long haired freaks plz apply

by GriefAbyss

Summary:

Even a decade after relocating to another city, Steve still thinks about a guy he went to high school with.

---

What the hell does he do to his hair to get it like that? All… feathery, but not smooth. It kind of sucks, but it works for him. Him and nobody else. Steve wouldn't be caught dead with his hair looking fried.

Whatshisname sticks his tongue out to freak out the culty blond kid from the Tigers—John? John Carter?—and Steve watches the curve of it until it's back in his mouth. He knows what the tip of a tongue can do, he's got the experiences to back it up, and he wonders if this guy—seriously what's his fucking name?—has ever gone down on a woman or—

Or a guy.

Notes:

Happy new year's eve!!!

This was a fun thing I almost accidentally wrote, and while rereading it I decided that I like it a lot actually! So here you are, I hope you enjoy it <3 <3 <3

Let me know what you think!

---

 

The demon thingy on the back of a denim vest stares out at him, the big—orange? Red?—letters stamping themselves into his mind as he gawks: D-I-O.

Long messy hair and a total loudspeaker voice cut through his concentration—Tommy's just talking shit again anyway. He doesn't need Steve's thoughts, he just needs a mindless agreement.

What the hell does he do to his hair to get it like that? All… feathery, but not smooth. It kind of sucks, but it works for him. Him and nobody else. Steve wouldn't be caught dead with his hair looking fried.

Whatshisname sticks his tongue out to freak out the culty blond kid from the Tigers—John? John Carter?—and Steve watches the curve of it until it's back in his mouth. He knows what the tip of a tongue can do, he's got the experiences to back it up, and he wonders if this guy—seriously what's his fucking name?—has ever gone down on a woman or—

Or a guy.

A guy like Steve, whose hand works double time as he imagines the guy’s wallet chain clinking against Steve's leg as he pushes his way between them to get to Steve's belt.

They're not in the cafeteria anymore, and that's alright because Tommy is an old wound, and picturing him muttering in his ear about who's a slut now and who's cousin got a DUI is threatening his boner.

The D-I-O guy gets Steve's dick out in the back of his van—yeah, better location for it—sticks out his tongue and flicks the tip of it over exactly where Steve's rubbing his thumb in and—

What was his fucking name?

Steve groans, once again pissed off at himself for leaving all of his yearbooks behind when he left town. Or for not even remembering his last name—he could get his hands on a phone book and… and what?

Start calling up random men and asking if they were the hot freak who used to use lunch tables as a stage?

He remembers swish of his black bandana as he spun around, the words of his dramatic monologue—long gone and not important—Steve thinks half of them were taking potshots at guys like himself anyway—yeah, that's good, follow that. If only his jeans had ever been tight, though Steve has seen him trudge slowly out into gym class in shorts, so it's not like he's totally in the dark about the shape of his ass.

Denim and leather turns into cotton and jersey—now Steve's on the gymnasium bleachers and the guy is once again between his legs—"Gotta sit this one out, coach. Your star pupil needs some attention."—and the vague blur of everyone else doesn't stop Steve from getting the guy's tongue back on his dick.

In his old element, it's easier for his mind to stick to his train of thought, and now he can imagine long hair brushing against his thighs and dark eyes watching to see if Steve likes what he's doing and the head of his dick shutting him up by pushing into the tight ring of his throat.

Yeah—there it is.

He comes, cleans up, and rolls over. He's got work in the morning, and he falls asleep imagining the freaky guy will wake up in bed with him when his alarm goes off.

---

It's not until bedtime the next day that Steve thinks about him again—him, whatshisface, the guy—and when he does it's back to the usual routine of fantasy and total frustration.

By now it's been a decade, and he's still thinking about this. He tries not to let it drive him too crazy, but he has gone and tried to figure out who he is before. Nobody he knows from Hawkins had brought a yearbook with them when everyone evacuated—it wasn't important when shit was all starting to sink into the ground. Nobody he shared the cafeteria with is even around anymore with everyone scattered across the country, and while Robin might've known once, she used to eat in the band room and all she can remember of a long haired loudmouth is the one who played Dungeons and Dragons.

Steve's not sure they're the same person, and he only learned about D&D from the kids he babysat in Hawkins, after they ended up in the same city as him and they started hanging out again.

Ugh. This definitely isn't doing it for him.

It's a Friday night, and he's restless. He could go down the street for a pint and see some familiar faces that don't control his paycheck.

He gets up and gets dressed and gets out—the air is nice and then the bar is smoky; the pint is kinda gross but honestly fine. The bartender knows him, and so do the regulars, so he can relax into the quiet social comfort. He's one of the weird people from the Freak Hawkins Disaster, they don't expect much from him.

