I've got brainrot about 2 idiots from the 80s

"Make me."

Steve has to roll his eyes at that. "Original."

But Steve's deflection does nothing to discourage Eddie from leaning in anyway, pulling himself up by Steve's neck. His eyes flicker down to Steve's lips, an unmistakable signal. Then, in that moment, when Steve almost, almost, lets himself be dragged down, a prepubescent voice breaks, making a sound like a mournful banshee (Steve knows what those are now, thanks to the AD&D Monster Manual II Eddie read to him alongside The Leatherman's Handbook II. A palate cleanser, for sure).

He momentarily jerks away from Eddie and takes his hand off his thigh to look over at the boys, afraid that he is the scandal that caused 'Closet Case' Mike to make that noise. But no - turns out the object of scandal is a Butthole Surfers record, the sleeve hugged tightly to Mike's chest as Lucas and Dustin suck their teeth and fight to press the power and stop buttons on the turntable simultaneously. When Mike, fearing for his record getting scratched, swats Lucas' hand away from the power, Lucas instead reaches behind to yank the plug.

It took a lot to get Dustin to forgive him for sleeping with his DM, Steve can't afford to push him away any further with unsolicited PDA between him and said DM. That's what he tells himself, at least, so he doesn't have to face the real shame he's been battling for months now. It's not fair on Eddie, and it's not fair on Steve because he's got a lapful of hot nerd but a headful of trained homophobia stopping him from telling the boys to fuck off so he can totally rock his boyfriend's world right here on the couch. Robin would have something to say about it, but he can always make it up to her - they're bathroom-bonded soulmates after all. She's not getting away that easy.

So, it's clear he and Eddie aren't the scandal. That much he can accept, but he's still hesitant. He lets his palm fall back over Eddie's thigh, giving it a squeeze that comes across more buddy-buddy patronising than he meant it to. Eddie, on the other hand, hasn't taken his eyes off him, as if to prove a point that he shouldn't worry, that the boys aren't looking at them, they don't give a shit, it's safe.

After that sad, friendly squeeze, Eddie sighs defeatedly, and Steve cringes at himself, guiltily dropping his gaze to his lap. Heavy is the shame on Steve's shoulders, but not so crushing as to miss the weight go missing across his lap. Eddie has let go of his neck, and the loss leaves goosebumps there. He sits sideways, one arm slung on the backrest behind Steve's shoulders but not touching, legs tucked to the side. Giving Steve space. He doesn't want space. Eddie never allows him the courtesy of personal space unless there is something super serious to discuss, and he has to be gentle with Steve. He's such bullshit, he shouldn't be this fragile. Fuck, he's fucked it up again.

Regardless, the tension in his jaw, in his fists, behind his forehead flushes out of him all at once when Eddie's hands take hold of his face. Steve looks up at him to find that playful, inquisitive expression that makes Steve flush red under the fond attention that's just edging on the side of condescension. Which is only fair, Steve grants.

Eddie tuts before moving his hands up to Steve's temples, palms standing off his face to cup around Steve's peripheral vision until he sees nothing but Eddie's face at the end of the tunnel.

"Jesus Christ, we gotta fit you with blinders or something." Eddie snarks light-heartedly, and Steve has nowhere else to look but his pretty lips, which dance around every word with a small smile. So he hasn't totally blown it.

And then those lips fold into a frown. Shit.

"Sorry."

Alarmed, Eddie shuffles up onto his knees. "What? No, no! It's just, I said blinders, and..." Eddie snorts, before lowering his voice, closing into Steve's superficial tunnel vision with a smirk, "We actually could get you a pair."

It's Steve's turn to frown. "What are those?"

"Y'know, like what race horses wear. Or the ones that pull the Amish buggies. They're flaps that go on the sides of the horse's eyes to restrict their peripheral vision so it ain't so eager to spook." Eddie jabs playfully, grinning with his tongue bitten between his teeth.

"Oh." Steve then realises the resemblance between what Eddie's describing and what he's actually doing with his hands. It feels good. The view is nice. Steve can't actually hear the boys bickering anymore, 'blinders' blocking the noise out by some kind of psychosomatic effect. It's peaceful between Eddie's palms like this. Easy. He feels shy all of a sudden and averts eye contact to instead gaze at a callous on the hand that holds the fretboard. Still confused, he asks, "You can get them? Like, for people?"

"Find a leathersmith with enough of an open mind, and they'll make fetish gear of anything."

Completely nonchalantly, Eddie doesn't stutter through the taboo. Steve's heart leaps. Don't be mistaken, it's pure anxiety, not horniness. He turns his head into Eddie's right hand, trying to see if the boys have been alerted. Resisting the movement with a strong wrist, Eddie keeps him still and prevents him from looking anywhere but at his gentle yet stern doe-eyes trained solely on Steve. Fuck.

It's awkward because Steve has been hypervigilant about surveying his likes and dislikes these past couple of weeks. He's eager to learn what things he's into and let Eddie know about them so they can actually do something about them. It's just very strange having a breakthrough in public, around other people, around the kids. Blinders may work for horses, but they might not be enough to stop Steve from spooking.

It does feel good, though. And even though he tries again to search for the boys in his fixed peripheral, he just... can't. Eddie won't let him move. He can't hear them, can't see Robin, either. The only thing holding his attention presently is the man in front of him. And it's nice. It's... Shit, the 'blinders' might be working. And from the outside, he reasons, it looks innocent enough despite Steve knowing from what he's learnt in the handbook, and that familiar look in Eddie's eyes, that he is totally acting in submission right now. Or some strange, chaste version of it. The forced direction, the mutual demand to stay where Eddie wants him, to look only at his boyfriend and his boyfriend alone.

Every other channel has turned to static. Only Eddie's soft exhale out of his elated little smile is the thing he can hear, the feather-light breath landing on Steve's chin all he can feel.

"Why?" Steve asks through a heavy breath that loosens the rest of the tension in his body as it releases.

Eddie must notice the discourse whirring inside Steve's head because he's ironically the first to spook and try to back-pedal.

Steve feels Eddie's hands falter and fidget slightly against his temples. "Not the time, you're right. And if you're not into that idea, throw it in the trash, forget I said anything-"

When he notices Eddie's hands go to fall away, Steve's fist comes off from clenching his jeans to grip Eddie's wrist on reflex, keeping the hand that hides the rest of the Squawk there on his face before it can disappear completely and leave him open.

Steve drops his head a smidge, partly to cower, and partly to purposely look up at the other man through his lashes. Then, when Eddie gets the message, his hand returns to the opposite side of Steve's face, excluding all unnecessary fixtures from his vision. Immediately, the lights dim again, the kids are nearly silenced by some magic, and his anxiety about what Robin's next line will be after watching this exchange dissipates, all at once. He's pacified.

