#lexi writes

link to an image from a pride festival/leather festival that gave me the inspo for the jeans

tanger’s hood (just imagine a pony bit/dog bone bit attached to either side of the mask opening thank u much)

the muzzle over the hood

the harness

"I understand. But what I don't get is why everyone is making a big deal about this. Shit like this happens every other day; a couple gets together, they do lovey-dovey couple stuff for their instas, and then they have an 'amicable split'. It's literally a routine at this point." you said, taking a sip of your coffee, as you rubbed your eyes tiredly. 

Carla slanted her eyes, taking in your words. 

"But the rest of the couples, my love, aren't A-listers, are they?" Sighing, she sat down in front of you, waiting a beat before saying, 

"We are so close to you getting that Emmy nom. We can't fuck this up because of a stupid guy who couldn't handle his hormones! You need to focus and get serious about this plan!" she exclaimed, waving her hands around in frustration. A RaDa graduate, well on her way to probably getting an EGOT and yet, Carla couldn't fathom how dense you could be sometimes. 

"The plan being?" your bored voice echoed through the room. 

Your team was silent, everyone looking at one another for a minute as you literally feel the unease spread through the air. This was NOT going to go down well with you. 

"Well? Spill it!" 

"You're gonna have to be in a PR relationship." Andre, your PA, bluntly put it. 

You could feel your eyebrows raise involuntarily, face twisting into a grimace. There was no way they said what they just did, you must have hallucinated it.

"I have to do WHAT?!" you exclaimed coldly, unable to keep the frigidity from seeping in. 

"Ok, calm down. It's just for a little while. Think about it as a short term...friendship slash situationship sorta deal. The best part? More publicity, more money, and more traction towards your dream of the EGOT status." 

You weren't an idiot, you could practically smell the manipulation from miles away. But it went against your principles. If there was one thing you prided yourself upon, it was that you were able to stick to your moral compass in spite of being a part of such a tough and cutthroat industry; one which had the power to corrupt and pull you away from your goals and ambitions. 

Sighing deeply, you turned your back to your team, pouring yourself a strong drink.  You needed some time; rather a LONG time to think this through .

NEW YORK , APRIL (2017 ) 

"Ok, take it away, whenever you're ready." the bored casting director drawled; more interested in the danish on his desk rather than the man in front of him.

Joel took a deep breath before he launched into the monologue, his eyes glazing over as he let the words wash over him; the character taking root in his very being.

Just as he was about to reach the crescendo, a casting director cleared his throat, raising his hand.

"Ok, that was great. Thanks for coming in, we'll let you know."

Walking out of the audition room, Joel felt his heart sinking, yet again. He wasn't stupid, he knew what that meant, and quite frankly, he was tired of it. He was tired of the mediocrity of it all, and audition after audition where all he got at most were callbacks, only for someone else to be chosen.

Wearily, he made his way to his agent's office, ready to be told some negative news, yet again. Joel didn't call himself a pessimist, nor was he delusional enough to call himself an optimist. A realist, a pragmatist is what his peers would call him as well.

And realistically? His goodwill and his patience was wearing thin. He could see his return to Austin quite close, closer than he would have liked; but he had to be honest to himself. He was running out of money, and he would die before continuing working at the hellhole people called a restaurant.

Plopping himself on his agent, Becky's couch, he started mindlessly scrolling his instagram. Random celebrity wedding, some kid much younger than him gaining insane popularity, blah, blah, blah. Just as he was about to scroll higher, a breakup post caught his eye.

OOH, it's about to get MessE! Sources say that Ana Sharma and Harvey Murray's bitter breakup happened due to a certain Victoria's Secret model! 👀 Link in bio for more details!

Damn, Joel thought to himself. A woman like her, and this jackass had the audacity to cheat on her? What he wouldn't give to take such a fine woman out.

He was interrupted from his thoughts when Becky sharply tapped on her desk to get his attention.

"...sorry, what did you say?" Joel asked sheepishly.

Sighing in annoyance, Becky said, "As I was saying, the audition went well and the casting directors liked your audition. But they're.."

"going to go with someone else, yada yada yada." Joel finished for her, unable to hide his bored tone.

Walking off to the large floor length windows, Joel stared down at the city. It had been years since he'd moved here, and yet, it felt like life had been at a standstill.

“What am I doing here?” he murmured, turning to see Becky pour him a drink.

“You know how it is, Joel. Trust me, it’ll get better. In fact…” she trailed off, eyebrows raised as she took a sip.

Joel grimaced. Becky loved being mysterious and elusive, and she sure picked her moments.

LOS ANGELES

You stared out at the vista, taking a tentative sip of your wine. You normally didn’t drink on weekdays but what your team said was running through your mind constantly. Ethics meant a lot to you, especially in the industry you were a part of. You had never compromised on your views and stances, which had sometimes lost you out some parts; but you didn’t complain. That was how you made it this far in the game and it was how you would continue to be. And it worked. Until your jerkoff of a boyfriend had to go and screw it all up. On top of all that, the last few films that you had done were commercial failures, which meant that you credibility as a serious actress was at stake.

Now you had to think about being in an arranged relationship, of sorts; something you had been dreading ever since you turned 25 and were deemed “of age” by your parents. Yikes.

You made your way to the table, taking a deep breath as you ran your hands over your face in mild frustration. No one said it would be easy. But to win the race, you had to actually be in the race. And right now you were clearly deviating off path. Would it be so bad? Sure, it would thrust you back into the limelight, albeit not for the reasons you would like. But still. It was something, wasn’t it?

You texted your siblings group chat. If anyone could give you an unbiased opinion, it would be the two idiots you grew up with.

Your sister video called back, with your brother joining in a few minutes later. 

“What’s up?” she said distractedly, clearly still in office, typing away.

“Nothing, just…needed your opinion on something, something kinda big.” you murmured; staring out into the vista.

“Well lucky for you, you happen to be related to the smartest people who ever exist, and who love you even though you’re kind of stupid.” you heard your brother, Neil drawl. You gave him a wan smile, not wanting to get into it.

“Oh shit, no sassy comeback? Must really be important. What’s the problem?”

“Had a chat of sorts with my team…and they think that my shitty breakup making the headlines is going to hit my career. Hard.”

"All because that fuckin' turd, sorry Meera, couldn't keep it in his pants." Neil said, sheepishly grinning as he caught Meera giving him the stink eye.

“Damn. That sucks, i’m sorry. So what now?” Meera said, taking a sip of her water as she finally turned her attention to you.

You sighed before replying, “They want me to get into a fake relationship with someone from the industry. For optics.” you mumbled, suddenly feeling foolish and embarrassed.

“WHAT?!” you heard them shout in unison, cringing at how weird it sounded. Both of them were in different industries, so something like this was unheard of for them.

“Yeah, yeah, I know how it sounds. Believe me, I was even more shocked when Carla suggested it to me yesterday.”

“I mean, aside from the fact that it basically sounds like an arranged marriage; which mom has been begging you for, hellooooo; it just seems like a short term deal, right?” said Neil, his voice muffled.

“Oh, look who finally pulled their head out of their ass for a minute to make fun of me.” you replied sardonically. Ignoring him flipping you off, you continued, “yes it would be short term, like a contract/deal of sorts; but it would be publicised. Heavily.” you added, shuddering at the thought of paparazzi.

“I just don’t want to be known for being a girlfriend, or part of a power couple of sorts. I work hard and I want to be known for it. Is it so crazy to hope to be known for your work rather than a silly relationship?!” you whined, your head dropping to the table.

“It sounds crazy, but that’s a part of showbiz, isn’t it?” Meera asked. You reluctantly nodded.

