps, like, when you put their careers on the same timeline and ignore the 2000 Olympics. He needs seven next summer to take the lead.AXEL
Oh, damn, you do got facts.EDDIE
I told you! I told you all!He starts climbing on the desk.
KALI
If you break your ankle again, Munson —EDDIE
One time! One time! Anyway I learned my lesson, look. [Points to his bare feet. The toenails are painted black.] Back to me! And my analysis, and great depth of feeling! For it is as you see, ladies and gentlethems of this studio audience! My ardor will not, nay cannot be contained! Not my love and desire of he! O, that font of beauty and talent! Of he, that gleaming, sultry Aphrodite of the sea who yet holds my heart in those frankly unreal hands of his, honestly they should be registered lethal weapons, nor my love of the sport! That sport! Majestic! Breathtaking! Wet! Those masters of the water, those swimmers of the Olympic seas — I salute them, I stand by them, and Steve Harrington! Hark, he of the traps and thighs and that ass! Hark, beautiful man: For I am still free, sir, on Thursday night to hang out, if you want to hang out Thursday night when I’m free. USA! USA! USA!Eddie slips and falls off the desk, landing in Axel’s lap. They laugh. It almost looks like it was staged.
KALI
Alright, well, Eddie Munson, and a restraining order just waiting to happen, everyone! Our next top story for the week is —
“So, like, if you get with him, do you think you could get me her number?” asked Robin as she paused Hulu so she could cap her nail polish and then turn and look at him expectantly.
Steve, still blushing faintly at Eddie Munson calling him a f*cking “sultry Aphrodite of the sea” and talking about his hands and ass on national f*cking television, like, Jesus Christ, really, god — Steve rolled his eyes at her. “Aren’t I quite literally about to be a third wheel for you on a brunch date with Heather right now?”
“I mean!” She scrunched up her nose in thought, like that would somehow distract him from how she immediately turned bright goddamn red. “I mean, I thought we were all going as friends? Because you like the migas at The Friendly Toast.”
“I do. That aside. I have also told you,” he said slowly, “multiple times, that Heather almost exclusively refers to you as that, quote, cute gay soccer girlie that I insist on hoarding to myself and not letting out into these, and this is another direct quote, buff lesbo arms.”
Somehow, Robin turned even more red. God, Steve loved being able to turn the tables on her. She said again, “I mean.”
“I mean,” he echoed, “if you don’t end up with your legs around her ears by the end of this week, I’ll have failed you more than I would have failed English senior year if Nancy and Jon hadn’t taken further pity on me and helped me study. So. Just so you know. She wants the business from you, you want the business from her, and we’re using third wheel brunch to seal the deal.”
“Okay,” she said, rolling her eyes in a clear attempt to get her equilibrium back. “And when I seal the deal, you have to ask one of the dorkuses to help you get back in your Twitter account so you can hit on Eddie Munson back. But also if I crash and burn with Heather, you gotta get me the hot Weekend Update lady’s number.”
He snapped his fingers and shot her two finger guns. “No can do, good buddy, that is not a ten-four. A negative ten-four, in fact. Do not copy.”
“Which part?”
“All of it! Except the Heather parts, and mainly the Munson parts!”
“What? Why not? You like him!”
“Okay, well. Uh. Listen! First, okay, first, you know I will never,ever use social media for anything other than talking sh*t about the Pacers to annoy Lucas and Hop. Second, I can’t be trusted not to do something boneheaded —”
“Fair.”
“— like, I don’t know, for instance maybe, like sliding into the DMs of some guy who hits on me for Twitter likes!”
“That’s what you took away from this?” she asked.
“Roll the tape!” said Steve, throwing a hand in the air. “Literally, we have tape of the guy saying he’s doing it for the likes — he said, and I’m quoting again, he tapped into the zeitgeist, whatever that means, by extolling the virtues of my wet ass.”
“It’s, like, the spirit of an era,” she said.
“What?” he asked.
“Zeitgeist,” she said. “Spirit or feeling of an era.”
“Oh. So. Banging me is the spirit of the era? This era?”
“In an Olympic year?” asked Robin. “I mean, pretty much, babe.”
“Oh.”
“The girls, gays, and theys really like all this.” She wiggled a hand in his general direction. “I myself can only speak from a purely aesthetic, academic standpoint, as I’ve said before, but you do kind of have it going on. I have heard. Like! I can only imagine what would happen if they learned how hairy you get when you’re not competing and don't have to wax on the reg. I think I could probably speak for Eddie, and maybe sixty present of the gays and theys, because I like to think I’m well informed about The Culture, that the horniness from your chest hair alone would produce could power a small country for upwards of a year.”
He hit her with a pillow. “Shut the f*ck up!”
Shrieking, she armed herself to hit back, and he immediately curled up like a pill bug because he always forgot how viciously competitive she got and how weirdly strong those noodly looking arms of hers were. f*cking goalies, man. “You shut the f*ck up! I’m trying to compliment you and get you a date!”
“Oh, but when I do it, I’m a villain!”
“Yes! Correct!”
“That’s psychotic!”
“Never said it wasn’t! Now, ready your weapon, dingus, you know I don’t like fighting a defenseless man.”
Steve took up a pillow again, rolling his eyes once more. “That’s a lie. You f*cking love kicking me when I’m down.”
Robin cackled and, as if to prove his point, wailed on him with the pillow.
They were late to brunch, after, and Robin’s nails got all f*cked up and Steve got yelled at about that too; but, as he totally predicted, the stars in Heather’s eyes when she sat across the table from Robin were enough to distract her from their tardiness and messed up manicures alike, and Steve congratulated himself on not having to continue the Eddie Munson conversation while he was still trying to figure out exactly where he stood on the matter and shoveled migas and mimosas down his gob.
Just a bit, he told himself again. He was just doing a weird bit, and it would blow over once Steve was fully in training for the summer and wasn’t so in the public eye. After all, he was pretty sure he was going to skip Doha, so then it was the Olympic Trials and Paris, and who would want to keep the joke going that long, right?
Right?
Right.
Chapter 3: three.
Chapter Text
Robin and Heather were walking something like a quarter of a block ahead of him, the backs of their gloved hands brushing every so often, their voices soft in the distance as they spoke — so Steve decided to not let himself feel bad about ignoring them in favor of the videos he was watching on his phone, volume turned all the way low. He felt guilty enough just watching, and also re-watching, them, he figured; he didn’t need the added guilt of ignoring his friends.
Of course, just because he was absolving himself as they made the ten minute trek from Tatte to The Brattle for him to third wheel on a late weekday lunch and movie date with the girls — again, but it wasn’t his fault Robin mentioned they were seeing Sense and Sensibility and Steve’s always had a thing for Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman — didn’t mean they were absolving him. He should have accounted for that, he figured, and blamed continued exposure to Heather’s, in particular, mean girl tendencies for his slowed reaction times.
He’d loved getting to be on Team USA Swimming all these years with someone he came up with since they were both basically toddlers in neighboring Indiana towns, with a lot of the same hang ups (workaholic dads, moms with substance abuse issues, being closeted athletes for a lot of it), but goddamn if it didn’t mean she could read him almost as well as Robin. Truly, they deserved each other, he thought, as his phone was snatched from his hand and he belatedly grabbed for it.
“Hey, what—? Give that back!”
“In a minute,” said Heather, bringing them to a halt despite the fact that they were right in front of the Harvard Coop and surrounded by strung out coeds. She started cranking the volume. “Robin told me these are probably that Munson guy’s videos and I wanna see what all the fuss is about.”
“Hey!” he said again, glaring.
Robin held her hands up. “In my defense, I have told you this is the funniest thing to ever happen to me. In what world am I not telling Heather about your unfortunate crush on the dorky funny man who has an even more massive crush on you? Like, to the point where he’s so horned up on main for you that it’s kind of uncomfortable?”
“Yeah,” said Heather. “But Steve’s into it, right?”
Steve was into it. What could he say? Childhood abandonment issues, being semi-constantly in the public eye since he was sixteen, and deriving a lot of his self-worth through his image had kind of f*cked him up. He was working through it with his therapist, alright, and wasn’t half the battle acknowledging that, like, he had a problem?
