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Steve Harrington is used to touch in the means of getting something. Very rarely is he touched just because; and even then, it’s always so fleeting. He could have sex with the same girl, a new girl, a different girl—a guy, even; he’s not picky—but it always felt so mechanical, so necessary, like it had to happen and then it was over. The skin-to-skin contact was almost like taking an exam; he had to figure this person out, had to find out what made them loud and writhe, and then they’d say he was a good lay, but never return.
He’s sick of it. He just wants the touch to mean something. Or, more accurately, mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. Something simple. Something mundane. Something that said, despite it all, that the person was sticking around.
Because his parents weren’t touchy people—the last time he got a good parental hug had to have been when he was twelve years old. From some championship game won. The trophy in his hand. A slap to his shoulder from his dad and a hug from his mom to say that they were proud. And then…well, the years went by and they weren’t proud of him anymore. He was an embarrassment to their family name, the only kid in the tree incapable of getting into college, the one who had to be taught a lesson. And it’s not like his friends were touchy, either. Tommy liked the touch that pained Steve—fist fights, slap buggy contests, shoving each other around. And Carol would elbow him, rib him for gossip, but nothing else. He didn’t really know what to do when it came to anybody else because nobody else would touch him.
Nancy would when they dated and he remembers that being exceptional. Although, and he never talked about it with her, even her small hands on his skin made him burn alive. Made him hurt. Made him want to die. He thought he could stomach it. And, oddly enough, he sort of could. Because even after she’d step away, turn her back to him as she went to class or left his house, he always wanted her to touch him again. He craved it.
He supposes that he’s always craved it.
But he over-indulged frequently. Or under-indulged. Starved himself from the pleasure of life’s sweet, gentle touches. And when he got his fill, he’d let it fill every last empty crevice within him, and then he came close to throwing up.
Now, after the world doesn’t end for the fourth time, he’s not sure what to do.
He knows how his friends are: Robin’s touch repulsed and will only go out of her way to hold Steve’s hand when it’s detrimental, Dustin overcrowds but doesn’t actually touch except for the Starcourt elevator, Nancy’s still Nancy with her casual sweet touches that Steve gets cavities from, and the others didn’t really do it or didn’t really care to do it or just thought it wasn’t necessary or they were Eddie Munson and he didn’t know what to do with him yet. But Steve was a hungry, hungry, hungry fool. And he needed it. Wanted it. Wanted it so fucking bad, he’d do anything.
Maybe that’s why he finds himself at a lonely house party, somewhere he wasn’t invited. Why he finds himself slinging back cups people hand off, uncaring of the burning thick sugar down his throat. How he gets hands all over his skin, in his unruly hair, down the back of his neck. Lips on his neck and noses in the hollow of his throat. People hugging him as if they know him. Elbows in his side. Fingers dancing up his forearms, making him breakout in goosebumps. He can’t understand it, though, none of this is right. None of it itches that incessant, growling craving he carries. None of it makes him feel good in his skin.
Maybe that’s why he finds himself outside in the front yard of this stranger’s house. Sitting on the freshly cut grass. Autumn dew wetting the seat of his jeans. His eyes far away and unblinking, hands white knuckled and tight around his knees, legs drawn up to his chest, chin digging into his hands, and a wobble to his lips.
“Stevie?” He hears from behind him. And he knows that voice. The rasp. The depth. Can smell the cigarette smoke, even when this person sounds far away. There’s a few, short striding steps. And then there’s a body sitting next to him. “Steve?” Eddie asks softly, “what’re you doing here?”
He grunts. “What are you doing here?” He shoots back.
“Selling,” Eddie answers, “trying to get a little bit of cash for Wayne. You know how it is.” There’s a silence that follows that statement, neither an indulgent one nor a neglectful one. But a pregnant pause nonetheless. “So, Steve, what are you doing here? Thought you didn’t do parties like this anymore.”
Steve sniffs, then. Because Eddie’s unfortunately right. Like he always is because he just is. Maybe that’s why Steve finds it easy to let his heart swell around him; get to that perfect red, shiny balloon within his chest, ready to pop at any moment that Eddie on the off chance rejects him. He swallows, though and finds his voice. “Trying to feel good. Need to feel something.”
Eddie scoffs. “By drinking? Getting in a room full of sweaty, dazed people? Steve, I know you, dude. This isn’t something you enjoy. You don’t ‘feel good’ from this bullshit.” He flinches at that, but seems to have gone unnoticed. “Wouldn’t you like to just be at home right now? You could be watching a movie or something.”
“No,” Steve refuses, shaking his head. “What I want isn’t at my house.”
“Ah,” Eddie sighs. “You’re looking for a person to fill your bed.”
