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You keep a casket buried deep within
You try to mask it, but fall back in sin
You want to shake it off, but you are stuck inside
– Spillways, Ghost (2022)
“Wait – is it really that easy?” Steve asks in disbelief, holding Eddie's phone a bit closer to his face like his eyes were deceiving him.
But Eddie wasn't joking. In barely four text boxes, here lies the promise of a hook-up in one hour, twenty minutes away from where they are. Steve stares at the shallow texts in white font over blue, yellow, blue again, yellow again – they only needed two messages each to be on board and Steve is sure he could never get a chick on his dick this fast. Eddie snickers, shaking his head, a bit amused.
“Jealous, Harrington?” he teases, taking a long drag on the blunt they're sharing on the fire escape.
Like always, when a party is too loud or crowded and one of them needs a break, the other follows. Silently tagging along to smoke, share a beer outside, sometimes even bailing out early and going back to the dorms. Steve doesn't really remember how it started – it's been like this since college began, and they never really talked about it. It just happens. Tonight, it was Eddie who needed space, so when Steve saw him climbing outside the window to reach the ladder, he grabbed two fresh ones and followed Eddie without asking. Eddie took the beer and offered the joint as a thank you. Inside, the music is blaring, their friends are wasted – it's been a long time since either of them had fun at a party .
Steve gives Eddie's phone back, trading it for the blunt.
“Not really jealous – I don't know,” Steve says with a shrug. “I don't know what I imagined. Maybe more talking?”
“It's not a date, it's a hook-up,” Eddie retorts with a smile. “The only thing I needed to know, I asked for it already.”
Steve nods pensively. He leans back on the stairs, trapped between the safety rail on one side and Eddie on the other. He takes a drag and tries to enjoy it – the soft burn inside his lungs feels familiar, the taste is sweet, but like most things, it's all – he couldn't say.
Trite , maybe.
Usually, Eddie is more bubbly and talkative. He's oddly calm tonight, drinking in silence, his phone tucked back in his jeans with indifference, eyes lost somewhere up in the night sky.
“So, you're gonna go?” Steve asks, bumping his knees against Eddie's.
When Eddie shrugs, averting his eyes, Steve frowns.
“Okay, man, what's going on?” he says softly, almost warily. “You wanna get out of here?”
“Don't mom me , Harrington,” Eddie snaps back with an annoyed snark, and that's a bit funny really, because all they did this year was actively taking care of each other – without saying it, of course, but never missing an occasion to reach out.
For nightmares. For panic attacks. For any minor inconvenience that could easily snowball into a jagged breath, a thumping heart, a lingering and sickening sensation that something is gonna jump on them. So Steve doesn't even acknowledge Eddie's tentativeness to dismiss it.
“Well, I'm tired,” Steve states, handing back the joint. “I'm gonna bail soon, so if you're not getting railed at your secret gay spot, can you walk me back to the dorm?”
Eddie's mouth snaps open, a witty snap back at the ready – but he doesn't answer. He purses his lips instead and nods.
“Yeah, okay. I'll walk you. I'm not – I was not gonna go anyway.”
During the second year of college, it becomes pretty obvious that whatever Eddie is going through is messing him up. Steve tries his best to fish around without looking too suspicious, but the guy is shut like a clam.
“He's not even funny-annoying anymore, he's just point-blank insufferable to be around,” Steve mumbles to Robin when they finally have a free period at the same time.
“Eddie had been funny-annoying all along? I had no idea,” she laughs, throwing her bag on the grass and flopping down, promptly biting into her lunch like a starved squirrel. “Maybe it's about his classes?”
“No way, he's doing more than okay. His music history teacher is gawking at him, it's almost disgusting. What?" Steve blurts out when Robin tries to muffle a high-pitched giggle into her hand. “I don't want him to bang a teacher, I'm keeping an eye on that perv.”
“Eddie is an adult man, Steve, he can handle himself. So he's doing good – what about that job he – "
“ – going well too, the garage renewed his contract,” Steve cuts her off right away, trying to sit comfortably on the grass next to her.
Around them, students are running from one building to the other, some of them still have half a sandwich stuffed in their mouth, some of them are lazily napping under the afternoon sun – of course there's a guy with a handpan playing with his eyes closed like he's summoning fucking spirits with it, and Steve wants to kill that guy, just a little bit.
“I don't know why you're asking me about Eddie since you're obviously watching his every move,” Robin notices with a mischievous smile. “If something's wrong and it's neither studies nor work, then… Is he seeing somebody?”
“Well…”
Steve's mouth stays open, indecisive. Eddie is seeing people , but to Steve, Eddie's love life is a bit like one of these very niche TV shows he keeps hearing about without having any idea what the plot is, or even what the DA looks like. Sure, since they got closer, they shared more private stuff, and Steve often asked lots of questions about – as he says – how all of this is working . Eddie indulged him, but never talked about himself directly. He would explain how to recognize a cruising spot easily, but will never say if he's been there – he would confirm Steve's suspicions about who is gay on campus without confirming or denying having slept with them.
And the one time Steve asked about the bruises, Eddie's tone wasn't indulgent anymore.