Plus it wasn’t — you know, it wasn’t all objectification. Yeah, that was a nice chunk of it, sure, because that was what drove the clicks and sh*t, he figured, but he also had surprisingly nice things to say about him when he managed to find the time to talk about him outside of how hot he was. He wasn’t even sure Munson realized he was doing it; or, at least, that Steve knew he was doing it. For instance, him and Robin liked to volunteer at BAGLY when they could, and over the holidays Steve had apparently been clocked in the background of a video when he was chaperoning a field trip for the kids. Apparently, Munson had seen it, commented we love a supportive king, and BAGLY had subsequently experienced an increase in donations.
(Including one from Munson himself, Robin had reported slyly after her own shift greeting at the front desk.)
Munson would also occasionally talk about having gone to high school with Steve, after he’d brought it up with that Weekend Update sketch. He never mentioned Steve’s more douchey years — honestly not as terrible as they could have been, he figured, if he hadn’t been training since eight to be an Olympian and had Coach Benny on his ass about making sure he never did anything that would get him in trouble later in life; Tommy and Carol really could have f*cked him up, he knew. Instead, he would talk about how Steve was always training when they were on school, tell a vague memory about how he used to get high out behind the school pool where Steve would train but never ran into him, had gone live one afternoon at his Uncle Wayne’s place back in Hawkins over winter break at SNL to show people his high school yearbook and prove that they actually went to school together for at least a year or two when he couldn’t give them actual stories.
“Honestly? It’s probably lucky we never really crossed paths back then,” Munson sighed on that live that Steve just happened to tune into. “Teenage me would have been so much more weird about him. And that’s a fact. I mean! Look at him! He looks like a little golden retriever puppy! With the huge mitts to grow into to boot! I would have probably followed him around like I was the lost puppy and tried to, like, carry his books and sh*t like we were in an 80s rom-com, but, like, so much gayer.”
He talked about how Steve had seemed kind, mostly, in high school, and distant but he didn't think anyone could blame him for that, and had a group of freshmen after he graduated that thought the sun shined out of his ass because he used to babysit them. (“Babysit,” he’d wailed, and then, “Or something. I wonder what those kids are up to now. Henderson, if you see this, holler at your boy.”) He went on about how Steve seemed kind now, and funny, and a little mean in interviews but mostly in a fun, playful way. He wondered aloud, once, if Steve was getting enough calories while he was training (“I read they need a lot, right?”), and the next thing Steve knew, the pool him and Heather trained at was deluged with snack boxes and protein powder from fans that they ended up mostly donating to local shelters because there was no way they were eating all of it, calorie counts notwithstanding. God, he’d been so lucky Heather hadn’t noticed that people had left comments in the shipping instructions that, by and large, had requests to feed that sweet Harrington boy for Eddie Munson.
There’d even been that one video for USA Swimming on their TikTok, where Steve and Heather had switched disciplines for the afternoon and Steve had proceeded to debase himself for a full three minutes of edited footage with belly flops and sh*tty dives while Heather heckled him and Steve laughed so hard his ribs hurt from that more than the wipe outs. Eddie had reposted and stitched it, saying then, “We love a goof and a man who doesn’t take himself seriously. Which makes us a good match because I’m like the least serious human on the planet.”
And if Steve had also thought it was nice, being able to be goofy and be liked for it, not just hot and talented and the top of his sport, and that he also thought they were maybe a good match, well —
He crossed his arms over his chest instead of saying any of that sh*t, and told her, “He’s doing it for the likes.”
“Yeah, I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, waving a dismissive hand as she scrolled to the start of the videos Steve had been watching.
There were actually seven of them, the TikTok videos, though, true, just six in this playlist. Someone had created some filter of hot athletes and, even though most people didn’t get horned up about Steve until about the Trials and then the Olympics themselves, they’d put him on there alongside Travis Kelce and Lewis Hamilton and Jalen Green and a bunch of others. It was weird, and flattering, and Steve didn’t really know how to feel about it up until he’d realized that Eddie Munson had posted a few videos using it.
No one realizing he had snuck back onto Twitter to keep better tabs on potential, ahem, viral tweets about him had made him bold — even if all he did was search his name and snoop, he didn’t actually try to follow anyone — so he’d gone and made a private TikTok for himself. Or, well, Erica had helped him make it, since she’d been one of the brain-trust behind his original Twitter and also the only one of his sh*thead ex-babysitting charges he could reliably swear into secrecy, or at the very least bribe into secrecy. (He already owed her ice cream in perpetuity since high school, so what was a hundred books, two favors, and an undisclosed experiment with a bronze medal? She hadn’t even asked for an Olympic one, just some rando bronze, and he could afford to lose one of those, he figured.)
He wasn’t using the TikTok purely as a vehicle to see what people (Munson) said about him, though, Robin. Because, yeah, of course she knew; she’d probably known he was going to do it before he did it. God, he loved her.
Anyway. He liked the funny cat videos, right? And he was really into this one couple renovating a hoarding house and he needed to know how that f*cking appraisal went, and if sometimes Munson’s videos came across his FYP, so what? Robin was just going to send them to him anyway, you know? Cut out the middleman.
The videos had all been posted late the night before, and Steve had seen them first over breakfast that morning. As usual, he’d been helplessly charmed by Munson’s antics and amused in equal measure. The guy was just so weird, and goofy, and genuinely funny (unlike one or two of his other co stars on SNL, but you didn’t hear that from Steve), and he just sort of figured, you know, how was he supposed to not like the guy, even a little bit, right?
Munson had been front and center on the video when it had popped up. He’d looked a little tired, and a little wired, a hoodie pulled over his head as he sat, slumped, against the front of a couch. Someone’s leg was right next to him, partially blocked from view by the ranking list on the left hand side of the screen, and there was a faint typing noise coming from somewhere.
“Alright,” Munson said in the first video of a series entitled i’ll see you in hell hot athletes ranked filter. He scratched the side of his nose and said, “Alright, it is one a.m. on writing night, and one of you hit me up on the Hellsite to tell me that the future father of my children is on this filter, so.” He pressed the button. “I don’t know who that is. I don’t know who that is either. Her, I know, that’s that college basketball girl who makes straight men angry. I like that in a person, so she can go up high, even though I think it’d be a mutual ain’t gonna hit that from both of us if we, like, met in the wild, you know? I like his hair — no Steve Harrington, but. So, five I guess? Oh, tats, I like that. Don’t know her. Don’t know him. This is so boring, where is my husband! What the f*ck! Who even is that, have to go number one, bullsh*t, if I’d known I wasn’t gonna get him, I would have put basketball girly there and —”
The second opened with Munson closer to the camera, his brows drawn. He was saying, “Listen we all know why I’m here, right? There’s no point in me beating around the bush, right? None of these clowns hold a candle to my mans. Give me Harrington or give me death, isn’t that what Dickens wrote?”
“Incredibly no,” came the voice of the person on the couch. The typing was louder, faster; he was closer to them too, presumably. “But also kind of close, which is maybe more surprising?”
“It is surprising,” Munson agreed. He was clicking furiously through the filter. All of the slots except one, five, and seven were filled, almost entirely arbitrarily — though Caitlin Clark was two and Lewis Hamilton was third. “Click really f*cking had it out for me. I stopped reading most things basically out of spite.”
“Thank god for Sparknotes,” said the person behind him.
“Sing it, sister,” he said. Travis Kelce went number one. “Aw, f*ck that honky —”
“He’s not wrong,” said Heather. “Like, I get it, but that whole situation just feels grossly political, you know?”
Robin hummed in agreement.
In the third video, Munson had shifted closer still to the person on the couch, his head on their knee now, and while he had the camera facing them both and pointed a little up, you still couldn’t see their face. Their laptop, however, had a luchador decal over, presumably, the Apple logo. Munson said, “Okay, so obviously we leave number one open for my aquatic soulmate, but you can rank everyone else how you want.”
