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Steve Harrington knows three things:
- His good friend Eddie Munson is gay.
- His good friend Eddie Munson has a massive crush on him.
- His good friend Eddie Munson gets really fucking touchy when he’s high.
So he shouldn’t be letting him do this, obviously.
It’s just– no one’s touched him like this in forever.
Like, he gets around. Of course he does, he’s still Steve Harrington. That still means something in this town. But ever since Nancy, it’s been mediocre one night stands. It’s been pretty girls with blonde perms who are done with him by the third date.
And he doesn’t mind it so much on like, a technical level. Cause really, three dates in and he’s done with them too. There’s no connection and they chomp their gum too loudly and okay, yeah, maybe he’s really just holding that against Heidi, but it was so annoying and it totally took him out of the moment and her fingers felt all wrong and acrylic when they scratched through his hair and anyways: This is different.
There’s an intimacy to this touch. A familiarity.
It’s the kind of touch he’s only ever experienced inside relationships. The way Amy would tuck a loose strand behind his ear before she leaned in to peck his lips, eleven years old and wearing her mother’s lip gloss. That third time he and Laurie slept together and yeah, they were young but they were really starting to figure what felt good and she grabbed his hair and pulled and– Fuck. That definitely felt good.
And then there was Nancy. Nancy who didn’t always want sex and, despite his raging hormones bitching and moaning at him about it, made him realize he didn’t always want sex either. Sometimes the best feeling in the world was lying with his head on her lap, her fingers delicate and light at his scalp, Family Ties turning to white noise, feeling himself melt into her palms.
He would’ve never done it with Amy or Laurie or even Becky. Definitely not. They’d sneer their noses at him, probably, if he suggested it. And they’d tell Carol who’d tell Tommy and then he would never hear the end of it. He could picture Hagan’s shit-eating grin, She really turned you into her little bitch, huh Harrington?
It was too vulnerable. Not Kingly enough- not at all.
It’s the kind of touch that comes months, years into knowing someone. The kind you sometimes figure out on instinct, luck of the draw, but usually? You just learn it.
In Eddie’s case, it’s the kind of touch he knew Steve liked because a few months ago, Eddie eyed him with a bright, loopy smile and asked, “If you could have anything in the world right now, anything at all– what would you want?”
It had been three am.
They were on the end of a high Steve was waiting out so he could drive home. And he was lonely and the cold was touching his skin wrong and then when he really thought about it he couldn’t remember when the last time something really touched his skin right. And like, this used to be easier, didn’t it? Meaningless sex used to be enough.
He was still kinda high. That used to make him feel really horny but now it just made– Jesus, it just made him feel empty. So he slipped up, because he’s always wanted it, wanted it especially now that his skull hurts all the time and no one knows how to touch him anymore. He'd said, “I just really want someone to touch my head.”
It was a stupid, three am thing to say.
An especially brainless three-am thing to say to the guy he knew was a little in love with him.
Steve’s been trying so hard to not lead Eddie on. They’re friends. Really good friends. Steve’s just not into him like that.
He had let him down easy, when Eddie finally told him. He tried to be honest yet considerate. Explained to Eddie that he gets it, that he's been in those shoes, he’d practically lived in those shoes. It’s not all bad, he’d sworn, Last time it happened he got a best friend out of it. Like an actual soulmate. Crazy, right?
And Steve had continued, It’s gonna hurt like bitch for a week or two, believe me. But one day you’re gonna saunter in here, take one look at this butt-ugly mug and think, “Gross! I can’t believe I ever wanted to kiss that.”
And Eddie had cracked a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes and huffed, Oh? So now you’re insulting my taste, Harrington? And you’re gonna make me defend Buckley’s honor?
And they laughed and the tension dropped and really, Eddie took it well. Or, well, as good as you can take it when you know something’s true but you’re all hope anyways.
Steve still feels so guilty about the whole thing. Eddie’s one of his best friends, somehow, against all the odds, trauma-bonded by their fucked-up town but also more compatible than either of them ever thought they’d be. He loves Eddie. He does. He wishes he could be that for him. But he just– he can’t.
Eddie’s been hands-off since then. He’s keeping a polite distance, trying his best to not overstep any boundaries. Steve’s felt that strain– frigid and careful where he once was loose and easy. But it’s just gonna be a matter of time, a matter of readjustment. They’ll be comfortable with each other again. They’ll make something better than what they were, just like he did with Robin. But until then it’ll be this. Until then– Eddie won’t touch him at all.
Well. Except when he’s high.
Smoke-brain drops his guard, makes him all quiet instinct. It’s his hands. He needs something to do with his hands.
So of course they find their way to Steve.
They’re not even sitting that close to each other on the couch. Eddie’s arm is traipsed on the edge of the backrest, just long enough to reach Steve. His lithe fingers are scratching into Steve’s scalp. They tug at tufts of hair, they drag lower, squeeze at the tension in his neck.