“… I think he goes around, but I don't really know about it,” Steve admits reluctantly, almost pouting. “He never tells me anything , I mean, for all I know, he has a boyfriend since last year and he hides him in his room.”
“Oh, maybe he got dumped!” Robin says suddenly. “That would explain why he's all…”
She gazes into the distance, eyes blurry, head tilted to the side, in a perfect imitation of Eddie zoning out. The resemblance is uncanny.
“That's exactly what his stupid face is doing all the time," Steve says, plucking strands of grass from the ground like a grumpy kid. “You really think it's a relationship issue? Because I can't really help him with that .”
“Dude, sorry for saying it again, but Eddie – is – an – adult, he doesn't need you to get involved."
But the only way Steve knows how to care is by getting involved. So, after months of tolerating the zombie in Eddie Munson cosplay that barely passes for the real one, Steve has finally had enough. It's time to ambush him - in the nicest way possible.
That night, when Eddie opens the door of his room, he just wants the day to be over. Everything that could have been shit was shit, and everything that could have been not-so-shitty turned out to be shitty anyway – he's fucking exhausted. He's so relieved his roommate is away for the weekend. Finally, some peace and quiet, some well-deserved alone time.
When he switches the lights on and sees Steve in the middle of the room, Eddie screeches like a banshee, making the both of them jump.
“Dude – what the hell?” Eddie yelps, hand clutching his chest over his poor heart.
“Surprise?” Steve tries apologetically, waving at – wait, what the fuck?
The guy took Eddie's room for a camping spot, apparently, because there's one of those small folding tables, a set of chairs, and some Chinese takeout from Eddie's favorite place. Eddie blinks and shakes his head in disbelief.
“What's all this?”
“We're having a bonding moment,” Steve states, crossing his arms over his chest. “This is happening, so – just sit down, man.”
Eddie's jaw is still slack, eyes still blinking, brain processing in slow motion. He carefully puts down his guitar case on his bed before he accidentally drops it, and his bag gets dragged down in the process, trapping his arm in a weird angle. Eddie fights between straps like the albatross in fuel oil - Robin's favorite dumb French poem from whatever advanced linguistic translation class . Something about its wings being too big -
“Munson?”
Steve's voice brings Eddie back to earth, and he shakes his head in an effort to ground himself. He frees himself from everything – bag, guitar case, leather jacket, scarf – everything gets piled up on the bed – and finally he accepts his fate in the shape of a dinner night with Steve Harrington in his dorm room. He slumps on the chair, eyeing the food like it might be poisoned. Steve uncrosses his arms and loses his stern face, leaning forward with a shy smile.
“I – uh – I really wanted to spend some time with you,” Steve says, “but if you're busy-I mean, if you really don't want to –”
Great, now Eddie feels like an asshole.
“No, I mean, I was just startled, that's all,” Eddie says quickly, crafting the best half-smile he can. “You could have called , instead of waiting for me in the dark like some James Bond villain. It looks a lot like –”
Don't say date, Eddie, don't say date, don't say it.
“– like an ambush,” Eddie manages to say with relief.
“Oh, that's because it is. It's an ambush,” Steve replies deadpan, not even blinking. “If I had called, you would've said no. Because you're being weird, and I want to know why.”
Saying so, Steve grabs a pair of chopsticks, pops open one of the takeout boxes, enjoys the delicious smell for a bit, and digs in, while Eddie is petrified in his chair. After swallowing a copious mouthful, Steve speaks again, pointing his chopsticks at Eddie like a threat.
“Eat before it's cold, dude, come on."
“What's happening again?” Eddie asks dumbly, seriously wondering if Steve is possessed.
“I told you – bonding time. You, me, food… And also, you're gonna tell me what's on your mind,” Steve replies while digging shamelessly into his own meal. “I know something is bugging you, and I wanna help. Whatever it is.”
Then Steve goes silent and eats. So, slowly, warily, Eddie digs in. The kung pao chicken is so good it's otherworldly, and Steve must have a pretty good memory, because he got everything that Eddie likes. But it's not enough to coax a scaredy cat like Eddie. As he eats, his eyes scan anxiously around the room – Steve never comes here – to see if he'd left anything weird in sight.
“Seriously, Eddie, if you don't tell me what's happening, I'm gonna assume a lot of fucked up things – probably worse than the truth,” Steve sighs, looking so defeated that Eddie feels guilty all of a sudden.
Guilty for what ? He doesn't need help - he's fine! Everything's fine.
“I'm fine,” Eddie says, eyes fixated on his chopsticks, and he can almost hear Steve's eyes rolling up to the ceiling. “I'm fine – I'm handling it, okay?” he adds, and fuck, Eddie's not handling anything anymore.
Okay, maybe talking about it would be a good idea. But is Steve Harrington the right person for that ? He's the most straight vanilla guy – he's never gonna get it. He barely gets what gay dating looks like. But he's also surprisingly open-minded about it.
“I know I'm probably not the best at – at whatever your problem is,” Steve says slowly. “But I'm worried sick, okay? I swear you can talk to me, man. About anything . Even with one of your fucked up analogies.”
