Chapter Text
The dawn at the cabin showed no mercy. Light always found a way to slip through the cracks of the old blinds, slicing the room into golden blades. It wasn’t the muted brightness of Hawkins, broken by factory smoke and dead neon signs; here it was sharper, cleaner, as if it demanded everything it touched to wake, whether it wanted to or not.
Steve had been awake for a while. His body was stretched out, but his mind was elsewhere. Sleep had become a lost habit—Hawkins had never offered enough calm for it, and since the hospital, what little remained had vanished. Now the silence of the cabin kept him alert in a different way. Every creak of the wood, every gust of wind rattling the roof, every early bird was a warning. His head was still trained to expect the worst.
He rubbed his face with both hands, eyes burning with exhaustion. He knew he should try to rest, but there was another reason keeping him up, something that pulled him out of bed before the sun was fully risen. Eddie.
The name alone was enough to make his chest ache.
He sat at the edge of the bed, bare feet on the cold floorboards. The creak was faint, but Steve held his breath out of reflex. Walking quietly was something he’d learned as a kid, and now it served him as he crossed the hall unnoticed. The door to the next room was ajar. He pushed it just enough to peek inside.
Eddie was there, tangled in the mess of sheets.
The contrast was brutal. This wasn’t the Eddie of Hawkins, the one who climbed tables with a shameless grin, swung his guitar like a weapon, filled every space with noise and laughter. That Eddie had been made of excess, of restless movement. The one lying in the bed now was something else.
His hair, once unruly and bright, fell in damp strands across his forehead. His cheekbones stood out too sharply, carved by the weight he’d lost. His skin had a pale undertone in the filtered light, bluish shadows beneath his closed eyes. Even his hands, half-exposed from under the blanket, looked different: bony, the rings loose on fingers that had grown too thin.
His breathing was uneven. Each rise of his chest seemed to cost him more than he’d ever admit.
Steve leaned his forehead against the doorframe, trying to hold back the tide rising in him. Eddie looked fragile, like he was made of glass. There was nothing of the hard, noisy armor he’d once shown the world; only an exhausted body, half-trying to repair itself from something that should have destroyed him.
A memory hit him: Eddie standing on a cafeteria table, mocking everyone with a loud voice, shaking those same hands that now trembled even in sleep. Steve felt his throat tighten. There was something obscene about seeing someone so full of life reduced to this broken stillness.
He stood there for a long time, as if the mere act of watching him could guarantee he’d keep breathing. He’d spent weeks terrified of losing him, and even now, with Eddie just a few feet away, the fear wouldn’t let go. Every time he saw him sleep, he had the same uneasy thought: if he looked away, even for a second, Eddie might be gone.
He seemed smaller than Steve remembered. And still, all Steve wanted was to move closer, to touch him, to make sure this fragility was real, tangible, his.
He forced himself into the room. The door let out a low groan, and the smell wrapped around him: a mix of stale sweat, disinfectant, and old wood. But underneath was Eddie’s trace, faint but unmistakable—cigarettes and cheap soap. Unbearable and addictive all at once. Eddie shifted slightly, a rough sound escaping him, somewhere between protest and greeting.
“It’s morning,” Steve murmured, and the words sounded absurd the moment they left his mouth.
Eddie cracked an eye open, dull brown in the dim light, and twisted his mouth into a tired expression.
“Don’t start.”
Steve let out a nervous laugh, the one he used like armor.
“Come on. Let’s get you outside. The sun’s good for you.”
Eddie huffed, rolling to his side with effort. He tried to sit up on his own, propping a bony elbow against the mattress, but the tremor in his arm gave him away. Steve didn’t think—he was already there, one arm steady around Eddie’s back, the other under his elbow.
The contact hit him like a wave. Eddie was so light he hardly seemed real. The shirt hung loose on him, collarbones sharp; ribs hinted beneath the fabric. Steve, by contrast, felt too solid, as if every muscle he carried only made the difference crueler. His big hands could cover half of Eddie’s back, and that filled him with a strange kind of hunger: the need to protect him at any cost.
“I’m a mess,” Eddie whispered, barely audible, as if the words slipped out without permission.
Steve looked down. Eddie wasn’t meeting his eyes; he stared at the wrinkled sheets, his lip caught between his teeth. No mockery, no sarcasm—just shame.
“You’re not a mess,” Steve said, firmer than he intended. The tone came out almost harsh, but he couldn’t afford anything less. Eddie needed to hear it, whether he believed it or not.
Eddie scoffed, short and uneasy.
“Look at me, Harrington. I can barely stand. I’m wrecked.”
Steve held him tighter, easing him up slowly.
“And yet, here you are,” he replied.
Eddie swallowed hard. The silence thickened, filling the whole room. Steve matched his breathing to Eddie’s, as if syncing with him could keep him steady in ways invisible.
Patiently, he guided him toward the door, step by step, counting each movement like a ritual.
The hallway was short, but it stretched forever. Eddie leaned heavily on him, muttering “sorry” under his breath now and then. Steve wanted to yell at him to stop apologizing, to tell him there was nothing to be ashamed of, but he held it back. Instead, he gripped him firmer, making sure he didn’t stumble on the uneven floorboards.
When they finally pushed open the back door, fresh air greeted them like a wave. The smell of damp earth, leaves, and wet wood filled Steve’s lungs, and he felt Eddie’s body relax just slightly against him, as if that change in air alone gave him relief.
“Feels like a goddamn paradise,” Eddie muttered, dropping into the iron chair beneath the tree.
The sigh he let out was long, like he’d just run miles. He sank against the backrest, eyes closed toward the sun, messy hair catching copper glints.
Steve watched in silence. The shirt hanging too loose, the pants slipping at the waist, the thin wrists swallowed by loose rings. For a moment, Eddie looked like porcelain: fragile, beautiful, made to be cared for. Though, if someone else saw him, maybe they’d think of him as an old, faded rock poster on a garage wall—worn, battered by years, but still impossible to ignore.
Eddie opened his eyes just then and caught him staring. A half-smile tugged at his mouth, but it wasn’t the usual insolent one. It was smaller, uncertain.
“What? You planning on standing there until I melt?”
Steve blinked, caught.
“I’ll get breakfast.” The words stumbled out, and he turned toward the kitchen before Eddie could read too much in his face.
The kitchen was quiet, save for the slow drip of the coffeemaker and the irregular crack of the woodstove Wayne had pieced together weeks ago. On the counter sat a battered radio, antenna bent, spitting static between the faint voice of a DJ introducing a Foreigner song.
