The Debaucherous Rocklords Lair

Eddie keeps his eyes forward, mindlessly watching the little TV propped up in the corner, half-heartedly following the movie playing. He ashes his cigarette and takes a drag, lets the smoke billow out softly around him, joining the stale air of the seedy dive bar they're in. "Can't a guy just enjoy a smoke and a beer at the end of a long shift?"

"End of shift, huh?"

"Mm." Eddie cocks his head. "A break."

Steve flags down the bartender. "Can I get a whiskey? And whatever he's drinking."

"You don't gotta do that, man." Eddie shakes his head.

"Hey, you said you're on break from a long shift." Steve shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Least I can do is help a guy out. Get him a drink." He flicks his eye to the empty can in front of Eddie. "Even if that drink is a shitty PBR."

"PBR is nectar of the gods, St—" Eddie stops, clears his throat, covers it up behind taking another drag of his cigarette. Beside him, Steve bites back a laugh.

"Careful." Steve whispers, his fingers drumming against the bartop.

The smoke slips between them, casting a twisted halo over Steve's head, and Eddie wants nothing more in that moment than to say screw the mission, take Steve back to the hotel, and suck his soul out through his gorgeous fucking dick.

Instead, Eddie hums. Takes another drag of his cigarette. Briefly flicks his eyes over Steve's shoulder. He drops his voice low, rasping through the cloud of smoke. "Much rather you finish up here. Can think of far more interesting ways you can help me out."

The bartender slides over their drinks. Before Steve can even get his wallet out, Eddie is slipping a wad of bills across the counter. The bartender looks at the small wad of cash that is arguably far too much to cover the two drinks they asked for, but clearly, he's seen enough to know not to ask questions. In fact, knows enough to barely even hesitate before nodding and subtly passing off a message to the bouncers.

"That's your cue, hotshot." Eddie stubs out his cigarette.

"Five minutes." Steve pushes off from the bar, drink in hand, and slips easily into the crowd.

There's a reason Steve runs this part more often than not. He's charming. Charismatic. Completely unassuming to the naked eye. Which is something they all laugh about at the end of the day, because compared to the rest of the team? Well. Steve's ostensibly got the most blood on his hands.

Something Eddie should not find as hot as he does.

Eddie throws the bartender one last look, slips an extra twenty under the ashtray, before slipping out of the bar.

Eddie throws open the back of the van right as Steve muscles the guy out the back of the bar. He barely catches a glimpse of the bartender firmly shutting the door. Makes a note to himself to send over his thanks when they're done. Might be a good connection.

Gareth laughs something dark and fierce as he hops out of the van. "So?"

"Just grab the legs, asshole." Steve grunts.

Freak is there immediately, helping Steve slip the guy easily into the back of the van, the rest piling in quickly, Gareth slamming the doors shut behind them.

Done.

That's always the hard part. Somehow. The easier part is what comes next.

Jeff eases the van out onto the road.

Steve slips Eddie a quick kiss. "Told you I could handle myself."

"Am I not allowed to admire my hot ass boyfriend do his job?" Eddie grins, hands snaking around Steve's waist, pulling him close.

"You can feel him up when we're done." Freak calls over his shoulder from the passenger seat.

Gareth agrees, laughs as Eddie kicks out at him. "You'll have plenty of time for fuckin' later."

"How far?" Steve asks as he slips onto his knees, tugs on a fresh pair of gloves alongside Gareth and Eddie.

"Less than ten." Jeff calls back as he takes a turn. "We good?"

Without even looking, Steve elbows the panel behind him and slips out a long knife. Eddie watches fully enamored as Gareth flicks on the lowlight, the spark of which glints off the sharp blade. He barely bites back a moan as Steve presses the edge of the blade against the unconscious man's chest.

"Yeah." Steve smiles. "We're good."

taglist (open):@sunshine-daydreams0809@saramelaniemoon@probablyin-bed@bookworm0690@watermelonmite@sanctumdemunson@5-fievel@nicememerino

divider credit:@saradika-graphics

thank you for reading :)

title from "runner" by djo :)

an: idk man this idea would not leave my head so now it's YOUR problem !

don't worry, they're only going after bad people, obviously :D

He’s so tired, but every time he steps through the door, he’s buoyed by hope. Hope that this will be the one, that this will be the timeline where everything is the same and he gets to do things differently this time. To influence the outcome. 

To save Eddie. 

“Harrington?” Jeff says, at the bar after the show. “What are you doing here?” 

“Heard the show was good,” Steve says with a shrug. 

Eddie tilts his head curiously. He looks like someone who is trying to remember the shadow of an impression of a ghost of a memory. 

***

In Timeline 41, Corroded Coffin are famous. 

Big-time, world-touring, triple-platinum famous. 

The door, which seems to have an ironic sense of humour despite the circumstances, opens on the green room post-show. One of the good parts of all this stuff is that Steve enters the timelines with the memories he needs to make it work. One of the worst parts of this is that Steve now remembers, as if he’d been there, the virtually religious experience of being on the barrier of Corroded Coffin’s show, within spitting distance of Eddie shredding on stage, undulating his hips against his guitar like he’s fucking it. 

He swallows heavily as at least two dozen sets of eyes fall on him, the most intense of which is the set of big brown eyes in the middle. 

“You lost, JFK?” Frank calls across the room, coolly. Steve can’t tell if they remember him from school. 

Eddie is still watching him, head tilted curiously. “Do I know you?” he asks. 

“Don’t you remember the King, dude?” Gareth asks, his lip curling. He’d always been a particular favourite of Tommy Hagan’s to torment, and Steve still feels sick about that. “King Steve, The Hair Harrington, ruler of Hawkins High, poster boy for the evils of conformity.” His tone is increasingly derisive with each word. 

“Huh,” is all Eddie says, his head still tilted. Like he’s listening. 

“Sorry, uh, wrong door,” Steve says, backing out, retreating quickly. 

He’s halfway down the corridor, waiting for the burst of intuition he always gets when he passes the right door, when Eddie catches up with him, tugging him to a stop with a gentle hand on his elbow. 

“Sorry about my friends,” he says, a touch breathlessly. 

“It’s okay,” Steve says. “I was a dick in high school.”

“Not anymore?” Eddie asks, a wry smile touching the corners of his lush mouth. “Steve Harrington; now a Good Dude?” 

“I try.” 

It’s hard, being this close to Eddie, especially in the timelines where he’s the closest to himself, to the Eddie Steve knew. He’s got memories now of 41 other versions of Eddie too, of the core things about Eddie that never ever change, and of the quirks and differences in the alternate timeline versions. 

It was inevitable, really, that Steve would fall in love with him. 