He tries to be bold, be brave, and uphold that reputation for his seemingly fictitious Harrington Charm. Spinning in his seat so their positions are mirrored, legs bent and knocking knees, he grips Eddie's left wrist more firmly and pulls it closer so his palm smooshes the fat of Steve's cheek upwards, forcing his eye to wink shut. He turns his face into the calloused hand and presses a kiss to the base of the thumb, all while maintaining a sultry staring contest with the other man, who looks about ready to start flying when Steve's lips smack a second time then stop to linger on his pretend gear.

"Fucking Christ," Eddie's quiet voice shakes, all breathy and reverent. He leans in again, looking back at Steve's lips. Steve pulls Eddie's palm over his ear so he can rest his head against it, cocked coyly to the side. Scoffing, Eddie rushes him, closing his lips wetly over Steve's.

He doesn't push his luck, remembering the weeks of strife it took to get to this point, pulling back just a few moments later to tell Steve, with no room for argument, "Yeah. Shit, yeah, I'm commissioning those blinders. What d'you say we continue the brown leather-and-brass theme? Stick to the cowboy aesthetic?"

Steve snorts softly. "Um, hold your horses for a minute. First: what I meant was, why do people wear them? What's it about?"

He feels vindicated when Eddie actually bothers to scope their surroundings before speaking. But on the flipside, it makes Steve all the more anxious because if Eddie is giving a shit about social decorum, the answer to his question must be filthy. Which, of course a question about fetish gear would have a filthy answer, but Steve's brain has been reduced to mush.

Still, ambitiously (and perhaps inapporpriately) using this as an opportunity to test the waters, Steve doesn't permit himself to look anywhere but at the man in front of him, so he just has to trust Eddie's judgment when he decides it's safe to answer.

"I think you just demonstrated the 'why' perfectly, Baby Boy," Eddie tells him, voice husky in a whisper.

Fuck, this was a bad idea.

Following a rush of tingles down his spine, wet heat pools past Steve's abdomen to sit heavy at his cock. Retreat, retreat, retreat!

Eyes twinkling with awe, Eddie drinks in the blissed-out face Steve's making as a result of whatever spell he's under. He's stuck, fascinated by another successful practical experiment built after hypotheticals they've only read about together. It may even be the reality of toying with it in the open like this that's doing it for him, too, where they're in danger of being called out by whoever has the misfortune of witnessing Steve in this totally foggy, brainless state, vulnerable and fucking horny.

Retreat, Steve, retreat!

"As for the 'what's it about', the blinders are a part of this thing called pony play."

Well, that sounds perverted.

Eddie barrels onwards, spotting the way Steve's face screws up like he just tasted something gone-off, "You remember the mutts and pups thing? It's similar to puppy play but, obviously, horse-centred."

Oh! Steve does remember that one. The one where people do the 'Dog and its Master' thing and wear hoods with muzzles, crawl on all fours and wear dog collars to be tugged around on leashes. That particular fetish didn't immediately spark with Steve in its written form, but once Eddie explained how it was just another form of play that followed the core principles of BDSM, he sort of understood it, even if he's confident he won't be barking and eating out of a bowl any time soon, nor does he want Eddie to do that. No, Sir.

"Is it a reference to, like... Like a play on 'Oh, he had a swinin' horse cock' or something?" The boys better have left the lounge at this point because Steve is firmly convinced he and Eddie are in their own private, soundproof bubble right now. He did not think before he said that, even if he managed to keep his satiric tone to a whisper.

Eddie bursts into laughter, bowing forward. He shakes his head, curls falling and framing his face so perfectly. Steve's always jealous that Eddie's hair just likes to work in his favour without having to slave away for it.

"Not inherently. But in your case..."

"Shuddup," Steve grumbles, pinching Eddie's thigh. He was almost considering feeling guilty for the blood draining out of Eddie's arms after holding them up for so long, but after that comment, Eddie can suffer for it.

Giggling, Eddie takes a hand away from Steve's face to swat his pinching fingers off his thigh. Reacting to something like instinct, Steve shuts his eyes until the hand is back where it belongs.

"Am I wrong? But seriously, no, I don't think so. This isn't really my area. I've never had much interest in it, and it's pretty rare, I think. The few ponyboys I've seen in photos wear gorgeous gear. Sometimes it gets weird and devolves into theater costume that I just do not find sexy, but what do you expect? Same as everything, really.

"It's super similar to pups. The 'Master' becomes the 'Trainer' or 'Rider' - oh, I guess there is an inherent innuendo, you were right." Steve preens, but wags his head in an 'I told you so' gesture just to sass. Eddie lets it slide, "It's about dehumanising again, and focuses on discipline just the same, which is another pun, if you think about it. In the real horse world, you legitimately have 'disciplines', AKA riding styles like rodeo, western pleasure, show jumping, dressage..."

Sometimes Steve forgets about his boyfriend's mountain hillbilly roots. During uncle-nephew bonding trips, Wayne had him cracking whips on the ranch when he was hardly big enough to look over a haybale, apparently. Funny how it became a transferable skill.

Eddie goes on, maintaining a low volume, "But I think, within the fetish, it lends itself to the pageantry of it all, more than their puppy counterparts. Like, literally, my job would be to get you all groomed and ready for a 'show', so to speak. I think it suits you, Mr I have to spend at least forty-five minutes on my mane every morning, otherwise I won't leave the house." He teases with a toothy grin, dipping his head to look deeper down the tunnel into Steve's eyes, playfully patronising.

It doesn't go amiss how Eddie assigns himself the role of Master, or rather, 'Trainer' for this scenario. Steve can't see it any other way, though. These past few weeks, he's literally been getting trained by Eddie in this new world of kinky shit. He definitely doesn't mind it, even if he scoffs at the frankly accurate way Eddie colours him vain.

"Wouldn't that make you the cowboy?" Steve teases back, but it's an empty question. Something plucked from his stream of consciousness just to have something to say that isn't horny garble, and to disarm his half-chub because it's coming back to him that they are, indeed, still in the Squawk, and the morning broadcast must be wrapping up by now.

"Hmph, sure! I have a sparkling track record for breaking in even the worst of 'em, but you already knew that, didn't cha, Big Boy?"

He can't tell what's more humiliating: the demeaning way he calls Steve 'the worst of 'em', the idea that he's been successfully 'broken in' (which Steve immeditaly takes as a nod to the fact that he's been bottoming more recently, a notion which lets loose another flurry of arousal), or the fucking whimper he makes after hearing it all come out in Eddie's cruel, flirty voice with his teeth bared in that viscious grin, a combination which has a ridiculous amount of power over him.

Jesus Christ, save me. Otherwise, I'm gonna be thinking about Eddie 'breaking me in' until Robin throws me out of her station for the chub in my pants.

Nonetheless, Eddie keeps fucking whispering, because, as Steve has learnt, he will not stop once he's gotten started, "I don't mind being the cowboy. I'm best with a crop, and how could I complain when I'd own the purtiest bronco the auction ev'r did see!"

