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Steve’s helping Eddie pack up his room at the trailer. The feds have given him and Wayne a deadline to get their stuff together, salvage what hasn’t been destroyed by the earthquake, before the place is impounded for their sinister experiments, and it's rapidly approaching.
Eddie had got off lightly, really, his room mostly unaffected, although how you can tell Steve had said judgmentally when he’d arrived that morning. Eddie sort of hadn’t believed he had meant it when he’d offered to help a few days back. They’ve been hanging out a lot but accepting favors from Steve Harrington still felt weird. Having Steve Harrington in his bedroom felt even weirder but Steve had turned up with a roll of garbage bags and a determined expression so here they are.
Wayne’s been living at a motel since everything went down, which they definitely can’t afford long term, but once Eddie got out of the hospital, and after some significant threats from Chief Hopper and affable bargaining from Dr Owens, the suits had been convinced into providing Eddie with somewhere new to live, as thanks for his helping save the world. It’s only a two bed, above the laundromat downtown, but it’s something. Wayne got his things packed up weeks ago. Now, Eddie just has to pack up twenty years worth of stuff and he’s starting to realize he’s really never thrown anything away.
Steve’s by the chest of drawers folding up t-shirts and Eddie is getting distracted by all the shit he keeps finding under the bed. He’s got a box of old notebooks on his lap, flicking through pages of shitty lyrics, character notes from when he first started playing D&D. He keeps reading choice bits out to Steve over his shoulder and Steve occasionally hums in acknowledgement, throwing in a sarcastic comment here and there about Eddie having been a nerd basically forever then.
Eddie’s got to the bottom of the box, trying to decipher his chicken scratch 5th grade handwriting, when he realizes Steve’s been quiet for a while. He turns to tease him for slacking off but Steve really has stopped packing, surrounded by neatly folded piles of black t-shirts, the bottom drawer of Eddie’s dresser still open and flicking through a magazine. No, that’s not quite it. He’s absorbed by a magazine.
Fuck.
Eddie barely even remembers buying it – in fact he didn’t buy it – just shoved it under his jacket and hightailed out of the shop he’d driven all the way to Indianapolis to visit at sixteen. Eddie’s not sure there’s even any fucking in that one just tasteful nudity. He had carefully packed away his newer magazines before Steve came over but he’d forgotten this one, perhaps a little conventional for his tastes now, but even from here he can see, muscled, oiled and in various states of undress: men. With other men.
Steve is sat on his haunches, mouth slightly open and color high on his cheeks. The sunlight coming in from the window is diffuse, threading gold through his hair and glinting on the dust motes in the air as he looks with interest, a small furrow between his brows like he’s puzzling something out.
He looks good.
‘I didn’t take you for a connoisseur, Harrington,’ says Eddie because he doesn’t fucking think.
Steve startles and drops the magazine into his lap but not before Eddie catches a glimpse.
Is Steve Harrington hard in his jeans from looking at Eddie’s fag rag?
The moment hangs suspended between them, Steve caught deer in the headlights and Eddie half turned towards him as he tries to work out how to defuse the situation. He doesn’t think Steve would hurt him, but he’s known a few not-quite-straight boys who would sooner throw a punch than admit to an interest in men. Especially caught out like this, plausible deniability out the window but no witnesses and only Eddie’s word either way. There’s no point in him denying anything either. The magazine is clearly his, hidden in the back of a drawer, the pages well thumbed.
‘Sorry, I –,’ Steve runs a hand through his hair, the other gripping the magazine so tight his knuckles have gone white.
‘Hey, man, don’t worry. I’m not gonna judge, right,’ Eddie waves his hand vaguely, encompassing the room, the magazine, his whole deal.
‘Right,’ Steve agrees but it’s just an echo, like he’s not entirely present.
Eddie puts the box down and stands, slowly, so he doesn’t spook Steve. He means to leave, go out into the living room and start shifting the boxes they’ve already packed into the back of his van, give Steve some space or some privacy to calm down or deal with it or whatever. Instead his legs carry him across the three feet of space between them to drop to his knees by Steve’s side without him ever consciously making the decision to do so.
‘It’s ok,’ he says, hushed.
‘Is it?’ Steve sounds a little strangled.