This famous rockstar version of Eddie is cool and charming, and still as flirtatious as Steve’s Eddie; he brushes his thumb along Steve’s jaw, then traces down to fit it against the two moles on Steve’s neck, and he says, “I’ve just got this feeling I’m meant to be close to you.” 

And Steve’s only human at the end of the day — Eddie kisses him and he’s weak for it, he lets himself be taken back to a five-star hotel room because he hasn’t had the Right Door feeling yet. Eddie takes him apart like he’s trying to see what makes him tick underneath. He tugs him upright as they fuck, Steve’s back to Eddie’s chest, Eddie’s arms around him like he could fuse them together if he just tried hard enough, if he just got deep enough. 

It’s only after, when Eddie’s finally drifted off, that Steve gets the feeling and it tugs him towards the ensuite. 

The noise must wake him; Eddie lifts his head, blinking sleepily and asks, “Is that the right door, baby?”

***

In Timeline 42, they’re childhood best friends and Steve walks into the moment Eddie is calling him back to stay on the RV a second longer, to ask him why high school changed everything. 

Steve says he doesn’t know, and Eddie hangs his head and says, “It’s like I picked every wrong door possible.” 

***

Timeline 43 is perfect. It’s exactly the same as the original, if not the original. Steve walks into Family Video, and Dustin leaps the counter. Gotta find Eddie. 

Steve takes him home — can’t bear to leave him at Reefer Rick’s this time. He’s got one shot, to make sure Eddie knows he’s got something to live for on the other side of this. That he’s wanted. That he’s important. 

He only kisses him for the first time (the 43rd first time) right before they split up at the trailer. He races back after, and the relief when he finds Dustin and Eddie safe in the Rightside Up trailer amongst a pile of dead bats crashes through him like 42 lifetimes of failure being washed away. 

"I'm gonna come," Eddie warns, and Steve pulls his hair harder, then releases him, sliding down his body smoothly, and wrapping his lips around the head of Eddie's cock.

That's all it takes, and Eddie comes.

Easily. Too easily.

He hasn't said a goddamn word, because he feels like if he does, that it will really be the beginning of the end with Steve.

And he's not ready.

Not yet.

Steve's leg is slung over his. He's fiddling with a die cast figurine he found on Eddie's nightstand. 

"You're coming faster," Steve says, and Eddie hears what he's not saying.

"Yeah," Eddie says, "must finally be getting some sensation back. Took long enough. Fucking bats."

"That's good," Steve says, but it doesn't sound like he thinks it's good.

Steve needs a project. Needs something, or someone, to fix. 

And if Eddie's not broken anymore? Then what? 

"Good job, your magic cock healed me. You should pat yourself on the back for a job well done." 

Steve laughs, but it sounds hollow. And a little sad. 

Steve's scarce. Eddie misses him. 

But Steve doesn't reach out, so Eddie doesn't either. 

He doesn't have a reason. 

His hair doesn't need to be cut, and his cock doesn't need the patience of a saint. 

Eddie hears from Robin that Steve's taking some girl he met to dinner tonight. 

It's fine. Eddie got ten years of friendship with a side of fucking. 

Steve's about to turn thirty. Eddie's sure he wants more out of his life than this slice of fucked up hell Eddie can offer. 

He definitely deserves more. 

The bedroom door creaks open, and Eddie sits up.

Steve's standing there in the doorway, hands clasped in front of him. Rubbing one with the other, like he's soothing himself. Like he isn't sure he should be here, even if he's always welcome. He knows that.

"I just needed to see you."

And Eddie doesn't really have time to decide how he's gonna deal with that, before Steve is on top of him, face buried in Eddie's neck.

His hand finds Eddie's, and he laces their fingers together, squeezing. Holding on for dear life, it seems. 

It feels like it did at first. Steve so desperate to hang onto anything, while Eddie was just the closest life raft. 

Eddie uses his free hand to rub Steve's back. Waiting for the next move, but there doesn't seem to be one. There's no grinding into him, no hard dick at all, just Steve breathing against his skin in warm puffs of air.

Snaking his hand under Steve's t-shirt, Eddie plays with the hair above the waistband of his jeans. It's soft, and his back is warm. Steve sighs, relaxing a little more to Eddie's touch. 

"Wanna talk about it?" Eddie asks.

They don't talk about their situation, but they do talk about everything else. 

Steve can tell him anything. 

Steve shakes his head and Eddie's not gonna make him. Instead, he just shifts, pressing his lips to Steve's rough cheek. His five o'clock shadow is scratchy.

Did he not shave before his date?

Steve sucks in a breath, "I can't. Not tonight."

Eddie pulls back, and slides his hand further up Steve's back.

"I can't be in charge of anything or anyone," Steve murmurs, and Eddie scratches his blunt nails against Steve's warm skin. "Not even you. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to do anything for me," Eddie says, "you can just lay here."

And Steve squeezes his hand harder.

"Can I do anything for you?" Eddie asks, and Steve's breath hitches. He pulls his face away, and looks in Eddie's eyes. Like he's searching. Or asking permission. Eddie doesn't know which. 

Eddie pulls his hand from beneath Steve's shirt, and lightly touches the side of his face, "What do you need?"

Steve closes the distance, and slides his lips along Eddie's. It's soft, chaste, and nothing like what they usually do together.

Eddie kisses him back. 

And they keep it up until Eddie feels flush, beard burn heating up his face. 

He pulls back, chuckling. 

Steve licks his lips, and Eddie smiles at him. 

"I couldn't go tonight. You've broken me." 

Eddie's smile falls, and Steve just squeezes his hand harder. 

"In a good way. I just want you. Any way you'll have me, but preferably for real."

Real. Eddie wants real. 

Steve continues. "It's always felt real, even if you've kept me at arm's length. Even if you have all these rules on how I get to touch you." 

Eddie swallows the lump that's in his throat. 

"Even if you did everything you could to keep me from loving you. It was impossible. But I pretended. Until you still cut me loose." 

Eddie squeezes Steve's hand this time. 

"I didn't mean to cut you loose, I thought you wanted to go."

Steve laughs, but he's not happy, "I've never wanted to go. Even if we're not compatible. Even if I wanna get fucked, at least sometimes. Even if I want to go slow, and soft, and hold your hand, at least sometimes, too."

"You can do all that," Eddie says. 

"I want you to know I love you, and that scares me, because nobody wants me to love them." 

Eddie nods along, "I want you to love me, because I've loved you for years and didn't know how to change what we were."

Steve laughs, this time it's a bright sound. A giggle. 

"I'm gonna tie you up and kiss you all over." 

"Promises, promises," Eddie says, pressing forward, kissing him again.

It's a good place to start. 

Steve slides his fingers up the small braid, closer to the scalp, tugging with a little more pressure, pulling Eddie's head backwards as he hammers into him. Eddie wishes he had half the confidence Steve has. Eddie can pretend. Steve just exists.

