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Steve tells himself this is just another party—and then the door opens to the blasting sound of Boys Don’t Cry, and he knows he’s lying to himself.
The porch is all mismatched pumpkins; triangles for eyes, one with fangs carved too deep so the top tooth dangles by a thread of rind. The yard skeleton wears a pirate hat and a feather boa. Someone’s nailed black plastic bats along the siding so they look like they’re escaping the house in a diagonal burst.
“Last Hawkins Halloween together,” Robin says, all glittered and smug. She’s some kind of disco vampire—silver pants, cape, plastic fangs that lisp her consonants. She yanks Steve into a hug that smears sparkles across his cheekbone and then does the same to Eddie. “You two be kind to my reputation and only cause a medium amount of trouble.”
“Medium trouble’s our brand,” Eddie quips.
He’s wearing a black button-up with tiny, embroidered orange stars and a cheap velvet waistcoat like a costume shop magician. But he makes it look good, Steve thinks. The healed scars on his neck flash pale when he laughs, and Steve can’t help it—his hand goes there in his head, phantom touch over topography the way you’d trace routes on a map.
It’s almost funny how careful he’s gotten with a thing as simple as looking. Like he can thread the needle without sewing the project, glance enough to feed whatever animal inside him keeps baying Eddie’s name without letting it spill into the air where anyone can hear.
He’s good at this.
He’s been good at pretending he’s fine since he was sixteen.
Inside, the house blows party from every vent. Kitchen tile sticky under foot. Counter crowded with a cauldron of punch that glows electric red, floating with ring-shaped ice studded with gummy worms. There’s a tray of cupcakes piled high with black frosting—after the first Steve’s tongue will look like he licked a chimney.
People he half knows are trying on new faces for the night. A Frankenstein in an ill-fitting blazer. A witch who’s just wearing her regular clothes and a hat. The air smells like candle wax and caramel apples, and something about that is deeply nostalgic.
“Drink?” Robin offers, already ladling punch into solo cups. “It’s mostly fruit juice, I think.” She sips from one of the lips, then her eyes go round. "Wow—just kidding. This is mostly vodka."
“Perfect,” Steve says. He lifts the cup to Eddie in a dumb little toast—see you, see you, I see you—and Eddie taps his to Steve’s like they’ve rehearsed it.
They have a script, apparently. They split off, they orbit, they return. Every time Steve drifts, he slings himself back along some line he can’t see but feels tug at his ribs.
He gets cornered by an ex-teammate who wants to talk about shoulder injuries and lawn mowers, and he nods, smiles, thinks about how Eddie tilted his head earlier to hear Robin over the music, how the cheap bar light caught the silver hoop in his ear. He laughs at a joke he doesn’t actually catch, lets himself slide sideways until he can see the top of Eddie’s head over a cluster of costumes.
Florida keeps elbowing its way into the room like an unwanted guest. Florida, which is a long journey south ending in water, and Wayne, who keeps saying it’s time to be near the ocean and away from the reminders, and the envelope of money like a gag in the mouth of what really happened—the government’s quiet apology stapled to a 'no comment'.
Eddie’s been rolling the coins of the future across his knuckles. New job prospects, a rental with a balcony, the way Wayne speaks about fishing in the mornings.
Steve says all the right words about all that sunshine and the excitement of fresh starts, and every time he says them he hears a door click shut.
So he drinks.
The room moves in on him. The Cure bleeds into Siouxsie, bleeds into Oingo Boingo, bleeds into the one Robin always insists on because “it’s objectively hilarious to dance to a song about dead men on Halloween.” Someone has replaced one of the lightbulbs with a blacklight; Steve’s teeth look ridiculous, his cup glowing just enough to remind him to keep drinking. A guy in a werewolf mask tries to bob for apples, sloshes water down the front of his shirt, howls.
Steve takes another drink and he laughs, and that's how he knows the alcohol is doing its job.
“Come on,” Eddie says, suddenly at his elbow, and Steve goes before he can ask where. He’s on a leash he keeps pretending he doesn’t feel tied around his neck.
They push into the living room where that fog machine has turned the space into low slung clouds. String lights drape the curtain rods like constellations choosing new shapes for the night—almost ike that one time Eddie poked at Steve's shoulder blade and said he had his own galaxy back there.
“What’s your dance policy?” Eddie asks. He’s smiling wide, which is never a great sign.
Steve has learned that Eddie’s grin is a two-stage rocket: it lifts things off, and then it carries them farther than Steve ever intends to go.
“My policy is... I'd look amazing,” Steve says, because he already does. He’s in a thrifted bomber with patches all over it. A t-shirt, and light jeans, and the brown boots he likes to keep clean. He’s got enough punch in him to believe that he looks more like Maverick than even Tom Cruise.
“Prove it.” Eddie winks, and then they’re moving.
At first, it’s the silly kind of dance one does while talking—loose knees, wide gestures, deliberately stupid. A sarcastic shimmy to Bowie. Eddie leans back into a faux dip and almost goes over, but Steve catches him by the waist, palm landing right over the warm seam between shirt and vest. The touch glues like a sticker. Eddie laughs up at him, hair frizzing at the temples where the heat has dampened it.
“Careful.”
Steve doesn’t let go immediately. And Eddie doesn’t seem interested in being let go. There’s a beat where the room falls away, and the light throws a halo across Eddie’s cheekbones, and every glass in the house might as well be ringing wit fork taps.
The next song slows—not a ballad, but slower than the jokey stuff, and somehow that’s worse. Or better.
Steve feels the gravity shift.
They move closer because the music asks them to. The string lights reflect in Eddie’s eyes as if there are tiny bonfires caught within them. Steve’s hand drifts—shoulder, bicep, down to the forearm where he can feel tendon under skin. He thinks about how he’s always reaching for this man, in small socially acceptable ways—handing him a beer, steering him through a doorway, squeezing a shoulder to say “you good?”—and how Eddie always reaches back.
“Florida,” Steve mumbles, because his brain is a jukebox with a single jammed track. “You excited?”
“Excited." Eddie sounds like he means to say scared. He tips his face close to be heard and his breath is warm where it touches the curve of Steve’s ear. “Can you imagine me in a Hawaiian shirt? I’ll combust.”
“I can imagine you in anything,” Steve says, and laughs too fast over the end of it, as if he’s made a joke, yet Eddie’s brows lift like he heard the part Steve tried to disguise.
The music keeps playing. Steve keeps touching. And the lights keep swirling in his vision, motion turning streaky like his eyes can't keep up with the real world's speed.
Robin materializes and disappears twice, each time depositing a new rumour or snack or shot, and then slipping away. And there's Nancy, who waves from the hallway, so calm, after finally deciding to let herself be kind to the woman in the mirror.
The party swells and empties in pockets, and Steve learns quickly that the leash that tethers him and pulls him from the inside is attached to Eddie on the other end. He moves, Steve follows.
They take turns wearing that dumb pirate hat. Eddie bows to the skeleton and waltzes it across the rug until someone applauds, and then they drink more, and Steve decides to taste that frosting that’s so black it stains his lips.
Eddie points it out with gleeful horror, and then drags his thumb across Steve’s mouth to prove it. The thumb lingers longer than it needs to, enough that Steve's drunken brain sees it as a neon sign blinking in the dark: this way, this way, this way.
“Let’s get out of here,” Steve hears himself say. It sounds casual when it isn’t.
“Hell yeah.” Eddie tugs on Steve's wrist until they’re in the hallway, grabbing coats, opening the door to the porch where the pumpkins have burned down to nothing but soulless gourds.
Hawkins is still awake in its small town way—with the odd person drunkenly singing on a side street or a trickster throwing toilet paper at a house that didn't give out treats.
Steve’s apartment is a ten-minute stroll if they aren’t hurrying, so they hurry and pretend they aren't.
Their shoulders knock. Steve bumps on purpose to make Eddie bump back. The half-full bottle they stole from the kitchen swings between them like a pendulum.
“Wayne’s excited.” Eddie watches his own boots, the streetlight parsing his hair into gold and shadow. “He doesn't say it all that much, but I can hear it in how he’s talking about the Publix bakery like it’s the gates of heaven.”
“He deserves t'be excited,” Steve slurs. He’s drunk, yeah, but it’s a good drunk—the kind that makes him honest. He reaches for Eddie’s sleeve, tugging it down where it’s bunched at the wrist, smoothing it flat. The motion is stupidly tender. “You do, too.”
Eddie swallows and comes to a brief halt. Then starts walking again, slower.
“You’re gonna make me barf on the sidewalk.”
“Well. Can’t have that.” Steve and Eddie laugh in the same breath, which does not feel like coincidence.
When they arrive to the apartment, the lock sticks and Steve has to hip-check the door, and then the little living room welcomes them with lamplight and a plant he keeps swearing he’ll repot. A ceramic jack-o’-lantern glows feebly on the windowsill with battery operated lights, since Steve knows himself well enough that he'd forget to blow out the real thing. There’s a thrift-store mirror that makes everyone two inches taller. The couch, a soft brown thing with a dip in the middle from how Steve watches movies like it’s cardio.
“Cozy,” Eddie says, turning in a small circle in front of the mirror, checking his smudged makeup and tucking his hair behind his pierced ears.
“Pick your poison." Steve holds up the bottle they liberated—bourbon, low-shelf. He pours it into mismatched glasses. When he hands Eddie his their fingers brush, and if Steve had to describe the look Eddie gives him, he would fail for lack of words, which is new for him. Even in his state.
They sit on the brown couch, and the sunken cushions push them closer together. Not that they sat far to begin with. Far is for people pretending.
The TV is off, so Steve wiggles his phone from his tight jeans pocket, turns Spotify on low to shuffle whatever's on his playlist.
Outside, a car passes; tires on a wet road. It must be raining now, Steve thinks, and he glances out of the balcony doors to see a soft spattering of rain on the landing, forming small puddles.
Inside, they're warm and dry.
The silence lingers like it might be awkward and then decides not to be. Eddie’s eyes are on the jack-o’-lantern a second too long and then on Steve like he changed his mind mid-blink.
The urge arrives not like lightning but like a tide. A steady climb.
Oh.
It’s stupid how clear it is, suddenly. How the night has been one long stretch toward this point and Steve’s just now letting the slack run out of the rope. He thinks of all the reaching. Handing beers. Guiding through doorways. Pulling someone back from the edge of an upside-down world. He thinks of Florida, of glitter on his cheek, of Eddie’s thumb on his mouth. He thinks, If I don’t do this now, the world will be changed in three days and I'll never get to again.
“Eddie." The name lands softer than he intends. Eddie’s gaze snaps to his like a magnet finds metal.
“Yeah?” Eddie whispers back. His shoulders rise and fall like he takes a deep breath, bracing himself.
Steve leans in.
Later, he’ll try to list the before-kiss things—the shift of the couch spring under Eddie’s weight as he moves to meet him, the faint sweetness of the bourbon under the bitter bite, the way Eddie’s hand rises like it’s responding to a signal and lands at the back of Steve’s neck, fingertips hesitating over old scar tissue like it might hurt.
Right now, there’s only the motion and the heat it makes. There’s only the moment where distance converts to contact, and then contact translates into everything they didn’t say at the party, and the startle of relief that floods Steve so fast it almost makes him moan.
Or maybe he does moan. Maybe he moans into Eddie's mouth and is greeted with his own sound in response, a low rumble in Eddie's chest and the clack of his front teeth hitting Steve's.
It's not a mistake. It’s messy, sure—they both smile into it and have to recalibrate. Eddie whimpers and it shortens Steve’s breath. Steve’s glass thumps the table too hard and wobbles because he refuses to break contact—but it’s not wrong. It’s not even a question. Steve has never felt anything so right.
Eddie’s fingers tighten where they're braced; Steve answers at Eddie’s waist, tugging at the tuck of his clothes, thumb under the hem of the lifted shirt, skin on skin.
Eddie trembles and Steve can feel it in his own nerves. The way he vibrates and twitches. The way he seems to want to move closer, but he's just as scared to discover that the moment may be fragile, as perfect as it feels.
But still, the kiss shifts, deepens. Less lips, more tongue. And Steve starts to trace, learn, memorize the inside of Eddie's mouth. How good he tastes, and the exact temperature of his breath, and the smoothness of the gold tooth that sometimes catches the light when he smiles. Only piece of fine jewellery my parents ever got me, he said once, pulling his lip back so Steve could see it in all its glory.
Steve hums, curling his tongue against the memory, the familiar feeling of a tug he hadn't known was directing him here. To this.
Eddie tastes like sugar and smoke. There’s a sound in the room that might be the radiator or might be Steve saying please without realising he’s said it.
They part an inch, breath on breath. Eddie’s eyes are wide and round in the lamplight, pupils black, a little laugh undone on his mouth like he can’t decide whether to be brave or cautious so he's choosing both.
His lips—they're puffy and bitten—fuller looking, if that's even possible. They're the colour of the scars on Steve's stomach, and he thinks about how badly he wants to see them come together. He feels himself hiking up his own shirt, but then pauses. Reaches for Eddie's instead.
“Okay?” Steve asks, voice low, like the apartment might startle.
Eddie nods.
The nod turns into another kiss, or maybe the same one that was just on pause.
The whole night already seems to be blurring together in a hazy way, somehow both slowed and sped up under the influence. Steve's hands are uncoordinated as they pull at Eddie's clothes, but he does get them to work; the vest unbuttoned and the shirt tugged over Eddie's mane, and his waistcoat untied from the back. It all falls to the floor, between the couch and the coffee table.
Steve forces his eyes open to take in the sight so he can remember it properly. Eddie, shirtless, so many more scars than Steve wears himself—but in the same shape. They're the same, in this way. Marked the same, forever, but Eddie's tell a story of survival instead of struggle.
Steve presses his fingers against them, watches Eddie's stomach flutter and crease as he traces the valleys like a walkway. There's a darker mark under Steve's fingertips. Something red, but not raised. A tattoo. But Steve's eyes don't focus long enough to take in the exact shape.
"Ticklish," he teases. And Eddie's smile curls on one side, so he must've actually heard it.
Eddie doesn't answer though. He looks serious, half undressed, beside Steve on the brown couch.
And there's a pressure on Steve's shoulder, the groaning of the springs again. He looks down and realises Eddie's pushing him down, guiding him horizontal until his head hits the throw cushion. His legs pull up too, arranging in a way that Eddie's knees bite into the sofa. One between Steve's thighs, the other near his hip. Like their legs are threaded together: Steve, Eddie, Steve, Eddie.
There's a halo around Eddie's face of frizzy curls that have gone haywire from the humidity; the light catches them from behind, backlights the way he gazes down at Steve. There's a fire in Steve's belly, under Eddie's palms as they smooth his shirt then hike it high. High enough to almost expose his nipples.
Eddie stares down at the panes of his stomach, and how it heaves in laboured gulps of air. He shakes his head, might even say something that Steve doesn't hear or immediately forgets. Because he leans back down, bends himself in half, just to kiss Steve again.
It's even sloppier than before. Steve can't tell if it's intentional or if Eddie has somehow lost motor control, but his tongue is everywhere. Sliding between his lips, flicking against his soft palate, mapping his teeth. And then it's everywhere else, too; a stripe on Steve's chin, against the line of his jaw, even a flick of tongue to the tip of his nose.
Steve's wet.
Steve's wet in places he’s not sure he’s been wet before.
And that's when he realises how hard he is, how hard he's been this whole time, straining against his fly and leaking a dark patch into his light wash denim.
"Fuck. Fuck," he moans, half in shock. But he doesn't know why he should be surprised with how much he wants this. Maybe he just thought it wouldn't happen tonight. Whiskey dick, and all that... but it seems it's going in exactly the opposite direction.
Eddie rubs up Steve's bare torso, down again, fingers catching on his belt. He pauses, one eyebrow arched like a question.
Steve answers by reaching for Eddie's belt, too. Their arms are tangled the same way as their legs now. Steve, Eddie, Steve, Eddie. They work around each other, loosening their jeans, unbuttoning their flies, pulling down their zips that are both too tight.
It's Steve who actually has the confidence to slip his fingers down the front of Eddie's pants, palming at his hard cock over his boxers. They feel damp with sweat and precum. He's glad he's not the only one so excited that he's leaking on himself.
"Ah—Steve." Eddie's ministrations stop cold, his hands bracing on either side of Steve's hips like he might be rocked off the couch otherwise. "Oh, fuck, that's—that's good. That's good."
"Yeah?" Steve does it again, his fingers gripping loosely over Eddie's length, dragging across it and back again. He dares tuck his fingers far enough back that they touch Eddie's sac.
It's too tight to hold them, roll them, squeeze them like Steve wants to.
He makes a frustrated noise and pulls his hand out of Eddie's jeans, drunkenly trying to grip on the waistband and haul them down his ass.
Eddie is still shaking from Steve's touch, but he tries his best to help, momentarily standing from the sofa to shuck his jeans and underwear off in one go.
And then he's just... standing there. Naked. Hard. Lewd. Like the men in Steve's vintage porno mags, but real. Here.
Steve reaches out to help Eddie back onto his lap. He's not aware if his grip is too loose or too tight as his big hands engulf the small curve of Eddie's waist—he's lost all sensibility and he's not entirely sure that's only from the alcohol.
