Archive of Our Own

1999:

It's the longest Friday of his life, pretty much. He's at the door to greet his kids at 8am, and then there's reading and writing and Math, lunch and a few chapters of the book that they're reading together. There's skinned knees and headaches and Art and, all day, all Mr Harrington can think about is what time he's going to have to leave the house if he's going to make Indianapolis International in time for his flight to New York. If (when) he makes that flight, he's got a couple of hours to get from LaGuardia to JFK and then it's the redeye to London. He's checked, and the train between London Euston and Birmingham (pronounced perplexingly differently than the one in Alabama) takes a couple of hours and there's a station right near the stadium that Corroded Coffin are headlining at. He'll have like…sixteen hours before he has to leave for the airport again. It's not long. After a month, it'll be enough.

But it's a lot of moving parts.

Still, Steve believes that the Universe owes him good things. He's kind of believed that for a while.

"Mr Harrington?" says a voice at his elbow and he looks up from the worksheet that he's marking.
"What's up, Sarah?"
"I can't get this bit right," she says, her little brow furrowed with concern. "Can you help?"
"You got it," he says, getting up from his chair and walking her back to her desk. As he passes, a hand snakes out and grabs his elbow.

"Mr Harrington?"
"Yes, Lisa, honey?"
"He's doing that thing again."

Steve crouches down next to Sarah's desk, tilting his head as he looks at the problem she's working on, works out how he's going to explain it to her again.

"Who is?"
"Eric."

"This sounds like a problem for the tattle box, Lisa. Go ahead and grab a slip from my desk."

That's one problem solved, at least.
He'll take it as a win.

It's kind of a nightmare, in the end — he gets to Indianapolis on time, but security is backed up and they're delayed taking off by thirty minutes, which means that he has to run for a cab at LaGuardia which, of course, hits every fucking red light on the way to JFK, so a thirty minute trip takes closer to fifty. By the time he's boarding, he's sweaty and exhausted and basically furious (with himself, for thinking this was a good idea at this point in the school year, and with the world in general for being in his way), so thank God that they've got First Class money. Once he's in his seat with complimentary champagne it's amazing how quickly he relaxes. He takes off his sneakers, pushes both hands through his hair and breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. From here, it's nearly eight hours in the air, and he intends to sleep for most of it. He's dressed comfy for the flight - worn Levis, thick socks, a sweater and, underneath, a t-shirt that he's had for so long, worn so often, that it's pretty much the softest thing he owns. He's got his glasses on, for now. On the ring finger of his left hand, there's the thinnest ring of hammered silver.

Absently, he plays with the hem of his shirt, working the tip of his little finger through a hole close to the stitching.

1988

For the last hour of their shift, he pretty much just watches the clock, his elbows leaned on the counter. Robin buzzes about the place, her arms loaded with tapes, and he can tell, mostly from how quiet she is, that she's really pissed off.

"Are you planning on doing anything to help today, dingus?" she asks. She doesn't really call him that much anymore; it's just another thing that they left behind at the end of the world. Still, she breaks it out on special occasions — like, apparently, Steve being absolutely no help at all on a Tuesday night.

"Wasn't planning on it, honestly," says Steve, glancing away from the clock to look at his watch instead. "Five minutes. We can call it, right? We can definitely call it."
"What's so important that you can't do your job for another five minutes, Steve?"
"Nothing. Nothing. I have…just had a really long day."
"Bullshit."

Bullshit is right, because what he's got? Is a date. Sort of. Kind of.
Mostly.

The plan is this: before he leaves, he's going to get changed in the employee bathroom, and then he's going to pick up Chinese takeout and then he's going to drive over to Eddie's trailer. Wayne's working a night shift, so he'll be able to stay in bed until 5.45am and then he's going to get up and leave. They've been doing this for over a year now, so they've got it down to some kind of fine art. Sometimes, when he's not at work, he joins the sparse crowd at The Hideout and actually watches Corroded Coffin play. Tonight, though? Tonight, he'll just be waiting when Eddie gets home. In his backpack behind the counter, there's a surprise. It was something Eddie was running his mouth about the other night, an idle fantasy that he probably doesn't even remember voicing.

But Steve remembers.

