Archive of Our Own

Robin rips the cream-colored polo out of Steve's hands. "Hey!" his surprise makes him shriek.

"Absolutely not." She jams the hanger back on the rack. "We're in a boutique in Paris. You are not buying a polo shirt here."

Steve pouts. "But it's my size."

"No. I'm putting my foot down." She stomps to get her point across. "C'mon, they have sunglasses in the back."

He leaves the shirt behind, allowing Robin to lead him towards the table of over-sized, dark-framed sunglasses.

She gets lost in trying them on, vamping in the little mirror, leaving him to card through a rack of silk scarves, until a case of vintage wrist watches by the register catches his eyes. He studies the them—Omega, Rolex, Cartier, Patek Philippe—bands of finely tooled leather and steel, inlaid with gold, silver, diamonds; things Steve could never afford for himself in a million years.

He's so lost in contemplating the fine jewelry and the state of his life, everything that will change once he gets home, that it takes him a second to register the increasing noise coming from outside. At first, it's excited voices exclaiming in rapid French, but it quickly becomes near-hysterical screaming.

Steve’s first impulse is to locate the danger, block Robin from whatever might be coming. Before he can move, though, the most beautiful man on the planet skids through the door, long, dark curls flowing behind him like they’re caught in their own breeze.

"Kiss me," the man says. His voice is deep and breathy, and he has the biggest, brownest eyes Steve has ever seen. He loses himself in them—they’re so dark he can see his reflection in their depths—and it takes too long for the words to register.

"What?" Steve mumbles.

This gorgeous guy—long limbed and slender, a cropped cut-off t-shirt showing acres of pale skin punctuated by dark swirls of tattoos—can’t have actually asked to kiss him. This is a lust-based hallucination, it has to be, because this guy has a belly-button ring and wears pants so tight they have to be cutting off his circulation.

"Kiss me. Please?" the man asks again. The shouting from outside is louder now, people are crying, and Steve is sure that, this time, there's a definite note of desperation to his words.

This is a dream, for sure. There’s no way this breathtaking man is actually asking Steve for a kiss. Even so, Steve hears himself agreeing in a voice that doesn't sound anything like his own. The guy—the impossible, beautiful guy—smiles all gentle and soft, cupping the back of Steve's head in his large hand.

He's kissed a lot of people in his life. Like a lot. But nothing like this, not ever. Their mouths slot together, and he's expecting it to be chaste, and it is, but. Something electrical fizzes in his blood, goes straight to his brain, because his mouth is pressing harder and the man moans, grips Steve closer, pulls him until they crash against a clothes rack.

It's wanting and hot, but their tongues barley brush together before the embrace is broken. Steve wants; it infuses his blood stream, becomes a delicious ache in his lower abdomen.

"Thanks, sweetheart," the man whispers, pupils blown and eyes glassy. He brushes his thumb along Steve's cheek, then spins on his heel, disappearing out the door.

Steve can’t move, doesn’t think he remembers how to breathe, mouth still hanging open in bemused shock. What the fuck.

"STEVE," Robin screams.

He jumps, the noise stark in the quiet store and the now ringing silence outside, whatever commotion from earlier gone as though it had never been.

"Robin, what?" He snaps.

"Do you know who that was??"

His face flames crimson. "Uh. Just some guy?"

"Steeeve, dingus, you're hopeless."

"Who was it, then?"

"Oh, only Eddie Munson? The Eddie Munson, Billboard number one for sixteen weeks? First album sold out at stores around the world? Didn't you wonder what all that screaming was about?"

"Oh my god,” Steve says. Hand going up to touch his kiss reddened lips. “Oh my god."

***

Robin is insufferable for the rest of the day. He kissed Eddie Munson on the mouth, there was tongue. He kissed Eddie Munson without knowing, and it floored him.

It’s obvious now that they only kissed to hide Eddie from his fans. Of course that was why and not, like, the start of a whirlwind European romance. It wasn’t like an international superstar saw Steve from that narrow, cobbled Paris street and thought, “damn, that’s the guy for me, look how tall his hair is.”

Steve will never see him again; he knows for a fact. In what world would they collide other than a chance encounter in a Paris boutique? The rockstar won’t stumble into Steve’s father’s finance company looking for the junior VP of Client Relations any time soon, that’s for damn sure.

Still, memories of the kiss—how it was earth-shattering, life-changing, how he'd never be the same—loop through his mind for the rest of the day.

***

It’s late. After midnight. And Robin is jonesing for peanut M&Ms. Specifically, the bag she saw in the little convenience kiosk at the front desk of their hotel. It’s all she’s talked about for the last half hour, and Steve finally relents.

He hasn’t been able to stop thinking of that kiss. It’s silly. It’s so silly and he wants to stop, wants the yearning to end, but then—Eddie’s soft lips and his pale skin and the swirl of his tattoos—

The elevator dings as it reaches the ground floor, the mirrored doors sliding slowly open.

There, right in front of him, again, is Eddie Munson. Eddie Munson who blinks his dark eyes over and over, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and that must be true because Steve thinks that he’s maybe finally lost his grip on reality. Eddie can’t be here, in Steve’s hotel in Paris, with a mixture of awe and delight spreading across his pretty face in a wide, dimple-popping smile.

He crosses to Steve—who hasn’t yet managed to move—in two long strides, smile not fading even a little bit.

"Hi," Eddie says. A pink blush stains his pale face.

"Hey," Steve answers. He’s not sure his ribcage can contain his heart much longer.

The doors slide closed behind them, and neither notice.

"I didn't really get a chance to say before,” Eddie tugs at a chunk of hair. “But, uh, thanks for what you did for me back there."

The Eddie who flew into that boutique like a bat out of hell oozed confidence, asked to kiss him with cocky self-assuredness, but this one—this shy and timid version—clenches something deep in Steve’s chest.

"It was my pleasure." He doesn't mean it to sound sexy, but he can’t quite control his voice. He flushes at the innuendo; at the way the words warp deep and husky.

"I'm Eddie."

"I know.” He sticks out his hand. "Steve."

They shake, but Eddie doesn't let go, not right away. The elevator makes a horrendous buzzing, waiting for them to pick a floor, but he can’t make himself give a single shit, not when Eddie Munson is staring at him with eyes that shine with promise.

"Um, I know this is incredibly forward—and please feel free to say no—would you want to come up to my room? It's just—I’d really like to spend some more time with you and—"

"I would really like that, yeah." Eddie could ask him to jump into the Seine and he would say yes without needing to think about it. They share a grin, Steve’s heart going a mile a minute.

Eddie uses a special key to make the elevator move towards the penthouse suite, but even once that’s done, he doesn’t step closer. Instead, he watches Steve with fathomless, low-lidded eyes.

Steve should question this—he should—but the truth is, he doesn't want to think about it too much, doesn't want to disrupt the weird magic between them. They’re suspended in anticipation, the before spreading out between them. They don’t speak, just watch, silent promise in the glow of their eyes, the quirk of their lips.

The elevator stops, doors sliding open. Eddie steps out into the marbled foyer, but Steve is frozen. Because being at Eddie’s hotel suite, the fact of spending the night with him, is settling into Steve’s bones and it’s too heady, too sweet.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Eddie says. He does a little bow and sweeps his arm through the air, all while wearing this smirk that makes Steve think he’s all too aware of the uncomfortable opulence of his lifestyle.

It’s goofy, silly, not something he expects from a performer well-known for being hot. There’s something intimate about it, like they’ve known each other for years, not twenty minutes. It’s nothing like he expects, and he laughs, suddenly at ease, stepping into the hotel room.

“Can I get you a drink?” Eddie moves into the main living area, furnished in a combination of sleek black, chrome, and light florals that shouldn’t work together, but somehow acts as a statement of understated luxury.

“Sure, uh, whatever you’re having.”

Standing at the bar, Eddie gives him a grin, a wicked edge to his lips. “You can have whatever you want, Steve.”