There's a moment where Steve thinks about this dynamic—on his back with Eddie straddling his thighs. Eddie bare naked, Steve still dressed. It all balances itself out. Or maybe it’s Eddie who's the more vulnerable one of them, so Steve takes a moment the shove at his own jeans too, lifting his hips just enough to free his cock and have it slap down on his exposed stomach.
Eddie swallows. Still doesn't touch him and it's starting to drive Steve crazy.
He writhes under Eddie's weight—thinner than Steve, sure, but sturdier than most of the women Steve has been with the same way. It's hard to lift him. Or, rather, harder. Steve still manages to jostle Eddie around enough to watch his prick bob around atop him. Make it tap in the underside of his own cock, a pearly drop falling from his tip, connecting them together.
Steve tries to focus enough to take it all in. What Eddie looks like, the curve of his cock, the colour of it, the pattern of his happy trail, his pink, pierced nipples. But his vision is so fucked up, like his eyes can't stay still in one spot before the room starts spinning again.
Next time he'll be sober, he thinks. Next time he can enjoy this for what it's worth.
But for now, he can still reach and touch and kiss, as messy as all three might be. So he's the first one to do it, again. Fingers flying forward without any coordination, knuckles tapping Eddie's thigh, and then finally, finally, finally hugging them around Eddie's cock.
His skin is scorching. And soft. And—fuck—Eddie's so wet at the tip. Steve can feel his thumb slipping around where he's sopping.
"Jesus Christ." Eddie's thighs jump around as his muscles spasm. "Steve. That's..."
"Good?"
"Fuck yeah, it's good."
Steve nods his head some more as words evade him. They'd be slurred anyway. He squeezes his fist harder, slides it towards his own stomach and then back to the root of Eddie. His balls feel so tight as Steve gets his fingers around them, pulls them taut.
This is the first time Steve's ever had a cock in his hand that isn't his own and it's just so... right. Easy. Not at all weird. And maybe the hottest thing he's ever done.
"Steve." Eddie hunches forward. His stomach flexes and Steve can feel his cock twitch in his palm. "Fuck. I'm—"
"You okay?"
"I'm fucking perfect, it's just... I'm..." Eddie moans as Steve pumps him again, just to feel his smooth skin. "I—I've just... I've never done this before."
Steve smiles crookedly up at Eddie. At least, thinks he's smiling. "Funny, I was just thinking the same thing."
"You were?"
"Yeah. I mean—" Steve licks his lips, lets his gaze fall all over Eddie's nude body and the details of it he wishes he could study properly. Tomorrow, tomorrow. "I've never touched a guy like this. But I think it's good. Don't you?"
"Yeah? I mean, yeah, of course."
"Yeah," Steve whispers. "Just let it feel good." He spreads his hands wide over Eddie. God, they're so large and he's so small, and the hair under his navel is so soft. "Don't overthink it."
Eddie's stomach heaves under Steve's palms, it vibrates as he moans. And then there's hair draping around his face as Eddie leans back down and presses his lips onto Steve's.
Barely a kiss, just tongue and spit, and it makes Steve stomach swoop in an odd way. Makes his prick pulse and drip. Makes his hips grind up into Eddie.
The tip of his dick glides against Eddie's hip, then buries in his pubes. Steve can feel the way they scratch and tickle at his cockhead, and it makes him groan loud around Eddie's tongue.
Eddie meets him with his own little whimpers as his hips slam forward within Steve's grip. His cock slides against the side of Steve's, feels hot even against his already scorching skin. Eddie does it again, like he means to keep fucking himself against Steve, but his dick shoots off sideways, rubbing against the soft swell of his stomach instead.
It all feels good, but Steve needs more, and he needs it fast.
The room is spinning and he's so fucking hard, and he's never been so desperate to cum in his whole life. So he keeps his left hand gripped firmly above Eddie's hipbone, and he moves his right between their legs.
He finds Eddie first. A moan rips from his lips, travels through Steve's as he strokes his cock, lines it up with his own.
With his hand there to guide, they line up flawlessly. Steve pushes Eddie far enough away that he can peer down their bodies as he makes a fist around both their dicks. His vision might be blurry, but he can see that Eddie's cock is petal pink and shiny, and it looks delicious as it pokes from under the circle of his fingers.
"Fuck, look at that," he marvels. He pulls Eddie's hip, hints for him to move. And when Eddie picks up on it—when he thrusts shallowly against Steve's cock within his hand—he sees stars. "Oh my god."
"Steve." Eddie's hand shoots down, clasps over Steve's fingers. He squeezes hard, turns Steve's loose fist into a vice. "Ah—fuck."
"Jesus!" Steve's shoulders lift from the mattress and his jaw swings open. "Oh, shit. Shit."
He's not used to jerking off with such a tight grip. His cock is too sensitive, or maybe he just likes to last longer than 30 seconds.
Normally, if this was a girl, he'd tell her to slack off a bit, be gentle, be good. She doesn't have a cock to know what it's like, after all.
But Eddie does. And his cock is getting squeezed right next to Steve's by the same hand. He likes it this way—and that's enough for Steve to hold his breath and let Eddie's grip strangle all the blood to the head of his dick. Make it so red it looks like it's going to burst.
He pictures Eddie doing this when he's alone, wonders if this is the way he always likes it when he jerks off. Writhing in his bed with nothing but his fist, absolutely stripping his cock of any life it has inside of it. So hard he's like steel, but pressing his fingers to divot his skin like a fucking dare with himself.
Steve flashes hot at the image he scorches in his own brain.
He wonders if Eddie's face looks the same when he's by himself as it does now, pinching, pained almost.
He blinks his eyes, tries to stop them from motion blurring.
The details are all getting muddled together. The vision of Eddie's naked body arching above him. The sounds of his low voice cursing and humming and moaning. The trickle of sweat and precum sliding down Steve's abs as they simultaneously leak against his stomach.
Time passes—only seconds, probably. It feels like barely three blinks. But Steve's eyes start to roll into his skull, and he can hear blood rushing behind his eardrums, muffling the sounds of Eddie's words: "I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna cum against Steve Harrington's dick, what the fuck. Fuck, I'm gonna—"
And then there's hot ropes landing on Steve's stomach, sticking in his pubes. Only it's not Eddie's—it's his own as his orgasm crashes over him without warning. His cock spasms in his palm, still squeezed under Eddie's, and then he feels another deep pulse and he's getting covered with Eddie's load, too, right on top of his own.
He can hear his name getting chanted, can also hear Eddie's. That part must be him.
But he leaves his body more than he ever has before—a transcendent experience like they write in all those new age books. Must be a symptom of the alcohol mixed with the best orgasm he's had in his life. So he doesn't really retain any of it. Can't really pinpoint what he does say, or whether he says anything coherent at all.
All he thinks is: God, I like Eddie so much. I like him so much. I like him, I like him, I like—
His heartbeat fills his head, and he's slightly aware of the couch moving as Eddie crawls off his lap. Steve runs a hand over his stomach, through the mess gathered there. Feels it cooling in his fingers before he wipes it against his jeans. Then he tugs them haphazardly, tries to get them over his hips. He can't say whether he succeeds.
Eddie says something about, "... parched... hot... water...?" His voice infects at the end like he's asking Steve a question, but he doesn't quite catch it.
"Hmm?"
His vision will not focus. Every time he blinks, his eyes stay closed a little longer. It feels like he's in a rocking boat, and something about that is soothing.
He registers something warm and soft gliding over his sticky skin. And then he blinks one more time, enough to make it stick. His eyes stay closed for the rest of the night.
***
Steve wakes to a light so bright it shouldn’t exist. It stabs through the slats of his crooked blinds, straight into his eyes, like the sun knows he deserves some sort of punishment. He squeezes them shut again, groans, and the sound feels like gravel dragged over his tongue.
Everything hurts in small, dumb ways. His throat feels scraped, probably from shouting over music. His arm is asleep beneath him, tingling. His jeans are twisted half down his hips, belt buckle jammed into his side. Worst of all—his dick. Chafed, sore, tender in a way that doesn’t compute. Like he passed out in damp swim trunks or maybe ground himself raw against a good dream. He winces, adjusts under the blanket, but the ache just sits there.
The couch beneath him smells faintly like bourbon. He blinks until the room sharpens: he’s in his own living room. Yes, there's the thrifted mirror that makes everything look taller. The jack-o’-lantern still on the sill, its grin no longer glowing warm since the battery in its candle has died. Someone’s jacket tossed over the armchair—black velvet, glittering faintly in the light. Who—?
Then: a voice. “Alive?”
Steve startles, twists his neck, and there’s Eddie. Sprawled sideways on the couch, half off it really, curls sticking in every direction. There's eyeliner smeared into a bruised halo around his eyes. He looks wrecked, but in a way that suits him—like chaos is a second skin. He props himself on an elbow and smirks, though his voice is rough, sleep-chewed.
“Barely,” Steve croaks. His tongue feels like carpet. He scrubs his face with both hands, trying to pry memories loose. “What the hell happened? I remember, Robin—” He breaks off, wincing at the sour taste in his mouth. “—she was baptizing me in vodka, or whatever that was. Shot after shot. I remember us dancing, laughing. Then…” He lifts a hand, blank gesture. “…nothing.”
Eddie hums as he pushes himself up, sits cross-legged, hair falling into his face.
Steve’s head throbs. He massages his temples, tries to push past the fog. Flashes come and go like static. Silhouettes in strobe lights, Eddie’s grin too close, the slam of bass through his ribs. Then just—dark. A hole where the whole night should be.
How did he get home, again?
His body speaks up once more, traitorous, and the ache low in his gut makes him freeze. He shifts under the throw, the soreness between his legs unmistakable. A sick twist of confusion curls in his chest. He’s had hangovers. He knows what they feel like. This isn’t just that.
“I think I…” He hesitates, tongue thick. "Are we alone? Did I—” He gestures clumsily to his crotch, to his bedroom, to the front door. He's not sure what he means, but he's sure he got off at some point during the night. Maybe his date slipped off already. “I mean, I don’t remember a damn thing past maybe shot number six, seven. Nothing. Blank.”
There’s a pause. Eddie looks at him, mouth set. Then he huffs a laugh and scratches his jaw. “Sure you don’t.”
Steve frowns. “I don’t,” he says, defensive. “Seriously. It’s gone. I woke up thinking maybe I’d cuddled up next to a belt sander in my sleep.”
Eddie’s shrug is too casual, like he practiced it. He stands, scooping his jacket from the chair. His movements are a little jerky as he shakes out the fabric. “Yeah, Harrington. Whatever you say.”
“Wait.” Steve wobbles himself upright, blanket a tangle around his waist. His pulse skips—hangover or panic, hard to tell. “Did something happen? Did I do something?"
Eddie looks back at him, quick flash of expression Steve can’t pin down. He shoves his arms into his jacket sleeves, hair poofing around his face. “You were pretty gone,” he says, tone forcefully light. “All good.”
"C'mon, dude. Tell me." Steve's laugh is humourless, nervous. “I don’t even remember falling asleep, Eddie. And now I wake up feeling like…” He breaks off, heat rising in his face. He drops his voice to an almost-whisper, though he's pretty sure it's just them in his apartment. As far as he can tell. "I feel like some girl gave me a dry handie in the bathroom or something. I'm like... sticky. And sore."
"Your dick hurts?" Eddie cocks a sarcastic brow at Steve, then continues to waltz around the room, gathering odds and ends. "You should get that checked out, man."
"Funny," Steve mumbles. It isn't. "Look—were you, like... interested in her, or something? Because I'm sorry if I stole—"
"Agh, Steve, just..." Eddie slaps his palms over his ears like he can't stand to hear anything more. "I get it. The night's a blank slate, okay? Nothing happened. I get it."
The words land in Steve's ears, trickle to his tastebuds. Leave them sour.
Steve swallows, throat raw. His heart hammers in an uneven way. He doesn’t know which part unsettles him more—the gap in his memory, or the look on Eddie’s face, or the fact that he barely shouts a "see ya" over his shoulder before he's gone.
The door clicks shut, and Steve just sits there on the couch, head in his hands. The room smells like sweat, his shirt is twisted halfway around his body that's still thrumming with nerves. His dick aches every time he shifts, a reminder that something tangible happened, but his head is empty. Blacked out.
He stares out the window as he nurses an instant coffee made with tap-hot water. Eddie’s face loops in his head until his expressions turn meaningless.
By the time Steve drags himself into the shower, Eddie must be back in his trailer. But the phone doesn't ring.
***
It doesn’t happen right away. The first night after the party is just hangover essentials—headaches, greasy food, staring at the ceiling until Steve's stomach stops tilting. But by the second night, when Steve finally gets proper sleep, it happens.
He dreams of Eddie. Not just Eddie, but Eddie close. Eddie leaning over him, hair falling around their faces like a curtain, shutting out the world. Eddie’s grin sharper than usual, darker, his teeth catching the light before they latch onto Steve’s lower lip.
The dream is hot in a way that makes Steve restless in his own skin. His hands won’t stay still—he’s gripping Eddie’s vest, sliding over warm skin, tangling in curls damp with sweat. Eddie tastes like sugary Halloween candy, like the bourbon they stole from the party, and the kiss goes on and on until Steve’s dizzy. He wants more, keeps pulling Eddie closer, and Eddie gives it to him—hips pressing down, rhythm insistent, friction unbearable.
It feels real. Every sound Eddie makes burrows deep—half-formed moans that catch in his throat as Steve drags nails down his back. Their cocks rub together in a way that brings Steve to the edge but isn't enough to get him there. But it shoves Steve closer to the precipice until he’s gasping into Eddie’s mouth.
When Steve wakes, it’s with a strangled noise, sheets clinging to his skin. His fist instinctively curls around his cock, barely moving before he spills over his knuckles.
He lies there, staring up at the ceiling fan but seeing Eddie's face instead.
It takes a long time for the reality to separate from the dream. The worst part is how vividly it matches the soreness he’d woken with after the party. Like it wanted the ache to be from Eddie.
Steve rolls over, fists the pillow like he can choke it. Tells himself it was just a dream. A super realistic dream that nearly made him cream his pants, sure—but still a dream.
And he tells no one. Not Robin, not Eddie, sure as hell not Dustin. Not even himself, really. He buries it deep, tries to laugh at dumb TV shows, tries to text Eddie like nothing’s weird.
But it lingers. In daylight, it flashes back at him—Eddie’s mouth open, Eddie’s hand dragging over his ribs, Eddie’s hair brushing Steve’s cheek. Steve bites his tongue to keep from replaying it. Doesn’t help. It’s scarred into his mind like the marks on his body from the Upside Down. There whether he wants it or not.
***
Sunday, 11:14 AM
Steve: hey. you left your socks here
Eddie: keep them
Sunday, 6:47 PM
Steve: did you get home ok?
Eddie: yep
Monday, 12:02 PM
Steve: thought about you when I walked past fam video today. place looks busted without us
Eddie: lol
Monday, 9:35 PM
Steve: party was wild huh. still recall nothing
Eddie: so u said
Tuesday, 1:03 AM
Steve: you good? you’re being kinda short with me
Eddie: all good!
The Eddie Steve knows—the Eddie who fills a room with constant noise, who never sends one word when he can send fifty instead—has shrunk into these clipped replies.
Steve stares at his phone, thumbs hovering, typing and deleting.
Sometime today, Eddie will head south, and Steve won't have a chance to see him face to face for... who knows how long?
He keeps thinking about the dream. In the grocery store aisle, he remembers the way Eddie’s hand fit around his wrist. In the shower, he remembers the scrape of Eddie’s teeth against his neck. He shakes it off every time, but it always crawls back into his mind.
***
Wayne’s truck is old, the kind that rattles before it starts. Steve can hear it before he sees it.
He parks a street over from the trailer, window cracked, trying to tell himself he’s just—what?
Passing through?
Giving them space?
Definitely not hiding like a coward.
The morning is chilly, the sky a washed-out gray that only early November could muster. Leaves skitter down the pavement like they’re trying to keep up with the wind. Steve drums his fingers on the steering wheel, watching all the commotion from a distance.
Then the door opens, and there’s Eddie. He’s hauling a duffel. Looks like Wayne has already loaded boxes in the back of the truck. Eddie’s curls are a mess tied up on his crown, sunglasses covering half his face even though the sun hasn’t broken through the clouds. His jacket—the one he wore on Halloween—is resting on his shoulders over an old flannel.
He looks smaller from this distance.
Steve wants to roll down the window, call out something dumb like have a good trip, man! He wants to run over, shove the boxes aside, and demand a straight answer about that night.
But he doesn’t move. His hands stay glued to the steering wheel, knuckles white. And he watches.
Wayne climbs into the driver’s seat of the truck, starts rolling from the gravel driveway. Eddie lingers a second, glancing around like he’s memorizing the place.
Steve holds his breath, stupidly hoping Eddie will look his way, will spot the car parked just down the block. But Eddie doesn’t. He climbs in his van, slams the door, and it too coughs to life.
Steve watches both vehicles drive away, the taillights flashing as Wayne checks the brakes. The sound fades, and then there’s nothing.
He sits there long after they’re gone in his idling car, the hole in his chest gnawing, growing, gaping. He pulls out his phone, stares at the last messages: all good! Dead words on a screen where Eddie’s voice should be.