He'd still had his letterman in the back of his closet, untouched since Senior year, and it still fits pretty well, but it also feels like it belongs to another life, somehow. He still likes screwing around on the court with Lucas sometimes, but he's way past his best, and they both know it. Putting it on feels like stepping back in time, like going back to being a version of himself that he's not sure that he likes anymore. Still, he'd seen the look on Eddie's face when he was talking about it, about how hot Steve would look, and he'd felt his face flush just at the thought of it. He'd picked through Eddie's laundry pile while Eddie was in the bathroom, found what he was looking for pretty quickly and stuffed it into his backpack. When he got home, he'd thought about washing it but, honestly, he'd like that he could smell Eddie on it when he pulled it over his head.

He's parked beside Eddie's van in the driveway. He's taking up space, but it's okay; he'll be out of here in the morning before Wayne needs somewhere to park. For some reason, he's nervous — he's got no idea why. Because there's an element of dressing up, maybe? Because he doesn't feel entirely like he's the person that he's grown up to be.

Eventually, still trying not to feel ridiculous, he hauls himself out of the car, grabbing the box of Chinese food that he'd bought with him, holding his keys between his teeth as he shuts the door. He climbs the steps and juggles the box into one arm so that he can knock.

The door opens under his hand.

Eddie's standing there, rumpled and sweaty and smeared with eyeliner. He's wearing barely any clothes at all — black boxers and a white tank-top. He's gotten more tattoos since his sojourn in the Upside Down, black ink spangled on his bare biceps and collarbones; Steve has personally spent hours tracing those whorls with the tip of his tongue and seeing them is like a bell ringing, somewhere. His mouth starts to water. Eddie's got his hair pulled up, tied back, and the lines of his face are sharp and beautiful and Steve wishes he could just lean in and kiss him on the doorstep where anyone and everyone could see. He won't, obviously. But he wishes that he could.

"Hey," he says, shifting his grip on the box in his hands.
"Hey yourself," says Eddie, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, his eyes dragging down Steve's body. With what he's holding, the surprise is still intact, but Steve sees Eddie's dark eyes warm and widen slightly when he takes in the letterman. "You look…"
"You can tell me all about how I look once you've let me in," says Steve, rolling his eyes. "C'mon, man. It's cold."

Inside, he puts the food down on the kitchen counter, takes a breath and turns around. He lets Eddie take it all in, hands on his hips — there's the green and white jacket and, underneath, CORRODED COFFIN scrawled across his chest in carefully hand-drawn letters. The look on Eddie's face is, for a moment, complicated, and then it breaks into the brightest, most beautiful smile.

"That's my t-shirt, Harrington."
"Is it?"

Eddie crosses the space between them and presses in close, knees to chest, one arm curled around Steve's neck to pull him in for a slow, languorous sort of kiss. Steve never gets bored of kissing like this, like they've got time on their hands, like they really know each other. Like they're meant to be. One of his hands comes up to cup the back of Eddie's neck, holding him to the kiss as he licks into his mouth, the soft moan that spills out of him muffled by the press of Eddie's lips. Eddie's fingers push under the hem of his stolen t-shirt, skimming up his spine.

"This is exactly as hot as I thought it was going to be," says Eddie, as Steve's hands skim down his sides, slide back to cup his ass, squeezing. "I used to look at you in the cafeteria in this fucking jacket and wonder what you'd look like in nothing else. Fuck."

"Your thing with jocks is weird. You know that, right?"

Eddie snorts a laugh, undignified and dips his head, doing something absolutely outrageous to the side of Steve's neck with lips and teeth and tongue.

"Yeah," he says. "I know. But I'm helpless in the face of my desires, man." He slips one hand between them, cupping the line of Steve's cock through his jeans and squeezing.

"Bed first? Then food?" asks Steve, his head tipped back to give Eddie's mouth all the room it needs. Eddie doesn't say anything, just starts dragging Steve in the direction of the open door to his bedroom.

1999:

Checking into his hotel is pretty easy. He knows that Eddie is supposed to travel with the band, but he also knows that their next date isn't until the day after tomorrow, and he's already hired a driver to take Eddie to where he needs to go (Manchester, supplies his tired brain. It's Manchester). He'd booked the room while he waited at JFK, just clicked and paid and, walking in, he's pleasantly surprised. The room is done in shades of muted green and gold; the bed is wide and white, loaded with pillows. The shower is a huge walk-in that Steve wishes he had time to take advantage of. A glance at his watch suggests he probably doesn't and, right on cue, his phone buzzes in his back pocket. It's a text from Gareth, telling him that soundchecks are nearly done and, if he's around, now's the perfect time. It's the usual security team, so they should know him on sight but, if there are any issues, he should just call Gareth. So far, Eddie has no idea that anything's going on.

