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Harrington takes his shirt off, one day at the lake.
Used to be that was unremarkable. Eddie saw him do it all the time, back before they were thrown together and sent on that shitty, shitty quest into the underworld. Harrington went shirtless at the pool, at the park, even running through the woods, jogging past all of Eddie’s favorite places to sit down for a smoke with his shirt flapping from the waistband of his shorts, toned muscles on glistening display. As soon as the weather got hot every year he and the rest of the meatheads would strip down whenever they were out of doors, skin browning to an even, golden tan.
He doesn’t do that anymore. Even in the midday heat of July, sun beating down, he stays covered up.
No one outside their ragtag bunch of freaks and losers knows what really happened over spring break. The feds rolled in and took charge, spinning a story about an out-of-state serial killer and pinning it all on some poor dead bastard they fished out of a ditch. Eddie hopes he was dead before they got to him. He tries not to think about it.
Ditch guy’s sacrifice means Eddie didn’t get run out of town like he thought he would. Sure, he’s had more flat tires over the past three months than he’s comfortable with, and someone saw fit to splash red paint on the side of their trailer, dousing Wayne’s beloved porch recliner and their rusty old barbecue, but other than that he’s been left alone to nurse his wounds and fail his last attempt at high school in relative peace. The scars itch and pull, keeping him up at night, but at least he’s alive to tell the tale.
He’s alive, and he’s friends with Steve Harrington.
Harrington turned up at the hospital every day like clockwork, making Wayne’s eyebrows climb halfway up his head when he first appeared at Eddie’s bedside with a bag full of candy and Henderson in tow. Eddie was sure he’d get bored and wander off before long, but it kept not happening. Instead, Harrington brought him tapes from work to watch and a blank notebook to draw in, even picked up lunch a couple of times when Eddie bitched too loudly about the hospital food. When Eddie finally got to go home Harrington showed up at the trailer not an hour later with a six-pack of beer and a bucket of chicken, acting like it was the most natural thing in the world.
So they hang out now. Eddie’s schedule is wide open, what with school being out for the summer and Gareth and Mitch being forbidden by their parents to spend any time with him, dooming Corroded Coffin’s world tour before it ever began. Eddie’s kind of lost his taste for public appearances in any case, at least for the next little while, content to sit on the porch with Wayne or on the back fender of Harrington’s car and experience the bliss of absolutely nothing happening.
Harrington seems to like it too. He turns up at least twice a week, casually assuming Eddie will join him at the movies, at the bowling alley, for a Sunday drive to the Dairy Queen a couple towns over. Eddie, like a sucker, always does.
Today they’re at Lake Jordan, just the two of them, sweating on the muddy shore by the deserted old campground, drinking Cokes and listening to Quiet Riot on Harrington’s brand new portable stereo, and Harrington has taken his shirt off. Probably because there’s no one around to see. No one but Eddie.
Harrington has a farmer’s tan now, shoulders and torso fishbelly pale against the golden brown of his arms. Eddie’s eyes snag on the contrast, the striking line across his biceps that delineates the border between the parts of himself he’s willing to share with the world and the parts he keeps hidden away. Eddie bites his lip, taking a measured breath through his nose.
Harrington leans back on his hands, closing his eyes and tilting his face towards the sun. He sighs, mouth turning up at the corners. Eddie’s gaze is pulled to his chest, surprised all over again by how hairy it is. He tries not to imagine what it would feel like to touch it, to let his fingers trace a path down those pecs and follow that treasure trail into Harrington’s navy blue barely-there shorts.
“They look nasty, don’t they,” Harrington says.
Eddie startles and looks up to find Harrington watching him, no longer smiling.
“What?” he says belatedly, feeling the blood rush into his traitorous cheeks.
“The scars,” Harrington says, mouth twisting. “They’re gross.”
“No worse than mine,” Eddie manages to squeak, heart still in his throat. He hadn’t been looking at the scars at all.
Harrington’s eyes widen, like he forgot who he was talking to.