“Think about it this way: no matter how weird or cringey it seems, it’s a means to an end. A bigger step towards your end goal. Now what is your end goal?”

“An EGOT.” you answered.

“Yep. And so what do you have to do to achieve that? Or atleast get your foot in the door?”

You take a beat. Then after what seemed like forever, you said, resigned, “I have to get into a fake PR orchestrated relationship with a random man to help me achieve my dream of an EGOT.”

“Excellent.” Meera said, triumphantly.

“Way to goooo, Ana Banana!!” Neil whooped. “On a completely unrelated note, could I be there when you tell ma about this? I need to see her face, she’s gonna be soooo mad!” he sniggered.

You flipped him off, bidding both of them goodbye and telling them that you loved them before cutting the call.

Oh right, your mother. You hadn’t even thought of that angle. Goodness knows her and your dad hated your ex, but a PR relationship? She’d have your ass on a platter, you knew it.

Shaking yourself, you reminded yourself of the task at hand. You could placate your mom later, right now your primary focus was smoothing out all the details with your team.

Typing out a well thought out text, you sent it to your team group chat, scheduling a meeting for the day after tomorrow. After that, you sat down to note a few things you had in mind, a list of demands, if you will. You needed to be absolutely sure and completely ready about the whole arrangement, no matter who the dude who was being roped in with you was. You just hoped that he was a good guy and not some douche looking to climb the ladder with cheap tactics.

Taking a sip of your now-lukewarm wine, you silently raised a toast.

To new beginnings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

OMG I forgot to post this here and as I was writing on AO3 I suddenly remembered that I was hyping this story up here but completely ignored it here lmaoooo

LMK how you like it! xoxoxo

-

Solipsis is, in many ways, a college student's approximation of paradise. It's on the historic main street of the city, where all the buildings are entresol-style and made of old brick - the café sticks out against a row of random university offices, shedding golden light onto the street through a big window with its name painted in big, blocky letters. It's got two levels, connected by a winding metal staircase; the first floor stretches deep into the building, lined with big, oaken tables for study groups or impressive spreads of journals and textbooks and laptops. The second is a smaller loft, dotted with round tables where solo students hole themselves up for hours at a time in relative silence. The whole place is covered in hanging plants and warm bauble lights - it's ridiculously easy to forget how late it is when everything is golden and set to indie folk music. It's a genius business venture in a town full of exhausted college kids.

("It's pretentious," Janus insists, frequently. "Unfinished oak with iron stairs, I mean, Jesus, really? And calling it Solipsis- you can tell it's owned by some uppity philosophy student."

"You're an uppity philosophy student," Logan reminds him every time. He does not remind him that he willingly chose to work there in the first place.

Janus just rolls his eyes. "At least I've got taste.")

Regardless of taste (or lack thereof), Solipsis is a hotspot. Logan steps in just as evening thunder starts a steady beat outside, hardly surprised to see most of the tables occupied by students in various states of distress and exhaust.

Roasted coffee and rain mix as he takes a deep breath past the doorway. Behind the counter, a lone barista mans the espresso machine, pushing stray hairs out of her face and eyeing him like she'd rather he walk right back out the door than up to the counter. He pretends to read the sandwich board of specials and simply waits.

A moment later, the door to the back room flips open and Janus bustles over to the register, arms full of paper cups in neat towers. He ditched the black jacket he'd worn to class for the cafe's uniform apron, with the sleeves of his sweater - as they rarely are - pushed up to his elbows, baring his wrists, where the beaded friendship bracelet Patton made for him years ago sits. His face is set in a focused frown as he sets to restocking the counter.

Logan waits a moment longer at the specials board, giving Janus a minute to finish a stack before he ambles up to the register. Janus looks up - his hair is pushed back in a hurried swoop, a very Roman style that he's picked up in recent months - and the frown gives way to a familiar almost-smile.

"Oliveira," he sighs, grabbing two cups from the fresh stack and scribbling shorthand on their sides. "Come to harass me yet again in my place of work. Never a day's reprieve from your antics."

"I didn't say anything yet," Logan deadpans as he pays, "and I don't think ordering drinks at the ordering-drinks-establishment counts as harassment."

Janus tils his head with a saccharine smile. "You're so creative."

The barista working at the espresso machine takes the cups from his hands, pulling milk and syrups out with practiced speed, still eyeing Logan with thinly veiled disdain.

Janus joins her in mixing the drinks as Logan idles by the counter, with no one else lined up behind him to prompt movement. After a moment, Janus returns to his cup stacks, moving to restock the empty spots on the back wall. Logan eyes the clock above his head.

"You're here late," he comments, and Janus glances back before following his gaze to the time with a grimace.

"I agreed to stay a half hour longer," he says with an unmistakable air of regret. "They had a new hire close last night, and he majorly screwed up waste inventory- surprise, he wasn't trained before they stuck him on the shift, no clue how that happened." The other barista snorts. "Anyway, the manager opened this morning and lost their shit, said they're really cracking down on the closing checklist being done perfectly, whatever the hell that means. I stayed behind to get as much started for Freya as I could before I head out."

The other barista - Freya - looks completely dead-eyed at the prospect of closing, but she sends Janus a small smile regardless.

"Of course, the one night I stick around is the night it starts pouring," Janus huffs. It storms more than the sun shines here, but Logan just nods sympathetically, glancing out the window to find the rain has started up with a crack of lightning. He looks back as Freya slides two drinks across the counter to him, flashing a practiced, split-second smile in response to his nod.

He eyes Janus for a moment, blowing into the little hole on the lid of his drink to cool it down and listening to Janus' barely audible grumbling about his hair and his shoes and his forgetting an umbrella, somehow, until Logan pipes up, "Do you need a ride?"

Janus pauses - grumbling and stacking - and shoots a frown over his shoulder. "You drove here?"

"I always do, if I'm not coming from campus," says Logan. He gets a blank stare in return. "It's too far to walk from my apartment."

Instantly, cup stacking is no longer Janus' top priority. He turns to face Logan again, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Freya swiftly takes over his task, sending a furtive glance at them as Janus studies him. "You drive here every week?"

"Yes."

Janus stares at him, really stares. "There's, like, five coffee shops near your apartment."

"Six, actually." There's even one on the first floor of his apartment building. It's stuffy and the coffee is always burnt. Cheap, though.

"You could walk to any of those."

"I suppose."

"Why are you wasting gas to come all the way here?"

"It's not a waste," Logan frowns, and Janus' eyebrows shoot up.

"Our coffee's not that good, Oliveira. I promise you can get a mint mocha at the place on 3rd-"

"I like your coffee."

Freya, now refilling lids, shoots a very overt, smug glance over her shoulder at Janus, but he doesn't look away from Logan. The lighting in the café is dim near the counter; Logan must be imagining the pink flush on Janus' face.

"My coffee," Janus repeats.

"Your coffee," Logan says with a nod, and Janus gets that same blank stare as before, uncomprehending. "The way you make it. It's not the same at other cafes." He lifts his cup, pushing the sleeve down with a small smile. "And other baristas don't do this."

Janus' eyes fall to the heart doodled under Oli, and the pink on his face deepens to a pretty red.

"Well," he putters, uncrossing his arms to smooth his apron, then crossing them again, then picking at a loose thread on his sleeve that conveniently tears his attention from the cup. Logan holds it up still. "They might, if you spent all your time bothering them at work. It's not my fault you've chosen me as the target of your idle drivel."

"Oh, of course." Logan entertains the idea of teasing him - there is this barista at the café in my building, they asked for my number once, I guess I could bother them - but instead he just sips his drink and watches Janus with a little smile. "I just prefer Solipsis, I suppose."