Steve moved with almost exaggerated precision, as if every gesture carried more weight than it should. The knife slicing through bread, the dry crack of crust breaking, the clink of a plate sliding onto the table—all of it a ritual. A clumsy attempt at normalcy that, for him, meant devotion.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Eddie outside, sitting in that iron chair, the sun spilling over his pale face. He’d only left him there for a few minutes, and already there was a pull in his chest, a ridiculous urgency to go back and look at him again. It was like the absence of his presence shrank something inside him, like he needed constant proof that Eddie was still breathing, still there.
He caught himself gripping the knife harder than necessary. Shaking his head, he set the bread on the tray alongside the honey and a couple of red apples. It wasn’t anything special, but in his mind, it was everything: Eddie deserved more than stale bread and cold coffee. He deserved someone who took the time to think about every detail, no matter how small.
When he stepped back into the yard, his heart skipped. Eddie was still there, of course, head tilted back, eyelids half-shut against the sun. His hair fell like a dark, tangled curtain, and for a second Steve thought he could stand there all day just watching him.
Eddie cracked one eye open, a glint of curious brown.
“You staring, or did you bring food?”
Steve laughed, uneasy, setting the tray on the table.
“Both.”
Eddie raised a brow, amused, but didn’t push it. His thin hands wrapped around the mug Steve handed him, and the contrast struck again: pale, slender fingers against white porcelain. Steve sat across from him, unable to look away, as if every small gesture deserved to be recorded.
Eddie bit into a piece of bread and wrinkled his nose.
“It’s good. Too good. You trying to fatten me up?”
Steve leaned forward, elbows on the table, before he even thought about it.
“I want you back. I want you strong.” The words came out more intense than he meant, almost a plea.
Eddie chewed slowly, watching him. There was something in his expression that unraveled Steve: a soft mix of teasing and tenderness, as if he knew exactly what was going through Steve’s head and, instead of pulling away, let it be.
“You’re weird, Harrington,” he murmured at last, lips quirking. “Nobody gets this obsessed over breakfast.”
The word cut through him: obsession. Steve shifted in his seat but didn’t look away. Yes, it was obsession. A constant need to make sure Eddie was warm, fed, comfortable, alive. He’d never felt this with anyone else—not in the relationships that were supposed to matter, not in the fleeting hookups that had filled the gaps. With Eddie, it was different: every detail mattered, every silence weighed. And he didn’t feel guilty for it. If loving someone meant this—this fierce urgency burning through him—then so be it.
Eddie stretched out an arm and touched his hand, just a brush of fingers. Steve felt it shoot through him like electricity, knocking the air out of his lungs. Anyone else would think he was exaggerating, that a touch couldn’t carry that much weight. But for Steve, who’d learned not to expect affection freely given, these gestures were dynamite.
Eddie didn’t pull away right away. He looked at him through his lashes, smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth.
“Stop looking at me like I’m gonna vanish.”
Steve squeezed his fingers gently.
“I can’t.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was thick, charged, wrapping around them like a blanket. Steve savored it the way you savor a song you don’t want to end. He only let go when Eddie turned away, flushed, hiding his face behind the coffee cup.
Afternoons at the cabin had a strange rhythm, as if time stretched longer than it should. The sun slid slowly between the trees, and the crickets always started too early, like someone had pushed the clock forward. Steve had noticed it since the first day, when the smell of smoke and hospital disinfectant still clung to everything.
They’d spent weeks there, weeks pared down to the smallest routines: making breakfast, taking Eddie to the porch for sun, reading aloud when the migraines eased, throwing together dinners with whatever Wayne brought back from town. On the surface, nothing extraordinary. But for Steve, every gesture was a battlefield, every glance an earthquake.
He didn’t know when the obsession had started. Maybe it had always been there, and only now was he admitting it. Each day it became harder to look away from Eddie, harder to ignore the impulse to check that he was still breathing, that he hadn’t sunk back into the fragility of his body. Something new was between them, thick, unnamed. Not gratitude, not survivor’s camaraderie; something more intimate. Steve felt it in the long silences, in the smiles Eddie seemed to keep just for him. It felt like walking on thin ice—any wrong word might crack the spell.
And still, Steve sought those cracks. He invented excuses to touch him: adjusting the blanket, handing him water, guiding him to the couch. Every brush of skin left a warmth that lingered too long. It was ridiculous, feeling like a teenager again, heart racing just because Eddie held his gaze a second longer than necessary.
There were nights Steve watched him sleep on the pullout couch, hair messy across his eyes, and knew what he felt was dangerous: tenderness laced with hunger, the fierce desire to spend the rest of his life making sure Eddie never went hungry, never hurt, never felt alone again.
So when he saw him stumble into the kitchen, stubborn about proving he could help, Steve knew the tension had to snap soon.
Eddie shuffled in barefoot, wearing an old pair of Steve’s pajama pants tied at the waist with a string because otherwise they’d fall off. Over that, a sweatshirt hacked short with scissors, barely covering his chest and showing the bandages beneath his ribs. Steve had thought it would be practical, but seeing it now he realized his mistake—the contrast was brutal.
The fabric hung loose at the shoulders, too tight at the torso, like it didn’t know whose body it belonged to. Eddie hugged his arms against himself, rubbing them, and though summer pressed heavy outside, he was cold.
“Don’t laugh,” he muttered, not looking up.
Steve blinked, caught in the act of staring too long.
“I’m not.”
“You’re doing it with your eyes,” Eddie insisted, trying a crooked smile that broke apart immediately.
Steve crossed the kitchen in two strides and flicked on the battered radio on the shelf. It spat a burst of static before catching a local station. A soft Fleetwood Mac track filled the room, warm and a little wistful, like the whole house was suspended on that chord.
“I worry you’re cold,” Steve said, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed.
Eddie raised a brow.
“I always liked androgynous fashion.” His voice tried for mocking, but lacked the edge.
Steve didn’t argue. Instead, he set a pot on the stove and filled it with water. Eddie stepped closer, like he had something to prove.
“Let me help. I can chop the veggies.”
“You sure?” Steve asked, skeptical.
“I’m not an invalid,” Eddie scoffed.
Without arguing, Steve handed him a cutting board and a worn knife. Eddie gripped it firmly, but the tremor in his hands was obvious. Each time he reached out, the sweatshirt lifted just enough to show pale skin beneath the bandages. Steve forced himself to breathe deep.
“Quit staring,” Eddie growled, hacking clumsily at a carrot.
Steve only smiled faintly, not bothering to defend himself. Eddie always caught him in the middle of that look he couldn’t control.
He moved behind him and covered his hand with his own to guide the cut. Eddie tensed, a tremor running through his arm, but he didn’t pull away. The motion turned slow, controlled, almost like a clumsy dance between knife and cutting board.
