Chapter Text
Summer 1991
Being a stripper is actually a fairly mundane job, in Steve's opinion.
Most people wouldn't think so, he knows - the women who rent him out for their hen parties or girl's nights certainly don't. He's not blind, sees the mixture of revulsion and fascination with which they look at him. To them, he's doing something exotic, something dangerous and forbidden. Admittedly, when he started this job, he thought so too, but it's been a few years, and these days the performativity of it all feels startlingly like retail, except in retail people don't usually tip him extra for permission to lick his abs.
Really, when it comes down to it, he's been doing some variation of this his whole life, except he didn't used to get paid. Steve likes to call himself a charmer, a born performer with the stage presence of a rock star - Robin, who is less charitable and also a little shit, says he's a people pleaser, which he will usually smack her upside the head for but won't deny, because she's right, technically. It's what he does best: he pleases people. He watches them, figures out what they want from him, and then he gives it to them wrapped in a pretty little bow. If he gets a little something in return, jackpot. In this case, it might not be all too exciting anymore, but it pays well, and by extension it keeps up his lease and puts food on the table.
…Well, it's a little bit exciting today. Steve gets to wear his favorite costume, gets to ditch the stupid little sailor number that's been so popular recently for a black cassock. It's nothing like the real thing, of course, nobody knows better than him - this one's made of cheap polyester instead of soft cotton, held together by velcro instead of small, delicate buttons. It's meant to be discarded, to be regarded as a flimsy, cheap cover for all the sin boiling underneath. On a less metaphorical level, it's supposed to be nothing more than a tacky joke, someone's lame kink.
Of course Steve fucking loves it.
He has a whole shtick too. Has one for every costume, of course; flirty one-liners and "spontaneous" catchphrases all lined up in his head, hidden behind his crowning opener. For his priest getup, he usually starts with, "I've heard someone here hasn't been to confession as of late. Shall we correct that, ladies?"
He carries the words on his tongue as he drives up to the location. Most people will order him to a public place like a bar or club, or one of the party venues his employer runs for precisely this purpose, but some, like tonight's hen party, prefer him performing at a private home of one of their members. It costs extra, and for good reason; performing in an unknown, closed environment requires him to improvise, and his performance is scrutinized a lot more carefully without the distraction of a big venue, so he needs to be on top of his game. Steve prefers the easy jobs, but it's not the end of the world, often not even enough to shake him from his routine.
It is this time, though. Because when Steve walks in through the open apartment door spilling drum-lined guitar riffs, he's faced with a room full of men.
Steve's autopilot of a brain gets his mouth through half of his opening phrase, then sputters out, because there's no way he can call these guys "ladies" - they're decked out in ripped denim and leather, bejewelled with heavy chains and piercings that look suspiciously DIY. Punks, or maybe Metalheads? Unlike Robin, he doesn't know the difference, just knows he's suddenly out of his element, maybe even in active danger. "Sorry, fellas," he says, dropping his confident swagger immediately so as to not start a fight. "I'm looking for the wedding party of one Miss Eddie Munson?"
One of the guys gets up - long, shaggy hair, scrawny frame, mid-twenties by Steve's estimate, so roughly his own age. "Mister," he corrects, "Eddie Munson," glancing between his friends and Steve with a wide, incredulous smile, "but wedding party is right. Holy shit, you guys hired me a stripper?"
Oh . So it was intentional, then. Steve struggles to adjust his expectations, but it must show on his face, because the guy steps closer with a leer, musing, "well, unless Mister Priest here has a policy of not serving faggots."
Steve wants to say , I have nothing against gay people, my girlfriend is a lesbian, actually, but doesn't think it'd go over well in this situation. So instead he says, "It's 'King Steve', actually. Although today you should probably call me Father Steve. And uh - God wishes for all his children to come in His kingdom, so I'd be happy to give you a helping hand on your journey," because at the end of the day, a job is a job, and Steve is a professional.
The guy's grin widens when he catches onto the entendre, then his eyes soften at the reassurance behind it. He's expressive with just his face, doesn't need to jeer and whistle like his friends do, loud as the tension dissipates. "'S that so," he says, " Father Steve . Gonna read some bible verses with us?"
Steve takes it as an invitation to step closer. "Well, I certainly ought to expand your religious education," he smirks. "For example, consider Oscar Wilde, the famous poet, and what he thinks of proper conduct -"
He places his hands on the (surprisingly broad) shoulders of the other man, leaning close to look into his eyes. "Love," he quotes, and pushes Munson down to land heavily on his knees in front of Steve, "Is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling."