Slipping out way too naturally, that Appalachian accent does something to Steve, as silly as it is. More so than the instant recollection of slave auction parties they read about in Drummer, because Steve's brain is playing the word association game and has persistently been doing so, because he has kind of become obsessed, like he's a sex-crazed teenager all over again.

He grabs hold of Eddie's wrists and pulls them into his lap so he can fall forward and hide his blisteringly red face in Eddie's shoulder.

It sounds like he's mimicking his Uncle Wayne, and it's the cutest fucking thing ever. Steve is hyperaware of the fact that the comparison should be weird as hell to draw at a time like this, but eh. Something something daddy issues, something something, what's new? He's jealous of their relationship, and if something clicked when Eddie read the chapter on daddy/boy dynamics, he would rather stay oblivious than stare too long. Just for the time being, lest something become of it.

It's moves like that which make Steve too flustered to bite back. He isn't used to being so unapologetically doted on, nor the way Eddie flaunts him like a trophy, which Steve should have an issue with, but it's different how Eddie Munson does it. It isn't about social gain or reputation. Steve isn't just an asset to further someone else's prestige... Or maybe he is.

There's such a huge distinction, though. He can feel it. Unlike with his parents, it's not on the condition that he must maintain an image that doesn't reflect him and that squeezes him into the wrong-shaped display cabinet. Eddie sees all of him and wants to flaunt all of him. Sure, he is kind of obsessed with the fantasy that he 'bagged the King', but hell, if Steve isn't weak to that veneration anyway.

Maybe that's bad, or maybe it's just that Eddie has flipped the narrative on its head. There's no expectation to be anything but himself. Eddie wants to dress him up in colours that complement him, that show off every part of who he is. He wants to degrade him in a way that says 'you are precious', wants to possess Steve entirely. Make him do tricks, look pretty and bloat Eddie's ego with the conviction that other people will see Steve, admire him, and envy Eddie for what he's got.

Nothing in Steve's arsenal could help him land on his feet right now, helpless not to flail on the spot and go beet red like a loser instead. It's worship, but not at his feet - more like being revered, cherished, picked up and hailed a treasure, "Look at him! Isn't he perfect?"

Cowering in Eddie's neck, the tyrant's laugh reverberates against Steve's lips so deliciously, he can't stave off the impulse to mouth at the flesh, nipping once or twice. After a brisk but hot summer's morning at work, his boyfriend's skin tastes a tad salty, and the firmness of that muscle lying just beneath feels like it's wagging its finger for Steve to come closer, bite deeper, consume. So, he drags his tongue over the spot that speaks to him before snapping down with a wider bite, catching his weight on Eddie's hands in his lap as he falls further into the man.

Surprise-surprise, Eddie 'the unbreakable' actually is very breakable. His smug laughter is cut off with a gasp, before a warm, shaky hum that lands right up against Steve's ear. Eddie wriggles one hand loose to grasp Steve's jaw and slowly pull him up so their eyes meet again.

"Whoa, Nelly," Eddie jeers, with a twitchy smile on his red face. The blush has actually travelled all the way down Eddie's neck. Steve watches his focus dart between eye-level and his spit-slick lips. It's about time Steve got a leg up.

With Eddie's hands now absent from around his eyes, it takes a moment to adjust to the brightness. The returned fullness of the room helps Steve reset, and his boner flag, luckily.

Steve frowns, but it's bordering on pouting, "'S your fault. You want me to get better at PDA, or are you as much of a flake as I am?"

Eddie scoffs, "There's a 'hello, darling' kiss, and then there's chewing on my neck where Robin can see, judge and gag loudly."

"I wasn't chewing."

Eddie jabs a finger into the spot on his own neck, now marred with tiny reddened dimples, "Uh, yes, you were. D'you need a bit as well?"

And because he most likely is a masochist, Steve mistakenly lets himself wonder if it hurts where Eddie presses on his neck, where Steve may or may not have chewed and licked. In his defence, he didn't suck hard enough to cause an actual issue like a hickey, but the thought of Eddie teasing himself with a bruise Steve put there makes him all warm again, reversing any progress he made not to get kicked out of the building for public indecency.

"A bit of what, Eddie?" Steve snipes back, flirty. It's balls to the wall, now. If he has to tediously dismantle the jigsaw puzzle that is the secret entrance to the basement so he can drag Eddie down there, so be it.

The tiniest smile pulls at Eddie's lips, his eyes twinkling mischievously. Eddie squeezes Steve's cheeks with the pads of his fingers, resting at the hinges. "Open."

Hesitant, Steve screws his face up and gingerly opens his mouth an inch. Seizing this narrow window of blind compliance, Eddie pushes his pointer finger horizontally into Steve's mouth, pushing back the corners of his lips, not unlike a gag would. Shocked, Steve immediately retaliates with his tongue, spitting out the finger as he rears his head back.

"What the hell!" he yelps, although laughing.

"A bit." Eddie clarifies with a gnash of his teeth to illustrate, laughing along. "What's the problem? I thought you were a visual learner."

Spluttering, "I only say that to flirt! It's like the oldest line in the book." He waves vaguely at where the Cosmo landed on the floor, "A- A horse bit? Seriously?"

Eddie shrugs and considers the rest of the room with another sidelong glance. He speaks quietly again, and Steve knows he's in trouble. "Just a suggestion. But... I'd still like to gag you one way or another. Keep those fatal fangs of yours at bay when-"

"You two are so cute that while I was trying to sign off, it made me wanna be sick all over the console."

Robin suddenly materialises in front of the couch, causing even Eddie to jump. So much for trusting this guy's judgment.

Steve might never know what Eddie wanted to do with him gagged because the moment shatters, and, quick to recover, Eddie spins rightways in his seat, plopping down with a knee crossed over the other and throwing an arm over Steve's shoulders.

So he's hard, too.

For future reference, let's avoid these kinds of discussions in public.

"Well? Clue me in," Robin demands, one hand on her cocked hip. She's picked that up from me, Steve muses.

Feigning a sorrowful expression, Eddie reaches to place his other hand on Steve's right shoulder and tap consolingly, before informing Robin in a pitying voice that makes it sound like a formal diagnosis, "Steve's a biter."

Robin's lax grasp on social cues strikes again. Realising their bickering wasn't about a funny, innocent anecdote like she had assumed, Robin flinches and holds a fist to her mouth like she's about to barf, "Oh. Ew. I didn't need to know that, but, uh, my condolences? Steve, you suck? Or rather, maybe you should hold off for a little while?"

As Steve chokes on spit, Eddie reels his head back and laughs maniacally.

As desperate as Steve is to move on, though surprisingly merciful, she quickly changes the subject, "Morning Squawk's wrapped. You guys up for--?" She mouths 'breakfast' so the kids don't hear and ask for a ride to the diner, where they will beg for free milkshakes courtesy of the working adults' already-bare pockets.

Speaking of, where are they?

