Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

TRACK 01 – “Ashes on the Stage” (1987)

Steve wasn’t sure when exactly he’d gotten promoted to Head of Keeping Eddie Alive, but here he was, standing in the Munson kitchen, wielding a spatula like it was divine authority. The smell of grilled cheese filled the trailer, sharp and buttery, cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke that seemed permanently baked into the wallpaper.

Eddie hadn’t eaten since yesterday — Steve knew because he’d asked, and Eddie had blinked like the concept of time and meals was foreign, muttered something about “riff came first” and gone back to scribbling.

So yeah, someone had to make sure the idiot didn’t collapse face-first into his notebook.

“Why is it my job to keep you alive like a person and not, I don’t know, a raccoon that figured out how to plug in a guitar?” Steve muttered to himself, flipping the sandwich. He could practically hear Eddie’s grin from the couch.

Sure enough, the response floated back, lazy and dramatic: “Food is for mortals, Harrington.”

Steve rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t fight the smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah,” he shot back, “and apparently so are showers.”

That earned him a loud cackle, followed by the sound of frantic scribbling. Eddie was in the zone, legs kicked up on the arm of the couch, notebook balanced on one knee, pen flying like the world was on fire and only he could put it out with ink. His hair was a disaster, a dark halo of tangles that looked like it had staged a revolt against the concept of combs. The ashtray on the coffee table was already half full, cigarette smoke curling up into the weak sunlight that filtered through the blinds.

Steve plated the sandwich — slightly lopsided, golden on one side, a little darker on the other — and carried it out. He set it down on the table, careful to dodge Eddie’s sprawl.

“Eat,” he ordered, though he kept his voice flat, like it wasn’t a big deal. He knew better than to make it sound like concern. That just made Eddie double down on the whole starving-artist shtick.

Eddie didn’t even look up at first, still scribbling, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Then he glanced at the plate, then at Steve, eyes glittering. Mischief incoming.

Instead of reaching for the sandwich, Eddie shifted, stretching his leg out until his bare ankle hooked around Steve’s waist. A casual tripwire. With one quick tug, he yanked, and Steve stumbled forward, catching himself with a hand braced on the back of the couch.

“Jesus, Eddie—”

But Eddie was already laughing, eyes bright, curls wild, the stupid notebook still in one hand. He leaned up, caught Steve’s mouth in a quick, careless kiss that tasted like cigarettes and coffee gone cold.

Steve kissed him back because, well, of course he did. Because Eddie had that thing about him, that gravitational pull that made resistance feel not only impossible but ridiculous.

When Eddie pulled away, Steve felt something smear against his cheek. Eddie glanced down, grinned like the devil. “Oops. You’ve been branded.”

Steve wiped at his face with the back of his hand and came away with a smudge of black ink. He groaned. “Great. Now I’m part of your freakin’ manifesto.”

“Not just part,” Eddie corrected, going back to scribbling as though the moment hadn’t just short-circuited Steve’s brain. “You’re the inspiration, man. The muse.”

Steve rolled his eyes again, but his chest warmed in that annoying way it always did when Eddie said stuff like that. Because Eddie meant it, even if he said it like a joke.

Still, he jabbed a finger toward the plate. “Muse or not, you’re eating before you pass out. You can’t exactly wail about darkness and fire and doom if you keel over from low blood sugar.”

Eddie waved him off with the cigarette like a rock star on stage, but Steve noticed the other hand drift toward the sandwich. He took a bite, still scribbling between chews. Victory.

Steve sank onto the arm of the couch, close enough to nudge Eddie’s leg with his knee. The trailer buzzed faintly with the sound of cicadas outside, the TV in the corner still showing some fuzzy rerun of Cheers. And Steve thought—yeah: this was chaos, and it smelled like smoke and butter and Eddie’s shampoo that hadn’t seen use in three days. It was irritating as hell.

It was also exactly where he wanted to be.

§

The BMW smelled like Armor All and faint cigarette smoke, even though Steve had given Eddie strict “no smoking in the car” rules. Didn’t matter. Somehow Eddie’s presence just… leaked into things. Like the way the cassette deck was currently eating Holy Diver at full blast, Dio howling through tinny speakers while the summer air roared in through the open windows.

Eddie had his head tipped back, curls whipping around in the wind, one hand drumming wild on the dashboard. The metal rings on his fingers clicked against the plastic in some manic rhythm Steve couldn’t quite follow. His other leg bounced so hard the whole car trembled with it.

Steve glanced over and thought, He’s gonna burn a hole straight through the damn floorboards.

He almost told him to knock it off, but instead his hand just… moved. Automatic. He reached across the console and set it firmly on Eddie’s knee. Warm, solid and grounding.

Like magic, Eddie stilled.

The drumming slowed, then stopped. His bouncing leg froze under Steve’s palm, though he could still feel the tension buzzing there, like Eddie was an amp turned up to eleven with nowhere to dump the noise. Eddie turned his head, dark eyes cutting sideways to him, mouth pulling into a grin that was equal parts gratitude and trouble.

Steve swallowed. Should’ve pulled his hand back, probably. Instead he left it there, thumb brushing once against the frayed hole in Eddie’s jeans.

“Try not to set the place on fire, Munson,” Steve said, deadpan, like he wasn’t the one suddenly having trouble breathing.

Eddie’s grin sharpened, dangerous and boyish all at once. “No promises.”

The music carried them for a while after that. Steve tapped the wheel with his free hand, eyes on the road. The summer sun flashed off the hood, the kind of long Indiana afternoon that stretched forever. Eddie hummed along to the chorus, voice raw but sure, and Steve thought — not for the first time — that if the world really listened, they wouldn’t stand a chance against him.

Which was the point, right? Tonight was Eddie’s shot. His stage. His noise turned into something bigger than the trailer, bigger than Hawkins, bigger than all of them. Steve was supposed to be the guy who parked the car, got a drink, clapped along politely while Eddie melted people’s faces.

But then there was this: Eddie’s knee still under his hand, his eyes still lit up like he was about to do something stupid and glorious, and trusting Steve to keep him steady long enough to get there.

And that anchored Steve in a way he didn’t really want to think too hard about.

He squeezed once, quick, before finally pulling back and gripping the wheel again. Eddie didn’t go back to bouncing. Just tapped a lighter rhythm on the dash, steady now, like he’d found the beat.

Steve allowed himself a small, crooked smile. Yeah. The world could have the fire. He got this part.

§

The bar hit him in the face before he even made it through the door. Not the people — though there were plenty of them crammed shoulder to shoulder — but the smell. Beer spilled on floors that had never once seen a mop, smoke from Marlboros ground into the wood, sweat that had seeped into the walls like the place had been sweating right along with the crowd for decades.

Christ, Steve thought, wrinkling his nose. I traded Polo cologne and country club air freshener for this?

And yet, he couldn’t help the tug of a smile. Because he had. Willingly and happily.

He pushed his way through until he found the bar, where the bartender didn’t even blink at his clean-cut hair and ironed jeans. Steve ordered a Coke, because someone had to drive later. He leaned back against the bar, trying to look casual, like this was a place he belonged. Spoiler: it wasn’t. But he didn’t care. He wasn’t here for the décor or the questionable liquid sloshing on the floor. He was here for Eddie.

And Eddie, of course, was late.

The lights flickered once, then again, like even the wiring wasn’t sure it could handle this much excitement. The sound system crackled with feedback that made Steve wince and clap his free hand over one ear. The crowd didn’t seem to mind. They only roared louder.

Then Eddie stormed the stage.

He didn’t just walk up there. He took it like it already belonged to him. Hair flying, grin sharp as a knife, boots stomping as if daring the floor to crack under him. Steve felt something lodge in his throat, because of course Eddie looked like he’d been born up there. Like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to scream at people through a microphone.

The first chord rattled the floorboards. The drums kicked in, relentless. And Eddie leaned into the mic, mouth curled around the words like they were meant to hurt.

“Turn the lights, burn the page,

nothing left but ashes on the stage—”

The crowd went feral. Steve held onto his glass like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He didn’t catch every word — Eddie was half growling, half screaming, and the sound system wasn’t exactly top tier — but he didn’t need to. The message was clear enough. Burn it all down. Tear it up. Spit in the face of every rule.

It wasn’t Steve’s language, but he understood it anyway.

Eddie’s veins were standing out in his neck, sweat slicking down his collarbone, guitar strapped tight like it was fused to him. And he wasn’t holding anything back. He was giving all of it away, bleeding it out across the stage for strangers who only knew his name because of the flyers taped to telephone poles.

Steve couldn’t stop staring.

Some guy next to him elbowed forward, throwing himself into the mess of bodies that had started surging near the stage. A mosh pit, Steve realized with growing horror. People were slamming into each other like human wrecking balls, fists pumping, heads jerking back and forth so violently it was a miracle no one snapped their own neck.

Steve blinked at them, half-concerned someone was about to break a nose, maybe lose an eye. Yep, he thought, biting down a laugh. Congratulations, Harrington. You’re officially the soccer mom at a metal show.