Steve honestly can't believe that he's this close to pulling it off.

The hotel is in a sort of mall - there's a casino, stores, a bunch of restaurants and bars and, across the way, the arena itself. Steve skirts around the edge, stopping to ask someone and getting directions to the right door. There's a bit of a fumble with security, where the English guy managing the door (obviously) doesn't know who he is, and Steve has to (basically) beg him to go and get the band's security lead.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees a familiar set of broad shoulders.

"Mr Harrington," he says, and Steve finds himself grinning.
"Mac, I've asked you repeatedly to call me Steve," he says, clapping him on the shoulder as he steps to the side and lets Steve into the echoing space behind the door.
"I know that," says Mac, his smile slight but warm. "And here we are. They're still on stage. C'mon. I'll take you."

Steve's found that, wherever you are in the world, behind the scenes at these places look more or less the same: concrete, steel, yellow paint. He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks with his head down, making idle conversation. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear the sound of guitars, a familiar voice overlaid. They've been together since they were kids, and Steve's stomach still flips when he hears Eddie singing.

They enter the arena on the side of the stage, so the first time he sees Eddie in a few weeks is from behind. He's not in stage gear yet, dressed down in ripped dark jeans and a black t-shirt, his hair tied up in a loose knot on the back of his head. Sneakers instead of boots on his feet. There's no music playing, at the moment — Eddie's leaning into the mike, giving Gareth and Jeff shit about something, his voice a familiar rasp over the sound system. Jeff actually sees Steve first, and a broad, shit-eating grin spreads across his face.

"I don't know what the fuck you think was funny about that, but…" says Eddie, and then Jeff points and Eddie turns and…

Well. The look on his face. His dark eyes widen, a broad grin spreading across his face, and Steve honestly never gets tired of seeing Eddie smile like that. Before he really knows what's happening, Eddie takes off running and, when he gets close enough, he flings himself at Steve, wrapping both arms around Steve's neck and hitching his long legs up to wrap around Steve's waist.

"Holy shit," he whispers, his mouth close to Steve's ear. "Where the hell did you come from?"
"Just? The hotel. But before that, I was in London. And then New York, but that was kind of brief. Left Indy right after school yesterday."
"How long can you stay?"
"Just tonight." Eddie's still got his legs up, so Steve shifts his hands, sliding them up Eddie's thighs to support his weight. "I'll be here for the gig, and then I thought you could…hang around and then go up to Manchester tomorrow and then I'll head for my flight?"

Eddie doesn't kiss him, not in front of everybody, but his arms do tighten around Steve's neck for a beat before he squirms and puts down his feet.

"I can't believe you're here," he says, dark eyes shining a little in the shifting stage lights.
"Believe it," says Steve, with a grin.

Steve never gets bored of watching Eddie on stage but this is the part he likes best: pressed together in an elevator, shuttling upwards and knowing that they don't have to answer to anyone or anything for the next twelve hours. They're going to shower, they're going to order room service and they are going to take their time with each other. It's been a month since they slept in the same bed, and Steve intends to make this count.

"You were phenomenal tonight," he murmurs, peeling a tendril of Eddie's sweaty hair from the side of his neck so that he can kiss his skin. "I don't remember the last time you were that good."
"It's this city, man," says Eddie, grinning, leaning back against him. The elevator has mirrored walls, and Steve watches their reflection as he slips his hand under Eddie's t-shirt and presses his palm flat against his belly. "You know Ozzy grew up, like, a couple of miles from here? Lemmy's from like…fifty miles away. There must be something in the water, or something."
"I didn't know that," murmurs Steve, tracing the edge of one nail around Eddie's naval.
"This town loves metal, Steve," says Eddie, and he's practically humming with happiness.
"Well," says Steve, as the doors open onto their floor. "I love you."

He lets them into the room and Eddie drops his bag, immediately bends to start unlacing his boots. Behind him, Steve runs both hands up his arms to his shoulders and starts to ease him out of his jacket. Underneath, Eddie's t-shirt is sleeveless, his tattoos standing around starkly on pale skin. Steve remembers the days when there were only a couple, not shoulder to wrist like there is now.

