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Frankly, he’s shocked it’s taken them this long to get here.
It’s been several months since Vecna. Since gates and guns and dragging Eddie’s battered body through just in time to save him from dying in an upside-down hellscape. Since El had pulled Max back from the brink in one piece, had destroyed what little remained of Henry Creel, and they had, once again, saved the world in secret.
You can’t exactly roll up to the ER with a gaggle of deeply traumatized children and a dying fugitive in tow and expect there not to be questions, but Eddie was choking on his own blood, so Steve made the executive decision to load everyone into the RV and floor it to Hawkins Memorial Hospital, consequences be damned. The night nurse had taken one look at their bloodied, terrified faces and called the cops, which tipped off the feds, which brought them Dr. Owens and El and the Byers and somehow even Hopper, but not before Eddie was tossed onto a gurney and whisked away to a closed-off surgery suite to piece him back together.
Eddie lived through the night, into the next morning, and once Steve had had his own flayed skin and partially crushed windpipe attended to, he rarely left his side.
If you asked him, Steve couldn’t really articulate why he’d stayed. He had only ever known Eddie secondhand, really, first through rumors at parties and later through Dustin’s stories. He’d barely had a chance to get to know him amidst the chaos of it all, but he does know what it’s like to wake up for the first time after having the fabric of the universe ripped apart before your eyes, and he didn’t want to leave Eddie to face that on his own. He knew what it was like to stare abject horror in the face and survive, and honestly, hanging around his own giant empty house alone for the foreseeable future wasn’t going to do him much good either, so why not wait it out with shitty hospital coffee and a shitty plastic chair tucked up beside beeping monitors and soft, steady breaths?
The kids came in and out during those days, too, especially Dustin. Steve had almost never seen Henderson as relieved, as joyous as when Eddie finally came out of his medically-induced coma with some inarticulate grumblings about sheep. Steve didn’t bother to ask, because it made Dustin laugh and that alone was worth its weight in gold. It did, however, remind him that it was objectively a little weird for him to still be hanging around, and he probably would have excused himself to leave except that when Eddie finally met Steve’s eyes, he looked relieved.
So, Steve stuck around. He went home intermittently to crash and shower and change his clothes, but he spent most of the following few weeks sitting in that god-awful plastic chair, watching brainless TV, playing stupid card games, and shooting the shit with Eddie “The Freak” Munson.
It turns out, without the constant threat of violence and/or death, Eddie is hilarious. Steve understands logically why they were never friends before – it’s not like they ran in the same circles in school, not when Steve was too busy being an asshole – but he wishes they had been, the same way he wishes he had been friends with Robin earlier. Like Robin, Eddie is a quirky, snarky little shit, always quick with the one-liners, even while he was rendered temporarily physically incapable of his usual theatrics. He makes deep-cut references to movies and books that Steve absolutely doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t make Steve feel stupid about them. Eddie’s eyes lit up when Steve brought in some cassettes for them to listen to on his tinny little tape deck, and he laughed so hard he genuinely risked busting his stitches open when Steve asked him if he likes Tears for Fears. He’s warm and genuine when it’s just the two of them, no one around he needs to prove anything to, and Steve couldn’t help but gravitate further into his orbit.
The time Steve spent away from the hospital was harder. Things felt final in a way the previous bouts with the Upside Down hadn’t. He couldn’t be sure, of course, but El seemed convinced that Vecna-slash-Henry Creel-slash-001 was well and truly dead before she, Hopper, and the Byers went back to California to pack up what remained of their house and settle Jonathan and Argyle into their dorm at the community college. He tried to trust her judgment. He even tried stashing the nail-bat in his bedroom closet instead of the trunk of his car, just to see if he could stomach going places without it; he only had two (maybe three) panic attacks pulled over on the side of the road before the sharp, spiky terror settled into a low, persistent hum of anxiety, manageable and familiar.
By the time Eddie was discharged, a free man with a government-issue high school diploma and a new trailer for him and Wayne to call home, Steve’s bruises had faded enough for him to go back to work. He was happy to be spending time with Robin again, but it felt absurd to go back to a dead-end job shelving tapes and flirting with customers after everything they’d been through. He could hear young-Nancy in his head so clearly when he stopped to think about it for too long – it’s bullshit; you’re bullshit – and he thought maybe she had been on to something, just a few lightyears ahead of him, as per usual.
Robin picked up on it right away, because of course she did. She wasn’t his best friend for nothing. He knew it had to be obvious given how gentle she was being with him during their shifts. She barely fussed about how slow he was at shelving the returns, and she didn’t give him any grief when she found him more than once sitting silently in the backroom, staring off into the middle distance with a haunted look in his eyes.
Steve knew he wasn’t doing well, but seeing Eddie back on his feet, seemingly doing all right, helped a lot.
Eddie started regularly swinging by the video store in the quiet mid-afternoons, plopping himself heavily into the swivel chair reserved for staff and kicking his feet up on the boxes stashed behind the counter. He looked better every day, his face filling back out and a bit of his old swagger returning to his step. Steve couldn’t help but stare, transfixed as Eddie drummed his fingers on his thighs and rocked back and forth in the chair absently, smiling that dopey grin that seemed to be reserved for him and their endless bantering.
“Steve-o, I don’t believe for a second that you have faced down literal eldritch horrors but Gremlins was too much for you. Buckley, back me up here, please?”
“It wasn’t too much; I just didn’t like it – “
“Nah, Steve almost wet his pants during the kitchen scene – “
“Robin, what the hell, I thought I could trust you – “
And so on and so forth, whittling away the hours until Steve drove himself home, to the big empty house where he’d sit around and fend for himself. Talking with Eddie – flirting with Eddie, if he’s honest about it – was just about the only time he felt human. Never mind that that scene had actually tripped some weird shit for him, smashing plates and screaming and freaky little monsters and I thought I told you to plant your feet ringing in his ears, but at least when he was talking about it with Eddie, he could turn it into something funny instead of deeply pathetic.