Eddie looks up from his takeout box and meets Steve's eyes right away – the guy is intense , even on Eddie's scale. A worried Steve is a Steve that doesn't let go. So, begrudgingly, Eddie clears his throat and tries to find the right words.
“Okay,” Eddie starts, and that's not so bad, “you're right, there's something . But you can't help me out. It's – like – private stuff – it's awkward to talk about it.”
“Like dating stuff?”
“I don't date , Harrington.”
“Like hook-up stuff?”
“Sex, it's sex , it's sexual – my problem is sexual, okay?!” he blurts out, and yeah, of course he was gonna blurt it out in the worst possible way.
There's a beat just a little too long after that, and Eddie wants to hide somewhere, but there's no way he can fit into those takeout boxes.
“Did something bad happen?"
At Steve's question, Eddie sighs loudly.
“No, nothing bad happened – wait, why would – why are you so sure something terrible is happening to me?” Eddie snaps, confused.
“Because you're covered in bruises, dude!” Steve states, and his voice raises a little, which is not helping.
“And I specifically told you – ”
“ – to not talk about them, yeah, well - I'm worried about you!” Steve yells properly now, before letting out a loud, frustrated sigh.
Perfect, Eddie thinks, we're both screaming now, here goes the calm and mature conversation I was supposed to have with Steve Harrington about my sex life .
“Okay – I'm gonna tell you – only because I don't want you to think I'm getting molested on a daily basis,” Eddie says, lowering his voice, but still avoiding Steve's eyes.
The guy is almost as jittery as Eddie himself, and that's saying something.
Steve settles down a bit, stops swaying on his chair, and drums his fingers on the table. Eddie drags his hands along his face slowly, trying not to die from embarrassment .
“You ever heard of masochism?” Eddie settles for, and Steve raises an eyebrow.
“The political thing?”
“No – that's fascism , dude, seriously – masochism, people who like to feel pain? That's what the M in BDSM is for."
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Eddie says quickly before changing his mind, “that's for bondage, discipline, sadism, masochism . That's… me. I do those things.”
In all his genuine awkwardness, there's a part of Eddie that hopes Steve will freak out and leave - because then, Eddie doesn't have to open up about any of his personal issues. He can be, in Steve's eyes, the freak he was always supposed to be. Steve can stop trying to be friendly, can stop hanging out with him out of pity or whatever. But Steve is not freaking out. In fact, Steve is tilting his head to the side like a curious Labrador, except he doesn't look as clueless.
“So, your marks – they're consensual, right?” Steve asks. “You got them from…playing.”
“Not a game,” Eddie says, pointing a finger in the air notedly.
“Yeah, no, of course - but you got them because you wanted them, right? So why are you always so sad?"
Eddie opens and closes his mouth, powerless.
“I can see it's hard for you to say it,” Steve says gently, “but - Eddie, can you try? Please? I swear to god, I'm not gonna judge you, I'm not gonna stop being friends with you or anything –"
“– every dom I hook up with is shitty.”
“What?”
“Fuck – not every dom , but most of them,” Eddie adds, hiding his face in his hands. “It's stupid , Steve. I'm not sad , I'm just – I get weird when I'm sexually frustrated, I space out all the time, I can't focus… This is ridiculous, so can we stop talking about it?"
“Wait – I'm glad you're not hurt, or sad, but if you're frustrated, you're not fine, " Steve argues solemnly. “When I'm frustrated I get so dumb I can't do shit. I get it.”
Eddie slowly raises his head from his hands, and to his surprise, Steve is smiling widely – gently.
“It's not stupid, it's not ridiculous – it's cool, we can talk about it,” Steve says, and Eddie finally lets his hands down, freeing his face. “And I love listening to you, I always learn things I would never have learned otherwise. So go ahead, tell me about your – your what?”
“Shitty doms?”
“Yeah, that. Why are they shitty?”
And really, Eddie hopes Steve is genuinely interested, because there's no way he's ready for what follows. Eddie has so much on his mind about his shitty hook-ups. Eddie wrote songs about them, he tweeted about them, he wrote thousands of FetLife posts about them and got banned from the BDSM group chat of Indiana because of it – pure censorship, that's what it was.
He begins, and he doesn't stop. He tells Steve about how self-centered dominant gay cis guys can be – how untitled they are – how hard it is to negotiate terms because all they want is some 24/7 cumdump – how he got called complicated because he doesn't do chem sex anymore – how he got called a cunt because he wasn't into waterboarding… Eddie loses himself completely, and after maybe ten minutes, when his mouth feels a bit dry and he swallows down his whole soda, only then does the backlash of oversharing hit him. And like always, it hits hard.
“You didn't understand a single word I said, right?” Eddie asks sheepishly.
But Steve, who is definitely full of surprise, shrugs lazily.
“I mean, no, but I got the general idea, I think. You want something specific, and people are too messy or don't care enough to get it right.”
“Exactly! And– ”
Eddie cuts himself, shoving his fingers in his mouth and biting furiously on his nails to stop talking . His eyes dart involuntarily – away from Steve's face, down his neck – where the scar lies, thin but visible. Steve catches Eddie's glare and scratches his neck awkwardly. The silence stretches. Gets heavier. Gets somehow worse than if Eddie were just to say it out loud, so he braces himself.