After a couple of hours he heads out, and on his way out the door he bumps into someone, calling an apology behind him—there’s a flash in his mind that tightens his guts into a weird knot. It's definitely time for his bedtime routine now.

---

"What if he cut his hair?" Robin asks, laughing at the face he makes. "Would you even recognize him?"

Steve thinks he would, absolutely, like there's something in him that would recognize the guy's soul, let alone his face, but it's a pathetic thing to say when his brain couldn't even hang onto his name.

"What if I dump my pop on your burger?" he asks sarcastically. "Don't be mean, Buckley. Of course I would."

"If he stuck out his tongue, maybe," Robin smirks, poking the air with her fry.

---

Maybe the guy did play D&D.

Steve squints through the darkness at his ceiling, his hand stalled on his dick, the blurry image of some demon—another one, man that guy loved his monsters—on the front of his white shirt coming to mind.

That doesn't help him though, none of the little shitheads were in high school before Hawkins sank. It would've been the next fall. Besides… yeah, besides, the guy fucking graduated anyway.

He graduated with Steve.

"That's right," he mutters to his room.

He re-remembers this shit like twice a month, but never re-remembers his fucking name.

The last name was like… a C or an F, he went before Steve—or

No, he didn't. Steve remembers watching him from the audience, flipping off the staff before he snatched his diploma and ran off with a laugh that had glued itself to the cobwebs of Steve's mind.

"Jesus fuck."

Should he go out again? There's work in the morning, but the pit in his chest says he's not gonna sleep anyway, and he likes being around people who will let him turn over the same decade old clues in good company. He thinks they think he's always reliving the disaster, and he's not going to correct them. Even if he changed his stupid obsession to be about a woman, it'd be… pathetic. Truly pathetic. He's this far out into his life and still stuck on someone he went to school with.

The bar is emptier than usual, and it's live mic night—or music night, whatever it's called when random people go perform. It's not his thing, but there's still a few familiar faces here and there, and a good stool that doesn't rock around when he sits on it so he relaxes into the bad jokes and the poetry he doesn't get and the clumsy acoustic guitar.

He drinks his one pint and hangs out for a while, and by the time they're announcing the next singer-songwriter he's out the door, on his way to bed with a weird nag in his chest to replace the ache from earlier.

---

The next few weeks are kind of a blur when he looks back on them, but that's how things go sometimes. He’s got memory problems. He goes by what's written on his calendar and it tells him that he saw Robin, and saw the kids, but he doesn't remember it yet.

He will eventually, when his brain churns it all out.

Until then, he functions off of sticky notes at work and his usual routine at home. He calls Robin every few days and she's not offended that he has no idea what she's talking about half the time—she knows he loves her.

His old crush doesn't bug him as much when he's like this, which helps greatly with sleeping at night, all the way until his standing pool night with a couple different bar buddies—at the usual place—and there's a change in the nightly programming.

Another open night thingy. Poetry, comedy, one guy who just wants to talk about his new car—guitars.

"What's he up to?" Greg from three years ago asks. Greg from five years ago shrugs.

"Plugging shit in."

Steve turns to look over his shoulder and his stomach leaps up and kicks him in the throat, making him choke on his spit. At first he thinks it’s an old ghost layered over a new person; he’s been time traveling in his head recently anyway, but Steve recognizes that soul before he even straightens from fiddling with his amp—long, kinda frizzy hair backs away from his face, presenting the spectre of Steve's vexation like the guy's face is due for an award.

The room numbs out around him as his skin buzzes. He's stuck in an awkward position but even the ache in his hip can't get him to move. If this is a dream it's gonna be fucked up to wake from—he never ages in Steve's mind, but he's got a scruffy beard here and no bangs and a white beater under his jacket, showing off tattoos and collar bones and a hint of chest hair.

An old, buried fear rises from the dust of Steve's mind and explodes into nothing, like the fizzle of dead fireworks:

He got out in time. He's not dead.

Steve sighs, a decade of his life coming out as he laughs and grabs his pint to drown what's going to be hysterics before they can begin.

It's him. Undeniably. Dark eyes squint as the shitty little spotlight shines into them and Steve recognizes his mouth. Then his teeth too, when he grins and straps on his guitar.

"I won't make you all plug your ears this time," he says into the mic, and Steve's blood starts buzzing too. "Thanks Darrell, for letting me come back."

Steve gawks all through his set—a couple of songs, a pared back performance of just vocals and electric guitar that works a fucking miracle on Steve's guts—and he still doesn't turn around as the guy is unplugging everything and hauling his amp off the stage.

