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The sun was too hot to be wearing a denim jacket right now and Eddie sort of hated himself just a little bit. Leaning against Steve Harrington's dumb car in the dumb parking lot of the dumb high school, he vaguely wished he did something like smoke. Then he could at least look cool, and not like some idiot metalhead slowly cooking alive while he squinted down the road waiting for a fourteen-year-old to show up and alleviate the awkwardness.
Pathetic.
Harrington was leaning against the car too, a few feet down, arms crossed, sunglasses on, hair just barely and perfectly wind tousled, basically a cologne ad. He hadn't said anything for about four minutes. Eddie had been counting.
"You didn't have to actually come with, Harrington."
"Kinda did."
"It's not like I'd let anything happen to him. Come on."
"Not worried about you so much as worried about that death trap van of yours catching fire between here and Indianapolis."
"She's a solid old girl."
Steve made a face that landed somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. "You keep telling yourself that, big guy. I'll be the one to make sure Henderson gets there and back in one piece."
"He's got a mom already, Harrington."
"Yeah, and she called me." Steve tapped the side of his own head, which was annoying. " You're not even on the approved list, Munson."
"I'm absolutely on the list."
"You're really not."
Eddie opened his mouth, closed it. Okay, that was fair, he was probably not on the list. "That's a temporary situation."
"Uh huh." Steve pushed his sunglasses up and squinted down the road, and for a second Eddie got a look at his eyes, which were — fine. Normal. Brown. Whatever. He looked back down the road.
"You don't even like metal," Eddie said.
"I don't dislike it."
"You probably listen to like, Duran Duran or some bullshit."
"What's wrong with Duran Duran?"
Eddie gestured at him. Broadly. At all of him, the henley, the hair, the way he was leaning against that car like he was posed for a magazine. "Nothing, if you're a sixteen year old girl."
"My little cousin loves them," Steve said, perfectly pleasantly. "She's fourteen."
"Case in point."
"They're a good band."
"They're a fine band." Eddie turned to face him properly now, one hand on the roof of the car. "They're a perfectly fine band for people who don't actually care about music."
Steve turned to look at him for the first time, sunglasses sliding down his nose a little. Just a little. "That's an insane thing to say."
"It's an accurate thing to say."
"Duran Duran has sold like — a lot of records. Millions of records."
"McDonald's sold a lot of hamburgers." Eddie held his gaze. "Doesn't make it food."
Steve stared at him over the top of his sunglasses. There was a pause that lasted about three seconds longer than it needed to. "That doesn't even make sense as a comparison."
"It makes perfect sense."
"McDonald's is food, first of all—"
"Technically—"
"Second of all." Steve turned toward him slightly, weight shifting off the car, and Eddie had the sudden awareness that Harrington was actually — not small. Like, he knew that, objectively, but it was different when he was looking at you like that, halfway between annoyed and amused, sunglasses pushed down. "You're dragging a fourteen year old and his babysitter to Indianapolis to see Metallica. So maybe cool it on the music snobbery for like five minutes."
"That's completely different."
"How."
Eddie opened his mouth. Steve waited. Actually waited, one eyebrow up, genuinely wanting to hear this.
"It just is," Eddie said.
Steve looked at him for another second. Then he turned back to face the road, and pushed his sunglasses back up, smirking in a way that Eddie was choosing not to look at directly, like the sun.
"Name one Metallica song," Eddie said.
Steve's mouth did something complicated. "...The main one."
"The—" Eddie pressed two fingers to his temple. "Oh my God. You're going to a Metallica concert and you don't know a single—"
"I know songs. I just don't know which ones are theirs specifically—"
"That's the same thing—"
"It's really not—"
"Name. One. Song."
Steve looked at him sideways. Something about the angle, the late sun catching the side of his face, was deeply inconvenient. Eddie looked back at the road.
"For Whom the Bell Tolls," Steve said.
Eddie paused. "-...Okay."
"See."
"That's actually — yeah, okay, you get a point."
