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It’s been hours since Robin clocked out, and Steve’s barely hanging on. He misses spending entire shifts sitting behind the counter as Robin threw balled-up receipts at the back of his head, squabbling like children over who gets to pick that night’s movie. But Keith’s all up in a tizzy over their labor numbers, and so he’d split their dynamic duo right down the middle.
They’re like ships passing in the night now, and Steve’s bored.
The stupid bell on Family Video’s stupid front door hasn’t jingled in long enough that Steve’s begun melting into the front counter, head pillowed on his folded arms, legs barely keeping him upright. Mondays have always been the slowest night of the week, and as winter sinks its icy claws into Hawkins, fewer and fewer customers are showing up past six p.m.
Robin’s going to be mad when she opens tomorrow and finds all the tapes he’d been supposed to rewind still stacked by the TV in the back room, but sue him—the shine’s wearing off real quick on this entire job without her at his side.
When the phone rings shrilly in his ear, it’s almost a relief. He’ll take Mrs. Carruthers nagging complaints on the state of kids’ movies these days over another moment of this endless, lonely, monotony. He doesn’t raise his head as he reaches fumbling fingers across the counter to snatch the phone from its cradle, pressing it to his ear.
“Thank you for calling Family Video,” he drones out in the customer service voice he’d learned at Scoops and perfected during Friday night rushes, made worse when the new releases hit the shelves. “How can I help you?”
It’s silent for a moment aside from the staticky sound of an open line. But then there’s laughter drifting down into his ear, alternating between braying and giggly—Steve would recognize that little donkey snort anywhere.
He’s already smiling into the meat of his forearm when another voice, deeper than it usually is, asks, “what are you wearing, big boy?” before dissolving into peals of elated laughter, mixing perfectly with Robin’s own hiccuping giggles.
Steve straightens up. He catches sight of his own face reflected back at him from the dark windows and for the first time that night, he’s glad no one else is here. It’d be hard to explain the force of his grin and the way his cheeks have turned splotchy and pink even in the cold air.
Steve dutifully waits for a break in the laughter to answer Eddie’s question. “White sweater, green vest, blue jeans, white sneakers,” he lists out, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fights against himself to maintain that same droll tone.
The laughter starts up again, spurting like a sprinkler on the fritz. Something crashes over the line, and Steve knows without having to ask that it was Robin as Eddie’s laughter takes on a hysterical edge. Steve’s smiling again, face hurting with the strain of it. He wishes he could be there, sitting between the pair wherever they are, but if he can’t, this is the next best thing.
“That’s so cute, baby,” Eddie replies when he finally gets a handle on things, that same deep tone telling Steve that the bit is still going on. It doesn’t stop warmth from pooling low in his stomach as he bites his lip, the term of endearment ringing through his ears.
“Thanks,” Steve says, wincing when it comes out all breathy. He clears his throat and diverts the topic of conversation. “You stealing my best friend?”
Eddie gasps, sounding almost affronted as he replies, “of course not! We’re leaving a space right in the middle, just for you.”
“You were the tie-breaker for the movie pick, dingus!” Robin calls, voice faint like she’s a little too far away to be properly picked up by the receiver.
“You always side with Robin, Stevie,” Eddie sighs. Steve can picture it—Robin and Eddie on separate sides of the Munson’s couch, passing a joint back and forth, pausing long enough in between each hit like his ghost might want to have a pull of its own. “It’s enough to make a guy think you don’t like him.”
“I like you,” Steve blurts, wincing and closing his eyes when the words register.
The silence rings louder than any response Eddie could have given, deafening Steve in the quiet of the abandoned video store. It’s all too much, made worse by Eddie finally responding with a stilted, “I—oh.”
Steve rubs at his closed eyes, suppressing the groan creeping up his throat. God, why can’t he just stick with the joke? Why does he have to spew his stupid feelings all over everything?
“Well that’s—” Eddie starts when it becomes clear that Steve’s not going to be saying anything to make this moment any less awkward. But suddenly, he just…doesn’t want to hear what Eddie has to say.
“Uh, customer,” Steve interrupts, hoping the lack of ringing bell isn’t obvious over the phone. “Got to go, bye,”
“Oh, oka—”
Steve slams the phone down hard enough that the plastic creaks. Now, alone with his racing thoughts and poor life decisions once more, Steve drops his head down on the sticky counter with a groan.
It’s going to be a long, lonely night.
***
As Eddie listens to the dial-tone filter down the line, he smacks his head into his kitchen cupboard, the shitty door rattling loosely on its hinge as he tries to strangle himself against its plywood surface.
“Why did you let me do that?” Eddie whines, even though “let” is a strongly misleading word. Robin, ever the shit-stirrer, had dialed the number herself and shoved the ringing phone into his fumbling hands just before Steve’s tinny voice had come through the phone’s speaker.
Robin hiccups, and it sounds wet enough that Eddie finally puts the phone back on the cradle and turns around, limbs loose and uncoordinated from the pot brownies they’d burnt to a crispy charcoal but eaten anyway. She’s on the floor where she’d collapsed mid giggle-fit and been unable to get back up. But she’s all out of smiles now as tears trail down her freckled cheeks.
“’m sorry,” she cries, rubbing her closed fist against her streaming eyes, hair haloed out against the dirty linoleum of the trailer’s small kitchen. “Just missed him.”
“You saw him this morning,” Eddie snorts, but lays down next to her, resting his head against her stomach. Her clumsy hands paw at his head, fingers catching in every knot as she tries to sooth him.
“But it’s Steve,” she says, like that will explain everything. And really, it does. He is Steve, and he and Robin were surgically disconnected in the womb or something. They’re going to grow old and die together, and Eddie’s only a little bit bitter about not fitting into that same equation.
“Yeah, Robby, I know,” Eddie sighs, blinking up at the flickering fluorescent lights drilling through his skull. He can’t seem to get up, though, thoughts swirling around themselves, making useless patterns in his brain that are impossible to follow.
They’re quiet aside from Robin’s waning sniffles, her heels kicking rhythmically against the tile like she’s keeping count, fingers tapping against the top of his head like she’s practicing her fingering for one of the songs in marching band. Eddie loves her so much. He should have known to never, ever give her drugs.
“Is it just me or did he sound sort of flustered?” Eddie asks, and Robin’s fingers drop back to his head, clutching at the roots of his hair hard enough to hurt as she dissolves into cute little giggles again, knees pulling up as she curls into the fetal position around his head.
“Uh, customer, got to go, bye!” she calls, rushing it all together in her haste to mock her best friend’s fumbled sign-off.
Eddie laughs right along with her, but there are butterflies fluttering around in his ribcage, rabbiting his heartbeat up to an alarming gallop.
Steve drops from the conversation after that, and it doesn’t come up for the rest of the night. Not when the munchies get the best of them and they order a pizza, or when Robin shoves one of her stupid subtitled French films into the VHS player and they both squint at the screen, too out of their gourds to follow the confusing plot.
Robin might have forgotten the entire thing; Eddie does not.
It lingers in the back of his mind, creeping over him like mold until he finds himself in front of the phone the next night right around the same time, hand hovering over the number pad, fingers damn-near shaking with the desire to punch in the number he’d had to scour the phone book for. The one he’d written down and stuck onto the fridge with a magnet, hoping Wayne wouldn’t ask any questions when he inevitably catches sight of it.
And that’s the thing. He couldn’t even claim it was spur of the moment this time. It was premeditated. And it feels that way as he finally dials and listens to the line ring.
“Thank you for calling Family Video. How can I help you?”
“What are you wearing?” Eddie asks. It comes out of his mouth on a raspy whisper, rumbling deep in the recesses of his throat.
Steve laughs, sounding downright delighted as he asks, “Robin put you up to this?”
Eddie can almost see the smirk that must have crept across his face. He twirls the cord round and round his finger, wishing desperately he could see it in person.
“Uh, no,” Eddie says, voice three octaves higher than it had started out, feeling hot all over as he jumps up onto the counter and settles his head back against the cupboard. “Your better half has fled the coop.”
Steve laughs again, and Eddie wants to drown himself in it. Instead, he clacks his heels against the cupboards behind him, trying to keep from blurting out something stupid.
“So, it’s your idea this time?” like he knows Robin well enough to know she’d dialed the number and put the phone in his hands. He’d be jealous if he wasn’t in love with both of them in his own special way.
“All the better to make you laugh, my king,” Eddie replies, cringing at the stupid little voice that comes out of his mouth. “I would be failing in my court jester duties if I didn’t perform at my king’s behest.”
“You think you’re that funny, do you?” Steve asks around a laugh.
“Well, at my count, you’re at three laughs already, your highness.” Eddie counts them out on the fingers still tangled in the phone cord, like Steve will somehow be able to see them from miles away. God help him if he can, with the way Eddie’s twiddling his fingers and blushing like a schoolgirl on her first date.
Steve scoffs, but there’s another laugh hidden beneath it, so happy and warm that it lodges itself in the recesses of Eddie’s chest. He presses the phone hard enough against his ear that the cheap plastic creaks, unwilling to miss even the smallest of sounds Steve might make.
“Fine, fine, you’re funny, Munson,” Steve says, voice lilting up like he’s still fucking smiling. “You can call your king anytime.”
“How gracious, your majesty.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, snorting at Eddie’s antics. “Now what’ve you been up to all day? Preparing your material to call little old me?”
“You’re just jealous that some of us aren’t forced to be capitalist monkeys,” Eddie replies.
“Monkeys?” Steve asks, laughing again—Eddie’s count is now up to five.
“Yeah, you know, with the whole monkey suit you’re forced to wear.”
“It’s a vest,” Steve huffs before putting on a voice that’s soft-spoken and sultry. “With how often you ask what I’m wearing, it seems like you would’ve remembered by now.”
Eddie sputters as Steve’s sibilant whisper slips down his spine, making him shiver. Steve isn’t supposed to turn the flirting back onto him. There are rules, goddammit.
The conversation segues into Steve complaining about the absentee parents barely paying attention as their kids smear candy all over the VHS’s on display, really only proving Eddie’s corporate monkey crack right. Eddie doesn’t mind—anything to get Steve not to use that voice again.
It goes on for minutes, Eddie hanging on every word, every laugh, every sound, like this is something they do. Even though this is the first time they’ve ever talked on the phone without Robin back-seat talking behind one of them. Even though they don’t even really hang out alone, always sequestered in groups.
All the better to keep Eddie’s stupid, ridiculous, hopeless crush from exploding out of him and killing everyone in the line of fire.
But, as Steve hangs up with a rushed, “customer, sorry!” this time with the accompanying sound of the bell on Family Video’s front door, leaving Eddie to listen to the staticky dial tone instead, he can’t regret calling. Not with Steve’s laughter still ringing in his ears.
He stands there clutching the dead line to his ear for an embarrassingly long time.
***
Steve means to tell Robin about it the next time they share a shift. Really, he does. But then she spends the first thirty minutes of their two-hour overlap talking about her most recent one-on-one hangout with Vickie, and Steve spends the rest of their time before the after-work rush hits, hyping her up to finally make a move. By the time Robin’s punching out, Eddie’s name hasn’t come up even once.
He can feel his window of opportunity dwindling as Robin grabs her bike from where she’d stashed it in Keith’s office that morning, wheeling her dirty tires toward the front door.
“Hey, Robin?” Steve asks, just as her hand settles on the door, ready to swing it open.
“Yeah?” she says, focused on rifling through her pockets, making sure she has her house key after one too many times making it all the way home to find her house locked up tight, and her keys dropped somewhere between Family Video’s shelves.
Steve watches her, and feels the moment pass him by. “Want a ride to work tomorrow?” he asks instead of saying, I really like Eddie, or, do you know why he keeps calling, or, do you think I have a chance? It feels more like a bathroom conversation anyway, and if Keith catches them both in there again while the front of the store remains unmanned, he’s going to fire them.
“Always,” she says, waving half-assedly toward him without turning back around.
And just like that, she’s gone, none the wiser to Steve’s inner turmoil, spiralling into full-blown anxiety the closer it gets to what he’s beginning to think of as Eddie’s usual call time. It’s just—they don’t do this. They don’t call, they don’t hang out without Robin or the kids, and they sure as hell don’t ask each other what the other is wearing in that deep, wanting tone of voice.
At least, that’s what Steve had thought two days ago. Now, he’s not so sure.
When the phone rings at exactly eight p.m. that night, Steve knows who it must be on the other side of the line.
“Eddie?” he asks, forgoing his usual customer service spiel. He’s rewarded with a bright, happy laugh that hits him straight in the sternum.
“Is that how you greet all your paying customers?” Eddie asks, smile audible in his voice.
“As if you ever pay.”
“I have!” Eddie cries indignantly. “Wait, no you threw me off! What’re you wearing?”
“This again?” Steve asks, groaning as if the question doesn’t send his guts squirming every single time Eddie’s voice drops into that suggestive register. He shouldn’t answer, should nip this whole thing in the bud before it spirals entirely out of his control.
But Eddie doesn’t break the silence—Steve can’t even hear him breathing, and Steve’s never been that strong-willed. “Striped polo, jeans, sneakers, work vest. There, you happy?”
“I don’t know, Stevie,” Eddie replies, and Steve can practically see the teasing smirk on his face as he asks, “what color are these stripes?”
“Grey and blue,” Steve says after looking down to double check. It’s his only long-sleeved polo and the store’s a bit too cold for anything else.
Eddie whistles, shrill and sharp through the phone like he’s catcalling Steve from across the street. “Jesus,” Steve cries, yanking the phone away from his ear until he can’t hear it anymore. When he presses the phone back to his ear, Eddie’s cackling. “Prick.”
“Sorry, hot stuff, just couldn’t help myself.”
“You could try,” Steve replies dryly.
“You’re not supposed to change for a relationship, Stevie.”
Steve’s breath stutters in his lungs. It’s a joke. He knows it’s a joke, but that doesn’t stop his fingertips from tingling like he’d set them on fire. The other side of the call’s gone dead silent, the words settling between them with more weight than Eddie could have meant.
So, Steve mutters, “this is more like a hostage situation,” and wonders if he’s just imagining the relief he can hear in Eddie’s answering laughter.
