Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Do you feel that?"

"Feel what?"

"Thunder."

Steve remembers Eddie holding out his cigarettes, the word coming to his lips like he thought Steve would challenge him on it. Talking like he's two steps ahead. Which, all things considered, could be true.

He remembers saying, "You hear thunder, you don't feel it," followed by Eddie's quiet disagreement. The words felt more fragile back then.

And now, waking up in the middle of the night for no reason, he feels Eddie shift on his side of the bed. Hears him take a measured breath, followed by that sound he makes when he's sleeping — a quiet, pained groan. The mattress is warm underneath him, the air cold enough to signal that summer really is over. He closes his eyes.

He wonders if this is what Eddie meant.

The morning sky is clear and bright enough to send light through the window, getting Steve right in the eyes. He stares at the ceiling and waits for the shame to set in—assumes it's going to come crashing down, hard, after the night before, like standing at the bottom of a waterfall—but, instead, he keeps looking at dull white and feels...

Exactly the fucking same.

He blinks, tries to see if some part of him has shifted in the hours since. But there's nothing. He breathes in, breathes out, slowly squeezes his hands into fists before he releases those, too. He's fine.

He leans over and prods Eddie's back so he snorts. Barely opens his eyes before he edges away.

"Sleeping."

"You haven't slept enough?"

Steve lifts a piece of hair and winds it around his finger. Gently pulls until Eddie groans, annoyed but awake, and buries his face deeper into the pillow.

"I'll pay you to let me sleep."

"Don't want your money." He lets his hand wander down Eddie's back, pushing the blanket aside so he can look at him. The tattoo, the dip between his shoulder blades. His fingers run down his spine and Eddie grunts again.

It's when Steve leans forward and brushes his mouth against the back of his shoulder that Eddie's whole body stiffens. It's better—the slightest shudder—and he presses his lips nearer his neck, runs blunt nails up his back.

"The fuck you doing?"

Eddie's voice is a barely-there murmur but at least his eyes are open when he rolls onto his back. Steve's arm aches, still propping himself up, but he keeps still as Eddie gazes up at him. He pushes forward, if anything, and he gets the hard joint of Eddie's hip.

"Saying good morning."

Eddie's face twists and he looks like he's going to push it away, so Steve ducks in and kisses him. He ignores the stale taste of nighttime and his hand strokes down, down, Eddie's thigh, skating through hair and he hooks his hand around the back of his leg. Eddie makes a panicked sound when Steve hauls him closer and ends up knocking him scarily close to his balls.

Eddie uses Steve's flinching cover as a distraction good enough to push his hands against the bed, held tightly between his fingers.

"Dirty move," Steve mutters as Eddie clambers onto his knees, keeping his weight over him.

"Barely. It's more like... leveling the playing field. Isn't that what your kind say?"

Eddie's grin flashes wide and he holds Steve's hands there for an extra moment, like he's just proving he can, before he releases. He starts to crawl away but he doesn't make it all that far before Steve gets him around the waist.

He's pretty sure Eddie tries to launch himself off the bed, or something. They end up with Eddie's upper half hanging off the bed and Steve struggling to keep him from falling, a faint laugh starting up until his grip weakens and Eddie slides further.

"Let go, you dick," Eddie says, cursing as Steve finally yanks him back up onto the bed.

Steve's breathing hard. Smiling. Aching and sore. Tender in a way he can't wrap his head around. Eddie squirms out of his grasp, red-faced, finally rolling out of reach.

Ten minutes later, Eddie hasn't left. He keeps saying he's going to be late, but lingers anyway. He gets his shoes from the door and sits on the bed to put them on, and Steve rolls close, still under the sheet. He's got shit-all to do today.

Eddie appraises him, and there must be something on his face because it doesn't take much for him to twist his body around, one hand braced against the headboard and the other feeling him over the sheet, stroking until he's half-hard.

"Seriously," Eddie mutters against him, "they'll fire me."

Steve feels himself pulse, breathes out hard. Eddie groans, squeezes him before letting go. He moves like he's in pain, jerking himself away and getting to his feet.

"Trouble," he says accusingly. One of his shoes is untied, but he backs out the bedroom door, eyes dropping. Steve shrugs. The sheet tenting feels a little obscene, but—

"Worth it."

Eddie laughs, sharp and clear, punctuated by the apartment door closing behind him.

"Did you pick her up? Or meet there?"

"We met there and she drove me home."

"Ah, a girl who drives."

"Shut up."

Robin went on a date. Or something she's pretty sure was a date. That's about all that Steve's been able to gather while he sits at the counter eating soup, listening to her walk in circles.

"Did you open the door for her?"

"What? No. That'd be weird."

"Well, I don't know. Did you pay? It's a date if you treat," Steve says, even though he only sounds partially convincing. Robin's responding scoff confirms that.

"Yeah, I don't think we go by those rules. Thanks though. Super helpful."

Steve clears his throat and puts on a tone. "Steve, I held hands with a girl, I don't know if she likes me like that—don't laugh, that's what you said. People don't just go around holding hands for fun."

"Girls do! Sometimes."

"Not in my experience."

"Gee, wonder why," Robin retorts, then claws it back into a question. "Should I call her? Why is this so weird."

Steve pushes the last bit of his lunch away and switches the phone to his other ear, shrugging off the prickle creeping up his neck.

"Yeah. Call her."

"Really? Where's the sudden optimism coming from?"

"Hanging up now."

Days pass and Steve hovers on the edge of calling Eddie. It feels odd to hesitate, especially now, but he does. He has a feeling Robin chickened out too.

The new roommate answers, tells him in a clipped tone that he hasn't seen Eddie since the night before. Turns out it doesn't matter much because Eddie shows up at his door hours later.

"There you are."

"There you are."

"Found you first." Eddie smiles wide. "Always in the last place I think to look."

Steve rolls his eyes. "My home?"

Eddie doesn't step inside; he tilts his head and looks like he's making up his mind. "We're hosting a little something at our place. You should come over."

"But you're already here," Steve says, nudging the door further. It's about as subtle as a neon sign, but Eddie doesn't bite.

After a brief stand-off, Steve concedes.

"Is it cold out?"

"Dunno."

Steve rolls his eyes. "How do you not know?" But even so, he grabs his jacket. Better safe than sorry.

Steve fixes his hair as they head into the stairwell and he takes the last two steps in one, turning to watch Eddie shuffle down after him.

"What's the occasion? For this, uh, 'little something'."

"We're about to have a college graduate in the house," Eddie says. When Steve just looks at him, he adds, "Gil."

"Ah."

Eddie's hands are in his pockets and he sways forward, then back on his heels. Like maybe he's also realizing they haven't seen each other in a couple days. Under normal circumstances, Steve knows what he'd be like. What they'd be doing.

"How are you?" he asks abruptly, voice pitched too high. Eddie stares at him blankly.

"Huh?"

"I—I don't know."

"Okay," Eddie says slowly.

They're on the next flight, Steve trailing behind now. Eddie cranes his neck and gives him a smile, so fast that it almost knocks Steve on his ass.

"I'm doing just fine, by the way. Peachy keen."

"Yeah, yeah. Just keep walking."