And still, he couldn’t stop smiling. His heart thudded along with the bass, his pulse matching Eddie’s riffs. The Coke was sweating in his hand but he didn’t taste it anymore. He just kept watching, stupidly proud, like he was the one up there instead of pressed against a sticky bar with beer soaking into his sneakers.

Eddie whipped his head, curls plastered to his face, eyes wide and wild. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, and when he leaned into another scream it sounded like he was tearing the words straight from his chest.

Steve’s throat went tight. Because Eddie looked like he was about to combust, right there under the flickering lights, and Steve loved him more for it.

The crowd screamed back, a tidal wave of noise and heat. And for once, Steve didn’t feel out of place. Not really. He wasn’t thrashing, wasn’t screaming along, but none of that mattered. Because Eddie looked out across the chaos, grinning like a demon, and for half a second — just half a second — his eyes locked on Steve’s.

Like Steve was the only one in the room.

And that was enough.

§

The ringing in Steve’s ears was brutal, like someone had jammed a blown-out speaker directly into his skull. He clapped anyway, palms stinging, until he half-wondered if his hands would still work by the time he needed to drive them home. Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter at all.

Because Eddie was still on stage, hair whipping as he bowed like he was at Madison Square Garden instead of a crappy dive bar outside Indianapolis. Gareth tipped his sticks in a mock salute, Grant practically collapsed over his bass like he’d survived a war, and Jeff was already flicking sweat from his fringe with theatrical disgust.

But Eddie? Eddie threw his arms wide like he’d just conquered Rome.

And the crowd lost their shit.

Steve’s chest ached in that humiliating way — like he was about to get misty-eyed, which was insane because there was nothing dignified about this place. Someone lobbed a half-empty beer that narrowly missed Gareth. Eddie just laughed, leaned into the noise, fed off it like oxygen.

Then the stage lights cut.

And Steve shoved his way through the crush of bodies, ignoring the sweaty shoulders and elbows jamming into his ribs. The floor was sticky under his sneakers, every step a new layer of beer glue. Someone tried to hand him a cigarette; someone else shoved a phone number scrawled on a napkin at him, mistaking him for someone important. He just ducked his head and kept moving.

Backstage wasn’t really a stage so much as a cramped hallway behind the curtains, lined with cases and equipment stacked in precarious towers. It smelled worse back here than out in the bar: damp wood, old smoke, metal strings.

Eddie was still vibrating, still electric, hair plastered to his temples, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted a marathon. His shirt was hanging off one shoulder, damp enough to cling to every contour underneath. Gareth and Jeff were bickering over whether the last chorus was too fast, Grant wheezing laughter as he tried to find an unbroken chair, but Eddie—Eddie was already scanning the room.

And when his gaze hit Steve, it stopped.

Steve’s stomach dropped straight through the sticky floorboards.

Great, he thought, already flushing. Now I’m the idiot blushing because the rock god is staring at me like I hung the damn moon.

“Stevie!” Eddie’s voice was shredded raw from screaming, but somehow still cut through everything. He crossed the room in two strides, grabbed Steve by the wrist, and tugged him behind a teetering stack of amps.

“Did you hear them? Did you see—? They fucking loved it!” Eddie was still half-shouting, words spilling like he couldn’t hold them back. “I thought the bridge was gonna tank, but then Gareth—oh man, and Jeff went so hard on that—”

Steve didn’t let him finish. He kissed him instead.

It wasn’t neat. Definitely not smooth. Eddie still tasted like smoke and cheap beer and whatever adrenaline tasted like, metallic and electric. His lips were hot, damp, clumsy against Steve’s, and Steve didn’t care. Couldn’t care. His whole body was keyed up, buzzing the way Eddie was, like the music had wound him tight too.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to catch breath, Steve muttered against Eddie’s mouth, “Think you just set the place on fire, Munson.”

Eddie’s grin curved against his lips. Then he bit Steve’s bottom lip, sharp enough to sting, and kissed him harder.

Steve groaned, one hand sliding into the damp curls at Eddie’s nape, the other clutching his hip. Eddie pressed closer, chest to chest, the heat ridiculous, his shirt sticking where it touched Steve’s.

Somewhere behind them, Jeff shouted something about needing more beer. Gareth barked a laugh. None of it mattered. Eddie shoved Steve against the wall, kissing him like he meant to crawl inside his skin. Steve’s skull thumped the wood, but he barely registered it.

Eddie’s rings were cold where they skimmed under Steve’s shirt, scratching his hip. Steve jolted, the contrast sparking along every nerve. Eddie laughed, a wild, breathless sound, and did it again just to hear Steve curse.

“You’re insane,” Steve muttered, voice breaking halfway through.

“Yeah?” Eddie panted, grinning. “Takes one to love one, Harrington.”

Steve kissed him again, desperate now, biting back a sound when Eddie rolled his hips forward. The amps creaked dangerously. Steve thought, distantly, that they were about to cause thousands of dollars’ worth of damage and get themselves banned from the only venue that would have them.

He didn’t stop.

Eddie’s hands were everywhere at once — tugging at his belt, pushing up his shirt, clinging to his shoulders. Steve couldn’t keep up. Didn’t even try. He just held on, kissing until his mouth felt swollen, until Eddie’s moans were vibrating right through his bones.

“Back to the motel,” Steve gasped against his lips, though he didn’t actually make a move toward the door.

“Motel’s too far,” Eddie shot back, hips grinding, voice a rasp of need.

“Eddie—”

“Here,” Eddie said, almost pleading. “Steve, please.”

Steve’s head spun. Logic screamed no, but Eddie’s body pressed tight against his, trembling and alive and begging, made logic useless. Steve’s pulse hammered in his throat as Eddie kissed down his neck again, teeth scraping.

His voice cracked when he said, “You’re gonna kill me.”

Eddie smirked against his skin. “Worth it.”

Steve fumbled at Eddie’s fly, but Eddie slapped his hand away, growling against his mouth. “Mine.” Then he shoved Steve’s jeans down with rough hands, impatient, rings biting into his skin as he dragged denim over his hips.

“Jesus, Ed—” Steve choked off, heat flooding his face as his underwear went too, pooling around his sneakers. His ass hit the cold wall, bare, and every nerve lit up. “Christ, you’re—”

“Lucky,” Eddie cut in, low and wrecked. “So fucking lucky you’re mine.”

Before Steve could muster a comeback, Eddie dropped to his knees. Just knelt there on the sticky backstage floor, hair falling in his face, and looked up at Steve like worship was the only thing left in him. Steve’s stomach bottomed out.

Then Eddie’s mouth was on him. Hot, wet and perfect.

Steve’s head thudded back against the wall, a groan ripping out before he could stop it. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the air, then tangled in Eddie’s damp curls when his knees threatened to give. Eddie sucked him down like he’d been starving, one hand locking around Steve’s thigh, the other squeezing his ass hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck—Eddie—” Steve’s voice cracked, broke apart. He couldn’t look down, couldn’t watch, because the sight might finish him on the spot. But he felt everything: Eddie’s tongue curling, his throat working, the scrape of a ring against his skin when Eddie tugged him deeper.

Steve was babbling, he knew he was — half curses, half Eddie’s name, maybe even a please slipped in there somewhere. Eddie hummed around him, smug bastard, and the vibration made Steve’s hips jerk helplessly.

“Hold still,” Eddie rasped when he came up for breath, his chin wet, eyes blown wide and black. “Or I’ll tie you down next time.”

Steve just whimpered — actually whimpered — and Eddie grinned like he’d won the lottery before swallowing him again.

The amps rattled from the movement when Steve bucked forward, nails digging into Eddie’s scalp. Somewhere across the room, Gareth muttered something that sounded like, “Jesus Christ,” but nobody came closer.

And Steve didn’t care. Couldn’t. His whole world narrowed to the heat of Eddie’s mouth, the scrape of teeth, the relentless drag of his throat. His knees shook, his chest heaved, and he realized dimly he was going to come, hard, and soon.

“Eddie, I—shit, I’m gonna—”

Eddie just hummed again, swallowed deeper, and squeezed his ass like he was daring Steve not to. That was it, the last thread of control snapped.

Steve came with a strangled cry, his whole body shaking against the wall, fingers locked in Eddie’s hair. Eddie took it all, throat working, one hand still gripping him tight until Steve sagged boneless.

When Eddie finally pulled back, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning up like a sinner who’d just found religion.

Steve slid down the wall half a foot, gasping, hair plastered to his forehead, and managed to croak, “You’re—fucking insane.”

Eddie laughed, low and smug, pressing his forehead against Steve’s hip. “Yeah,” he rasped. “And you love it.”

And God help him, Steve did.

He was still catching his breath, head lolling against the wall, when Eddie surged up and kissed him, messy and deep, like he hadn’t just swallowed him down. Steve tasted himself on Eddie’s tongue and made a wrecked sound into his mouth, half protest, half surrender.

“Not done,” Eddie growled, voice shredded, hands already shoving Steve’s thighs wider. “Not fucking close.”