Steve’s heart’s always been a little too easy to snatch—Nancy and Robin perfect attestations of that. But it’d worked out okay with Robin, shifting seamlessly into platonic soulmateism as soon as the name Tammy Thompson had come out of her mouth.
Maybe he can do that with Eddie, too. If only he’d stop calling; if only Steve would stop answering. He’s off shift tomorrow, so if Eddie calls anyone, it’ll be Robin.
As their conversation ends, Steve tells himself he’s fine with that.
***
When Eddie calls Family Video like usual, it’s Robin that answers the phone.
“You’re not Steve,” he says, without thinking, cringing when that makes her snort. “Not that you’re not a delight and a treasure to us all, Buckley!”
“Mmmhmm,” she cuts in, sounding even more droll than when she’d droned out her canned customer greeting.
“It’s just that Steve’s always the one that answers, so I was starting to think he was super glued to the front counter, you know?”
Silence rings down the line long enough for Eddie to let his dangling heels smack noisily into the cupboard three times, but then Robin says, “he’s at home,” and continues before he can respond, “you do this a lot then, huh?” she asks around whatever pilfered candy she’s snacking on.
Eddie’s entire body freezes as he runs what he’d just said through his head and comes to the startling realization that Steve hasn’t told her.
“Uh, no?” Eddie asks, hating the way his voice cracks with the lie. “I mean, sometimes I want to call before making the long trek up there. Check if you’ve got anything good on the shelves, you know?”
“Mmmhmm,” she says again, sounding even more doubtful now. They both know it’s a measly six minute drive, but she doesn’t call him on it. “Well, what are you looking for tonight?”
He almost blurts out Steve’s name before remembering his stupid lie. “Uhhhh—um—what about The Fly?” he asks, wincing as Robin scoffs.
“That’s not released yet, dingbat,” she replies, like Eddie doesn’t already know that. It’s just the first movie he’d thought of, having seen its name lighting up The Hawks marquee just this morning.
“Well, call me when it is, okay bye!”
He hangs up the phone on Robin’s indignant sputtering. Because he’s the bane of his own existence, he immediately flips through the white pages and dutifully writes the number he finds listed beside Steve’s yuppy parents' names on the note beneath the long-since memorized number for Family Video.
He doesn’t hesitate to dial.
“Harrington residence,” Steve greets because he’s a bit of a yuppy himself. Eddie hates that he finds it charming.
“You always answer the phone like that, big boy?”
“If I’d known it was you, I might not have picked up at all,” Steve replies, but he sounds like he’s teasing, so Eddie just clutches the phone tighter, smiling around his empty trailer, glad that Wayne’s at work. “Now, did you actually want something?”
“Just wanted to know what you’re wearing.”
Eddie shoves his fist into his mouth and bites down to contain the whine at having said such a god awful, stupid fucking thing for the fourth god awful fucking time.
“Sweats, an old gym shirt, and some socks,” Steve replies, like that’s not enough to rewire Eddie’s whole fucking brain.
Eddie’s never seen him anything other than entirely put together—jeans stain-free, shirt pressed, not a hair out of place. He’s a man after Eddie’s own heart, curating an aesthetic with all the careful consideration that he’d use picking songs for a mixtape. But, unlike Eddie, Steve looks so put together that the thought of him messy has Eddie’s heartbeat ratcheting up.
Are his sweatpants stained? Is the gym shirt stretched out? Is his hair all fucked up? God, Eddie would kill to know, but he can’t think of a normal way to ask, so all he says is, “oh, yeah?” wincing when it comes out embarrassingly squeaky. He clears his throat and continues, “no work today?”
“Nah, it’s my day off,” Steve says, and then there’s the sound of furniture settling, a sigh, the rustle of fabric. Did Steve just lay down? Does he have a phone in his goddamn bedroom? Is he splayed out on his bed, cozy and warm. Eddie’s never seen Steve’s bedroom and god, suddenly he wants to so badly it hurts.
He wants to lay down beside him, wrap him up in his arms, see how fucked up his hair gets by the early hours of the morning. He just—wants.
“Eddie?” Steve asks, sounding frustrated, like he’d tried to get his attention a few different times. “You there?”
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Eddie says before closing his eyes and bashing his head into the cupboard. Sweetheart? Lusting after Steve was one thing, but fucking sweetheart? This is rapidly becoming dangerous. “Wayne just got home, so I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Oh, oka—”
Eddie hangs up the phone. He stares at the empty trailer, heartbeat rabbiting away in his chest like he’s back in gym class trying to run the mile.
He should stop this, throw Steve’s number away and go cold turkey—hide his heart deep within the recesses of his ribcage and keep it safe.
Eddie’s never been that smart, and he knows, no matter what his stupid brain thinks, he’ll be picking up the phone again tomorrow night. And besides, he’s already got both numbers memorized.
***
It’s still Steve’s day off, but he drives Robin to work, just like he always does. She stuffs her bike in the trunk in case he’s not around to pick her up after her shift’s done, and then she climbs into his passenger seat, still looking half asleep as she pulls down his visor and uses the small mirror to messily apply her eye liner. Steve drives slow, careful of potholes and speed bumps, a part of him always terrified she’ll stab her own eye out.
She doesn’t talk to him until she’s finished both eyes and stashed her pencil securely into her bag.
“So, Eddie called yesterday,” she says, and when he looks at her sidelong, hands clenched on the steering wheel, she’s looking back, smirking as she watches her comment land. He jerks his gaze back to the road.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks, relieved when his voice comes out even.
Robin knows him though, so she just snorts, and when he looks back toward her, her arms are crossed and she’s got one eyebrow raised bitchily in a way he knows she learned from him. And now here she is, using it as a weapon against him.
Steve clears his throat, glancing away again as he pulls into the vacant Family Video parking lot. “He… calls sometimes.”
“I’ll bet he does,” Robin replies with a snort.
“Robin,” Steve whines, all sense of decorum lost as he drops his forehead down on the wheel hard enough that his horn honks, sharp and loud in the quiet morning. “It’s not like that.”
She reaches over to pat his back, all dripping condescension as she asks, “for him or for you?” before hopping out of the car and going to unlock the front door, switching the Open sign on.
Steve loiters in the parking lot for an embarrassedly long time, her words running through his head. He hits play on his tape deck to drown it out, peeling out of the parking lot like a demo-dog is on his heels.
Metallica’s Orion drills through his head all the way home.
Steve fritters away his day, wandering around his big, empty house, scrubbing floors, dusting shelves he hasn’t even glanced at in years, reorganizing the pantry, lest his anxious energy shake his organs right out from beneath his skin.
He loses himself in the monotony of scrubbing, wiping, and pilfering through cupboards until he comes out of it, covered in dust and smelling of chemicals with the little hand of the clock in the kitchen pointing damningly close to the eight.
Steve takes a shower, scrambling with shampoo and conditioner, rubbing his bar of soap roughly down his body, trying to get the smell of bleach off his skin.
When he hears the phone ring, Steve rushes out of the shower, dripping water all over the tile as he slips his way into his bedroom to snatch the phone off his desk before it rings out.
“Harrington residence,” he replies breathlessly. He tries to tell himself it’s because of his mad dash to grab the line but as he holds his breath, waiting for that familiar voice to filter through the speaker, he knows it’s a lie.
“What are you wearing?” Eddie asks.
Because he hasn’t lied yet, Steve bites his lip before hesitantly replying, “uh, I just got out of the shower, so…”
Eddie gasps, breath stuttering dramatically, and when he asks, “so, a towel?” his words come out high pitched, almost squeaky, like he’s doing one of his little voices for his nerd game. But, an idea is growing in the back of his head, infecting his every thought with a nagging sort of hope he thought he’d sworn off years ago.
Maybe, just maybe, this whole thing isn’t just a bit at all, no matter how it had started. Maybe this is Eddie’s ridiculous way of starting something. If it is, Steve can’t bear to pass it up, even if all Eddie wants is the sound of Steve’s voice whispering dirty things in his ears.
There’d been a few girls back at Hawkins High who’d liked to call Steve up, have him murmur sweet nothings into their ears as they giggled, doing things to their own bodies that they were too shy to ask Steve to do himself.
If that’s all Eddie wants, Steve will give it to him. He’ll give Eddie anything he wants.
“Steve?” Eddie asks, still like his breath has been punched out of him. Steve wants to hear how breathless he can make him.
“You actually called mid-shower, so I didn’t have time to dry off,” Steve says, voice low so he can catch any little noise Eddie might make. “I didn’t even grab a towel.”
Steve’s not disappointed—Eddie whines, high and strained before the sound cuts off abruptly enough that he can almost picture the way Eddie must’ve covered his own mouth, nails digging into his cheek to keep himself from letting anything else slip. Steve grins, blood heating up even as the water begins cooling against his skin.
“I’m dripping,” he continues, voice low and suggestive. Eddie doesn’t reply aside from the haggard edge his breathing gains. Steve hasn’t even done anything yet, and Eddie sounds like he’s on the knife’s edge of coming. “And it’s all your fault.”
“Steve,” Eddie whines.
“What?” Steve asks, “you started this, Eddie.” Eddie moans as Steve says his name. God, he’s easy.
“It was just a joke,” Eddie argues, but his breathing’s still hitching, and he doesn’t sound like he wants Steve to stop.
“I thought you’d enjoy me playing along.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Do you want me to stop?” Steve interrupts. He will, if Eddie asks, will stop playing this little game and ask him how his day was, wait for Eddie to ask him in turn. They can go back to the way things were before, no matter how much Steve doesn’t want to.
“No, don’t stop,” Eddie replies, quickly, desperately
“Oh, are you just selfish then?”Steve asks, gratified when Eddie hisses like Steve had touched him. “Don’t you want me to enjoy myself, too?”
“No, no, no,” Eddie replies in that same high-pitched, stuttering voice that he’s rapidly becoming addicted to, so desperate to please Steve. “Not selfish, not—”
“I don’t know, this is starting to seem a little one-sided,” Steve cuts in, Eddie’s protestations sputtering out into nothing. “You haven’t even told me what you’re wearing.”
“Jeans and a t-shirt!” Eddie answers so fast he can’t have even thought about not replying.
“A little overdressed, aren’t you baby?” Steve asks, making note of the way Eddie moans at the slipped term of endearment. “Why don’t you take your shirt off for me?”
“But, I’m in the kitchen,” Eddie replies, whispering like he’s imparting a secret. It snakes down the line and sends a shiver up Steve’s spine. He’s been to Eddie’s trailer before, settling on one side of the couch, Eddie on the other, with Robin playing buffer in the middle.
He can picture the Munson’s small kitchen, barely cordoned off from the rest of the trailer, the separating wall just enough to block the fridge and sink from view.
“Is Wayne there?” Steve asks.
“He’s at work, but—”
“Then what’s the problem?” Steve asks. “Afraid he’ll come home and figure out what you’re doing?”
“I’m not doing anything,” Eddie whines, but Steve hears the sound of him rearranging the phone followed by the rustling of fabric. “There, happy?”
Steve pictures it: Eddie, standing shirtless in the kitchen, phone clutched to his ear as he pants down the line. Is his face flushed with embarrassment? With arousal? How far would the pink go down? He wants to follow it with his tongue, trailing over tattoos and into his dark happy trail.
“Good boy,” Steve praises, and Eddie moans, dark and guttural.
Steve strains his ears, swears he can hear the rustling of clothes, the metallic clinking of what must be Eddie’s stupid handcuff belt that he’s dying to get his hands on. There’s a hitch of breath a moment after before it evens out. After having heard him be so loud, Steve’s got his own suspicions about what activity he’s trying to cover up.
“I thought you weren’t doing anything?” Steve asks teasingly as he finally settles his shower-damp body into his clean sheets.
“I’m—I’m not,” Eddie replies, voice still higher than he’s ever heard it.
Steve grins, settling more comfortably into his pillows, phone cord stretched just a bit in order to reach. “So that wasn’t the sound of you sliding your big, strong hands into your pants?”
There’s a clatter on the other side of the line, like Eddie’d dropped the phone before hastily picking it back up to reply. “I—Steve, I wouldn’t—”
“You’re easy,” Steve says, cutting off Eddie’s lie before he can commit to it. “Just the thought of me naked and you had to touch yourself, didn’t you?”
“Steve—”
“Or have you been doing this every time?” Steve asks, just to hear Eddie’s protests. He knows he hasn’t, would have heard the hitching breaths and stifled moans. “Calling me up at my job just to fuck your hand and listen to my voice, baby?”
“I didn’t,” Eddie protests again, but his breathing’s gone ragged.
“Was Wayne sitting in his recliner so you had to be quiet, listening for any movements from the living room while you shoved your hand in your pants, too desperate to wait?”
“No.” Eddie asserts, but he’s panting now, like just the thought of getting caught in a compromising position is getting him there. “I wouldn’t, not—not with Wayne home.”
“But he’s not here this time is he?” Steve asks. “And you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?”
“Steve.”
“I bet you look real pretty like that.” Steve’s own arousal is making itself known, dick hardening as he listens to all the delicious sounds Eddie makes. “Hand moving in your jeans, all hot and bothered as you take what you need.”
Eddie’s not talking anymore, just gasping wetly down the line as Steve speaks. He doesn’t mind, he can conjure up enough visuals to work with as he grasps his own shaft and gives it a tug.
“Sound pretty too, don’t you?” Steve asks, getting an affirmative grunt that has his own hand moving quicker. “Moaning for me like you just can’t help yourself.”
He’s not even thinking about what he’s saying anymore, spewing garbage out of his mouth as he strips his dick, now lubricated enough by precome and lingering shower water to ease his way.
“I might have to stuff something else in there just to shut you up,” he grunts.
That’s apparently all it takes because Eddie’s whining turns high and reedy, muffled like he’d stuffed his own fingers down his throat on Steve’s command.
“That’s it, baby,” Steve says, talking him through what must be one hell of an orgasm with the way he’s panting. “Bet you look so pretty when you’re coming, making a mess in your stupid tight jeans.”
Eddie moans again like even when he’s spent, the sound of Steve’s voice is almost enough to get him there again. Then he’s back to panting. Steve listens to his wet, staggered breathing, closes his eyes, and pictures what Eddie must look like, collapsed on the floor of his kitchen, hand stuffed in his now-stained jeans, bangs matted to his forehead.