Tuesday, 8:42 AM
Steve: drive safe. hope florida is everything you need
read 8:43 AM
Steve swallows the pit in his throat, finally drives home.
The apartment feels hollow. The jack-o’-lantern is still on his windowsill even though Halloween has come and passed. He doesn’t put it away. He leaves it there, watching over the room like maybe one day it'll whisper the secrets it witnessed a few nights ago.
At night, the dream comes back. The same as before: Eddie’s mouth, Eddie’s laugh low in his throat, Eddie pressed tight against him until Steve wakes hard and trembling.
He comes again, thinking about Eddie's face, and shame blankets him as he tries to fall back asleep.
He tells himself again and again it’s just a dream. But the weeks pass, and the dream continues. It morphs.
Until it's no longer a dream but a fantasy that Steve strokes his cock to every night before bed, every morning in the shower, every moment he has to himself.
It's no longer just a dream, and Steve only admits it to himself two months later.
***
Florida feels wrong before Steve even gets to Eddie’s place. The air’s thick, skin-clinging, salt-slick. He can’t step outside without sweating through his shirt, and he already misses Indiana’s December chill—jackets and scarves, breath clouding the air. Down here, the only thing clouding the air is humidity.
Robin, of course, loves it. She keeps rolling the window down to stick her head out like a golden retriever, shouting about palm trees and sun and “oh my god, Steve, it’s like living inside a sauna.”
Steve doesn’t say much. He keeps his sunglasses on, keeps fiddling with the radio, keeps telling himself this is just a normal visit. Friends visit friends. That’s normal.
He wants to see Eddie. Wants to prove to himself that nothing’s changed. That the—continued—clipped texts and the distance are just logistics, not cracks.
But when they get to Eddie’s new place—a rented house with peeling paint, porch already sagging under the weight of Christmas decorations still up—Steve knows he’s wrong.
The music’s loud enough to rattle his teeth before he even opens the door. The windows glow with shifting colored lights, silhouettes sliding against the curtains. Someone whoops inside, and it doesn’t sound like Eddie.
Robin grins, knocks once for form, and pushes in.
Steve follows.
Inside, the place is packed. People everywhere—draped over couches, clustered in the kitchen, dancing in the living room. A haze of sweat, beer, and whatever cheap cologne college aged kids bathe in. The stereo blares something fast, guitars shredding, deep bass that vibrates his toes.
Steve blinks, tries to adjust to the... frankly, unexpected popularity. Eddie hadn’t known a soul down here when he left Hawkins. But looking at this crowd you’d think Eddie had been born here. Like he’d grown roots the second he touched Florida soil.
Steve tugs at the collar of his shirt, sweat prickling at his spine. He scans the room, tries to find Eddie. Moves on elsewhere when he comes up empty.
The kitchen’s barely quieter than the living room, but it's somewhat of a reprieve. The bass still thuds through the floor, rattles the glasses in the cabinet, and the air’s, like... sticky.
Robin leans against the fridge with a new drink in hand, cheeks pink from the first sip of her sugary cocktail.
There's a hornet's nest in Steve's stomach; a hard ball of jittering, stinging nerves. He takes a swallow of beer that doesn’t help and blurts, “Rob, I gotta tell you something.”
She squints at him over her cup. “Oh boy. You’ve got Serious Voice. Am I about to learn you’ve... joined a cult? Or—oh, god—are you dying? Have the rabies symptoms finally settled in?”
“No, no. Neither,” Steve says. “I mean—probably. No. Definitely not a cult. It’s just…” He sets his beer down, rubs a dry hand over his chin. “Okay. So... I’ve been having these dreams.”
Robin raises a plucked brow. “You’re gonna need to be more specific. Like stress dreams? Teeth falling out? The one where you’re naked during a presentation? I have that last one a lot. Not fun.”
Steve hesitates, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Uh. Sexy dreams.”
That gets her attention.
She nearly chokes on her drink, coughing into her sleeve. “Excuse me?”
“About... Well. They're about, uh... Eddie.” Steve winces, waits for the reaction.
Robin blinks at him. Her mouth opens. Closes. A few more seconds pass. And then, “Excuse me?”
“They’re not, like, regular sexy dreams either,” Steve rushes on. “They’re really… vivid. Like, I wake up and I—” His face burns. “Okay, I’ll just say it. I have to change my sheets out. You get it, right?”
Robin slaps a hand over her face. “No. No, I don’t want to ‘get it.’ Why are you telling me this?”
“Because!” Steve’s voice cracks, and he lowers it, glancing around even though the party noise would drown out a confession of murder. “Because they don’t feel like just dreams anymore. They’re turning into… I don’t know, fantasies? Stuff I actually want to try. With, um... him.”
He finally manages to look at her. Robin’s staring at him like he’s sprouted a second head. Blank, incredulous.
“What?”
She sets her drink down, points at him. “I can't tell if you're joking right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Steve.” Robin’s voice drops, flat and sharp. “You know you've, like...”
Steve waits, but Rob doesn't finish her thought. Assumed Steve could fill in the blanks, but he's left empty headed.
"I'm sorry—what have I done?"
"You've like... already done stuff." She stares at him. Waves her hand: come on, pick up what I'm laying at your feet. "With Eddie."
"Done... stuff?" Steve pinches his face. "No. No—I don't mean, like, friendly things. I mean, I want to touch him... below the belt."
"Okay, first of all, gross. Second of all..." Robin places her hands on Steve's shoulders. "I'm pretty sure you've had your hands way under Eddie's belt. You definitely had your thigh there."
"My thigh? What are you talking about?"
"Halloween night!" Robin screeches. She looks guilty for her raised voice, decides to clear her throat to try again. "At the party. You were all over each other. On the couch, on the dancefloor—God, I had to go hide in the kitchen because it was like, way too much PDA for me to deal with. Eddie was basically humping your leg, and you were like... encouraging it."
"No... No, on Halloween, we just—we danced, and..." Steve's tongue feels too big in his mouth. He tries to remember anything beyond that. "And I... my dick was all chafed, but it was from the party, right? From a girl... At the party...?"
Robin waits while all the dots start to connect. Not that Steve has the memories, but he does have the facts.
And suddenly, they all start to align.
That's when the dreams started.
That's why his cock felt all used up.
That's why Eddie was—is—so pissed off.
Holy fuck.
Steve feels his eyes balloon from his skull, wide enough they could roll right out.
"Robin! Jesus, why didn't you tell me!"
Steve rocks back on his heels, hands carding through his hair until he gets a good handful. Then he tugs.
"I thought—I thought you knew! Like, it was you who experienced it all, I was just a witness to the proceedings before all the... doings!"
"Yeah, but you'd think the following days you'd be like, 'Hey, Steve, crazy that you're GAY NOW! And hooking up with our BEST FRIEND! Who's also gay, by the way!'"
"Okay! You're right!" Robin holds her hand up in surrender like Steve might actually meltdown and kill her. "But—Eddie's my friend, too, and he basically begged on his hands and knees for me not to bring it up to you when I asked about it the next day! What am I supposed to do, Steve?! Betray his trust?! And it's not like you were trying to break my walls down or anything! I just thought it was some kind of... I don't know! Mutual agreement between you and Eddie to never talk about it again!"
"Oh my god. Oh my god!" Steve tries to swallow back air, but it doesn't help his spinning head. He has to catch himself on his knees as he bends at the waist, just so he doesn't fall to the ground. "Oh my god, I'm such an asshole."
Robin places a hand on Steve's shoulder. It doesn't help much. He's too hot to be touched.
"So... you actually blacked out and that wasn't just an excuse?"
Steve lifts his head just high enough to glare at her. "Do you really think that little of me?"
"I don't know. It's just... you're nineteen years old, you just experimented with a guy for the first time, the next day you claim to not remember it." Robin tallies off a finger for each point she makes. "It's a confusing time. Maybe you decided penises are great when they're attached to you, and not when they're attached to another guy! And that's okay! Who am I to pry?!"
“I didn’t decide anything, Rob. I literally don’t remember. That’s—” He breaks off, tugging harder at his hair until strands prick his scalp. “That’s the problem.”
Robin opens her mouth, but he cuts her off. “No, I have to—shit. I have to find him.”
“Steve—”
“No, I need to.” He straightens, still bent with leftover nausea but already moving toward the doorway. The kitchen tilts around him with the throb of bass. “If you’re right, if all that happened, then he thinks I just… blew him off. Like it didn’t matter.”
"Wait. Steve—he might be... Steve!"
Steve ignores her pleas, already pushing into the crush of bodies in the living room. The air is a soup of pit sweat, beer breath, perfume, every person brushing too close as he shoulders his way through the ocean. Coloured lights strobe across faces, laughter spikes too loud. It feels like moving through a maze. But all he can think is: Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
He scans for curls, round brown eyes, sharp teeth. Nothing. Just strangers swaying, couples grinding.
“Eddie!” he tries once, voice lost to the music. He shoves deeper, checks the back porch, a hallway littered with coats and empty bottles.
You were all over each other. That's what Rob said. You were all over each other.
Fuck. Fuck.
Where do the memories begin and the dreams end? Where had he touched Eddie? How far had they gone?
He needs to explain. So he keeps pushing, and then—
And then, there.
Across the room, half-hidden in the flash of a strobe. Eddie. Curls everywhere, beer in hand, laughing like he owns the place.
Which he does. With Wayne. In Florida.
And he’s right there.
But not alone.
There’s some guy tucked in close to him. Tall, lean, tank top clinging to his narrow chest, ripped jeans slung low on his hips. He’s standing too close, and Eddie’s not moving away.
If anything, Eddie leans in, brushing shoulders like it’s natural for them. They’re laughing, heads bent close. So close Steve couldn’t slide a hand between them.
The floor drops out from under Steve's feet. The music muffles in his ears, he can’t hear Robin trying to say something at his shoulder.
She nudges him, mutters something else he doesn’t catch. The beer can in his hand crinkles as his fingers tighten.
Then, slowly, like the sound of crumpling tin called to him, Eddie’s eyes find Steve's across the crowd.
Two months since they've spoken properly, besides single word texts and 2am tiktoks, like their friendship fizzled out to an afterthought. And now the eye contact feels like a first.
For a moment, the whole room dissolves into static. Eddie doesn’t look away. He holds it. Like he’s making sure Steve sees as he tips his head toward the guy at his side—some faceless shadow with a smug hand at his waist—and pulls him along through the sea of people.
Steve’s pulse thrashes in his throat. He thinks he might even place his hand there to feel the beat under his fingertips. Make sure it doesn't tear right through his skin.
Eddie drops onto the couch with the guy practically in his lap, the two of them tangling together like they’ve done it a hundred times. Eddie laughs against his ear, mouth grazing skin.
A flick of pink, a flash of metal.
Eddie’s tongue, now pierced. Silver glint catching the multicoloured light.
Steve’s cock gives a feeble twitch between his thighs, because suddenly all he can think about is that mouth on him. What that tongue would feel like, what it already might have felt like if Robin’s right—if Halloween wasn’t just a blackout blur.
The eye contact hasn’t broken since the couch. Eddie sprawls there like it’s a throne, the faceless guy slotted close against him. Eddie’s hand slides low on the guy’s hip, thumb tracing just above his waistband, and his line of sight stays locked on Steve’s like he’s narrating the whole thing silently: You see this? You paying attention?
Eddie’s fingers hook into the stranger's belt loops, tugging him close until his ass is literally seated on Eddie's crotch. They grind together in a not so subtle way, like the goal is to get Eddie stiff.
He tilts his head, tongue darting out again to toy with the curve of an ear, silver stud catching the light in a way that makes Steve’s stomach flip. The guy groans loud enough that Steve swears he hears it over the music, head dropping back onto Eddie's shoulder like he’s on the verge of begging.
Steve's beer is empty before he realises he’s been drinking just to keep his hands busy. Keep them from wandering south to squeeze at the heat between his legs.
Eddie smirks around the guy’s jawline, teeth flashing sharp, then flicks his eyes back to Steve's. Still holding him there, still making sure he witnesses every second of it.
His hand slips lower, palm cupping at the line in his friend's jeans without shame, and Steve’s face goes molten enough that sweat beads and trails down his temple.
It’s indecent. Nobody else in the room seems to care—too drunk, too busy—but Steve feels like he’s being scorched alive by the show. Want and anger and humiliation all tangles together into a fever under his flesh.
And then Eddie moves.
In a fluid pull, he fists the guy’s shirt, hauls him up off the couch. The guy stumbles, laughing, but Eddie doesn’t let him get his footing. He drags him toward the hallway, not even bothering to disguise it. Steve’s eyes follow helplessly. His lips hang open like he means to call out, but he can't find his voice.
Just before Eddie disappears down the hall, he glances back.
One last, deliberate look. He’s won a game Steve didn't know he was playing.
"That's disgusting," Steve mumbles against the lip of his can. He tilts the thing like he might get one more sip, but the beer has run dry.
"Yeah. Well, believe it or not, you guys were worse on Halloween night." Robin scrunches her nose. "I'm pretty sure I saw details."
"It couldn't have been that bad," Steve says, with a jab of his thumb towards the hall. "That dude looked like he would have let Eddie finish him off right there on the couch."
"Uh-huh." Robin raises a brow like Steve just made her point. "I think Eddie likes PDA."
"I've never seen him be that obvious before," Steve counters.
"'Cause you're usually the oblivious object of his desires." Robin snorts her nose, but then catches the way Steve's face falls in her peripheral. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry. Wrong thing to say."
"It's fine," Steve lies. "I'll just, uh, catch him some other time to apologise. Water under the bridge."
Robin chews on her lip as she follows him to the kitchen to refresh his drink. She doesn't say what she's obviously thinking until five whole minutes pass. And then: "Steve... do you, like, have a crush on Eddie, too?"
"No," Steve chokes around his sip of hoppy beer. He avoids contact with her eyes. "Don't be silly. Like you said, it's just a time to... experiment. I can get that with anyone. Not just Eddie. He was just in my dreams because of my subconscious was… you know… like they taught us in psych, remember? It's not Eddie I need, I can get dick anywhere I—"
"Steve. You're rambling."
He snaps his jaw shut, contemplates that. "Yeah. I'm rambling."
Robin slings an arm around Steve's shoulders. "Do you want to talk about the crush you definitely have on Eddie?"
"No. I want to get blackout drunk again and forget this night ever happened."
So Steve keeps drinking.
He stops pretending it’s for fun and leans into the necessity of forgetting. Every time Robin asks if he wants water, he waves her off with a lopsided grin and another “one more.”
The crowd thins, but never enough to stop the uncomfortable edge of chaos. Strangers still laugh too loud in his ear, push drinks into his hand that he doesn’t remember asking for. He loses track of Robin for long stretches, only realising she’s gone when she suddenly reappears with a new friend for the night on her arm.
Steve drifts. From the couch to the porch, back to the kitchen, out to the yard where cigarette smoke hangs in the thick night air. He checks the hallway more times than he wants to admit. Each time, the same locked door, no sound, no light, no shadows shifting under the crack.
He tells himself he’s not waiting. He tells himself he doesn’t care. But every beer tastes more bitter and every laugh falls flat, and he learns too late that he's performing for an audience of one that doesn't even care to watch.
Time slips strange when you’re drunk. One song bleeds into ten. A blink takes an hour. When Robin finally finds him again, he’s slumped in a kitchen chair, staring at the cracked linoleum. The liquor isn't sitting the same as it had Halloween night, where he felt happy and honest.
Now, he's holding back angry tears.
“Hey,” she says softly, crouching to his level. “We should go.”
He blinks at her, frowns past his blurring vision. “What time is it?”
“Too late. Or too early, depending how you look at it.” She nudges his knee. “Come on. My head’s gonna implode if we stay for one more song.”
Steve lets her haul him upright. His legs are lead, his stomach's sour, his mouth cotton-dry. He smacks his lips together as Robin steers him out the door, past the last stragglers still shouting over the music.
The street turns quiet after a block, except for the hum of cicadas, now a world away from the thrum of the party. He breathes deep, but it doesn’t help.
Robin’s talking—something about how they’ll get greasy food in the morning, how he needs three Advils and a gallon of water—but Steve barely hears her. He looks back towards the house, the windows barely glowing far, far at the end of the street.
Eddie doesn't follow.
Not to the doorway, not to the yard, not even as a shadow in the window. Just gone, hours ago, behind a door Steve never got to walk through.
By the time they reach the car, Steve knows two things:
He doesn’t like drinking.
And he really, really hates Florida.
***
Saturday, 10:01 AM
Steve: hey. missed you last night. wanted to talk. meet later?
Eddie: sry man, with my bf today
Steve's stomach nearly heaves as he reads Eddie's text.
Boyfriend?
The guy with ripped jeans and that dumb wifebeater? The guy who was riding Eddie's lap with no shame?
"Classy," he mumbles. Because he knows Robin read the text over his shoulder.
"Steve. I'm so sorry."
"For what?" Steve sniffs his nose, pretends to be nonchalant even thought he's feeling so incredibly chalant. "We came all this way and he won't hang out. I say we leave early."
"But—"
"Please? I don't... I don't want to be here anymore."
Robin must hear the desperation in his voice, the way it cracks over his words. She purses her lips. Grabs her phone from her pocket.