"Thank you." Steve settled back against the car, satisfied, arms crossed again. He was wearing a henley with the sleeves pushed up, which was a normal thing people wore, and Eddie was noticing it for completely normal reasons related to the heat and how unreasonably comfortable he looked and nothing else.
Dustin was fifteen minutes late, which Eddie said was fine.
And then twenty minutes late, which Eddie said was also fine.
And then half an hour late, at which point Steve pushed off the car and said "get in."
"He's probably just—"
"Get in the car, Munson."
Eddie got in the car.
The Henderson house looked totally calm, which Steve had learned meant nothing. He knocked. There was a pause, some movement inside, and then the door opened and Mrs. Henderson looked at both of them with the specific expression of a woman who had recently lost an argument with her conscience.
"He's grounded," she said.
Steve nodded slowly. "Okay."
"I'm very sorry about the tickets."
"It's okay, Mrs. Henderson."
She looked genuinely apologetic, which meant she'd probably been guilted extensively. "You're welcome to come in for—"
"We're okay, thank you." Steve smiled the smile he used on parents, easy and reassuring. "Have a good night. Tell Dustin we said hi."
She closed the door. Eddie and Steve stood on the front porch. A bird sang somewhere. It was still aggressively sunny.
"Well," Eddie said.
"Don't."
"I wasn't gonna say anything."
"You were going to say something."
Eddie tilted his head. Looked at the closed door. Looked at Steve. "Tickets are non-refundable."
Steve exhaled very slowly through his nose. "Yeah."
"Be a shame to waste 'em."
"Don't push it."
"I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying." Steve walked back down the porch steps toward the car. After a moment, Eddie followed. They stood on either side of the BMW in the afternoon sun, and Steve put his hands on the roof and looked at Eddie over the top of it, and Eddie looked back, and neither of them said anything for a second.
"You don't know a single other Metallica song," Eddie said. "I want that on record."
Steve's mouth twitched. "Get in the car."
Concerts were amazing, but after the concert was a type of bliss Eddie Munson never could get enough of. The buzz of adrenaline still shaking through his limbs, ears still muffled and ringing, the night air hitting his damp skin as they spilled out with the crowd into the parking lot.
He felt like he'd been wrung out and hung up to dry and it was fantastic.
Steve was a half-step behind him, and when Eddie glanced back he looked — wrecked, honestly, in the best possible way. Hair destroyed. The henley darker with sweat at the collar. His eyes were bright in the parking lot lights with the slightly dazed expression that Eddie recognized, because it was the same expression he'd seen on a hundred kids at their first real show, that particular oh so that's what that is look.
He didn't say anything about it.
"So," Eddie said, when they got to the car.
"Don't," Steve said.
"I haven't said anything."
"You're about to say something."
"I was going to ask if you had fun." Eddie pulled open the passenger door and dropped into the seat, boneless, tipping his head back. Every muscle in his body felt loose and pleasantly used. "Purely informational."
Steve got in. Sat for a second with his hands on the wheel without starting the engine. The parking lot noise filtered through dimly — car doors, distant shouting, someone revving an engine.
"Yeah," Steve said. "Okay. Yeah, I had fun."
Eddie turned his head to look at him. Steve was still staring through the windshield, jaw doing that thing where he was trying to stay composed slightly too late for it to count.
"For Whom the Bell Tolls," Eddie said.
"What about it."
"It came on third song in and you did this—" Eddie pointed at him "—this face."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Like, extremely smug. Like you'd arranged it personally."
"I knew the song," Steve said, with tremendous dignity. "I said I knew a song. It played. I don't see the issue."
"You pointed at me."
"I—" Steve's mouth twitched. "That was a completely normal—"
"You pointed at me, Harrington, like you'd won something—"
"Well I had." Steve pulled out of the parking spot. In the glow of the dash his ears were faintly pink. "You told me to name one song. I named one song. It played. That's a win."
"That's not how it works—"
"That's exactly how it works."
Putting his feet up on the dash, Eddie just rolled his eyes and settled in to watch Indianapolis fade out the window.
Half a mile of silence. Then; "You gave that extra ticket away."
Eddie closed his eyes. "Yep."
