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The sleepovers start innocently enough. Well, maybe innocent isn't the word for it. They're both too bruised and damaged to be called innocent anymore. But when Eddie blearily shows up on Steve's doorstep after not sleeping more than six hours in the last week, only to find that Steve's managed seven, it just becomes another thing they do to cope with the trauma.
They try sleeping separately at first, but the first night, Eddie wakes up screaming in the guest room, and it kicks Steve into a panic attack, and he nearly hits Eddie in the face with a fucking baseball bat hammered through with nails.
So, that's out.
Sleeping on the floor in Steve's room isn't much better. Eddie doesn't have any nightmares, but it's because he never falls asleep, the carpet too stiff, the blanket not thick enough. At 2 AM, Steve rolls over to blink at Eddie on the floor, his hair in disarray and his eyes red.
"Just get up here already. We need to sleep, and I can't do it with you making all that fucking noise."
Steve's bed is big and soft, and it smells like laundry detergent and Steve's hair products. The comforter is thick and heavy, and it drapes over Eddie's scarred shoulders like a dream. It drags him down into sleep with gentle claws, cradling Eddie until the nightmares shake him awake hours later.
That's when Steve's calm, tired voice, rough from sleep and dark like midnight, curls through Eddie with reassurances and reminders that we made it, Eddie, it's okay, and he's able to find sleep again, the nightmares—for once—failing to come back.
Eddie doesn't know what Steve gets out of it, not at first. It's Steve's bed offering comfort, and Steve's voice soothing Eddie back into unconsciousness. It's Steve's food that Eddie eats at Steve's kitchen table, a cup of Steve's coffee in front of him, steaming away in the comfortable silence of the kitchen.
But he thinks he understand later, weeks into their almost nightly sleepovers. Whenever Eddie comes over before Steve gets back from Family Video—just take the key, Eddie, it's fine. Come over whenever you need to, let yourself in. It's not like my parents are going to care—the picture-perfect house feels too still, too empty. Like a photograph, it's glossy and flat. There's no dimension there, not until Steve comes into the house, smelling like cheap carpet and sweat and hints of Robin's perfume on the days they work shifts together. When they're both there, the house is alive.
When it's only one of them, it's like a tomb.
It's more than just the company, though. Steve keeps Eddie's favorite cereal on hand, and he makes sure that there's always 2% milk in the fridge, even though Steve only drinks skim. He clears out a drawer in his dresser, makes room in the front hall closet for Eddie's boots. One night, when they're both a little stoned and a little drunk, he even admits that he hooked the stereo back up, in case Eddie wanted to put some of his music on whenever he was over.
Eddie'd skinned his elbow on the carpet when he rolled over, frantic excitement filling his veins as he hurried to put on Sabbath.
It's just that Steve likes to take care of people. He likes to be needed.
And God, does Eddie need him right now.
So, they'd started this weird codependent sleep thing with the best of intentions. A way to find comfort, to get rest, to process what happened to them with someone who understood, who they didn't have to lie to.
That's all it was meant to be.
But with the easing of their nightmares and the falling into each other's daily rhythms, they've grown comfortable. Not to say that Eddie was uncomfortable with Steve before. Like he'd said in the Upside Down, Steve's a good guy, and he's proved it every day since then. Eddie likes Steve, likes being his friend, likes being close to him.
But the thing is that Eddie also likes Steve, and he especially likes the closeness that's become a nightly self-inflicted torture.
You see, Steve Harrington is a cuddler. Even though they fall asleep on opposite sides of the bed, even though they lay down with their backs facing each other, inevitably, Steve will roll over in the night. He'll press the long, lean line of his body against Eddie's back, throw the corded strength and weight of his arm across Eddie's scarred stomach, press his nose into the curve of Eddie's spine where it meets his shoulders. He'll breathe against Eddie's skin, soft and slow, and Eddie is eternally thankful that he's facing the other direction, that he can hide his erection in the voluminous weight of Steve's comforter and rush to the bathroom before Steve fully wakes in the morning and can see anything incriminating.
