Steves Yellow Sweater This, Steves Yellow Sweater That

Steve’s yellow sweater this, Steve’s yellow sweater that

What about Steve’s Red Sweater? What about her??

hideout

also on AO3 based on this post i made even tho i said i wasn't gonna write the actual fic (i lied) There’s a new singer at the Hideout. Eddie falls hard, watching from where he’s sitting on the bar across the room, his beer almost slipping from his fingers. The singer’s voice is smooth and soft, and it makes the rest of the world go silent and Eddie’s head go cloudy.

The only problem is that Eddie recognises him from physics.

Eddie didn’t recognise him at first. He’d been taking a sip from his beer when he was announced, introduced as Anonymous, and then the boy appeared on stage, guitar in hand, tossing the chords out of the way so he didn’t trip on them. Eddie had lowered his bottle, his eyes narrowing, but he was too far away, and the lighting hadn’t adjusted on stage, and the boy’s face was lowered.

The boy stopped in front of the microphone. Slid his fingers down the neck of the guitar, making the strings squeak. Took a breath that Eddie could hear over the speakers placed around the bar, even though it’s noisy with chatter and laughter and the sound of glasses on wood tables.

And then he started playing. It was a soft, slow melody, much much different that what Eddie plays. Perfect for the beginning of the night. Eddie had tilted his head, listening intently, setting a foot on a stool by the bar, almost leaning over to listen harder. The room fell a little quieter, and then it fell even quieter when he started singing.

His voice was soft.

Smooth and low and almost soothing, and just as Eddie realised who he was listening to, the lights on stage flicked on.

And now Eddie is sitting on a bar, staring at fucking Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington, who’s playing guitar and singing into a microphone in front of a room full of people who have no idea who he is.

Eddie sets his bottle down next to himself, setting and elbow on his knee and and tilting his head as he listens.

He doesn’t know what Steve is singing about.

Something about “flower-faced demons and father figures.” Something about the monsters under his bed, and a baseball bat. Something about kids with decades in their eyes and blood on their sneakers. Something about hiding away in his closet when the booze comes out, about his back hitting glass bottles taken with nimble fingers and desperate hopes.

Eddie almost wants to cry. He doesn’t know why.

If they could see me now would they still care about those cigarettes

Eddie leans back onto the counter, finding his beer and taking a little sip as he watches. Steve’s hair is perfect, of course. He isn’t wearing one of those cute polo shirts like he always wears at school. (Eddie chastises himself for thinking they’re cute. There’s nothing cute about them. Even if they make Steve look like a preppy school boy that should be giving out church pamphlets or something, and even if that makes Eddie want to see him on his knees. He pushes the thought away with a little shake of his head.) He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt, and a pair of pants that reach to just above his chucks.

My head hurts and the sun is too loud, but I’m scared of the dark and the storm clouds

Steve can’t see him from the stage. Even if he could, he spends almost the whole time with his eyes half-shut, looking at the edge of the stage or at his feet. Like he’s shy. Which feels out of character for King Steve, though Eddie supposes he’s never been quite as obnoxious as Tommy H. Or as obnoxious as Eddie himself.

When he finishes singing, there’s scattered applause around the room, and Eddie sets his bottle down to clap, smiling when there’s a little hoot from behind him and Steve smiles bashfully.

“Thanks,” he says quietly into microphone, and Eddie wants to cry again. He doesn’t know why.

Corroded Coffin performs later that night. Eddie sits on the bar all night, waiting to see if Steve comes by to get a drink, but no dice. He doesn’t even know what he’d say if he saw him, if they made eye contact and if, by some small mercy from God, Steve recognised him.

Eddie tosses the chord of his guitar aside, blinking in the intense light that shines on him and his band mates, looking around the bar as some people crowd up around the edge of the stage.

“Good evening, Hideout,” their singer says loudly into the microphone as he tunes his guitar. “How we doin’?”

Eddie grins as cheers fill the bar.

“Eddie, say hi.”

His grin widens, and he steps up to his microphone.

“Do I have to do this every time?” he asks through his smile, and a few laughs scatter around the room.

“Yes, you’re the heartthrob.”

Eddie shakes his head, strumming a chord as the drummer hits two beats in a row. The lights flash.

“Hi,” he says softly into the microphone. A girl screams in the back of the room, and he throws his head back with a laugh.

He spots Steve when they’re on their second song, as he almost yelling into his microphone, and he falters slightly, but manages to catch himself and continue. He can’t tell if their eyes have met or not. They’re too far away and the bar is too dark, the light flashing too much for Eddie to really see him clearly. But it’s definitely Steve. Sitting in the same place Eddie had sat earlier.

He looks away when the song ends, rubbing his cheek and turn away to take a breath. No one can really tell in the dark.

“Our next song is called Class.”

Eddie almost laughs out loud, turning back to face the mic, spotting Steve by the bar again, sipping a beer. The song starts abruptly after a soft two, three, four, and Eddie plays with a grin throughout it all. It’s one of his favourite songs of theirs, and the thought of rich boy Steve Harrington listening to them, and a bunch of people around the stage, belt about how much they hate rich people, amuses Eddie to no end.

You don’t know how good you got it, cash and checks in your silk-lined pockets

Steve is watching, an elbow set on the bar, his chin in his hand. Eddie is out of breath, sweating and panting, and his fingertips hurt like they might be bleeding, but Steve is watching him.

Pay your bail off for the same shit I do, but of course it’s not the same

Eddie takes a deep breath before he speaks into the microphone as the music cuts off, switching to sharp, monotonous beat. His voice is low and scratchy and soft, right up against the mic, his eyes lowered to the edge of the stage.

“Coke is classy on a silver tray instead of the dashboard of a broken down car. Day drinking if it’s a champagne glass instead of a paper bag, celebration instead of self pity. You pay thousands for art in gold frames, but hate the art on the streets. You claim to work for everything you earn, even though your rough start was in the family business. Must be nice to not worry about it all. Must be nice to have a table to put food on. You stare in the streets because I’m not a cookie-cutter man from a cookie-cutter house. Look at those jeans, bet he smells like a trailer park. He has long hair, he must be a fag. He has art on his skin, he must be the antichrist. Don’t look, kids, don’t look! He’s fucking trailer trash!”

His voice escalates through it all, and he shouts the last words before they begin to play again, music crashing down in the bar like a tidal wave, loud and nearly discordant.

Eddie is smiling.

Steve’s eyes meet his a while later, while Eddie is sitting on the edge of the stage talking to a boy with spikey hair and heavy makeup. Eddie’s voice gets caught in his throat as he looks over at him.

He’s pulling the strap of his guitar of his head, and he seems to falter too, but he looks away sharply and goes outside.

“Eddie?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking back at the guy sharply. “Sorry, I’m here.”

He laughs lightly. His black lipstick is faded on his inner lips, probably left behind on rims of glasses.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he says again, shaking his head with a smile. “Tired, y’know.”

He laughs again, giving him a sympathetic smile, but Eddie interrupts before he can say anything.

“Sorry, I’m—“ He hips down from the stage. “I need, uhm. Some air.”

He leaves before he can say anything else, only feeling partially guilty about leaving the boy hanging, but Steve is already gone by the time he gets outside.

Steve definitely recognized him. It kind of makes Eddie happy. Kind of makes him excited, even though he absolutely hates that it does; Steve Harrington is just a preppy rich boy that doesn’t give even half a shit about anyone like Eddie.

There was that one time he’d told Tommy H to cut it out, man when he tripped someone in the cafeteria that one time. Not that it really meant anything.

Eddie spends the whole weekend worrying.

—————————

Their eyes meet in the hallway on Monday. He’s by his locker talking with Nancy Wheeler, and he looks at Eddie as Eddie passes by.

Eddie looks away.

He doesn’t see him again until physics, second to last period. He’s sitting at his desk staring at the worksheet blankly, watching letters and numbers and symbols swim around the paper, when something drops onto the page in front of him, and he blinks. It’s a folded piece of paper, and he cuts his eyes up without moving to find Steve walking to the teacher’s desk. He says something to the teacher and then turns to the door, glancing back at Eddie.

Eddie looks back at the paper, tentatively unfolding it to find Steve’s pretty girly handwriting.

Bathroom. 5 min

His face flushes with heat, and he covers it with a hand, pulling his hair across his face and folding the note again before he tucks it into his pocket.

He waits a few minutes, glancing at the clock, and then goes to the teacher.

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

The teacher looks up over his glasses at him. Eddie holds back a deep sigh at the judgement shining in his eyes.

“Did you finish the worksheet?”

“I… No?”

“You can go when you finish it.”

“But.” He pauses. “My bladder doesn’t care about your worksheet. I need to pee.”

“Edward—“

“I’ve been drinking a lot of water lately—“

“Alright, go,” he interrupts, frustratedly. “Whatever.”

“Thank you,” Eddie says curtly.

Steve is leaning against the wall in the bathroom when Eddie gets there. They look at each other silently as Eddie shuts the door behind himself, taking a deep breath and moving to stand across the room, leaning against the graffitied tile and twisting one of his rings.

He looks at Steve. Steve looks at him.

He’s wearing a white shirt. It’s tucked into his jeans with a little belt, and his hair looks perfect even though he’s running his hands through it.

“Hey,” Steve says finally.

Eddie almost flinches, expecting a jeer at his ripped pants and frizzy hair, but Steve isn’t looking at him the way the others do. He face almost looks soft.

“Hi,” Eddie says quietly. He pulls a ring off and twirls it between his fingers. Steve takes a breath to speak, but Eddie blurts, “I haven’t told anyone.”

Steve blinks, and then nods.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Cool, I— I haven’t… either.”

Eddie nods, taking a breath that shakes against his will. He looks at the floor awkwardly, but Steve keeps looking at me. Eddie doesn’t often feel self-conscious, or insecure, or anything like that. He doesn’t care if people stare at him. But right now…

He wants to hide.

Steve is hot, he decides. He hasn’t allowed himself to think it until now, but he glances up at him, looking at the way he leans against the wall leisurely, the way strands of his hair fall in his face. He’s hot. It’s irrelevant. It doesn’t matter.

So what if he’s looking at Eddie like he doesn’t mind the fact that he’s a freak? Or if he plays guitar and has one of the prettiest voices Eddie’s ever heard? Or if his eyes sparkle and he has cute moles scattered all over his skin?

Eddie wants to slap himself.

“You’re really good,” Steve says abruptly, and Eddie looks up at him, slipping his ring back on.

“Yeah?” Steve nods. “You into metal, Harrington? Wouldn’t have guessed.”

Steve scoffs lightly.

“Not particularly.” He shifts on wall. “But I still liked it. You’re talented.”

“Jesus.” Eddie looks at him blankly. “You’re laying it on thick. I already said I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

“I’m not—“ Steve’s cheeks redden. “I’m not trying to butter you up, I just… It was cool.”

“I’m messing with you.”

“Oh.” Steve nods, looking away, suppressing a smile. “Of course you are.”

“You were really good too,” Eddie says after hesitating. “Like… weirdly good.”

“Weirdly good?” Steve says with a light laugh. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It was unexpected,” Eddie says with a shrug, moving his hands to play with the ends of his hair. “Didn’t recognise you at first. But you seemed… I don’t know, like, in your element.”

“I really like music,” Steve says softly.

“And your lyrics?” Eddie does a chef’s kiss. Steve laughs again, rubbing his cheek. “Genius.”

Steve rolls his eyes, his cheeks pink.

“I mean—“ Eddie ignores it. “‘Flower-faced demons?’ Where the fuck did that come from?”

“Uhm.” Steve’s smile falters and he looks away for a second. Something flashes in his eyes that Eddie can’t quite read. “I, uhm. I have recurring nightmares.”

“Oh.” Eddie stares back at him for a moment. “Well that fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” Steve says with a laugh. “It does.”

“Whats your favourite song?” Eddie asks, twisting his hair. Steve’s eyes follows the movement.