Steve’s brain scrambled to keep up. “Jesus, Ed—here? Now?”

“Now,” Eddie insisted, fumbling with his own fly like he’d snap his zipper in half. His pupils were blown, sweat dripping down his temples, and he looked like something feral and holy all at once. “Can’t—fuck, Steve, I need—”

That word did him in. Need. Steve’s chest clenched tight, like he’d just been handed something sharp and precious. He nodded, throat dry, and rasped, “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

Eddie kissed him again before spinning him roughly, pressing Steve’s chest to the wall. The amps rattled dangerously nearby. Steve barely had a second to think oh god, someone’s gonna hear before Eddie’s hand shoved down the curve of his back, pinning him there.

Cold air hit his ass, then Eddie’s hot grip spread him open. Steve hissed, nerves sparking.

“Fuck, look at you,” Eddie muttered behind him, voice thick with awe and filth all at once. “Spread out, waiting for me—Christ, Stevie.”

Steve let out a shaky laugh that caught halfway, mostly just to keep breathing. “You’re—you’re really losing it, Munson.”

“Bet your ass,” Eddie said, and then slicked spit messily over himself, hurried, desperate. Steve heard the wet sound, felt Eddie line up, and his pulse skittered hard.

The first push stole his breath — sharp stretch, blunt pressure that made him jolt against the wall. Steve’s fingers clawed at peeling paint, jaw dropping on a helpless noise.

“Easy,” Eddie rasped, though his own voice cracked like he had no control left either. His hands gripped Steve’s hips tight enough to bruise. “Fuck, you’re—so tight—”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Steve bit out, his laugh strangled, shaky. He tried to push back, impatient, needy, but Eddie held him still, teeth dragging at his shoulder.

And then Eddie shoved all the way in. Steve swore, forehead smacking the wall, body going taut like a bowstring. Pain edged into heat, into something unbearable and perfect, and he sucked in a gasp.

“Steve—holy shit—” Eddie’s voice broke on it, a ragged prayer, and then he started to move.

It was filthy and frantic from the start: Eddie rutting into him like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get deep enough, each thrust banging Steve into the wall hard enough the amps trembled. The sound of skin slapping, the creak of cheap plywood, Eddie’s ragged groans right in his ear... it was all too much.

Steve’s legs shook, his knuckles white where he gripped the wall, but he wasn’t about to tell him to stop. Not when Eddie’s breath was hot against his neck, not when he was saying Steve’s name like it was salvation.

“You’re gonna—knock—the fucking amps—” Steve managed between thrusts, but his sarcasm cracked into a moan when Eddie ground deep, hitting something sharp and electric inside him.

“Worth it,” Eddie gritted out, same as before, same as always. His hands slid over Steve’s chest, one wrapping tight around his throat, not choking, just holding, grounding.

Steve whimpered, actually whimpered, and Eddie groaned like the sound undid him.

“Fuck, Steve, you feel—god, I’m not gonna last—” Eddie’s thrusts turned rougher, faster, his sweat-slick chest plastered to Steve’s back.

Steve, already raw, already wrecked, felt himself spiraling again. 

He gasped Eddie’s name — once, twice — like he could anchor himself with it. And then he was gone, release ripping through him so hard his vision whited out, his body clenching helplessly around Eddie.

That broke him. Eddie swore, loud and guttural, and drove in deep one last time before coming with a shudder that shook them both. His teeth sank into Steve’s shoulder, muffling the sound, while his whole body trembled against Steve’s back.

For a long, raw second, all Steve could hear was the blood roaring in his ears, both of them gasping like they’d barely survived something.

Then Eddie laughed, low and wrecked, pressing his forehead to Steve’s spine. “Guess the amps are still standing.”

Steve barked out a hoarse laugh that turned into a groan. “Yeah. Can’t say the same for me.”

Eddie kissed the spot he’d bitten, soft this time. And Steve, still plastered to the wall, thought — not for the first time — that he’d let Eddie set him on fire a hundred times over.

He didn’t need Eddie to write a song about him. Not when he had this. Eddie, undone in his hands, choosing him even after pouring himself out on stage. Coming straight to him, like Steve was the only place to land.

Straight home.

Chapter Text

TRACK 02 – "Venom & Velvet" (1989)

The motel room was exactly what Steve expected when he heard the words band budget: beige walls the color of old oatmeal, carpet with stains you didn’t want to think too hard about, and a buzzing neon sign bleeding red light through the blinds. The air smelled faintly of cigarettes, grease and mildew, like three different people had tried to kill the stench and given up halfway.

Steve sat cross-legged on the sagging bed, remote in hand, cycling through the handful of channels the TV could pull in. Static, infomercial, a Letterman rerun, more static, then Cheers. For about half a second, he thought about settling there — Sam and Diane bickering was familiar background noise — but his thumb kept clicking anyway. Nothing stuck.

Across the room, Eddie was hunched over the desk like a mad scientist in the middle of a breakthrough. His notebook was sprawled open, cigarette balanced on the ashtray’s edge, ash so long it was seconds from collapsing. His hand flew across the page like the pen was on fire.

Steve’s eyes drifted to the growing pile beside him: crumpled candy wrappers, half-empty cans of Coke, a bag of Cheetos tipped over like roadkill, and a Styrofoam container of something that might’ve been Chinese takeout, untouched. Munson’s food pyramid: nicotine, sugar and chaos.

Steve scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d dealt with kids who thought a steady diet of Spaghettios and Capri Sun was fine. This wasn’t that different. Except Eddie was twenty-something, not twelve, and apparently had decided he was immortal.

“You’re gonna pass out before you even hit the stage,” Steve muttered, reaching for the paper sack by the nightstand. He dug out the sandwich he’d grabbed earlier, already looking a little worse for wear — the bread dented from being shoved around in the bag. He lobbed it onto the desk. “Eat something that isn’t wrapped in tinfoil, Munson.”

Eddie didn’t look up, didn’t slow down. Just muttered something and kept scribbling.

Steve sighed, got up, crossed the room, and physically shoved the notebook an inch out of Eddie’s reach. “Seriously. You can’t just live off… whatever that is.” He poked the pile of wrappers with two fingers like it might bite.

That got Eddie’s attention. His head snapped up, eyes wild, curls falling into his face. “Dude, I’m on fire right now. If I stop, I lose it. You don’t just pause lightning.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Lightning’s still lightning if you take five minutes to chew.” He shoved the sandwich closer, ignoring Eddie’s glare. “Come on. One bite. You can write about hellfire and whatever later.”

Eddie scowled, but then he hummed under his breath — half a line, sharp and low, the syllables curling like smoke. Steve froze, hand still on the sandwich.

The words weren’t about him. Obviously. They never were. But Eddie’s voice was sultry, dirty in a way that made Steve’s chest feel tight, like he’d just been punched somewhere soft. He blinked, tried to play it off with a snort.

“Jesus, Munson. That supposed to be for public consumption?”

Eddie smirked, the corner of his mouth curving wicked, but he finally snagged the sandwich. Took a messy bite like he was proving a point. Mustard smeared his lip, bright yellow.

Steve was about to grab a napkin, maybe say something sarcastic about hygiene, when Eddie leaned over the desk and kissed him. Hard. Messy. The taste of mustard and cheap bread mixed with smoke and sugar, and Steve made a startled noise against his mouth.

By the time Eddie pulled back, grinning, Steve was off-balance enough to drop the remote on the floor with a thud.

“See?” Eddie said, mouth still glistening, “multi-tasking.”

Steve shook his head, half exasperated, half gone already. “You’re a disaster.”

“Yeah, but I’m your disaster,” Eddie shot back, and reached for his notebook again, pen scratching before Steve had fully recovered.

Steve sat back on the bed, heart thudding harder than it should’ve. The TV flickered forgotten in the background, neon buzz seeping under the blinds. He told himself it was just mustard, just another one of Eddie’s impulsive stunts.

But the twist in his chest said otherwise.

§

The van rattled like it was held together with duct tape and blind faith, every bump in the highway making the gear in the back clatter dangerously. Late afternoon sun cut across the cracked windshield, staining the inside of the van gold and dusty.

Steve had wedged himself into the corner of the back bench, legs stretched out as much as the cramped space would allow. Eddie was sprawled across him, head pillowed on Steve’s thigh, curls tickling his stomach every time the van lurched. He was humming, low and tuneless at first, but then the shape of it settled — the riff Steve already knew by heart.

Venom & Velvet.

Steve let his fingers card lazily through Eddie’s tangled hair, working at a knot that had probably been there since the last show. Eddie hummed louder at the attention, eyes closed, lips moving silently with words Steve didn’t need to hear out loud. He knew them. He couldn’t not know them.

The lyrics clung to him the way cigarette smoke clung to Eddie’s jacket: raw, filthy, dripping with want. Not love songs, not sweet confessions. Lust made into sound. Directed at… someone. Not him.

Steve cleared his throat before the thoughts chewed too deep. “So, what—should I be jealous of this mystery muse? Or do I just send them a thank-you card for keeping you inspired?”