"To a complete stranger."
"Kid wanted to see the show."
"That was twenty dollars, Eddie."
"I'm aware."
"You just—" Steve made a gesture with one hand that Eddie didn't look at but could feel anyway. "Handed it to him. Like it was nothing."
"It was a concert ticket, not a kidney."
"It was twenty dollars—"
"Which I didn't have yesterday either, so." Eddie shrugged loosely at the window. "Net neutral."
Steve made a noise that wasn't quite an argument. Eddie didn't look over. Outside the last of Indianapolis was thinning into dark highway and the car felt very quiet suddenly, humming along at sixty, and Steve didn't bring it up again.
Which somehow felt louder than if he had.
"I gotta stop for gas."
The exit ramp came up a few miles later, one of those identical interstate stops — a gas station and a diner and a skeevy-looking motel and not much else, the kind of place that exists purely as a function. Steve pulled in under the fluorescent canopy and the lights were very bright after the dark highway.
Eddie got out while Steve pumped, more to move his legs than anything else, and hit the night air properly for the first time. Inside the show it had been a solid wall of body heat, and the BMW had been warm, and he hadn't noticed until right now that the temperature had dropped. He leaned against the car and looked up but there were no stars, just flat dark cloud and the orange glow of the highway bleeding up at the edges of everything.
Steve came around to the pump, and Eddie glanced over and caught him doing the subtle shoulder-hunch of someone who was cold and wasn't going to say so.
Eddie shrugged out of jacket.
"Here."
Steve looked at it. "I'm fine."
"You're doing the thing."
"What thing."
"The hunch." Eddie held the jacket out. "Just take it."
Steve looked at him for a second with an expression that the fluorescent lights weren't helping Eddie read. Then he took the jacket and put it on. It sat slightly wrong across his shoulders; too narrow, pulling a little, and Eddie looked back at the horizon and said absolutely nothing about that.
"Pump's off," Steve said.
"What?"
"Pump's not running. There must not be anyone inside."
Eddie looked at the station. Lights on, door closed, no visible movement. "The lights are on though."
"I know the lights are on."
"So where'd the guy go?"
"I don't know, Eddie." Steve crossed his arms, Eddie's jacket pulling across his chest. "Maybe he's taking a smoke break. Maybe he's got someone in the back. Maybe exit fifty-something in the middle of nowhere Indiana doesn't exactly run a tight ship at midnight."
"Maybe he's been eaten."
Steve looked at him flatly.
"I'm just saying, we've seen weirder."
"We are not doing this." Steve turned and looked at the motel across the lot, a beat-up sign buzzing vacancy in pink neon, and something in his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. "Look — pumps'll be on in the morning. We could just—" He tilted his head toward it, casual, like it was nothing. "Crash out. Head back early."
Eddie looked at the motel. Looked at Steve, standing there in Eddie's jacket with his wrecked hair and his pink neon face.
"Yeah," he said. "Makes sense."
"Yeah."
Neither of them moved for a second.
"Okay," Steve said.
"Okay," Eddie agreed.
Steve came out of the office swinging a key on a plastic fob with the number thirteen on it.
"Twenty-two dollars," he said.
"Highway robbery."
"It's a motel room, Eddie."
"Still." Eddie looked at the fob. "Room thirteen?"
"Only room they had."
"Lucky thirteen."
"That's not a thing."
"It's absolutely a thing."
"It's the opposite of a thing, it's an unlucky number—"
"That's a common misconception actually." Eddie fell into step beside him across the parking lot. "Thirteen is only unlucky if you're scared of it. Personally I find it very auspicious."
"You find it auspicious."
"Very."
"You're so full of it," Steve said, but he was doing the almost-smile thing, and he unlocked the door to room thirteen and hit the light switch and they both stood in the doorway and looked at the room.
Small, terribly lit. Wood-paneled. Television bolted to the dresser, a print of a duck on the wall, a bathroom through a half-open door, and a bed.
One bed.
"Lucky thirteen," Eddie said.
Steve's ears went pink. "Shut up."