Janus unties his apron with a huff. "You're annoying."

"Very creative."

"Shut up."

He disappears into the backroom before Logan can respond, emerging a minute later with his bag and coat in hand. Freya waves goodbye as he stalks out past the counter and up to Logan. Like every Thursday - every Solipsis trip before, coffee in hand and Janus off work and the walk to his apartment a trip Logan silently insists on making with him - he's acutely aware of the stray hair falling in Janus' face, the pink still lingering under his freckles, the smell of coffee and caramel on him.

"Driving here in a storm just to torment me is ridiculous," Janus says, significantly more composed than before, haughty once more, "but lucky for you, walking home in this weather would be more ridiculous. So I will grace you with my presence and take the ride home."

Logan raises his eyebrows. "Oh, but I thought I was annoying-"

"I will steal your car."

"...Come on."

The nightmares never really followed a discernable pattern.

And it fucking sucked.

It would be one thing if they were just replays of the events Steve had gone through the past two years. Those memories Steve had lived.

He’d fought and used his fists, and a bat, and cunning, and a jaw that ached when it got cold, all to get out of the sticky moments. The flashes of memories he had from every moment of the last three years were tamed with the knowledge that he had lived. 

He’d gotten to the other side. 

In all theorem he should come out victorious in his dreams and his nightmares. He’d seen the worst of it and at the end had been okay. He’d lived. He should be able to come out on top in the battles that raged in his head just like he had in reality. He should win.

The fucking issue is, he never did.

It was never that easy. It was never a simple replay. 

It was new monsters every time; a different animal bastardized and remorphed. Mountain lions with loose maws stalking him from between cars in the parking lot of Hawkins High. Sharks jumping out of Lover’s Lake and wriggling their bodies until they grew the legs of alligators to chase and chase and chase. Monkeys without eyes raining from the trees in the woods behind his house, diving into his pool after him and tearing into flesh with fleshy, razor-fanged mouths. 

Never Steve’s flesh, though. Always the person running or swimming just a step behind him, his shouts of warning never coming in time.

And damn if that wasn’t the worst part. 

Always rows of teeth and claws striking out; blood oozing from a different person each night. Their screams the most haunting thing, the thing that kept Steve up when he heard them reverberate in his skull like they were right there. It wasn’t the blood or gore or wriggling tentacles that kept him up, shocked him back awake. It was the fucking screams.

Dustin.

Robin and Nancy.

Max. 

Max and Billy combined as the Mind Flayer strikes true.

Mike and Will. 

Lucas. 

El as she holds both hands in front of her, their only hope.

Eddie. 

Eddie’s heart stopping.

Steve screaming when he found them.

Steve’s hands clawing it back to life.

Eddie not breathing even as Steve begged.

The silence that followed.

It was the screams that haunted Steve. 

They’d won, they were okay. Mostly. But he still heard their screams.

It usually happened every few nights. The nightmares pressing deeper and deeper until he’s suffocating with lungs ripped out of his body as he slams into the offending thing. Fully ready to sacrifice himself in the place of someone he loves so deeply he can’t fucking breathe. It’s Steve’s purpose in the part; it’s something he’s come to complete terms with. He isn’t smart like the younger boys, doesn’t have the uptake of Robin or Nancy, doesn’t have powers like El and isn’t willing to flay himself for the greater good like Max and Billy. He was Steve. He was strong and a bit stupid and would always – always and forever – put his body in between danger and someone he loved. 

So, every few nights the him in his subconscious would try to die in a new and spectacular way, the sacrificial lamb for the good of the people who he loved. 

It was an inevitability Steve was okay with. It had been something he’d accepted as he walked down train tracks with Dustin Henderson for the first time. That if something jumped out of the woods and screeched at them, Steve would be in between the kid and the beast. He would die there if the gods looked down and deemed that he should. 

It was an odd place to exist, the one between scrambling to survive and being willing to go belly up if it meant a friend would live to fight another day.

It was the reality Steve survived in, somehow found himself constantly enduring perils to shield the ones who were truly important.

So he lets the nightmares be a thing, lets them shock him awake, tries to dull them with weed and booze and cigarettes but that only ramps his mind up for worse, so he really doesn’t do that much anymore either. 

They’d been a plague since the Demogorgon had first burst in at Jonathan’s in fall of eighty-three. Back then they’d been vague things that Steve could wake up and chase away with a few gulping pulls from his father’s whiskey. 

Three years and too many gasping breaths later it was an expected reality. 

The sun rose in the east. 

The tides follow the moon. 

Steve Harrington can’t sleep, because any time he gets more than three hours he wakes gasping and sweat-drenched. 

It’s one of those nights; the ones where Steve can feel the terror itching to get out from under his skin as he throws his body from side to side, twisting in his sheets until the panic pulls him under completely to choke him out to the point of waking up gasping. It’s one of those nights when the walkie-talkie the kids had bullied him into keeping close to his bed snaps to life and shocks his half-asleep brain into consciousness. It’s Mike’s voice, pitched low and shaking that comes first.

“Sound off. Over.” 

Steve feels himself groan as he yanks the duvet over his head at the sound, almost asleep and chasing the calm that comes for a few moments prior to the terror taking the reins. 

“Buckley over and out.”

“Max. Safe. Over.”

“Lucas. Over.”

Steve can distantly hear thunder rolling. The rain’s been tapping its nails against his window since noon. Storms always seemed to set Mike off. Probably something about Will talking about thunder for so long.

“El and Hopper. Safe and over.”

“Dustin. Over.”

Steve knows he should answer the call, it is the right thing to do, the thing he’s always done. But. But, this night, a storm brewing in the woods and his brain heavy with the fears of what’s hiding within, he feels overwhelmed. So close to the possibility of a few moments of rest prior to the fear gripping his chest. Just another minute. Five more in the quiet. That’s all he needs.

“Will. Over.” Will’s voice is the most sleep heavy, consonants dragging and slurred together. 

“Jonathan and Nancy.” The exhausted and rough sound of Jonathan’s voice seizes something in Steve’s chest still, all this time later. Steve isn’t sure why. He'd gotten over his romantic feelings for Nancy a year prior but it still gave his heart a tug when she and Jonathan so easily fit into the box of a couple.

Least of his worries, romance. Shove it aside for later. 

“Munson, over.” 

It was sometimes still a shock, hearing Eddie’s voice. It’s the one that haunted Steve the most, when the nightmares came. Dustin screaming, begging, Eddie’s blood gurgling. 

But. 

But. 

He was alive. Everyone was alive. Steve hadn’t let anyone with him die during spring break. The sirens and the hospital and the government doctors had kept them all alive - after. Steve had got the heart started again. Cracked sternum, blood on lips. Eddie’s breathing a crackle but there.

He was close to sleep, so close to a few soft moments of reprieve. He was chasing it, head heavy. 

Safe. They were all safe, confirmed so. 

His eyelids are so heavy.

It’s his turn. He knows it’s his turn. ‘Steve, over.’ It’d be so easy, but something stops his hand, his mouth, his entire being. He’s frozen and exhausted, caught between sleep and awake and maybe he’s dreaming this, hopefully the coming silence meant he was dreaming this. Could sink deeper into bed.

“Steve?” Dustin’s voice cutting the night air, “Do you copy? Over.” Three beats. Let it g- “Steve. Do you copy? Over.” Steve counts them this time. One, two, three. “Steve!” Dustin’s voice has pitched up, worry coating it. “Do you copy?! Over!” One. Tw-

“He’s probably gettin’ all cozy with a pretty gi-“

“Ew, Eddie!”

