#bisexual!steve

Eddie snorts. “Wow. Peace offering for ditching her birthday?”

“Pretty much,” Steve mutters, rubbing at his face. “Nothing says ‘sorry we blew off your one special day, sweetie,’ like a luxury getaway, right?”

Then he flops back onto the mattress fully, hair bouncing as he sighs dramatically at Eddie’s ceiling.

“She’s gonna call me tonight, bet you anything.” He murmurs. “Complain about her cousins. Or that one aunt who gets drunk and starts hitting on the waiters.”

Eddie huffs a laugh, cracking his beer with a loud pshht, settling cross-legged on the floor.

“Sounds like a dream vacation.”

Steve snorts, looking down at Eddie over the bridge of his nose.

And, from where Eddie’s sitting, the view is… well.

It’s kind of devastating.

Steve’s eyes are half-lidded, warm and honey-brown in the fading light. His lashes are infuriatingly long, cheekbones catching the last of the sun like smooth, sun-warmed marble. His hair’s still damp, like he couldn’t be bothered to towel it off properly after a shower. He’s wearing a worn, gray T-shirt that’s seen better days—stretched thin, clinging soft to every line of him. There’s a tiny hole near the hem. Barely noticeable, but Eddie sees it. Sees all of it.

The outline of Steve’s collarbone. The faint dip at the center of his sternum. A flush of sunburn painting pink across his skin, freckles dusted low along his throat like scattered punctuation—freckles Eddie is definitely not counting.

And then there are the shorts.

Those shorts.

Black sports nylon. Sinfully short. The kind that ride up when he shifts and leave little to the imagination, cutting high up on his thighs and exposing an unholy amount of tanned, toned leg.

And somewhere out there, Steve’s girlfriend is probably clinking champagne with someone named Kimberly or Suzanne, wearing a sundress and talking about wedding colors—while Steve lounges here, in Eddie’s bed, like a fucking summer mirage. Bare-legged, bathed in golden light, and being way too casual about it.

“Hey, you got any of that weed left?” Steve sits up suddenly, nodding toward the half-dead joint on his bedside table.

Eddie tilts his head, hiding his smile behind his hair. “Ah. And the truth comes out. Could’ve just led with that, Harrington.”

“Oh, what—so my sparkling personality means nothing now?” Steve grins, mock-wounded, then nods toward the sweating six-pack on the floor. “I brought beer. That’s gotta count for something.”

Eddie takes a sip, then immediately grimaces, squinting at the label. “If you can call it that, Jesus. Did you pick this based on how ugly the can was?”

Steve laughs. “Hey, it was either this or something called ‘Dad’s Patio Ale.’ I panicked.”

“This tastes like someone filtered rainwater through a gym sock.”

“Okay, rude. And also? You’re drinking it.”

“Out of necessity, Harrington. Not enjoyment.”

Steve just leans back on his elbows, all loose limbs and easy grin.  

“You’re such a drama queen.”

“Says the guy who uses Farrah Fawcett hairspray.” Eddie mutters, reaching for the bottom drawer of his nightstand.

He lets his hand hover there for a while, fingers brushing over nothing in particular, just rattling around nonsense: guitar picks, receipts, a broken cassette. The joint’s right on top, of course. Always was. But he lets himself fumble, rummaging through useless junk like it matters. Rearranging things that don’t need rearranging.

Truth is, he was gonna light it tonight anyway. He’d already been halfway there—flicking the lighter open and shut, foot tapping, mind running—before Steve knocked. That casual, two-finger tap-tap on his trailer door, like he belonged here at 6:18 pm on a Friday. Like they hadn’t done that thing just a couple nights ago.

The thing Eddie still wasn’t sure was real.

The kind of night that lived somewhere between a lucid dream and an out-of-body experience. One he didn’t get a damn chance to talk about afterward—because they had all slept in ‘til noon, and then you were scrambling, late for your shift at the bookstore, and Steve had to throw on yesterday’s jeans and bolt over to Family Video.

Which left Eddie alone in your too-big house, surrounded by ghosts of the night before—heat-slick skin, ragged breaths, and Steve’s half-lidded gaze locked on his like it meant something.

But now? There’s no weird tension. No loaded silences. Just the same old two taps, then Steve sprawling on Eddie’s mattress like nothing’s changed, bitching about customers and cracking open his sad excuse for beer.

Same old, same old.

And maybe nothing has changed. Maybe that’s the part Eddie resents the most.

He finally pulls the joint out and flicks it onto the bed. “There. Try not to weep with gratitude.”

Steve picks it up, grinning like sunlight off lake water—easy, warm, blinding if you look too long.

“Love ya too, man.”

Eddie swallows, feels it lodge somewhere deep in his throat.

“Yeah, yeah. Save it for the thank-you card.” He takes another sip of the garbage beer and winces like it's penance. “And bring something drinkable next time.”

...

Smoke curls like ribbon sugar between Steve’s fingers—slow, syrupy, sweet. Sabbath hums from the speakers, the volume lower than Eddie would’ve liked but loud enough to keep the silence from creeping in. Steve had lobbied for the Carpenters. Eddie had threatened bodily harm. They landed somewhere in the middle. Barely.

The six-pack’s more like a two-pack now, condensation dampening the carpet. The fan hums weakly from the corner, drowning under the heat.

They sit side by side on the mattress, backs against the wall. Steve’s ankles are crossed like he’s posing for some half-assed beer ad—sweaty and sun-drowsy, grinning to himself every now and then in these soft, spontaneous little laughs that go nowhere.

Eddie feels floaty. Limbs heavy and distant. Like his bones packed up and left, and his body just melted into the mattress without them—slipping, sinking, spreading like warm butter on toast.

God, toast sounds good.

Wait—what was he thinking about?

Oh, right. Bones.

Weird. He kind of misses them.