Steve is– huh, shit– Steve is kinda melting.
He feels guilty about it. As it’s happening. He knows his friend is only doing it because he’s got that buried, lovesick instinct to touch him. He knows he should put a stop to this. But then Eddie pushes a thumb into the tension above his ear and Steve goes totally brainless.
So he refocuses his attention where he can. Which, presently, is about trying really, really fucking hard not to moan. It’s all he can do- Eddie pushing and undoing all the pressure points knotted into his scalp. He’s like, 98% sure he wouldn’t survive it if he did moan. He’d die on the spot. Could you die of embarrassment? Maybe Steve would be the first one. He probably wouldn’t find out, though. Cause like, he’d be dead.
Anyways, he can’t moan. But if Eddie stops he thinks he might die just the same.
The guilt is eating at him.
He wants to reach out and touch, too. He does!
He wants to make Eddie feel just as good. He’s a giver by calling– has a well-known reputation of enthusiastic reciprocation. Not that this is– not that is that. But still.
It’s just, like, he knows how badly Eddie wants to be touched. They’ve talked about it, long, lonely nights where Eddie would lament about his very brief relationship with a girl who was just as confused as he was or the sure-thing he’d had up in Indy before Hawkins split in two. And he’d talk about thinking he’d never need anything like that. But then he had it and it was there and he’d finally clued in to why people even bothered. And he’d take a puff of a Camel and shake his head a bit and he’d say, Goddamn. I just wish someone would touch me again.
And Steve would bite at the crunchy flesh of his inner lip and sit on his hands and say, Yeah man, I get it.
Because he knows that any reciprocation, any hand that reaches out to squeeze comfort at a shoulder, or flick playful at a cheek, drops them straight into all that murky water he’d been so desperately trying to sidestep.
So he doesn’t. His hands squeeze tight beneath his thighs and he never reciprocates. And yet, tonight, Steve finds himself leaning into the touch, shifting closer and closer.
And that lets Eddie collar a different angle, lets him drop his arm a little lower. His hand wanders, travels down to the tight curve of Steve’s shoulder blade. And just like before, just like magic, he zeroes in on where Steve is all tense and knotted, and he digs right in. And Steve thinks maybe he sees God.
Fuck. He needs to get a grip, like, stat. But Eddie keeps digging and kneading and Steve realizes that he’d probably let Eddie touch him wherever he wanted, as long as he touched him like that. And then he squeezes at the rawest part of the muscle. And then the whimper spills out.
It’s high and pathetic and Steve can’t do shit to muffle it. It just pours over, a traitor who totally doesn’t get the tightrope Steve’s balancing on here. All he can do is hope Eddie doesn’t notice, and like, pray he doesn’t do it again. And well, maybe it’s his lucky day– Eddie doesn’t seem to notice. But he does keep pushing his fingers in, keeps gently undoing him.
Steve doesn’t know when his head ended up in Eddie’s lap.
He knows he kept nudging closer. Trying to get Eddie’s fingers to those perfect spots without having to ask. Without having to verbalize what’s really happening. Whatever it is, talking about it will make it real.
He feels like a pile of goop.
Eddie’s lap is so warm. He’s got his hand running along Steve's side now, squeezing and kneading in circles at his rib. The other hand is still scratching softly at his scalp. It’s Heaven. Maybe he did see God, earlier. Maybe he did die of embarrassment when he whimpered. He doesn’t mind so much. He could exist here for an eternity.
He’s starting to moan properly now. It’s too hard to stop them– when he’s this high, when he’s this close to sleep, when Eddie’s hands feel this good. And Eddie’s neutral as ever. At least, he seems like it.
At least until he feels Eddie’s dick twitch against his cheek.
Steve crinks a bleary eye at the B movie they threw on. There's a topless girl thrashing around on screen. That was probably it. Eddie’s explained a few times he tends to lean one way, but his attraction to people isn’t exactly linear. The girl on the screen is blonde, preppy, massive tits, totally Eddie’s type. Steve’s dick would probably be twitching too if he was able to focus on anything besides his friend’s stupid God-hands (His dick was twitching, too. But um, he was mostly ignoring that).
Eddie gets to that perfect spot at his shoulder.
The sound Steve lets out is obscene. Jesus. He can feel his whole body going bright red. There’s maybe no coming back from this one. He pictures the Robin-in-his-head declaring that “The jig is up!” and the Steve-in-his-head nods and hums in agreement. He’s grateful for Robin-in-his-head’s sense of humor about the situation. Robin-not-in-his-head would probably be dumping a bucket of water on both of them. But the jig can’t be up, he says to mind-Robin. Because he doesn’t want Eddie’s hands to stop. Not yet. Not when he can’t remember the last time he felt this good. This calm and safe and pleasure-fuzzy. So he makes a last-ditch effort to muffle the moan into a soft snore. It can’t be his fault if he’s asleep, right?
And Eddie doesn’t say anything about the noise. But Eddie’s dick seems to really like it.
