#sbb

8 seconds is all it takes to change Steve Harrington’s life. 

To give the woes of his past the potential to slip through his fingers and to finally find a sliver of happiness. To find someone that could bring him the joy in life that he lacks beneath the suffocating weight of his father's thumb.

7 to enter Nachbar on Charles in Louisville, Kentucky.

A bar he's frequented ever since he was two years shy of old enough—having been a patron simply for the fact of convenience and the pleasure of another's body pressed against his own. He wonders what his father would think if he knew every time Steve came to town with a load of cattle or horses that he too managed to find someone to swallow the stress of his life along with a shot of bourbon.

6 to order a beer and a shot of his usual in an effort to shut off his mind, hoping that at least he can get a few minutes of silence and a shitty drink out of such a worthless day doing his fathers bidding.

5 to choke the fucking thing down and chase it with half a bottle of Coors, trying his best to not shiver as the awful combination makes its way over his tongue and down his throat.

4 to notice the guy at the end of the bar whose eyes have yet to leave his lips. Who has an amber bottle of his own lazily clasped between ringed fingers, easily drawing Steve's attention to the porcelain skin of his hands.

3 to feel the rush of heat that floods his cheeks as he takes in those onyx eyes, that mess of whiskey curls, and the way sharp teeth bite into a plump bottom lip as Steve absentmindedly licks his own.

2 to take the first step in Mr. Brown Eyes’ direction.

And 1 to decide fuck it.

Falling into the wobbling barstool next to the mysterious young man, Steve feigns confidence as whiskey-sweet words fall from his lips. 

“Aren't from around here, are ya?” His resolve fractures only in the slightest as that damn bitten bottom lip pulls into an enticing smirk.

Before he knows it, he's a second bourbon in with his tongue down a beautiful man's throat and his hand shoved down the front of tight black Levi's. Feeling the warmth and weight held in his palm, he can't find it in himself to complain about the uncomfortable angle or the way his wrist feels like it just might fracture in-between them.

It's not like his usual bar bathroom hookup—not that he does this all that often—but Eddie—as Steve learned only sheer seconds before their lips collided in a desperate crash—is attentive, and somehow manages to be sweet and gentle even while rutting his swollen cock into the grooves of Steve's palm, and sucking on his tongue. 

With the taste of cheap cigarettes and shitty bourbon dancing over his taste buds, Steve hears himself moaning with every slow roll of his hips as he grinds against the solid line of Eddie's body and his groping hands.

Tangling in his hair and wrapping firming around his waist—while one hand seems to be preoccupied edging him nearer and nearer to his end—Eddie's other hand feels as if it's everywhere all at once. 

Each grip, dizzying. Every caress, tantalizing. The very feel of those ringed fingers gliding over his skin and beneath the fabric of his shirt only pushes Steve nearer to his climax.

Pale blue light buzzing above them, somehow even in such artificial rays Eddie's the most beautiful thing Steve’s seen. 

The lighting of a dive bar bathroom has never seemed to do Steve justice, but with raspy words slurred over his tongue calling him every version of beautiful in the book—well—maybe he could consider himself wrong.

He's never had a hookup moan against his lips purely due to the fact that his neck is littered with moles or that his ‘eyes glitter like the gold scattered through the Arizona desert.’

Nor has he had anyone notice the skip in his heart rate when his shoulder flares with pain upon raising his arm—ghosting gentle fingers over the still-clothed joint, only to pull the fabric aside to reveal the raised pink of scarred skin and press gentle lips to the still-healing riding injury. Then to his neck, his cheek, and back to his lips. 

Something about Eddie's kisses taste sweeter then. As if in his detour to lay affections to Steve's skin, he somehow managed a spoonful of sugar in-between.

He can't remember the last time someone's lips had tasted so sweet.

Greedy for every grain of sugar-sweet that he can bear to stand, Steve hums and tries his damndest to not devour Eddie entirely.

In his restraint, time slows. Though only for a short while as Eddie pulls away to gently cradle Steve's jaw in his grasp. Brushing his thumb along Steve's bottom lip and looking him in the eyes, he tells him—for not the first time—just how beautiful he really is—as if he says it enough, Steve will have no choice but to believe him.

Leaning into Eddie's touch to nose along his palm, Steve thinks it's a wild thing to feel so cared for in an otherwise shit-hole of a place.

The lights are flickering, the stall door hardly concealing them is hanging uselessly from a single hinge, and lord only knows what their boots are standing in—but with Neon Moon by Brooks and Dunn playing over the speakers, and the smell of cigarette smoke and bourbon flooding his senses, Steve feels so easily adored and hungered for at the same time.

He hopes Eddie feels a similar sort of comfort, even if all Steve believes he can offer the man is a good time and words just as sweet as the ones falling to his kiss-bitten lips. There's no way he's going to let Eddie leave this bathroom without.

Eventually they get off—Eddie into Steve's palm and Steve into the cotton of his underwear—and surprisingly, it's not awkward from then on. Not as they wash up, not as they sit back down at the bar, and not as Eddie chooses to stay when Steve offers him the easy out he does to all of his one time hookups.

He can't remember the last time anyone bothered to stay—can't remember the last time he didn't feel like somebody's one-and-done either.

They don't stick around for long—what with the bar growing busier and the night stretching on—and find themselves taking a cab back to Eddie's apartment before the clock manages to strike midnight.

The drive is short and though they know to keep their affections from the eyes of their unknown cab driver, they still manage to trade knowing glances, brushed fingers, and a handful of whispered words when they know the driver is otherwise occupied.