"Must be one of those things," one of his buddies says, audible over the sound of the next person's announcement. "You know how he gets. He'll be a'right."

They're talking about him. They can't see how long it’s been—the acid of desire, and now the opportunity—because he's had his back to them for like a half an hour.

He's at the bar before he realizes it, knocking on it for attention.

"Darrell," he says, and Jesus Christ, he's totally breathless. "Darrell who the fuck was that?"

---

Eddie Munson. How could he have forgotten? It’s so familiar to him now.

---

Steve jerks off twice that night with delirious hope fuelling what turns out to be less of a fantasy and more of a series of images: a pick between Eddie’s fingers, his teeth glinting—dark eyes, and long fried hair.

Afterwards Steve lays in his bed and laughs.

"His hair still sucks!"

---

He can't ask anyone to hook him up with Eddie's number—he's nobody to him, and Eddie's nobody to any of his people. So he just turns his name over in his mouth under his breath and keeps going to audience mic nights—or whatever—and hopes to see him again.

He gets lucky one evening.

It's a Thursday, but as soon as he sees Eddie slip out for a cigarette while he's just coming out of the men's room, he changes direction and sneaks out behind him, making sure his buddies don't catch him.

Sure, secrecy admits guilt or whatever, but sue him. He's guilty of a lot.

Eddie parks up against the wall and pulls out a smoke and Steve steps up to him until he's an arm's length away and sticks his hands in his pockets.

"Hey."

Eddie's not surprised. Not when he looks up and not when he takes him in.

"Huh. Hey," he says back, sending Steve's heart into a tailspin. They're talking to each other now. It’s real now.

"I'm glad to see you… made it out," Steve says, because it's a common thing between distant acquaintances from Hawkins say if they ever bump into each other.

Eddie nods, warming up a little.

"You too, Harrington."

He lights his cigarette and Steve wonders how the hell he's going to keep the conversation going when all he's got are sexual fantasies and a shared catastrophe they didn’t even experience together.

"You new in the city?" Eddie asks, blowing smoke away from Steve's face.

"Nah. Been here since I left town."

Eddie's surprised now, and he laughs quietly.

"Me too… how'd we spend ten years avoiding each other? I ran into half the cheerleading squad every weekend for months when I got here."

Steve immediately wonders if he got with any of them. He knows which girls would have done it—secretly, at least back in high school.

Then he wonders if Eddie could sense him somehow, if he knew what a fucking pervert Steve is, and was avoiding him. Like he can pick out Steve by the soul too, and knew to stay away.

"Big city, I guess," he says, shrugging. "Cool to see you play. You're good."

Eddie smile bites into the filter of his smoke and ducks his head like he never hears that, which can't be fucking true.

"Thanks, man."

Steve wants to reach out, to magically have a pen on him to scrawl his number over Eddie's arm like they're back in senior year, flirting in the back of Math class or something.

"You gonna play here again?"

Eddie nods, rolling his lips together before he takes another drag. Steve needs to stop noticing his mouth so hard. He forces himself to glance at the sky, then the wall, then the street.

Then back to Eddie’s mouth.

"I do a lot of Thursdays. Weekends too, if I have nothing going on, but… I usually have somethin' going on."

"Ah, busy with…?" Steve can't bring himself to ask about a girlfriend—or a wife.

"My band," Eddie grins. "More guitar playing in bars, just less stripped back."

"So... more clothes then," Steve jokes, relieved when it comes out smoothly and Eddie laughs loud enough that it's got to be real.

"Yeah Steve, more people, so more clothes."

Steve grins at him and wonders if they could be friends. He'll stop jerking off to fantasies of him—maybe he'll even get over the stupid crush. It was probably just sticking around because of the unresolved questions in his head anyway.

"You should come see us play, hang on," Eddie parks the cigarette between his lips and digs in his pockets, fishing out a folded up piece of paper. "We're here almost every Saturday, call ahead to check if you want."

Steve takes the paper from Eddie's fingers and unfolds it instead of staring at his hand. It's an outdated flyer for a show: CORRODED COFFIN: RISING FROM THE ASHES. A strange feeling pings at the back of his head.

It's almost familiar, in the same way that he can almost remember which errand he and Robin did a few days ago.

"Were you in a band in high school?" he asks, thumbing at the curled edge of the paper. It's dated from five years ago. They’ve been playing at this same place for a while.

"Yeah. We uh, we all made it out to the same place, eventually. Took a while."

Steve nods, thinking about the long distance phone calls between him and Robin. She'd been dragged to where half her relatives lived to finish off her high school diploma, then went to community college there. Now she's on her fiftieth year of university, and Steve's not alone and broke anymore. If she moves away again, he's going with.