“Sorry,” he says, looking away. “I’m sure they don’t look that bad.”
They do, actually. The scars on Eddie’s torso are an angry, purplish red, twisting and pulling at his skin when he moves. He supposes it matters less to him, though. Eddie’s body never was much to look at in the first place. Harrington, with his bulging muscles, looks like a hero who went to war and lived to tell the tale. Eddie looks like a scrawny little freak who got run over by a lawnmower.
“I could show you,” Eddie says, mouth getting away from him as usual.
It might make Harrington feel better, seeing how much worse it could be. Eddie gives a mental shrug and reaches for the back of his t-shirt, yanking it over his head before Harrington can say anything. He shifts forward, kneeling up to give Harrington an unobstructed view. Maybe it’ll make up for the staring.
Harrington’s eyes are wide and startled, flitting between Eddie’s eyes and his exposed torso. There’s a dark flush across his nose and cheeks. It might just be from the sun. He grabs the Coke can next to his hip and drains it, crumpling it in his fist.
“See?” Eddie says, quieter than he means to be. “Mine are a lot worse.”
“Can I— touch them?” Harrington asks. His hand is hovering between them, fingers flexing.
“Sure, go nuts,” Eddie says, trying to sound casual. Scars have a texture that’s all their own. It’s not so strange that Harrington would want to feel them.
It doesn’t feel casual, when his hand presses down on Eddie’s flank, covering the biggest scar. His fingers are cool and damp from the Coke can he just drained, palm broad and a little callused. His eyes, when they look up to meet Eddie’s, are dark.
Eddie has to force himself to take deep, even breaths. Harrington’s hand rises and falls with each one.
“How does it feel?” Harrington asks, tracing the ridge of a particularly twisted section with his thumb. Eddie suppresses a shiver.
“Strange,” he says, breathless and much too obvious. “Parts of them are numb, but some are, uh, pretty sensitive.”
“Mine too,” Harrington says quietly. He licks his lips and runs his hand up to Eddie’s ribs. Eddie can’t hide the way it makes his breath hitch.
Their eyes meet again.
“Stop me if I’m reading this wrong,” Harrington says, before he reaches up and wraps his free hand around the back of Eddie’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss. Eddie has to put his hands on Harrington’s shoulders in order not to topple right into him.
Harrington smells like sunscreen and ozone and fresh sweat. His lips are soft and sure, sweetness still clinging to his tongue from the pop. Eddie’s brain is a hysterical loop of oh shit oh shit oh shit.
“Come here,” Harrington says, pulling Eddie down onto his lap, knees on either side of his hips. It makes Eddie think of the countless girls who have been here before him. And— guys? This can’t be the first time this has happened, not with the way Harrington is kissing him.
Eddie’s hands go roaming. Harrington shudders when Eddie tweaks his nipple, mouth falling open like he’s surprised by how good it feels. The wonders I can show you, Eddie wants to say, but doesn’t. There’s no way Harrington wants to hear that from him.
“Eddie,” Harrington says, voice thick with lust. Eddie has to close his eyes.
“I can blow you,” he says, mouth against Harrington’s temple, and feels the way it makes Harrington jolt underneath him. Harrington’s hands come up behind his back to clutch his shoulders, pulling Eddie down hard against his lap.
“You want to?” Harrington asks breathlessly. He sounds surprised. Eddie doesn’t know why. Of course he wants to. Who could look at Steve Harrington spread out like this in the summer sun and not want to?
“Yeah, Harrington,” he says instead of saying all that, grinding his hips down for emphasis. “I want to.”
Harrington’s hands flex on his shoulders. He pulls back a little.
“Can you, uh,” he says, not meeting Eddie’s eyes. “Can you maybe call me Steve, if we’re going to…?”
Oh.
“Sure, hot stuff,” Eddie says. “I’ll call you whatever you want.”
“Just Steve is fine,” Harrington says. He sounds almost shy about it.
“So,” Eddie says, running a hand down that ridiculously toned chest. “You want me to suck you off, Steve?”