Steve's not sure the last time he was drunk. Like this kind of drunk, where it's easy for him to slide into the conversations around him. Leaning against someone—Gilbert, he realizes—and join in, acting like he knows everyone. Because it doesn't matter that he doesn't, not with this warm glaze coating it all. Insulating him.

Steve tilts his head and feels the scratchy fabric of Gilbert's sweater against his cheek, and he stares at the floor. Gilbert's shoes look like they're a mile away, and he comments on it, feels Gilbert's shoulder shake. He collects himself, finds the words as his brain eventually catches up with the rest of him.

"Where's Eddie?"

"He's right there."

He points across the room, jostling him, and—yeah. Yeah. Eddie's right there, the back of his familiar head disappearing around the corner, and Steve can barely hear anything as he crosses the room.

He stands in the doorway and watches Eddie try to open his beer on the kitchen counter, thumping on the top with the heel of his hand, but it sticks. Stubborn. The cap now mangled by the edge of the counter doesn't seem to stop him from raising it to his mouth to try it with his teeth.

"Fuck."

"Christ, Eddie."

He starts when Steve calls out, whipping his head over, lip shiny and red. Steve reaches out and takes the bottle while he rubs his mouth.

"What?" Eddie asks, muffled. "What is it?"

Steve just shakes his head and sets the drink on the counter, plucking a few napkins sitting next to an abandoned pizza box.

"It's not that bad," Eddie says, but still takes one and holds it to his lip. He pulls it back as if to prove a point, but there's a small red smudge near his knuckle and he begrudgingly holds it against his mouth.

"Better safe than sorry."

"Imagine keeling over from a bottle cap. I'd kill myself before I let that happen."

"Jesus. Stop talking."

Eddie raises his eyebrows but listens, for once. Steve slides closer, still leaning against the counter. It feels like the music is far away, still pulsing steadily through him as Eddie rotates the napkin, finding a clean side to press to the cut.

He watches him dab his lip until the bleeding stops and he tosses it in the direction of the garbage, landing somewhere in between. Maybe Eddie's drunk too. He looks it, the way he's sagging against the wall. Steve folds his arms and watches Eddie fidget; it makes him think of the time in Eddie's trailer, when Steve didn't know what he felt like yet. But now he does, and it's like his whole body tingles with it. Or something.

His gaze follows Eddie's tongue, automatically seeking out the cut, pressing against it. Steve can hardly think, can only hear words that Eddie's going to hate—but Eddie's looking at him like he already knows.

"What's with the face?"

"What do you think?"

"My lip, dude."

"Who cares," Steve says.

Eddie still doesn't move. Steve blinks and then leans in, barely pulling him. He kisses him softly and feels the edge of the counter digging into his ass but Eddie makes a sound that eases the discomfort, disguises the sharp taste.

He brushes his tongue over it, once, and Eddie recoils.

"Ow."

"Sorry."

They laugh, then, and Steve leans in for another kiss. Quicker this time. Too aware that the kitchen is only empty right now, it's only them but that could end.

"Where're you sleeping tonight?"

Eddie grabs the front of his shirt with one clenched fist and shakes it gently. "I'm on something like a... self-appointed house arrest. I said I'd stay here."

"I'll sleep over."

Eddie eyes him doubtfully, tongue darting out once more.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Steve stands up straight, pushing Eddie back against the wall. Just for a moment, just to feel how Eddie moves with it. Bumps the back of his head, wincing.

Steve ducks his head and kisses just below his jaw before pulling away.

"If you're okay with that."

"Yeah, yeah," Eddie's head falls back, thunks against the wall once more. A happier sound this time. "I'm so fucking okay with that."

Eddie gets dragged away. Steve stays in the main room, ends up talking to someone (Gilbert's friend from work? A guy who seems to be sticking to the edge of the room like Steve used to) and it's not all that bad. Fun, even. He has some water. It's fine.

Later, he sees Eddie and Gilbert head out to the fire escape. Before he slips out of sight, Eddie glances in Steve's direction. He's ready for it, smiles in time, and catches Eddie bump his shin on the sill as he clambers over.

Only a few make it to the very end. By the time the last of the stragglers are leaving, it's just Steve and some guy looking for his keys, a couple people still smoking by the window, and Gilbert. He's dozing on the couch and gets woken up as the search continues under one of the couch cushions.

The keys are found on the floor and Steve slaps Gilbert's shoulder.

"Congratulations. Again."

"Thanks," he says around a yawn. "Are you staying?"

"Yeah. Uh—Eddie go to bed already?"

"Think so."

"Cool."

Steve wonders if he needs to say more, but Gilbert's eyes are already closed and Steve just mumbles a goodnight and heads down the hall. The stretch of faded floorboards creaks in most spots except for the one right outside Eddie's bedroom door. Even so, he doesn't bother knocking. He turns the handle, holding his breath.

The door opens into dull darkness, but he can see Eddie in the flickering light coming from outside. He's sitting on his bed, one foot bouncing. His shoes are kicked off and Steve steps over them, around his jacket that's in a heap. He adds his own to the pile of the chair and makes his way over, close enough to see how Eddie has his hand balled into a fist against his thigh.

He looked up when Steve walked in, but now his chin has dropped back down and Steve feels settled, too. Tired but here, facing the quiet of Eddie's room, sandwiched between the rest of it all.

"Hey."

Eddie's foot doesn't still, but his voice comes out clear and interested.

"You stayed."

"Mhm."

Eddie doesn't look like he's moving anytime soon, so Steve gets around him and lays back against the pillow. Eddie keeps his feet on the floor but turns to look at him, one side of his mouth tugging upward. He ignores the nudge of Steve's knee on his back and looks at him. Keeps staring.

"Something on your mind?"

"Not really," Eddie lets out a slow exhale. "Got any secrets to share?"

"Nothing too good."

That gets him a smile, at last. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

Steve's mouth twitches before he nods, stretching out one arm behind his head. And then—it's almost like Eddie's taking stock of him, eyes roaming. Steve opens his mouth to ask but he doesn't really know where that will go, what will come out. So he closes his mouth and stays in place.

Eddie reaches out and rests his hand at the lowest part of his stomach, just above his belt. Pushes the front of his shirt up and presses his palm to his stomach. Steve grunts because his hand isn't exactly warm. He stays there, hand rising and falling with him as he breathes. Then he presses, suddenly, and Steve braces himself. Rolls his eyes when Eddie mimes knocking his knuckles against his abdomen.

"Knock it off."

"What're you going to do about it?"

Even without a reply, Eddie does nothing but push his shirt further up his chest. Fingers spreading, holding back a laugh until his shirt is practically under his chin. Steve snorts but sits up and yanks it up and over his head, dropping it beside the bed.

Eddie's hand goes to the same spot as before, and Steve laughs again, weaker this time. Laid out on the bed, Eddie's hand on him. Sliding up until it's at the base of his neck, and he presses in with his thumb.

It's only then that Steve thinks—they can just keep going. There's no reason to stop, nothing in the way. The natural pattern of Steve coming to his room, sitting on his bed. And now this. They'll probably have sex.

"Yeah," Eddie says quietly.