Somewhere through that haze, the guilt is devouring him.
His friend is making him feel so good. So much better than he’s ever felt. His friend who he knows is lonely and touch starved and lovesick. And he can’t return the favor, not consciously. Not without shattering their friendship in half. But…
It can’t be his fault if he’s asleep.
So he shifts a little. Stirs. Finds the right angle. Lets out a soft snore.
Then he starts to mouth at Eddie’s half-hard cock through his sweatpants. He figures he still has plausible deniability. Like he’s just murmuring at a weird dream.
He does it subtly, he thinks, little twitches along the side of his cock, letting the bottom of his lip drag at the head. He’s learning a lot about Eddie here. That he isn’t wearing underwear, that his dick is uncut, that his dick, even half-hard, is uh, considerable. At least from what Steve can tell. He’s like, barely even tracing it. Eddie probably hasn’t even noticed.
But then Eddie shifts his hips, bucks up into Steve’s ghosting breath. And yeah, Steve thinks he might be well and truly fucked here. They’re at the point of no return. Now even Robin-in-his-head thinks this is way too far, she is throwing that bucket of water on them. Steve should take her advice, stop, turn his head away and not let this get any further. Get through this with their friendship and dignity still intact. He’s also terrified Eddie’s gonna stop him, see through the ruse. Put a tight fist in his hair and lift his head away and murmur, Stevie, what are you doing?
But Eddie doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t acknowledge the subtle ruts, the friction-search at his friend’s lip. Just keeps massaging little circles on Steve’s scalp, like nothing’s changed. So Steve lets his lips continue to flutter.
Eddie’s definitely getting harder, dick starting to properly strain in the threadbare sweats. Steve’s grateful for it. Makes it easier to feign the subconscious stupor as he nuzzles at his friend’s cock. He nuzzles at it like it’s any regular body part. Like it’s Eddie’s shoulder or neck or something. Like he has any time they’ve hugged. Like it’s that, kinda, just a way of showing affection.
He can feel the drool pooling out of the corner of his mouth, causing the fabric to stick tighter to Eddie’s cock, giving it shape. Steve has a bad instinct, to flit his tongue out and drag it along the length. He wonders if it’s all veiny or if it’s smooth. He’s never seen it. It’s not like Eddie went to gym class. Not that Steve was looking at other guys’– Well, like, everyone looks, but not like– it’s just not like that. Still, he wants to know. Do people ever sleep-lick? He’s not sure. He probably can’t risk it. Instead, he just presses his lips ever-so softly into the thickness of it, letting Eddie’s slight hip shifts create his own friction. Veiny, he concludes, probably veiny.
Eddie keeps rubbing his fingers into Steve’s scalp. He doesn’t grip tighter though, he doesn’t try to nudge Steve’s mouth closer. Steve wonders what he’s thinking. He’s just as high as Steve is, maybe higher. Both of them do dumb shit when they’re high. This is like, probably the stupidest thing they’ve done, at least together. Knowing Eddie, he’s probably done things they haven’t made laws against yet.
It goes on like that forever, Eddie’s cock hard and shifting against Steve’s lips. They’re soundtracked to breathy screams from the movie he can’t see. The blonde from earlier is probably getting pornographically stabbed to death. He imagines how it might feel to get those sounds out of Eddie. To properly get his mouth around him, to see how quick he could wring it out of him. He’d always prided himself how fast he could get his partners there, and yeah, maybe the appendage was new but Steve had always been a fast learner, considerate and enthusiastic and methodical. He guesses. Like if he was interested in those appendages like that. He’s not. Cause if he was. Then Eddie would be– um. That’s not what this was. This was– he was just returning the favor. Their friendship was more important to him than learning how to give a blowjob.
Eddie’s quiet when he finishes. It’s strange. It’s not that Steve’s ever actually thought about what he might sound like until literally an hour ago. But the guy’s like, addicted to yelling. So he just assumed it’d be like… a parade, like marching bands and shit. Wake up the whole neighborhood. But when Eddie comes it’s just a soft tug at Steve’s hair, a bit of a hum. And then his sweats are soiled and coated.
And Steve is stuck, too blissed out to move. Unable to break his cover. Unable to do anything but fall asleep, listen to the hum of metal blasting over the end credits, and mouth at his friend’s softening dick, burnt fabric taste salted with his cum.
–––––
Steve wakes up on the couch the next morning, a thin blanket thrown haphazardly on top of him. His head is all pot-fuzzy but the night is frustratingly clear in his mind. He groans, knowing his time is up, knowing that nailing-pulling conversation is practically imminent.
Eddie’s chattering away in the kitchen, black jeans unsoiled, burning eggs, humming off-tune, banging pans, loud and boisterous and Eddie-like. Like nothing’s different.
Like nothing happened.
Which is, yeah. It’s good. It’s a relief. Thank god.
It’s exactly what he wanted, right?
Right?