"Shower?" murmurs Steve, already wrapping his fingers in the hem of Eddie's shirt and starting to tug it upwards. It's the shirt he wore on stage, so it's still damp, smells sweaty and lived in.

"God, yeah," says Eddie, lifting his arms so that Steve can peel his shirt up and off, discarding it on the floor beside them. Taking hold of Eddie's hips, still slim even now that he's closer to thirty-five than twenty-five, Steve starts to steer them towards the bathroom. From experience, he knows that it won't last, but he loves these moments when Eddie is pliable and willing, when he's still coming down from fifteen thousand people screaming his name. In the bathroom, Steve tugs off his sweater and steps into the shower to get the water running. Behind him, he hears Eddie start laughing.

"What?" he asks, glancing back over his shoulder.
"That's my t-shirt, Harrington," says Eddie.
"This old thing?" asks Steve, his fingers skimming the faded CORRODED COFFIN logo across his chest, and then he strips himself quickly and efficiently, so he's naked when he gets down onto his knees to work on Eddie's belt. Eddie cups his face with one hand, brushing the shape of Steve's bottom lip with a thumb calloused by years of guitar playing.

"I can't believe you're here," he says, his voice soft, wondering.
"Well, I am," says Steve, tugging jeans and underwear down together, stripping Eddie naked except for his rings and his ink and, around his neck, a familiar guitar pick on a chain.

They kiss as they step into the shower, Eddie's arms curled around Steve's neck, Steve's slipped around Eddie's waist. As their bodies slick with hot water and suds, they shift against each other, start to move with increasing urgency. It's been a month and they talk on the phone every night and, yeah, sometimes, they have something approaching phone sex, but it's never the same. How could it be? How could it even come close to the press of Eddie's body against his, Eddie's mouth hot and wet on the side of his neck, Eddie cock sliding alongside his own? They stay pressed as close as they can, both of them craving the friction, the push-and-pull of it, and they don't talk and Steve, at least, doesn't even think much; he just keeps crowded in close to Eddie, pushes him back against the tiles with hips and hands and grinds against him until he's gasping.

They come within seconds of each other and, even after this many years, that's still rare enough that they both end up laughing, breathless, even as they're still trembling through aftershocks. Steve takes his time afterwards, tenderly cleaning the come off Eddie's belly and chest, then washing his boyfriend's hair for him. When he's done, Eddie returns the favour and his long, clever fingers feel so good on Steve's scalp that he nearly falls asleep right there in the shower.

Once they're both out, Eddie wraps himself in one of the plush robes hanging in the wardrobe and Steve digs through his backpack for a clean pair of boxers and a t-shirt. He stretches out on one side of the bed and Eddie sits cross legged on the other and orders room service: steak sandwiches and fries and beers and sodas and ice-cream. He always comes off stage starving, but, selfishly, Steve also sincerely hopes that Eddie's building his strength for later.

While they wait for their food, Eddie pulls on a pair of black sweats, no underwear, combs his fingers through his wet hair. Steve lies with one arm pillowed behind his head and watches him, the way he preens and poses, the way he leans closer to examine his reflection in the mirror, tugging at his face to examine his own eyeballs.

"You look great," says Steve, and means it. Being on tour has always suited Eddie, even if it means they miss each other. Steve knows he'd tour pretty much constantly, if he could. If something heart-shaped didn't keep pulling him home.

"I always look better when you're here, sweetheart," says Eddie, grinning at Steve's reflection in the mirror.

"God," says Steve, shutting the door behind him and locking it after he's set the tray of dirty dishes in the hall. "We definitely ordered too much food."
"Spoken by someone who grew up rich," says Eddie, stretching both arms up over his head. "No such thing as too much food, babe."

Now that they've finished eating, Steve can feel it. He remembers, a lifetime ago now, telling Dustin about it — about the sexual electricity you feel, sometimes. He's never felt it the way he feels it with Eddie; it rolls across his skin, hot and static, even after all of this time. He stands at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips and he looks down at Eddie, sprawled on the white sheets like he doesn't have a care in the world. Because he doesn't, really, does he? He's rich, he's famous, he's loved.

What else?