“What the fuck man!” “Nope, nope, nope.” 

“Look dweebs, I’m just saying, there’s reasons guys don’t answer late at night and it’s usually because of-“

“I’m not having sex, Eddie.” Steve feels like he’s suffocating, so fucking done with all of this and he’s heavy with the sleepiness of insomnia that won’t fucking leave his head. “Over.”

“Steve! What the hell! We called a sound off, are you okay? Over.” Dustin’s voice has a panicked quality and part of Steve feels bad, feels guilty. Part of him wants to scream. Just because. 

“I was trying to sleep, Henderson,” Steve sighs, throwing an arm over his face, “Something you all should be doing, too.”

The line’s static fills the silence, radio silence. Maybe Steve will actually start screaming. It’d be cathartic. 

“You gotta say over, sweetheart,” Eddie jeers, and Steve can see the smile on his face like a burn on his retinas, Cheshire-wide and goading, framed by black hair haloed across a pillow. “Over.” It made Steve’s sleep rattled brain trip on itself, the ease at which he could picture Eddie splayed out summer warm in bed. 

“Yeah Steve,” it’s Robin’s voice now, “at least use proper radio protocol, come on. Over.” 

“None of you did when Eddie was talking about-“

“No! No Steve!” Dustin’s voice had the pitchy height it got any time Robin or Eddie brought up Steve’s dating life. “No talk about fornication on this line! Over!”

“Just this line that’s banned?” Eddie’s voice dripped with mirth, even in low quality and volume from across town.

“Eddie, I swear, you saved the world and-“ 

“How about this,” Steve cuts in and rolls over to prop himself on an elbow, feeling like it’s more of the right positioning to take his frustration out in, “everyone goes to sleep now. Over.”

He flops down, face smashed into his pillow, listens as the kids all trickle off, El then Mike because he’d follow her lead to hell – fucking literally – then Lucas and Max, reluctantly Dustin. Robin, wishing everyone ‘sweet dreams loud-ass motherfuckers’, until it was just Eddie who hadn’t signed off properly. And himself. 

“Hey Stevie, switch channels for me, over.”

“No. Over.” He knows that tomorrow, in the daylight, he’ll probably regret the blunt push off of his friends, but now it was taking everything in him to just choke words out. 

“Steve,” Eddie draws his name out, a whine tinging it. Ever since the recovery, ever since getting everything back to Not-Upside-Down, Eddie had been plastered to Steve’s side. An incessant little thing. Steve hadn’t minded, because an Eddie in his line of sight meant consistent confirmation that Eddie was alive. What Steve had been taught his first-year lifeguarding had worked. Stayin’ Alive, thirty pumps, copper taste of blood on his lips, chest inflate, chest deflate, a coughing body in his arms, not a corpse.

Their friendship had started with Eddie sitting in Family Video with Robin and Steve as they worked. Because apparently saving the world or some shit from an evil superpowered thing didn’t mean you could just… not work. Well, financially it did, actually. The stipend for keeping your mouth shut was astronomical. 

Spending it was an astronomical task. 

Leaving Hawkins was an astronomical task.

Sitting at home, doing nothing, was an astronomical issue.

So. Job. 

Eddie had infiltrated it, then got a job at the music and record shop that opened down the road as the town rebuilt.

Spent his lunch with Steve, watching a half hour of whatever he was watching that day. 

Steve had started to bring the movies home each night, so Eddie could watch the end with him when he came over with a six pack, a rolled joint, and two pizzas.

That turned into talking through shit movies.

It turned into Steve telling Eddie about the dreams, about why he didn’t want to sleep alone at his own home. 

It turned into Eddie telling Steve he sometimes still felt like his sides were wet, like they were still bleeding even though the scars had healed. 

Had continued with Eddie crying, a little drunk, pressed into Steve’s side, thanking him for getting his heart restarted and dragging his body through the gate. 

Had continued with Steve telling him he would have done anything but leave Eddie’s body in the fucking Upside Down.

It ended with Steve seeing Eddie every day. Spending their days off driving around or lazed in Steve’s pool or with Steve cooking dinner while the Hellfire Club met in his dining room. 

It ended with Eddie in Steve’s life, orbiting him as he orbited Eddie.

It, apparently, ended with Eddie annoying the fuck out of him over a walkie-talkie at two in the goddamned morning.

“Pretty please, Steven? I’ll never ask you for anything ever again ever and ever and-“

“For fucks sake! Will you shut him up, please!” Mike Wheeler’s screech comes through and Steve screams a groan at his ceiling, “Over!” 

Steve grapples with his walkie blindly and presses the stupid little button. “Fine. Fine! Munson. What fucking channel? Over.”

“Twenty-seven-point-two-seven-five,” Eddie’s voice is much too smug, Steve is too much of a pushover. Steve can see a clear image in his mind of Eddie curling over his radio, the smile he used in Steve’s dining room when he was DM’ing a campaign showing all his teeth. 

Steve changes the channel.

“Yes, Edward?” He asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. A beat of silence. 

A beat longer.

Steve screams. 

“I’m not doing that nerd fucking shit, Eddie, I swear, I’m not playing this game tonight, okay? D1. I’m fucking dead, or something.” 

“Did you… just make a reference to-“

“Please, Eddie.” Steve’s exhausted, his skin on too tight and he cannot. Deal. With. This.

“Bad night?” Eddie asks next, instantly knowing, voice snapping into something caring, softer. The edges are blurring. “You sounded awful.”

So, yeah, Eddie knew. Eddie knew Steve and Eddie knew about the nightmares. Eddie orbited Steve. He’d known since he found Steve screaming on his uncle’s bed, Steve unwilling to drive home in the dark because something had been prickling the back of his neck and he was scared. Didn’t want to be alone. Eddie had sat up with Steve that night, pulling out a stash he had Argyle bring from Colorado that worked quick, and let Steve suck down the entire joint himself while Eddie told him about all the nights he woke up, shaking but unable to sit up, scared he’d actually died and was stuck laying down and alone for eternity. 

They’d forged something then, some kind of comradery that only came when you’re found with tears in your eyes and holding a pillow tight to your chest. It had taken three weeks after they’d both been discharged from the hospital before Steve had tried sleeping in his own damn house again. 

“Yeah, man.” Steve scrubs a hand over his face, letting it fall to his chest with a thunk, letting his lingering animosity fall away with it. “The fucking wasp one.” Tiny bugs swarming the kids and crawling down their throats in the tunnel system, stinging their eyes and crawling between their teeth when they screamed. Rearing tiny teeth-rowed mouths back and taking chunk and chunk until blood made Steve’s feet slide on the floor. By the end of it he’s surrounded only by corpses filled with holes as the wasps turn to him in unison.

“When’s the last time you got some real sleep?” Eddie sounds tired, too, his words loose and open, voice pitched low as he sheds the persona that always got all shined up for the kids and becoming the lazy thing he spoke with when no one but Steve was in the room. 

“You first,” Steve goads, rubbing his sternum in a circle, something feeling stuck in his chest easing talking to Eddie. Eddie got it. Eddie saw him, saw it all. Eddie didn’t hide from it. Steve orbited Eddie.

“Tuesday morning.”

“Shit, Munson.” Steve admonishes. It was early in the Saturday morning hours. It really never got that bad often, not to the point of almost a week of sleepless nights. It had been months and it was getting better but not whole. In the beginning it had been bad, Eddie’s record just three hours over Steve’s when they had finally drunk themselves into oblivion on Steve’s couch, waking up slumped together, hungover but at least somewhat rested.