Everything hums low and warm around him, his brain full of static and loops—thoughts spinning but never quite landing. Just—

Steve.

Steve’s knees are stupid. That’s the thought he lands on.

Like, distractingly nice knees. Tanned and smooth and completely, unnecessarily on display in those shorts. Who even wears shorts that short?

Steve Harrington. That’s who.

Way-Too-Short-Shorts Guy is talking again.

“So, she was in these tights, right?” Steve’s voice bounces around Eddie’s skull like a pinball. “Those shiny black ones? You know the ones. And I swear to god, I lasted six seconds. The moment she took ‘em off—” he makes a whooshing sound, hand flaring like fireworks, “—done for.”

Eddie chokes on a mouthful of smoke, coughs into his sleeve. “Jesus, Harrington.”

Steve grins and steals the joint back, inhaling slow and deep. Gray ribbons drift from his lips. His lashes flutter, eyes gone glassy and warm.

“Yeah, I’m easy.” he sighs, dropping his head back against the wall. “She takes her shirt off, and it’s like—I don’t know. Hypnosis. Could walk me off a cliff and I’d probably thank her.”

Eddie’s head tips sideways against the wall, just enough to look without being obvious.

There are freckles on Steve’s face.

Not just a few—constellations.

Eddie’s not sure if he was born with them or if the sun had brought them out, coaxing them to the surface like tiny secrets. Like Steve stepped outside one afternoon and the universe just went—here, have some stars, just for being hot and oblivious—and scattered a couple galaxies across his skin.

He counts a few by his temple, near where his crow’s feet would be if Steve ever stopped smiling long enough to age. A few more trail down his profile to the edge of his jaw, and two are dotted right over his cheek—twins, close together—just to the left of his nose.

Eddie decides he wants to name them.

Harringtaurus. The Harrington Belt.

No, wait—Steveus Maximus.

That one makes him snort into his beer.

Then his mind wanders—how far do they go? Down his throat, his collarbones, his chest? Do they fade out or multiply? Maybe there’s a whole hidden mural under that soft-ass shirt. If he connected the dots, would it make a picture? And suddenly, unhelpfully, Eddie feels the urge to trace them. Not metaphorically. Like—with his actual finger. Maybe his tongue, if he ever completely loses his mind.

His gaze drifts lower, slow as honey, dripping like butter down to Steve’s mouth. The soft curve of his top lip. The little dip in the middle that tugs when he smiles—like right now, grinning about god knows what. The bottom lip’s a little chapped, with a tiny split at the corner that looks like it hurts.

Weird thought: Eddie wants to kiss it better. Like a preschooler. Real boo-boo logic.

But also… yeah. That’d be hot.

Eddie blinks, fingers twitching around his beer, the pinball machine lighting up in his brain:

Lips. Freckles. Tights. Lips. Hypnosis. Lips.

He’s one rogue neuron away from leaning over and doing something stupid when Steve chuckles—low and brassy—and passes the joint back without looking.

“There was this other time—oh, dude! Remember when we got caught at the lake house? Right after New Year’s?”

And here’s the thing about Steve Harrington on weed—a couple things, actually.

The first thing is that he talks. Guy can’t shut the hell up. He’s like a VHS tape stuck on fast-forward—too many details, switching characters mid-sentence, mimicking voices and laughing at his own jokes. He starts one story and forgets halfway through because another memory hijacked him.

Like just now, when he switched from talking about the time they all drove down to Lake Monroe to a story about a bar crawl gone sideways.

“...and then I remember running—like full-speed running through the snow, pants around my ankles, and Robin’s screaming behind me like, 'You left your wallet, dumbass!’” He laughs, head tipped back against the wall, throat exposed and glowing in the dim light.

Eddie doesn’t laugh.

He tries. Tries to focus on the words, the story, the timeline—but Steve’s neck does this thing when he laughs—cords flexing, tendons shifting, Adam’s apple bobbing—and Eddie’s thoughts start dripping between the floorboards again.

It would be so easy to lean in.

Just a little.

To reach over and press his mouth to that spot on Steve’s neck, right where the pulse flutters. See if it tastes like salt and beer and summer.

Instead, he stares down at his hands. His fingers look weird. Long. Like they’ve never held anything in their life. He closes them around the joint like it might tether him back to Earth.

Beside him, Steve shifts, stretching out his legs, slumping lower against the wall. His fingers graze the hem of his shirt, lifting the fabric a little, just enough to show a flash of skin.

And Eddie’s brain—traitorous, floaty bastard that it is—short-circuits.

There’s a freckle there. On his hip.

Just one. Small. Dark. Perfect.

Eddie wants to bite it.

Jesus Christ.

He looks away so fast his neck cracks.

And Steve just keeps talking.

Eddie’s not even pretending to listen now. Just lets Steve’s voice wash over him in gentle, rolling waves. Half the words are getting tangled in the fuzz of his brain anyway. His pulse feels like it’s coming from the center of his chest and the backs of his knees at the same time.

Steve laughs at something Eddie mumbles—something Eddie didn’t mean to say out loud—and nudges his thigh with the back of his hand.

Casual, but not accidental.

That’s the second thing about Steve getting high—he gets… touchy.

Not handsy. Not grabby. Just the casual kind of touch most people wouldn’t think twice about. Like gravity forgets its boundaries when it comes to Steve Harrington. Like his body’s just leaking affection into the space around him.

His fingers graze Eddie’s knee when he shifts. His thigh presses close and stays there. And when he passes the joint, he doesn’t just hand it over, no—he holds Eddie’s hand in the process, fingers tangling like the end of a slow dance, simply because he forgets to let go. Because he’s mid-sentence and he’s just remembered a very important thing, and—

“Oh shit, what was it—wait, wait, it was that guy at the gas station with the parrot—dude, you remember—”

Eddie nods like he remembers. He doesn’t. Not even a little. His brain is full of smoke and static and the shape of Steve’s lips as it moves.