"I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying." Steve stepped inside and Eddie followed and the door swung shut behind them and the room was very quiet suddenly, just the hum of the heater ticking on and the muffled sound of the highway, and Eddie sat down on the foot of the bed and the springs complained loudly and Steve stood there holding the key still looking at the room like it had personally surprised him.
"It's fine," Steve said. "It's a double, it's—we're adults, it's fine."
"Extremely fine," Eddie agreed.
Steve looked at him. "Lucky thirteen?"
"Dinner." Eddie proclaimed, digging into his pockets for coins. He left before Steve could protest.
This is fine, he thought, marching toward the soft hum of vending machines and ice.
This was completely fine. This was a totally normal situation that happened to totally normal people all the time. Two guys, one room, one bed, no big deal, this was fine, he was fine, everything was...fine.
The vending machine hummed at him under a buzzing light, and Eddie stood in front of it and counted his quarters and tried to remember how to be a person.
Steve Harrington was straight. This was a known fact. It was practically a law of physics, like gravity or the speed of light, one of those foundational constants the universe ran on. Steve Harrington had dated Lisa Haskell in ninth grade and Carol Perkins for like five minutes and then Nancy Wheeler for basically forever and then some girl in Loch Nora whose name Eddie didn't know. Steve Harrington owned Duran Duran albums unironically. Steve Harrington was so straight he made Eddie's teeth hurt.
The fact that Eddie was — whatever. That didn't matter. That was his problem, not Steve's, and he'd been managing it fine, he'd been managing it great, right up until Steve had taken his jacket in a gas station parking lot and looked at him with that unreadable expression in the fluorescent light and now they were in room thirteen of a motel in the middle of nowhere Indiana and Eddie needed to get it together.
He fed a quarter into the machine.
Fritos. Okay.
Another quarter. Reese's Pieces, because apparently his subconscious had opinions. Another quarter — Twinkies, fine, whatever, sustenance. He got two colas from the next machine over and stood there for a second in the buzzing light of the corridor, alone, holding terrible food and looking at the door of room thirteen.
You have been through the Upside Down, he told himself. You have faced actual demons. You can share a bed with a straight boy for one night and keep your hands to yourself and your mouth shut about it.
He gathered up the assortment of salt and sugar and headed back to room thirteen. Pushing open the door he was not prepared for Steve Harrington, exiting the bathroom wreathed in steam, towel slung low on his hips, hair dark and dripping, and jesus christ.
Eddie had known, in an abstract, clinical way, that Steve Harrington was... fine. Good looking. Objectively. In the way that you could acknowledge a sunset was nice without having a breakdown about it. He had been managing this knowledge successfully for some time now.
He had not accounted for this specific variable.
"Oh, hey." Steve rubbed a towel over his hair, completely unbothered, apparently unaware that he was committing some kind of crime. "Vending machine have anything good?"
Eddie opened his mouth.
"Cool," Steve said, apparently taking silence as an answer, and turned back toward the bathroom.
Say something, Eddie's brain suggested helpfully. "Fritos," Eddie said.
Steve stopped. Looked back at him. "What?"
"I got—" Eddie held up the armful of snacks with what he hoped was a normal facial expression. "Fritos. Reese's Pieces. Twinkies. The, uh. The full food pyramid."
Steve looked at the assortment. "That's not what a food pyramid is."
"I work with what the machine gives me, Harrington."
Steve almost smiled. He was still just — standing there. In a towel. Like that was a normal thing. Eddie set the snacks down on the dresser very carefully and looked at the duck print on the wall and thought about literally anything else.
"Shower's free," Steve said. "Water's actually hot, which I didn't expect."
"Cool. Yeah. Great."
"You okay?"
"Completely fine," Eddie said, to the duck. "Why?"
"Your jacket's on the chair. And uh." A beat. "Thanks."
"Yeah, man, of course."
He heard the soft sound of Steve pulling on clothes, which he was absolutely not thinking about, and then nothing, and the room settled into that particular quality of quiet that had been following them since Indianapolis.