The smell of fresh vegetables filled the kitchen, blending with the music and the heavy summer heat drifting in through the windows. Steve lowered his gaze: the nape of Eddie’s neck gleamed in the light, strands of dark hair clinging to his skin with sweat. His skin was raised in goosebumps despite the warmth.
“You’re still cold,” Steve whispered.
Eddie swallowed hard, keeping his eyes fixed on the board.
“Let me cook, Harrington.”
Steve obeyed, though he stayed close, his shadow wrapping around Eddie like a blanket. He watched him frown, fight with the knife, curse under his breath. And all the while, the fire inside kept growing: tenderness and hunger, care and desire, tangled into a fierce impulse that threatened to consume them both.
The cabin’s kitchen smelled of fresh coffee and old wood warmed by the sun. Outside, summer roared with stifling humidity; yet Eddie sat at the table with his arms crossed over his chest, as if he were shivering. The contrast was almost absurd. Steve had to improvise clothes for him: pajama pants that used to be loose and now slipped off his hips unless tied with a cord, and an old sweater Steve had cut so the bandages would be visible. Eddie looked like he was wearing the proof of how much his body had changed—and still, Steve couldn’t look away. Vulnerable, yes, but perfect.
It was impossible not to notice the details. The way the sweater’s neckline hung at a strange angle, exposing a shoulder far too thin. The way Eddie’s fingers clung weakly to the edge of the table, as if that alone kept him from sinking. The way he brushed his hair from his eyes every few seconds, an old habit Steve had seen a thousand times back in high school—and one that still killed him now. All of it trapped him, like someone had rewound the tape of his life and left him staring at the same scene on repeat.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Eddie muttered without raising his head, a crooked smile failing to hide his unease.
Steve pretended to focus on stirring the coffee, but it was useless. His eyes always found their way back. There was something about seeing him there, alive, dressed in clothes that smelled like Steve himself, that made it impossible to turn away. As if every stolen second was a reminder that Eddie was here—and that Steve could lose him again at any moment.
“I’m just… making sure you don’t fall off the chair,” he said, though his voice came out lower than he intended.
Eddie snorted, but didn’t protest when Steve leaned down to tighten the cord of his pants, making sure they wouldn’t slip. It was a practical gesture, but the slight brush of his knuckles against fabric, against a sliver of warm skin, hit Steve like a blow to the chest. Everything in him screamed at once: protect him, touch him, stay here forever. He swallowed hard and pulled back before it showed.
The radio on the shelf crackled before settling on a station. Stevie Nicks’s raspy voice floated into the room with Landslide, wrapping the space in an intimate melancholy, like Wayne had just lit a cigarette at the table and started humming along. Eddie lifted his head and arched a brow.
“This is depressing.” But he didn’t move. In fact, his bare foot shifted against the floor until it brushed Steve’s, anchoring him there like he couldn’t help it.
Steve said nothing. He couldn’t. The touch was minimal, but it felt like a live wire. He forced himself to turn back toward the pot on the stove, as if the rising steam could distract him. It didn’t. He felt every breath Eddie took behind him, every small movement of his hands against the table—and it was a sweet kind of torture.
“You could sit down too,” Eddie said, his voice rough in that way it always got when he tried to sound stronger than he was. “You’re making me nervous, standing there like some security guard.”
Steve let out a short laugh and obeyed. He sat across from him, close enough to notice the frayed edges of the sweater, the pale skin peeking through underneath. Eddie bit his lip and lowered his gaze. Steve knew him well enough to recognize that bite for what it was: a shield, a don’t look at me so much—but also a stay.
It was a contradiction that drove him mad. Eddie was fragile, cold in the middle of summer, with scars that told the story of everything they’d lost. But the spark was still there: the stubbornness in every joke, the defiance in every clumsy move. And Steve… Steve felt like his heart was going to break through his chest.
“What?” Eddie asked, one eyebrow raised, though he didn’t quite lift his head.
Steve hadn’t realized he was staring until Eddie pointed it out. He wanted to invent an excuse, but the truth slipped out instead, raw and dangerous:
“I like seeing you like this.” His throat closed. “Alive. With me.”
Eddie blinked, startled. For a second he looked like he wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. His lips curved slightly, then softened, as if the words had struck deeper than expected.
The silence thickened. Outside, cicadas sang, Stevie still played softly on the radio, and yet the only sound Steve heard was his own heart. Eddie reached out across the table, clumsy, brushing Steve’s fingers with his own. And it was enough. Steve leaned in without thinking, as if his whole body had been waiting for that signal.
The kiss was slow, careful, as if Eddie might break under his mouth. His lips were cool, but they tasted like warm coffee and something that could only be Eddie—a blend of defiance and sweetness Steve recognized as his own. He cupped his jaw, trembling between the fear of hurting him and the hunger to never let him go.
When they finally pulled apart, Eddie rested his forehead against his and let out a weak, incredulous laugh.
“You were right,” he whispered, voice frayed. “I like being alive.”
And Steve thought, yes—if this was what being alive meant, then he never wanted to step away again.
Eddie’s first thought when he opened his eyes wasn’t his own.
It was Steve.
It was ridiculous—he knew it was—but ever since they had pulled him out of the hospital and brought him to that lost cabin in Virginia, the very first thing that greeted him every morning was warmth. And not warmth on his skin—because Eddie’s body kept betraying him, shivering even in the middle of summer—but that other kind of warmth, steady, patient, that seemed to follow him everywhere. Steve.
The world hadn’t made it easy for him: scars that still pulled when he tried to breathe deep, bones that felt like glass, exhaustion anchored in his marrow. Eddie Munson had survived, sure, but barely. Sometimes, when he caught sight of himself in the small bathroom mirror, he didn’t even recognize the thin, pale shadow staring back. And yet, there was Steve, looking at him as if what he saw wasn’t broken skin and bones but something else. Something Eddie didn’t dare name.
When his eyelids grew too heavy to stay open, he gave in to the new habit of letting himself be watched. Steve always looked at him. Sometimes from the chair beside the bed, other times from the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, as if he needed to make sure Eddie was still breathing. At first, it had been uncomfortable, suffocating even, but after a while Eddie began to accept it. To seek it out, even. Because there was something strangely comforting in knowing someone cared enough to notice whether his chest rose or not.
That morning was no different. Eddie blinked slowly, fighting the weight of his eyelids, and the first thing he made out was Steve’s shape in the dim light of the room. Sunlight filtered through the frayed curtains, wrapping Steve in a glow so warm it felt designed for him. “The sun,” Eddie thought with a small, private smile. Steve was the sun. Not just because he shone—with that hair that caught every stray ray of light, with that golden skin that didn’t seem to know fatigue—but because Eddie was convinced Steve didn’t know how to be anything but constant, vital, essential.