They leaned down to look at the camera, only half their face in view and the sound of typing continuing. “Should I editorialize?”
“Go for it, homes,” said Munson. “You’re a hottie. I bet the other hotties would like to know what you’re into in case you’re their type.”
“Sure,” they said drily.
“Though, like, in case anyone was wondering, they do truly only have eyes for a certain bubble gum pop princess who will be our musical guest in a few weeks, Miss Chri—”
A scuffle broke out for the phone, ending the ranking before it began.
“Someone suggested in the comments on one of the others that I should let the Fates decide, well, my fate,” said Munson, opening video number four. The person on the laptop was still behind him, but the laptop was raised comically high, blocking their face but for one baleful eye. By the sound of the typing, they were now using one finger to do it. Munson was saying, “So, we’re just gonna spin the wheel and —”
Somewhat predictably, Steve’s face appeared first. It was an old headshot from Tokyo 2020, probably one of his best ones too, to be honest, so he was glad that’s what they picked.
Munson stared blankly at it for a moment before tipping his head back and screaming at the ceiling before it abruptly cut out, moving smoothly along to the fifth video, where he was on the couch now but by himself, the phone at an unflattering angle as he glared down at it.
“Well, okay, after that hate crime, we’re going back to doing it the original way, okay,” he said, furiously starting the ranking with one pointed, jammed finger. “What f*cking bullsh*t, man, I can’t believe it would do me so f*cking dirty like that. He is perfection incarnate, and they try to say he is not? He of the traps and abs and thighs and itty bitty bikini —”
“Aren’t you worried he’s gonna, like, see these,” asked a voice from off camera — presumably, once again, the laptop guy. (Who, yes, Steve did know was Jeff Faughn, the guy who Munson had been talking to back when all this started on Twitter, and Steve, from a very casual amount of research, thanks, had learned they were Munson’s writing partner on SNL and that they'd also gone to high school with him.) “And, I don’t know, want a f*ckin’ restraining order or something?”
Munson waved a dismissive hand. “Well, obviously not because, as I’ve mentioned numerous f*cking times before if you’d only listen to me —”
“Jesus H Christ —”
“— he’s, like, apparently notoriously anti-social media — which, yeah, show me your ways, handsome, in more ways than one — and also he never got back to me about Thursday night when I’m free,” he concluded. “Which, for the record, I’m not actually super free Thursday nights right now, what with the ole day job, but you just name the time and place, big boy, and I shall be there with bells on.”
“Yeah, on a f*cking jester’s cap,” Jeff mumbled off camera.
“What?”
“What?”
Munson narrowed his eyes. He had most people ranked now, just missing five and one, the filter spinning and spinning as he glared over his phone. “Now, if Jeffrey is finished making their funny, funny little jokes, back to me, still awaiting the arrival of my once and future husband.”
But Steve’s picture didn’t pop up again.
Video number six, and Munson was pressed the closest he’d been to the phone yet. His hoodie was pulled tight, almost obscuring his face, while he spoke and gesticulated, wildly, one handed, clearly mid rant, “And then someone asked him if he was going to go to the 2024 Worlds, and he was like Well, I wish all of them well but it’s a b-list event —”
“Harsh, but fair,” muttered Heather as Munson continued, “And it was so bitchy and only a little uncalled for, and I don’t think anyone was offended, because, like, my queen is only calling them like he sees them, and, honestly, they’re getting ready for the Olympics, right? And the last World Aquatics Championship was in July, I know, because it awoke things in me, clearly. So like what’s the rush? But anyway, just thinking about how he said it makes me want to pop a —”
“Eddie —”
“— and somehow this damn filter cannot sense my ardor and yet again betrays me!” he shouted, Jalen Green slotting in at number one. “What gall, what cheek, what f*cking bullsh*t —”
The seventh and final TikTok was not actually even from Munson’s account, but from Jeff, and Robin was the one to quickly navigate to it for her girlfriend. When she did, the sixth video started again, STITCH INCOMING written over the top of it, and it cut pretty quickly to Jeff. Munson was in the doorframe behind him, talking to someone who looked extremely exasperated.
“For inquiring minds,” Jeff began, “and those invested in this saga, for whatever damn reason: yes, Eddie did get Steve to be his number one. Yes, he did get too excited before he could upload it and spiked his phone on our wooden office floor and shattered it. Yes, we have been yelled at several times this evening, just not on camera, and also yes Kali has slacked us and told us to shut the f*ck up and get back to work.”
“Even though people think this is very funny,” called Munson from the doorway, “and it’s good for ratings because people wanna see how I’ll debase myself next to ensure the romcom of the century continues.”
“Sure.” Jeff rolled their eyes. “Anyway, maybe we’ll post it when the Apple store opens in the morning. Maybe we won’t. Steve Harrington, I’m sorry.”
“Steve Harrington,” hollered Munson, darting forward as Jeff clearly started trying to stop recording and post, “Sundays are when I’m free now, okay, just so you —” and the video looped back to the beginning.
Heather, who had been watching it all with the air of a woman watching a car crash unfold before her, made a face and then asked, “Should we stitch this from my account? Get you two sad losers out on an actual date and sh*t?”
“Oh my God please, because you know this clown would never,” said Robin as Steve waved his hands, saying, “Hey, what? No! Excuse me, like, we’ve talked about this. I just said it. He’s doing this for the likes and the, you know, LOLs and sh*t.”
“Okay, first of all, grandpa,” said Heather, “you can just say it like a word, don’t spell it out —”
Robin took him by the face. “And we’ve talked about this. You’re, like, tailor made for each other, okay, you’re both so weird, and also that man is down chronically and horrifically bad for you.”
“He doesn’t know me,” he said. “I’m just some guy he went to high school with and then we both got famous, kind of, and people, like, ship us ‘cause I’m hot and he’s funny. It’s not real.”
“But he’d be lucky to know you,” she told him. “He’d be lucky if it was real. And he knows it, right? He’s into you. I’ve seen it, you’ve seen it, the entire viewership of SNL has seen it. Maybe it started as a bit — though I doubt it — but he’s into you, Steve Harrington. He wants the business from you. And you deserve to get the business from him. You’re Steve Harrington. You have seventeen Olympic goddamn gold medals. You’re gonna get seventeen more —”
“Probably not seventeen —”
“Shut the f*ck up, seventeen more, and that guy’s dick,” said Robin. A group of co-eds shuffled past them with horrified looks on their faces, whispering, and Heather laughed so hard she started choking. Steve reached out to smack her on the back even as Robin maintained her claw-like grip on his face. “Trust me, okay? Just trust me. Now, c’mon, we’re gonna be late for the movie, and these tahini brownies are probably about to stain my bag so we need to finish smuggling them in and eat them.”
Chapter 4: four.