“It's not easy to find people who are okay with – you know. Scars. I mean, I’m missing a whole nipple, man, that's weird to explain."
“Fuck that,” Steve says abruptly. “Fuck explaining. You don't owe explanations to anybody.”
“That's nice , Steve, but come on, admit it's not easy to get naked in front of someone you barely know when you look like…"
Eddie doesn't finish his sentence, and he's almost glad because it wasn't gonna end well. Because whatever mean thoughts Eddie thinks about himself can't apply to Steve , who is still perfect – even stitched, patched together, even scarred, even broken and brought back from hell. A scar on Steve's skin is proof of courage and heroism. A scar on Eddie's skin is just swollen skin tissue.
“Can I ask you some questions about it?”
“About – about BDSM?”
“Yeah, but. More about how you do it. Like… After what we've been through, I don't think I'll ever want someone to hurt me on purpose,” Steve explains slowly, looking somewhere on a shelf on the wall above Eddie's shoulder. He frowns, like he's trying to picture it. “You make it sound like it's not just about sex, like you need it to function .”
“You're not far from the truth, actually.” Eddie sighs and leans back in his chair, hands running through his hair to toss it back. “Weed helps with nightmares. Some pills help with restlessness or anxiety, but pain? I don't know, it grounds me, I think.”
They're now almost mirror images, each of them staring into the void. They're facing each other but never lock eyes, fixating on a point somewhere near the other's ear or jaw, like some people stare at their phone – they're staring at nothing. The awkwardness has dissipated. There's a comforting hum in the silences that stretches between their words. Eddie speaks low, his ringed hand moves swiftly, caressing something invisible, trying to grasp it.
“There's something in me that never settles,” he says, and from the corner of his eyes, he sees Steve's head nodding slowly. “Like a swarm of bees or – fucking electricity . It's like my own head is trying to attack me. Like – a cancer, but with words. Does it – does any of this make sense to you?”
“It does. I don't feel that way, but it does – really.”
“Pain grounds me. And submission, it – it gives me purpose ,” Eddie says, stretching the word painfully, eyes fluttering close. “Something to do, something I can't mess up . I need to know I can do something right. Maybe some people do charity work or fucking puzzles, but for me, sexual submission is easier.”
“Isn't it dangerous?" Steve asks. "I mean, the people you do it with, they don't seem…nice.”
“No, they're douchebags. But I have poor choices in men," Eddie confesses with a cynical grin. “Usually, if you inflict pain on someone, you have to test it on yourself first. Also, you have to take care of your sub after.”
“Like, be nice to them?”
“Yeah. Be nice, or cuddle, or… Am I talking too much again?”
The question springs so abruptly it startles them both. Eddie grabs the box in front of him and stuffs his mouth with kung pao chicken at a concerning speed, as if he could eat his own question back. He risks a quick glance at Steve, who is still frowning at the wall, head tilted to the side like a confused puppy.
“What?”
“I’m about to start another monologue, so I feel extremely self-conscious,” Eddie says as clearly as he can with a mouth full of chicken. “Just indulge me and tell me no Eddie, of course, you never talk too much, it’s always so pleasant to listen to you – or something like that.”
“Dude, I’ve been trying to make you spit it out for months , so please, talk as much as you want,” Steve replies with a fond smile. “So, pain and cuddles – what were you saying?”
Eddie finally puts away his emotional support food and starts spinning a chopstick in his hand instead. He always feels self-conscious anyway, and it has never stopped him from giving a passionate speech. But he just landed a whole bunch of BDSM lore on Steve, so he does his best to make the second one a bit shorter.
“So… After a play session, everybody reacts differently. But it’s common for everyone involved to have a strong emotional or physical response sometimes. All the feel-good chemicals are dropping, and so does your mood. You can feel extremely vulnerable, or sad – depressed even. So you need physical comfort and emotional support – reassurance, and lots of self-care shit. That’s after-care.”
“That sounds like hell.”
“It’s not really different from being sick or having a bad day or something. And ideally you do it together. Both dom and sub can drop. It’s hard to be treated like a doormat, but it’s also hard to be the one that does it.”
“So you never had that? With your partners?”
When Eddie shakes his head, Steve's frown gets heavier. For a while, he doesn't say anything. Eddie can almost picture a loading icon on Steve's forehead, spinning faster and faster.
“I'll do it,” he says suddenly, still frowning, eyes still squinting at the wall like he was talking to it and not to Eddie. “It doesn't sound easy, but I bet I can do exactly what they do – but better. Plus, we trust each other, and you know I'll never hurt you.”
Eddie stares at Steve like he just grew another head.
“You must be joking,” Eddie finally drops, deadpan.
“I'm dead serious, man.”
“Either you didn't understand a single word I said, or you're trying to make fun of me.”
“What? Why would I – Eddie, I'm not joking – look, this is actually pretty simple,” Steve insists, still looking somewhere on the wall, eyes squinting, focusing. “It's like your tabletop game – ”
“ – This is nothing like Dungeons and Dragons – ”
“ – hear me out just a minute,” Steve cuts him, finally staring at him, and shit, he can be fucking intense sometimes.