Steve wants to smell him, wants to lick him, wants to brush his bangs back and kiss his sweaty forehead. And that’s all it takes to send Steve over the edge. He bites his lip, suppressing any noises from spilling out of his mouth as he shakes through the aftershocks.
Embarrassment begins curdling in his gut as soon as he comes back to himself. Not at what he’d said, or the noises he might’ve let slip, no. Eddie’d liked it—he had. But, that’s not what had been Steve’s undoing. No, it was the tender, domestic thought of kissing his forehead. Horrifying.
But then Eddie starts laughing, manic and gleeful the way only the best of orgasms leave you, and Steve elects to leave that particular panic for after he’s off the phone.
“Same time tomorrow?” Steve asks, like he hadn’t just listened to one of his closest friends jack off to his voice.
“Uh, yeah?” Eddie says, sounding downright shy now that he’s coming down. Steve can’t handle it. “Yes? Yes.”
“Talk to you then,” Steve replies, hating how soft his voice comes out. “Night, Munson.”
“Night, Stevie.” Eddie whispers.
Once the phone call ends, Steve gets up to shower off more than a little dust this time.
***
Eddie gasps for breath, collapsed on the linoleum of the kitchen, hand still stuck in his pants and phone dangling off the line cord tickling his face as his ragged breathing makes it sway back and forth.
“What the fuck was that?” he says to the quiet of his trailer.
He knows what that was, still has the jizz cooling in his underwear and cock softening in his hand to prove it. He’d just never imagined that his not-so-innocent question would ever lead him to this. Even now, he’s not sure how it’d happened, doesn’t know what had caused Steve to use that tone of voice and hiss sinful things down the line.
He’d just been along for the ride, and now he’s here, shaking with aftershocks and chilled on the kitchen floor. Steve’s little, “same time tomorrow,” ringing through his head.
He gets up to shuffle into his bedroom, too wrung out to do more than wipe himself down with a dirty t-shirt and collapse into bed. They’ve talked five nights in a row by now, but Eddie’s always the one that calls, Steve on the other side of the line sounding begrudgingly entertained, but this? Steve had practically asked Eddie to call, right after talking him through one of the hottest orgasms of his life.
Does he want to do it again?
Sleep is a long time coming that night, leaving Eddie cranky and sulking into his mug of coffee as Wayne shuffles into the trailer after his graveyard shift.
“You’re up early,” Wayne says, collapsing onto the empty chair at the dining room table to remove his shoes with his usual bitching and grunting.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Eddie mumbles grumpily even as he gets up to pour Wayne his own mug.
Wayne takes a sip, humming in satisfaction after he swallows. Only once he’s put his mug down on the table does he pin Eddie with his piercing gaze. “D’ you want to talk ‘bout whatever’s goin’ on?” he asks, not even blinking as he waits for Eddie to answer.
Eddie’s never kept a secret from Wayne, even government-enforced NDA’s couldn’t shut him up. He’s not about to start now. “I had phone sex with Steve Harrington,” he blurts. He feels crazy, eyes wide and manic as he waits for Wayne to spout his wisdom and do what he always does when Eddie has a problem: fix it.
Instead, Wayne picks up his mug and takes another long sip, leaving Eddie to wait on tenterhooks as he savors his shitty cup of Folgers like the pope himself had made it. “Steve’s a good kid.”
Eddie stares, unblinking, long enough that his eyes start to dry out. “That’s it?” he demands, smacking his hand down on the table for emphasis, rattling both of their mugs, Eddie’s coffee sloshing off the edge.
“What d’ya want me to say?” Wayne replies, picking up his coffee, probably to save it from any more of Eddie’s antics. “You like this boy? Talk to him.”
He shouldn’t have expected anything else, really. Wayne’s been team Steve Harrington since he’d found out he’d single-handedly carried him out of a hellscape and put pressure on his wounds until Nancy had hauled ass all the way into the hospital bay.
Keep a guy’s guts inside his body one time, and apparently that’s all it takes to win the parental figure over.
“Wayne,” Eddie whines.
“It’d be one thing if he wasn’t your sort,” Wayne continues, standing up, coffee still in hand as he makes his way toward the bathroom. “But phone sex, Ed? Sounds pretty gay.”
Eddie splutters, mouth hanging open and face heating up as Wayne closes the bathroom door, the sound of the shower starting a moment later.
He should’ve never talked to Wayne.
Still, despite his ratcheting anxiety and sleep deprivation, once eight p.m. rolls around, Eddie calls.
“Thank you for calling Family Video,” Steve answers, but he must know it’s Eddie because his voice hits a lower register than usual. It’s almost…suggestive. “How can I help you?”
“Um!” Eddie squeaks out, face already aflame. “You said tomorrow, so…?”
Steve huffs but doesn’t answer, silence deafening across the line. Eddie stews, socked feet tapping silently against the floor as he waits. “And?” Steve finally asks.
Eddie mentally scrambles, trying to force a coherent thought into his brain. “And?” he asks, voice reedy. “And I—what? Oh!”
He clears his throat, and Steve huffs again. This time it sounds more like a laugh than like he’s exasperated with Eddie. “What are you wearing?” Eddie asks, holding his breath, hoping against hope that it was the right answer.
“Jeans, green sweater, vest, sneakers,” Steve lists out just like he usually does. Eddie lets his breath out, settling into his skin as they continue to wear in the grooves of their usual conversation. But then Steve’s voice drops low and he finishes with a pointed, “no underwear,” and Eddie’s left floating again.
“Fuck,” Eddie groans, clutching the phone tightly as he sinks down to the floor, dick already hardening, only getting worse as Steve laughs. He slides his hand into his pants and grips himself. “At work?”
“No one’s here, baby,” Steve replies, still using that stupid fucking sultry tone that makes warmth pool in Eddie’s gut. “No one will know that just the thought of my dick has you touching yourself.”
“I’m—” I’m not, he wants to say. But he is, grip vice-like around his shaft as he listens to Steve laugh at him.
“You think I don’t know what it sounds like when you push your hand into your pants, Munson?” He asks, sharp, and mean, and so fucking hot that Eddie’s going to combust right here and now. “Your stupid belt’s loud, baby.”
Eddie can’t help the way he whines, hand stroking quickly, just once, like that’ll keep Steve from knowing what he’s doing. But his belt clinks, cuffs tinkling tellingly together, and Steve laughs again. Fuck, Steve’s right: his belt is loud.
“It’s okay,” Steve says, and he sounds soothing now, like Eddie’s a feral cat he’s trying to coax out from behind a dumpster. Eddie feels like one, like he’s one second away from snapping and scratching out someone’s throat. God, this is all such a bad idea. “You can touch yourself, Eddie.”
Eddie in Steve’s voice is worse than baby. It’s soft, sibilant, intimate. Eddie’s hand moves on his shaft, grip light as he closes his eyes and pictures Steve at the front counter of Family Video, big hand wrapped around the phone.
“What about you?” he asks, voice breathy as he continues to move his hand.
“I’m at work.” Steve sounds admonishing, like he thinks Eddie should’ve known better than to even ask. “You want me to get fired? Rather call Keith every night, have him tell you exactly how to fuck yourself?”
Eddie shudders again, grip tightening even as disgust fills him. “No,” Eddie says, and even to himself he sounds bratty. Petulant. Whiny.
“Besides, playing with you is more fun,” Steve whispers, like it’s a secret just between them.
Eddie’s grip tightens, hips jerking as he tries to get more leverage in the confines of his jeans, belt twanging with every minute shift.
“So fucking loud,” Steve says again.
Shame hits him, pools in his gut. It’s like getting picked last in gym before he just stopped showing up, like being pushed into lockers before he hit his growth spurt and made himself the loudest predator in the school, like not graduating for the first time.
“Sorry,” he gasps, cheeks hot as he lets go of his cock, desperate to get the belt off to stop the stupid fucking noise its making and get back to it. “I can take it off, let me just–”
“Stop,” Steve orders, and Eddie freezes, the flap of his belt out of the loops, metal clasp clutched between both his hands. “Leave it on.”
Eddie drops the clasp, it clasps noisily against itself, loud in the quiet of the trailer. He closes his eyes, still frozen, afraid to make another move, lest the sound of his fumbling travel down the line.
“But, you said…” he starts before trailing off, unable to find the words.
“It’s loud,” Steve reaffirms, sending that same spike of shame in his gut. “But I want to hear you.”
Eddie’s breath hitches, and his hand moves on instinct, wriggling back into his pants before going rigid when that same metallic clack twangs as his belt shifts.
“That’s it,” Steve encourages, and his shame turns sharp and hot in his stomach, urging Eddie’s hand further into his pants until he’s got a hold of his cock again. “Let me hear you.”
Eddie moans, eyes closed, head tipped back against the cupboard as he listens to Steve breathe over the line. He’s moving his hand slowly, but his belt still rattles with every upward stroke.
“That’s it,” Steve says again, something dangerously close to awe in his voice. “Little faster now.”
Eddie does, following Steve’s directions without thought as he strokes himself faster, that stupid fucking metallic clanking speeding up right along with him. He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, focusing on the feeling on his cock as he fucks his hand, trying to drown out his own sound with Steve’s heavy breathing.
“Faster,” Steve demands, and Eddie does it, the sound of his jingling belt growing quicker right along with him. “Fuck, listen to that.”
Eddie whines, speeding up again without Steve’s command, hips rising up off the floor with little aborted thrusts, his hand coming down to meet each thrust with a meaty thwack that does nothing to drown out the sound of his belt or the sound of his own panting.
He gets lost in it, the feel of his own length in his hand, Steve’s words urging him on, heating him up from the inside out. He’s getting close, can feel that familiar warmth pooling in his gut, so close he can almost taste it in the back of his throat.
Eddie can hear the familiar bell on Family Video’s front door jingle through the line, announcing someone’s entry. His hand freezes on his dick, breath stuck in his throat, like the customer will somehow be able to see him if he doesn’t stay still.
“Be right with you!” Steve calls, sounding cheerful and helpful, like he didn’t have Eddie on the knife’s edge of coming in his pants for the second time in just as many days. He’s quiet when he speaks again, words just for Eddie. “I want you to come for me, okay?”
“Steve,” Eddie gasps, but his hand’s already moving, stripping his cock with hard strokes. “Customer?”
He’s turned into a caveman, all one word questions and monosyllabic grunts, Steve’s words and Eddie’s own hand having done away with any higher brain function
“Fuck the customer,” Steve hisses, words so quiet Eddie can barely hear them. “Come on, baby, I want to hear it.”
Steve’s begging now, like all he wants is to listen to Eddie lose his mind, his own pleasure secondary to Eddie’s. Does he know Eddie’s collapsed on the kitchen floor, or does he think Eddie’s in bed, writhing between the sheets, as if he’d ever be able to afford his own line.
He wants to reach into Steve’s brain and scoop out his thoughts, see himself through Steve’s imaginings. Eddie wants to know everything.
And just like that, he’s close again, wishes Steve would live up to the promises he made last time and fill his mouth up with something else.
He’s almost there. He just needs, just—
“Come for me.”
Eddie shouts, loud enough to bother the neighbors as his dick spurts, tip peeking out of his jeans just enough to make a mess of his shirt, come painting white stripes against the black fabric. He strokes himself through it, keeping his grip firm until the overstimulation has him writhing, smacking his head painfully into the cupboard as he falls over, landing fully on the hard floor.
He lost the phone in the race to the finish line, so once he has the wherewithal to remember it, he reaches out blindly, eyes too hazy to be at all helpful, until he finds it and drags it back to his ear.
“Steve?” Eddie asks, voice slurring. The line’s still active, but there’s no response, so he asks again, “Steve?”
Steve doesn’t answer, but he hears the sound of a woman’s voice, unintelligible and tinny, then Steve’s own laugh, louder, but still too far away from the receiver for him to be holding the phone. Eddie catches his breath, listening to bits of an indecipherable conversation happening all the way across town, hoping desperately that Steve hasn’t forgotten about him.
He hears Steve call, “have a good night!” loud enough for Eddie to make out, and then the distinct sound of the bell ringing, announcing the customer's departure. Then, Steve’s voice directly in his ear whispering, “holy shit, Eddie. That was so fucking hot.”
Eddie laughs, breathless and buzzed on Steve Harrington’s attention. God, he wasn’t going to survive this, no matter what Wayne said. But, what a fucking way to go.
He can’t wait.
***
Steve’s whole body is buzzing, dick hard in his jeans. At fucking work. Because Eddie Munson sounds like a porn star when he comes. He wants nothing more than to hustle into the bathroom and take care of himself, but he’s alone, and besides, Robin would kill him if she found out he’d jacked off in the bathroom while on shift.
He adjusts his dick in his pants, tucking it up unobtrusively in case someone else comes in, and he tries to think of anything besides what Eddie’s face must have looked like when he made that sound.
It doesn’t work.
There’s a steady stream of customers throughout the rest of the night, and Steve helps each and every one with a dick hard enough to hammer a nail in with. When he finally gets home, he’s barely through the front door before he’s shoving his hand into his pants and getting himself off, Eddie’s sinful sounds ringing through his ears.
He needs to talk to Robin.
Sunday is one of their rare remaining shared shifts. Keith takes the morning, but the nights are busy with people returning the weekend’s rental before the work week hits them where it hurts. He holds it in his mouth for the first few hours, Robin shooting him squinty-eyed looks between each customer interaction.
He’s waiting for the rush to die down, wants enough time to talk it all through, but as the bell jingles with another customer leaving, the store blessedly empty for the first time all night, it just comes out of his mouth.
“I had sex with Eddie,” Steve blurts.
Robin whips her head toward him so fast that he hears her neck crack. Her eyes are wide and a manic smile is creeping across her face, all her shiny white teeth on display. She looks like a shark and Steve, very suddenly, feels like a raw, bloody steak dropped into the water.
“No, I didn’t,” he says, wincing when that just makes Robin’s smile widen. Is she going to eat him? “I don’t know why I said that.”
There must be something in his voice because her smile droops as all that intensity goes into her eyes instead. She stares him down like she’s trying to find all the secrets of the universe in his eyes. Because it’s Robin, Steve stares right back, wondering what she’s picking up from his face.