It's not said in a way that makes Steve think Eddie's actually reading his mind, but in a distant way. And like he's only just realizing where his hand is, he pulls away. Steve follows him, uses the momentum to get Eddie on his back. It's easier, and it's nice to see the face he makes as Steve hovers over him.

"Well," Eddie continues. "I thought you didn't like doing shit here."

Steve shrugs with one shoulder. Thinks there's a lot of things he doesn't like.

"I like this," his voice is soft and Eddie blinks in return. Then looks away.

"Goddammit."

Even so, he peeks back over and that's about all that Steve needs. He turns his head, kisses him.

It's quiet until Steve gently licks his lip. He can't feel the cut anymore. And Eddie groans, somewhere deep in his chest, and his hips jerk up, just once. Then he goes very, very still.

Steve slowly lowers his hand, feelings down Eddie's stomach, feels his bones jump again. Eddie's hard, just from this, and makes another sound when Steve slowly touches him. Like he's embarrassed.

Eddie pulls away only to suck in a shaky breath. He doesn't get what's got him nervous all of the sudden, but he squeezes his hand and Eddie's head falls back against the pillow. They're definitely going to do something and Steve's just trying to get out in front of it.

"Take it off," Steve mutters. As a suggestion.

Eddie barely hesitates before he mirrors the shrug from before and pulls his belt open with enough speed that the buckle is practically a hazard as it whips aside. Steve lowers his gaze and leaves his hand where it is, lets Eddie fumble with the zip and then Steve only moves aside so he can push them down.

They're barely to Eddie's thighs when Steve pulls him out of his underwear, catching Eddie's small surprised sound. Immediately cut off when Steve lowers his head. He wraps his fingers around his dick and presses his mouth to his hip, suddenly nervous himself. Working up to it. It's made easier when he strokes him, once, and Eddie twitches.

"Fuck."

The head of Eddie's dick brushes underneath his chin, and Eddie does that small spasm again.

“Fuck."

Steve tilts his head, kisses lower. He jerks him off, spurred on by Eddie's little sips of air. Sounds that aren't muffled by anything, both of Eddie's hands clutching the bed. He lets out another shaky breath when Steve moves, mouth only an inch away. Eddie's dick filling his hand, leaking. His pained sounds when Steve goes still.

"Steve."

"Yeah?"

"I swear,” Eddie sighs, leaning back. It sounds nonchalant but his knuckles are practically whiting out. He watches Steve, not breathing anymore, with his mouth dropped open when Steve finally takes him into his mouth.

He's glad Eddie's room is at the far end of the apartment, next to the bathroom. Eddie makes another sound, not loud but not exactly quiet. Steve wets his lips, lets him sit against his tongue before hesitantly opening his mouth. It's been a while, but he remembers. Eddie's thighs twitch, and his hand is back on Steve's face. Finger curling behind his ear, encouraging.

"That's—shit. Keep doing that, please, swear to God," Eddie talks quickly, one knee bending and then abruptly straightening.

As fun as it is to watch, Steve realizes his eyes are watering and he breathes through his nose, tries to actually suck. It makes this slurping sound that he thinks should be mortifying, at least, but Eddie moans and tugs on his ear. Steve does it again and Eddie twitches in his mouth, this time.

Eddie's sounds are contained, restricted to the point where Steve thinks he could get more of them if he wanted to. So he drags his tongue up, follows it with his fingers. He doesn't know if he's done this part before—taken his time, actually bothered to feel it. He thinks of the shit girls have done to him, what guys have done, and he pulls off, lets spit collect and runs his fingers over his balls. Hears the hitch in Eddie's breath, feels him tense up, so he does it again. Tugs gently.

Eddie's knee knocks into his side.

"Fuck, the fuck, okay, Jesus fucking Christ."

When Steve pulls away, he chances a look and sees Eddie with half-closed eyes and a pinched look.

"You're mean. Cruel."

Steve shrugs and keeps going. Lets his tongue brush the head, catches Eddie's resounding sigh. Tugs again. Feels like it's connected to Eddie's mouth, because he immediately speaks.

"I swear to fucking God, Harrington, you gotta blow me or I'm... gonna combust. Get blood and guts all over the fucking walls—oh, fuck—it'll be bad."

Steve lets his mouth drop onto him, the stutter in his speech matching how his hips jerk up against him. Makes his dick slide into his mouth, Eddie practically whining as Steve lowers his head. Steve wants to tell him to say more, but his mouth is full and he just lets his tongue work against him, sucks the tip so Eddie goes stiff.

"Yeah. Keep going, keep going," he says, hips shifting back and forth, making Steve push the head of his dick against the inside of his cheek. Feels it bulge out, wonders if that's why Eddie makes the sound he does, something gurgling and loaded.

It must be, because a second later, Eddie's running his thumb against it, cursing louder. Mouth dropped open and eyes going vacant once Steve starts bobbing in his lap.

It’s been a while since he’s felt Eddie like this and it feels good, feels good because Eddie’s thighs aren’t quite so thin now, feel solid beneath him. He has something to dig his fingertips into as he gets Eddie a little closer. Eddie mutters Steve’s name in a harsh whisper, adds things that Steve can’t quite hear but feel good anyway. 

Eddie finally pushes his hips up a little. His head drops back and his eyes stay closed. Mouth parted.

"I'm gonna come," Eddie says. And his voice has that hint to it, apologetic.

Steve moans around him, feels Eddie's thighs flex. Dick kicking in his mouth and Eddie goes quiet, fast breaths that make Steve suck harder, lifting up and it makes a slick wet sound.

"Ah. Oh, fuck."

Eddie grunts and—it’s barely any warning at all. Steve only has time to bob his head down more before Eddie comes in his mouth, pulsing against his tongue. Eddie making a quiet strangled sound, gets louder when Steve stays where he is. Eddie's hand is in his hair, holding him in place while he breathes through his nose before he abruptly pulls him away. Both of them panting in the dark. Steve swallows again.

"Holy shit."

Steve flops onto his side and Eddie follows, doesn't even tuck himself away before he presses his lips to Steve's. Hand back in his hair, the other around his hip.

It seems like he's going to say something, and he just touches his face again.

"I don't even know," Eddie finally mutters, but it seems like a good thing.

Steve just grunts and gets out of his own pants, struggling to pull the blanket over them both. They're barely on the bed and it takes some fumbling around to get his head back on the pillow. He lays back and the apartment is deathly quiet, for once. He hears a car out on the street. It was better when he only could hear Eddie, he thinks. The room spins and he breathes out his mouth.

He's jostled as Eddie crowds behind him, feeling around, and Steve deftly pulls his hand up and presses it to the blanket instead. Clears his throat.

"Might just sleep."

Eddie pauses, his fingers squeezing. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm beat."

He doesn't know how to say that the exhaustion is real, but without the momentum—he's softening, still on the verge of drunk—it feels like a false start on his part. He hears another car honk.

Suddenly, Steve starts, head up and off the pillow. "Wait, are people gonna—are your roommates—"

He pictures them crowding around the bed, looking down. Sickly sweet.

"Nah," Eddie pulls him back into place. Seems to ignore Steve's worried tone and keeps it simple. "They know we're fuckin'."