‘Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine, to be whatever,’ Eddie’s hoping the reassurance is clear in his tone even if the words themselves are lackluster. He can feel the warmth of Steve’s body this close, smell the sweet, chemical scent of his hair. There’s a delicate tension caught between them and Eddie’s not sure who’s more anxious here, him or Steve.
‘Thanks, super clear, coming to you with all my sexuality crises from now on,’ says Steve, rolling his eyes and something of his old self back in his voice.
‘I live to serve, et cetera,’ Eddie gives an odd, jolting bow and it makes Steve laugh, his eyes crinkling at the edges before his gaze drops to Eddie’s mouth, the silence settling around them again.
And yeah, Eddie escalated by coming over here instead of leaving the room or ignoring Steve until his little problem went away but it feels like a challenge even if Steve isn’t consciously aware of making it. He’s relaxed a bit now, lessening his grip on the magazine but the way he’s sitting and the tightness of his jeans, pulled taut over his lap, Eddie can see he’s still hard. Steve’s jeans don’t leave much to the imagination generally, not that Eddie’s habitually looking but. They are very tight.
Fuck it.
‘I could – give you a hand,’ he makes an obscene gesture, jerking his wrist in Steve’s direction.
‘What?’
‘Y’know help you work out if it’s more than just conceptual. Aesthetic appreciation, or whatever,’ he shrugs, watching Steve look from the magazine to Eddie and back again.
‘Yeah?’ Steve swallows, the sound of his lips unsticking is so loud in the hush of the room, ‘yeah, ok.’
Right. Shit. Eddie isn’t sure he expected that answer or if he did he hadn’t really planned what to do about it once he got it. He’s done this before, traded handjobs with guys who wouldn’t look him in the eyes at school the next day, gone to shitty bars in Indy and got on his knees in the men’s room for strangers but this is different. Steve is nice and not anonymous. Steve is maybe only just realizing this about himself and Eddie wants it to be good for him.
He gently tugs the magazine out of Steve’s hands, not sure whether to leave it in Steve’s eyeline or shove it away entirely. There are so many ways for Steve to compartmentalize this; a friend helping out a friend, a hand is just a hand when you’re in a fix but if Steve gets off to Eddie touching his dick, Eddie close and real and alive. That has to mean something. Doesn’t it? For both of them.
‘If you want to stop, just say stop,’ Eddie says as he reaches out and Steve leans in, swaying on the spot.
For one delirious moment Eddie thinks he might be about to be kissed but Steve just presses his forehead to Eddie’s shoulder, half turned against him, their knees at right angles to each other. The sound of Steve’s zipper is so loud in the quiet of the room but Eddie still hears the soft exhalation of air against his chest when Steve sighs with relief. He’s properly hard now, thick and hot against Eddie’s hand, the cotton of his briefs damp where he’s already leaking. Eddie rubs his thumb against it, fabric over the head of Steve's dick, a shocked, cut off moan escaping him as Eddie moves his hand again, surer this time.
As small as Eddie’s bedroom is, it feels like it’s been reduced to the space between their bodies. Eddie feels constrained, pressed to the edges of his skin, desperate to get his hands on all of Steve, to not keep their connection merely to the touch of his hand. It’s all a bit furtive, a bit shameful and that’s not what Eddie’s about. He doesn’t broadcast it too loudly, especially not in Hawkins, but he’s not ashamed he’s gay, doesn’t want Steve to be ashamed of this either.
‘Steve, Steve, can I get it out?’
‘Yeah,’ Steve says, already breathless, his hands dropping to Eddie's belt and that’s not what Eddie was expecting, that’s not what he had meant but Steve’s hand is already in his boxers, on his dick, half hard and chasing the sensation.
‘I don’t, I don’t know…’ Steve pants and trails off but he doesn’t stop moving his hand, jerky, awkward pulls that are doing it for Eddie no matter how unpracticed Steve is at this.
‘It’s ok, it’s ok,’ Eddie gets a hand on the back of Steve’s neck, grip firm and grounding, ‘let me…’
Steve lets him go as he shifts and shuffles forward, rising up on his knees proper, follows him as Eddie slots them together, his thigh between Steve’s legs and Steve balanced over him. Like this Eddie can grind against Steve’s thigh, while he moves his hand on Steve’s dick, out of his jeans now, dripping, so hard it looks like it must hurt.