“Yeah Stevie,” Eddie sighs and Steve can hear it because he keeps his finger pressed on the button through the pause, “C’mon, I showed you mine. How long?”

“Slept most of Thursday, but since then it’s been spotty.” It’s easy to be candid with Eddie, he’d seen it first-hand. Seen the broken shards of Steve shattered in the aftermath of the apocalypse. He’d been there. Robin had an idea but everyone else just didn’t talk about it the way Eddie did with him. 

“You think you’re going to sleep tonight?” Eddie asks.

“Not now that I know the kids are still scared,” Steve admits, already feeling the fitful feeling of constant vigilance scratch behind his eyes, slowly understanding that Eddie wasn’t really here to annoy him. He wanted Steve the way Steve wanted Eddie right now. Someone there in the alone, in the wakefulness. Someone there to keep you warm while shaking to death under the weight of monsters and smoke and bats and red lightening. 

Two suns, orbiting, chasing, on a collision course.

“Me either. Still got some of the last shit I gave ya?” Eddie asks, and as he talks the radio rustles with his movement. 

“Yeah, Eds.”

“Roll one, smoke with me.” And Steve isn’t sure why, if it’s the need to be Very Much Not Alone Right Now, if it’s Eddie’s tone – the silent beg Steve knows is hidden there, if it’ll even help but not above fucking trying to stave off the demons, he agrees. He lets the walkie list to the side as he opens the bedside table, sitting up and starting to grind the flowers. “Stevie?” 

“Yeah man,” Steve mumbles as he licks the paper to seal it, “I’m fuckin’ rolling, Eds. Hold your horses.”

“You are the slowest fucking grinder, I swear.” It’s said with a snigger, and Steve flicks his lighter to take the first long lungful before responding as he blows it out.

“The fucking mouth on you around the kids, dude.” He doesn’t let his button go as he takes another long, slow pull, knowing Eddie will wait for him if the static doesn’t come back. “Stop making the kids think about sex, Eddie.”

“Oh, mom,” Eddie laughs when Steve finally allows the rumble of static to return, his voice taking on revelry even when tired, “you don’t think their little brains are just chugging along with pure and wholesome thoughts twenty-four-seven, do ya?” There’s a breathless laugh and then Eddie’s choking and coughing and Steve knows it’s from laughing as he inhaled, having seen it happen on the edge of his pool too many times to hear the sound and think of anything else. “Have you seen the way Wheeler looks at El? Or how Byers looks at Wheeler? Kid’s probably-“

“Eddie come on man!” Steve groans, throwing his head back. Eddie’s cackling on his end when Steve chokes on his own pull. 

“Come on, Steve, you don’t remember being a fifteen-year-old kid? Creaming your pants when you saw boobs for the first time?” Eddie can barely get the words out through his laughter at Steve’s disgusted noise, a hint of sleepless hysteria lacing it all.

“That’s fucking disgusting, Munson, what the fuck?” But Steve’s laughing anyway because Eddie’s laugh is an infectious thing, you catch it and the symptoms take over within seconds. 

“Where’d you see your first pair of titties, Steve Harrintgon?” Eddie’s giggling, and Steve has an uncensored, weed-addled urge to reach through time and space to be able to touch Eddie then, feeling the giggles shake his body. 

Collision course, creeping closer.

“Oh shit,” Steve says, holding the joint up and watching the smoke curl from the end of it lazily in the moonlight. “Fuck probably a movie? I dunno.” He thinks maybe Jaws, when Tommy had stolen it from his older brother and they’d watched it at twelve. “Maybe a Playboy I stole from my dad? Fuck, I was, I did that for years.” He’s laughing, the weight of the weed starting to press him down into the mattress on his back. 

Eddie tsks as Steve giggles, “Oh Stevie, what a naughty little rich boy.” 

“Oh fuck off, what was yours?” 

The static crackles for a few moments and Steve’s worried he’s said something wrong, the anxiety that bubbled under his skin every moment of every day after that night in the Byers’ house years ago flaring up to a boil.

“Found one of my old man’s VHS’s when I was fourteen.” Steve closes his eyes to look at his mental image of Eddie, seeing him scrunching his nose up as his hands fidget. “That was an interesting damn day.” He sounds a bit short of breath when he adds, “Definitely learned that I was into one over the other pretty fucking quick.” 

Steve’s not dumb, this time, he thinks. He gets it in a second, gets it because it makes things slot together in his brain in a way that hadn’t been there before. It’s the opposite feeling of when Robin had said just as little to him. He’s not sure how or why it feels that way, now.

“Yeah?” He probes, tries for as gentle and soft he can, even with his heart rate stuttering heavier in his ribs.

“Yeah, Steve.” Eddie in Steve’s mind curls in on himself and Steve can’t have that, doesn’t want that. “Robin told me she told you and you didn’t yell.”

“I was blindsided by that one.” Steve says simply, pulls again, joint half gone.

“And not this?” Eddie’s laugh has turned sour and Steve feels pushed off kilter by that. 

“I mean, I’m not saying I expected it? But it… I dunno man it makes sense?” It feels right, is something he doesn’t say, unsure of how to even quantify it in any way except his stomach feeling settled by it all. “I’m cool with it, Eddie, if that’s what you’re fuckin’ chewing your nails over right now.” 

“How did you?” But there’s a little laugh coming back, Eddie’s voice softening back down into warmth again. 

“You do it when you're stressed.” Steve says simply, taking a deep breath, because it was that simple to him. Just part of Eddie that everyone had noticed at this point, they had to have had. Steve had. Knew the way Eddie’s teeth tore at cuticles as he watched a room he wasn’t comfortable in, always feeling like the outsider, always in motion. Knee jumping, head shaking, fingers twitching. 

“Fuckin’ Christ, Harrington,” Eddie’s breathless as he laughs at Steve from the other side of town. “Full of goddamn surprises.” 

“I contain multitudes or some shit.” Steve rolls his eyes, parroting Nancy’s words from some time junior year when things were easy and he was happy and the world hadn’t ended and he could sleep through the night and look at his pool without imagining Barb or see a blue car and not feel terror tug on his gut. 

“That you do, Stevie.” 

“I mean,” Steve feels loose, too loose because Eddie’s always giving him the good shit, and his mind is unlocking and picking up pieces he’d tossed aside haphazardly to look at later, “I get it, you know?”

“You… get it?”

“Yeah man, I mean, dudes, right?” It makes sense to Steve, so it has to make sense to Eddie, who was smoking the same shit. “Like, yeah. Guys can be hot.” The aerobics instructor comes to mind, arms that bulged out from a ripped shirt. “Girls are hot, too. But not to you. Guys are hot, but not to Robin.” It makes sense, Steve thinks. Total sense. Something he’d toyed with and rolled around in his brain for months and months now. Tried the taste of it when his parents had drug him to some party in the city and he’d immediately left after, found a bar that was dark, and hidden, and didn’t card him. It had been eye opening, not shocking when the man had kissed him. Not really. “I guess for some people it’s both.”

“O-kay,” Eddie drawls the word, stretching it longer than Steve really thought necessary as he sucks in a breath of smoke. “How about we resume this train of thought sometime else, Steve?” And there’s a shake in his voice, something that Steve hasn’t ever heard lately, in the Rightside Up. It sounds like uncertainty. Steve doesn’t like it, doesn’t like an Eddie who isn’t sure footed, isn’t commanding the room. 

“Sure.” Steve rocks from side to side gently, feeling the mattress shift under his body. “Tell me what’s got you so worked up tonight.”

