Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Eddie runs a finger against the side of his face—the splotch of petal-pink skin that surfaced from his wound. He should be happy, he supposes, that this is the most superficial mark of the bunch. How lucky it is that the most grotesque scars that he now is forced to wear can at least be covered with his clothing. 

Lucky. 

That’s the actual word the doctor used when she rubbed salve on his wounds and told him that this one would disfigure him the least. 

Lucky. 

The thought makes Eddie scoff aloud, tossing his cream to the counter with a clatter that shocks through the too-quiet room. If he was lucky, half the town wouldn’t still be chasing him with pitchforks, even after his name was cleared. If he was lucky, a portal wouldn’t have opened in the ceiling of his home, Chrissy wouldn’t have died in his trailer in front of his eyes. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t have to walk around garnering more attention, looking like more of a freak than he ever has, if he was lucky— 

“Fuck.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, dulling the throb that has started right between his eyes. 

If he was lucky he wouldn’t be going through this alone. 

Where was his invite to the cool kids' table? Why wasn’t he at all the sleepovers that Robin now had at Steve’s, where all the kids go. And Eddie's in this godforsaken motel room, with its brown carpeting and unlived-in bed, and everything feels so cold and still and silent. 

Why does his phone not ring? Why does no one come knocking at his door anymore? 

Tears start to spring up in his eyes. 

Maybe they don’t want to look at him as much as he doesn’t want to look at himself. He saw the trauma in Dustin’s eyes the other day when he caught a glimpse of Eddie’s scars. Saw the pity in Robin when he could barely get his sweater over his arms a few weeks back. And Steve… 

Eddie hasn’t even seen Steve to notice the way he’d look at him. Which speaks volumes, more than any facial expression ever could. 

He stays hunched over the sink for a while, staring at the chipped ceramic bowl. There’s no blood this time, leaking from his nose or his mouth. No black vines creeping through the drain, no rasping whispers curling around the edge of his mind. Just tap water and above, his reflection—both equally untrustworthy.

He splashes his face anyway.

But all it does is bring back the feeling of the underworld sticking to his skin. The tang of salt and decay that hung in the air of that dimension—thick, syrupy rot that clung to his nostrils long after they’d carried him out. Some nights, Eddie swears he can still taste it—metallic, like battery acid. Or meat left too long in the sun.

The cool water does little to soothe him. It beads on his cheeks, tracks through the stubble he hasn’t bothered shaving, and drips down into the collar of his shirt—clammy, uncomfortable, but grounding in its own way. He lets the faucet run and listens, hoping the noise will drown out the silence, or at least fill it with something that isn’t his own restless thoughts.

But nothing drowns out the ache of being untethered; there’s no clatter, no ringing, no voices echoing down motel corridors. Only the soft, relentless hum of nothing. He scrubs his face with shaking hands, fingers lingering over the sharp lines of his jaw, as if searching for some trace of the person he used to be—before the guilt, before the scars, before the world turned inside out and left him as an afterthought.

His hands grip the sink harder.

No matter how much the others try to push forward, Eddie can’t shake the images burned into the back of his retinas. The way the sky twisted in on itself. The sensation of skin tearing—not once, not even twice, but over and over again as those goddamn bats sunk into him like they had been waiting. Not even pain, really. Just wrong. Sickly.

There had been a moment, somewhere between the screaming and the blacking out, where he genuinely thought he’d made peace with dying. That it would be heroic, even—going under in a blaze of glory, guitar in hand, Dustin safe, his name perhaps whispered in some future basement DnD session by kids who’d never even met him. The metal martyr of Hawkins, Indiana. A legend. Then a myth.

Every time he blinks, memories flicker behind his eyelids. Quick, staccato flashes of darkness and claws, the scream of pain that left him gasping for hours after, sure each breath would be his last. His mind conjures up the faces of his friends, stretched between horror and determination, and guilt scrapes fresh at the insides of his chest. He remembers the taste of dirt and blood, the strange stillness that followed the chaos, how his body felt hollowed out and foreign, as if something vital had been scooped away and left unreturned.

He tries to shake it off, grip the sides of the vanity until his knuckles pale, but the tremor in his hands betrays him. He hates it. Hates how weak he feels, how easily the past slips its hands around his throat and squeezes. A bitter laugh catches in his throat, half-formed. What is he supposed to do with all this—this haunted skin, bones that don’t feel like his own, memories that won’t settle?

Turning away from the mirror, he stares at the faded wallpaper, its pattern swirling and indistinct. He wonders if the others feel it too—this afterburn, this sense that the world didn’t snap all the way back into place. Maybe it never will.

He can’t help but wish, with a kind of desperate, aching longing, that things had ended differently. That he’d been braver, or stronger, or simply enough.

Because it wasn’t glorious, what he’d done. It was stupid. Cold. Messy. He didn’t go down swinging. He went down sobbing.

And when he woke up, he wasn’t sure what was worse; the pain or the disappointment.

Because if he wasn’t going to die, he at least wanted something more than this numb, aching purgatory. Something other than this cheap motel with its moth-bitten sheets and humming vending machine down the hall and his fucking face in the mirror, half healed and half... haunted. A monster looking back at him.

Eddie drags a shaky breath in through his nose and lets it rattle out again.

He should go outside. Move. Do something. But every time he tries, something cinches around his chest. Some invisible tether yanking him back to the false feeling of safety inside the walls. As if the Upside Down left hooks in him—barbs of fear and shame and inertia—and he can’t quite shake them loose.

So instead, he sits back down on the edge of the bed.

The blankets crinkle like paper.

His phone rings. Makes him jump about a foot in the air. Constantly in flight mode, these days. He's always been a runner.

It takes him a second to register the sound for what it is. He almost ignores it, instinct curling him further into himself—but the call waiting light flashes on the receiver, and it's enough to make him drag the phone to his ear with a hoarse, “Yeah?”

“Hey, Ed,” Robin says, and her voice is light like it might otherwise press on a bruise. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah,” he says flatly. “You’re good.”

There’s a pause on the line. An awkward moment of, 'Remember when we were close? Remember when things were normal?'

“I was just calling to check in. Haven’t seen you in a while. You, um… surviving?”

“Define surviving.” Eddie picks at a thread on the bedspread. “If it means eating cold ravioli straight from the can and staring at the ceiling until it blinks first, then sure. I’m fucking thriving.”

Robin snorts. “Jesus. I forget sometimes how dramatic you can be.”

“You missed it,” he replies, because it seems like something he might've said once.

“I did,” Robin rasps softly. “I miss you. We all do.”

Eddie doesn’t answer to that.

Instead, he swings his legs up onto the bed and stares at the popcorn ceiling like maybe this time it’ll crack open and swallow him whole. 

Robin fills the silence before it can consume them both. “I was actually wondering… you haven’t seen Steve, have you?”

The question lands like a stone. 

Steve. 

That's who it's always about these days, isn't it? Always angel Steve. The guy who wedged into Eddie's spot in Robin's life—Dustin's, Mike's, Lucas'—as soon as there was space to do so. 

Jealousy? Yeah, probably. But warranted, to Eddie. 

Sorry he needed a fucking minute after he learned that Hell exists.

“Steve," is what he says—more like seethes—monotonously.

“Yeah. He took off earlier today, said he was going for a drive. Had this weird look on his face—y’know, more broody than usual—and I figured he just needed to clear his head. But it’s been hours now. I’ve called his house, like, three times. No answer.”

Something prickles down Eddie’s spine. Not panic, but... close. Dread in disguise.

“Maybe he just needed space from all you guys,” he offers. Thinks it's a lot nicer than most things he could say.

“Gee, thanks,” Robin deadpans. Then, quieter, “No, I mean, I get that. But Steve doesn’t not call back. Ever. Not after years of—this.”

Eddie forgets sometimes that this isn't necessarily new to all of them. They've had time to process. Bond. 

No wonder they became so close after the Star Court fire. Not fire. Russian kidnapping?

Guess getting drugged and beaten within an inch of your life really brings people together. 

“Maybe he's not home. Maybe he found someone else to bother.”

“Maybe,” Robin echoes, but she doesn’t sound convinced. "He doesn't really do that anymore. He doesn't look for anything outside of—us." 

Us. 

She says it like Eddie's in on the us. 

"Explains why he wants Nancy so bad," Eddie mumbles to himself, partly to Robin, too. "You check between her sheets yet?" 

There’s a long beat.

"Eddie, they're not... She's with Jonathan. Made that very clear when you were in the hospital. They had a whole talk about everything Steve said. In the forest, in the camper." 

Eddie's stomach twists. 

"Bet he didn't take that well." 

"He did," Robin counters. "He was actually the one to say he just—needed a distraction. There was a lot going on in his head." 

"I'm sure." 

"That's why this is weird, Ed. Steve doesn't do the meaningless hook ups. He wants something real." 

Explains why Steve stopped showing up, Eddie thinks to himself. Really took the don't call thing to heart. 

"I know he's alone. And he's not at home." Robin's voice doesn't sound right. Too tight, too high. 

Eddie shifts his weight. “You think something's wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “That’s the part that’s bothering me.”

Eddie doesn’t know what to say to that. He wants to say why would you ask me? Wants to remind her that he hasn’t seen Steve in months—that whatever weird, twisted thing that existed between them ended the same second the world stopped ending. But instead, all he hears himself say is, “If I see him, I’ll let you know.”

Robin exhales like she’s been holding her breath. “Thanks, Ed.”

They hang up not long after. No fanfare. No grand goodbyes.

Eddie tosses the phone aside and lets himself fall backward onto the bed. He studies the ceiling again. Tries not to think.

But he does.

He thinks of Steve.

The flair of his eyes as Eddie shoved him on that boathouse wall, glass to throat. 

The Upside Down. Talking like Eddie's cock was never inside him, like their tongues never tangled, like Eddie's never marked him up with claiming teeth and sucking lips.

He thinks of the way Steve's eyes looked in the dark of his room that night that now feels like ages ago—blown-wide pupils and bruises on his face. 

But most of all he thinks of the way he had felt in his hands. And the way he hasn’t come back since.

And now he’s gone. Out there somewhere. Not answering calls.

Eddie doesn’t realise he’s gripping the sheets until his knuckles start to ache.

The silence seems to swell, echo around the hollowness of his head. 

Everything hurts. Not his body, but inside. 

Eddie’s not built for this much stillness. Never has been. His brain hums too loud in it, a static buzz that keeps catching on memories he’s not ready to rewatch. Steve’s face. Steve’s hands. Steve's mouth. The burn of too much and not enough simultaneously existing side by side. 

Eddie stands, paces once around the room. Tight steps, thumb grazing the chain around his neck. He looks at the phone. No messages. No missed second call from Robin or Dustin or—

He imagines Steve out there somewhere, sprawled behind the wheel of that shiny goddamn car of his, playing some shitty cassette on loop and stewing in whatever melodrama that drives the former king of Hawkins to rural Indiana. 

Eddie could let it be. Should, in fact.

Should lie back down. Close his eyes. Wait for morning, and the inevitable call from Buckley; Steve just needed air. He went to a bar. Was off with some girl, or some guy, or someone who isn’t you, Eddie.

But there’s something under Eddie’s skin. A pulse. A tension, like his nerves are made of elastic pulled taut. A fuck it kind of feeling that makes him grab his jacket and shove his arms through the sleeves, like maybe that’ll armor him against this creeping unease.

It’s not like he has a plan. He doesn’t even know where Steve might’ve gone. But the urge to move is louder than the logic telling him to stay put.

So he slaps the light off, keys in pocket, and pulls open the door to the motel balcony. Swings himself into his piece of shit van, barely even eyes the back blankets where he spread Steve open once upon a time. 

The ignition starts, even though it's a gamble whether it will these days. 

And he sets off to find Steve.

***

The sky outside Hawkins has always been too wide for Eddie’s taste—open and empty. Not enough hills or trees, just crisp, flat land that goes on and on in various shades of greenish brown.

But he drives under it anyway, headlights slicing through cornfield fog and moonless dark. Every few miles he passes a sign he’s seen a hundred times before, barely registers it now; Speed Limit 35. Watch for Deer. Road Ends in 500 Feet.

Nothing registers. Not even time as it folds in on itself. All he knows is that the farther out he gets, the more wrong the silence feels.

The streets are empty. Feels familiar.

Eddie used to love late night drives and his alone time. But after he saw Hawkins, but not Hawkins, deserted and desolate... Well. The nothingness now has a different taste to it. 

He turns off Main, takes the road that cuts along the edge of the woods near Forest Hills. What’s still left of it, anyway, after the park was closed from the earthquake. 

The asphalt out here is cracked and uneven. Every bump makes Eddie's teeth rattle as they clench together.

What is he even looking for? 

A glimpse of Steve’s hair? A bar he used to haunt? A rift that swallowed him wh—

Something. Somewhere that would make sense.

Which nothing does right now. Hasn't for a long fucking time.

The van coughs on a sharp hill and Eddie coaxes it forward with a low curse. The engine better not choose now to die. 

The dashboard light flickers. 

His foot slams the gas.

And then—

Something in the trees.

The faintest glint of metal just off the ditch, fractured by branches and untrimmed grass that should be swaying in the breeze. Yet it remains eerily unmoving, like the frame of a movie on pause.

Eddie’s pulls the wheel too hard—tires screech, the van swerves. Gravel sprays as he skids to a stop on the shoulder, engine rumbling unevenly in protest.

He stumbles out.

The cold hits him immediately—August or not, the air out here always seems to bite deeper when something’s off.

His boots hit uneven ground as he makes for the treeline.

And then he sees it.

Steve’s car.

Flipped.

Glass spiderwebs across the windshield. One wheel still slowly spins in the air. Driver’s side crumpled against a tree.

Eddie doesn’t think—just runs.

He scrambles down into the ditch, sliding on loose gravel and dewy grass. He catches himself on the slope and he faintly registers something sharp slicing over his palm.

When he grabs the edge of the car, scarlet drips from his pale fingers over the shattered glass—glass that must have been peppering the ground he caught himself on. 

He peers inside. “Steve?!”

The car is empty.

“Steve!” Eddie yells, voice cracking.

He circles the wreck once, twice, half expecting to see Steve slumped on the ground somewhere. A body. A smear. 

Nothing. Just the quiet hiss of something leaking under the hood.

Eddie’s gapes at the wreck and weighs his options when something shifts behind him. A rustle. A shadow at the edge of his vision.

He turns fast, raises his fist high like that might stop whatever monster stalks him.

But it's just—

“Jesus—Steve.”

There he is. Standing maybe ten feet away, half-obscured by trees. Seems like he just stepped out of the night itself.

His hair’s a mess, shirt ripped at the collar, one sleeve caked with dirt. There’s a scrape on his temple that isn't bleeding too bad, and he’s standing stiff like he's unsure he can trust the ground under his feet.

