Archive of Our Own ^beta

Leaves the colors of rust drift past the lead glass windows on a breeze while students shuffle to and from classes. Ever-present earbuds are placed firmly in their ears while their heads are bent against the chill. Steve, oblivious to all this, sits at a study table in the far corner of the library’s lobby, scarfing down something akin to sustenance between his morning class and the lecture he’s already 10 minutes late for. He’s wearing a pair of retro headphones. The large sound-blocking kind that keeps his thoughts in order and the outside world strictly tuned out of his headspace, which is why he doesn’t hear the thunderous sound of thudding of Doc Marten boots on the ancient marble floor approaching him. 

Robin smacks Steve in the chest with all the force of a Wimbledon champion serving up an ace. He chokes, spluttering over the lukewarm Cup-o-Noodles he’d been slurping as if it were his last meal. He looks up, pulling down his headphones in outright shocked annoyance. 

“Rob, what the—”

“Look,” she says, holding up a flyer in front of her face, her eyes shining with an unhinged sort of glee that only occurs when she has an idea. Steve suppresses the urge to throw his noodles at her and run.

“Yeah, it’s a shitty flyer. So?” He can see a detailed dragon holding a guitar in his claw sketched along the top corner not currently clenched in Robin’s white-knuckled fist. 

She leans in close over the table, her bolo tie swinging out from her person and threatening to tip his pitiful breakfast into his lap. “It’s a shitty flyer for guitar lessons, Steven.” 

Steve raises an eyebrow along with another fork full of noodles. Robin grabs his wrist and redirects his hand, slurping up the noodles before he can even protest. He sits there, dumbfounded, as she wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve and nods at him, approving of his culinary choices. 

Still chewing, she says: “You wanted to serenade Nacy,” she tosses the flyer to him. He frowns down at the wrinkled text. “Like in that terrible movie we watched.”

“Don’t knock 80s teen romances, Rob.” He points at her with a reprimanding finger. “They’re classics for a reason.” 

“They’re sexist.” 

Steve ignores this comment, not because he doesn’t agree, but because he doesn’t have a good counterargument. Instead, he reaches for one of the most iconic moments in cinematic history in hopes of swaying her opinion.

“He held a boom box over his head, Rob,” Steve says, his hands splayed out. His too-long hair flops across his forehead with the shift of his body, and he ignores it in hopes of physically expressing how legendary John Cusack actually is for that move with emphatic gesturing. 

Despite Steve’s best efforts, Robin remains nonplussed. She stands over him, arms crossed as her red Docs tap repeatedly against the linoleum underfoot. After about 3 seconds of letting the awkward silence linger between them, Robin barrels forth, disregarding everything Steve has just said. 

“Whatever. This is better. Musicians are,” she kisses her fingertips with a flourish. “Trust.”  

Steve scoffs, mumbling about how Paramore is a shit band just to see if Robin hears, but still skims over the flyer. There’s so much text intermixed with the detailed image of the dragon wearing a full set of armour while breathing fire and also holding a sword; Steve can barely focus his attention on a single word. Whoever wrote this thing was clearly feral, no wonder Robin connected with them. None of the little tabs at the bottom with the dude’s phone number have been taken. Despite Robin’s good intentions on Steve’s behalf, she’s single-handedly thwarting this poor idiot’s attempts at gaining employment. In the end, the guilt he feels over that fact wins out. 

“I guess I could call him.” 

Robin crows, clapping while displaying entirely too many teeth. The freshman working the front desk hisses at her to be quiet. Steve awkwardly smiles at the girl in apology. 

“Alright, alright. You win.” He urges Robin to sit by tugging on one side of her suspenders. “Don’t piss your pants.” 

“Ew, Steve.” 

He flicks a freeze-dried pea from his soup cup at her. She catches it in her mouth, beaming at him. 

Eddie Munson is insane. Or, at least, that’s Steve’s first impression of the man. He answers the phone panting as if he’s been running, blaming his breathless state on a rather rambunctious game night. “They’re all making such good progress, though,” he says as if they’re already in the middle of a conversation. “Walking into every single one of my planned obstacles for them like good little sheep.”  

Steve has no idea what that means and shrugs it off. He asks Eddie if he’d be willing to teach him guitar over the next few weeks. Eddie huffs an, “Oh, fuck, yes!” before having to abruptly end the call—something to do with a high dice roll and the need to shepherd his flock to greener pastures, theoretically speaking. 

Blinking into the middle distance, Steve hangs up feeling decidedly unsettled over what he’s just gotten himself into. Yeah, this dude is definitely insane. 

Over the next couple of days, they exchange texts to plan out the first lesson. They decide to meet for the first time in person at a coffee shop near campus later on in the week. Eddie knows the owner and insists that there’s a perfect room at the shop where they can practice. He also happens to work there. 

“It’s just up these,” he tells Steve, climbing a rickety ladder to an attic, his guitar case slung across his back. 

Steve squints upward at Eddie’s long legs in frayed black jeans, wondering if being stuck in an attic with this guy is a good life choice. There’s a chain swinging from his belt and a bandana with skulls on it hanging from his back pocket, all pointing in the direction of a very alternative kind of persona. It’s not Steve’s normal vibe. In truth, he finds Eddie somewhat intimidating, if he’s being honest. Still, Steve did score a free mocha from the nice bald man behind the counter and he figures there are worse ways to spend a Thursday evening than strumming on a guitar with a dude who probably listens to Black Sabbath. Steve thinks he can place at least two of their songs… something about a train and that superhero dude? Yeah. 

The attic space is surprisingly cozy, with pitched roof beams closing in on both sides and draped multicolored Christmas lights illuminating the darkened wood. There’s an old rocking chair and a dusty tweed couch draped in knitted blankets. Lining every wall are piles and piles of cardboard boxes with scribbled hand-written labels Steve can barely make out. He frowns at the couch, wondering how the hell it ever got up here, but despite his initial assumptions, the place is…

“Nice.” Steve’s hands are on his hips as he nods his approval. Eddie grins over his shoulder at him. 

“Thanks, man.” He ditches his leather jacket, revealing a sleeveless black tank that gapes at the sides, which makes Steve shiver on principle because it’s decidedly not sleeveless shirt season. He sits in the rocker and places the guitar case between his thighs, drumming on the textured surface covered in a chaotic collage of stickers. Steve can’t help but notice all of the tattoos decorating Eddie’s shockingly pale skin.  

Oblivious to Steve’s staring, Eddie asks: “Now, what’ll it be? Stairway to Heaven? Blackbird? Landslide?” 

“What?” 

With an encouraging yet slightly condescending nod of his head, Eddie slowly explains: “Which song would you like to learn to serenade your lovely lady friend?” 

“Oh! Um,” Steve scratches the back of his head, looking around and feeling caught out. “I didn’t think about that.” 

Eddie raises an eyebrow at him, dark eyes widening to comical proportions. Then, inexplicably, he shrugs. “Kay, that’s cool. No worries, man. Let’s start from a different angle. What’s her favorite kind of music?” 