The echo of what they might’ve tasted like if Eddie hadn’t chickened out that night.

Steve’s lips are red. Too red. Like bruised cherries.

And then the word cherries starts bouncing around the pinball machine.

Cherries. Cherries. Cherries.

Shut up.

And then—

Then it happens. The third thing.

That heavy, undeniable outline beneath Steve’s way-too-short shorts.

Steve is… yeah. Steve is hard.

No mistaking it. The fabric’s doing him zero favors, shiny nylon catching the light and making the tent impossible to ignore.

But what’s worse lies just a few inches above it.

Resting easy on the flat of his lower belly, fingers splayed wide, is Steve’s hand, moving in slow, absent-minded circles. Thoughtless rubs, casual as breathing. Just one of those idle guy things.

Like when you’re bored. Or hungry.

Or, you know… horny.

Eddie watches, paralyzed.

Watches the way Steve’s thumb catches on the hem of his shirt and pushes it a little higher. The way his palm drifts south, tracing the faint trail of hair that disappears under the waistband.

And it’s not even on purpose. That’s the part that fries Eddie the most.

Steve doesn’t mean to do it. He’s just floating—stoned and loose and not even aware of the show he’s giving.

But Eddie is.

Good lord, Eddie is.

He can feel his own heartbeat in places where it absolutely should not be. Behind his eyes. In his fingertips. Lower.

He wants to speak. Say anything. Say stop or holy shit or please do that forever. But all that comes out is a quiet, reverent:

"...dude."

Steve hums. Doesn’t even look over. Doesn’t seem to notice that Eddie’s barely breathing, pupils probably blown wide like he just saw god and god was wearing very short shorts.

“Hm?” Steve mumbles around a lazy exhale of smoke. “Oh, man, wait, did I tell you about that time Robin got locked in the walk-in freezer? It was like, Fourth of July weekend—crazy busy, line’s out the door—and she’s banging on the door with a frozen turkey leg—”

Eddie nods again, eyes still fixed on the slow motion of Steve’s hand.

Rub. Drag. Pause. Repeat.

Talk about hypnosis.

Smooth circles just below his navel.

Then a faint scratch at the skin like he’s chasing an itch that isn’t really there.

Then, briefly, the heel of his hand presses lower. Too low.

And Eddie—

Eddie is not doing well.

His heart’s going into arrest. He swears he can feel it happening—like a record skipping. Everything is louder. The fan. The music. The rustle of Steve’s shirt. The crackle of the joint burning down between his fingers.

He tears his eyes away, staring straight ahead. Except he can still see Steve in the corner of his vision, and that's worse somehow. Like, if staring directly was free-falling, this is standing on the cliff, toes curled over the edge, anticipating the drop.

It’s the kind of touch that feels terrifyingly intimate to witness, because it’s something you only do when you’re half-asleep in your own bed, safe and unobserved. The sort of thing no one else is ever meant to see.

Steve’s still talking. Something about Robin. A prank gone wrong.

And then—

He shifts.

Spreads his legs a little wider and absently adjusts himself over his shorts. Doesn’t even blink. Just lifts his hips and gives himself a casual, lazy readjust—like it’s nothing.

Like he’s not rearranging the tectonic plates of Eddie Munson’s brain with a single unconscious motion.

“Jesus Christ.” Eddie whispers. Except, again—not on purpose. More like a valve gave out and the words just escaped with the pressure.

Steve finally turns to look at him.

Eyes glassy, smile soft. “You good, man?”

Eddie blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it again.

“You look kinda—uh.” Steve makes a vague shape in the air with his hand. “Melted. In the face.”

Eddie coughs. Tries to sit up straighter. Fails.

“Y-Yeah,” he croaks. “Just... thinking about—uh, space.”

Steve grins. Leans a little closer. “Space?”

“Yup.” Eddie clears his throat. “You know. Stars. The void. Black holes and shit.”

Steve’s eyes light up, like someone just handed him a kitten. “Dude. Same. I’ve been thinking about time travel for like, twenty minutes.”

“Yeah?” Eddie says, voice pitched high and stupid.

“Yeah. Like—what if you could go back and change one thing, right? Just one. But it has to be really small. Like... I dunno. Eating a different sandwich.”

“What the fuck kind of time travel rule is that?”

“I don’t know, man!” Steve laughs, hair falling in front of his eyes. “I’m high. I’m thinking about sandwiches.”

Eddie laughs, too. Mostly because it’s either laugh or confess everything.

He grabs the joint again. Inhales deep, hoping the smoke will fill all the hollow places. Crowd out the words pressing up against his throat.

Steve leans his head back again, smiling dazedly.

“Seriously though... if you could go back and change one thing, what would it be?”

Eddie turns to look at him. Really look.

The freckles. The soft shirt. That stupid little split on his lip.

He exhales slow, smoke curling out like a secret.

“I wouldn’t have chickened out.” He hears himself say.

The room stalls.

Steve blinks. Turns toward him again.

“What?”

Eddie stares at the ceiling.

“Nothing,” he lies. “Sandwich. I meant the sandwich thing.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can feel Steve looking at him—eyes narrowed, curious.

Eddie holds perfectly still. Doesn’t breathe.

And then—Steve lets it go. 

Slides lower against the wall with a sigh, then shifts again. Arms drifting down, thighs spreading a little wider, before he adjusts himself over his shorts for the second time.  

Eddie looks. Of course he does.

And instead of letting it go, Steve lingers. Palms himself with this slow, absent drag of his hand. Thumb tracing along the bulge like he’s soothing something. Like maybe it just feels good—the pressure, the warmth, the contact. Then he lets out this soft, satisfied breath through his nose, like a cat in the sun, and—

Yeah.