"Really?"

"Well, yeah. They don't think we're in here playing cards."

"Right. Right."

Even though his heartbeat skyrockets, he still feels sleep pull at the edges. He wonders if it's what he drank, or maybe the combination of it all. Nausea rolls around his stomach and it keeps him awake for too long, long enough to know that Eddie definitely isn't asleep beside him.

Steve wakes up too early. The sky is only just starting to light, beams bouncing off the walls all wrong. Eddie is plastered to his back and Steve feels around for his watch on the bedside table, knocking Eddie's alarm clock to the floor with a clatter.

"Jesus," Eddie murmurs. "What time is it?"

"I don't know." He finally finds the clock-face. "Seven."

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Steve laughs lowly and drops it back onto the table. He yawns, wondering if he can fall back asleep, barely registering Eddie gently touching his waist.

Steve breathes out in surprise as Eddie nudges against him. He's hard. Eddie lowers his hips, presses against him and Steve remembers. Feels a rush, how good it was. He groans at the blunt head of Eddie's dick pressing against his asscheek.

Without thinking, he takes Eddie's hand and pulls it under the blankets. Feels him smile against the back of his neck, the tickle of a questioning sound but Steve just closes his eyes, waits for the split of his teeth as he brings it lower. Brushes his stomach. Steve breathes in and out, easy, and Eddie keeps going.

Steve's head hurts but it's dull, faraway. Eddie presses his other thumb into the soft part of Steve's shoulder and he can't help but let out a small groan as he feels Eddie's hand cup him, the gentle rub of his palm.

"Anything you gotta do today?"

"Nope," Steve says softly, thinks about all the things that should happen.

Eddie presses his chest to Steve's back, slowly moves against him, shifts his legs apart, settling behind him.

"Eddie."

"No one's up," Eddie says quietly. "Believe it or not, most people enjoy sleeping in."

"I also enjoy sleeping in. For the record."

"Wouldn't know it," Eddie says, smiling again. He must catch Steve's nod because he pushes his hand down the front of his underwear, and Steve groans in relief—muffled by his hand—when Eddie strokes him for real.

It's so much worse than morning wood. Like an ache that's running through him, only letting up when Eddie gets close, rubs him so slow that he feels it all.

"Fuck," Steve murmurs as Eddie's hand slides up and down, tugging on him. Then he presses his lips together and doesn't make a sound, listens for the noise of the apartment instead.

But it's quiet, still. Quiet except for the sound of Eddie's hum when his other hand feels upward, touches his nipple, then his neck. Maybe he feels how Steve goes stiff, lets out another small sound. He only touches the side of his neck with the tips of his fingers.

Steve shifts his legs, experimentally. Finally pushes his underwear down and off, abandoning them somewhere at the bottom of the bed. He freezes when Eddie's dick presses up against him, then he tilts his hips and Eddie kisses his neck instead. It's distracting, but it's good because it makes him feel less like an idiot when he squirms around, trying to say whatever the fuck it is he feels. What he wants.

Eddie releases him only to reach for his bedside table. Practically suffocates Steve in the pillow until he's back where he was, hand coated in lotion, and Steve groans. He can't help but move where he is, trying to get comfortable. The slick motion of Eddie's hand makes his calves go tight.

"If you're trying to get me to fuck you, it's working," Eddie laughs, but so quietly that it must be for Steve's benefit. His dick slides against him, not even doing anything. But he could.

"Yeah," Steve sighs, stretches out, feels Eddie not pulling away. Like he can't, like Steve feels that good. And maybe he does because Eddie's kissing along the back of his shoulders, jerking him off faster now. And Steve's starting to forget about the world outside the door that doesn't even lock.

Steve sucks in a breath when Eddie bumps against him more intentionally. His hand slows, both their focus shifting.

"Probably a bad idea," Eddie finally says.

"Yeah, probably."

"Don't tempt me."

"I'm not doing shit."

Eddie jerks his hips forward and makes Steve swallow. But when he goes to smack him, he quickens his hand and yeah. Steve's a dumbass but it's enough to make him shut the fuck up.

"Fine. Let me get you off."

The words are blurted against him. And even though it seems like he's trying to be mean, it doesn't feel mean at all when he jerks him off more purposefully. Only feels good with him pressed against his ass, good enough that he can tilt his hips and Eddie moves with him. Jerks his hips again, sweating under the blanket. Sliding against him, grunting quietly when his teeth brush his neck, bite down. Makes him shiver.

Eddie pulls back away, makes them both groan, and bites down on his neck again. Makes him writhe a little before he's pushing against him, not even going inside but—feels like he could.

"Goddammit." Eddie moves his hand away only long enough to grasp himself, returning after a second. "Just—tell me when to stop."

When to stop. Like he's pouring water into a glass.

"Okay," Steve says, eyes closed. He doesn't want it to stop, so he says nothing. Keeps his lips pressed tight and only hears his own heart race when Eddie presses against him, flicks his wrist and runs his thumb over the head of Steve's dick.

"Oh, fuck," Eddie groans, mouth close to the nape of his hair. Steve just nods, impatient. Makes a small sound.

"You like this?" Eddie asks, and slides against him that same small amount.

"I don't fucking care," Steve says and he feels Eddie shaking, laughing again. Steve bows his head forward. He's sweating. He's going to finish first, he can feel it approaching. The drawing up, the ache.

He thinks he says more. He's half-sure. Eddie's other arm twists around his chest, hand sliding up.

"Yeah?"

Steve feels it all click into place with the sound of Eddie's voice, the grip of his fingers around his windpipe. It's barely there. Two seconds, maybe three. Eddie's hand squeezing around his throat and Steve forgetting who he is, one stretched out moment where he doesn't think at all. He comes, hips jerking.

Eddie's hand is over his mouth immediately and he's hissing in his ear. Steve just shakes his head and pants against his palm, breathing hard when Eddie finally releases him, pulling back to jerk off. When he comes, it goes all over Steve's back, warm.

"I missed this," Eddie murmurs, not laughing anymore. "Missed you."

The attempted cleanup is flimsy at best, and Steve flips his pillow over and already has his eyes closed when Eddie groans, long and low, and lays down with his arm sprawled over Steve's side. He feels him relax further into the pillow, head gently knocking into the back of Steve's. His voice is quiet.

"My cup runneth over."

Steve's too tired to respond with much, but he manages a quick "Yeah, sure."

Eddie makes a satisfied sound and says nothing more. The muted pounding returns to the back of Steve's head as easily as it left.

Steve rolls over blearily. They must've fallen back asleep — the light is different now. He slowly looks up and Eddie is awake. Looks like he was reading, based on the book balanced on his chest.

"This is what a reasonable morning hour looks like," he says. Steve resists flipping him off and reaches over, knocks Eddie's chin gently with his knuckles.

It's the first time he's looked at Eddie's face properly in the light, and he sees the scab on his lip is already on the way to healing. Even so, Steve gets the urge to bite down on it—see if he'll make the same sound he did before. But he touches it with his thumb instead.

"Good morning," Steve says. Eddie cocks his head and leans in, kisses him.