“Uhm.” He takes a breath. “I guess. Boys Don’t Cry. The Cure.”

Eddie nods slowly, twisting his hair around his finger.

“Yeah? Do I pass?”

A little laugh bursts out of Eddie.

“I’m not testing you, man, you can like whatever you like. The Cure’s nice.”

“What do you like?”

“Uhm.” Eddie sighs, pushing his hands into his pocket and flicking his head to get his hair out of his face. “Metallica. Mötley Crüe. Ozzy, for sure.”

“Ozzy?”

Eddie looks up at him. He’s looking at him curiously.

“Ozzy Osbourne?” Eddie says. Steve shrugs. “He’s the, uh, lead singer of Black Sabbath. Bit a bat’s head off on stage a few years ago. Real metal.”

“He fucking what?”

Eddie cackles, looking at the way Steve’s face changes, his brows furrowing, his eyes wide. Eddie nods, and Steve laughs, looking at Eddie the way people do when they make fun of him, but he’s still smiling.

“That’s what you’re into?” Steve says.

“Well—“ Eddie laughs again. “Yeah. And the music.”

“The music,” Steve repeats with a teasing nod. “Right.”

Eddie makes a face at him.

It feels like they’re flirting. Eddie supposes he’s flirting with him, the way he does to the popular girls so they think he’s loveable freaky instead of insane stalker murder rampage freaky. And so they tell their boyfriends to leave him alone.

He can’t tell if Steve can tell that he flirting. Or if Steve is flirting back.

“You should show me sometime,” Steve says softly.

And oh.

Eddie stares. Looks back and forth between Steve’s eyes like he’s trying to see if he’s fucking with him or not. But Steve looks earnest. And nervous.

“Okay,” Eddie says. His voice is also soft. He might be mirroring Steve. “You should, uhm. Come over.”

Steve looks at the floor. And he smiles.

“Yeah, okay.”

Eddie stares at him, twisting his mouth.

“You’re not messing with me, right?” he asks. Steve’s eyes cut up to him. “You’re not gonna like… I don’t know.”

Steve stares back at him for a moment. And he shakes his head.

“No,” he breathes. Eddie can just hear him across the room. “I’m not fucking with you. I think you’re cool, Eddie.”

Eddie guffaws, and Steve looks offended.

“What, I can’t think you’re cool?”

“No!” Eddie exclaims, laughing. “No one thinks I’m cool, that’s— that’s my whole thing!”

“Okay, well…” Steve laughs lightly, tucking his hands behind his back against the wall. “I’m different. You’re cool.”

“Oh, you’re special?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie looks at him.

He is.

“Fine,” he cedes, and Steve grins. He has a beautiful smile. Eddie has to look away. “You wanna come over tonight?” he asks before his brain catches up. His cheeks flush with heat. “I mean— Unless you have, like, homework, or your parents need you home, I…”

“My parents aren’t even in the country,” Steve says. “And I can do my homework when I get home or something.” Eddie stares. “Yes. I’d like to come over. You can show me your music. We can light up a joint or something.”

“Oh, I see,” Eddie says, nodding. “You’re in it for the weed.”

“…I mean it definitely helps.”

“Wow.”

Eddie frantically cleans up as soon as he gets home. He doesn’t think he’s ever cleaned like this before, organising his and Wayne’s shoes at the front door, gathering dirty dishes and stacking them in the sink, wiping counters and sorting the cushions of the sofa. He’s almost out of breath after a while, standing at the door and scanning the trailer for anything out of place. It’s still cluttered and probably nothing at all like Steve’s home, but there isn’t really anything else he can do.

So he goes to his room and finds some weed, taking it to the living room and anxiously rolling a joint as he waits for Steve. Part of him thinks he won’t show up. That he really was just fucking with Eddie. That tomorrow he’ll avoid his eyes and pretend they’ve never spoken.

He’s in the middle of rolling the third joint when he hears a car pull up in front of the house, and he freezes, staring at the door, wide-eyed. He stays like that until there’s a knock on the door, and he scrambles off the sofa, dropping the unfinished joint to the coffee table.

Steve’s eye are wide when Eddie opens the door.

“Was worried I had the wrong place,” he says, exhaling, and Eddie laughs lightly, pushing the door open for him to come in.

“Welcome to casa a la Munson,” Eddie says as he comes in, shutting the door. Steve looks around the trailer, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his face light and curious. His eyes trail across Wayne’s mug and hat collection, across the sofa and table and television, the kitchen and table. “It’s not a lot, but…”

“I like it,” Steve says simply. “It’s…”

“It’s?” Eddie questions, leaning against the small table by the doorway. Wayne hates when he does. Tables are for glasses, not asses and all that.

“I don’t know,” Steve says softly, almost bashful. He’s still looking around. “It looks like people actually live here. My house looks… like a photo set for a catalogue.”

Eddie laughs, crossing his arms, watching Steve wander around, looking at everything.

“Is it all pristine and white?”

“Unless I throw a kegger, yeah.”

Eddie laughs again. He hates himself for it, how much Steve gets him to laugh.

He watches Steve look closely at every one of Wayne’s trucker hats, watches him laugh at the stupid ones, and Eddie furrows his brows in judgement.

“These are your uncle’s?” Steve says, pointing up to them, and Eddie nods. “Your uncle’s funny.”

“I think your brain is broken.”

Steve hesitates, then shrugs.

“Only a little.”

Eddie laughs again. (Fuck.) He shakes his head.

“Music?“

“Yeah, lead the way.”

“Apologies for the state of my room,” Eddie says as Steve follows him down the hall after he grabs the joints from the table, even though he knows he cleaned it up in a rush before Steve arrived.

“I don’t judge.”

Eddie almost scoffs.

“Oh, woah,” Steve exclaims when he enter his room, and a laugh bursts out of Eddie. He turns to ask if he’s judging him, but Steve is looking around the room, his eyes shining brightly. He’s staring open-mouthed, gazing around the room like he’s entered a portal to another world. Maybe he has.

“Woah? Good woah?”

“I— Yeah.” Steve looks around again. He’s smiling. “Yeah, it’s cool. My mom would shit a brick if I tried something like this.”

Eddie looks around his own room. At the posters and tapestries and the white sheet he spray painted CORRODED COFFIN onto that’s pinned in the corner. It looks like a disaster, but Steve is looking around like he’s in the Louvre.

“What does your room look like?” Eddie asks, shutting the door and kicking his shoes off to sit on his bed.

“Uh. Well.” Steve sits on the edge of his bed, still gazing at the walls. He looks awfully, perfectly out of place. “My walls are plaid.”

“Your walls are fucking what??”

Steve laughs loudly. He has a great laugh.

“Plaid,” he repeats, still laughing. He kicks his shoes off too, turning to face Eddie and crossing his legs. “My mom picked the wallpaper when I was, like, thirteen.”

“Jesus.” Eddie shakes his head. “I’ve never felt pity for a rich person, but—“

Steve laughs again.

“You should be rebellious, Harrington. Get an ABBA poster or something.”

Steve shrugs.

“I might. You gonna show me some music, or what?”

“Uh-huh. But first, what you really came here for.”

Eddie tosses a joint to Steve, who catches it against his chest with a grin. Eddie has to lean over to rummage through the drawer of his bedside table, pushing past the half-empty bottle of lube and hoping his cheeks don’t flush, until he finds a lighter. He turns back to look at Steve, popping another joint between his lips, to find him leaning over his lap, an elbow on his knee and his chin on his palm, his joint already dangling form his lips.

Eddie has to take a breath, looking, before he flips the lighter in his hand and leans in. Steve mirrors him, leaning in until the joints are almost touching, and he flicks the lighter a few times before it lights. They both pause for a moment before Eddie leans away, his cheeks flushed red as he inhales the smoke deeply.

Steve sits on the bed and continues to look around while Eddie looks through his records.

He picks a Metallica record, carefully lowering the volume before the music starts.

“Are you gonna hate me if I don’t like it?” Steve asks as Eddie crawls back onto the bed. He looks hot when he smokes. Which Eddie should have seen coming, really, but the way he sucks air between his teeth before he exhales the smoke slowly is doing things to Eddie.

“Nah,” Eddie says easily. “‘S not for everyone.”

“But it’s for you.” Eddie nods, taking a drag off his joint, watching Steve’s chest rise under his t-shirt. “Why?”

Eddie pauses, exhaling, listening to the heavy music for a moment.

“I dunno,” he says lightly. He’s never thought about it before. The music’s always just made sense to him. Always fitted. “Makes my brain go quiet, I guess.”

“Could you sleep with it on?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Steve snickers, taking another drag.

“Can you play this one on guitar?” he asks after a moment. Eddie nods.

“We’ve covered this at the Hideaway before,” he says. He sticks the joint in his mouth, lifting his hands and playing an air guitar, humming along as Steve watches his hands.

“I like how you dance,” Steve says softly, and Eddie grins around the joint.

“Headbanging?” Eddie says, and Steve nods with a grin. Eddie does it harder, listening to the way Steve laughs lightly.

“You have great hair for headbanging,” Eddie comments.

“You think?”

“Mmhmm.”

He gets to see Steve headbang. Steve Harrington. With his lovely hair flying around his head without a care, laughing as Eddie cheers loudly, a joint between his fingers and Eddie’s favourite blanket under him.

“Steve Harrington, I’ll make a metalhead of you yet.”

Steve just laughs again.

—————————

He decides to be brave on Wednesday. He slips a note into Steve’s locker as he’s passing it in the hall. Just a short note, reading having lunch in my van if you want to join signed with a small E.

Even though he knows that it’s unlikely anyone saw him, and even though it’s fine if Steve doesn’t join him, and it’s fine if he does, Eddie feels sick and spends the next ten minutes standing with his face to the wall in a bathroom stall with his eyes closed, trying to take deep breaths.

And then a few hours later he’s sitting in the back of his van, the doors open so he can sit in the sun, and then Steve Harrington is joining him, silently climbing up so sit next to him and pulling a sandwich out of his bag.

“You’ve got shit handwriting,” he says after a minute, and Eddie almost chokes on his water, snorting and covering his face as Steve laughs.

“Sorry my handwriting isn’t pretty like yours,” he says defensively, coughing lightly.

“Oh, my handwriting is pretty?”

“A lot about you’s pretty,” Eddie says before he can actually think, and Steve looks at him. His face flushes and he avoids Steve’s eyes.

“I think you’re pretty too,” Steve says after a moment.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Steve laughs again.

“Do you wanna come over this week?” Steve asks as Eddie is kicking his feet. “Like on Friday?”

Eddie looks at him.

“Your parents won’t mind?”

“My parents probably won’t ever find out.”

Eddie blinks.

“Oh, you said they’re travelling, right?”

“Yeah.” He takes a bite from his sandwich.

“Where are they?” Eddie asks, shifting to lean again the wall, facing Steve.

“Somewhere in Canada.” Steve brings a leg up in front of himself, swinging his other leg. “Dad has a conference or something, and after the last time he went to Canada, Mom didn’t trust him to go alone.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and Steve snickers, nodding.

“Although,” he continues, “I’m pretty sure she’s hooking up with his boss. But also I don’t really care.”

“Jesus. How long are they gonna be gone?”

“Two more weeks.”

“You miss them?”

Steve scoffs, giving Eddie a look like the question is absurd.

“No,” he says when Eddie just looks at him. “I don’t miss them.”

“Do they suck?”

Steve laughs softly, moving to sit across from Eddie.

“Yeah, kinda.” He hesitates, looking at the ground between them. “I don’t think they like me very much,” he says thoughtfully. “But I don’t really like them either, so. Oh well.”

“Why wouldn’t they like you?”

Steve hesitates again, nibbling his sandwich. He really is cute.

“I don’t think they actually meant to have me,” he says after a moment. “They’d stick me with random nannies and babysitters until they could leave me home alone, and then… Well, they saved money, I guess.” He shrugs. “They don’t really talk to me anymore. And when they do, it’s…” He trails off, and it looks like he’s zoning out, breathing shallowly. “My dad yells a lot,” he says softly.