Eddie picked up a Twinkie and looked at it like it held answers. Then he sat down on the bed — not close, but not far either, the kind of distance that was technically reasonable and felt like nothing of the sort.
The mattress dipped.
Steve had sat down on the bed next to him. A normal distance away that was somehow also not very far at all, and Eddie could see him in his peripheral vision, elbows on his knees, looking at the middle distance, and he'd pulled on his boxers and nothing else and this was genuinely a lot to deal with.
"Eddie."
"Mm?"
"Can you—" Steve stopped. Started again. "Can you look at me for a second."
Eddie looked at him.
Steve was looking back, and his expression was the opposite of unreadable now, actually, it was extremely readable, it was the most readable Eddie had ever seen his face, and something in Eddie's chest did something complicated and seismic.
"I suggested the motel," Steve said, like that was a complete sentence.
"...Yeah."
"I just—" Steve's jaw worked. "I want to make sure you know that I know that."
Eddie stared at him. "Steve."
"Yeah."
"Are you—" He stopped. Tried again. "What are you actually saying right now?"
Steve looked at him for another long second, and then he did something that Eddie would think about later, in the dark — he reached over, very slowly, and picked up the hem of Eddie's shirt between two fingers, not pulling, just holding, the most tentative possible version of the gesture, like a question mark.
"Maybe it wasn't about the gas," Steve said quietly.
"But—" Eddie's brain offered up Lisa, Carol, Nancy Wheeler, the whole catalog. "You're—"
"Some people swing both ways." Steve's mouth curved slightly. "AC/DC. You know that, right?"
Eddie looked at him. Steve Harrington, sitting on a bed in room thirteen of a nowhere Indiana motel in just his boxers, watching Eddie like he'd been patient for a very long time actually.
The filing system made a sound like a fax machine eating itself and gave up entirely.
"Yeah," Eddie said, slightly faintly. "Yeah, I knew that."
"Okay," Steve said.
"Okay, then." Eddie said.
Neither of them moved for a second. Then Steve's fingers tugged. Just slightly. Just once, and Eddie closed the distance.
For a moment it was barely anything — just Eddie's mouth against Steve's, neither of them moving, like they'd both forgotten what came next. Like they needed a second to make it real.
Then Steve kissed him back.
And Steve kissed like he did most things — fully, no half measures. One hand came up to Eddie's jaw and Eddie made an undignified sound against his mouth that he was never going to acknowledge and Steve made a quietly satisfied noise in response that was somehow worse.
They broke apart. Steve looked at him, mouth slightly red, hair already a disaster, and Eddie thought distantly that the filing system had not adequately prepared him for this specific variable either.
"This okay?" Steve asked.
"Yeah," Eddie said. "It really is."
Steve kissed him again, slower this time, and his other hand found the hem of Eddie's shirt and this time it wasn't a question. Eddie lifted his arms obligingly and the shirt came off and landed somewhere and Steve pulled back to look at him with an expression that made Eddie want to say something deflecting and stupid.
He didn't.
Instead he reached out and Eddie's fingers found Steve's chest, warm skin, the faint thud of his heartbeat going faster than it should be, and something about that, the evidence of it, that Steve was nervous, that this was doing something to him too, loosened the last tight thing in Eddie's chest.
"Your hair's still wet," Eddie said.
"Yeah." Steve's hands were at his waist, pulling him closer. "So."
"So nothing. Just." Eddie's fingers moved up to his hair, damp and soft, and Steve's eyes did something that Eddie felt in his spine. "Just noting it."
"Noted," Steve said, roughly, and pulled him back in.
Steve kissed him again—rougher now like something had clicked into place—and Eddie felt it in the way his hands changed, less tentative, more sure, one at his waist, the other sliding up and back like he already knew where Eddie was going to end up.
Eddie let himself be moved.
It happened in pieces, not graceful, not planned — Steve nudging him back, Eddie's knee catching the mattress, a half-laugh that didn't quite make it out before Steve followed him down.
"Move up," Steve said.
