Ahoy!

Single fics that aren't too long, nor too short. I guess they're just right?

[click here for my TEEN ONE-SHOT masterpost]

[click here for my MATURE/EXPLICIT ONE-SHOT masterpost]

All the short fics a heart could want! I've written a lot for different events. Steddie Micro Fic, Steddie Holiday Drabbles, Corroded Coffin Fest, etc. Find all those fics here:

[click here for my STEDDIE MICROFIC masterpost]

[click here for my other FICLETS & DRABBLES masterpost]

All the fics I've written that are set in the Tuesday's Gone With the Wind universe.

[click here for my TUESDAY'S 'VERSE masterpost]

If you know, you know. Introduced during Tuesday's, and now they have shown up all over the place in my writing.

[click here for my GARETH/DI masterpost]

All the other pairings that also need some love in the fandom! Some are rarer than others.

[click here for my RAREPAIRS masterpost]

Gen fics also need some love in the fandom! Wanna read about Platonic Stobin, Gareth & Steve? This is the place.

"No, making soup," Eddie snarks dryly, folding his washcloth, placing it over his eyes. He just wanted an hour to relax. To maybe work some of the knots out. The tour is killing him. His whole body aches. He's stiff in places he didn't even know he could be.

Sure, he knew it'd be hard. He knew that he'd have limitations after the bats. He knew that. He did. And yet. He may have vastly overestimated his readiness for months on the road. It's harder than he ever expected it might be.

Their first album exploded. It was wholly unexpected, and happened by word of mouth, a snowball effect. They were nobodies. Unprepared for what was about to happen to them. Eddie's raw hurt and anger at what had happened to him somehow spoke to the masses in a way he couldn't have predicted.

It was supposed to be his catharsis. His letting go.

Instead, it was a rocketship he strapped himself to, unwittingly. 

Now, he's feeling the pressure. The label already wants a second album. Eddie doesn't have a second album. It took him five fucking years to write this one. They weren't even a band anymore. But Eddie called them, his friends, with all the songs already penned, just because he just wanted to get them on tape. 

Jeff suggested renting a studio for a few hours, and that wasn't a bad idea. Eddie had the money. The settlement was a nice little nest egg he'd squirreled away. So, they recorded them. All professional-like. In over their heads, but having fun, nonetheless.

And Eddie figured that was that. They shopped it around, just for fun, and found a taker willing to release it, promote it.

Willing to pay them.

Now, here they are.

The old saying that you have a lifetime to write your first album, but only have six months to write your second, is no fucking joke. But Eddie's not pushing himself, no matter what the label wants. Not right now. Eddie wrote the first one with raw fucking feelings, chronic pain, and a pen.

Until he has something else worthwhile to say, he's not saying shit. If they are one and done, so be it. This is already more than he could have ever dreamed, even in his wildest dreams.

His knee starts to shake, a familiar tremor going through his hamstring. Eddie reaches for it, but Gareth's hands beat him to the punch. 

Squeezing, working the indented skin, where muscle is missing underneath. At first, just living through the ordeal seemed like he'd won. It wasn't until long after that he realized what exactly he'd still lost.

And it was substantial.

"Thanks," Eddie says, and he hears the door open again. "Calgon, take me away," he mutters under his breath, but he's not annoyed. Not really.

He lifts an edge of the washcloth, peeking out. Goodie. Finding a spot on the other side of the tub.

"Taking a bath?" he asks, and Eddie laughs.

"Making soup," Gareth corrects. 

"I already ate," Goodie says, fingers skimming the water, flicking some in Gareth's direction, and it makes Eddie laugh.

"Where's—"

And the door opens and closes a third, and hopefully final, time.

"—Jeff."

"We're having Eddie soup," Goodie says, filling Jeff in as he adds to the crowd. Eddie hadn't realized bathing was a spectator sport.

"Are you okay?" Jeff asks, finally saying what they must all be thinking to have gathered in this way, "Do we need to adjust the schedule? We can. We can do anything we want."