Steve blanks, his mouth hanging open on words he’ll never be able to speak because he doesn’t actually have an answer to that very simple question. The only musician he can think of is Bob Dylan and Steve knows for a fact that Nacy hates Bob Dylan. She accidentally (on purpose) broke his favorite Dylan CD senior year, crushing it under her heel while pretending not to see it on the floor of his car. Steve remembers her attempting to sway him with her big doe eyes as she apologized and all Steve thought in that moment was that if she had just asked to listen to something else, he would have let her. 

Eddie blinks at him, no doubt off-put by Steve’s pathetic lack of response. Steve watches him sit back in the chair so hard a poof of dust erupts all around him like smoke. “Dude.” 

“Shit.” 

“You gotta be kidding me. How do you not—” 

“I’m sorry!” Steve pulls out his phone, feeling like a first-class asshole. “Let me just—“ he texts Robin, who immediately responds with a puke-face emoji and a list of singers he’s never heard of before. 

“Uhh, Cat Power, PJ Harvey, Ani Difranco, Tori Amoss…” 

The sound of Eddie’s laughter pulls his attention away from Robin’s text of a knife emoji, eggplant, knife combo that Steve is desperately trying to suss out. 

He looks up. “What?” 

“Your girl likes the ladies, huh?” 

Steve says nothing in return. Eddie seems to understand the glower Steve is sending his way because he nods, swallows, and regroups. He slaps his thighs. “Uh, yeah, let’s just start with some basics.” He moves to open the guitar case, the curtain of his long, dark hair falling across his face and hiding his expressive features from view. Despite himself, Steve has a strange urge to push all that hair back. He’s barely spent 20 minutes with Eddie, he’s not even sure he likes him, but not knowing what he’s thinking already itches at the back of Steve’s skull. 

“So?” Robin prompts later when they’re leaving their bi-weekly yoga class she insists they attend. Steve has his hair pushed back with a damp headband while Robin’s sandy-brown mop is gathered into a ponytail that sticks straight up off the crown of her head like a neglected, feral child. 

Sipping his water, he lets the frosty night chill cool his heated skin as they walk, not paying attention to what Robin is asking. He’s lost in his thoughts, missing Nancy. They always invite her along to their classes but Nancy is inevitably too busy with schoolwork to ever join them. Steve sighs. 

“Steve?” 

“What?” 

Robin stops him by placing both hands on his shoulders and speaking very slowly, her eyes impossibly wide and imploring. “I said: How was the lesson?” 

Oh, right. That trainwreck. Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. He’s kind of a dick, Rob.” 

She blinks. “How?” 

“Well, one: He didn’t like Nancy’s taste in music. Two: he made me practice scales the whole time and then, at the end, he ‘rewarded’ me with a power chord demonstration. I can now play Smoke on the Water.” 

This clearly amuses her. Steve can see her holding back laughter. He shoulder-checks her and she breaks. “Congrats,” she snorts. “You’re a dad now.” 

He shoves his hands in his hoodie pocket. “He was rude about Nancy.” 

“Yeah, that sucks. Don’t go back,” she offers, shrugging. 

“Yeah.” 

“New plan?” 

Steve nods. “Yup. New plan.” 

Three days later, Eddie plops down at Steve’s table in the library and hands him a page of sheet music. Steve blinks at the notes, flummoxed. He looks back up and sees every single one of Eddie’s teeth on display as he grins at him. 

“Uh, hi.” 

“Hey,” Eddie whispers, leaning close. “You wanna serenade your woman, movie-style, practicing the plucking progression of 32 Flavors is not worth it.” He taps the paper in Steve’s hands with his finger. “I say we go classic.” 

“Peter Gabriel?” 

Eddie’s face falls. “Please tell me you know who Peter—”

“I know who he is!” Steve cuts him off. This earns him another beaming smile that reminds Steve, inexplicably, of a shark. An oddly handsome one. 

“Great! Tomorrow, then? I’m at the coffee shop all day.” 

Biting his lip, Steve unintentionally nods and Eddie claps his hands together with triumphant glee. Without another word, he stands, points at Steve with a feral grin plastered across his pale face and walks backwards out of the library. 

“You won’t regret this, Harrington.” He tips an imaginary hat in Steve’s direction. 

Once he’s rounded the corner, Steve shakes his head, wondering where the hell a guy like Eddie even came from. 

Up in the attic with another mocha cooling at his feet and a guitar laid across his lap, Steve is attempting to place his fingers on the right frets. 

“That’s it!” Eddie encourages. 

He’s crouched low in front of Steve, his long, frizzy curls tickling the back of Steve’s strumming hand, inadvertently making him shiver. He hates it, and yet he doesn’t do anything to stop it. The last time they were positioned like this, it took all of Steve’s minimal self-control not to thwack Eddie in the face. Tonight, however, Steve is too tired to keep up the pretence of not finding Eddie’s overeagerness reluctantly charming. He and Nancy had fought right before heading out to the coffee shop and the encouraging attention Eddie’s giving him almost feels nice in comparison to Nancy’s frosty words echoing in his mind. 

Could you perhaps apply yourself just a bit more, Steve? 
No, don’t do it for me. Do it for you. 
Do it so you have somewhere to go after this besides back to Hawkins. 

Steve shakes away the sound of her voice, his hair falling across his forehead in the process. He pushes it back, frustrated. Eddie grins at him, mistaking the root of his annoyance and pats him on the knee. Steve’s thigh muscles clench in response yet it’s not anger he feels towards Eddie in that instant but something much more visceral. His nerves spike at the idea that Eddie is comfortable touching him and what that could possibly mean. 

Eddie’s special brand of effusiveness has worn Steve down. Almost enough to forgive the fact that Eddie does not understand the concept of personal space—at all. He’s always hovering in front of, behind, or just off to the side of Steve during their lessons. His hands are always touching: adjusting Steve’s finger placement, tapping the rhythm on Steve’s knee for him to follow, patting him on the back, resting on his shoulder. It’s exhausting yet entirely too addictive. Steve’s love language is touch and with Nancy being so distant as of late, Steve finds himself hoping for more of Eddie’s tactile nature as if it were some pitiful consolation prize. 

Steve plays on as he wonders if it’s wrong to want affection from someone he can barely tolerate. Then he sighs, replaces his fingers on the correct chord, and admits to himself that he’s happily (and willingly) tolerated Eddie for weeks now. 

Despite Steve’s not-so-great first impression of the guy, he has to admit that Eddie’s been endlessly patient with him. His teaching abilities are paying off. Tonight, for example, he’s managed to teach Steve to strum the opening harmony to In Your Eyes. Albeit, poorly. 

“That’s awesome, man. You’re killing it!” 

Steve begrudgingly smiles at the praise, feeling it warm his belly. “Thanks.” 

Eddie shakes his head. “Don’t thank me, you’re doing all the work,” he gestures to Steve’s reddened fingers. “I’m just here to show you the way.” 

Steve can’t help it, he snorts. Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?” 