"I'm moving, I'm moving—"
It was not elegant, or graceful in the slightest. There was an elbow involved. Eddie got a hand caught in Steve's hair by accident and Steve made an indignant noise and Eddie laughed, actually laughed, and Steve looked down at him for a second with an expression that made Eddie's stomach flip in a way that was entirely outside of the context of anything physical.
Then Steve kissed him again; by the they got themselves sorted Eddie ended up where Steve had apparently intended him to be all along — back against the headboard, Steve braced over him, one hand planted, the other steady at his hip like he meant to keep him right there.
"Hang on," Steve said, breath a little uneven, and pulled back just enough to reach the bedside drawer, behind the Gideon's.
Something small. Something that clinked.
Eddie's brain caught up about two seconds later.
"Oh," he said.
Steve looked at him. Steady, unhurried, that same quiet certainty he'd had all night. "Problem?"
"No," Eddie said, slightly faintly. "No, I just — you just — that was already in there."
"Eddie."
"Mm?"
"Stop thinking so loud." Steve's fingers found the waistband of Eddie's jeans, not rushing, just resting there, another question mark. "Still good?"
Eddie looked up at him. Steve Harrington, watching him like that, patient, a little amused, like he had all night and knew it.
“Yeah,” he said, against his mouth. “Don’t stop now.”
Steve didn’t.
He shifted again, more deliberate this time, guiding instead of guessing, and Eddie found himself back against the headboard, breath already a little uneven, as Steve braced over him.
"Okay," Steve said, and popped the button on Eddie's jeans with a kind of easy confidence that Eddie was absolutely filing away for later. The zipper followed. Steve looked up once more, brief, checking.
Eddie lifted his hips by way of answer.
Steve's mouth twitched. "There you go."
"Shut up—"
Eddie huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been something else entirely, and reached up to catch him by the neck, dragging him back in.
Steve’s hand at his hip tightened, fingers hooking there, and then lower, more deliberate, and Eddie’s breath hitched a little when it clicked what he was doing—no hesitation, no asking, just that same quiet certainty he’d had all night.
“Jesus, Harrington,” Eddie muttered, but there wasn’t much bite in it, not when he was already helping, shifting where Steve guided him, the whole thing more inevitable than planned.
Steve’s mouth twitched again. “You gonna complain, or—”
“Shut up,” Eddie said, dragging him back down.
Steve kissed him once more, deep and sure of himself; then used that easy strength to shift them. One hand slid under Eddie’s thigh, the other braced against the headboard as he guided Eddie back until his shoulders pressed firmly against the cheap wood paneling. Steve settled between his legs, hooking Eddie’s thighs over his own hips so Eddie was open and held right where Steve wanted him.
Eddie’s breath stuttered. “Steve—”
“Got you,” Steve murmured, low and steady. He reached for the small bottle he’d pulled from the drawer, slicked his fingers quickly, then slid one hand under Eddie to tilt his hips exactly how he needed.
Two slick fingers pressed in, slow but relentless. Eddie hissed, head tipping back against the headboard, and Steve’s grip on his hip tightened, holding him steady while he worked him open. He was thorough, patient, crooking his fingers until he found the spot that made Eddie’s whole body jerk, a broken sound tearing from his throat.
“There we are,” Steve said quietly, almost to himself, and stroked that spot again and again until Eddie was rocking back onto his hand, shameless and desperate.
Eddie’s mind was spinning. Steve Harrington — Prom King Steve, golden boy of Hawkins High— was finger-fucking him like he’d done this a hundred times. Like he knew exactly how to angle his wrist, exactly how much pressure to use, exactly when to add that little twist that made Eddie’s toes curl. It was too good. Too practiced.
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie gasped, hips twitching involuntarily. “You’re— fuck, you’re really good at this.”
Steve huffed a quiet laugh against his collarbone, but he didn’t stop. He added a third finger, slow and careful, scissoring gently as he worked Eddie wider. “Yeah?”
“Yeah— shit—” Eddie’s voice cracked when Steve curled all three fingers just right, pressing firm and steady against his prostate. Pleasure punched through him in hot waves, making his cock leak steadily onto his stomach. “Didn’t expect… you to know how to— ah— do it like this.”