And him… he was the opposite. Eddie felt more like the moon: cold, distant, always reflecting light that wasn’t his own. Though, in recent days, the image haunting him most was different: that of a bent sunflower, stem broken, still twisting desperately toward its sun. Steve offered warmth, and Eddie absorbed it with the same urgency of a parched plant. It was addictive.
“You’re awake,” Steve said softly, as if afraid to break something fragile.
Eddie arched a brow and shifted against the pillow, though the movement was clumsier than he meant it to be. His fingers toyed with the edge of the sheet, as if that could distract from the heat rising up his neck.
“I am. Congratulations, Harrington. Your watch was a success.”
Steve smiled, brief but never quite hiding the worry in his eyes. Eddie knew that smile well. He’d seen it enough over the past weeks to start finding a new kind of beauty in it. It was the smile of someone willing to stay, no matter what it cost.
“It’s not a watch,” Steve replied, leaning down to straighten the sheets Eddie had messed up. “It’s… making sure you’re okay.”
Eddie let out a snort, more to disguise himself than to argue. The truth was that constant attention left him exposed. As if Steve could see past the façade he had spent years perfecting—the noise, the jokes, the distorted guitars. Here, in this bed, marked skin and borrowed clothes hanging loose from his shoulders, none of that could hide him. He was just Eddie. And Steve looked at him as if that “just Eddie” was enough.
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, full of things neither dared to say aloud. Eddie felt he had to break it before it swallowed him whole.
“If you keep staring like that, I’m gonna start thinking I’m a painting.”
Steve laughed, soft, and Eddie let himself enjoy the sound. It was like opening a window in a smoke-filled room.
“Not a painting,” Steve said. “A reminder.”
Eddie frowned.
“A reminder of what?”
Steve didn’t answer right away. He leaned in, bracing one firm hand on the mattress, and Eddie felt the warmth radiating off him even at that small distance. That warmth he sought, and that terrified him.
“That you’re still here. And that I want you to stay here.”
Eddie turned his gaze toward the window, unable to withstand the intensity of those words. He swallowed, clumsy, nails scraping at the seam of the sheet. Heat climbed up his neck, tangled with the cold that hadn’t left his bones since the cave. He wanted to say something sarcastic, to deflect, but nothing came. All he could do was stay quiet and let that truth settle over him like balm.
Because, deep down, he understood. Steve was the sun. And he was a broken sunflower still searching for where to turn.
Getting out of bed was an odyssey. Eddie would never admit it out loud, but every time Steve offered an arm, the real battle was in his head, not his bruised ribs. Because taking that help meant admitting he couldn’t do it alone. And he hated that thought almost as much as he loved the safety of leaning on him.
Steve moved with the ease of someone who had memorized the routine: one hand firm on his back, the other steady on his forearm, as if he knew exactly how much strength to use to lift him without hurting him. Eddie always noticed the same thing—the contrast between his own body, light, trembling, painted with bruises that refused to fade, and Steve’s solidity. And though he told himself he hated it, the truth was he needed it more than he would ever dare confess.
It was the middle of summer, and still Eddie shivered under borrowed clothes. The old sweater Steve had cut open to leave his bandages uncovered, the pants tied with an improvised cord—they made him feel like a kid playing dress-up, too small for a stage this big. Ridiculous, vulnerable. And yet, Steve treated him like nothing was out of place.
The damp air clung to his skin, suffocating, but the cold lingered in his bones. Steve would drape a blanket over his shoulders every time he slipped, as if afraid he’d fall apart if left exposed for even a second. Eddie rolled his eyes, trying to mask the knot tightening in his throat.
“You’re gonna turn me into your favorite grandma if you keep tucking me in like that.”
Steve smirked.
“I’d rather that than lose you,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The laugh Eddie tried to let out broke halfway, tangled with the creak of the wooden chair as he sat on the porch. There was no irony in Steve’s eyes, only that intensity that made him feel naked even beneath layers of fabric and bandages. A breeze brushed against his collarbone, right where the blanket slipped, and Steve adjusted it again before he could catch his breath. The touch was so light it felt like static. Eddie turned his gaze toward the garden, unable to face the vertigo in his stomach.
Because that was the problem: Steve looked at him too much. And not like the others, heavy with pity or doubt, but like someone memorizing a map before it was lost forever. Suffocating, yes. But also the only thing that kept the fear of breaking apart at bay.
Eddie tried to distract himself with details: the fresh coffee steaming on the iron table, the drone of a bee over the flowers, the sunlight cutting through the branches and painting his skin in flecks of gold. Everything screamed life. And him, wrapped in a blanket with bones drawn sharp, felt like a ghost. Until Steve leaned his elbow on the back of the chair and looked at him as if none of that mattered.
Eddie’s heart lurched uncomfortably. Gratitude didn’t make your cheeks burn or force you to look away in a rush. And Steve didn’t back off.
“Does it hurt?” Steve asked, almost a whisper.
Eddie swallowed.
“Not more than usual.”
Half a lie. Everything hurt: ribs, muscles, memories. But the real ache was that hollow in his stomach every time Steve came too close. He lifted a hand to push a strand of hair from his forehead, but Steve was quicker. His fingers brushed Eddie’s temple with a delicacy impossible to ignore. Eddie held his breath. For the first time since waking up in that cabin, he didn’t feel fragile. He felt seen.
The walk to the kitchen was slow, longer than he’d ever admit. Steve helped him with the same disarming patience, and Eddie only managed to grumble something about feeling like an invalid king.
“You’re missing the crown,” Steve joked, handing him the hot coffee.
“And the court of maidens,” Eddie shot back, wrapping both hands around the cup, grateful for the warmth.
The smile he got in return was dangerous, tickling places that had nothing to do with physical pain. Maybe that’s why, when the blanket slipped off his shoulders again, he didn’t bother fixing it. Steve did, his fingers steady, sure.
“I’m gonna put velcro on you,” Steve said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Eddie let out a real laugh this time, one that scratched his throat but filled his lungs. And the strangest part was that he felt like himself. Like the old Eddie, the one who filled silences with invisible guitar riffs or lines stolen from cheap comics. The one who could throw out a dumb joke and have someone listen without rolling their eyes in annoyance.
“If you wanna turn me into your pet, you just have to say it,” he teased, stretching his arm out to tap Steve’s forearm lightly with his knuckles.
The touch was brief, insignificant on the surface. But Eddie noticed how Steve tensed, like any touch from him was enough to shake him. And instead of pulling back, Eddie allowed himself something he hadn’t in weeks: repeating the gesture. This time with more intent, dragging his knuckles along Steve’s skin, soft, almost like a caress disguised as a joke.