“Well I just came out to you,” Eddie laughs and Steve doesn’t like that it feels more forced than their previous giggles, “so there’s fucking that.” 

“You didn’t die, Eddie.” Steve says, jumps three steps forward, knows that’s where they’re going to end up. 

They always ended up there. With Eddie shaking and scared and with Steve holding his hair back as he pukes out the demons all while telling Steve the entire time he’d been gone, heart stopped, body ripped apart in an alternate dimension. 

“Stop doing that, Steve.” Eddie’s voice is smaller, and Steve hates it, hates when Eddie isn’t laughing or smiling or full of levity and confidence. 

“No.” Steve smiles small as he says it, feels a little less hollow because he’s needed, he’s here, Eddie’s here. Two suns on a collision course. Creeping closer. Impending doom. “You’re alive, Eddie.”

“I don’t particularly feel like it right now,” Eddie whispers, voice almost too low for Steve to hear over the walkie, his ears having to strain some to catch all eight words. 

“’s okay,” Steve’s words are starting to slur just a bit, the weed finally washing over him in the big waves, full strength. Boom, crash, heartbeat slow. “What makes you feel alive, Munson?” 

“I don’t-“

Steve cuts him off, knows what to say because he’s said it so many times. “Music. Eddie, music. D and D with your friends,” he starts listing things, “what else?”

“Playing with the band,” Eddie starts, voice already more even keeled. “Watching horror movies with Robin?” Steve laughs and he feels his own flame of life flicker at that. 

“That’d make anyone feel alive, shit,” Steve responds, hoping the smile is coming to Eddie’s face, loves how it looks when it cracks his face open, like the sun finally bursting from behind the trees at sunrise. 

“Good booze,” Eddie’s got some of the old him back, clawing a bit back to normal. It had gotten easier as the time had moved forward, to get themselves back when the Upside Down tried to drag them under. “Shit, this shit? Weed and music and booze and sex.” The last word is a groan and Steve feels a flash of heat all over. 

They’d never discussed it, probably because of the elephant in the room Eddie had just shot with coming out, but now… now Steve wants to. Steve wants. It’s a terrifying realization to have with a head swimming with weed and insomnia. He has no other word for it, no clarity, but he wants. 

“Have you…. Have you slept with anyone since everything?” he asks, feeling almost wild. Because the weed’s made his tongue loose and the radio static keeps the conversation just far enough past his grip to scare him. 

Boom. Sudden impact.

Eddie’s voice has changed when it comes back through, sounding lower and headier and Steve’s lost in it. Fucking drugs. “Nah Cassanova, I haven’t. Have you?”

It would normally be so easy, so simple to turn on the typical Harrington charm to the point of casual deception. Of course, he had, of course one of the many, many dates had turned into something that sparked enough life in him for Steve to bring them back to his house where only ghosts of happiness followed him down the halls. 

But, they hadn’t. The candle that had heated his heart up, had made him want in that way had been snuffed out two years prior, something final had fractured with the bullshit and left him drafty, hollow.

“Nah, Munson, you’re the only one to see the gifts those bats left me up close and personal.” He answers, head sinking further into his pillow as he sucks on the end of the blunt, the smoke warm as it traps itself in the recesses of Steve’s lungs. He holds it there, tries to remember what falling into bed with someone felt like. Tries to imagine hips, curves, tiny waists. 

It really, for some reason he can’t find, can’t name, can’t finger, doesn’t work. 

But when Eddie’s voice comes back, fills his ears and his mind and his ribcage, Steve catches a spark trying so very hard to flicker in his chest.

“Oh Stevie, you’re a damn flatterer.” 

The breath whooshes out of Steve’s chest, smoke billowing from his lips and his nose at the same time as a laugh is dragged out from the place below his sternum. 

“How’s it feel to be on the receiving end of some of then infamous Harrington Charm?” Steve asks, giggling, loving the way the static on the other end of the line doesn’t feel like an empty space, but a comfort. Like if he tried hard enough he could feel the weight of Eddie dipping the bed beside him, warming the sheets with his skin, thigh pressed into Steve’s.

It wouldn’t be like they hadn’t been in that position before, hadn’t been high and wrapped up with one another. Save the world, see a guy die, snap his breastbone with chest compressions in a hellscape while their other friends try to convince him to drag the body – the fucking body because that’s all Eddie had been for too many fucking seconds that drug and drug and drug ­– out, finally get his heart and lungs back online long enough to hoist the limp weight through a portal… well. The idea is there. 

Steve had started the spring break with no interactions with Eddie Munson.

Now the lack of him next to Steve leaves something twisting raw and ragged in his stomach. 

“I’m swooning,” and Steve thinks he hears Eddie’s voice catch on the end of the word, imagines smoke of his own trailing out from between Eddie’s lips.

It is a thought that shouldn’t trip Steve’s brain up so much. Yet.

“Well, you’re the first in…” Steve’s own voice trails and a giggle scratches his throat as the absurdity of it well and truly hits him. “Since Nancy. You’re the first one to swoon since- since Nancy.” It’s there, out in the open between them now, radio waves drifting through Hawkins, over roofs and between the clouds. Or however the fuck radios worked, he didn’t have a clue. Didn’t need to when Eddie’s voice is back, worming its way into every sliver of open space in Steve’s head. 

“Then you must’ve only been dating blind broads, no idea what they’re truly missing.” Eddie’s voice comes with a tsking sound, the rustle of something in the background causing Steve’s brain to pop an image of Eddie lying in bed, a hand behind his head, all long lean muscle, tattoos crossing paths with scars, smoke hanging low in the air.

Steve’s heart jumps, because his brain had omitted a shirt on Eddie’s chest, had put the other boy in just boxers and socks because Steve had seen him like that. Sleepy eyes and ruffled one morning when Dustin hadn’t been able to get Eddie to answer on the walkies and Mike had pleaded Steve to drive. To make sure the gate was closed still, even though the old trailer had been gone, burned, the ashes watched over in a secure facility. The government had supplied the new one Eddie and Wayne lived in now. 

Wayne had thrown a fit when the feds had offered a house closer to the size of Steve’s, saying they could take their hush money and double it, put it in an account so Eddie could have the best doctors in the world as he healed. His nephew had tried to die for them, it was the least the fuckers could do. Wayne’s words, not Steve’s. 

Steve, however, had been inclined to agree.

Owens had a furnished trailer on the lot five days later as Eddie still lay prone in the ICU. 

His guitar had been the only thing that had gotten out of his home before the feds had hauled it off to scorch and torch the big bad evil gate. Dustin had made sure, had delivered it like a trophy to the hospital and Eddie had made the most delighted noise around the breathing tube the doctors had refused to remove until the blood and fluid had completely drained from Eddie’s lungs. 

Steve had also slept next to Eddie in that outfit. Two arched backs curling towards each other when the world got to be too much, too loud, when the backfire of a motorcycle down the road had Steve’s hands shaking. When the flapping of birds nesting outside the window had Eddie’s head whipping around. 

Bare chest, curling tattoos sliced with scars, black hair across a pillow, long fingers-

“Stevie?” Eddie’s voice shocks Steve out of the drugged train wreck his brain was hurtling towards, imaging Eddie without all his clothes. Alone. In bed. “You there, babe?” 

“Sorry,” Steve’s voice has changed and thickened and he really has nothing else to say, nothing he can say. Luckily, Eddie’s good at filling silence, pulling Steve’s brain from the sand it traps itself in on nights like this.

“Don’t be,” Eddie’s tone is still low and soft, scratched over by static, a buzz that Steve can feel vibrating under his skin. “You never got anything to apologize for, Steve.” He listens to the words Eddie gives him freely, kindly, woven in the hush of too late night or early morning, Steve’s lost the time in the haze the joint has put him under. He lifts it to his lips again, just for something to do. “Wanna know what I think?” 