Steve kisses him back, and it's the kind of kiss he'd been thinking about since he got there the night before. Since he saw Eddie give him that look. He tilts his chin and presses his thumb to the bony part of his jaw, keeps him still.

They stay in bed until sounds trickle in that make it clear that the apartment has come alive and the muffled voices a foot from the door has Steve pulling his shirt back on, while Eddie gingerly bends his wrist from side to side, wincing.

"Want to do something this week?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know." Steve tries to fix his hair and tries equally hard to catch Eddie's eye. "Movie?"

"Yeah," Eddie says after a long second. "Why not."

He ducks out of Eddie's room in a moment of quiet and gets out without seeing anyone, thankfully. It's bright enough outside that he ducks into a store on the way home and buys a baseball hat, navy blue, and pulls it low over his eyes.

Steve doesn't want to hang out at home but doesn't have anywhere else to be. He eats at the kitchen island, phone tucked up against his ear.

"I called her," Robin says quickly. "We're going to hang out tomorrow. Do you think—ugh, ignore that, actually. I don't want to talk about it."

"Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

"Anything."

He's barely halfway through a work story when he catches her restrained sigh. She lets him finish and he's smiling into the receiver when she groans aloud.

"I'm sure someone in the world would enjoy hearing about your job, but I am not that person."

"Well, don't hold back."

"That was me holding back."

Steve spins his spoon in his bowl. "Might see a movie tonight. With Eddie."

It feels natural to say, the words coming out almost too easily. Even so, the short moment of quiet that follows is full of Robin's reaction. He hears her take in a short breath like she's thinking. When she speaks, it's unusually bland.

"So how's that going?"

Steve hesitates. He hears Eddie's tone when he said, "They know we're fuckin'." Like it's obvious (which, apparently, it is). He doesn't know what to do with it.

"Don't want to talk about it."

"Gee," Robin says dully. "We're a couple of pros, aren't we."

He goes for a swim even though it's late in the day and the pool is busier than usual. The lane beside him is taken by someone his age, or close to it, and it makes him swim a little faster. Actually trying is made harder by the dredges of what would've been a real hangover if he'd committed. Everything beaten back into an echo of a familiar headache instead.

He finishes up his last lap and it isn't until he's climbing out that he sees his watch still on his wrist. It clings, silent when he holds it up to his ear. He gives it a shake but the hands don't budge, dead where they sit.

You stayed. That's what Eddie had said, in his bedroom. And he didn't hide how he liked that he stayed. That he wanted him to.

He thinks about their time in the trailer, when Eddie couldn't even say if he wanted Steve to stick around or not. He can see it, the lines of Eddie's open palm. He feels around for the familiar coil of frustration but comes up empty. It's weird to think about those days, years ago now, when he couldn't say any of it. Couldn't even take Eddie to the movies.

A flicker of guilt accompanies him as he picks up the phone in the dim light of his apartment. It's been a few days, no word from Eddie. He dials his number in a haze; it's like the clarity from their last night together has been washed away, and he waits for Eddie's voice to remind him.

"A movie, remember? Your choice," he says after Eddie comes onto the line, scratching his fingernail against the lacquered counter.

"You're spoiling me."

Steve smiles. "I've got the paper here. What d'you feel like seeing?"

It's easier to ask questions than make suggestions. It's easier when Eddie adapts, describes a poster he saw in the subway and Steve reads out the titles until they narrow it down. It doesn't sound all that interesting to him, but he's done with thinking. Ready to turn off his brain for the rest of the night.

They sit side by side in the theater. Eddie's knee knocks into his, hand following. Steve takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes on the screen.

"What's that, Steve?"

Steve slaps his hand over the side of his neck, leaning away from Carter's outstretched fingers.

"Nothing."

"Someone had a fun night," Carter says with a smirk and doesn't wait for a response before going back to his desk.

Steve adjusts his collar. The only fun was Eddie going to fucking town on his neck after the movie. It started with barely-there pinching of his earlobe, the careful sweep of fingers. Eddie practically hauling him into the alley—saying he liked privacy when he smoked—but only getting through half his cigarette before he gave Steve a massive bruise up on his neck.

The sting of it is gone but it burns hot against his shirt when Carter whistles in his direction (only once, but it's sharp and deliberate). Steve keeps his eyes down.

Eddie's outside his apartment door with a lit cigarette and Steve glances warily down the hall.

"She's gonna yell at me for the smoke."

"You can handle it."

"Says who?"

Eddie just laughs and crowds against his side as he fits the key into the lock. His hand darts, touching Steve's ear and he flinches. But when he pulls his hand away, he opens it to reveal a rolled joint that Steve was definitely not carrying around in his eardrum.

"Now where'd this come from?" Eddie raises his eyebrows, and Steve twists his lips to the side, fighting back an annoyed smile.

Eddie catches it, like he usually does; he holds it up to his mouth triumphantly, waiting until Steve accepts it between his lips before pulling out a lighter. The metal of it is cool as he slides it into Steve's pocket, and he doesn't realize he's staring until Eddie looks meaningfully at the key sticking out of the lock.

"Any day now."

Steve grunts, keeping his lips closed around the end of the joint, and finally gets the door open. The door is still ajar when Eddie leans against the frame and flicks his cigarette butt in the direction of the sink (it lands on the kitchen floor).

"Whoops."

He sways to the side, eyes alert, and balances himself with one hand as he chucks off his shoes. Steve leaves him to figure it out and goes to the couch, pulling the joint out of his mouth to examine it. It's a neat roll. Tidy. He can't say if it's one of Eddie's or not. Distantly, he remembers Eddie lurking on the outskirts of the occasional party in school, hanging with the other... interesting people.

He uses Eddie's lighter and inhales slowly. He hears Eddie talking, distracted, from the other side of the room. It brings him back to a party at his place, drunkenly meeting Eddie's gaze across the foyer and seeing him raise his chin defiantly. And now he's peering through his cupboards.

"They know we're fuckin'."

He hacks out a cough and settles it with a fist against his chest. He doesn't want to think about what his neighbors know or don't know about him. He inhales again, and watches Eddie move around his apartment. Comfortable, like he owns the place.

He wonders if it should bother him—the way Eddie's always showing up uninvited, pushing his way in—but he doesn't feel much more than the underlying sparking interest. Those edges of a feeling lighting up with each step, glowing hot by the time Eddie sits down beside him. He absently massages his gums with his tongue, the work day fading with the quiet creak of the couch beneath them.

"It's not like we're in here playing cards," Steve says aloud.

"What're you mumbling about?"

Steve takes the joint from his mouth and holds it in Eddie's direction. Their fingers brush.

"Nothing."

An hour later, they're sprawled on the couch with the remains of a pizza on the table and one of Steve's legs slung over Eddie's lap. His fingers trail up and around Steve's knee. They were watching something, a show Steve likes and Eddie seems to tolerate, until he got distracted and started entertaining himself by casting his hands up and down Steve's leg. Asking questions. Even more than usual.

Now, he's examining Steve's knee.

"What about this one?"