"It looks fucking stupid," Steve says. "You look like an asshole."

"I am an asshole," Eddie retorts.

"You look like trailer trash."

Eddie's fingers clutch the sheets. Then, he reaches back and taps Steve on the thigh. It's subtle, but Steve will get the message and redirect, just a little.

"Well, if the shoe fits," Eddie says. 

Eddie has never found anyone that could make him buzz with desire like Steve does. Eddie asked for this. To feel something. To find a way to feel the roil of desire building anywhere in the way his cock just can't anymore. He feels like he needs his brain stroked. To feel the build-up there instead. He's asked to be put down, to be put in his place, to get off in other ways, and Steve just nodded along like Eddie was asking what the weather was like.

Steve didn't ask questions. He rarely does. He's always just rolled with whatever Eddie throws at him. There's something intoxicating about having Steve Harrington, known bitch, let loose on you while he fucks you good. 

To have someone that doesn't give a fuck if Eddie takes an hour to come. Someone that knows it has nothing to do with them, honest.

Someone that doesn't mind his broken parts, inside and out.

It's something Eddie doesn't want to inspect too closely, or he's sure he'd make connections he wouldn't like.

Overall, Steve does great. He's a natural. Coachable. There's just some things that don't scratch the right itch for Eddie. Poking at his tax bracket? That's one of them.

So, yeah, Steve might miss the mark from time to time, but it never takes him long to redirect and get it right.

"You'll never amount to anything. Not looking like this."

That's much better. 

Eddie hums in agreement, loosening his jaw to take some of the pressure off that Steve's applying by holding his hair. 

"I can't stand looking at it," Steve says, leaning over and grabbing his scissors off the nightstand. 

"Steve," Eddie whines. 

Then, he hears the metallic snip, before his head falls forward landing on the pillow. 

Steve smacks his shoulder with the cut off thin braid, then tosses next to Eddie's face. It tickles his nose. 

Then, both of Steve's hands are on Eddie's sides, gripping, pushing him into the mattress. 

Fucking him harder. Eddie's just along for the ride. 

"This thing was ugly," Steve says, toying with the cut off rattail with one hand. His other, warm and heavy, is hand resting on Eddie's thigh. Grounding.

He's always so grounding that Eddie never wants to be without him. 

And that's a dangerous thought.

"You gave it to me," Eddie mumbles around the cigarette in his mouth, and Steve chuckles. 

"You let me," Steve says.

"Well, clearly I'll let you do lots of things to me." 

Steve scoffs, "Not everything."

It's Eddie's turn to be indignant. 

"Like what? Call me trailer trash?" 

Steve's grip tightens, "No. You know I don't think that. You told me to talk shit. I was talking shit. I'm not good at this. I'm so sorry that I can't read your mind."

Eddie shakes his head, "Not that. I don't care about that. Just. Nevermind."

"No, not nevermind," Steve says, getting more agitated. Eddie passes him his cigarette, and Steve takes it.

They bicker like this. It's nothing new. They've been in each other's pockets for almost a decade now. 

"It's nothing," Eddie says, trying to placate him. Because that's far easier than the truth.

"Eddie," Steve says on an exhale of smoke. Fuck. Even that is somehow smooth. Eddie does not get how Steve is just like this.

Eddie's standard feels like he's a wet cat that's still just standing around in the rain. Broken, and a little unlovable. Steve? Steve's something else entirely.

Eddie shuts this down. It's dangerous. He can't say what he wants. He can't.

If Steve wanted him like that he'd already have him. Steve always goes after what he wants.

"Are you gonna fix my hair?" Eddie asks, changing the direction of the conversation. Steve hums, letting him.

"Yep, I've got just the thing," Steve says, and Eddie should be scared, but he isn't.

The buzz of the clippers should scare him. But it doesn't. Whatever. It's hair. It'll grow back. Eddie's been through too much to worry about what his hair looks like. He likes giving Steve free rein over it.

Steve runs his fingers along Eddie's buzzed scalp, checking for strays, Eddie's sure.

Then, Steve hands him a hand mirror. 

A mohawk. Steve gave him a mohawk. 

Which, well. It's a definite improvement over the last two haircuts. 

"I'll have to trim the sides every week," Steve says, and well, that sounds like a date to Eddie. He's never gonna turn down scheduled time to spend near Steve.

"Maybe you should become a barber," Eddie says, and Steve snorts. "That's gotta be better than retail."

"Eh. I like cutting your hair, I don't give a shit about cutting anybody else's."

Eddie lets those words sink in.

"You do Gareth's," Eddie says.

"An extension of you," Steve answers, fingers still combing through the hair on the top of Eddie's head, trying to get it higher, taller.

"Wonder how tall you could grow it?" Steve ponders, and Eddie will let it grow to a foot tall if Steve keeps doing that.

Eddie leans back, his head resting against Steve's chest. Steve's hands run up and down Eddie's bare arms, and it's too much. Too soft. But Eddie's gonna allow it.

For just a minute more. Maybe two.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

Eddie regrets it. Almost immediately.

"I look like I'm about to start dancing to Achy Breaky Heart," Eddie bemoans. He thought he'd look like James Hetfield and not Billy Ray Cyrus. He was sorely mistaken. As he so often is.

He looks like a goddamn fool, and the worst part is, Steve did exactly what he asked for: a flat-top mullet. 

Mistakes were made. 

"Do you like it?" Eddie asks, wrinkling his nose. 

"Not particularly, no," Steve says, honest to a fault. "It might be kinda hard to take you serious when we're fucking. I might need a blindfold. For me."

Eddie slumps. He knew he had no chance of Steve Harrington actually wanting him for anything besides sex, Eddie'd made sure of it, even before he did this to himself. But still. It's rubbing salt in the wound. 

Only, Eddie's the one that forcefully held Steve at arm's length, so he can't really be that mad Steve's stayed where Eddie put him.

"You did a good job," Eddie says, "thank you."

Steve nods, putting his snips back into their little case. He bought them at a beauty supply store while they were in the city. He's definitely gotten his money's worth, even if Eddie wishes at this exact moment they hadn't encouraged this strange hobby.

"What the fuck?" Goodie asks, and Eddie thinks that about sums it up. 

"Shut up," Eddie says, sitting his guitar case down. He's here to practice, not to get made fun of relentlessly. 

"Did you pay for that?" Jeff asks. 

"You damn well know Steve did it," Gareth chimes in, as if he hasn't been taking advantage of Steve's free barber services, too. 

"The cut isn't technically bad," Goodie says, "it just looks stupid on Eddie." 

"It looks stupid on everyone," Jeff chimes in, and Eddie feels defeated.