He swallows hard, eyes batting against his will. He doesn’t get a chance to respond, because Eddie’s turning away, fiddling with glasses and bottles, a bucket of ice. “We can order room service too, if you’re hungry.”

Eddie fidgets with the items on the bar but doesn’t making anything and for the first time he considers that Eddie might also be nervous. It’s absurd to think that a man who ripped his shirt in two during his Grammy performance might be anxious about Steve. Paradoxically, seeing Eddie being unsure makes him less shy.

“Nah, I don’t need anything else,” Steve answers. It’s enough to have Eddie throwing him a grin, dumping ice into two highball glasses.

“Hope you like gin and tonic,” Eddie says as he hands it over.

Steve shrugs but takes a sip. “Oh, it’s pretty good!”

“No need to sound so surprised. “Eddie chuckles. "You didn’t think it would be?”

“I don’t know! You’re a musician! That doesn’t have anything to do with mixing drinks!”

“It's actually a surprisingly large percentage of it.” Eddie’s eyes twinkle.

“I thought it was all whisky straight from the bottle and tequila shots until you pass out.”

“It is sometimes,” Eddie agrees. He cocks his head to the side. “I also tended bar before making it big.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Of course you did, you asshole.” He’s immediately embarrassed, their banter so comfortable he managed to forget, again, that they only just met.

Eddie laughs, loud and sharp. “Ooh, you a little bratty, Stevie?”

Steve flushes. Is he? He’s never had a chance to know. “Come here and find out,” is what he says.

The effect on Eddie is instantaneous, his breath hitching and his eyes narrowing, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”

Steve nods, though the butterflies flickering in his stomach surge into a riot, the reality of being alone with a rockstar in his hotel room finally sinking in. He wants it, that’s not a question, but it’s—he shouldn’t. There are too many complications, too much at stake, and Steve isn’t this guy; he’s not—

Eddie sets his drink down, moving to Steve in two sinuous strides. He places his own glass on a lacquered side table, just in time for Eddie to come a hairsbreadth away, for him to cup Steve’s face in his hand. It’s a simple gesture that rips the air from his lungs. There’s no way he can back out now, not when this overwhelming desire crackles through his veins.

"I thought I imagined how beautiful you were earlier. But goddamn, Steve, fucking look at you.”

Steve gives a husky laugh, blush infusing his cheeks. He tries to duck his chin, but Eddie holds firm. “You’re gorgeous, sweetheart.” Eddie murmurs. “Prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”

He wants to scoff, to protest, to tell Eddie to look in a mirror, that he must have as many gorgeously pretty boys at his beck and call as he could possibly want, but Eddie says, "Would it be terrible of me to ask if I can kiss you again?"

Earlier doubts forgotten, all Steve can say is, “Please.”

This time there's no holding back. Eddie kisses him like he’s a drowning man and Steve is the oxygen he needs to breathe. He’s helpless to it, just as desperate, wants to taste Eddie’s teeth and his tongue and never, ever stop. It’s hot in a mind-numbing way, but that’s not what tears Steve apart, it’s that there's so much tenderness to it, like Eddie fucking cares. He wants this to go on forever, a spiraling infinity of Eddie Munson.

They break apart, Eddie licking and sucking a line down Steve’s jaw to his throat, and only then does he realize they aren’t standing by the bar anymore. They’re on the couch, Steve nestled in Eddie’s lap, his hips grinding down to meet Eddie’s almost lazy thrusts. The realization, the cascade of sensation, has him moaning, a broken off and desperate thing.

“What do you need, sweetheart?” Eddie asks. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen and wet. Steve has never wanted anyone more.

“You,” he groans out. “Eddie, please, just you.”

Eddie laughs, presses a quick kiss to Steve’s lips. “You have me, baby. Any way you want me.”

Steve nips at Eddie’s bottom lip, pulling them into another kiss, his hands fisting into Eddie’s cropped shirt.

“You’re killing me, Stevie,” Eddie rumbles. “I want to give you everything you ask for, but you have to ask.”

Steve feels heat infuse his face, not sure how to answer. “Touch me,” he gasps. “Hand, mouth, I don’t care, just—make me come.”

“Oh, baby.” Eddie bites at the cords of his throat. “Your wish is my command. Gonna make you feel so good, okay?”

Steve nods, too eager and far too gone to be embarrassed about it, and then Eddie braces his hands under Steve’s thighs, standing. Steve lets out a high-pitched giggle, clinging to the fabric of Eddie’s cutoff sleeves.

“Holy shit,” Steve says. “How are you this strong?”

“Don’t impugn my honor while I’m carrying you to the bedroom, Stevie.”

“I’m not doing anything to your honor, man. You’ve got noodly arms.”

“Noodly? I’m about to give you the night of your life and you say I have noodly arms? I’ll have you know,” he hefts Steve so his legs can wrap higher around Eddie’s thin waist. “That I spent years hauling around my own equipment. You know how much a drum kit weighs?”

Steve shakes his head, biting his lip to hold back his laugher, hoping he’s hiding the way Eddie’s manhandling is getting to his head. He’s never had anyone lift him, carry him, fucking burst open the bedroom doors and toss him onto the mattress.

Eddie stands over him, irises almost consumed with black as his eyes travel the length of Steve’s body. Steve who is most definitely still wearing his pajamas; a grey Hawkins basketball t-shirt, soft with wear, and sailboat pajama pants that match Robin’s to commemorate their meeting at Scoops Ahoy. And Eddie still looks at him like he’s something to eat.

“Can I undress you, baby?” Eddie asks, as though he’s reading Steve’s mind. That nervousness is back, Eddies fingers dancing around the hem of his own shirt.

“Please,” Steve says. It comes out as a whisper, his nerves making themselves known again too, now that they’re here.

Eddie wastes no time in tugging Steve’s shirt off, at working his pants and boxers down his hips until his cock springs free, pink and dripping pre-come. A choked off sort of moan bursts from Eddie’s throat as he stands up to pull the remainder of Steve’s clothes free.

He’s totally naked now, legs spread, giving Eddie a view of everything.  And Steve—he still works out regularly, plays with an intramural softball team in the summer—knows he looks good, but it’s vulnerable, being on display like this. His worries are lessened, though, as he watches Eddie study him, eyes raking down Steve’s muscular biceps and pecs, to the thatch of hair there, down to his defined abdomen.

“Look at you,” Eddie whispers. His face is soft with reverence, almost like he’s in awe.

It makes Steve flush down his chest and want to say he’s nothing special, but he already knows how Eddie will react. “I wanna see you,” is what he says instead.

“You sure, sweetheart?” Eddie arches a brow as he changes his stance to elongate his spine, show off the litheness of his limbs, the jut of his hips, the dark hair trailing from his pierced bellybutton down to the low-slung band of his leather pants.

Steve licks his lips. “Positive.”

Eddie pulls his shirt over his head, exposing his pale chest, giving Steve his first sight of the silver barbells through each of his pink nipples, and an unhindered view of his tattoos. His mouth goes dry, dick pulsing. It’s a little embarrassing, since Eddie hasn’t even gotten his pants off, but Steve can’t care about that over the sheer force of his want.

Eddie’s undoes his pants with quick, deft movements, flicking them open, and undoing the zip. They’re tight, getting them down is slow going, but it’s sexy and Steve has to forcibly resist the impulse to stroke himself. Eddie’s not wearing anything underneath, of course, and when his cock pops free of the tight material, it slaps against his slender tummy. He and Steve are about the same width, but Eddie longer, tip shining wet with the proof that Steve isn’t the only one out of his mind with lust.

“Fuck,” Steve groans. His hips arch without his permission. “You’re so hot. How are you so hot?”

Eddie laughs. “I could say the same about you.” He crawls over Steve, the bare skin of their legs touching, lighting Steve up inside.

They kiss then, and just like before, he gets lost in it. Basking in the pressure of Eddie on top of him, the insistence of the man’s tongue, the grind of their bodies together once Eddie finally closes the distance between them, making them both sigh.