They can't adjust the schedule. Tickets have been sold. But they can't keep going like this. No, Eddie can't keep going like this. The rest of them are fine. They're still young, and in one piece.

"Do you think Ozzy would sue us if we incorporated a throne into our stage show?" Gareth asks, and Eddie hadn't considered that as an option. He can't imagine sitting, but that honestly might help. Even if he only does it half of the show. 

If he only uses it when he really needs it.

"He doesn't own the concept of a chair," Goodie says dryly.

Eddie's been very open about his limitations. Obviously, he couldn't say he got attacked by bats from hell, but with his lyrics? There's no question that he's been through some shit. The scars are evident. Especially the ones on his face, his neck. 

The long, jagged one across his jaw. 

There's no running from those. 

He's scarred, inside and out.

But the guys are always ready to help him through it. He upturned their lives, even if he never intended to. He couldn't have predicted anybody would hear this album when he called them to help record it.

Partly, just wanting to see his friends. Partly, because he couldn't imagine anyone else knowing all these personal things about him.

Jokes on him. Now, the world knows.

They're on a tour, Eddie's heart wide open for consumption, while Eddie's body is revolting. All the physical therapy in the world can't replace muscle. Can't erase scars.

Can't roll back time, to before the bats.

Eddie rests his head against the cool porcelain.

"We can see about a chair," he relents, knowing that they will take care of it. Take care of him. Always.

"They agreed on a Garfield party," Di says. 

Eddie pumps his fist in the air. Yes. His brainwashing has worked. 

"I'll hit up the place that made those unicorn cookies. You guys do the decorations. Let Uncle Eddie handle the treats."

"Fine by me," Di says, and Gareth laughs from his place at the counter.

"Sucker," Gareth snarks, but Eddie doesn't mind. He's happy to go back to that bakery. See what they can do.

The bell jingles with his arrival, and the same woman is behind the counter.

"Hey, Unicorn," she says, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Good memory," he says, approaching the glass.

She preens, and it makes him laugh.

"So, question. Can I place a special order?"

"Absolutely!" she says, reaching for the computer mouse, jiggling it awake. "Name? I'm Robin, if that makes this feel like less of an interrogation."

She's somehow off-putting and putting him at ease at the same time. Eddie smiles, and gives her all his information, as she pushes a catalog of options his way. They're good. They just aren't what he needs.

So, he begins describing in detail what he's after.

"—whoa!" she interrupts. "Let me just fetch Steve. It'll be easier for you two to hash this out without the middlewoman."

"You don't decorate the cookies?" he asks, and she cackles. 

"I mean, if you want them to be very abstract, I guess I could."

Eddie smiles. He'd just assumed this was her bakery, her baby, with the way she had so eagerly wanted to help the last time.

The door to the back swings with her departure, and swings again when the cookie decorator comes through, looking only slightly annoyed.

"Eddie? Robin says you want a custom order?" he asks, and Eddie nods dumbly. He just can't remember what he was supposed to get now. This guy is nice to look at.

"Uh, yeah," Eddie finally croaks. "Garfield. Cookies. A cake. Anything else you can do to match the theme. Twin girls, turning seven. 40-50 guests."

Steve's scratching notes on a pad of paper. "Budget?"

Eddie doesn't know. He's fine with whatever. They've made good money. Corroded Coffin has been good to them. 

"Whatever it costs is fine," Eddie says, and Steve laughs.

"That's a dangerous thing to say," he teases, and Eddie can't help but smile. Steve continues, "Basic cookies are $45 a dozen. Detailed cookies start at $65 a dozen."

Eddie thinks those numbers sound made up, but what does he know? He's not a baker. 

"Steve. Just make them look nice and I'll pay you. Robin already took my credit card number. I'm in it now."

Steve smiles, and it's a sweet expression that tugs at Eddie's heartstrings. It's as if Steve expected to barter and haggle over his own worth. Eddie understands not undervaluing your art. Sure, his art is music, but still.

"Okay, how do you want them to look?" Steve asks, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper. Starting to sketch. One is round, the other is an outline of a fat cat, and Eddie reaches over and covers his hand, squeezing.