Maybe Steve will shave it all off for him. He can start over, and hopefully not be such a fucking idiot next time.

"I thought you couldn't take me seriously?" Eddie asks, hands cuffed to the bed frame. He yanks, digging into the wooden spindles. He likes that they're all scuffed from fucking Steve.

"I can't," Steve says, and starts stripping the pillow out of its case.

"What're you—"

But his question is cut off, muffled, from Steve shoving the pillowcase over Eddie's head.

Eddie dick gets impossibly harder, and he can feel his own breath blowing back in his face, trapped beneath the cotton.

Steve slides into him, and Eddie keens.

And Eddie comes. Fast. He never comes fast. Not anymore. He knows it's mostly about his prostate and the unexpected sack over his head. 

"Did you just come?" Steve asks, and Eddie's embarrassed. This whole arrangement began due to his sexual deviance, his delayed orgasms, if not outright erectile dysfunction, and if that's clearing up? 

Fuck. 

"Yeah," Eddie mumbles, voice muffled. 

"Shit," Steve says, and Eddie feels the bile rising. He needs the pillowcase off. He needs to wear it forever. "That's hot."

And Eddie relaxes, just a bit. Then, Steve's hand grasps at the top of the pillowcase, "Want me to pull this off?" 

"No!" 

"Want me to pull out?" 

"No. Keep fucking me," Eddie says, grateful his face is covered. 

And Steve does. Eddie isn't overstimulated. That's not really something he feels these days. 

He kinda misses it. And the hair-trigger of youth. 

But he relaxes, breath hot, wrists sore, and enjoys the sensation of Steve fucking him at whatever pace he wants. Only worried about himself for once. Chasing his own orgasm, and not just trying to coax Eddie's out of hiding. 

It's a slow, easy grind and without being able to see, Eddie focuses on the sound of Steve's breathing. The warmth of his hands gripping Eddie's hips, holding him firmly in place. 

The slide of his thick, hard cock. 

When Steve comes, it's his breathy, soft moan of satisfaction that does Eddie in. 

And all alone, here in the darkness, Eddie allows himself to feel hopelessly endeared. 

"Just shave it off," Eddie says, running his hand over the top of his head. At least Steve didn't take the flat top super close to the skin. That would would have been fucking tragic.

Steve studies him carefully, "You don't have to go full buzzcut. I can work with this. Do you trust me?"

Of course Eddie trusts him. He's trusted Steve Harrington since they stomped through the Upside Down together.

Plus, Steve can't make it any worse than this. Eddie'd committed to the buzzcut. Anything's fine.

"Do what you gotta do," Eddie says, and Steve gets to work.

Eddie has nearly dozed off, when Steve deems it finished.

"There. All done."

Eddie reaches around, and finds almost all of his length gone. Except.

"Did you give me a rattail?" 

"Yep."

"That's mean," Eddie says.

"I thought you wanted mean?" Steve counters, and well, Eddie can't argue with that.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

Notes: I've connected all four of the haircut prompts into one universe, and they'll be posted on Sundays this month.

It doesn't look bad. In fact, Eddie kind of likes it. It's just different enough that he feels like something's changed. And after everything he's gone through, it's nice to feel like he's made a change of his own volition.

It's been a rough decade. Nothing has gone right.

Except for Steve. 

But they don't talk about that, instead they just do this thing together in between the failed attempts of either of them trying to date someone else.

That hasn't happened in forever.

Literal years, if Eddie's memory isn't all fucked up. That's usually Steve's thing. Eddie is Steve's extra brainpower, and Steve is Eddie's extended mobility. They're both okay, just a little bit damaged on the bad days. On the good days? Nobody would notice anything terrible had ever happened to them at all.

Eddie longs for more of the good days than the bad, and that's what they've gotten for a while.

Robin calls them co-dependent, which Eddie thinks is rich, coming from her.

Steve might still go chase pussy whenever he feels the need to coddle and cuddle, but Eddie doesn't ask, so Steve doesn't tell. But it's been a long time since anyone has come along to put a pin in what they do with one another.

"Keep it dry for forty-eight hours," Steve bosses, and Eddie gives him a sarcastic salute. 

Less than twenty-four hours later, Eddie dabs at his hair in front of the sink, as Steve stands in the doorway.

"I said no water," Steve bitches, and Eddie wheels on him.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have shot your load in my hair then," Eddie snaps, and Steve just laughs, scratching his bare stomach with his blunt nails.

"You're the one that moved," Steve accuses.

"I had a leg cramp. You know, where all that muscle is fucked? From some bats trying to rip me limb from limb? That ringing any bells?"

Steve just smiles, unbothered. Then says, "I'm gonna head out."

It puts Eddie in an instant bad mood. Steve's always heading out, never staying, but Eddie only has himself to blame for how things are. They have an arrangement, one that Eddie very carefully crafted to his liking. An arrangement only. Not a relationship. And after Eddie pushed and pushed, making sure to plant Steve at arm's length, now he's the pissy one that Steve's stayed just out of reach.

The audacity.

Eddie made his bed, he has to lie in it.

"Why you telling me for?" Eddie snaps, turning back towards the mirror. 

Steve's reflection flips him off, before he disappears.

Hair finally washed, Eddie sits on the porch, damp curls soaking his shoulders through his t-shirt. 

Eddie can hear Steve's car coming up the road before he can see him. 

When he arrives, he slams the door, stilling in the dirt driveway, staring at Eddie.

"I've had a bad day," Steve says, and Eddie stands.

"Me too," Eddie says, and that's all he needs to say.

It's on.

Eddie's on his knees, and Steve's hands are fisted in his hair. It's grounding. Steve tugging him up and down, forcing his hot, wet mouth to glide along Steve's hard length. 

His jaw aches, and he's grateful to feel.

"That's it," Steve says, "suck my dick like I paid you to do it."

Eddie's trying. Eddie's always trying.

And he likes that Steve makes him feel like it's still not good enough. He doesn't want to coast. Doesn't want to rest on his laurels. He wants to make Steve feel better than he did the last time. More satisfied.

It'd taken some forceful redirection to scrub Steve's softness from their encounters. Those first months, even as good as it felt, it made Eddie's skin crawl. Steve petting him, or holding his hand, or god-fucking-forbid, thrusting into him gently as he stared in Eddie's eyes. Like he wanted to see his soul.

No fucking thank you.

That's for relationships, and since they don't have one of those? Eddie's out on any of that bullshit.

So, Eddie had to mold him. Had to gently lead him into a little roughness, a half-step at a time. Steve won't hurt him, but he will use his words to cut, he will pin Eddie to the mattress, or pull his hair, and that's just fucking fine with Eddie.

