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Eddie Munson hadn't set foot in a church since his mother's funeral when he was eight years old. That was thirty years ago, and he'd made peace with the fact that God—if there even was one—had made peace with his absence too.
But desperation made hypocrites of everyone.
The room behind the sanctuary wasn't much. A narrow space with a single window, a bed that creaked when he breathed too hard, and a cross on the wall he'd turned to face the corner. But it was warm, it was dry, and it kept him off the streets. All it cost him was three nights a week on piano or guitar while a gaggle of kids butchered hymns in their Sunday best.
Small price to pay.
Eddie had never been what anyone would call righteous. His fingers had rolled more joints than rosaries, his lips had tasted whiskey more often than communion wine, and the things he thought about—the things he wanted—would've had the congregation clutching their pearls and calling for an exorcism. But they didn't need to know that. They saw the music, heard the talent, and decided God worked in mysterious ways.
Fine by him.
His hair fell past his shoulders now, dark and wild, shot through with the first hints of silver at his temples. He kept a trimmed beard and mustache—not long, just enough to make him look like he'd stepped out of a Fleetwood Mac album cover. The tattoos crawling up his forearms stayed hidden beneath long sleeves during services, but he caught the disapproving glances from the older parishioners who could probably smell the sin on him anyway.
He was good at pretending. Good at playing the part. Good at keeping his eyes forward and his thoughts to himself.
Until Steve Harrington started bringing his babysitting charges to Wednesday and Sunday rehearsals.
The first time Eddie saw him, he nearly fumbled a chord.
Steve couldn't have been more than twenty-two, twenty-three at most. All golden skin and honey-colored hair that fell just so across his forehead, like he'd rolled out of bed looking like a goddamn Renaissance painting. He wore simple clothes—jeans that hugged his thighs, sweaters that shouldn't have looked that good on anyone, sneakers that had seen better days. Probably putting himself through college with the babysitting money, wrangling kids for wealthy Hawkins families who didn't want to raise their own.
He'd walk in with two or three children clinging to his hands, all of them adoring him, and Eddie's fingers would still on the keys for just a second. Just long enough to watch Steve kneel down to their height, brush hair from their faces, whisper encouragements that made them grin.
Then Steve would look up.
And Eddie would drag his eyes back to the sheet music like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.
It became a routine. A sick, torturous routine that Eddie simultaneously dreaded and craved. Wednesday evenings and Sunday afternoons, like clockwork. Steve would arrive, corral his kids into the small choir section, and take a seat in one of the pews near the back. Close enough that Eddie could feel his presence like static electricity, far enough that they'd never spoken a single word to each other.
Eddie played. Steve watched the children. And between them hung something thick and dangerous that had no business existing in a house of God.
At night, alone in his small room with nothing but the sounds of Hawkins settling into sleep around him, Eddie let himself think the things he couldn't during the day.
He thought about the way Steve's throat worked when he swallowed.
The curve of his bottom lip when he smiled at the kids.
The glimpse of collarbone when his sweater shifted just right.
Eddie would lie on his narrow bed, one hand thrown over his eyes, the other pressed flat against his chest where his heart kicked like it was trying to escape. His mind painted pictures in the dark—Steve's hair wrapped around his fingers, Steve's breath hot against his neck, Steve's body pinned beneath his own weight while he—
Stop.
He'd roll onto his stomach, press his face into the pillow, and try to drown out the fantasies with anything else. Bills he needed to pay. Songs he needed to practice. The fucking grocery list.
But it always came back to Steve.
Steve, who probably didn't even know Eddie's name.
Steve, who was young and beautiful and so fucking good it hurt to look at him sometimes.
Steve, who had no idea what Eddie wanted to do to him in the shadows where angels feared to tread.
The tension built like a slow-burning fuse.
Eddie started noticing the small things. The way Steve's eyes would dart toward him during rehearsals, then skitter away like he'd been caught doing something forbidden. How he'd shift in his seat when Eddie's fingers moved across the guitar strings, crossing and uncrossing his legs like he couldn't get comfortable.
Once, Eddie caught him staring.