“Sounds like a dick.”

Steve just nods.

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “I’m actually… I don’t know, like. Scared I’m gonna end up like him.” He takes a breath, blinking, and he looks up at Eddie.

“You’re not,” Eddie tells him. Steve just looks.

“It’s how everyone knows me,” he says. “Even though I hate it. Steve fucking Harrington.”

Eddie’s chest clenches.

“And I’m…” Steve looks away again. “I don’t know. If I’m not Steve Harrington, who the fuck am I?”

It’s not really a question. Eddie answers anyway.

“Your own Steve Harrington,” he says. “Not your dad’s. Or fucking Tommy H’s, or anyone else’s. Just… You’re Steve.”

Steve is almost smiling.

Eddie was to hug him. His eyes are shining almost vulnerably, and he looks tiny, sitting up and against the wall of Eddie’s shitty van.

“What about your parents?” Steve asks through another bite of his sandwich, changing the topic. Eddie lets him.

“Well.” Eddie takes a breath. “Mom was too coked up to be a mom. And Dad wanted me to his little mini-me. And when I refused he treated me like a punching bag instead of a child.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you end up Wayne?”

Eddie looks up at him. Something shifts in his chest. He ignores it.

“When Mom OD’d in the living room, Dad wanted it to be my fault, so I left,” he says, moving down the wall, relaxing. He twists a ring. “I went to my aunt’s house because she was close, my— my mom’s sister— but she, uh, like… genuinely thought I was the antichrist, so—“

“She what?”

Eddie laughs, nodding.

“Genuinely, entirely,” he says, watching Steve’s brows furrow. “She’s one of those people that’s, like, preparing for the rapture or something.”

“Jesus.”

“Exactly.”

Steve laughs. He leans his head back against the wall, and Eddie’s eyes get caught on the line of his neck, on his Adam’s apple. Eddie wants to press his hand to it. He ignores the thought.

“She told me wanted to save me and stuff but that I was ‘hopeless.’ So I called Wayne and he picked me up and we moved like a week later so Dad couldn’t find me.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Steve says softly, and Eddie looks up at him. His cheeks are flushed, and he looks away after a moment, twisting the sleeve of his jacket. “Safe.”

“Me too,” Eddie breathes.

They’re quiet for a moment.

“So was that a yes on Friday?” Steve asks. “I don’t think you actually answered.”

“Oh,” Eddie realises. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Okay, cool.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Uh,” Steve sighs. “I dunno. Watch a movie or something.”

“You’re inviting me over for no reason?” Eddie says incredulously. Steve laughs.

“Why do I need an excuse to hang out with you?” he asks, still laughing, and it makes butterflies erupt in Eddie’s stomach.

“No weed or anything?”

Steve tosses a hand, making a face.

“I don’t need to be high to enjoy your company.”

The butterflies swarm. Eddie almost feels sick.

“Steve Harrington.”

“Mhmm?”

“You slick fucker.”

Steve laughs. It’s almost a giggle. Eddie dies.

Steve ends up laying down as they continue talking, looking at the ceiling of the van. It’s badly spray painted with song lyrics that are barely legible, but Steve looks up at it like he’s stargazing.

He looks like he might fall asleep. Eddie kind of hopes he does. But he sits up after a little while, holding a die in his hands, looking at it like he’s almost marvelling.

“Oh, I was wondering where that was,” Eddie says when he sees the deep purple colour. He lost it ages ago.

“Was under the blanket.” Steve is almost marvelling at it, rolling it in his hands. “This is a D20 right?”

Eddie blinks. Looks at the die and then at Steve again.

“You know your dice?”

Steve glances at him. His cheeks flush pink and he sighs.

“Yeah, the kids I babysit have me well-trained.”

Eddie blinks again.

“The… The kids you babysit?”

“I mean, I guess it’s not really babysitting as much as it is me driving them places and watching while they play D&D, but…” He looks up and laughs at Eddie’s expression. “It’s not officially babysitting, I just— I just get along with them, for the most part. Their parents trust me.”

Eddie stares.

“How old are these kids?”

“Middle school,” Steve says. “Like thirteen or fourteen or something.”

“You… hang out with a bunch of middle schoolers,” Eddie says, raising his eyebrows. “While they play D&D. You know what D&D is.”

Steve laughs again, nodding. He tosses the die and Steve catches it against his chest.

“Why do you hang out with them?” Eddie asks, tossing and catching the die. “If their parents aren’t paying you?”

“Someone needs to make sure they don’t get themselves killed,” Steve says, and he suddenly seems too serious, too worried and forlorn. Eddie watches as he looks at the ground before he looks up again. “They’re good kids,” he says, his voice softer. “Fucking smart. Smarter than I’ll ever be. They don’t deserve half the shit they get.”

“Shit like what?”

Steve sighs.

“Kids are assholes. Bullies, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“And…”

“And?”

Steve takes a breath, his mouth twisting as he thinks. He’s fiddling with the lace of his shoe.

“You know that kid that went missing?” Steve says, looking up at him. “Everyone thought he died?”

Eddie remembers it. Remembers how Wayne worried and worried like it was his own kid. Remembers seeing the kid’s face on a pinboard at the school, remembers hearing what people would say about the kid’s brother.

Bet the freak killed him.

“Yeah, I— I know of him.”

Steve nods, looking back at the lace that he’s twisting around his finger.

“Yeah, that fucked him up,” he says. “The kids at his school called him Zombie Boy, it’s… Jesus.”

“He’s one of your kids?”

Steve smiles at his shoe.

“Yeah.”

“He plays D&D?”

“Mhmm.” Steve nods and looks up at him again, still smiling. “Will the Wise,” he says fondly. There’s a shine in his eye. “He has a wizard robe and hat and everything. I think you’d love him.”

Eddie stares at him, open-mouthed.

“…Who are you?”

Steve laughs loudly. He has a great laugh. Real.

He moves forward, holding his hand out.

Eddie slides his hand into Steve’s, and Steve’s fingers tighten around it. He shakes.

“I’m Steve.”

“Steve,” Eddie says softly. His hand is warm against Eddie’s, and Eddie wants to pull him in and kiss him. “It is… really nice to meet you.”

Steve’s smile could outshine the sun.

—————————

Steve was right about his house looking like a catalogue. It almost makes Eddie sad, the lack of personality and anything that could make it look like a home. There aren’t any photographs anywhere except one in the living room of Steve’s parents at their wedding. No magnets on the fridge, no unique dishes, no worn and walked over runs. It would look abandoned if it weren’t for the few used dishes in the sink and the flowers on the kitchen table.

Steve’s room is heartbreaking.

The bedroom of a thirteen year old boy with physics and world history textbooks on the desk. It’s clean, and Eddie wonders if Steve cleaned it before going to school today.

The walls are absolutely horrendous. Eddie tries not to laugh, Steve gives him a look that makes his snort and choke.

“You have any tape?” he asks Steve after looking around. (There isn’t much to look at; nothing on the walls except a framed picture of some car. Books stacked on and papers spread across his desk. A pair of slippers by the door. A photo of him and Nancy Wheeler on the wall above the desk that Eddie wants to stare and stare and stare at, but he looks away.)

“Uh, yeah.”

Steve rummages in a drawer before he finds a roll of masking tape, and he tosses it to Eddie before he sits on his bed and watches Eddie cross the room to a wall, reach into his backpack, and pull out a poster that he took off his own wall last night. It’s a worn AC/DC poster, the corners of it curling in as he holds it to the awful plaid wall and rips tape with his teeth. Steve is laughing, and Eddie smiles until the poster is stuck to the wall. It’s not straight, but Eddie doesn’t really care. Steve doesn’t either.

“Highway to Hell?” Steve questions when Eddie joins him on the bed, spinning the tape around his finger.

“Mhmm.”

“Yeah, my parents are gonna love that.”

He’s grinning.

Steve orders pizza for them.

They watch three movies before he goes to the kitchen and comes back with two beers.

And then he sits next to Eddie again, but this time he’s a cushion closer. Eddie almost can’t breathe with him so close, and his hands shake as he cracks the can open. He has his legs pulled up onto the sofa, comfortably curled up in the bland living room of the Harrington mansion.

Eddie drifts off after a while.

He falls asleep.

He wakes up after a while to find the room dark, tv screen full of static and Steve asleep next to him. His arms are crossed over his chest, his head fallen forward. Eddie allows himself to gaze for a moment.

He’s beautiful. He probably has no idea how gorgeous he really is, Eddie thinks.

He looks around after a moment, at the television and the empty cans between them. He moves them carefully, setting them on the ground and sighing.

He’s adjusting the cushion behind him when he hears Steve exhale sharply, and Eddie looks at him. He hasn’t moved, but his eyebrows are furrowed slightly.

Eddie pauses, looking at him, and after a moment, Steve exhales sharply again, gasping, and then it looks like he’s hyperventilating, his chest rising and falling quickly, his eyebrows furrowing and relaxing and furrowing like he’s going to cry.

I have recurring nightmares.

“Steve?” Eddie whispers. He wants to reach out and touch him. But he doesn’t know what to do. Steve doesn’t respond, still asleep.

His eyes squeeze. He exhales again.

And a moment later he lets out a whimper so small Eddie almost doesn’t hear it.

“Steve?” he says again, louder. “Hey. Stevie.”

Steve awakes with a start after a minute, and it startles Eddie. Steve’s whole body moves sharply, his eyes flying open, a kind of fear in them that Eddie’s never seen before.

“Steve,” he says gently, but Steve is already getting up, using a trembling hand to shut off the television. The room falls slightly darker, and Steve turns in the center of the living room, looking around like he’s gaging the safest part. “Steve?”

Steve startles again, his eyes finding Eddie on the sofa.

“Eddie?” he asks breathlessly, confused.

“We fell asleep,” Eddie explains softly. “I think you had a nightmare.”

“A nightm—“ Steve cuts off with an exhale, and he averts his eyes, looking to the floor and then around the room again. “Fuck.”

“You’re okay,” Eddie says softly. Steve swallows, looking at the ceiling. His eyes are shining. Eddie’s chest aches.

“Jesus, I’m so sorry,” Steve says breathlessly. “I—“ He takes another breath, and Eddie worries that he might start hyperventilating.

“Steve, it’s fine,” he says gently, shifting on the sofa so he’s sitting in the edge of it. “I know, it’s okay.”

Steve covers his face with his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by his hands.

“Don’t apologise,” Eddie says, watching Steve take stuttering breaths. “I— I know you have nightmares, I’m not… I’m not judging you or anything, Steve, it’s okay.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Eddie can tell that he’s crying, and his whole body hurts as he watches, unsure and lost on what to do.

He gets up slowly like he doesn’t want to scare him, and he carefully, tentatively approaches him.

“Can I touch you?” he whispers. Steve nods, wiping his eyes but still hiding his face, and Eddie sets a hand on his back, gently sliding it up to the back of his neck. Steve exhales shakily. “Come here, Stevie.”

Steve falls against him as he wraps his arms around him, and they sway as he cries.

“You’re okay, Stevie,” Eddie whispers. “I got you.”

Steve apologises again. Eddie tells him not to.

He pulls Steve to the sofa, pushing a hand up into Steve’s hair and combing through it.

“Take a deep breath,” he says softly, reaching to take Steve’s hand and squeezing it. Steve is shaking, but he tries to take a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “You got it.”

Steve falls against him as his breathing levels back out, and Eddie hugs him tightly, pressing his face against the top of his head. Steve shifts, and their legs twine together until they’re tangled together on the sofa, wrapped around each other.

Eddie wonders if Steve is going to fall asleep again. But he can tell that he’s not.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Eddie whispers softly. “Your nightmare?”

Steve is quiet for a moment, his face pressed into Eddie’s shoulder.

“I can’t,” he says quietly.

Eddie combs through his hair again.

“Okay.”