Holy shit, first he misses the distinct squeak of the studio door opening before Robin caught them, now he's totally lost sight of the kids. If a little bit of mime and playing pretend has inhibited Steve's senses this badly, what the hell could those real blinders do?

"Yesss, I'm starving." Eddie turns to direct that last part at Steve, inches from his face by how he's sidled up against him.

"Ew. Gross. Quit with the goo-goo eyes!"

Ignoring his insolent soulmate's plea, Steve pulls a spur of confidence out of his ass, simultaneously praying his boner disappears by the time he has to stand up, all in an expertly hidden panic. He stares back at Eddie with his own pair of 'goo-goo eyes', tilting his head flirtatiously, "I could eat."

For a moment, a flicker of amazement zings in Eddie's hooded eyes. "Hm! I gathered that. What, did I turn into a sugarcube a second ago?"

Steve snorts, catching the pun that time, and flits his gaze down at his boyfriend's lips before kissing them, albeit chastely. Baby steps. Plus, we're still waiting for a status report on Steve Jr. The coast may not be clear for anything more than a peck.

"The hell..? It is eleven-thirty in the morning," Robin despairs, mostly to herself, as she cautiously steps away from their shocking display of horniness for each other, which even she's not really been exposed to since they got together.

Then, out of nowhere, Dustin's disparaging voice is explosive in the gentle indoor volumes Steve had just gotten used to.

Story of my life with this kid.

"Ugh, they're still at it," he exclaims, slapping his hands on his sides defeatedly.

"Um. Where did you guys go?" Steve asks hesitantly, straightening up as much as he can with Eddie's arm holding him solidly. He feels his grip actually tighten around his shoulders when he tries to pull back, resisting any attempt Steve might make to flee. Steve doesn't want to, though.

This is fine. It's casual. Normal, and how it should be. Even if the kids are really testing Steve's nerves right now.

As if it were obvious (well, unfortunately, shithead, I was on another planet), Mike answers, "Er, the basement? Because you two were being gross-"

"Knock it off, Mike! We wanted to give you privacy." Lucas chimes, in the snobbish tone of someone who thinks he knows it all, a grown-up, for simply having a girlfriend. Only half the time, Steve might add, but he doesn't want to declare war.

"Don't say it like that!" Dustin squeals, voice breaking in horror.

"I didn't mean it like that! It's just that Steve's got a stick up his ass about being kissy with Eddie in front of us, so- we were literally in agreement about this ten minutes ago, why do I gotta reason it now?"

"What we mean is you don't have to be shy around us," placates Will.

"But if it's a case of Steve acting totally incompetent? Eddie, I will stand as a witness for your divorce," says the child of divorce.

Henderson won't see another, Steve likes to think.

Because he'll sooner be disowned for calling him incompetent and taking Eddie's side in this fake scenario before he can stand to attest to any falsehoods.

"What the hell, man? I'm a good flirt! It was you dickheads who lost your lunch when you found out I got with your Dungeon Master!" And Christ, if that title doesn't send Steve's synapses crossfiring in a confused scramble since learning what else kind of Dungeon Master exists, what else kind of DM Eddie could be.

"I will also stand witness. I can bring the Scoops board in as evidence."

"The what-board?" Eddie leans forward to stare inquisitively at Robin, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

"I had a whiteboard in the back of Scoops where I kept a tally of every time he 'ruled' and every time he 'sucked' at flirting with girls over the counter. You bet your ass there wasn't a single tally in the 'You Rule' column by the time Starcourt burnt down," she says, smug as anything.

Elated, it's as if that information has taken Eddie's breath away, "Wow. Buckley, even I couldn't come up with something like that. That must have been humiliating," he punctuates the secret double-entendre by slowly turning his head with false pity plastered on his face, his full pupils practically throbbing when they land on Steve.

Oh, fuck off. You think you're so clever...

Subtly jabbing Eddie in the side with his elbow, Steve's top lip twitches in a combative sneer before trying to settle into something less stand-offish that belies flirtation. It's an attack, a serving of Eddie's own medicine, as Steve recalls the filthy cartoons of face-fucking sailors in the magazines Eddie showed him a week back. He's been waiting to pull this one out of his arsenal after strategically keeping it close to his chest.

Initially, the plan was to discreetly steal the only surviving memory of the Scoops uniforms, a polaroid of him and Robin stood in front of the counter, from Robin's room, and pull out the aces when the time was right; i.e., show it to Eddie late at night, where Steve could hold the photo between them with his thumb covering Robin (because no one wants Buckley's sunken, minimum-wage-scorned eyes baring witness to this), and his other hand stripping his cock to the sight of Eddie jerk himself off to the dirty shit Steve would whisper in his ear about what he could have done to 'Sailor Steve' in the back hallways of Starcourt that summer.

But there's always another time for that.

"Uh-huh. I sucked. Even in the slutty uniform." He closes in, dragging his finger up past Eddie's collarbone to hook under the red guitar pick, pulling it taut and dragging Eddie in with it. Strategically hiding his face behind Eddie's to avoid seeing the scrutiny, Steve puts his lips to Eddie's ear and half-whispers, "They made me serve ice cream under hot lights dressed like a sailor in a hat, and short-shorts, and a cute neck tie."

He fudged the reality of the uniform a little, but it doesn't matter because, as planned, Eddie should be imagining a uniform comprising those three things and only those three. And indeed, the smirk falls off his face like a lead weight as his mouth gapes, face and neck turning a deep red. He blinks at Steve and makes a couple of false starts to ask questions like 'do you still have it' and 'why was a seventeen-year-old dressed like a male stripper at a mall, that feels illegal', but Steve's actually managed to render Eddie speechless.

"Ee-yuck! The hell happened to you overnight, Steve?" Lucas cries, falling back on his previously supportive testaments.

"Something really good, obviously," says Mike, blushing still as he chews his words in disgust.

"Yeah, Lucas? Your theory that they needed privacy to flourish or whatever is officially bust. I could puke." Dustin cowers behind a hand cupped over his eyes, similar to Steve's rudimentary blinders.

"Jesus," Robin and Will speak in unison, fascinated and a little awakened in Will's case.

Feeling proud of himself and only a little bit sorry, Steve faces the others with an air of nonchalance, "See? I'm a good flirt," he testifies, arrogantly patting Eddie's petrified shoulder before addressing the man again with a smug smile. "So, diner?"

"Oo! Can we come?"

"Steve!"

"Ah, fuck. No, you can't!"

But, hey. The ground didn't split four ways after Steve initiated a little PDA with his boyfriend, and the kids want to steal his money all the same after being subjected to it.

It's alright. He's allowed to do this. It's safe.

"There is a strong prejudice against leather being any color but black, although I have seen guys in brown leather cowboy chaps and vest and thought they looked fabulous." Eddie drops the book, Steve's delightful signal that he's got something of his own to add. "I agree, by the way. Brown leather would look best on you. Same colour as your hair."