“So, are you ever going to tell him, or…?” Robin asked him finally, maybe a month or so into their new routine. He didn’t really question how she knew, but he was a little upset that she asked when the man in question was just barely out the shop door, striding off towards his van, black handkerchief fluttering behind him as he strode away.
“’Or,’ dude. Definitely ‘or.’” He felt more than heard Robin sigh; they had landed beside each other, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder over the counter, and it did make it a bit easier to not have to look her in the eye while they talked about it.
“Why not?” she pressed. “You spend basically every day together. He clearly likes you. Are you…? Is this…?” He waited. She rallied. “I’m just saying that it’s fine, Steve. It’s okay to like the guy.”
“It’s not the liking him that’s the problem, actually,” was out of his mouth before he could overthink it.
A beat. Then, “Then what is the problem, Steve?”
His forehead met the countertop with a soft thud and a groan. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to have to pull his soul back into his body enough to figure out how to say I really don’t think I can handle that kind of thing anymore without revealing just how much he knows about himself and others.
“Look, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she continued. “It doesn’t offend me at all that my best friend is having his first gay crisis and won’t let me help. It’s not like I have any direct experience with the pining and the sad-puppy eyes and the whole ‘is this flirting or did we just go through some super traumatic shit together this one time’ thing –“
“I’m not sure the story of you seducing my ex-girlfriend is as comforting as you think it is –“
“- and it’s definitely not like I know how scary it is to want something you think you don’t deserve to have.”
It landed like a lead balloon between them, the half-truth of it wrenching another groan from deep in his chest. Deserve was part of it, maybe, but not the whole thing. He didn’t know how to explain it in words. The way his body ached for something he was too terrified to name, let alone chase. The way he knew, down to his bones, that even if he tried, even if he managed to turn on the old Harrington charm long enough for Eddie to want him the way he wanted Eddie, it wouldn’t be enough to keep him, not when Steve was barely holding himself together on the best of days.
He knew, through rumors and jokes and the literal handcuffs hanging on his wall that Eddie liked things rough. Probably liked his partners rough and strong and durable in a way Steve hadn’t been since the first time he swung a baseball bat full of rusty nails at a monster from an alternate dimension. Since Jonathan and Billy and several unnamed Russian officers had each taken a turn at making mincemeat of his face. Since chipped teeth and concussions and broken bone after broken bone. For all his bravado, for all the time he spent chasing down demons and play-acting a hero, he knew the second Eddie laid his hands on him, he would crumble, and he just couldn’t live with the shame of having his chance and ruining it because he couldn’t keep up.
The shop door opened, bell ringing overhead as a family of four barreled into the stacks, effectively ending the conversation before Steve had the chance to stumble into a response. Robin patted him twice on the back before hopping the counter to go deal with the customers, granting him a few minutes to pull himself together again. By the time the customers were gone, he’d drifted off into the back room for safety, mindlessly shoving tapes into the rewinder and hoping Robin would let it go.
After that, Eddie started staying later – whether at Robin’s urging or not, Steve didn’t dare to ask – more often than not following Steve home to the big empty house, a little weed and the latest VHS release tucked away in the lunchbox he didn’t actually need to carry around anymore. They started out a respectable distance apart on the couch, at least for the first few evenings, splitting a joint and talking over all the important bits of the movie, but Steve knew the steps to this dance and, rightfully, figured it was only a matter of time until they crashed.
Which is why he’s not surprised – overwhelmed, but not at all surprised – when on one such evening, Eddie drops the spent joint in the ashtray and finds Steve’s nearest hand with his own, lacing their fingers together in the flickering light of the TV. Sides pressed together and hearts beating in tandem, Steve’s brain, usually running a million miles a minute, quiets momentarily at the gentle touch.
A chunk of his soul, or whatever’s left of it, comes crashing back into his body, and he’s suddenly painfully aware of how divorced he’s been from himself recently. His skin aches, greedy and desperate, and his heart thumps in his throat as he turns his head and tilts his chin up, meeting Eddie’s giant brown eyes in the darkness.
Eddie, by comparison, seems calm. Grounded. Present and in control of his body in a way Steve envies. His grip is firm, rings cool against Steve’s fingers, and he’s slotted his hand into Steve’s such that he can run his thumb soothingly along Steve’s wrist. There’s a question in his eyes as his gaze flicks down to Steve’s lips and back, but there isn’t any rush. His chest rises and falls once, then twice, before Steve gives the tiniest nod and their lips meet.
Steve’s twisting his full body into it before he realizes what he’s doing, Eddie bringing his free hand up to cup Steve’s jaw and slide his fingers ever-so gently through the hair behind Steve’s ear. Eddie’s lips are even softer than Steve had imagined, but his face is sharper, jaw stronger than Nancy’s or any of the girls he’s ever done this with. Eddie is moving with purpose, free hand continuing its sweep down Steve’s flank, unspooling Steve’s torso by lifting Steve’s legs up and over across his lap. His hand finally settles on Steve’s hip, fingers drumming absently along the side seam of his jeans, and Steve barely even notices that he still has hold of Eddie’s other hand, clutched tightly against his chest.
It's Steve’s turn to sweep a free hand up and into the hair at the base of Eddie’s neck as their lips continue to move. His fingers tighten involuntarily in Eddie’s curls as Eddie very gently sucks on Steve’s lower lip, and he feels as much as hears Eddie’s resulting groan. His lips parting open prompts them to deepen the kiss further, and Steve wishes he could blame the weed for this total lapse in judgment, but his tolerance is far, far too high for this to be anything other than his own fault.