It's agony, being this close to Steve almost every night and knowing that nothing is going to come of it, other than heartache and a ridiculously frequent need to jerk himself off when he finally makes it home. Eddie's losing count of how many times he's found himself with his dick in his hand and Steve's name on his lips, his nose buried in his own shirt because it carries the lingering scent of Steve and his bed.
Eddie hates that he's become this fucking stereotype of a gay guy falling for his straight best friend, but he also can't stop it. Maybe it's because Steve's so unaware of what he's doing, or maybe it's because Eddie's missed having someone take care of him the way Steve does, or maybe it's just because Steve's hot and Eddie is weak. Whatever the reason, Eddie finds himself climbing into Steve's bed at night and both dreading and anticipating the warmth of his body against Eddie's back, and the inevitable ache in Eddie's chest that comes with it.
The first time he notices something is about a month and a half into their sleepover routine. Eddie hasn't been woken up by a nightmare, thank Christ, but rather the simple need to use the bathroom. But as he shifts into wakefulness, there's something against his back that's out of sync with the usual. A line of hard heat against his ass that he first thinks might be Steve's hand, but Eddie quickly realizes must be Steve's dick.
He scrambles from bed like he's been burnt, waking Steve in the process. Steve lifts his head from the pillow, his rumpled bed hair sticking out in strange directions as he blinks at Eddie in concern.
"Nightmare?" he asks, voice rough.
Eddie nods, because it's easier to explain away his panic with the familiar, rather than saying No, you're hard and I'm dying from lust.
"We made it," Steve mumbles before laying back down. "You're safe."
Eddie nods again, throat tight, and hurries to the bathroom. His hands are shaking as he takes a piss, and they're still shaking when he washes them. Staring into the mirror above the sink, he takes in the flush in his cheeks and the fear in his eyes, and because Eddie is done with running, he goes back to bed and lets Steve snuggle in close again.
There are inches of space between Steve's hips and Eddie's ass, though, and Eddie can't decide if that distance is a reprieve or a tease.
They don't talk about it, because it's not one of those things you talk about. Guys get hard when they're sleeping, or right after they wake up. It's a normal, physiological reaction, and Eddie refuses to read anything into it (to hope).
Later, when he's showering, and he's jerking off, though, he thinks about the more and more frequent press of Steve's dick against Eddie's ass, thinks about what it would feel like if Steve slid it into the crack between Eddie's cheeks, if he were to drag it across the rim of Eddie's asshole, and then he's coming all over his fist and the tiles, and shame creeps up his spine like ice water.
He does his best to keep it to himself, is the thing. The yearning and the desire. He tamps them down, pushes them deep into the pit of his stomach, and proceeds to be the best friend Steve could ask for. Eddie brings pizza and beer, shares his weed, listens when Steve needs to vent or rant or ramble. Eddie picks up the kids when Steve's too tired or when Steve's been ferrying them all across town all week long. He does the laundry and helps make the bed, he cooks dinner and cleans the house while Steve loads the dishwasher. He falls into the semblance of domesticity because if this is all he can have of Steve, if this is all they'll ever be to each other—friends or pseudo-roommates or whatever—then Eddie's all fucking in.
He doesn't think he can lose this, not over something as stupid as wanting to get dicked down by Steve goddamned Harrington.
So when Eddie wakes up to Steve's open mouth against the knob of his spine, and Steve's hips hitching against the back of Eddie's thigh, he pretends to be asleep and waits for Steve to wake up. Eddie knows the exact moment it happens, can feel the way Steve's arm across Eddie's waist tightens, the way the mattress shifts as Steve pulls away slowly, carefully, as if he doesn't want to wake Eddie, who's already awake with his eyes staring wide into the darkness.