Steve said nothing, but the muscle in his jaw shifted. A spark of electricity ran up Eddie’s arm. He distracted himself by fussing with a piece of toast, fumbling with the butter knife, and noticed Steve watching him again. Steve always had that habit: staring until the air grew thick between them.
“What?” Eddie asked, raising a brow.
“Nothing.” Steve dropped his gaze to his plate, but Eddie caught the color rising to his cheeks.
That small detail gave Eddie an odd sense of triumph. Like he’d found a crack in Steve Harrington’s perfect armor. And for the first time since leaving Hawkins, he didn’t feel like a burden. He felt… needed. Able to stir something in Steve.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. There was coffee, toast, sunlight pouring into the kitchen painting the table yellow, and that soft tension tickling under his skin. Eddie took a sip and thought maybe it was possible. That maybe, after all, he could be himself again. Not entirely, not yet, but enough. Enough to make Steve laugh. Enough to want to keep trying.
The afternoon crept in slowly, as if the heavy heat wanted to stick to the cabin walls and never let go. Somewhere, an old cassette played, paused mid–eighties ballad, its faint static filling the empty spaces. Eddie was tired of feeling cold when the world outside was burning. He wore Steve’s clothes again—the pants tied with an improvised cord and that cropped shirt cut open to show the bandages—and still he tugged at the blanket, trying to cover himself more.
Tea steamed on the low table in the living room, giving off a sweet smell Steve insisted on brewing “because it helps.” Eddie dropped into the couch with his usual clumsy weight, and when Steve sat beside him, too close, the blanket slipped again.
“You’re gonna end up hating me,” Eddie said, half-joking, when Steve reached to fix it once more.
“Impossible,” Steve answered, with that certainty that left Eddie cornered.
Eddie bit his tongue to keep quiet. Because that was what was killing him: Steve said it like there was no alternative, like there wasn’t a world where he could ever get tired of him.
He lifted the cup with both hands, and when he brought it to his lips, he noticed Steve watching him again. This time, Eddie decided he wouldn’t look away. Not now.
The silence stretched, heavy, thick as the steam rising from the tea. Eddie’s heart hammered against his ribs, too fast, too loud, as if Steve could hear it.
“If you keep staring like that, I’m gonna think you’re waiting for a magic trick,” he muttered, with a nervous smile.
Steve didn’t smile. And that was worse. Because he didn’t look uneasy or surprised; he looked decided.
“I don’t need a trick,” he said quietly, voice low. “I just need this.”
Eddie blinked, thrown off.
“This?”
Steve set his cup down and, before Eddie could move, reached for his face. Fingers brushed along his jaw with a gentleness that froze him in place. Eddie caught the slight tremor in those fingertips, like Steve was holding himself back. For a second, he thought he’d pull away—that all he wanted was to check for fever. But no.
Steve’s lips touched his in a way Eddie hadn’t expected. Not a rush, not desperate. Slow, careful, almost reverent. As if Steve were afraid of breaking him even in something as simple as a kiss.
Eddie froze. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he’d spent too long imagining it would never happen. Because his body was still at war with the idea that anyone could see him as anything more than a battered survivor.
The warmth of the kiss was unlike the blanket, unlike the tea. It was something that bloomed in his chest and spread to his skin, melting the ice lodged there for weeks. Eddie closed his eyes and let himself respond, just a brush, the faintest pressure. But it was enough to make the air around them change density.
When they pulled apart, just inches, Eddie looked at him like he’d stumbled on a secret too big to keep.
“Steve…” he began, not knowing what word could possibly come next.
But Steve didn’t let him go on. He just pressed his forehead against Eddie’s, breathing slow and steady, as if trying to convince him that right there, in that room bathed in the warm afternoon light, everything was safe.
Eddie wanted to believe him. Because even though the fear was still there, buried deep in his stomach, so was that spark—the one that had flickered back to life in the kitchen. A spark that now burned a little brighter, fueled by the certainty that Steve saw all of him, not just the broken pieces.
What he couldn’t shake was the darker thought, the one that whispered Steve would eventually notice how little of him was left. How much he’d lost: strength, confidence, even the ease of moving in his own body. Eddie had once been chaos and laughter and life too loud for the room. Now he struggled to hold a mug of tea without his hands trembling.
And still, Steve had kissed him. As if none of that mattered. As if he was enough—exactly as he was now.
Eddie closed his eyes, desperate to catch the feeling before it slipped away: the heat lingering on his lips, the soft pressure at his jaw, the rhythm of their shared breath. He had wished for so many impossible things in his life that he didn’t know what to do when one of them came true.
The fear didn’t vanish. Fear that Steve was only protecting him out of pity. Fear that this kiss was just a promise he couldn’t keep. But stronger than all of that was the single, reckless truth pulsing in his chest: Steve had chosen him. Not despite the scars, the bandages, the tremors. But with all of it.
When Eddie opened his eyes, Steve was still looking at him like he’d just stumbled on something rare, something precious. And Eddie—against all logic—decided to believe him.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he whispered, barely audible.
Steve raised a brow, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
“I think I do.”
Eddie didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because if he opened his mouth, the truth would spill out raw: that he had never needed someone this much, never wanted so badly to stay in one place, never felt so terrified of losing it all again.
So instead, he leaned his head against Steve’s shoulder, drew in a long breath, and let the warmth of the sun, the tea, and that first kiss melt together. And as the silence stretched, with the cicadas singing outside and the golden light wrapping around them, Eddie understood with a clarity that cut through him.
Steve was the sun. And no matter how much he shook, he couldn’t help but turn toward that light.
And for the first time, burning didn’t scare him.
Chapter Text
Almost a year later..
Steve had prepared everything like it was some kind of secret ritual. He spread out a big blanket in the middle of the clearing, corners weighted with smooth stones; hung two yellow lanterns from the low branches so the light glowed warm, almost domestic; and set the battery-powered player off to the side, tape rewound and labeled in his handwriting: Soft Rock — For Us. In the cooler sat a cheap bottle of wine, two plastic cups, grapes, crackers, a piece of cheese that had survived the hike, and a jar of olives that clinked every time it shifted. None of it was sophisticated. But it was theirs.
Before Eddie arrived, Steve gave himself a quick glance—not out of vanity, but habit: athletic shorts, the black tank top that used to belong to Eddie—tight at the shoulders because of it—freshly trimmed beard. The nail polish was still holding on: ten different colors Eddie had picked at random, like his hand was a string of lights. Steve thought he had never felt more at ease in his own skin. Maybe because now that skin carried marks that tied him to someone else: colors, flowers, small shared decisions.