“Is this a bathroom floor conversation?” Robin asks, already grimacing. She’s surprisingly squeamish when she’s not high out of her gourd and already covered in piss, vomit, and Steve’s blood.
Neither of them have ever mopped the bathroom floor, and there’s no way Keith has either.
Steve drops to the carpet behind the counter, pulling his knees up to his chest. They’ve never cleaned this floor either, but at least the chances of sitting on piss are lower out here. Robin’s still grimacing, but she drops down with him. Their knees knock together as Robin scoots forward, reaching out to interlace their fingers and piling all their hands atop Steve’s own knees.
“What’s going on, babe?” Robin asks in that sweet voice she only uses when she thinks Steve’s fragile. It always kind of makes him want to cry.
Steve looks down at their hands, attention caught by Robin’s thumb rubbing soothingly against his own, fingertip getting caught with each pass against the wrinkles of his knuckle. He keeps his gaze on her hands as he thinks of what to say. It feels safer, somehow, when he can see how soft she’s being with him.
“We had phone sex?” Steve says and it comes out like a question. Robin squeezes both his hands, biting her lip to keep her chatterbox tendencies contained. “Uh, twice. And it was—it was really good, Robin.”
“Yeah?” she asks, and when he looks up at her, she’s smiling again, a small, private thing that prompts him to finally open up his mouth and say what he really means.
“I really like him, Bobby.”
She squeezes his hand and scooches impossibly closer, like she wants to merge together and they can finally become one person like the kids are always joking. He moves right along with her, one mind in this, until their legs are locked, one wrong move away from one of them sitting in the other’s lap.
Steve doesn’t mind, can never quite get as close as he wants to with Robin. He’d climb into her skin if he could, and knows without having to ask that she’d let him.
“Does he like you?” she asks, quiet enough to be a secret shared between them in the empty store.
Steve looks back down at their hands and thinks about it. Eddie’s stuttering and shy on the phone, stammering over um’s and uh’s just as much as words. Does that mean anything besides him being shy? He sounds eager, too, every time Steve answers the phone. He always has, even before Steve had flipped the script from a joke to overtly sexual. But, he sounds just the same when he talks to Robin—Steve’s seen him walk into Family Video and light up at just the sight of her.
The bell on the door jingles, and because she’s the best, Robin lets go of his hands, pats his knee once, and jumps up to greet them, letting Steve stay out of sight beneath the counter as she assists them.
Does Eddie like him? As a friend, sure, and sexually, yeah, but the way Robin’s implying?
It spins around and around in his head, never quite reaching a coherent conclusion.
When the phone rings at eight, Steve dashes to it, picking it up, and giving his usual spiel, made shy with Robin’s twinkling eyes trained on him.
“Thank you for calling Family Video,” he says, unsurprised when it comes out breathy. “How can I help you?”
“Oh, I can think of a few ways you could help me,” Eddie says, voice suggestive right from the start.
Steve grins, all his worries melting away at the sound of Eddie’s voice. “Robin’s here,” he cautions.
“Ohh!” If anything, Eddie sounds excited, like Robin being here is a good thing, no matter what it means for his virtual sex life. “Put her on, Stevie.”
Steve rolls his eyes, but dutifully holds the phone away from his ear and drolly says, “phone for you.”
Robin speeds over, tripping over the computer’s cord, Steve’s outstretched arm the only thing stopping her from braining herself against the counter.
“Family Video,” she says, even though she, too, must know who it is by now.
Steve’s standing close enough that he can hear Eddie’s cheerful call of, “Birdie!” The rest of his words are lost to Steve, but they make Robin laugh, a quick burst of a thing, like what he said had shocked her.
“At work?” she says, looking at Steve with the put-upon air of scandal. “For shame, Steven.”
He scrambles for the phone, trying to wrench it from her hand until they’re in an all-out brawl that ends with the cord tangled around their bodies, trapping them so they’re pressed together chest to chest. “Give it,” Steve pleads, finally snatching the receiver from her hand and pressing it to his ear, hissing as she grabs a hunk of his hair and yanks.
“You told her,” Steve demands down the line.
Eddie sputters, “I—you—she—“ he stumbles over each word, sputtering in a way that’s almost as fun as it was last night. “I just said I’d hoped to talk to you alone!”
“Oh,” Steve says, looking down at Robin’s beat up converse, eyes glazing over as he realizes—“I told her.”
“Steven,” Eddie says, voice so close to Robin’s own irate tone that Steve can’t help but laugh, heart full. “Why would you do that?”
He’s whining now, and Steve’s grinning about it, can’t help it. He leans toward Robin, hunching down the tiniest bit to hook his chin over her shoulder, safely ensconced in their phone cord cocoon. “It’s Robin,” Steve replies like that answers everything.
Eddie’s quiet on the other side of the line for a moment before he huffs and mutters a quiet, “fair enough.”
Steve smiles, digging his chin into her shoulder just to make her squeal and try to get away. But, they’re still tied together, so she’s bungee-corded right back into him and they both go down in a tangle of limbs and phone cord, knees rammed in places they should never go.
The phone’s been flung a few feet away, Eddie’s tinny voice coming through the speaker asking, “Steve? Did you guys die? Steeeeeevie?”
He’s in the middle of crawling toward it when the front door jingles and he freezes, abdominals working to keep him upright with one arm and one leg stalled out mid-crawl. Behind him, Robin’s also gone deadly silent and Steve knows they’re both thinking the same thing: if they stay absolutely still, maybe whoever has entered the store won’t even see them.
But, then Eddie’s voice calls out “Robin? Anyone?” And if they can hear it this clearly, he must have shouted loud enough to wake up the entire trailer park. Steve turns his head slowly enough that he can feel the stretch of each vertebrate as he finally faces the front door.
There, Mrs. Carruthers stands, staring down at him, nose upturned and wrinkled like she smells something bad. Steve meets her eyes and she sniffs audibly with disdain before disappearing into the shelves.
Steve drops his raised arm and leg and crawls the three quick strides to the discarded phone, dragging a tangled Robin behind him.
When he picks it up, Eddie’s humming loudly, like his new plan is to annoy them into speaking. Steve hates himself a little for finding it endearing. “Uh, Eddie?” he whispers, and the humming cuts out entirely. Steve keeps his eyes peeled for Mrs. Carruthers, unwilling to be caught in a compromising position by her again. “We’ll have to talk to you later, okay?”
“Uh, okay?” Eddie replies, more question than affirmative response, but at this point, he’ll take it.
He drops the phone, and as one, Steve and Robin jump up, hopping around each other to disentangle themselves from the cord as fast as possible. She trips and goes down on her knees, but she’s freed herself from the cord by now, so Steve spins himself free and dashes for the front desk, slamming the phone into the cradle right as Mrs. Carruthers rounds the shelves once more, tape secured in her hand.
Steve smiles his best customer service smile and asks, “Will that be all?”
From where she’s still on the dirty carpet, hidden from view beneath the desk, Robin snorts.
***
Before the phone line disconnects, Eddie listens to the weirdest set of sounds he’s ever heard. There’s a crash that he can only guess is Steve dropping the phone, then there’s some contextless rustling and grunting that goes on for an alarmingly long time. When the dial tone finally rings down the line, Eddie pulls the phone back to stare at it, perplexed.
“What the fuck?” he mutters before finally hanging it up.
The trailer’s quiet—he’d been happy when he thought there was something risqué on the menu, but now that it’s just him, he wishes Wayne was here. Or Robin, or Steve, anyone to fill the silence. Eddie pats his own crotch, mutters a quiet, “sorry, buddy,” to his disappointed dick, and goes to find something else to do.
He fills his night with campaign planning and the devil’s lettuce, the next day with breakfast with Wayne and fucking off so the old man can get some sleep. But that night, he calls Family Video and gets Steve all to himself.
He calls again the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. He just keeps calling, and Steve always sounds excited to talk to him. Even when he’s at work giving himself his very own pair of blue balls. Or when Robin’s loitering around and all they can do is shoot the shit until the next customer walks in.
It’s enough to give him a complex.
But, they don’t hang out. Steve drives Dustin to Hellfire, held in the Wheeler’s basement now that Eddie’s finally snatched his diploma with both hands. He waves at Eddie where he’s making his way up the drive, smiling like a PTA mom dropping off their kid for a play date.
He doesn’t come inside.
There’s a movie night at Steve’s house, all the kids in a heap on the floor, Nancy and Jonathan sharing the same space in the Harrington’s only recliner, and Robin, Steve, and Eddie all piled onto the couch, Steve in the middle. The scant inches between his and Eddie’s thighs feel like the Mariana Trench.
They laugh and they joke, and it’s all exactly like it was before, like Eddie isn’t calling Steve every night to fuck his own fist to Steve’s surprisingly salacious words.
Eddie’s unraveling at the seams—something piteous and yawning opening up in his heart. He tries not to look too closely at it, doesn’t want to put a name to the feeling lest he ruin this one, shining thing.
Still, when Wayne asks, “you alright, boy?” one night, Eddie blurts, “I’m going to invite Steve over,” like it was inevitable. Like, somewhere in the recesses of his brain, he’s been plotting this, unbeknownst to himself.
Eddie’s more surprised than Wayne is. The old man just snorts, keeps lacing his shoes, running late for his shift as he replies, “make sure I ain’t here for that one, will you?”
“Wayne,” Eddie gasps. “This is how you support me in my time of need?”
“What need?” Wayne says, pulling his lace tight and double knotting it before standing with a groan. “Y’already like each other, don’t ya? People who like each other usually spend time together.”
Eddie gapes at his retreating back, sputtering on retorts that won’t quite come until he finally asks, “he likes me?” to the already-closed door. When he rushes over to it and peers out into the dark of Forest Hills, Wayne’s already in his truck, high-beams blinding Eddie where he stands. “We like each other?”
Wayne backs out, either having not heard Eddie at all, or deciding to ignore his nephew entirely.
It’s raining—Eddie spends a long time staring at the water dripping erratically off the roof, getting stuck in the leaves clogging the gutters.
When he goes inside, he calls the Buckley residence. Robin’s number is written on its own piece of paper stuck to the fridge, with Steve’s beside it, too sacred to hold any other information on it. Robin’s mom answers, but dutifully calls for her daughter, who picks up the phone, already sounding annoyed as she asks who’s calling.
Eddie ignores her question entirely, instead asking, “When’s Steve’s next day off?”
Robin snorts derisively. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“Buckley,” Eddie replies, definitely not whining. She sighs, and he can feel her wearing down already, so he asks, “please?”
It’s silent for long enough on the other line that Eddie worries he’d read her wrong, that she wasn’t going to respond at all, but just as he opens his mouth to continue wheedling her, she says, “tomorrow,” and just as Eddie fist bumps, she continues, “you finally going to make a move?” and Eddie’s back to incoherently sputtering.
She laughs at him, and he reflexively hangs up only to pace erratically back and forth for the next hour, psyching himself up. They’re friends, he can invite Steve over. That’s what friends do, don’t they? Steve can sit on Eddie’s couch, they can watch a movie, or get high, or just chat.
He’d take anything if it meant Steve would be here, smiling at him, no Robin or kids as a buffer.
But when he calls that night, Eddie doesn’t say a word. He just listens to Steve whisper sinful things down the line, fisting his cock, eyes closed so he can pretend it’s not his own hand getting him there. It’s Steve—standing in the kitchen, close enough that his breath sends puffs of air against Eddie’s neck, hand a warm brand on him as he’s tugged to completion.
And when the line disconnects, Eddie stares down at his own spent dick and sighs.
If there’s anything Eddie Munson has always been, it’s a fucking coward.
***
The phone rings, and it’s a few hours early, so Steve doesn’t expect Eddie to be on the other line.
“Do you want to come over?” Eddie asks, leaving off his usual greeting entirely. “I rented Hellraiser, and Wayne didn’t want to watch it with me so…?”
Steve had already watched it with Robin during one of their shifts, pausing it quickly anytime a customer came in and giggling at all the overtly sexual scenes. So, he’s doubtful that Eddie ever planned to watch it with Wayne unless he’d heard absolutely nothing about the movie and failed to even read the synopsis on the back.
“Sure, what time?” Steve asks, not bothering to call him out on his lie. After all, if there’s anything that’ll pop this celibate bubble they’re living in, it’s watching that movie pressed together on the Munson’s couch.
“Uh, now? Whenever you can?” Eddie asks, sounding so much like an eager puppy that Steve grins. “Wayne’s got a double shift so he won’t be back until morning.”
Steve’s heard that same line from enough girls that he’s sure he knows where this night is heading. Excitement bubbles up within him, palms aching to reach out, to finally be able to touch.
“Alright, want me to bring anything?” Steve asks,
“Just yourself!” Eddie tries, all strained cheer. Maybe he’s more nervous than even Steve is. He hangs up before Steve can decide how to respond.
Steve puts the phone in the cradle and turns ideas over in his head. There’s his pair of jeans that even Robin says make his ass look good. Maybe a sweater to soften the effect? But, that’s not really Eddie’s aesthetic, is it? Should he wear black, or would that look like he’s trying too hard.
He stares into his wardrobe, unblinking, brain ticking away at all the options before he turns away, unchanged, and heads to the bathroom to check his hair. Once every hair is perfectly in place, he shoves his socked feet into his sneakers, not even bothering to untie them.
Come as you are is the general expectation for staying in with a friend. And that’s what he and Eddie are—friends. The same thing is expected from a booty call. Either way, he’s dressed perfectly. Putting in extra effort is for dates, and as he has to repeatedly remind himself on the drive over, this isn’t a date.
It’s not.
Steve regrets his decision when he knocks on the Munson’s front door and Eddie stares down at his faded long-sleeved Hawkins High swim t-shirt and old gray sweatpants with a piercing look he can’t read.
“Uh, hey?” Steve says, shuffling uncomfortably on the front step as Eddie shakes himself like a dog and comes back to life.
He’s smiling now, cheeks pink from the cold as he takes a step back, and gestures Steve inside. “Come in, man!” he cries, voice too-loud in the dark of the trailer park.
Steve steps past him, forearm brushing the arm Eddie’s using to prop the door open. As he closes the door behind them, Steve swears he can hear Eddie’s breath catch.