He doesn't listen to the sound of the shower turning on, or count the minutes it takes for Steve to do whatever he's doing in the bathroom. Eddie lays in the darkness, and he waits, and when Steve finally comes back to bed (seventeen minutes later), Steve lays on the far edge of the mattress, and doesn't touch Eddie again.
Breakfast is… awkward. Steve doesn't know that Eddie knows, and Eddie doesn't want to say anything, but there's a tension between them that hasn't existed since Eddie held a broken bottle to Steve's throat. Staring into the blackness of his coffee, Eddie waits and waits for something to crack, for the pressure to finally burst whatever's building between the two of them.
"How'd you sleep?" His words make the surface of his coffee shift, and Eddie stares as the ripples fade.
Steve sits, pushes a plate across the table to Eddie. Eggs, bacon, toast.
"Fine," he says. His fork is loud against the porcelain.
"No nightmares, then?"
"No."
Eddie takes a bite, everything tasting a bit like ashes in his mouth. "I noticed," he says after swallowing, "you got up."
Silence.
Then, "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
"No, it's okay." Eddie finally looks up. There are dark shadows under Steve's eyes and in them. Eddie wishes he could put his fingers to the stains and smear them away. He wants to kiss the uncertainty from Steve's mouth, rub the tension from his shoulders.
He wants so fucking much.
"You didn't really wake me up," Eddie finally continues. He moves his fork through the food, though he doesn't take another bite. "I just noticed, is all."
"I was just… I couldn't…" Steve sighs. "Sorry."
Eddies says, "It's okay," and he means it. It is okay, whatever it was that happened last night. He's not going to hate Steve, doesn't think he has it in him to feel that way about Steve anymore. There are too many emotions wrapped around Eddie's heart for hate to find a way in, even in the sour spaces where Eddie's longing hides. Steve still looks uneasy, and Eddie reaches across the table, hand steady, and places it on Steve's wrist where it lays on the table. "I mean it, man. It's fine."
Steve's shoulders sag, and while it's not the same as Eddie pressing his thumbs into the muscles and leaching the tension away with his hands, it makes something settle in his chest. Steve gives him a tentative grin, and they go back to eating, the tension between them back to some kind of normal.
It happens again three nights later. Steve's lips are warm and wet against Eddie's neck, and his arm is tight around Eddie's waist, and Eddie can't help it, can't stop himself from whispering, "Steve," into the dark.
Steve's entire body tightens, and then he's rolling away, rolling off the bed to land on the floor with a loud grunt and a whispered curse. Eddie can't decide if he wants to laugh about Steve's ignominious exit or sob because of how fast he left.
Instead, Eddie rolls onto his side and army crawls his way across the mattress, peering over the edge to stare at Steve, who's face down in the carpet, arms over his head.
"Dude?" Eddie's starting to worry now. "You okay?"
Steve's "No," is muffled.
"Do you… do you want to talk about it?"
"God, no!" Steve rolls onto his back, bumping slightly into the base of the bed as he does so. "No, Eddie, I do not want to talk about it."
"I told you already, it's fine."
Steve glares at him from the floor, but the effect is somewhat muted by the flush in his cheeks and the way his hair is haloed around his face. He meets Eddie's gaze for a heartbeat, then looks away.
"It's not fine. I was… It's not okay."
"Hey." Eddie pitches his voice low, aims for the same softness that Steve uses when he tells Eddie they're safe, when the nightmares are too much for Eddie to process. "Steve. It's just… hormones, or whatever. You were asleep, there was a warm body in your bed, and things… things happen. It doesn't mean anything."
The frown doesn't leave Steve's face, but he meets Eddie's eyes again. There's something in Steve's expression that Eddie can't read, doesn't understand. He's never seen this look from Steve before, doesn't know how to decipher it. But Eddie's done with running, and he doesn't look away.
"You're sure?" Steve finally asks, and Eddie nods.