The movie credits start to roll in the background just as Eddie pulls back, the hand on Steve’s hip shifting upwards to the slice of bare skin showing where Steve’s sweater has rucked up. Eddie takes hold of Steve’s waist there and maneuvers them neatly into laying down, Steve’s shoulders pressing into an accent pillow, and it occurs to Steve that this is the first time he’s ever been handled like this. He’s usually the one making moves, deciding when and where to shift or adjust, and he realizes instantly how much he likes it this way. Eddie is stretched out above him, like the cat that got the cream, and he smiles down toothily at Steve before recapturing his lips in another gentle kiss that sends a spike of arousal and a flood of warmth down his spine.
They make out lazily on the couch for five, ten, fifteen minutes, time immaterial as the movie winds down into silence and the quiet fully settles in around them. Steve’s knuckles are twisted into the front of Eddie’s t-shirt, holding him in place above him even as Eddie breaks the kiss to mouth his way along Steve’s jaw. Steve tilts his chin up slightly to grant him further access, Eddie’s lips peppering kisses along his stubble, until he feels Eddie’s left hand snake its way up his chest to land at the base of his throat and Steve freezes.
Steve can’t see or hear anything over the instant roar of terror, warmth in his gut sinking into stone. There is a scaly, writhing cord of tail muscle wrapped around his neck, crushing and twisting, and he can’t breathe through the knowledge that he’s going to die alone in an alternate dimension with no one there to save him.
“-eve. Steve! Steve. Wake up, Steve, come on, wake up –“
All at once, the present comes crashing back into focus and Eddie is no longer kissing him but cradling his face in his hands with a look of raw panic in his eyes and oh God oh God oh God
He’s scrambling back against the arm of the couch, out from under Eddie’s hands before he’s able to process anything further, and Eddie drops back with a soft thud. He’s not speaking anymore, not yelling in his ear, but Steve can still hear the desperation in Eddie’s voice clear as day as Steve wraps his arms around himself and clutches at the scars below his ribcage. His knees are knocking together as he curls into a ball, and he doesn’t want to be doing this, wants to go back to the way it was a minute ago when everything was warm and soft and good, but he never did learn how to plant his feet and he’s not sure how long it’s going to take him to start breathing again, anyway.
Eddie watches all of this through his own come-down, the terror on his face gradually subsiding into something else as he watches Steve collapse inward. It might be concern, but it could be disgust, and Steve’s adrenaline-soaked brain really doesn’t have the capacity to figure out which it is yet. Steve scrubs a shaky palm across his face and it comes away wet, and it’s not until that moment that he realizes that he’s crying.
You knew this would happen comes to him unbidden, shame rising as he struggles to pull himself back together. You knew you would ruin this.
“I – I’m sor–“ gurgles up in his throat, hoarse and unsteady, and he can feel Eddie staring at him even though he can’t bear to look him in the face.
“Don’t,” is what he hears in reply, equally as hoarse but infinitely steadier. Steve flinches, an unconscious thing, but Eddie barrels on, “Don’t apologize to me for this, Steve. You don’t have to.”
That could mean an awful lot of things, so Steve sits and waits and tries to wrestle his lungs back into control. He knows he’s shaking, knows whatever moment they’d been having is long gone, but some deranged part of him is desperate for Eddie to lay him back down, to wrap him back up in the warm safe good feeling even though he knows it’s only a matter of time until Eddie collects himself enough to go home, to get as far away from the bullshit that is Steve Harrington as he possibly can.
There’s movement on the other end of the couch – Steve thinks maybe Eddie really is getting up to go – except instead, Eddie shifts his weight around so that he’s seated rather than kneeling like he has been since Steve shoved him off. He’s mirrored Steve to a degree, his back against the opposite arm of the couch but with his legs splayed out in front of him, posture open and defenseless even as he nervously fidgets with the rings on his left hand.
“So, should I go get the Tears for Fears cassette or…?”
It’s a good joke, a great joke even, but all it does is sink Steve even further into his shame spiral. Of course, that’s where Eddie’s mind would go, holy shit. He’d watched Chrissy die a brutal, violent death, hadn’t known how to save her from it before her bones snapped and eyes collapsed into her skull, and wow Steve is an asshole.
Eddie must realize that the joke didn’t land because he quickly course-corrects, his voice low and placating in the kind of tone usually reserved for a spooked animal, “Steve, it’s okay, seriously. I’m sorry, that wasn’t funny. I just – I’m sorry. Can you look at me for a sec?”
It’s one of the hardest things Steve has ever done, so much harder than lobbing Molotov cocktails or swinging a bat, but he somehow finds the resolve to steel his spine and lift his gaze from his kneecaps, meeting Eddie’s eyes across the wide expanse of the couch. Whatever bad thing he’d been expecting to happen in that moment doesn’t materialize; he doesn’t melt through the floor and Eddie doesn’t launch himself out the window. With the adrenaline ebbing away, he can better read the care in Eddie’s gaze, the sadness etched into the downward curve of his mouth, and despite the persistent itch of shame, he does feel marginally better seeing that Eddie isn’t mad.
“There you are,” Eddie breathes, the relief in his voice palpable. Steve wants to look away again, can barely tolerate such wanton patience and understanding, but Eddie had asked him to look. “Are you okay?”
It’s such an absurd question, one he is so wildly unprepared to answer, that Steve laughs. It almost starts him crying again, but instead he laughs so hard he pushes the lingering tears from his eyes and loosens the knot in his chest and opens up the tight curl of his body just enough that his knees are no longer pressed into his sternum. Eddie waits him out, a little confused but he doesn’t push, waiting for Steve to answer.
“Fuck,” is what finally comes out. “No.”
Eddie quirks an eyebrow at that, but he still doesn’t seem like he’s about to bolt, so Steve counts that as a win. “Well, I am just full of stupid questions tonight, aren’t I?”