It’s kind of difficult to look at all of Steve at once, honestly, an impossible wet dream in jeans and preppy white polo in the anarchic chaos of Eddie’s bedroom. His eyes keep catching on details. The trail of hair he can see where Steve's shirt has ridden up. His own rings, bulky, glinting silver as they catch against Steve's waistband, his belt, the delicate skin of his hip, his hand looking enormous on Steve's trim waist. Steve’s flushed cheeks, glazed eyes, bottom lip caught between his teeth; he should be in magazines, a glossy centrefold with a wet mouth and a great dick. Even his scars look good. Maybe Eddie really is a bit of a freak for thinking that but they do. Pink and shiny against his tanned skin, proof that just like Eddie he survived. Perfection is overrated anyway and Steve might as well be perfect in every other way; enthusiastic, hungry for it, in body if not in voice. He’s not exactly been quiet, tiny puffs of air and grunts of effort escaping him as Eddie works him over, but he’s not fully letting himself go either. Eddie struggles to keep his mouth shut most of the time and he likes to talk during. He likes the feedback of hearing how good he’s making someone feel, if he can do better.
He takes the risk, face tucked close to Steve’s now, whispering in his ear, ‘Stevie, let me hear you.’
Steve tips his head back, exposing the column of his neck, the moles there, his Adam's apple as he swallows. Eddie wants to kiss him, put his mouth to the pulse fluttering in Steve’s throat, leave a mark. That seems too intimate, more than what he’d offered, so he settles for licking at the tendon standing out from the open collar of Steve’s shirt. It makes Steve gasp, low and desperate, bucking his hips up into Eddie’s fist.
‘That’s it, sweetheart,’ the endearment trips out, breathy, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice, and Eddie reckons that little slip is better than voicing every other thought in his head.
‘Eddie, Eds,’ Steve says, rough, and gets his hands back on Eddie’s jeans, yanking them down and open, ‘tell me, tell me.’
‘You can touch me, it’s ok,’ says Eddie, doesn’t say please touch me or I think I might die.
Steve spits in his hand, a kind of raw, unvarnished desire to get his hands on Eddie that Eddie doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of. Because Steve is hot, obviously, but he’s also sweet and short tempered, selfless and sarcastic in a way Eddie thinks he could be unwinding forever. He wants to find out every single way to make Steve feel good and give it to him. He wants Steve to let him.
Eddie keeps the pace of his hand on Steve’s dick sure and steady, a twist of the wrist at the head, pressing his thumb against the slit, showing Steve what he likes. Steve’s a quick learner and apparently keen to please, because he picks it up fast. His rhythm is a little off but it doesn’t matter, stripping Eddie’s dick with determination and damnit if Eddie’s isn’t going to come first like this, one hand on Steve’s dick and the other gripping hard at the fabric of Steve’s shirt, gasping into his neck.
‘Shit, shit, Steve, I’m gonna come. Steve.’
‘Yeah ,’ Steve agrees, ‘go on, I wanna see it.’
That’s it, the eager confirmation that Steve’s in this, wants it just as much as Eddie is what makes Eddie’s hips stutter against Steve’s hand, fucking up into the tight, slick grip, suddenly slicker as he comes hard, dripping over Steve’s knuckles, eyes closed and pressing an almost kiss to Steve’s throat.
‘Fuck,’ he chokes the word out on an exhale, the pleasure ebbing and receding, zinging in little aftershocks through his whole body.
There’s a chuckle caught in Steve’s mouth, disbelief and something deeper, more wondering, desperate, ‘shit, Eds. Please.’
Eddie’s still holding Steve’s dick, hot and hard in his hand and Steve rocking against him, trying to get the friction he needs. Eddie gathers himself, starts to move again, watching the flex of his arm as he jerks Steve off, the tendons in his wrist bunching and releasing, Steve’s dick in the circle of his fingers, wet and perfect and –.
‘Eddie,’ Steve says, pleading, and Eddie looks up from his hand to Steve’s face. The whole time Steve hasn’t glanced at the magazine once, casually open beside them. He’s just looking at Eddie, only at Eddie, with a kind of surprised reverence and he holds Eddie’s gaze as he comes, sudden and gasping.
They both look wrecked, sinking down onto Eddie’s messy carpet, shoulder to shoulder on the small strip of floor between the bed and the dresser. Eddie wipes the worst of what's on his hand on the floor, fuck the Feds if it messes with their data. Steve makes a noise close to disgust in the back of his throat but he follows Eddie's lead and wipes his hand on the carpet too. At least Eddie'd had enough sense to get their come mostly on his shirt rather than Steve’s because at least he can change. The thought of Steve having to go into town later in a Black Sabbath or Motörhead t-shirt is a compelling one though.