"I'm sure. Now, get off the floor and come back to bed, man. You're opening tomorrow, and Keith'll fire you if you fall asleep at the front counter again."
Eddie doesn't wait to see if Steve'll follow, just scoots back to his side of the bed and crawls under the covers, the comforter pulled up to his chin. A moment later, the bed shifts behind him, and the cool bedroom air slides between the sheets as Steve gets comfortable. After a moment, he shifts closer to Eddie. He doesn't throw his arm across Eddie's stomach, doesn't pull their bodies together, but Eddie can feel the warmth of Steve's body radiating against Eddie's back, and as he drifts off to sleep a few minutes later, he thinks he hears Steve asking,
"What if it does?"
They continue to not talk about it, even though it's happening more and more. Sometimes, Eddie wakes up as Steve is rolling away, a telltale heat linger on Eddie's ass or thigh. Sometimes, he wakes up before it starts, and then he lays there and guiltily drinks in the feeling of Steve's hips rolling against him until Steve wakes up and stops.
It's just… Some nights, when Steve is breathing against Eddie's skin and his hand is slid just under the hem of Eddie's nightshirt, when Eddie can feel the hairs of Steve's legs against his own, he doesn't want it to stop. He doesn't want Steve to wake up, just wants him to keep going and going until…
But Steve wakes up.
He always wakes up.
"Hey," Steve says as Eddie's packing up and heading out. Eddie pauses, cold water pouring through him at the tone of Steve's voice.
He tries to be cool about it. "What's up?"
Steve rubs at the back of his neck, eyes turned away. "My folks. They're, uh, they're gonna be back in town for a couple of weeks. And… Well, I don't think…"
"When?"
"Tomorrow." Steve winces.
"So, I need to get my shit out of here tonight, huh?"
"Sorry."
Steve at least has the decency to sound like he means it. Eddie nods, then finishes stuffing his wallet into his pocket.
"I'll come by later. Do you…" He swallows, throat tight. "Do you want me to leave the key?"
Steve's eyes widen, and then he's stepping forward, shaking his head as he takes Eddie's wrist in his hand. "No, man, no. That's yours. Just… I'll let you know when they leave again, okay? They never stay for long."
Eddie's heart aches. It aches because he won't be in Steve's bed, and it aches because Steve deserves so much better than absentee parents who don't realize how amazing their son is. He deserves to have people care for him, to take care of him, and this is… This is some fucked up bullshit, and Eddie wants to wrap Steve up in Eddie's chest and keep him there, safe behind his ribs.
"It'll be okay," Eddie says as he twists his arm so he can grab Steve's in turn. They hold each other's forearms for a moment, almost like they're holding hands, almost like they're making a promise or swearing an oath. "We'll figure it out."
Steve smiles, and when he pulls away, his fingers graze Eddie's palm.
Eddie feels that touch the rest of the day, feels it while he's packing up his clothes from the drawer and his toothbrush from the bathroom, and he feels it later, when he's laying in his own bed, sheets stale and unfamiliar, and rests his hand on his side, pretending it's Steve's instead.
The nightmares come back, because of course they do. Of course the demobats and the Upside Down and fucking Vecna creep back into Eddie's brain while Steve isn't there to keep watch, while Eddie isn't there to keep watch in return.
They still see each other. It's not like they were only hanging out while they were unconscious. But when it's Eddie and Steve and Robin and Nancy, when it's them with the kids or Joyce and Hopper, it's just… It doesn't help the same way.
Eddie's sitting at the picnic table outside of his new trailer—the old one was disappeared by the Feds, this one left in its place—and Robin and Nancy are talking about some new group from Indy that's playing a show nearby next weekend. He's barely paying attention, too focused on the press of Steve's thigh against his own as they share the bench seat.
There's plenty of room for them to sit without touching. There's no need for Steve's leg to be so fucking hot against Eddie's, for Eddie to be able to feel every shift and flex of muscle beneath Steve's too-tight jeans.