“Nothing.” Tilting his head down towards the guitar strings, Steve focuses on playing rather than letting himself smile at Eddie any longer. Before he realizes it, Eddie’s stifling his fourth yawn in a row behind his hand. Steve can even hear his jaw crack with the strain. 

He slaps his hand over the strings, silencing the music. “Shit, it’s late.” 

“Nah, it’s cool. You’re doing great.” 

Steve huffs a laugh. “Let’s call it.” 

Eddie nods, though he looks like a kicked puppy denied his favorite toy. Steve wants to tease him a bit about that but doesn’t. Together, they quietly pack up. The attic has long since grown dark from the lack of sun outside the steepled window. They’ve been working by the dim glow of the Christmas lights strung to-n’-fro about the rafters. 

Just as Eddie snaps the guitar case shut, the lights putter out with a flickering hiss. Eddie explains that they’re on a timer before Steve can even ask the question. Idly, Steve wonders how long they’ve been up here, having no way to check the time since his phone died. Definitely longer than the two hours he originally assumed. Downstairs, Steve can hear Eddie’s uncle Wayne whistling as he cleans up at the end of the day—It’s his coffee shop—Steve learned that earlier this afternoon. 

They descend the ladder and Steve stakes out a seat in the comfiest chair in the place—an old leather beast with gold paws for legs and roaring lion heads capping the armrests. It sits right in front of the large hearth still simmering with glowing embers and has a matching footstool that Steve takes full advantage of while Eddie hops behind the counter to help out his uncle. 

A fresh pour-over is placed in front of him a little while later. Steve blinks at it, wondering how he’d lost track of time watching the fire. He raises his cup in Wayne’s direction. “Thanks for the coffee.” 

Wayne shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. Ed made it.” 

Steve catches Eddie’s eye right before he winks at him and bows, tossing his hair as he pulls himself back up from his theatrics. Steve grins over the rim of his mug as Eddie approaches and plops down in the chair next to him.

“So, when we meeting next?” 

Faltering, Steve turns back to the dying flames in the hearth. “Uh, I guess whenever you’re free?” 

Eddie curls up his legs underneath him, his pale, boney knees poking out through the holes in his jeans. “Cool. That’d be Thursday night.” 

Steve grimaces. “I got yoga on Thursday nights.” 

This information is apparently very interesting to Eddie since he chokes on air, slapping at his chest to catch his breath, and then stares at Steve with his big brown eyes, looking like a very endearing cow. He blinks a few times, his lips slightly parted. 

“You… yoga?” 

Steve frowns at him. “Yeah. It’s good for you. At least, that’s what Robin says.” 

Shaking his head, Eddie holds up a hand. “Wait, I thought your lady friend was Nancy?” 

“Yes. However, my platonic lady friend is Robin. Nancy’s roommate.” 

There’s a beat, a span of a few seconds where Eddie’s face goes slack and expressionless right before a slow smile forms at the corner of his mouth. He hides it behind his fist as he bites at his thumbnail. “Ahhhhh, I see.” 

Steve doesn’t think this bit of information warrants such a conspiratorial answer but doesn’t dwell on it, and instead, offers Eddie a sip of his drink. Eddie waves him off. “I’m not a coffee man.” 

“Really?” 

This response earns Steve a laugh. Eddie pulls his knees to his chest and tucks his chin over them as if he were a little kid. “Yeah. Not good for my nerves, ya know?” 

“But, you work at a coffee shop.” 

“True.” Eddie lowers his voice. “Imma let you in on a little secret, Steven.” 

Steve leans close, unable to help himself. Eddie matches him, putting a hand to the side of his mouth and whispers, “We also serve tea.” 

Sitting back, Steve rolls his eyes as Eddie giggles at his own hubris. “You’re a trip, you know that?” 

Eddie shrugs but he’s smiling. “I’ve been called worse.” 

Two more weeks pass of guitar lessons scattered here and there between classes, yoga sessions, and DnD nights. That’s the board game that Eddie takes entirely too seriously in Steve’s opinion. He remembers babysitting his neighbor, Dustin, back home, and how much he’d also loved that game but it never occurred to Steve to ask what made it so special to him. He makes the mistake of asking Eddie and their guitar lesson turns into a lecture on the virtues of storytelling and teamwork and perseverance. That night, after he trudges home with sore fingers and way too much caffeine coursing through his veins, he calls Dustin, missing home. 

“Wait, you’re still going to these lessons? I thought he was a dick and we hated him on principle?” 

Scratching the back of his head, Steve looks up at Robin who’s innocently sipping at her post-yoga boba tea. “Well, he kinda just kept finding me on campus asking about the next time we’d be meeting up and I kinda just kept making plans with him?” 

Robin smiles around her straw, showing all her teeth. “Steven, are you making a friend?” 

Something inside Steve says he should be offended by her condescending tone but he can’t bring himself to get worked up over it so, instead, he shrugs and says, “I think so, yeah.” 

Robin wraps her long, gangly arms around Steve’s neck without preamble and squeezes him. “I’m so proud of you!” 

Steve brushes her off. “Yeah, yeah, calm down.” 

“You’ll have to give me a little pre-Nancy serenade concert with all your new, fancy skills.” 

“I don’t have a guitar, Rob.” 

“Oh. Right.” She looks off in the middle distance then her eyebrows spike. “Let’s go thrifting!” 

“Now?” 

“No. Tomorrow! We’ll find you a guitar! Eddie can help you tune it, it’ll be great.” 

Despite Robin’s disturbing enthusiasm, nothing is stopping Steve from doing exactly what she’s suggesting. He grins at her and finds himself agreeing with her plan.

“Sure.” What does he have to lose? 

The next day, Robin meets up with Steve at the coffee shop. They order mochas and chat with Wayne behind the counter for a few minutes before making moves to head out the door. At the last second, Steve hears Eddie shout his name and spots him jogging towards them from the back room. 

“Hey!” he says, breathless when he catches up. He’s beaming and his dark eyes are impossibly bright. Steve can’t help but smile at him. 

“Is this Nancy?” Eddie asks excitedly. 

Something squeezes in Steve’s chest and he winces. Robin backhands him. 

Clearing his throat, Steve says, “Oh, no. Sorry. This is Robin.” 

Robin extends her hand, head held high. “Platonic life partner.” 

Eddie shakes her whole arm with his enthusiasm. “Eddie Munson: Guitar coach.” 

She bows. “Pleasure to meet you, young squire.” 

He curtsies. “Likewise, fair maiden.” 

Looking between the two of them, Steve’s brain short circuits. “Shit.” 

They blink at him with matching expressions. He shakes it off and tosses a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re just heading out.” 

“Oh!” Robin’s entire body jolts with an idea. Steve can see it radiating out of her eyes. “You should come, Eddie! We’re gonna go find Stevie a guitar.” 

Taking a step back, Eddie looks Steve up and down in surprised awe, his eyes glinting and his face emanating what appears to be pride. It makes Steve’s stomach swoop. No one looks at him that way, especially men. 