Harrington— Steve makes a noise in the back of his throat and yanks Eddie down into a kiss, sucking Eddie’s tongue into his mouth. Eddie moans, a needy little sound he can’t quite tamp down. He sinks a hand into Steve’s hair and is rewarded with Steve’s fingers tightening against his skin.
“You want me to do it right here?” Eddie says against his cheek, heart already racing. “Or we could— my van.”
“Van,” Steve says right away, nosing at Eddie’s jaw. “Come on.”
Eddie has a brief fantasy of wrapping his legs around Steve’s waist, of Steve grunting under Eddie’s weight as he pushes to his feet and carries Eddie the short distance to the van, of being lowered to the blanket that lives in the back with careful arms, their bodies already fitted together.
But— no. This may be Steve Harrington underneath him, but that doesn’t mean Eddie’s going to get the Steve Harrington treatment.
He stands up instead, or tries to. Steve pulls him back down for another kiss, and then another, and another.
“You gonna let me up or what?” Eddie says eventually, and if he’s breathless it’s because Steve doesn’t seem willing to stop even for that.
“Sorry,” Steve says, and kisses him again, laughing. “Sorry, sorry.”
They make it to the van somehow, stumbling over rocks and branches and tufts of cordgrass. The inside is hot and airless from baking in the sun half the day, forcing them to break apart so Eddie can open up the back.
Steve’s arms wrap around his waist, pulling him down to the ratty old blanket spread across the floor. Eddie twists around and steals another kiss, flattening his palm in the center of Steve’s hairy chest. He slides it down and tries to memorize every sensation, the texture, the firmness, the ridges of muscle, the heat of Steve’s skin. Steve’s mouth opens under his as Eddie’s fingers slip beneath the nylon waistband of his shorts.
“And now for the main event,” Eddie murmurs, pushing up to his elbow. “Sit back and enjoy the show.”
His hand closes on Steve’s fattening cock, velvet-smooth and hot to the touch. Eddie licks his lips. He has one shot at this, one chance to give Steve Harrington a ride to remember. He’s not thinking about what will happen after, because on some level he already knows.
Of course this is going to ruin everything. How could it not? But it’s too late to back out now, and Eddie wouldn’t do it even if he could. The stage is his, and the beat’s already started. Only thing he can do is crank it up to eleven and play his heart out.
He peels down Steve’s tiny blue shorts. He gets to work.
Steve’s skin tastes faintly salty, hard cock filling Eddie’s mouth in a way that promises to make his jaw ache. He swipes his hair over one shoulder and listens for the way Steve’s breath hitches when Eddie hollows his cheeks and sucks, the way he sighs when Eddie rolls his tongue against the underside. Promising results so far, but Eddie has an ace up his sleeve. He puts both hands on Steve’s hips in preparation and takes a steadying breath.
He smells musk and sweat and artificial coconut as he presses forward until his nose is buried in Steve’s pubes.
“Eddie,” Steve gasps, shifting restlessly. “Ah—”
His sweaty hand finds one of Eddie’s where it’s gripping Steve’s hip and peels it free, lacing their fingers together. And that’s—
Steve Harrington is holding his hand. Eddie’s deep-throating his dick, and Steve’s holding his hand through it. Eddie has to pull off and cough to hide the deranged laugh that tears out of him.
“You okay?” Steve says, sounding breathless and concerned at the same time. His grip on Eddie’s hand tightens.
“Fine, fine,” Eddie says, clearing his throat. “It’s nothing.”
He ducks back down before Steve can say anything else and traces the ridge of the head with his tongue. Steve’s cock flexes in his fist.
It really is gorgeous. Eddie’s going to be thinking about this for the rest of his life. If he does his job right, maybe Steve will too. Eddie relaxes his throat and takes that beautiful dick as deep as it will go, and again, and again, swallowing on the upstroke.
The rhythm is coming back to him. Steve’s making the most exquisite noises. Eddie closes his eyes and stops thinking at all.