Steve’s brows crease together and he forces the smoke out of his lungs to answer, “Think about what?”

“Your dry spell.” 

The laugh that is pulled from Steve is genuine this time. Eddie Munson had never met a topic that felt off limits. It had grated on Steve for a day, maybe two. Then they had had bigger shit to deal with and now… well now it felt like it was safe. Nothing flapped Eddie. He just said the thing he wanted to say, didn’t fuck with the thought of consequences. A stark contrast to how Steve had been raised.

“Fuck’s sake, fine, sure,” Steve’s still laughing when he answers, stubbing out the rest of the joint on an ashtray and turning on his side, “because even if I say no, you’ll tell me anyway.” 

Eddie’s laughing again too, when Steve releases the button and the radio is able to pick up his voice again. It’s warmer than any high Steve’s felt and he doesn’t really even try to fight that thought off too hard, tonight. 

“I think,” Eddie starts, and Steve shuffles in his sheets, shoulder popping as he pulls the blanket up closer to his ears, like if he covers his face and the walkie this conversation can keep existing in the floating place Steve feels his head is in right now. He can almost hear the lick Eddie gives his teeth as he’s getting ready to dive into something he feels will crawl under someone’s skin, “I think you just know none of those girls will touch you as good as you deserve.”

Steve’s breath hitches, high in his throat and he’s so so glad Eddie can’t hear it. Glad that Eddie doesn’t wait for a reply as he trucks right the fuck along. 

“Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington, now that’s a man who deserves to be savored.” Steve isn’t sure if it’s the connection or the weed, but Eddie’s voice is getting strung out, pulling on the syllables, making the blood coursing through Steve’s heart heat up, warmth filling his ribs. He knows, in some logical corner of his brain that isn’t high, that it’s the feeling he got when Nancy had kissed him that first night they had in his bedroom. Desire, unfurling in his muscles, flush squirming its way over his skin. “You aren’t a quick fuck, pretty boy, are you? Need it nice and slow, hm? Seems like you, to want every touch savored so you can really feel it.”

It takes Steve almost too long of a moment to realize his fingers have drifted down to trail over the strip of stomach left naked from his shirt, fingertips skating over heated skin. “Christ, Eddie,” he’s able to choke out of his throat, words too tight to hide the shock in them. “You can’t just say that.” His heart had taken to speeding itself up of its own accord, blood thrumming deep in the veins. 

“Mmmm,” Eddie drawls, “I did though.” It’s coy, so fucking coy and so fucking Eddie that Steve’s lungs are punched out because yeah. He did. “Should I stop?” And there it is, the easy out, the one Steve usually throws at a girl when she pulls back for air while kissing her on his couch, more than usually praying she says yes. They all have so far. 

Steve though, Steve doesn’t want this to stop. His fingertips have tucked themselves, resting, in his waistband. His other hand is gripping the walkie-talkie like a lifeline, a preserver in the tide of Eddie Munson’s voice. 

“Should I stop, Stevie?” Eddie asks again, sounding breathless, just as gutted as Steve is, and he isn’t sure, can’t think of a moment when this switch had flipped in the conversation. It’s sudden and feels like whiplash and it’s so incredibly hot that Steve’s dizzy with need and want and a high. He wonders if the weed’s been laced, but knows Eddie’s better than that. Wouldn’t, not unless Steve asked. Wouldn’t do anything unless Steve asks because he’s Eddie and Eddie is good and all-encompassing and here, alive. He was dead and he came back to life under Steve’s hands and maybe his voice will revive something deep and dormant in Steve. 

So, Steve clicks the button on the side of the walkie and the word rushes forth. “No.” He squeezes his eyes shut and his hand presses a hot brand against the lower half of his abdomen. “You shouldn’t stop.”

“Fuck, Steve,” Eddie’s words are a breath as soon as Steve’s finger releases, then the line doesn’t flip to static, but stays on and lets Steve hear the clack of Eddie’s rings as his fingers jostle his hair and Steve wonders when he learned to discern that one specific sound.

Then, oh but then.

Then every noise that has ever been and will ever be is tramped out of Steve’s brain and all he knows, all he ever wants to hear again in his goddamn life is the soft groan that sounds like it’s been yanked from Eddie’s gut. “You’ll be the death of me.” 

The static is back now, and so Steve chases after Eddie in the ether, chases the noise, prays it comes back. “You started it, Eddie.” And he should leave it there. Absolutely should. He doesn’t. “Don’t tell me you can’t finish it.” 

Steve counts to five before the crackle of the line shifts, letting him know to anticipate Eddie’s voice. “Baby, I play to win. Always.” There’s a giggle there, something in the high that Steve’s body echoes without permission just because it feels good, it feels right, and that’s terrifying, dizzying; Steve leans into the feeling. 

“Didn’t know this was a contest,” Steve butts in, thumb brushing the hair that scatters down his stomach and into his pants, wets his lips. “What’s the prize?” He isn’t even sure what the game here is, just knows that his skin is too hot in the greatest way possible and his cock is a thick weight below the hem of sweats and it’s all due to Eddie’s fucking voice. 

None of that even touches the fact that it feels normal, feels like an extension of something they’d been circling for months, since Eddie’d gotten home and they’d taken to spending days in Steve’s pool or in a boat in the lake or on the top of the hill outside of Hawkins, joints and cigarettes and brushing fingers. 

“Interesting question,” Eddie muses, and Steve closes his eyes again so maybe he can hear Eddie’s voice better, trap it in the space between his ears. He can hear Eddie click his tongue, and the sound jolts across Steve’s nerves like a shock. “The prize for me,” he draws it out, makes Steve hold his breath and he doesn’t even know why, “would be hearing you fall apart, hear the pretty little noises Steve Harrington makes when he finally reaches the breaking point.” 

“And for me?” Steve asks, should hate the way his voice goes up and breathless and how his hand is inching down further into his pants. 

“Well, I’d think, darling, that you’d like much of the same.” Eddie pauses, doesn’t let the static come, doesn’t let go of the button, Steve waiting like he’s about to leap from the ledge of the quarry. “Is that what you want?” And there’s a touch of uncertainty there, like Eddie is coming to and Steve’s fast to jump in.

“Yes, Eddie.” It’s a plea, a reassurance, it’s a little too close to everything, but Steve will worry about that in the sober light of morning, when his head isn’t being enveloped in the sound of Eddie’s voice and the hot rise of want in his veins. When his hand finally stretches down and he takes his dick in his fist, Steve goes completely taut, a moan ripped from his lungs. 

“Holy fuck,” Eddie’s voice grounds Steve as he strokes down for the first time, thumbing the slit and catching the slick of precum that had beaded there. “That sound has to be illegal.”

“Your voice,” Steve tells him, shaking his head and squeezing himself on the next downstroke, “is a weapon.” 

 “Do you like the way I talk to you, sweetheart?” Eddie asks, doesn’t wait a second for Steve to answer as he groans and Steve echoes it, mind racing with snapshot images of Eddie in the same position as he is, splayed out in bed, sweaty and restless from nightmares and no sex, listening to Steve’s voice. “Want me to tell you how I’d take care of you?” Steve’s nodding until he realizes that Eddie isn’t here, Eddie’s hands aren’t on him, Eddie isn’t whispering in his ear.

“Ye-yeah. I. Yeah.”