Eddie closes his eyes and lets Steve just fuck his mouth. Lets him ram that big cock down as far as he wants to, and when he comes, Eddie swallows. 

His own dick is hard, but pretty indifferent at being ignored, and when Steve manhandles Eddie to the couch, onto his back, Eddie knows where this is going. Steve grabs the lube off the end table, slicking up Eddie, slicking up himself, and getting a quick two fingers deep.

And then he's seated. 

Eddie prefers it the other way around, but sometimes, sometimes Steve just takes what he wants, and that? Well, that's just fine with Eddie. He'll let Steve ride his cock, chasing after whatever he needs.

It's not like Eddie's dick cares. He still gets hard, but his orgasm likes to take its sweet-ass time after whatever nerve damage the bats caused, so if Steve wants to fuck himself silly? He can go for it.

Hips rolling.

The pleasure's dulled for Eddie, the sensations lost somewhere down a tunnel, meaning all he can do is last, and sometimes, like today, Steve uses that to his advantage, pinching Eddie's good nipple, a good twist, making Eddie laugh.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

Eddie's been working on this mixtape for a few weeks. Months, really. 

He needs the right songs, and that takes time. It'd be easier if he could pop down to the record store and buy all the new releases, the hot music and dub them that way, but, well — money. 

And there's the fact that the town still loathes him. Name cleared or not. It's easier to just lay low until the heat dies down.

If it ever dies down.

Eddie hits the record button. The play button goes down with it.

"Whatcha doin'?"

Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin. Gareth's standing behind him.

"Nothing," Eddie says, defensive. Curling in around the boombox. Like that's gonna hide that he's definitely doing something.

"Are you ripping this? This?"

Eddie can't reasonably explain why he's ripping a Don Johnson song off the radio. Not at all. So he doesn't even try.

"Why are you here?" Eddie asks. 

Gareth doesn't answer, flopping down on Eddie's bed. It's been hard to get used to the new mattress. He misses his old one. He misses a lot from before Spring Break. Things have changed, and he'll never be able to go back to before. It's a very distinct line in his life.

A rift.

Just like the ones that ripped through town. Only, this one was through his own life.

Eddie doesn't dig his hole any deeper. Just sits in silence, and when the song is over, he presses the button, and stops the recording. Hoping Gareth will just let this go.

Carefully sliding it out of the tape deck, and back into its case. 

He probably has fifteen or twenty minutes left worth of room. So, a handful of songs. Maybe he'll get this finished by the end of the year.

"Can I see it?" Gareth asks, holding out his hand.

"No," Eddie says, sliding it into his shirt pocket. There's nothing to see anyway. The tape, and the case, are both unmarked. Nobody would know what's on this tape except for him without listening to the whole thing.

Gareth pulls his hand back, making himself comfortable on Eddie's bed.

"It's for Steve, isn't it?"

The question hangs there, unanswered, until Jeff and Goodie bust into his room, shifting the focus.

Later, when they're alone again, Gareth taps Eddie on the chest with the back of his hand, ring clacking against the plastic tape case in his breast pocket.

"For what it's worth, I think he's on the same page."

Eddie ignores this statement, because it's too scary to contemplate that Gareth might be right.

Eddie holds onto the tape. Leaving room for one more song. Finishing it means he has to actually give it to Steve, and he's not sure he's prepared to do that. Even if Gareth seems to think Steve would be on board. 

Eddie isn't so sure.

The finished mixtape is in his pocket. Burning a hole, as they say. 

Another night of them bumming around, shuttling the kids all over town as winter hits. Steve keeps flipping the station. Looking for something. 

"There's nothing on," Steve says, and this is Eddie's window, but his heart is hammering against his chest. Fuck.

Steve surfs past 94.5 again, and Eddie pulls the tape out of his pocket.

"Here," he says, handing it over. Hand shaking, but he can blame that on the bats. Easy.

"I'm not in the mood for screaming," Steve says in a snit, and Eddie loves him. Bitch that he is. 

"It's not screaming. It's for you," Eddie says, screwing up every ounce of courage he's ever had. 

Steve shrugs, and takes the case. Sliding the tape out, popping it into his tape deck. There's a smidgen of Casey Kasem on the front, but Steve doesn't seem to mind, and when Addicted to Love comes he starts bobbing his head with it. 

It feels like a win to Eddie.

The next time he gets in Steve's car, the tape is still in the deck, Steve's said nothing, so Eddie says nothing. They're going to Indy, and with Robin in tow, Eddie's in the backseat. 

When the tape ends, Love Will Conquer All finishing it out, Robin screws up her face.

"Whichever girl made you this has got it bad for you," Robin spouts off.

Steve's eyes flick up to the rear view mirror. Eddie meets them for a second, then looks away. Like the landscaping to his right is suddenly mighty interesting.

Eddie was not prepared for the slamming on the brakes, and braces his hands against the back of Robin's seat as Steve abruptly pulls over to the side of the road.

Robin's screaming at Steve, and Eddie's about to have a nervous breakdown. Maybe he should run. 

He doesn't have time. 

Steve has yanked open the back door on the other side of the car, and is climbing in, sliding across the leather. Eddie is scrunched against the door, pinned, trapped, and Robin has turned around, looking over the headrest at the unprecedented spectacle unfolding, and this is not how this was supposed to go. Not at all.

"Eddie," Steve says. It's a full question, and Eddie nods. A quick short movement.

"Holy shit," Steve whispers, and then he's scooting closer, hands finding Eddie's face that's hidden behind his hair, turning him, lips pressing against Eddie's. 

Robin's making noise. Eddie can barely hear it with the blood rushing in his ears, but Steve's lips are warm, firm, and sure.

Gareth was right. Steve's on the same page.

Steve Harrington, better known as Stevie H, is the kind of guy who piggybacks off of successful pop artists without adding anything new to the genre. He’s the kind of musician who gets handed songs to perform like a puppet and makes four times the amount of money they do. He’s the kind of guy who loves the clout, but won’t put in the work.

And his dad owns one of the largest recording studios in the country, so that helps.

“All in favor of a discussion, say aye.”

–

The ayes had it. And now Eddie is sitting across from Steve at a conference table in some board room in New York as if this is how he should be spending his precious time. He has songs to write and record.

“We’d like the song to be a one-off. Not featured on either of your next albums, but a separate album that will include special features like interviews and sneak peeks of each of your albums,” some executive in a suit that Eddie’s never seen before explains. “Both labels are intrigued by the idea of a 50/50 split on cost and profits.”

“There’s four of us and one of him,” Gareth has the balls and brains to state. “And we’re expected to be the ones to write the damn thing. Shouldn’t it be more 70/30 for us?”

Their manager is shaking his head. “No, no. We are taking a cut with the agreement this will appear on Casey’s list. The extra eyes on us will be a long-term profit.”