The heat of the night rose from the grass with that sweet smell of earth and sap. Cicadas hummed their constant drone. Beyond the circle of light, the woods sat dark and friendly. A distant owl. And above, a wide sky, scattered with stars. Steve drew in a breath like he could store it away for later, just in case.
He heard him before he saw him: twigs snapping, a muffled laugh, fabric brushing against leaves. And then Eddie stepped into the clearing.
It happened every time—Steve didn’t know what to do with his hands, like his body was too small for everything he wanted to feel at once. Eddie’s hair was long, healthy, curls falling in elegant disarray, sprinkled with silly flowers Steve had tucked in during their afternoon walk. Crooked, imperfect, beautiful. He was barefoot; his nails painted black, catching the lantern light. The cut-off jean shorts tipped toward indecent with each step, and the old T-shirt of Steve’s—sliced at the sides so it hung loose—skimmed his thighs. In another life, the outfit would have been pure provocation. Tonight it was something else entirely: proof that Eddie was okay. That he was playing. That he could let himself be soft.
“You’re going to ruin me for any other setting,” Steve said quietly, once he found his voice. It wasn’t a throwaway compliment. It was a fact.
Eddie smiled with that shy little flush Steve adored, the kind nobody else ever saw.
“Just following the dress code: summer, woods, and your face staring at me like you’re about to buy me,” he murmured, toying with the hem of his shirt.
Steve welcomed him with a steady hand on his back—that simple gesture that meant you’re with me without saying it out loud. He pointed to the blanket, and Eddie dropped down cross-legged, easy, like the grass belonged to him. Steve uncorked the wine with care. The cork came out with a soft sigh. The fruity scent mixed with the smell of grass and the warm metal of the lanterns.
“It’s nothing fancy,” Steve said, offering him a cup.
“Neither am I,” Eddie shot back, eyes flashing dark amusement. “And you still like me.”
There it was—the timidity leaking through the cracks. The line was meant as a joke, but underneath it clung to a question: do you really like me like this? Steve heard it even unspoken. His kind of sharpness wasn’t from books or theories—it was from reading tight shoulders, noticing when Eddie touched his earlobe in doubt, weighing the air.
“I love you like this,” he answered, and placed an olive in Eddie’s palm like it was a gift. Their fingers brushed. Eddie lowered his gaze, smiled only with his mouth, and leaned a little closer toward the middle of the blanket, as if his body knew exactly where to fit.
Steve let him set the pace. It was a promise he renewed every day: to guide without pushing, to hold without gripping too tight. He’d learned to be a kind of steady that didn’t need proving. All he needed was to be here. To know a few things for certain: that Eddie could wear flowers in his hair and black polish on his nails, could laugh like a kid when he felt safe and turn sharp-edged when the world demanded it; that he could be all of it and still be Eddie. And that Steve would be the man who looked at every shift with the same wonder.
He switched on the player. The tape caught on the first try. A clean guitar line, a gentle drumbeat, a warm voice: Time After Time. He didn’t need to sing along—he wouldn’t risk breaking the bubble with borrowed words—but it was there, recognizable. Others would follow: Fleetwood Mac, Phil Collins, Sade. Songs Steve had recorded in silence with the windows open, trying to capture something that sounded like summer, like promise, like we’re okay. Each track was a confession he hadn’t known how to speak.
Eddie sipped his wine, set the cup down tilted on the blanket, plucked a grape and popped it between his teeth. Then he looked up at the sky with theatrical focus, like he was deciphering some hidden message. Steve propped himself up on an elbow just to watch him. The lantern light carved out his collarbones, gilded his skin, framed his curls and crooked flowers in something soft.
There was a time when Steve had thought of Eddie as porcelain—beautiful, fragile, dangerous to touch. That image still lived in him, but now it had been replaced by something truer. Eddie wasn’t breaking anymore. He was blooming. And every laugh that slipped out—those Steve had been terrified he’d never hear again—felt like a miracle he wanted to keep.
“What are you thinking?” Steve asked, genuine. He wanted the answer; wanted every answer Eddie was willing to give.
“That Wayne would kill you if he knew you were serving cheap wine in plastic cups to a respectable Munson,” Eddie said, before softening. “And that this…” He made a small gesture, taking in the blanket, the lanterns, the cassette, the summer. “…this makes my chest feel loud. The good kind.”
Steve nodded. The noise in his chest lived with him too, all the time. Desire was there—big, clean, present—but something older held it up: that kind of devotion that makes you notice the smallest things. He straightened one of the flowers tangled in Eddie’s hair, tucking it between two curls. His fingers brushed his temple. Eddie closed his eyes for a second that seemed longer than it really was, and in that blink Steve felt the absurd certainty that no landscape could ever outshine that tiny act of surrender.
“Too much?” Steve asked, out of habit, out of respect for the boundary Eddie had taught him to check.
“No,” Eddie said, and the word came out low. “Just right.”
Steve smiled, small, satisfied. He opened the jar of olives, left it within reach, fixed Eddie’s shorts when the hem of his shirt got caught. Guide, don’t push. He swiped his thumb across the rim of Eddie’s glass to catch a drop of wine before it could stain the blanket. Small things, yes. But that was the language he spoke best: the one that said I see you.
The breeze carried a faint smell of honeysuckle, mingled with the sweetness of warm grass and the distant smoke of some bonfire. A couple of fireflies blinked on and off just beyond the reach of their lanterns. Eddie followed them with his eyes, fascinated like a boy shown a new trick, lips parted, forehead relaxed. Steve watched him sideways and felt the same pull as always: the urge to preserve him, to give him more of this, to keep expanding the world Eddie could walk through without his back to the wall. And in that pull there was something else, more intimate: the disbelief of still having him there, even after almost a year together. Some nights he still lost his breath just looking at him, as if his body hadn’t fully adapted to the luck of it.
“I can’t believe you brought all this,” Eddie said, his fingers brushing Steve’s almost absentmindedly. “It’s… I don’t know.”
“A date,” Steve filled in, steady.
Eddie laughed quickly, like the word still embarrassed him a little.
“A date,” he echoed, trying it out, and something timid sparked in his eyes along with the shine.
The cassette clicked into another song, a soft slow track with easy keyboards. Eddie started swaying without noticing, just a ripple through his shoulders and knees. The motion lifted his shirt a fraction, pulled his shorts half a fraction lower, and everything living between those two measures became the sole occupation of Steve’s brain. He forced himself to breathe through his nose. Containing wasn’t repressing: it was holding steady until the other said now.
“You wear it well,” Steve said, and he wasn’t looking at the clothes. He was looking at Eddie.
“What?” Eddie asked, teasing.
“Being happy.”