Eddie knows that look: that's Steve planning, scheming, deciding who does what and when, that's Steve coaching his team . Suddenly, Steve wears the battle jacket again, he's repeating the steps of the plan, don't try to be cute or be heroes – like he knows what he's doing. That's Steve swinging the bat, Steve lighting a Molotov, Steve saying over and out . So Eddie shuts up and listens.
“In your game, you get beaten up, right?” Steve says, lying back on his chair, one arm across his middle, the other one on the table, tapping it with a finger. “You all take damage, and you're pissed off about it, but in the end, nobody is actually hurt in real life. That's exactly the same thing: you need someone to tell you when the game begins and when it ends. To inflict damage and make sure you're not really hurt.”
Eddie blinks slowly, taken aback, because shit, that's almost a coherent analogy. When Eddie shrugs, Steve smiles as widely as if Eddie had nodded enthusiastically, and jabs his finger repetitively on the table.
“Yeah, I knew it – I'm right," Steve says with assertiveness. "You need someone to play a part, but you need to trust that someone enough so you never feel unsafe. Exactly like you're never really scared about a manticore or whatnot shredding you to pieces – I mean, you're scared because you're invested in the game, but deep down you know you're safe.”
“That's… Okay, Steve, that's actually right,” Eddie concedes in a sigh. “There's a suspension of disbelief, mutual agreement, rules and structures – but you're not a tabletop player, if you catch my drift,” he adds with a bitter smile.
“I'd be so good at this game,” Steve replies with a frown, slightly hurt. “If you would let me play just once – ”
“ Jesus Christ – I mean, you're not gay , Steve! You can't play with me, not in that way,” Eddie scoffs, rolling his eyes. “It's different from acting or roleplaying because it's still sex .”
Steve's chair is back on its feet in a thump as he leans on the table, hands forward, palms open – something that says hear me out, consider this .
“Does it really have to be?” Steve asks. “You don't actually stab your players, you just say they get stabbed. And you told me it was about being ordered around – I could rough you up without being sexual, it would be just like…roughhousing.”
Eddie's brain goes blank at the mental image of Steve roughing him up , and he needs a minute before being able to speak again. He'd been so thorough in the building of this friendship, so careful – he managed to never see his friend that way – and this stupid idiot is swinging on a wrecking ball.
“This is messed up,” Eddie says, his mouth suddenly dry. “Don't you see how messed up this is?”
“I really don't!” Steve argues, raising his voice. “We would do exactly what you want – you could get exactly what you need! And you wouldn't have to worry about being uncomfortable, or unsafe, or – we could start by something super easy, just to try it,” he snaps his fingers as the idea is gaining in shape, color, and contours. “Just like training! Shit, Eddie, don't you see how perfect I am for this job?”
This is surreal – Eddie must be dreaming , or maybe Steve has finally gone insane. Two years and some dealing with PTSD have finally messed with his brain so good he's actually considering…considering …Eddie scrambles his brain, tries to find what argument would stop Steve on this new warpath. But Steve seems unstoppable now.
“First,” Steve continues, counting on his fingers, staring at Eddie with determination and fuck , that's almost enough to get him all worked up, “I know physical pain, I have great control over my body, I'm a fucking athlete. Second, I'm no actor, sure, but I've spent so much time ordering our bunch of kids around, it's second nature to me now. And third, you know you can trust me , Eddie. We can talk it through, we can adapt…”
Eddie feels dizzy, almost floating, and averts his eyes quickly to look elsewhere because it's now impossible to hold Steve's gaze. If Steve says “we” one more time – like they're a team, like it's a game – this is so not a game – except it is. It sort of is. Eddie knows very well that it doesn't have to be sexual, that Steve could perfectly endorse a dominating role without any kind of sexual act. And Steve would make a great dom – no, wait, no , remember the walls, the boundaries, how to craft a friendship with a man without ever thinking about him naked and every other thing Eddie worked so hard on – fuck there's a pun right there –
“… put me up to the test,” Steve says suddenly, snapping Eddie out of his trail of thoughts.
“Excuse me?”
“Put me up to the test: give me something simple to do, and let me show you I can do it.”
When exactly did Steve get up and walk closer to Eddie? He was far, far, far away across the table, at a safe distance – now he's up close, standing with his arms crossed, eyes still on fire – he's right in front of Eddie, and he looks like someone eager to be called from the bench to finally play.
“Okay, man, you seriously need to stop,” Eddie says, his voice so weak he doesn't recognize it. “It's not a fucking dare – ”
“ – I know it's not a dare. It's a challenge – I wanna try , I'm serious. If I fail, then you'll be right, it wasn't a good idea, and we'll never speak of it again."
There's no world in which Steve could fail at making Eddie feel how he needs to feel. The moment stretches. Eddie shifts his legs over the chair, facing Steve, who stands in front of him, and keeps his eyes fixed on his own knees. That's when he realizes he was never gonna push Steve away. There's no need to even try. When Steve wants to help you, he's like a dog with a bone – you better let him have it.
“Okay,” Eddie breathes slowly, “okay, let me – let me think of something .”