He meant it as a joke. Mostly.

Eddie cracked one eye open, grinning like Steve had just handed him the world’s easiest setup. “Jealous Harrington? Didn’t think you had it in you.” His voice rasped with leftover smoke and laughter.

Steve snorted, playing it off. “Yeah, well. Maybe it’s contagious. Spend enough time around you, it’s bound to rub off.”

“Everything rubs off if you let it,” Eddie said, cackling at his own innuendo. Gareth groaned from the front passenger seat, tossing a balled-up wrapper backward without even turning around. It bounced off Eddie’s shoulder and rolled into the footwell.

“Christ, can you two not? Some of us are trying to nap,” Jeff called from the driver’s side, knuckles steady on the wheel.

“Bullshit,” Grant added from the middle seat. “You’re eating Twizzlers and singing along to the radio.”

Jeff just hummed louder in response, a smug little noise that made the van feel smaller than it already was.

Steve rolled his eyes, but the grin tugging at his mouth wouldn’t quit. He dragged his nails lightly over Eddie’s scalp, the way he knew Eddie liked, and Eddie practically purred against his thigh.

Out loud, Steve laughed with him, kept it easy. Inside, though? There was a knot that didn’t budge.

He knew Eddie loved him. Knew it in the way Eddie always found his hand in the dark, or in how he made space for Steve in the chaos, or the way his grin softened when it was aimed just at him. Steve didn’t doubt it. Not really.

But he still wanted, in a way that felt dumb and selfish. Wanted Eddie to sing about him. Not about some faceless body dressed up in metaphor, not about venom or velvet or teeth or skin. Him. Just him.

Steve stared out the van window at the blur of highway and trees, chewing on the thought until it tasted bitter. Hell, maybe it was better this way. The less anyone looked too close, the better. If people didn’t see him, if they didn’t connect dots, then Steve could keep Eddie safe. Offstage chaos was one thing. Headlines and whispers were another.

Eddie yawned, shifting so his face pressed against Steve’s stomach, his curls warm against Steve’s palm. “Don’t worry, Stevie. No competition. My heart’s already taken.” His words were lazy, mumbled, but they sank into Steve like heat through bone.

Steve smirked, tried to make it light. “Your heart, huh? Thought your heart belonged to your guitar.”

Eddie cracked both eyes this time, grin slow and dangerous. “Don’t make me choose.”

The van hit another bump, gear clattering, Gareth swearing. Eddie laughed, eyes falling shut again, humming his song like the world outside didn’t matter.

Steve let his hand linger in his hair, holding him steady against every jolt of the road. He wasn’t jealous. Not really. Just—waiting.

Yearning, quietly, for the day Eddie might write a song that sounded like home.

§

The club smelled like every bad decision he’d ever made: cigarettes, cheap beer, something sticky ground into the floor that tugged at his sneakers every time he shifted his weight. Neon beer signs buzzed along the walls, half the bulbs burned out, and the air was thick enough with Aqua Net that Steve was half convinced a stray spark would set the whole place ablaze.

The crowd pressed in, sweaty bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, all of them buzzing with anticipation. And then Gareth hit the first sharp crack of the drums, Grant’s bass thudded low in Steve’s ribs, and Jeff’s guitar howled like it had been waiting its whole life for this.

Then Eddie.

He prowled onto the stage like he owned the damn world, hair wild, leather clinging in all the right places, a grin sharp enough to cut. The room detonated — screams, whistles, the kind of energy that made the walls vibrate. Steve’s heart lurched right along with it.

And then the song.

“Venom on your lips, velvet on your skin—” Eddie sang, voice rough, filthy, dripping with everything Steve both craved and hated to share.

The front row went wild, a knot of girls practically clawing at the stage, like if they screamed loud enough Eddie would be singing just for them. Eddie played right into it, grinding his hips with the riff, hair falling into his face before he shook it back with a whip of his neck.

Steve clenched his jaw so tight it ached. Jesus Christ, Harrington. Don’t be that guy. Don’t be the asshole who gets jealous of his boyfriend’s art. Pull it together.

But then Eddie bent low over his guitar, moaned the next line into the mic — “Bite down, sink in, taste the sin” — and the crowd lost it. Girls shrieked like they’d combust on the spot.

And Steve? He wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Because Eddie looked possessed up there, alive in a way that was electric and untouchable. Everyone in that room saw him as something holy and dirty at once, a rock god conjured out of smoke and sweat.

And Steve felt like a shadow by comparison.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, nails biting into his palms. He told himself it didn’t matter, told himself he knew the truth — that the guy burning down the stage would come stumbling off it later, sweaty and half-starved, and let Steve shove a sandwich into his mouth and kiss mustard off his lips. That the guy who had the crowd screaming would still curl into Steve’s lap in the back of a beat-up van, humming riffs through a smile only Steve got to see.

Didn’t stop the knot in his chest from tightening.

Still, pride bubbled up under the envy, stubborn and fierce. Look at him. Look at how they can’t take their eyes off him. That’s my guy. Mine.

§

The motel door banged against the wall hard enough that Steve winced. Great. Another dent for the already tragic beige paint job. Add it to the tab of ways Corroded Coffin had managed to single-handedly ruin every Motel 6 between Indiana and Ohio.

Eddie was laughing too loud, his voice cracking as he kicked the door shut behind them. He was still wearing his stage clothes: shirt half-unbuttoned, eyeliner smudged into something raccoon-adjacent, sweat shining on his throat. He looked like sin on a stick, and he was vibrating like a power line.

Before Steve could even drop the key on the nightstand, Eddie launched himself forward, straddling Steve’s lap as they stumbled back onto the mattress. His mouth was hot and insistent, teeth catching Steve’s lip like he was starving.

Steve groaned, muffled against Eddie’s mouth. “Jesus, Munson, at least let me get my shoes off before you try to eat my face.”

Not that he was complaining. Much.

Because Eddie was shaking. Beneath all the laughter, beneath the frantic press of his lips and hands tugging at Steve’s shirt, he was trembling. And Steve recognized it instantly: the crash, the fallout of too much adrenaline, too much crowd, too much spotlight. He’d seen it before... after too many nights Eddie pushed himself past the limit, pretending he wasn’t bone-deep exhausted until it all spilled out in the dark.

So yeah, Steve knew exactly what this was.

He let Eddie kiss him rough for another few seconds, let him burn some of that frantic energy out, then flipped them easily, rolling Eddie onto his back and pinning him there with a knee between his thighs.

Eddie gasped, half in surprise, half in need, eyes wide and wild in the neon glow filtering through the blinds. Steve pressed his mouth down, kissing him slower this time — long, steady and deliberate. Eddie writhed, impatient, hands clawing at his shoulders, but Steve just kept him anchored, palms firm against Eddie’s chest.

“Breathe, Eds,” Steve murmured against his lips. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

Eddie made a frustrated sound, half-growl, half-whimper. His fingers curled into Steve’s hair like he wanted to yank, like he needed the sting of it. Steve let him, let the pull sharpen the edge of everything, but he didn’t speed up, didn’t give in.

Because Eddie didn’t need chaos right now. He needed grounding.

And if there was one thing Steve Harrington had gotten stupidly good at, it was pulling Eddie back from the edge... holding him steady when his head went too dark, grounding him without smothering, making sure he never slipped too far away.

He kissed Eddie’s jaw, down the line of his throat, tasting salt and eyeliner smudge, the bitter tang of nicotine that still clung to his skin. Eddie’s breath hitched, chest rising fast beneath Steve’s hands.

“Steve—” His voice cracked, rough and desperate. “Need you.”

Steve pulled back just enough to look at him, really look. Eddie’s eyes were glassy in the neon light, dark and too bright all at once. His lips were kiss-swollen, his hair a mess against the motel pillow, and he looked wrecked in a way that made something in Steve’s chest twist tight.

“What do you need?” Steve asked softly, brushing his thumb across Eddie’s cheekbone.

Eddie’s throat worked as he swallowed, eyes flicking away for half a second before he dragged them back. “Need you to—fuck, Steve—need you to love me tonight.”

Steve’s brain short-circuited for a beat, like someone had yanked the plug out of the socket.

Love me tonight.

Not fuck me, not wreck me, not even Eddie’s usual, half-joking, “Come on, Harrington, show me what those jock hips are good for.” None of that. This was rawer, quieter, and somehow ten times louder than the cheering crowd had been an hour ago.

“Always do,” Steve said, before his brain could get in the way, before his defenses could kick up with sarcasm. It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t even smooth. It just fell out of him, unpolished, like every other thing he ever really meant.

Eddie made a noise — half relief, half disbelief — and Steve kissed him again, sealing it down.

But he didn’t dive straight in. Couldn’t. Not with Eddie still buzzing like a live wire underneath him. His pulse was staccato-fast where Steve’s palm pressed to his chest, the beat so sharp Steve swore he could feel it in his own ribs.