"Okay. I'll call Eddie and let him know we can't make dinner tomorrow."
"Thank you."
Steve waits until he's in the shower before he lets the angry tears fall.
***
Tuesday, 2:41 PM
Steve: happy bday!! FT tonight?
Eddie: thx! and sure
Steve: what time?
read 2:48 PM
(X) OUTGOING VIDEO CALL 6:44 PM
(X) OUTGOING VIDEO CALL 7:25 PM
(X) OUTGOING VIDEO CALL 8:12 PM
Tuesday, 8:50 PM
Steve: not sure if my calls are going through
Steve: still want to FT?
read 8:54 PM
(X) OUTGOING VIDEO CALL 9:30PM
***
Steve's laying in bed, his mind locked on Eddie goddamn Munson as it's been for months.
He thought he could wait it out—for Eddie to be the one to text first next time, after Steve was ghosted on Eddie's birthday.
But it's been two months since. And their friendship feels like it's... well, like it's over. If Eddie can go two months without texting Steve, maybe Steve should stop expecting that thing’ll ever pick up where they left off the night of Halloween.
But, for one, single last chance, Steve picks up his phone.
Thursday, 11:11 PM
Steve: thinking of you
He waits for Delivered to turn to Read.
Eddie always reads his messages, but it's a gamble whether he'll reply.
Five minutes later, Steve sees it. The switch, and now he knows Eddie is awake. His stomach turns over, assuming that's all he'll get for tonight. Just the smallest indication that Eddie has at least seen Steve's message. That he hasn't given up yet.
Then, the little speech bubble pops up at the bottom of his screen. Steve sits up, heart racing. He wasn't expecting any response at all.
He feels it in his chest—this is it. This is where Eddie will finally give him the chance to spill everything he's been feeling, thinking, ruminating on since the party.
And then—
Thursday, 11:21 PM
Eddie: got a new phone. who is this?
Steve's world seems to drop out of the pit of his stomach. He can feel his nose scrunching in hot fury—that Eddie didn't add his number into his new phone, that it could just be an excuse. That it's complete bullshit that Eddie wouldn't recognise his number, even without the saved contact.
His thumbs tap away over the keyboard: you know damn well who this is.
Delete.
it's obviously steve, asshole
Delete.
fuck you. fuck you. FUCK YOU!!!
Delete.
Steve stares at the screen, the cursor blinking away.
And then he gives up for the night. And the next night. And the night after that.
Steve gives up altogether, now that he's certain that he doesn't have a place in Eddie's life anymore.
***
A whole year.
Steve doesn’t know how the weeks strung themselves together without Eddie in them, but here they are: late October once again. Crisp leaves, pumpkin spice everything, the season of cozy—but this year feels empty.
He gave up texting months ago. One too many times left on Read, one too many single-word answers that felt like Eddie was only responding out of obligation.
Eventually, Steve took the hint. Eddie wanted him gone. And Steve—he’s not the kind of guy to beg to stay in someone’s life. Not anymore. Not after Nancy.
He still thinks about him. Every day, if he’s honest.
The thing is, Steve doesn’t even blame him. Half the mess was his fault—getting blackout drunk, forgetting the best and only night they’d had together. He knows he screwed that up.
But what still burns is how Eddie never gave him a chance to explain. To say, I didn’t forget because it didn’t matter. Let me show you, let me show you, let me show you one more time.
But Eddie cut him off, and Steve’s been living with it.
Robin and Eddie, though... they’re still friends as close as they've been for two years now. She talks to him every week, sends him memes, calls him when she’s bored. Steve never asks her not to. He would never make her choose. And he doesn't feel weird about it.
Except sometimes, late at night, when Robin’s laughing at something on the phone and Steve’s lying awake staring at the ceiling fan, he thinks he might be in love with Eddie Munson.
Which is pathetic. Which is fine. Which is exactly why, when Robin had suggested a road trip to Orlando for Halloween Horror Nights, Steve hesitated.
Haunted houses? Crowds? People in costumes lunging out of the dark?
That’s, like, bottom three on Steve’s list of Fun Things.
But Robin had that wide-eyed please-don’t-be-a-killjoy look, and Steve agreed. For the experience, he told himself. For the story. For something to do that isn’t sitting at home flipping channels.
Orlando’s an hour’s bus ride from where Eddie lives now. Robin made sure to point that out.
“I’ll hop over, see him for a day or two,” she’d said casually. “You can chill at the hotel, order room service. Live your best single-boy life.”
Steve laughed, agreed, made a joke about eating his weight in overpriced cheeseburgers in bed.
He’s not jealous. He’s not bitter. He’s not lying through his teeth about it.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes on the endless stretch of Florida highway. The sun’s dropping lower, sky bleeding orange at the edges, but the air’s still too muggy for his taste.
Steve hums along to Robin's Spooky Season playlist, pretends his stomach isn’t a tied and tangled, pretends he’s not counting down the miles to Orlando and wondering if Eddie will somehow feel closer just because they’re in the same state again.
***
The hotel lobby is autumned-out in fake foliage and spice scented candles. The smell of choline wafts up from the pool, mixes with crisp cinnamon apple. A strange mix, but it’s Florida, and everything here seems to contradict itself.
They drag their bags through the automatic doors, Robin jittering with strung out roadtrip adrenaline that Steve can never quite match.
Check-in takes forever. A family of five argues at the counter about connecting rooms, and Robin whispers a running commentary under her breath that nearly makes Steve laugh despite his driving fatigue. When it’s their turn, he’s polite, smiles tight, hands over the credit card.
The room itself is fine. Neutral carpet, two clean double beds, a TV bolted to the wall. Better than the motel from last night that marked their halfway journey.
The air conditioner fights for its life as Steve switches it on.
Robin immediately face-plants onto one bed, starfishing across the blank white covers. “You’ve got, like, twenty minutes before I call an Uber."
Steve scrunches his eyes. “What happened to unpacking? Maybe showering after another day in the car?”
“No time.” Robin rolls over with a dramatic grunt. Her strawberry hair fans into a wild halo against the duvet. “If we’re not there for the opening ceremony, what’s even the point?”
“The point,” Steve says, dragging his bag to the foot of the other bed, “is surviving the night without me throwing up in a haunted house. A nap could be the thing that prevents a disaster.”
Robin props herself up on her elbows, grins wide enough that her eyes wrinkle at the corners. “That would really add to the realism, though.”
“Uh-huh." Steve unzips his bag, digs out a fresh shirt, and changes while Robin hums along to the music still playing from her phone.
He thinks of Eddie—how close he is, just an hour away, how Robin will see him in less than a day.
Without Steve.
He shakes the thought off, tugs his shirt down. Checks his reflection in the blotchy hotel mirror.
“Come on,” Robin says, already lacing up her sneakers. “We’re gonna miss it.”
Steve sighs, but ultimately follows her out of their room after double checking that they both have a hotel key and a sufficient charge on their phones in case they get separated.
The sky outside is bruised purple, just dark enough that the streetlights flicker on. Their Uber pulls up—windows fogged, driver blasting reggae—and Robin practically drags Steve into the backseat.
Robin shouts questions about the park over the noise, asking the driver if he’s ever been, if it’s scary, if people really faint sometimes like she seen online.
“Scariest thing there is the price of beer,” the driver shouts back.
Robin claps her hands like that’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Steve groans to himself, presses his forehead to the cool glass of the window.
He doesn't want to be a downer. But the traffic is crawling, a stream of cars all funneled into the massive parking lots lit up by floodlights. Up ahead, he can already see the line of people snaking toward the front gates—hundreds of them, dressed in black hoodies, themed T-shirts, face paint. A sea of excitement that makes his stomach lurch.
By the time the car drops them off, the sun’s down fully, leaving the park glowing in artificial carnival light. The air hums with anticipation, voices buzzing like a hive, the sound of distant bass buzzing through the pavement under their feet.
Robin’s practically bouncing as they join the crowd. “It's about to start. You’re not even ready for this, Steve.”
He’s pretty sure she’s right.
The gates tower in front of them, wrought iron twisted into sharp spires, lit from below with red and purple spotlights. Smoke machines pump out thick clouds that drift low across the asphalt, curling around people’s ankles like real-life apparitions.
And then the music hits.
It’s not just background music, it’s assault. Loud enough to rattle Steve’s skull. Heavy, grinding guitars, a drumbeat that feels like the crack of thunder. The crowd cheers, surges forward, phones lifted high.
From behind the gates, they emerge.
A phalanx of men and women, faces painted bone-white with black, curling lines that snake around their eyes and mouths. Corpse paint, Steve remembers Eddie calling it (though he’s sure Eddie would correct him and say otherwise), back when Eddie would ramble about metal bands over beers. Their outfits are leather and chains and harnesses, skin exposed in slabs; but that skin is grotesque—marred silicone scars and twisted, weeping sores that glisten under the spotlights.
They move in perfectly reversed formation. Some slam torches against the ground, making them flare. Others slide across the pavement on their knees, showering the crowd with sparks from hidden plates in their boots. The sound is steel grinding, fire hissing, music pounding.
The crowd goes wild. Screams and cheers tangle in the air, a cacophony that makes Steve's eardrums ache.
The performers march forward, splitting into columns, circling the gates like predators.
And they start to creak open.
The crowd surges, funneling forward in a crush of bodies to a second set of barriers. Steve and Robin are swept along, pressed shoulder to shoulder with strangers, until the heat of the torches lick across their cheeks.
In the middle of the wide road beyond the barriers, a makeshift stage waits. Nothing particularly fancy, just a series of massive black boxes stacked and bolted together. The tallest is in the very centre, empty, waiting.
Performers climb over the others, perching at sharp angles so their silhouettes jag against the floodlights.
The ones with torches flank either side, climbing high and spitting fuel into the fire until it roars. Flames burst outward, washing the stage in orange and gold. The audience shrieks in fear and delight. Steve feels the heat slap his face, sweat prickling instantly along his hairline.
But he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel the excitement crawling up his spine.
And then the music shifts.
The tempo drops into something deeper, heavier, a bassline that growls low and menacing. The performers in corpse paint stomp in unison, boots hammering the blacktop in rhythm with the beat.
It’s a show, yeah—but it’s more than that. It’s a declaration.
At the very centre of the stage, higher than the rest, one figure emerges, commands the space.
Tall. Lean. His body wiry but coiled with muscle. Pale skin painted the same ghastly white as the others, jagged black slashes radiating around his eyes and mouth that resemble a jester. His face is exaggerated into a mask of cruelty, but what makes Steve’s pulse raise is his posture.
Too relaxed, like it's effortless to be dangerous.
Steve lets his eyes roam over him leisurely, sure that his stare won't be obvious as a single set of eyes in a sea of hundreds.
This actor's outfit borders on obscene. Low-rise leather pants, laced up the front and riding low enough to expose the trail of hair dipping down from his navel, farther and farther until the hair starts to get thick. And above that, nothing but a harness crisscrossing his chest. Leather straps biting into pale skin, silver buckles gleaming in coloured light.
Every inch of him is a frightening—sexy—display.
The crowd screams in approval, phones shooting up into the air to capture him on film.
Unlike the others, he doesn’t carry a torch, nor does he wear the knee pads of the sliders sparking across the asphalt.
His prop is strapped between his shoulder blades, glinting faintly in the floodlight.
A sword.
At first, it just sits there as an ornament, part of his costuming as he languidly roams his gaze over his audience, like he's personally picking his first victim.
But then the figure moves.
Slowly, he reaches back, fingers curling around the hilt. The motion is theatrical, spine arching as his arm snakes upward.
He draws it.
The blade slides free with a metallic hiss that cuts through the thunder of the speakers. It has Steve wondering if it's an effect for the drama, a noise added to the soundtrack.
Polished steel catches the flicker of torchlight. He holds the sword loose at his side, casual as if it’s just another limb. But the presence of it charges the atmosphere, the line between stagecraft and threat blurred.
Steve swallows hard. His skin feels electric, the hair on his neck rising. There’s something magnetic about the man on the stage, as still as he is. Something that makes it impossible to look elsewhere.
The fire swells again, roaring brighter as the torchbearers spit more fuel into the flame, framing the man in a halo of bright heat. He stands tall in the blaze, sword by his side as his shoulders rise with slow, deep breaths. His wild hair is carried with the breeze, and Steve sees for the first time that he has streaks of red framing his pale face.
Though there are dozens of actors on the stage, the entire audience belongs to him.
After long minutes of him just surveying, he finally steps forward, framed perfectly by the torchbearers. Their flames surge up on either side as he flourishes his blade in a wide arc.
The crowd roars. Steve feels it rumble up his calves.
The man stills, shoulders squaring, muscles taut under white paint and black straps. He commands attention like he’s born for it, and Steve—Steve is hooked, unable to even blink.
The blade whirs forward suddenly, pointed toward the mass of people pressed against the barricades. The motion is sharp and theatrical. People shriek, hands shooting up, some ducking instinctively even though the stage is yards away.
Steve feels the danger like it's all a real threat, his palms damp as he leans forward and grips onto the fencing in front of him.
And then, instead of advancing or chasing the crowd with that blade, the man drops to a single knee.
The music rises into a shrieking crescendo. The torchbearers stomp in time, boots hammering against metal plates hidden in the stage, sparks spraying outward in showers of gold.
And in the very centre of it all, the man raises his sword—not with the hilt, but by gripping the blade itself in his bare hand. He tilts his head back, neck long and pale.
Steve realises what’s about to happen half a second before it does.
The man lowers the blade into his open mouth. Slowly. Carefully.
The crowd loses its mind. Screams, cheers, phones lifted high.
Steve can’t breathe, can’t look away. The sword disappears inch by inch, sliding deeper, until it vanishes far enough that Steve’s own throat aches in sympathy. The figure kneels there almost serene, like a priest offering himself to some violent god.
He lets go of the sword as it impales his body, hilt pointed towards the heavens, arms brandishing towards the stars.
He waits for a few moments, still as a statue.
Then he pulls it back.
When the blade slips free, blood gushes from his mouth. A flood of it, dark and thick, spilling over his lips, trailing down his chin and chest, streaking between the leather straps of his harness. It drips into the waistband of his pants, splashes scarlet across his pale, scarred stomach.
It looks like he’s torn himself apart from the inside, like the blade shredded him on the way out.
The effect is horrifying. Gruesome. Steve grimaces, but his pulse kicks even harder. A girl near the front screams so loud she loses her voice. A man beside Steve laughs until he coughs. Phones flash, capturing every grotesque detail.
Steve can’t stop staring. He tells himself the blood is fake—it has to be, it has to be a trick—but it looks so real. It looks wet and slick as it pours over his chest, as though he’s ripped out his own tonsils with the blade.
And then the man smiles.
His painted face splits into a wide grin; manic, deranged, utterly triumphant. He looks like he enjoyed it, like bleeding out is the crux of the show.
The sword gets sheathed in a single, fluid motion, sliding it back into the leather holster between his shoulder blades. The blood still glistens down his front, soaking into the laces of his pants, but he towers like he hasn’t been touched at all.
The music cuts. A hard stop—abrupt silence that makes Steve’s ears ring. The torches flare once more, then dim, smoke curling around the edges of the stage. The man doesn’t wait for applause. He doesn’t bask in it.
He jumps.
From the tallest black box, he launches into the air, boots hitting the asphalt with a heavy thud. The crowd shrinks backwards, people screaming in excited panic as the barriers are suddenly rolled away by security, and the man breaks into a run.
He’s fast. He barrels toward the crowd like a predator loosed from its cage, sword glinting behind him, blood still dripping down his chest. People scatter, duck, trip over each other in their rush to get away.
And then he’s gone. Disappearing into the smoke and shadow down the main road, swallowed whole by the darkness of the park.
***
Every inch of the park glows red and purple and green, drenched in eerie carnival mist that rolls thick enough to hide whole clusters of people. Screams rise and fall in rolling waves. Some playful, some not so much.
Robin’s in heaven.
She’s got a churro in one hand and a park map in the other, eyes darting everywhere like she’s trying to absorb every ounce of the spectacle. “I told you this was worth it!” she yells over the din, grinning so wide it almost splits her face in two.
Steve, meanwhile, keeps pretending his pulse isn’t in his throat.
Every time something lunges out of the dark—an actor in a plague mask, a woman dragging a blood-soaked axe, a kid in a werewolf get-up—he jerks a little. Not enough for Robin to call it a jump, just a startled micro-flinch. Except he’s doing it every thirty seconds.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders like it might make him more inconspicuous. “You know, it’s all just… production value,” he says. “The lighting, the smoke... it’s basically theater. I’m not scared.”
A chainsaw roars behind him. He flinches so hard his drink sloshes onto his wrist.
Robin starts crying with laughter. “Oh my god, your face! Harrington, you look like you just saw the gates of Hell!”
“It’s loud,” he insists, wiping his hand on his jeans. “Loud doesn’t mean scary. It’s just—startle reflex. Totally normal human biology.”
“Sure, sure,” she wheezes.
They weave through a narrow alleyway set up like a haunted Victorian street, lights flickering in gas-lamp yellow. An actor dressed like a butcher emerges from behind a fake meat cart with a cleaver in hand, and Steve freezes mid-step. The butcher grins through black-painted teeth, mutters something about fresh cuts, and Steve—ever the brave one—grabs Robin’s sleeve without realising it.