It’s wet and messy, dripping saliva mingling with sweat and smearing all over Eddie’s mouth and chin and Steve’s twitching hips, darkening the curls around the base. The sounds they’re making seem loud in the confines of the van, the wet squelch of Eddie’s throat constricting around Steve’s cock, the low grunts he can’t quite contain, and through it all, Steve’s moans. Eddie’s never had a guy be so vocal. He wants to capture every noise as it slips out of that perfect mouth so he can play them back on a loop. He’d never need a skin mag ever again. He moves his free hand to play with Steve’s balls, slick with Eddie’s spit and pulled tight against his body. Steve gasps.
“Eddie,” he breathes, “I’m gonna—”
Swallowing was never a question. Eddie pulls back to suck on the head, because he wants to feel it hit his tongue, he wants to taste it. He means to free his hand of Steve’s grip in order to work his dick through those last few seconds, but Steve’s fingers clamp down on Eddie’s when he tries. Eddie looks up just in time to see Steve’s face contort as his jizz floods Eddie’s mouth.
He swallows it down, making Steve’s back arch in a gratifying way. Eddie doesn’t get all of it on the first try, but that just means he gets to spend the comedown getting some leisurely licks in before Steve hisses and pushes his head away.
Eddie sits up, wiping his mouth and chin on the back of his forearm. Both his hands are sticky with various fluids, and his sweaty hair is glued to the back of his neck. He clears his throat a couple of times, swallowing against the lingering ache.
Steve’s chest is heaving.
“Jesus,” he says, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Wow. That was—”
“Good?” Eddie finishes for him, smirking. It had to have been good, right? Steve must have liked it. He wouldn’t have come so quick if he didn’t.
“Amazing,” Steve says. He sounds stunned. “You’re really— wow.”
Eddie feels his smirk get bigger. “I’m a man of many talents,” he says, taking in the flush across Steve’s cheeks, his ruby-red lips, the incredulous look in his eyes. This is it. This is his reward. Try and forget Eddie now, Steve Harrington.
Steve turns his head and meets Eddie’s gaze.
“No kidding,” he says, licking his red, red lips as he pulls his shorts back over his spent cock. “How am I supposed to follow that up?”
That’s not in the script.
“Uh, a nice, lukewarm Coke from the cooler?” Eddie says, trying to figure out where this is going. “A cigarette? I didn’t bring any weed.”
“Funny,” Steve says, wobbling a little as he sits up. “Jesus. I’ve swapped handies a couple of times, but that wasn’t anything like this.”
“No?” Eddie says, something sour twisting in his gut. He’s not the only guy Steve’s messed around with. That’s— fine. It doesn’t matter.
“Definitely not,” Steve says, shuffling closer. His eyes roam Eddie’s face.
The air in the van is almost still. Outside, the cicadas buzz, interrupted by the occasional bluebird. A bead of sweat trickles down Eddie’s back.
“So,” Steve says, cocking his head to the side. “You gonna let me return the favor?”
Leave it to Steve goddamn Harrington to knock the cards right out of Eddie’s hand.
“You— yeah?” Eddie says, searching frantically for any sign that this is a joke, or a trick, or some kind of—
Steve smiles, slow and sweet, eyes going half-lidded.
“Yeah,” he says, and he leans in for a kiss.
Eddie winds up flat on his back before he knows it, his aching dick straining against the zipper of his shorts. His lips feel tender, all puffy and bruised from keeping his teeth tucked away. Steve’s kisses are firm and deep and unhurried, one hand tangled in Eddie’s sweat-damp hair, the other meandering down from Eddie’s neck to his waist, tracing the outline of one scar after another. It’s too much, and not enough. Eddie whines.
Steve pulls back, his hand finally reaching Eddie’s fly.
“You can’t make fun of me, okay?” he says, brushing their lips together one last time. “I’ve never done this before.”
Eddie barks a short laugh. “Yeah, sure,” he says, wondering if he looks as crazy as he feels. “I’ll, uh— I’ll be gentle.”