"Yeah," he sighs. "Glad you did. It's… good to hear that."

He couldn't remember Eddie's friends with his life on the line, but Eddie's already crushing the cigarette with his shoe so it doesn't look like he's gonna get quizzed on it anyway.

"Yeah. Uh, no pressure, I won't be offended if you don't show up. Just…" Eddie trails off, wincing and uncertain. "I know we were never friends, but you know… don't be a stranger."

Fuck it. That’s the best invitation he’ll ever get.

"Got a pen?" he asks, relaxing when Eddie pulls a sharpie out of his jacket pocket. "Got something I can write on?"

Eddie clues in, sticks his hands in his pockets, comes up empty, shrugs, and shoves his sleeve up far enough to expose his wrist.

He holds out the underside of it and Steve uncaps the sharpie, staring at delicate skin over blue veins. It feels nothing like flirting in Math class. It feels like glue.

Steve folds the flyer and sticks it in his back pocket, determined not to lose the info on where to find Eddie again, and then he's got the back of Eddie's hand against his palm like they touch every day.

Carefully writing out his phone number on his skin shouldn't make his own skin start buzzing—even happier than the first time he saw him again—but he knows he's already been crazy for years. Getting off on something so chaste isn't that weird for him.

"There," he concludes, and caps the sharpie. "Call anytime, I have an answering machine."

Eddie stares down at his wrist for a long moment and then looks up at Steve, breaking out into a smile. It feels like a moment—Steve wants to—

"Okay, I will. Don't be mad if I wake you up at three in the morning," he grins.

Steve thinks about talking to him while he's in bed and feels heat build under his collar.

"Go ahead, I'll probably answer if I'm not asleep."

Eddie's eyebrows raise and Steve wonders when he grew out his bangs.

Was it after he moved out of Hawkins? Was it last year? Five years ago? He’s not sure why it matters, but Steve had liked them. He likes it now too, seeing more of Eddie’s face—his hair suits him now, in a different way.

---

Eddie doesn’t call him in the middle of the night.

He knows because he lays awake, restless and worried and hopeful until the sun comes up, then he finally knocks out, Saturday morning routine be damned.

And damned he is, when Eddie doesn’t call all weekend, or through the week. By Tuesday he gives in and gets Robin to come over and talk him through the decomposing mess he’s changing into, and she makes him write down his phone number for her just to be sure he didn’t fuck it up when writing it on Eddie.

It’s been the same the whole time he’s lived here, though. He got it right.

Eddie just doesn’t want to call.

He gets through Thursday by sleeping right after supper time until his alarm goes off for work in the morning, and he gets through Friday by going out with Robin and drinking and regretting it before he’s even halfway through the night.

Saturday is a hangover and with a hangover comes an emotional numbness that finds him staring at the stupid flyer Eddie gave him. Grinding his teeth against the headache and deciding that if he doesn’t want to call him, he’ll have to explain why to his face, instead of being a coward, or hating him from a distance—Steve can’t fucking stand silent distance; vacation after vacation until the town sank and he just—

He’s going to get a resolution even if it sucks ass.

---

“Steve, look.” Eddie starts, then sighs heavily. He runs his fingers over the hair on his chin and Steve thinks—here it is. He steels himself to take it gracefully. “I... I got the yips.”

He’s ready to nod and say a polite goodbye and promise not to bother him anymore, but the yips isn’t I was just being polite and I don’t like you. His gut jumps like he just missed a step on his way down the stairs.

“Sorry?”

“Yeah, uh,” Eddie laughs, all nervous, not looking at him. “Listen. There’s shit about me that’s not—it’s not bad per se but... if you—you just—I mean...”

“We’re all fucked up, Eddie. I don’t care if you’ve got shell shock or alcoholism or whatever,” Steve says, though he hopes he’s not addicted to a needle drug. He can’t be around needles—it’d might be hard to make that work.

“Alright, uh. I’m risking a lot—telling you—but fuck it, right? I’ve lost everything and lived anyway. Twice.”

Steve nods slowly, wondering if he like, has real skeletons in his closet.

“I’m... I’m gay,” Eddie says, then winces. “There’s other shit, but that’s the worst one, I guess.”

The world spins a little slower as Steve focuses on keeping his hands in his pockets. The crushing disappointment and the desperation to keep his own shit under wraps both ebb away until he can feel it sinking into the earth. Eddie’s gay—just like the rumors—and he doesn’t hate Steve. He was just scared. He’s gotta react normally, and he nods at first, which isn’t great because he needs to use his words so Eddie doesn’t think it’s an aggressive kind of nod, or like—

“That’s great news!” he says, way too chipper about it, but at least Eddie relaxes enough to look confused instead of like he’s bracing himself. “I mean... “

Well. If he tells him, his chances at... at something will go up. Or he’ll just get rejected for who he is, instead of for like, incompatibility. He doesn’t know which would be worse.