Nope.

Eddie launches to his feet like someone wired him to a car battery.

Steve blinks. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Eddie croaks. “Fine. Just—”

He glances down at his own chest, suddenly strangled in chainmail two sizes too small.

“Shirt feels weird.”

Steve frowns, peering. “You hot?”

“No. Yeah. Just—fabric,” Eddie mumbles, fingers tugging at the hem. It clings to him suddenly, like wet paper. Too close. Too much. The collar bites at his throat. His shoulders feel like they’re in a vise. Gotta get out, gotta—

“I’m just, I’m just gonna change.” 

Eddie spins toward the dresser like it’s a lifeline, knees locking just to keep himself upright. He yanks open the top drawer with more force than necessary, the wood groaning in protest. Doesn’t matter. He needs cover. Needs distance. Something longer. Baggier. Something that’ll hide the aching pitch in his jeans.

His hands claw through the contents of the drawer—band tees, flannels, a hoodie he hasn’t worn since '81. Finally, his fingers catch on something soft and oversized, black and worn thin.

Yeah. That. That’ll work.

He yanks his shirt over his head and fumbles with the new one, trying to find the head hole, but it’s inside out. Of course it is. One sleeve’s tucked in. The bottom’s curled. His hands feel like bricks—slow and clumsy with weed and panic.

Just let me get it on, for fuck’s sake. Just need to cover up, need to get out of this skin.

And then, casual as anything, drifting across the room like a feather:

“It’s healed nicely.”

Eddie freezes. Half-dressed, one arm twisted through a sleeve, collar looped around his neck like a noose. He looks like he’s caught wrestling a ghost.

He blinks.

“What?”

Steve’s gaze isn’t on his face. It’s lower. By his side.

“Your scar. It's not all red anymore.”

Eddie blinks again. Follows the line of sight.

The scar has healed. As best as it could, anyway. But the infection made sure it wouldn’t be neat. 

Crescent-shaped gouges, jagged and pink, crawl unevenly down his sides. Swollen, ropey lines twisting beneath the skin—scar tissue piled on scar tissue, like his body couldn’t figure out how to fix what was broken so it just kept trying, over and over, until it gave up.

Still, if you didn’t know better, you might mistake it for something mundane. A bad burn. A botched surgery.  

But Eddie knows. Eddie remembers.

He huffs a breath through his nose, offers Steve a little half-smile: “Should’ve seen the other guy.”

Then he tugs his shirt down over it. Always down. Always fast.

Goes to sit again, but this time on the edge of the mattress, turned away with his back to Steve.

A reflex. A well-practiced bit of armor.

He’s used it so many times it barely means anything anymore.

Because even here, even now, in the quiet safety of his own room with Steve sitting soft behind him—he still can’t let the silence breathe loud enough for the thoughts to find him.

But it’s too late. The walls are whispering now.

They used to crawl above his bed after the hospital let him out. When he’d lie awake, staring at the water-stained ceiling, half-expecting that slick, black thing to tear it back open—split the aluminum and drag him under. Both hands braced hard against the gauze over his stomach, pretending the pressure could hold him together. Like if he stayed still enough, didn’t breathe too deep, he could keep it all in and not end up back there.

Yet the moment he closed his eyes, he’d be on the ground—blood soaking the dirt, lungs clawing for air, everything cold and red and endless.

Hero.

As if it were that simple. As if not dying made you brave.

As if a carved-up ribcage could rewrite a lifetime of whispers and name-calling. Brand over it with proof—that he’s real, tough, man enough.

They called it a battle wound. A badge of honor.

But to Eddie, it’s always felt more like confirmation.

An ugly, slithering, grotesque thing that runs across the softest part of him. Just under the ribs, where bone gives way to tender flesh. The place you curl around when you're scared, when you’re in pain. The part of the body that braces when the world is relentless.

And sometimes—when his trailer’s quiet and his breath won’t slow—it speaks.

There’s a monster living in Eddie Munson’s side, and it whispers to him in the dark:

Don’t you see? This is who you are.

Not a scar—a confession. A truth made visible.

Like his body finally caught up to what people have been saying about him his whole life.

You were always a freak.

This is what happens to boys like you.

And the worst part?

Sometimes, he believes it.

Sometimes, he wonders if he got bit because the world already knew. Because the monsters always find the broken ones first.

And he could’ve kept it all quiet. He has, for most of his life.

Liking girls was never the issue. He’s had his share of shitty crushes on leather jackets and dark lipstick. Stolen glances at passing cheerleaders that lasted long enough to buy time.

But boys?

Boys were a different story.

Boys were locker rooms and slurs. Boys were bruised ribs and fists that didn’t stop.

Boys were showers taken fast and silent. Eyes forward. Mouth shut.

He’s learned young that you don’t look too long. You don’t linger. 

Boys were want tangled in fear, so Eddie got good at pretending he didn’t want at all.

Shoved it somewhere deep, where no light could ever reach.

Until the bats. Until the scar.

Until Steve.

Steve, who is golden.

Steve, who is good.

Steve, who is sitting just behind him right now.

The kind of boy who bends light like a prism, scattering warmth and color wherever he moves. The kind who kisses girls in the daylight and shines even brighter at night.

The kind whose own scar, nearly identical, had only made him look braver. More beautiful.

And Eddie— 

Eddie wants.

He’s always wanted.

Long before it made any kind of sense. Before the scar. Before the blood and the dirt and the pain.   

Since the first time Steve walked past him in the hallway and Eddie punched a locker so hard afterward it cracked the skin on his knuckles. Didn’t even know why.

He knows now.

So much has changed since then.

He’s not ashamed of it anymore. Or not in the way he used to be.

He knows what it is. Has a name for it. Doesn’t flinch when it crosses his mind.