They both sigh, and relax against each other, and Eddie wonders if he’s in some kind of parallel universe.

A parallel universe where he gets to cuddle with Steve Harrington.

Steve smells nice. Like fancy, expensive shampoo and something masculine that belongs just to Steve.

“Is this okay?” Steve asks in a small voice. Eddie’s arms tighten.

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

He wakes up in the morning with Steve laying on his chest, Eddie’s hand in his hair. Steve is still asleep, breathing steadily, curled up next to Eddie on the sofa. Eddie looks down at him, and he wants to kiss him.

He lets his head fall back against the sofa, smiling at the ceiling.

Steve sleeps. Eddie wonders how often he sleeps this soundly, this peacefully. He can feels Steve’s chest and see his shoulders rise and fall with every breath. (He ignores the part of his brain that wants to swallow his breath.)

“That feels nice,” Steve grumbles after a long while as Eddie is slowly, gently playing with his hair. Eddie almost startles, looking down at him, but he can’t see his face.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

Eddie continues. He runs us fingertips across his scalp, dragging through his hair, scratching and pulling through little snags. Steve sighs. He falls asleep again. Eddie can tell when he does, by the way his breathing becomes heavier, the way he presses his face into Eddie’s chest. Eddie doesn’t stop playing with his hair even though Steve is asleep.

Something changes after that. Everything easy between them. Steve reaches across the table to push Eddie’s hair out of his face as they eat the eggs he made for breakfast. Eddie fixes the tag of Steve’s shirt as he’s passing him in the hallway on Monday. They eat lunch in Eddie’s van, listening to metal and chatting with their legs tangled between them. Steve puts his leg over Eddie’s the next time they’re at Eddie’s trailer watching a movie, and he smiles softly when Eddie sets his hand on his leg. A while later Eddie is laying on Steve’s floor, slowly working through his homework (his brain keeps going back to next week’s D&D campaign) while Steve is working at his desk. After a few minutes Steve gets up and sits on the floor next to him, but before he can ask what’s up, Steve is laying down, resting his head on Eddie’s lower back and sighing. (Eddie somehow finishes all his homework with the steady weight of Steve’s head on his back, careful not to move as Steve hums along to the music that’s playing from his radio.)

Steve goes to the next gig at the Hideout, and he allows Eddie to trace dark eyeliner around his eyes and smudge it with his fingertip. He just giggles when Eddie stares at him afterward.

“Christ.”

“No, it’s just Steve.”

“Fuck off.”

Eddie throws his battle vest into Steve’s face so he can finally look away. Steve puts it on over his black t-shirt, and Eddie’s mouth goes dry.

He looks good.

He looks… really fucking good.

His hair is tousled from the vest hitting his face, and his eyes are shining and framed by messy smudged eyeliner, and he’s grinning lazily like he knows all about the crisis Eddie is currently having.

“Yeah, that’s good.”

When Eddie has to say hi on stage again, this time it’s Steve that gives a little scream, and it elicits a laugh from the bar, but it makes the butterflies in his stomach swarm again.

Steve sits close enough that Eddie can see him while he’s on stage, sipping a beer and smiling and smiling and smiling and smiling and smiling.

Eddie gets pulled aside after Corroded Coffin is done by a girl, but another band is already playing, and he can barely hear her. He plays along for a moment before she leaves with a bright smile, and then he slides his guitar to hang on his back as he goes to find Steve.

Who is still at the same table, holding a glass bottle in his hand, but now there’s a man talking to him.

And man that Eddie doesn’t recognise, but immediately doesn’t like.

He’s smiling too fondly at Steve, not that Eddie can really blame him, talking and smiling like he’s fucking flirting. Eddie freezes, watching, a fire growing in his chest even thought it’s stupid. Steve isn’t his. It’s not like he belongs to him.

And it’s not even like the man is being a creep. He’s not touching Steve, or leaning into his space, or biting his lip or touching the bottle Steve’s holding the way Eddie’s seen some perverts do. He’s just talking. Smiling at Steve and nodding and laughing and being friendly.

But Eddie still finds himself striding across the bar and stepping up next to Steve, looking at the man with a too-bright smile and too-bright, “Hi!”

The man’s face lights up with recognition. He tells Eddie he was amazing, man, and Eddie manages to get out a thank you before Steve’s arms are flying around his neck. Eddie startles and hugs him back with a laugh.

“You okay, Stevie?”

“You did so good.”

“…Are you drunk?”

“Only a little.”

The man leaves them alone after exchanging a look with Eddie. They’re both laughing.

Steve pulls away but leaves his arms over Eddie’ shoulders. His eyeliner is even more smudged than it was when Eddie did it for him, and his cheeks are flushed, and the bright lights of the bar are flashing and shining in his eyes.

Eddie wants to kiss him more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

The feeling doesn’t go away.

Eddie wonders if it’ll ever go away.

He doubts it.

Because every time their eyes meet in the hall at school, and every time Eddie traces a finger across the back of Steve’s neck in physics and Steve looks up at him with a sly smile, and every time Steve nods his head along with Eddie’s music while they sit in his van, and the first time Steve slides his hand into Eddie’s, Eddie wants and wants and wants and wants.

Steve is a dream.

A daydream.

Eddie barely believes he actually exists.

He listens to Eddie rant about Lord of the Rings and D&D and all the bands he loves, and he listens to Eddie’s music, and even seems to like it a little bit. He lays on Eddie’s bed with his head hanging off the edge upside down and looking around with a smile even as he and Eddie talk. He keeps all the stupid notes Eddie leaves in his locker, and when Eddie finds out, he almost cries. He asks clarifying questions about Lord of the Rings, and he doesn’t get it all but it still lights Eddie on fire. He talks about his kids like they’re the stars even though he refers to them as the little shits. (Except some girl named Elle, who Eddie’s never heard of but apparently is a sweetheart.)

He doesn’t laugh when Eddie pulls out a sewing kit and stitches an old t-shirt that ripped. He just looks at him and smiles and keeps talking.

—————————

It’s a Saturday.

Eddie’s got his van parked in a clearing in the woods, and it’s so bright and sunny that he wonders if he should have brought sun lotion.

The back doors are open and Steve is sitting across from him, Eddie’s acoustic guitar in his lap. He’s plucking at the strings, playing some melody that Eddie doesn’t recognise. He wonders if Steve wrote it himself. He doesn’t ask.

He’s sewing a patch onto an old jacket. He messed it up and is pulling at the thread, careful not to snap it, the sewing needle held between his teeth, his brows furrowed.

The guitar falls quiet as he’s working, and he looks up to find Steve watching him, holding the guitar in his lap, frozen like someone’s taking a picture of him. Eddie gives him a grin, the needle sticking out of his mouth, and Steve’s lips curl into a little smile before he sets the guitar aside carefully. He moves to reach between the front seats and switches on the tape that Eddie had playing on the way over, turning it down so it’s playing softly in the background.

And then he’s crawling across the van and laying next to Eddie’s legs, tossing an arm across his lap, carefully ensuring he doesn’t hit the jacket and mess Eddie up, and he’s pressing his face into Eddie’s leg.

“You gonna take a nap?”

Steve nods, sighing.

Eddie smiles and continues pulling at the thread.

“You know you’re my best friend?” Steve mumbles after a while. It makes Eddie freeze. It makes him look down at the side of Steve’s face, and it looks like he’s sleeping, but Eddie knows what he sounds like when he’s sleeping. It makes the butterflies swarm and his heart pound and it makes him want to cry.

“You’re my best friend too.”

He really is.

He comes to Eddie’s gigs and cheers for him and calls him Eds. He wears Eddie’s battle vest every time. He has posters from Eddie’s room on his walls even though his parents did “shit a brick” when they come home and see them. (He tells Eddie this with a grin, and Eddie says he might be a bad influence for Steve. Steve’s smile widens and he just tells him it’s fun. Eddie wants to die.) He explains basketball to Eddie, which really, in any other context, Eddie wouldn’t give even half shit about, but Eddie fucking listens like his life depends on it. He remembers Eddie’s favourite gum flavour and that he hates bread crust and that he hates with the seams of his sleeves rest on the sides of his wrists.

Steve sleeps peacefully with his head on Eddie’s lap. Even with one of Eddie’s metal mixes on.

—————————

They’re high.

Steve looks so pretty when he’s high. (He always looks pretty.) His eyes are glazed over and half shut, and his cheeks are flushed red, and he looks like he might keel over and fall asleep at any second. Eddie knows he must not look much different. His hair is probably frizzier. Steve’s is still perfect.

“What are you looking at?”

Eddie blinks. He’s staring at Steve, and Steve is staring back, smiling, like he knows. Eddie shrugs lightly, watching Steve take another rip from the bong in his hands. Watching him blow smoke into the air between them, wishing he’d blow it straight into Eddie’s lungs.

“Think you’re pretty.”

Steve smiles as he finishes his heavy exhale.

He stares back at Eddie again.

Eddie doesn’t know how long it lasts, this quiet, gentle tension, until it snaps when Steve says, “I wanna fucking kiss you.”

Eddie blinks.

He wonders how high he is.

“…You do?”

“Jesus. Yeah.” Steve sighs heavily. “Yeah, I do.”

“Please.” Eddie’s voice is too soft. Too vulnerable. Too. “Please do, I— Please, Stevie.”

Steve exhales, and his eyes look even glassier than they did a minute ago. He leans over, setting the bong down and tossing the lighter to the ground, before he moves and crashes his mouth against Eddie’s.

Eddie’s eyes shut and his hands fly up to hold Steve’s face between them, and after a moment the kiss softens, and he might be ascending.

Eddie’s kissed people before. He’s fucked people before. He likes making out with people, and he likes sex. Really likes sex. But this.

This is better than anything. He’d trade every single sexual experience he’s ever had for this moment.

Steve’s head is tilted, and he sighs as he catches Eddie’s lower lip between his and sucks gently. Eddie furrows his brows, pushing a hand into Steve’s hair and lowers the other to his waist, pulling at him until he moves without pulling his lips away, lowering himself to Eddie’s lap.

Eddie groans. Steve wraps his arms around Eddie’s neck and lets his lips part for Eddie’s tongue, and Eddie’s hand tightens in his hair.

“Fuck,” Steve gasps when they part. His lips are shining. “Wanted to do that for so long.”

“How long?” Eddie asks breathlessly, combing through his hair, stroking his waist. He’s heavy on his lap, firm and solid and real even though Eddie still feels like he’s floating.

“Since you got up on that stage and fucking said hi like that.”

He kisses Eddie before Eddie can say anything, and Eddie kisses him back, hard, tugging his hair and listening to him whine.

“Seriously?”

“So fucking hot, Eddie, shit.”

“Jesus, Steve.”

“Eddie, please.”

He kisses him again.

They’re both uncoordinated and smiling, and Steve is running his fingertips across the back of Eddie’s neck under his hair, and Eddie is shivering like he’s freezing.

“I like you so much,” Eddie says softly when they part, letting his head fall to Steve’s, his forehead pressing against Steve’s cheek. “You’re everything, Stevie.”

Steve sighs. He pushes his head into Eddie’s hand.

After a moment he pulls away and their eyes meet. They stare.

They gaze.

Steve takes Eddie’s hands in his and looks down at them. Gazes at them. Strokes them with his fingers and traces the lines of his palms and veins below his knuckles.

“I really like your hands.”

“Yeah?”

Steve nods. He drops one of his hands and Eddie slides it over his hip, watching Steve analyse his hand like he’s studying it, like he’s trying to memorise it.

“Can I?” he breathes. Eddie doesn’t know what he’s asking. He doesn’t care.

“You can do anything, sweetheart.”

Steve’s eyes flutter shut.

He seems to hesitate, sliding his tongue over his lips and taking a breath like he’s nervous before he lifts Eddie’s hand up to his mouth.

He drags his tongue up Eddie’s palm to the tips of his fingers, and Eddie’s breath cuts off.