"Steve. I trust you. Whatever you want to do, whatever sparks your creativity. I'm not gonna micromanage your art."

Eddie lets go, and Steve nods, laying his pen down.

"You must love your daughters a whole lot," Steve says, his voice all soft around the edges.

"Nieces. My best friend's kids. But yeah, I do," Eddie says.

"Okay. One Garfield party coming right up."

On the day of the party, Eddie waits out on the curb of Gareth's house. Right next to the orange and black balloons.

Steve pulls up, waving, and when he opens his back hatch it's filled with orange bakery boxes with black cat stripes drawn on them. It's a fantastic touch, and Eddie knows whatever's inside them is gonna be fantastic.

"Okay, moment of truth," Steve says, cracking open the first lid, once they're all inside.

There's sugar cookies of Garfield in many different poses. There's Odie. Jon. Fuck, there's Grandma Arbuckle.

They're perfect.

And so are the cakes. One looks like the cartoon strip, one is Garfield himself and the other is Odie. They're gonna love them.

"This is all incredible, Steve. Thank you," Eddie says, and means it with his whole heart.

"I'll have to assemble the cake," Steve says, and Eddie watches intently as Steve does just that. Eddie notices Gareth, Jeff and Goodie all standing in the doorway, spying. He shoos them away, his hand behind his back.

Eddie knows he'll never live it down, but fuck. He doesn't care. Maybe he's talked about Steve the Baker a little too much, but can they blame him?

Steve gets the cakes stacked, the cookies and other treats plated, and it's all incredible. 

Standing back to look at it, Eddie cuts him a glance.

"Any chance you want to stay for a birthday party?" Eddie asks, hopeful. "I've heard the cake's gonna be good."

Steve's smile definitely says yes, he's staying.

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

Eddie is between Steve's spread legs, and Steve is yanking at that helmet of hair of his, stomach tense, pulled taut. His hair looks better all messy, hot, just like the dark hair that's coming in all over his stomach and chest these days.

"Fuck," Steve whispers, and Eddie lowers his head again, bobbing up and down. He hasn't sucked many dicks, mainly just Harrington's these days, but he knows he loves it. The taste, the smell. Steve's dick is big, and he's clean. That last one isn't always a given, so Eddie has absolutely no complaints.

Steve's watching him tonight. Usually he has an arm slung over his eyes, like he can't bear to look at Eddie being the one that is unraveling him. He knows Steve isn't very in touch with how he feels about men. Or, at least how he feels about Eddie.

Eddie gets it. He'll get there. Or he won't. 

"Oh, god," Steve says, and comes, his whole body tensing.

Eddie swallows.

When Eddie pulls back, he wipes the back of his hand across his swollen lips. With his other hand, he reaches down to adjust himself in his jeans. He's hard, fucking rock solid, and he can't help giving himself a few strokes through the rough denim. It wouldn't take much tonight. He could get there with very little elbow grease.

Usually he takes care of himself in a bathroom, or in the dark van.

"Hey! Stop that!" Steve snaps, and Eddie looks up at him, startled by the outburst.

"What?" Eddie asks, and Steve's hand finds Eddie's elbow, squeezing, trying to make him let go.

"You said we could take turns. It's my turn now," Steve says haughtily, and Eddie releases his own cock, stunned.

That's not. They don't. 

Well, Steve doesn't.

"You're gonna…?" Eddie trails off.

"If you stop jerking it, I was planning on it, yeah," Steve says, bitchy, like Eddie has inconvenienced him terribly.

Well, in that case.

"Have at it, Harrington."

He's never done it before. Eddie realizes that quickly.

Harrington is enthusiastic, but there's no skill to speak of. But he isn't a quitter, Eddie will give him that. Steve keeps bobbing down, too deep, and coming up off coughing. It's not a good blow job, but any blow job is better than none. Eddie's no fool.

Eddie reaches down, and gently guides Steve's hand to the base of his cock.

"Here," he says softly, "use your hand and just focus on the head."