Steve lets himself preen at the attention, "Not black?"

Eddie's face scrunches up, probably trying to picture Steve in Black and Steel. "Mmm, no... I don't know! I mean, I'd go insane. Would wanna eat you, no doubt about that. Like, don't get me wrong - very hot. But also, I wouldn't dare ask you to switch out your pretty-boy sweaters, they're too cute."

Steve rolls his eyes.

Eddie continues, "Also, silver? Not your metal. You're definitely a gold guy."

Steve nods in agreement. He already knew that about himself - vaguely, since he didn't wear jewellery. He can't help but feel a little put out by the fact, though. Because even if he wanted to, would that mean he couldn't get dressed up like the hot cops? Like Eddie? No reason to wear it if it's just going to look unflattering on him.

He just wouldn't suit it. It's like he's got one foot in the door. The book hasn't mentioned bisexual men, yet. Though Steve supposes it doesn't matter when he is also half-gay, in a sense. Only half. But that's not right either, is it? Robin told him that. Stressed that he isn't less of one or the other, because she knew, the asshole (his soulmate), that Steve would get insecure about it. And here it is, happening again. All over some silly outfits he's not even sure he wants to 'flag' himself with. What would he even be flagging, then?

Eddie must sense the outbreak of civil war raging in his head. His hand drops out of Steve's hair and comes to settle over his waist, bunching up the yellow fabric of his favourite sweater. Eddie's favourite sweater.

"Brown is definitely less popular, but I've seen it some, and every time, that person stands out from the crowd. Sets them apart in a good way. A very hot way. And it's usually because that guy knows he doesn't suit black and silver, and wants to make sure he looks hot. I like that. I like dudes who know what looks good on them, who like to doll themselves up." Steve juggles that piece of information in his brain, and it does help a little. But he can't help that feeling of being 'other' still.

A harsh gasp cuts his anxious spiral for a moment.

"Uungh!"

The sound Eddie makes is the most pornographic thing that's come out of their little reading session. Impressive considering the material. "Fuck! You in a brown leather jacket? Like your hair, kinda brown. Like worn, western saddle brown? God. With brass hardware? Shit, that would look so good." Steve hears a thump as Eddie's head knocks back against the drywall.

Like usual, Eddie's unabashed enthusiasm eases Steve's discomfort. He laughs into Eddie's chest and tries to imagine that jacket.

"I could see myself wearing that, but it wouldn't be the same, no?" He realises then how seriously he's actually considering this thing that had him so spooked the first time Eddie explained his hanky. It's funny how a little studying has Steve feeling like a greyhound waiting for the whistle to blow, and the box shutters to fly open so he can chase the lure on the other side.

Eddie is having the same realisation, going by the manic look in his eyes. He's restraining his excitement, for sure. "Uh- heh! Sure, it's uncommon. But it would be yours. It's the same in the metal scene. No one's battle jacket is the same, and people argue about what constitutes a battle jacket all the time. There's always someone willing to pick a fight if they see a band on your sleeve they deem 'not metal enough'. At the end of the day, it's stupid. It's costume. But that person still knew what I was about because we got talking anyway. Clothes aren't the be-all, end-all, Stevie. I'm in it for the fun. And maybe the occasional fight. Sometimes."

Ah, of course. Nothing boosts Eddie's ego more than winning a one-sided debate on all the sub-genres of Metal. It would be more accurate to say that he tires out the opposition with his rambling than actually wins those pointless arguments. Steve, strangely, feels a little reassured.

---

"Although I believe, like a good Boy Scout, in always being prepared, I think it is best not to encumber yourself with a lot of junk hanging from your belt or stuffing your pockets." [In reference to carrying Amyl]

When Eddie read that first part aloud to Steve, whose hips had been twitching from arousal against Eddie's hip until then, it kind of broke the spell.

"Like a good Boy Scout," Steve mimics with a sardonic chuckle.

It becomes an inside joke.

When the Party are next preparing for a Crawl, everyone is given their station and roles.

Hopper's attention falls on Eddie and Steve. "You two will be our scouts, m'kay?"

"Like good Boy Scouts," they both say in unison, turning to grin at each other and falling into an alarming fit of giggles.

"What does that even mean?" Dustin begs, exasperated. He's heard it a couple times from the two, in and out of each other's company.

"It's nothing. Ignore us." Steve says, sobering from his giggles with a grimace. It was inappropriate, but it's their harmless (eh) secret. Just as their relationship still is to the Party. Robin and Vickie know, but Steve's been waiting for the right time to tell Dustin and maybe Hopper and, by extension, Joyce, next. He doesn't really know why he has this urge to tell Hopper. Probably daddy issues.

"Kinda hard when- wait. Is that what you've been making? A Boy Scouts badge?"

Eddie's lips curl into a snarl, and he shoots Dustin a frankly terrifying look that even Steve hasn't been the recipient of. "You snot-nosed shithead! That was supposed to be a surprise!"

"Well, I didn't know that!" Dustin rebutes.

Steve whips his head around to frown wide-eyed at Eddie. "You did not."

Meeting Steve's eye, Eddie's expression softens instantly. "I did." He grins sheepishly.

Steve rubs his face in a futile attempt to cover his smile. "Why?" He moans.

Eddie bites down on the cocky grin breaking out on his face, "To put on your new jacket."

Too many emotions collide. Steve's jaw falls open, a smile tugging at the corners, before he narrows his eyes and frowns again. He sends a weary glance over at Dustin for Eddie to catch his meaning, "What exactly is on this badge? And- and you actually got me the jacket?"

"Oh, no! Stevie, how would I expect you to wear it around if-" he cuts himself short, but quickly recovers. "Because I do expect you to wear it."

'Okay, you can drop the 'Sir' act. We're in public' is what Steve would talk back if they weren't, y'know, in public.

Eddie scrunches his nose, grinning conspiratorially at him. "I got the jacket. It's exactly how I imagined it!" he swoons.

Not how Steve imagined it - it's how Eddie imagined it. He's being dressed up in whatever Eddie likes, whether he likes it or not. Steve's a Ken doll with Eddie's name tagged on his foot.

Steve swerves his own excitement with another pointless question, "Won't one badge look a little weird?"

Eddie leans closer, ignoring the others entirely, and it's going to bite them in the ass later, but who cares? Steve's got his first piece of leathers.

The guy seems to be all bark and no bite. Steve managed to badger him into explaining what his hanky meant after a month of Eddie shutting it down every time, saying things like:

"it's just an accessory." Bullshit.

"it's just a gay signal." Okay, but there's a code?

"There's no rush!" Well, I want it now!

When Steve finally gets the answers he was looking for, his initial reaction wasn't far from disgust. Look, his perception of S&M largely comes from corny, gross, low-budget splat-stick horror movies that play more like perverted snuff films than anything entertaining let alone sexy. It wasn't his vibe. Like, at all. As for the very few centre-spreads, or the skinny columns in Cosmo, that delve into anything related to BDSM, it all seemed so... Unnatural. Cruel. Performative. Theatre - yuck!