It's a bit strange to give directions to a dom. But after all, isn't it the best way to feel safe? To keep an illusion of control that will keep Eddie from falling apart if he panics? Isn't it exactly what he wanted to have, a real conversation before anything happened? He can't bring himself to look at Steve, his ears are buzzing, his head is filled with fucking cotton candy – the situation itself is already hot. He could get off just on the memory of Steve, so assertive, talking about how BDSM and D&D are similar and how he could be so good at both – he could get off on the way Steve calls it a challenge .
“Something not sexual, right?” Eddie mumbles, fidgeting nervously with a strand of fabric where his jeans are scraped.
“Yeah, no – maybe not yet," Steve says a bit lower.
Not yet – Jesus Christ – does it mean Steve would consider doing more? Eddie is almost certain that a part of himself has left his body and will never return. Steve offering to roleplay is already fucking bonkers – so imagining Steve offering to - yeah, no, Eddie can't think about that without evaporating like steaming water.
“How about a slap?” Eddie hears himself say. “That's pretty easy, and I bet you always wanted to hit me in the face anyway.”
Steve snorts, his posture relaxing a bit.
“How hard?” Steve asks, and Eddie can hear the smile without looking at him.
Of course, that's Steve's response , Eddie thinks. You say jump, he says how high – a real jock – fuck why is that so hot? By the force of a weird dark magic, Eddie's explanation flows from him calm and clear like a brook, nothing revealing the chaotic storm currently reigning over his body.
“I don't care – you just have to aim right, you don't want to hit the nose or the eye. You aim for the meatiest part of the cheek,” Eddie adds, reaching a hand to his own face, realizing he doesn't have a lot of meat to deal with. Bony cheeks. “Focus more on making it sound loud than on making it hurt; that's how you're gonna get a better result.”
“Noted." Steve's voice drops lower. "And how do I, uh, balance it out ? Make it so it feels – you know – good ?”
“You don't have to do that,” Eddie replies quickly, eyes still on his hands, hands still on his knees. “The pain will be good anyway.”
“But…”
Steve's confidence seems to waver slightly. He crouches down, and his face is so close to Eddie's knees that Eddie has no choice but to look at Steve directly.
“…you said it could be bad for you if there's no balance,” Steve says gently.
“Only if it's, like, intense ,” Eddie says, glad his long hair is partly hiding his face. If Steve's confident voice was hot, something about Steve's gentleness is somehow hotter . Fuck – he worked so hard on this – there's no going back from where they're heading now. Maybe for Steve, who will one day tell his wife the funny story about how he slapped his old masochist college buddy because the guy was desperate, but not for Eddie. “A slap is fine. It's no big deal.” It kinda was. “Just – don't be weird, don't try to say stuff or anything, okay?”
“Okay. You'll give me feedback, though?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“If it does nothing to you, you'll tell me, right?”
Eddie chuckles and shakes his head.
“You're so scared of doing it wrong , that's kind of funny, man."
“Shut up!” Steve says with a smile, an interesting shade of pink spreading on his cheeks. “I love challenges, I wanna do it right. And I don't want to creep you out – "
“ – I'm the masochist, and you think you can creep me out?” Eddie chortles, and Steve's smile widens, and before they know it they're laughing together. “Way to kill the vibe, Harrington,” Eddie manages to say in a short breath.
“You were laughing first, asshole!" The laugh brightens, then dries out. Steve is still crouched down, looking up at Eddie through the curtain of long hair that hides him - not so well. “Okay, maybe tie it back. Your hair, I mean.”
“Is that an order?” Eddie asks, quivering an eyebrow, instantly regretting his words when he sees a bright crimson taking over Steve's face. “Just a joke, man, sorry –”
“– No, wait, can I try for real?”
Steve stands up so abruptly that they almost hit their heads together. He brushes his hands on his jeans, dusting off nothing – just fidgeting, apparently. His eagerness to try, his curiosity, how bad he wants to help – it's almost too much for Eddie, who is barely used to having a friend like Steve. Someone who asks for a text when he leaves early, just to say he made it safely to the dorms. Someone who knows what food he likes. Once, Eddie didn't wake up for an important test, and Steve was there, banging at his door - he had a photo of Eddie's class schedule on his phone.
Now that Eddie thinks about it, while Steve is mentally preparing himself to consensually beat him , Steve memorizes a lot of stuff about him. And he's obsessed with how weird gay dating life can be. Is there something to read into it other than friendly interest, other than legitimate worry for Eddie's well-being?
That's exactly why it's a bad idea , Eddie thinks. Now I'm imagining stuff. He's just being friendly , I bet he knows Robin's schedule by heart too – it doesn't mean anything. And I don't want it to mean anything. We're friends – everything is fine .
“Look at me.”
The voice above Eddie is low, steady, and so grounded that nothing could knock it down. Eddie raises his head, taken aback, almost wondering who is talking to him. Steve's arms are crossed again, but he's not standing stiffly like before – he's relaxed, poised. But there's something stern, immutable about him. And that something sends a shiver down Eddie's body from head to toes. Steve juts his chin sharply.