“I thought I was helping write?” Steve asks.

It’s the first time he’s spoken this entire meeting, the first time he’s even really acknowledged the fact that they’re supposed to be having a discussion.

“No way.” Eddie laughs. “What do you know about writing music?”

“Probably just as much as you do.” Steve folds his arms over his chest and smirks. “I got a deal because of the songs I wrote for the studio.”

“The pop songs? With no real meaning? Sure, that’s what our fans are looking for.”

“Okay! Enough!” Steve’s manager bangs his fist on the table. “The labels and managers are in agreement. We just need signatures from everyone. This is good for all of us, and good for music.”

Apparently the decision had already been made.

–

Eddie can’t catch his breath, but he’s not surprised. The closet is stuffy and Steve just sucked his lungs out of his dick. And maybe his brain.

“Jesus.”

“You really should keep your mouth shut,” Steve says instead of any kind of pillow talk. Which is fine. They aren’t even in a bed and he’s pretty sure this is the only time this will happen. “You don’t know me.”

“I could return the favor?” Eddie offers, though he’s pretty sure someone will come looking for them very soon if they aren’t already.

“Not that.” Steve pulls up Eddie’s jeans and buttons them, his hands careful and quick. “I started as a songwriter. I played drums and guitar in studio bands for years as a teenager and college student. You know nothing about me, but judge me because I sing catchy songs the studio wants to make money from.”

“Yeah, well.” Eddie swallows. He didn’t know all of that about Steve. He feels a little stupid for it, but he’s not gonna apologize. He’s not. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who assumes that you’ve been handed your career.”

“My dad hates my guts. I only got the deal because one of his board members showed him the optics.” Steve rolls his eyes. “I’d go back to what I was doing before in a heartbeat if it meant I could actually write things with meaning. This will give me something to do that I actually like doing.”

Eddie feels something in his stomach. Like a fizzling, bubbling, warm situation.

Uh oh.

“Do you even like our music?” Eddie asks, softer, less like he’s on the attack and more like he’s talking to someone who just sucked his dick.

Steve shrugs. “I like most music. I don’t really seek out metal on my own, but…” he holds Eddie’s hips tighter for a moment. “I’m kinda obsessed with the guitarist.”

Oh fuck.

“Wait. Seriously?” Eddie feels like his whole world just flipped. “You mean me, right? Not Jeff?”

“Yes, you,” Steve laughs. “You’re good. And hot. I saw you at that charity show at Wembley.”

“Where I ripped my shirt off and threw it into the crowd? That was embarrassing,” Eddie is turning more red by the second. “I don’t usually do that.”

“I know,” Steve leans in, so close Eddie can almost taste him. “Kinda wish you did, though.”

Eddie has no clue what’s happening.

“Uh, should we go back?” He clears his throat and puts some distance between them before he can do something stupid like kiss him.

Steve winks. “You owe me.”

“What?”

“When we meet for the song. You owe me.”

“Dustin, Dustin do you copy? Nancy? Steve, do you copy? Steve, I’m… I think I’m lost?” 

Jeff nearly knocks over his half-built shelving unit in his hurry to get close to the boombox, because that–that had sounded like Eddie. Jeff listened to probably thousands of hours of Eddie speaking over the years, between just hanging out, D&D, and everything in between; he’d recognise his voice blind. But it’s impossible… right? 

Eddie’s been dead for seven months. 

***

November 1st, 1986 

“I think you’ve lost your mind, dude,” Frank says, sceptically. It’s about the 50th time this week he’s said it, but Jeff knows what he heard last weekend. Now he’s forcing Frank and Gareth to listen with him. Gareth, having really taken on Eddie’s legacy of anti-conformity, is pouting about being subjected to Top 40 bullshit, but Frank just looks concerned that Jeff’s lost his marbles. 

But it happens again. Jeff doesn’t even have time to feel vindicated as the boys babble – “Holy shit!” “Is that really him!? Because that really sounds like him!” – because he’s trying to listen to the creak of Eddie’s hoarse voice – it sounds like he’s out of practice at talking, but it’s unmistakably his. 

“Nancy, do you copy? Dustin, do you copy buddy? I’m lost… I–I don’t know where I am. Dustin, where’d you go?”

The static crackles out of existence and Casey’s voice resumes like nothing happened. The three of them are silent for a long moment, then, slowly, Jeff looks at them; first at Frank, then Gareth. 

“We buried a coffin,” Frank eventually says, in a wobbly kind of voice. “We had a funeral.” 

“Jeff, where is he then?” Gareth asks, looking to him for the answers. He’s been their de-facto leader since Eddie die–well, disappeared apparently. 

He doesn’t have any answers. He pulls back his shoulders though, and sets his expression into something grim and determined – because he has an idea of who might.

***

November 8th, 1986

Nancy Wheeler’s face gives nothing away. Dustin Henderson has a hell of a black eye – Jeff knows he’s been defending Eddie’s name, and it’s been getting him in trouble. He’s tried to stop the kid, tried to tell him Eddie wouldn’t want him to get hurt, and boy had that been the wrong thing to say. 

“You don’t know what Eddie would want,” Dustin had hissed. “Because he’s dead, because he was trying to protect me, and they don’t get to say shit about him.” 

Jeff and the boys had managed to track this lot down to the WSQK radio station, and now the kid sits, stone-faced, arms crossed, on the couch in between Nancy and Robin Buckley, the former of whom is watching them archly. Steve Harrington has not sat down – he’s standing behind the couch with his back to all of them, his head bent and both hands on his hips. 

Jeff clears his throat. “Anyway,” he says, and without ceremony, turns the radio on. 

“Hello again everybody and welcome to Casey’s Top 40–”

Static snaps and crackles, louder now than Jeff has heard it before. All eyes turn to the radio, except Harrington, who stays frozen like he hasn’t heard anything, his back still to them. 

And then– “Dustin? Kid, I’d love it if you copied.” 

Eddie’s voice, still hoarse, sounds more broken than ever, and wet with unshed tears. Jeff hears a series of soft gasps and snaps his eyes to the couch – Nancy and Robin are leaning forward, their hands clasped in Dustin’s lap, their other hands grabbing his knees. The kid looks dazed, like he’s taken a knockout punch. 

“Steve? Steve, do you copy? Stevie, I’m lost, I think, I must have gotten separated–I’m sorry, I don’t know how–Steve, can you find me? It’s cold. Stevie, I–” Eddie’s voice shudders and breaks off, and they all hear a little sniffle before static crackles again. 

Jeff looks up, and the three on the couch are looking over their shoulders at Steve, who has finally turned around. He looks as white as a ghost, like he’s just seen one – or heard one. There’s something desperate in the shadows of his eyes, something longing, something like hope that doesn’t want to be named in case it’s wrong. Jeff watches Steve swallow once, twice, three times, like he can’t make his throat work. 