Guilt starts to take shape alongside the shame in Steve’s chest; he doesn’t want Eddie to feel bad or responsible for his bullshit. “No, no, it’s fine,” he says, using the sleeves of his sweater to clear the tear tracks off his face. “I’m sorry –“
“Steve,” Eddie interrupts. “Don’t. Okay? It’s okay. We’ve all got our own shit going on, and I should have been more careful.” And then, because he’s quite possibly the bravest person Steve has ever met, “Can we talk about it?”
Steve sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slowly through his nose. Eddie waits, Steve keeps making him wait, but he still doesn’t seem mad. Just worried. Steve doesn’t want Eddie to worry. At the end of the breath, Steve nods, and Eddie smiles just a tiny bit in his direction.
“Okay,” Eddie starts. “Okay.”
For all that lead up, they find themselves at an impasse. The silence that stretches between them is awkward, Steve picking at the damp cuffs of his sweater while Eddie valiantly searches for the next thing to say. Steve wishes he could help him, but outside of some very specific circumstances, he’s the true coward here, the one who shuts himself off and floats away. He’s got nothing to give, no way to salvage this thing that he wants so desperately but cannot center himself enough to save.
“Okay,” Eddie starts again. “You, like… wanted me to kiss you, right? I didn’t make that up?”
It hadn’t occurred to Steve that that would ever be in doubt. He is momentarily stunned that Eddie would feel the need to ask, could ever question the magnitude of his want when it feels so all-consuming. But, he supposes, it’s a fair question, considering he’d been doing everything in his power to stop Eddie from figuring out just how deep this want for him went.
Steve nods. “Stupid question.”
Eddie barks out a laugh, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. “Okay, thank God,” he chuckles, shifting slightly forward in his seat, socked foot knocking gently against Steve’s ankle atop the center cushion. Eddie’s never been much for personal space, so the movement seems more instinctual than anything, but he’s been very diligently maintaining the distance between them up until now. Even that tiny bit of contact sends a pleasant shock of electricity down Steve’s spine, and he thinks Eddie can sense it. “Can I hold you?”
Steve wants. Oh god, he wants that so much he feels it in his teeth. He wants it so much that he knows he can’t have it. “We shouldn’t.”
Eddie stills. “Why not?”
Why not, Steve thinks, just for a second, warm safe good, but then he remembers handcuffs on the wall and a tail around his throat and straps around his wrists and chest. “I can’t…” he tries. “I’m not…”
Something in Eddie’s face hardens. “You’re not what, Steve?”
It’s his tone that does it, that breaks through Steve’s bullshit enough for him to murmur, “I don’t want it to hurt.”
Steve can’t read Eddie’s face anymore. The electric buzz of the TV hums in his ears, the guilt shame bad feeling cemented in his trachea. There’s nothing left for him to do or say; it’s out there now, and he can’t put the words back in, and Eddie’s going to walk out the door and never come back.
“Oookay, so this is that conversation,” Eddie huffs, his shoulders tense again. Look what you did, Steve; can never leave well enough alone. “Why do you think I’d want to hurt you?”
Steve doesn’t want to answer that question. He doesn’t like the wounded look in Eddie’s eye, or the hard set to his jaw, or the tension in his body. He doesn’t like that he put them there, or that Eddie’s moved his foot and broken the contact that had been tethering him down to Earth. He really doesn’t like it when Eddie moves away entirely, turning in place and setting his feet down on the floor. Eddie rubs at his eyes and runs a hand through his mussed curls, heaving a sigh that just about breaks Steve’s heart. Steve feels himself start to float away.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, or from who,” Eddie starts quietly, and it’s not at all what Steve expects him to say. “But I need you to know that I have never and would never do anything to anyone that they didn’t want.”
“No, no,” pops out of Steve’s mouth, and before he knows it, he’s sitting up, too, scootching down the couch to where Eddie is. He cannot let Eddie think that this is somehow his fault. “No, Eddie, I don’t… that’s not… this is on me, okay? Not you. That’s not what I meant to say.”
Eddie is tense beside him, the inch or so of space between them feeling more like a mile. He’s staring down at the floor, fiddling with his rings again, and Steve can’t help but regret literally everything he’s ever said or done to get them to this point. More than that, though, he’s angry. He’s suddenly so incredibly angry at everything and everyone who ever made Eddie feel like this, including himself. Especially himself.
Maybe it’s the anger that spurs him on, but he finds himself spitting words out before he can reel them back in. “It’s stupid, okay; I know I’m stupid, but I’m not stupid enough to miss handcuffs on the wall and there’s nothing wrong with you for liking that but I just know I’d lose my shit and ruin it and I really, really don’t want that, okay? Not that I haven’t already anyway, but fuck. I can take a lot of shit, really I can, but that doesn’t always mean I want to.”
The resulting silence is overwhelming. Steve wishes he could stuff the words back down his throat, wishes like hell that he could have just taken it, taken whatever Eddie wanted to give him instead of chickening out, but he really, really couldn’t, and now Eddie’s moving again and he’s definitely going to leave –
“Steve,” his voice is so, so soft, “Steve. It’s not stupid. You’re not.” A beat. “Shit, can I please just hold you?”
The fight falls from Steve’s body, and he’s barely nodding his consent before Eddie has him wrapped tightly in his arms, warm and safe and good. Eddie sweeps his legs back up and across his lap, drawing Steve in against the broad expanse of his chest.
“Listen to me, Steve,” Eddie says, lips moving against his temple, “Seriously listen to me, okay?” Steve nods, a tiny movement pressed into Eddie’s collarbone. “You have been through some wild and crazy shit, a lot of which I don’t even know about, and even if you hadn’t, there is nothing wrong with you or what you want.” He pauses, either for air or for dramatic effect; Steve is too entranced to tell the difference. “There’s nothing stupid about you, Steve Harrington. Promise.”