“Wow,” she says, deadpan. “Thank god you’re here to protect me.”
He lets go immediately, clears his throat. “Reflex. Just… crowd control.”
They keep walking. Robin keeps teasing. Steve keeps pretending not to look behind him every few seconds even though the fog whafts like a pair of lungs.
A performer in a doll mask glides silently across the path; Steve does a half-step to the side, trying to play it off like he means to stretch. Robin actually stops walking, doubles over, clutches her stomach from laughing so hard.
“You are such a jock cliché,” she gasps. “All tough talk until someone in eyeliner breathes near you.”
Steve straightens, affronted. “I’m not scared of eyeliner!”
“You sure? History says otherwise.”
He opens his mouth to retort but another chainsaw rips to life right beside them, and he yelps loud enough that even the scare actor cracks a grin under his hockey mask.
By the time they reach the main square again, Robin’s still giggling and Steve’s trying to pretend he’s not sweating through his t-shirt. The night’s turned syrup-thick with Florida humidity; the torches from the opening ceremony still burn in intervals along the main drag, casting long, spooky shadows.
“I gotta pee,” Robin says, wiping amused tears from her eye. “Think you can survive five minutes without me?”
Steve gives her his best glare. “I’ll be fine.”
“You sure? I can ask one of the zombies to babysit.”
“Go away.”
She cackles as she jogs off toward the glowing Restrooms sign, vanishing into the phantom fog around the bend.
And then it’s quiet.
Well—quiet in a lonely way. There are still distant shrieks, the mechanical chainsaws, the bass of background thrum of music, but Robin’s laughter fades, and Steve realises how different the park feels without her next to him. The crowd thins. The fog thickens. Every shape looks suspicious in the tinted light.
Steve shifts his weight, glances at his phone—no signal. His thumb taps the screen uselessly, and for the first time tonight he notices the sweat cooling on the back of his neck. He tells himself to relax, stop looking like a lost kid in a corn maze.
He’s a grown man.
He’s fine.
Then the torches down the main road flare higher, as if someone fed them fresh fuel.
Across the path, through a break in the plume of shadow, a silhouette appears. Tall. Lean. The fire behind it paints the air orange, and Steve can see the outline of leather pants, the glint of a sword hilt slung across a bare back.
The main performer from earlier.
He’s standing still, just beyond the crowd flow, half-lit by the torches. His head is tilted slightly, like he’s cataloging the faces that pass by.
And then his eyes—black and ringed in paint—find Steve’s.
He freezes.
For a moment, everything fades under the sound of blood rushing. No more music, no more laughter echoing from down the path. Just that painted face and the faint curl of a smile that looks far too maniacal.
The man tilts his head the other way, deliberate, slow, the gesture halfway between curiosity and threat. The torches crackle and a gust of humid wind carries the scent of smoke towards Steve's heightened senses.
He swallows, dry. Tells himself it’s fine. It’s just another performer doing his job. That’s what they’re paid to do—stare, lurk, scare the crap out of people. He’s not special. He’s just the unlucky idiot who happened to make eye contact too long.
Still, his chest spasms in a frightened thrill.
He straightens his posture, forces his shoulders to relax, and slips his hands casually into his pockets like he’s the picture of calm.
“Play it cool,” he mumbles under his breath. “Don’t give him anything to work with. He’s like a dog. They sense fear.”
He laughs softly through his nose, tries to convince himself that it sounds normal and not like someone on the verge of a breakdown.
And then he starts walking. Slowly. Easily.
The opposite direction, of course—away from the fire, away from the man standing statue-still at the edge of the road. His sneakers scuff against the pavement, the sound too loud even under the hum of the park’s soundtrack.
Don’t look, he thinks. Don’t look.
He looks.
Over his shoulder, just a quick glance.
The man is still staring.
Through the haze of fair lights, Steve can see the crust of blood still streaked down his chest and stomach. His mouth is a fixed grin, teeth glinting wet in the glow.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve whispers.
He rounds the nearest corner, ducks behind a row of fake gravestones and a smoke machine that hisses and belches fog. The moment he’s out of sight, he exhales hard, bracing a hand on his knee.
“Okay,” he says to himself. “Okay. You lost him. You’re fine. He’s scaring some other poor tourist now.”
The fog coils thick around his ankles. A scream rings out somewhere distant—elated rather than terrified—and the speakers crackle as another round of heavy music starts up. The park has its rhythm again, and Steve’s heart slowly synchs up to it.
He straightens, swiping sweat from his brow. “See? Fine.”
Then he hears it.
Footsteps.
Soft at first. Muffled by the background noises, easy to ignore. But then closer. Heavy. Purposeful.
Steve doesn’t move a fucking hair.
The footsteps keep coming, deliberate clomps against the pavement. One, two, three. A pause. Then faster.
And then the menace actor rounds the corner.
The torches from the main street paint him in molten light. The black detailing his face mingles with the shadows. That same grin cuts across his mouth—sharp, almost inhuman.
Steve jerks back a step.
The man follows.
Another step back.
Another forward.
It’s not an act anymore; it’s a dance, a perfect mirror. For the first time, the crowd doesn’t seem to be close enough as Steve glances around.
“Hey, uh...” Steve's hands lift instinctively in front of him. “You got me, okay? Scared me good. Ten outta ten performance.”
The man doesn’t speak back. He tilts his head, movement birdlike, and his smile widens. The sword at his back catches a flash of light as he takes another slow step forward.
“Okay,” Steve says, his laugh trembling at the edges. “We’re done now, right? I’m… I’m moving on to the next haunted house, you’re moving on to, uh, traumatize some teenagers—”
The man lunges.
Steve yelps, stumbling backward. He hits the fake gravestone, nearly goes down, and the scare actor takes another step, another, closing the distance with an unhurried precision that’s somehow worse than if he’d just run.
Steve’s body acts before his brain can: he turns and bolts.
The sound of giant boots slamming against pavement follows instantly.
He doesn’t dare look back. He just runs, cutting through the night past gawking tourists and glowing pumpkins, dodging outstretched arms from other actors who aren’t part of this chase. He hears laughter—his, maybe, or the crowd’s—but it’s high and wild and doesn’t sound right.
Those boots stay on his heels, steady as a metronome. Every time Steve rounds a corner, they’re there again, closer.
He realises with a sick twist of adrenaline that he’s just made it a game.
Cat and mouse. Hunter and prey.
And he’s losing.
Steve doesn't even pretend to play it cool anymore as he turns and sprints. He hears his own sneakers slap the asphalt, the crowd’s scattered laughter morphing into something warped and far away.
He throws a look over his shoulder and nearly trips.
The actor is still there; not running. He doesn’t have to. He moves like he knows exactly how this ends.
“Oh, come on,” Steve gasps. “Clock out, man, it’s after hours!”
No answer—only the clank of a sword hilt against leather, sharp enough to slice through the fading music.
Steve’s goes into overdrive.
It’s just a bit. It’s obviously a bit! These people are trained. They have safety guidelines. HR meetings.
But then—what if they don’t vet everyone? What if there’s some guy out there, some real-life psycho who figured out the perfect cover? A place where he can swing blades around, chase strangers, carry fake blood, and no one calls the cops when a head goes rolling.
“Jesus Christ." He rounds a corner too fast, nearly collides with a trash bin disguised as a coffin, and keeps going. "This is how Dateline episodes start.”
Steve's legs burn. His vision tunnels. The groups fade as he slips into a quieter back section of the park—less traffic, fewer lights.
He finally slows, ducks behind a decorative fence covered in fake ivy. He presses his back against it, listening.
Nothing but the throb of bass from a nearby haunted house.
“Okay,” he whispers to no one. “He’s gone. You lost him. You’re fine. You—”
A shape moves at the end of the street.
Steve’s heart stops.
The man out of the shadows like he’s been sculpted from them. He’s far enough away that Steve could still pretend he’s not being hunted—but the moment their eyes lock, it’s over.
“Shit.”
Steve backs away, slow, careful, trying not to draw attention, like that’ll help when the guy is literally staring at him. He turns on his heel and walks—briskly at first, then faster, until walking turns into running again.
It's been almost two years since Steve has bothered working on his cardio. Figured he'd take a break after everything with the Upside Down, but now—yeah. He's regretting it.
Steve ducks through another stretch of themed alleyway—a fake backlot made to look like an abandoned asylum, bars across the windows and flickering lights in the distance. He spots something ahead: a low barricade made of chain and metal posts, a sign zip-tied to the front that reads EMPLOYEES ONLY in bold red letters.
Behind him comes the sound of those boots again, eating the distance between them.
Real sword, real man, real blood. People disappear at theme parks all the time, don’t they?
A headline flashes in his brain like a marquee: Local Man Found Dead Behind Haunted House, Park Calls It “An Isolated Incident.”
“Nope. Nope nope nope.”
He grabs the barricade and vaults it in one desperate motion, landing hard on the other side. The chain rattles, the metal posts wobble, but they hold. He straightens, glancing around. This section of the park is darker, the decorations sparse, just a few dim floodlights and the low hum of generators.
He takes a step backward, scanning for an exit.
Somewhere behind him, a gate creaks.
He doesn’t know if the guy’s actually followed him, if he’s still in “character,” or if Steve just broke a rule that’s about to get him yelled at by security.
Steve presses his back to the rough wall of a faux warehouse façade, paint flaking under his palms. The air here is heavy with the smell of burnt propane from the torches. Makes it hard to breathe.
He scans the stretch of empty street in front of him, waiting for movement, for that flash of white paint or glint of metal.
All he sees is haze.
He pulls his phone out again. The screen glows ghost-blue against the dark. No signal.
“Great,” he wheezes. “Perfect. Lost my best friend, gained the homicidal mime. Love that for me.”
His thumb hovers over the useless screen anyway, refreshing nothing, just to have something to do with his shaking hands. He glances up every few seconds, eyes darting down the corridor.
Still empty. Safe.
He exhales, shoulders dropping an inch.
But then there’s a shift of air, a scrape of leather against the wall—close enough that he fees his baby hairs stand on end.
Steve whirls just as a shadow detaches itself from the murky air behind him. The actor steps out of the darkness, silent until the very last second. He’s taller up close than Steve realised, broad through the shoulders, the black paint around his eyes making them look bottomless.
For a fraction of a heartbeat, Steve can’t even breathe.
Then the man moves.
A single, fluid motion—one hand catching Steve’s wrist, the other clamping over his mouth before he can do more than gasp.
Steve’s back hits the wall hard. The impact knocks a noise from him, a muffled yelp swallowed against the stranger’s palm. His eyes go wide, panic detonating inside his chest. He tries to twist free, but the grip is iron, inhumanly strong.
Steve jerks, kicks at the pavement, but every movement earns him a low, steady breath from the man holding him there—unbothered, almost amused.
“Easy,” the actor growls, voice distorted behind the clench of his teeth. “Wouldn’t want you to ruin the fun, now, would we?”
Steve swallows hard, pulse pounding under the stranger’s palm. “Mmf—” He forces sound through it, muffled, desperate. When the hand eases, he blurts out, “Are you—are you gonna rob me? Or kill me? You can have my wallet, man, seriously, it’s not worth much, but—”
The man laughs.
It’s low. Soft. A little rough, like smoke dragged over gravel.
It slides down Steve’s spine like static, tugs at something deep in his memory. Something half-buried under a year of silence.
He looks closer.
The lighting shifts with the fog, a crimson wash spilling over the man’s skin, and Steve’s eyes dart around, cataloguing details. The line of his jaw beneath the paint, the mess of curls damp with perspiration, the lean stretch of his body pressed too close to be mistaken for a stranger’s.
And then—there.
A flash of color at his hip, visible between the laces of his low-slung pants. The blood-red ink catches under the lights, half-obscured but not enough to miss.
A pair of lips, tattooed in perfect, kissing detail.
The air leaves Steve's body all at once, replaced by a dizzy rush that makes the world tilt.
He knows that red. He knows those lips. Not from photos, not from conversation—but from the hazy blur of his dreams. The ones that left him sweating, breathless, reaching for something he couldn’t actually touch, besides his own cock—
It hits him fast and hard, like a live wire.
“Eddie,” he says before he even means to.
The man’s grin widens beneath the paint.
And suddenly, Steve can’t tell if he’s shaking from fear or something else entirely.
For a second nothing moves. The torchlight wavers, creating phantoms that crawl across the wall behind them.
Then the man laughs again—richer this time, like he’s been waiting all night to hear his name spoken from Steve's lips.
“There he is." The hand over Steve's mouth loosens and drags down, thumb brushing his jaw before letting go entirely. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”
Steve blinks, mind scrambling. “What the fuck. What are you—”
Eddie tilts his head, the smear of paint around his mouth cracking with the grin that blooms there.
“I’m working,” he says easily. “Entertaining the masses. Keeping you on your toes.” He steps back half a pace, sword hilt glinting as he slides it off his shoulder, letting it hang loose at his side. “You scare easy, Harrington.”
“I—” Steve’s throat clicks as he swallows the dregs of his fear. “You chased me.”
“Part of the job,” Eddie says with a shrug. “You ran. I followed. Great audience participation, by the way.”
Steve gapes at him, words dissolving before they even form. Every fragment of terror, every flash of adrenaline still lingers under his flesh, but now it’s tangled with something else—relief, anger, that old pull of the leash he thought he’d buried.
He can see more of him now that they’re both still. The corpse paint is smeared from sweat, revealing hints of skin beneath the white in the curve of his cheek, his little freckles scattered like constellations. His piercings catch the light when he talks, silver glints in his mouth and chest. The blood streaked down his stomach is fake but glistens convincingly, beading at his collarbone before trailing lower, following the path of those same straps that cut across his torso.
Steve looks away.
Eddie's grin goes indulgent. “Did you catch the show?”
Steve drags his eyes back up, jaw tight. “Who cares? You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Payback,” Eddie says softly, something darker curling under the words. “For last Halloween.”
It lands heavy. Steve feels it like a cut reopening. “You remember.”
Eddie’s expression flickers—quick, unreadable—and then smooths into that same theatrical smirk. “Hard thing to forget, sweetheart." He steps closer again, doesn't give Steve time to reply. “You look good terrified. Always did. Even when those bats were tearing you open.”
Steve’s back hits the wall as he tries to catch his breath.
He should say something. Tell Eddie he’s insane, that this isn’t funny, that he’s still mad, that he never stopped thinking about him—but the words stay lodged his throat.
Eddie watches him, waiting, the smile fading from his real lips. Only the one painted on remains. “Didn’t think you’d come here."
“Didn’t think you’d—be here. Doing this.”
Eddie cocks his head. "No? Figured Birdy would tell you."
"Robin?" Oh, shit. Robin. Where is she? Steve looks down the alleyway, but then Eddie's words catch up to him. "Wait—she knows you work here?"
"Yeah." Eddie shrugs, unbothered.
"Shit, man. I didn't know. I wouldn't have—"
"Come at all?" Eddie suggests.
"No. I wouldn't have run away."
"Right. Well..." Eddie sniffs his nose. "That would mean I wasn't doing my job well enough, wouldn't it?"
The silence stretches as Eddie sheathes his sword back into its holster. Steve watches the smooth pull of his muscles, feels the image turn into something molten moving like honey in his gut.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” he blurts.
Eddie’s brow furrows, the expression barely visible under the streaks of paint. “Boyfriend?”
“Yeah. You texted about hanging out with your BF. I figured that’s… him.” He gestures vaguely toward the park, toward the memory of that faceless guy from the New Year’s party. “The one in your place. From that night.”
For a moment, Eddie just stares. Blank.
Then his mouth opens a little, realisation dawning like a lightbulb—and he barks out a laugh. A real one this time, unfiltered and bright, the kind Steve hasn’t heard in a year.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Eddie wheezes, tipping his head back. "My boyfriend. Right."
Steve’s frown deepens. “Uh, yeah? That’s what you said. Isn't it?”
Eddie presses a hand to his chest like he’s trying to hold the laughter in. “Oh my god. Yes. I did indeed say that, Harrington. Just didn't think you'd remember.” He shakes his head, waves a dismissive hand. “I lied about all that.”
Steve just blinks at him. “You... lied.”
“Yeah. I... guess I was just looking for an excuse, you know? Totally forgot I said that.” Eddie scuffs his boots against the ground. "That guy was a one night thing. Fooled around a bit. That's all."
“Oh.” Steve’s ears burn. “Cool. Great.”
“Uh-huh.” Eddie cocks his head, watching him with that maddening half-smile. “You jealous or something, Harrington?”
“No," Steve lies. "Just trying to—figure out where I stand.”
Eddie’s grin falters. The playfulness bleeding into something heavier. His face looks human for a second. Older.
“You stand right here, man. Always did.” Eddie gestures to—well. To all of Steve, standing right in front of Eddie.
“Doesn't feel like it," Steve says, even though he's not sure what that even means. "Since you ghosted me and everything."
It’s not said with venom—just quiet confusion. And that’s somehow worse.
For a second, Eddie looks like he might lie. His mouth opens, shuts, his eyes dart away. He rakes a hand through his tangled hair, streaking black and white paint through the curls to match the streaks of red, and then lets out a breath that sounds a bit like a laugh.