Chapter Text
THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
okay real talk guys i’ve tuned into espn2 againTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
i was fully hoping i’d be able to catch my boy on something butTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
i just check the us swimming schedule and i don’t get to lay eyes on my beautiful husband steve harrington until june + the olympic trialsTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
which, for the record: hatecrimeTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
so instead i’ve got to content myself with (checks notes) usa cycling????????THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
???? that’s a sport?????THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
sounds made upTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
can’t believe i’ve been reduced to thisTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
jesus okay well i kicked a hornets nestTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
[obligatory inflammatory but hilarious tweet about lance armstrong because i don’t feel like wasting my talents there it’s low hanging fruit, of which he has none OHHHHHHH]THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
godbless the updated character counts or whateverTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
actually this is kind of interesting though it is worth noting that i find none of these people sexually alluring EVEN THO they’re all in skintight clothes and sweatyTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
and historically i’m kind of easy around that thing because i’m a cliche nerd crushing on jocks BUTTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
i remain pure + chaste for u steven!!!!!THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
i mean yeah mainly i can’t get behind how everyone’s junk probbaly hurts real bad because don’t wanna yuck anyone’s yums but that’s a turn off for meTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
can you wear a cup for thisTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
oh sh*tTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
waitTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
is this popping off???THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
this is popping off!!!!THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
you can do that???THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
you can do that!!!!THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
okay so their like using the rise to break away or something? trying to cross and close the gapTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
i love this is called an attack, viciousTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
pedal girl!!!!!! girl pedal like you deliverign weed!!!!!!!THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
no hate to this comentators but also like so much hate to this commentators because this is riveting stuff + y’all be making it boring right nowTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
and yes i can say yall indiana is basically the south okay. it countsTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
like why are your voices so soothing this is like excitingTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
you could crash so hard doing thisTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
queen of the mountains is sick though i won’t lie, name of my new bandTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
oh f*ck that girl did crashTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
is she crying??THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
baby girl u okay sit up you got this sweetie uncle eddie believes in youTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
look at the balls on that girl pulling ahead like thatTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
you have to pace yourself for this like for real just trading back and forth keeping your head on a swivel rightTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
i hope that girl is okay, can we get back to herTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
someone just told me she’s out, sh*t, poor kidTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
damn look at them go getting into the town just moving in and out like thatTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
f*ck five hundred meters left???? this is like anyone’s race everyone needs to push!!! push!!!!THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
christ that road narrowedTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
this is it!! this is it!! no response from behind man she is doing it!!!THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
yeah green jersey get it!!!THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
okay i can see why people get into now that was intenseTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
wait she’s italian??? f*ck that then usa all the wayNBC OLYMPICS AND PARALYMPICS@NBCOlympics
So, do you wanna take this show on the road or what, @eddievaninhaler?
Steve knew the exact moment that Robin saw the tweet from the official NBC Olympics account. It was the same time he saw it, in fact, because of course after the TikTok account’s stealth success and half a bottle of Reisling one night, he’d lost control of his own life and figured out how to make a second Twitter or X or whatever all by his damn self. In the cold light of the next day, he’d felt bad about it, guilty, but reasoned it was like the TikTok too! Plus, it was private, so. Victimless crime or whatever.
He’d used the account then to pretty much only to follow Eddie at first, before deciding that was f*cking weird and following USA Swimming, SNL, the official Olympics account, and a handful of others before muting them like a psycho, like that would cover his tracks. And he didn’t check it religiously or anything, didn’t have an alert for Eddie in particular — he thought about it, sure, but he didn’t so that counts for something, right?
And he only happened to be checking it in that moment, because Robin had been cackling distantly about Eddie again, firing off some choice texts from where it was she was in the townhouse, which he must’ve mentioned him if she was. So he’d been scrolling through his page, reading his cycling thoughts — jokey, sure, but with a sincerity that he seemed to always show for the sports he came across that was charming, warm — and trying not to blush at Eddie calling him his husband — again and, again, Steve was aware he had some wires crossed in the old noggin — when the tweet popped up, and Robin screamed like she was on fire.
“Oh,” he said quietly. Robin’s footsteps started pounding up the stairs, and he put his phone face down on his bed. He turned to look as she burst through the door.
“Steve,” she said. “Steve.”
“Yeah?”
She held out her phone, a particularly manic gleam in her eyes. “Steve.”
He pushed his glasses up his nose and stared at the screen.
NBC OLYMPICS AND PARALYMPICS @NBCOlympics
So, do you wanna take this show on the road or what, @eddievaninhaler?THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
@NBCOlympics i mean, i hear the weather in paris in the summer is pretty nice, soTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
@NBCOlympics yeah, f*ck it, i’m in, let’s light this candle
He was going to — Eddie Munson was going to — the guy Steve had developed a weird parasocial crush on because of his weird and over the top parasocial crush on him —
Because okay, yes, he was a grown ass man and he could admit to the fact that he did have a crush on him, and he’d probably had a crush on him for a lot longer than he’d care to admit. Robin had called it out one night, actually, when they’d been catching SNL live, because that was a thing they did now, and she’d asked him, point blank, if it had always just been misplaced jealously over the kids that made him angry about them spending time with Munson, or if it was something else.
Steve had been forced to confront it then, ask himself why he’d been so obsessed when, yes, he was objectively cool, a teenage Olympian, and Munson was some three time super senior. But that had been it, hadn’t it? Steve’s whole life had been planned out for him since he was a kid, by his parents: and he loved it, sure, but he never got to be a kid. And Eddie Munson probably had a ton of his own sh*t he was dealing with, and things about his life that he didn’t like, didn’t want, but for Steve? He was free, able to be himself and do whatever he wanted, it seemed like.
He was jealous, and he wanted it, and he wanted Munson to like him too.
And now —
They were both going to the Olympics. They were both going to be in Paris. They were both —
“Steve,” said Robin for the fourth time, very seriously. She dropped to her knees in front of him and grabbed him by the thighs. “Steve! I don’t — and you don’t have to, okay, I know we make a lot of jokes, and I said that thing about his dick, like, a couple of times, so you don’t have to — but I’m just saying: I think you might actually f*ck that guy in the Olympic Village!”
Chapter 5: five.
Chapter Text
Steve wasn’t wild about Paris.
To be fair, he’d never been wild about a lot of places, especially cities, and, on top of that, he always did feel sort of, kind of, hugely bad about what happened to cities that hosted the Olympics. Summer wasn’t as bad as winter, in terms of facilities needing to be built and then just, like, going empty and sh*t post-Games, but it still f*cked up places for a while after, and the sh*t they did to unhoused communities to make it more palatable for people traveling in, well —
As he and Heather made their way to the Olympic Village, he made himself a little mental note to look up a local charity he could donate to after everything was all said and done, thought about how he could slip something into a post-event interview.
They got themselves settled as quick as they could in the Village before they headed back out to the hotel where Robin was staying. There were grand plans to sneak her into the Village, and Steve had raised his eyebrow as they’d whispered about it on the plane ride over.
“Why do we need to sneak her in?” he’d asked. “She’s technically Team USA too, just not, like, medically cleared to compete. So she’s not staying with us. I feel like it should be fine, she could just waltz right in, right?”
“Don’t f*ckin’ remind me,” Robin had muttered as Heather had crossed her arms and said, “Listen, if we’re gonna sneak your SNL twink in, we’re gonna do it with my girlfriend too.”
Steve had blushed faintly, had said, “Would we call him a twink?”
“Yes,” Robin had said seriously. “And we want that twink obliterated.”
Anyway — Steve wasn’t wild about Paris, but it was fun to get in a little sightseeing with Robin and Heather ahead of the Opening Ceremony. The girls were predictably gross with each other in the so-called City of Love, and they were stopped by basically every other person to ask for photos, which was fine — kind of part of the job, right? Especially where they were, when they were; Christ, Steve’s face was full-on on the side of a city bus and he wasn’t even from here! But they still got to enjoy the city together best they could, f*cking around like kids and buying crepes loaded with bananas and Nutella and powder sugar and strawberries that their trainers would probably lose their minds over.
They couldn’t do much, of course, a tight schedule ahead of them once sh*t started rolling — Steve and Heather both had most of their events in the middle, though Heather’s singles stuff was closer to the end — and there were handlers and, yeah, trainers and coaches to keep them on track. But they could still have a few days of fun before Owens got to be too much of a buzzkill for them and started enforcing curfews (that they’d of course lie about and cover for each other if needed, though Steve would roll on some of the others on the team for a Twinkie, if he had to be honest about it, especially the younger ones).
So they had their fun, tooled around and checked out museums and took cheesy touristy photos everywhere they went to pop up on the ‘Gram. They hit up one single nightclub where Steve put on the slu*tty mesh shirt he’d packed for exactly this reason and a backwards baseball cap and got a little anonymous grinding with, sure, particularly alt looking French guys and gals in while Robin and Heather got a little R-rated in a dark corner while he kept the attention off them. They climbed to the top of the Eiffel Tower and Heather nearly had a panic attack at the top.
(“How?” Steve had asked. “You’re a diver!”
“Mother f*cker,” had said Heather when she was safely back on the ground, still a little green in the face and shaking, “that sh*t is thirty-three feet off the ground, not nine-hundred-and-f*cking-six!”)