“Okay,” Steve muttered, more to himself than Eddie. He brushed sweaty strands of hair off Eddie’s forehead, let his thumb linger against his temple. “Okay, we’re slowing this down.”

Eddie groaned, impatient, but Steve only smirked faintly. “Don’t pout. You’re too pretty to waste it.”

And yeah, that earned him the tiniest laugh, shaky and broken, but it was a start.

So Steve got to work.

He started with Eddie’s face, because it felt like the obvious place to remind him he wasn’t just a blur of stage lights and noise. Steve kissed his forehead, his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose. He pressed his lips to each cheekbone, lingered there until Eddie’s breathing eased from frantic gasps into something more manageable.

“You’re here,” Steve murmured against his skin. “With me. Just me.”

Eddie’s hands twitched where they clung to Steve’s shoulders, restless still, but his eyes cracked open. They were wide and wet, shining in the slice of neon from the window.

“Steve…” he breathed, fragile in a way that hit Steve right in the gut.

“Yeah,” Steve whispered back, kissing the corner of his mouth before pulling down his jawline, slow as a prayer. “Right here.”

His lips trailed down Eddie’s throat, pausing at the pulse hammering there. He sucked lightly, enough to ground, not enough to mark. Eddie shivered, his throat working as he swallowed hard. Steve smoothed his hands down, following the line of Eddie’s arms, pinning him to the mattress only long enough for Eddie to feel the weight of him. To know he wasn’t going anywhere.

He pulled Eddie’s wrists gently above his head, threading their fingers together. “Hold on,” Steve said, voice low. “Just to me.”

Eddie whimpered — an honest to god whimper — and Steve almost lost his cool right there. But he breathed through it, kissed Eddie’s knuckles one by one, dragging the pace down. Every second another chance for Eddie’s pulse to come down from the stratosphere.

Then Steve went lower.

He kissed Eddie’s collarbones, open-mouthed and reverent, tasting salt and sweat. He mouthed at the hollow of his throat, then traced the jagged scar near his left shoulder — the one Eddie always half-hid without realizing. Steve lingered there, pressing his lips against the raised skin like it was something holy.

“You’re beautiful,” he muttered against it, not even caring how cheesy it sounded.

Eddie’s body jolted like he didn’t believe it. Like the word didn’t belong to him. Steve hated that. Hated that the world had made him doubt it.

So he doubled down.

He worshiped every inch, taking his time, dragging Eddie out of the storm one kiss at a time. His mouth moved down his chest, over every rib, every plane of pale skin. He marked a trail across his stomach, slow and steady, while his hands mapped the rest of him — thumbs brushing scars, palms flattening over twitching muscles, fingertips ghosting at the edges of the tattoos inked into his skin.

Each time Eddie tried to buck up, restless, Steve anchored him back down with a hand against his hip, steady pressure that said not yet, I’ve got you, trust me.

“Relax,” Steve coaxed, lips brushing Eddie’s skin just above his waistband. “Let me take care of you, okay?”

Eddie let out a shuddering laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “You make it sound like I’m fragile.”

Steve looked up at him then, sharp and sure, his mouth still against Eddie’s skin. “You’re not fragile,” he said. “But you’re mine. And that means I get to do this.”

Whatever this was... Steve didn’t even know the right word. Worship felt too big and too churchy, and he hadn’t set foot in a church since his mom forced him into a suit for Christmas Eve Mass back in ’79. But it was close. It was something like that.

Because the way Eddie looked at him right now: like he was terrified of being seen and desperate for it at the same time... yeah, Steve was gonna fall on his knees about it if he wasn’t careful.

So he kept going, taking Eddie apart without even needing to get him naked all the way yet. His tongue traced the edge of his hipbone, his lips lingered on the sharp angle of it, and Eddie’s whole body arched.

“Steve…” His voice cracked again, hoarse and high. His fingers tugged helplessly at the sheets, like he didn’t know what else to grab.

Steve kissed lower, not rushing, just pressing reverent, grounding kisses to the inside of his thighs, one after the other. He held Eddie’s gaze while he did it, let him see how serious he was about this.

“You still buzzing?” Steve asked quietly. “Still up there on stage?”

Eddie’s laugh broke mid-breath, shaky and soft. “A little.”

“Yeah, I can tell.” Steve kissed the next inch down, lips brushing tender skin, and Eddie hissed. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you back down.”

And he meant it.

Not just because he wanted Eddie calm, not just because he wanted to make him feel good... but because Steve needed him to believe it. That someone could see all of him — the mania, the mess, the aftershocks — and still want to kiss every inch of him anyway.

Steve had meant to stop at Eddie’s knees, give him a second to breathe. But then Eddie shifted, the thin cotton of his boxers pulling tight over him, and Steve lost the thread of his own good intentions.

Jesus Christ, Harrington. Focus. He asked you to love him, not eat him alive. Except, apparently, those two things weren’t mutually exclusive.

Steve kissed higher, brushing his mouth over the tender inside of Eddie’s thigh, just shy of where the fabric strained. Eddie jolted, a choked noise breaking out of him. His hands came down, not to push Steve away, but to clutch at his hair like he’d drown without the anchor.

“Easy,” Steve said, voice low, rough around the edges. He slid his palms up Eddie’s thighs, spreading them, grounding him again. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Eddie made a desperate, half-laughing sound, his head falling back against the pillow. “You—fuck, you always say that—”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s true,” Steve muttered, nosing along the line where skin met fabric. He pressed a kiss there, then another, deliberately slow. “And you need to hear it. Every time.”

Eddie’s breath stuttered. His thighs trembled, trying to close around Steve’s shoulders, but Steve held him steady, coaxing, not forcing.

“Steve…” Eddie gasped, voice cracking again.

Steve glanced up at him, at the wild, glassy look in his eyes, the way his curls were plastered to his forehead. He was beautiful in the messy, unbearable way that made Steve’s chest ache.

“Breathe,” Steve reminded him softly, then hooked his fingers in the waistband of Eddie’s boxers. He didn’t pull yet, just let the fabric snap lightly against Eddie’s hipbone. “Can I?”

Eddie’s nod was frantic, almost panicked, like if Steve didn’t move right now he might combust.

“Use your words, Eds.”

“Yes,” Eddie hissed, the word punched out of him. “God, yes.”

Steve slid the boxers down slowly, dragging the elastic over sharp hips, down shaky thighs, until Eddie was bare beneath him. He tossed them aside and looked — really looked — because he figured if Eddie was going to let him have this, the least he could do was treat it like something worth more than a glance.

And yeah, Steve was done for. Every inch of Eddie — skin flushed pink, chest rising fast, cock hard and leaking against his stomach — was just him. Not the guy the crowd screamed for. Not the manic blur on stage. Just Eddie, laid out, asking to be loved.

“Fuck,” Steve whispered before he could stop himself. “You’re unreal.”

Eddie made a sound halfway between a protest and a plea, covering his face with his hands like he couldn’t stand being seen.

“Nope.” Steve tugged his wrists away, pinning them back to the mattress. “Don’t you dare hide from me now. You hear me?”

Eddie blinked up at him, helpless, and Steve softened instantly. He bent down, kissed his lips slow, then his throat again, then lower, retracing his path with more purpose this time.

When Steve’s mouth closed over him — slow, steady, no theatrics — Eddie gasped so loud it bordered on a sob. His hips tried to lift, frantic, but Steve pressed a hand to his stomach, holding him down.

“Relax,” Steve said around him, words muffled, the vibration making Eddie shudder. “I’ve got you.”

It wasn’t about showing off. Steve didn’t care if he was good at this or not. What mattered was the way Eddie’s fists twisted in the sheets, the way his whole body arched but stayed tethered under Steve’s steady hands.

Every time Eddie’s breath hitched, Steve slowed down. Every time Eddie whimpered, Steve swallowed deeper, until the sharp edges of panic in him blurred into something softer, wetter, more desperate.

“Stevie, please—” Eddie’s voice cracked. He tugged at Steve’s hair, not to push him away, but like he needed to hold on to reality itself. “I—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Steve said, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips wet against Eddie’s thigh. He stroked him with his hand instead, gentle, coaxing. “You don’t have to be on stage right now. You don’t have to prove shit. Just be here with me.”

Eddie’s laugh was broken, almost hysterical, but he choked on it, clutching harder at Steve’s shoulder. “You’re—god, you’re killing me.”

Steve smirked faintly, because yeah, that sounded about right. “Nah. I’m saving you.”

Then he leaned back down, mouth wrapping around him again, this time even slower, dragging it out until Eddie’s head thrashed against the pillow. His thighs trembled around Steve’s shoulders, but not in panic anymore. This was surrender.

And Steve worshiped that, too.

Every flick of his tongue, every hum in his throat, every squeeze of his fingers on Eddie’s hips was one long, unspoken I love you. I love you. I love you.

By the time Steve finally pulled back again, Eddie was flushed to the roots of his hair, sweat shining across his chest. His breathing was wrecked, but steadier than before, the edge of frantic energy softened into something pliant.

Steve kissed the inside of his thigh one last time, then crawled up his body, bracing himself over him.