Neither of them move away.
Robin keeps giving Steve these cryptic glances, and Eddie doesn't speak whatever language they have between them, but he knows something meaningful is happening with every raised eyebrow and pursed lip.
For what it's worth, though, Eddie isn't sure Steve's picking up what Robin's putting down, either. His expression doesn't change, and he seems to be having a better time following the conversation with Nancy about the band than he is with Robin's eyebrows.
"You should come," Nancy finally says, and Eddie's just as surprised as she is when Steve says, "No."
Later, Nancy gives Robin a ride home, and Steve lingers. The sun's long since set, and there's no reason for him to still be here. Eddie's enjoying the one-on-one time, even though they're not talking, just chain smoking cigarettes at the picnic table and staring at the bugs flying around the lights. It's peaceful in the same way the breakfast table is in the mornings, when they're both doing something inconsequential, but doing it together.
Steve stubs out his cigarette before turning around on the bench, his elbows resting on the tabletop.
"How're you sleeping?" he asks, and Eddie already knows how Steve is from his voice alone.
"Not great." He takes another drag, enjoys the glow of the cherry. "It's been worse."
Steve sighs before taking another cigarette from the back and lighting it. "Same."
Smoke curls from his mouth to be swept away by the evening breeze. Eddie wonders if tobacco tastes better on Steve's mouth than from the filter.
"We'll get through it," he finally says before taking another drag. "How much longer are your folks in town?"
"A few more days, I think. They don't really tell me when they're leaving."
"That sucks."
Eddie feels Steve shrug, his shoulder rubbing against Eddie's.
"No, man, don't do that." He turns so he's straddling the bench and staring at the side of Steve's face. Steve doesn't move, just takes another drag from his smoke and stares into the woods. "Don't you dare think that this is normal or something you should have to put up with. They're your fucking parents, and if they cared even a little bit about you, they'd at least fucking tell you when they were leaving."
"Eddie," and Steve sounds so tired when he says it, sounds like he hasn't slept in months, like the weight of the world is dragging him down and down and down. "I don't know what to tell you. It's just how it's always been. It's just how they are."
"You deserve better."
Steve huffs out a laugh, smoke coming with it. "And you don't?"
"I have Wayne," Eddie says, looking over his shoulder to the trailer. His uncle isn't inside, working another overnight at the plant, but Eddie knows he'll be there in the morning, that he'll wonder where Eddie is and make sure he's okay.
"And I have you," Steve says, looking at Eddie with a soft smile that cuts him like shattered glass.
Eddie fights for words, and Steve looks away, finishes his smoke. "It's late. I'm gonna head out, but I'll see you tomorrow, yeah? Bowling night?"
"Yeah," Eddie says, still trying to process what Steve meant, what it all means. "Bowling."
Steve stands and fishes his keys from his pocket. He twirls them on his finger, catching them in a jingling mass against his palm. Smiling down at Eddie, he starts walking toward his car, not breaking eye contact until he has to.
"Sleep well, Eddie."
"You, too," Eddie croaks, and all he can think is you have me you have me you have me on a loop until he falls asleep hours later.
The phone rings in the middle of the night, and Eddie's first thought is oh no, it's back. He falls out of bed and runs to the kitchen, fumbling with the receiver as he picks it up.
"Fuck, what's wrong?" he asks, not even waiting to hear who's on the other end.
"Nothing, it's okay." Steve's voice instantly calms him, and Eddie leans against the counter like all of his bones have liquified. "I just… My folks left for the airport just now, and I wanted to know…"
"Fuck, Harrington,"—Eddie's voice is perhaps a bit too sharp, but he's still struggling to get his sleep-adled mind to catch up with Steve's words—"I thought—"
"I know, I know. I'm sorry, I should've… I dunno, used the walkie or something. I just… I haven't had a good night's sleep in three weeks, and I know you haven't been sleeping well, so I thought I'd call once they left. If you want…"
"Fuck yes, I want to sleep." Eddie takes a deep breath, lets it stutter out of his lungs on the exhale. "Christ, I thought someone was dying."