Eddie pinches the rough scar tissue and Steve—the kind of high where his body is three steps behind his brain—makes an effort to pull together what he can remember: Tommy egging him on, just enough; Steve not drunk enough to justify being that dumb but going for it anyway; a long moment suspended in the air before blood was gushing from his knee and Tommy was panicking while Steve laughed, numb. Eddie grimaces.

"Ouch."

"What about you? Any fun scar stories?"

But like Eddie doesn't hear him, he juts a finger in the direction of Steve's forehead.

"That one's my favorite."

"Is it now?"

Eddie wiggles his fingers and after a second, Steve tilts his head. And Eddie, straining to reach, touches his fingertips to his hairline. He smiles and it's so damn open, happy, that it makes Steve's stomach hurt.

They're passing another joint between them when they move into Steve's room. The half of Steve that was floating over them in the living room settles back in his bones and he fumbles with the window for a few moments before giving up, flicking on the floor fan instead. Drags it close enough to the bed to reach them both, all while Eddie sits on the bed, narrating his actions with a deeper-than-normal voice.

"He surveys his domain, taking it all in," Eddie intones, hand outstretched. "He has a choice to make and the answer is obvious..." he trails off, staring hard at Steve until he reaches out to meet him.

Steve laughs weakly and takes a final puff before stubbing it out on a dish Eddie's left on his bedside table. His shirt clings to his back and after a long second of feeling the fabric between his fingers, he pulls it over his head, gets out of his jeans while he's at it. He lays on his stomach, knows Eddie is looking at him but keeps his face turned away and tries to ignore it. Feels the tingle of his eyes anyway.

The fan keeps blowing. Eventually, Eddie rolls over and kisses the back of Steve's shoulder. Down his back—doesn't get his scars but pretty damn close, he imagines. It's too hot, too sweaty, but one of his hands traces up and down Steve's spine and it feels good.

He pinches Steve's side and when his brain catches up, he turns his neck to see him. Eddie's eyes are red-tinted and he's fully clothed.

Steve maneuvers onto his side and gets Eddie by the belt loop, tugging him in. He kisses him slowly, hand trailing over his pants button. Over Eddie, hard. His brain only catches the glowing sensation in his fingertips a few seconds later. He pulls his head away, watching his hands: a revolving door of action, delay, sensation.

Eddie laughs and Steve feels it in his bones.

"They know we're fuckin'."

It was how he said it. Steve first registered it as casual, but now that he has Eddie's face floating in front of him, he realizes it wasn't casual at all. That Eddie might've been kinda... pissed, or something.

"Sorry," Steve blurts out.

"What for?"

Well. Shit. "I don't know."

"Right," Eddie's frowning again. "What's up with you?"

Steve collapses a little, then. Laughs and folds inward, forehead thunking against Eddie's and then he rolls in, closer, and tucks his head in. Eddie laughs to himself and squeezes Steve's side. It sends a jolt right to Steve's dick and he groans against his shoulder.

Eddie doesn't seem to notice, just feels around his waist, fingers digging into his bare skin. Steve mumbles—c'mon, man—but Eddie's hand goes slack.

He hears him start when Steve grabs Eddie's hand and pushes it down between them, flats his palm against him.

Eddie pulls back just to push his hand down the front of his underwear. Steve peers up until he catches the challenging look in his eye, a little stunned, even. Then Eddie tugs on him harder and Steve lets out a sound and Eddie just grins.

"Jesus," Steve says weakly, "...Let's fuck."

He's pretty sure he says that aloud, anyway. He catches Eddie's eyebrows go up a notch. Then Steve tilts his chin and Eddie kisses him, curls his hands, and Steve—

Fuck. He wants it. His body is loose-limbed and craving it. It's different, feeling like this—in his apartment, in his bed, the window closed so they don't even hear the sound of traffic—with Eddie right here.

He goes with the rolling haze, fingers clumsy as they push Eddie's head down until his face is in his lap and he's sucking him off, hollowed cheeks and Steve saying all that shit in his head that he probably shouldn't, but Eddie bobs his head and his fingers dip behind his balls and Christ. He wants to come.

Eddie's fingers aren't so... measured, not like the first time. Like Eddie's getting distracted too, or maybe Steve just can't follow along. Eddie pulls away and there's a string of spit on his leg, quickly wiped away with his palm.

The slick sound of Eddie's hand on himself, oil on his hand that'll probably stain his sheets. Steve breathes out slowly and finally closes his mouth. Eddie's hair hangs around his face and he looks like he's trying to focus, it almost makes him laugh.

He waits for Eddie to roll him onto his stomach, but he doesn't. He's waiting for it to happen even as Eddie's nudging closer, one of his hands gripping his thigh. It's dark enough in his room that he can only just make out Eddie's expression but it's the fact that he can see it at all that's weirding him out.

Maybe Eddie sees that he's seizing up and he strokes him again, dipping his hand down. Steve's head lolls to the side, relaxed enough that he can go with it but it doesn't mean he has to look at his face while he does it. He settles on making eyes at the tattoo on Eddie's chest. He tries to keep his face neutral but Eddie curls his fingers and Steve crumbles.

"What the hell."

"What?" Eddie asks, and he can hear the smirk. "I'm just trying to make it good."

"It'll be good."

The words hang around, definitive. Steve forces himself to look up and meet his eyes, raising his chin.

"C'mon, Munson. What're you afraid of?"

Eddie crows a little, shaking his head. Steve's stomach flips when Eddie bows forward, pulling his hand away only to hold his dick, eyes dropping. Steve's brain is still catching up when he pushes inside.

"Oh—Jesus, what the fuck," Steve says quickly, hand twisting in the bedspread. It's different this way—on his back, nothing to hide behind.

Eddie lets out a sharp puff of air, stilling. One of his hand grips Steve's knee, thumb covering the scar from earlier. He makes a strained sound and slowly pulls out, eyes still downcast when he does it again.

"Fuck. You feel good," Eddie's voice is stretched thin and he moves again. Steve just tries to fucking breathe as Eddie fucks him a little harder, just for a minute.

His grip slips, and he bends forward. Goes slow, like they're both catching up, and Eddie speaks like he's on another planet.

"I'm gone," Eddie says. "So fuckin' gone."

Steve just nods and groans into the air.

"Talk," he says tightly. "You're usually the chatterbox."

But he can't.

He doesn't have the words to respond—everything blocked up, something close to pain twisting in his chest—so he doesn't speak, half wishes Eddie would squeeze it out of him like he did before.

He can tell when Eddie gets close. The stutter in his thrusts, the familiar frown on his face. What's new is how he leans in and kisses him, only once, before he buries his face against his neck. It's there that he hears Eddie's other tell—that relieved, aching groan—against his heart as Steve gets his hand around himself and jerks off in time with it. When he presses in further and makes the world feel comfortably small, he finishes, feels Eddie collapse.

Eddie says something about never moving again. He rolls away, might even fall asleep. Steve tries to doze but gets a jittery feeling in his feet and fishes out the remainder of the joint instead. It's stubby but enough.

He has it lit and is carefully taking a drag when Eddie mumbles from his spot on the pillow.

"You like having sex?"

Steve chokes. "Yeah? What a question."