Steve hums like he’s drinking a milkshake, and Eddie smiles at him even though he isn’t looking. Steve turns Eddie’s hand and licks it again, over the side of his hand, over his knuckles, over his fingers. He sucks the tips of Eddie’s fingers into his mouth, furrowing his brows like he might cry.

“‘S okay, baby,” Eddie says softly. He presses his fingers into the heat of his mouth, hearing a soft whimper escape Steve’s throat. He leans in and kisses the side of Steve’s neck, sighing as Steve flicks his tongue over his fingers. Steve hums softly, tilting his head to the side.

When he pulls away there’s a bruise blooming on Steve’s skin. It’s beautiful. Eddie didn’t know he was capable of creating anything beautiful.

Steve holds Eddie’s hand between both of his, and he pulls it away. His spit is dripping between Eddie’s fingers. Eddie shivers.

“Fuck.”

Steve moans softly, licking his fingers again before he looks into Eddie’s eyes.

He looks almost shy. Embarrassed. Which doesn’t fly with Eddie, so he leans in and kisses him like his life depends on it, biting Steve’s lip and pressing his tongue into his mouth. He drags his wet fingers over Steve’s cheek, down his neck, and Steve whines.

“Alright?” Eddie asks softly. Steve nods desperately, pulling him back in.

They’re barely even kissing. Steve’s mouth is warm and wet and he tastes so good Eddie can’t stop. He’s holding Steve’s neck lightly, his other hand gripping Steve’s hip, and he pulls when Steve rolls his hips against Eddie’s subtly.

“‘S okay,” he says when Steve pulls away, wide-eyed. “It’s alright, Stevie, you can…”

Steve exhales sharply. He slowly rolls his hips, and Eddie bites his lip, trying not to groan.

“Don’t do that,” Steve says softly, breathlessly. He touches Eddie’s mouth, pulling his lip free from his teeth and leaning down to suck on it. “Wanna hear you.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie closes his eyes.

Steve whines as they move together, kissing and clutching at each other desperately. He grabs at Eddie’s hand that’s on his hip and lifts it to his face, turning his face into it and moaning, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Eddie,” he chokes. “Eddie, baby, please.”

“What?” Eddie asks. His voice is rough. “What do you need, sweetheart?”

“Shit. Fuck, Eddie, touch me.”

Eddie thinks he might be dead. Steve looks like he’s glowing. Fucking ethereal. A blessing sitting on Eddie’s lap. Maybe it’s because Eddie’s high. Maybe it’s because he’s in love.

Oh.

Eddie exhales shakily, his thumb brushing over Steve’s cheek.

“Hey,” he says softly. Steve looks at him, his eyes shining desperately. “You change your mind, or it’s too much, or anything like that— you— you wanna stop, and you tell me, okay?”

Steve smiles at him. Kisses him.

“Okay.”

“Open your jeans for me, baby.”

Steve grins and releases Eddie’s hand to unbutton and unzip his jeans. Eddie watches. Steve leans in and kisses him deeply as he shifts on his lap, lifting up onto his knees to tug his jeans and boxers down his hips.

When he pulls away, Eddie lifts a hand to his own mouth, spitting into his palm, and then he holds it in front of Steve.

“Spit.”

Steve looks down at his hand. Stares at his palm. Leans down and licks Eddie’s spit off before he closes his mouth and closes his eyes like he’s savouring it. Eddie’s eyes widen. Steve spits into his palm again, smiling at Eddie’s expression.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Steve giggles.

“Fucking filthy,” Eddie says fondly, reaching down to touch him, and Steve’s head falls back as he lets out a disgustingly beautiful moan.

Steve is holding the hem of his shirt out of the way. When Eddie looks down he can see the softness of his belly, and he wants to press kisses to it, go suck bruises into it. (He will eventually, he decides, if Steve is cool with it. He has a feeling he will be.) He wants to do that everywhere, leave bruises and bites and love across Steve’s whole body. Eddie wants to make him feel beautiful. He wants to worship him.

Steve finds Eddie’s free hand and holds it tightly as he squeezes his eyes shut. Eddie likes how he sounds. Every breath comes with a soft noise from the back of his throat, weak and desperate and so pretty that Eddie’s eyes burn.

“You’re fucking beautiful, Stevie,” he breathes. Steve’s hand tightens on his.

He watches Steve’s face. Watches him bite his lip and furrow his brows and squeeze his eyes shut. He listens to his breaths, to the slick sounds of Eddie’s hand moving.

“Eddie—“

“It’s okay,” Eddie says. He’s breathless. Steve isn’t even touching him. “It’s okay, Stevie, I got you.”

Steve looks down at him. There are tears in his eyes, and Eddie knows that he’s remembering that first night he had a nightmare while Eddie was there. (He’s had plenty of nightmares since. Eddie’s been there for lots of them. He’s heard Steve whimper names and words that make no sense, heard him cry and scream, and he’s held him after every single one. Wiped his tears. Kissed the top of his head because he couldn’t kiss his lips yet.)

Steve kisses him. His lips don’t land square on Eddie’s, and it’s messy and wet and they both have tears falling down their cheeks, but Eddie doesn’t care. It’s beautiful.

“Fuck,” Steve says sharply, pulling away enough that his forehead rests on Eddie’s. He’s breathing hard. Eddie is too. “Eddie, I’m—“

“‘S okay,” Eddie whispers. “Come for me, baby.”

Steve drops his shirt to wrap his arms around Eddie’s neck tightly. He’s trembling as he comes, letting out a long groan into Eddie’s neck, and Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his other hand into Steve’s hair and holding him as tears slide down his face.

“Did so good for me, Stevie,” he breathes as Steve comes down. “My sweet boy.”

Steve whines, tightening his arms. Eddie hugs him back, pressing a hand to the small of his back as he combs through his hair.

“Eddie,” Steve says after a few minutes.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“Need you to take your shirt off.”

Eddie giggles.

—————————

They fall asleep naked, under Eddie’s blankets and quilts, facing each other. Steve falls asleep first.

The barely present light that sneaks under his door from the hallways lights his room up the slightest bit. When his eyes adjust to the dark, it’s enough to see Steve’s face. Eddie traces his features, trailing the very tip of his finger over his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose, over his lips and chin and jaw. He tucks his hair back when a strand falls in his face.

“I love you,” he breathes, soft so it doesn’t wake Steve up. He never wants to wake Steve up, never when he’s sleeping like this: peaceful and quiet and calm.

He lifts his head and moves closer to kiss his forehead. He falls asleep with a hand on Steve’s warm, soft waist, and sunlight in his head.

I want to breath these words

ONESHOTS Lemon Over Ice Summer Night Lights Sleep Soft Slick Like Summer 18+ Five New Freckles Baby, Honey Goddamn, What’s A Boy To Do? Some Kind, All Kinds Lovesick Night Call When The World Gets Too Loud Cherry Lazy On You Getaway Car With Two Young Lovers And I Get This Feeling In My Chest Summer Skin I’ll Crawl Home To Her Slugger Pretty Boy In The Light Spoiled 18+ Tonight Feels Impossible 18+

We Tried The World CH4.

THE MASTERLIST THUNDER LAKE, COLORADO.  1227 MILES FROM HOME. 

The world around you changed as Steve drove you both out of Kansas. You packed up the car and drove through the night, bikini still on underneath a sundress, hair damp and skin smelling like chlorine. 

Steve sat next to you, tired, happy, sipping coffee and looking like he’d just leaped off of a cliff. His eyes were bright for the late hour, his hair wild from a day spent mostly underwater. 

He seemed lighter since he’d told you his secret, whispered it into the reflections off the pool, letting the silence and the sinking sun soak it up. You’d dressed on the edges of the water, both smiling, both blushing, avoiding too much eye contact as you dragged towels over bare skin. 

He’d opened the car door for you after you both scaled the fence and you wondered if his secret had sunk to the bottom of the pool, if it was supposed to stay there, never to be spoken of again. But by the time you’d driven out of Wichita and hit the back roads, the sun was gone, the moon was high and Steve stopped at some traffic lights and they lit you both up in scarlet light. 

The boy let out a breath, like he was readying himself and you’d turned at the noise, a question on your lips you never got to say because Steve leaned over the console, just a little, hand outstretched. His fingers were surprisingly warm when they grazed over your cheekbone, just underneath the line of your lashes. You’d blinked, almost gasped, and then Steve was pulling back and whispering “eyelash.” 

You slept for a while, tried your best to stay awake to keep the boy company as he drove but after the second stop for gas and another coffee, Steve was pulling one of his sweaters from his bag, coaxing it over your like a makeshift blanket and you couldn’t help it. 

It smelled like him, like the forest, like sunscreen and faded cologne. You closed your eyes without meaning to, lashes fanning over sunburnt cheeks and Steve turned the music down low, until whoever was singing was whispering to you, lulling you to sleep under Steve’s sweater. 

When you woke up, it was still dark, the land outside looking a little rockier, a little more up and down than before. The moon was high, a pale yellow that cast some light into the front seats of the BMW. Steve had pulled over, into a dirt parking lot off the side of the road and he slept upright, arms crossed, lips slack, head nodding off in every direction. 

 So you woke him up with your hand pressed to his forearm, squeezing softly to him to stir. He looked at you, bleary eyed and sleep mussed, leaning into your touch like he needed it to wake up. Steve didn’t fuss too much about handing over his keys, all previous arguments about you taking turns to drive out the window. 

Sure you knew how to drive, even a stick shift. You just didn’t have your licence. But that didn’t seem to matter all that much at three in the morning, in the dark and in the quiet of nowhere, Colorado. 

The world was asleep, letting you do what you wanted, what you pleased. It shut its eyes and gave you the moon, a long open road and only a hint at where you were driving to. Steve said ‘thanks, sweetheart,’ as you passed each other in front of the headlights, swapping places and sleepy smiles. 

If you reacted to the term of affection, you didn’t show it. And if Steve grinned when you slipped his sweater over your dress before settling behind the wheel, he hid it well. He fell back asleep quickly, an almost undeserving amount of trust given to you as he shuffled into the corner of the seat and the window, the keys to his most beloved possession in your hands. 

So you drove until the sun started to come up, a whole new picture in your windscreen. Mountains, canyons, valleys. The land turned rusty, oranges and reds and patches of green and wildflowers. The road went up, up, up and you climbed with the sun. Peachy skies greeted you, made Steve stir and wake up with a smile because the warmth of a new day was creeping into the car and you had the sleeves of his too big sweater curled around your hands as you held onto the wheel. 

Your ears popped and so did Steve’s, a quick sting that told you both you were higher than before, the roads still climbing, twisting and turning between mountains, overlooking lakes that seemed to appear from nowhere. Everything was pink when the sun came out, the sky, the rocks, the land, the water. 

Even Steve, who was looking at you with the softest smile, his hair mussed from where he’d tan his hands through it, the crease of his seat belt cutting across cheek. The bruise around his eye was completely gone now, skin unmarked except from the evidence of a good sleep. 

He watched you change gear, tongue peeking out from between your lips as you concentrated and the boy was laughing, turning the radio up as the new day started, a new song, a new state, a new kind of buzz between you both. 

Synths, drums, building, rising, getting faster and faster, and then you rounded a corner on the quiet road, burst out from between the tall trees that grew on either side of the tarmac and then and then and then—

A picture perfect view, a rolling mountain, rose coloured in the rising sun, dusted with greenery, with trees that looked like matchsticks. It led down to a lake, almost too blue to be real holding a mirror image of the scene above it. 

The sky was like silk, washes of pastels, clouds coming in from the horizon that promised a bright and warm day. And then you were laughing and so was Steve, a burst of noise that said ‘holy shit, can you believe this?’

The boy was grinning back, leaning forward on his seat, hands on the dashboard, eyes fucking shining and he looked at you like he knew, like he agreed, like he was telling you, ‘I’m so fucking happy I’m here. With you.’

I’m so happy it’s you. 