It came as a shock, suffice to say, that someone from small-town, wheat whacking Hawkins actually participated when he drove up to Indianapolis. His boyfriend no less.

Well, shit.

That initial fear didn't last too long, though. Eddie was nervous as shit, too, so immediately after his confession, every piece of etiquette he could remember in that moment came spewing from his mouth like word-vomit. It was a rush of jargon and Eddie's anxiety meant it was purely one-sided, his poorly articulated rambles leaving no room for a Q&A on Steve's end. Steve couldn't keep up but he got the gist. Eddie really likes this. Eddie is educated on it [in Steve's mind anyway. Realistically, he's played around with a couple people, been to clubs, and read the few books and comics knocking around at this time. I wouldn't call Eddie an expert by any means].

Eddie lives and breathes Dungeons & Dragons (and the joke in the name suddenly dawns on Steve) - this complex board game that doesn't even use a board, and requires too many numbers for it to possibly be any fun, and about three hundred pages of rules.

It's no surprise that Eddie's somehow complicated sex too, given it conveluted rules and turned it into fucking battle strategy. He's watched Eddie design dungeons, make up characters, and write elaborate plotlines with a passion so fervent nothing can shift him from desk until it's complete and perfect. So Steve told him he wants to hear about it. About this 'other dungeon' of Eddie's.

Sucking on a lock of hair, Eddie stared at him for a moment, coming down from his rampent rambling to consider Steve's proposal. Steve saw it then. Eddie's game face, the Dungeon Master, as he slowly pieced himself together because he had a mission, then. And he was going to do things properly for Steve, to the best of his abilities.

Which is troublesome for Steve because he is impatient and horny and obsessed with Eddie, but he can't deny that this BDSM thing has him a little shaky.

So, they're in the trailer snuggled on Eddie's bed one night.

"Can I show you something? It's, uh, related to my hanky and everything."

Excitement fucking soars through Steve's chest, his stomach flips and he can't keep the eager smile off his face. Okay so maybe he's been thinking about it a lot, but every time he tries he realises his own knowledge is too sorely lacking that he can't come up with anything besides those camp outfits and frankly terrifying movies. But that made him all the more excited for Eddie to show him, teach him what it is to Eddie. See the determined look on his face as he gets to yap on and on about something he's passionate about.

It would turn out to be much less Eddie's gentle teachings than they were another man's, named Larry Townsend. When Eddie, reciprocating well to Steve's blatant excitement, practically skipped to his bookshelf to pull out a pretty hefty book from beside his D&D books no less, Steve couldn't help but laugh.

"You keep your kinky literature next to your role-playing game? Makes sense I guess."

Eddie laughs in kind, rubbing his neck bashfully before shrugging. "Similar vein. Just as fun. I mean, time and place obviously." Oh boy, Steve thinks, here comes the boring rules and regulations talk.

Sitting opposite Steve on the bed, granting him unnecessary breathing space, Eddie passes the book over for Steve to flick through. It's a pretty blue colour, and staring up at Steve is an illustration of a ridiculously ripped, moustachioed man in an open leather vest and leather chaps with a window to a full basket. The spine is creased to all Hell, and he half-expects stuck pages that refuse to flip across his thumb. But nope, the pages are jizz-free and there are a lot of words. Not a single piece of pornography in sight.

"See, this is what I mean. Don't you think adding all these - je-sus! - all these words and rules takes the fun out of it? Like, this is the most unsexy book and it's literally about sex. Where are the models? Where's Steve Reeves?" He makes sure he keeps his tone light, so as not to make Eddie think he has to back-pedal and metaphorically cover Steve's eyes.

[AN: It pains me to say it but I have scoured the internet for a photo of the first edition of The Leatherman's Handbook II and have come up with nothing. So I'm describing the 2rd edition's cover, pub. 1989]

Thankfully, it works. Eddie laughs and points to the cover with the hot cop. "Right there, babe! And it's what's inside that counts." He informs, putting on a mock sincerity as if he were giving self-help advice.

The cop doesn't really do it for Steve. He can't help but compare himself to him, and he's not even real. Eddie does own a black leather vest similar to his, however, and that does do it for Steve. Eddie's is bejeweled with studs on the shoulders and back panel, and it's a tailored fit, better than whatever this cop guy is wearing.

"Handbook II, updated second edition.... Am I gonna be missing some vital plot points or does it recap?"

[This is purely so I could write this joke. Eddie would most likely have the first edition of handbook 2, not the second edition as it was published '89. And I'm soft for good etiquette so Eddie gets the second volume, not the first from 1972]

Eddie chuckles, clambering over and sitting next to Steve, finally. Half of his chest hugs Steve's back as he leans on the hand planted behind him.

"No, you'll catch up!" There was definitely something in Eddie's voice just then that wasn't all innocent. "This handbook is exactly as it sounds. Like... A Boy Scouts Handbook for it all." Steve snorts. He's too shy to even say it, fuck. "I only own this one. The first came out in '72 or something."

Steve turns to look his surprise at Eddie, their faces inches apart. "They were publishing this stuff in '72? I'm surprised they can even sell this now, to be honest."

"Right? Tricky to find, but this is like The Bible in the scene. Everyone's got one of these bad boys in their bedside drawer."

"Hm! Light reading before bed."

"No way. This thing is like an academic dissertation!" Eddie beams, gesturing grandly as his eyes begin to get that sparkle when he's excited about something. Which, with the status of triple senior, he really shouldn't be so excited about academic writing.

"Oh, great." Steve says deadpan. He means it light heartedly, though. But by god, Eddie better be prepared to paraphrase the- oh Jesus Christ - three hundred pages sat in Steve's hands right now.

Steve swallows, "Hey, I know this is like, your thing, and I want you to tell me about it! I really do! But if you expect me to get through this on my own in less than two years, expect sex to stay pretty vanilla until then."

Eddie snorts and presses his face into the side of Steve's, giggling into his hair before pressing a kiss there. "I'm not about to set you fetish homework, Stevie. If you're at all interested, there will be no deadlines, okay? And if it's really not your thing, then that's totally fine with me. We have vanilla sex until we die old together."

That does sound nice, and Steve's heart does flutter at the whole 'dying old together' thing, but... "Don't pretend that doesn't make you feel a little sick."

"Okay, maybe. But after that long? Vampire Law sets in. Everyone turns bisexual and starts drinking each others' blood for fun."

Steve blinks, "Right. Of course, the natural progression of a healthy relationship. Hey! I'm already one step closer than you."

"And how do you know I'm not drinking people's blood for fun, hm?"

Steve shoots him a horrified look. So it is like the movies?