“I’m going in,” he finally rasps out, looking at Nancy with an expression that brooks no argument. He massages the heel of his hand across his sternum, right over his heart. 

Nancy nods once, sharp, determined. She stands, not letting go of Robin’s hand as they head for the stairs. Dustin still looks shell-shocked, but he scrambles to follow them with Steve, and all four of them pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking back. 

“Well,” Nancy calls to Jeff, Frank and Gareth, “are you coming?”

“Where?” Jeff asks, lost. He feels like he’s been hit by a bus. 

Eddie wrinkles his nose. He’s got a lot of secrets, sure; the stack of NDAs longer than his leg, regarding a certain series of events in his small, shitty hometown. The secret boyfriend who is the best thing to ever come out of said shitty hometown, and that includes world-famous metal band Corroded Coffin. He’s only a secret because he doesn’t want anything to impact the band’s success, and because he’s studying to be a teacher. They keep that secret well, guarding it like two dragons over their precious little egg, and so Eddie can’t imagine it’s gotten out. 

There’s also a heap of mundane secrets that he keeps too, like the way he doesn’t hate Genesis, so Steve will often put it on at home and they sing along together, getting so into belting That’s All to each other that their dinner sometimes suffers, or how Eddie knows that Frank is the one responsible for the infamous bathroom sink-puke incident of ‘91, but he’ll take that secret to his grave, because Gareth still goes purple with rage when it gets bought up. 

And Eddie likes his band in one piece. 

“It wasn’t me,” is the automatic denial that comes out, hardwired practically into Eddie’s very DNA. If Al ever taught him anything, it was hotwiring, charm, and never admitting to anything. 

Jeff flips to the article, jabbing an accusatory finger at it, and Eddie gasps in indignation – he absolutely did not spill the story about the time Jeff rescued a raccoon from the jaws of his family dog, and then, when the stunned raccoon stared at him for a few seconds before the prey animal flight instinct kicked in, he decided to pet it and it predictably took a chunk out of his finger, resulting in four rabies shots and his mom not letting him out of the house unsupervised for months – he absolutely didn’t!

“I didn't tell them this!” he says, offended. 

Jeff arches a brow, then points at the opposite page. There’s a picture of Frank shredding – Eddie looks up with a grin and says, “Sick pic!” and Jeff rolls his eyes and shakes the mag, forever annoyed by Eddie’s ability to get whimsically distracted on a moment’s notice – and a story inset detailing how Frank and his younger sister used to sneak Christmas presents from under their tree, surgically remove the wrapping paper, inspect the gift, then replace the paper exactly as it was. 

“I didn’t tell anyone that either!” Eddie protests. 

“I think you’re full of shit, Munson, you’re the only one who knows all these stories!” Jeff flips to the page detailing Gareth’s secret – that he’s the naked toddler butt in that one local soap ad from the early 70’s that everyone from the Hawkins area still laughs about. 

“Hold on,” Eddie says, turning the page to find out what secret of his has been exposed – he skims the story, flinches at the accompanying pictures, and sighs. “I think I know who did this.” 

“What? Who? What do you mean?” Jeff snatches the magazine back, and Eddie watches his eyes dart back and forth, widening with every word he reads. “Eddie,” he breathes, sinking down onto a chair. “You never told me this.” 

Eddie sits back in his own chair with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest. “I never told anyone! It’s not something you just spread around…” 

“So who is this ‘anonymous source who is close to the band’?” Jeff asks, his brows pinching together. 

“It’s–hold on,” Eddie says, holding up one please wait finger when the green room phone starts to ring. He picks it up.

“So the secret is out, huh?” a familiar, amused voice says on the line. 

“Steve,” Eddie says, deflating a little. “Hi.” 

Jeff looks scandalised – he mouths the words Steve Harrington, and he looks like all his worst fears about Eddie’s jock ‘friend’ have been confirmed. Eddie can already hear the lecture – “This is what you get for being friends with people like him, Ed, he probably sold stories about you for cash and a hot reporter’s number,” – but Eddie kicks him in the shin, mouthing back the word focus when Jeff shoots him a glare. 

“You didn’t tell anyone, did you?” Eddie asks, even though he knows his Stevie would never do that to him. Steve would never embarrass him like that, would never out him for the amusement of–

“Bub, no, of course not. You might recall me telling you, though, that it was a very bad idea to keep your journal at home anywhere that was accessible to the children. You know how Dustin likes to snoop.” 

“Dustin,” Eddie repeats, murderously. “I suspected as much. Oh that’s it. He’s never surviving another campaign, not for as long as I live. Okay thanks sweetheart, I gotta go take care of this – I love you.” 

Steve repeats the sentiment back to him and Eddie hangs up. Jeff is staring at him like he’s never seen him before. 

“It was Dustin–”

Steve's going through the motions. Final battle. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Highest stakes ever. Now or never. He knows.

He re-adjusts Eddie's hat on his head, tugging it down backwards. They aren't gonna survive this one. He's sure of that.

Steve's not anyway.

He can just feel it. And he's never felt this way going into any of the other fights they've picked with monsters. This one feels like the last one. The end of the road, and he's prepared for it.

So, when he falls off the edge of the world, the tower tilting, he's not even surprised. 

The fall isn't scary. He was expecting something, maybe not this exactly, but something, and he responds by stretching his arms out as wide as he can. 

Falling, wind whipping around his body as he picks up speed on his final descent.

He is surprised when he's snagged mid-air, with a jolt that rolls through his entire body.

El.

He's grateful, but also a little disappointed. He'd made his peace.

Only, it's not El. He's not put down on the ground. No, he's yanked through the air under the arm of someone — something — solid. He can hear wings flapping, and he should be scared. Is, just a little, but at the same time? He's not.

Steve just enjoys the wind rushing against his face.

He enjoys flying.

At least he does until his stomach drops when they suddenly swoop low, the mouth of a cave coming into view, and they clear the opening, entering it at a speed that Steve cannot believe they were able to maintain.

Steve's dumped on his ass, in Eddie Munson's clothes.

It's been a weird year. Weird life.

He wonders if the rest of them were able to stop the merger. He thinks they must have. He's still here, wherever here is.

The sound of wings is loud, echoing harshly, and Steve probably should run. At least make an attempt to get away from whatever monster this is, but he doesn't. He lays there uncomfortably, Eddie's shield and spear digging into his spine.

Too tired to fight back.

A shadow slides over his face, darkening the area all around him. His eyes adjust, and well…

It's him. 

Or, it's Eddie dressed as him. 

No. Moreover, it's Eddie dressed as Steve dressed as Eddie.