"Not like that," Eddie's voice is tired, faraway. "Obviously it's nice. I mean... in an abstract way. Do you like doing this kind of thing?"

"I don't even know what you're asking me."

Eddie continues, tone only slightly frustrated. He sounds awake now but Steve keeps staring at the ceiling. "Ages ago, you said you don't know what you like. That's all."

The words sound familiar. He probably did say that, now that he thinks about it.

"Yeah," Steve says. The joint is nearing the end, burning against nothing. "I guess I like knowing where things stand. And, uh. Sex makes... makes it make sense?"

"I get that," Eddie finally says. Steve glances over but he can't read him. He looks back to the ceiling.

It's the time of year where the sun starts to set a little earlier. Steve goes for a run after work and wears a jacket and only turns back when he gets a stitch in his side. He doesn't know what time it is—watch still busted—but he looks up at the leaves changing color in the park. Orange trickling down. He thinks it's his favorite color.

His dead watch has been sitting on the counter all week and he finally picks it up to examine the classic face. Silver that's been dulled by wear, scratched up even though he likes to think he takes pretty good care of his shit. His dad would scoff if he saw it in this condition.

It's yet another guilty pang that makes him pick up the phone and call his parents' place. He's expecting his mom but it's a smoother voice that answers. Like he'd conjured him onto the other end of the line by entertaining the thought.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Dad."

There's a halting pause and he has the urge to clarify it's him, as if it could be anyone else.

"How are you?" his dad finally asks. There's a murmur in the background.

"I'm good. Good." He closes his eyes. "Just calling to check in."

"Well, it's... good to hear from you."

Steve tries to remember when they last spoke—months ago, now. They used to talk all the time, didn't they? His dad used to drive him to practice on the weekends before he got his license. It was a short car ride but even so, it was never like this.

He stares at the floor and realizes that his dad has no idea who he is. The man he grew up to be. May as well be strangers.

"How're things?"

"Fine. Want to speak to your mother?" Sounding relieved at the potential exit, he doesn't wait for an answer and Steve doesn't say goodbye before the phone gets passed over.

"Steven," his mom says. A little warmer, but surprised. "I wasn't expecting a call. Is everything okay?"

He hangs his head. "It's good, Mom. I promise."

On Friday, Carter stops by his desk and asks about his plans.

"Going out with friends," Steve says, realizing it's not even a lie. "One of them graduated and the celebration has been going on for about a month now."

"Cool. Where're you going?"

Steve hesitates. Gets a flash of Carter showing up in his nice buttoned shirt to their usual bar. Or maybe he'd just hear the name and make a face because it's that kind of place.

"No idea. I'll let you know when I find out."

"Cool," Carter says again, offering an easy smile. Seemingly never offended. "We gotta go out together some night."

Steve notes that it's almost too easy to get a reputation as far as Carter is concerned—a single hickey on his neck and he's set.

Steve starts to regret the jacket the minute they set foot in the bar. Sweat prickles his underarms, his back. He pushes his sleeves up his arms and follows Eddie through the crowd. They weave around a couple, talking quietly with heads pressed together, and Eddie makes a show out of contorting his way around them before straightening up and continuing.

"D'you know them or something?"

Eddie doesn't answer. He's craning his neck, and all Steve sees are people pressed against the bar, competing for a drink.

"There!" Eddie says triumphantly, pointing ahead. Gilbert seems to materialize through the crowd and nods in Steve's direction.

"Our scholarly friend."

"Why."

"Cleverest companion, if you will," Eddie adds, looking between them. "And now, champagne. For a toast."

"I don't think they have that here," Gilbert says, amused. "Do you even like it?"

"Does it matter?" Eddie's grin fades as he pats his hands over his chest. His back pockets. "Okay, minor hitch."

Steve opens his mouth to offer to buy—he usually does anyway, so what difference does it make—but Eddie's already turning away.

"I'll call Terry, see if I can catch her before she leaves."

He gives a half-hearted salute and heads in the direction of the phone. Steve tries to wrap his head around the previous ten seconds but Gilbert is already nodding his head towards the bar.

"Want something?"

Steve makes it a game to track where Eddie goes in the time it takes for him and Gilbert to finish their drinks. It's easy to catch sight of him, even in a crowd like this. He has a habit of standing out. Maybe not louder, but sticks out regardless. He's not even halfway done and Eddie's done with his phone call and migrated to the music player, flipping through the stack with single minded intention, his arm draped overtop and fingers drumming.

The music that Eddie chooses is off, even for here. The slightest sway that was happening in the corner halts in confusion, starting up with another group. A guy with long hair, longer than Eddie's, stops at the player and he thinks they're arguing until he sees them smile, Eddie gesturing at nothing.

Eventually, he spots Terry easing through the crowd, scowling.

"Why's it so crowded?"

"Busy night," Steve offers. Gilbert immediately ducks away, offering to get her a drink.

Terry holds up Eddie's wallet, worn duct tape lining the side.

"Delivery."

She places it in his open palm and Steve looks around and it only takes him a minute to spot him. Eddie is deep in conversation but with someone else. Steve blinks, trying to place them. It's barely clicking into place when the guy reaches up, joint in hand, and eases it between Eddie's lips in a move that looks practiced, as is Eddie's hand gently knocking it aside. Steve's gaze flicks from one to the other. Eddie's mouth, the guy's hand.

"He's a jackass," Terry's voice brings him to the surface, and he tilts his head in her direction. She's looking at Eddie as well, frown notched between her eyebrows.

"Eddie?"

"No, Leo. We hate him," she says, pausing only for a moment before continuing. "I mean, I hate him."

"So, what, he's...?"

She just gives him a look, and he drags his eyes back over.

Now Steve thinks he should've known, because—it seems obvious from the way Eddie's standing. The way Leo's talking to him. The way it's not exactly comfortable, but it's familiar. How Eddie looks his way for not even a second and suddenly Steve thinks he's misjudged it all and dove into shallow water head first.

"As entertaining as this is," Terry trails off, maybe catching the look that he's sure is pasted over him. She lifts the corner of her mouth—commiserating? he can't be sure—and points at Gilbert flirting with someone behind the bar. "I'm going to go see what's taking him so long."

It's close enough to an offer that Steve could follow, could go along with the rest of the night. Because it's nothing in the grand scheme of it all. But he's pretty sure he's stuck in place for the time being so he doesn't move.

Someone jostles his elbow but he ignores it and flips open Eddie's wallet. There's a few bills, a condom tucked behind an old movie stub, faded and barely legible. A playing card, seven of hearts, because that's a completely reasonable thing to keep on hand. He folds the corner of the cardboard down with his thumb when he slides it back into place, then tucks it in his pocket.

He's not sure what he was expecting. Why the knot in his stomach is threatening to crawl up his throat. The room gets bright very quickly until he blinks it away, sound rushing back in. The spot against the wall where Eddie stood is empty, and Steve lowers his head and starts forward,

He considers going to the bathroom, has a feeling he knows what he'd find. He doesn't—because the only thing worse than not being sure is finding out you were right all along. If there's a chance he's wrong, he's taking it.