“I’m gay too,” he says. “Into both, but... I kinda quit women for a while. It’s hard to explain. I’ve just been focusing on men.”

Eddie squints at him like he’s trying to see through the shitty spotlight at Steve’s local bar, but then a smile breaks out over his face and Steve’s chest loosens in relief.

“How about that,” he laughs, “I spent a week torturing myself for no reason.”

Steve bites his tongue and nods. He doesn’t want to tell him how bad it was for him too—that’ll just get him questions, and then it’ll snowball into trying to explain just how pathetic he’s been this whole time. Eddie would never want him after that.

“Good thing I was brave, huh?” Steve teases, pulling his hands out of his pockets. “I thought you remembered you hated my guts or something.”

Eddie shrugs, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. Steve’s heart doubles over at the sight of metal rings up the shell of it. It looks... hot. Kind of feminine, but that’s hot too—it works with the rest of what he has going on.

“I think you’re pretty hard to hate, man,” Eddie says, and if it’s not a come on it’s at least warm enough to catch Steve’s gut on fire. “I am really sorry, I—y’know. The self esteem thing still escapes me sometimes.”

Steve never would’ve thought Eddie of lunch-table-Godzilla fame would have issues with self esteem. Could’ve just the whole piss and vinegar of youth thing, but even talking to him before he seemed pretty self assured.

“I think...” he starts, then looks around. “If I stick around after your show, would you like that?”

Eddie nods dumbly for a second, then glances at his watch and hisses through his teeth.

“Fuck! Uh—listen,” he urges, reaching up to squeeze Steve’s shoulder. “Please stick around after. I gotta run. Should be doing sound right now.”

“I’ll be here. Good luck,” Steve laughs, trying to catch his breath as Eddie hightails it back inside.

---

Steve liked watching Eddie’s band well enough. He sort of recognizes the rest of them, but he wasn’t really able to focus on putting faces on stage to blurry cafeteria memories, because Eddie on this stage really isn’t stripped back like he is at the open night.

Eddie’s got a beer in hand as he teases the audience, flirting easily with the mic between pulls, and man. Steve likes watching men drink, but Eddie blows them out of the water when it comes to holding his attention. Besides, there’s nothing complicated about this—nothing’s off. Steve’s not desperately trying to be attracted to a drinking buddy just to feel something new—and every time Eddie moves or speaks or does anything, that’s something else to add to the handful of memories he’s been wearing out at night.

He thinks if Eddie stood in the cafeteria with his amp and his guitar and a microphone—if he didn’t suck back then—then he would’ve caught more flies than all of the yelling.

Steve once thought that if he got out, Eddie could go into politics. Politicians love to stand up and talk about shit all day. But maybe that’s too close to being the man, and being a musician suits him so much better. Steve doesn’t want to fuck a politician. He wants to fuck Eddie.

Yeah. He really, really wants to fuck Eddie.

Eddie finishes off his beer and sets the bottle by the speakers, then gives the audience a little wink and then the drummer guy is counting on his sticks and they launch into a song that feels like running into a brick wall.

Steve doesn’t like it for its like, music. He likes it because he feels like he’s getting shaken apart. He should’ve worn earplugs, but he thinks he’ll be okay because he doesn’t work tomorrow. There’s not a lot of guys here wearing earplugs, but the band is, and he feels like behaving more like them than the people he’s standing with. So maybe next time? Earplugs?

Maybe he’s getting weird about it. Maybe his in with the band—Eddie, it’s with Eddie—makes him feel special, in this crowd. Is he not supposed to?

Eddie answers his question by making eye contact with him, slowly pressing his lips against the mic, and letting loose a slow, deep growl, right from the gut. It’s kind of quiet like he’s trying to seduce him, instead of the louder screams he’s been doing, and Steve’s dick gets hard so fast he feels like he missed another step on his physiological staircase.

After years of predictability, of silence and wondering and frustration, Eddie keeps catching him off guard.

The hot growl ends and Eddie’s still looking at him so he’s got to do something—he doesn’t know this crowd but it’s kinda dark in here—he’s not even sure Eddie can see him—so he blows a kiss. It’s gayer than he’ll let himself get in general public, but Eddie puts a hand to his chest and does some singing, and that sounds so good that Steve’s toes curl in his shoes—he’s got tingles.