“Didn’t think you’d care,” he finally says, brittle.
“Of course I cared. You just—vanished. No texts. No calls. I know I did you wrong, but—” Steve cuts himself off, jaw working. “I didn’t even get the chance to explain.”
“Explain what? That it didn’t mean anything? That you were too wasted to remember?”
Steve winces. “I was drunk, yeah, but—”
“Yeah, but you’re still Steve Harrington, aren't you,” Eddie interrupts, voice flat. “You forget when you want to forget.”
“That’s not—”
“Forget it. Doesn’t matter now.”
“Yes, it does,” Steve insists. “You don’t get to just say that and walk away again.”
“I didn’t need your pity, man.”
"What pity?”
Eddie gives a short, humourless laugh. “The excuses after taking someone’s V card. The whole, ‘I swear it meant something, I just can’t handle a relationship right now,’ routine. You don’t gotta pretend, Harrington. I know the script.”
For a moment, Steve doesn’t move. He just stares.
“Wait,” he says slowly, almost whispering. “You’re saying—”
“Yeah, man,” he says, unguarded. “You really don’t remember a damn thing, do you?”
The world tilts on as its axis enough that Steve loses his footing.
“You—” He swallows, shaking his head. “When we—”
Eddie lifts a hand, cuts him off before Steve can stumble through it. “Don’t make it weird. It was one night, it happened, end of story. You don’t owe me a thing.”
But there’s something in his voice that betrays the words—something that sounds like please don’t pretend it meant nothing.
"Anyways." Eddie gives a small shrug, like he’s shaking something heavy off his shoulders. “I’m over it."
The words sound practiced, like he’s rehearsed them for nights exactly like this—when all the memories start to hurt again.
Steve studies him in the dim light. “You really mean that?”
“I mean..." Eddie's mouth quirks. “I’m as over it as anyone who’s ever tried to walk away from Steve Harrington.”
It lands somewhere between a compliment and an accusation. Steve feels it settle and sit there, heavy and pulsing by his heart.
Then Steve exhales. “I’m not over it.”
The faintest twitch of surprise crosses Eddie's face before he masks it again, but Steve sees it.
“I’ve really tried," Steve continues. "But I think about it all the damn time." He drags a hand through his hair, restless. “When I finally pieced together what happened, when Robin told me, I felt so… sick. Like I’d done something awful without even meaning to. Like I’d stolen something from you and then just—forgotten it. And all I could think about was how ashamed I was that you probably thought it didn’t mean anything to me.”
Eddie’s expression is unreadable under his painted mask. But he stays still, eyes right on Steve like he cares to listen.
Steve’s voice shakes a little when he adds, “But the truth is, I wanted it to be real. I wanted to remember it. I wanted to wake up next to you and know I hadn’t imagined it, that it wasn’t just some dream that I ruined before it could even start.”
Steve forces a laugh, but it cracks. Sounds almost sad. “And I was going to tell you that. I was going to find you, explain everything, admit that I—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “But then I saw you with that guy. Touching him like I wanted you to touch me, and I thought, okay. He’s moved on. He’s happy. He doesn’t need me showing up to dig up something he’s already buried.”
Eddie’s breath hitches, the smallest sound, and his fingers flex at his sides as if he doesn’t know whether to reach for Steve or stay perfectly still.
Steve’s voice drops to something almost too quiet to hear. “I want to remember.”
The words leave his mouth like they’ve been sitting there for a year, pressing against his ribs, waiting for the air. A plea. An ache.
Eddie flinches like it all hits him at once.
His throat moves with a swallow. For a long second, he stays silent. He looks away—down the empty path, at the fires sputtering in their iron sconces, at the fog curling low across the ground. His fingers flex and unflex at his sides like he’s trying to hold onto some invisible restraint.
“Steve,” he says finally, voice rougher now. “Please don’t—don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
Eddie exhales through his nose, shaky. “Don’t sound like you mean it, man. I’ve been trying to keep my head on straight all damn night.”
“Then... let it roll,” Steve says simply.
Eddie looks back at him. The distance between them doesn’t feel like much anymore. Just a few feet of cracked pavement. Every word they spoke pulled them together, like loose threads being mended back together.
The moonlight catches the wet sheen of fake blood still drying on Eddie’s stomach, the curve of the sword strapped across his back, the smear of black paint around his mouth. He looks unreal—half fantasy, half memory—and Steve can’t tell where the performance ends and the person begins.
Eddie’s shoulders rise and fall hard, once. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Yeah,” Steve whispers. “I do.”
The muscle by Eddie's jaw twitches as he chews his thoughts. Contemplates what to say next, or whether to believe Steve at all.
It's all out on the table now. No hiding, no holding back. Steve would like to say no expectations, but shit, he's expecting. Eddie just doesn't know what.
The skin on his stomach is hypersensitive as Eddie leans farther forward, making the cotton of his shirt tickle and tease and awaken the butterflies laying dormant there.
Eddie smells sweet like candy as he tilts his head and stares down the line of Steve's exposed throat.
“Fine. You want a memory?” His hand lifts, fingers ghosting over the collar of Steve’s shirt. “I’ll give you one you can’t forget if you tried."
Just the bass of Eddie's voice makes a breathy moan push from the place his eyes are latched onto.
"Is that a promise?" Steve whispers, angling his hips just forward enough that he feels the brush of Eddie's pants.
Now it's Eddie who seems entirely too affected. He nearly growls as he launches against Steve, one leather thigh sliding like silk between Steve's thighs until it's nestled firmly where he's growing stiff.
"That's a fucking threat, Harrington."
"Fuck." Steve bucks against Eddie's leg like he's going to ride the thing, tilting his hips, dragging his cock as if he might be able to feel it slip against the leather.
Eddie presses his knee into the wall behind Steve, hikes it high enough to create pressure where Steve's straining. "Tell me right now if you're drunk. Because if you say you forget tonight..."
His words trail off, but Steve knows what the end of that sentence would have been.
"I'm not drunk."
"High?"
"No."
"...Cross faded?"
"Eddie," Steve whines. "I'm sober. Please, just..."
"Hm." Eddie licks his lips, catches some of the fake blood that shines on his lower lip. "Steve Harrington begging. I'll tell you what, that was not on my bingo card."
"I'm not begging."
"No?" Eddie asks sweetly. "Then what, pray tell, would begging sound like?"
Steve just scoffs at that, decides he hasn't kissed Eddie for too long now and he needs to press their lips together so he can memorise what it feels like.
But when he leans forward, Eddie holds his head back. Doesn't let Steve take what he wants. "Ah, ah, ah. That wasn't rhetorical, Stevie. I'm gonna need you to answer me."
"What—?" Steve blinks, finds himself thrown for a loop. He feels heat start to gather in his ears. "I guess... I guess if I was begging I'd, like... say please more?"
Eddie grins wide. "And?"
"And... get on my knees?"
"Get on your knees, huh?" Eddie's teeth nip into the plush skin of his lip. He takes a step backwards, releases the pressure between Steve's legs. "I'm not sure I understand. I'm a visual learner." He watches Steve for a few seconds, and when the latter doesn't move, Eddie points to the road beneath their feet. "Show me an example."
Blood rushes under Steve's cheeks. He's sure he's furiously blushing, bright enough to illuminate the dark alleyway.
Then his blush deepens, because he finds himself sinking to one knee.
And then two.
Eddie, with his massive boots, seems to tower over him as his face becomes level with his crotch.
Steve slowly lifts his hands, rests them on the leather barely clinging to Eddie's hips. If he thought his outfit was obscene before, now it's just utterly indecent. The top of Eddie's pubic bone is out, basically his whole bush. He has the start of an erection that's becoming insanely obvious, as the bulge looks like it might pop right from the top of the laced-up waistband.
Saliva begins to pool under Steve's tongue.
"Please?" The word escapes Steve, low and gravelly. "Please, I..."
He forgets what he's supposed to be begging for. If they even knew beforehand.
Eddie's eyes go heavy, even though Steve's words fade into the unknown. "Go ahead, Stevie. Tell me what you want."
He reaches out with a bloodied hand, strokes it across Steve's jawline. He can feel his skin cool as the breeze kisses the fresh red smear that must have just been painted onto his skin. The scent of cherry bursts in his nose, makes his mouth water even more.
"I want... whatever that smell is."
Eddie's brows pull together for just a second before he seems to catch on. "Ah. You did always like your candy, didn't you?" He pushes his thumb against Steve's mouth. Cherry floods his senses as the fake blood coats his philtrum.
Steve flicks his tongue out tentatively, feels sugar dancing across his tastebuds. "What is that?"
"Basically corn syrup and coconut oil," Eddie says with a loose shrug. "And some flavouring. Since the stuff has to be in our mouths all day long." He carefully watches Steve's tongue poke out to gather the slippery sugar mixture, and the flair of his eyes when the taste of it registers. "You want more, don't you?"
Steve nods. "Please?"
"Such good manners," Eddie breathes, and his hand gently caresses up to Steve's cheek, over to his parted lips.
They fall open on their own accord. Steve feels like a man possessed, or maybe just one without a brain. Doesn't think, just acts and feels.
The slide of Eddie's fingers on his skin. Red. Wet. The tips of them prodding between his teeth. Syrup smearing on his tastebuds.
Steve closes his lips as Eddie's middle two fingers press down firmly on the flat of his tongue, gliding down its valley back and forth the same way one might prep a girl's throat for a cock.
Or... Or a guy's throat.
Steve's throat.
His eyes roll into his skull as he groans around Eddie's fingers, lips closing tight and tongue rolling lazy circles until he can feel the sugar on his skin start to melt away. There's more pressure as Eddie digs his fingers against his tongue, shoves them so far back that Steve almost gags. Then they twist and curl, and suddenly Eddie is hooking them, stroking at the roof of Steve's mouth.
He can feel spit seeping from the corners of his lips, even as he tries to seal them and suck it all back.
It's good. It's so fucking good.
Eddie's noises are better than the ones he's heard in his dreams—real moans like the hug on his digits brings him real pleasure. The fingers in Steve's mouth are solid and there, and his tongue is lapping the same way he rehearsed so many times in his fantasies.
He raises his hands, spreads them flat against Eddie's stomach. He watches the carnage there smear in the shape of his fingers, horrifying, exhilarating. His heart is still pounding from the fear of the chase, but also from something else. Some sort of unbridled, terrified lust.
His cock is so stiff it hurts.
"Look at that," Eddie marvels from above him. There's a starry quality to his voice, a gentleness that doesn't match his appearance. He slides his fingers almost all the way out of Steve's mouth, and then shoves them all the way back in. "You have no idea how many times I've pictured you with something in your mouth."
Steve's can't do anything but moan his response and let the drool drip down his face. One more small river, one more incredulous shake of Eddie's head.
Even in Steve's fantasies, he never imagined this. He always plays a more important role in his mind, participates a little more. But there's something to be said about it... the submission. Letting Eddie be in a sort of pseudo hypnotic control while Steve waits on his knees. He never knew how hot it could be.
He blinks slowly up at Eddie while his hands wander south down his torso, mapping and feeling and memorizing. God, Steve is etching everything so deep in his brain that this'll be the last thing he thinks of in his deathbed. He finds the laces at the top of Eddie's waistband, holds eye contact to notice how Eddie’s mouth pops open and he sucks in a sharp breath as Steve begins to untie the first knot.
The laces loosen the tiniest amount, but Steve swears it's enough to see the start of something pink poking out from Eddie's pubic hair.
He pulls again, and now Eddie's fingers slip out of his mouth. Steve feels empty without them, finds himself closing his lips to drink back his spit and suck on his own tongue.
Eddie catches himself with both hands on the brick wall behind Steve's back, making his body loom all encompassing above him. His feet step further apart, and in turn, so do his legs. It makes the leather stretch across them, makes the laces tug tight within Steve's fingers, but also helps him find where to pull to start getting everything loose.
"What'cha doing down there?" Eddie asks like he doesn't already know.
Steve answers with a strong pull on one of the laces through a grommet, opening Eddie's fly enough that he learns, yes, he was seeing the start of something pink.
Eddie's pubes thin out near the root of his cock, just like Steve's do. And that area is now out in the open air as the rest of his length stays wedged down one leg.
Not for long.
Steve yanks a second string, watches Eddie's stomach jerk as another half inch of his cock is exposed.
Eddie lets out a nervous laugh, but still doesn't stop Steve from his ministrations. "You gonna suck my dick? Right here?"
Steve nods his head as he leans forward on his haunches to get his tongue involved. There's a stripe of red syrup trailing over the thatch of hair near the base of Eddie's dick, so Steve uses it as a road map. He presses the flat of his tongue right below Eddie's navel. Licks.
Lower, at the bottom of his happy trail. Licks.
Lower again, where the hair is thickest and the smell of Eddie mixed with fake cherry fills his nose. Instead of licking, he just sticks his tongue out and buries it there, lets it dig and wander and taste right where he can feel Eddie start to swell.
"Ah, fuck. Jesus." One of Eddie's hands fly to the back of Steve's head, twisting in his hair to hold him steady. "You're a bit of a freak, aren't you, Harrington?"
"Uh-huh," Steve slurs, not bothering to tuck his tongue back into his mouth. He shakes his head back and forth, makes his tongue rub wildly over Eddie's exposed skin.
"Fuck yeah. You wanna suck it, don’t you?"
"Uh-huh."
Eddie blows a breath from pursed lips. He shakes his head, says to himself, "I'm so gonna get canned for this."
But he reaches down with the hand not tangled up in Steve's hair to help with the laces.
Slowly, Eddie starts to become fully exposed, but the best part stays tucked away, trapped inside the impossibly tight fabric. Steve rubs his lips against the base of Eddie's cock. It can't feel all that nice; his lips are dry and the touch is light, but still Eddie groans above him, encourages him to keep going. Steve cups his hand where the tip pokes under his pants. Squeezes. Gets another sound that travels straight to his own dick.
"Shit, Steve..." Eddie's hips tilt into his palm. "Take it out."
Steve barely has the wherewithal to glance down the empty street, near the barricades they jumped. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. We're alone," Eddie encourages like he knows Steve's concerns. Not that a lot would stop him from getting what he wants now.
But the coast does seem clear past all the fog and behind all the flood lights. The screams seem distant, distracted. So Steve shoves down on Eddie's waistband. Shoves down a second time when it barely budges. And when that only gets him another inch, he digs his fingers into the gaping fly to try to reach what's still squished inside.
Finally, finally, Steve is able to wrap his fingers around Eddie's cock enough that he can slowly pull it out. Eddie hisses as the pressure crests, then ceases, his dick springing free into the thick night air.
And then Steve just... freezes. Stares.
Eddie naked is exactly how he manifested in Steve's dreams. So slim, but hard. His cock a perfect flushed pink, the same way Eddie's cheeks always got when he blushed. Curved upwards, uncut, cute.
Can a dick be cute?
Eddie's is.
Not small. Not big. Just... perfect. Like the cocks Steve sees artists draw on twitter.
"Change your mind?" Eddie teases after Steve hesitates a little too long. His tone is light, but there's a manic look in his eyes that makes Steve think he's riding high on the thrill of the moment, like there's a part of him, just like Steve, that thinks it could just... end.
Steve doesn't answer in words.
His head is a haze as he at last gets his fingers wrapped around Eddie's cock. Hard and hot, and he hears Eddie quietly moan in the back of his throat. Steve strokes his fingers over Eddie's length, tries to get adjusted to the fact that this is happening after playing it out in his head so many times. That he has a cock in his hand that isn't his.
And then he leans forward, kisses the slippery tip. Parts ways just enough to lick back the salt that gathers on his lips.
"Steve. You're killing me."
His eyes travel higher to focus on Eddie gazing down at him. Where his white makeup fades out down his neck, red has started to bloom on his pale chest. Like his face would be all flushed and pink just like his dick.
Steve keeps looking up through his lashes as he drops his jaw open, wraps his teeth with his lips, and sinks forward.
A blow job isn't a foreign concept to Steve; he's been on the receiving end a million times. He knows what to do, in theory. Breathe through his nose, keep his teeth covered, keep things wet.
He bobs his head at the tip, knows he probably can't take Eddie down his throat until he's used to it. Once he gets the rhythm down, he starts to swirl his tongue the way he likes himself.
Eddie open-mouthed moans above him, his hips twitching forward like he wants to fuck Steve's mouth. There are nails scraping at the back of Steve's skull as Eddie tightened his grip.
It's all so encouraging that Steve forgets there's supposed to be an art to it. He gets lost inside his own head, inside his mounting pleasure from finally getting a taste of the man of his dreams. So Steve loses his beat, loses the suction of his lips, loses the methodic swirl of his tongue.
He turns animal, instinctual. The act of sex alone drives his actions, and he finds his tongue lolling out of his mouth, feels spit and fake blood bubbling from the corners of his lips, dripping down his chin and wetting the collar of his shirt. He lets it happen. Loves the way he feels so wet and debauched and sticky, loves that he smells like Eddie.
"Holy fuck," Eddie whispers somewhere above him, but Steve is too busy getting his hands involved now. Squeezing over Eddie's thighs, brushing over his bush, wrapping in a circle around his cock to jerk him off hard and fast while his tongue lathes over the cherry red crown.