He'd been setting up for an evening rehearsal, tuning his guitar, when he felt it—that prickling awareness that came with being watched. He looked up and there was Steve, standing in the doorway with a little girl holding his hand, his eyes fixed on Eddie's forearms where his sleeves had ridden up to expose the edges of his tattoos.
Their gazes met.
Steve's lips parted slightly, color flooding his cheeks, and for one brief, perfect moment, Eddie let himself look back. Let his eyes drag over Steve's face slowly, deliberately, drinking in every detail like a man dying of thirst.
He watched Steve's throat bob as he swallowed hard.
Watched his pupils dilate despite the bright church lighting.
Watched him take a shaky breath that made his chest rise and fall beneath his blue sweater.
Then Steve looked away, his hand tightening around the little girl's, and led her quickly to the choir section without looking back.
Eddie's fingers trembled as he returned to his guitar.
This was dangerous. This was so fucking dangerous.
But God help him—and God wouldn't, Eddie knew that much—he couldn't stop.
The next Sunday, Eddie wore a shirt with buttons instead of his usual pullover. Nothing obvious, nothing scandalous, but when he lifted his arms to adjust the microphone stand, the fabric pulled tight across his shoulders and the top two buttons strained just enough to hint at the ink decorating his chest.
He didn't look at Steve while he did it.
He didn't have to.
He could feel those eyes on him like a physical touch, hot and hungry and trying so desperately to be neither. Could feel the weight of Steve's gaze tracking the movement of his hands on the guitar neck, the flex of his fingers, the way his rings caught the light.
When rehearsal ended and the families filtered out, Eddie packed his guitar with hands that weren't quite steady. He could hear Steve's voice in the background, sweet and patient as he helped the kids gather their things.
"Come on, buddy, let's find your jacket."
"Great job today, you remembered all the words!"
"Yeah, we can get ice cream on the way home if your mom says it's okay."
Eddie's jaw clenched. He focused on latching his guitar case, on coiling cables, on anything except the fact that he wanted to know what that voice would sound like saying his name. Breathless. Desperate.
Begging.
He was going to hell.
But then again, he'd made that reservation a long time ago.
Eddie had been leaning against the brick wall behind the church for ten minutes, working through his second cigarette of the evening. The alley was narrow and dim, flanked by dumpsters and the skeletal remains of what used to be a loading dock. Nobody came back here. That was the point.
Out front, he'd have to endure the looks—the tight-lipped disapproval from the congregation who tolerated him because he was useful but would never forget he didn't belong. Back here, in the shadows, he could breathe. Could let the mask slip. Could be exactly what he was: a sinner squatting in a sanctuary, counting days until he had enough saved to buy another trailer and disappear.
Just like he'd been saying since he was seventeen.
Funny how he always found a reason to stay. How Hawkins had its hooks in him, year after year, like a curse he couldn't shake. He'd told himself it was practical—steady gig, free room, not terrible pay. But lately, there was something else.
Someone else.
Wednesday and Sunday had become the focal points of his week. Forty-eight hours would crawl by, and then Steve Harrington would walk through those doors with kids hanging off his arms and that face that belonged in a fucking museum, and Eddie's entire world would narrow to those two hours of rehearsal. To stolen glances and the electric charge in the air between them that had no name but felt like falling.
He was so fucked.
The back door creaked open.
Eddie didn't look up immediately, just brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, watching smoke curl up toward the darkening sky. Footsteps echoed in the alley—hesitant, careful—and then someone rounded the corner of the dumpsters.
Steve.
Eddie's heart kicked hard against his ribs.
Steve was alone. No kids, no parents, no choir robes. Just Steve in his jeans and that green sweater that made his eyes look like honey in sunlight, his hair slightly mussed like he'd been running his hands through it. He walked closer, stopped a few feet away, then leaned back against the brick wall beside Eddie. One foot came up to brace against the wall, knee bent, casual in a way that felt practiced.
They stood in silence.
Eddie could hear his own pulse in his ears. Could smell Steve's cologne—something clean and woodsy that had no business smelling that good. He took another drag from his cigarette, held it, then exhaled slowly into the cold air, watching the smoke dissolve into nothing.
Without a word, he extended the cigarette toward Steve.