Eddie swallowed, a light reflex in his throat. He leaned toward the stereo, nudged the volume higher, then came back to his spot—closer. His knee brushed Steve’s thigh. The touch didn’t retreat.
The fireflies, the music, the soft heat of the night, the wine waiting its turn: it all seemed arranged to lead them gently to a place where laughter and desire could live side by side. Steve felt it almost physically, that sweet curve of the night heading somewhere. It wasn’t urgency. It was direction.
“Let’s dance something stupid,” Eddie said, almost like he was proposing mischief.
Steve looked at him, and the world realigned around that question. He smiled.
“Always.”
The music played on, soft, prepared. The blanket was ready. The clearing too. And Steve, with the patience of someone who had waited months to see Eddie shine like this, knew the next step would be easy: just stand up and take his hand.
Eddie rose from the blanket with a lightness that belonged to no one else. A little wine in his blood, a little warm music in the air, and that was enough: he moved around Steve with loose arms, barefoot on the damp grass, as if everything that weighed on him had been left behind. The shorts too brief, the shirt too oversized and slashed at the sides, the curls sprinkled with crooked flowers… he looked like he’d just stepped out of some strange dream, one only Steve could have.
Steve followed him with his eyes the way a believer follows his saint. The air in the clearing was thick with moon-dust light, those white beams falling through the branches and clinging to skin like a secret glow. Eddie shone without effort, as if nature had chosen him to be the center. He spun in circles, laughed with that big laugh that was always part cackle, part dare, and every so often stretched his arms like a child playing at flying.
Steve felt a tug in his stomach. Obsession, devotion, love, desire: it all fused into one incandescent mass, impossible to separate. He looked at Eddie and the only thought left was that he was his—not in the sense of possession, but in that of an inescapable fate. As if every road had led here, to this clearing, to this vision. And though they’d shared a bed for almost a year now, there were still nights—like this one—when he couldn’t understand how it was possible Eddie had chosen him.
“You look more like a hippie than a metalhead,” Steve called out, laughing, unable to help it.
Eddie stopped, wobbling a little, wineglass in hand.
“Hippie!” he repeated, mock-offended, shaking his curls with the flowers Steve had pinned there hours before. “This, my dear, is art in motion.”
And he spun again, lifting his arms to the sky, fingers spread, black nails flashing like tiny blades. His shirt flared from his torso, his shorts rode higher with each turn, and Steve felt like the entire world had condensed into that body laughing under the moon.
The cassette kept on with a slow tune, but Eddie moved like he was hearing something else. He had no rhythm, he needed none. He had freedom. And Steve, sitting on the blanket with a forgotten glass of wine in his hand, watched him with eyes wide, almost hungry. There was no hiding it: he was dazzled, fascinated to the core.
The contrast killed him. Eddie, who for months had been little more than a ghost in his own skin, now danced as if he had twenty bodies, as if nothing hurt, as if the night itself had been designed to hand his spark back. And Steve could do nothing but stare and think: this is what I came looking for, this is what I will never lose again.
Eddie twirled and bent down over him, still laughing, his hair falling forward in a dark curtain. Through the strands Steve caught the sight of the flowers, bent and squashed against his forehead, and he felt ridiculously proud to have been the one to place them there. It was a tiny, almost childish detail, but it filled him with a warmth he couldn’t name. And in that absurd blend of pride and tenderness, Steve understood something that stole the air from his lungs: he had waited his whole life for this dance, and he was living it at last.
“Admit it,” Eddie panted, bracing a hand on Steve’s shoulder to steady himself. “I’m breaking stereotypes. First hippie metalhead in history.”
Steve looked up at him, lips slightly parted, and the thought slipped through without a filter: I want to kiss him right now. I want to get stained with wine and dirt with him, I want to leave marks on that skin that glows like the moon has claimed it.
Instead of saying it, he laughed. A short, incredulous laugh, the laugh of someone who still couldn’t believe the impossible had turned into routine. Because even though it had been almost a year since Eddie had come back into his life, there were still nights—like this one—when Steve lost his breath out of sheer wonder. He couldn’t understand how it was real: Eddie, with flowers tangled in his hair, barefoot in a forest clearing, laughing like he had never known darkness. It was too much. And at the same time, it was everything.
“Yes. And you’re unbearable.”
Eddie tilted his head, smiling sideways. His hair fell into his eyes, and Steve forced himself not to brush it aside, not to break the game just yet. Because that’s what it was: a game that had grown too big to be contained.
The music kept playing, the lanterns flickered in yellow, and the moon hung so high it felt like a silent witness. Steve knew then, with a quiet certainty that needed no words, that tonight love and obsession had finally become the same thing.
Eddie was still laughing when he pulled him by the hand. It was a clumsy tug, the wine glass wobbling in his other hand, but Steve didn’t need more of an invitation. He got up from the blanket and let Eddie lead him to the center of the clearing, where the grass grew taller and the uneven ground made them stumble with every step.
The song on the cassette wasn’t meant for dancing. It was a slow one, soft guitars, something Steve wasn’t even sure how it had made it onto the mixtape because it wasn’t on his list. Eddie, however, moved as if it was the most fun thing in the world.
“Come on, Harrington,” he said, voice still rough from laughter. “Show me your forbidden moves.”
“I don’t have moves,” Steve replied, but he was already wrapping his arms around him, one hand on his waist and the other on his back. Eddie leaned against him, light, as if trusting him with his weight was the most natural thing in the world.
The contact was too much. The short shorts brushing against his thighs, the soft fabric of Steve’s old T-shirt now turned into an improvised dress, the heat of skin under the cut sides of the shirt. And the laughter, always the laughter, vibrating against his neck while Eddie tried to guide him into a disastrous spin.
They tripped over the blanket and nearly fell, but Steve held him tight, laughing too, until they both froze in place, pressed together, breathing hard over nothing. Eddie lifted his face, still smiling, and Steve looked at him as if he had just found the center of the universe in that exact moment.
That was when it slipped out.
“I love you,” Steve said, without thinking, like a reflex, like it had just been waiting for a chance to break free. The words came so easily he almost thought they might undo everything.
Eddie blinked, surprised, his cheeks flushed with wine and the yellow glow of the lanterns reflecting in his eyes. Steve’s heart hammered like an engine out of control; he feared he had broken the spell, pushed too far. But then Eddie laughed softly, that laugh that felt like a shared secret, and held him by the nape like there was nothing to fear.
“I love you too, Stevie,” he whispered, almost shy, though his smile betrayed him.