Placing a hand on his chest, Eddie says: “My precious little lamb is growing up.” He wipes a fake tear from his eye. “I am overcome.” 

“Little lamb?” Robin mouths at Steve, who shrugs. “Uh, yeah. Wanna join?” 

Snapping his eyes to Robin, Eddie squints then turns to Wayne behind the bar, asking if he could have an hour or two off to head out with his friends. Hearing that word from Eddie’s mouth digs its way under Steve’s skin like an incredibly charming parasite. He smiles down at his feet. Robin catches this and elbows him in the side, grinning. 

With fresh cups of coffee (and a Chai for Eddie) in hand, they head out the door, waving goodbye to Wayne on their way. Eddie takes the lead, chatting animatedly at Robin about a new video game, gesticulating so wildly that Steve plucks the takeaway cup out of his hands for fear he’ll fling oat milk all over his jacket. It takes Eddie five minutes to notice. 

“Aw, babe. Thanks,” he says, holding a hand to his heart as he bats his lashes at Steve. “Can I have that back? I’d like a sip.” 

Steve smirks. “Only if you promise not to spill.” 

“Anything for you.” 

With a snort, Steve hands over the cup and pretends not to catch the look Robin is giving him, hiding his smile behind the rim of his own cup. 

They hit the main drag of town a few blocks later, their breath misting out into the mid-morning chill. Eddie tells them of a place nearby that has excellent vinyl, sick leather jackets, and a “pretty metal” collection of used instruments in the back. It’s down a side alley with a gilded sign swinging in the breeze above an intimidating, shiny black door. A bell tinkles as they crowd inside, stomping off the dusting of snow from their boots. 

“Oh damn,” Robin whispers, taking in the small, dark shop that smells strongly of incense and cowhide. There’s a tall, bearded fellow behind the counter in a leather vest sporting ear gauges the size of golf balls. His face is young but there’s grey in his beard, giving him a distinguished appearance. Inexplicably, he’s knitting. Eddie skips over to him and leans on the glass case, falling into an easy conversation—they clearly know each other. The guy listens intently to whatever Eddie is saying and nods. He points to the back room, and Eddie grins at him, gesturing to Steve and Robin to follow. 

“Got a few axes in the back,” the man tells Steve as they pass by the counter. 

Assuming he means guitars, Steve thanks the man and follows Eddie. Robin holds tight to Steve’s sleeve while walking past a rack of leather chaps and an entire display of whips, paddles, and riding crops, looking both scandalized and awed. 

“Interesting store, Eds,” Robin tells him as they enter the back room, away from the owner’s ears. 

“Right? It’s fucking gnarly in here. I love it.” 

“Gnarly. Sure. That’s a word.” 

Eddie winks at her. 

The room appears to be dedicated solely to musical instruments with mandolins lining the upper wall and a trio of ancient-looking banjos propped up on stands in one corner. There’s a drum kit in front of a trifold mirror sitting next to a set of bongos, a countertop full of penny flutes, and, thankfully, several acoustic guitars on floor stands with orange tags indicating that they’re on sale. 

One of them says Martin along the headstock and Steve picks it up, smiling. 

“Your middle name,” Robin elbows him. 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh shit, that’s a good guitar,” Eddie says, curling around Steve’s other side, his chin digging into Steve’s shoulder as his fingertips drift reverently over the strings. “It’s been restrung recently too. Someone took care of this baby.” 

Steve grins at Eddie, “Baby?” 

Winking at him, Eddie slips the guitar free from Steve’s hands and throws the leather strap over his shoulders. He fiddles with the pegs, tuning the guitar with quick efficiency. Steve can’t help but be impressed. Eddie’s eyes are closed as he concentrates, his head cast back, his hair falling down past his shoulders, exposing his long, pale neck. He hums out into the room with perfect pitch, finding A then E then D. 

Robin pinches Steve. He jumps and glares at her. She smiles at him. “You’re staring,” she mouths.  

“Here ya’are.” Eddie hands the guitar back to Steve, unaware of his and Robin’s little exchange. “Give her a go.” 

“How do you know she’s a she? Her name is Martin.” 

Eddie leans in close to Steve, whispering. “She told me.” 

Steve shoulder-checks him, unable to hold back a half grin. “Fine.” He attempts a few strumming progressions Eddie’s had him practice over the past weeks. 

Robin’s mouth drops open in shock. “Steven! You’re good!” 

Steve scoffs. “‘Course I am. Eddie taught me.” 

Eddie claps his hands, beaming before folding his arms over his puffed-out chest. “It’s natural talent,” he tells Robin.  

Ducking his head, Steve attempts to find a self-deprecating rebuttal but nothing comes to mind. Instead, he feels his neck and cheeks heat with the easy compliment and knows Robin will call him out on it later. Or, judging by her expression, she might avoid tact altogether and simply call him out right now. Thankfully, before she can even open her mouth, Eddie is crowding into Steve’s personal space again, adjusting the strap on the guitar and his hand placement on the neck of the soft, slick wood. 

“That’s better,” he says, assessing as Steve plays another chord progression, his pink tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in concentration.

Steve nods along to Eddie’s gentle suggestions, no longer knowing what to do with his hands or his body other than simply strum the same three notes over and over as Eddie takes up all the air in the room. He wants to please Eddie and impress him, yet he’s having trouble concentrating on anything other than the smell of cigarette smoke and the hairspray in Eddie’s hair. He’s everywhere, surrounding Steve so completely it’s hard to even breathe. There’s a tension between them that feels off, somehow—uncomfortable on the edge of anticipatory. Steve can’t even look Eddie directly in the eye, so he focuses instead on the fretboard and attempts a fancy chord change. He botches it and whispers a low, desperate “fuck” under his breath. Eddie’s eyes widen at the curse but he says nothing. It’s only then that Steve realizes how close they’re standing and remembers that Robin is still there, watching them from the corner of the room.

Stepping back and clearing his throat, Steve pulls at the orange tag hanging from the neck of the guitar. “How much even is this thin—oh shit.” 

Robin jolts forward, the spell from earlier having broken, and peers over Eddie’s shoulder. “Oh, damn.” 

A worried Eddie bites his lip. He’s still so close Steve can smell the sweet spice of chai on his breath as he looks at him with his impossibly dark eyes and asks, “What’s up?” 

“The price,” Robin tells him, pointing at the tag.  

Eddie squints down at the orange slip of paper, then hisses. “Yeah. Shit.” 

“I mean,” Steve considers if he doesn’t order takeout for like… three months, and cuts back on yoga classes, coffee, and showering to keep his water bill down, he might be able to swing it. Eddie sees all of these mental calculations, sets his face with a single nod, and leaves the back room, holding up a finger indicating that they should wait. 

Looking at Robin, Steve asks, “What the hell?” 

Robin shrugs. “No clue.” She then pokes Steve in the ribs and he yelps, frowning at her. 

“You like him.” 

It’s not a question. She’s dead serious. 

Dodging, Steve says, “Well, yeah. He’s a good guy.” 