Steve's eyes dropped to it. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip—a nervous gesture that Eddie felt like a punch to the gut—and then he reached out and took it. Their fingers didn't touch, but it was close. Too close. Not close enough.
Steve brought the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled. His cheeks hollowed slightly, his eyes fluttered half-closed, and Eddie watched like a man witnessing a religious experience.
"You didn't have your little sheep with you today," Eddie said finally, his voice rougher than he intended.
Steve exhaled, smoke streaming from his lips. "Day off."
Eddie's eyebrows lifted. "Then why the fuck are you here?" He paused, tilted his head. "You religious or something?"
Steve took another drag, longer this time, then passed the cigarette back. His fingers brushed Eddie's knuckles—just barely, just enough to send electricity racing up Eddie's arm.
"No," Steve said quietly. "I'm not."
Eddie waited, the cigarette burning between his fingers, forgotten.
Steve turned his head to look at him directly for the first time since stepping into the alley. His eyes were dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide, and there was something raw in his expression. Something that looked like surrender.
"I wanted to see you."
The words hung in the air between them like a confession.
Eddie's breath caught. He brought the cigarette to his lips on autopilot, inhaled, but didn't taste it. Couldn't taste anything except the adrenaline flooding his system.
"Yeah?" he managed, and his voice came out lower, darker. "Why's that, Steve?"
Steve's eyes widened slightly at the sound of his name. "You know my name."
"Course I do." Eddie flicked ash toward the ground, never breaking eye contact. "You've been bringing those kids here for three months. You think I don't pay attention?"
"I didn't think you noticed me at all."
Eddie laughed—a short, sharp sound with no humor in it. "Didn't notice you." He shook his head, took another drag. "That's fucking hilarious."
"What do you mean?"
Instead of answering, Eddie turned to face him fully, shifting his weight off the wall. He invaded Steve's space just slightly, just enough that Steve had to tilt his head back a fraction to maintain eye contact. Just enough that the air between them went tight and dangerous.
"I mean," Eddie said slowly, "that every Wednesday and Sunday, I sit at that piano or pick up that guitar, and I spend two goddamn hours trying not to look at you. Trying to focus on anything—the music, the kids, the fucking ceiling beams—anything except you sitting there in the back pew looking like..." He trailed off, jaw working.
"Like what?" Steve's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Like something I have no business wanting."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Steve's breathing had gone shallow. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath his sweater, and his hands had curled into fists at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching out.
"Eddie," he said, and the name sounded like a prayer and a curse all at once.
"Don't." Eddie's voice came out strained. He took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it away, watching the ember arc through the darkness. "Don't say my name like that unless you know what you're doing."
"What if I do know?"
"Do you?" Eddie stepped closer. Close enough now that he could feel the heat radiating off Steve's body. Close enough to see the freckles scattered across his nose, the faint scar on his chin, the way his pupils had swallowed almost all the color from his eyes. "Because I don't think you understand what you're asking for."
Steve's back was fully against the wall now, but he didn't look scared. He looked hungry.
"Then tell me," Steve breathed.
Eddie braced one hand on the brick beside Steve's head, leaning in until their faces were inches apart. He could feel Steve trembling—could see his throat working as he swallowed hard.
"I think about you," Eddie said, his voice dropping to something gravelly and dangerous. "Every night in that little room they gave me. I lie there in the dark and I think about what it would feel like to put my hands on you. To find out if your skin is as soft as it looks. To see if you'd make those sweet little sounds I imagine when I—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.
Steve made a small noise in the back of his throat.
"I think about your mouth," Eddie continued, his gaze dropping to Steve's lips. "About what you'd taste like. About how you'd look on your knees with those pretty eyes looking up at me." His free hand came up, hovering near Steve's face but not quite touching. "I think about all the ways I could ruin you, sweetheart. All the ways I could make you forget your own goddamn name."
"Eddie—" Steve's voice broke.
"I think about things," Eddie said, "that would get me thrown out of that church so fast my head would spin. Things that would confirm every fucked up assumption those good Christian people have about me." His thumb brushed Steve's bottom lip—just barely, just enough to feel its softness. "I think about corrupting you in every way possible."