“Shut up,” Steve says, but he’s grinning as he says it. He undoes Eddie’s belt and opens his fly, grabbing the pockets to try to tug them down.
Eddie’s denim cutoffs are too damp with sweat to budge, clinging to his hips. Eddie swears under his breath and scrambles to help, yanking his jeans and his underwear down. His dick springs free, slapping against his belly. Why is he so goddamn sweaty?
“Oh,” Steve says, staring at Eddie’s dick, an unreadable look on his face.
“What?” Eddie says, straining to sit up. Is there something wrong with it?
“You’re uncut,” Steve says, sounding distracted. “I knew, but I forgot.”
“Uh,” Eddie says, not sure how to feel. Steve’s paid attention to his dick in the locker room? Steve Harrington has thought about his dick before. And now he’s— disappointed? Or— not? Eddie can’t tell.
Steve reaches out and wraps a hand around Eddie’s cock. Eddie’s teeth snap shut to keep in the noise that wants to punch out of his chest. As he watches, Steve gives it a slow, firm tug, staring intently at the way the foreskin slides partway over the head and then back again.
“How does it feel?” Steve says, eyes still on his hand.
“Nha,” Eddie says, the rest of his dignity jumping out the back of the van and making a run for it. If he doesn’t come soon he’s going to die.
Steve blinks and darts a look at Eddie’s face, grinning at what he finds there.
“Sorry,” he says, biting his lip. “I got distracted.”
He opens his mouth, giving Eddie a glimpse of his pink tongue. He leans forward.
Eddie tears his eyes away and stares at the dome light, fists clenching at his sides. He can’t come yet. Steve Harrington is sucking his dick. He cannot fucking come yet.
He thinks of moldy leftovers at the back of the fridge, of geometry homework, of the ashtray on the porch that stinks to high heaven after it rains. It works, but just barely.
Steve’s a little hesitant, moving his head in shallow, cautious bobs, right hand wrapped loosely around the shaft. He pulls off and coughs, clearing his throat.
“Sorry,” he says, tightening his fist and giving Eddie’s dick a couple of cursory strokes, spreading his saliva around. “It’s harder than it looks.”
Eddie’s not sure what will come out of his mouth if he opens it right now, so he keeps his teeth clamped shut. If he looks at Steve he’s going to jizz right over his— no, okay, not thinking about that either. He unclenches a hand and flails around until he finds Steve’s head, stroking his floppy hair back from his face. Steve pushes into it like a cat.
“I think I like it, though,” Steve says, his hot breath ghosting over Eddie’s balls, followed by his mouth. Eddie’s brain is having trouble keeping up with the proceedings.
“Don’t talk,” he manages, toes curling in his sneakers as Steve’s lips graze the shaft of his cock in a slow tease.
“Find something better to do with my mouth, you mean?” Steve says, laughter in his voice. “I guess I could do that.”
Eddie whimpers as Steve swallows him down again, deeper this time. He’s learning fast, finding a pressure and tempo that drives the breath out of Eddie’s lungs. Eddie’s fingers tighten in Steve’s hair of their own volition, making Steve’s movements stutter.
“Shit, sorry,” Eddie says, letting go.
Steve pulls off again, his hand continuing the rhythm without a hitch, grip a little firmer than before. “No, don’t,” he says, and his lips are plush and wet, eyes dark and gleaming. “I like it.”
Eddie bites his tongue and wrenches his eyes away as Steve gets back to work. His shaking fingers land on Steve’s bare shoulder, the back of his neck. It’s so good. Steve’s mouth feels so good. Eddie has to hold on, has to last so he can enjoy—
Steve moans, a quiet little sound that pulverizes Eddie’s self-control like a nuclear blast. And oh, oh no. It’s too late. His eyes slam shut as he comes right down Steve’s throat, twitching like a marionette.
Steve rears back, coughing and gagging.
“Jesus!” he wheezes, thumping his chest. “Warn a guy, will you?”