When that song is over, it seems like so is the set. Eddie introduces everyone and Steve retains none of it. He’s getting to know their faces through, and which face goes with what instrument, so if he meets them he’ll be able to talk his way around their names until they stick in his head. They start unplugging cords right after that, so Steve guesses this isn’t the type of show they do encores at, and with his drink gone and nothing else to do, he wanders up to the side of the stage and offers to help carry shit.

The big guy with the bass gives him an assessing glare, but he hands off an amp and Steve follows one of the other guys out the back door to the place. The black guy with the other guitar shows him where to set it and then assesses him too, though he’s smirking and Steve likes that a lot more.

“Eddie said he ran into you,” he says, and sticks out his hand. “Jeff.”

Steve takes his hand and gives a friendly shake.

“Steve,” he says, even though Jeff—Jeff, his name is Jeff, black guy with the bass, Jeff—already knows that. “Yeah, apparently we’ve been living in the same city all this time.”

Jeff makes a face like that’s mildly impressive and nods, heading back in. Steve follows, ready to carry whatever else.

When they’re back at the van with another armload, Jeff pauses and looks at him again.

“My mom was in this group,” he says, tapping his fingers on the open door. “A bunch of women from Hawkins formed this... support group, I guess. They had a list of people who relocated here. I don’t think you were on it though.”

Steve shrugs. He only knew who was here if they kept in touch from Hawkins, or if he randomly ran into them. He knows his mother wouldn’t have joined that group unless there was a way for her to lead it and turn it into a project for her ego.

“I guess we all were just ships passing in the ocean,” he says, and Jeff’s mouth twists all amused like Robin’s does sometimes when he says something funny.

“Yeah, happens I guess,” Jeff says, and then Eddie’s clambering through with a bunch of cords and his guitar and another guitar, so Steve halts him by the shoulder and eases some of the stuff out of his hands. “It’s cool you guys finally ran into each other though.”

Yeah. It’s very cool—Jeff will never know how cool it is.

Eddie says something that Steve can’t really make out, his voice is kinda shot and Steve’s ears are starting to do that muffled thing, so he just slides the guitar cases as deep in the van as he can reach. Eddie chokes on his spit—he can hear that, it’s loud—and he wonders if he missed Jeff saying something too.

He pulls back out and straightens up, running a hand through his hair.

“What are you guys doing after this?”

---

Eddie ended up ditching his band mates—friends, his best friends—to hang out with Steve. When he brought up post-show activities he really meant he’d hang out with them all, but Eddie had jumped on the opportunity to get him alone and Steve’s not complaining. Might as well see if they can stand each other for a longer time before getting to know everyone.

“Huh,” Steve says slowly, leaning back in his chair. “So you’ve always been a business man.”

Eddie gapes, an affronted scoff spearheading what Steve thinks might be a resurgence of table-walking, but this is Eddie’s pick for food, not his, so if they get kicked out it’ll be worth the entertainment.

“You take that back!”

Steve grins and shakes his head, biting down on his straw. He won’t be doing that. Eddie’s been running a business since he was way too young to even be thinking about weed, and while Steve much prefers whatever he was talking about tonight—something about cards and books and figurines, so his best guess is a bookstore—there’s no denying that it taught him a lot of skills he uses now.

“Heathen,” Eddie hisses, but he can’t hide the curve of his smile or the pleased look in his eye.

“Next time I see you,” Steve says, then feels wrong-footed once again. He’s assuming—instead of talking around it—that they will. Now he has to barrel through and hope Eddie does want to see him again. “Next time you’ll be wearing a suit and tie.”

Eddie holds up his coke and shakes it menacingly.

“I’ll dump this on you,” he threatens, and Steve holds back a joke about burgers—he threatened had Robin with that, not Eddie.

“You’ll have a briefcase,” Steve continues with laughter sneaking out into his words. “Tax documents. Legal documents. A calculator. One of those ones that makes receipts.”

Eddie throws a fry at his face and Steve catches it in his mouth. Maybe he should’ve let it hit him, that would’ve been funnier, but Eddie’s little pause to blink all dumbfounded at him is worth it.

“You’re cruel and you’re mean,” Eddie grins.

“And you’re going to wake up a week from now and find yourself taking the CPA exam,” Steve says, leaning in, wiggling his fingers. “And you’ll pass.”

“The what?” Eddie asks, leaning in too, nearly knocking his coke off of the table.

“The Uniform Certified Public Accountant Examination.”

Eddie squints at him.

“I’m not becoming an accountant!” He’s hissing again.

“I dunno man, have you been bitten by anyone recently? Full moon’s coming up,” he says. He doesn’t know when the full moon is, but there’s one every month, so it’s always coming up. “Though you’ll have to take the exam over months if you’re a Were-Accountant, there’s like, four modules, and they’re four hours each.”