Steve's eyes had gone glassy. His breathing was ragged, his whole body taut as a wire.
"What if," he whispered, "I want to be corrupted?"
Eddie's control snapped.
He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, but stopped with his lips a breath away from Steve's. Close enough to feel the heat, to share air, but not quite touching.
"You don't know what you're saying," Eddie growled.
"Yes, I do." Steve's hands finally moved, fisting in the fabric of Eddie's shirt. "I've been thinking about you too. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. I can't—" His voice cracked. "I can't stop."
"What do you think about?"
"You." Steve pulled him closer, desperation bleeding into his voice. "Your hands. Your voice. The way you look when you're playing guitar, like nothing else exists. The tattoos I can see when your sleeves ride up and the ones I know are hiding underneath." His eyes dropped to Eddie's mouth. "I think about what it would feel like to let you do all those terrible things you just said."
Eddie groaned, low and tortured.
"I'm not a good man, Steve."
"I don't care."
"I'm almost twice your age."
"I. Don't. Care."
"I'm living in a fucking church because I've got nowhere else to go—"
"Eddie." Steve's hands slid up to cup his face, trembling fingers pressing against his jaw. "I don't care about any of that. I just want—" He broke off, eyes squeezing shut. "I need—"
"What do you need, sweetheart?" Eddie's voice was pure gravel now. "Say it."
Steve's eyes opened, and they were blazing.
"You. I need you."
The last thread of Eddie's restraint disintegrated.
He crashed their mouths together with a desperation that bordered on violence. Steve gasped against his lips and Eddie swallowed the sound, one hand fisting in Steve's hair while the other pressed flat against the small of his back, hauling him closer. Steve tasted like cigarettes and something sweeter underneath, and Eddie drank it down like communion wine.
Steve kissed back with equal hunger, his hands sliding up into Eddie's hair, tugging at the strands in a way that sent sparks of pleasure-pain racing down Eddie's spine. He made small, needy sounds that drove Eddie absolutely insane, his body arching into Eddie's like he couldn't get close enough.
Eddie broke away from his mouth only to trail burning kisses along his jaw, down the column of his throat. Steve's head fell back against the brick with a soft thud, exposing more skin, and Eddie bit down gently on the join of his neck and shoulder.
"Fuck," Steve whimpered. "Eddie, please—"
"Please what?" Eddie's teeth scraped over his pulse point. "What do you want?"
"Everything. Anything. I don't—" Steve's words dissolved into a moan as Eddie's hand slipped under his sweater, fingers splaying across heated skin. "Oh god."
"God's not here, sweetheart." Eddie's voice was dark silk against Steve's throat. "Just me. Just us. Just this."
He kissed him again, slower this time but no less intense. Thorough. Claiming. Steve melted against him, surrendering completely, and Eddie had never felt anything as intoxicating as this beautiful boy giving himself over so completely.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Eddie pressed his forehead against Steve's. His hand was still under Steve's sweater, thumb tracing idle patterns on his ribcage, feeling his racing heartbeat.
"This is insane," Eddie breathed.
"I know."
"We shouldn't—"
"I know."
"If anyone finds out—"
"Eddie." Steve's hands tightened in his hair. "I don't care. I don't care about any of it. I just—" He pulled back enough to look Eddie in the eyes. "I've never felt like this before. Like I'm going to crawl out of my skin if I can't touch you."
Eddie's chest tightened. He should stop this. Should be the responsible one, the adult, the one who knew better. Should send Steve home and lock himself in his room and forget this ever happened.
But Steve was looking at him like he hung the moon, and Eddie had never been good at denying himself what he wanted.
"My room," he said roughly. "Back entrance, thirty minutes. Don't let anyone see you."
Steve nodded, eyes bright with anticipation and something that looked like relief.
Eddie forced himself to step back, immediately missing the warmth of Steve's body against his. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to calm his racing heart.
"Steve." He waited until Steve met his eyes. "You sure about this?"
Steve's smile was small but genuine, and it transformed his entire face.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
Eddie watched him slip back through the door into the church, waiting until his footsteps faded before leaning back against the wall and letting out a shaky breath.