"Not this time. So, are you coming over?"
"Give me fifteen. I'll be right there."
Hawkins is strange at this time of night. The houses are all dark, and there's almost no one on the road. Eddie sees one other car on the drive to Steve's, a sedan with out of state plates that cruises by him in the opposite direction on the highway. After that, it's just Eddie and the sound of the road beneath his tires, and the blanket of darkness of everything else. It feels like a different world. Not like the Upside Down, not with that overwhelming sense of malevolence. It's just… It's different, and quiet. Something huge and unseen watching over everyone and everything, but not doing more than that. He feels the weight of it in the low clouds and the whisper of insects outside and the harsh cut of his headlights across the entrance sign to Loch Nora when he turns into Steve's neighborhood.
The BMW is parked in front of the house, the driveway empty, so Eddie pulls the van up and parks it. He's got his key on his keyring, and he finds it in the dark as he turns off the van. Steve's at the door before Eddie can put the key in the lock, though, and he looks tired and beautiful, and Eddie can't breathe for a moment.
"Hey."
"Hey." Eddie walks inside, and Steve shuts the door behind him, locking it quietly.
They don't talk as Eddie takes off his sweatshirt and slides off his jeans. They don't talk when they climb into bed together, Eddie's side feeling a little cool, like Steve hadn't relearned to spread himself across the mattress while Eddie was away. It still smells like laundry detergent and Steve's shampoo, but there's a lingering bit of Eddie there, too. It all mixes together into something familiar and comforting, and it doesn't take long before Eddie's already in a half doze, nearly asleep.
Steve moves closer.
It's enough to bring Eddie back to wakefulness, but not enough to fully wake him. Steve's arm is warm and comforting as it lays across Eddie's waist. He'd missed it, didn't realize how much, and he hums quietly as he curls himself into the embrace. Steve buries his nose in Eddie's hair, and Eddie can feel him inhale, can feel the shaky breath that Steve lets out after.
God, he's missed this. He's missed this so much.
He doesn't fight it when Steve presses against him, doesn't fight it when he presses back. Eddie feels warm and safe and loved, and the ache in his chest is an agony he'd experience every fucking day if it meant he'd end up here, curled up in Steve's bed, in Steve's arms.
The pain would be worth it for this.
They lay together for a long moment, and Eddie starts to drift again when he feels something hot and insistent against his back. He knows what it is, knows that this is the moment when their peace will shatter. But Steve doesn't pull away, and Eddie stills.
There are lips on his skin. They're chapped and rough, and it sends shivers through Eddie. His entire body is vibrating, and he can't breathe. Steve is kissing his neck and holding him close, and he's hard against Eddie's hip, and Eddie's hard against his thigh.
"Steve," he says, because he can't say nothing right now. Because he needs the taste of Steve's name on his lips if he can't have anything else.
Another kiss, soft but with purpose. "I'm sorry."
He presses his nose into Eddie's hair, pulls him tighter to his chest.
"I'm sorry."
Another kiss on his shoulder, on the edge of Eddie's collar so he can feel it both above and beneath his clothing. Steve's hips roll forward, and Eddie gasps.
"Tell me to stop."
Eddie doesn't. He lets his hips roll back, drawn like the tide by the moon. He's pulled into Steve's body like lapping waves on a shore, and slowly, slowly, they move together.
Steve sighs, and his hand slides under the hem of Eddie's shirt to spread across his stomach. It rests there, holds him in place as Steve ruts against Eddie. Eddie's dick is so hard it hurts, but he doesn't touch himself. Instead, he places his hand over Steve's, tangles their fingers together with his shirt in between.