Eddie gawks at him. It feels good to be on the other side of it, even if it’s just because he’s joking around.

“You’ll pass them all though,” Steve concludes, “with your suit and tie and your briefcase and all.”

Eddie slumps back into his seat, slapping a hand over his face as he laughs helplessly, shaking his head into his palm.

“Steve?” he asks, peeking through his fingers.

“Yes?”

“Eat your food.”

Steve eats his food and thinks about the real big kick he gets out of teasing Eddie.

---

“Full moon is tomorrow,” Eddie points out, looking at the sky as they walk down his street.

Steve smiles at the bright pie in the sky and tries to come up with a joke about the moon and a pale ass, but it’s hard to work it into the thing they have going on right now without risking it.

“I’d better stay the night, then,” he says, pressing the back of his hand against Eddie’s arm. “So you have someone to chain you to the radiator. God knows what you’ll do when you turn into an accountant—you’d wake up in the middle of an office wearing slacks. You’d be giving someone advice on budgeting for a yacht.”

Eddie stares at him, pressing his lips together to try to keep his laugh in.

“I want to chew you like a dog with a piece of rawhide,” he says like a threat. “I want to sink my teeth into you and shake you all over.”

Steve’s blood runs hot. What he wants is to get Eddie in bed and grind into him like he’s fifteen and humping his pillow.

“My stuffing would come out,” he says, and pats his stomach. “But you know how to mend things, right? Unless you didn’t sew all of that.”

He gestures at Eddie’s vest. Eddie gives him a long look, then grabs his hand and starts running the rest of the way.

---

Steve’s too busy laughing breathlessly to take in the building as they definitely wake up Eddie’s neighbors, clomping up the stairs as fast as they can, but he doesn’t really care too much about it if Eddie’s not checking out any of the dark corners.

The front door closes. Eddie locks it, then he’s pushing Steve up against the wall, laughing into his mouth—his teeth and lips and his breath say a clumsy hello to Steve’s. The line of Eddie’s body rests on his and he ignores any politeness to grab Eddie’s ass through his jeans, pulling him down harder, kissing him back. He’s not sure when they made the decision, but clearly something inside of Eddie had snapped and Steve got with the program while he was being dragged down the street.

It’s been years of build up for this. Eddie couldn’t know, but he still gives as good as Steve—it’s not long before they’re biting at each other’s lips and blindly undressing each other, and while Steve would love to get him on his knees or lay him out and take his time with him, when Eddie takes them both in hand he ignores every single fantasy he’s ever had and digs his fingers into his ass cheeks, moaning his encouragement into his mouth.

Unfortunately, it takes no time for Steve to come. If somebody asked him to describe this moment though, he’d still call it a dream come true, and as soon as his cum gets all over Eddie’s hand, there are punched out groans against Steve’s neck and teeth against his skin as Eddie follows him. They stay there for a minute while Eddie holds their softening dicks in his hand, resting. Steve feels out the muscles in his back, finding a spot that might be scar tissue. He just moves on for now, get his hand up to Eddie’s hair so he can touch it, can rub his fingers against his scalp and feel him sigh.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, rubbing his nose under Steve’s ear. “That was over a lot faster than I imagined.”

Steve laughs, getting an arm around his waist to give him a squeeze.

“Me too. I’m a multi-course meal though,” he says, trying to flex his dick in Eddie’s hand. It doesn’t really work because it’s completely soft now, but he figures they’ll both go for another round soon. “That was just the appetizer.”

He feels it when Eddie grins. It’s nice, getting this close to someone again, even more than getting his dick touched. Eddie’s leg hair brushes against his own as he pulls back and lets go of him.

“What’d’you think?” Eddie asks, rubbing his thumb over his wet fingers. “Bedroom? Couch? Dining room table?”

Steve thinks about laying him out on the table and fucking him like that—he has to blink hard a few times to get his mind to work.

“Don’t call me boring,” he says, “but let’s start in the bedroom.”

Eddie just gives him a knowing look and takes his hand again—getting cum all over it—then pulls him deeper into the apartment.

---

Unlike his fantasies, getting Eddie’s mouth on him doesn’t involve like, a reason. There’s no bet or struggle or dare or—

Eddie just wants to push Steve down and kiss up his thighs and suck his soft cock into his mouth, so he does, and because Steve doesn’t have to hold any concentration to keep him here, it almost feels like something’s missing. The well worn effort is gone—he doesn’t have to imagine really hard to get Eddie’s face to look right as he playfully flicks the tip of his tongue over the head of Steve’s cock. He doesn’t have to justify anything to himself.

And he finally knows his name.