Humiliation crawls up Eddie’s spine. Life presented him with one golden opportunity, a single moment in the sun, and Eddie has gone and fucked it up. Steve Harrington nearly drowned in his jizz. There’s no coming back from this. He rolls away and curls up over his knees, burying his face in his hands.
It dawns on Eddie too late that his shorts are still pulled down around his thighs. He’s giving Steve an eyeful of his pale, skinny ass on top of everything else.
“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles. Steve never should have rescued him.
“Are you freaking out?” Steve says. He sounds way too calm, even though his voice is wrecked. “It’s fine, man, I’ll take it as a compliment.”
He coughs again. The van creaks as he moves around, then jostles as he steps down to the ground, twigs and rocks crunching under his shoes.
Eddie reaches down and yanks his cutoffs back up, wincing at the way the denim scrapes against sensitive skin. Steve could just pick up his cooler and his stereo and leave. In fact, that might be best. That way Eddie won’t have to look him in the eye and see—
The footsteps return. The van dips towards the open side door.
“You want a sip?” Steve says.
Eddie rolls over onto his back. Steve’s leaning over him with one knee on the floor of the van, a half-full bottle of water in his outstretched hand dripping moisture onto the blanket.
“Sure,” Eddie says hoarsely, reaching for it.
Steve yanks the bottle back, the contents sloshing against the sides. “Open up,” he says, a gleam in his eye.
Eddie stares up at him. Steve’s cheeks and lips are flushed, making his tanned face glow. He looks like something out of a dream.
“Come on,” Steve says, raising his eyebrows. “You’re thirsty, right?”
Warily, Eddie opens his mouth. Steve’s lips curve into a smile.
The water hitting his face really shouldn’t be a surprise. Eddie flails out of the way, sputtering.
“Payback time!” Steve crows, the full weight of his body hitting Eddie’s shoulders and pinning Eddie down before he upends the rest of the bottle right into Eddie’s mouth. “Drink up!”
Eddie swallows and coughs and shakes his head, eyes streaming. “Son of a bitch!” he yelps, clawing feebly at Steve’s shoulders in a futile effort to dislodge him. There’s water in his nose. “Get off me!”
Steve laughs and grabs his wrists, forcing Eddie’s hands to the floor with ease. “Say ‘pretty please,’” he sing-songs, his head so close Eddie’s going cross-eyed trying to look at him.
He’s so beautiful.
Eddie closes his eyes and thrusts his face forward for a kiss he knows is going to be rebuffed. He just wants one last taste for the road, something to keep him warm at night when Steve’s no longer talking to him.
Steve kisses him back, slow and lazy, tongue pushing into Eddie’s mouth like it belongs there. The moment stretches on. Steve lets go of his wrists and brushes Eddie’s hair out of his face, soft fingers lingering over the thin skin behind Eddie’s ears.
It’s still over much too soon. Steve rolls away onto his back with a sigh. When Eddie turns to look at him his eyes are closed, a soft smile playing over his lips. The ember of hurt in Eddie’s chest intensifies.
Looking at him is painful. Eddie can’t bear to stop.
Steve’s eyes crack open again. Eddie hurriedly closes his, not wanting to be caught. He startles when Steve’s hand suddenly tangles with Eddie’s own, thumb brushing across Eddie’s knuckles.
“What are you doing?” Eddie says. He doesn’t dare open his eyes.
“It’s too hot to cuddle,” Steve says, shifting around as he settles, still holding Eddie’s hand in a loose, sweaty grip. “This is the next best thing.”
Eddie can’t have heard right. “You— want to cuddle?”
“I just said it’s too hot,” Steve says. He sounds cranky about it. “Next time we should do this at my house, we have central air.”
Eddie risks a peek from under his eyelashes. Steve’s eyes are closed again, his face serene. He looks like he’s settling in for a nap.
“Next time,” Eddie says, a new kind of ache unspooling from under his breastbone and suffusing his body, fingertips to toes. He squeezes Steve’s hand. “Yeah, alright.”