Steve ignores the laughter and the wolf whistles from Munson's friends, focusing on the groom himself - he looks stunned, has to tear away his eyes from Steve's crotch (now conveniently at face height) to look up at him with thinly veiled desire, and ah . That's what Steve knows, what he's used to.
King Steve is back in the game.
The rest of the show goes by without a hitch, business as usual. Steve dances suggestively around Munson's friends but always returns to him; takes off his clothes until he's left in nothing but the skimpiest boxers and a delicate golden cross around his neck, one that nobody but him knows is not just a cheap prop like the rest. He shoves Munson back on one of the sofas, starts giving him a lapdance - the metal music is nothing like the vapid pop songs he's used to dancing to, but in some ways it's even better, because this kind of music apparently leans heavily on loud drums and a strong baseline, and if there's a beat, there's something to move his hips to.
Steve's seen a broad spectrum of reactions to his lap dances, from women who go bright red and stay frozen in shock the entire time, to ones who are alarmingly grabby for women just about to get married. Munson lands at a comfortable middle - he isn't shy, doesn't try to hide his attraction to Steve and the things he's doing, but always makes sure to catch Steve's eye before putting his hands on him, as if asking permission. Even when Steve gives it with an amused nod, Munson never uses his hands to push him around or keep him in place, just brushes them along his body with a gentle, even pressure.
He touches Steve like a lover would, and Steve is not too proud or oblivious to admit that it has him… well . A little flustered.
See, it's not exactly unusual for Steve to pop a semi during a performance - he's being sexual, getting naked, not to mention being watched during, so even if the woman he's dancing on isn't attractive to him personally the situation itself can be a turn-on. He's never danced for a guy, though, has never been on someone's lap and felt the hard ridge of an erection press up against his ass, felt himself chub up because of it. Should he be less into this? More into this? Does it matter, when it's just work?
(Steve knows his grasp on his heterosexuality has been slipping for a while - one isn't best friends with a lesbian for so long without having a few curious thoughts of one's own, but he's never let them become concrete, deeming his life to be too much of a mess already. Of course, with his luck, that was never going to last long.)
Steve decides to do what he does best: not think about it too hard, go with the flow. If Munson notices, nothing lost, if he doesn't, even better. Steve is just going to finish the dance, and see where the night takes him.
…Apparently, it takes him to a raucous round of applause, some slaps on the back (and at least one cheeky grab at his ass), and a personal invitation from Munson himself to stick around for a bit. He accepts, because his next job is only in a few hours, and because Munson looks so innocently hopeful, like he genuinely wants to hang out and not just ogle Steve, which is honestly kind of new.
"You want something to drink?", Munson asks, gesturing towards a host of bottles and cups set up on a rickety-looking folding table.
Steve shakes his head. "I don't drink on the clock," he says, because then he doesn't have to get into that he doesn't really drink at all, these days, because wine reminds him of mass on Sundays, and beer of football practice on the Saturdays before, of hanging out with other hurt and lonely teenage boys pretending to be tough and grown up. Hard liquor reminds him of his first years in the city, of getting blackout drunk while trying to drown out how much it hurt to turn his back on all he'd ever known. The only alcoholic drink he really likes anymore are those fruity little cocktails expensive bars will sell at happy hour, but ordering himself something like that is a turn-off for the women he goes out with, so he usually contents himself with kissing the taste of it off their lips.
Munson doesn't push, or try to wheedle him into drinking, as many clients have done before. He actually seems almost excited, proclaims, "I could make you the Munson special, then - it's kind of like a Virgin Cosmopolitan, but you add cayenne pepper and a dash of salt, my fiancé says it fucking rules."
Steve finds his lips quirking up. "Sure," he says, because why the hell not, uses the time Munson spends flailing his arms wildly around the table like some kind of deranged bartender to locate his pants and pull them back on, because he's a little bit cold, and if he's not performing it's a bit awkward to have half his ass hanging out.
The drink actually tastes incredible, and Munson lights up when Steve tells him so. "Your fiancé has good taste," he adds, only realizing he played himself when Munson shoots him an amused smile, and Steve clears his throat, almost bashful, which is very unlike him. "So, I've never been part of a gay wedding," he says, partially to get over the awkwardness, partially because he'd been wondering this since he first plopped himself on Munson's lap - "How do stag nights work for you? Does each of you host a separate thing? Cause if he were here, I think I would've seen him already."
Munson blinks, angelically confused. "Who?"