But he’d be lying if he was saying he wasn’t raring to go through it all, chomping at the bit to get his swim cap and speedo trunks on so he could hit the lanes with the best of the best in his sport — that all of this wasn’t just burning off steam as the adrenaline of what was to come was starting to kick in. The competition was always what he was looking forward to, ready to quite literally dive in and make history, and then there was the Open Ceremony this go around.
It was gonna be a cool one, probably the coolest he’d been to yet — he really dug how it was outside, how they as the athletes were front and center through the whole thing, and admission was free for the upper quays or whatever. Plus: Steve got to light the cauldron this year.
Suck my dick, Michael Phelps, he thought.
The schedule wasn’t too bad that year. Packed in, like always, and, like, did he love slamming through the heats and finals for a single’s event and one of the relays in one day? No, but who did? He figured there were so many ways that it could be worse. That was the ballgame, or whatever, and plus this was quite literally what he trained for. He was honestly more upset that the 4x100m Freestyle Relay heats overlapped with Heather and Zoe’s 3m Springboard Final.
They’d nabbed the silver, of course — the Chinese divers, once again, were taking pretty much everyone to the cleaners this year, so they weren’t mad at it, almost expected it — and Heather had grabbed lunch with him and the boys before they’d needed to head back to the pool to get ready for the first of their two finals. Of Steve’s team, it was him and Jake competing in the Men’s 400m Freestyle that evening ahead of the 4x100m Freestyle Relay, with just an hour between the two events.
But he’d done something similar back in Tokyo, also on the first day with two of his single’s events: the 400m Medley and the 400m Freestyle, and he’d snagged both golds that afternoon — he figured he could do it again.
And he did. He took the gold in the 400m Freestyle while Jake finished behind him for silver, and then he’d caught his breath, centered himself, and got ready to do the last leg of the relay for the boys. Out in the crowd, he knew Robin, Heather, and the rest of the USA swimming team were settling in to watch the final event for the pool for the evening, and the pressure was immense. He tried not to feel it, tried to live in the moment like he always did, and swim the best he could, again and again. Plus, it wasn’t just him out there for this one: it was Jake, and the others, too, and they all had roles to play, even if it was down to Steve to close the thing out, and his fingertips touching the edge of the pool that ended it — and ended, once again, in gold.
After, they cheered and hugged, slapped each other on their wet backs and threw towels around each other’s shoulders. They shook hands with their competition, and Steve allowed himself to be steered away from his teammates to go talk to the press. He was one of the best at it, long practiced with a camera ready smile, and he was the athlete to watch this year, after all, in his competition with Phelps, with nine events he was competing in and needing golds in seven of them to pull ahead to become the winningest Olympian of all time, f*ck. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up at some point, ready to interview Steve himself. They could maybe do a little playfight, threaten to duke it out in the lanes themselves to see who really was the best.
Two down, he was ready to open with for this interview, that showbiz smile already pulling his lips, and five to go, right?
He was pulled up short, though, because waiting for him with his own grin and a microphone was Eddie Munson, SNL comedian and Steve’s erstwhile Twitter, or X or whatever, and TikTok hypeman and, you know, embarrassing f*cking parasocial crush.
Huh, he thought.
Munson looked good. They hadn’t tried to get him to look like every other NBC correspondent or international reporter tooling around the Olympic Games, looking for a story and an interview with one of the athletes. He kind of figured they wouldn’t, given that it would be pretty hypocritical to ask the guy who started talking about the Olympics because of an obsession with Steve’s, like, wet body to put on a suit and tie and be professional about it for once. He had on, instead, decently nice looking black jeans, a preppy plaid sport’s coat emblazoned with patches for rock bands Steve didn’t know, pristine looking Reebok Club C’s, and that same USA Swim t-shirt he’d worn on that first Weekend Update last December, the one he’d made into a crop top. There was the edge of a tattoo peeking up from his waistband, faded gray with age and a little blurry at the edges. Steve wanted to bite it.
He should say no to this interview. He should get out of there. He should fake a Charley horse, or, he didn’t know, a f*cking heart attack. He should see if he and Robin were actually capable of psychic communication like everyone was always half-seriously joking and get her to pull the fire alarm. He was going to say something either unforgivably stupid or unforgivably horny if he didn’t. He didn’t have a good track record with this kind of thing: he knew he was a cheeseball of the highest order when it came to his crushes and dates, and Munson was — he was —
Munson just f*cking was, okay?
f*ck it, he thought almost immediately after, and in a voice that sounded not unlike Mike Wheeler, age sixteen, right before he accidentally backed into his parents garage when Steve was teaching him how to drive, we ball.
After all, even if nothing came of it, he’d be giving the people, like, what they want, right? He was doing it for the zeitgeist or whatever.
Moving to stand next to Munson, in front of the cameras and however f*cking many hundreds of people currently at the pool, all the people now watching at home, Steve was unusually conscious of his state of undress: in nothing but his swim trunks, a towel over his shoulders, and his damp hair. He’d got his breath back, at least, though he could still feel his heart rate, elevated as it was and unlikely to go back down until he was back in the Village and trying to relax for the night, liking Instagram posts about himself and seeing if anyone in particular was maybe posting about him on socials too.
He probably didn’t need to do that second part now. Munson was here, in front of him, holding his little NBC mic with a cameraman behind him, chewing on his bottom lip, and smiling — a little nervously, cute, at him — as he said, “Well, if it isn’t the one and only Steve Harrington, fresh from gold medal win number two at the Paris Olympics. Eddie Munson, by the way,” he tacked on, when his cameraman rolled her eyes and kicked him in the foot.
f*ck it, we ball, said the little Mike Wheeler in his mind, and Steve co*cked a hip, ran a hand through his hair, and said, “Hey. Yeah, I know.”
Munson blinked. Then he blinked again. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Caught you on SNL a couple of times,” he said, and then, because he could: “Plus, we went to school together, right? Go Tigers, man. How’d you wind up with this gig?”
(Later, Robin would call this moment the “weaponized himboism heard ‘round the world” and, well, she wasn’t wrong, you know?)
To his credit, and probably all that improv training, Munson only blushed a little (and not enough for folks to pick up outside of Steve and that smirking cameraman) and waved a hand. He said airily, “Oh, this and that, bits and bobs. Anyway, we’re here to talk about you, and your potential historic medal run here in Paris, not lil ole me.”
“I’m good at multitasking,” said Steve.
“Better at that than swimming?”
Snorting, he asked, “God, I hope not, or else this historic medal run’s gonna end before it begins.”
Munson did a little facepalm. “Ugh, don’t know why I said that. You’re, like, the platonic ideal of swimming. You’re the swimmiest man. You’re a dolphin among men. Mr Swimming!"
Steve snorted again. “Aw, man, don’t call me that. Phelps will be so mad.”
“So what? You’re about to totally take his other title, right? Winningest Olympian? Or, at least, overtake him in medal counts for where you're at in your career. Anyway, I bet I could take him.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah!” He did a goofy little shimmy, pretending to shadowbox. “Sure, he’s got the wingspan of a thing with a really big wingspan but I’m, like, scrappy. I’m like six raccoons in a trench coat. I will bite.”
“Promises, promises,” he said, smirking. “Wait, didn’t you actually bite Tommy H in fourth grade?”
Munson’s eyes went huge but he looked vaguely proud nonetheless. “sh*t, you remember that? sh*t, can I say sh*t? Whatever, they knew what they were getting. And I did. I did bite him. He took my Garfield pencil sharpener!”
“A capital biting offense,” agreed Steve.
“Exactly! So, like, watch out, you know? Okay, damn, I gotta get back on track,” he said. “Once again, this is about you, not me. I have questions prepared.”
“Oh?”
“Mhmm. If his highness will allow it.”
He waved a magnanimous hand, adding a little bow, and it set Munson to giggling. Cute, cute, cute, he thought. sh*t, he was in trouble for f*ckin’ real.
“Okay, so, one,” he started, pulling out honest to god flash cards and god! God, he was not to be held accountable for any of this interview, he thought, leaning into Munson’s space to try to peer at the cramped little handwriting he had no hope of reading even with his glasses, probably. He snatched them to his chest with a playfully affronted look, saying, “Sir! No peeking!”