He was definitely going to hell.
But if Steve Harrington was the sin that damned him, Eddie would walk into the flames with a smile on his face.
But Steve didn't come.
Eddie paced the small room like a caged animal, his footsteps wearing an invisible path in the threadbare carpet. The space felt even smaller than usual, the walls closing in with each passing minute. He checked the clock on the wall. Forty-five minutes since he'd left Steve in that alley.
A laugh bubbled up from his chest—sharp and slightly unhinged. What the fuck had he been thinking? Of course Steve wasn't coming.
Eddie had nothing to offer him. No future, no security, nothing but a borrowed room in a church and a life that had been stuck in neutral for over a decade. Steve would graduate from whatever college he was attending, get some respectable job with his pretty face and charming smile, and leave this godforsaken town in his rearview mirror. Just like Eddie should have done years ago.
Just like Eddie never would.
He exhaled harshly through his nose and stripped off his shirt, tossing it onto the single chair in the corner. The rest of his clothes followed until he was down to his boxers, and he collapsed onto the narrow bed with enough force to make the frame groan in protest.
The ceiling had water stains that looked like continents. Eddie had mapped them all a hundred times over, lying awake at night, alone with his thoughts and his wants and the growing certainty that he was going to die in this town with nothing to show for it but callused fingers and a collection of regrets.
He closed his eyes.
The knock on the door was so soft he thought he'd imagined it.
Eddie's eyes snapped open. He lay perfectly still, barely breathing, wondering if his desperate mind was playing tricks on him. Then it came again—a hesitant tap-tap-tap that made his heart lurch into his throat.
"Who is it?" His voice came out rough, sleep-thick even though he was wide awake.
"Eddie." Steve's voice filtered through the door, muffled but unmistakable. "Eddie, open up. Please."
Eddie was across the room before his brain fully processed the movement. He yanked the door open, his eyes immediately scanning the darkened hallway beyond Steve's shoulder. Empty. Thank god.
He grabbed Steve's arm and hauled him inside, shutting the door as quietly as he could manage and sliding the lock home with a soft click.
"What the hell are you doing here at this hour?" Eddie hissed, turning to face him. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his fingertips.
Steve stood in the middle of the small room, looking thoroughly disheveled. His hair was messy, his sweater askew, and his eyes were bright with something that looked like panic and determination in equal measure.
"I'm sorry I didn't come before," Steve said in a rush. "I just—I went home and I sat there and I thought about what we did and I..." He ran a hand through his hair, making it worse. "I thought maybe it was wrong. Maybe I was making a mistake. Maybe I should just forget about it and—"
"Steve—"
"But I couldn't." Steve's voice cracked. "I couldn't stop thinking about you. About your hands on me and your mouth and the way you looked at me like—like I was something worth having. And I realized I didn't care if it was wrong because—" He took a shaky breath. "Because I've never done anything that felt so right."
Eddie's chest constricted. He was suddenly very aware that he was standing there in nothing but his boxers, his tattoos on full display in the dim lamplight. Steve's eyes dropped, tracing the ink that covered his chest and arms—the demons and dragons and all the imagery that marked him as exactly what he was.
A sinner in a sanctuary.
"I never thought," Steve whispered, taking a step closer, "that any sin could feel this good."
Something in Eddie's chest cracked wide open.
He closed the distance between them in two strides, his hands coming up to frame Steve's face. Steve's skin was cold from the outside air, and Eddie wanted to warm him, wanted to set him on fire, wanted to consume him entirely.
"You have no idea what you do to me," Eddie breathed against his lips.
"Show me."
This kiss was different from the one in the alley. Slower. Deeper. Eddie took his time, savoring every gasp and whimper that fell from Steve's mouth. His hands slid down to the hem of Steve's sweater, fingers slipping beneath to find heated skin.
"Can I?" he murmured against Steve's jaw.
"Yes. God, yes."
Eddie pulled the sweater over Steve's head and tossed it aside. In the lamplight, Steve looked like a Renaissance painting—all golden skin and lean muscle and beauty that made Eddie's teeth ache. He traced the lines of Steve's collarbones with his fingertips, watched goosebumps rise in their wake.