"Your husband-to-be?", Steve clarifies, and Munson inexplicably chokes on a laugh. " Oh , Steve - wait, your name is Steve, right? Or is that just a show name?"
"No, that's me," Steve says, feeling oddly naked.
"Alright, Steve. To clarify - I'm not doing one of those symbolic marriages the activists are doing, more like literally the exact opposite, letting the system fuck me. I'm getting married to a woman, the way God and nature intended or whatever."
Steve feels his face slip, but before he can figure out what to say to that Munson's eyes widen, and he hastens to clarify, "No, fuck, dude, it's not like - she knows , don't worry, knows all about me. She's my Beard."
Steve blinks, and Munson adds, "Oh, you don't know - right. So, a Beard is -"
"I know what a Beard is," Steve interrupts bemusedly. " I'm a Beard, for my girlfriend. Well, best friend. And roommate, I suppose."
Munson stares at him for a full five seconds. "Well, forget my story," he says, looking just about as delighted and awed as a kid on Christmas eve. "How the fuck does a heterosexual stripper end up bearding for a lesbian?"
Once again, he cuts Steve off before he can try to answer. "Wait, let's go out on the balcony for this, it's too loud in here. Gimme a second to grab my smokes - and Gareth ," he shouts into the room, catching the attention of a round-faced man in a flannel shirt, "get this guy a jacket, will you? For his modesty."
"You got it, boss," Gareth calls back drily, and Steve snorts at the absurdity of it all. "Don't disappear, gorgeous," Eddie says with a wink, and ducks into another room.
≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪
Munson's jacket is surprisingly warm, a bruised leather thing that Munson lined himself with one of his uncle's old flannels, apparently. It's riddled with patches, the biggest of which practically counts as a banner; "Corroded Coffin" over the stretch of his shoulders, the name of Munson's band. Steve lets him talk, likes the easy way Munson jumps from topic to topic. It reminds him of Robin, kind of - always dominating the conversation, but never out of narcissism; just because of a brain stuffed to the brim with thoughts and an enthusiasm to share them with the world.
"Sorry, here I am, rambling on," Munson says, "you were gonna tell me about your - what do you wanna call her? Your girlfriend? Best friend?"
"I don't even know," Steve laughs, leaning back into the wobbly deck chair he’s sat on. "We're not like, romantic, definitely not sexual. But I've called her my girlfriend so often at this point that anything else feels incorrect? She's just like, my soulmate. I want her to wife a pretty girl and I want to live in their basement 'till I die. Is that crazy?"
Munson's eyes aren't just sympathetic, they're understanding. "No, I get it, I get it. How'd you two meet?"
Steve steals the cigarette from behind Eddie's ear, takes a long drag before he answers. He doesn't really talk about this often; has few friends he can be this honest with. "The first job I ever got, right after I moved to the city. You know about Starcourt Mall?"
Munson steals the cigarette back absentmindedly, leaning on the arm of his own deck chair to reach. "The place that burned down like, not even a year after it was built? Uh huh."
Steve snorts. "Yeah, well. Place was definitely a rush job, but I guess the higher-ups wanted to cut corners, and none of us part-timers were paid enough to give a shit. Me and Robin were slinging ice-cream at the same booth that whole summer, instantly hit it off. In fact we got on so well I developed a crush on her, so when the place went up and we got trapped in the mall debris and had to wait for the emergency responders to dig us out -"
"I'm sorry, what ," Munson says, but Steve presses on, " - I was crazy enough with adrenaline and panic to just ask her out, and she was crazy enough with adrenaline and panic to shoot me down by coming out to me, and I think it's the best thing that ever happened to the both of us."
Munson smiles at him a little quizzically, like he thinks Steve is crazy but he's delighted about it. "And that wasn't awkward afterwards?"
Steve shakes his head bemusedly. "You'd think it would be, right? Like, you'd think it'd be hell, but it just made us closer; we moved in together within the week. Although in hindsight, I'm not even sure if I really had a crush on her, of if I was just lonely and desperate after -"
Steve's brain catches up with his tongue, and he clamps his mouth shut before he can kill the mood. He gets along freakishly well with Munson, but they're still strangers at a party, client and worker. He needs to get his act together, Munson definitely doesn't want to throw him a pity party.
"After what?" Munson asks, shooting him a searching look. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable, but like, don't hold back to make me feel better. We all have skeletons in our closets."
Not these kinds of skeletons, Steve wants to snap, but restrains himself; it’s not like Munson knows any better. He’s still petty enough to answer truthfully, though, kind of wants to see Munson’s reaction, in a twisted way.