"Oh my god. Oh my god." Eddie's stomach flexes by Steve's face, abs going taut and then relaxed. His cock pulses in Steve's palm, like a heartbeat. "Jesus. Wait—you'll make me cum. Steve—"
But Eddie holds Steve tighter, starts to move his hips in tiny little thrusts. Precum seeps out of the slit in his cock and Steve licks it up, lets it coat his tongue.
He's gonna make Eddie cum.
Steve is gonna make Eddie Munson cum.
But then—a noise.
A scuff of boots on pavement close by. And this time it can’t be Eddie.
And there's a light down at the end of the alleyway. A set of male voices.
Steve pops off Eddie's cock right as the latter nervously whispers, "Shit. Shit."
Steve wipes the slobber from his chin, notices that watered-down reddish pink smears over the back of his hand. He scrambles to his feet as Eddie frantically tries to tuck away his dick back into his too-tight pants. "What do we do?"
"Uh... shit, man. I, uh..." Eddie pulls on the laces. He can't really fit himself back into the leather now that he's all... thick and swollen. "Okay. I have an idea."
He half-assed ties the front of his pants, then pulls Steve by the elbow further into the darkened alley. Steve doesn't really have a choice other than follow.
Their shoes scuff on the loose gravel under their feet, but the voices be come farther away as Eddie shoves Steve down another small close. He watches Eddie check every door along the way, some closed with chains, others locked from the inside.
Until there's a door that gives way.
It creaks open, nearly makes them both jump from the sound of it. It's dark inside as Eddie peeks his head in.
There's a laugh getting closer again from outside, like the men know where to find Eddie and Steve trying to flee.
"This'll have to do. Get in, Steve."
Steve takes a deep breath, and follows.
Eddie clicks the door behind them, finds a bolt to lock. It's pitch black, beyond a shining light from across the room that seems to be coming from under another door. Steve can hear Eddie rustling around, and then all at once, there's a dim light as he turns on his phone flashlight.
"There's gotta be a switch in here, right?" Eddie muses to himself.
But Steve is too busy blinking at the room they've landed in. Shelves of costume props, boxes of makeup, terrifying masks all lined up on the top shelves with eyes that seem to stare right at him. There are swords like Eddie's, unlit torches, maces, air horns, tire irons, all propped up against the wall.
It looks like a horrifying torture chamber.
"Ah-hah!" Steve's attention is captivated by Eddie's voice, his flashlight waving around as he grapples for something on a middle shelf. "And... let there be light."
The room is all at once bathed in a chilling red flood from the coloured lantern that Eddie found.
"Not scary at all," Steve says sarcastically. He adjusts his vision to the red-soaked darkness. There's a mirror in the corner, and when he checks his face he's surprisingly... normal looking. He expected fake blood to be drenching the lower half of his face, but there's nothing but a gleam of moisture.
Eddie also looks surprisingly clean. Had Steve really licked off all that syrup from his body?
"Should we...?" Steve points to the second door across the cramped space.
"Yes! You're so right, Harrington. Smart as a whip." Eddie takes two long strides across the storage closet. And he flips the deadbolt. "There. Now, drop your pants."
Eddie is already unlacing his own again, pushing them father down his hips. His cock springs out, still half hard, and Steve's mouth instantly starts to water like some Pavlovian response.
"But, we... We could get caught in here," Steve starts to explain, unconvincingly at that. He doesn't look away from between Eddie's legs.
"Yeah. And we had a much better chance of not getting caught forty feet from the main traffic path." Eddie prowls towards Steve with a predatory glint in his eye. "C'mon, man. I just had you on your knees where anyone could just walk by. We're locked in here. We're alone."
Steve's heart starts pounding again, filling his eardrums with the beat of blood rushing in his veins. "We're... alone?"
"All alone," Eddie whispers as he takes the last step into Steve's bubble, his platform boot wedging between his feet to prod his legs open.
"No one... No one has a key?" Steve asks, but he's not sure if he actually cares about the answer.
Eddie's lips find the shell of Steve's ear, his breath hot as it skates across his skin. "Oh, everyone has a key, Stevie. But that's part of the fun, isn't it?"
Fun?
Or fear?
Or... maybe both? Like the two responses have somehow mingled into one exhilarating, addicting sensation.
Maybe Steve does get the hype of haunted houses after all.
His arms lift around Eddie's shoulders, hands resting on the hilt of his sword. He strokes up the handle, then down, fingers carefully finding the blade the same moment Eddie's lips find his neck.
He pressed down, gasps. Maybe from the nip of Eddie's teeth, maybe from the expectation of a slice from the steel.
But he notices right away—"It's fake?"
Eddie soothes over the sting from his teeth, seems lost in trying to undo Steve's belt. "Huh?"
"The sword. It's... It's fake." Steve tilts his neck sideways, gives Eddie more room to suck on the tight tendons in his neck.
But that's not what he does. Eddie instead leans away, detaching from his kiss to stare down at Steve with a quirk in his brow. "Of course it's fake, man. You think I could swallow a two-and-a-half foot sword?"
"I—" Steve feels his face heat up. "I don't know, it just looked so real."
A smile curls on Eddie's black painted lips. "That's show biz, baby." Even thought the petname isn't meant like that, Steve still finds himself blinking heavily from the way it sounds. Eddie seems to notice, because he closes the distance between their faces. His nose brushes Steve's. "But don't you worry. My throat can take other things nice and deep."
Steve ruts forward from the timber of Eddie's voice. His cock leaks into his briefs, makes the cotton slip around where he's sensitive and begging to be touched. "Yeah?"
"Oh, yeah." Eddie's tongue curls out of his mouth, catches the jut of Steve's lower lip. His fingers finally loosen Steve's belt, pop his top button. Pinch around his fly. "I could show you?"
Steve makes a pathetic noise as his hips ram his erection towards Eddie's hand, like they expect something for it to slip into. And Eddie gives it to him.
He tugs down Steve's zipper and immediately cups Steve over his underwear. His grip is firm in a way that makes Steve think—yeah—he's definitely experienced that before.
Steve's thighs tremble.
His eyes roll back.
His jaw falls open and he breathes in Eddie's moan.
"You like that?" Eddie squeezes his hand tighter, and when Steve responds in a groan, Eddie takes the opportunity to glide his tongue inside his open mouth, flick it behind his teeth. "God, you sound so hot."
"Fuck, Eddie. Are you sure you're a virgin?"
"Was. Was a virgin, Stevie." Eddie rolls his fingers, makes Steve squirm as his cock gets pushed towards his bellybutton. "You lost your chance to take that from me."
Steve's head falls backwards onto a shelf of—something. He's not entirely certain what goes clattering to the floor. He's too busy watching Eddie fall to his knees in the tiny space in front of him.
"God. I wish I knew," Steve says gently. He pushes his pelvis forward when Eddie gets his fingers in his beltloops, angles to help shuck them off his hips. "We could have been together for a whole year if I hadn't been so—Oh, god, fuck."
Steve's cut off when Eddie takes him into his mouth, briefs and all. Spit soaks through the cotton, makes his dick all wet and hot. And Eddie latches his lips, sucks hard but can't make a seal, so he just ends up making the raunchiest slurp that Steve has ever heard.
He nearly sobs, his fist finding Eddie's wild curls and crunching where the red hairspray has dried.
More items clatter behind his shoulders as the shelf is rocked from his weight. Eddie hums as they fall around his knees, but doesn't pay much mind beyond that. He's too busy yanking at the elastic of Steve's briefs, pulling them down to join his jeans.
As soon as his cock kisses the outside air, Steve feels a thrill up his spine. He's never been naked in public—at least not in ways that count past changing in locker rooms and taking a piss in a gas station.
His cock has never been hard and leaking anywhere outside of a bedroom, and he's certainly never had someone on their knees at the same time.
Eddie's cheshire grin curls the edges of his makeup, making him look wild and crazy. It makes Steve's cock pulses by his face, dripping enough that it falls in a string until it reaches Eddie's chest.
"Excited, huh?" Eddie grips Steve's dick and strokes it once. His hand is dry and somehow the scratch of it just makes Steve more feral.
"God, yeah. Fuckin' been dreaming of this."
"Yeah?" Eddie brings his dry palm to his lips, spits onto it before putting it back on Steve. It's so much better. "And how am I compared to all those dreams?"
Steve has to hold his breath to stop himself from whimpering like a dog in heat, but he still makes a punched out noise in the back of his throat when Eddie twists his fist right at the tip of his cock. "So much fucking better," he manages between breaths. He closes his eyes and tries his damnedest not to bust in Eddie's hand. "I fucked myself raw thinking about you. I can't believe it's actually happening."
"It already happened once," Eddie reminds Steve as he slowly strokes over his cock. "I know because I—I think about that night every time I get off. Every single time."
And just like that, Eddie slides his mouth down Steve. Down all of Steve—all the way to his root. He can feel the tip of his cock bury between Eddie's tonsils, can feel it get hugged tight as he gags and swallows.
"Jesus Christ. Eddie."
Eddie pulls off just enough that he can hum and send those vibrations straight to Steve's core. He clenches his abs tight, eyes unfocused as he watches Eddie's nose bury in his bush that he has no time to wish he had trimmed. His mind is entirely occupied—Eddie's dark eyes, Eddie's hands wandering inside his thighs, Eddie's tongue shoving against the slit of his cock like he thinks he can wiggle it inside, and then broad and flat and sharp where his piercing massages against his veins.
How could Steve ever forget a night with him?
Eddie pulls off just long enough to say, "Tell me what you dreamt about." And then he pulls Steve's dick back into his mouth like he's trying to suck the soul out of him.
When Steve stays silent, doesn't answer right away, Eddie stops moving. Just his lips stay hugged loose and still around Steve's tip.
"Fuck. Fuck, no, keep going. I—I thought about..." Steve tries to think, but his mind is a jumbled mess. "I thought about this."
Eddie slowly starts back up, more suction, long, wet strokes of his pierced tongue, like a rib that catches on Steve’s cockhead every time he flicks the tip.
Steve feels heat licking like flame in his core. He knows he's nearing his end, and something about that opens the floodgates.
"I thought about you sucking my dick, but... but I thought about sucking yours more."
Eddie moans, lips stretched around Steve's cock, spit spilling from under the seal.
"And—And the way you tasted. I always thought about that. I'd lick my cum from my fingers and pretend it was yours." Steve's words encourage Eddie, make him bob his head faster, harder. "Oh, fuck yeah. I thought about cumming down your throat. I thought about cumming on your face. I thought about cumming while you fucked me from behind—"
Steve feels the horizon of his orgasm, balls tight, cock pulsing. But then the loss of Eddie's throat sudden enough that he fucks forward, trying to bury himself where it was snug and warm.
Eddie's makeup is completely ruined; black lipstick smeared into something completely unrecognisable from before. Tears have streamed down his face, dragging his makeup with them in long, dark lines.
He's even hotter than before. Ruined. Corrupted.
"You thought about getting fucked?" Eddie asks, his tone husky and raw. "By me?"
"Yeah." Steve tilts his hips towards Eddie's face, dragging the swollen tip of his dick right across his cheek. He notices the rings of black around the root of himself from where Eddie's lips were stretched, and it's almost enough to bring him to the edge again. "I thought about it so much. What it would feel like to have you inside." He bites his lower lip to keep himself from moaning. "I tried to use my finger—pretend it was you. But I couldn't get it deep enough."
"Steve." Eddie's nails dig into the top of his thighs hard enough that it makes Steve grunt. "You're trying to murder me."
"Ah—no. Just want you in me."
"God damnit, baby." There's that name again, only this time Eddie says it like he means it. His fingers dip into the soft inner skin of Steve's thighs, pushing his stance farther apart. "This what you want?"
His fingers squeeze at Steve sac and then travel backwards, over his perineum. Steve clenches up when two of Eddie's fingers find his asshole and press hard like every other touch he gives to Steve.
"Fuck yes."
"You want them in you?"
"Yeah," Steve groans again, rolling his hips like he might be able to sink onto Eddie's fingers.
"And then my cock, huh? You want that in you, too?"
"Please." Steve gasps as Eddie hooks his finger, the tip of one caught up on his rim. He's too aware that this probably isn't the proper way to do this. He's clean, sure, but not freshly clean.
And yet he doesn't care.
Steve finds himself circling his pelvis as Eddie rubs the calloused pad of his finger over his hole.
"Steve Harrington—a bottom." Eddie pushes a finger forward and Steve keens as it slips inside. "I never woulda guessed. Explains the begging, though."
"Oh, fuck, Eddie. Yes."
"You know..." Eddie twists his fingers around like he's trying to loosen the grip Steve has on them. It stretches and stings and it feels so good to be touched in a way Steve has never experienced. "I bet I could make you cum without even touching your dick."
"Yeah, you could," Steve agrees blindly.
Eddie seems pleased enough with the answer. "Mmm, make your cock spurt untouched, huh?"
"Yes."
"You'd really like that, I'll bet."
"God, yes. Eddie—"
"Too bad we won't find out tonight, isn't it?"
Before Steve even has the chance to comprehend Eddie's words, he's feeling empty. Because Eddie pulls out, leans back on his haunches as he wipes his fingers on his pants.
"Wh—?"
"I know," Eddie interrupts. "It's just... I'm still kinda pissed off at you, Steve. And as much as I truly am a giver"—Eddie places a hand over his heart, his face theatrically arranging like he feels real grief over his decision—"I feel like it's just that I get what I want tonight. Don't you think?"
It's jarring, having feet of space between him and Eddie again. Steve feels cold and abandoned, nervous by Eddie's half-rejection. He reaches between his own legs, squeezes his cock so he feels taken care of again. "What is it you want?"
Eddie stands. His dick is half soft again from being neglected for so long, but he presses it firm against Steve's, sliding them together in a way that makes his mouth water.
Steve can feel Eddie become hard as they slip against one another, can feel himself on the precipice between too much and not enough.
Eddie brushes his lips with Steve's, not actually kissing him before he moves sideways and whispers in his ear, "Does it really matter what I want? Won't you give it to me no matter what?"
His tongue flicks out, catches Steve's earlobe. He bites down hard enough that it makes Steve squirm.
"I'll give you whatever you want." Steve's voices comes out slurred, broken.
A hand snakes between their bodies, so slow but so confident. Eddie's lips trace the line of Steve's jaw while he lines their cocks upwards, and starts stroking.
That coil begins to tighten in Steve's stomach again, leisurely, languidly. He rocks his hips to the same slow pace that Eddie sets, lets his pleasure mount and pull tight.
"You know... This is what we did that first night." Eddie squeezes his fingers to punctuate his point. It makes Steve whine. "Yeah, I know. It was the hottest thing I've ever seen. The hottest thing I've ever felt." His thumb jams down against the slit in Steve's cock like he thinks he can plug it up. Then he rubs in circles, makes Steve see stars. "We came so fucking fast, Stevie. You made the prettiest sounds. Like a girl."
"Oh fuck. Oh God—Eddie."
"Yeah. Just like that. It was all in hyper-detail. Like I was fucking high." Eddie catches Steve's lips in a brief kiss. Pulls back. "The whole time I was thinking, Fuck, I hope he doesn't regret this tomorrow. So imagine my disappointment..."
"When I forgot," Steve mumbles.
"When you forgot." Eddie's free hand does something near their waists, but Steve can't see. Too focused on Eddie's serious face in the red light. "But you'd kept saying over and over, I like you so much. I like you so much. Fuck, I knew you were pretty drunk, but I still let myself hope that it was real."
The words hit Steve hard, snapping him from his stupor. The world comes back into sharp focus, and now all he can see or hear is the betrayal in Eddie.
"It was real," he says, almost forcefully. He places a hand on each of Eddie's cheeks, makes sure he's looking. "God, it was real. You're all I think about."
Eddie's eyes go soft, even under all that makeup it's easy to see. And it kind of dawns on Steve that all this bravado, the confidence, the dominance... it's a mask. The same as the character he plays.
And it all falls away for the first time as Eddie asks in a small voice, "Will you fuck me?"
"Thought you'd never ask," Steve says softly. He pulls Eddie on for the first real kiss of the night, pressing his face to Eddie's and letting their tongues glide together in smooth licks. Eddie's chest rumbles, plastered against Steve's, and then their teeth start getting involved as they nip and pinch against the thin skin of their lips.
Steve tastes the paint that he cleans from Eddie's mouth, waxy, like crayons smell. But he gets a thrill from consuming something that touched Eddie's skin, like he could swallow a piece of him to keep forever.
One of Eddie's hands pushes at Steve's chest, hard enough to get just the right amount of room for him to spin around. When Eddie arches back, Steve learns what his hands were up to a few minutes back. His bare ass presses against Steve's cock, at just the right angle that Steve feels himself sliding up the crevasse between his cheeks. He pulls Eddie in by the hips so he fits more snugly, moving his own pelvis back and snapping forward as their tongue knot together. They move like that for a long while, learning the tempo of their bodies, listening to the desperation in their moans, sinking into the heat of their kisses.
And then Steve reaches between them, pushing his cock down instead of up. Still, it slides between Eddie's cheeks, but it takes on a new path. Rather than trailing up to his tailbone, it now wedges between his thighs, snug against his taint. When Steve pulls back, his cockhead tugs at Eddie's asshole, pushes there like a promise, and then shoves tight between his legs again, kissing his balls. It's the final move before the air in the small room morphs.