Steve shakes his head again. “Don’t want that,” he mumbles, “want it to mean something.” His face is hot with shame, a curl of sick stretches alive in his stomach, and he thinks he might be trembling. He ducks his red-hot face into his knees.
There’s another silent lull between them. Though, he can feel the weight of this one. The rigid tension between its shoulders and the snap to its spine.
“Baby?” Eddie asks quietly, “you okay?”
Steve meekly shrugs, but doesn’t verbally answer.
Eddie’s palm lands down between Steve’s shoulders. His hand isn’t small, but isn’t big, either. Average in size, warm from the tip of his middle finger to where his palm meets his wrist. It doesn’t move, but it makes Steve tense for a moment. He can’t relax, not yet. Can’t show that he’s been yearning for this.
It sort of—“Hurts,” Steve whimpers.
“Hurts?”
“Your hand,” Steve tries to explain, “it hurts.”
“Oh! Oh…Shit,” Eddie exclaims, drawing his hand away fast as if the touch was repulsive. Maybe it was, Steve realizes. That only makes Steve whine again, louder this time. “Sorry, Steve, I won’t do it—“
Quickly, Steve unfurls himself and reaches out clumsily for Eddie’s left hand again. Fingers tight around his wrist. Drawing him back in. Placing Eddie’s palm over the right side of his neck. His thumb just long enough to skim the underside of Steve’s Adam’s apple. He breathes out a shuttering sigh as the touch finally settles in him.
“You’re burning up under me,” Eddie comments quietly. “You sure you’re okay?”
Steve nods. Bites down on his lip, releases it slowly. “It hurts,” he states again. “Hurts like you’re trying to burn me alive.”
“Shit,” Eddie softly curses, trying to draw away again.
“No, please,” Steve begins to plead, shooting out his hand to lay atop the back of Eddie’s. “Please don’t. I need it—Need—Don’t—“ His breath catches at the base of his throat. Like he’s drowning for this. And, with how careful Eddie’s hand is, with the gentleness of his voice—Steve’s ready to lay down and die for it. If that’s the only way he can be satisfied. He closes his eyes as if that’ll keep Eddie from seeing him. “Please don’t,” he says again, a hesitant moment later, Eddie’s palm still unsettled.
Next to him, Eddie swallows harshly. Sighs sharply through his nose. Scoots a little closer, but doesn’t pull away again. “Okay,” he mutters. “Just—I’m done selling tonight if you wanna hangout at mine. I think you’ll be more comfortable if you have just one set of eyes on you. You wanna?” Steve, without words, agrees.
And roughly thirty minutes later, he’s sitting across from Eddie on his mattress. They’re still in their outfits they wore to the party. Steve in jeans and a maroon polo. Eddie in his usual get-up, minus the vest and leather jacket. He tied his hair up, though, and Steve can’t stop himself from gazing at the few loose strands that fall down to his shoulders.
“How should we do this, Steve? Where shouldn’t I touch you? What shouldn’t I do?”
He tentatively reaches for Eddie’s right hand, clasping it between his own. There aren’t any rings on his fingers. “Don’t be rough,” he states, “and don’t be condescending. Don’t tease me. And…nowhere below the torso, please.”
“M’kay,” Eddie murmurs. “How about I start here?” And he places his palm back where it was at the party, over the right side of Steve’s neck. Steve merely nods. “And if I add both hands? Does that…does that hurt?”
“A little,” Steve admits, “but it’s a good hurt, Eds. Just need this, please.”
His hands shift to Steve’s shoulders. Squeezes. And Steve’s next sigh stutters, gearing up to cry, probably. Then down his arms, to his biceps and the crook of his elbows and his forearms, but not his hands—not yet, at least.
“Can I touch your torso or do you need a break?”
Steve takes a shaking deep breath. Nods. “Give me just a second,” he whispers.
“We have all the time, Stevie. I just want you to…feel good.” They lock stares briefly, both wide-eyed and a little amused. “That sounded weird,” Eddie adds. “I meant like…I mean. Just wanna take care of you, I guess. You deserve to feel good. Have nice things.”
He gives Eddie a knowing little smirk. “You like me,” Steve gently teases, testing the waters.
“So?”
Steve blinks. Surprised. Taken aback. “What like—“
“More than friends? Yeah, thought you’d notice eventually, Stevie. I’m not exactly subtle.” Eddie regards him warily, though. A little bit more guarded than before. “Hopefully that isn’t a problem, though, right?”
“Of course it isn’t,” Steve answers immediately. “Just didn’t think feelings were reciprocated here. Makes me sort of…kinda nervous, if I’m being honest.”