"After my parents kicked me out."
Munson looks startled, but not as much as Steve thought he would. "Oh shit," he says mildly, "I forgot that happens to straight people too," and immediately Steve feels like an ass. "Oh, jeez, I'm sorry, did you -"
"No, don't worry, I don't mean me," Munson reassures him, squeezing his shoulder warmly, "don't think my parents even know I'm gay. Mom left when I was seven, and last I heard of my dad he was still in prison, so I got lucky, I guess. Was raised by my Uncle Wayne, and he doesn't give two shits who I screw around with as long as I stay safe."
Steve wants to note that this doesn't exactly sound like a healthy happy family either, but Munson blithely continues, "You've met Gareth, though, right? Parents kicked him to the curb immediately once they realized he was queer. And my fiancé, Chrissy; her parents sent her to conversion camp just after she graduated highschool, fucked her up real good. She tried so hard for them, even got herself some stupid jock boyfriend more interested in his own ego than her, but you know how it is, it was eating her up inside, lying to herself like that."
Munson's last sentence freezes Steve in place, stomach dropping abruptly. He nods stiffly, not trusting himself to speak when the only word he can think of is Nancy, Nancy, Nancy.
"It's the reason we even met, you know? She was at college getting her teaching degree, I was at college -"
Munson pauses, and snorts. "Well, in theory to study engineering, but in practice I spent most of my time playing my guitar and selling drugs to other students. She'd never even smoked weed before, but approached me asking for Ketamine, can you imagine? I gave her a hug and a cheeseburger instead, talked it through with her, drove her home. Fast forward a few years, and now we're getting married, finally getting her out of that madhouse she calls home. Terrible financial decision, mind you, but with double income and no kids we'll catch up quick."
Steve nods again, even manages a smile this time, but he's always been terrible at lying on the go, and Munson can clearly tell. "Hey, you okay there? Sorry, I guess that was a little much all at once."
"No, it's okay, I - just hit a little too close to home, I guess," Steve admits quietly. "Similar thing happened to me, only I was the dumb jock. When my girlfriend dumped me, it really opened my eyes, and my parents didn't like that. Had a my way or the highway fight with my dad, and my mom's a good Christian wife who would never dare disagree with her husband, so… highway it was."
"Yeesh," Munson says sympathetically. Steve should probably expand on that, or change the topic, but finds he can't concentrate enough on either. Not when he's just put his heart out in the open like that and Munson - Eddie's leaning in closer to hear him better, sliding his hand down to Steve's elbow. Steve feels his touch like it’s leaving a trail of sparks, even through the thick leather.
"Um," Steve says, and blanks. "Sorry, I… I'm not really sure where to go from here. Don't usually talk about this kind of stuff on the first date," he jokes, and Eddie turns a little pink, pulls his hand away like he only just noticed he's even touching Steve. "I think I'm too used to it," he says, grinning awkwardly. "Trauma dumping is like, gay second base. Usually if I get this far with a guy he’s in my lap within the next minute. Guessing that’s not your flavor, though.”
Steve hesitates. Then he thinks, fuck it , and gets up out of his chair. “I have been known,” he says, and slides back onto Eddie’s lap like he belongs there, “to get a little bit unprofessional at work.”
He likes the way Eddie’s breath catches in his throat, the way his eyes widen. He’s got pretty eyes, big and dark with short lashes. Steve kind of wants to see them cross with pleasure. “You do that often, then? Get… get a little frisky with a client?”
Steve idly plays with the chain around Eddie’s neck - there’s a guitar pick on it, a soldier’s dog tags that are too old to belong to him, and a sparkly little heart charm. Gareth, Uncle Wayne, Chrissy, Steve guesses. The people Eddie cares about. “Well, usually I go for one of her girlfriends,” Steve says, “I try not to mess around with the client herself.”
Eddie snorts, placing his hands on Steve’s bare waist carefully, like he’s expecting Steve to smack them off. “You try?”
“They’re getting married, ” Steve says, brow creasing. “I respect that, if they do.”
Eddie hums, rubbing circles into Steve’s skin, and okay, Steve arches into the touch a little bit, sue him. ”And if they don’t?”
Steve breathes out harshly. “Depends. On why they don’t,” he elaborates, because Eddie is clearly about to ask. “You can usually tell. There’s two types, in my experience - there's the ones who are greedy, who just like to have fun, regardless of whom it hurts. Usually I tell one of their friends that they made me uncomfortable, convince them to tell the husband-to-be. Sometimes it’s the other way around, though - she’s marrying a man who doesn’t love her, who doesn’t treat her right, won’t honor his vows even once he speaks them out loud, and she’s desperate for affection. I like to show her how different it can be, what it’s like to be worshipped.”