But it’s one thing to know it. It’s another thing to live it, to show it.

To let someone like Steve—popular, beautiful, normal Steve—see it.  

To believe he might want Eddie back.

Eddie wants to believe.

Always wants, and wants, and wants.

Wants to believe that when Steve looks at him and smiles, it’s more than curiosity behind his eyes.

That this isn’t something new or temporary. Not something safe to experiment with in the dark.

And that doubt—it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? After everything they’ve been through? Knowing you, knowing Steve?

But Eddie’s monster is a vicious, relentless thing. 

How could he possibly want you? The way you want him?

Eddie stares down at his hands, at the hem of his shirt. Knuckles bone-white. Breath shallow.

The whispers are carving sharp and cold lines into his ribs. He’s not sure when he started holding his breath.

And then—warmth.

Just a small shift on the bed, a brush of knee to knee—and Eddie startles, blinking like he’s surfaced too fast from deep water.

Then a voice. Soft. Uneven.

“I used to hate looking at mine.” The voice says.

“Couldn’t even stand to catch a glimpse. Covered all the mirrors in the house. Showered with the lights off.”

The voice swallows, brittle and threadbare. 

“Said no to like... everything. Dates, parties. Anyone who asked.”   

A small sound follows. Wet. Like a laugh caught sideways in a throat.

“I mean, how do you even explain something like that, right?”

Eddie glances up.

And for a long, quiet moment, he just looks.

Steve Harrington.

King Steve. Casanova. All-American boy.

The guy who makes Farrah Fawcett hairspray look manly.

Golden. Untouchable.

Only now—there’s a mark in his side, too. Same place. Same shape.

A crack in the prism. A fracture in the light.

Steve’s eyes are rimmed red. Lashes damp. His lips tremble faintly, and he’s blinking fast, like he’s holding something in by sheer force of will.

And Eddie—he wonders what Steve’s monster is saying to him right now.

Because suddenly, Steve doesn’t look like a king. Or a knight. Or a dream drawn in perfect lines.

He just looks like a boy.

He looks just like… Eddie.

And Eddie—scar and all, want and all—moves.

His hand is on Steve’s knee. His breath is caught somewhere in his chest.

And before he can think better of it, before the monster in his side can open its mouth again—

He leans in. Closes the distance. And kisses him.

It’s not soft. Not graceful. Not anything close to cinematic.

It’s messy and desperate and made of years of want tied tight with shame.

Their teeth knock. His nose smushes into Steve’s cheek. His hand misses a shoulder entirely and ends up fisting the sleeve of Steve’s shirt.

But Steve doesn’t pull away.

Steve leans in.

Steve kisses back.

And for the first time in a long, long time, the monster in Eddie’s side goes still.

Doesn’t whisper, doesn’t mock.

Silent.

And Eddie decides he wants the last word, for once.

“I’ve wanted this,” he breathes—barely more than a whisper, soaked in disbelief, pressed against Steve’s mouth like a confession. His eyes are clenched tight. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Steve breaks off with a quiet inhale. His lashes twitch as he opens his eyes, gaze wide and water-clear, pupils nearly swallowing the hazel.

“Me too,” he breathes. “I just—I didn’t know how to say it.”

That cracks something open in Eddie. Something too tender to look at directly.

A sound slips out of him—half laugh, half sob—and he presses his forehead to Steve’s, eyes squeezing shut again so he can feel the world with his skin instead of looking at it.

Steve’s hands find his sides, thumbs grazing the fabric stretched over his scars.

Eddie lifts his arms, lets Steve peel the shirt over his head.

The air hits his bare skin, and he shivers despite the thick summer heat. Steve traces the scar with his eyes before he ever touches it. And when his fingers finally land, they’re featherlight. Careful. Reverent.

Following the crescent like a path. A story. A shared legacy etched into skin.

Eddie’s breath stutters.

“Yours too?” His voice catches on the words. He means the shirt. He means the scar. He means everything.

Steve nods, just as quiet. “Yeah.”

He reaches for the hem of Steve’s shirt, and Steve lifts his arms, lets himself be unraveled. Beneath is golden skin, the soft swell of muscle, and an infinite cosmos of freckles. Eddie’s mouth goes dry, eyes tracing the down of hair on Steve’s chest to the matching scars along his side.   

“Fuck,” he whispers. But there’s no sentence after it. No language for what Steve looks like—what he is. So Eddie leans in, letting his mouth speak for him. Steve meets him halfway, palms warm against Eddie’s skin, right over the place where he was broken.

Their mouths crash together again—no hesitation now. Just heat. Wet and wanting.

Then Eddie pulls back suddenly, breath hitching.

“What about, uh...”

Steve brushes a thumb along Eddie’s hip. “She’s cool with it. Told me before she left.”

Eddie swallows. Nods. The moment’s too raw for all the questions he probably should be asking. So instead, he leans in again—deeper this time, hungrier.

His hands slide up to map Steve’s back. Steve’s fingers skate along his sides. Shirtless becomes shirtless and breathless. They tug artlessly at each other’s clothes—the soft drag of denim, the slick rustle of nylon.

Down to boxers. Skin against skin. Hips nudging, breaths caught between mouths.

Steve ends up over him, one hand braced beside Eddie’s head, the other tracing the line of his waist like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

And Eddie can’t stop looking.

Steve Harrington. On top of him. Glowing with sweat, cheeks flushed, mouth red and kiss-bitten. He’s leaning down again, slow and open-mouthed, dragging his lips against Eddie’s pulse like he wants to drink from it.

Every kiss lights Eddie up like a fuse. He gasps when Steve nips the soft spot just under his jaw.

Steve grins, then kisses a slow line across his sternum before slipping lower, off the bed in one smooth motion.

The mattress is low to the ground, so Eddie’s feet dangle just over the edge, skimming the floor. The carpet’s rough beneath his heels. Every detail feels razor-sharp.