Steve's a little confused.

"Eddie?" Steve asks.

It shrieks. A high pitched wail that hurts Steve's ears, forcing him to cover his ears with his hands.

The Eddie creature does the same thing. It's curious.

Steve reaches for his hat, pulling it off. 

This thing does the same thing.

Steve pulls the bandana tied around his neck up over his mouth. This Eddie abomination does the same fucking thing.

It's like a mimic. 

"Eddie?" Steve tries again, and gets the same screech back. It must be trying to mimic his voice, his words, and simply cannot.

Steve strips down. Unlacing the boots, pulling off pieces of Eddie's clothing, dropping them into a pile. It does the same thing.

Once stripped, and there are two very similar piles of clothes on the cave floor, Steve takes him in.

It is Eddie. 

It's his tattoos, and his lithe body. Not Steve's own. 

"You're okay," Steve says, and the creature tosses back its head and wails. 

Okay, so maybe he's not okay. 

It starts chittering at him, and somehow, Steve understands what is being said. Now, Steve can't chitter back, but he can answer in English. He wonders if this is a side effect of the bat bites. He'd fought off a nasty infection, lots of antibiotics, and maybe this is what happens if you weren't treated?

Robin's gonna shit.

"I'm Steve. And you're Eddie. We came back for you," Steve says, and now that is a lie, but he doesn't think it's a particularly harmful one to tell.

Eddie screeches.

"We did. Get dressed, I'll take you home," Steve says, not understanding how Eddie is dressed nearly exactly like him. Minus the pieces that are too new to be duplicated down here. It must be a link from the bat bites that caused him to choose the same clothes.

That's the only explanation.

Steve doesn't exactly know what he'll do with a semi-feral Eddie topside, but, well, it's not like he has another option. They're going home.

"Henderson is gonna flip," Steve comments, and the noise that comes out of Eddie's mouth is the most human one yet: Henderson. It rattles around in Steve's head, like a bouncy ball.

Steve looks at him. "Henderson."

Scooped up, the wind whips as Eddie flies them up, up, up towards the tower, where Steve starts to hear the sounds of them mourning his demise.

Dustin's premature grief, echoing the loudest.

He mimes playing the guitar, which – dorky. Cute. It’s both. Eddie likes both, so to speak, he plays for both teams. He runs his eyes over the guy again, noting he’s very good-looking. “That’s me,” he says, chuckling. He digs in his pocket for his pack, and holds it out. “Want one?” 

The guy takes one, and Eddie lights it for him. He mirrors Eddie, leaning against the wall with about a foot between them. Eddie watches him in his peripheral vision; he takes a few leisurely drags, tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. 

“Did you enjoy the show?” Eddie asks, after a while. He’s curious, but not hopeful – Mr Handsome looks very straight-laced, very pop-rock, very church on Sundays. 

“I could see this much of you from the bar,” the guy says, framing his face between his two hands from his eyebrows to the top of his head. 

“And yet you still came looking, huh?” Eddie can’t help himself, can’t help dipping his toe in the waters to test them – he’s a born flirt. 

Gorgeous shoots him a bitchy sideways look that sets Eddie’s heart aflutter, especially when the corner of his mouth twitches ever-so-slightly. “I don’t know that the sound is for me,” he says, with distaste, the way one would say a daily colonoscopy is not for them. 

Eddie might be in love. 

“Ed! Come on dude, we gotta go!” Jeff calls from the doorway. Eddie lifts himself away from the wall, ashing his cigarette and tossing Handsome a charming grin and a waggle of his fingers. 

“See you tomorrow night,” he croons, following Jeff out. 

***

“It could grow on me,” Mr Handsome says, appearing and taking his spot against the wall in the smokers’ section near Eddie. 

“What could? Mould? Probably need to get that checked, big boy.” 

Oh that look of bitchy contempt. Eddie’s going to write a love song about it.

“I mean, if you want to compare your music to mould,” he says, lifting a brow. He sticks out his hand and opens and closes it in a give me gesture. Eddie’s already handing over a cigarette. 

“Either way, you came back,” Eddie says, running his tongue along his bottom lip. Mr Handsome’s gaze follows the motion for a flicker of a heartbeat before it darts away. 

“I work here. I have to come back.” 

“No, I think it’s me, I think you’re obsessed with me and you’re Corroded Coffin’s biggest fan,” Eddie teases. Their shoulders brush, leather against polo. Behind Mr Beautiful’s head, Gareth appears, gesturing for Eddie to hurry up. 

“There’s that famous rockstar ego, huh?” Handsome says. 

“Guilty. I’ll see you tomorrow night,” Eddie calls over his shoulder as he leaves. “Third and final show.” 

“I wouldn’t count on it!” 

***

Gorgeous is already waiting for him the next night. 

“Steve.” When Eddie lifts a questioning brow, Gorgeous points at himself. “I’m Steve.”

He doesn’t offer Eddie a pack of cigarettes – he offers Eddie his own lit one. Eddie takes it, their fingertips brushing. Steve watches Eddie bring the cigarette to his lips, his eyes trained on Eddie’s mouth, on the way they indirectly kiss by touching the same spot. Eddie feels it so acutely, more than he has in a long time – the loneliness of the road and the lifestyle that he’s been ignoring, the deep longing for his person. It’s a strange thing, to miss someone you haven’t even met yet. 

But Eddie’s had the beautiful bartender – Steve – on his mind for two days now. 

And Eddie… well Eddie’s never exactly played it safe. 

“You know the French have a saying,” he begins, conversationally, “‘qui allume encule,’ which roughly says, ‘light their cigarette, fuck them in the ass.’” He holds the cigarette out for Steve to take back. 

He’s gone very still though, and Eddie tenses, suddenly aware that Steve is clearly athletic stock; probably well and truly capable of kicking Eddie’s ass. Maybe he read this wrong, maybe Steve wasn’t looking at him like that, maybe he’s been alone so long he can’t read signs anymore– 

“You just threatening me with a good time, or you gonna follow through?” Steve asks, low and husky. 

Eddie blinks, because he didn’t realise they were standing so close – they’re facing each other, their shoulders against the wall, a scant six inches between their chests. Eddie can smell his delicious cologne, and see the green in his hazel eyes. Steve tilts his head, rocking a little closer. They’re alone in this smokers’ section, the venue already closed up for the night. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Eddie says regretfully. His hand finds Steve’s hip, and slips around to his lower back. 

Steve shrugs. “I don’t like this job much. My best friend has always wanted to design band merch.” Both his hands rest on Eddie’s chest. 

“Did you just hire yourself to my crew?” Their noses brush. 

“Someone has to come keep your ego in check.” Steve’s mouth ghosts against the corner of Eddie’s lips.