“Can I taste you, baby?” Eddie asks.

“Uh-huh,” is all Steve manages as an answer.

Eddie slides down his body, placing kisses along his collarbones and chest before tonguing at Steve’s nipples. He yelps and arches, panting, as Eddie sucks the hard bud into his mouth.

“Good?” The sensation of Eddie’s breath over his too-sensitive skin makes him whimper.

“Y-yeah,” Steve stutters. “Never had anyone do that before.”

“Really?” Eddie’s eyes are wide as he looks up at Steve. “That’s a damn shame. I’ll have to give them extra attention to make up for all the neglect.”

Steve wants to giggle, maybe roll his eyes, but Eddie’s mouth is back on him, the tip of his thumb circling his other nipple, and nothing matters outside of that.

Eddie takes his time making his way down Steve’s chest, his stomach, until he’s sucking bruises into Steve’s hips, the insides of his thighs, and he’s mindless with it. Whining and writhing, dying for Eddie to take him in his mouth, but too enamored with the journey to ask for it to stop.

Teased to within an inch of his life, when Eddie finally kisses the tip of his dick, Steve shouts, closer to coming than should be possible from that alone. Glancing up from between his thighs, Eddie throws him a quick smirk, then licks a stripe up the underside of Steve’s cock.

“Eddie, Eddie, please, please,” Steve cries. Doesn’t care if he sounds desperate, pathetic, he needs to be in Eddie’s mouth before he dies from sheer want.

“Shh, sweet baby, I’ll take care of you,” Eddie mumbles before swallowing Steve down to the hilt.

It takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to thrust up into the wet heat of Eddie’s mouth, to feel the man’s throat constrict around the head of his cock. Instead, he digs his hands into Eddie’s thick curls and makes a wild, animalistic sound.

Eddie hollows his cheeks, bobbing up and down and Steve is gone, completely lost, helpless but to make little “ah, ah, ahs,” as Eddie works him over.

The orgasm creeps up on him, the heat in his abdomen going liquid, his body tensing. His hold on Eddie’s hair tightens, which has Eddie moaning around Steve’s length, throat contracting around the head.

“I—I’m gonna come. Eddie!” He cries right as Eddie pulls off with a slick pop.

His face is slick with spit, his mouth swollen, pupils blown. “Can I eat you out?” Eddie’s voice is a wreck.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” Eddie smiles.

“I want it,” Steve answers. “Please.”

“So, polite, baby boy. Wanna give you everything.”

Eddie lifts Steve’s legs over his shoulders, baring Steve’s most intimate parts to the room. If he thought getting naked with Eddie made him vulnerable, it’s nothing compared to this, but then Eddie’s thumb is circling his entrance, and Steve can’t concentrate on anything else.

“So pretty,” Eddie mumbles almost to himself, before spreading Steve’s ass cheeks wide and licking over his hole.

Steve bares down at the sensation, a high-pitched trill slipping free of his throat. Eddie’s tongue is deft, licking at him before slipping inside, fucking in and out of Steve with slick abandon. He’s practically insensate, calling out nonsense encouragement as Eddie’s tongue is joined by the tip of his finger. Tears slide free of Steve’s eyes, soaking his face. He’s never had sex like this before, this considerate, this good, this freeing.

“Eddie, Eddie,” he sobs. “Fuck me, please, please, fuck me.”

He pulls away, face a total mess now. “Baby, are you sure?”

“Sure, so sure. Eddie, I need it.”

Eddie slides up his body, stroking a hand through his hair, wiping away the tears that wet his face. “Okay, baby, okay. Anything you want.”

Steve’s never cried during sex before, never felt like this at all, like he needs Eddie inside him, not just his cock, but like they need to share saliva, air, skin until they don’t know where one of them ends and the other begins. He’s never been so consumed by another person, never been so helpless, never wanted someone to take him.

“Have you done this before?” Eddie asks. He’s positioned between Steve’s legs again, lube and a condom on the sheets beside him.

“It’s been a while,” Steve answers.

“I’ll be gentle.” Eddie promises with a kiss that melts Steve into the sheets.

Eddie’s true to his word, opening Steve up with slow, smooth movements, Steve not hesitating to fuck back onto the long fingers working inside of him. They both breathe hard, panting and crying out, Eddie speaking words full of praise and longing. The first time Eddie hits his prostate, Steve whites out for a second, nothing else mattering aside from the bomb going off inside his body.

“Inside me, Eddie, please. I’m ready. Need to feel you.”

And Eddie is done with patience too, the look on his face wild, his eyes burning.

He kisses Steve, something long and slow, before ripping open the condom and lubing himself up. He presses forward until the head of his cock catches on Steve’s entrance, Steve keening at the sensation.

Carefully, Eddie slides inside but Steve can’t help but thrust down, try to get as much as he can, as fast as he can. It makes Eddie laugh, a breathy thing. “Be patient, baby. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Want all of you, Ed, please?”

“And you’re going to get every inch, sweetheart, but you have to be good for me, okay?”

Steve nods, wanting nothing more to be good for the perfect, impossible man on top of him, but the desperation keeps knocking against his ribs.

With a final thrust, Eddie is fully seated, and both of them let out wild groans. “So tight, Steve. Christ. So fucking good,” he blabbers.

Steve can’t speak, can’t even think of words, he just moans, shifting into the sensation of being so full he can practically taste it.

Eddie’s thrusts are slow, measured, ratcheting up Steve’s empty-headed lust with each movement. He’s so on edge from Eddie’s almost obsessive care from before, that he’s genuinely helpless, consumed by Eddie form the inside out.

Steve’s had a lot of sex, knows how to make it good for his partner, knows how to enjoy it. But it’s never been anything like this. He’s never had someone be so giving, so intent on his pleasure, so vocal in appreciation of everything Steve is.

“So good, Steve,” Eddie repeats as he fucks him slowly into the mattress. “Take my cock perfectly, don’t you, baby?”

“Ye—yes, Eddie,” Steve whines. “Good for you. Want to be so good for you.”

“You are, beautiful. God, fucking look at how you take me.” Eddie draws back to watch how he glides into Steve, how Steve clenches around him. His jaw goes slack, eyes heavy lidded.

“Give me more, Eddie. Harder,” Steve matches Eddie’s movements now, bearing down as Eddie grinds up.

The pace falters as Eddie’s lifts one of Steve’s legs to drape it over his shoulder, somehow sliding in even further.

“This what you want?” Eddie asks as he pistons his hips, skin smacking skin almost loud enough to cover the needy sounds coming from Steve’s mouth.

“Yes, yes,” he chants. He arches his back to take Eddie as deep as he can, the man growling in response, somehow going even harder.

With the new angle, he’s hitting Steve’s prostate with each thrust and Steve mewls through it, words no longer coherent.

“Gonna—gonna come, Ed,” he manages to cry out.

“Touch yourself,” Eddie cries. Any composure he previously had out the window. “Want to see you.”

Steve does as he’s told, grabbing his weeping dick and tugging. Eddie whines, this pained, frantic noise, his hips moving faster.

“Come for me, Steve,” he groans, and Steve spills over his own hand immediately, his ears going fuzzy, his mind a blank. He makes sounds he’s never heard from his own body, hot tears tracking down his cheeks from the force of his release.

Above him, Eddie’s thrusts go erratic. He cries out, a desperate version of Steve’s name, coming hard enough that Steve can feel him filling the condom.

They collapse together, breathing heavy, Steve floating down from the atmosphere, abruptly grounded as Eddie pulls out. He doesn’t mean to whine at the loss, but the sound escapes him too fast to catch it.

“You’re okay, babylove,” Eddie whispers. He smooths Steve’s sweaty hair off his forehead.

He’s not sure what the protocol for this is, what you do after fucking a rockstar, isn’t sure if he should go ahead and gather his clothes now. Maybe he should wait for Eddie to dismiss him? He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome, but he also doesn’t want to go, to lose this.