Steve sinks to his knees, lashes low. He looks up through them, lips parted, pupils like planets—wide and dark and hungry.

And fuck—Eddie’s chest pulls tight, like a fist closing around his heart.

He’s beautiful.

The words ignite in Eddie’s brain like sparks in a pinball machine—bright, dizzying, ricocheting in wild neon bursts. Clichéd. Stupid, even. But it hits with the force of something ancient and true. So sharp it hurts to hold.

Steve Harrington is fucking beautiful.

And then Steve is looking down. Down at where Eddie’s cock is straining against the damp cling of his boxers, thick and twitching beneath the fabric.

His voice is quiet, barely there. “Can I?”

Eddie nods, trembling. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Steve’s hands come first—palms dragging slow over the insides of Eddie’s thighs, warm and steady on overheated skin. Eddie jolts at the contact, breath catching.

“I’ll stop if you want,” Steve murmurs, palm rubbing hypnotic circles. “Just tell me.”

Eddie can barely speak around the need knotting in his throat. “I won’t. I don’t want you to.”

A beat.

Then, Steve leans in.

His mouth presses hot over the front of Eddie’s boxers, lips to cotton—just breath, just contact. A pause to let the moment hum. And then a kiss, soft and deliberate through the fabric, and Eddie’s hips buck helplessly.

“Shit,” Eddie gasps, slapping a hand over his eyes like he can shut the feeling down before it eats him alive. But he doesn’t want to shut it down. Not even close.

Steve laughs, quiet and shaky, the sound vibrating right through him. It’s almost nervous—like he’s surprised he brought that out of him. 

Then fingers—careful, warm—slip beneath the waistband. Ease the fabric down.

Eddie’s cock springs free, flushed dark and leaking. It smacks against his belly, twitching in the cooler air. And Steve just… looks at it for a second. Like he’s memorizing this too. Licks his lips without meaning to.

Eddie watches, barely breathing. There’s something in Steve’s eyes—not clumsy, but deliberate. Like he’s planning every moment before he approaches it.

Steve wraps a hand around the base, squeezing lightly.

A breath. A pause.

And then he dips his head, lips parted, and draws the tip into his mouth.

Eddie nearly comes on the spot.

Steve’s mouth is hot. Slick and trembling with intention. He wraps around the head of Eddie’s cock like he’s still feeling it out—how much he can take, how deep he wants to go.

Eddie bites down on his fist to keep the sounds in. His other hand grips the sheets. His hips twitch again, but Steve follows, lets it happen, tongue dragging messily along the underside. A quiet hmfh leaves Steve’s nose—pleased, maybe surprised—and Eddie doesn’t even realize he’s been whimpering until Steve hums, deep and sinful like he's proud.

That sound punches straight through Eddie’s spine. He jolts, choking on air.

“F-fuck, Steve—”

Steve hums again, starting to bob his head a little, testing it. Eyes shut now, brows furrowed in concentration. His lips stretch slick and pink around Eddie’s cock, one hand planted firm on Eddie’s thigh, the other still loose at the base. And when he sinks just a little deeper, cheeks hollowing, tongue sweeping wide—

Eddie shudders like a plucked string.

Because Steve is being so goddamn intentional. Going slow. Thinking through it. Trying things.

A swirl of tongue. A soft suck. A pause to breathe. Every movement deliberate, like he’s checking in without asking.

And Eddie’s chest swells so full it feels like it might burst.

Steve pulls back with a wet pop, eyes glassy, mouth shining.

Eddie looks down at him like he’s hallucinating. A fever dream wrapped in sun and sweat and something too big to name. His chest heaves. His thighs tremble. His feet drag against the floor, but nothing about him feels tethered anymore.

“You okay?” Steve’s voice is hoarse.

Eddie nods too fast, curls in his eyes.

“Yeah. God, yeah. Just—” He runs a shaky hand through his hair, trying to ground himself. “Didn’t expect to almost blow my load from like… five seconds of you.”

Steve’s mouth tilts, just a little. Not smug—shy. A flicker of pride beneath the sweat over his brow.

“Yeah?” he says, leaning back a little, hands still warm on Eddie’s thighs. “It's good?”

Eddie lets out a wrecked laugh, flopping onto the mattress and covering his face. “You have no idea.”

And Steve really doesn’t.

Because this thing—this whole fucking thing—is lighting Eddie up from the inside out. It’s not some porn-perfect deepthroating or practiced rhythm. It’s real. It’s Steve. Raw and gorgeous and holy. It’s the way his fingers flex against Eddie’s thighs. The way he pauses to breathe then tries again—slower, deeper, tongue pressing flat beneath the head, smiling when he catches the little twitch in Eddie’s hip.

It's the way he can tell Steve wants this to be good.

Eddie props himself up on one elbow, eyes meeting Steve’s again.

“You should put this on your resume,” he croaks. “Right under basketball and hair-grooming.”

Steve snorts, ducking his head into the crook of Eddie’s thigh like he’s hiding.

“Hardly,” he mumbles. Then quieter, against his skin: “First time.”

Eddie’s heart skips so hard he feels it in his teeth.

“Wait, wha—first?”

Steve nods against him, almost nuzzling. “With a guy, yeah.”

Eddie blinks. His brain short-circuits, any clever comeback he could ever formulate dying in his throat. There’s only heat now. And awe. And something that feels suspiciously like worship curling in his gut.

Steve Harrington. Giving his first to him.

Eddie doesn’t know what to do with that. How to hold it.

The pinball machine in his head starts up again—except it’s not chaos now. It’s wonder. Pure, strobing wonder.  

He reaches out, brushes damp curls back from Steve’s temple.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers. “You know that?”