Rolling her eyes, Robin folds her arms over her chest. “No, Steven. You like him.” 

Something snaps in Steve’s brain. He takes a step back, looks down at the guitar in his hands, the doorway that Eddie has just walked through, and then back to Robin. “Wait, what?” 

Holding up her hands as if approaching a spooked animal, Robin says, “Easy there, buddy.” 

Shaking his head, Steve repeats. “Wait, what?” 

“It’s okay, I like him too.” 

Steve frowns at her, placing his hands on his hips. “You’re suddenly switching teams because the guy has pretty hair.” 

Triumphant, Robin points at him accusingly. “Aha! You think his hair is pretty!” 

Tossing his head back, Steve shouts, “Because it is!” 

“Steven!” 

“Robin!” 

“Uh, guys?” 

They turn to Eddie, who has returned to the back room, leaning in through the doorway with both hands. “I spoke to Lars up front, he says he’ll do half off on the guitar to make room for new stock.” 

“Oh, damn. That’s… super nice of him,” Robin says, looking once again at the tag, then nodding in approval. 

Steve steps closer to Eddie. There’s a swelling of some emotion in his belly that he can’t name but he likes it. “Really?” 

Eddie grins. “Really.” 

At their next lesson, Steve brings his new guitar, hugging it to his chest as he hurries down the sidewalk, worried about having him out in the cold. He waves to Wayne behind the counter of the coffee shop, foregoes Wayne’s offer of making him a mocha and heads up the ladder to the attic, anticipation eating away at his nerves. He spots Eddie at his normal spot on the couch and smiles. 

“Hey.” 

Eddie’s head snaps up, “hey!” He stands. 

Steve places his new guitar on the couch next to Eddie’s, noticing a second guitar case on the floor near his feet. 

Steve frowns. “You had an extra guitar this whole time?” 

“What? Oh! No, it’s a case. For your lady, here.” 

“It’s a he, dude. Quit assuming pronouns.” 

Blinking, Eddie takes a step back, an impressed look on his face. “Fine. I brought him an old case of mine.” 

“Aw man, that’s too much.” 

Holding up his hands, Eddie insists. Steve’s neck once again feels hot and he blames it on the extra heat filtering up into the attic from the shop below. A silence falls between them.

Reaching, Steve asks: “So, how do you know Lars?” 

Eddie’s eyes shoot up to Steve’s. They look skeptical. “You really wanna know?” 

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, I really wanna know.” 

“We hook up from time to time.” 

Sitting down with this knowledge, Steve nods, then frowns again. He’s apparently silent for too long because Eddie crosses his arms and scoffs at him. 

“Dude, if you’re not okay with that—”

“What? No! No, man, it’s not that.” Steve shakes out his shoulders, trying to relieve the tension. “Sorry, no. I guess, I was caught up in my head about relationships like that.” 

Eddie immediately jumps on that, like a dog scenting a juicy bone, and asks: “Like what?” 

Steve rubs a hand across the back of his neck, honesty pouring out of him. “I just, I haven’t done casual in years. I don’t think I even know how to do that anymore. Nancy and I have been monogamous for like, all of college at this point.” 

Leaning forward, Eddie looks shocked at Steve’s confession. “Dude. Half the point of college is to have questionable sex with questionable partners we can then look back on in our 30s and 40s and remember fondly. You gotta be wild while you’re young.” He tilts his head to the side. “You seriously haven’t hooked up once since you’ve been here?” 

“Nope.” 

“Aren’t you a junior?” 

“Yup.” 

It’s Eddie’s turn to nod and look off into space, his eyes glazing over. Steve grins and throws his words back at him, “Hey man if you’re not okay with that—”

Eddie plops down on the couch and shoulder-checks Steve, grinning. “Touche.” 

“Wanna play some music?” Steve offers, cutting off the strange feeling growing in the room. 

“Hell yeah.” They sling their knees up on the couch, facing each other and holding onto their respective guitars. Steve enjoys the lesson, so much so that he doesn’t even realize they end up jamming for three hours. He goes home that night feeling oddly giddy and loose. He likes having Eddie as a friend. 

On Tuesday morning, Nancy drops a bomb on him. 

“I think we should see other people.” 

Steve chokes on his orange juice. “Excuse me?” 

With a sigh and a downward turn of her lips, Nancy repeats herself. “I think we should see other people, Steve.” 

“Why?” 

Folding her arms across her chest, Nancy sits back in her chair. “When was the last time we’ve been on a date, Steve?” 

“Last week, we saw that movie—”

“With Robin!” 

“She’s your roommate!” 

Nancy pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s not a date if Robin is always there.”

“But we love Robin.” 

“I know!”  

Shoulders falling, Steve asks, “Why now?” 

She frowns at him. “Steve. This is college. We should be exploring our identities and expanding our minds, not remaining stuck in a relationship we started in high school.” 

Looking down at the table, Steve finds himself slowly nodding his head, though he’s also experiencing a terrifying feeling of drowning while on dry land. “Funny,” he eventually says, the word sounding anything but humorous, “someone was just telling me something similar.” 

“Good. Then we’re agreed.” 

Snapping his head up, Steve’s mouth drops open. He can’t even form words. “What?” 

“We’re agreed. We’re going to see other people.” 

“But—”

Nancy holds up a hand, then smiles, her lips tight. She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. “It’ll be good for us, Steve. Promise.” 

Steve grumbles to himself in the bitter chill as he takes out money from the ATM, counting up the total for the last five guitar lessons Eddie’s given him. He’s fallen behind on paying Eddie for his time and frowns down at his hands full of dollar bills when he realizes Eddie hasn’t even mentioned money in over a month. 

When they meet that afternoon, taking up the stage at a little Black Box theater on campus—“for the acoustics,” Eddie had said—Steve sulks, figuring serenading his new ex-girlfriend wouldn’t be the best form of closure. 

Eddie spots him crossing the stage. He descends the short steps to the front row of chairs and kneels before him as if to confess his sins. “Hey man, why the long face?” 

Steve slumps in the velvet seat, Martin in his new-old case held tight to his chest. “The plan’s off.” 

“What?” 

“Nancy wants to see other people.” 

“Shit,” Eddie curses under his breath, then gets right up into Steve’s space, pressing between his spread knees, his warm hands resting on Steve’s thighs—the guitar is the only barrier left between them. “How you doing?” 

“Great,” Steve deadpans. 

Eddie tuts at him, his thumbs circling into the meat of Steve’s muscles. It’s meant to be soothing, Steve knows—Eddie is just being a good guy, but the ball of his thumb is working in over a tendon just inside the sensitive corner of his knee, over and over, firm and continuous. The casual affection does something to Steve’s brain and his knee jerks. Eddie removes his hand immediately and sits back on his heels. Inexplicably, Steve wants to cry, his arms squeezing tighter to his guitar. 