Steve nods, and when he goes back in, it's much better. He can lay back and enjoy it now, and when he gets close, he warns Steve. 

Harrington is brave, or dumb, and takes it in the mouth.

Then, he freezes. Mouth full.

Eddie holds out his hand, and Steve spits into it.

"Thanks," Steve says, sheepish. And Eddie just shakes his head.

1986

"Oh, fuck me," Eddie groans, as Steve Harrington kneels between his knees. Sucking his cock. Squirreled away from the rest of the group. Forearm pressed against Eddie's stomach. The pressure is nice, even if it blocks his view a little.

Sometimes, Eddie felt like he'd made it all up. Another story he was telling, if only to himself. Harrington started dating Wheeler and that was that. He never sought out Eddie again until now. Never even glanced his way, leaving Eddie unsure if it had ever really happened.

Tonight, he knows he didn't dream it. They've done this before. And the motions don't even seem rusty.

Something must've snapped in Steve when Eddie had held him hostage with that broken bottle. Clearly. Eddie was out of his mind with fear, and hadn't even registered who he had a hold of.

Steve Harrington.

And now here they are, again. After all these years. And fuck if it doesn't feel goddamn amazing.

When Eddie comes against Steve's tongue, Steve pulls off. Looking at him.

Eddie holds out his hand.

Steve gives a silent laugh, air puffing out of his nose, and then he swallows.

Eddie smiles, cupping the side of his face, rubbing his thumb against Steve's cheek. This has been a bad fucking day. The goddamn worst of his life.

But Steve's here again, and he never imagined that would ever happen. And there's really only one thing to say:

"It's my turn now."

Eddie regrets it. Almost immediately.

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

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

Mistakes were made. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you pay for that?" Jeff asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What're you—"

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

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

Steve slides into him, and Eddie keens.

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

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

Fuck. 

"Yeah," Eddie mumbles, voice muffled. 

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

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

"No!" 

"Want me to pull out?" 

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

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

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

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

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

The slide of his thick, hard cock. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There. All done."

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

"Did you give me a rattail?" 

"Yep."

"That's mean," Eddie says.

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

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

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

"Oh, you've been talking and you drew the short straw?" Eddie asks, looking at him upside down

"No, I volunteered. Would you really want Goodie to be in charge of handling anything, well, delicate?" 

Eddie laughs.

What on earth do they have going on that's delicate? 

"Okay…" Eddie trails off, intrigued. But stands up. He feels like he needs to be standing for this. Whatever this is.

"We think we should take a break. You need it."

Eddie snorts. Eddie's better than he's ever been. He doesn't need a break. They are really hitting their stride. They sound good. They look good. Everything is good.

He's clean. Sober. Fit as a fiddle. 

He doesn't even smoke anymore. 

"News to me. Look at me," Eddie says, spreading his arms wide, "I'm fine."

Jeff's eyes go all sad. 

"We know. We do. And we're real proud of you, Ed. But Steve isn't fine."

Eddie starts to argue, starts to push back, but he doesn't really know what he needs to be mad about yet. 

"He's not? Did he say that?" 

Jeff shakes his head, "Of course he didn't. You can see him, right? You've looked at him?" 

Eddie worries the towel between his fingers. 

"What do you mean?" Eddie asks, barely above a hushed whisper. 

"Eddie," Jeff says, looking away for a moment before he can meet Eddie's eyes again. "You're clean. He ain't."

Eddie's instinct is to shove him. To push him down. Steve never got involved in any of Eddie's hard shit. He wants to crack him across the jaw. He takes the first step, and Jeff flinches preemptively.

Eddie stills. 

Frozen. 

"What?"

"Pills, Eddie. Way too many pills."

"His migraines," Eddie says, grasping for all the straws, only finding them slipping through his clutches, "His back. He had grafts. You know he hurts. You know what we both went through."

"Eddie."

"He's not an addict!" Eddie snarls, fists balled, "I'm the addict! Me!"

Eddie is the one that had a dealer in every port of call. He's the one that made back alley deals. He's the one. He's the one.