Steve wants to believe him. He really does. But the guilt-shame is still lodged firmly in chest, so he deflects. Pulls back so he’s not quite so fully crushed against Eddie’s body, tries for a joke. “I swear to God, I’m usually a better date than this,” he says with a bitter chuckle. “I –“
“Fuck, Steve, come on,” Eddie practically growls in frustration, sliding the circle of his arms down around Steve’s waist even as he draws his own upper body back to better see Steve’s face.
“Come on, what?”
Eddie looks him dead in the eye – no bullshit. No bullshit. “Let me like you as you are,” he says, as if that’s not Earth-shattering. “Not that you could fucking stop me –“
Steve has him by the mouth before he finishes the sentence.
The next few minutes are a flurry of movement, hands twisting into shirts and running up backs and gliding over thighs. Eddie’s hands never, ever graze his throat despite the frenzy, and Steve can feel the ice in his core melt away as he pulls Eddie in closer and runs his tongue along the seam of his lips. They’re making out again and it’s so good and it’s so much more than Steve thought he’d get and he might be floating away but not in the bad-numb way, like a happy-tingly way?
At least until Eddie pulls away with a gasp and looks him over with his giant brown eyes and demands, “What else?”
Steve’s face scrunches in confusion. “…huh?”
Eddie laughs, kisses him one more time – a fleeting little peck on the lips, really – before he continues, “It’s a no-go on the throat. What else do I need to know here?”
Despite the rollercoaster of the last few minutes, Steve has the wherewithal to muster a withering look. “So we’re still talking about it, then?”
Eddie flashes him another wide grin, but there’s a seriousness behind it. “We are indeed, big boy. At least if you want this to continue…?”
Steve buries his face back into Eddie’s collarbone with a groan. The guilt-shame had lessened but not completely dissipated, and it flares slightly as he contemplates what to say. It seems clear by now that Eddie isn’t going to run – Steve realizing belatedly what an unkind thing it was to think of him, anyway – but that doesn’t mean he knows how to talk about any of the shit he’s been through in the last three years with any sense of clarity. Lord knows the girls he’d been with hadn’t asked, hadn’t known to.
“Would it help if I start?” Eddie asks, and Steve is struck once again by his courage. Steve channels some of it for himself and draws back a bit, meeting Eddie’s eyes with a firm nod. Eddie smiles. “Okay. I, uh… don’t want to hurt you. Like, at all. I’ve had partners in the past who were into that and, like you said, it’s fine, but it’s not really my thing. Yeah, the handcuffs can be fun, but if you aren’t into it, I’m not into it.” He falters, a flicker of guilt-shame flashing behind his eyes. “I don’t know how I’ll react if you bite me. Which sounds, uhhhh, kind of stupid to say out loud, but those bats really freaked me out – “
“There’s nothing stupid about you, Eddie Munson,” Steve interrupts, and god-damn if he can’t be smooth when he needs to be. He’s almost proud of that one. “It, uh, makes sense to me, anyway.”
Eddie’s guilt-shame flickers out, and Steve can feel his own dwindling as Eddie settles them back into the couch a bit more comfortably. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, Okay, now your turn, and Steve’s mouth moves before he has the chance to overthink it. “So, I don’t want to get hurt. As we’ve established. That – I, uh, it sounds like we’re on the same page there, but I also don’t want to be… restrained? I guess? It wasn’t handcuffs with the Russians per se, but I’m pretty sure it’s all the same in the brain for me now, and I, uh… it wasn’t –“
Eddie seems to sense him going off the rails and holds him a little tighter. “It’s fine,” he says. “You don’t have to justify it. But, uh – Russians? What the fuck?”
Steve laughs despite himself, laughs at the absolute absurdity of what his life has become and the joy he has somehow stumbled into in spite of it. “I will tell you the full story another time if you want, but, uh, yeah, crazy.” He pauses for a moment. “I probably shouldn’t do this if I’m ever super fucked up either, now that I think about it.”
Eddie’s hold loosens slightly. “Have we smoked too much or…?”
“Oh, no,” Steve backtracks, “Sorry, no, I’m fine. I can handle half a joint. But if I’m ever ‘room-spinning-out-and-I-can’t-control-the-things-I’m-saying’ wasted, just take me out with a baseball bat to the temple before I get weird, okay?”
Eddie looks like he wants to push, wants to ask more questions, but he also seems to sense that that was all Steve was going to say on the matter and moves along. “Remind me never to question King Steve’s tolerance for the devil’s lettuce again.” Steve pinches at his side in response, and Eddie laughs. Steve likes his laugh. “Okay, okay. Is there anything else?”
Steve takes a moment to genuinely think, and he comes up blank. He’s surprised at how much better he feels for having said it out loud, knowing Eddie will stay. There’s a calm in his body and a quiet in his brain that he hasn’t known in a very, very long time. “Not that I know of,” he says sincerely. “Thank you.”
Eddie looks at him seriously for a moment, then nods, then pulls him in for another deep kiss. Steve melts, his bones and sinew dissolving into a molten pile of mush, but he does his best to keep up with Eddie’s clever tongue. The air in the room has shifted, there’s a magnetic pull drawing them together, and Steve finally, finally allows himself to enjoy it.
He finds himself on his back again in short order, Eddie pressed into him like a blanket, and Steve’s running his hands up along the column of Eddie’s spine until he reaches the nape of his neck. He curls his fingers into the hair there, just enough to tug lightly, and he feels Eddie whimper into his mouth before pressing down even more firmly into Steve’s body. Their hips are rolling together, languid and unhurried, and Steve can’t remember the last time he felt this good.