“Tie your hair, away from your face,” he orders – and fuck, he really does order. Eddie moves without thinking, makes the hair band slide from his wrist, and ties his hair back messily, in the most poorly done ponytail ever. Steve's eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't waver. “Now close your eyes.”
Eddie closes his eyes and breathes, a slow and steady inhale – and the slap hits him before he finishes, catching him off guard. He blinks his eyes open, jaw slack, a rush of blood flooding his head. The fire starting on his cheek catches on the rest of his face, burning and somehow numbing at the same time. Eddie's exhale is as shaky as his hands. For a whole minute, he stays there, flames licking down his neck and spine, already fading – too soon. Asking for another one would be greedy, but something else holds the reins now, and Eddie's eyes flutter close as he says:
“Again.”
“Sure?” asks the calm voice somewhere in front of him, and Eddie nods eagerly.
“Yes, please.”
The please slips away from Eddie's lips, and for a moment, he thinks that's it, that's too much, that's way too sexual, that's not what we agreed on, but Steve doesn't leave. He doesn't hit either, so Eddie risks a look and opens his eyes.
“I said close your eyes ,” Steve says, and Eddie closes them promptly, but he can't help a small, crooked smile, because Steve was grinning , he was waiting for Eddie to mess up. “If you want another one, you wait for it.”
Everything Eddie ever hated about jocks is now overrated. Steve's tone isn't mean per se, but it's both calm and hard at the same time – like a bassline. It hums low and steady, solid, like a foundation for more instruments to join in. And weirdly, this is how Eddie would've pictured Steve talking to a gym buddy of his. Something right in between encouraging and threatening . Turns out, this particular combo is a pretty good groundwork for a dom persona.
So Eddie does what he's told and closes his eyes. An echo of the first slap is still burning on his face, and an echo is not enough: Eddie's brain never shuts up , and to finally have some peace and quiet, it needs a great deal of pain, or humiliation, or both.
The second slap doesn't exactly do the trick – it's the third, unexpected one that does it. A proper back-and-forth motion. The setback hurts so much that Eddie's anxious and hypervigilant brain shuts down like an overheated computer. Eddie blinks slowly, jaw slack, utterly dumbfounded. The metallic taste in his mouth is sour, but before he can reach a hand to his parted lips, the hand that just hit him cups his chin and tugs gently, bringing his head back to a normal angle. When Eddie blinks again, he finds Steve's worried eyes.
“Fuck – are you okay?”
A thumb softly brushes against his bottom lip, gathering the blood that had sprung from there. Eddie can't say a fucking word – silent brain, no thoughts – and when there's finally less static noise between his ears, he finally registers that the thumb is not his own – that Steve is carefully holding Eddie's face and wiping the blood away, smearing it more than wiping it, all things considered.
Eddie jolts away, almost falling backward since he's sitting across the chair more than on it. Steve retracts his hand like he's been electrocuted. For a few seconds, Eddie stares at him like he's seeing Steve for the first time.
Then, the delicious burning sensation settles, and Eddie's brain restarts in a dull hum. How nice it would be to bask in the lingering pain, to enjoy it for a few minutes, but Steve Harrington just hit him so hard his mouth bled, so there are social things to do in order to keep the weirdness of it all at a tolerable level. Eddie gathers all the pieces of himself he can find, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand in a strong, exaggerated gesture.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie sighs with a grin, the most casual he could craft right now. “I forgot your hands are so fucking big – no, I'm okay, I swear, I'm okay!" he adds quickly when he sees Steve's face crumpling on itself. “Seriously, Steve, I've been hit harder, don't worry. I'm a big boy – I'm okay.”
“Shit, I was so scared of not hurting you enough , I forgot about – I should have been trying to not – not hurt you too much ,” Steve mumbles, tripping on every word with a nervous laugh. “So, did I pass the test? Am I qualified for the job?”
Steve is staring at him with those wide eager eyes, almost glistening - he looks fucking giddy , Eddie thinks, and that's a nice change of vibe.
“Your Golden Retriever energy is really something else,” Eddie replies, rubbing his face roughly as his nerves are screaming indignantly. “You know what? Let's do it fairy tale style. You passed the first test – I'm adding two others. Rule of three, Harrington. You clearly have what it takes to beat the shit out of me, but you're way too much of a nice guy. You'll need to act mean .”
To Eddie's surprise, Steve is still not backing down from whatever this new thing is. He nods enthusiastically, and does something Eddie never saw him do – he quickly reaches for his bag and takes out a notebook.
“Are you taking notes ? For real?” Eddie asks, properly stupefied.
“I'm gonna forget if I don't mark it down, shut up." Steve snaps back, biting at the pen cap to open it. “Okay, so – first trial, physical pain. What are gonna be the other two?”
As Steve sits down and bends over his little notebook like a nerd, Eddie smiles fondly. But as soon as Steve lifts his head back at him, Eddie clears his throat and looks away.
“Second trial: verbal degradation,” he announces theatrically, or as theatrically as he can whilst not looking at Steve. “And haven't decided yet what the third trial will be, because I'm making this up on the spot.”
“ Mysterious – third – trial - got it,” Steve says, marking down slowly, holding his pen in such a weird way Eddie is not so surprised Steve's writing is so crooked.