"Eddie."

Eddie hangs his head. 

"We love him. This is coming from a place of love." 

And Eddie knows that's true. They do love Steve. He's family. 

"How bad is it?" Eddie finally asks. 

"We've agreed to take a year off."

A year. 

They think Steve needs a year off. 

Eddie turns his head, tears burning his eyes.

Jeff steps forward and hugs him. "We got you cleaned up. We'll get him cleaned up, too."

Steve's cigarettes are on the table, and Eddie picks them up. Plucking one from the box, lighting it, he smokes, staring out the window of the city they haven't seen anything in. 

When his ash is long, too long, he looks for the ashtray. It's nowhere to be found. 

This situation is precarious. 

He holds his hand under the end of his cigarette as he bangs around, searching. There must be an ashtray. Somewhere.

"What are you looking for?" Steve asks, groggy, head barely off the pillow.

"Ashtray," Eddie says, voice heavy. Thick with uncried tears.

"Isn't one. This is a non-smoking room," Steve mumbles, and Eddie goes into the bathroom and flicks it into the toilet. Flushing it.

When he comes back, Steve's sitting up. "Thought you didn't smoke anymore?"

Eddie rushes towards him, crawling into his lap, arms winding around his neck, squeezing.

"Hey, it's okay," Steve says, face buried in Eddie's neck, and it doesn't feel okay. Nothing feels okay. He wants to say they're overreacting. Say that it's fine. That Steve's fine.

But it's not.

He's not.

Steve might not be out on the streets, but he's been doctor shopping. City to city. Pain patches. And bottle after bottle. Eddie knows that. Eddie knows he's dealing with pain. 

"The band's taking a break," Eddie admits, squeezing Steve tight. Too tight.

"For what?" Steve asks, fingertips pressed into Eddie's back.

Eddie wants to cry. Scream. Eddie wants to go back to Hawkins and burn it the rest of the way to the ground. Shove it in a hole, and hope it's never recovered. He wants to flay the disgusting skin from Vecna's rotting corpse.

Eddie wants to bury his head in the sand. 

Eddie wants to run.

Run away with Steve. Anything to not face this. It's harder this time. It's harder not being him. He doesn't understand how that's possible. But this feels worse. Infinitely so. 

"They're worried," Eddie says, squeezing Steve, like he might get away. Like he might lash out. 

"About?"

"You," Eddie chokes out, holding on tight. "The pills."

"Oh," Steve says, a soft huff of breath against Eddie's neck, "I'm okay."

And Eddie knows that's true, but also not true. It's complicated. It always is.

Steve doesn't fight him. Doesn't run. He's not Eddie.

He handles things head-on.

Even this, Eddie hopes.

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

"It's freezing," Steve says, disgruntled. Wiggling on the newly filled mattress, making Eddie jiggle on the other side of the bed as he rides the wave of Steve's movements. "It's like it's leeching all my body heat."

"There's a heater underneath! Give it a chance to work!" 

"Uh, yeah," Steve says, sounding unconvinced. 

"In the meantime let's get this baby rocking!" Eddie shouts, giving it a hard smack. "Let's put some motion in the ocean."

"I'm having second thoughts," Steve says. 

"About the waterbed?" Eddie asks, feeling a little crestfallen.

"About you," Steve retorts dryly, and Eddie cackles. 

He knows better. 

"C'mon. Blowing off some of this steam will do you good. 

"I'm not laying my back on that cold ass plastic."

Eddie rolls his eyes. 

"I'll bottom, c'mon," Eddie says. Tucking his knees upwards.

"Oh, great, so I have to find leverage against this thing to do all the work? I get to drive my knees into the bottom frame? Sounds fun."

Eddie laughs. Steve's awfully high maintenance today.

"You can sit on my dick, I'll do the work."

Steve still looks displeased. But he caves. "Fine."

It's a rough ride.

Eddie's trying to thrust up into him, and they're just getting battered around. Up and down, and side-to-side. A rhythm is impossible to maintain. 