“So, movie?” Steve asks, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, waiting for Eddie to lead him into the living room. Steve dawdles by the couch as Eddie pushes the tape into the player, waiting to see where he’ll sit.
“Have you seen this one yet?” Eddie asks as he settles into his usual seat at the end of the couch.
Robin’s not here, but Steve still plops himself down on the middle cushion, letting his legs spread into Eddie’s space.
“Robin and I had it on when it first hit the shelves.”
Eddie makes a strange, wounded noise, and when Steve glances over at him, he’s staring down at Steve’s knee, wringing his hands. “We can watch something else?”
Steve nudges his knee even farther into Eddie’s space, knocking them together. Eddie’s breath catches and doesn’t start up again until Steve pulls back. “Nah, we watched it at work so I missed some of it.”
Eddie nods jerkily and turns back to the screen. They watch in silence. While Steve’s leaning back into the couch, lounging the way he always does at movie nights, Eddie’s sitting ramrod straight, like someone might come along and grade him on the curvature of his spine.
Steve sits, waiting for Eddie to make a move, but he just—doesn’t. There isn’t even a popcorn bowl they can accidentally brush hands in, or flirty conversation to be had.
Even as Frank and Julia fuck on the screen, Eddie doesn’t reach out. He just blushes and presses himself more firmly into the corner of the couch.
Steve might have misread this situation.
He watches the movie, the space separating their bodies aching like a missing limb, fingers flexing against his own thighs with the desire to reach out. He’s spent so long hearing the sounds Eddie makes that he can’t help wanting to see, wanting to touch.
But, Steve’s used to disappointment; he’s used to making the best out of the unrequited. He can do it again.
The movie ends, and Steve’s ready to make his excuses, get the hell out of here with his remaining shreds of dignity, but Eddie beats him to it.
“Wanna stay the night?” he asks, and when Steve looks back over at him, he’s slouching into the couch now, gaze still trained on the TV as the credits play out on the screen, like Steve’s answer doesn’t matter at all.
Steve’s beginning to suspect he’s misread the situation, again as he watches Eddie literally twiddling his thumbs, unable to meet Steve’s eyes.
“Uh, sure,” Steve replies, and Eddie turns to him, smiling so brightly, like Steve’s continued presence in his home is a gift.
Steve’s heart flops around in his chest, pitter-pattering away as he follows Eddie into his bedroom. There’s something blooming in his chest, bright and hopeful, and dangerous.
It feels alarmingly close to love.
***
His bed’s not big, so when Steve climbs in beside him, both settled onto their backs, Steve’s forearm presses against his own. The point of contact burns—Eddie doesn’t know whether he wants to press into it or jerk away, scalded, but Steve doesn’t move, so neither does he.
No one’s ever been in his bed before.
The scant inches between their bodies feel like miles. Eddie wants to reach past them, let their fingers tangle together. He wants to touch so badly that he has to clench his fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt to stop himself from moving.
Eddie’s room is as dark as it ever gets, his flimsy curtains muffling the brightness of his neighbors porch light. If he squints, he can make out the Steve shaped lump beneath the covers.
He feels like he’s suffocating in the oppressive silence of his room, breaths stuttering as he tries to keep them inaudible, heartbeat rabbiting damn-near out of his chest as Steve lays there immobile, making no sound at all.
It’s so quiet that when Steve sighs, long and low as he settles more firmly into the pillows, Eddie jumps at the unexpected sound. Unlike the sweet sighs Steve had let slip over the phone on their nightly calls, Steve sounds frustrated, disappointed even.
It’s that sound that gets Eddie’s hand creeping across the scant inches between them, moving slowly, like if he’s careful, Steve won’t even realize what he’s doing. The first touch is against Steve’s hip, grazing the fabric of Steve’s sweatpants.
He presses down firmer, feeling the warm body beneath the fabric, and that’s what makes Steve inhale sharply, body jerking. Eddie freezes, fingers trembling as he waits for Steve to say something, to get up and leave, to do anything.
He stays right where he is, slumping further into Eddie’s mattress, springs squeaking as his weight shifts.
Holding his breath, Eddie lets his shaking hand press more fully into Steve’s hip, moving slowly across Steve’s body until it’s tucked beneath his shirt, fingers just barely brushing against bare, heated skin.
Steve jolts again, and Eddie snatches his hand back and cradles it against his own chest like it's a wounded bird, sure that Steve will get up and leave. He’d been fine talking Eddie through orgasms over the phone, but this is one step too far. This is real—Eddie’s hands touching Steve’s skin, meaningless words given weight.
Eddie closes his eyes, unwilling to watch Steve’s shadow detach itself from the bed and slink out of his room like a dirty secret.
It’s a surprise when instead, Steve’s weight shifts, springs squeaking as he rolls over until he’s pushing Eddie into the mattress. Eddie’s eyes fly open, legs falling open on instinct as Steve settles between them, pressing down with enough force that there’s no way he’ll miss how hard Eddie already is.
But then he grinds down with intent and Eddie can feel Steve’s own erection pressing into his hip. He adjusts, lining their bodies up until all that’s separating them is two thin pairs of sweatpants.
The whine that escapes Eddie’s throat is embarrassing. He tries to cover his own mouth to keep it in, but Steve grabs his wrist and pulls it off his face, linking their fingers as he traps Eddie’s hand against the mattress.
“Wanna hear you,” he says, breaking the seal of silence that had shrouded his bedroom.
Eddie bites his lip against the next noise, at Steve’s mercy as he continues moving against him, grinding hard enough that Eddie’s sweatpants start to chafe. He doesn’t care, never wants Steve to stop no matter how much it hurts.
“Come on, baby,” Steve says, bending over him to bite into the meat of Eddie’s shoulder as he ruts down. Eddie’s lip jumps free from between his teeth as he groans, low and almost painful with the force of its vibration. “Yeah, just like that.”
Steve lets go of Eddie’s hand, leaving him bereft until his arms snake around Eddie’s shoulders pulling him closer as Steve buries his face in the crook of his neck. On impulse, Eddie puts his hands on Steve’s hips, pulling him down faster and harder. The bed’s shaking enough that Eddie’s worried his headboard smacking into the wall will break right through the shitty plaster.
They’re loud—his bedroom full of enough lewd sounds that he wishes he’d had a tape recording it so he could play it again and again. The sound of his own embarrassing moans, the way Steve’s breathing has gone erratic, the squeaking of Eddie’s old mattress. He feels drunk off it, mouth hanging open and drooling as he loses himself in it.
This is nothing like the few rushed hand jobs he’s had in Indy. The way Steve’s breaths hit Eddie’s bare skin feels intimate, the way his hands hold onto Eddie like he’s trying to merge them together.
He can feel himself unraveling thrust by thrust, entire body tingling from the tip of his dick to the molars in the back of his mouth.
“Steve,” Eddie gasps out, on the precipice of something he’s not sure he’ll survive, smothered by Steve’s weight and still needing more.
Like that’d been all he was waiting for, Steve leans back, untangling one of his arms from around Eddie to slide his hand into Eddie’s tacky sweatpants, fingers barely closing around Eddie’s cock before he’s gone, lost to the best orgasm of his entire life.
***
Eddie’s quiet when he comes—Steve’s not even sure he’s breathing as he writhes. Steve keeps his grip firm as he strokes him through it, enraptured by the view of the other boy beneath him. His curly hair is pillowed around him, blending into the shadows of Eddie’s sheets. His mouths open and a silent shout as Steve milks him for everything he’s worth, not stopping until the last spurt of hot come has landed on the back of Steve’s hand, and the look of ecstasy on Eddie’s face begins transforming into pain.
Half of Eddie’s come rubs off on the inside of Steve’s sweats as he shoves the now-free hand into his own pants and wraps it around his cock. He doesn’t ease himself into it, fist moving furiously on his dick as he watches Eddie’s eyes squint open beneath him before they pop wide as he realizes what Steve’s doing.
“Holy shit, Steve,” he says, reaching trembling hands out and clutching onto Steve’s hips to pull him even closer, fingers slipping beneath his rucked-up shirt until his fingernails dig into bare skin. “Yeah, yeah, you’re so hot.”
He says it all on one whispered breath, like he doesn’t realize he’s speaking at all, too busy staring down at the way Steve’s sweats tent around his dick, moving quickly as he fucks his own fist. Steve moans, the words and the scrutiny making heat pool in his blood.
It’s only a few more strokes before Steve’s groaning, eyes closed against the feeling tearing through him as he makes a mess inside his sweats. Steve pants, free hand pressed against Eddie’s ribs to keep himself upright, clenching into the fabric of his t-shirt as he tries to catch his breath.
When he has the energy to open his eyes again, Eddie’s still staring up at him reverently, clenching so hard against his hipbones that Steve’s pretty sure he’ll need to pry them off.
“Holy shit,” Eddie says again.
Steve throws his head back and laughs, too high on endorphins to regulate anything. Eddie’s fingers clench against his hips, bringing him closer together and inadvertently sending an overstimulated shiver through Steve as his spent dick is pressed against the inside of his pants.
“Yeah,” Steve says, panting from sex, and laughter, and whatever emotion is sending fireworks bursting through his sternum. “Holy shit.”
Even if his reputation has always been overblown, Steve’s had a lot of sex with a lot of people. It’s never felt like this—like if he doesn’t see the look on his partner’s face as they come, he might die. Like his own dick barely matters, just the sounds his partner makes getting him halfway there.
It’s been a long time since he’s wanted to stay after.
He drops down, slumping onto Eddie’s chest before he rolls to the side, staring up at the shadows drifting across Eddie’s bedroom ceiling. With a good orgasm comes the crash—Steve’s is hitting him quick, pulling him down, down, down, no matter how rapidly Steve blinks his eyes.
“Stevie?” Eddie asks, continuing when Steve grunts in return, “you still awake?”
He closes his eyes, whispers a quiet, “mmmhmm,” even as his body slackens, arm slung over Eddie’s waist, head becoming one with the corner of Eddie’s pillow, close enough that Eddie’s breathing is ruffling the hair on Steve’s head.
“Sure you are, sweetheart,” Eddie whispers.
As he falls into a blissfully deep sleep, Steve swears he can feel Eddie’s dry lips pressed to his sweaty forehead.
***
Eddie’s still out of breath from the best sex of his life, and Steve’s inexplicably already passed out. In his bed. In his arms, using half his pillow like that’s where his head has always belonged. Eddie bends down and presses a kiss to his forehead. If anything, Steve’s breath gets deeper, like a reverse sleeping beauty where Eddie’s kiss has only sent Steve into a deeper sleep.
His heart’s beating erratically, lodging itself in his throat; either this is what love feels like, or he’s having a heart attack. Regardless, his next actions are obvious. He paws blindly toward his extra pillow abandoned at the other side of the bed, strips the pillowcase off, and pushes it into his own pants, wiping the tacky come from his skin. His pants are still wet, so he rubs at them as well, getting as much off as he can lest they stick to his skin and rip his pubes out later.
Once that’s done, he stares at Steve’s peaceful face. It’s outlined in shadows in the dark, but even with the dim light, Eddie can see the dark stain on the front of his sweats. Not giving himself enough time to think further, Eddie pushes the still-clean side of the pillowcase into Steve’s pants.
He freezes when Steve’s breath stutters, knuckles barely brushing Steve’s soft skin as he waits for him to settle once more.
He’s gentle, wiping in small circular motions at warm skin. Steve doesn’t wake, pliant and trusting in Eddie’s sheets as he cleans him up. He wants to look, so badly, that his mouth’s watering with it, but he keeps Steve’s sweats at his hips, covering all that tantalizing skin.
Steve groans, a small, barely-there breath leaving him as Eddie pulls his hand out of Steve’s pants, the other boy now as clean as Eddie can make him without crossing any lines.
The pillowcase is wet, both of their spends mixing in its fabric, heady with sweat and come. Eddie wants to put it in his mouth, suck the fabric until it’s clean, but like looking, that feels like a step too far. The smell hits him though, gets stuck in his nose and makes its home there.
He wants to put it back on the pillow, and sleep on it all night, the tacky fabric sticking to his face, rubbing all over him until it reeks of sex and Steve Harrington.
Little Eddie gives a valiant twitch, but Eddie would rather die than to get up right now to take care of him.
He throws the pillowcase across the room and shares the pillow Steve’s head is already on, the other boy pressed into his side, still sleeping soundly despite all Eddie’s twisting and turning. His skin’s warm and soft curled against Eddie’s own.
He presses another kiss to Steve’s head and resigns himself to a long, futile night of trying to sleep.
It smells like bacon when he wakes up. Eddie opens his eyes, squinting against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, eyes hazy with too few hours closed. Still, he zombie-shuffles his way out of his bedroom, eyes half mast as he stumbles into the kitchen.
Wayne’s sitting at the kitchen table, Steve across from him, talking around forkfuls of food.
“Um?” Eddie says, blinking dazedly as they both turn to him, still smiling.
“Ed,” Wayne says, gesturing Eddie forward with his fork. Eddie follows its movement with his eyes and body, reeled in by that delicious smell. “Your boy made breakfast.”
“Hmm?” Eddie asks, half-asleep and unarmored beside the kitchen table.
Steve laughs, and it fizzes through him like a morning coffee, jolting his synapses to life. “I’ll get you a plate.”
Steve jumps up and rushes to get a plate from the correct cupboard before standing in front of the stove and dishing Eddie up like he does this every morning–like he belongs there. Eddie stares at him, the way his strong shoulders flex beneath his wrinkled t-shirt, how his hair’s fucked up in the back, the way he’s wearing a pilfered pair of Eddie’s own sweats because his had been—
“Boy, sit down,” Wayne orders, and Eddie drops into a chair, a marionette that’s lost the plot of its show.
He’s still wearing the pants he’d fucked Steve Harrington in. They’re stuck to his pubes even after his half-assed clean-up attempt last night. Eddie shifts in his seat, not daring to look down and see if there are any visible stains. It’s too late, and that would just draw Wayne’s eyes right down to where he least wants them to be.