Steve’s mouth brushed Eddie’s jaw, voice low and a little amused. “Told you. Some people swing both ways.” He twisted his fingers again, deeper this time, stretching Eddie with deliberate, confident strokes. “Just relax. I’ve got you.”
Eddie tried. He really did, but Steve kept working him open with that same steady rhythm; in and out, curling and pressing, occasionally adding more lube until everything was slick and obscene. The wet sounds of his fingers moving filled the tiny motel room, mixing with Eddie’s increasingly broken moans. Steve’s free hand stayed firm on Eddie’s hip, keeping him angled perfectly, not letting him squirm away from the overwhelming sensation.
By the time Steve had four fingers inside him — thick, stretching him wide gently but relentlessly — Eddie was shaking. His thighs trembled where they draped over Steve’s hips, cock throbbing untouched against his belly, precome smeared across his skin. Every stroke dragged right over that spot, building the pressure higher and higher until Eddie felt like he was going to fly apart.
“Steve— Steve, please—” Eddie’s voice was wrecked, head thunking back against the headboard again. “I’m— fuck, I’m ready. I can take it. Please.”
Steve stilled his fingers for a moment, eyes dark and focused as he looked up at Eddie. He looked calm, controlled, like he could keep doing this for hours if he wanted. The contrast between that steady confidence and the way Eddie was falling apart under his hands was making Eddie’s head spin.
“Not yet,” Steve said softly. He leaned in, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to Eddie’s temple, then crooked his fingers one more time — hard. Eddie cried out, back arching sharply. “One more minute. Want to see you fall apart, baby.”
Eddie whimpered, fingers scrabbling at Steve’s shoulders. The stretch was intense now, bordering on too much, but the pleasure was sharper, brighter. Steve worked him through it, murmuring quiet praise against his skin, until Eddie was a trembling, desperate mess, hips rocking helplessly onto Steve’s hand.
Only then did Steve slowly withdraw his fingers, leaving Eddie clenching around nothing, empty and aching.
Eddie was panting, chest heaving, staring up at the ceiling like it might have answers. “Holy shit. You… you do this a lot?”
Steve slicked himself up, generous and unhurried, then lined up, the blunt head of his cock nudging hot and bare against Eddie’s thoroughly stretched hole. He paused, one hand braced on the wall above the headboard, the other still firm on Eddie’s hip.
“Not a lot,” Steve said, voice rough but honest. His eyes met Eddie’s, steady and dark. “But when I do… I make sure it’s good.”
Then he pushed in.
“Still good?” he asked, pausing halfway, breath steady despite the tension in his shoulders.
Eddie nodded frantically, one hand fisting in Steve’s hair, the other gripping his shoulder. “Yeah. Don’t stop.”
Steve pushed in—slow, steady,= and utterly inexorable—until he bottomed out, hips flush against Eddie’s ass. The stretch was intense, burning in the best way, full and overwhelming even after all that careful prep. Eddie’s mouth fell open on a silent gasp, shoulders pressing harder into the headboard.
Steve stayed perfectly still for a long moment, buried to the hilt, letting him adjust. His hand stayed firm on Eddie’s hip, thumb stroking soothing circles even as his own breathing stayed ragged. Then he started to move—long, deep rolls of his hips that dragged perfectly against that spot inside Eddie with every thrust.
Eddie’s legs tightened around Steve’s waist. “Jesus—Steve—”
“That’s it,” Steve murmured against his ear, voice low and warm with quiet satisfaction. “Just like that.”
Steve’s grip on Eddie’s hip tightened, fingers digging in with a decisive strength as he fucked him deeper. His other hand braced on the wall above the headboard, using it for leverage so every thrust rocked Eddie’s shoulders back against the wood. The bed creaked loudly beneath them, headboard thumping in rhythm, but Steve didn’t slow down. He kept the angle perfect, one hand directing Eddie’s hips to meet every snap of his own, pulling him down onto his cock like he knew exactly how to make Eddie fall apart.
Eddie felt completely held, opened up, kept right there, taken care of even while Steve fucked him hard enough to make his vision blur white at the edges.