“You break up marriages before they even happen, huh?”, Eddie says, deeply amused. “That’s a little fucked up, pretty boy.”
“They’re the ones that are fucked up,” Steve says a bit too passionately, because this may be funny to Eddie, but to Steve it’s a sore spot, always has been. “Marriage is a promise of devotion, it’s sacred . Treating it like it means nothing, that’s fucked up, and they deserve what’s coming to them.”
Eddie looks startled. His eyes flicker down to the cross that dangles around Steve's neck, slipping forward through the open zipper of his own jacket around Steve’s shoulders. “And me and Chrissy?”, he asks, glancing back up to meet Steve’s gaze. “That’s not sacrilege?”
Steve shakes his head. “That’s love,” he says quietly, and leans forward to kiss him.
Eddie hums a surprised noise against his mouth, like even with Steve in his lap he wasn’t expecting him to follow through. Steve almost pulls back, but then Eddie tilts his head into the kiss, tugs on Steve’s waist to get him closer, and Steve relaxes with a sigh.
Because kissing Eddie is nice - even better, it’s good , even if it takes a bit of getting used to, because Steve doesn’t really know how to let someone else take the lead. Eddie makes it easy, though; just like earlier, he’s gentle but not timid, licks Steve’s mouth open and runs his hands up his chest almost lazily, like they have all the time in the world. In some weird, fucked-up way it’s actually hotter than the wild, passionate affairs that Steve is used to, and Steve finds himself unravelling a bit at the slow, wet slide of their lips, finds himself making those soft, aching sounds at the back of his throat that only make an appearance when he’s really turned on.
He’s not ashamed of being vocal, but a bit self-conscious all the same; there’s been some girls who were a bit weird about it in the past. Eddie seems to like it, though - he pulls back just long enough to roughly mumble, “fuck,” then captures Steve’s mouth again in a filthy open-mouthed kiss, pushing his tongue in like he wants to taste the sound. Steve’s hips rock up involuntarily against the flat plane of Eddie’s stomach, and they both groan into the kiss; and when Steve sinks down again Eddie rises up to meet him with stiff denim and stiffer muscle beneath. It starts up a slow grind between them that makes the deckchair squeak in protest; unhurried but promising. Maybe Steve should be freaking out but it all just feels good, safe , hitting that sweet spot of familiar and excitingly new - until Steve makes a particularly loud sound and Eddie raises a hand to his throat to feel the thrum of his vocal chords from the outside, and the touch, though featherlight, makes him arch his back like an electric shock, “oh, God ,” -
And then the balcony door opens with a decisive click, spilling out music and stuffy air.
“Oh, um,” Gareth flounders, then squints. “Wait, do we have to, like, pay you extra for that?”
Steve flushes, and runs a hand through his hair. “No, this, uh,” he says, trying to get his brain back into working order again. “This was, uh, personal. Not part of the job.”
Job, right. His next job - “Shit, what time is it?”
Eddie pulls back his hand to check his watch, and Steve already misses the calluses of Eddie’s fingers on his skin. “Quarter to ten,” he answers, and Steve curses. “Fucking - I have to go. Have to - have to be across town in half an hour.”
Eddie groans a frustrated sound and leans back into the deck chair. “I hate capitalism,” he mumbles, and Steve laughs as he gets up off his lap. He’s not stupid enough to think that Eddie will want to keep in touch, but it’s nice to know that he’ll at least be missed.
But then Eddie grabs his wrist and says, “Steve, wait -”
Steve is so startled that he does, and as Eddie stands up he slides his hands into the jacket Steve is still wearing, liberates a small notebook and a pencil. He scribbles for a second, then tears off a page, and Steve finds himself staring - not at a string of numbers, but an address and a time, in messy but legible cursive.
“Come to my wedding,” Eddie says breathlessly, “Bring your girlfriend. Let’s hang out.”
Gareth makes a strangled sound, but Steve’s eyes remain on Eddie - flushed and dishevelled, expression hopeful and disappointed at the same time, like he’s expecting to be rejected. Steve isn’t sure whether he wants to tease or comfort him.
“Yeah, maybe,” Steve decides, because apparently he’s a both kinda guy, tugs the paper into the waistband of his pants, and leaves without a backwards glance.