"Get naked for me," says Eddie, and Steve sees the shift in his expression, hears the difference in his tone, and it's enough that his cock is half-hard almost instantly. He strips off his t-shirt and boxers quickly, easily and, when he's done, he sinks to his knees and he lifts his arms, threading his fingers behind his head. It's the easiest thing in the world. It's like breathing.

Eddie gets up off the bed, his sweats riding low on his hip bones and he walks behind Steve, one ringed hand slipping around his throat and squeezing just lightly. Steve's eyelashes flutter, his lips parting slightly. This, right here, is where he feels most relaxed in the whole world — on his knees for the man he loves, ready to do whatever he's told, for as long as he's told, until they're both done.

It's all he's ever wanted.

"I can't believe you came all this way for me," croons Eddie, keeping up that gentle pressure against Steve's windpipe; Steve leans forward into it, feels the way it makes it ever so slightly more difficult to breathe. His cock throbs.

"You know I'd go anywhere for you," he says and, when Eddie's hand tightens again, he has to bite his lip over a smirk.

"You forget something there, babe?"

Steve swallows.

"You know I'd go anywhere for you, daddy."

In any other situation, it'd crack him up but here, now, like this? God, it's hot.

Eddie's hand slips from his throat to his shoulder, pushing forward until Steve bends, catching his weight on the foot of the bed. Eddie's hand is on the back of his neck, suddenly, still pushing until his forehead is resting against the sheets.

"You stay," says Eddie. "Right there. Until I tell you you can move. Understood?" Steve nods, his cheek rubbing against the sheets. When Eddie's hand lands hard on his ass, he grunts, surprised by the impact. "Use your words."

"Yes, daddy. I'll stay."

Eddie finds a rhythm with the flat of his hand on Steve's ass, stinging slaps for one cheek, then the other. He hasn't taken his rings off, and Steve can already feel the bruises that are going to form, knows that he's going to be aware of this every time he sits down wrong for days.

He moans softly. He misses this. He misses all of this so much when Eddie's away.

Eddie spanks him until it's almost too much, until his fingers are fisted in the sheets and he feels like the skin of his backside must be glowing. Eddie likes it that way, likes to feel the heat off it when they fuck. Between his thighs, Steve's cock is hard and leaking. He knows that it'll stay that way until Eddie's good and ready to do something about it.

He's not complaining.

When Eddie's done, he walks away, leaves Steve kneeling while he walks around the bed, shimmies out of his sweats and sprawls naked across the sheets. His cock is hard, curving over his belly, flushed a few shades darker than the rest of his skin. Steve keeps his cheek on the sheets, so he can only see Eddie in his peripheral vision.

"Come up here," says Eddie, and Steve knows that that arrogance is part play-acting and part a hangover from Eddie's stage persona. It's not really Eddie…which doesn't mean that he doesn't like it when Eddie breaks it out. Achingly aware of how naked he is, how exposed, Steve crawls up onto the bed with Eddie, right between his boyfriend's spread legs. Eddie takes hold of his jaw, swiping his thumb along Steve's bottom lip. "Open."

Steve opens his mouth easily. Eddie doesn't hesitate before pressing two fingers past his teeth, fucking his mouth with them, rubbing them against his tongue. His purpose is pretty clear and it doesn't take long before Steve's mouth is slick with spit.

"Can't wait to fuck you," says Eddie, his fingers sliding smoothly into Steve's mouth, deep enough to nudge against the back of his throat and make him gag. They both know that Steve can shove that reflex down if he wants to but, right now, that? Isn't the point. He gags, drools over Eddie's fingers, makes a mess of his own chin and chest. Eddie reaches between them and curls the fingers of his free hand around Steve's dick, jerking too loosely, too slowly to actually do any good.

"Want you to fuck me," says Steve, the words muffled and thickened by the press of Eddie's fingers against his tongue.

"Patience," says Eddie, taking his fingers out of Steve's mouth so that he can lean in for a kiss. His hand slips around, his slick fingers rubbing over Steve's asshole, the tip of one working its way inside. Steve whimpers against Eddie's mouth as Eddie presses his finger in to the first knuckle; spit isn't really enough and it burns, slightly, in a way that makes Steve's cock throb. He kneels there, pinned between Eddie's hands, reduced to something that wants and aches and will do exactly what he's told. "I'm going to fuck you, but first…"

Eddie takes both hands away and gets up on his knees on the bed. There's a slick smear on the palm of the hand that he had wrapped around Steve's cock, and he takes his time licking it clean.