"I'm joking, oh my god! Sorry, not helpful at all. No one is drinking blood- well, not me at least. No, thank you. We're in an epidemic, remember." Steve sighs and thinks a rap on Eddie's thigh with his fist is more than deserved.

"Ow! What was that for? I said I was joking!"

Steve squares him an unimpressed look before drawing attention to the book again and flipping to the table of contents, landing a finger somewhere random because he's honestly too nervous to read any of it yet.

"Well, it said here you wouldn't mind so much."

Eddie feigns an offended expression, but the grin pulling at his lips breaks his character. He playfully thrusts his pointer finger between Steve's eyes, pushing his head back a little in scolding. "And it says here that you're a little brat! Rule number one, Stevie: consent."

Steve sticks his tongue out at him. Eddie is beaming once again, before he's leaning into Steve's ear to whisper, "And you should ask me next time whether I like to be hit, cus I might just say the opposite."

Oh! Cool. Cool cool cool.

Fuck, Steve wants to flirt back. He wants to so bad. He knows they could just play with the fantasy for now, dirty talk without actually following through. But he's yet again coming up short. He's totally unprepared, totally uneducated and he wants Eddie to start teaching him already!

He clears his throat, leaning back into Eddie's space when he pulls back. "Could you... I don't know. I was expecting you to tell me all about this, I guess. You're good at, like, saying shit. Explaining shit."

Eddie blushes and takes a breath, "I'd rather not give myself a chance to fuck it up? It's been a while since I've read it myself, to be honest. Like, it'll be a refresher for me as much as a- a first lesson, so to speak, for you." He chuckles to himself, but Steve doesn't quite get the joke. He reckons it's probably hiding in this book somewhere.

Steve's not wholly satisfied with that. Never mind the fact he can't fucking read good to begin with, he wants to go through it with Eddie, together. If it's not supposed to be homework, as Eddie said, why does it feel like it? It's not helping his sense of dread and total anxiety around actually reading a single word, let alone digesting it and giving it the old college try.

Steve clicks his tongue. He flips the book to where he spotted the lengthy blurb and begins reading in his head.

'This completely new sequel to the Leatherman's Handbook reveals all the secrets of the underground world of leather and S&M practices. The experienced practitioner will discover new advanced refinements and the novice will learn the ropes from the ground up.'

Steve's the novice, isn't he? It's been so many years riding on the back of that local 'Harrington' reputation, he kind of forgot what it felt like to be a plain beginner at something. It's exciting.

'All the elements of fetish, fantasy, master/slave relationships and role playing techniques both simple and advanced are given an in-depth treatment by one of the world's foremost authorities'

And that would be Larry Townsend, he supposes. To be honest, Steve was going to give Eddie that title. After all, this is his field.

"Is that really his name?"

"Oh, definitely not. Probably a pseudonym. Censorship is still a threat to this kind of thing, even if it's educational. Like you said, it's the most unsexy book about sex. He does write smutty shit, too, so. Y'know. Helps keep yourself safe from nosy neighbours, friends, family. Police."

"Yeah, fucking Jesus..." Steve breaths labourously from his nose. "I mean, I'm not stupid. I'm not tryna act naive, it's just..."

"A stark reminder, right?" The arm Eddie props himself up with shimmies closer to the base of Steve's back, and a thumb starts stroking over his spine. The tension in Steve's shoulders goes lax and he sighs, wordlessly nodding before reading on.

'This book contains up to date explorations of booze, drugs and health for the gay male S&M practitioner and complete statistics on S&M preferences.

'The Leatherman's Handbook II tells you what to look for, where to find it, and how to do it when you've found it. This is the definitive book in its field.'

Steve wants to know, desperately. He's found it, or it found him, he just needs to know how to do it.

With that hurdle overcome, Steve feels a little more confident. Not 'I'll have my essay on your desk Monday, Sir' kind of confident, because his eyes are already playing up and the strain on top of his anxiety-wrought headache is telling him this is going to be hard work.

"Can't you give me the keynotes? Because," he flips through the three hundred pages for emphasis, "you're a better reader than me. By a mile." He chews his lip before an idea pops into his head, "Do you remember when we shared a senior year? We were in the same English class."

Eddie looks at him incredulously, pulling back slightly to consider his boyfriend's out-of-pocket enquiry, "You remember that?"

"Yeah, and I'd already gotten that blow from Billy that knocked my brain loose?"

"Jesus. Uh, yeah?" Eddie's thumb pets his back again sweetly.

"Well, Miss Manifold always forced us to popcorn read and I'd- this sounds so stupid- I'd legitimately cross my fingers in my pockets hoping it never came around to me."

"Oh, Stevie..."

Steve rushes to cut him off, finding the pity hard to swallow, but if they were going be transparent today he may as well lay his biggest fucking insecurity out for Eddie to see. See how wonky and janked up he really is.

"Reading that? Just this tiny bit?" He drags his finger up and down the blurb covering the back. "I can feel my eyes are already tired and, like, the strain gives me headaches and- yeah. It's a thing from the concussions. So, reading? Not my strong suit."

He can feel how rigid Eddie's gone. His chest is no longer moving against his back in that calming rhythm and when he finally does let go of his breath, the book is plucked from Steve's hands and Eddie's chest comes away from Steve's back as he's carrying the book away.

With a feverish urgency that startled even himself, Steve hooks an arm around Eddie's waist and pulls him flat against him again, book not having the chance to leave his hands just yet.

"Not what I meant! There was more. Please sit." Steve keeps his arm anchored around Eddie, and he takes the book back from his hands. Eddie doesn't look put-out, but shy. Embarrassed, maybe?

Steve continues, bumping his thigh solidly against Eddie's, "In Manifold's class, when popcorn landed on you, the words made sense. What even was it... Macbeth! I fucking hated that book. I hated English, period, but the stupid old-timey language made no sense. Y'know, Nancy had to write my final for it, if there was any chance of me ever graduating.

"But when we were reading it in class, and the popcorn landed on you, and you read it out loud? Shit, I remember you were so fucking dramatic about it. It was the big fight at the end when Macbeth gets himself killed because he stupidly let Macduff live when he had him down. All cus he suddenly felt guilty about murdering his entire family, which hey, did that not strike you as immoral in the first two acts? Then he got beheaded. And I only remember that because it was you who read that scene. All those words that don't even exist anymore managed to somehow translate in my head because of how you said them. And, like, I know Shakespeare's got that weird rhythm thing-"

"Iambic Pentameter." Eddie says, breathlessly.

"Sure - and I guess you just knew it because you're a fucking theatre kid, but all of a sudden I could actually understand, for the first time in that play, what the fuck was going on. Like, you put the correct emotion into every line and I guess I was able to pick up the meaning with the rest of the context?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah..." Steve catches his breath, meanwhile Eddie still seems breathless staring at his boyfriend with something too intense for Steve to meet. He looks down at the Handbook instead and holds it out for Eddie to take.