"You're so fucking beautiful," Eddie said, and it came out almost angry because it was true and terrible and he wanted it so badly it scared him.
Steve's hands found Eddie's waist, fingers pressing into skin, mapping the planes of his body. "I've wanted this for so long."
"How long?"
"Since the first day I saw you." Steve's eyes were dark and honest. "You were playing guitar and you looked so—I don't know. Free. Like nothing could touch you. And I wanted..." He trailed off, color rising in his cheeks.
"Wanted what, sweetheart?"
"To be the thing that could touch you."
Eddie groaned and kissed him again, harder this time, backing Steve toward the bed. The mattress hit the backs of Steve's knees and he sat down hard, looking up at Eddie with those enormous eyes.
Eddie stood over him, breathing hard, trying to hold onto the last shreds of his control.
"Last chance," he said roughly. "You walk out that door right now, we forget this happened. You go back to your life and I stay here and we pretend we never—"
Steve reached up and pulled him down by the hips, cutting off his words with a kiss that tasted like desperation and desire and something dangerously close to devotion.
"I'm not going anywhere," Steve said against his mouth. "I'm right where I want to be."
Eddie's control shattered completely.
He bore Steve down onto the mattress, their bodies aligning perfectly, skin against skin. Steve's hands were everywhere—in his hair, on his shoulders, tracing the tattoos on his arms like he was trying to memorize them by touch. Eddie kissed his way down Steve's throat, his chest, learning what made him gasp and what made him arch and what made those beautiful sounds spill from his lips.
"Eddie," Steve breathed, and it sounded like a prayer.
"I've got you," Eddie murmured against his skin. "I've got you, sweetheart."
They moved together in the small bed, finding a rhythm that felt inevitable, like they'd done this a thousand times before. Eddie took his time despite the urgency thrumming through his veins, despite Steve's pleas for more, because he wanted to remember every second of this. Every touch, every sound, every expression that crossed Steve's face.
When Steve finally came apart beneath him, Eddie swallowed his cries with kisses, gentling him through the aftershocks with careful hands and whispered words. And when his own release hit him, Steve held him close, fingers tangled in his hair, anchoring him through the storm.
After, they lay tangled together in the narrow bed, both breathing hard, covered in a sheen of sweat despite the cool air. Eddie should have felt guilty. Should have felt ashamed. This was everything he'd been taught to despise about himself, everything the church said was wrong and sinful and damned.
But Steve was curled against his side, head pillowed on his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin, and Eddie had never felt anything so perfect in his entire life.
"I should go," Steve murmured eventually, but he made no move to leave.
"Yeah." Eddie's arm tightened around him. "You should."
Neither of them moved.
"Eddie?"
"Mm?"
"I meant what I said. About not caring if this is wrong." Steve propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at Eddie with an expression that was far too open, far too honest. "I want this. I want you. Whatever that means."
Eddie reached up and brushed a strand of hair from Steve's forehead, his touch unbearably gentle.
"You know this can't go anywhere, right? I'm living in a church, for fuck's sake. I've got nothing to offer you except—"
"Except yourself." Steve caught his hand, pressed a kiss to his palm. "That's enough."
"Steve—"
"I'm not asking for promises, Eddie. I'm not asking for forever. I'm just asking for this. For now. For whatever we can have."
Eddie looked at him—this beautiful, impossible boy who had walked into his life and turned everything upside down. Who saw all of Eddie's sins and sharp edges and wanted him anyway.
"Okay," he said softly. "Okay."
Steve smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through storm clouds.
They fell asleep like that, wrapped around each other in the borrowed room behind the sanctuary. Outside, the church bells would ring for morning services in a few hours. The congregation would gather and pray and sing their hymns, never knowing what transpired in the darkness behind their holy walls.
But for now, in this stolen moment, Eddie Munson held salvation in his arms and didn't believe in redemption.
He believed in this: Steve's heartbeat against his chest, the weight of him in the narrow bed, the way sin had never tasted so sweet.
And if this was damnation, Eddie would walk into hell with a smile on his face and Steve Harrington's name on his lips like a benediction.