Eddie takes a staggering step toward him. “What the fuck. Where did you—are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Steve blinks. His eyes are shiny, unfocused. It takes him a second to process the words.

“I’m fine,” he says eventually. “Just… shook up.” His face crumples. "Are you really—how are you here?"

“You were in that,” Eddie says, ignoring the question as he jabs a hand towards the crumpled car. “You flipped your car and you’re telling me you’re fine?”

“I got out,” Steve says, as if that explains everything. “Walked around a bit. I’m good.”

“You’re—Steve, your head is bleeding.”

Steve touches his temple like he hadn’t even noticed. Pulls away his fingers, red and black. “It’s nothing.”

“What the hell happened?” Eddie's voice spikes. “Are you seriously gonna stand here looking like roadkill and tell me this is fine?”

“I was driving too fast,” Steve says with a shrug, like it’s just a throwaway detail. “Trying to clear my head. I thought I saw—well. Took the corner wrong the same second my tire blew and...”

Eddie stares at him. Waits. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t.”

That lands sharp. Eddie turns away, tries to unclench. His breath is caught in the space between fury and relief.

Steve follows him with his eyes, weirdly calm, like he hasn’t fully come back into his body yet. “It’s just a car, Eddie.”

Eddie whips back around. “It’s not about the car!”

“I can get a new one,” Steve continues, and now there’s something like humour in his voice. “Been eyeing that shiny Silverado at the dealership. Blue and white. Chrome trim. It's a real bargain right now—y'know, after Hawkins split into quarters.”

Eddie blinks at him in disbelief. “Are you joking right now?”

“I mean—what else am I supposed to do? The Beemer’s toast. Insurance won't cover that, I don't think. It's my own fault.”

Eddie stares. Hard. Because Steve’s acting like this is a mild fender-bender, like he didn’t just nearly perish alone in the woods without telling anyone where he was going.

Steve finally meets his gaze, and there’s something flickering underneath all that practiced calm.

Something that looks a hell of a lot like despair.

But Steve doesn’t let on, just brushes a leaf off his shoulder and says, “Sorry you came all the way out here. I can—I'll just walk home and I can call Hop in the morning—”

"Shut up, Harrington. Just—" Eddie’s hands shake at his sides. "What the fuck were you thinking?" He steps a little closer. "Did you... You didn't do this on purpose, did you?"

Steve's eyes go wide. He doesn't answer right away, but eventually squeezes his eyes shut. "What? No. I didn't—How would I even be able to do that? Flip my car, I mean? No. No, I didn't do it on purpose." He shakes his head. "No." 

Eddie watches him carefully, flexing and unflexing his fingers by his hips. He wants to believe him. Maybe grab him by the shoulders and shake until that numb look on his face turns into something else. Something tangible and real, something that makes sense. 

“Uh-huh,” Eddie sniffs his nose, wipes at it with the back of his hand. He looks away from Steve, squints at the dark treeline and what might be hiding within it. “Just a casual drive in the woods at midnight. Totally normal behavior. Nothing concerning about that at all.”

Steve just gives him a look. Tired. Like he’s already run out of energy for a conversation and they’re not even halfway through.

Eddie folds his arms. “Y’know, I don’t even know why I came looking." He scans the ditch. The road. The stars. "Should’ve figured if I found you, it'd be like this.”

Steve frowns from Eddie's peripheral. “What’re you talking about?”

“What am I talking about?” Eddie echoes. His eyes land back on Steve's confused face. “Let’s see." He ticks his first finger. "All the lying about the bruises and the mall fire." And then the second. "The feigned amnesia that you sucked my dick once upon a time." The third. "Oh, and maybe how, all of a sudden, you and Buckley and the whole crew superglued yourselves together while I got stuck here alone playing freak-show recluse at a motel off 41!”

Steve blinks. “What the fuck do you—”

“You stole them, man,” Eddie snaps. “Robin. Dustin. Even Mike calls you more than me. And I’m the one who almost died. I’m the one who bled out in that goddamn nightmare dimension, and now I get what? A pat on the back and the silent treatment?”

Eddie sees that familiar, defiant flame ignite behind Steve's eyes. The way his jaw feathers near his temples. The flare of his nostrils.

“Go on." Eddie taunts. His boot scuffs the earth and the glass as he takes a menacing step in Steve's direction. "Tell me I’m being dramatic. Tell me it’s not you they all orbit now. ‘Cause from where I’m standing, looks like the King took his crown back while I was busy trying to remember how to breathe without coughing up blood.”

“You think I stole your friends?” Steve asks in a clipped, condescending voice.

Eddie shrugs, a malicious smile tugging at his lips. “If the rich-boy loafer fits.”

“Jesus.” Steve scoffs as he wipes at his bloody forehead with a clenched fist. “You really think they all abandoned you? You think they just stopped giving a shit?”

Something twists inside Eddie. He can't answer yes or no. Not now that it's all out in the open air. 

“It’s you, Eddie," Steve whispers. "You’re the one who disappeared. You isolated yourself. Locked yourself in that shitty motel and shrugged off anyone who tried to help. Dustin cried when you stopped answering your phone--did you know that? Robin went to Wayne's door four times in one week hoping that you'd finally be home. You think they weren’t trying?”

Eddie falters in his stance, throat clicking loudly as he swallows his doubt. "Bullshit."

“You think they stopped talking about you?” Steve demands. “It’s always you. Every conversation. What Eddie’s doing. How Eddie’s feeling. ‘Should we try again today?’ ‘Do you think he’s eating enough?’ You think they forgot you? You’re all they talk about. You’re the one who left.”

Eddie gapes at Steve in stunned silence, chest rising and falling fast, like he’s trying to outrun the truth of it all. “So I’m just ungrateful, huh?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, but that’s what you meant.”

Steve throws up his hands. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“And you’re a smug piece of shit who thinks the world owes you applause for playing chauffeur to a bunch of traumatized kids.”

“Better than disappearing when they needed me,” Steve bites back.

That one stings. Bad enough that the corners of Eddie's eyes start to prick, threaten to flood. He looks away fast, before Steve can notice. Judge. 

"Shut up." 

"Those kids needed to know you were okay. And you pulled away." 

"Shut up." 

"And when Max woke up, you weren't even there." 

"Shut up!" Eddie whips around fast, clasps his fingers around Steve's throat. Shoves hard until they both stumble against Steve's totaled car. 

They stay like that. Eddie feels like squeezing, watching Steve's face turn red as the blood near his hair. But he just keeps him caged. 

The silence stretches. 

Until Steve finally whispers, "You're in denial." 

That one almost makes Eddie laugh. "Oh, the irony. You think I'm in denial, Harrington? Me?" He presses his fingers a little tighter, watches as his thumb fits in the divot of Steve's throat. Right below the raised pink line that travels over his skin. "You finally come to terms with being a queer? Or do I detect a pot, and a kettle, and perhaps the colour black?" 

Steve's face goes tight. His eyes flick down the bridge of his nose towards the curl of Eddie's hand at his throat.

His lips part, but no sound comes out.

Eddie leans in, breath hot against Steve’s cheek. His voice dips low.

“Go on, man. Say something. I thought the King always talks big.” He cocks his head. "At least, until his pants come off."

“Fuck you," Steve spits.

Eddie grins—all teeth, no joy. “Already did that. Remember?”

“You think this has anything to do with that?”

“I think it’s the only time you ever let yourself be real.”

“And I think you’re terrified of anyone seeing you feel anything that isn’t hate,” Steve growls, pushing back just enough to reclaim some space. “You act like I’m the only one hiding. News flash, Munson: it’s not brave to be angry all the fucking time.”

“Better than being pathetic."

“Better than being you."

That’s the one that does it.

Eddie rips himself back like he’s been slapped hard. His eyes burn, but he doesn’t blink as he glares at the smear of blood he left near Steve's collarbone. His palm throbs. He wants to use it against Steve's cheek.

The foul silence hangs between them for a long moment.

Then, too calm, he says, “You can fucking walk home.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Eddie already turns on his heel. “You’re fine. Aren’t you? Just a little tire blowout, right? You’ve got legs. Use ’em.”

Steve goes silent.

Doesn't matter though, 'cause Eddie's not listening anyway. His boots crunch over loose stone as he yanks open the driver’s side door of the van. Throws himself in.

The door slams behind him. The whole thing shudders with the force of it.

He jams the keys into the ignition but doesn’t turn them.

Doesn’t move at all.

Just sits there, gripping the wheel, panting like he's being chased by—

Outside, the woods press in. Black and silent and watching. And, yeah. Eddie feels like he's being chased. By something. 

He tries not to look back into the ditch.

But he knows Steve’s still standing there, knows he’s still watching him, and goddammit, he wants to go back out there to finish this. Wants to get physical. Wants to shake Steve until the truth falls out of his mouth and lands at Eddie’s feet.

He clamps the steering wheel so hard his knuckles go pale. 

“Fuck,” he bites through clenched teeth. “Fuck, fuck—”

The door creaks as he throws it open and jumps back out onto the road, stumbling over the gravelly shoulder.

Eddie jerks to a stop before he can even slam his door shut. 

Because Steve is just there, waiting. 

Knew Eddie wouldn't leave.

They look at each other. 

The air’s still. Humming with tension. And Eddie has no clue what he’s about to get hit with. Words. Maybe a fist. 

But then Steve lifts his chin. His voice is strained and raw when it comes.

“What is it you want from me?” he asks. “You want me to admit I’m queer?”

And before Eddie can even think of some snarky reply, Steve turns toward the long stretch of empty road—dark and endless beneath the stars—and shouts:

“I’m gay!”

His voice cracks on it. Echoes off the treeline.

Eddie’s mouth hangs open as his eyes flick towards the nothingness, just to make sure it really is nothingness.

“I, Steve Harrington,” Steve yells, even louder this time, “am a goddamn fairy!”

He throws his arms out like a showman, like he’s daring the night to come take a swing at him.

“Are you happy now?!” he screams. “You want it louder?! I’m gay! I suck dick! I fall for guys who hate me and I love coming back for more!”

Eddie just stares.

Steve keeps going.

“You fucked me and then hid! Twice! And I didn’t say anything because I thought maybe if I gave you space, you’d come back! You’d feel something! But you didn’t! So fuck it—fine! I’m gay! I’m gay! I’m fucking GAY!”

His voice rings out again and again into the empty void of the Indiana backroads. Each time louder. Wilder. Like it’s being torn out of him by force.

The trees say nothing.

The wind doesn’t answer.

But Steve—Steve keeps screaming it until his voice goes hoarse and his hands fall limp to his sides and he’s left standing there. Breathing ragged. Shattered open. Shoulders shaking.

Eddie feels it all accumulate into a heavy ball that sits right in the pit of his throat. Something hard to even think about speaking around, something he really could choke on if he tried to swallow it. 

Eddie feels like a sleepwalker as he takes a careful step over a shallow pothole, towards the dotted yellow line where Steve has fallen silent, neck stretched towards the constellations. 

Eddie gazes towards the sky, too. Tries to find Orion's Belt and the Little Dipper. Two that he's sure he saw on Steve's back once upon a time. 

He can feel the air around Steve trembling. 

The silence settles again, but this time it feels different. Heavier. Like a breath that's being held.

After a long while, Eddie finally manages to softly whisper, “And I’m… afraid.”

His voice doesn’t echo. It just hangs there. Like fog. 

“Of... well. Everything."

Steve doesn’t react. But his eyes fall forward, seems like he's listening.

“I’m afraid of... the dark. Being alone. Not being alone." Eddie scoffs at that. "I’m afraid of the looks I get when I walk into a store. I’m afraid of... mirrors. Phone calls. Hospital beds. Strangers.”

His fingers twitch at his sides.

“I’m afraid that if I keep pushing everyone away, they’ll stop coming back. And I’m afraid they won’t.” He shakes his head, can feel his hair skim over his shoulders. "I... I think something happened to me in the Upside Down. I don't know what. But I feel changed. And that really, really scares me."

"We all feel it." Steve speaks slowly. Not in a way that's condescending. More like he really wants Eddie to know he understands.  "And it is scary. The places your mind goes, sometimes. But—" He allows the line of his sight fall towards Eddie. "But when we're together it feels... not fixed. Better though, I guess. You learn to survive with it."

Eddie hums. "Funny. That applies to being gay, too, y'know." He throws his elbow out just far enough to knock it into Steve's bicep. "I would know." 

Steve's lips curl. Not quite a smile, but close enough. "I'm sorry for the shit I put you through. In school." 

"Yeah. Well." Eddie sniffs his nose. "I think I served it back to you enough after." 

"Mmm. Is that an 'I forgive you'?"

"Nah. Need a lot more grovelling for that." 

"Noted." Steve bites on the corner of his lip, and Eddie watches as he peels away the top layer. "Listen, could you at least come visit the kids? I don't need to be there. I could disappear for a while—"

"You can be there," Eddie interrupts. "Should be there."

"Yeah?" 

"Sure." 

Steve rubs a hand over his lower face, feels the stubble starting to pop up. “I didn’t mean to crash the car.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t trying to disappear.”

Eddie nods. “I know.”

Steve’s voice softens. “But I didn’t think anyone would come looking, either.”

Eddie blinks hard. Looks away again, back to the invisible horizon. “Well. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Steve’s exhales slowly through pursed lips like he expects the humidity to puff it out like smoke. It’s gotten cooler without the daytime sun. But it's still a sticky Indiana August night, so it falls short.

Eddie waits a beat, watching Steve through the corner of his eye before he asks, “So what do you wanna do?”

Steve’s eyes track back toward the twisted shell of his car. Shrugs. “Might as well leave it. It’s not going anywhere. I’ll call it in tomorrow to get it towed.”

“No one’s hurt,” Eddie offers.

“No one’s hurt,” Steve parrots.

"Need anything from inside?" 

"Nah. Got a leather jacket in the trunk, but I'll grab it when it's wheel-side down." 

"Cool. C'mon then." Eddie throws his chin towards the van. "It's one AM. I need my beauty sleep." 

They start walking back toward the van, steps slow. Neither of them speaks.

It’s not an awkward silence. More like… stillness. Sitting with it. Like something’s shifting between them; a change so subtle Eddie can’t quite define it, but he can feel it all the same. Same as the pressure in the air before a thunderstorm. 

He climbs into the van first, watching in the rearview as Steve lingers outside for a second, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. Then he pulls the door open with a soft click and buckles in beside him.

Eddie starts the engine. It rattles, as usual. But this time, he doesn’t curse it out loud. Just lets the van roll into motion as the headlights catch every branch and roadside weed on the way out of the ditch.

They drive. No music. No chatter. Just the hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional flick of Steve’s thumbnail against the metal of his seatbelt.

Eddie doesn’t mind the quiet. Not this kind, anyway. Almost seems cathartic after the fighting and the confessions to the universe. Like he and Steve are both allowing a reset. 