Steve doesn’t answer. Just lifts his eyes and leans back in. A kiss to the inside of Eddie’s thigh. Another just above his knee. Gentle and so fucking tender.

Then his mouth is back on Eddie’s cock—more confident this time. More knowing. Like he’s memorized the shape already. He slides down further, takes more. Eddie arches off the bed with a full-body gasp.

His hands find Steve’s hair, threading through and trying—failing—not to tug.

Steve just groans, low in his throat. Like he wants to be tugged on. Wants to be wanted.

The rhythm shifts. Steve finds it. Learns it. Wet, obscene sounds filling the room as Eddie’s cock disappears again and again into Steve’s mouth.

And Eddie’s about to lose his mind. Melt into the sheets and be reborn as a mole on Steve Harrington’s cheek.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, head thrown back, vision white-hot. “Fuck, I—Steve, baby, slow down—”

Baby.

It slips out, unthinking. But Steve doesn’t flinch. He moans.

And Eddie feels it.

That low, hungry sound vibrating around the base of his cock, all the way up his spine. Steve pushes faster, harder, deeper, fingers sinking into the meat of Eddie’s thighs as his cock starts ramming the soft, fleshy part at the back of Steve’s throat.

Eddie’s heart flips. His toes curl. A warning builds at the pit of his stomach, huge and inevitable.

“Gonna—fuck, Steve, I’m gonna—” he gasps, voice wrecked, hand fisting in Steve’s hair.

And Steve—god, Steve—just nods around him. Doesn’t pull off. Doesn’t hesitate. Just presses closer, adjusting his grip on Eddie’s hips, keeping that brutal, perfect rhythm.

It hits Eddie like a freight train—a burst of white, all-consuming heat behind his eyes. His whole body bows tight, wound like a wire before it snaps. He moans into the crook of his own arm, breath hitching on every pulse as he rides it out.

Steve doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even falter. Not until Eddie’s gasping, oversensitive, hand fluttering weakly at his shoulder in a silent plea for mercy. Only then does he ease back, mouth slipping free with a soft, wet sound that’s somehow just as obscene as everything that came before.

Eddie lifts his arm, squinting down.

And there, between Eddie Munsons’s legs, Steve Harrington is a fucking vision.

Flushed pink down to his collarbones. Hair wild. Lips slick and glistening. He swipes a thumb across the corner of his mouth, sheepish, and glances up like he’s waiting for something. A reaction. Approval. Reassurance.

Eddie can barely think, let alone speak.

He just stares for a while, chest flailing, brain fried, limbs fuzzy with aftershocks.

And Steve is still there, kneeling between his thighs, looking up at Eddie like he’d just hung the goddamn moon.

“Holy shit,” Eddie finally manages, voice wrecked. “Are you… that was your first time?”

Steve gives a crooked, bashful smile. “Yep.”

Eddie drags a hand over his face, trying to gather what’s left of himself. “Jesus, Harrington. If that’s you figuring it out, I’m terrified of the sequel.”

Steve snorts, soft and self-deprecating, and settles back on his heels. His thighs flex as he adjusts, arms draped loose over Eddie’s knees like they belong there.

“I just… wanted to do it right,” He murmurs, voice still rough-edged. “For you.”

And Eddie’s heart cracks clean open.

Because that’s it. That’s the thing. Not to take or experiment—to give.

Steve wanted to give. To make it good, even with nerves and inexperience.

And it was. It was fucking perfect.

Eddie shoots upright—legs still jelly, hair wild and stuck to his cheeks with sweat—and hauls Steve up into a kiss.

Fierce and clumsy. All heat and bitter salt and desperate gratitude. Something tender and overwhelming threaded through every press of lips.

“Thank you,” he whispers against Steve’s mouth.

Steve just smiles into it, eyes dark and warm.

They stay there for a while like that—foreheads pressed, breathing the same air, sweaty and stunned and grinning like absolute idiots. Eddie hunched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, Steve kneeling in front of him like he has nowhere else he’d rather be.

Eddie’s exhausted. His head is spinning. He’s… happier than he’s ever fucking been.

And then, because he’s greedy, because he wants, he slides his fingers gently along the back of Steve’s neck and murmurs, low and teasing, “Your turn.”

But Steve goes still.

Freezes. Just for a second. His eyes dip. His jaw tenses.

Eddie’s smile slips. His hand goes still.

“Hey,” he says softly, following the line of Steve’s gaze—down—

Oh.

Oh.

There’s a stain on the front of Steve’s boxers.

Big. Wet. Obvious.

“Holy shit.” Eddie blurts.

Steve groans and covers his face with both hands. “Don’t.”

“You came in your boxers?”

“Jesus, Munson,” Steve mutters, face redder than Eddie’s ever seen it.

But Eddie’s already grinning—wolfish and slow, breathless with wonder. Awe curling sharp in his gut.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “I didn’t even… I didn’t even touch you.”

Steve smirks at him through his fingers. “Yeah, yeah, you fucking love this, don’t you?”

“You fucking bet I do,” Eddie’s practically glowing now. “Shit, that’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

Steve tries to glare. It doesn’t stick. Not with his lips still kiss-swollen, not with that blush creeping all the way down his chest.

Eddie kisses him again—can’t not—heart full and stupid and wild. He pulls back with a grin so wide it almost hurts.

“You’re the worst, Munson.”

Eddie snorts, looping an arm around his waist. “Yeah, well—”

The shrill ring of the landline cuts through the room like a blade.

Eddie groans and drops his forehead to Steve’s shoulder, willing it to stop.

It doesn’t.

“Fuckin’ course,” he mutters, swearing under his breath as Steve chuckles.

He stumbles to his feet, jogs down the hallway still completely naked, dick wet, skin tacky with sweat. Scowls at the receiver like it’s personally offended him, then snatches it up with a resigned sigh.