Steve closes his eyes but opens them immediately when he feels Eddie’s weight leave the mattress. This is it then, the end of the night. Eddie will dress, thank Steve for the time, and—his thoughts are cut off by the man emerging from the bathroom, a wet washcloth in hand.

He must make a face because Eddie says, “Gotta clean you off, sweet boy.”

Eddie’s gentle, wiping the sweat and come from Steve’s body. Again, he’s rocked by the knowledge that no other partner has ever treated him this tenderly.

Once he’s less sticky, Eddie presses a soft kiss to his forehead and then his lips.

“You’re…” Eddie swallows. “That was…”

Their eyes meet and Eddie’s sparkle with so much sincerity, it makes Steve’s stomach swoop.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. Just as lost for words. “Is it always like this?”

Eddie laughs. “Which part, sweetheart?”

“When you bring a pretty guy back to your hotel.”

His smile softens to something sweet and fond. “Never.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.” Steve traces the outline of the demon head on Eddie’s chest.

“Would I lie to you, beautiful?” Eddie’s index finger slides along Steve’s jaw, in a move that’s almost reverent. “This was—you are—There’s no one like you.”

“Eddie,” he whispers, tries to force a laugh because the very famous rockstar who just fucked him into the mattress must be joking. Steve isn’t—can’t be—anything special.

“I’m serious.” Eddie tilts his chin up so that their eyes meet. “Is it like this when you hook up with all the hot guys you meet in boutiques?”

“Oh, yeah, every single one of them,” he agrees. Can’t keep the smile off his face. “It’s different with you.” He admits, but still can’t fathom Eddie feeling that way.

“And it’s so hard to believe that’s true for me too?”

Steve shrugs. “I’m just a guy, and you’re—” He waffles his hand through the air.

“I’m what, baby?” Eddie’s expression is so bright and so fond.

“Hot?”

It makes Eddie snort with laughter, and Steve can’t help but join him. Everything about this is absurd; that they’d find each other twice in Paris, that Eddie is famous, that they’d go to bed together and it would be the best, most intimate sex Steve has ever had.

“Clearly you don’t see yourself very well if you think I’m hotter than you,” Eddie tugs him close.

“You’re obviously sexier,” Steve protests. He fiddles with one of the silver rings in Eddie’s nipple. “You wear leather pants. You have your nipples pierced. And a bellybutton ring, for god sake.”

“Is that all it takes? Because you were wearing a vest over a color block t-shirt, and I still think you’re hot.”

“Are you insulting my fashion choices, Munson?” Steve stares at the other man in mock horror.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a prep, sweetheart. Not when your ass looks like that in a pair of jeans.”

In a swift twist of his arms, Eddie has Steve on his stomach, ass perched in the air. Steve shrieks, squirming to get free. “God, look at this thing,” Eddie says. He gives Steve’s ass a sharp slap, that makes Steve’s dick jump and a bitten off groan fall from his lips.

“Hmm, like that, Stevie?” Eddie asks.

“You’re a monster,” he responds, sort of belittling his point by rubbing the sensitive head of his dick against Eddie’s knee.

“If you ask nicely, maybe you can have more later.” He whispers into the shell of Steve’s ear, making him shiver. With one last squeeze to his ass, he lets Steve go.

Steve is on him in a flash, pinning Eddie to the pillows. “That all you got?” he asks.

“Challenging me, baby?” Eddie asks. “Oh, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Before Steve can ask, Eddie’s flipping them (again), pinning Steve to the bed with his knees, and tickling his sides. He screams, batting at Eddie’s hands, then grabs Eddie’s leg, tickling at the back of his knee. Eddie buckles, thrashing, and they wrestle until they’re breathless and wheezing.

Once they calm, Eddie says. “You need anything? I get 24/7 room service.”

“No,” Steve says. He lets a hand slip down the planes of Eddie’s chest. He’s about to say he’s good, but then he sits up with a gasp. “Robin!”

“What?” Eddie raises an eyebrow.

“She’s my best friend. I was supposed to be getting her peanut M&Ms, oh my god!”

Eddie laughs. “Stevie!”

“I know,” Steve smacks his forehead. “She’s going to kill me.”

“Hold on, I got it.” Eddie rolls over to grab the phone on his bedside table and dials down to the front desk.

“Hi, yes, thank you,” he says in a smooth voice; the kind you would expect from a rockstar in the penthouse suite. “Could you send peanut M&Ms up to room number—” his eyes snap to Steve.

“1264,” Steve whispers.

“—1264. And could you let the person staying there know that Steve ran into an old friend and will see her tomorrow? Thanks.”

Steve giggles into a pillow. “She’s gonna kill me,” he says when Eddie hangs up.

“I wouldn’t let her.”

“Oh, you’re so kind.” Steve rests his head against Eddie’s bare shoulder.

“That why you’re in Paris? Vacation with your friend?” Eddie asks. His fingers card through Steve’s hair.

“Kinda,” Steve answers. “I work for my dad, and the first thing I’m doing when we get back to the states is quitting. Wanted to make the trip a big deal, since this is the last time I’ll have access to his money.”

Steve’s not sure why he said all that. Eddie is basically a stranger, despite the sex, and definitely doesn’t care about Steve’s daddy issues. It’s just so easy for him to feel at ease with Eddie; to forget that they only just met today and haven’t been friends forever.

“Really going out with a bang, huh, baby?” Eddie chuckles, apparently unbothered by Steve’s too personal confession.

“Needed to make it count,” Steve agrees. “What brings you here?” He asks eager to change the subject away from himself.

“Vacation, if you can believe it.” Eddie snorts. “But my manager, Chrissy, decided it might not be a bad idea for me to do a couple photoshoots and interviews since I’m here.”

“That what you were doing today?”

“Just got done shooting for Vogue France. We’d been to a few spots around the city, and the last one wasn’t far from here, so I decided to walk. Maybe wasn’t my best idea.” There’s a wry little quirk to his full mouth.

Eddie sounds like he’s trying to make the mob of people after him into a joke, but Steve wants to know how he really feels, to understand everything about Eddie.

“Does that happen often?”

“More and more these days.”

“It must be terrifying.”

Eddie sighs, pulling Steve closer. “I usually love meeting fans, you know? It’s a lot of fun, but today…It’s never been like that before.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, nuzzling against Eddie’s neck.

“You saved my ass.” Eddie’s nails scratch at the back of Steve’s head.

“Happy to help,” he murmurs around his smile.

“Happy to makeout with a rockstar, more like.”

Steve giggles. “In my defense, I didn’t recognize you at first. I just thought you were pretty.”

“Stevie!” Eddie scolds. “I knew you were kissing all the pretty men who approach you in boutiques!”

“Only when they look like you.”

Eddie laughs, before trapping Steve in his arms. “Little did I know you would be such a brat, sweetheart.”  

“You love it,” Steve says.

“I do.” Eddie gazes down at him with such affection, such…Steve can’t think the word. He knows exactly what he sees in Eddie’s eyes and naming it—it’ll ruin him. This encounter has an expiration date, no matter how Eddie’s wrecked him for anyone else.

The moment stretches between them, snapping when Eddie slides forward to pull him into a soft kiss.  

“Had enough?” Eddie asks when he breaks the embrace.

“Not yet,” whispers Steve.

Eddie kisses him again. A deep, sweet thing that isn’t leading anywhere, just a means to touch, to taste.

The next few hours spin out between them in shared secrets, laughingly told stories, dreams unspoken to anyone else; in kisses full of things they don’t dare say out loud.

They fall asleep at some point; Steve isn’t quite sure when. One second, they’re cuddled under a blanket fort sharing kisses, and the next, Steve blinks to awareness. He’s on his side, ass nestled up against Eddie’s thighs, a leanly muscled arm around his waist, Eddie’s leg tucked between his knees.

He thinks Eddie must still be asleep, until soft lips press against his shoulder, moving towards his neck. He pushes back, feeling Eddie’s hard length nudging between his ass cheeks.

“Yeah, baby?” Eddie whispers.