His grip on the steering wheel eases as the miles pass. Hawkins starts to reappear around them in sleepy stretches—familiar street signs and storefronts, all shut down and shadowed under the glow of flickering yellow streetlamps. It’s peaceful.

Eddie could almost forget everything that happened months ago, and everyhting Steve has said and done in the last two years. Could almost sweep every word of his confessional under the rug and keep it all a secret. 

Almost.

But then he remembers one small, particular detail. Steve saying he fell for him. Saying it like a confession. Something he’d kept locked behind his teeth for—months, maybe. Longer. 

He doesn’t bring it up, though. Doesn’t mention the word fell at all.

They pull into the Harrington driveway, the motion-sensor lights flaring across the smooth concrete and the pristine facade of the house. Eddie slows to a stop, engine idling, and glances sideways.

Steve doesn’t move. His eyes stay glued forward, focusing somewhere through the windshield.

One hand slowly curls on the door handle, the other twisted into the fabric of his dirty jeans. Still doesn't move or say goodbye or anything. 

After a moment, he clears his throat.

“I’m home alone." 

Eddie tries to say something. Doesn't know what, but his lips open like he means to. But he can't think, beyond the way Steve's face is all lit up in lagging shadows from the driveway lights. And then how—suddenly—it's cast in darkness after being still for so long that the sensors think they're gone. But they're just frozen. 

Steve finally opens the passenger door and climbs out. The lights flash on. He doesn’t look back to see if Eddie follows.

And for a second, he doesn't. There's a strange knot in Eddie's stomach that makes him feel like this is more than just a decision on whether he follows Steve to the door. Goes inside. To his bedroom. More than just the decision to fuck. 

Eddie finds himself feeling the weight of it; the years of hatred he has felt for this man that, somehow, has proven he's more than just his varsity jacket. 

And he still hates it. 

Hates the way Steve talks back, and the way he blames Eddie for things that are... maybe valid. He hates the way he's bitchy about it, though. And Eddie hates the way Steve is so nonchalant, the way his face stays so neutral when all Eddie wants is a rise, and how smug he is when he gets the last word. 

And he fucking hates the way Steve has him wrapped around his baby finger. Because it feels so good having Steve underneath him. 

Maybe he hates that the most.

So now he follows him to the door that was left open a crack, like Steve knew the answer before Eddie did. 

Eddie hesitates on the threshold a second longer than he needs to. 

Stepping inside is some kind of irreversible decision, and—

And then crosses the threshold anyway.

He's never been in here before. Not prior to the manhunt and not after, either. Eddie was never cool enough to come to Steve's house parties, and he was never brave enough to come to Dustin's DnD meetups that Steve now so kindly hosts in his fully finished basement.

He takes it all in. The pictureless walls and the herringbone hardwood and the Tuscan tile beneath his feet in the front foyer. The ceilings are too high in here—twice that of Wayne's new home and probably three times that of their old trailer. 

There's a conversation pit that Steve lingers beside, and Eddie finds his eyes flicking between the two. 

"Yeah," Steve says like he can read Eddie's thoughts. "My mom used to have her girls' nights here, so she built this to gossip. A little dated now, but—" he shrugs "—used to be cool." 

"Still is pretty cool," Eddie admits, daring to venture a little further into the space. "Where are they?" 

"My parents? Somewhere in North Africa. My mom is a bit of a philanthropist." 

"Right."Eddie pretends that he knows whatever the fuck that means. "So there's no chance of them randomly coming home."

"No," Steve says. Leaves it at that as he disappears into the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Pulls out a bottle of water and twists the cap with one hand. And then downs the whole thing in a matter of seconds.

“Want one?” Steve asks over his shoulder, nodding toward the fridge. He opens a cupboard beneath the sink, throws the empty bottle in a bin.

“Nah. I’m good.”

Eddie shifts his weight as the quiet blankets over them once more, curls his fingers into the chain around his neck. Watches the way Steve’s shirt clings to him in the places where sweat and mud have dried, the blood still smudged on his collar and down one side of his cheek. His hair’s a little wild. His mouth is pink.

He looks good.

And Eddie hates the part of himself that notices.

His brain starts unspooling memory—how Steve’s cock hung between his legs that first night, the same shade of his lips now. The fact that he's felt the heat of his mouth, and heard the noise he made when Eddie bit too hard. The way he arched when Eddie pressed down just right. The tremble in his thighs. The flush on his chest, peeking out from the hair he can see under the open buttons of his collar.

Eddie swallows. Hard.

It’s the same as it always was, and yet, somehow, it feels completely different.

Steve finally speaks.

“I wasn’t gonna ask you up.”

Eddie lets out a breath, a humorless puff of air. “Yeah, well. I wasn’t gonna come.”

Steve turns around. Walks to a staircase made of wood and custom runners in patterns of burgundy and brown. 

His face is hard to read when he turns to face Eddie. “You gonna leave?" 

“Do you want me to leave?”

Eddie hates how that question makes his heart seize up in a weird way. The answer isn’t simple. Never has been with Steve.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe you should.”

"Yeah," Eddie whispers. "Maybe."

Steve tilts his head. “But you won’t.”

Eddie shakes his head. "No." 

"Good," Steve says just as quietly. And he turns around, starts climbing up the curved stairs.

And this time, Eddie trails behind. 

Sure, he's had normal hookups before. Gentle ones, even, with guys he's had crushes on. Eye contact. Soft kisses. That kind of thing. 

Seems really out of place with Steve though. They haven't been that before. Eddie doesn't know Steve without the tears and the nasty words and the bruising grips and the urge to fucking slap the shit out of him. 

He doesn't know how to not be angry.

Moving forward, up, and inward, Eddie follows. And keeps following into a long, empty hallway. 

He doesn't inherently know which room belongs to Steve out of the half-dozen doors—but a warm light glows behind just one. He ditches his boots right there where he hesitates, and then he lets the glow guide him like a fucking lighthouse.

Steve is by the window when Eddie finally sees him, peeking through the plaid curtails like he’s checking for their past ghosts. Doesn't seem to find any as he draws them closed. 

Eddie almost feels ill with everything he's feeling. How conflicted he tries to tell himself he is. 

But he isn't, is he? 

He knows exactly what the answer is and how bad he wants it drawn in ink.

“I don’t know how to do this." 

"Do—?"

"This," Eddie says with a vague gesture around the room. "I don't know how to—fuck, I don't know. Not dig my nails into you until you bleed."

Metaphorically or literally. Eddie means both. 

Steve gives a small, crooked smile. Points to the shallow gash in his head that's started to scab. "Already bleeding. No need for nails tonight." 

Eddie tries to smile, but it falls a little flat. He waits for a second to see if Steve will say something that makes it all make sense. And when he doesn't, Eddie takes a step towards him. 

"This is a fucking mess. You and me. You really think we can move past any of it?" 

"No." Steve's head shakes once, sharp. He also starts to close the space. "We’re the same kind of mess, though. Maybe that's the point."

"You talk like you've got it all figured out." 

Steve gives a ghost of a laugh. "Nah. I'm just a little better at faking it than you are."

Another foot closes between them. And now Eddie can feel Steve's body brushing against his t-shirt. He spins a ring around his finger to stop himself from reaching out. 

"If I touch you, I'll ruin it." 

Steve’s eyes flick over his face. “You already have touched me,” he says. “Didn’t ruin anything.”

Eddie lifts his fingers into the space between them, hesitates for only a second or two. Finally unspools them to caress the side of Steve's dirty face. 

"Wasn't trying to be gentle then."

Some mud smudges under his thumb. He watches it spread like paint under a brush. Can't stop himself from pressing a little harder. 

And Steve doesn't shrink away. Or deny that he wants it. 

Not like in the van. 

Not like in Eddie's trailer. 

"You don't have to try now, either." 

A part of Eddie appreciates the go ahead. Makes him want to lean into the side of himself that wants to shove Steve to the cold, hard ground and cram his cock down his throat. Feel him gag around it, spill drool down his balls. 

There's something new budding, though. 

An urge to move slow like time has no meaning. To undress Steve piece by piece and not even worry about his own clothes. Just focus on his tongue and the noises he could wring from Steve with it. 

"I might not be able to help myself," Eddie admits in a whisper. 

He's not sure which part he's referring to.

Eddie’s hand lingers on Steve’s jawline as he tests the weight of the moment, measuring it against the other times their mouths have crashed together. Teeth. Spit. Not that Eddie doesn't love too much of both, but—those had been desperate and mean. Kisses meant to win something, or to prove something, or to steal something.

This one doesn’t start that way.

He leans in slow, close enough to feel Steve’s breath warm against his lips and watch his lashes lower as he braces for impact. 

Eddie almost smiles at the thought that Steve expects the usual—expects Eddie to grab and take. 

But instead, he lets their lips barely meet in a feather's press. Just enough that Steve's breath pools into his own mouth, and that's all they exchange for a drawn second.

He moves forward. Slots their lips together.

It’s gentler than he means it to be. Not tentative, exactly—there’s still weight behind it, the same need he's felt since the van—but the edges are smoothed out. Less fire, more gravity. And when Steve tilts his head, deepens it, Eddie feels everything build and crest and finally snap. 

There's an immediate shift. 

Eddie's breath starts to quicken now that he's has a taste of Steve's mouth. It's physically impossible to stop himself from grabbing and pulling until Steve is plastered to him, making sounds that seem just as desperate as Eddie feels. A little whimper that reminds him of the first time they fucked, but sweeter somehow.

Like he's not sad that it's happening. 

His hands move under Steve’s ugly polo, over his stomach, up his ribs. Steve gasps into Eddie's mouth as his thumbs find the peak of his nipples. They press and circle and pinch until they start to swell up under his touch.

There’s no music playing, but Eddie swears there’s rhythm anyway—in the slow way they begin moving toward the bed without ever breaking apart.

Steve’s legs hit the edge. He sits clumsily, pulls Eddie down with him, never letting their lips part. 

His legs spread, and Eddie finds the open space with his knee. Digs it into the mattress and then tilts forward until it rubs against the crotch of Steve's jeans. 

The kiss breaks just long enough for Steve to moan, "Fuck" against Eddie's lips. And then he's pulling Eddie harder into it, angling his hips forward until he's basically straddling Eddie's thigh from underneath. Starts grinding against it. 

All Eddie can feel is the drag of Steve's Levi's over his knee, where his skin pokes out from the distressed hole in his jeans. But it's enough that his cock throbs and swells, presses tight against his fly. 

He leans his weight forward, crushes his knee against Steve's dick. 

"Mmm," Steve protests like he means to say real words, but Eddie uses both hands to make sure their mouths stay locked. So it gets lost and muffled as Eddie swallows down the sound. Steve bucks inside Eddie's grip. Closer, farther away, Eddie's not too sure. But his grip stays weaved in Eddie's shirt like he refuses to let go, even if it hurts. 

Eddie takes one last taste of Steve's lower lip, pinches it between his teeth, and then finally breaks the kiss. 

There's a pink flush to Steve's mouth, all puffy and swollen. Looks like it would taste like cherry, but reality tastes even better than that. And his lids are closed, like he's lost in some dream. Lashes fluttering, casting shadows down his freckled cheeks. 

His hair fans and loops through Eddie's fingers as he rakes them forward, to his cheek. Then up, to the shadows under his eyes. Higher, to the dark reddish-brown gash that lives between Steve's brow and his hairline.

Maybe there's still a part of Eddie that needs revenge. Maybe there always will be. Or it could be simpler than that. Maybe there really is just the thinnest line between pleasure and pain, and Eddie likes to ride it. Make Steve ride it.

Because he lifts his thumb, and touches that gash. Feels the dried blood and caked dirt, and momentarily he wonders if Steve got all muddy when he dragged himself through the busted window. Then the thought vanishes, and all that's left is his dark jealously that he wasn't the one to mark Steve up. 

Eddie not only touches it, but presses. Digs his thumb where he can feel the start of a scab, and Steve's eyes startle wide. But Eddie doesn't stop the pressure even as Steve's head falls backwards and he makes a half-pained moan, and his fingernails make crests near Eddie's spine. The sharpness of that makes Eddie press and press, and then he sees a fresh bead of wet scarlet drip down to Steve's temple. 

Only then does Eddie stop pressing. 

Steve's hips pitch forward to drag a line down Eddie's thigh, his chest rises and falls like he's gulping back oxygen. And his pupils are so large that there's no hazel to be seen. Just big, black voids. 

"You like that?" 

Steve gives Eddie a long, slow blink as he humps himself against his leg. 

"Yeah, you do," Eddie answers for him. Thinks Steve is just as fucked up as he is as he trails his thumb down the line of fresh blood. Gathers it with the pad of it, and then slips it where Steve's lips are parted. "How's it taste?" 

Steve's lips seal and his tongue laves in lazy circles as he cleans off Eddie's finger. And there's something so intimately erotic about it—Steve's eyes never breaking contact—that Eddie feels a surge of something primal and aggressive. 

He shoves Steve backwards onto the bed. Doesn't really know how they get there, tangled on top of the blankets, but they do. And Steve's thick thighs are wrapped snug around Eddie's hips, pulling him in, trapping his hard cock against his body—

"I need to fuck you." Eddie finds himself frantically shoving at Steve's shirt with one hand and working open his belt with the other. "Hard. In this ugly fucking room of yours." 

"Yeah. Fuck me," Steve begs, and it's almost too much for Eddie to bare that he's not inside of him right this moment. 

Eddie's taking too long with the shirt, so Steve grabs its hem and pulls it up and over his head all slutty, imitating a pornographic scene from a movie. Eddie stares at his bare chest, all covered in hair and scars—scars that actually look good on him. His boxers start to get a little more damp. 

"I think about it all the time," Eddie admits. He pulls open the loosened belt, undoes Steve's button and then his fly. "The sound you made when you came on my dick."

"Fuck. I think about—about what it felt like." 

"Uh-huh? And what did it feel like, Stevie?" Eddie shoves down the band of Steve's jeans, exposes the dorky white briefs he has on under them. "When I was inside you?" 

"Good," Steve pants. it looks like he holds his breath as Eddie slips his hand into his underwear. "Perfect." 

"It was perfect, wasn't it? Like I was built just for you." 

"Yeah." 

"And you want it again?" 

"Yes." 

"Not just tonight." Eddie circles his fingers around Steve's hot skin, feels that his cock is already dripping precum into his pubes. "Any night I want it." 

"Any night," Steve agrees. "Every night."

"Every—" Eddie strokes down Steve's cock, feels it pulse in his fingers. "Single—" He reaches down, cups his big balls. Squeezes them until Steve makes a noise. "Night." Then releases them. Travels backwards over Steve's perineum, between his cheeks. "'Til I feel like you've made everything up to me." 

"Yes. Please." Steve breathes hard out of his open mouth, almost moans as Eddie finds his asshole and presses his index on it like a button. 