And when he answers, it’s—

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Steve smirks, padding into the kitchen in nothing but his stained boxers.

Eddie just nods and holds out the phone.

Steve takes it, all smug and unbothered. “Knew it. Told you,” he says, then drops instantly into a syrupy, exaggerated tone. “Hey, baby. How’s Wisconsin?”

A soft, familiar voice crackles on the other end.

“Uh huh. Uh huh. Oh, you know… just smoking, drinking beers. Guy shit.”

Eddie rolls his eyes so hard it might cause permanent damage.

Steve’s grin only grows wider. “Okay, baby. I love you too. Call me tomorrow. Here’s Eddie.”

He thrusts the phone at Eddie, looking way too pleased with himself as he backs off with a wink.

Eddie? Eds, you there?

“Yeah,” Eddie says, still a little breathless. “Hey.”

Ugh, I miss you. You’ll be okay with Steve for a couple more days, right?

“Yeah. Uh huh.”

Thanks for keeping him company. He gets grumpy when he’s lonely.

Eddie glances back toward the living room, where Steve is lazily inspecting his mug collection, hands tucked behind his back like some kind of bored museum guest.

“Don’t worry,” Eddie says with a smile. “I’m keeping him in line.”

A soft laugh filters through the phone.

Okay, well… I’ll see you both Monday.

A beat.

Don’t have too much fun without me.

Innocent enough, but Eddie catches that sly undercurrent in your tone. His eyes flick to the back of Steve’s head, curls still messy from his earlier efforts.

“We won’t.” He lies.

Click.

Eddie hangs up the receiver, stares at it for a second, then shakes his head and pads barefoot back to the bedroom.

“She said not to have too much fun without her.” He calls over his shoulder.

Steve’s voice floats after him, laughing. “Classic.”

Eddie spins once at the doorway, arms crossed, still completely naked.

“Care to break that down for me?”

Steve bites his lip, fighting a grin.

“She, uh, asked me to keep her posted if anything… interesting goes down.”

Eddie blinks. “Interesting.”

“Yeah. Tried to convince me to bring a camcorder.”

Eddie’s jaw drops to the floor. Steve bursts out laughing, nearly doubling over as he makes his way back to the bed.

“Your face! God, you’re just too easy, Munson.” 

...

The world’s gone soft around the edges.

The sun’s dipped past the treeline, and the room is bathed in the lazy amber flicker of a dollar store lamp perched crooked on the dresser. The air smells like smoke, sweat, and the faint citrus-clean scent of Steve’s deodorant.

Eddie’s slouched against the headboard, the joint nearly burned to a stub between his fingers. He hasn’t passed it in a while—kind of forgot it was even there. He feels like a different person from the one who first lit it.

“How long have you known?”

Steve’s voice cuts through the haze, low and quiet.

Eddie blinks, takes a slow drag. Holds it a beat longer than he needs to. Lets it sting.

“Since sixth grade,” he shrugs.

Steve turns toward him, brows raised. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” Eddie exhales, smoke curling from his lips. “You remember Zach Feldman?”

Steve squints. “Zach Feldman… the guy with the fingerless gloves? Gelled his hair like a porcupine?”

“One and only.” 

Steve chuckles. “Dude let me copy his math homework for, like, a year.”

Eddie grins faintly. “He let me borrow his headphones once. Played me this godawful hippie band. Psychedelic kazoo nonsense.”

Steve snorts.

“I listened to that album every day for three months,” Eddie sighs, flicking ash into the little dish balanced on the nightstand. “Didn’t even realize why at the time. Just… knew it felt good. And scary.”

He drops his head back, blinking slowly.

“I was scared shitless, man. Like if I said it out loud—even just in my own head—something terrible would happen.”

Steve doesn’t fill the silence right away. He just reaches out, gently taking the joint from Eddie’s fingers. Lets his hand linger there for longer than necessary.

“Man. Guess I’ve got Feldman to thank, then, huh?”

Eddie squints up.

Steve shrugs, waving the joint in a loose circle.

“This. You. Your whole origin story. Like that, Spider-Guy or whatever. Some dude made you listen to shit music as a kid, and so you swerved in the complete opposite direction.”

Eddie barks a laugh. “Kazoo-metal, baby. I would’ve shredded.”

“Awful.” Steve says, wrinkling his nose—but he’s smiling, soft and golden. One arm draped across his knee, looking at Eddie like he never plans on looking away.

The moment stretches, not awkward—just easy. Laced with something familiar and good.

Eddie rubs a hand over his face, breathing out slow.

“What about you?”  

Steve hums, tilting his head. “Dunno. Kind of recent, I guess.”

He glances down, thumb tracing slow patterns along his shin. “Always had… feelings. But I didn’t really know until I knew, you know?”

Eddie narrows his eyes, mouth twitching.

“Harrington. Are you saying I was your gay awakening?”

Steve just shrugs, flashing him that boyish grin again.

And that—that—does something fucked to Eddie’s heart. Makes it stutter real loud in his chest.

“I wanted to do more,” Steve adds suddenly, voice dipping low again. “Last weekend. But… you looked kinda freaked out already, and I didn’t wanna like, scare you off.”

Eddie blinks. His throat goes tight. There’s a heat behind his eyes now that’s got nothing to do with weed.

He clears his throat, snorts once.

“Scare me how? By coming in your pants?”

Steve chokes out a laugh, shoving at him with a weak little punch.

“You’re the worst, Munson.”

Eddie grins through the prickle in his eyes.

Then shuffles closer, and begins to count the freckles on Steve’s face all over again.

“Love ya too, man.”

a/n: oh, my sweet sweet boys 🥲🥲 hope u flagged some of the lingering steddie tension in the last part bc this is what that was for!

i love it when u guys ramble to me abt my silly little stories! ur sweet reblogs and comments keep me going :))

as always, thank you for reading <3

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