Steve held his hands up, shrugging. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just curious!”
“One,” he began again. “What is it really like to be an athlete here at the Summer Olympics? I mean, you hear all these stories about the debauchery —”
“All true, though personally I’ve not found the right partner for that this year yet —”
“What? Oh. Uh. Um.”
“Just saying.”
“Sure, sure, sure. Is this live? We can edit this, right? Don’t look at me,” he said to his cameraman, who was probably only wasn’t shaking with laughter because she was a goddamn professional. “Harrington, you’re a menace, you know that, right? Moving on to my question. Like the day to day, right? What’s that like? Olympics, and not Olympics, if you want.”
“I mean, it’s probably not dissimilar to your gig,” he told him.
“Lot of hurry up and wait?”
“Yeah. Spend a lot of time listening to my playlists, practicing my breathing, training, when I’m home. Not too different here, except days like this, there’s not a ton of time in between events. You’re just go, go, go, until you’re not anymore, of course. Then you crash at the Village, if the parties aren't too loud. And media stuff of course,” he added, waving a hand between them.
“Gross,” said Munson, commiserating. His nose scrunched up, just cute as chewing on his lip was. “That’s the worst.”
“Not so bad right now,” said Steve. He looked him up and down, slow. “I mean, from where I’m standing.”
“Uh.” Munson stared at him. Steve grinned, winked broadly. He was nailing this interview, though he was sure he’d never hear the end of it from his friends, teammates, or his trainer. But like Munson said, he figured everyone should have known what they were going to get going into this — maybe not the NBC execs, who probably planned in a little mild sexual harassment but did not think it would be reciprocated on, like, national television. Munson, now, was swallowing hard and looking a little shifty as he continued, “So, like, they keep you busy during the day, I’m hearing.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Plus I am, like, trying to make history and whatever, right? Set myself up to take over the medal count and sh*t.”
“So no time to hang out, is what you’re saying,” he said, jokey.
“I don’t know about that,” said Steve. “I could probably free up a night or two. If you wanted to hang out. When I’m free, that is.”
At that, Munson finally seemed to freeze. His face did a series of indecipherable expressions, all of which gave Steve the impression of a computer, like, hard rebooting, before he said, “Oh. You’ve seen my tweets, huh?”
He pinched two fingers together. “Little bit.”
Munson stared a moment longer and then pretended to be stabbed in the chest with his own mic. He fell to the ground of the pool, which was honestly both gross and damp, and Steve wasn’t sure if he was meant to help him up or not. He ducked to reach for him but Munson popped up at the same time, and they narrowly avoided crashing their skulls together.
“No, that’s cool, that’s cool,” he was saying even as he lifted his mic to pretend to block his face and mouth to his cameraman, Kill me. She shook her head pityingly, and he turned back to Steve. He said, “How? Like, you're never on Twitter! Honestly, in a million years, I could never have predicted this moment.”
"Yeah I mean I missed my usual June NBA rants on account of the Trials, but. Is that bad?" he asked. "Me seeing them."
“No, I’m obsessed,” said Munson immediately. “It’s only that I can feel the text Kali is composing to Lorne right now, begging to get you on as a host in the fall so she can spend the entire episode having me roasted within an inch of my life.”
“Sounds fun,” said Steve. He turned to look at the camera. “Ms Parsad, I’m in.”
Making another stabbing motion with the mic, he swayed but remained standing. “Harrington, you wound me yet again! I’ve really lost control of this interview.”
“Honestly, I don’t know if you ever had it,” offered the cameraman.
“Et tu?” asked Munson. She shrugged. He threw his cards over his shoulder, saying, “Anyway, these were pointless, and my time is probably up, so. Steve Harrington, ladies and gentlethems, now nineteen time Olympic gold medalist. Really looking forward to seeing more of you as these events continue, as I’m sure all our viewers here at NBC, where I will probably not be employed for much longer, to be real, are, as you work to break Michael Phelps’ record.”
“Same,” Steve said. “Winning golds, and seeing more of you too, Munson.”
“Welp,” he said. “With that, I’m gonna go drown myself, I think. Bye.”
He turned on his heel and all but sprinted away, weaving through the crowd of people. He only slipped once but his cameraman was there to grab him by the elbow and haul him towards the next interview. Steve watched him go. It was fine: it was good a view and, anyway, he needed to go get his medal with the boys.
After getting off the podium a little while later, Robin slid up next to him in the crush of bodies to hug him. He wasn’t entirely sure how she made it down; he suspected she stole Heather’s passes but he wasn’t gonna question it. She was saying as she pulled back, “Listen, congrats and sh*t, but, like, I know we’ve joked a lot about this. I know that I am and will be this thing’s number one champion, cheerleader, etc, etc, I stanned Steddie first and I have the receipts, trust. But, like. You don’t have to f*ck him. I mean, you probably already broke the internet enough with that little quip.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Steddie? What? Also, you heard that?”
“Babe,” she said. She held up her phone. “You’re trending. The whole world heard it. And yeah, Steddie. Like Bennifer or whatever.”
“Could be the swimming and, you know, the gold medals,” he said. He didn’t think the Bennifer thing deserved to be dignified with a response.
“I can’t believe Eddie Munson has maybe won the Steve Harrington dating arms race by being a simp on main,” she read.
Steve scrunched up his nose. “Could still be the gold medals.”
She stared at him. “So?”
“So what?”
“You know.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to f*ck him.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said.
“But you’re gonna?” she asked.
“It’s the zeitgeist,” he said. “Also, did you see him? He’s hot and a weird little dork. You know this!”
“Fair, yeah, that sh*t’s Steve Harrington kryptonite.”
“Yep. Anyway.” He leaned in and peered owlishly at her phone, looking at the new tweets popping up on the screen.
MADMAX @maxshreds
wow can’t believe i watched loser4loser rpf on national television
f*cking Mayfield, he thought. Didn't she have her own events to be prepping for, the turd? But could be worse, he knew. Dustin was going to be personally insufferable, and was probably already blowing up his phone with a thousand texts, thank god it was in the locker room.
But still —
“Wanna help me break the internet more real quick?”
He smirked. Robin smirked back.
“Always,” she said.
THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
yes it happened, yes he;s even more damp and beautiful in person, yes you could bounce a nickel off it, yes i am DyingNBC OLYMPICS AND PARALYMPICS @NBCOlympics
An Olympic moment a lot have been hoping for: SNL’s Eddie Munson meeting now 19-time Gold Medal winner Steve Harrington!
[ALT TEXT: Eddie Munson interviews Steve Harrington after his first two medal events of the Paris 2024 Olympic Games]THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
like sure he’s joking me, that was totally a funny, funny little joke to get back at me but still i have ascended, etc etcSTEVE HARRINGTON @stevieharringtonswims
@eddievaninhaler wasn’t a joke. wanna hang out next thursday when i’m free next thursday to hang outTHAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
[VIDEO: Eddie screaming, wordless, into the Paris night for thirty straight seconds; at the end, someone shouts, “Mais ta gueule!”]THAT ED MUNSON YEAH @eddievaninhaler
@stevieharringtonswims sounds great, see you then
Chapter 6: plus one.
Chapter Text
Before Paris had even begun, some enterprising human at ESPN had created the Harrington Gold Tracker, lining his wins up against Phelps and keeping track of how many he needed to win this year to overtake him: he had seventeen going into his fourth Olympics — Phelps had had ended London with twenty-three — and with nine events for 2024, Steve needed seven gold medal wins to take the lead. (And then five in 2028 to cinch it, but that was a problem, he thought, for Future Steve.)
His events were spread through nine days, and he met Eddie Munson in some capacity on each of them.