"You want it, huh?" Eddie sweeps his finger over Steve's hole, works around it rather than inside it. Can feel the way Steve flutters against him. "Tell me you want it." 

Steve doesn't even hesitate. "I want it." He tries to lift his hips under Eddie's weight, like he might be able to fuck himself on his teasing finger. "I want you." 

Eddie curls his hand, just enough that he begins to sink into Steve. Barely anything, but the warmth sucks him in to his first knuckle. 

It's nearly impossible not to shove forward and feel how tight Steve is around his finger. 

"Remember what I like?" Eddie asks it quietly, almost like he's admitting he remembers every detail from the nights they shared. 

And he does. 

Every sound Steve made. Every word he admitted. Every shadow that haunted his face. 

Eddie remembers it all. Dreams about it. Craves it. Swears some nights when he closes his eyes and fists his own cock that he can feel Steve arched beneath him. That he finishes on the globes of Steve's ass and not on his own stomach. 

Steve's eyes open, lidded and heavy, as he nods. Hesitates for a long second. 

And then—"Please... Please fuck me. I want you to fuck me."

Something about it doesn't sound right. Like it's a line that Steve is delivering. Something that someone else wrote, expects him to say. Like he's been repeating it in his head, ready for its delivery, because it's what he's supposed to say. Not what he wants to say. 

"I know you do," Eddie whispers. He pulls his hand out of Steve's pants, hears him whine as he lifts to his knees. "You remember what I like. But—" Eddie flattens his palms over Steve's lower abdomen, rubs his thumbs over his happy trail. "I don't know what you like. Never cared to learn." 

Steve writhes under Eddie's touch, little goosebumps scattering his skin. Nipples pink and hard. And a line down his thigh where his cock begs to be stroked. 

Eddie trails his fingers there, curls them around the lump in Steve's briefs. "Maybe you can tell me what you like now, huh?" 

"Ah—fuck." Steve thrusts forward, tries to clumsily hump Eddie's hand. "I... I like this. Feels good." 

"Yeah?" Eddie squeezes his fingers tighter. Watches as a patch blooms at the tip of Steve's dick. "I can tell. What else?" 

Steve's neck cranes up so he can watch Eddie rub him over his underwear. "More, please." 

"More?" He circles his thumb over the damp cotton, where it's almost transparent as it clings to Steve's cockhead. "Go ahead. Tell me exactly what you like." 

"Your... Your hand." Steve's hips twitch forward. Makes his cock poke obscenely between his legs. "I like it." 

Eddie has to bite his lip to keep himself from moaning as he stares where Steve's fat cock stretches out his briefs. There’s saliva gathering under his tongue, a little pool that floods his mouth and eventually gets swallowed down. “My hand is all you want?” he asks. He walks backwards on his knees, just enough to grab at Steve’s jeans and yank them fully off. “What if I was offering you anything you wanted? Would you still only take my hand?”

Steve spreads his knees, shows off the way his briefs stretch around his cock and his balls. Wiggles his hips subtly but suggestively, abs flexing, stomach heaving, hands clawing at his comforter. He’s all gold and pink; the two colours that Steve has always been. And might be Eddie’s favourites.

“I want… I want your tongue.” Steve’s voice comes out meek, like he’s not sure if Eddie’s offer is real, or that he’s misinterpreted his words. “And—and your cock. Inside me.”

“My tongue—inside you?” Eddie teases. He moves forward again, gripping his palms into the meat of Steve’s thighs and squishing where they’re softest. “You’re a freak, Harrington.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You’ve done it now.” Eddie curls forward, hooks his fingers under the elastic of Steve’s briefs. Pulls them down and watches his red cock bounce from them, slap onto his stomach. “Fuck. Look at you.” Eddie gives Steve’s thighs one more squeeze, backs up. Just enough that he can lower himself onto his stomach. Fit himself in the space of Steve’s legs. He hooks his arms around his thighs, holds on tight. “You want my tongue, huh?”

Steve bucks forward. There’s only an inch or so between Eddie’s lips and his cock to start, so when he moves, Eddie feels his hot skin tap and scorch on his lips.

“Eddie.”

“Fuck, yeah. You know how much I like hearing my name, don’t you?”

“Eddie. Lick me,” Steve begs. He wiggles around, makes his dick rub against his fuzzy stomach. “Please.”

“Are you this whiny when you’re fucking girls, Harrington?” Eddie hears the condescension in his voice, briefly wonders if it’s still too mean. Doesn’t know how not to be. “Or is it all just for me?”

“Just for you. Just—please. Eddie. Your tongue.”

“Since you asked so nice, pretty.”

Eddie tilts his head sideways first, kisses the upper crease of Steve’s thigh. Then to the other side; feels his pubes pressing against his cheek and hears Steve making frustrated little sounds as he nips his teeth in the valley of his crotch, where sweat starts to gather. And then he ever so lightly grazes his lips right over Steve’s sac. Hair tickles his sensitive pout, and his nose is so close to Steve’s dick that he can feel the heat radiate off it.

He presses forward, kisses the underside of Steve’s cock almost tentatively. The way someone might kiss their grandma’s cheek.

“Eddie!”

He smiles sharp, teeth too close to where he could bite them down, make Steve scream. “You want it so bad, don’t you?”

“Please. Please.”

“You think you deserve it?”

“Yes!”

“How do I know, huh?” Eddie lets his lower lip trace a vein that pops from Steve’s skin. Follows it up, and up, and up, almost to the crown of his cock. “How do I know I won’t give you my mouth today, only for tomorrow to be the same as it’s always been?” He flicks his tongue out, catches it on the ridge where shaft meets head. “How do I know that you won’t just take everything and give nothing back?”

Steve chokes on nothing, brows sinched near the centre of his face. Eddie can feel his thighs clenching where his hands dig into them, like Steve is holding himself back from thrusting straight into Eddie’s throat himself.

He kind of wishes he would.

But instead, Steve lifts himself onto a forearm to look between his legs. To look at Eddie.

“I won’t take anything you don’t want to give me.”

It’s not exactly an answer to Eddie’s questions—might actually be better. But there’s something in the statement that tugs somewhere deep inside his stomach. Makes him think, Did I do that? Did I take things from Steve that he didn’t want to give to me?

And for a minute, he freezes. Feels guilt build honey thick around his heart and moves slowly outwards, coating everything that he is in sticky regret.

Because Eddie knows that Steve isn’t the same guy that stalked the halls of Hawkins High two years ago. He’s not the one who called him a fairy, or smashed Byers’ camera, or talked bad about Barb behind Nancy’s back.

And Eddie saw this new version of Steve months ago when they were forced to speak and walk and save the world together. He saw this version and buried it back down when he let his thoughts mutate into something dark. Cloud his judgement. Think, No, not Steve. Steve could never be good.

But maybe the good version of Steve had been around from day one. The guy that Eddie bullied into his van and took and took and took from.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie whispers, maybe too quiet for Steve to even hear. But he doesn’t wait to find out before he takes him into his mouth.

Steve gasps, falls back onto the mattress, and one hand shoots forward to knot in Eddie’s wild mane of hair. “Shit. Fuck”

The tang of salty precum spills onto Eddie’s tongue, coats it like frosting that he happily swallows back. He swirls around Steve’s cock, makes it all wet as he maps out each ridge, each vein that makes Steve cry out and grip him tighter. Learns right away that Steve likes the most action right at the very tip where he’s already wet and swollen. Likes it when Eddie digs the tip of his tongue right into the slit of his cock, like he might be able to bury himself in there.

Eddies whole mouth tastes like man and sex as he pulls back for some air. He keeps his hand pumping over Steve’s shaft, watches him squirm as he jerks him off nice and slow, slippery from his spit. And as much as he has loved seeing Steve shake and cry, loved hearing him beg—this might take the cake. This face of pure, relaxed bliss. Like he finally accepts what’s happening. Like he trusts Eddie with this side of him that has been such a fucking struggle for him to accept.

“You have such a big cock, don’t you?” Eddie praises as he wrings his fist the way he likes on himself. Enough pressure that it teeters on the line between too much and not enough. “Such a big boy.”

“Jesus.” Steve holds back a moan when Eddie digs his thumb over the tip of his dick, tries to plug off the way it leaks.

It doesn’t work.

“Have you used this cock lately? Fucked any pretty pussies with it?”

Steve seems shocked by the question, his eyes flashing round, almost fearful. He shakes his head.

“Now, now. Don’t lie to me.” Eddie reaches down, cups Steve’s balls like prisoners that he’s threatening to torture. Gives them a pull to prove that he might actually do it. “Tell me how many.”

“N-Not many,” Steve says, his voice shaky and uneven. “Two. Three? I can’t—I can’t remember.”

“Three.” Eddie traces the seam of Steve’s balls, from the back. Then puts pressure right behind them, like he might be able to reach his prostate from there. “Three since when? From our last hookup?”

“Maybe… Maybe four since then,” Steve admits. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Was it good? Were they all nice and warm and wet for you?” This time when Eddie finds Steve’s asshole, he doesn’t dance around it. He presses inside right away, feels it clench around his pointer like a fucking vice. “Did they moan your name all sugar-sweet? Oh, Stevie, you fuck me so good.”

Steve groans, mouth open towards the ceiling. Lets Eddie fuck his ass with his finger, work him open for what inevitably comes next. He doesn’t answer though. Leaves it another mystery that maybe, one day, Eddie will be brave enough to bring up again.

But there’s another question. One that might be heavier on Eddie’s conscience. One he’s not sure he even wants an answer to, if he’s being at all honest with himself.

Still, he asks it.

“What about guys?” Eddie feels like he can hear the jealousy in his own voice. Hopes that it’s been long enough since he’s spoken with Steve that the other man might not pick up on it. “You explored with anyone else?” He pulls his finger out of Steve, lines up a second before he slowly pushes back inside. “Shown anyone else this side of you?” There’s some resistance, but his spit still slicks his digits, makes it easier of him to sink past his second knuckles. “Have you put this big, pretty cock inside another man’s throat?” He hooks his fingers. Steve fucking keens. “In their ass?”

“No. No, no. Never.” Steve tries to say something else, but just ends up gasping and moaning as Eddie keeps searching until he finds that special, smooth spot inside him. “Fuck. Fuck!”

Eddie believes him. Asks, “What about putting their cocks inside you?”

“No. Only you—Eddie.”

“You promise?”

“Swear.”

“Good little sailor boy.” Eddie withdraws his fingers from Steve. Drags them, wet, down his fuzzy thighs.

Steve seems to sag, muscles going limp, like Eddie turning him on is some sort if sexual torture. But it doesn’t last for long—can’t. Because Eddie is driven by instinct alone. A maddening, carnal need that scorches him like flame, makes him dig his greedy fingers into Steve’s hips and haul him sideways until he’s face down.

On a normal day, Eddie would never be able to throw Steve around like a ragdoll. Adrenaline does crazy things to a person’s strength though, or so Eddie has heard.

Steve breathes hard where his face is now shoved into the blankets. The perfect spheres of his ass jiggle until the bed springs stop squeaking; Eddie smacks his palm on one cheek just to watch it shake again. And again. And again.

It’s not hard, not a real slap. But still, it makes a cracking sound and leaves little pink finger marks on Steve’s ass. Makes him squeal real pretty.

“Love marking you up,” Eddie admits, gently tracing a finger over the handprint on Steve’s skin. Then, harder, brings his hand down one last time. Makes it a good one. One that makes Steve whimper, grind his hips into the mattress as he tries to fuck something. “Makes me feel like you’re all mine.”

Steve rubs against the bed, turns his head sideways that Eddie catches a sideways glace. “I want to be.”

Eddie’s stomach flips with something he’s never felt before, but something he immediately recognises.

He won’t name it though. Not now. Not until he knows this isn’t some fleeting thing, or that Steve won’t go another six months until he needs his next fix. And if that does happen, Eddie will take this feeling and give it another name. He’ll convince himself it was lust. Sex. Simply attraction.

It was never the real thing. It was never anything more.

Eddie shakes his head, spreading his palms over the sting he left on Steve's ass. Wants to praise him, shoot him some sort of ego boosting compliment like:

You're unreal.

So gorgeous.

Perfect.

But he holds his tongue. Feels like there might be—one day—a time and place for all that. Tonight would be jumping the gun. Too soon to know for sure if a bandage has been placed over their old wounds. Or if they'll scar like Eddie's ravaged skin; always a little too deep to stop aching fully.

So instead, he digs his fingers harder, leaves nail marks where the pink is starting to fade. Spreads Steve open, lets the air kiss his asshole and the damp trail of hair that leads to it.

Steve whimpers like a fucking puppy dog, all quiet and forlorn, the pink little ring between his cheeks flexing and winking and begging.

"God," Eddie chokes. Had to shake his head one more time to regain some sense. Then he reaches to stroke his thumb over Steve's hole. Feels it fluttering against him. "Hm. You look hungry."

Steve arches into the touch as his breath becomes ragged and uncontrolled. He turns his head sideways, cheek to pillow. Finds Eddie's eyes. "Starving."

Something about Steve playing along makes Eddie's stomach flip over into uncharted territory. It takes him too long to recover, find his words.

"Wanna eat?"

Steve nods his head the best he can, his eyes trailing over Eddie's clothed body, landing between his legs where his cock is trapped behind too many layers. "Mhm. Feed me?"

"I could do that," Eddie says, trying to sound bored even though he's at the radical opposite end of the spectrum. He takes his free hand, starts undoing the heavy silver buckle of his belt. Hopes Steve doesn't notice the way his fingers vibrate. "I have something that'll fill you right up."

Eddie gets his cock out. Strokes it only once, just so he can pull back his foreskin, see how shiny the tip looks. Flushed, the same way Steve's dick gets, but more purple instead of red. So much blood pulsing inside it that it looks like it might fucking explode.

Steve latches his line of sight right there, stares Eddie down between his legs. Makes him almost uncomfortable with its intensity, makes him wonder if he's accidentally showing the scars on his stomach instead.

So he grabs the hem of his shirt, tugs it lower, just in case. Thinks most of it is probably covered up, so it shouldn't turn Steve off.

"Want me to give it to you?" Eddie asks as he pitches his hips forward, draws a sticky line down the seam of Steve's body.

He catches his cockhead on Steve's hole, rubs it there in tiny little circles that make Steve bite his lip and moan. He so badly craves to push forward and feel how tight Steve is, cram his cock so far into his hole that not a fraction of an inch of it isn't hugged and hot. That his balls are pressed against Steve's—so snug that he'd be able to feel them draw close when he comes.

Fuck, yeah, Eddie craves it so bad that he lets his imagination run rampant with it for a few seconds as he bears down against Steve's asshole, hard enough that the man beneath him starts to gasp. Any harder and he'd be inside Steve—and if he was inside Steve, he'd certainly go feral.

So he pulls away. Wants the moment to last longer than that.

Steve makes a frustrated noise, flexing around the open air and nothing else.