Steve turns back around, plate heaping with hash-browns, scrambled eggs, bacon crisped to perfection, and a perfect golden brown piece of toast. It’s still steaming, made recently enough that everything’s still hot. He stares down at the offering before looking back up at Steve.
He’s having another heart attack.
“Eat your breakfast, Eddie,” Steve says, picking up his own fork again and scooping some eggs onto his toast before taking a large bite.
Eddie follows his lead.
The food’s just as delicious as it looks. Eddie loses himself in it, each mouthful tastes like all the mornings with Steve that this moment could lead to. Steve in front of the stove, making whatever he wants, towel over his shoulder to wipe away any runaway butter. Eddie coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around his waist, burying his unshaved face into his neck and burrowing in just to make him laugh and swat him away.
Eddie will learn to make eggs that aren’t rubbery, if that’s what Steve wants. He’ll make a thousand failed eggs until he gets it just right.
“Don’t like your food?”
Eddie jumps, egg speared on his fork jumping right along with him, falling off his utensil and splattering into his coffee. It’s Wayne who spoke, but his eyes go to Steve first. Steve who’s sending furtive looks his way every few seconds, even as he continues sipping on his own egg-free coffee. He doesn’t meet Eddie’s eyes.
Eddie drops his fork with a clatter, grabs his piece of toast, and crams half of it in his mouth. “It’s delicious,” Eddie says, crumbs spraying out of his mouth.
He doesn’t care about the fucking food. He’d eat sawdust if Steve served it to him.
Steve wrinkles his nose, but he’s smiling again, and finally looks up, gaze warm as he looks at Eddie.
Eddie swallows the toast in his mouth. It hurts his throat going down, not chewed enough to ease the way, but Steve’s smile ramps up into a grin when Eddie takes another bite, so it’s worth it. He even drinks the fucking egg coffee down to the dregs, swallowing the egg at the bottom whole lest he accidentally taste it.
And when he walks Steve to the front door later that morning, they both linger at the threshold, even though Steve’s already running late for his shift.
The trailer’s duller once the beemer drives off, taking Steve along with it.
Eddie sighs, not at all lovelorn.
“Oh boy,” Wayne mutters.
“What?” Eddie whines, turning to glare at Wayne, hands on his hips.
Wayne snorts, getting up and shuffling off to get ready for bed, leaving Eddie to clean up the mess. “I ain’t getting involved in this, boy,” he calls, turning back to smirk at Eddie. “You’ll figure it out.”
Then he just shuts the bathroom door, leaving Eddie to pine away the hours until he can talk to Steve.
According to Jeff’s mom’s Cosmo, you’re supposed to wait three days to call a girl after a first date. But, Steve’s not a girl, and this wasn’t a date, and Eddie’s never played anything cool in his entire life. So, when eight p.m. strikes, he’s going to call.
He always will, as long as Steve keeps answering. Maybe even if he doesn’t.
***
Eddie keeps calling, and Steve always answers. He wears a watch now, wants to count down the seconds until he’ll be able to hear Eddie’s voice again.
He doesn’t want to put a name to the thing fluttering around in his chest as the sound of Eddie’s voice filters down the line. Sometimes, Eddie invites him over, and that’s worse somehow. His skin aches to touch, cross any distance Eddie places between them in his bed, on his couch, in his van at the quarry, smoking together and watching the stars.
The phone sex is slowly replaced with the real thing, hands and bodies fumbling together in the darkness of Eddie’s room.
Eddie still calls, always, updating him on the latest Hellfire session, how Corroded Coffin is doing, what he’s been up to all day.
Sometimes Steve comes over, and they don’t even fuck. On those nights, settled in Eddie’s bed, listening to his even breathing, Steve has to remind himself that this is what friends do. It doesn’t mean anything that Eddie sleeps so soundly at his side, and it doesn’t mean anything when he wakes up with Eddie’s arms around him, face nuzzled into Steve’s neck, breaths puffing wetly against his neck, morning wood pressed into Steve’s hip.
“Why don’t you just tell him?” Robin asks, head propped up by her hands, arms crossed beneath her head, elbow linked with Steve who’s laying right beside her.
They’ve been camped out in the Buckley’s living room all day, spending one of their rare days off together watching movies and tossing popcorn into each other’s mouths. When Robin had missed one too many times, she’d retaliated against Steve by dumping her entire bowl of extra-buttery popcorn atop his head.
“What if he doesn’t feel the same?” Steve whispers back, not looking away from the Buckley’s popcorn ceiling even as he feels Robin shift at his side.
He feels Robin’s arm slip free from his own, leaving him bereft. But then she’s hovering over him, cupping his cheeks with hands still slippery with butter and staring deeply into his eyes. “That boy is head over heels for you, dingus,” she says, not even blinking. When Steve tries to avert his gaze, she grabs his face more tightly, fingernails digging into skin. “It’s impossible not to be in love with you, okay?”
There’s a knot lodged in his throat as he stares up at the other half of his soul. “You’re not.”
She slaps him lightly, hit gentled even further by her oily palm. “I’m a lesbian,” she hisses, voice quiet like even though they’d gone out hours ago, she’s afraid her parents might hear her. “And you know I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”
“I always wanted a sexless marriage,” Steve replies.
“That’s what Eddie’s for.”
Steve shoves her off and wrestles her to the ground. They grapple like children, but Steve’s laughing now, hope bubbling out of him at every seam, like all he’d needed was Robin’s words to be able to picture a future he wants to grow old in.
Steve and Robin, a sexless marriage, and Eddie in his bed, at his side, so intertwined with his life that they’d need a crowbar to pry him out.
Robin wins the wrestling match, forearm against his chest pressing him down into the carpet. Steve’s future’s spooling out in front of him, he can almost taste the too-sweet coffee Eddie would make every morning, the rubbery eggs Eddie and Robin would serve with pride.
“You really think he likes me?” Steve asks, quiet, hopeful, wistful.
Robin snorts and drops down to his chest, rubbing her face against his shirt. “That boy’s in love with you,” she says with so much confidence that Steve almost believes her. “No way in hell he’s just in it for the sex.”
Steve hums but doesn’t reply. There’s nothing to say, no way to describe the squirming, writhing feelings lodged beneath his sternum, kicked up into a flurry by Robin’s words. He wraps his arms around her and squeezes tight, burying his nose in her hair, Sandra Dee serenading Danny Zuko on the TV behind them.
The movie plays to its inevitable conclusion: the boy always gets the girl in the movies, and as the credits roll, Steve glances down at his watch.
He jumps up on instinct, sending Robin sprawling on the carpet with a grunt. “The fuck?”
“It’s almost nine!” Steve cries rushing around the Buckley’s living room, picking up his wallet and keys from where they’d fallen out of his pocket. “I missed it!”
“Just call him,” Robin says, propping herself up on her elbows but otherwise not moving from where he’d left her.
“I don’t have his number,” Steve replies, already stuffing his feet into his sneakers, heels crushing the backs as he tries to wedge them on without having to untie them.
Eddie calls him, always. Steve has never called him back, has never had to.
“I do!” Robin calls, but Steve barely hears her, already out of the house and toward his car, ready to break every speed limit in the book to get to the Munson’s trailer in record time.
What will Eddie think? Will he be worried? Will he think Steve forgot about him? Or worse, will he not care at all?
He peels out of the Buckley’s drive and speeds like his life depends on it.
***
For the first time, Steve doesn’t answer when Eddie calls. Keith had hung up on him after confirming that Steve was off that day, and the Harrington house had just rang and rang before kicking him to the answering machine.
He doesn’t leave a message.
Is this the beginning of the end? First a few missed phone calls, and then pretty soon Eddie hasn’t seen Steve in three weeks. Ten years down the line they’ll pass each other in the grocery store and give those polite little head nods that people give when they used to know someone and don’t anymore.
He collapses onto the couch, pulling the blanket from its back to huddle into as his brain ticks away. It’s just—he knows there could be a million reasons Steve didn’t answer. Really, he does. But, this thing they have has always had an expiration date on it, and he can feel that thought curdling in his brain like rotten milk.
When someone knocks on the door, he doesn’t get up.
The knocks get quicker and louder, like whoever’s out there thinks he might not have heard them. Eddie should open the door before they bust it down, but he’s too busy being in his blanket cocoon, wallowing in his tragic, unrequited feelings.
When the door opens, he freezes.
Footsteps sound into the room, sounding loud against the carpet. Who just walks into someone else’s home when they don’t answer? A robber? But, no, they wouldn’t knock, would they?
“Eddie?”
He bolts up, peering over the back of the couch, blanket still around his shoulders. There, Steve Harrington stands, hair all fucked up like he’d been running his hands through it, eyes trained unerringly on Eddie where he sits, stupefied.
Steve’s wearing the same goddamn sweats as the first time he’d come over, with a cutoff Bowie shirt that has Buckley written all over it, cut short enough that Eddie can see his happy trail, and just the hint of his belly button.
“What are you doing here?” Eddie asks, and it’s only as his voice scratches out of his throat that he realizes he must’ve been crying.
Steve must realize at the exact same time because he says, “have you been crying?” as he takes three quick strides to hover over Eddie, grabbing his cheeks in both hands and rubbing the tacky tear stains off his skin. Eddie averts his gaze, glancing down so he doesn’t have to look at Steve’s imploring face, but that puts him looking directly at his hairy stomach and that’s no better.
Even now, Eddie wants to lick it.
“No,” Eddie says, not looking up until Steve moves one of his hands to below Eddie’s chin and forces his face up.
“Why have you been crying?” Steve asks quietly.
Eddie swallows. It’s loud in the quiet of the living room, no background noise to mask the sound. “You didn’t answer,” he says, and it feels telling, somehow. Like Steve will hear the confession lurking beneath the words.
Steve sighs and sinks down to his knees, putting his face just below Eddie’s, the couch creating a barrier between them that aches like an open wound. “I was at Robin’s,” Steve says, still holding Eddie’s chin gently. “I lost track of time.”
There’s an apology lurking beneath the simple words, and suddenly, Eddie’s so fucking tired of the way they talk around each other, neither saying what they actually mean. “I thought maybe you were done with me,” Eddie says, voice rasping, unused to saying the honest truth.
“No,” Steve blurts, eyes wider than Eddie’s ever seen them. He crowds into Eddie’s space as much as he can with the couch in the way. “Never Eddie, I love you.”
While Eddie’s entire world shifts and rearranges with those words, he sees the exact moment Steve realizes what he just said. His face blanches, eyes widening even further, so much white showing on the edges of that beautiful brown until he sinks down on his heels, wrenching his hands free of Eddie so he can use them to cover his own face.
Eddie stares at him, words ringing in his head. I love you, I love you, I love you. Eddie’s never heard them before, not in this setting, from someone who isn’t Uncle Wayne. The feeling bursts through him, a supernova of light that has him leaning precariously over the back of the couch to yank Steve’s hands off of his face so he can stare into his wide, startled, beautiful eyes, as he asks, “do you really?”
Before Steve even has a chance to answer, Eddie’s leaned too far and toppled off of the couch, sending them both sprawling into the carpet. His elbow smacks into the ground and he doesn’t even care, too busy crawling onto Steve’s supine form and kissing anywhere he can reach. “Really, Stevie?” he asks between each press of lips. “Do you?”
“Yes?” Steve replies, sounding so unsure that Eddie can’t help what he does next.
For the first time, Eddie presses his lips into Steve’s and takes what he’s wanted all along: everything Steve will give him.
***
Steve’s head aches dully from where it smacked against the floor, but he doesn’t care. Eddie’s lips are soft against his. Steve lays on the Munson’s dirty carpet, unmoving with shock as Eddie presses gentle kiss after gentle kiss into Steve’s unresponsive lips. His eyes are open as he stares up at the shadows Eddie’s lashes create on his cheeks, elongated in the dim slanting light filtering across him from the floor ramp in the corner of the living room.
There’s a dreamy quality to Steve’s thoughts as they tumble around his brain—he’s already mourning the moment he wakes up.
It feels like dying when Eddie pulls back, eyes open now, and mouth frowning down at him. “Sorry, did I misread that?” he asks, squinting down at Steve. “It’s just, you said—and I thought—shit, I’m sorry!”
It’s as Eddie starts to get up, scrambling out of his lap like it’s radioactive, that Steve begins to realize that he’s in the Munson’s living room, awake and aflame with an aching want as the man he loves clambers off of him because Steve didn’t kiss him back.
He didn’t kiss him back.
“No!” Steve cries, too loud in the quiet of the room, arms reaching behind Eddie’s back and yanking him down. Eddie’s bony hips bite into his skin, but Steve doesn’t care. “No, you didn’t—just, what’s happening, man?”
Eddie stops trying to escape, palms big and sure against Steve’s chest as he props himself up, squinting down at Steve in blatant confusion. “Well, first you said you loved me,” Eddie replies, tapping one of his fingers against Steve’s sternum like he’s counting out the order of events for him. “I said it, too, and then you didn’t kiss me back, so I’m lost here… man.”
Eddie’s mouth twists wryly as he tacks on the last word, mockingly amused by Steve the way he always is. Steve notices the smile, he notices everything about Eddie, but his mind’s too caught on Eddie’s words to appreciate it.
“You didn’t,” Steve replies, something unrecognizable in his voice—wonder, maybe. Awe. Eddie’s got a little confused furrow between his brows, so Steve reaches out to smooth it out. “You love me?”
Eddie’s eyes blow wide, brows going up until his forehead’s all crinkled up. “I didn’t?” It’s a question, but Eddie’s already nodding before Steve gets a chance to answer, sharp enough to knock Steve’s hand off from between his eyes. Steve trails it down, settling fingertips lightly against Eddie’s cheekbone, thumb rubbing reverently against his jawline.
Eddie leans forward, fingers trailing up over his chest, over his neck, big hands cupping the expanse of both Steve’s cheeks as he leans down, close enough that all Steve can see is the dark brown expanses of Eddie’s eyes.
“Steve Harrington,” he says, voice solemn. Steve’s gaze flickers back and forth, trying to read every little thought that flits behind those beautiful eyes. “I love you.”
Steve sucks in a breath, and it lodges there, somewhere deep in his lungs. The silence hangs between them, charged with enough electricity to restart his heart.
“…man,” Eddie tacks on again, and Steve chokes on a laugh, breath rushing out of him as Eddie grins, every one of his teeth on display.