It's like they are playing tug-of-war. And not in a good way, as both of them try to strong-arm the rhythm, the pace, and aren't very successful. Steve's huffing, annoyed, and Eddie's just gripping his hips, trying to get them in sync. It might be impossible.

They have good sex. That's never been a problem.

This? This might be a problem.

"Just stop moving!" Steve finally snaps, and Eddie stills his movements immediately.

"Yes, sir," Eddie snarks, and Steve places a hand in the center of Eddie's chest, and rolls his hips. Gently. Testing the waters, literally. The wave starts, but this time it's a softer roll towards the head of the bed and back down. Steve tilts his pelvis up, testing another small movement, and well, that's nice, too. 

Steve catches the wave on the way back and shifts with it. Grinding down on Eddie's cock.

Oh. 

It's free momentum. That's the secret. They've gotta move with the natural coasting motion the bed is making, not try to jackhammer it to their will.

Steve is figuring it out in real time. Eddie can see it all over his face as he concentrates. Eddie shouldn't be surprised. This is Steve's wheelhouse. The mechanics of movement. Eddie just stomps and flails and scampers through life.

Steve gives another roll, a light moan escaping from his parted lips.

"Okay," he crows with a grin, "I've got it now. Go with the flow."

"Did you piss the bed again?" Steve mutters, voice thick, full of sleep.

"That was one time and I was blackout drunk. You were there. Did you piss the bed?"

Steve makes an annoyed noise, and Eddie knows he's skating on thin ice at — 2:23 in the morning — while Steve's ass is wet.

"It's leaking," Steve says, stating the obvious.

"Are you sure it's not from you?" Eddie asks.

And the noise Steve makes is enough to wake Eddie fully.

"I might be leaking, but if it's down on the side of my thigh, we've got problems," Steve says, haughtily.

"Gotcha," Eddie says, rolling carefully out of the bed, and onto his feet as Steve sloshes around, following.

"It says to apply the patch while it's dry," Eddie says, holding up the instructions of the ancient waterbed patch kit that came with it. The overhead light is blinding at this time of night. Hostile, even.

Steve wipes the bladder with the towel again, and more water bubbles up. If looks could kill, Eddie would be dead.

"Well, that's easier said than fucking done," Steve snaps. If he doesn't get his eight hours of beauty sleep he's a fucking bear, and this has already taken the better part of an hour. 

"Maybe we need to drain it."

Steve throws the towels down, hands finding his hips, "Do you know how many gallons of water are in this thing? We aren't draining it!"

Eddie holds his hands up, conceding.

"Just fucking help me. I'm gonna force this part upwards. You wipe it dry, then apply that godforsaken patch. Got it?"

"I got it," Eddie says, and Steve nods, trying to wrangle the heavy, vinyl waterbed mattress. Wrestling it. It looks impossible to move, it's so heavy. But, Steve places a knee beneath the spot of the hole strategically, forcing the spot with a hole up as high as he can, grabbing a slick fistful around it, shoving upwards.

"Now!" Steve yells, and Eddie springs into action. Drying the pinhole twice, just to make sure, and then sticking the patch down. 

Steve lets go, and the mattress flaps back towards the sides of the bed frame with a thwack. Jiggling as it settles back into shape. Steve leans back on his haunches.

"Did it work?" Eddie asks, and Steve gets up, shedding his damp underwear, putting on a dry pair.

"Guess we'll find out," Steve says, "but you're sleeping on that side now."

Well, that seems fair.

He's going to have to leave town. That's all there is to it. He's going to pack up his shit and go before he has to face Steve with Steve knowing what he must know. That Eddie was watching. That Eddie was turned on by him bent over, ass in the air.

That Eddie clearly wants to fuck him.

Nope. He's not living through that. 

He'll leave town. Change his name. Eddie Munson? Who's that? Never heard of the guy.

Eddie is still looking around his room, deciding what he needs to take with him when he does this fleeing, when he hears the front door open and close.

"Eddie?" Steve calls out, and Eddie wishes he could disappear. 