“Uh-huh,” Steve agrees. “Want you, Eddie.”

Eddie grips Steve’s hip, sliding his cock between his cheeks. Steve arches into the touch, fully hard now.

“Please, please,” he begs.

Long-fingered hands grip him, kneading his ass, before one, two fingers press at his entrance, making him hiss.

“Oh, still so wet for me, sweet boy,” Eddie praises through gritted teeth. “So, so perfect. Should be impossible to be this perfect. Shouldn’t be real.” Some of Eddie’s warmth disappears from Steve’s back, but he understands when he hears the foil rustle of the condom package.

“Not impossible, just for you,” Steve says back. It elicits a pained moan from Eddie, as he lets the head of his cock catch on Steve’s rim.

“For me, baby?” Eddie slides further in, Steve still stretched and slick from before.

“Yeah, Eddie, yours.”

“Mine,” Eddie says. He’s breathless, rocking into Steve with gentle thrusts. “Oh, god, babylove, all mine.”

Eddie tugs at his hair, and Steve turns, their mouths meeting in a frantic kiss that slows into something gentle and sweet, tempo matching the deliberate pace of their bodies coming together.

Their hands meet where Eddie still grips Steve’s hip, their fingers twining. The only sounds in the room the smack of their skin, their harsh breathing, moans swallowed by each other’s mouths.

It’s too much, it’s not enough, and their lips slip apart. Steve opens his eyes, finds Eddie watching him. He lets out a sharp gasp as he finds everything he’s feeling, everything he’s thinking, reflected back to him.

This is a once in a lifetime kind of thing; cosmic, impossible.  

Love, Steve thinks against his will. It’s love.

The irrefutable truth of what they’re both feeling is enough to have his dick pulsing, orgasm coming out of nowhere. He spills into the sheets, completely untouched, with a garbled cry.

“Babylove, babylove, god.” Eddie goes still, own release hitting him at the feel of Steve clenching around him.

Eddie holds him tight, close, breath harsh and unsteady against Steve’s neck. It almost sounds like he’s crying, almost like he senses the tears on Steve’s face, uncontrollable. A series of kisses are placed along his shoulder blades, his neck, before Eddie slips out, whispers he’ll be right back.

Steve is asleep long before he returns.

***

Morning comes with harsh orange light beaming through the open drapes, catching Steve right in the eye.

He grumbles, turns from the glare, face rubbing against soft, smooth skin.

“Morning,” Eddie’s sleep rough voice mumbles in his ear.

Steve gasps, the events of last night swiftly coming back to him; their early morning fuck that turned into something more, something earth-shatteringly true and utterly devastating.

“Morning,” Steve says. He tries to smile, knows it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Last night was—”

“Eddie, I—”

They say at the same time. They try to laugh but it rings false, the hollow noise of a broken bell.

“You first,” Steve says.

“Last night was—You were so—” He hears Eddie’s throat click as he swallows.

“I’m married,” he says to save himself from the rejection. It’s an admission that hurts; a failure he doesn’t want to admit to the gorgeous, marvelous man he went to bed with. “It’s not going well, but I—I’m married.”

To Eddie’s credit, his expression doesn’t change at receiving the news. He gives Steve a sad smile, nods. “I’m not ready,” he says. “My life, this,” he gestures to the room. “It’s—I wouldn’t want—You’re—”

“I know,” he says. “I know, Eddie. I understand.”

They rest their foreheads together, sharing air for maybe the last time.

After a few minutes, Steve pulls away. “I should go. Robin’s probably freaking out.” He slips out of bed, the cold morning air hitting him, a frigid reminder that Eddie is temporary. Even still, the absence of him makes Steve’s throat tighten with loss.

“I bet. Hope she liked her M&Ms.”

Steve can’t bring himself to look back, to try to read the expression on Eddie’s face. Can’t stand to see him sad, wouldn’t survive if he doesn’t care at all.

“I’ll let her know you send your affection.” Steve grabs his clothes, dressing as fast as possible. His eyes prickle in an unavoidable way and he wants to be long gone before the tears fall.

“Please,” Eddie’s voice is too soft.

Once again clothed in his sailboat pants and Hawkins High shirt, Steve thinks he’s ready to face Eddie again. He jolts a little when he realizes that Eddie’s standing close, clad in the boxers he must have retrieved from the floor. Their eyes meet, and Steve remembers the last time they did, the irrevocable truth between them.

Eddie pulls Steve into his arms, clinging tightly to his old grey t-shirt. He lets himself be hugged, tucking his face against Eddie’s neck, breathing in his scent one last time.

It takes a while for them to part, for Steve to step away, trying and failing to keep every emotion off his face.

“Steve, I l—” Eddie starts, and everything he’s going to say shimmers through in the moisture in his eyes, in the soft fondness there, in the wistfully sad slope of his mouth.

“Me too, Eddie,” he says. Can’t stand to hear the word, the truth eating him alive. “Me too.”

The share one last tight, embrace, until Steve pulls away again, says, “I’ll see you around.” He hurries out to the elevator, hoping with every last breath in his body that Eddie doesn’t follow.

Can’t pretend his heart isn’t breaking when he doesn’t.

The ride down to his floor is quiet, not even Muzak to keep him company. He folds his arms over his chest, certain it’s the only thing keeping him together.

Robin leaps from her bed as soon as Steve opens the door.

“Where have you been, I’ve been worried sick!” Her words jumble together in her frantic worry as she yanks him into a bruising hug.

“Eddie,” he says. It’s a bad explanation, but she leans back to study his face, her mouth doing a complicated wiggle as she tries to decide what follow-up question to ask first.  

It’s the little twist of her mouth, the concern brimming from her blue eyes, that finally allows the tears to fall in a cascade down his face.

“Oh, Steve,” she says. She wraps him in another tight hug.

“I love him, Robbie,” he sobs. “I’m so in love with him.”

✨✨✨✨

Eddie stands on the suite’s patio, elbows braced on the brick railing as he studies the Paris skyline, Eiffel Tower lit up in the distance. He’s…god, he doesn’t know what he is, what he’s feeling. He just knows that the most beautiful man he’s ever seen is waiting in his bed, and Eddie is terrified to re-join him.

Smoking would calm some of his nerves, but his hands shake too badly to even attempt lighting a cigarette. Instead, he squeezes his eyes closed, takes a deep breath.

This in’t supposed to happen. Men like Steve don’t happen to men like Eddie. It’s, like, a fundamental law of the universe. But Steve did happen and Eddie—he’s broken, bereft, at a loss for what to do now.

Sex is something Eddie knows well; he has a lot of it and now that he’s famous the vast majority of it is very good. There are hundreds of hot guys lining up for the chance to fuck him after every show. And every time—even since he was a teenager—it’s nothing more than a good time. They part on good terms, with no ill feelings, both parties satisfied. Sure, sometimes he has affectionate fondness for his partners, even friendliness, but nothing more than that. Not ever.

Romance, love, those things weren’t for him. Just another societal expectation to conformity that Eddie had no interest in. He wasn’t fucking straight; didn’t give a shit about the promise of a wife, kids, a dog—that white picket fence bullshit.

And now there’s a man in his bed, one he barely knows, that could ask Eddie for anything, and Eddie wouldn’t hesitate to make it happen. Steve deserves the world, he thinks.

His hands shake worse than before.

He’s not ready for this. He’s not. It’s too big, too much, and Eddie is—he can’t be what Steve needs, not right now. So, he’ll do what he always does when things get too hard.

In the morning, he’ll thank Steve for the good time, pretend his once unbreakable heart isn’t shattering, go back to performing and writing and partying. With no boyfriend to hold him back.

For the first time in his life, that prospect doesn’t excite him.

Inhaling a deep, shaky, breath, he forces himself back into the bedroom, to take in the perfect man twisted up in the sheets. In the low light, Steve’s skin and hair shine golden, like he’s some sort of Greek god, and that’s about right, isn’t it? Beautiful and untouchable for a mere mortal like Eddie.