“Fuck.” He presses his cheek into the top of his worn case and wills the burning in his throat to settle. There’s a hand on the soft leather of the case, removing it from Steve’s grip. Confused, Steve frowns at Eddie, but he’s already pulling Steve to his feet and into a fierce hug, engulfing him in the smell of cigarettes and Chai. Unwittingly, the tears spill and Steve buries his face in Eddie’s soft hair.  

Mumbling into his shoulder, Eddie says: “It’s okay, big guy.” 

Steve huffs a laugh. “No, it isn’t.” He holds onto Eddie tighter, leaching out his warmth just as more tears fall. 

Humming, Eddie tells him, “That’s it, I got you.” 

Not thinking anymore, Steve simply nods. Eddie’s tee shirt is damp beneath the skin of his cheek. Inexplicably, Steve bites the sodden fabric, as if he could rid the evidence of his weakness with his teeth and swallow it into his stomach where the acids would erode it and pass it through his system without another thought. Eddie stiffens, holds Steve all the together, but doesn’t say a word. 

They don’t play that day. Instead, they end up at Wayne’s shop, hiding in the attic with whiskey-laced cups of coffee and chai, listening to vinyl that Eddie swears helps with the heartsick blues. Steve barely hears it, his eyes zeroed in on Eddie’s tee shirt where his teeth had abused the fabric.  

When Steve wakes up, bleary-eyed and feeling a little stoned, he quickly realizes that they fell asleep together on the couch. Looking down at their tangled bodies, Steve doesn’t even question that he and Eddie are wrapped up under a blanket with Eddie’s head tucked into the curve of Steve’s neck, his breath warm and welcoming on his skin. Instead, Steve adjusts their positioning, slinking down farther onto the couch, and pulling Eddie with him. Eddie doesn’t wake, but sighs and drapes his sinewy arm across Steve’s chest, holding him tight. 

Steve stares, dazed for a moment at the sight of Eddie like that, tucked into him like something precious. Bats are dancing over the thin skin of his forearm and Steve traces him with a finger, watching as gooseflesh rises in his finger’s wake. Something inside him likes that Eddie’s affected by Steve. He closes his eyes for a moment and lets himself selfishly pretend. 

In his sleep-filled brain, hazy with the colorful Christmas lights and too much whisky on an empty stomach, Steve considers the words Robin threw in his face the day he bought his guitar. That he liked Eddie and the inflexion she put on that single word spoke volumes. He thinks about what Nancy said: how she wants to explore her identity and then wonders further about what she meant by that. Does Steve want to do that? He’s never allowed himself to even try and yet, here he lies with a man in his arms softly snoring. Frizzy curls are tickling his nose and the smell of cigarettes mingles with the spicy scent of the cardamon and cinnamon, leftovers of the Chai Eddie always drinks. Steve likes that smell. He likes the sound of Eddie’s snores, he likes the feel of his weight on top of him. 

“Fuck,” Steve whispers into the quiet of the room. This isn’t pretend to him, is it? This is so, so fucking real. 

Robin glares at Steve from their usual table at the cafe across from her dorm. “You missed yoga last night.”  

Steve plops down onto a plastic seat and burrows his head in his hands. “I like Eddie.” 

He hears the scratch of chair legs as Robin sits up straight. “Okay, so we’re just diving right into your sexual crisis before coffee, then?” 

Steve nods, still hiding behind his hands, his hair falling over his forehead with the movement. “Yup.” 

“Kay.” Robin then remains, annoyingly, uncharacteristically silent for an excruciating 10 seconds before adding: “And we’re ignoring everything else that happened earlier in the week?” 

Steve assumes she means Nancy breaking up with him. Somehow, his newly found want to kiss the pale skin of Eddie’s throat outweighs the loss of a relationship he’s been an active participant in since the age of 17. It’s boggling, and probably something he should talk to a professional about, but there it is.  “Yup.” 

“Kay.” 

“Please, say something else, Rob.” 

“Okay!” 

Steve drops his hands and glares at her through his mussed bangs. She smiles awkwardly and pushes his hair back for him. “There, there, little lamb.” 

He jerks away from her hand. “Don’t call me that.” 

Robin’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Oh, is only Eddie allowed to—”

“Fuck this. I need coffee.” Steve stands before Robin can even finish her taunt and shuffles to the counter. He orders, waiting with his arms folded across his chest and his back to Robin willing her not to bore holes into his skull with her eyes. He brings her a matcha latte and a warmed croissant as an apology for missing yoga. 

He sips his pour-over and grimaces. “Wayne uses better coffee than this shit.” 

“Who the hell is Wayne?” 

“Eddie’s uncle. You’ve met him. Remember?” 

Nodding, Robin doesn’t respond. Instead, she shoves half the croissant into her mouth and smiles around the flakey crumbs. She’s physically preventing herself from speaking and Steve sighs at her, gesturing with his hand in an indication that she may vomit her thoughts freely. 

“Oh, thank god.” She closes her eyes, taking a breath. She opens her mouth to speak, thinks better of it, downs a sip of her latte, swallows, and then tries again. 

“Okay, so, we’ve been dancing around this subject for many years, my dearest Steven.” 

“I know.” 

“And you’ve been a brave little toaster, what with Nan—I mean, with what happened on Tuesday, and now admitting your feelings for Eddie.” 

“I said I liked him, not that I wanted to marry the guy.” 

“Right, but you fall in love with everyone you fuck so—”

“That is not true!” 

Robin runs her tongue over her teeth and then places her elbow on the table, counting off on her fingers the girls he slept with in high school and how he mooned over each one every single time. “Even the idiots, Steve.” 

“Fine. Okay, I get attached.” 

Holding up her hands, Robin says, “I feel the need to state that getting attached is not a bad thing.” 

“Not if I’m supposed to be ‘exploring my identity and expanding my mind’ or whatever.” 

Frowning, Robin drops her hands to the table. “Who said that?” 

Steve just stares at her. He watches her do the mental calculations in her mind, come to the right conclusion, and then sips her latte. 

A week passes. Steve attends class, goes to yoga with Robin, does his homework, reads his books, brushes his teeth, flosses, and every night, does push-ups before bed. He doesn’t have a guitar lesson with Eddie. He doesn’t text or call or walk Nancy to her classes. He does cry in the shower and then angrily jerks off while thinking of dark, frizzy curls. He gets tripped up on whose face he wants to place under all that hair. As he punches the tile wall and curses out a low fuck from his throat, come washing down the drain, he admits to himself that it’s Eddie’s throat he wants to bite, and Eddie’s hands he thinks about running all over him as he shivers, realizing the water has run cold. 

He stops in at Wayne’s for a decent coffee on Saturday, feeling bleary-eyed and washed out from the cold. Wayne greets him warmly from behind the counter and doesn’t accept his money when he tries to pay. Instead, he tosses a thumb over his shoulder, indicating that Eddie’s in the back. Steve nods and takes his takeaway cup, dread pooling in his stomach. 

He pushes through the swinging doors to the back hall that leads to the public toilets, a storage closet, the kitchen, and Wayne’s office where Eddie has sequestered himself. He’s wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and leaning over a tome the size of a small Buick. 