“Mm,” Eddie hums. “Well, they are. And—Just so you know, this isn’t me trying to like get in your pants or whatever. I genuinely like you, Steve. And I do, y’know, want you to be taken care of. For you to enjoy stuff like this without it hurting. Without it burning, I guess.”
“Can we do it again, then? How about—“ And Steve picks up both of Eddie’s hands within his own, but doesn’t hold to them, barely lets the touch linger. Places them both flat against his chest, Eddie’s fingers splayed towards his collarbone and the bottom of his palms in the middle of Steve’s chest. “Just touch me gently there.” He places his own hands on the back of Eddie’s. Shuts his eyes. Breathes as calmly as he can through his nose. Receding tears just as fast as they make themselves known.
Eddie doesn’t move his palms like Steve thought he would. Instead, he sweeps his thumbs up and down over the polo. Fingers curling in slightly before coming back up, almost like he’s carefully scratching at Steve. And it kind of is, Steve supposes, and it feels surprisingly nice. Enough to make something shiver through him, cold and sharp and tingling. It melts away at the ebbing of anxiety that had knotted at the party, where everything felt wrong and incomparable and unsurprisingly mechanical.
The way Eddie touched him was reverent and understanding. It was new. Heartfelt. Woven with a love far deeper than what he just confessed. And Steve leans into it. Pitches forward slightly as Eddie’s hands remain where they’re being held against Steve’s chest.
“Can feel your heart beating,” Eddie comments quietly, “it’s steady, slow, deep.”
Steve hums. “You make me feel calm,” he confesses, “like I don’t have to show you that I’m worthy.”
“Worthy of what?”
“Being touched,” he answers. Hesitates. "Being loved," he adds, hushed.
Eddie’s next breath is tight, through his nose, big.
“You never have to prove yourself to me, sweetheart,” Eddie breathes. “You’re enough.”
Steve’s hands twitch over Eddie’s, clenching over them. He can’t stop his reaction. The tears that fall fast and searing down his cheeks to the underside of his jaw. Or the way his cheeks flush. Or the weight of his stuttering breaths. And especially can’t stifle the just barely wet sobs cracking open from his chest. With heightened clarity, he wonders if Eddie can feel the break in his chest, too.
He carefully withdraws Eddie’s hands from his chest and just rests with them in his grip. Loosely holding on, but not willing to let go. Letting himself soak in what he’s being offered. Not out of fear that it’ll be taken, not this time at least, but knowing he can have it. Knowing that Eddie wouldn’t be so heartless as to take it away right when it’s literally within Steve’s grasp.
Eddie’s thumbs rub firmly in small circles over the backs of Steve’s hands. He’s quiet. Just breathing; a bit nasally, but otherwise smooth. He’s there, though, to keep holding on as Steve breaks down nearly silent.
“God, you overwhelm me sometimes,” Steve admits, though not unkindly, “but in a good way and I don’t understand it.” He squeezes tightly at Eddie’s fingers. “Everybody else makes me feel like I’m going insane. Makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong or that I’m wrong or that they just fucking hate my guts or something. But you touch me and you speak to me and you wait up on me in a way that…I’m burning alive, but it’s not dangerous. It’s not—I’m not explaining this right.”
Gently, Eddie shushes him. Keeps his voce low and measured as he says, “I understand, Steve. I’m hearing you, alright? I take this with whatever pace you set. And I’ll respect that, okay? I ask for nothing; I want nothing back from you; You owe me nothing.”
“But I…I wanna give you the world, Eds. I wanna—You make something different, I don’t—“
“This, Steve,” Eddie says, tugging their hands back and forth between them, “is my world.” He leans in, not close enough to touch noses, but just enough that Steve can smell mint on his breath. “You’re my world, Steve. I take you as-is. I take what you offer. I give back when I can.”
Eddie’s hands hold more firmly to Steve’s. And that touch alone seals that fracture in Steve’s chest. It melds, it sets, it soothes. Steve can breathe under it. He can sigh and he can relax, so he does.
“You ever been the little spoon, Steve?”
Taken a bit off guard, but welcoming it, Steve chuckles. “No, Eds, I haven’t.”
“Mm, you wanna try it out? Lay down and relax for a little while?”
Steve thinks for a second. Would it overwhelm him beyond what’s felt good? Would it be a make-or-break? Can he just have it? And since Eddie’s offering, he supposes he can. “Yeah, Eds. Sure. Just be careful with me.”
“Never have to ask for that, sweetheart. Comes with the love.”
“You love me?”
“Steve.” Eddie levels him with a look. “I would do illegal shit—“
“You already do illegal shit.”
“I’d do more illegal shit just to make sure you’ve got everything you could ever need.”
Smiling a soft thing, Steve lets himself believe that. Because Eddie, in the time Steve’s known him, is surprisingly honest. “I love you, too.”