"Lie down."

Trembling finely, Steve lies down on the bed, his legs apart. Without thinking, he lifts his arms and drapes them on the pillow next to his head. Eddie shifts, swinging a leg across so that he's straddling Steve's head, facing his feet. Looking up, Steve has an obscene view. He swallows.

"You know what I want, sweetheart."

And he does, he does. He lifts his head slightly, craning his neck and sticking out his tongue so that he can lave the cleft of Eddie's ass. Eddie's thighs tremble as he lowers his weight until he's sitting more firmly across Steve's face, his balls against the bridge of Steve's nose. Like every other time that they've done this, Steve's face burns with a mix of humiliation and arousal, degradation and sheer fucking want. He goes to work with lips and tongue, dimly aware of Eddie's body rocking over him, of the sound that Eddie's rings make as they glance against each other as he strokes his own cock. Steve's not even sure how long it lasts, because he gets so lost in it — the purses of his tongue against Eddie's asshole, the shift of Eddie's hips against him, over him. It's like he's floating. It's perfect.

Eventually, though, Eddie's lifting his weight off Steve's face, shifting, turning, so that he can wrap his hand around his cock and guide it into Steve's open mouth. He does this without a word, without warning, but Steve's got a safe-word, got signals for when his mouth's full. Every part of this is negotiated over years and years together. Every part of this is everything he wants. He knows the drill, so he just lifts his head, keeps his mouth open, his tongue flat and tries to keep his throat open. Eddie thrusts hard, fucks his mouth, one hand in his hair to hold him to it. Steve's mouth fills with spit edged with precum and his own cock leaks against his belly.

"If you make me come, you're going to have to wait to get fucked," warns Eddie, his voice a low rasp in his chest. Steve opens his eyes, looks up and sees Eddie looking down at him, his eyes drowning dark, his pupils blown. The bars piercing Eddie's nipples catch the light and he's fucking beautiful. A line from a book that Eddie read to him once comes back to him: something about ivory and gold and history rewritten.

Eddie pulls out, the head of his cock smudging against Steve's spit-slick chin, and Steve gulps down air.

"Don't care if you make me wait," he says, and Eddie grins.
"You say that now, big boy."

Eddie's cock is back in his mouth before he can drag in another breath, from the way that it twitches and pulses against his tongue, he knows that it isn't going to be long. He moans encouragement, knowing that the sound will vibrate from the flat of his tongue to the underside of Eddie's dick. Sometimes, when they fuck like this, Eddie comes straight down Steve's throat but, this time, he backs off enough that he can jerk himself off right onto Steve's tongue.

"Don't swallow that until I say you can," he says, stretching both arms over his head like a cat and grinning when Steve nods, just barely. Eddie moves between Steve's legs, sitting back on his heels and reaching for the bottle of lube on the bed. "Get your legs up."

It's ungainly, shifting into the position that Eddie wants him in, but that just adds to the whole thing — the degradation, the desire. Steve lifts both legs and hooks his fingers behind his knees, holding himself spread and open as Eddie removes his rings, dropping them onto Steve's belly before he slicks his fingers. He squirts more lube directly onto Steve's asshole, which feels filthy, somehow and then starts to work a finger into him. He does this to himself when Eddie's away, sometimes, but Eddie's fingers are thicker than his, so it never feels quite the same. He keeps his fingers tucked behind his knees, keeps his legs pulled back, keeps himself splayed and open for anything Eddie wants to do to him. Predictably, Eddie takes his time, works him open with careful, methodical thrusts of his fingers; one quickly becomes two and it isn't long before Eddie's working a third finger into him, spreading them so that he feels the stretch.

"So good, Stevie," murmurs Eddie, stroking the back of Steve's thigh with his free hand, pinching lightly at the still flushed skin of his ass. Steve squirms and moans, his back arching against the bed. When he lifts his head, Eddie's come still pooled on his tongue, he can see that Eddie's already on his way to getting hard again. Steve finds himself wondering how often Eddie has a chance to even jerk off when he's sleeping on the bus.

Eddie leans forward, three fingers pressed deep into Steve's ass, wrapping the fingers of his other hand around Steve's cock to keep it steady as he opens his mouth and licks the head, groaning softly. "God," he says, flexing his fingers inside Steve so that they brush over nerves that drag a sound that's almost a shout out of him, his hips jerking. "I always forget how good you taste."