“You feel so good,” Steve breathed against his neck, the words quiet but devastating. “So tight around me. Look at you… fuck, Eddie.”
Eddie moaned, loud and unrestrained, nails digging into Steve’s back. Every deep thrust punched the air out of him. Steve’s mouth found his jaw, then his throat, sucking a mark just below his ear while his hips kept up that relentless rhythm. He was so assured, so steady, like he could do this all night — like wrecking a skinny, loud-mouthed metalhead was just something he knew how to do exactly right.
Eddie’s cock was trapped between their sweat-slick stomachs, sliding hot and desperate with every rock of their bodies. He was already embarrassingly close, overwhelmed by the steady drag inside him and the way Steve was manhandling him so easily, so surely.
“Steve— fuck— I’m close—”
Steve shifted his weight, changing the angle just slightly, and drove in harder. One particularly deep thrust had Eddie seeing stars.
“Come on, baby…-” Steve crooned against his ear, voice low and commanding, hips never faltering. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”
That was all it took.
Eddie came with a broken cry, clenching tight around Steve’s cock as pleasure slammed through him in sharp, overwhelming waves. His cock pulsed between them, painting their stomachs as Steve fucked him through every pulse — deep, steady rolls that dragged the orgasm out until Eddie was shaking and oversensitive, whimpering Steve’s name like a prayer.
Only then did Steve let himself go. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he buried himself as deep as he could and came with a low, guttural groan, spilling hot and thick inside Eddie. He kept moving through it in shallow, grinding thrusts, drawing it out until they were both trembling.
They stayed like that for a while, neither of them moving, the highway a distant hum beyond the curtains. Steve's hand was still moving slow up and down Eddie's spine like he hadn't noticed he was doing it, or had noticed and didn't care, and Eddie was choosing not to comment on either possibility.
The lamp on the nightstand was still on. Then Steve made a decision. Without much preamble he got an arm under Eddie and just — repositioned him, unhurried and matter of fact, like rearranging furniture, until Eddie was tucked atop his chest and Steve could reach the lamp.
Click. Dark.
"Did you just—" Eddie started.
"Your hair," Steve said, "is everywhere."
"It's my hair—"
"It's in my face." Steve reached up and moved a handful of it, not gently exactly but not roughly either, the way you'd deal with something that was simply in the way and needed relocating. "There."
"I can't believe—"
"Go to sleep, Eddie."
Eddie quieted. The highway hummed beyond the curtains. Steve's arm settled back around his waist, heavy and warm, and the room was very dark and very quiet and Eddie's heartbeat was doing something he was going to have to think about… later.
"Hey," Steve said, eventually, into the dark above his head.
"Mm?"
"Duran Duran's touring this summer."
Eddie was quiet for a second. "...Okay."
"Chicago date. June, I think." Steve's hand kept moving, steady, unhurried. "It's a drive. Probably want to make a weekend of it."
"A weekend."
"Hotel and everything." A pause. "Nice one, even."
Eddie lifted his head just enough to look at him. Steve was staring at the ceiling with an expression of elaborate casualness that was a bald lie, and both knew it.
"Steve?"
"Yeah."
"Are you asking to take me to a Duran Duran concert?"
"Yeah." A beat. "Maybe."
Eddie looked at him for a long moment in the dark — the shape of him, the careful nonchalance that wasn't fooling either of them, the hand still moving slow and steady down his spine like it had forgotten to stop.
"Okay," Eddie said.
Steve's hand stilled. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Eddie settled back down, cheek against Steve's chest, listening to his heartbeat do something slightly unsteady. "I'll even pretend to like it."
"You're going to like it."
"I'm absolutely not."
"You're going to know every word by the end."
"Harrington—"
"Rio," Steve said, with tremendous confidence, "is an incredible song."
Eddie laughed, quiet and helpless, into his chest. Steve's arm tightened around him, and the highway hummed, and the room was very dark and very warm and Eddie thought distantly that they had a long drive back to Hawkins in the morning, and would probably need to wake up pretty early.
Not that early, though.
Not that early at all.