“There you are,” Steve murmured, brushing damp curls off his forehead. “Told you I’d get you back down.”

Eddie laughed, weak and hoarse, like Steve had punched the air out of him. He cupped Steve’s face with trembling hands and dragged him down into another kiss, desperate but grateful, clinging like Steve was the only solid thing left in the world.

And maybe he was.

Steve could feel Eddie’s pulse hammering through his hands where they pressed into his cheeks. His curls were damp against his forehead, lips swollen from kissing, but his eyes — wide, pleading, wild around the edges — were what caught Steve, held him still.

“Steve,” Eddie rasped, voice shredded from the stage and now from this, “please.”

Steve leaned his forehead to his, breathing him in. “Yeah. I know.”

He kissed him again, slower, and Eddie clung harder, legs winding around Steve’s waist like he was afraid he might vanish if he let go.

And God, Steve wanted to give him everything. But he forced himself to move carefully, tugging open the nightstand drawer, finding the little bottle and condom they’d stashed there earlier. His hands shook — not with nerves, exactly, but with the pressure of doing this right. Eddie deserved better than fumbling.

“Hey,” Steve said when he caught Eddie watching him with that frantic look again, like he was vibrating out of his skin. Steve pressed their foreheads together once more. “You don’t have to rush. We’ve got all night.”

Eddie laughed, high and broken. “That’s the problem. I—I don’t wanna wait. I want—fuck, I need—”

Steve kissed him quiet. “I know what you need.”

And he did. He knew Eddie better than Eddie thought.

Steve slicked his fingers, heart thumping loud enough he thought maybe Eddie could hear it. He kissed him through the first slow stretch, swallowed the little choked noises that burst out of him, whispered steadying nonsense — “Breathe, I’ve got you, you’re doing so good.” Every word seemed to melt Eddie further into the mattress, each exhale less jagged than the one before.

When Eddie finally relaxed enough to take him without tensing, Steve froze, looking down at him. His pupils were blown wide, curls plastered to his temples, mouth parted like he’d forgotten how to shut it.

“You’re perfect,” Steve said before his brain could intercept the thought. He winced. “Sorry. Corny as hell.”

Eddie laughed, then gasped when Steve twisted his fingers just right. “Shut up, Harrington. Don’t stop.”

Steve didn’t.

By the time he rolled the condom on, Eddie was wrecked beneath him, chest rising in sharp bursts, thighs trembling but loose now, open in a way that made Steve’s throat tighten.

“You sure?” Steve asked, one last out, because if Eddie hesitated even a little, he’d stop. No question.

But Eddie surged up, dragged Steve into a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. “Yes. Need you. Please.”

So Steve lined up and pressed in, slow, steady, every inch a test of patience he didn’t know he had until now. Eddie’s nails dug into his shoulders, breath punched out of him in broken gasps, but he didn’t pull away. He just clung harder, legs wrapping tight, chest pressed flush to Steve’s.

“Jesus,” Steve whispered against his jaw, shaking with the effort of holding still. “You’re—fuck—you’re everything.”

Eddie made a guttural sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and kissed him again, messy and uncoordinated, like he couldn’t get close enough.

Steve moved only when Eddie did — when he rocked his hips, impatient, silently begging for more. And even then, Steve kept it measured, unhurried, each thrust deliberate. Not because he didn’t want to lose himself, but because Eddie needed something different tonight. Not frenzy. Not chaos. Just… love.

And God, Steve had never been good at saying it out loud. But he could say it like this, in the way his thumb stroked Eddie’s hip, in the way his kisses dragged across his throat, in the way he kept whispering breathe, I’ve got you, you’re safe.

It hit Steve halfway through that Eddie was crying... quietly, not sobbing, but tears tracking into his hairline as he held on.

“Eds,” Steve murmured, kissing them away, panic catching in his chest. “Am I—are you—?”

“I’m okay,” Eddie gasped, clinging tighter. “Better than okay. Just—fuck—too much.” He laughed through another tear, wild and shaky. “You’re killing me.”

Steve kissed him harder. “Nah. Saving you, remember?”

Eddie broke apart under him then, the frantic edges dissolving into something softer, surrendering completely as Steve carried them through.

When Eddie finally came, it was with a shudder that shook through his whole body, muffled into Steve’s shoulder as if the world didn’t need to hear it. Steve followed a moment later, buried in him, clutching him like he might never let go.

They stayed tangled for a long time, both too spent to move, Steve whispering quiet nonsense into Eddie’s hair until his breathing evened out again.

Eventually, Steve pulled out gently, cleaned them up with the tissues he could reach, then collapsed back beside him on the sagging mattress. Eddie immediately rolled into his chest, curling like he wanted to disappear inside him.

Steve wrapped his arms around him and stared at the flickering neon glow bleeding through the curtains.

“Not exactly five-star luxury,” Steve muttered, kissing the top of Eddie’s head. “Pretty sure I’m gonna smell like cigarette ash and bad carpet for the rest of the week.”

Eddie huffed a laugh against his chest, voice hoarse. “Shut up. You love it.”

Steve thought about denying it, but the truth swelled too warm in his chest. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Guess I do.”

Eddie shifted, tilting his head up to look at him. His eyes were red, lashes clumped, but softer now. 

“Thanks,” he whispered, like Steve had just done him a favor instead of what they both knew it really was.

Steve brushed damp curls off his forehead, leaned down to kiss him slow. “Anytime. Always.”

And yeah, maybe none of the songs were about him. Maybe the world would never see this version of Eddie — the raw, trembling, undone mess curled against Steve’s chest.

But Steve did. Steve got all of it.

Chapter Text

TRACK 03 – “Shadow Lullaby” (1992)

Steve sat on the edge of the bed like he’d been planted there, Rolling Stone half-open in his hands. Not even a new issue — creased spine, somebody’s initials scribbled in blue pen across the cover. Probably swiped from the lobby stack Eddie had breezed past this morning. The beige wallpaper behind him hummed with nothingness, the kind of generic hotel backdrop that made you forget what city you were even in.

Eddie was pacing in front of the mirror, eyeliner pencil gripped like a conductor’s baton. He had one shoe on, one socked foot tapping restlessly on the ugly carpet, and a cigarette balanced in the corner of his mouth.

“Tell me,” Eddie muttered around the filter, leaning too close to the glass as he dragged a smudge of black under his lashes, “do I look like a brooding genius or like I just haven’t slept in three days?”

Steve flipped a page without reading it. “Newsflash: both can be true.”

Eddie grinned at his reflection, unbothered, and started humming. The melody was familiar: the opening chords of Shadow Lullaby. Tender, aching. The one already stuck in Steve’s head, even though he’d only heard the rough cut half a dozen times.

He swallowed, eyes fixed on the magazine but seeing something else: every DJ, every MTV VJ, every wide-eyed reporter leaning in to ask Eddie who the song was about. Some mysterious woman, probably. Maybe a lost love, a muse. Not Steve. Not ever Steve.

“Shoes,” Eddie barked suddenly, spinning on his heel. “Where the hell are my—”

Steve sighed, crouched down, shoved his hand under the bed. His fingers closed on leather. He tugged out the missing boot and lobbed it across the room. Eddie snatched it mid-air, cigarette ash scattering down his bare chest.

“You’d lose your own head if it wasn’t glued on,” Steve muttered.

“Which is why I keep you around, big boy,” Eddie shot back, planting a quick kiss on Steve’s cheek without even looking. Just a casual brush, automatic. Then he was back at the mirror, tongue poking between his teeth as he smudged eyeliner like the fate of the world depended on it.

Steve closed the magazine and tossed it aside. The bedspread was a mess of reds and pinks, the floral pattern so loud it almost drowned out the sound of Eddie humming. Almost.

He rubbed at his jaw, watching the reflection instead of the real thing. Eddie in motion, Eddie vibrating with nervous energy. The pacing wasn’t nerves — at least not the kind Steve recognized — it was more like Eddie was winding himself up, coil by coil, so that by the time they dropped him in front of cameras, he’d explode in just the right direction.

And Steve would be the shadow on the sidelines, clapping when appropriate, staying out of the way. Proud, yeah. Always proud. But already bracing for the way people would talk about the song.

Some journalist would lean forward, all faux-sympathy, and ask Eddie about the heartbreak behind Shadow Lullaby. Eddie would smirk, toss out something evasive, and the whole country would decide it was about some mystery girl who broke his heart in a way that made for great radio.

And Steve... he’d nod along, pretend it didn’t sting, pretend he wasn’t right there when Eddie first played the chords in a motel room a year ago, humming until his voice cracked. Pretend the song hadn’t been born out of nights exactly like that one.

“Earth to Harrington.”

Steve blinked. Eddie was right in front of him now, one boot half-laced, cigarette stubbed out in the bathroom sink. His hair was half-wild, half-tamed into something MTV might call artfully disheveled.

“What?” Steve asked.

“You spaced,” Eddie said, crouching to grab the lace he’d already dropped. “Thinking about ditching me for a drummer? Brutal, man.”