It just about kills him when Eddie pulls away, but it’s only so Eddie can go kissing along his jaw towards the hinge, landing just below his ear. Steve feels his hips buck as Eddie pinpoints a particularly sensitive spot, and he can tell Eddie knows what he’s found because he’s very clearly grinning into Steve’s neck as he continues to lavish attention there. Eddie’s got his hands anchored on Steve’s waist, his hips pressing down into Steve’s pelvis, and Steve feels wonderfully and deliciously caught.
“So,” Eddie murmurs into his skin, in a low tone Steve could have only dreamed of not two hours ago, “we figured out what you don’t want. What do you want here, Steve-o? Dealer’s choice: are we coming in our pants like a couple of delinquents, or do you want me to touch you?”
He punctuates the question by tugging at Steve’s earlobe with his teeth, and Steve’s back arches, pressing his chest into Eddie’s with as much force as he can manage from this angle. He wants, oh god does he want, but he’s also starting to consider the benefits of a bit more space.
“Bed,” he very eloquently breathes out. “Upstairs, first door on the left. Go.”
Eddie does not need to be told twice.
He clearly tries to be cool about it – helpfully pulling Steve to his feet with more strength than anyone would have guessed – but Eddie’s also chaos incarnate, so there’s a fair amount of staggering and stumbling as they make their way up to Steve’s bedroom, practically attached at the hip. Steve is giddy with it, punch-drunk on the levity of liking someone and being liked back, so much so that he doesn’t even mind when Eddie groans at the frankly alarming amount of plaid that greets them on the other side of Steve’s bedroom door.
“I know; it’s awful,” he admits. “My mom saw it in some magazine and just had to have it.”
“How do you sleep in here, dude?” Eddie grouses, as he nudges Steve backwards towards the bed. “It’s so loud.”
The real answer is that he doesn’t. Steve hasn’t slept in this bed more than a handful of times in the last three years, more often crashing out on the couch or finding somewhere else to be for the night. The few times he has slept here, he’s woken up screaming. But he’s just gotten Eddie back into kissing him and he really doesn’t want to bring the mood down again, so instead he laughs, plants a kiss on Eddie’s scowling lips, and says, “Didn’t really think we were coming up here to sleep, dude.”
He watches Eddie’s pupils dilate, and he knows he’s won. This round, at least.
For the third time tonight, Steve finds himself on his back, and he can’t find a single reason to complain about it. The bed offers more space, as predicted, and Eddie takes advantage of this by settling in on his side beside him, left leg draped over Steve’s right, his pelvis pressed into Steve’s thigh. He’s holding his upper half up on one elbow so that he can run his free hand over Steve’s torso, broad sweeping motions over his sweater, settling something warm and exciting into Steve’s chest.
Eddie leans in to find the juncture of his neck again, focused on the same spot as before with laser precision. Steve turns his head to grant him as much access as he can, hands twisting in the bedcovers beneath him as Eddie palms his way across his pecs, down his abdomen, landing low on his belly. He lingers on the hem of the sweater for a moment before he rucks it up just enough to touch skin. He pauses there for a moment, gives Steve a chance to adjust or stop him if he wants to, but when all he gets is a happy sigh, he continues, fingers slipping in further, skating over the scarred flesh at Steve’s waist.
This – his body, sharing it, enjoying it - is the one thing Steve’s never felt particularly shy or embarrassed about, even after their latest bout with the Upside Down. That said, Steve is momentarily grateful not to have to do any explaining, to know that Eddie already knows about the litany of scars he has and where they come from. It’s just one more thing he doesn’t have to worry about with Eddie, one more reason why he can safely shut off his brain and let the warm safe good feeling creep back in and take over.
Just as he thinks that thought, he feels cool air against his skin and realizes that Eddie has managed to wrangle him out of his sweater without him really noticing. He chokes a little as Eddie’s hands travel back downward, tweaking a nipple on the way, and Steve can’t help but turn to recapture Eddie’s lips with his own, a little miffed at being outmaneuvered.
He latches on to this new spark that’s lighting up his spine and gets with the program, licking his way into Eddie’s mouth and twisting slightly so he can tug at the base of Eddie’s shirt while he does it. Eddie manages to pull his own shirt up and over his head with minimal time away from Steve’s mouth, and then he’s right back in, smooth skin pressed against Steve’s and kneading at Steve’s belly, just above the waistband of his jeans.
Steve takes this as an invitation to hook his fingers through Eddie’s belt loops and pull him in that much closer. He feels Eddie groan into his mouth as he rolls his hips against Steve’s thigh, his jeans seeming quite a bit tighter than they had earlier in the evening. Steve goes to pop the button on his fly, but Eddie stops him gently.
“Have you ever – “ Eddie starts, pausing when he catches Steve’s eyebrow quirking up and the you have to be kidding me look flashing across his face. “I mean, with a guy?”
Steve puts his eyebrow back where it belongs and shakes his head. He settles his hands along Eddie’s waist, solid and stable and sure. “I’m pretty sure I can figure it out, though,” he says. “Have a lifetime of experience with my own junk to pull from. Can’t be that hard.”
“Should be, if you’re doing it right,” Eddie lobs back, chuckling, and Steve did walk right into that one, didn’t he? At least that got him laughing again. Steve likes his laugh so much. “Smartass.”
“Pot, kettle,” Steve wriggles a bit. “And it kinda feels like I’m doing something right already.”
“Oh my god,” Eddie rolls his eyes joyfully and dives in for a particularly enthusiastic kiss, hips rolling again. He pulls away just as Steve had started forgetting about things like words and sentences and trying to be funny. “You really are a brat, huh?”
Steve feels a warm blush bloom across his cheeks; it’s not the guilt-shame, that’s for sure, but there’s something a little embarrassing about the way Eddie’s looking down at him, how he’s so quickly clocked this piece of him that Steve usually keeps private. The last person he remembers bantering with like this - being silly and honest with, pushing buttons and enjoying it - is Nancy. He tries not to let the bitterness of how that had ended encroach on the happy little space he and Eddie are carving out together in this moment.