"Don't worry," Eddie whispers. He keeps Steve's cheeks spread as he crawls backwards on his knees, levels his face lower. "You'll get the main course soon. But I get to eat first."

Eddie doesn't think Steve even has time to process his meaning before he's diving in, tongue first.

He licks his first stripe broad from Steve's gooch all the way to his asshole. Feels the way Steve reacts even more than he hears it—which is healthily loud. But Steve's thighs are tensing and his hips are leaning towards Eddie's face. His nose gets shoved between Steve's glutes and he doesn't even care that he can't breathe because Steve tastes so fucking good. Feels so fucking smooth as he puckers and throbs around the tip of Eddie's tongue.

"What are you—oh, shit. Eddie."

Eddie comes up for a breath, as much as it pains him to. Thinks dying of suffocation with his face plastered to Steve Harrington's infamous buns of steel would be a good fucking way to go. "Thought you said you wanted my tongue in you?"

"That's not what—I—ah." Steve's words get sucked out of him. Literally. Because Eddie latches his lips around Steve's asshole and hallows out his cheeks, presses the flat of his tongue right at Steve's entrance so he can feel him dance against it. "Oh, fuck. Fuck."

"You sound like a broken record, Stevie," Eddie says with no lack of mirth. He kisses Steve's asscheek, bites down just to hear him yelp. Then moves back to where he was before, licking and lavishing where Steve tastes most like Steve.

And once's he's all wet and worked up, Eddie pushes the tip of his tongue as hard as he can, until it aches. But he feels himself slipping inside Steve, can feel that tight little hole hugging around him, smooth, but like a vice.

Steve's mouth opens, and the sound he makes is ungodly as he clenches tight around Eddie's tongue, rutting his hips into the mattress. It feels like Eddie's heart is inside his cock as it strains and pulses and begs to fuck Steve, but he lets his tongue do the work instead. Lets his hands help as they knead into Steve's skin to help him find a rhythm.

For a second, Eddie thinks he could come without his cock getting touched at all. Thinks just the kiss of air around it and the feeling of Steve's asshole gripping his tongue would be enough—and it probably would be if he put his mind to it, wanted it to happen.

He pulls back for another breath, licks the drool that's gathering around his lips.

"You like fucking that blanket?" Eddie nudges Steve's thighs open a little more, to get a good look at his pink balls rubbing the bed as he thrusts into it.

"Mmm," Steve deliriously hums his answer, hips circling, back arching.

Eddie wishes he could see it; how hard Steve's cock is, how dark it's flushed, how it leaks into the sheets every time he touches him the right way or says the right thing. God—Eddie has never wanted something so bad and hated himself so much for it. Like Steve is a drug that's bound to ruin his life, but the high is so fucking worth it.

"How 'bout you fuck me instead, pretty boy?"

That seems to sober Steve up in a second, has his hips slowing and his eyes opening and his head craning sideways to look at Eddie. He stares him in the face, eyes flicking from side to side, then down to where his dick is poking from the top of his jeans.

"You want me to fuck you?"

"Don't get too excited, Steve. No way I'm bending over for your bitch ass." Eddie snaps his palm against Steve's cheek once more before he crawls to the top of the bed, propping his head in his hands as he lays on his back expectantly. "Hop on."

Steve seems to process for a moment. Then the lightbulb flairs behind his eyes, and he lifts himself from his stomach, crawls in his hands and knees to where Eddie is lazily waiting.

Carefully, Steve straightens to his knees. Stays there just long enough that Eddie gets a good eyeful of his body—shoulders broader than he remembers, arms stronger, dick just as fat and hard.

Then, he swings a leg around Eddie's hip, makes his cock bob and bounce and the bed springs squeal under his knees.

Eddie's breath comes out ragged—almost nervous. He's done a lot with Steve. Too much, really. But this seems more intimate. Definitely more vulnerable.

He feels small. But not in the way he did in high school. More... consensually small. Like he's giving up his bravado willingly to let Steve take the reigns.

Somehow there's an understanding that he's in charge, though. Even when Steve is taller, broader, caging Eddie with his heavier weight, he still looks down on him like he's asking permission.

Eddie nods his head.

Steve licks his lips, thinks a second before he makes a move. Decides that pulling Eddie’s jeans down farther is the card he’s drawn.

The fabric slides down the tops of his thin thighs, gets caught on what little ass he has. But Eddie sees it—the splotch of gnarly pink on one hip that’s starting to become exposed. So he shoots his arms downwards, grabs Steve’s working hands.

“That’s enough.”

Steve’s face crumples, but he doesn’t push or ask. Eddie’s grateful for it. Feels like it would be a bit of a mood killer to explain that if Steve strips him any further he’ll look like Freddy fucking Krueger.

Slowly, Eddie lets go of Steve’s wrists. For a second, they hover there. Then move upwards towards the hem of Eddie’s shirt.

There’s already too much of his stomach showing—red lines and pitted scars. However, higher up, are the real gruesome mutilations. Chunks of skin that went missing, right to muscle, that healed over in web-like patterns. Some so deep that when Eddie runs his hands on them late at night, he’s sure that if he presses hard enough, his fingers will pop right through to the other side.

Eddie can barely glance at himself in the mirror these days. Can’t stand the thought of Steve losing an erection over his shirtless torso.

This time, Eddie grabs his shirt and makes sure it stays in place—below his belly button where it belongs. “Don’t look,” he snaps.

“I’m not.”

“You were going to.”

“No.” Steve catches himself speaking the lie. “I mean—I want to see you.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want you to see me,” Eddie seethes, meaner than anything before. “Off fucking limits. You hear me?”

The scowl on Steve’s face deepens. But his eyes start to shine. Half mad, half sad. What Eddie said has struck a chord. “You think I’m ugly then?”

It’s nowhere near what Eddie might’ve guessed. He finds himself frowning, too, out of confusion. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I have scars, too.” Steve points down to the patterns on the small swell of his stomach. Scars of light pink pearlescence that shine silver in the low light of the room. Scars that barely bump or sink, and actually compliment his body the same way tattoos would on some. Like artwork. “You think they’re gross?”

“No—I obviously don’t think they’re gross. Where would you get that idea from?”

Steve narrows his eyes. “You don’t want me to see your scars. So mine must be ugly to you, too.”

“Jesus,” Eddie scoffs. “That’s what this is about?” He props himself halfway up on a forearm, just to get a better look at Steve’s face. “You think your scars are anywhere close to what mine look like? You think you can compare them? I almost died, Steve. I did die. There was so much flesh and blood missing from me that my heart was beating once every ten fucking seconds once you managed to start it back up. Apples to fucking oranges.”

“And you’re alive now,” is what Steve decides to say. “Don’t you think there’s beauty in that? In the fact that you healed?”

“Barely.” Eddie sniffs his nose, lays back down onto the pillows. His dick is half soft now. He ruined the moment just like he expected. “Wasn’t beautiful before, definitely not beautiful now.”

The lines on Steve’s face start to smooth so slowly, until he looks soft once again. “Really? You don’t think you’re--?”

“Beautiful?” Eddie finishes. “Of course not. Don’t be fucking stupid.”

Steve cocks his head sideways. “How could you think that?”

“I dunno,” Eddie barks. “Maybe from prick jocks like you telling me how fucking disgusting I am every chance they get?”

“I never thought—” Steve shakes his head, swallows whatever he was going to say. “I was an asshole to you, Eddie. And… And I’m really sorry.”

Eddie feels his lips twitch downwards. Can’t find anything to say to that.

So Steve decides to fill the silence with more.

“I was—still am, I guess—really uncomfortable with myself. It’s not an excuse. I just—I targeted you because I was…” He searches for the right word. “Jealous.”

“Steve Harrington jealous of The Freak?” Eddie rolls his eyes. “Likely.”

“No, really. You were so cool. Effortlessly cool—”

“I was the opposite of cool. You reminded me of that, a lot actually.”

“I was jealous,” Steve says again. “I heard the rumours around the halls—you know. That you were gay. And everyone was whispering like it was a bad thing, but all I was thinking was that I wished it was me. Whoever  you were with—getting to see you undressed. Getting to touch you, or—or be touched by you. I wished it was me.”

Silence blankets the room.

Eddie can’t make up his mind on what to say:

Doesn’t excuse you.

My scars are still worse.

You waited so long to say something.

All he does—all he can do—is tug on his shirt once more. Whisper, “Can I please keep it on?”

“Of course,” Steve answers, just as quietly.

And for the first time that Eddie will admit, he knows that he doesn’t deserve Steve after everything he’s done.

Steve gently places his palms over Eddie’s shirt, on his ribcage. Smooths the fabric with his fingers.

Eddie stiffens up—hopes he can’t feel his pitted skin beneath it. But as the seconds pass, and then the minutes, his spine starts to mould back to the mattress rather than sticking ramrod straight. He relaxes. Closes his eyes. Lets himself feel.

Steve’s touch, so tender, so different than he’s touched Steve. How it caresses over his chest, stops near his nipple—where only one pokes through the cotton. He doesn’t even seem phased that his left thumb doesn’t find the same nub, just rubs the right one in soft circles for a moment before he traces down Eddie’s sternum. Back down, down, to the gaping band of his jeans.

Eddie’s cock has already started to fill back up as he revels beneath Steve. He opens his eyes when he feels his fingers toy near his fly.

“Gonna fuck me?” Eddie asks. It comes out faint, timid. Like he’s finally lost the edge that has always driven him to have confidence around this thing going on between him and Steve. And now he’s left as a husk—not empty, necessarily, but in need of filling by something other than hate.

Steve nods his head, brings his hand up to his pretty lips so he can catch some saliva. That hand comes down, wraps around Eddie’s cock. Feels cold enough that he sucks in some air, and soft enough that he lets it back out through pursed lips. Wet enough that when Steve starts to stroke, his fingers glide over Eddie’s skin, feel sinful.

“Jesus. Steve.”

“So jealous.” Steve’s grip tightens around the head of Eddie’s exposed cockhead, twists in a way that makes his shoulders lift from the bed. “And now I get to be the one touching you.”

“Mm—fuck.” Eddie’s thighs tense. He can’t move under Steve’s weight. “Yeah. Touch me more.”

“You make me so hard.” Steve pitches his hips forward, shows Eddie the evidence between his legs. “Even in the halls at school. Was always getting hard for you.”

Eddie’s not sure he believes that part, but he plays along anyway. “Yeah? How’d that go, with those too tight Levi’s, huh?” He moans as Steve rakes his fingernails over his sensitive skin, teases lower, where his balls are drawn tight at the bottom of his fly. “Fuck, that’s good.”

“Always hurt so bad,” Steve answers in a seductive whisper. He shuffles forward, drops Eddie’s cock to fist his own instead. “Had to run off to the bathrooms and jerk off more than once.”

“While you thought of me?”

“Yeah. Always you.” Steve uses his thumb to press his dick down on Eddie’s, make them slide together, slick with precum and spit.

It’s so hot—Steve’s skin scorches as it glides over the underside of Eddie’s cock, stops near the thatch of curly, dark hair at its base. Steve presses the tip of himself there, buries his pink crown in Eddie’s pubes. Moans softly. And as he pulls away, a fresh pearl of his excitement stretches from Eddie to him. Snaps off and gets rubbed into Eddie’s skin as Steve wraps his fingers around them both.

He starts to stroke intentionally, languidly, but tight enough that it has Eddie squirming under his weight. He tries not to moan, not to sound too incredibly desperate, but his breathing still comes out uneven. Hard. And eventually he can’t help himself from making noise as Steve works him up.

“Oh—God.” Eddie curls his shoulders forward, just so he can see the way Steve’s hand moves and squeezes and wrings both their cocks at once. How they barely fit in the ring of his fingers when they’re together, and how they poke out all shiny and flushed each time Steve pulls his hand back.

There’s a moment where Eddie seriously considers telling Steve to slow down, maybe stop altogether, because he’s sure he’s gonna finish in Steve’s palm. But he breathes through it, unfocuses his eyes so he doesn’t notice the way Steve’s stomach crunches, or how his chest jiggles when he moves his arm like this, or how much his cock is leaking onto Eddie’s, making them all wet—

"I'm yours, right?" Steve asks. Seems so genuine as he tries to wring Eddie dry. 

"Fuck, yeah, you're mine." Eddie grips Steve's naked hips hard, loves how they give under the pressure of his fingertips. "Been mine from day one." 

"Fuck." Steve's hips pitch forward, sprearing his own grip, like he might already come. Eddie can feel his cock throbbing against his own, but it's hard to tell who's who. There's just so much heat, so much stickiness. They feel like one person. 

But then Steve lets go. Let's them rub together for a few seconds without the tight hole of his fingers. Eddie hates that it's gone just as much as he's thankful for it.

"Say it again," Steve begs, almost a whisper. His pelvis tilts forward, makes his cock tickle against the hairs poking out from the bottom of Eddie's shirt. 

But Eddie can't focus on the visuals, because Steve's hand is on him again. This time, however, he reaches from behind. Slowly grips around Eddie so his dick is propped up proud from between his legs. 

He sinks lower, and Eddie feels his cockhead slipping between Steve's cheeks as he lines himself up, catching on his rim, pressing there. 

"Ah—fuck, Steve. You're mine." 

"I'm yours." Steve starts to sink down, makes Eddie see stars as his cock tries to stretch him out. But he's so tight, he doesn't give right away. "Shit. Again." 

"You're mine," Eddie growls, fingers bruising Steve's skin as he pulls him down. 

"Fuck. Yeah—I belong to you." 

"Yes, you fucking do." 

"I belong to Eddie Munson," Steve says all breathy, and Eddie can feel the snug ring of his ass start to swallow his cock. So slowly, just a fraction of an inch at a time, and then Steve hauls himself high once more to readjust. 

"You’re mine." Eddie can't stand Steve moving away, so he lifts his hips to search for his target on his own, meets Steve halfway. His cock slips in more—the whole head of it cramming inside Steve with a pop. "All mine." 

He's not entirely sure when the narrative got switched like this. Half-lucidly remembers repeating these words to Steve the last time he had him bent over, but somehow it feels reversed. 

Still, he finds himself repeating, "You're mine. You're fucking mine. You belong to me," as Steve continues to take the lead, grinding himself onto Eddie's dick inch by excruciating inch, until he's fully seated.

For a moment, they stay like that. Steve adjusting to the size of Eddie, and Eddie adjusting to—well, not blowing his load while Steve's ass fucking strangles his cock. 

His fingers slowly loosen from Steve's hips to take a detour down his thighs. Eddie watches as the little hairs dusting Steve's skin part under his touch, then spring back into place. 

"You feel perfect," he says, but can't look Steve in the eye as he says it. Just focuses on his fingers, those hairs, Steve's thighs. 

Silence follows. Eddie doesn't dare look up, or try to read whatever expression Steve might be wearing. He just moves his right hand further to the middle of Steve's body where his dick is resting on Eddie's lower stomach. He grips it, hears Steve suck in a breath. Gives it a tentative stroke. 