For all that he had that video of himself screaming into the night, Munson — Eddie — still played it cool whenever they did: a random chance encounter at the Olympic cafeterias or with his interviews with Steve, he was still smirking and flirting and being all sly and silly and sh*t, cool as a cucumber and really no mention of meeting up when all Steve’s events were said and done. He figured the execs at NBC knew what side their views were buttered on or whatever, and had given him carte blanche to go for it — the flirting, that was, especially considering that Steve himself was taking every opportunity before him to give as good as he got. There were memes a plenty and, yeah, steddie was often one of the top trending hashtags after Paris2024 and SummerOlympics.
(“There is actual RPF too,” Robin informed him one morning over breakfast, about halfway through Steve’s event stretch. “Max says people are sending her their fics on Twitter, and she’s sending them to me.”
“Some of it’s pretty good,” offered Heather.
“Oh my god,” he said hollowly. “Are you guys actually reading p*rn about me?”)
And so he didn’t think he was imagining it in the slightest, didn’t think he was making a mountain out of a molehill of a tweet anymore. Eddie was into him into him, and Steve wasn’t going to let this chance slip him by. Robin got her Olympic Village sneak-in with Heather, after all — and then proceeded to desecrate her hotel room further, of course, any chance they got, the horn-dogs — and this weird ass internet courtship had been going on for a goddamn year now, as far as he was concerned.
What could Steve say: he’d always been a romantic, and what was more romantic, he figured, than someone declaring their intentions to woo and wed you before they even met you? That was some real Jane Austen sh*t, you know?
Maybe it was weird, but, hey, it was working for him. Why not see where it took him?
In the end, it was easier than he thought, sneaking Eddie into the Olympic Village. Maybe it was the press pass, or Steve’s relative high celebrity even among his peers, or everyone’s awe that he goddamn did it — the 4x100m medley, Jake bringing it home this time so that Steve could nab his eighth mother f*cking gold, suck his dick, Phelps! Only four more in 2028 now! — but either way, it was ten pm and he was freshly adorned with his newest bauble and flush with victory, pushing Eddie Munson onto his back on Steve’s sh*tty twin-sized mattress in his little single room in the Village.
“So, like, the gold medal stays on, right?” asked Eddie, wriggling back into the sheets and grinning up at him.
“I mean, yeah. Wasn’t there a tweet to that effect?” he asked.
Turning a very charming shade of red, Eddie’s eyes darted to the side. He bit his lower lip and said, “Well, if it’s on the table.”
“It’s all on the table. I plan on being extremely sexually permissive tonight, just FYI.” He kneed his way onto the bed and sat himself astride Eddie’s thighs. “I’m kind of, like, super into you.”
“You are?”
“Yeah, man,” said Steve. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I mean.” He waved a hand at himself. “Like, discounting how I so totally don’t seem like I’d be your type, I was kind of wildly horned up on main about you? Like, very graphically and even more publicly was thirsting after you — national platforms publicly.”
“That’s true,” he allowed. He stripped off his track jacket and his gold medal bounced against his sternum, briefly, before settling warmly between his pecs. Just from that, he figured he was probably gonna get a bruise in its shape after but, like, worth it. How many people could say they got a mild sex injury from their Olympic Gold? Well, he thought, probably actually quite a few of them that held them, but good company, you know? He was saying, “But, first, you are so totally my type — I like my 'em hot, dorky, and weird, okay? So, like, the horned up on main thing? Part of the allure.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Steve reached down, tugged at the edge of Eddie’s newest crop top — still a USA Swim number, but one of the new Paris 2024 ones. “Now, what does a boy gotta do to get a little victory dick, hmm? I think you also may have said something once about, what was it? Breaking my back like a glow stick?”
That was all the permission Eddie seemed to need, then. He surged up into Steve, one hand braced behind him and the other curling carefully in the gross grain ribbon of his Olympic gold. He kissed him hard and hot and messy, all teeth and tongue, and he grinned into it. He dug his fingers into Eddie’s hair, angling his head, slowing him down, and licked along the seam of his mouth, against his teeth.
They made out for forever. He was surprised by the lack of urgency he felt within this pocket of heat and desire they’d forged between them, but he knew it didn’t mean it was because the hunger wasn’t there. It was: it was there ten-fold, he thought, but it didn’t need to take the stage at that moment. It was just enough to feel each other, he thought — he hoped — to be able to press their bodies together so f*cking close only that gold medal could slot between them, the thin threads of the fabric of their clothes. To be able to feel their spit slick mouths moving in tandem, the hard press of their fingers in hair, against sternums, clutching the whiny threads of the sheets. To be able to gasp and share breath and moan so quietly and wantonly.
Christ, he could do this until the world burned down around him, he thought. Eddie felt so good beneath him, tasted so sweet and lovely, touched him so carefully and reverently. Everything that led them to this moment seemed to fall away, and it was just them, now. Their bodies, their touch, their desire, this moment, this f*cking moment —
But still, slowly, eventually, Steve found the world creeping back in. It could have been hours later, lips bruised and numb, when it did, when the heat of the summer night in Paris started to curl against him, make his chlorine scented sweat sticking beneath his track shirt, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about that, he didn’t care about the sound of a party just beyond his closed door and the laughter and cheering of the rest of USA Swim as they threw a rager to celebrate the end of their runs at this Olympics. He didn’t care about any of it but the man beneath him, between his thighs.
Eddie was moving gently beneath him, almost restrained — by his own doing, or the weight of Steve himself, he didn’t know. But he could feel it nonetheless, could feel him. He was hard beneath Steve, so damn hard and thick and hot that he could feel it through Eddie’s jeans and his own track pants. Steve ground himself down against him, his own erection making itself known as he realized the state of Eddie’s, and he made such a beautiful noise, to feel him.
“That’s it,” Steve breathed into his mouth. He gripped his loose, tangled hair harder, pulled him closer. “That’s it.”
He stared up at him, wide-eyed and in wonder. “Yeah? This is what you want? This is what you want? Baby, what can I give you? I wanna give you everything, what do you want —”
Steve put a hand in the middle of Eddie’s chest and pushed him down back among the pillows. “Think I wanna ride you until you pass out. That cool? Great. Get your pants off.”
Practically bucking Steve off him, Eddie hurried to comply. Steve allowed the momentum to tumble him to the side, where he curled and watched him strip, ungainly, in the close quarters of their bodies, the smallness of the room. It shouldn’t be so hot, the way he shoved his jeans and boxers down to his knees in one go, then got them stuck and had to kick and wriggle to get them off. It shouldn’t be so hot, the way he tore his tee over his head and flung it so hard to the side it nearly knocked off Steve's bedside lamp.
But f*ck if it was, and f*ck if Eddie wasn’t so goddamn pretty, all naked and open in his bed. He had a good body, lean and covered in sparse body hair and f*ck ugly tattoos that Steve wanted to taste. His nipples were pierced, shiny silver ringers in pale brown areola. There were a handful of mysterious scars from a no doubt misspent youth, hairy knees and shins and surprisingly delicate looking feet, narrow, and then his dick — cut, dusky pink and drooling where it rested in the crease of his hip, thick and big and almost too heavy to keep itself upright and Jesus Christ Steve wanted to put his mouth on it. He’d never been a size queen when it came to his partners but goddamn if he didn’t think this particular dick would turn him into one, let alone ruin him for anyone that came after (though he hoped, he hoped) —
God, he wanted to roll himself back over Eddie’s body, burrow down between his legs and swallow him. A swimmer’s lung capacity was no joke but Steve still wanted to test it on this man’s co*ck, work his lips over him and suck him down, see how long he could stay down there, see how long it would take him until he choked on it and —
“What about you?” asked Eddie suddenly, almost nervously, and Steve realized his wool-gathering on Eddie’s pretty dick had made him quiet and still for too long, and the nature of his own attire made it difficult to see Steve’s reciprocal desire. He had to have felt it, earlier, same as he felt his, but he knew it was different. Especially, he thought, when one person was fully nude and the other wasn’t, and that person was just staring.
So he rolled onto his back, keeping his head turned to the side so he could watch Eddie’s face as he worked, and slid both hands down his chest, his stomach, and into his pants. He cupped himself briefly, just a little something to relieve the pressure, biting his lip when Eddie’s eyes flicked down and he licked his lips. His swim trunks pulled and fought him as he next worked them over his hard dick and down his thighs, but he just arched his back and tried to make it look intentional, tried to make a show of it, sexy as he could, for the man next to him. By the way his eyes widened, making his already huge ones appear even more Bambi like, it was working, and how.