Steve snorted. “Please. Like you’d survive a week without me finding your crap under the bed.”

“Romantic,” Eddie deadpanned, but his grin betrayed him.

Steve grinned back, softer, then looked away before it could turn into more. Because the truth was, it was romantic, in the dumbest, smallest ways — the shoe hunts, the cigarette stubs, the casual kisses without thought. Things no one else saw. Things no one else would ever hear in the songs.

And Steve told himself, like he always did, that it was enough.

§

The van smelled like stale coffee and somebody’s fries from last night, a perfume that stuck to the vinyl seats no matter how many windows you cracked. Not that they could crack them now — blackout tint all around, so the four of them rode in this weird, dim cocoon while Indianapolis blurred by outside.

The radio fuzzed in and out until the driver finally landed on something steady — Smells Like Teen Spirit, blasting, Kurt Cobain’s voice grainy and raw through the cheap speakers. Eddie snorted, low behind his sunglasses.

“Bet the station’s gonna ask me if I feel threatened by grunge,” he muttered, stretching his legs so his boot nudged Steve’s ankle. “Like metal’s supposed to curl up and die ‘cause Seattle’s having a moment.”

“Don’t give ‘em the satisfaction,” Jeff piped up from the bench behind them, picking at a loose thread on his flannel. “They’ll cut your quote into some dumb headline anyway.”

“‘Munson Declares War on Nirvana,’” Gareth added, voice pitched like a news anchor. “Coming soon to a gas station tabloid near you.”

They all laughed, and Eddie leaned sideways until his shoulder pressed into Steve’s. He was humming under his breath again, and yeah, it was Shadow Lullaby. Because apparently Steve wasn’t tortured enough.

“Should I be taking notes,” Steve drawled, eyes on the ceiling, “in case you dedicate this one to your mystery girlfriend on-air?”

That got a bark of laughter from Eddie. He flicked his cigarette ash into an empty McDonald’s cup and smirked. “Relax, Harrington, the muse is strictly theoretical.”

Steve smiled, because that was the script. He was supposed to smile. But deep down, there it was: that quiet pang, the little sting in his ribs that always showed up when Eddie put the mask on. Strictly theoretical. Right. Except Steve was sitting right here, real enough to bruise, trying not to want what he couldn’t have.

He tipped his head back, let the van’s ceiling blur into beige nothingness. He didn’t need the spotlight, didn’t need the interviews or the fans or the screaming. He just needed Eddie to keep choosing him once the mics were off.

“Besides,” Eddie said after a beat, shoving his sunglasses down to peer over them, “what girl would even put up with me chain-smoking in the shower and leaving guitar picks in the peanut butter jar?”

“Man’s got a point,” Gareth said. “You’re basically un-dateable.”

“Thanks, dude. Love you too.” Eddie flipped him off good-naturedly, then let his hand fall until his pinky brushed against Steve’s. A tiny thing, hidden in the shadows of the van, but enough to steady Steve’s chest.

It didn’t last, though.

Because Jeff cleared his throat and muttered, “They’ll probably ask again today. About the song. About, you know, who it’s for.”

Silence stretched. The kind that got heavy fast. Steve kept his eyes glued to the roof, jaw tight.

“They always ask,” Eddie said finally. The humor had slipped, even if his smirk was still technically there. “And I always say the same thing.”

“Which is safer,” Gareth jumped in quickly, his drumsticks clicking together like nervous punctuation. “Safer for everyone.”

Eddie shot him a look, but Jeff nodded in agreement. “Dude, it sucks, but… this is Indiana. Half the country, really. You say the wrong thing, you don’t just tank your career. You drag us down with you. And the crew. The label.”

Steve flinched, just barely. He knew all that. He’d always known. Hell, he’d been the one insisting Eddie shouldn’t feel guilty for keeping his mouth shut. He wasn’t stupid: this wasn’t New York, it wasn’t L.A. Two guys holding hands here didn’t mean brave, it meant target.

Still, hearing it out loud? The reminder that Eddie had to pretend, that they had to pretend... it carved a hollow under Steve’s ribs.

Eddie must’ve felt it, because he nudged Steve’s knee with his own and said, lighter now, “Don’t worry, big boy. The world can think whatever it wants. I know the truth. That’s enough.”

Steve let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He angled his head just enough to meet Eddie’s smirk.

“Yeah,” he said, quiet but steady. “That’s enough.”

Jeff drummed his fingers against the seat, breaking the moment. “Hey, anyone else starving? We should’ve stopped for food before this circus.”

“Better not let Eddie near another Big Mac,” Gareth teased. “Last time he almost puked in my cymbal case.”

“Rock and roll, baby,” Eddie declared, voice theatrical again, mask firmly back in place.

The van filled with laughter, and Steve let it wash over him, choosing — for now — to believe Eddie’s words.

§

The radio station smelled like burnt coffee and marker ink, the kind that bled through posters tacked up all over the beige walls — Metallica, Guns N’ Roses, Aerosmith, and a sun-faded Van Halen cutout peeling at the edges. The green room buzzed with the low murmur of techs setting levels, the scuff of cables dragged across linoleum. Steve stood off to the side with his arms crossed, invisible to everyone but Eddie.

Not that Eddie looked his way — he was already in performance mode, pacing the length of the couch with his guitar strap twisted around his wrist. Jeff sat at the edge of the couch, bouncing one knee, while Gareth drummed out some nervous rhythm against a Styrofoam cup. Grant leaned back with his arms spread like he was trying to look cool and not entirely succeeding. They were all pretending this was routine.

The DJ finally swept in: a guy with feathered hair that looked a couple years out of date and a blazer that had shoulder pads big enough to count as a weapon.

“Alright, fellas,” he said, booming voice made for FM radio. “We’re live in three, so let’s keep it tight. First off—hell of a year for Corroded Coffin. Third album on the way, you’ve come a long way from those little bars back in—what was it? Hawkins? ’86, ’87?”

“’87,” Gareth said quickly, leaning toward the mic. “Though Eddie was probably sneaking into bars to play before that.”

Eddie grinned, tapping the body of his guitar. “What can I say? The stage and I had an early love affair.”

The DJ laughed too loud, feeding off the room’s energy. “And now look at you—national tours, real airplay, the whole deal. That new single’s been on rotation all week. People can’t get enough of it. Shadow Lullaby.” He stretched out the syllables like he owned them. “Tell me, Eddie, what’s the story there?”

Steve felt his chest tighten, but Eddie only tilted his sunglasses down an inch and said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The room chuckled. Dodge and weave. That was Eddie’s specialty.

They kept up the dance: questions about the tour, about how it felt to be playing bigger venues, about opening acts and whether they’d ever share a bill with Metallica. Jeff handled the business talk, steady as always, while Gareth cracked jokes about hotel disasters, and Grant tossed in the occasional deadpan line that got everyone laughing harder than expected. Eddie played ringmaster, charming and irreverent, swinging the spotlight like it was just another instrument.

And then came the cue.

The DJ leaned toward him with a smile sharpened like a knife. “Alright, folks, you’re in for a treat—live in studio, Corroded Coffin, giving us a stripped-down version of their brand-new single, Shadow Lullaby.”

Steve uncrossed his arms without meaning to, palms suddenly clammy. He hated this part — not the music, never the music, but the way it cracked him open when Eddie sang like that.

Eddie shifted the guitar into place, fingers ghosting over the strings, and when he looked up, his eyes — barely visible past the tinted lenses — found Steve. Just for a second. Like a secret handshake no one else knew existed.

Then he started to play.

The melody came low, almost delicate, the distortion stripped away so the edges felt sharper, more intimate. Eddie’s voice wrapped around the room, softer than the swagger he usually carried onstage.

“In the dark I found a shadow,
restless hands that pulled me near.
Whispered truths I couldn’t follow,
songs that only I could hear…”

Steve swallowed hard. God, it hurt. Tender but haunting, yeah, that was exactly it. A song that sounded like it was for some ghostly woman, a memory half-lost in smoke. Not him. Never him. Except—he knew those words. He knew where they came from. He could hear himself in every line, even if no one else would.

By the time Eddie reached the chorus, even the techs had stopped moving around.

“Sing me down, sweet shadow lullaby,
Keep me safe until the morning sky.
If the night won’t give me rest,
Your song will do the rest.”

Steve’s chest ached. He told himself it was pride — because Jesus, listen to that, listen to how good he was, how the whole room bent toward him without even realizing it. Pride, not envy. Pride, not longing.

When the last note faded, the room erupted: applause, whistles, the DJ slapping the table like he’d just seen God. Eddie just smirked, bowing his head slightly, fingers still buzzing on the strings.

“Beautiful,” the DJ said, all syrup and showmanship. “Absolutely beautiful. You boys are gonna own the airwaves with that one.” Then, quick as a knife, he leaned in. “So, Eddie. Be honest with us. Who’s the girl?”

The room tensed, almost imperceptibly, but Steve felt it ripple like static. Eddie’s grin didn’t falter.