It's slow and languid, and Eddie is going to burn up, it's the hottest thing that's ever happened to him in his life. He's gotten blow jobs, been fucked, fucked others, but Steve lazily thrusting against his ass is going to make Eddie blow his load in three seconds flat, he's so turned on.
"Please," is whispered against Eddie's neck, and he groans, sliding his thighs apart so that Steve could shift between them if he chose to. It makes Steve still, his cock hard and leaking through his boxers and against Eddie's lower back. When he doesn't start moving again, Eddie—eyes shut, because while he's not running away, he's fucking terrified—lets Steve hand go so he can reach back, can touch Steve's hip and slip his finger beneath the waistband of Steve's boxers, can pull them down until Steve's cock springs free. It's hot and wet against Eddie, and he opens his thighs again and pulls on Steve's hip, until Steve's dick slides into the space between.
"I don't understand," Steve says, though he thrusts against Eddie's leg like he does.
Eddie hushes him, just a quiet exhalation, before he brings his legs back together, around Steve's dick, and squeezes.
"Oh, fuck."
Steve thrusts, and it's probably too dry, too much friction, but he doesn't stop. He pulls his cock lazily through the tight clasp of Eddie's thighs, then pushes back in. There's the quiet sound of skin on skin, and slowly, the space between Eddie's legs grows damp with Steve's precome and their combined sweat.
His boxers are rucking up uncomfortably, and Eddie must make a noise because Steve kisses his shoulder and his neck, kisses beneath Eddie's ear, and then takes his hand and places it on Eddie's hip, on the waistband of his boxers, and murmurs a quiet, almost comically polite, "May I?" before he slides them down, down down Eddie's legs.
Then there's just skin on skin, and Steve's cock pressing against Eddie's ass and balls, against the base of his dick. Of course Steve Harrington would be hung, but Eddie feels like celebrating the fact rather than bemoaning it, because he has Steve's cock against his ass, between his thighs. He has Steve presses more and more feverish kisses against Eddie's skin, and his hands are tight enough to bruise on Eddie's hips.
"Steve, I need—"
Eddie feels him nod. "Whatever you need, baby. Tell me."
Hand shaking, Eddie takes Steve's hand from his hip and slowly pulls it around to his cock. He does it carefully. He gives Steve time to change his mind, to stop. It wouldn't be the first time Eddie's been someone's experiment, a body for someone else to enjoy, and even though it'll kill him, he'll let Steve do it because he loves Steve, he loves him so much it hurts, and he'd die for Steve.
But Steve doesn't pull away. He doesn't slow down, doesn't grab Eddie with anything other than surety. His grip is firm and steady as it strokes Eddie from root to tip and back again, moving in time with Steve's hips.
"Like that?" he asks, and he doesn't need an answer because Eddie whines, high and tight in his throat, and Steve laughs. He laughs as he jerks Eddie off, as he fucks his thighs, as he bites into the meat of Eddie's shoulder.
Then it's silence, except for the sound of skin on skin and panting breaths. The tempo grows faster, and Eddie's heart races and soars. He's going to come embarrassingly fast, and he wonders if Steve will use it to ease his way between Eddie's thighs, if he'll lick it from his fingers or from Eddie's skin.
"I'm gonna—"
And it hits him like a freight train. Orgasm rips through him like he's dying, like he's bleeding out, like everything in the world is gray and indistinct around the edges, and laser focused on where Steve's body is touching his. He can hear someone crying out, and Eddie isn't sure if it's him or Steve or both. All he knows is that the thrusts between his legs are uneven and off-tempo, and Steve is saying something into Eddie's neck, too muffled by skin and shirt to be understood.
There's heat and wetness between his legs, and Eddie shivers and shivers and tries not to fall apart.
After, they lay in the silence, both of them panting. Eddie's a sticky mess, but he doesn't want to get up. He doesn't know what happens now, what happens after. This can't be explained away as some middle-of-the-night confusion. They'd both been awake, and he'd said Steve's name, and Steve had called him baby.