***

Excerpt from Eddie Munson cover story, Rolling Stone, May 1992.

Holly Franklin (HF): Are you getting sick of hearing how much people love the album?

Eddie Munson (EM): laughs. No never. I want praise every hour, on the hour.

HF: I’m sure that could be arranged.

EM: You know what, I’ll ask Chrissy [Munson’s long-time manager].

HF: So, you’re riding pretty high with the release of Voilier, your sophomore album. How’re you feeling?

EM: Amazing. God, amazing. I never imagined anything I wrote or—or performed would resonate with so many people. It’s—I mean, it’s mind-boggling.

HF: You’re dominating the rock charts; the title track is already a major crossover hit on mainstream radio. That must be especially gratifying after what you said in Entertainment Weekly—that this is your most personal album. Care to elaborate?

EM: There’s not much more to say than what I told them, you know? My songwriting for this one really dug deep into ways I’ve been feeling about sex and love and what little bit of fame I have.  

HF: I think it’s more than ‘a little bit’ now.

EM: laughs I suppose.

HF: It must be surreal. Especially, the amount of attention now focused on your love life.

EM: I admit, that wasn’t an outcome I expected from writing this album.

HF: Any chance you finally want to divulge your muse?

EM: Everyone thinks it was one person, or, like, wants it to be some grand romantic thing. But really, it’s exploring an amalgam of experiences and what romance means for a guy like me.

HF: You say "guy like you." What does that mean?

EM: Being someone in the public eye. It’s not really the same as when I was just a guy mixing drinks. Then, I could pick someone up, date someone, and nobody cared. Well, aside from my friends.

HF: Paparazzi staking out your apartment can really harsh a guy’s style, huh?

EM: You could say that.

HF: What about the titular track Voilier, though? To me, and many of your fans, there’s no question it’s a love song.

EM: It’s—You know—I think—Munson asks his manager for a sparkling water before resuming the interview. Voilier, to me, is more about the hope of love, if that makes sense?

HF: Isn’t that still a love song?

EM: Sure, yeah, I guess you’re right. I guess I think of it as being more…bittersweet than your traditional love song. Cause the whole thing about it is, you know, the love is fleeting.

HF: Voilier is sailboat in French.

EM: Yeah. It’s a metaphor—maybe a weak one—but it’s about, uh, the fleeting nature of love. It’s like, you can watch a sailboat head towards the horizon, right? But eventually it’ll disappear, fade away. You only have it for a moment.

HF: So, Eddie Munson, not settling down anytime soon?

EM: Nah, I’m having way too much fun for all that.

***

Star, July 1992: Eddie Munson Banging the Neighbor’s Nanny?? Maid Tells All

Us Weekly, August 1992: Munson Gay???

National Enquirer, September 1992: CAUGHT ON CAMERA: Rock’s Favorite Bad Boy Gets VIP Lap Dance

In Touch, October 1992: Paris Concierge Shares Inspirations Behind Voilier

Globe, February 1993: EXCLUSIVE: Eddie’s Got a Girlfriend!

Star, April 1993: Man Spotted Leaving Eddie Munson’s Malibu Home Sparks Gay Affair Rumors

Us Weekly, November1993: Gay or Straight? Munson Remains Tight Lipped

Entertainment Tonight segment, March 1994: Eddie Munson Escorted Off-Stage After Drunken Award Acceptance

Rolling Stone, May 1994: Trashed Hotel Rooms Littered with Used Needles: Munson Off the Rails

People Magazine, June 1994: Struggling Rocker Detained at Heathrow; Cross Necklace Full of Cocaine

Entertainment Weekly, July 1994: Munson World Tour Postponed as Musician Enters Rehab

***

O’Hare is too bright, too loud, the journey to the car too far when Eddie’s only had a few hours sleep on the flight from Tokyo, none from LA to Chicago.

He’s exhausted. He wants a drink. He wants a fucking joint and his big fucking bed in the Chicago brownstone he hasn’t been to in over a year. Not since before rehab, anyway.

So much for that drink.

A black SUV idles at the curb, two bodyguards standing in wait. “Carl, Nick,” Eddie greets. Hadn’t seen either of them in six months, not since the European leg of the tour started, wasn’t even sure if they still worked for him.

Nick opens the door for him, and Eddie slips into the warm interior. It should take a good half-hour to get to his place, and he’s going to fucking nap on the way.

Except. He’s apparently not fucking doing that at all, not with the way Chrissy-fucking-Cunningham sits next to him in her little goddamn power suit, her strawberry blonde hair wrangled into a tight ponytail. He groans and slams his head back against the seat.

“Please tell me I’m hallucinating,” he begs. He squeezes his eyes closed in the hopes that, when he opens them, she’s gone.

She snaps her fingers. “Babe. You need to focus. We have shit to do.”

He opens his eyes into slits, glaring. “I love you, Chris, but I’m not doing shit for at least another 48 to 72 hours. Sorry.”

“It’s cute you think you get a choice.” She simpers at him.

“I’m exhausted. We just got off a yearlong tour. I haven’t been home since last July. What is possibly so urgent that you needed to accost me during my ride home?”

“Right, about that. I booked you a dinner.”

He groans, burying his face in his hands. “I’ve been traveling for the last seventeen hours, what makes you think I’m fit to do a dinner.”

Chrissy straightens her shoulders, spine lifting another inch or two. “Before you went to rehab—”

“Chris—”

She lifts a hand, cutting him off. “Eddie, let me speak. Before you went to rehab, we had scheduled a dinner with some of the leaders of ACT UP, remember?”

Eddie nods, chews his lip.

“Well, I rescheduled for tonight. I know it’s a lot, but I also know how important this is to you, and well—”

“What?” He asks. He’s sort of afraid to know the answer, based on the look in her eyes.

“I think it might do you some good to interact with people in our community a little bit more.”

Now was not the time for this conversation and Chrissy should know that, but the determined pinch to her brow means there’s no getting out of it.

“You know why I can’t,” he says. “You know why it’s dangerous.”

In the early days of his career, he had no problem talking about how he enjoyed the company of men exclusively. Had a debut album full of songs about sucking dick and fucking men, but the average American remained clueless. It became sort of a game for him, provoking conservatives with outrageous and gay behavior. Some people caught on quick, but many, many others insisted it was performance art. Eddie didn’t care what they thought, as long as he was having fun.

Voilier changed everything. Steve changed everything. The entire world was obsessed with where he put his dick; for years they stalked him, followed him home, took invasive pictures, plastered his private moments all over the tabloids. He never thought about the implications for the men he slept with.

He remembers still the cold shock of dread that rocked him the day he learned an employee of a hotel in Paris sold his story about Eddie to In Touch. The guy claimed he knew the true inspiration behind Voilier, and Eddie fucking lost it at the implications, at what being outed against his will would do to Steve; a man who was married, who worked for his father, who presumably had enough family money to fund a trip to Paris and stay at a 4-star hotel. He had a panic attack so bad that he eventually had to be sedated.

“I know, Eddie, but—”

“My sex life, my private life, doesn’t belong to me. If I come out—if I—if—I don’t want to hurt anyone, Chris.” He finishes in a whisper.

“I know.” She closes the distance between them, resting her forehead against his. “I understand why you’re scared, babe. But I think you should also consider all the good you could do by sharing this part of yourself with the world.”

He nods, rubs at his eyes with the flat of his hands.

“Do you think Steve is still married?” She asks.

Eddie laughs and they both pretend it isn’t a little bit wet. “God, who knows? Could be remarried by now.”

“It’s been five years,” she says.

“Yeah.” And isn’t that just a fucking kick in the balls. Five years since the night that changed his life. Since he decided to walk away from the first and only person he ever loved, thinking something along the lines of “this too shall pass.” Only it didn’t, it hadn’t, and even now the quiet times in his brain are filled with thoughts of Steve.

“I truly don’t think that you coming out now will harm Steve or any of the other men you’ve been with. And, more importantly to us, I think it will be good for you. Release it on your terms, not through someone leaking it to the tabloids. NDAs can only do so much.”