You pulled off the road, tires kicking up clouds of orange dust and you were still laughing, eyes a little glassy, overwhelmed. Steve seemed to understand because he didn’t question you, he just got out of the car too, walked around the front of the bumper and joined you at the metal barrier that separated you both from the drop below. 

The world was still waking up, birds barely calling out, the low buzz of insects seeming too far away and the heat in the air still felt fresh. Steve’s shoulder brushed yours and together you took a big breath in, held it and let it out on another huff of laughter. He let you lean into him, tears brimming at your lash line because it was all so pretty and it had been ten days since you’d left Hawkins. Ten days since you left the place that was supposed to be home and suddenly it hit you that you didn’t really miss it.  

Not your aunt's house, or your bed, or even the way the neighbours cat sat on your windowsill each morning.  

Because it had only been ten days but suddenly Steve Harrington was the closest thing you had to a best friend, the closest thing to a home, something that made you ache with warm familiarity. 

You sniffed, sighed, scrubbed the back of your hand over your watery eyes and then Steve was there, laughing softly, not unkindly, just amused. His hands curled around your shoulders, squeezed at you and tugged you back a little, just enough that your back bumped his chest and he let you stay there, leaning, supported. 

His chin hooked over your shoulder and it felt a little like a hug. 

“Y’okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, suddenly feeling a little silly at your outburst of emotion. You felt entirely vulnerable, more exposed than you ever had, feeling more naked than the times you stood before the boy, wet and in a bikini. 

“Yeah,” you tried to whisper back, but it came out in a little gasp. “M’fine, shit, it’s just— it’s just pretty, y’know?”

Steve’s gaze flickered from the view to your face, lips twisted in conflict as if he was trying to decide what he wanted to look at more. But your eyes were shining, unshed tears clinging to your lashes like glitter, lips parted in awe. He could see the summer in your skin, in the glow that wasn’t there when he first picked you up that morning, just outside your house. 

His stare settled on you, close and steady, your back still pressed to his chest and for a second, he wondered if he’d be allowed to reach out and hold your hand, I’d you’d let him, if it would make you smile. But he didn’t feel as brave as he wanted to, not yet. So he cleared his throat and nodded, his cheek brushing your hair and said:

“Yeah, s’real pretty.”

He was still looking at you.  

—————

Steve took back over driving duties. It went like it always did, windows down, music up, his sunglasses over his eyes and his hair a little wild. Seeing him like that made your stomach flip, like you were the only one that got to see this version of him. 

Maybe you were. Maybe this Steve was yours. 

You sang to him, he sang back, voices louder and crazier as the wind whipped through the car and the sun made everything so much warmer than you’d ever felt before. 

It made your cheeks hurt, smiling at it all. It made you feel like a teenager again, the way Steve looked at you. Tongues pressed to cheeks to stop yourselves from grinning too much, eyes dancing over the other, gazed hidden behind Ray Bans and tangled hair. 

Steve drove you both into a town, cheeks burning as you passed signs that said “Loveland” and it seemed like easy to follow each other around the streets. The place was a big city, but it had a small town feel that felt a little like home and it eased you both as you walked around parks and lakes, trying to find a store. 

It was easier to touch each other more too, ten days in and a few nights tangled together, legs twisted, ankles hooked around calves and cheeks pressed to chests. So you didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t think too much of it when Steve pointed to a supermarket across the road and grabbed your hand. 

He held it as you navigated through the traffic, jogging a little to keep up with him and as you walked through the doors he didn’t let go. It was hardly a thing, palms barely touching just fingers twisted together like you were scared to lose the other. 

He only let go when he grabbed a cart and the boy rolled his eyes and grinned when you hopped inside of it. So it went like that, Steve pushing you around the store, your sundress and his sweater riding up your thighs as you let your dust covered shoes hang out over the side. 

He passed you snacks, bottles of water, some cans of soda and even a new blanket as you read out loud from the little book you’d bought way back in Illinois, telling Steve all about the Rocky Mountains and the Continental divide. He even threw a disposable camera on your lap as you neared the checkout, a roll of film loaded and ready to go. So it was settled, because you asked and Steve said yes, and suddenly you were planning for a few days in the wild, with creeks and lakes and canyons and the chance to see stars in the sky again. 

You could feel Steve’s eyes on you as you loaded up the car, his sweater still swamping your frame, the hem of your dress peeking out from underneath. He hadn’t asked for it back and although the day was getting warmer, the temperature creeping upwards, the soft material smelled like him, like mint and boy and summer and Steve, and you didn’t want to take it off. 

Not yet. 

The drive out of town made your body buzz, that same feeling of anticipation you felt when you had travelled towards The Ozarks. It happened the same way, with the skylines and brick buildings falling away from you as you ventured further away from the city. The road led you back into canyons, made you both feel like ants in a toy car and it was brand new, it was different, it was a little bit magic. 

The road started winding, the land around you growing and when the sun reached its peak in the sky, what little clouds had been there slipped away and you were left with blue, blue, blue. Everything around you got taller, jagged rocks lifting up from the ground until they became cliff faces and mountains grew in the distance, breaking up the skyline with peaks of snow that seemed so far away. 

You passed campsites, cabins and people walking with backpacks heading towards trails, cars with canoes on their roofs, signs warning you about mountain lions. It was a new world, something else entirely, and Steve seemed as mesmerised as you were. So you stopped at a little information centre, took turns in the tiny toilet and grabbed a map of the trailheads and some chips from a vending machine that needed a shove from Steve’s shoulder to rattle loose.

The parking lot cleared as you walked back to the BMW, kicking up dust as you stared up at the mountains in the distance, the canyons that closed you in from both sides. Trees littered the cliff faces, patches of green that broke up the rock, the roads, the wooden cabins that were selling hiking equipment and camping gear. 

You turned to Steve as you reached the car, sundress skimming your thighs, Steve’s sweater trailing past your fingertips, your hair a little wild from the way the wind had whipped through it during the ride here. You found the boy a few feet behind you, sleeves rolled up, all tanned skin and hair messier than yours. He held the little camera he’d bought up to his face, eyes squinting as he looked through the lens at you.

“What’re you doing?” you laughed, embarrassed at his blatant attention.

“M’takin’ a photo of the mountains,” Steve grinned, pressing the button until the camera clicked and whirred. He was still pointing it at you. “You can draw me, but I can’t snap some pictures? Rude.”

He was still grinning when he brought the camera away from his face, rolling his eyes and passing it to you when you wiggled your fingers at it. The boy hopped up onto the closed trunk, knees on his elbows and squinting into the sun but you clicked the camera, capturing Steve and the mountains, the burgundy of the car, the glare of the sun.

It was quiet when you let the camera fall to your side, memories already locked inside of it, both of your smiling faces, surrounded by a world that looked a little alien to you. Steve nodded towards the hills and valleys in the difference, the road that wound around a bend and disappeared into the wild.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Always,” you replied.

So you both drove out towards the mountains, climbing higher and higher again, cars becoming less frequent the further into the national park you ventured. You passed campgrounds, signs for cabins and tent pitches and Steve turned off onto a smaller trail, dirt road kicking up dust as you turned the music up a little louder, smiling as you sang. 

“Maybe you wonder where you are, I don't care,” you were louder than ever, unashamed, eyes shining, windows down and Steve’s eyes flicking from the road to you. 

“Here is where time is on our side, take you there, take you there,” Steve finished, and god it all felt a little cosmic, like the world meant for you both to be there. 

You stabbed a finger to the map, declared your destination to be a blue spot on the paper called ‘Thunder Lake’ and Steve made a joke about you always leading them to water, like some sort of make believe creature, something from a fairytale. But he listened and obeyed when you pointed this way and that, yelling left and right through laughter and new songs. 

The road opened up for you both when the trees on either side of you cleared and a rocky beach led down to a crystal blue shoreline, mountains surrounding the water, closing you in. The lake felt like it belonged to you and Steve, it felt like a new secret to share. 

You stepped out together, wonder on your faces, smiles curling into grins and it was like the air glittered, like the sun got a little warmer when you stepped into its light. 

The car was left on the gravel, the air not as warm as it was back in town, so you kept Steve’s sweater on, ducked your head and bit your lip when he plucked at the material and grinned at you. You had lunch by the waters edge, the surface glassy and unspoiled, mountains for friends as you shared a packet of chips, broke apart sandwiches and took a half each. 

It was the nicest kind of quiet.

And when the run had passed its highest point in the sky and the world started to glow a little pink, a little more peach and orange as evening rolled in, you lay on your stomach on a grassy patch, sketchbook opened and a pencil sucked between your lips. Steve was a little away, balancing on one foot on a rock in the shallows, arms outstretched, an old flannel hanging over his t-shirt. 

You were finishing up drawing the rip in his jeans, just above his knee when he came wandering over. He’d caught you drawing him enough times now that you didn’t immediately hide your page, but the flush was still evident on your cheeks when he plopped down beside you. He was close, closer than he used to dare, thigh pressed to your ribs and his face hovering over your shoulder.

He smelled like the mountains, fresh and like pine needles, the last of the sunscreen and passionfruit iced tea. 

“Does my hair really look that bad?” he complained, but there was a smile on his lips, a shine in his eyes when you snorted and nudged at him.

“Shut up,” you told him, fonder than ever. 

“Can I?” he asked, nodding towards your book. 

You nodded, swallowing hard. Your hands felt empty without it, but Steve kept it close between you both. 

The cover was frayed, stained, the pages curling and dog eared, some ripped, some missing. The book held a little of everything, scenes from Hawkins, some self portraits, your aunt cooking soup at the stove. The most recent pages were filled with Steve.

Profiles of his face, strong jaw, full lips, furrowed brows. Steve lying in the sun, Steve driving the car, head tipped back, sunglasses hiding the way his eyes glittered. You’d drawn the car, muddy, dust covered and loved, the lake from the Ozarks, a bird's eye view of the winding roads that took you out of Kansas. You sketched the outside of the motel from Illinois, wrote the room number underneath the lines of ink like a signature, and drew two floating figures in a big, wide pool.

You were holding your breath. 

“I like these,” he murmured, trailing his touch over the lines, a finger pushed to the figure that was supposed to be you, floating on your back in water. “They’re really good.”

You ducked your head, tried not to smile and whispered a thank you and grinned anyway when he poked at your cheek. 

Then you were squealing, laughing, tugged clumsily onto your back as Steve fell back with you, his hands on your shoulders as you both dropped back into the long grass. The camera flashed above you, a click and whirl as Steve captured the scene. 

The pair of you, shoulder to shoulder, cheeks touching, lips split with wide smiles and eyes bright. Your hair mixed with the boys, with the blades of grass, skin painted apricot in the setting sun. 

“We were definitely only half in the frame,” you snorted, your hand pushing at Steve’s side as he scoffed in protest. 

“What d’you mean, I’m practically a professional.”

You laughed again, softer this time, because Steve was pushing himself up, turning to hover over you and he was grinning, backlit by the sunset and you were suddenly reminded of his favourite colour. 

He was sunset yellow, gold and peach and tangerine, coral coloured cheeks with hair that suddenly seemed caramel. He was sunkissed, freckled, stubble on his jaw that had grown since the last motel stop, his hair a little more curled at the ends from being outside. 

Clouds had started to roll in over the mountains, burnt orange and indigo, bringing in the threat of rain but you couldn’t find it in you to care when Steve was looking at you like that. 

Like the same he had on the Fourth of July, right before he kissed you. 

But then he was sitting back, clearing his throat and tugging at his hair like he needed to give his hands something else to do. In case he felt like he was going to do something stupid. 

Like touch you. 

So Steve handed you back your book instead, pages slipping free that you’d once torn out but decided to keep, half finished sketches, lists and a photo that was lined with peeling, old tape, yellowed and dog eared. 

“What’s that?” Steve picked up the photograph, gentle with a finger and a thumb, like he knew it was something special. 