Steve kisses Eddie's shoulder again, though it feels drowsy and loose this time, not the focused heat it had been earlier.
"I'm going to get a washcloth," he murmurs before nosing at Eddie's collar. "Don't move."
Eddie nearly laughs, though he knows it'll be tinged with panic if he does. He's never moving again, not if he can avoid it. Moving means acknowledging this thing between them, the come drying between his legs and on Steve's fingers.
Water runs in the en suite, and a moment later, Steve is pressing his hand against Eddie's shoulder, forcing him to roll onto his back. There's a warm washcloth wiping the mess from Eddie's skin. Steve doesn't make eye contact, too focused on cleaning Eddie up. His dick gives a twitch at the thought, and he's never been turned on by being cared for until this moment, but Steve's single-minded focus on getting every bit of semen off of Eddie's skin is doing something for him now.
And then Steve leans down and kisses the crease of Eddie's hip. Then his stomach, and his chest—still covered by his shirt, but his heart is bare and open anyway—and then his collar bone, and his neck, and his chin, and the corner of his mouth.
"Tell me to stop," Steve says, and Eddie tastes the words as he twists his head to the side to capture Steve's mouth with his own.
If this is a dream, Eddie doesn't ever want to wake up.
He tangles his fingers in Steve's hair, and Eddie doesn't let Steve go except to sip quick breaths before bringing their lips together again. They kiss and kiss, and the washcloth is cold before Eddie finally lets Steve pull away.
He doesn't go far, just throws the washcloth into a nearby hamper before brushing the hair from Eddie's sweaty face and letting his thumb trail over Eddie's check tenderly.
"I'm gonna need you to say something," he says, smiling but with something like fear trembling in his voice.
"What do you want me to say?"
"Literally anything, Eds."
It startles a laugh from him, and then he can't stop. He's giggling and maybe he's crying, but Steve is smiling at him, and his lips are red and swollen from kissing. It doesn't seem to bother Steve when he leans back in and kisses the laughter from Eddie's mouth.
"Do you know how much I missed you?" Steve says, kissing first the corner of Eddie's mouth, then the corners of his eyes where the tears are drying. "How much I wished you were here?"
Eddie drags his hands through Steve's hair, pulling it back so he can see Steve's face. "I'm starting to get an idea."
"If you don't…" and the fear is back. Eddie brushes his fingers over Steve's cheeks, tries to soothe it away. "If you don't want this…"
"What about any of this would make you think I don't want it?" Eddie leans up and kisses Steve again, gentle and open. "I want anything you'll give me."
"Everything." He says it with weight, with certainty. "I'll give you everything."
Eddie wakes up to an empty bed, but he can smell bacon and hear the coffee pot sputtering. It's nearly ten, and Eddie feels warm and loose when he rolls out of bed. His boxers are still on the floor, and there's a bit of come on his shirt, so he takes that off and puts them on, then wanders out of the bedroom and to the kitchen, scratching idly at his stomach.
Steve's dressed and wearing an apron for some reason, and Eddie wants to fuck him on the counter right then, breakfast be damned.
Turning at the noise, Steve smiles at him. "Hey, gorgeous. Breakfast's nearly done."
Eddie kisses him, and the bacon burns a little, but Steve doesn't stop him, just laughs and groans into his mouth while Eddie fiddles with the apron strings.
"So," Steve asks after they've pulled themselves away and eaten, "I think it's safe to say that it meant something."
Eddie laughs, his heart aching but for good reasons this time. "Yeah, I gathered."
"Do you, uh…" He's blushing, and Eddie wants to follow that flush with his mouth. "Does it mean something for you, too?"
"Yes." He's so happy, he can't breathe. "It means a fucking lot."
Steve grins, and it's beautiful. "Good."
"I hope you know," Eddie says as he stands and makes his way around the table before placing his hands on Steve's thighs, "that I am never sleeping anywhere else again."