“You’re the fucking worst,” Steve whispers as he drags Eddie down, any reply he might have gotten trapped between their mouths.
It’s all teeth at first, Eddie laughing into the kiss until Steve sucks Eddie’s bottom lip into his mouth and bites down hard enough to make him gasp. Steve takes the invitation that’s given, swiping his tongue shallowly into Eddie’s panting mouth just to listen to him whine.
The sound activates something in Steve—something dark that just wants to take. Steve shoves at Eddie’s shoulder hard enough to knock him off Steve’s lap and onto his side on the carpet. He keeps shoving until Eddie’s on his back, pupils blown, hair in a fucked up halo around his head as he looks up at Steve reverently, as if he’s the one that’s divine.
He wastes no time crawling over Eddie’s body, pushing at his knees until his legs are spread wide, kept open by Steve’s weight settling between them.
Eddie, always easy, is already gasping and writhing beneath him, humping up against Steve erratically, desperately trying to get any pressure against the bulge in his jeans. Steve leans back far enough that he can press his forearm into Eddie’s hips, hard enough to still his movements.
Eddie whines, bucking against his hold. Steve waits, watching his needy face twist into something torturous as Eddie realizes that Steve’s not budging. His eyes are scrunched closed hard enough that stars must be bursting beneath his lids. Winded and petulant, finally, Eddie stills.
Steve doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, until Eddie opens his eyes, lashes wet as he looks up at Steve. He opens his mouth to speak, but clicks it back shut when Steve digs his fingernails gently into Eddie’s hip.
“The fucking worst,” Steve says again.
Eddie swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement. Steve wants to tip Eddie’s chin up, bite against that spot, suck on it until Eddie begs him to stop.
But then Steve flicks his eyes back up at Eddie’s face, and he gets caught on his lips. His mouth’s slick with spit, bottom lip plumped from Steve sucking on it. When Eddie’s tongue darts out and wets them further, Steve’s lost.
He’s powerless to resist removing his hold from Eddie’s hips, letting their bodies slide back together so he can kiss Eddie’s wanting mouth. Eddie writhes against him again, hips rabbiting up. Steve wants to press him back into the carpet, keep his stupid fucking handcuff belt from clacking with his movements, but he can’t bring himself to stop kissing Eddie’s lips long enough to achieve it.
He settles for delving into Eddie’s mouth with his tongue, shoving it far enough back that Eddie chokes on it. He goes slack beneath him, mouth open wide, practically begging Steve to go deeper. He can feel Eddie’s erratic heartbeat from where his hand is cradling his neck, thumb pressed hard into his pulse point.
Only when he feels like he’s about to pass out does Steve leans back far enough to catch his breath. They’re both panting into each other’s open mouths. There’s a tremor running through Eddie’s entire body as he gazes up at Steve, eyes half mast.
“Steve,” he pleads, asking for something with just his eyes.
Steve rubs his neck, soothing him like a lame horse as he asks, “what do you need, baby?”
Eddie’s eyes shut, and he shudders as the term of endearment leaves Steve’s mouth. Steve keeps rubbing his skin, smoothing over acne scars and freckles alike as he waits for Eddie’s brain to come back online.
He opens his eyes, pupils blown all to shit as he looks up at Steve, still silent, still begging.
“What do you need?” Steve asks again.
Eddie swallows, cheeks darkening from a lustful pink to a painful-looking red as he finally, blessedly answers. “In my mouth?” he asks. When all Steve does is continue to rub his neck, he clarifies, blush traveling from the apples of his cheeks all the way to his ears. “Your dick in my—in my mouth.”
Steve leans down to kiss his cheek, the blood pooling beneath Eddie’s skin warm against his lips. “Anything you want,” Steve murmurs against his skin. “Thank you for telling me.”
Eddie shudders, dick twitching against Steve’s from the confines of his pants, but he doesn’t otherwise move as he waits to find out what Steve will do.
What he does is scramble back, too far gone to play it cool any longer as he shoves his sweatpants down just far enough that his painfully hard cock springs free. At the sight of Steve bared before him, Eddie bucks against him again, trying to knock him off. Steve sits down hard, settling his full weight on Eddie, pinning him to the carpet.
Eddie melts, stilling as he looks up at Steve like he’s something precious. It hits Steve straight in the sternum, that look—lust intertwined so inexorably with love that Steve can’t figure out where one ends and the other begins.
No one’s ever looked at him that way before.
Eddie waits beneath him, suddenly a font of patience as he waits for Steve to rise above the tide of emotion, cock still hard in the warm air of the Munson’s living room. The tide swallows him up—Steve lets it, nothing but love in his voice as he grabs his hard length, scoots up Eddie’s supine form, and nudges at his chin until his mouth drops open, warm breaths puffing against where he’s most sensitive.
“Open up,” Steve murmurs, hand moving from his chin, caressing up to his smooth cheek as he slides into Eddie’s warm, open heat.
***
Steve’s weight is pinning Eddie down into the carpet, hand firm enough against his face that no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get more than the tip of Steve’s dick into his mouth. He’d lost all sense of time somewhere between Steve telling Eddie he loved him and sliding himself into Eddie, but it feels like hours have passed with Steve shallowly thrusting into his mouth.
Eddie sucks on the head, trying to get a little more, aching to be filled. He whines when Steve pulls back out, pace unhurried as his thighs flex against Eddie’s ribs, barely pressing himself back inside. Eddie moans, low enough in his throat that his tongue vibrates against the head of Steve’s dick. Steve jerks, thrusts in deeper with a grunt.
Steve’s cock’s deep enough that he’s choking on it, mind blank as he gasps for air. “Fuck, your mouth,” Steve mutters as he shifts back, almost pulling himself free entirely.
That’s the idea, Eddie tries to say, words coming out unintelligibly garbled around Steve’s length. The vibrations must feel good because Steve thrusts in again, harder this time, head barely breaching the back of his throat. Eddie whines, scrabbling unseeingly for Steve’s hips, trying to keep him there, so deep that Eddie’s lips are pressed against his pubes.
It doesn’t work, Eddie’s grip is too weak to stop Steve from pulling back as Eddie cries futilely on his cock. But this time, while Eddie sucks hard at the head of Steve’s dick, he thrusts in again, fast enough that it almost hurts.
He does it again. And again. And again, until Eddie’s hands go lax, lost to the sensations playing against his tongue. He swirls it around Steve’s shaft, memorizing the musky taste of his warm skin, senses overwhelmed as he loses all sense of reality.
Steve’s all-consuming, eating up Eddie’s remaining higher brain functions until he can only think in monosyllabic words like more, and fuck, and come. He’s harder than he’s been in his life, dick painfully pressed into the confines of his still-buttoned jeans as he humps up into the air, desperate.
Steve shifts his hand from Eddie’s cheek and into his hair, gripping his tangled tresses to yank his head up, craning his neck uncomfortably as he pushes himself impossibly deeper. Eddie gags, jaw straining around the girth of Steve’s cock, light headed from oxygen deprivation.
Steve pulls out, letting go of the hold on his hair suddenly enough that Eddie’s head thunks into the carpet, eyes staring unseeingly up at the ceiling until Steve’s own worried face blocks it out.
“You okay?” he asks, hands brushing gently against his cheeks, trailing over his neck and down beneath the collar of his shirt like he’s looking for wounds.
“Why’d you stop?” Eddie asks, the sound of his own gravely voice sending another wave of lust through him that has his hips twitching, neck straining to get Steve back in his mouth. “Please, please, please.”
“You’re crying, baby,” Steve whispers, hands still too soft against him.
Eddie blinks, only then noticing the burn of his eyes, the way his eyelashes are clumping together. “Want it,” Eddie begs, voice fucked. “Please.”
Steve stares at him for another endless second, unblinking. Eddie watches something unfathomable shift behind Steve’s eyes, understanding dawning into something darker, as Steve scrambles back just enough that he can lick the tacky tears off of Eddie’s cheeks and out of his lashes once Eddie closes his eyes.
Then Steve’s tongue is back in Eddie’s mouth, wetter than before like Steve had let saliva pool in the back of his throat before feeding it to him. His tongue fucks into his mouth, licking so far into him that he must be able to taste his own precome at the back of Eddie’s throat. Steve doesn’t stop when Eddie chokes. Eddie wants more.
As if hearing his thoughts, Steve pulls back, ignoring Eddie’s bereft whining as he straddles his ribs again, sure fingers gathering up Eddie’s hair tenderly at the back of his skull before clenching his fist, pulling against the hair follicles hard enough that Eddie’s eyes start watering.
Steve doesn’t hesitate this time as he fucks into Eddie’s mouth, yanking Eddie’s face up and down in time with his thrusts, using him for his own satisfaction.
He’s never been more turned on in his life.
His own hips are twitching, desperate for anything as Steve thrusts again, and again, and again, forcing Eddie to take what he’s given.
As Steve’s thrusts grow sloppy, he lowers Eddie’s head to the carpet, letting go of his hair entirely to grind himself against Eddie’s face. He’s deeper than he’s ever been, the entire head of his cock in Eddie’s throat, devolving into a dirty grind, barely thrusting like he can’t bear to part from the warm clutch of Eddie’s body even for a second.
Eddie’s so lightheaded that spots are bursting behind his eyes, and his throats convulsing as he gags against the intrusion.
It’s loud in the quiet of the living room, the dirty wet sound of Steve’s cock pushing itself into Eddie’s throat, forcing him to take all that he has to give until he’s gagging, that sound somehow just as wet, just as lewd. Eddie can’t hear anything else, ears muffled by the press of Steve’s thighs against his ears.
His brain’s gone numb, oxygen deprived and fucked stupid as Steve, takes, and takes, and takes until Eddie’s crying with it.
Steve doesn’t stop—Eddie doesn’t want him to. He’s hardly been touched, and yet he damn-near feels like he might come just from the musty taste on his tongue.
He wants to die with Steve Harrington’s cock down his throat.
But when Steve’s dick starts twitching, he pulls it out, ignoring Eddie’s begging as he strips it, tip close enough to Eddie’s mouth that he can almost taste it. He opens his mouth, ravenous for anything Steve will give him.
“Please,” Eddie asks, and like that’s all he’d been waiting for, Steve’s cock pulses and spills, creamy white liquid painting itself all over Eddie’s face.
He milks himself through it, waiting until every drop has been spilled before he lets go of his spent cock and uses his fingers to spread the mess around Eddie’s face, scooping up come and tears alike and feeding them into Eddie’s panting, open mouth.
Eddie closes his mouth around the intrusion and sucks.
“What do you need?”
***
Eddie’s sucking on his fingers, eyes closed, tongue sliding sensually between them like he can’t bear to miss a drop of the come Steve had fed into his mouth. Steve’s soft cock gives a valiant twitch where it’s drooping between his legs. If he hadn’t just come harder than he had in his entire life, this would be enough to send him over the edge.
“Eddie,” Steve says, pulling his fingers free and using both hands to grab Eddie’s sticky cheeks, waiting until his hazy eyes open to ask again, “what do you need?”
Eddie’s twitching beneath him, hips rolling like all he wants is to fuck something, but when he finally speaks, he says, “fuck me,” with enough need that it comes out as a command.
Steve’s dick twitches again before slumping pitifully back into itself.
“I just came,” Steve says, feeling orgasm dumb and almost as desperate as Eddie. Eddie closes his eyes again, sniffs like he’s going to fucking cry, he’s so horny. Steve pets at his cheek, suddenly desperate to give him anything he wants.
Steve tucks himself back into his sweats, sliding off Eddie, entire body shaky as he kneels between his raised knees, hands trembling against the handcuff clasp of his belt. The handcuffs clacking against each other is loud as it echoes through the room. “This fucking belt,” Steve mutters, fingers fumbling to get it open. “So fucking loud over the phone, Eddie, you have no fucking idea.”
Eddie groans, hips twitching, making undoing said belt even harder, but when Steve’s gaze snaps up, Eddie’s mouth is hanging open, lips still covered in Steve’s own spend. He stares, gobsmacked by the sight of him once more—the mess he’s made of him. But, when Eddie’s hips twitch again, Steve trails his gaze back down, flicking his wrist just right to unclasp the stupid belt.
“Do you know how fucking crazy it made me,” Steve demands, belt clacking loudly as he shoves it out of the way, fingers shaking against the button of his jeans.
“You’re one to talk,” Eddie replies, voice gravelly and wrecked. Steve wants to pour honey down his throat, soothe the ache before fucking that rasp right back into his mouth all over again. “Those fucking sweatpants, Harrington?”
Steve looks down at his own sweatpants, perplexed. They’re stained with grease on one of his hips, and loose enough to be unflattering. “What—”
“You look so soft,” Eddie cuts in, “want to slide my hand into your pants while you make fucking breakfast.”
The image hits Steve in the chest—him at the stove, Eddie behind him, chin hooked over his shoulder peering into the pan as he slips his hand beneath the waistband of Steve’s sweats, stroking him as he scrambles their eggs.
“Fuck,” Steve says, desperate as he flicks the button on Eddie’s jeans open, yanking them and Eddie’s underwear down together.
Eddie’s dick’s harder than Steve’s ever seen it, tip purple and already leaking like just Steve looking at it is almost enough to send him over the edge. It looks damn-near painful, pointing directly up at the ceiling, waiting for Steve to touch it.
“That’s the idea,” Eddie replies, grinning when Steve looks back up at his face.
It takes a second for Steve to place that as an answer to his expletive, and when he does, he bends down, licking one long stripe up Eddie’s cock just to hear him cry before hooking his arms under Eddie’s knees and shoving them up, practically bending Eddie in half as he makes himself at home between Eddie’s legs.
“What are you—” Steve licks over Eddie’s hole, making Eddie’s question trail off into a startled moan.
When no further questions come his way, Steve adjusts, letting go of Eddie’s legs so they settle over his shoulders, and licks at him again, this time with more purpose, wriggling his way inside the tight heat of Eddie’s body as he twitches.
“Holy shit.”
Steve hums in reply, gratified when the vibration makes Eddie’s entire body jolt like he’s been electrocuted. He does it again, worming his tongue in deeper, the fit tight enough to almost hurt.