The tangled sensation doesn't go away. He has a modest number of drinks (modest to him; he remembers finding the line at some point, and sure he could find it again if he bothered to look). The same song blares out again, it's one he normally likes, but now he thinks the silence would be better. Would help uncoil it all, let him breathe again.

When he eventually does visit the bathroom, it's empty except for one guy slouched over the counter. He groans loudly, in a way that makes Steve think he's bidding for conversation. What an opener. Steve avoids eye contact and heads back to the main room. Past the old posters tacked to the wall.

He runs his fingers along the wall as he goes until he pulls it away and sees the grime and rubs it clean on his pants. He's considering going back to wash his hands when a hand reaches out and stops him with a gentle press to his chest.

"Hey—Steve, right? It's been a while."

It's Leo. He smiles, straight-teethed and unhurried.

"Oh. Hey," Steve says. And because every part of him is still running hot, he asks, "Where's Eddie?"

Leo hesitates. "Haven't seen him."

"Really."

His hand is still on his chest, and like he's only just figuring out that Steve is in a slightly worse mood than last time, he pulls his arm back. Eyes narrowing. Maybe the feeling is contagious.

Steve steps around him and all he means to do is let his shoulder bump into his. Just a light fuck you to leave up to interpretation. But he's where he is, feeling the way he does. And he overshoots—only slightly—but Leo clearly isn't expecting it and stumbles back, hitting the other side of the narrow hallway. Like knocking a pin while bowling. Just tips right over. Steve stutters out a laugh and it sounds mean.

"What—what's your problem?" Leo says, staggering upright and attempting to push him away. His fingers grip his arm and it hurts. Like it really hurts. Steve wishes he could sound threatening, but when he speaks, the words come out worse than lifeless.

"You know what."

"I really don't," Leo says, voice cold now.

"Sure."

Steve jerks his arm back and as Leo gets pulled with it, Steve has the sliver of a thought of getting him in the face. Even though he knows it'd hurt them both, Leo's nose wouldn't look good if it was broken.

He doesn't take time to think it through. The drink from earlier is plucking at the edges, making all the colors extra bright again. The white of Leo's shirt, the red on the edges of it all. The wrenching pain in his shoulder, Leo gripping him, too tightly, and finally, bursting heat across his knuckles. The yelp that follows, Steve already chasing it.

It's a bad idea. He's fucking it all up.

May as well make it good.

"You're leaving?" Gilbert seems surprised to see him outside, or maybe he catches the expression on his face.

Steve grunts, then adds, "I think I should." He carefully angles his body away, his fist in his jacket pocket.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Here—it's Eddie's. Give it to him when you see him."

He tosses Eddie's wallet, still warm from his pocket, with his other hand and Gilbert almost drops it. He looks like he's going to say something, or maybe he's just thinking it.

"You doing okay?"

Steve shrugs with his good shoulder. When a cab pulls up a second later and people tumble out, Steve signals to the driver. He thinks he says goodnight, or maybe goodbye. When the door closes, he feels the first twinge of regret, but he takes in a deep breath and it goes down easy.

With one hand, he unlocks his door. He feels the pressure of Eddie against his side, a stray memory from before. He bites down and tries to ignore the sharp pain flipping in his stomach, and it fades a moment later. He's left in the empty hallway, stinging from the tip of his thumb up to the twinge in his shoulder.

Maybe he can't handle it. Not at all.

He's trying and failing to get his shirt off when he hears a knock on the door.

"One minute," he mutters, slowly lifting his arm to try and maneuver it out the sleeve. The knocking increases in speed, followed by BANG BANG BANG and Steve swears under his breath.

It's Eddie, because of course it is. Probably kicking at it like an animal.

"One fucking minute," he calls but now his hands are shaking because Eddie continues knocking and his head is pounding again and he can barely think—"Jesus Christ, dude."

Steve jams his arm back through the shirt and yanks it down, uses his good hand to pull open the door.

Eddie's mid-kick and almost gets him in the shin. He collapses against the frame and if Steve had two good arms instead of one barely-okay arm, he'd catch him. He still tries—bumps his elbow in the process—and his wheeze of pain is overshadowed by Eddie's rough laugh.

"Whoops."

"Yeah, whoops," Steve replies, and when Eddie is held steady by the frame, he pulls on his shirt. Eddie tries to whistle but it comes out weak. He's drunk, like—really fucking drunk. Steve attempts to pull him inside and it takes multiple tugs to get him across the threshold.

"Just—my shoes."

Eddie kicks one foot out but he's got them double knotted. Steve gives in with a sigh and kneels; he picks at the messy knot, thinks it's tight enough that it's a miracle Eddie can ever free himself.

"What're you doing here?"

"I don't know," Eddie says, voice laced equally tightly despite the lagging slur at the end. "You left."

Steve says nothing, feels another twinge in his shoulder as he tugs one lace free.

"I swear, it's like you sprout extra arms," he grumbles as Eddie runs his hand through his hair, tweaks his ear. Tickles his cheek with the ends of his fingers while Steve finally gets one shoe off and tosses it aside.

Of course, when he does, Eddie stumbles to regain his balance and his back hits the door, head smacking against the frame.

"Fuckin' door."

"Hold still."

Eddie breathes hard, groaning in that way drunk people do. Steve feels weirdly alert, like the cold air sobered him right up even though he can feel the sluggishness in his fingers, the stiffness in his knees.

He manages to unknot the rest and loose laces lie limply between his fingers.

"Steve."

Steve looks up and Eddie's hand moves slower this time, gently touching his cheek. He frowns and opens his mouth like he's going to speak and closes it again.

"I think I'm..." The backs of his fingers graze his jaw. "I'm in love with you."

Steve freezes in place, hands tightening around nothing.

"D'you know that?" Eddie's voice is soft. Eyes wide and he's asking, looking down at Steve like—

"You're drunk," Steve says slowly. Watches Eddie pull his hand away, blinking as the lines of Eddie's face fade into each other and it looks like he has four eyes, then six. Eddie's head thunks back against the door, eyes closed in pain and it sounds like it hurt.

"I know. Fuck."

Steve finally pulls his shoe off the other foot. There's a long moment of silence as Steve gets to his feet, Eddie still leaning against the door and looking away.

He knocks his head gently against the door once again before Steve takes him by the wrist and tugs him away. He follows him to his bedroom, walking in a hollow kind of way. He climbs into Steve's bed and flops onto his stomach, groaning into the pillow.

Steve stands there, fighting all his dumb instincts. He tilts on his feet, the sober illusion fading as quickly as it found him and he wipes at his face with his hands.

"Idiot," he says. The feeling from before threatens to slip through the cracks and he shakes his head until the room rights itself.

He sits down heavily, earning another sound from Eddie. He lays back, bones settling like cement, and it isn't until his eyes are closed and Eddie's breathing evens out that he realizes they're on top of the blankets. He's fully dressed. Like he left half of himself at the bar and only took the bad parts home, the parts that would never want it. Not like that.

He reaches out in the dark and ignores the pain radiating from his shoulder, letting his hand rest on Eddie's back. He tries to listen for that sound Eddie makes when he's sleeping, as weird as it is, but all he feels is the natural rise and fall as he breathes. He's still listening for it when he falls asleep.