“USA, USA,” he quietly chanted when Steve was fully bare but for the Gold medal, and then choked on nothing when Steve raised one knee and unceremoniously put two fingers in himself. His reaction made the burn of such sudden penetration well worth it, and he rolled himself again, pressing himself along Eddie’s warm body so he could kiss the rest of his breath from him. He threw up an absent thank you to his trainers for getting him into yoga at a young age because he even managed to keep his fingers in himself as he did it, and didn’t break his wrist or anything.
“How are you real?” wondered Eddie in between messy kisses. One hand had returned to the ribbon of Steve’s gold medal, holding him close, and the other had moved to grip him by the ass, helped hold him open as Steve fingered his hole. He was too impatient to let Eddie do it, knew how little his body could take before it was ready. Their co*cks slid against each other haphazardly, not enough to push them closer to the edge but a tease, a preview. “You’re so f*cking sexy, sh*t, how are you real?”
“Just for you,” he told him, almost nonsensically. He put a third finger in, moaned, and then moaned louder when Eddie’s fingertips pressed against his hot, stretched rim. “Yeah, yeah, just for you, baby. Can’t wait to have that fat co*ck in me. Can’t wait to ride you.”
And, in short order, he was. He sat on Eddie’s gloved dick and across his thighs like his body was his personal throne and worked himself slowly up and down, one hand keeping him balanced on Eddie’s trembling stomach and the other tracing those tattoos, thumbing those pretty little rings at his nipples. Eddie’s own hands just held Steve steady by the hips, fingers gripping so tightly it was probably a good thing they waited until now to do this: even with everything that came before this, he wasn’t sure he was prepared for what the internet would do if they saw finger-shaped bruises creeping out of his swim trunks on national television.
He moved languidly, leisurely, staring down at Eddie as he stared up at him. He raised one hand from his hip to run it over his stomach, up his chest, tracing the edge of the medal as it undulated with his body, curling it around the gentle swell of one pec. He was saying, “Look at you. Look at you. You’re so beautiful. You’re so f*cking beautiful.”
“Yeah?” he asked. “You think so?”
“Thought so from the minute I saw you,” Eddie told him. “Last summer, and before. When we were kids. I always thought — Christ, Steve, sweetheart, you’ve always been beautiful to me. You’re gorgeous. You’re perfect. I’ve always wanted you. Even before I knew you, I wanted you.”
“And now?”
“Now I need you,” he said simply.
And, like, what the f*ck else was Steve supposed to do but ride Eddie Munson into the f*cking mattress?
He wasn’t sure if he’d get Eddie to pass out in the end, like he’d said, but Steve was willing to pass out himself in the attempt. After all, he was an world class f*ckin’ athlete, a twenty-five time goddamn Olympic gold medalist, a world record holder ten times over now — what was the point of it all if he couldn’t ride this hot SNL dork into oblivion, you know? Plus, he figured he had a bit of a natural advantage there — he was sure there was probably some endurance given the rigors of TV but, based on social media, there were also a lot of all-nighters with sh*tty take-out and chain smoking in the Plaza.
Eddie didn’t look like he was complaining. He looked, in fact, increasingly like Steve imagined people looked like when they were claiming they were experiencing religious ecstasy or some sh*t. Which, of course, only pushed him further and faster and harder. He was a little worried about the integrity of the sh*tty twin bed beneath him, but once again: worth it. A story to horrify the grandkids with, right?
Because, yeah, sure, some very hot sex that Steve had been dreaming about for the better part of the year was happening, but he’d also been lying to himself about that for the same amount of time too, and he might as well be honest about his intentions with Eddie, if only in the privacy of his mind. He wanted to do this again, and again, and again. He wanted to go on dates with him, and be horrified by the thirst tweets he would no doubt still be posting when they went Instagram official. He wanted to see how Eddie reacted to paps when they walked through the city together, hand in hand, searching for morning coffee and pastries. He wanted to wake up to him every morning that he could, and kiss him goodnight each night he could. He wanted to build a life with him. He wanted to keep him.
Anyway, he started it. Call a guy your husband enough times on Twitter, a boy's gonna get some ideas, okay?
Below him, Eddie was biting his lip, his brow drawn together. His breathing was hard and his eyes were lidded, droopy as he watched Steve work over him. He said again, “f*ck, look at you. You’re so f*cking hot. Feel so good, riding me like that, baby. Making me feel so good.”
“Yeah?” Steve leaned down, curling his body over Eddie’s as he ground down on him, clenching as he went, breathing into his mouth as he asked, “Gonna come for me, honey? Wanna feel you. Wanna make you come.”
“You’re gonna,” he said. “sh*t, f*ck, wanna come for you so bad. Can I? Can I?”
“Yeah, honey, let go.” He ground down again, harder, and rose again. He bounced on his dick as fast as his burning quads and glutes would let him. “Come for me.”
Gripping his hips tight, Eddie suddenly slammed up into him once, twice, and held him. His face twisted up as he shouted, wordless, and spilled into the condom, and Steve was helpless to do anything but clench and strip his own dick fast and raw, coming in hot stripes against his own chest and belly almost immediately after him. Eddie reached up, gripped him by the gold medal ribbon, and pulled him down, kissing him messily though his release.
They stayed like that for a long time, kissing gently and aimlessly with Steve’s come cooling between them, and Eddie softening inside him. Eventually, he slipped out, and Steve tucked himself against his chest, trading more of those slow, easy kisses as their breathing even out.
At length, he said, “You didn’t pass out,” and the pout he gave was mostly performative, only a little bit real.
Eddie snorted, pressed a kiss to Steve’s temple. “I mean, I think I blacked out a couple of times in there, so. Does that count?”
“I’ll take the win,” he told him.
“Like you didn’t win enough before this,” he said.
“Yeah, but you’re the prize I really wanted,” Steve said, too honest.
Blinking, Eddie’s mouth opened and closed for a moment. He started to pull away a little, but Eddie took him by the medal itself this time, body warm and splattered with spunk, dragging him back into his orbit, and said, “You mean that?”
“Yeah,” he said again. “Is that — is that okay? I don’t wanna be too much, or —”
He kissed him again, hard and fast and hungry, like one of the kisses that started this. Eddie said, “You’re perfect. This is — I’m into you too, in case that wasn’t readily evident by, like, the everything about me that led me to this moment. And anything I may have said in the moment too, wasn't really kidding about blacking out, some of that was a glorious, sexy, sexy blur. But, like, I pretty much said I wanted to suck your chlorine flavored dick in front of the entirety of Beyonce’s internet. You know?”
“I kind of thought that was a bit, to be honest,” he said.
“It wasn’t,” said Eddie. “Well, maybe once, but only for a second. You’re, um. You're the prize I wanted, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Steve sank back down to the bed, cuddled in close. “That’s good. Because you’re probably gonna get roasted within an inch of your life when we go to get cleaned up. I don't think she's out there but Heather said she's working on a tight five.”
“Baby,” he said fondly. “Once again, I debased myself, extremely publicly, for months trying to get the attention of a man who does not do social media except for a few weeks each June and also apparently to ask me out. What part of that suggested I would somehow wouldn’t welcome that with open arms? And, anyway, that won’t be for a while yet, so.”
“So?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” he said. “What’s the point in cleaning up when we’re just gonna get messy again in an hour?”
He raised his eyebrow higher. “An hour?”
“Maybe less,” Eddie told him. “Mr Olympics you may be, but I’d outstrip you in a heartbeat if being Horny On Main was an event here, okay? You said you were planning on being, quote, extremely sexually permissive, and I’m halfway in love with you, alright? I’m gonna f*ck you until my dick falls off probably, and then beg you to f*ck me.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” he mused. “Well, in that case —”
Taking him by the shoulders, Steve rolled them both, laughing, off the bed and onto the floor to start round two.