“Oh my god, shit, this is-“s Eddie cuts himself off and Steve feels heavy, limbs unable to move when Eddie’s voice isn’t there. “I don’t think you know how much I want to devour you fucking whole, Steve,” he admits and Steve is breathless and never wants this moment to end. “I want to take you apart with my fucking hands and tongue and-“ he cuts himself off again and Steve whines, knows how the sentence ends but isn’t willing to fill the blanks in on his own.

“Thought you played to win,” Steve pants, his pace picking up, toes curling when Eddie comes back on and it isn’t words but a moan that Steve gets in response. He wants to swallow the sounds Eddie is making, wants to feel them against his tongue. He hasn’t been this keyed up in months, in years, maybe ever. Christ. 

“God, I want to shut you up with my cock.” And that. Well that’s something entirely. It’s debauched and crude and Steve is so into it that he has to bite his hand to keep from coming undone right then, backing off from his strokes so he doesn’t have to stop hearing the things Eddie’s telling him. “The mouth on you, I fucking swear, gorgeous. Those lips were made for it, all pretty and pink?” Steve’s breaths are getting caught in his throat now, panting little things that he can’t control as he squeezes his cock at the base, tip leaking a puddle on his stomach. “Mess up that damn hair, shit I’ve wanted to pull on it since junior history. So fucking pretty, Steve.” 

Steve can picture it, can feel the weight of Eddie on his tongue and the press of hardwood under his knees. They’re in his foyer, Eddie not being able to wait to get upstairs and Steve just sinking down to his knees because who says no to Eddie? Why would they? When he sounds like this? They’d be fucking crazy.

“Don’t-“ Steve grits out when the silence stretches too long and his squeeze on himself too hard and the whole thing too much, “holy fuck don’t stop?” He asks, unsure if he’s allowed, if he’s broken this thing between them but he hasn’t, thank fuck he hasn’t, when Eddie starts speaking again.

“You, fuck, Steve, god you’d be stunning. You are stunning, but god, fuck, I can’t, the way you’d look on my-on a bed.” Eddie’s voice pitches up and Steve can feel it, can feel the energy in his veins, can hear the energy sparking through Eddie’s, something deep in him unlocked and spilling its contents between the two of them and Steve finds himself chasing the little pieces, any little bit of Eddie he can find in the words as they static their way between houses, between worlds. 

“Do you want to fuck me in your bed, Munson?” Steve asks as he starts stroking himself again, unable to stave off the need to touch and feel and chase the heat of Eddie’s words with his movements. He means it as a joke, as a little bit of a poke into Eddie’s side, but it comes out wanting and high pitched and needier than Steve’s ever heard himself sound in his life. He can’t take it back, but he doesn’t want to and that’s a problem but it’s a problem for morning because right now Steve is on the edge of and orgasm and something that feels a whole heap bigger and he’s gripping it, clutching it, chasing it down with gritted teeth and loose lips and holy shit. Eddie Munson is going to kill him and he’ll probably say thank you at the end of it all.

“Oh my holy fuck, baby,” Eddie’s tone is so close to sending Steve over the edge and he moans to the ceiling of his room, the blades of his fan spinning around the raw edge to it. “God yes, in my bed. On the fucking couch. The back of your car. Anywhere. Steve, anywhere.” And Steve’s imagination is working overtime, popping images in his brain of every scenario and he hasn’t gone there, hasn’t done that (yet, his brain goads, yet), but he wants so deeply his balls ache and his fingers tremble. Eddie bending him over, Eddie with one of Steve’s legs over his shoulders, Eddie sprawled on a pool chair with Steve on top, hips grinding down, cock spurting spunk across Eddie’s chest-

“Holy fuck, Eddie, shit, I’m going to-“

“Yes, baby,” Eddie’s voice cradles him as Steve’s hand speeds up, breathy moans punctuated by each stroke of his thumb over the head, “just like that. Lemme hear you, please, fuck, let me hear.”

And so Steve does. The line crackles for less than a second before he’s pressing his button down, panting into the receiver and then moaning throatily, head thrown back, hips fucking his fist as cum soaks the inside of his sweats. He thinks Eddie’s name is on his lips, thinks he sobs it, the weed enough of a dampener that he isn’t sure. He sees white, toes curl into the bed as his hips chase his fingers, oversensitive and pulsing in his fist.

“Holy shit.” Is what he gets when his body calms down enough for his hips to settle, for his breathing to fill the open space and his finger to relax, letting the static fill the room before Eddie’s back. “Holy fucking shit, Steve.” He’s high enough to soften the blow of it all, the realization that Steve just came from Eddie’s voice and nothing else something that he’ll have to deal with - of course he’ll have to deal with it sometime but not now because Eddie’s pants are matching his own and Steve feels like he could float away without Eddie’s voice anchoring him - rooting him to his bed. 

“Guess I lose?” is what he finally is able to say after the line crackles for a second, his chest still heaving and hand rubbing off the cum on his sweats. 

“I think we both did,” Eddie’s still breathless, and some part of Steve is so fucking proud that he did that, but also panicking that he did that, “I, um, well, yeah. When you did.” 

He doesn’t let Eddie hear the absolute heady moan he lets out at that, cock twitching heavy in the crease of his hip and thigh. Holy shit. He’d cum to Eddie’s voice and Eddie had cum to him cumming. Steve was in heaven, this was too good.

“Fuck,” is all he gets out in response, because really nothing real had rebooted yet and his nerves were still pulsing from orgasming harder than he had in years. 

“Yeah. Fuck, Steve.” Steve is shocked when he realizes he wants to chase those words with a kiss. Wants to kiss that tone from Eddie’s lips to see how it tastes. 

So. Okay. It didn’t go away with the orgasm, the warmth in his chest and ribs and stomach. Noted. 

“You good?” He asks instead of acknowledging it all because acknowledging it didn’t feel good with the wash of weed pressing in on him. 

“Better than,” Eddie mumbles and Steve feels it too, feels his body lax enough to crave getting pulled under; to maybe close his eyes. He does.

“That was…” Steve trails off, grips at his hair before realizing how gross that was and shaking his hand away from his face.

“Hot as shit.” Eddie responds, and Steve can still see him, behind his eyelids, sprawled long limbs with tattoos, sheets kicked to the base of the bed, orgasm flush. 

Oh god. This was going to be an actual problem.

“Yeah,” he agrees, feels the word thick in his throat.

“Yeah.” Eddie echoes, voice thick, maple syrup in winter, a worn soft quilt, the most comforting thing Steve can think of when it sounds like this. “Feel better?” Eddie asks, voice almost sheepish.

“Kinda, yeah,” Steve whispers back, head swaying gently. “You know, who knew weed and cumming would relax me?” He jokes, huffing a laugh.

“Real fuckin’ bewildering shit, huh?” Eddie asks, some of the swagger coming back to his voice, coaxing another laugh from Steve. He laughed so much around Eddie. 

“Yeah man, yeah.” It’s all his brain can say, all it feels safe to say because if he starts talking he’s not sure what else will come out of his mouth. He’s high, and pumped full with endorphins and he thinks he’s a little bit in love. 

Well, huh.

He must let the silence stretch on for long enough that Eddie thinks he’s fallen asleep, because as he blinks into the dark, hoping that each time he opens his eyes Eddie will actually materialize next to him for him to reach out and get to touch (he really, really wants to touch right now), Eddie says quietly, “Night Stevie. Sweet dreams only, ‘kay?” And then static. Nothing but a long, crackling line of it between him and Eddie. 

He drifts in and out of sleep, starting awake any time Eddie talks in his dreams, thinking maybe he’d shown up in Steve’s bed after all. 

Collision course. 

Implosion. 

Carnage. 

No survivors.