"God. Fuck." Steve's hips twitch, which causes a whole fucking chain reaction of him thrusting into Eddie's hand, Eddie's cock getting massaged by his tight little hole, and Steve's prostate getting stroked by Eddie's cock. 

They curse at the same time, and Steve does it again; makes his cherry-red tip peek out from Eddie's fist and fucks himself with the same forward drive. 

It's barely anything, not a ton of action, but the way Steve grinds down has Eddie chomping on his lower lip hard enough to make it bleed. It feels so deliciously good, these tiny little movements that milk Eddie's cock, make him drip deep inside Steve. 

And Steve looks delirious, with his eyes rolling to the back of his head, mouth popped open and glistening. He leans back, shows off his strong stomach and the 'V' of his hips, bracing his weight above Eddie's knees as his head lolls backwards, face to ceiling. 

It's pornographic, seeing Steve so slutty, so close. Watching his tight balls catching and rubbing on Eddie's skin as his rhythm becomes more expert. Circling now instead of just moving forward and back. Not bouncing. Just enough that Eddie feels how deep he is. 

"Fuck," Eddie chokes, moving his hand to press Steve's cock to the soft skin of his own stomach. He doesn't even find it in himself to care that as Steve starts to rut a little more intentionally, the hem of his shirt starts inching up. 

Little by little, Eddie's scars start to poke out from under his clothes. But Steve is moaning, and his dick is dribbling a little sticky trail onto Eddie's stomach, and his skin is like fire, all pressed snug against Eddie's happy trail, and— 

"Jesus. Fuck. Wait, wait—" Eddie sits up fast, barely gets his arms wrapped around Steve's middle to halt him before it happens. Manages to stop himself from coming inside Steve at the last possible second. 

"What's wrong?" Steve asks, his voice troubled like he might have done something wrong. More wrong than being sexy as hell and knowing how to fuck. 

Eddie lets his head fall forward, touches his forehead to Steve's chest. Feels that it's all slick with sweat underneath all that chest hair. 

"Just... give me a second." 

"Are you okay?" Steve seems to hesitate a second before he reaches forward to tangle his fingers in Eddie's knotty curls. 

"Just dandy, Harrington." 

Steve still doesn't seem to get it. Waits a second before saying, "Tell me what I did." 

And then he shifts. Flexes that tight little muscle still gripped around the base of Eddie's cock. Makes him feel like he's two seconds away from busting again. 

"Ah—stop moving!" 

"You—?" Steve stills. Waits a while. And then—"Oh. Oh!" 

Blood rushes up to Eddie's cheeks in embarrassment, but at least the distraction gives that blood somewhere to go other than his dick. Gives him two fucking seconds to think, cool down, whatever.

"Shut up, Steven." 

"All talk," Steve teases. He lifts himself up intentionally, drops back down. 

Eddie feels the friction build him up like spring, somewhere deep inside his gut. He holds onto Steve tighter, tries to keep him cemented in place. "God damnit. You're such an asshole." 

"You like my asshole." Steve tries to bounce on Eddie's dick again, this time without much luck. 

"What can I say. You're too tight," Eddie hisses, digging his nails against Steve's skin. Is pleased to see the little crescent moons left there as he pulls away. He tries to find the man he's been with Steve before—the one that can fuck hard and spit words that make Steve soft. "Not all used up, yet. Basically a virgin." He focuses his mind on the words he wants to say. Focuses on being able to fuck Steve good. Fuck him like he deserves. "Don't worry. I can fix that."

Eddie lifts Steve's hips. At least, signals for him to haul himself up—Eddie doesn't really have the strength to do it. But Steve ends up straddling Eddie on his knees, just enough that Eddie's cock slides out of him all the way to the tip. 

That in itself is torturous. 

Now, Eddie's not the most physical guy when it comes to sports or going to the gym. Likely would get winded jogging to the end of the driveway. But with the right motivation, miracles can happen. 

So all Eddie does is grunt through the pleasure of it, planting his feet to the mattress, bracing his arms around Steve. 

He lifts himself hard, burying his prick in Steve's ass as he does it. 

Turns out, that's the motivation. 

The bedsprings protest under his weight and the headboards cracks against the wall as Eddie wildly drives himself into Steve. Over and over again, Eddie slams up. His abs start to ache and his thighs burn. But the sound of Steve moaning loud keeps him going. 

"Fuck, Eddie. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Steve falls forward, catches himself against the headboard. Makes a better angle for Eddie to fuck himself deeper, faster. Drive himself against Steve's prostate. 

"You like that?" Eddie's voice almost gets lost behind the noise of skin slapping skin. "Gonna ruin your tiny little cunt." 

"Oh my god." Steve's back curls forward, one hand bracing his weight, the other reaching to toy with his own nipple. He pants hard, staring down his body as he hovers over Eddie's working hips. Watches as he gets fucked into oblivion. "Jesus, Eddie—" 

"Gonna stretch you out," Eddie says, breathless, almost angry. "Get you so loose that no one else will want to fuck you ever again." 

"Yes. Fucking ruin me." Steve's fingers pinch down on his nipple and his cock starts to weep so much that for a second, Eddie thinks he must have came. 

But he knows he hasn't, because Steve seems to only be getting harder by the second as his cock swings around from the force of Eddie fucking into him. He wants so badly to reach down and play with it, make Steve come fast as punishment for teasing him. But Eddie knows he doesn't have the strength to one-arm it. He's already losing inertia.

His mouth, however, is not. He finds it running away on him as he spews filth. 

"I'll come inside you. Knock you up so no one looks your way anymore, huh?"

"Yeah. Yeah." 

"Yeah? You wanna have my kids shot up inside you?"

"Yes, fuck, Eddie. Come in me. Come in me." Steve's voice rattles out of him, all shaky like he's driving down a bumpy road.

Eddie holds his breath, keeps going as long as he can. He feels himself turning red in the face, but watching Steve jiggle around from the force of him is too good. 

But on one particularly clumsy thrust, his cock slips out of Steve's hole, ends up sliding forward over his sac, beside his cock. Leaves a snail trail of precome up his hip before it slaps back down onto Eddie's stomach. 

Eddie finally goes limp, gasping for air as his dick twitches on his abdomen. He was so close to doing it—coming inside Steve and holding him down as his cock pumped his seed straight into his stomach. 

He notices Steve's thighs trembling. His cock bucks upwards, taps his stomach, and then pushes out a droplet of cum that drools out of him, makes a little string that connects him to Eddie's still exposed navel. Moans while it happens too, like he truly was seconds away from finishing.

Eddie breaks the string with his fingers as he gathers up everything wet on his skin with one hand, brings it up to his lips to spit into his palm. 

He watches Steve's face pull together as he wrings his fingers around his cock, starts to touch him with slow, tight strokes. 

"How was that?" 

"Ah... Fu—ck."

"Cat got your tongue all of a sudden, Stevie boy?" Eddie pushes his thumb into his slit. Likes the way it slips around there. 

"Jesus. Ah, wait. Gonna come—gonna come—"

Eddie drops Steve's cock, completely mesmerized by how it spasms in the open air. "Holy shit. That was a close one, huh?" 

"No," Steve whines. His hands shoot down to Eddie's hair again, nails scraping against his scalp. 

He's learning he likes that. Having Steve's hands in his hair. 

"No?" Eddie puts on a dramatic pout, feigning disappointment. "But I thought you always wanted to come inside my mouth? What happened to that?" 

Steve's eyes sparkle as they latch onto Eddie's. "Really? Can I...?"

"Come take what you want." Eddie stretches out on Steve's bed, under his body. Waits as Steve seems to ponder whether Eddie is serious or not. 

He gets this look on his face, kind of serious, kind of soft. Contemplating something. 

And then he starts to move, shuffling on his legs higher, thighs bracketing Eddie's torso rather than his hips. He stops halfway, looks down on Eddie's face.

When he bends in half, it takes Eddie by surprise. Guess he was too focused on Steve's dick inching closer to his mouth, how it's resting near his chest instead of his stomach. 

But Steve bends in half, and yeah, it shocks Eddie. Because there's a hand in his hair that's pulling his head back, angling his chin higher. Making it easier for Steve to claim his lips in a fiery kiss. 

Eddie's hands flounder for a split second, and he hums a breathy moan into Steve's mouth. But he kisses him back just as fiercely, basically unhinges his jaw so Steve can lick into his mouth, taste his tonsils. His hands do eventually find their home on the dip of Steve's waist. Then to the valley of his spine, where Eddie's fingers lightly rake their nails. 

Steve moans against Eddie's lips. He feels it right in his core, can only make his body respond rather than with words. So his free hand travels south, caresses over Steve's tail bone and his glutes. Without much coordination he finds his target, slipping his middle finger into Steve's loosened hole. 

Steve's jaw goes slack as he moans loudly. Eddie takes it has his opportunity to reclaim some control. He traces his tongue on the roof of Steve's mouth, flicks it against his teeth. Finishes the kiss with a bite onto his lower lip that makes Steve huff. 

"You like that?" Eddie whispers. He curls his fingers in their awkward position; he knows he can't reach Steve's prostate like this, but he fucks him like he can. "Want my throat while I finger you?" 

"Oh, god. Please." Steve straightens his spine, shoulders heaving as he swallows air like he just ran a marathon. 

He tilts his hips forward, dick sliding between Eddie's flat chest and stopping near the dip in his collar bone, right where the neck of his shirt starts. 

Eddie can't see it, but can feel the trickle of precome gathering there as Steve continues to drip on him like a leaky faucet. 

No more words are said after that. But Steve knows how to speak fluently in his body language as he crawls higher and higher—high enough that he grabs onto the headboard and his knees nestle under Eddie's armpits. 

His cock slips around Eddie's chin, beside his nose, as he gets himself situated where he needs to be. And Eddie just lets it happen, chasing it with his tongue, latching his lips and sucking on the side of Steve's shaft. He feels a vein under his lips, trails the tip of his tongue there as Steve makes another breathy sound above him. 

When Eddie opens his eyes, Steve is peering down at him. His hair hangs around his angelic face, pieces around his neck sticking out in all directions. 

Only Steve could look so beautiful after a fucking car wreck. 

He gives Eddie a few moments to change his mind, take back his offer, but Eddie chooses to nod instead, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth and over his chin. Flat and broad, throat open. 

Steve removes one hand from the headboard to fist his cock. He strokes it a few times right over Eddie's face, pressing the tip down into his cheek. And then he runs it over Eddie's skin, over the tip of his nose, down his upper lip. 

He reaches Eddie's tongue, and starts to move carefully over it. Little circles, like he's testing the way it feels. Which he must decide is nice enough, because he groans quietly and pushes in a little deeper. The fat head of his dick kisses Eddie's soft pallet, momentarily makes it hard to breathe. But Eddie doesn't care, lapping his tongue on the underside of Steve's cock. Eventually, he  brings it back into his mouth, wraps his teeth with his lips. Sucks hard. 

"God." Steve bucks forward, nudges Eddie's tonsils. Makes him gag, but he still pulls Steve closer. "Ah—fucking hell." 

Steve pulls back enough for Eddie to take a deep breath in through his nose, but then rams forward a little deeper. Closes off Eddie's airways as he buries himself in his throat. 

And Eddie loves it. 

Loves the way he can feel Steve's heartbeat on his tongue, loves how his sac bumps his chin every time he jerks forward, loves that he chokes Eddie with the sheer size of himself, but knows when he needs to take a breath. So thoughtful, Steve is. Selfless. Making sure Eddie is comfortable even as he bruises his throat, makes him gag and sputter and drool. 

Eddie hadn't ever done the same for Steve. Always chased his own pleasure, even as Steve struggled for air too long. 

He pulls Steve in tighter, tries to angle his throat in a way that allows him to fuck a little deeper. Steve's balls press to his chin, feel real drawn tight to his body. Eddie plays with Steve's asshole some more, rubs it with his two middle fingers, up and down and around in messy circles, and he hooks them so they slip inside Steve. Scissors them to keep him loose and ready. 

Steve's breathing starts to lose control. And his moans are starting to get louder. There's a tremor in his thighs, rhythm getting lost as he slams a little too hard into Eddie's throat. 

He gags violently and Steve tries to pull back to give Eddie some breathing room, but he seems to be lost in himself. Because he thrusts forward again, a little too quick and a little too deep. His fist knots into Eddie's curls and holds him there, lips stretched around Steve's cock and airways blocked, seeing spots around his teary vision. 

"Oh fuck. I'm gonna come," Steve says, but it's already happening. Eddie can feel it pouring down his throat, spurting in hot waves that match the same beat as the spasm in Steve's stomach and the clench of his asshole as it hugs around Eddie's fingers. 

Eddie shakes his head back and forth, works his tongue on the giant vein that's sitting heavy on it's valley, keeps his lips suctioned as his nose stays buried in Steve's bush. He's prepared to meet his maker as long as Steve's orgasm is a good one. 

And it sounds like it is. Steve basically yells into the headboard, loud enough that anyone walking past his window could hear. And then his voice gets higher as the cum pouring down Eddie's throat starts to slow. Whiny. Sweet and gentle and a little rough. 

He lets go of the headboard and falls back on his haunches, cock slipping out of Eddie's lips. It's all wet and red, still hard but surely on its way out, sitting on Eddie's chin as he gasps for air and coughs around the ache in his esophagus. 

"Shit. I'm sorry," Steve says quickly. He pets back Eddie's bangs that stick to his forehead. 

But Eddie shakes his head as he catches his breath, his tongue searching around his mouth to gather the flavour of Steve so he can enjoy it. 

"Don't be." Eddie's voice comes out raw. He tries to clear it. "You taste amazing." 

His fingers stay greedy, massaging Steve's ass, keeping him firmly in place as Eddie cranes forward to latch his lips around Steve's cockhead one last time. Just enough to make him jolt and squirm away, but also jerk closer.

Guess there always has been a fine line between pain and pleasure for Steve. 

"Jesus. Jesus." Steve's cock twitches, spent, between Eddie's lips. Drips like it's trying to give him some more of the good stuff. "Fuck, Eddie. I—shit. I don't think I've ever come like that in my life." 

Eddie pops off, peeks up at Steve to give him a sharp grin. "I don't just have the magic touch during DnD, Harrington." 

Steve's face goes all confused. "Huh?"

"Nothing." Eddie pats Steve's thigh, signals for him to crawl off. 

His cock is hard as steel after sucking Steve off. Hard enough that even the faint breeze moving through the room feels like it could be the end of him. 

Steve's legs seem weak as they guide him sideways on the mattress. His dick is starting to deflate, but looks red and swollen and used. All shiny with Eddie's saliva. 

Worth a photo, Eddie thinks, and he remembers seeing a camera on Steve's side table. 