The words tore through Steve like both a gunshot and a caress. He didn’t have time to think—he kissed him. At first soft, with the restrained urgency of weeks of too-long stares and touches that never crossed the line. Then firmer, as if he needed to memorize the taste of wine on his mouth, as if he had to brand Eddie’s skin with the truth that those words were real, that they wouldn’t vanish at dawn.
Their hands moved without order. Eddie clung to his shoulders, wrinkling the tank top. Steve held him by the waist, fingers sliding just under the cut fabric, touching hot, fragile, living skin. There was no rush, only a quiet hunger, a desire that knew how to wait but no longer knew how to deny itself.
The mixtape kept spinning, the moon washed them in white, and Steve thought there was no way back. Not after an “I love you” born in the middle of a silly dance and sealed with a kiss that felt eternal.
The kiss unraveled into laughter and ragged breaths. Eddie rested his forehead against Steve’s, lips still wet, a wide smile he couldn’t contain. Steve held him tighter, as if afraid he would disappear if he loosened his grip.
Then the next song hit, that dramatic burst of synths that filled every space like a stadium. Eddie froze for a second, then burst out laughing against his neck.
“Seriously, Stevie?” he said between laughs, raising a brow at him. “Total Eclipse of the Heart. What’s next, Barry Manilow?”
Steve covered his face with one hand, laughing too, though he felt his ears burning.
“It’s not my fault.”
Eddie pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes still damp from wine and emotion.
“Sure, sure,” he repeated, sarcastic, giving him a gentle push on the chest. “Admit it, Harrington: you’re a hopeless romantic.”
Steve gripped his waist and pulled him back in, starting to sway clumsily to the dramatic rhythm of the song.
“Maybe I am,” he admitted with a crooked smile. “Honestly, I don’t even know how I got here.”
Eddie tilted his head, curious.
“Here… the clearing? Or with me?”
Steve swallowed hard and forced himself to hold his gaze.
“Both. I never thought I’d be in the middle of the woods dancing with you, listening to this ridiculous song, saying…” He broke off, laughing nervously. “Well, saying what I just said. Not after Nancy, at least.”
Eddie looked at him in silence for a moment, as if he wanted to engrave his words, then laid his head against his chest. The music swelled, grandiose, and they swayed clumsily, uncoordinated, but perfectly together.
“You’re a mess,” Eddie murmured softly, almost drowned out by the music. “And you’re also the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Steve closed his eyes. He kissed the top of Eddie’s head, breathing in the smell of his hair mixed with dirt and wilted flowers, and felt that everything—absolutely everything—made sense in that moment. He didn’t need answers, didn’t need to understand how he’d gotten there. He just needed to keep holding him while Bonnie Tyler screamed in the background about eclipses and broken hearts.
And for the first time in years, Steve thought there was nothing broken in him. That maybe, finally, he was whole.
The song kept building as Steve tilted Eddie’s face back, holding his jaw firmly. The kiss he gave him wasn’t timid or clumsy anymore: it was deep, burning, carrying an intensity that ran down his spine until it made him shiver. Eddie let out a low sound of surprise against his mouth, and Steve felt himself unravel with it.
“Stevie…” Eddie whispered between kisses, a playful complaint more than anything, but Steve silenced him with another touch of lips—slower, steadier.
He grabbed him by the waist with his other hand, pressing exactly where he wanted him, guiding him closer until there was no space left between their bodies. Eddie laughed, tipsy from the wine, breathless, and let himself be pulled into Steve’s embrace as if it were the only place he belonged.
“Always so firm…” he teased, a mischievous smile on his lips, though his eyes glowed soft.
Steve lowered his head, brushing his nose against Eddie’s, and murmured in a low, almost hoarse voice:
“Only with you.”
The kiss burned, but what scorched him most was Eddie’s sweet surrender. That letting himself be held. It was a secret Steve had discovered slowly, in previous nights, between laughter and trembling hands: Eddie, who had always carried the need to be the loudest, the strongest, the rebel, allowed himself to be soft in his arms. And Steve, goddamn it, Steve lived for that.
He knew every reaction by heart. He knew that if he bit Eddie’s lip just enough, Eddie would laugh nervously and bump their foreheads together as if trying to resist, only to come back hungry for more. He knew Eddie’s fingers always clenched in his shirt whenever Steve brushed his lower back, like a hidden switch had been flipped. He knew, too, that even when Eddie protested with sarcasm, even when he called him “alpha male Harrington,” deep down he loved being held firmly, loved being guided, loved the unspoken promise in Steve’s touch: you’re safe with me.
Now, under the pale moonlight and with that dramatic song filling the air, Steve rediscovered it all over again. Eddie moaned softly when Steve pulled him closer, and the sound jolted through him like a live wire. No drug, no race, no victory could ever compare. There was only Eddie—with wine-stained lips, summer-cool skin, and eyes that shone like fallen stars.
“I love you,” Steve repeated against his neck, like a prayer. Not because saying it once was enough, but because he needed to tell him in every language, on every night, until the words were carved into his skin.
Eddie laughed, low and hoarse, still caught between kisses.
“You already said that, Stevie…” But he trembled, and Steve knew he needed to hear it more than he’d ever admit.
He kissed him again, harder, claiming, and let his hands wander. The torn fabric of Eddie’s shirt let heat slip through straight to his skin, and Steve was going mad with it—with how easy it was to reach him. Eddie’s laughter broke into an involuntary moan, and Steve held him tighter, pride surging like fire at the fact that Eddie wasn’t trying to get away.
“You look like a hippie…” Steve murmured with a playful smile. “A hippie who fell into my bed and never left.”
Eddie shoved him weakly in the shoulder, but his laugh splintered into a gasp when Steve kissed behind his ear.
“And you look like…” he started, but lost the words in a sigh. “Shit, Steve, you’re way too good at this.”
Steve chuckled, low and satisfied, brushing his nose along Eddie’s jaw.
“That’s because I only ever learned with you,” he confessed. And it was true—no one else, no other skin, no other story mattered. Everything he knew, everything he’d ever learned, he had discovered with Eddie.
They stayed like that, half dancing, half devouring each other, until the blanket was forgotten and the wine nothing but a shadow. There was something sacred in that fusion of laughter and gasps, of clumsy words and touches too aware of every inch of the other. And though the night carried on, Steve knew what burned between them would never fade: love disguised as desire, desire disguised as play, play that ended as devotion.
The music still played, but Steve no longer heard anything except Eddie’s racing heartbeat, his ragged breaths, and the obsessive certainty that he would never, ever get tired of holding him like this.
Fin de la historia - The end of the story - La fin de l'histoire - Das Ende der Geschichte - La fine della storia - Fim da história - Tarina loppu
minxtape (pansexualbeast15) on Chapter 2 Fri 05 Sep 2025 12:51PM UTC
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