Steve pushes open Eddie's bedroom door, the one in the new house, the one that isn't quite home. Not yet. Not ever. And Eddie is mortified. He should have just died at the teeth of the bats. That would have been preferable to this. 

He never asked to be friends with Steve Harrington.

He never asked to be attracted to him, or men in general, for that matter.

Eddie never asked for a lot of things he's been saddled with in life.

"Eddie?" Steve asks, voice closer, right behind him now.

"I'm sorry," Eddie says, refusing to turn and look at him.

"What for?" Steve asks, his hand now gripping Eddie's arm, turning him. He's still in his stupid workout gear, and Eddie just stares at his feet. At the scrunched leg warmers around his ankles.

"Why are you dressed like that?" Eddie chokes out, because he's never seen Steve in anything like it. Steve's all man. With the chest hair, and the big hands. He's not neon green and hot pink. It's just not him.

Steve laughs, "Robin thought it'd be fun. I don't know. We just decided to try them out with one of Robin's workout tapes. Jane Fonda. She's a babe," Steve says, and Eddie doesn't think Jane Fonda is a babe. He thinks Steve is a babe.

And there lies the problem.

"Or so Robin says," Steve adds, and Eddie still can't look at him. "Why'd you run away?"

Steve must know. He has to. 

Eddie shakes his head.

And Steve's hand settles on Eddie's hip, tugging him closer. This is just gonna make everything so much worse, but Eddie allows himself to be pulled further into Steve's orbit. 

"Did you like what you saw?" Steve asks, and Eddie can't deny it. Can't say anything with Steve's thumb finding a sliver of bare skin beneath Eddie's sleeveless tee, the arm holes cut far too large. Rubbing. Caressing him.

"Eddie," Steve says, breath ghosting across Eddie's cheek.

He's too close. 

Eddie wants him closer, still.

And Eddie's impulsive side wins. He's moving, suddenly, probably startling Steve. But Steve goes with it. Allowing Eddie to push him onto his back, flopping on the new mattress that Eddie hasn't even gotten broken in yet.

Legs falling open. Hips tilted. The little nylon shorts, slipping up his hairy thighs, pooling at his crotch.

Eddie pushes Steve's legs further upward, fingers gripping his thigh as he bends him backwards, pressing his dick, hard and trapped in his jeans, against Steve's ass.

Steve moans, a hoarse, deep sound, and Eddie thrusts against him.

"Is this what you wanted when you put on this outfit?" Eddie asks, voice ragged, breathless. "Did you want to drive me crazy? Did you want me to fuck you?"

Steve whines, clutching at Eddie's messy sheets.

"Unintended consequences," Steve says, meeting Eddie's eyes, and Eddie rubs against him harder. Then, slides his hand down into the leg hole of those loose shorts, hand curling around Steve's big dick. Hard and trapped by his underwear. Eddie rubs him, thumb grazing the sensitive head of Steve's cock as Steve clenches all his muscles. Eyes dark, pupils blown wide open.

Eddie keeps jerking him off through his briefs as he ruts against his ass, Steve's feet swaying in the air.

It's absurd. 

It's also the hottest thing Eddie's ever experienced, and he's not even naked.

"Gonna fuck you just like this someday," Eddie says, running his mouth, "Gonna keep you bent over and begging."

Steve comes, body tensing, a long whine escaping his throat. 

And Eddie thrusts against his ass a few more times, before making a mess of his own boxers. Breathing heavy as he backs off, and gently lowers Steve's shaking legs to the mattress.

Steve's face is flushed, glistening with a sheen of sweat, and Eddie leans forward and kisses his forehead. Steve doesn't stand for that though. No, he grabs Eddie by the back of the neck, crushing their lips together, his tongue sliding into Eddie's mouth, brushing against Eddie's.

Eddie kisses him until Steve pulls back, still holding Eddie's neck, "You promise?"

And Eddie isn't following.

"Promise what?" Eddie asks.

"That you're gonna keep me bent over and begging," Steve says, and Eddie groans.

Fuck. He's in over his head.

Oh well. 

Guess he'll drown.