‘Ok, so definitely not straight then,’ Steve says, slightly out of breath and as if he’s mostly talking to himself.
Eddie isn’t all that successful at keeping the disbelief out of his voice, he’s judgemental as hell, ok, needs a bit more than mid-afternoon handies to believe King Steve is entirely ready for what this means, ‘yeah, you reckon?’
He can hear Steve shift, shuffle onto his side, feel the intensity of his gaze, but he keeps his eyes on the ceiling as Steve says, ‘is getting off with another dude and enjoying it not enough evidence?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Eddie shrugs, still not looking over, wary of what he might see on Steve’s face, ‘it’s not that easy. A lot of guys don’t want to deal with it. And if you like girls as well you can just lock it away and forget about it. I wouldn’t blame you.’
‘Do you like girls too?’
‘No, I am but a humble homosexual,’ Eddie does another bow, awkward given he’s lying on the floor with his dick still a bit out, ‘I have no choice and I wouldn’t change it for all the gold under the Lonely Mountain. It’s who I am.’
‘That’s good,’ says Steve, ‘I like who you are.’
They haven’t even really kissed yet and it’s one thing to say that shit in the afterglow and another to mean it the next morning or whatever. The point of a dirty magazine is to get turned on and even if it’s not your particular flavor of pornography it’s still sex – wires can get crossed. Steve can be disarming sometimes, saying nice things out of nowhere, nonchalant as anything. Eddie needs to know how far this goes for him. He risks a glance but Steve’s just watching him, guileless, smiling. It’s a bit much.
‘Wait, what’s the Lonely Mountain?’
‘It’s from Lord of the Rings. Well, The Hobbit,' Eddie resists the urge to give Steve a lecture on the finer points of Tolkien, 'it doesn’t matter. You honestly never thought about this before? With anyone?’
Steve shakes his head, ‘not really. I mean, you see guys in the locker room but you’re so focused on not looking, y’know.’
Eddie does know. Steve caught looking could probably have been brushed off as a misunderstanding. Eddie wouldn’t have liked to place bets on making it out of high school alive if he’d been caught sneaking a glance in the showers. He almost hadn’t made it through high school alive, for interdimensional monster reasons, but Steve had saved him and now Steve is looking at him in that half-lidded, slow blink way of his. How had Eddie not noticed Steve looks at him like that a lot.
‘Hey, I’m thinking about it now,’ Steve says, easy, getting to his feet, bouncy and eager, tucking himself away so unselfconsciously Eddie’s mouth goes dry just watching the casual sexuality of it. He’s never been one for that blue jeans, clean cut Americana version of masculinity but Steve might have him rethinking some things. Quite a lot of things.
Steve holds out a hand and Eddie takes it, lets himself be heaved up to standing.
‘Come on. We need to finish getting this shit packed up,’ Steve pauses, deliberation clear on his face, before he continues, ‘when we’ve got over to your new place we could get a pizza? Watch a movie?’
They’ve done that before, just the two of them, when Robin and Nancy are busy, but Steve doesn’t usually put so much emphasis on asking.
‘You asking me out on a date, Stevie?’
Steve scoffs, ducks his head, blush across his cheeks, but he still meets Eddie’s eyes, ‘I don’t think it really counts as a date if we just stay in.’
Eddie leans forward, getting into Steve’s space then pulling away, grinning, ‘no way. Steve Harrington's gonna try to touch my boobs while we watch The Breakfast Club? I’d say that’s a date.’
Steve laughs and steps forward, boxes Eddie in against the dresser, pulls at his t-shirt, even though it’s gross, to look shamelessly down the front of it, ‘you don’t have boobs, man.’
‘No? Shame. I’ll have to touch yours.’
It feels like the boldest thing he’s done all afternoon, reaching out to put his hands on Steve’s chest, not even trying to start anything, just resting there, close. Steve is still a bit pink, his lashes fanned against his cheeks, the collar of his polo is pulled out of shape from Eddie's grasping hands, he’s smiling and rolling his eyes and he meets Eddie in a soft, sweet kiss.
It’s probably the first proper kiss Eddie’s ever had.