He pulls back. “No, no, please,” Eddie begs, voice going quiet and breathing turning erratic as Steve spits on his hole once, twice, three times, thumbs pulling him open enough that the saliva sinks into him. “Shit.”
Steve licks into him again, drawing back just far enough to suck at his rim hard until Eddie shouts. Eddie contracts then loosens, Steve sinking his tongue into him, deeper this time. Eddie’s squirming like he’s not sure whether he wants to move closer or twitch away in overstimulation. Steve doesn’t give him a choice, uses one arm to hold against Eddie’s bent thighs, pressing him into the carpet to keep him still.
His other hand finds its way between them, pointer finger pushing into Eddie’s hole, skin tugging against skin until Steve spits into him and sinks it in smoothly past the first knuckle. Eddie shouts again, entire body vibrating as Steve fucks into him with his finger, torturously slow.
“Good?” Steve asks, finger never stopping its movement as he leans back to survey his spoils. Eddie’s dicks even harder now, and he’s writhing, head shaking back and forth, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open as he pants for breath. “Eddie?”
When he still doesn’t answer, Steve stills his finger where it’s still stuffed inside Eddie’s body, watching as his whole face crumples in on itself. “Eddie,” Steve says again, voice commanding enough that Eddie opens his eyes, tears clinging to his lashes as he peers down at Steve between his legs, gaze hazy and unfocused. “Still good?”
Eddie nods hard enough that his neck cracks. “Don’t stop,” he begs.
Steve doesn’t have to be told twice. He moves his finger again, thrusting with more force as he leans back down, licking around the intrusion with enough pressure that his tongue sinks in right alongside it.
He adds his middle finger, licking between them as he pushes them in deep and then curls them, finding the spot inside Eddie’s body that makes him beg to stop, beg for more, cry for anything.
Eddie’s been hard since before he got Steve’s cock in his mouth, long before Steve had begun finger fucking him in earnest, so he’s not surprised when it only takes a few more thrusts at that spot inside him for Eddie to smack his shoulder hard in warning.
“Steve, Steve, I’m gonna—”
Steve fucks in his fingers harder, hand cramping as he pounds into Eddie’s body even as he clenches around him, mouth suctioning at the side of his rim as he fucks Eddie through it. He keeps it up as Eddie’s legs settle more firmly against Steve, hand dropping bonelessly to the carpet, body going pliant around Steve’s breaching fingers.
Steve leans back, gently removing his fingers and easing Eddie’s boneless legs to the floor. When Steve finally catches sight of his cock, he groans at the sight of the mess Eddie’s made. It’s in his pubes, on his shirt, pooling on his own fucking neck.
He lays over Eddie’s lax body, uncaring of the mess he’s making of his own clothes as he scoops some of the come from Eddie’s neck and slips it into Eddie’s open mouth, waiting for him to suck it clean from his fingers before pulling it free.
He presses his lips to Eddie’s, absurdly gentle for the debauchery now covering Eddie. Steve doesn’t care, so full of love he’s fit to burst. Eddie kisses him back, just as soft, opening up for Steve like a sunflower toward the light.
Steve keeps kissing him, never wants to stop even as his lungs constrict with the need to breathe. When he finally is forced to pull back for air, he keeps his forehead pressed to Eddie’s breathing in the same air that Eddie’s panting out.
They stay like that for a long time.
Eddie’s pliant when Steve finally pulls him up off the floor, and ushers him into the bathroom. He’s quiet when Steve strips him down, pushing him into the shower to clean them both up with soft hands, Eddie half-asleep against his shoulder.
Steve dries him off and brushes his hair while he’s seated on the toilet seat, eyes closed. Eddie leans into each touch like a cat being stroked, soft even in the fluorescent lights of the Munson’s small bathroom.
“C’mon, baby,” Steve murmurs, pulling him to standing and wrapping a towel around him before leading him through the dark trailer and into his own bedroom.
He digs through Eddie’s discarded clothes until he finds them both clean boxers to change into. Steve ignores Eddie’s little questioning hum as he leaves the bedroom to fetch a glass of water, coming back as quickly as he can.
Eddie’s still standing where he left him, at the foot of the bed, eyes trained on the door. But, when Steve hands him the water, he drinks, wincing as the cold water hits his throat. It must hurt, but he drinks it down.
Steve takes the empty cup back, leaving it on the desk to tuck them both into Eddie’s cold bed, warming his sheets up with their combined body heat.
Steve doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s dark, and there’s sleep pulling at him, made more appealing by the warmth of Eddie’s body beneath his hands, heads sharing the same pillow.
“Did you mean it?” Steve whispers, can’t help it with Eddie warm and pliant beside him. “You weren’t just horny?”
Eddie’s eyes are soft in the light filtering in from the window, mouth quirked in amusement as he replies, “I’m always horny.” His hands are gentle as he caresses Steve’s eyebrow, cheekbone, jaw. “But I meant it.” Steve waits, breathless and hopeful for Eddie to say it again.
“I love you.”
Steve tucks his face into Eddie’s neck, kissing the skin he finds there. “Love you, too.”
Eddie’s arms wrap around him, pulling him impossibly closer, hidden away in the safe haven of Eddie’s bedroom, swaddled in worn-soft sheets.
***
For once, Steve’s still in bed when Eddie wakes up. His arm’s slung around Eddie’s waist, a warm brand pushing him into the mattress, and their legs are tangled between them, knees pressed against one another. It’s warm, cozy where the trailer’s usually chilly on a winter morning.
Steve’s head is on the same pillow as Eddie’s, close enough that he can count every one of his eyelashes, breath puffing gently against Eddie’s cheek. He stares at him bathed in the morning light filtering in through his closed curtains, breathless.
He wants to reach out, touch him softly. It takes him a minute to remember that he can.
Steve groans when Eddie’s hand cups his cheek, a small disgruntled sound as he scrunches up his nose in his sleep. Eddie soothes at his jaw with his thumb, enamored. It takes a few brushes against his skin for Steve’s eyes to blink open, still hazy, barely awake.
When he catches sight of Eddie, he smiles like it’s a reflex, small and sleepy. Eddie leans forward, breaching the scant inches separating them to press his lips to Steve’s gently, mouth open and wet. Steve hums and kisses back, lips just as soft.
It takes a few long moments for Eddie to get his fill and lean back, heart constricting in his chest with the breadth of his feelings when he catches sight of the little smile still on Steve’s face.
“Your mouth tastes like ass,” he says, still smiling all soft and warm even as Eddie sputters.
“Your mouth tastes like ass,” Eddie retorts, jabbing him in the chest when all he does is laugh, voice still sleep-rough. “After all, it wasn’t me who…”
When he trails off, Steve’s grin sharpens, grows fangs as he leans closer to Eddie, their noses brushing as he continues where Eddie left off. “Had a tongue up someone’s asshole.”
He moves reflexively, shoving Steve hard enough to send him tumbling off the edge of the bed, disappearing from sight. He stares at the now-vacant spot beside him for a long moment before scrambling forward on the mattress, peering over the edge. Steve’s splayed out on the carpet, half in a pile of Eddie’s dirty laundry, eyes wide as he stares up at Eddie.
“Shit, sorry, I panicked!” Eddie cries, reaching down toward Steve’s prone body to help him up.
Steve’s fingers wrap around his wrist and he yanks, sending Eddie tumbling off the bed right after him, landing half on top of him as he cackles.
“What the fuck?” Eddie asks, but Steve’s got his arms wrapped around him again, pulling him into his bare chest, and it’s hard to maintain any level of disgruntlement with all that bodily contact.
“Sorry, baby,” he soothes, fingers brushing through Eddie’s hair until he melts into him fully, letting his head settle in the crook of Steve’s neck. “Just wanted you close to me.”
Eddie huffs, but kisses the warm skin beneath his lips. “Smooth talker,” he mutters like it’s a complaint, and not the main reason they’d even gotten this far. If it wasn’t for Steve and his smooth fucking words, Eddie would’ve never moved past cheesy pick-up lines and desperately frequent phone calls.
Before Eddie can think of something suitably clever to say, there’s a knock on Eddie’s closed bedroom door, and Wayne calls, “boys, breakfast.”
“Coming!” Eddie calls back, even as Steve goes stiff and unyielding beneath him. He plants his hands on Steve’s pectorals, levering himself up enough to peer down into Steve’s spooked face. “You okay?”
Steve swallows, throat clicking dryly as he nods unconvincingly. Eddie stares him down, waiting for the truth to spill out of his stupid, perfect lips. “What if he doesn’t like me?” Steve blurts, face immediately pinking as Eddie stares down at him, gobsmacked.
“Wayne?” Eddie demands, sitting up so he can get a better look at Steve’s expression, knees bracketing his hips. “He loves you.”
“But that was before,” Steve replies, leaning up on his bent elbows, forearms straining beneath his weight as he tilts closer to Eddie, whispering like he’s afraid Wayne’s got his ear pressed up against the door. “Before we started dating.”
Eddie can’t help the way he grins when that word leaves Steve’s mouth. It’s just—love is one thing, but dating? Dating implies things that Eddie’s been trying desperately not to want. It’s dinner together, and holding hands covertly at the movies, and parking up at the quarry to look at the stars.
There are actions involved in dating, a future laid out before him if only he’s brave enough to grasp it. Eddie bends his neck down, pressing one quick kiss to Steve’s cheek, afraid that if he goes for the lips, they won’t emerge from this room until breakfast has long since gone cold.
Steve stays on the ground as Eddie jumps up, invigorated, and begins rifling through his drawers for suitable clothing. He pulls on his own change of clothes first, taking the time to pull on jeans and his belt now that he knows it drives Steve crazy.
“Hate to break it to you, Stevie,” Eddie says, throwing a clean shirt toward him with enough accuracy that it blankets his face entirely, “but Wayne definitely already thought we were dating.”
He throws a pair of sweats at him too and saunters out of the room, closing the door on the sound of Steve’s sputtering.
He hits the head, and by the time he leaves the bathroom, Steve’s already sitting at the table, looking sleep-rumpled and warm as he talks with Wayne.
“—stay here much more, and I’ll have half a mind to charge ya rent,” Wayne’s saying as Eddie slides into his seat at the table.
Steve’s smiling as he reaches out, linking his fingers with Eddie’s beneath the table before settling it on the top, for all the world to see. “I can live with that,” he says, squeezing Eddie’s hand, eyes twinkling blindingly at him.
Eddie blushes, and looks down at his plate, already piled with fluffy pancakes. He eats with his left hand, still clutching Steve’s with his right, getting syrup all over in his hair, but it’s worth it for the way Steve’s thumb keeps rubbing against his own.
Wayne doesn't comment, but Eddie catches him eyeing their hands, something parental and pleased in the way he asks Steve about who he’s rooting for in the latest sportsball tournament.
He never lets go of Eddie’s hand.
The phone doesn’t ring until they’re standing side by side at the sink, Eddie washing as Steve dries, the water running cold thanks to Wayne’s morning shower. He hands the plate he’s working on over to Steve and grabs the receiver with soapy hands.
“Yello,” Eddie says, looking over at Steve just to watch him roll his eyes.
“He better be with you,” Robin’s stern voice crackles down the line. “Because no one’s answering at his house, and if he went off to die in the woods or something because you broke his heart—”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Eddie interrupts, unsurprised when Robin talks right over him.
“—I’ll never forgive you, Eddie Munson.”
He waits just long enough to make sure she’s done berating him before turning to Steve, “it’s for you, dear.”
Steve sets the plate he was drying on the rack, and takes the phone from Eddie’s hands.
“Robin?” he asks, somehow so in-tune with his long lost younger twin that he knows it's her even before she’s spoken. Eddie loves them both so fucking much.
As he goes to finish the dishes alone, he keeps an ear open to Steve’s side of the conversation.
“Sorry, Bobby, I got distracted.” Eddie grins, movements slow as he washes the soap off a mug, unwilling to miss any of the conversation that he can catch. “Yeah, yeah, you were right,” Steve says, sounding exasperated before he drops his voice even lower. But, Steve’s always been a shit whisperer, and Eddie still hears it. “He does like me.”
Eddie grins as he dries the last mug before turning around, bracing his back against the counter as he watches Steve speak to his best friend. He looks soft in Eddie’s borrowed sweatpants, hair going every which way after he’d gone to sleep with it still wet last night.
Eddie wants to keep him forever. And, as Steve hangs up the phone and pushes into Eddie’s space like he belongs there, it hits him suddenly that he might get to. Maybe, if Eddie’s really lucky, Steve might even want him to.
“I’ve gotta head to work soon,” Steve murmurs, crowding Eddie into the cupboard and pressing their lips together gently. “But, I’ll see you later?”
For the first time since this whole thing started, he sounds nervous. Hopeful, like there’s any chance at all of Eddie declining. “Whenever you want,” Eddie replies, cupping his face and staring into his eyes. “Any time, any place, I’m yours, baby.”
Steve beams, happy and in love, as he leans forward to press one final kiss against Eddie’s lips, and then he’s gone.
He buzzes for the rest of the day, always on the cusp of rushing out the door to surprise Steve during his shift. But, if calling too soon after the first date is taboo, turning up at their place of work is even worse. What’s the protocol if you’ve been having sex for months and only just put a label on it?
Their usual call system has presumably gone to shit. Steve hadn’t mentioned it, and Eddie was too nervous to ask. They’re dating now, all the previous rules of their relationship overwritten, no matter how he’ll miss Steve every night at eight p.m., the association baked straight into his DNA.
But, Steve hadn’t asked him to call, and Eddie doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, so he sits, and he stews, and he waits to hear from Steve, hoping “later” actually translates to “soon.”
Eddie already misses him.
Still, he’s hovering by the phone as the hour hand on the clock creeks closer and closer to eight. He’s not going to call. He won’t. But just as the hand ticks over, the phone rings.
Eddie rushes to answer, fingers fumbling enough that he drops the receiver and has to dive for it, cracking his knees on the ground. He barely notices the pain as he presses the phone to the side of his face, buzzing with a sickening mix of desperation and excitement.
“Hello?” he says, embarrassingly breathless as he waits for something besides static to crackle down the line.
“What are you wearing?” Steve asks, voice suggestive and sly.
Eddie grins.