He nods. “I’ll do the dinner. I’ll think about coming out.”

She beams. “Good.” She takes his hand. “And I swear to you, a real break after this.”

“I’m holding you to that. This is the last thing. I’m not acknowledging you for at least the next month.”

“Cross my heart. You going with Wayne?”

“Yup. Got a cabin booked and everything.”

He knows the next question before she asks and, for the second time since he entered the car, he wishes she wouldn’t.

“You writing any?”

“Chris,” he says. There’s warning in his voice.

“I’m not pressuring you. Just curious. As your best friend.” She twitches and sends her ponytail swinging.

“I don’t know.” He admits. “Nothing’s worked so far. Maybe this’ll help.”

“You know…” She puts her hand over his. “You don’t always have to be trying to top Voilier. You can write what’s in your heart now.”

Eddie looks away, out the window, studies the wet pavement, the mist still coming down. It’s a week before Halloween, but winter has come to Chicago early. As cliché as it is, it really does match his mood, and the conversation with Chrissy isn’t helping. He’s not sure he has it in him to try to explain the finer points of his writers’ block.

“What if there’s nothing different in my heart now?”

And she knows, of course she does, that his heart still belongs to the man he met in Paris and no one else. “Oh, Eddie.” She takes his hand again, this time interlocking their fingers. “This is one of the reasons it might be good for you to come out. You can find someone, settle down.”

The “forget about Steve” is unspoken, but they both know it’s there. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he tried; that every man he slept with post-Paris was to prove to himself that what he felt with Steve was a fluke; that not even drowning himself in drugs and booze helped. He thinks she must know that anyway.

“It’s not about being better than Voilier. Not really,” he says. “It’s just—I don’t want to write about the same things anymore. The last two records were all about partying and one-night stands. That’s tired. I want to write something real.”

“But?”

“But I’ve been on tour for over a year. I haven’t had anything real. So, yeah, maybe being with Wayne will help. It’ll at least be something different.”

“It’s okay to write about Steve again. If you need. If it will be cathartic.” Her voice is soft, like she’s afraid he’ll blow up at her, but she’s right. She usually is.

“I know. I—” he swallows hard to avoid the lump in his throat. “I don’t know that I can? I put so much into Voilier and—and—it didn’t matter.”

“Oh, babe.” She pulls him into a hug. “It mattered so much to so many people. And I know—I’m sure it mattered to him too.”

Eddie nods, clears his throat. He can see now, years out, that he shouldn’t have hoped the record, the song, would bring Steve back to him. Steve was honest about his situation, and Eddie—he had expectations that Steve couldn’t possibly meet. It shouldn’t have broken his heart worse, but Voilier was his attempt at a grand gesture, to forge a reconnection with the man he only knew by his first name.

He extricates himself from her hold. “I think this break will really do me good. Get my head back in the right place.”

“Being with Wayne always helps.” She smiles.

“Yeah.” And Eddie smiles too.

They reach downtown, get off the highway where the buildings are taller, closer together, where people crowd the sidewalks despite the weather. He thinks of Steve.

Wonders what he could be doing, where he is, if he’s happy. Did his marriage end, like he suspected? Did he leave his job and find something that made him truly happy? Did he still have the sailboat pajama pants? Could he possible miss, want, desire Eddie as much as Eddie still—

The car slides to a stop, yanking Eddie from his thoughts of soft chestnut hair and big hazel eyes and the sweetest, softest mouth; olive skin scattered with clusters of moles and freckles.

He grips his hands into fists, swallowing back the desire that coats his throat like syrup.

“You coming with me, Cunningham, or is this all up to me?” He asks.

“Do you need someone to reign you in?”

“Always,” he laughs.

She rolls her eyes, fond grin on her pink lips. “Of course I’m coming with you. You think I’m letting you meet with business guys on your own? Not on your life, Munson.”

The driver opens the door, and he has a second to gather himself, put on everything that the public expects from Eddie Munson, and exits the car. It’s easier with his best friend at his side.

Proof of how well Chrissy does her job, how well she protects him, is that no paps wait outside the restaurant. It’s not really the kind of place they congregate, or one that leaks when noteworthy guests are expected to arrive. It’s one of those places that’s reservation only, high partitions between seating, and an atmosphere not conducive to subtle photography.

It’s the kind of place where Eddie Munson can walk in with Chrissy in tow, speak quietly to the maître de, and be led towards a private meeting room with none of the other diners batting an eye.

They’re greeted by two men and a woman, dressed in formal business-wear, so Eddie’s ripped black jeans, faded Metallica t-shirt and leather jacket really stand out. It’s all very friendly and professional, and it’s easy for him to give them the show they want, especially with Chrissy at his side.

 They’re kind, sincere, devoted to their cause, and he’s moved, of course. He’s donated to ACT UP for a while, couldn’t not, not when he’s lost friends, not when he sees the devastation AIDS has wrought and the way mainstream America doesn’t care. He’ll say yes to whatever they ask, give more than they expect. Wonders if there’s a way he can donate portions of his royalties or something, annually; will ask Chrissy to have one of the finance guys to look into it.

They have drinks, appetizers, make the expected small talk for an hour before the entrees come. Only, Eddie’s not hungry at all. He picks at his food, struggles to stay engaged in the conversation, relying more and more on Chrissy to do the heavy lifting. He knows he only has a little bit longer to tough out, but every minute that passes has the room growing smaller, the walls squeezing tight.

Panic attacks aren’t new for him. Inconvenient, given his profession, but he gives a bashful laugh, says, “would you mind excusing me for a minute? Can’t go this long without a cigarette.”

“You need to quit,” Chrissy says. She dabs at her mouth with her napkin.

“Eh, I’ll get on that tomorrow.”

Everyone laughs, like he knows they will, and he escapes through a side door out onto a balcony.

It’s frigid out, and windy, Chicago really pulling out all the stops for his homecoming. Eddie wraps his jacket tighter around his shoulders and lights up, sucking in the nicotine, letting it blanket his nerves.

The balcony spans the length of the restaurant, and he paces every inch of it working out his nervous energy. After a few passes, he parks himself at the ledge with the best view of the city.

Dinner is almost over. He’ll feel better after a shower, a pizza, and a toke. Maybe he’ll bully Chrissy into staying with him. They can climb into his too big bed, and he’ll find a cable channel playing re-runs of Golden Girls that they can watch until they fall asleep. Below, a siren wails out, red and blue flashes illuminating the chrome and glass and steal of the buildings around them. He turns away from the light and noise, lets his gaze fall through the bank of windows across from him to the full tables within.

People eat, laugh, talk, drink, live the complicated intricacies of their lives as Eddie watches from behind glass. He’s separated from it, the mundanity and profundity of normal lives, and watching it play out settles that wild something he’s felt rampaging through his chest since he landed in Chicago.

Now that the sirens have passed, he can hear the faint murmur of voices, the clink of cutlery on plates, maybe a string quartet playing somewhere further within the restaurant. Over it all comes a laugh, rich and joyous, that rips Eddie’s heart to shreds, has him doubled over, fighting to catch his breath.

It can’t be. He knows it can’t. There’s no way Steve is here, tonight. Eddie’s last bit of luck was used to get famous; the universe wouldn’t ever be so generous to give him a second chance with the man he loves. Despite the inevitable oncoming heartbreak, he allows himself to search the faces at the tables within view.

There’s a man and woman sipping from glasses of red wine. At first, they don’t catch his attention—could be any young, well-to-do couple out on a date. He does a double take, though, not entirely sure why, except

Chestnut hair

Wide hazel eyes

Cut jaw

Straight nose

He freezes, half-smoked cigarette plummeting to the concrete beneath his feet.

Later, he won’t know how he finds the door into the main dining room, but he does. He stumbles through, knows he probably looks high or drunk, can’t fucking bother to care.

It has to be Steve. It has to be.