“Some light reading?” 

Eddie’s head snaps up. He rips off his glasses and positively beams at Steve. “Hey, man.” 

“Hey.” Steve places his untouched coffee on the desk. Eddie smiles at it and then up at Steve. 

“You didn’t have to do that, babe.” 

The endearment hits different now… now that Steve wants Eddie to call him that and truly mean it. He ducks his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, I didn’t. It’s coffee. That’s supposed to be mine, but you look like you need it.” 

“Ever the flatterer.” 

“Shut up, that’s not what—you know you look good.” 

An eyebrow raise: “Do I?” Eddie stands from the desk and edges around the corner, moving into Steve’s personal space. This too feels different and Steve doesn’t know how to handle this situation all of a sudden. It’s just a little too cramped in this tiny office with this larger-than-life person eating up all the oxygen in front of him. Ever since they woke up together on that couch upstairs, blinking into the early morning light with soft smiles and very few words said between them, it’s been different—painfully so. And Steve suspects that Eddie knows exactly why. 

“Steven.” 

“Yeah?” 

A curled finger tucks itself under Steve’s chin, forcing his head up. “I asked you a question.” 

Steve swallows. “Yeah.” They’re too close. Eddie is always too close. How can Steve think with him this close? 

Tilting his head, oblivious to Steve’s inner turmoil, Eddie frowns at him. “Is that an answer?” 

“I want to kiss you.” 

Eddie blinks. He drops his hand and steps back, his ass hitting the desk. He folds his arms over his chest, a defensive posture, and stares, his dark eyes as wide and unblinking as a barn owl. Steve immediately regrets his decision to do something so utterly stupid like speaking his thoughts aloud and turns on his heel to leave. 

“Fuck, sorry. See you never. Bye.” 

He moves to wrench open the door but a hand slaps against the wood beside his head. Steve looks at it, the blunt fingertips, the clunky rings, the veins in his pale forearm, the tattoos at the crux of his elbow, the ball of Eddie’s shoulder… 

“Forgive me, little lamb, but I was under the impression that you didn’t yet play for my team?” Eddie asks, voice light but his expression is serious. 

“I, uh…” Steve swallows. He nods. His brain is not functioning properly by a long shot but it didn’t escape his notice that Eddie used the word: yet.  “More in theory than practice.” 

Eddie’s eyes narrow. “Like 50/50 theory? 70/30 Theory? You like the wine and not the label, theory?” 

Shaking his head, Steve turns and presses his body against the wood of the door. He does it to get some air between them but Eddie doesn’t allow him any space and crowds in close, causing Steve’s words to catch in his throat. 

“I dunno what all that means, but, I guess, bi-theory? The 50/50 one.” 

The grin that comes over Eddie’s face would be incredibly disturbing if Steve wasn’t so turned on by it. Eddie dips his chin and looks up at him through his lashes. “Would you say you need a shepherd to usher you through this new area of your life?” 

Frowning, Steve wants to scoff at such an offer. If there’s one thing Steve knows, it’s how to fucking kiss someone. His hands come up and dig themselves into Eddie’s hair, tilting his head back. Eddie allows it, his body going limp in Steve’s grip, his lips parting on a soft exhale.

“I just want to know what you taste like,” he tells Eddie, leaning in close. 

Eddie’s nostrils flare. “Fuck me,” he curses, his eyes falling shut. 

Steve smiles. “Maybe later.” 

“Oh, you fuckin—” Eddie closes the gap between them, practically growling as his arms wrap tight around Steve and his body presses flush against him, shoving him into the solid wood of the door at his back. His lips are soft, his mouth sweet and the suggestion of stubble around his mouth and chin shocks Steve into a gasp, one Eddie takes full advantage of as he deepens the kiss. 

There’s a knock at the door and Steve jerks in Eddie’s grip so hard he bangs his head. Eddie, eyes wide and concerned, immediately cradles Steve’s skull as if it were something truly precious while he calls through the door: “Yeah, Wayne?” 

“Uh, not to interrupt—”

Eddie snorts. 

“—But we’re gettin’ a little crowded out here, Eds.” 

Dropping his head to Steve’s shoulder, Eddie sighs dramatically. “I’ll be out in a minute.” 

“Thanks, kid.” 

“No prob.” 

Steve grins at the sarcasm laced through those two words. He whispers into Eddie’s ear: “You might need more than a minute there, big guy.” 

Eddie shoves at him without any real force, pressing his thigh between Steve’s legs, earning him a hiss of approval. “This is entirely your fault… babe.” 

Steve smiles at Eddie. “I like when you call me that.” 

He raises his eyebrow, intrigued: “Noted.” 

“I don’t want you to go,” Steve tells him, more honesty pouring out of him without his permission. 

Eddie’s expression is soft when he looks up, his dark eyes so warm and full Steve wants to kiss him again. Eddie shakes his head, chuckling softly. “I can’t believe you’re real.” 

“I don’t know what that means, but I assure you, I’m real.”

With reluctance and an amount of willpower Steve did not think Eddie was capable of, he steps back from Steve, who remains plastered to the door and takes a deep breath. “I need to go out there.” 

Steve nods. “Yeah.” He’s not looking at Eddie’s face but his chest as it rises and falls beneath the thin fabric of his tee shirt. It’s the one Steve bit. He can still see a slight indent in the collar from his teeth. He licks his lips at the memory. 

“I need to help Wayne.” 

Steve nods again. “Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair and attempts to stand up straight, adjusting himself. Across from him, Eddie whines. “What?” 

Eddie tugs at his own hair, looking a little crazed. “You!” 

“Me?” 

“You’re just… there! Being perfect. And I can’t do all the things I want to do to you right now because Wayne’s out there in the weeds.” 

Intrigued, Steve raises an eyebrow: “What do you want to do to me?” 

Eddie whines again and shoves past Steve with a grimace. “I hate you.” 

Laughing, Steve shakes his head. “I doubt that.” 

“We are finishing this later,” Eddie says as he wrenches open the door. He walks backwards down the hall, pointing a finger at Steve, his eyes bright and serious. 

“Count on it, babe!” Steve calls after him. 

Steve hides himself away in the attic, Eddie’s guitar in his lap. He’s strumming to keep his hands busy while his mind races through endless possibilities. Those moments in Wayne’s office with Eddie were electric and oh-so addictive. All these months with Eddie touching Steve whenever he wanted, it never occurred to Steve to touch Eddie back. Now that he has, he feels as if a damn has broke open. Torrents of water are streaming through Steve’s mind, channeling down into one thought and one thought only—

Fuck, he wants him. Steve wants Eddie so bad he’s vibrating with a need to be closer to him. But there’s something else niggling at the back of his mind. It’s so insistent and aggressive that he can barely think straight. 

He snorts. Straight. That ship has sailed. Steve can still see it on the horizon if he squints but just barely. 