Steve is basically fucking Eddie already. All that's left is for him to bury inside where Eddie is all tight and hot. They stare at each other like they both know now is the moment, even though no verbal words are exchanged.
Steve lines up, blunt cock against Eddie's small little hole. He pushes forward and Eddie groans. Nothing yields, nothing opens, like Steve is pressing against a wall. He grips his cock, drags it over Eddie's body until it catches on his rim again. Softer now, tilts his hips forward.
Still nothing.
"Use your spit and fingers," Eddie suggests quietly, like he doesn't want to break the taut tension between them.
Steve does as he's told, brings his right hand up to his mouth and spits right in his palm. He spreads his two middle fingers in it, feels them slip together, then finds where his cock is nestled.
"Fuck. Put them in."
"'M trying," Steve says lowly. "Don't wanna hurt you."
"I'll be fine." Eddie shoves his ass towards Steve's curious fingers, makes them poke hard at his entrance. "Fuck yeah."
"Careful," Steve scolds, but he still moves forward with his middle finger, pressing hard enough that it gets sucked inside. Eddie's head falls against his shoulder. "God, you're so tight."
"Jesus, Steve. That's so good." Eddie pushes back against Steve like he's not doing enough, nor is he doing it quickly. "Hook your finger down—yeah, like that."
Steve curls his fingers, his cock pulsing like it's the thing sliding inside Eddie's body. He rubs Eddie inside, feels his walls, stretches him out as he tugs around his opening. Steve can't help moaning back when Eddie makes a noise—he genuinely doesn't think he's ever been so turned on and out of control before.
Eddie's shoulders heave, panting as he meets Steve's fingers. "Just a little deeper. C'mon—fuck! There!"
The pad of Steve's finger brushes something smooth, and he feels Eddie lock up that exact second. Eyes squeeze shut and he moans way too loud knowing there are potentially people outside of either door, but Steve doesn't care. He doesn't care. He just does it again, harder, holds Eddie by the hip to keep him grounded as his whole body seizes.
"Fuck, Steve. Fuck, Steve. Fuck."
"Oh my god." Steve pistons his cock forward, lets it slide where his finger is. Genuinely thinks he might cum before he fucks Eddie. "What is that?"
Eddie isn't coherent enough to answer, just babbles Steve's name and a string of curse words before he stars saying, "God, I could cum like this. Gonna cum like this. Wanna cum like this."
So Steve stops cold.
Eddie almost yells from the loss, whipping his head around to glare at Steve. It might be the most terrifying he's looked all night.
"What the fuck, Harrington?"
Steve doesn't bother cleaning his finger off on his jeans before he grips his cock with his dirtied hand. "Wanna be inside you when you cum."
Eddie's anger quickly turns to lust, his curls bouncing as he nods. "Shit, yeah. Okay. Do it quick."
Steve palms Eddie's asscheeks, spreads them apart. The red lighting makes it hard to see if his asshole is puffy and pink, but Steve imagines it is as he purses his lips and spits straight onto his target.
Eddie moans, his hole clenching around the pool of saliva that catches and drips on his rim.
Steve shakes his head in disbelief as he lines up.
Can't believe this is happening, I can't believe this is happening.
The tip of his dick is drenched with precum. It slips around aimlessly until Steve holds it steady. Starts pushing forward.
They both moan simultaneously from the contact. But nothing happens as Steve barrels on, tries to get Eddie to open up around his blunt cockhead.
"It's not working," Steve spits, frustrated.
"Keep going. Just—"
"We need lube."
"God damnit!" Eddie jolts against Steve. He swears he just stomped his foot. "I can't fucking believe after all that... Wait. Wait! I have an idea."
Eddie spins on his heel, and suddenly they’re face to face. Steve can see beads of sweat on his pale temple, his bangs plastered to his forehead. His makeup is horribly melted, ran through, messy. Their cocks slide against each other as Eddie reaches onto the shelf behind Steve's shoulder, and grabs a small jug of... some fluid. Steve can't see it properly in the lighting.
With a wink, Eddie hands it off. He pecks Steve's stunned lips, and then situates himself exactly as he was—ass arched, pressed right on Steve's hard on. He wiggles his hips back and forth, massages the underside of Steve's cock with the cleft of his ass.
"C'mon. Pour some of that liquid gold on me and take me to pound town."
Steve scoffs at Eddie's ridiculousness, but still finds himself unscrewing the lid on the jug. "What the hell is this?"
"Blood," Eddie answers bluntly.
Steve pauses. "Blood?"
"Fake blood. Of course. If I can swallow it, I'm sure it's fine to go in my ass, right?"
"Uh... I'm not sure that's how it works."
"Whatever. If I die, I die doing something I love." Eddie wiggles again, and Steve—he keeps unscrewing the cap like he never even considered not using it.
"Isn't it sticky?" Steve dips his finger into the liquid, then out. Rubs it around to find it... pleasantly wet.
"It's got oil, remember?"
"And sugar."
"Yeah... It can dry. But if you move fast..."
Steve takes the hint.
The bottle tips, he pours a bit too much in the palm of his hand. But it feels slick as he brings it to his cock and starts spreading it around.
It feels good.
"Shit," Steve grunts, pouring more and rubbing it on Eddie instead. When he pushes forward, his finger slips inside without resistance.
"God, yeah. That's good," Eddie praises.
Steve watches his finger fuck Eddie open, momentarily wondering why the fake blood doesn't look like a murder scene. But he's transfixed on the stretch of Eddie's hole and the movement of his pointer. In, out, twist, curl. The sounds Eddie makes... small, almost pained, but somehow still low and completely manly.
"Can't wait anymore," Steve whispers, not really to himself or to Eddie, but rather to the universe. As if he's letting it know that he's reached his snapping point, can't hold himself back. Searching for permission to go absolutely feral.
This time when Steve gets his grip on his cock and catches it where Eddie is puckered, he feels give. Just the tiniest amount--but it's there. Enough to encourage him to continue pushing.
"Jesus fuck." Eddie's hand fly forward to the shelf in front of him, knuckles white as he holds on for dear life. "That's it. Fuck me. Make me cum on your cock."
"Fuckin' hell." Steve's fingers squish into the flesh of Eddie's hips as the crown of his dick disappears with a pop. It feels like an elastic band is tied around him. "You're so fucking tight."
"Yeah," Eddie whines. He curves his neck so he can look Steve in the eye. "No one's ever been inside me before."
"No one?" Steve moans as he sinks another inch. "I'm the first?"
"Fuck, yeah, you're the first."
Another inch.
Eddie must be in pain from the stretch of it—Steve nearly is himself—but his mouth falls open like he's in pure bliss.
"Still a virgin," Steve says, even though he knows it's not true.
Eddie tries to scoff, but it comes out more like another groan. "You wish, Harrington."
"Yeah, I do," Steve confesses as he watches his cock disappear halfway. He fears he might cum before his sac is pressed tight to Eddie's hole. But he moves back an inch anyway, pushes forward.
God, he's so close. So close to being completely buried. So close to losing control.
"You could be." Eddie bites his lips, trails off as Steve rocks into him. "We could say you were the one who took it. Fuck—you basically did, right? First guy to ever make me cum—"
That's the thing that almost does Steve in. He slams his eyes shut the same second he slams his hips forward, curving over Eddie, chest to back. He goes deathly still, thinks a breeze would finish him.
"Don't move," he whispers into Eddie's ear once he's able to catch a breath.
"Close?"
"So fucking close."
Eddie makes a noise as his head flops forward. "Fuck, me too."
"Not gonna last long," Steve says. He has a feeling he's said it before.
Eddie's lips twitch at the sides, his makeup no longer sharp enough to curl intimidatingly. "Better make it count then."
With a deep breath, Steve straightens his back. He tests the waters by grinding his hips, feels Eddie clench around him.
"Fuck."
Eddie coughs a laugh. "You're really pent up, man."
"You have no idea. Haven't fucked anyone in over a year."
"For real?"
"How could I?" Steve pulls out, fucks back in, his thighs slapping against the back of Eddie's. "I told you. You're all I wanted."
It looks like Eddie sinks his teeth into his own arm, maybe to keep from yelling too loud. He seems to ground himself after Steve pumps into him again.
"And now that you got me?"
"Never gonna let you go." Steve's voice is punched out as he starts to set a pace. Slap, slap, slap. Skin on wet skin clapping together fills the space. "I'm ruined for anyone else."
Eddie reaches backwards, his hand gripping at the naked flesh under Steve's shirt. "Shit. Sounds like you wanna go steady."
"Been committed to you all damn year," Steve grits out. He grinds his hips in a circle, then starts fucking Eddie with purpose. "You just didn't know it."
Words get lost after that.
Steve watches Eddie's face, each of his features drawing in as Steve's cock drills into him from behind. He starts to moan—not like they do in porn, but real sounds of pleasure like Eddie just can't hold them back.
Then Steve reaches around him, fists his cock. Barely even strokes it before Eddie starts spasming around him, crying open-mouthed, wet tears leaving trails down his cheeks. Cum spurts from his dick, rolls down Steve's knuckles and drops to the floor in a sticky puddle.
His ass grips Steve so hard that he can barely move inside him, but the waves of his orgasm milks Steve's cock from the inside.
He feels his cock twitch.
And then he's adding to the mess between Eddie's legs. Cum and blood and spit marry into one slick fluid that coats Steve's dick as he cums inside Eddie. Feels so wet. Feels so warm.
When his dick stops pulsing, Steve pulls out, but keeps himself tucked by Eddie's balls. He watches his spend leak out of Eddie's ruined hole, watches Eddie flex and push out everything that was inside him. Steve almost wants to shove it back it, plug him up. Make him walk around with a piece of Steve still inside him for the rest of his life.
But instead, he finally takes a step back, relaxing his fingers from the bruising grip they had on Eddie's hips.
The world feels suspended in this moment where everything has finally come undone.
Eddie’s head tips forward, curls sticking to his forehead. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Think you'll remember that one?”
Steve laughs, a little dazed. “Yeah. Think that’s gonna stay burned in my mind forever.”
He wants to say more—to tell him that he meant what he said, that he’s in love with him, that he’s done pretending he's not. Eddie shifts to face him, paint smeared across his mouth, his eyes clearer than they’ve been all night.
For the first time in a year, they’re both quiet in the same space.
Eddie opens his mouth, maybe to answer the confession he sees hovering in Steve’s eyes—and the world explodes with a startling sound.
Bang, bang, bang.
The metal door to the storage closet shudders from a heavy knock. The knob wriggles under the locks. Someone’s voice muffled on the other side: “Security check! You guys good in there? We heard something fall!”
“Shit,” Eddie hisses, already grabbing for his pants around his hips and the skewed harness around his shoulders. “Get dressed. Now.”
Steve fumbles for his jeans, yanking them up, cursing under his breath as the open fly catches his spent dick.
The second slam hits the door harder this time.
“Yeah, one sec!” Eddie calls, voice cracking half an octave higher than usual. He wipes an arm over his mouth, smearing what’s left of the paint into a dull grey shadow. “Dropped a prop, we’re fine!”
Steve’s still buttoning his jeans when Eddie grabs his arm, dragging him toward a stack of set pieces: tarps, fake gravestones, coils of electrical cable.
They squeeze behind them just as the deadbolt starts to turn. The door groans open; light from the hallway cuts through the red lantern, blending into orange and yellow.
A pair of black-booted feet step inside. A flashlight beam sweeps across the room.
Steve holds his breath, shoulder pressed tight to Eddie’s, both of them still sticky with sweat and cum and syrupy blood, both of them trying not to make a sound.
The guard mutters something about “kids sneaking in” and turns the beam the other way. The lantern flicks off. After an eternity, the flashlight vanishes. The door slams shut again.
They stay hidden for another long minute before Eddie lets laughter shake out of him quietly. “Hell of a timing, huh?”
Steve lets out a breathless laugh of his own. “Yeah. Story of us.”
Eddie takes his phone out again, flicks on the flashlight. “Guess we prob'ly still got things to talk about.”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “We do.”
In the white light, Steve can see the blood on Eddie again, down his chest and chin, pink where it mixed with his white face paint.
And then it dawns on him—that the red lantern masked the colour of blood. Made it blend into the light and disappear. But no—it was just hiding.
Steve glances down his own chest. Sees that the crotch of his jeans and the bottom of his shirt is soaked in red. Red handprints up his chest. Red spit by the collar of his shirt.
Eddie snorts, but tries to hold in his laughter when Steve looks at him, horrified.
"You look like you work here, now." He brings a knuckle up to his own lips, points to Steve. "You got a little something..."
"For fuck’s sake." Steve wipes at his mouth. Comes away with grease paint... and other sticky, white smears.
"Don't worry, man. No one'll look twice."
Eddie's grin fades as the muffled roar of the park swells outside.
The night is still alive and waiting.
Eddie brushes his fingers over Steve’s wrist before stepping away, already reaching for his sword prop.
“Go find Robin,” he says quietly, a little smile ghosting across his lips. “If security catches you back here, I can’t bail you out. I’m just the entertainment.”
Steve hesitates at the doorway. “Eddie—”
But the other man’s already turning toward the far door by a rack of costumes. He slips out into the hall, the night swallowing him whole.
***
Steve bursts out of the staff corridor and straight into the bustling street.
The main pathway is alive—music pounding, mist creeping low, crowds swarming under the orange glow of lamp lights. For a second the colour almost blinds him. He fumbles his thumb over his phone screen, desperately trying to get a bar of service.
People keep giving him strange looks—sidelong glances like he’s part of the show.
“Awesome,” he grumbles under his breath. “Totally normal. Just your friendly neighborhood massacre survivor.”
He’s halfway down the block when he finally spots her—Robin, standing with a security guard near the popcorn cart, waving her arms like she’s halfway through demanding to see a manager. The second she clocks him, her eyes go huge.
“Steve!”
She barrels toward him, hair bouncing, abandoning the poor guard by himself.
“Where the hell have you been?” she demands, grabbing his arm. “I’ve been calling you for—what—half an hour? I thought you got abducted or like, beheaded by a guy with a chainsaw!”
“I was—uh,” Steve starts, brain scrambling for any excuse that isn’t the truth. “Lost. You know. Big place.”
Robin takes in his appearance properly now—the blood, the streaks of black across his jaw, the ruined, wet shirt. Her nose wrinkles.
“Ew. What the hell happened? You look like you hooked up with a killer clown.”
Steve’s mouth opens, but his words trip over each other. “I—uh—well—”
“Oh my god.” Robin smacks his arm. “You have been hooking up with a killer clown!”
“Would you keep your voice down?” Steve hisses, but she’s already doubled over laughing.
“This is like, peak Steve Harrington behaviour. Can’t even survive a haunted attraction without catching feelings for the talent.”
Steve glares. “This is your fault! You didn't tell me that Eddie worked here!”
She wipes tears from her eyes, still grinning like she might combust from sheer joy. “You’re blushing! That’s adorable. Oh my god. Was he giving you a private sword swallowing show, if you catch my drift?”
“Robin.”
"It all aligns! You've got blood on your, um... décolletage."
Steve covers his nipples. "Look away."
The laughter tapers off. She studies him with a tilt of her head, her grin softening.
“Hey,” she says quietly. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, though his pulse is still racing and the ghost of Eddie’s touch is still buzzing under his skin. Some guy with an axe comes screaming down the path, but Steve doesn't even flinch. “I’m fine.”
Robin lifts a bucket of kettle corn up for Steve that he hadn't noticed she has. He takes a few kernels, pops them in his mouth. Kind of wishes it wasn't washing the flavour of Eddie away.
"So." Robin eyes him from the side, gives him a good once-over. "Think you might change your mind about visiting Eddie at his place tomorrow?"
Steve bites back a grin. "Yeah. I might reconsider it."
Robin bumps her shoulder into his, the bucket of popcorn crackling between them. Everything feels a little more mundane after what happened in that quiet, hidden corner.
Somewhere in the distance, a fire-eater blows another plume of flame into the dark, and for a second, it lights up a tall, lean figure with a wild head of hair and a silver blade glinting on his back. Steve watches it flare, fade, and then smiles to himself.
Tomorrow, he decides, he’ll find Eddie again.
And he'll tell him everything he remembers.
***
One Year Later
Tuesday, 8:00 AM
Eddie: happy halloween!!!
Steve: hmm
Steve: is that all we’re celebrating today?
Eddie: nothing else that I can remember
Eddie: but I was pretty drunk last night so…
Steve: hahaha you’re so funny
Eddie: it’ll never get old
Steve: well I happen to remember
Steve: happy 1 year!
Eddie: such a sap
Steve: don’t pretend like you’re not more excited than me
Eddie: oh i’m excited alright
Eddie: to get out of florida finally
Steve: and spend halloween in our new place too
Eddie: ya. guess that sounds alright
Steve: see you in 8 hours…ish
Eddie: for sure. drive safe. you haven’t been drinking, right?
Steve: I don’t drink and drive
Eddie: that’s not what I’m worried about
Eddie: just worried you might blank on the new address
Steve: I’m laughing so hard rn
Eddie: lol
Eddie: just playing. <3 you so much
Steve: <3 you too
Steve: see you at home
Eddie: see you there stevie