He swings his legs off the edge, grabs the Kodak before Steve can notice what he's up to. There are two shots left. 

So Eddie snaps one the second Steve looks over, the flash going off bright in the dim room. 

Steve blinks. "What—?" 

"I'm a sentimental type of guy," Eddie interrupts. He grabs the photo from the slot when it's done printing, gives it a wave in the air. "I like to look back on my fondest memories." 

Steve only snorts, doesn't seem too upset that Eddie didn't ask permission. 

He watches the film develop slowly, from white, to the faintest of outlines. Then, it starts to take shape: Steve with a single knee bent and his eyes on the camera. Face relaxed. Body bruised. Cock half hard and laying sideways on his hip. 

Funny—it's even red in the picture. The brightest colour in the whole damn thing. 

"Think I'll keep this one in my wallet," Eddie muses, and in all seriousness slips the polaroid inside his back pocket. 

Steve watches, head cocked. Looks like he wants to ask something but ends up deciding against it. 

"I want one, too."

Eddie flicks his eyes to Steve's face. 

It's a knee-jerk reaction to want to say fuck no. Who wants to see a photo of Eddie like that? And what might someone do with it if they ever found such a thing?

But Steve's eyes are round and excited. And it makes Eddie's response die of his tongue before he can even speak it. 

He sighs, tosses the camera at Steve rather than to him. "Fine. I'm not taking my clothes off, though." 

Steve doesn't even seem to care as he scrambles for the camera. 

Eddie feels awkward as it gets pointed at him. Doesn't like having his photo taken on the best of days. Usually just ends up with a half-sneer on his face rather than a smile, like the one Wayne picked for his missing person photo. Eddie knows his face is doing the same thing now, as Steve brings the camera to his eye. Only this time he has his hard cock out, held high in his hand by his navel as it pokes between his slightly lifted shirt and the gaping mouth of his jeans.

The flash goes off. 

Eddie rolls his eyes as it starts to print. Has absolutely zero interest in seeing how it turns out.

"Happy now, Harrington?" Eddie strokes his dick once, realises it's a bad idea when it pulses in his palm like it's ready to pump dry. "Fuck. I'm gonna need you to hurry up and bend over." 

Steve's brows raise, but he listens nicely like he always has, tossing the polaroid of Eddie onto the side table as he plants his feet off the side of the mattress. His torso stays flat on the bed, legs straight and ass sticking into the air like it's being served to Eddie. 

He licks his lips as such, too. 

"Shit, man. You really are something else." Eddie takes a predatory step in Steve's direction, and then another, close enough to reach out to smooth his hand over Steve's ass. "'M almost jealous of myself that I get to fuck you." 

He runs his second hand against Steve, too. One on each cheek. Spreads him open wide for another look at his perfect, puffy asshole, all stretched out and waiting. 

"Fuck." 

"Think you could come again yet?" 

"I don't—" Steve cuts himself off as Eddie lines up behind him, shoving a knee between his legs to spread them wider. "Shit. Maybe." 

"Yeah?" Eddie squeezes Steve's flesh between his fingers, watches his rings leave imprints on his skin. "Why don't we find out?" 

"Yes," Steve begs softly. 

Eddie reaches between Steve's legs, finds his cock still half hard. Maybe half hard again. Pulls it backwards until it's sticking straight down between his open thighs. 

"What a fucking sight," Eddie marvels as he rubs his fingers over Steve's sac and his prick, still sensitive from his first orgasm. But Eddie is determined. "Keep your legs spread, baby." 

Eddie sucks back the fingers that had been inside Steve, and are bound to be inside him again. Closes his eyes as he coats his tongue in the taste of Steve. Then he reaches between Steve's legs, shoves both of them at once inside without any warning at all. 

"Oh my fucking god." 

Eddie twists his digits in an expert way. 

He knows Steve's body. In the few times he's touched him, he's managed to memorize every detail; how deep to touch him, what angle to curl his fingers, how hard to press. The number of times Eddie has thought about it late at night, cricking his fingers like he might actually be able to feel Steve on them... Well. It's no wonder Eddie knows exactly what he wants to do, exactly how to make Steve keen. 

He finds his prostate so easily, presses hard onto it as his other hand wraps around Steve's cock, starts to pump. 

It's no longer about making the moment last. Now, Eddie has a purpose, and it's to make Steve come one more time before the night ends. 

"God can't save you now."

Steve sounds nearly pained as he whimpers into the blankets. His cock fills out in Eddie's hand, turns rock solid. "Eddie. Holy fuck." 

"That's it. Look, you're almost there already." 

Steve's legs tremble, knees going weak enough that Eddie feels himself supporting more of Steve's weight. "Hurts." 

Eddie slows his assault on Steve's cock, stops rubbing him from the inside, too. "You want me to stop?" 

"No! No. Please." Steve rams his hips backwards into Eddie, desperate for him to keep going. "Make me come. Force me." 

"Fuck, yeah. I'll make you come," Eddie promises. But he doesn't jerk Steve off again, or stroke his prostate. In fact, he pulls his fingers out of Steve altogether, wipes them on his jeans. "I'll make you come all over my cock, just like I promised." 

Eddie hooks him arm under one of Steve's knees, hikes it onto the bed. His knee bites into the mattress, makes his thighs spread even further apart. 

There's a drop of sweat that trickles down Steve's spine. Eddie rubs it into Steve's back with his left hand, uses his right to line himself up with Steve's hole. 

He feels it—the way his cockhead gets caught up on that puffy skin. How it basically sucks him in like a pair of lips wrapped around a lemonade straw on a hot summer day. 

Eddie barely needs to push forward before he's sinking into Steve's heat, his prick getting wrapped in the silky skin of Steve's guts. 

Jaw swinging open, Eddie can't help himself from moaning out loud. It just feels too good. Too snug, even though Eddie was sure Steve was all stretched out by now. 

"Jesus, Stevie," Eddie chokes. He sinks in halfway, pulls out until his tip kisses Steve's hole. Then pitches forward once again, until he's got his balls pressed taut against Steve's. "Your cunt feels so good like this. So tight."

He rolls his hips, feels himself get buried another inch. 

Steve pants beneath him, groans, "Fu-uck." 

"I know, baby. I know." Eddie pulls out, slams back in, hard. His balls ache so good as they press tight against Steve. "You need to come fast, okay? Come fast for me." 

"Yeah. Fuck. Make me come again. Make me come," Steve pleads, fingers gripping into the blankets so hard his knuckles turn nearly as pale as Eddie's skin. 

Eddie snaps his hips again, and again. Starts slow, but the sound of his skin smacking against Steve starts to speed and get louder, starts almost echoing off the bedroom walls. 

He keeps his hips angled just right, knows that he's driving his cock straight over Steve's special little spot. But even if he didn't, the way Steve keeps moaning would tell him as much. Every time his hips slap against Steve's ass, he sings out a beautiful note. The exact same rhythm. 

"Ah, ah, ah, ah." 

Eddie bites on his lip to focus on the pain, his hands exploring Steve all over, until he reaches his waist. 

Without warning, Eddie wraps his arm there, pulls Steve flush against his chest. Feels the flat of his back plastered against his t-shirt and the way Steve's stomach flexes under his palms.

Steve turns his head sideways. Searches. 

Eddie brings his chin into the space by Steve's shoulder and twists a hand into his locks of mousy brown hair. For a few seconds they stay like that, breathing into each other's open mouths, noses bumping, lips brushing, eyes staring into the other's soul. Sharing the same air of a room that seems to be closing in tighter.

There's the lightest flick of Steve's tongue on Eddie's lower lip. Just a faint tickle of heat and wet. 

And it's too much. 

Eddie loses all composure. Makes a sound similar to a growl as he surges his face forward to capture Steve's lips in a bruising kiss, his grip landing between Steve's throat and jaw to keep him glued where he is. 

It feels like a threat, having his hand there. If Steve dares to move, maybe Eddie will squeeze. 

Only now, Eddie doesn't want to. He doesn't want to see Steve struggle for a drink of oxygen, but rather wants to help fill his lungs. 

"Come on," Eddie whispers encouragingly against Steve lips. He keeps fucking him, keeps staring into his hazel eyes. And he feels himself unravelling. "Come on. Come on." 

"I'm about to," Steve says back as quiet. 

Eddie nods his head, makes his mouth brush against Steve's. 

Because he's gonna come too, and this time he can't hold it back.

He shoves his cock deep inside Steve, grinds his hips, pulls back out. The harder he fucks him, the looser he feels, the wetter the slide as Eddie barrels towards the finish line. 

The chord winds tighter in his core, tension tight like a drawn bow string as Steve whines. His balls pull tight, and a grunt punches its way from his throat. And then it snaps with a force so strong that Eddie's vision goes black around the edges. 

"Oh, fuck, Steve. Steve. Steve." Eddie's head swims as he splatters the inside of Steve like one of Jackson Polluck's paintings. 

Each time his cock pulls out of Steve, his cum leaks out in thick, white pools, and then Eddie fucks it right back into him. Crams it deep, where it belongs. 

"Ah—fuck. So close. Keep—" 

"I will. I'll fuck you 'til you come, baby." Eddie's tone is shot straight to hell, crackly and stripped and too high pitched. 

His cock starts to ache in a way he's used to—from those days he makes himself come and keeps touching himself past the point of strictly pleasure, when it turns into something overwhelming. Something that has a stinging edge. 

But he loves the way it hurts, chases that feeling as he pounds into Steve.

"C'mon, pretty boy. Come on my cock like we promised each other." 

"Fuck." Steve crushes his eyelids shut, hides his pretty irises from Eddie. 

So he squeezes his fingers to remind Steve to keep them open. Keep looking. Keep watching as Eddie fucks him.  

"There you go," Eddie praises when he sees Steve's teary eyes open. "Just one more. One more for me." 

The ring of muscle clutched around Eddie's prick goes unbearably tight the same moment Steve's brows pull together. His abs  contract under Eddie's fingers. 

And then his whole body spasms under Eddie's. 

Steve doesn't even make a sound as he comes again. He seems to retreat inside himself as his whole body seizes. Seems to hold his breath. 

Eddie only knows when to slow his roll when the deep, undulating waves of Steve's orgasm stop flexing around his dick. When Steve goes loose and limp, and then sucks in a deep lungful of air, and sobs it back out. 

His knees go weak, falling inside Eddie's arms. 

Slowly, Eddie lowers Steve to the mattress the best he can, even though Steve is big and Eddie isn't strong. But Steve doesn't seem to mind, just reaches for the blankets and buries his chest inside them as his legs remain hanging limp from the side of the mattress. 

There are claw marks down Steve's back. Handprints on his ass. Eddie trails his calloused fingertips over every mark he left, and on some that have been there much longer than tonight. His hands reach where he's still sunk deep in Steve's hole, going soft where it's wet and warm and cozy. 

He presses the pad of his thumb where their bodies meet—where he's most sensitive and Steve's most raw. 

"Ah—"

"I know," Eddie whispers as he gently pulls out. 

His prick falls limp and useless between his legs as he takes a step back, the line of his sight latched to where Steve's asshole flexes around nothing but a river of cum that drips down to his sac. Lower, where Steve's dick is still pulled backwards between his thighs, but not as hard now. The blankets around it stained dark with his second load. 

Eddie swallows, his throat thick with—tonight, he supposes. Everything different that they haven't faced but have to eventually speak about. 

Maybe starting with the fact that Eddie called Steve baby. 

Multiple times. 

The room feels swollen with silence. Heavy, damp, like the air after a storm. Eddie stands there for a beat, fists curled at his sides, trying to look away from the mess of Steve’s body on the mattress. 

The petname still echoes in his skull, stubborn as a drumbeat. 

He hadn’t meant it. Not in a real way. 

Steve shifts, tugging the blanket tighter under his chin. His face is turned away, hair sticking to the back of his neck in damp curls. For a second, Eddie wonders if maybe he’ll stay like that, fall asleep before they have to explain themselves. 

But then Steve glances sideways, just enough for one bleary eye to catch Eddie standing there.

The look doesn’t last long. Just a flicker. But it’s enough. Eddie sees it—the confusion, the exhaustion, and under it all, a quiet acknowledgment. Like they both know something happened tonight that wasn’t the same as the others. 

Eddie lets himself exhale through his nose, and it sounds too loud in the room. He doesn’t try to fill the silence with words, not even a joke. His throat’s too clogged up anyway.

Steve’s gaze drops, lashes lowering as if he can’t bear to hold the contact any longer. He shifts again, pulls himself all the way onto the bed. Enough that he can throw a piece of the blanket over his lower half. 

Eddie follows suit, tucking himself back into his boxers. Doing up his fly. 

He feels his mouth open like he's going to say something. Doesn't really know what, but— 

There's a knock. All the way downstairs, upon the heavy oak front door, there's a knock.

And then the doorbell rings a haunting little tune.

Steve's eyes go wide. He sits up a little straighter on his bed. 

"It's okay." Eddie clears the frog from his croaky voice. "It's gotta be Hopper. They, uh... They prob'ly found your car on the side of the highway." 

"Right. Yeah." Steve’s eyes stay round, bloodshot and watery, as if the knock and the sudden chime made him regain some of his consciousness. His grip tightens on the blanket bunched at his waist. 

He looks younger like this, unguarded and stripped down, almost like Eddie is witnessing him in the middle of something private that they hadn't just shared.

Eddie tugs his belt loop into place and clears his throat again, softer this time. “Hey,” he says, tipping his chin toward the attached bathroom. “Hop in the shower, man. Rinse off, get yourself put back together.” He tries for casual, but the edge of gravel in his voice betrays him.

Steve blinks. “What if it’s—”

“I’ll get it,” Eddie cuts in before Steve can spiral. He forces a grin, like he can't still taste Steve's most intimate parts on his tongue. “I’m already dressed, aren’t I? Let him ask me all the questions.”

The doorbell blares again. They both look towards the bedroom door, but only Eddie takes a step towards it. 

“Trust me. Go on. And when you're done, give Robin a call, too. She's worried about you.”

Something in Steve’s posture eases. He nods once and slides off the mattress, blanket trailing before he drops it and pads toward the bathroom with that stiff-legged walk of someone who’s both sore, and stubborn about showing it. The door clicks shut behind him, muffled by the sudden rush of water through the pipes a moment later.

Eddie drags both hands down his face, exhales into his palms like that might steady him.

With that, he turns and heads out into the hall, and down the stairs. 

He smells like sex. Should wash his hands before he answers the door, but knows damn well it would take too long. 

So he opens it, hoping he can keep his distance until he gets the chance. 

But it's not Hopper on the front landing. 

Robin’s standing there on the cement steps, arms crossed and foot tapping against the concrete like she’s been rehearsing the pose for maximum irritation. Her hair’s wind-tossed from biking over, her jacket slightly askew. The porch light casts her face in hard shadows, and Eddie’s first thought is, Shit, she knows.