Eventually, finally, Eddie draws his fingers out of Steve, wiping them on the back of Steve's thigh before he shifts up onto his knees, reaching for a condom and lube. Sometimes, he'll arrange Steve on all fours, or bent over the bed frame, tied down or open. Tonight, though, he leaves Steve where he is, slipping between his thighs and guiding his cock into him without another word. Steve's fingers stay behind his knees for the first few thrusts, but then he's wrapping his arms around Eddie's shoulders, his legs hitching against Eddie's hips, and it doesn't matter what power dynamic there is, who was in charge of who. Now it's just them, together, like this.

They fuck like they've been together for fifteen years, every movement in sync, knowing exactly what the other needs. They fuck like they love each other. They fuck like they haven't seen each other in thirty days. They fuck like phone calls aren't enough.

They fuck like they were always meant to be.

Steve comes hard with his arms wrapped around Eddie's neck, his face buried in Eddie's hair. It's hot and slick between them, and then Eddie is thrusting deeper into it, and he's coming too, his teeth at Steve's shoulder hard enough that he knows it'll leave a mark.

"Now you can swallow it," says Eddie.

Afterwards, coming down, they lie side by side, sticky and sated. Steve turns his head and looks at Eddie for a long moment. Millions of people know Eddie Munson's face, but Steve? He knows Eddie's profile as intimately as he knows his own, it feels like. He knows Eddie in every way that it's possible to know another person. He'd marry him tomorrow, if it was legal. He already has, in every other way that counts. On the ring finger of Eddie's left hand, there's the thinnest band of hammered silver, an echo of his own.

"What time is it?" he asks. Eddie lifts his wrist. Even after these years (even after all this money), he still wears a fucking Casio.

"Like…three a.m."

Eddie rolls out of bed, pads in the direction of the bathroom, still naked and gorgeous, his hair falling around his shoulders in chaotic waves.

"What time do you need to get out of here?"
"I think I need to be in the car by, like...eight? I was thinking…" There's the sound of running water from the bathroom and, a moment later, Eddie emerges with a washcloth in hand. He climbs back onto the bed, wiping Steve's come off his own belly before he leans down and tenderly, methodically cleans Steve up, too. "I was thinking that we could get up early, maybe have breakfast before I go?"

Steve nods. Once he's clean, he shifts, climbing under the sheets and smiling, content, when Eddie slips in beside him. He closes his eyes, is almost dozing, when he jolts awake again.

"Shit! Wait!" He reaches out and turns a lamp on, gets out of bed still naked and rummages through his backpack. "I brought you something."

Eddie props his chin on his fist, sprawled on his belly in the bed.

"What do you bring me, baby?"

Steve brandishes a handful of paper slips covered in childish handwriting.

"Tattle slips."
"Fuck yes!" says Eddie. "What is that little shit Lisa up to this time?"

Eddie's one-sided psychodrama with Lisa has been going on for months, at this point. Getting back into bed, Steve flips through the slips in his hand.

"She wants me to know that Eric…keeps looking at her weird. With two "e"s."
"Jesus Christ."
"She also wants me to know that he ate a booger. One…two…three separate times."

Eddie snorts with laughter.

"Why won't she let him live, Stevie? Jesus."
"In her defence? He can be kind of a dickhead."
"Steve. He's seven."
"So?"

Eddie leans over and kisses him.

"I love you, Steve Harrington. Even if you are still kind of a bitch."
Steve tucks Eddie's hair behind his ear, presses a kiss to his jaw.

"I love you, too."

He reads a couple more of the slips and then he puts them down, and rolls towards Eddie, wrapping one arm around his waist and pulling him in close.

(They don't make it to breakfast in the morning. Steve opens his eyes to Eddie already showered and dressed, leaning down over him to press a kiss to his forehead, his lips, the tip of his nose.

"When are you coming home?" he asks, still half asleep and Eddie smiles.
"Tonight is Manchester," says Eddie. "And then it's Paris, Amsterdam, Malmo, Gothenburg, Rome aaaaaaaaaaand…" There's a pause while he thinks about it. "Rome."
"And then back to Hawkins. God, talk about an anticlimax."
"Bullshit," says Eddie, and he has the sweetest, softest look on his face. "Everything I love is there."

Eddie slips out of the room and is gone and Steve goes back into a light sleep, dozes, dreams).