"Read it to me? Would that be weird?" He realises a little too late that it's probably not Iambic Pentameter in there, but there's a slim fucking chance he's reading it on his own. And he wants this. Wants to learn about it, like he has been doing the past couple months. Steve Harrington, 'the lady killer', who's done a one-eighty and decided to try out for the other team. Who's enjoying it. Who's loving it.

Kind of loves the man sat next to him, currently looking at him like he hung the goddamn moon and put those stars that twinkle directly into his eyes. What the hell?

"Are... Are you good?"

Eddie blinks, and a slither of moisture collects beneath his lashes but he winks it away, grinning, "Yeah, Stevie. I'm good."

_________

They arrange themselves side by side against the headboard. Steve opts for scooting down a little more so he can rest his head on Eddie's chest and look at the book's open pages as his boyfriend reads aloud, saving Steve the strain of actually having to take notice of what's on the page. He just has to listen. It was kind of ludicrous cozying up like this, like Eddie was reading him a bedtime story or some shit, only the story in question is an essay on how to spank your partner in a safe, ethical, pleasurable way.

So far, the author seems to have good humour about the whole thing, alongside his formal voice. Eddie enunciated well, caught the funny bits perfectly, and while Steve's brows were permanently screwed up, taking in all the information, he'd laughed a few times in the first ten pages.

Eddie read:

"Just as a side note to all of this, have you ever catalogued the responses you get from other gay guys when you first admit your interest in SM? I find the two most common remarks to be: 1) "I don't think I could ever let someone do anything like that to me," or 2) "Oh, I could never do anything like that to another guy." It's interesting insight into the other person's head. Remember how he replied, should the occasion ever present itself to introduce him to the pleasures you would like to share.'"

Eddie bent down to press his lips and speak that last sentence against the top of Steve's head, making Steve shiver. Eddie's hand sneaks into Steve's hair and settles at the front of his hairline, where he busies himself with twirling and gently raking his fingertips against his scalp and through his hair as he reads. If Steve wasn't so hyperfocused on what the book had to say, he'd probably be asleep by now, practically knocked out via kinky lullaby.

_________

"The attendant frustrations can lead to a strong need to seek some other outlet for the unfulfilled urgings of the individual's mind and body. We have come to call this "escapism." Some people read adventure novels, watch TV, go to the movies, take up jogging or some other physical exercise program — all in an attempt to work off the tensions arising from their dissatisfaction with the "real world." (Apologies to the joggers; I know some of them do it because they think it's going to keep them from getting fat and having a heart attack.)"

Eddie bubbles up, and Steve does too, already expecting to be teased.

Lo and behold, "He clocked you!" Eddie exclaims.

"Whatever, keep reading." He tries for deadpan and fails with the stupid smile that creeps on his face. Well, he certainly feels unexpectedly seen in this book, despite it not being in relation to 'SM' or 'Power Play'. This is proving to be fun.

"Other forms of escapism, usually chosen by people with more intelligence and imagination (maybe in addition to some the above forms), include creative activities. Some become collectors or engage in amateur theater, become amateur artists."

It's Steve's turn. "Hah! Larry called you ama-"

With the smallest, itsiest tensing of Eddie's fist in his hair, he urges softly, "Hush. Listen."

'Amateur' catches in Steve's throat as he's stilled to silence. Eddie doesn't continue yet.

"You did it just now, didn't you? The... thing. " He cranes his neck to look up at the other man, getting distracted with the feeling of Eddie seizing the opportunity to guide his head the rest of the way with that fisted lock of hair. Steve's breath quickens, simultaneously restricted with how his neck is stretched and his chest pressed atop Eddie's body.

"Good, you spotted it. That tells me you're listening." His hand relaxes its grip to continue petting his head. It's not unlike the usual condescension Eddie gives him when they're just bickering or flirting, really. But Steve recognises it for what it is, now. And sure, those other times? Not the time nor place. Now, however, is definitely different.

"Of course I'm listening! I asked for this. What, you thought I was just gonna catch some Zs like this is a-"

"Shush, Stevie! Listening - remember?" Then, his head is being coaxed to lie flat against Eddie's chest again.

Oh, holy shit okay. Yeah, alright.

Steve definitely pushed it with the bitchy back-chat, made himself sound extra pissy, like how they usually bickered. And, thank god, Eddie didn't spook. Trusted Steve to try it out.

As confident as anything now, Eddie continues, "One of the most popular escapes is gardening. Plants, after all, do not talk back."

He did it again where he speaks the words against Steve's skin. Makes them stick. This is so unfair! It's fun.

"But for the select few, the great escape comes in the blackroom, in bondage and discipline, in SM and its many variations."

_________

"But the fact that a man wore keys on his hip at all used to mean he was into something interesting. Now, any number of guys hang the keys because they think it gives them a hot appearance, but many only vaguely realize the meaning of their signals."

"Fuck, I've always done that!"

"Yes, you have! It's made me do a double take on more occasions than I'd like to admit."

"So... That was a gay thing?"

"Yep. Same way the metal music scene has adopted leather. Cheers, Rob. You've diluted your own waters."

"Rob?"

"Rob Halford? Judas Priest? He's right over there." Eddie points with the book at the wall opposite his bed. Oh, how the hell has Steve never clocked that poster before. A cute, slightly older-looking guy with fair hair mostly hidden beneath a biker cap, adorned with tight leather garments and holding a whip in his hand, no less, is staring down at Eddie's bed. It's all making a little more sense, now.

"Kind of an open secret that he's gay. Brought a lot of SM gear to the new wave of British heavy metal that ramped up in the late 70s. That then leaked into bands from the mainland," the book archs to the next wall where a record is propped up against Eddie's turntable. A hairy thigh spans most of the album cover, with the slither of a jockstrap in sight, as well as big silver rings falling from some sort of leather harness beneath a jacket. The man's fist grasps something round that Steve can't quite make out.

"...and wound its way back to America with Mötley Crüe and Motörhead." Following Eddie's direction, Steve lifts his eyes from the turntable and spots the glint of silver studs embedded in dark leather, reflecting stage lights from within another poster.

Steve chuckles, turning back to look at Eddie. "You're like an encyclopedia I'd never open for information that matters to me, but I still do just to look."

"Rude." There's that squeeze in his hair, again. Steve smiles to himself. Cool.

"No, in a cute way, I promise! Like, all the pages are chaotic. It's only about niche and weird topics. And there's pictures and your cool drawings. Probably colour coded, uses metal fonts. You'd be the coolest looking encyclopedia, and it'd be, like, easy to digest-ish. But I would never have expected to find the things I'm looking for in it, y'know? At first."

There's a beat of silence before Eddie makes a decisive hum and his fist relaxes again. Steve's starting to get it now. He must have done good just then.

Eddie waves the book, "And are Larry Townsend's contributions to my niche and weird encyclopedia helping to change your tune?" His lips stay tightly drawn in a line, obviously fighting a shy smile Steve can see right through to.

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.