You sat up and looked, heart skipping a beat. It was an image of a house, white wooden slats, a blue roof and matching shutters, a buttercup yellow door surrounded by hanging flowers. The house sat on a hill, sand covering the path leading up to it, long grass on its edges, like nature itself built it. The photo looked old, like the photo had seen some water damage, some wear and tear and a lot of love. 

“Uh,” you started, blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears that you didn’t want, didn’t expect. You sniffed, shrugged, feeling silly. “That’s my grandparents house.”

“Oh,” Steve looked at you, unsure whether to reach out and touch you or not. He placed the photo on the open pages of your book and nodded. “S’really lovely. The house- it’s pretty.”

You smiled and nodded too because it was. 

“Did you go there a lot?” The boy asked and he sounded so earnest, so sincere. “Is it in Virginia too?”

You shook your head, smile slipping into something sad and you picked up the photo, ran a thumb over its work edges and glanced back up at Steve. There were four of him, his pretty face split into fractures with the tears that made your eyes a little glassy. You blinked, felt stupid when wet hit your cheek and surprised you. 

“No, uh, I’ve never been,” you told him. “I met them once or twice, I think? I was young. They were so mad at my mom and they were really old when she left. They couldn’t travel a lot and by the time they got sick I knew my mom was never coming back and my aunt couldn’t afford to fly us out.”

You left the rest unsaid, the obvious outcome lingering in the air like the end of a movie that never got a happy ending. 

“Oh,” Steve whispered and you nodded again, like you agreed with him. 

“It’s silly,” you said because maybe it was. “I’ve never been but I look at this photo and it feels like the closest thing I maybe would’ve had to a home. I remember my grans baking; scones and the best meringues you could ever taste.”

Steve smiled when you did, your face lighting up with a memory and he watched your eyelashes flutter like you were trying your best to remember it all. 

“My aunt said my grandad called me ‘duck,’ said he loved quiz shows and toffee.” 

You sniffed again, rolled your eyes at yourself and leaned against Steve when he let himself fall into your space again. 

“I remember him bringing me a bag of it when he last came to Hawkins, told me to hide it and not tell my aunt,” you huffed out a laugh. “I still have the last piece of it.”

You thought of the chew, still twisted in its shiny gold wrapper, hidden in a little tin in the bottom of your bag, mixed with jewellery and loose coins. 

“That’s nice,” Steve said and he whispered your name, caught your attention and smiled all sweet, nodded encouragingly at you like he was saying it was okay that you told him. “S’really nice that you have those memories.”

“Yeah,” you smiled, watery, wiped the back of your hand roughly across your face and nudged your shoulder into Steve’s, a solid and warm comfort. “My aunt said I looked like my gran. Not my mom, she always said I looked when my gran when she was young.”

Steve let his knee knock against yours, smiled at you a little wistfully, glanced at you from the corners of his eyes. “Oh yeah?” He said, “your gran must’ve been real pretty then, huh?”

You scoffed, burned with embarrassment, but more than a little pleased with his words and you were quiet and insincere when you mumbled, “shut up.”

He knew you didn’t mean, Steve could see the pink on your cheeks and the shin in your eyes but you were hiding your smile and he decided it was a very pretty look on you. Pleased, maybe even a little overwhelmed by him. 

“Do you miss home?” You asked him, breaking the quiet that settled over you both for a minute or two. You were both staring out at the water, the reflections of the blue mountains in the lake. “Your friends?”

Steve shrugged, smiled a little sad like you had done and let his fingers run over the grass, searching for stones to skip across the shore. 

“I think,” Steve replied, “that if this trip has caught me anythin’, it’s that I don’t think I really had a home, y’know? A house, sure, a real nice house too.”

He found a stone, threw it into the lake and you both watched it splash and sink. The skies were darker, clouds rolling down the canyons, settling in the skies above you, dark and heavy.  

“But I miss my friends,” Steve nodded, staring at his hands. “Miss them a lot, yeah.”

“D’you wish they were here?” You asked, “Robin? Eddie, Dustin?”

“Sometimes?” Steve squinted at you, like he wasn’t really sure of his answer, like he felt guilty if he said otherwise. “We’re always with each other- and I love that, I love them. They’re my family, y’know?”  

“But we’ve been through a lot together and sometimes it’s too much, and I just… I just-”

You sighed, nodding as if he’d already said the word you were both thinking. “Need to breath?”

Steve laughed, a little humourless, a little relieved and he nodded, thankful for the way you seemed to know what he wanted to say, what he needed to hear. 

“Yeah, that,” the boy agreed. “But, hey, I’ve got you with me, right? And you’ve got me.”

You smiled at that, because the boy’s words lifted at the end, a little more lightness and warmth returning to him, despite the way the wind had picked up, pulling more of those dark clouds closer. You wrapped your arms around you, leaned closer into Steve’s side. 

You didn’t look at him when you next spoke, felt like you couldn’t because god, you felt painfully shy, like a teenager with her first crush, like you were talking to that boy next door who seemed too pretty to be real. 

“We’re friends?”  

Steve looked at you then, turning and holding in a little noise at the realisation of how close you both were, shoulder to shoulder, noses only inches apart. He was looking at you that way again, like he had in the kitchen, with fireworks in the sky. Maybe you were looking at him the same way too. 

His grin was achingly soft and he cleared his throat, nervous, nodded and tried his best not to look at your lips, the way the corner of them tilted upwards in a shy smile. You wondered if he’d crack a joke, if he’d say something stupid.

But he didn’t. Steve just gave a little half shrug, tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and tried to hide his blush. But he kept gazing at you, nodded and said, “yeah, sweetheart, yeah… we’re friends.”

It was lovely the way he said it, like you’d both earned the title. Like travelling through four states had been enough time for him to be able to look at you and realise you were no longer a stranger. Steve knew your favourite colour, your favourite animal, your favourite movie. He knew how you liked your coffee and that you preferred the right side of the bed. 

It warmed you to realise that you knew the same. You knew that his hair was a wonderful riot in the morning, that he hated apple juice, that he always mumbled to himself when he was trying to figure out a problem.

You hadn’t realised you’d been staring, or that Steve had been staring right back, still too close, his hair tickling your cheek when the wind lifted at it. 

And then, rain. 

A lot of it, loud and fat, huge droplets that hammered down with a dull roar, soaked you both to the skin almost immediately. You both jumped with a yelp, a few choice curse words and a shocked laugh that sounded more like a gasp. The sky had turned darker than ever, a moody violet that blended with the canyons, madee your little slice of the world turn into a glittering snow globe that held nothing but inky colours and the roll of thunder.

It was freezing, a stark contrast to the July weather that you’d experienced in every state; humid air, hot sun and cloudless skies. You couldn’t see one patch of blue above. But Steve was in front of you, grinning, laughing, grabbing at your cold hand and dragging you back to the car. You were sodden, the boy's sweater a water logged weight on your shoulders and it hung too low, dragged cold and wet at your knees and holy shit, it was comically heavy.

You tried to lift at it, yelped when it clung to your dress and brought that up your thighs with it and Steve tried not to look, tips of his ear tinged pink as he unlocked the car door and turned back to you, motioning to help.

His hands grabbed the hem, a sharp burst of laughter leaving his lips as you squeaked and together, you both tried to wrestle the sweater off of you. It came off with a slow drag, a heavy thud as it hit the roof of the car and you were unsteady on your feet, knocking into Steve so he had to catch you, hands gentle around your wrists so you didn’t fall into him.

The rain was so loud, you could hardly hear the way his laughter faded into purposeful breaths. The roar of it all matched your heartbeat, a constant thudthudthud that rattled your insides. 

Steve was really close. 

His hair was soaked, curling at the ends, dripping water down his cheeks, drops of it caught on his lashes, spilling over his cupid's bow. He looked unfairly pretty, like a painting, a watercolour that was all muted tones, trapped sunlight behind a glass frame. 

Steve was staring again, unabashed, unashamed, but fuck, so were you. You watched him lick the rain from his lips, tracked the movement with a gaze that felt too greedy, too wanton. 

You heard him say your name, a hardly there sound underneath a roll of thunder and suddenly it didn’t matter that you were both soaked to the bone, that you were freezing in a wet sundress. Steve’s t-shirt was almost translucent and the lake looked angier than when you’d both arrived, like it was tired of waiting for something to happen.

Something. Anything. 

Then, it was like a dam burst.

“Can- can I kiss you?” Steve called out, an almost yell to be heard over the din, his cheeks flushed, his eyes so unsure and god, fuck, shit-

You nodded, licked at your own lips, tasted rain water and leftover peach ice tea, watched Steve’s face light up like the sun had come back and then as he moved in, head bending down to yours, your hands shot out, grabbed at his shoulders and you shouted, “wait!”

Steve froze, eyes wide, panicked, rain still pouring over him and you shook your head, stumbled over your words until you got them right, and shit, you had to lean in close so he could hear you. Thunder rumbled above, echoed around the canyons and it felt like your chest vibrated with it.

You held onto the boy, felt the heat of him through his wet shirt, the soaked flannel that drooped open on either side of his chest. Steve wondered if you could feel his heart beat, if you could see the thumpthumpthump of it under his clothes.

You had to take a breath before you spoke, inhaling summer and rainstorms and Steve. 

“I wanna- shit, can I? Can I kiss you this time?” You were wide eyed and breathing too hard, fingers curling around his shoulders, pushing onto your toes like you were waiting for it. “I wanna kiss you this time.”

You sounded braver at the end. Resolute. Determined. 

Steve thought you’d never looked prettier. He laughed, a bright burst, his gaze trained down on yours and he nodded, so sure, his own hands finding your waist and his fingers dug into your sides, made 

fistfuls of your sundress and then and then and then-

When Steve first kissed you over a week ago, it was with confidence that only tequila could bring. 

This was different. It was sweet, it was lovely and then it was more.

Your lips slid over Steves easily, both of you wet with rain, tasting like a storm. It was easy to push yourself into him, to let him catch you and hold your weight. It was a pretty give and take, slow and soft presses of your mouth to his and then your tongue licked into his mouth and you felt his groan, a whisper under the roar of the world around you, but fucking christ, you felt him vibrate against your chest, a rumble that seemed too good to be true.

But Steve opened his mouth for you, let you lick in and slid your tongue over his and you couldn’t help the way you surged up, onto your tiptoes and into him, pushing the boy against the doors of the car and that was it.

His hands were everywhere, stuttering over your sides, over your wet sundress, scratching at wet skin, damp cotton, swallowing the little gasps that you gave him. And your hands were in his hair, pulling and tugging, almost a little mean but the boy kept moaning for you, whispering your name into your own mouth like he was telling you a whole other secret. 

Your noses were pressed to each other's cheeks, teeth dragging over swollen bottom lips, panting into open mouths, hands pressed to dips and valleys, lines of muscles, the pretty slope of each other's jaw. The rain didn’t matter, not anymore, or the cold. Nothing really did.

Because Steve tasted the same way he looked, like he’d swallowed summer and held the sun inside of him.

Neither of you stopped until lightning struck. 

Winner, Winner

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [2.5K] smut, eddie's a little shit, bottom!steve if you squint and and impossible quest.

You were being cruel, you knew that. 

But good god, Steve looked so fucking pretty and it was so much fun. It started with a dare, a challenge, a joke among friends, a bet that was sealed with an almost kiss that had Steve hanging his head back and groaning two seconds in. 

‘Cause it was a Saturday night and you were on his lap in a booth at the diner, for no real reason other than you wanted to be close. There was plenty of room between your friends, Robin curled into the corner by the window, Nancy and Jonathan pressed into each other's sides and Eddie leaning lazy on across from you both. 

Milkshakes were half finished, stray fries and spilt ketchup on the table and Robin was rolling her eyes at you both when you abandoned your dinner for the sake of pressing your nose to Steve's cheek and whispering in his ear. He responded with a grin, a hand on your thigh that almost slipped indecently high for such a public setting and finally, your friends cracked and—

“Can you not keep your hands off each other for more than an hour?” Eddie asked. His question was blunt but his tone was good natured, filled with humour and Jonathan snorted. “We’re eating.”