He must let some of it bleed through, though, because Eddie’s smile dims a bit and concern flickers in his eyes. Before Eddie can press him on it, though, Steve finds his belt loops once more and draws him back in, catching Eddie’s bottom lip between his teeth. Eddie’s laughing again, but it’s something softer, interspersed with little groans as Steve presses his thigh against the front of Eddie’s jeans. Steve may not have any experience with this particular version of events – might be a novice again in certain ways – but he knows what he wants; he wants to make Eddie feel good, wants to feel good in return, and that means letting go of some of the bullshit that’s been holding him back for the last three years.
So, he sucks on Eddie’s bottom lip, draws out more of those punched-out little sounds, starts running his hands up Eddie’s sides, over the ridges of his ribs, and revels in the satisfaction of making Eddie happy. Eddie doesn’t stop him as he once again goes to pull open the button on Eddie’s jeans, pushing at the tight denim as soon as the zipper is down enough to allow the fabric to move. Eddie does the same to him in return, and they both pull away just long enough to chuck their jeans over the side of the bed.
Steve feels his heartbeat in his throat as Eddie latches onto his collarbone, sucking a mark into the skin there as he shifts his weight such that he is properly draped over Steve again, pressing his thigh in where Steve is hardening in his boxers. Steve can’t help but tangle his fingers back into Eddie’s hair, pulling lightly at first, then firmer when he feels Eddie shiver in response. Steve groans mortifyingly loudly as Eddie migrates downward, skating his teeth over his left nipple before continuing down his stomach. Eddie gently presses his lips to the warm skin there before pausing, nose no more than two or three inches away from Steve’s waistband, and he catches Steve’s eyes with his own.
“Hands or mouth, baby?” he asks, and Steve feels something in his ribcage crack open. He doesn’t think he’s ever been addressed so sweetly in his life. Never thought he’d want to be, and yet.
“What –“ he stutters as Eddie places another soft kiss low on his belly, teeth just barely grazing his skin. “Whatever you want –“
Eddie honest to God bites him – gently, but enough to stop him in his tracks. “Nuh-uh,” he says, eyes locked on Steve’s and fully blown in their intensity. “It’s what you want, Steve. Hands, mouth, or stop?”
Steve is pretty sure if Eddie stops, he’ll perish, so he musters up a bit more courage and half-says, half-groans, “Mouth. Please.”
Within the space of a second, Eddie has his boxers down and his mouth on him and everything is warm safe good in a new but entirely welcome way. A minute passes and Steve can’t contain the noises he’s making, can feel Eddie’s hips undulating against the bed and Eddie’s throat constricting around him as he takes Steve down, and Steve really doesn’t think he can be blamed for finding himself on the edge of collapse so quickly.
“Ed- Eddie,” he manages, “Gonna – fuck, gonna –“
Eddie pulls off just long enough to smirk. “That’s the point, big boy. You gonna give it to me or what?”
And then he’s back on him and Steve can feel the back of his throat and he’s gone.
Steve’s vaguely aware of Eddie pulling his boxers back up and returning to his side as he floats in the good warm happy space, chest heaving as the pleasure settles into his bones. He feels relieved and sated and calm, which is only magnified as Eddie starts running a gentle hand over his torso again, soothing motions this time rather than riling him up. He can’t even be ashamed of how quickly he’d come, entirely too blissed out to care, and he feels himself smiling even as he draws Eddie in for a languid kiss.
He can feel Eddie rutting his hips against his thigh, chasing his own release, so he runs a tentative hand along Eddie’s waistband for a moment before Eddie nods and Steve’s hand slips into his boxers. He grips him loosely enough for Eddie to move at his own pace but firmly enough to give him some friction to play with, and Eddie’s making those glorious little sounds in his throat again, rhythmic and guttural. Steve experiments with a quick swipe of his thumb over the tip and Eddie moans into his mouth, so Steve does it again and again until Eddie finally shudders his release into Steve’s palm.
It's quiet save for the sound of their breathing as Eddie collapses half on top of him, squishing Steve’s shoulder a little bit in the process, but Steve can’t find it in himself to care. He’s happy, so much so that he’s still smiling into the darkened room, unable to contain it with Eddie pressed into him. He ducks his head into the crook of Eddie’s neck, just because he can, and he feels Eddie giggle quietly against the shell of his ear.
“Not too shabby, Harrington,” Eddie laughs, somehow wriggling in closer to Steve’s side as he speaks. “You were able to figure it out after all.”
Steve snorts. “Told you I could.”
“I had every faith in you.” Steve feels Eddie smile into his hair before drawing back, meeting his eyes with a cheesy grin. “But we should probably go clean up before we get too cozy.”
“You’re gonna have to get off me, then, Munson.” Steve doesn’t want him to move in the slightest. “Or else you’re gonna be stuck with me all night.”
“Stuck to you all night, you mean,” Eddie replies, dropping a quick kiss to Steve’s lips before shifting to sit up at the edge of the bed. He glances back over his shoulder at Steve, hair a wild halo around his face, and Steve feels the question in the air before Eddie has the chance to ask it.
“Come on, I’ll get you a toothbrush and a shirt to sleep in, if you want it.” Steve can’t quite meet Eddie’s eyes as he says it, but he thinks he’s been pretty brave so far and cuts himself some slack. He props himself up on his elbows and swings his legs around so he can stand, holding his hand out for Eddie to grab and leverage himself up, too. When he finally looks up at Eddie, he’s smiling at him, and Steve thinks oh God he’s pretty and then they’re kissing, even if he can’t quite figure out who leaned in first.