“Can’t believe you got hotter,” he moans, palming the side of Eddie’s face. He’s fully hard again already, even though he’s kind of exhausted too. It’s been a long week. It’s also easy to let Eddie do what he wants to.

Eddie stares for a moment, looking pleased, then bats his eyelashes at him and the eye contact is broken as he swallows him all the way down. The inside of his mouth is real—like taking earplugs out after hours of wearing them and hearing every sound with no buffer—it’s almost too much for him to handle.

“Eddie,” he gasps, brushing his fingers over the rings in his ear. “Fuck, you took that good.”

He really isn’t gonna last, despite coming like fifteen minutes ago.

Eddie cups his balls and gives a friendly squeeze, making Steve’s leg reflexively jerk against his shoulder. He tries to come up with more things to say, but in his fantasies it was always Eddie running his mouth, all the way up until it was full of Steve’s dick, and then Steve didn’t need to keep up any kind of dialogue because Eddie was basically a ghost. Now he pets at his hair and tries to keep from thrusting into him, has to worry about hurting him—it’s kind of an honor.

His orgasm creeps up on him and when he comes he’s laughing in disbelief, shocked over and over again at what he suddenly has, at how stagnant problems can suddenly change because he finally got lucky.

Eddie pulls off and licks his lips, then sniffs and gives Steve a watery smile—maybe he did hurt him a little, or pushed in too deep, but he seems okay so—

“I can’t fucking believe it,” Eddie says, falling over himself onto his back. The bed bounces and Steve can only watch him. “I’ve wanted to suck your dick for so many years, you have no fucking idea—”

“Actually,” Steve interrupts, grabbing his face to kiss him. “I know exactly what it’s like.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows like he thinks he’s exaggerating.

“Pretty much every night I’ve been uh, jerking off to you,” he continues, pausing to kiss him again like that’ll push back the scared part of him that’s yelling at him to shut up. “Since high school. So.”

Eddie just gawks for a moment. Steve doesn’t think it landed badly though, so he tries not to worry.

“Every night since high school.”

“Yeah, unless I was like, too sick or tired to get off.”

“High school was thirty years ago!”

“We graduated in ‘85, it was ten years ago,” Steve says, trying not to laugh.

“Thirty long years,” Eddie sighs. “Wow.”

Steve decides to let him deflect and instead shoves his face in his neck. Eddie’s dick is still hard and he wants to do something about it.

---

Things finally come full circle when Steve gets Eddie in his bed.

It’s much different with him actually here—louder, fuller, messier—and when Steve wakes up sweaty with cum dried in his pubes, he doesn’t want to leave to get up and shower. He kisses Eddie’s forehead and sighs, instead letting his mind wander as he takes in the solidity of him—the reality.

“I’m so glad I found you,” he says after a while, wondering if he should be grateful they finally connected or upset it took so fucking long.

“Excuse me,” Eddie mumbles, “I found you.”

Steve’s heart skips a beat at the implication that Eddie was searching for him. Still, he has to argue.

“You did not, I saw you first.”

“Oh, so you saw me when you almost ran me over? Almost flattened me into the pavement? Like a falling piano?” Eddie scoffs, smiling into Steve’s neck.

Wait.

“What?”

“Leaving the bar I was gonna play at. You didn’t even look at me.”

Steve’s breath stalls in his throat.

“I had to keep coming to open mic night just to see if I could find you again.”

Steve sits up enough to stare down at him. He remembers that, barely clipping someone’s shoulder with his own because he was too deep in his own head, and how he’d felt pretty fucking weird after.

“That’s crazy,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I didn’t see where I was going because I was thinking too hard about you.”

Eddie blinks the sleep out of his eyes and smirks, reaching up to touch Steve’s cheek.

“I win, I saw you first.”

Steve shrugs, half committed to his agreement, before he leans in and murmurs against his mouth.

“Alright. I’ll just have a different first instead,” he says, then pulls back before Eddie can kiss him. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

Eddie glares ineffectively. Steve waits long enough that a grin takes over and he gets a hand in Steve’s hair to pulls him back down, telling him yes the best he can with his tongue in his mouth.

“There. Now I win,” he smirks, rubbing his nose against Eddie’s.

“Yeah, you really think that, huh?” Eddie laughs, sliding his palms down Steve’s back to grab his ass. “Pretty sure I’m getting the best prize here.”

Despite the joke, it hits Steve’s chest like something sincere anyway, so Steve decides to let him have it, because he doesn’t want to ruin the feeling. He’d always felt like a sick pervert because of his weird thing for Eddie, but he couldn’t possibly be one now, not if Eddie feels the same way he does.

Besides, his mouth is too busy to argue when he’s kissing him this hard.

 

---

Notes:

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