Changing chords, he strums a new rhythm, one Eddie taught him a few weeks back. It was the lesson where Eddie mentioned how college was meant to be for hook-ups and questionable sex. Steve gets that, he really does, he used to crave a good one-night stand with someone willing and sweet. But Eddie? He doesn’t want that with him. He doesn’t want quick or questionable. He just wants Eddie. All of him. Period. 

Slumping over the guitar, Steve sighs out long and pathetic. It turns into a growl of frustration as he loses his breath, ending on a rasp. Robin was right. He does fall in love with everyone he fucks and he hasn’t even fucked Eddie yet. 

“Shit,” he says aloud. Even in his mind, throwing the L word around is terrifying. 

The ladder creaks and before Steve can even sit up straight and attempt a smile, Eddie’s frizzy curls are popping up from below, a giant smile on his face. 

“Hey there, handsome.” 

Steve nods, his nerves making themselves known at the sight of Eddie so near. He tries to swallow them, but they stick in his throat. 

There are hands on his shoulders seconds later, pushing Steve back firmly into the couch. The guitar is quickly abandoned as a pair of long, denim-clad legs straddle Steve into the cushions as the weight of Eddie settles onto Steve’s thighs. Steve’s hands find their home on Eddie’s hips and his head moulds along the curve of the couch back, exposing his throat. 

“Missed you,” Steve admits easily. 

Eddie tilts his head, grinning. “I hoped you would.” 

Steve squeezes his hands, eliciting a hiss from Eddie. “Don’t tease. Not now.” 

Leaning in, Eddie presses his forehead to Steve’s. “Whatever you say.” 

“I say kiss me.” 

Eddie does and Steve loses himself in it, his hands roaming higher, searching out Eddie’s ribs under his shirt before curling up over the backs of his shoulders, keeping him close. They rock together, the couch beneath them creaking as the sound of their breath slices through the silence of the darkened room. The urgency builds inside Steve, his need to be closer growing. His gentle fingers turn to tugging hands, gasps turn to moans and soft movements turn hard and thrusting. 

“Wait,” Steve says, barely able to get the word out as Eddie sits back on his thighs, his eyes black and his mouth wet, a question poised on his swollen, pink lips. 

“What?” 

“I can’t… I can’t…” 

Eddie’s eyes widen as Steve struggles to articulate the thought his brain abandoned long ago sometime around when Eddie’s thighs pressed in close to Steve’s hips. Steve sees the panic growing across Eddie’s beautifully expressive face and Steve’s hands grip tight to the sides of his head. He shoves his forehead against Eddie’s and breathes with him until their heart rates settle. Eddie’s fingers are digging into the soft skin of Steve’s arms and chest, flinching every few seconds or so, betraying his nerves. 

“You can’t what, Steve?” 

Eddie’s voice is so solemn that it quells the heat in Steve’s belly enough to elicit brutal honesty. 

“I can’t do casual.” 

Sitting back, Eddie blinks at him. “Casual?” 

“Yeah. The whole questionable sex in our 20s so we can look back on it in our 30s and 40s with fondness or whatever. I can’t do that, Eddie.” 

“Did someone ask you to?” 

It’s Steve’s turn to blink in confusion. He licks his lips and tries to form more coherent thoughts. “That’s what you like, isn’t it?” 

“Casual and questionable hook-ups?” 

“You said it, not me!” Steve’s voice rises without thought. 

“I was being emphatic to prove a point!” Eddie’s voice easily matches Steve’s. 

“What point!?” 

“That you need to get out of your shell, Harrington!” 

“I’m trying!” 

“I can see that!” 

“This isn’t easy!” 

“I know!” 

“Good!”  

“Okay then!” 

Steve frowns. Somehow they’re shouting at each other and he doesn’t know how it happened. He opens his mouth, expecting to argue further but no anger leaches out. Instead, he says, voice steady and soft: “I like you, Eddie.” 

All of the fight leaves Eddie in an instant, his entire body melting into Steve’s. His head falls to Steve’s shoulder, his arms draped over the sofa back, his mouth open and hot against Steve’s neck as he asks: “Can I tell you a secret?” 

Steve nods.  

“I fucking adore you, Steven.” 

The compliment zings through Steve like an electric shock. He surges up, wrapping himself around Eddie’s thin frame with all the affection he can muster. He’s so heartsick for this man, that he feels physically ill for a second. He simply squeezes Eddie tighter and the nausea goes away, leaving only butterflies in its wake. 

“Fuck.” 

“I’d like that,” Eddie teases. Steve pinches him. He flinches but they settle again, slumping against the couch cushions with tangled limbs and seeking mouths. 

“I’m serious, Eddie.” 

“So am I.” 

“About what?” Steve asks. He needs certainty.

“You.” 

Steve pulls back, his lips still pouted in the shape of Eddie’s mouth. He misses kissing him already. This could become a problem. “No, I need to be clear.” 

A hand presses close to Steve’s cheek and he leans into it, seeking Eddie’s warmth. “I mean it. I can’t do casual, Eddie. I want this.” He gestures between them. “I want you. Only you. If that’s too much then… I dunno.” 

There’s a beat where Eddie’s dark, wide eyes search Steve’s. Back and forth, back and forth, seeking answers Steve is ready to give if only Eddie were to ask. Steve waits, as patient as he can be under the circumstances until Eddie’s eyebrows raise in a shocked expression. “You really are serious?” 

“Completely.” 

“You want to be with me… exclusively?” 

“I can’t do it any other way. I’m sorry.” 

Eddie’s face hardens. “No.” 

Steve sits back. “What?” 

“Don’t you dare apologize for being yourself, Harrington.” Eddie’s hands fist into Steve’s shirt. “I fucking adore the way you are. Don’t ever change.”

A sigh of confused relief escapes Steve’s mouth. “I won’t?”

Eddie puts a hand to his neck and shakes him. “Say it again. And meant it.”  

“I… won’t change?” 

“Because you’re perfect.” 

This entire exchange has gotten away from Steve but he repeats the words: “Because I’m perfect.” 

“And gorgeous.” 

Steve snorts. “I’m not—”

“Say it!” 

“Okay! I’m gorgeous.” 

“Dam right, you are.” Eddie leans in and licks a stripe up Steve’s cheek. “I could eat you.” 

“Uh, thanks?” 

A grin. “You’re welcome.” 

“This got… weird.” 

“You expected normal from me?” Eddie asks and Steve can’t help it, he smiles. 

“Not really, no.” 

Eddie pulls him in by the back of his neck, his hair tight in his fist. Steve whines against his lips, the dull pain sparking into pleasure low in his gut. “Nancy’s a fool,” Eddie whispers. 

Steve shakes his head, not wanting to think of her at this moment. “I wouldn’t be kissing you if she weren’t,” he says instead. 

“Good point. I love Nancy. She’s a genius.” 

“Please stop talking about my ex while your dick is hard,” Steve begs. 

“Noted. What would you like to talk about while my dick is hard as fuck for you?” 

“Shit,” Steve laughs, his head spinning. “Can’t we just kiss first?” 

“We can do whatever you want… babe.” 

“I like when you call me that.” 

“I know.” 

Fin.