They make their way over to the en suite, and Steve pulls out an unopened toothbrush and some toothpaste, and it’s all so blisteringly domestic that it tugs at something in Steve’s gut that he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before, not even with Nancy. They brush their teeth and wipe themselves down and splash some water on their faces in tandem, finally returning to Steve’s room a little cleaner and sleepier than they’d left it. Steve pulls two shirts out of his dresser – an oversized basketball shirt he’s been sleeping in for years and an ancient 4-H shirt that rarely sees the light of day – and offers both for Eddie to choose from. Eddie picks the basketball shirt and slips it on, that strange something once again tugging at Steve’s gut, even as he pulls the 4-H shirt over his own shoulders and tries to set the feeling aside as too much, way too soon.
They climb back into Steve’s bed, the covers pulled over their hips with the lights turned off, and there’s a brief moment before either of them settles in where Steve worries the spell may have been broken, that maybe it would have been better to have stayed sticky and gross if it also meant staying in that warm, floaty space he’d been in immediately after. But then Eddie draws Steve in against his chest, runs his fingers softly through his hair, and Steve melts, his eyes fluttering closed and his breaths evening out as he succumbs to quiet, blissful rest.
---
It feels like barely a minute has passed when Steve blinks his eyes open, late morning sunlight streaming in through his window. It’s Sunday, which means he’s off work, and he’s almost able to fall back asleep before he realizes with a jolt that the bed is empty beside him.
He practically flips himself off the side of the bed to check the ground to see if Eddie’s shirt and jeans might still be there next to his, but the floor is empty, his own clothes haphazardly folded on top of the dresser across the room and Eddie’s nowhere to be found. He flops back over, heart beating in his throat as he listens, hoping to maybe hear Eddie puttering around in the en suite or something. But the room is deathly quiet, a parody of the tranquility he’d fallen asleep to, and he can’t help but feel profoundly stupid for having thought that Eddie would stay.
It's far from the first time he’s woken up to an empty bed, but this is the first time his eyes have burned and his chest has tightened upon realizing that his bed partner had snuck out on him before he’d woken up. He’d had some stupid dreams about waking up to Eddie in his sleep shirt, feeding him breakfast, and maybe finding time for some morning sex before they’d go about their days. He doesn’t know why it hurts so much that he’s gone – it’s not like they’d professed any real feelings to each other, and it’s his one saving grace that he hadn’t revealed too much of himself to Eddie in the throes of passion, other than all the mortifying ways in which his trauma manifests itself in the bedroom. Maybe he can still salvage their friendship the next time Eddie comes by Family Video, if he’ll even still come around.
He waits another two beats, hoping in vain that Eddie will pop back into the room, before he finally gives up and drags himself out of bed, one heavy foot at a time. He scrubs a hand down his face, willing his eyes to not actually tear up, and heads to the bathroom, going through the motions of his usual business and splashing his face with some cold water to hopefully snap himself out of it.
He’s been alone since he was 13; he should be used to it by now, anyway.
When he’s finally gathered himself enough to exit the bathroom, he decides to head downstairs to the kitchen – not that he’s hungry at the moment, but he has to make himself some coffee or else he’ll end up with a headache later, and he just can’t deal with that on top of everything else.
So, he pads down the stairs, rounds the corner into the hallway, and stops dead in his tracks as he hears a rustling noise emanate from the kitchen.
For a split-second, he considers running upstairs to get the nail-bat, but that impulse is overshadowed by the sliver of hope that wells up in his chest. He chooses instead to keep walking, silently moving towards the kitchen, where the rustling noises are joined by some quiet, unidentifiable music playing on what sounds like his tinny little tape deck.
He reaches the doorway just in time to catch Eddie cast himself dramatically against the counter where the coffee pot is, an emphatic “Shit fuck son of a bitch –“ muttered under his breath, and Steve can’t help but notice Eddie’s still in the sleep shirt and his boxers, tattooed arms and legs on full display, and oh. Oh.
He’s so screwed.
“You, uh –“ he starts, sending Eddie jumping sky-high with an incredible high-pitched squawk. It’s perhaps one of the greatest things Steve’s ever seen or heard in his life. “You need some help over there?”
“Fuck you, dude,” Eddie bites out, clutching a hand over his heart, and Steve can only laugh at his offense. “Here I was, trying to be cute and making us some coffee and you go and give me a god-damn heart attack –“
“You were already cute,” Steve says plainly, stepping forward a bit further into the kitchen, enjoying himself far, far too much.
“Do not think you can sweet-talk me right now, Harrington,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling as he says it. “You also have a stupidly complicated coffee pot. Two strikes!”
Steve takes another few steps forward until he’s within an arm’s length of Eddie, and he turns on some of that dormant Harrington charm just long enough to bat his eyelashes and murmur, “And what does strike three get me? Time out?”
Eddie rolls his eyes at him but nonetheless reaches out to pull him into a tight hug, dropping a wet kiss on his forehead. Steve can hardly believe that this isn’t just another dream he’ll wake up from in a few minutes, cold and alone in his bed upstairs. “Brat,” Eddie mutters into his hairline, as Steve winds his arms around his waist. “You’re lucky I like you so much.”
Steve shoves his face into Eddie’s collarbone with a quiet laugh and already sees the days, weeks, months stretched out before them. He sees breakfasts (and lunches and dinners) cooked and eaten in this kitchen and the trailer’s. He sees movie nights and diner dates and grocery shopping and brushing their teeth together and all the warm safe good laid out before them, an infinite world of possibilities. He sees it all in the deep brown shimmer of Eddie’s eyes, and he can’t help but lean up to kiss his stupid face with as much fondness and joy as he can possibly muster.
“Believe me,” he says against his lips, reaching around to flip the correct switch on the coffee pot without so much as glancing at it. “I know.”