“No,” Robin answered for you, “they can’t.”

“Leave them alone,” Nancy defended, smiling from behind the dessert menu. “It’s sweet.”

“It’s borderline pornographic,” Robin responded mildly. 

Eddie cackled. “If only, Hawkins is dull without the gates of hell opening up.”

Steve glared.

“Seriously though,” Eddie continued, brandishing a half eaten fry in you and Steve’s direction. “S’like you gotta be touching each other twenty four seven. You gonna keel over if you don’t have your hands on her, Harrington?”

Jonathan stretched out from where he was slouched against the leather booth, grinning at Eddie and ignoring his girlfriend's long suffering sighs. “I think he would, y’know,” he laughed. “Did he tell you about how he almost ran over Mrs Lafferty’s cat?”

Robin gasped, eyes wide as she leaned over your and Steve’s laps to gawk at Jonathan. 

“Mr Pebbles?”

The boy nodded, smile sly and Steve was groaning, swiping the hand that wasn’t on your leg over his eyes. He hated his friends. 

“Too busy groping each other in the front seat.”

Eddie hollered and you turned, cheeks warm as you slapped softly at your boyfriends chest. “You told him that?” You cried out, but your friends were up in arms, voice clamouring to be heard. 

“Steve! Mr Pebbles is the backbone of Maple Street!”

“Honestly, you guys, you really should be more careful when you’re driving—”

“We’ve walked in on them doing worse, I dunno why anyone is surprised. Remember that time at Hop’s birthday dinner? Dustin almost opened the bathroom door and saw them fu—”

And then Eddie was slamming his palm on the table, cutlery clattering and the elderly couple across aisle glared at him even more than they had already been doing. 

“A bet!” He declared and everyone groaned. “A challenge  - a quest - if you will.”

“Oh Jesus,” Robin sighed tiredly, rolling her eyes as she fell back against the window. “Here we go.”

The diner lights glowed neon and somewhere in the back of the kitchen, a drying pan hissed and popped. Steve’s hand was still on your thigh and Eddie was looking at you like his new favourite game. 

The curly haired boy wiggled his eyebrows at you and Steve, his grin sharklike. “Up for it, kids?”

Steve was muttering something under his breath and it definitely involved obscenities and snippets of a story about how Eddie’s last ‘quest’ got them all banned from the library and Robin a sprained ankle. 

Neither Robin nor Nancy had yet to forgive him. 

 But you just leaned back into Steve, smiling when he hooked his chin over your shoulder and you matched Eddie’s smile, head tilted to the side, watching him, calculated. 

“What is it?”

————— 

And now it was three days later and you were sitting at the bottom of Steve’s bed, shirt lost on his floor and your skirt indecently high, the fabric hitched up across your hips as you ran your fingertips across the skin on the inside of your thighs. 

The only light came from the bedside lamp, the last of the day giving away to night as the sun sunk behind the houses across from Steve’s bedroom window. 

Everything was pink and rosy, the light, the lavender tinted shadows, the rumpled bed sheets, Steve’s cheeks. 

“Baby,” Steve groaned, saying the pet name like a curse, back pressed to the headboard as he stared at you from behind messy hair. “Baby, c’mon.”

You grinned. 

“S’wrong, Steve?” You cooed, bordering on patronising but the boy didn’t care. He just huffed out a hot breath and squirmed, chest bare and his palm dragged across the hard outline of his cock. “You look a bit pent up.”

“I am,” Steve grunted, eyes squeezing shut as you brought your knees up to your chest and spread them, legs stretching back out to show off the white underwear you wore. “Babe, this isn’t fuckin’ fair.”

“What’s not fair?” You were being mean but fuck, if it didn’t made Steve’s cock jump under his sweatpants. “You said you could last, that’s what you told Eddie, right? A whole week, yeah?”

The boy huffed, eyes opening to watch you trace a finger along the cotton between your legs, the wetness there turning the material a little translucent. Your lips parted and Steve moaned, sounding wrecked. 

“Christ, can we not talk about Eddie right now, please,” he choked out, grabbing at the sheets, fishing them in his hands. “Babe, c’mon, wanna touch you.”

“Touch me and you lose, Stevie,” you told him sweetly. “S’only been three days.”

“Tell me about it,” he huffed, eyes hooded as he gazed at you, his stare following the hypnotic motion of your finger moving up and down your cotton covered slit. “Feels like m’gonna burst. Jesus, babe, you’re killin’ me.”

You were smiling, a little cruel but then Steve was swearing wildly, pushing himself onto his elbows when you tucked a finger under the cotton and pulled it to the side. 

“I know,” you whined back, over exaggerated and pouting. “Got me so wet, Steve, just wanna feel you.”

“You can’t say things like that,” Steve groaned, “baby, please.”

So you took a little pity, although the boy swore louder, crawling over his lap so you could sit yourself pretty there, legs splayed on either side of his hips. You traced the lines of his hip bones, the v shape that framed the ladder of hair on his tummy and you grinned when he rocked up into you, lips parting on a sigh. 

“Better?” You whispered. 

“Yes— no! I don’t fucking know, Jesus Christ, I just need to touch you.”

“Touch me and you lose,” you reminded him again, voice sticky sweet, your palms pressed to his bare chest as you leaned down, tits pushing against the lace of your bra and Steve felt like he was about to bite through his cheek. 

“I don’t care about the stupid bet,” Steve huffed out. He looked broken, head pushed back into the pillow, jaw slack and pupils blown wide as he let his gaze roam over you, his skin as warm as yours, cheeks flushed from the way you wiggled on top of him. “Fuckin’ Eddie.”

“I thought we weren't talking about him?” you quipped lightly, bringing your hands back to your skirt, pulling it up your thighs to flash your underwear again. 

“Shit,” Steve choked out, hands coming to his hair to pull at it in frustration. “We’re not.”

“Wanna watch?” You murmured, smiling as one bra strap fell down a shoulder. You didn’t bother to fix it. “Watch me touch myself, Stevie?”

Steve hissed, hips canting upwards and his hands hovered at your waist, fingers twitching. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” you admonished, feeling the ghost of a touch over your skin. “No touching. You just gotta watch, yeah? Can you do that?”

Steve wasn’t sure he could but he nodded anyway, desperate, eyes wide as your hand went back to your underwear, tugging aside the cotton once more and letting two fingers push into the slick there. You sighed, breath stuttering and Steve lost it underneath you, cursing and groaning, his cock jumping at the sight of how wet you were. 

You took your time with it, made the boy whine as you pressed circles to your clit, slow and lazy, head hanging back, chest pushed out, your other hand curled into the soft cotton of Steve’s sweats for balance. You were dying to feel his hands on you, but there was a masochistic need to hear the boy beg for you. 

“Holy shit, sweetheart,” he breathed out, “that’s so hot.”

“Yeah?” You asked nicely, voice soft and breath stuttering as the pleasure started to pick up. You wiggled a little, lifting yourself up enough to be able to push a finger inside of you, another to make yourself gasp. “You like watchin’, huh?”

Steve nodded, head bobbing frantically and his dick was throbbing beneath you, twitching against your thigh and you wondered if you could make him come like this, if he’d fall apart for you with the briefest of touches. 

“Such a good boy,” you whispered and you were half joking, only teasing until Steve’s lashes fluttered and he gasped out at your words, fingers twisting the bedsheets into balls once more. 

If Steve got harder, you only got wetter, and you whined at his reaction, eyes wide and you leaned down to him. Your hand was still crushed between you both and you rutted against the friction it created, your clit grinding against your fingers and the feel of Steve’s hard cock. 

You didn’t kiss him, not yet, just pressed your nose against his and panted against his mouth, both sets of lips parted as Steve did his best to arch up into you. 

“Y’know,” Steve breathed out, chest heaving against yours, “I don’t think this is what they meant when they said we had to keep our hands off each other for a week.”

You huffed out a laugh and Steve grinned, lips brushing over your jaw and chin, soft and sweet enough to make your eyes flutter shut and you leaned into it, fingers moving faster, trying your best to find that spot inside you that only Steve seemed to be able to reach. 

“Technically,” you gasped, “you’re not touching me.”

Steve threw his head back and let out a loud, filthy sound as his cock moved under his sweats, slipping to sit underneath your cunt, the pressure of it becoming too much for him. 

“Don’t fuckin’ remind me,” he hissed. “Need to though, please baby, c’mon—”

And then: “Oh god, oh shit, Steve! Fuckfuckfuck.”

“—are you gonna come?” Steve gasped out, falling back into the pillow as his eyes rolled back and he groaned. “Fucking hell, sweetheart, that’s it, c’mon, let me see you.”

You keened high as you kept rocking yourself against the boy and your fingers, reaching up to fist Steve’s messy hair in your hand and you pulled, tugging him up to kiss you as you came. You couldn’t help the way you pushed and pulled yourself over his lap, getting him and yourself a little messy, your fingers circling your clit. The friction was too much and it wasn’t enough and it felt too good but fucking hell it still wasn’t Steve that was inside of you. 

But he was swearing into your mouth, stuttering and groaning between each lick of your tongue over his and your hips twitched over his, your orgasm hitting you like a freight train. You felt a little dirty, using him to get yourself off as he lay hard as a rock underneath you, eyes dark and hooded with need as he gazed at you. 

“That’s it baby,” Steve huffed out a laugh, voice a little strained as he stared up at you, lips shiny from your kiss, cheeks pink and warm. “Keep goin’, yeah, that’s it, you look so fuckin’ pretty when you come, Christ.”

You were panting as you came down, slick fingers pushed to Steve’s chest and he groaned, eyes pleading with you even though he kept his hands by his sides. 

“Was that good?” He murmured. 

You nodded, too gone to speak, your eyes a little watery from the intensity of it all and you burned when Steve said:

“Show me.”

So you brought your fingers to his lips, letting out a little whine when he sucked them almost obscenely, tongue on the pads of your fingers so he could taste what you refused to give him. He looked like a man stared as his eyes rolled back at your taste, humming around the two digits, his own hips stuttering under your own. 

It was only then you realised that you weren’t the only one to have made a mess, a dark grey spot on Steve’s sweats that only seemed to grow. 

You gasped, all faux dramatics as you slipped your fingers from the boy’s mouth and tucked them under his waistband, pulling back the elastic to let it snap against his tummy. Steve whined, sensitive, and you grinned down at him, shaking your head. 

“Steve Harrington,” you tutted, full of playfulness. “You’re filthy.”

His cheeks burned, hating that he liked the way you teased him, a little in awe that you made him come in his pants like a fucking teenager. 

“D’you really blame me?” He asked. “Grinding all over me, looking like that and then you come?” Please, give a guy a chance.”  

You preened a little at his words, skin warm and slick to the touch from your exertion but you rewarded him with a kiss, chest pushed to his as he hummed against your lips, happy to feel you. 

You pulled away too quickly though, the boy chasing your mouth with his and he finally gave in and grabbed your chin with one hand to keep you where he wanted. 

You grinned against him, nipped at his bottom lip and pulled back just enough to pretend to scold him. 

“M’tellin’ Eddie,” you whispered, all faux seriousness. “That’s a rule break.”

Steve rolled his eyes and huffed before switching your positions, reminding you just how easily he could’ve overpowered you if he wanted to as he flipped you underneath him. You squeaked at the movement, the mattress bouncing and Steve blew a raspberry onto your neck. 

“New rule: no talking about Eddie fucking Munson when we’re half naked.”

You snorted, titling your chin up to let Steve kiss a line down your throat, teeth grazing at the space where it met your shoulder and you moaned breathily, already wanting more of him now that he finally had his hands on you. 

“Deal,” you murmured. “You still lost, though.”

It was Steve’s turn to laugh and he rocked his hips down into yours, the feel of his cock hardening again making you ache. 

“Did I?” 

Lets get cozy