Eddie sticks to the side of the room, edging along to get a better view of the man who just took his breath away.

Another loud laugh trips over other conversations. It’s clearer now, fully recognizable as a laugh Eddie knows like it’s tattooed on his heart, and the man is looking up, eyes pinched tight with mirth, and—

It’s him.

It’s Steve.

It’s Steve.

He’s happy, glowing. Eddie’s on fire with it, and he wants so badly nothing else in the world matters. He can’t stop watching the man he fell so hard for that night in Paris, the man he never got over, the one he’s never stopped wanting.

Eddie’s heart beats once, twice, and Steve’s eyes, the ones that have cameoed in every dream Eddie’s had since their meeting, lock on his.

Steve’s mouth drops, shock and delight settling over the planes of his face before his expression morphs into a smile that rips Eddie’s stomach from his mouth. How is he so beautiful, so perfect, like a day hasn’t passed, let alone five years. Steve doesn’t break their gazes as he slides out of the booth.

All he can think of, all he can see is Steve, getting to him, touching him, holding him, telling him—everything.

Nothing else exists as he crosses the room, barely conscious of the attention focused his way from people recognizing the oblivious rockstar in their midst. He doesn’t care about them, doesn’t care about the stories they’ll have to tell, the potential pictures they could take. The only thing in his brain, the only thing in his heart is finally finally.

They stop once they stand together, close enough that the toes of their shoes touch. Neither has stopped smiling, and he knows Steve’s sheer joy is reflected by his own.

“Hi,” Steve says. His voice is soft, a little husky.

Eddie’s eyes fill with tears, his hand flying up to cover his mouth, to muffle the sob clogging his throat. “Hey,” he manages. It’s a terrible, warped thing, his emotions trying to throttle the life out of him, but it doesn’t matter. He would gladly die from caring too much about the man standing before him.

It takes a few seconds for him to gather himself, but he manages to blink back the tears, swallow away the feelings. “How are you? Did you—did you leave your job? Your—your—”

“Yeah, Eddie. Yeah, I did.” Steve’s eyes shine. “I quit, got divorced, decided to go to college.”

“What are you studying?”

“Teaching. Middle School. I—uh—just got offered a job. That’s why—”

“Steve,” he chokes out. “You—you,” but then it dawns on him that Steve is at a fancy restaurant with a woman, a date, that this is—

“Oh my god, I’m interrupting. Steve, I’m so sorry. You and your—”

“Robin,” Steve says quickly. “That’s Robin.”

He turns to Steve’s table, and Robin fucking beams at him and waves. Eddie gives her an exaggerated little bow that makes her snort and when he stands there’s a gorgeous pink blush dusting across Steve’s cheeks.

“You’re a teacher?” He asks. “That’s so amazing, sweetheart.”

“And you?” Steve asks. “I—I’ve kept up with you a little bit, in the magazines, but it’s not—you know it’s—you—Are you happy?”

They’ll have time for that, so much time, for Eddie to share the struggles of the last few years with the one person he thinks will really understand, but it’s not for now. Not as reality sinks in, and he’s hyper-conscious of the number of eyes focused in their direction. It’ll be everywhere tomorrow morning, and he doesn’t mind so much—not when it’s with Steve—but it’ll be a lot for him and they’re new.

He's about to suggest they leave, when a flash of movement catches his eye. He turns to find Chrissy stalking towards him, glare firmly fixed on her pretty face. They make eye contact and the glare melts as she studies his face. 

He shifts to bring Steve into her view. Her eyebrows bunch for a fraction of a second, before smoothing out. 

"You good?" He mouths.

"You owe me," she silently insists. He gives a sharp nod in her direction. He'll do anything she asks as long as he can get Steve alone as soon as possible. 

“You wanna get outta here?” He asks. He points his thumb towards the entrance.

Steve’s gaze flicks to Robin, who laughs. “Are you kidding me?” She asks. “If you don’t say yes, I’ll murder you.”

“Guess that’s a yes,” Steve says. His face is crimson, though his lips pinch into a pleased smile.

Without hesitation, Eddie takes his hand, interlaces their fingers. Steve squeezes, throws him a little grin, and Eddie doesn’t know how he’s gone five years without this man, how he let him leave his hotel room that morning in Paris.

They step outside, where paparazzi now wait, flashes blowing his vision. He grabs Steve, switching their positions so he’s the focus of the photos.

His car pulls up to the curb, and Eddie opens the door, gently pushing Steve inside. The photographers yell things like, “who’s your friend, Eddie?” “That your new boyfriend?” “You confirming you’re a queer, Munson?” The last one annoys the shit out of him, but now isn’t the time to confront the guy. Instead, he flips him the bird, then gives the rest a wave and a cheeky grin, before following Steve into the car.

“Sorry about that,” he tells Steve once he’s seated. “You’re—uh—going to be in some really shitty magazines over the next few days. They’re going to say we’re dating, speculate about your sexuality. Is that—are you—is that okay? If not, we can release a statement saying, like, we're old friends who reconnected, or something. It won't go away completely, but we can mitigate a little.”

Steve’s eyes area a little wide and a little wild, but he smiles. “It’ll be okay, Ed. Comes with the territory, yeah?”

He wishes it didn’t; wishes it wasn’t something Steve would have to contend with forever now.

The car starts moving, and he studies the man across from him, taking in Steve’s rumpled hair, his crooked and rumpled button down and sweater-vest—fucking sweater vest; jesus god how is he so hot? Unconsciously, Eddie reaches forward, straightening Steve’s clothes. He smooths the collar of the button down, stopping as he spots dark lines of ink above Steve’s collar bone. He shoves the fabric out of the way, and gapes at the tattoo embedded in Steve’s skin.

“Is that a sailboat?” His voice goes absurdly high, heart thrumming in his chest.

“You like it?” Steve asks. He’s looking down, bashful smile on his face.

“I’m proposing,” Eddie says. He’s not joking. Steve, his Steve, learned what voilier meant, and got a tattoo of the song, the album, that Eddie wrote for him.

Steve laughs. The force of his smile sending Eddie into an immediate spiral of so pretty, so hot, mine, mine mine—

“There’s nothing in the world that would make me say no,” Steve says. It’s delivered with lightness, but there’s a heaviness in his eyes that tells Eddie his words are absolutely true. “I—I loved the album. Voilier. I thought about reaching out to you so many times, but I was in the middle of my divorce, trying to work full-time and go to school. And—and I thought maybe you wouldn’t want that? Maybe I was reading too much into the lyrics. You said in all the magazines it wasn’t about one person, so I—"

Eddie can’t take it, the earnest sadness in Steve’s wide eyes, the way his whole body seems to yearn for Eddie’s forgiveness, something that was never in question.

“Steve, sweetheart, baby, it’s all about you. They're always about you.” He takes Steve’s face in his hands, carefully, slowly, wants to savor this. “Can I?” he whispers. Steve’s eyelashes flicker.

“Please,” Steve answers. His hands fist into Eddie’s jacket.

Their lips meet, and it’s like a star going supernova, everything is hot and bright and too much but not enough, not nearly enough. He pulls Steve onto his lap, needs their bodies pressed together. It’s desperate; needy and wanting and trying to make up for five years of yearning in one kiss.

"I love you, Eddie," Steve says when they part for air. "If I never get another chance to say it, I need you to know." 

It knocks Eddie breathless, speechless. Steve loves him still, even after all this time. He doesn't know how he got this lucky. His eyes burn even as he's giving Steve the widest, most genuine smile he's had in years. “I’m yours, babylove. For as long as you want me. I love you so, so much, Steve. More than anything. I should have never let you go that night." 

"I'm here now," Steve breathes. "I'm never walking away again. It's not fleeting anymore, Eddie. I want this--you--forever." 

Their mouths meet again, the kiss sweet and soft and full of promise. Eddie's earlier exhaustion is forgotten, exhilarated by the man in his arms, invigorated by the prospect of sharing his life with the one person he's wanted to let in.

"Forever sounds good to me," he whispers.