He leans on the doorframe a little too casually, like if he plays it cool she won’t smell the guilt—or the sex—clinging to his skin. His palms itch with the memory of where they’ve been, and he tucks them deep into his pockets.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Robin says, before he can even get a word out. She shoves her way through the doorframe. “You knew how much I'd been calling. And where do I find you? Here.” She throws both hands up like the very sight of him is a crime. “Your goddamn van in Steve’s driveway!”

“Yeah, uh—sorry, Buckley. He’s… in the shower.” He shrugs, tries for nonchalance but it comes out stilted. “Long night. He was gonna call you the second he was done.”

"Why the hell are you in Steve's house while he's showering?"

God, she has to know. 

"He was—and don't get pissed at me here, Buckley, I'm just the messenger—but he was in a bit of an accident." 

"An accident?" 

"Yeah. I found his car rolled in the ditch just past Sattler's Qua—" 

"You found his car, what?!" 

"He's fine, Rob! Just a little shaken up, is all. I swear, he was going to call you as soon as he was done in the shower!" 

Robin narrows her eyes, tilts her head like she’s trying to read something in his face. Eddie feels heat crawl up his neck, like she’s got x-ray vision and can see everything that just happened upstairs branded across his forehead. 

He shifts, scratches the scar on his jaw. “Swear on my, uh… best guitar.”

"And you just… what? Decided to play nurse?”

“Something like that,” Eddie says. His grin twitches too wide, too forced. He feels like she can hear the way his voice is shaking and might put two and two together. “Don’t worry. He’ll, uh… he’ll call. Promise.”

"You think I'm leaving?" Robin snorts. "Likely."

She starts stomping towards the stairs. 

"Buckley—wait! Just—" Eddie runs in front of her. Blocks the stairs. "At least let me tell him you're here. So he doesn't—you know. Walk out of the bathroom without a towel and scar you forever." 

"Yeah. Because he'd walk out of the bathroom totally naked, knowing you're in the room." Robin basically barrels Eddie over as she continues up the stairs. 

"Okay. Okay, okay, okay... uh..." Eddie flounders after her. Realises pretty quickly that there's nothing he can do. "Fuck."

He cringes as she walks into Steve's room, her head raking the area like her eyes are scanning the evidence. 

The blanket is on the floor, yeah, but the wet stains aren't showing as far as Eddie can tell. They didn't use a condom, so there's no wrapper. Steve's clothes are bunched up here and there. His shirt is in the bed. 

Eddie bites his lip, stares at it a little too long. Wonders if Buckley will understand how weird it is to have a dirty shirt in a bed. 

But all she does is make a noise in the back of her throat. "Ugh. It stinks in here." She walks straight to Steve's window, cracks it open. "Guys are so nasty. At least make your damn bed in the morning." 

"Hah! Right? We're so gross," Eddie overshoots. Decides to bring his knuckles to his teeth to stop himself from babbling before he thinks. 

"You're acting really weird." Robin turns on her heel, narrows her eyes on Eddie's face. "Why are you hanging around with Steve anyway? I thought you hated him." 

"Hate is a, uh... A really strong word. I wouldn't go as far as hate." 

"I'm pretty sure you always say hate." 

"Really? Me?" Eddie shakes his head. "I don't think so." 

"Whatever." Robin sits on the edge of Steve's mattress, picks up a pen on the top of his desk. Starts doodling on the edge of a ripped envelope. "So, you decided to go out looking for Steve, without inviting me, who previously called you, worried, wanting to go out looking for him. And then you found him, by yourself. Brought him home. And didn't call me." 

"Guilty," Eddie admits. 

He hears the shower nozzle creak off, and the steady stream of water slow to silence. The porcelain creaks under Steve's feet behind the door as he steps from the shower. 

"Did you check him for signs of a concussion?"

"Huh?" 

"Steve. He gets concussed really easily if he hits his head." 

"Shit. I didn't, uh—" 

The bathroom door creaks open. 

Steve steps out in the plume of steam that proceeds him.

With a towel wrapped around his waist. 

Eddie sucks in a breath of relief. 

"Steve." Robin flies off the bed, makes the springs scream. "Are you okay? Are you—oh my god, you did hit your head. You have a cut." 

"Robin? What are you—?"

"Do you have any gauze? Alcohol? A bandage? God, Eddie, you came to play nurse and forgot to do the nursing." Robin prods at Steve's eyes, focusing in on his pupils. "Your eyes are dilated. You probably have a concussion. Are you feeling woozy? Do you have a headache? Are you tired?" 

"Robin, I've been up literally all night. Of course I'm tired." 

"Maybe you shouldn't fall asleep just yet. We can go to the ER, just in case—" 

"I promise you, I'm okay." Steve moves his hands to Robin's shoulders to give them a squeeze. "Calm down. This is way too much for this hour." 

Robin takes a pause. Seems to contemplate. 

"Fine. But at least let me put a bandage on you. Where do you keep the first aid kit?" 

"I don't know. In the desk, maybe?" Steve waves his hand in that general direction as he turns towards his dresser. 

Eddie stands awkwardly in the doorway, watching as Robin starts opening drawers and Steve pulls out briefs and a pair of high school gym shorts. He waddles to the bathroom, clicks the door behind him to get dressed. 

Robin rifles through the mess with a frantic energy of someone who’s decided that yes, she is in fact the sole medical authority in this household. She’s muttering under her breath about two idiots with one brain cell between them as she pulls out old receipts, pens, a broken cassette tape, a single sock.

Eddie stays parked where he is. He’s about to suggest they check under the sink in the bathroom when Robin’s hand hovers, then plucks something off the top of the side table. Not from a drawer. Just sitting there.

A polaroid.

Eddie doesn’t think twice at first—too busy frowning at the way her brows shoot up to her hairline. Then she tilts it toward the lamplight, squints, and—oh. Oh, no.

The fucking polaroid. 

“Uh—” Eddie croaks, voice cracking like he’s fourteen again. He feels his muscles lock him into place as his body chooses freeze, rather than fight or flight. 

Robin stares at it for one whole beat. Then she yells. 

“What the—WHAT THE FUCK—”

“Hey, hey, that’s private!” Eddie finally manages to lunge forward, flapping his hands like he’s trying to grab a bird out of the air.

But Robin’s quicker. She darts back, pinching the polaroid between two fingers like it’s radioactive, her mouth hanging open in pure, wide-eyed horror. 

“Oh my god, Eddie! Eddie! This is—you—you—” She flaps her free hand, lost for words, before finally blurting, “Your dick is out!”

Eddie makes a strangled noise, half laugh, half groan. “Well, yeah, thanks, Buckley, I was there when it was taken. Please, give me that!”

“You—oh my god—you posed. You—you posed for the camera with your dick out!"

"I didn't pose—" 

"You posed like you would for a Sears portrait, but—but porn! There are body parts in this photo that I was never supposed to see attached to your body!"

"Robin, give me—!"

"WAIT!" Robin stares at the photo again, gags, then whirls around, eyes bugging out as they lock on the closed bathroom door. “Wait. Steve?!”

Eddie freezes. “What about Steve?”

“I knew he said he might be interested in guys, once, when he was super fucking high, but I didn’t know he was actually—actually doing anything about it!” Robin waves the polaroid around wildly, voice pitching higher with each word. “Oh my god, is this—? Is this what he’s into now?”

“Excuse me—” Eddie sputters, scandalized.

"Oh god, I can’t believe it. He told me, like, in confidence, and I thought it was just some vague little maybe someday thing, not—this!” She shakes the photo at him, face scrunched in horror. “Not your nasty... disgusting... dick!”

“It’s not disgusting, it’s—Look, can we not—”

The bathroom door creaks open and Steve steps out, toweling his hair, gym shorts riding low on his hips. 

Robin stares at him, utterly revolted by his choice in outfit. 

He freezes instantly, eyes darting between Robin—who’s still holding the photo—and Eddie, who looks like he’s about to self immolate.

“What’s… happening?” Steve asks slowly.

Robin spins on him like a tornado, thrusting the polaroid out like it’s Exhibit A in a murder trial. “This! This is happening! You didn’t tell me you were already seeing guys! And Eddie is who you picked?!”

"Buckley, I'm getting more and more insulted by the second here. You always told me I'd be a catch." 

"Yeah—for some guy with liberty spikes! Some guy who knows what crust pants are! Not—Not Steve! Not for you two to be taking naked photos of—of—what? This... THIS IS WHAT YOU'RE CURRENTLY WEARING!" She casts a cursing finger right into Eddie's face. "YOU WERE TAKING NAKED PHOTOS INSTEAD OF CALLING ME?!"

She waits in the deafening silence that follows. 

Eddie sniffs his nose. "Do you want the short answer, or the long one?" 

"Oh my god!" She turns her attention away from Eddie—finally. Starts crowding into Steve instead, who has still said nothing. "You want to explain this to me, Steven?"

Steve blinks. 

Then, to Eddie’s absolute horror, he grins. “That one turned out good, huh?”

Robin gasps like he’s personally stabbed her. “Good?! Steve, it’s—! It’s his—! His whole situation! I cannot unsee this! I need bleach! I need therapy! I need to move to another country!”

Eddie’s buries his face in his hands, groaning loud like his soul is leaving his body. “Kill me now. Just throw me back in the Upside Down, feed me to the bats. Anything but this.”

Robin shoves the polaroid against Steve's chest like it burns to touch. “Here. Take it. Take it and hide it in a nuclear fallout bunker for all I care. And both of you—” She jabs a finger between them. “Never. Speak. Of this. Again.”

Robin’s retreat is loud. She stomps her way across the room like she’s determined to punish the floorboards. Says something about unholy images and what did I ever do to deserve this followed by heavy footsteps down the stairs, the slam of a cupboard door, and the unmistakable sound of a glass being filled too aggressively with water.

Eddie stays rooted where he is, watches as Steve throws the polaroid exactly where Robin found it. His ears are red, he can feel them glowing.

Steve, on the other hand, just leans against the doorframe of the bathroom, towel around his neck, watching Eddie with that irritating calm he gets sometimes. Whether he's actually relaxed or just really good at faking it, Eddie can't tell.

“She’s… taking it well,” Eddie says finally, tilting his head toward the kitchen where Robin can still be heard ranting. “Y’know. Considering.”

Steve’s mouth quirks. “You mean considering she just got full-frontal Munson at three in the morning?”

"Don’t say it like that. Don’t ever say it like that.”

A laugh slips out of Steve, quiet, real. Not sharp or mocking the way it sometimes gets when they’re snapping at each other. Not even embarrassed that he got caught with The Freak. 

Just… a laugh. And it catches Eddie off guard, enough that he risks looking at him.

For just a second, it’s like they’re back in the dark, sharing that flicker of a look. Something softer under the noise.

Eddie swallows, suddenly aware of how small the space between them is. How easy it would be to close it. How much he kind of wants to.

But Steve just shifts the towel around his neck and says, “Thanks. For, uh… everything tonight. With her. And... us.”

Eddie nods. "You, too." 

"And I meant it. What I said earlier. We want you around again, Eddie. Everyone does." 

"Hm." Eddie shrugs, tries to play it off. “Yeah, well. Robin prob'ly won't if you make a habit of leaving your art projects lying around."

Steve flashes a grin. "You're actually right about that one." 

"My reputation can only handle so much, you know.”

"Hey. At least it wasn't Dustin that found it." 

"Don't even say that." Eddie wiggles his fingers towards the picture. "In fact, put that away before it's even a possibility." 

“Noted.” Steve grabs the photo, walks it to his dresser. Opens his wallet and slides it straight into a card slot, folded in half. 

Eddie blushes, but doesn't say anything about what it means to carry someone's photo with you. 

"So," Steve says.

"So." 

"Stay the night?" Steve asks it like he wants the answer to be yes. "Robin probably will, too. And I might need you around to help me explain everything." 

"Yeah. Might as well." Eddie rubs his stubble with a hand as Steve leads them from his room. "What exactly do we explain, though?" 

They pause at the top of the stairs. Steve thinks a little too long about his answer. 

"The truth." 

"The truth," Eddie parrots. 

"Yeah. I think it's time we just... tell the truth." Steve gives a timid smile. Then turns down the stairs. 

Eddie watches him go. Thinks about what the truth might even be. 

A good place to start, he thinks as he makes his way towards the too-loud kitchen, is telling Robin that he doesn't hate Steve. Not even a little. 

***

“Need some help with that?” Steve cocks a brow, nodding toward the small white tube in Eddie’s hand.

It’s the prescription cream Eddie keeps tucked into his jacket pocket, always within reach. Some doctor-approved concoction that’s supposed to make the scar tissue less stiff, less itchy. Steve doesn’t really know the details—Eddie’s never offered, and Steve’s learned not to push too hard. But he notices the way Eddie disappears a couple times a day to slather it on, his expression always caught between irritation and resignation.

“Fuck off, Harrington.” Eddie doesn’t even look at him, already trudging toward the stairs. The tube crinkles in his fist as he waves it like a weapon, as if to emphasize his point. “I’d rather keel over than have you touch me.”

Steve, half-slouched in one of the kitchen chairs, pops a fry into his mouth and grins around it. “Better dig that grave, then,” he calls, voice sing-song.

Eddie huffs up the steps, muttering something about the universe punishing him, his heavy boots scuffing Steve's parents' expensive flooring.

Steve leans back in his chair, smiles.

He knows Eddie’s sharp words aren’t barbed the way they used to be. Not anymore. There’s something else underneath now—an easiness, even in his grumpiness. The weight of real anger has lifted, leaving behind something Steve’s beginning to realise he’s actually crazy about.

He swirls a fry through a little lake of ketchup on his plate, listening to Eddie’s footsteps fade down the hall. 

Eddie still stiffens sometimes when Steve stares a little too long at the ridges and marks carved into his skin, or when Steve’s hand lingers too tenderly over a place Eddie thinks isn’t worth touching. Like his body doesn’t quite trust that someone could want those pieces of him. Could love them, even.

But most of the dramatics these days—the scoffs, the threats, the sharp comebacks—Steve knows those are for show. Mostly to save face in front of the kids.

“Can’t have them knowing I’ve gone soft for the ice cream scooper,” Eddie had said once, to which Robin had rolled her eyes so hard Steve thought they might stay that way.

She’s doing it again now as she perches across from him at the kitchen table, nursing a soda she didn’t even ask before stealing. “You two are truly disgusting,” she announces. “Honestly. Tell me again how this all started? Because if it was anything close to romantic, I’m going to barf.”

Steve opens his mouth, but before he can get a word out, footsteps creak back down the stairs. 

Eddie appears in the doorway, the tube of ointment still in his hand, eyes glimmering with amusement like he’s been listening the whole time.

“I’ll tell it,” he says, almost defensive, like he's daring either of them to argue. He clears his throat, shifts his weight, and then, with a glance toward Steve that’s softer than his voice, begins. 

“It started as far back as middle school...”