“You're still not weirded out by this?” Eddie asks, but Steve closes his notebook like a hot librarian with a mission.
“Not at all. It's fun – and I wanna help. Are you weirded out?"
“I mean – yeah, a bit, but…”
But nothing, of course, we want our good college buddy Steve to dom us in a platonic way, who would say no to that , Eddie's brain screams at him, so his sentence stays unfinished.
Then, since Steve asks for homework , Eddie gives him a few references to check so he can learn some things and form his own opinion about it. Eddie never saw Steve hyped like this for any of his business class mandatory work. Steve insists on doing the BDSM test right away, and flops on Eddie’s roommate's bed, tapping on his phone to answer all the questions.
It’s only then that Eddie checks his own phone and notices Robin’s texts from earlier that day.
from Robs 🌈, 14h52
dude Steve is HARASSING ME because you’re too lame to talk about your problems, so PLEASE talk to him, lie if you must, find anything plausible, or even better just TELL HIM WHAT’S WRONG 😡
from Robs 🌈, 14h57
like okay i’m the lesbian bestie and i wear that title proudly, but i can’t help you with your gay shit man, TALK TO STEVE, he’s gonna think you’re getting Vecna’ed if you don’t come up with something soon
from Robs 🌈, 17h01
i think you’re getting Harringtoned today man, he’s ambushing you, i tried to warn you!! hope he doesn’t draw you a bubble bath or i’m gonna puke
from Robs 🌈, 23h32
MUNSON are you alive
from Robs 🌈, 00h16
hello dingus 1 and 2, are you both dead or what?!
from Robs 🌈, 00h58
WHY ARE YOU BOTH IGNORING ME OMFG 😡
“Steve?" Eddie calls, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Steve hums lazily, way to focused on the test he's taking.
"Please tell Robin to chill the fuck out. Also, it’s like, 1a.m. apparently?”
from Steve 💫, 01h25
safely back in my room! sleep well!
from Eddie Munson, 01h26
👍
from Steve 💫, 01h27
sorry again for hanging out so late lol i hope you’re okay
from Steve 💫, 01h28
i meant i hope you’re not too tired and also i hope your face is okay
from Eddie Munson, 01h30
👍
from Steve 💫, 01h31
your texts are so cryptic lmao, also i see you typing and erasing you know?
from Eddie Munson, 02h14
Yeah, sorry, I was trying to be concise and efficient, I didn’t mean to be so cryptic, sorry. I’m okay, don’t worry, it was a surprising evening but I’m glad I opened up to you. You’re a good listener. And a good friend. My face is okay too, I won’t even have a mark. I have a free period tomorrow between 2 and 3pm if you want to talk about your next trial.
Steve stares at Eddie’s text, reading it again and again, unable to sleep. Hidden under the sheets like a kid reading past his bedtime, he feels more nervous now than he was earlier in Eddie’s room, talking about dominance and everything. He was extremely genuine about how it would be platonic, how it could totally be – Steve understood it was a kink for Eddie, but since it wasn’t a kink for himself , well, where was the problem, really?
The problem was right there. The problem was the reason why Steve was still awake past 2 a.m., too horny to sleep, unable to do anything about it because if he did , he would think about Eddie’s bleeding lip under his thumb, and that was not an option . It wasn’t part of the deal – hell, the deal wasn’t even signed yet. But Steve had made a whole deal about how it was totally fine – Eddie just called him a good friend , and what kind of friend would jerk off thinking about the nice shade of crimson your face takes or about the shuttered gasp you make when you’re being slapped?
Being attracted to boys wasn’t new to Steve. He wasn’t even attracted to Eddie , since today at least. Okay, the guy was pretty, but he was also a friend . Worse, he was a trauma fellow, a comrade-in-arms, a brawl buddy, someone you call to scare off bullies with you, or to shoot at hellspawn demons. So why did Steve suddenly feel so fucking hot at the mere idea of going through made-up trials to be Eddie’s dom?
God, he wants that so bad. The face Eddie made – that defiant and sharp look, an invitation, something that said go harder, see if I care – that face made Steve’s head spin. His stomach did a fucking somersault when Eddie said yes, please . And it was not really about hurting Eddie, really. It was more about giving him what he needed , what he asked for. When he took the test online, Steve was embarrassed every time a question was asked about what lengths he would go to please his partner(s) . Eddie wasn’t his partner, but oh, the lengths Steve would go to please him… The high percentage he got for Switch was an existential crisis in itself, after Eddie had explained it to him.
Tentatively, Steve starts typing again, not really responding to Eddie’s question, but trying to put in words what was on his mind.
i can’t stop texting you because i think i want to be sure i did right, and also, i want to know what you felt
i want to know if it felt good for you, if it was like, satisfying
because i think i really liked doing it and i want to do it again
Steve tries again a few more times before giving up. He knows better than to send anxiety-fueled texts in the middle of the night like a teenager. No, Steve is an adult, and he knows the right thing to do is to talk about this with Robin first – because sometimes, you need a more adult adult to help you with your sexual crisis.
from Steve 💫, 02h47
👍