“Come on,” the DJ pressed. “Don’t leave us hanging. Is it about a lost love? Some mystery woman back home? Give us a name—our listeners are dying to know.”

Steve’s arms folded again, tighter this time. Good, he thought. Keep them guessing. Let them make up their stories. Let them think it’s about anyone else.

Eddie leaned into the mic, exaggeratedly thoughtful. “Well, see, if I gave you a name, it wouldn’t be much of a mystery anymore, would it?”

Laughter rippled through the studio, but Eddie wasn’t done. He added, with a wink, “Songs don’t always have to be about someone real. Sometimes it’s just a feeling. Sometimes it’s… strictly theoretical.”

Steve felt the words hit like a stone dropped in water. Theoretical. There it was again, the wall, the smoke and mirrors. He forced a smile he didn’t feel, even as the applause rose again and the DJ switched to another question.

And Eddie, cool as ever, rode the wave.

Steve stayed in the corner, silent, invisible, and wondered—when was it going to be enough?

§

The dressing room looked like it hadn’t seen a mop since Watergate. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, a faint flicker that made the peeling posters of Guns N’ Roses and Ratt look even sadder. The carpet smelled vaguely like old beer and Aqua Net.

Steve barely had time to take it all in before Eddie shoved him hard against the door. The slam rattled the frame. Steve barked out a laugh that broke into a gasp when Eddie’s mouth crashed against his, teeth and tongue all at once.

“Jesus, Eds—” Steve managed between kisses, “they’re gonna think I’m your dealer or something.”

Eddie didn’t answer. His mouth was hot, messy, desperate, his hands already fisting in Steve’s hair and tugging. The sunglasses he’d been wearing indoors clattered to the sticky floor.

Steve let himself be kissed breathless, let Eddie grind into him like he was trying to fuse them into one person. He yanked at Eddie’s curls until Eddie groaned, the sound low and needy.

“You’re outta your mind,” Steve rasped, forehead bumping Eddie’s.

“Mm. Lucky for you,” Eddie muttered, dragging lips down Steve’s throat, teeth grazing his skin.

Steve wanted to crack a joke back, something sarcastic, but it stuck in his throat. Because there was something in Eddie’s urgency that wasn’t just post-show adrenaline. Something sharper, like Eddie had walked offstage with the weight of every dodged question burning under his skin and now Steve was where he’d decided to prove himself.

And hell, maybe Steve needed that. Needed this. Because Eddie had laughed off the DJ earlier, tossed out strictly theoretical like it was nothing, while Steve stood invisible in the corner, pretending it didn’t sting. Pretending it didn’t matter that the world would never know.

But now Eddie shoved him harder against the door, breath hot in his ear, and whispered, “You’re mine, remember?”

Eddie didn’t give him time to answer. He pushed forward, crowding Steve until his back scraped the door, thigh wedging between Steve’s legs, grinding up into him with a friction that made Steve’s breath hitch. His rings were cold against Steve’s scalp where his fingers threaded through hair.

Steve groaned, hips jerking helplessly. “Fuck—Eds—”

Eddie pulled back just enough to smirk, pupils blown wide, curls wild. “Say it.”

Steve’s mouth was dry. “Say what?”

“That you know.” Eddie’s voice was rough, low, dangerous in a way that wasn’t about threat but about honesty. “That you know who the hell I belong to.”

Steve’s stomach flipped. He grabbed Eddie’s jaw, kissed him hard enough to bruise. When he pulled back, he said it, hoarse and certain: “Me. You’re mine.”

The grin Eddie gave him was feral. “Atta boy.”

Before he could reply, Eddie dropped to his knees.

Steve startled, heartbeat kicking into his throat. “Jesus Christ—”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered, tugging at his belt with frantic hands. “Door’s locked.”

Steve laughed shakily, nerves buzzing. “God, you’re insane.”

“Insane for you,” Eddie shot back without missing a beat, looking up at him with wild eyes as he got Steve’s jeans open. “Deal with it.”

Steve tried to protest, tried to steady Eddie’s wrist. “Eds, you don’t have to—”

But Eddie only grinned, feral and sharp. “Not about have to. About want to. About need to. Let me.”

Then his mouth was on Steve, not gentle, not coaxing — open and demanding, like he was offering himself as something Steve was supposed to use.

Steve froze, torn clean in half. His gut twisted at the thought. He’d never—Christ, it felt wrong, like taking advantage. His hands hovered in Eddie’s hair, not pulling, not guiding. “Eds, I can’t—”

Eddie pulled off with a slick pop, eyes blazing. “You can. You’re going to. You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You think I don’t want this?” His hands clamped onto Steve’s hips, bruising. “I belong to you, Harrington. So prove it.”

The words made Steve’s chest cave in. His instinct was to shake his head, to say no, to insist he’d never make Eddie into something cheap. But the raw conviction in Eddie’s face, the way his voice cracked on belong... Steve felt the fight draining out of him. Maybe this wasn’t about degradation. Maybe it was about Eddie needing to show Steve he wasn’t some theoretical muse on the radio. He was flesh and bone and devotion, kneeling right here.

Steve’s hands finally sank into his curls, tentative, trembling. Eddie smirked like he’d won something. Then Steve guided, gently at first, just enough to feel Eddie’s mouth yield, hot and wet around him.

“Fuck,” Steve gasped, head thudding back against the door.

Eddie groaned around him, the sound vibrating deep. He leaned into Steve’s grip, let himself be pulled, controlled, demanded. His nails dug crescents into Steve’s thighs, urging him on, urging him to take what Eddie was offering.

Steve’s body burned with contradiction: shame at the idea of using him, relief at Eddie’s insistence, want so fierce it felt like drowning.

“Eds, I—God, you’re really—” Steve’s voice broke. His hips bucked despite himself, shallow thrusts into Eddie’s mouth, and Eddie welcomed it, eyes closed, lashes dark and damp.

Steve groaned, tugging Eddie’s curls hard enough to draw another rough sound from him. “This is insane.”

Eddie’s answer was a deep swallow, like agreement. 

Steve let out a helpless, broken laugh, his other hand flying to the back of Eddie’s head, holding him there as the rhythm built, sharper, faster, until the shame was swallowed whole by raw need. Eddie wanted this. Eddie needed this. And Steve—Steve needed to believe him.

“Christ, Eds, I’m—” The words strangled in his throat as heat spiked, overwhelming. His knees nearly gave out.

When release hit, it was with a groan that shook through his chest, his fingers fisted tight in Eddie’s hair. Eddie took it all, stubborn, devoted, refusing to pull away until Steve sagged against the door, panting, wrung out and stunned.

Eddie pulled back slowly, lips wet, chin slick, eyes shining with satisfaction. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned crookedly. “Convinced yet?”

Steve blinked down at him, dazed. “You’re—fuck—you’re a menace.”

Eddie pushed up onto his feet, pressing close, mouth brushing Steve’s jaw. Softer now, almost tender. “Yeah. But I’m your menace. Always yours.”

Steve’s forehead dropped to Eddie’s shoulder, breath shaky. The words rattled around his chest, settling into places he hadn’t wanted to admit were aching.

The song wasn’t about him. Not on paper. Not to the world. But here — Eddie trembling with adrenaline, lips still swollen, voice raw with certainty — this was enough.

Maybe more than enough.

And Steve wasn’t ready to let it end just yet.

The dressing room was still humming with the leftover static of the fluorescent light, like it didn’t know the show was over. Steve was slumped against the door, catching his breath, when Eddie leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth. His lips were swollen, chin still slick, and Christ—Steve’s heart did a weird little flip that had nothing to do with the fact that his knees were jelly.

“You’re mine,” Eddie whispered again, quieter now, almost smug.

Steve huffed out a laugh, trying to shake it off. “Yeah, yeah. Keep saying it like you’re branding me.”

“Not branding,” Eddie said, curling a hand around his jaw. “Claiming.”

That should’ve been enough. That was enough. Except Steve’s body was buzzing, restless, and his brain — traitorous as always — latched onto an idea that made his stomach twist and heat at the same time. Eddie had just proved himself, shoved it down Steve’s throat (literally) until Steve couldn’t doubt him anymore. But maybe it was Steve’s turn. Maybe Steve needed Eddie to feel it too — that he wasn’t some footnote hiding in the green room shadows, that he belonged to Steve just as much as Steve belonged to him.

The thought made him bold, braver than he usually was. He pushed Eddie back a step, watching his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What if,” Steve started, voice a little too shaky for the swagger he was aiming for, “I wanted you on top?”

Eddie blinked. Then grinned slow, sharp. “Oh, Stevie. Look at you. Mr. Harrington with a request.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but his pulse was hammering. “Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird. That’s the fun.” Eddie kissed him again, fast and messy, before tugging at his shirt. “You serious?”

Steve’s throat bobbed. “Yeah. I’m serious.”

It didn’t take long before Eddie had him half-naked on the ratty couch shoved in the corner. Steve lay back against the threadbare upholstery, the springs creaking under his weight. His jeans were shoved down around his ankles, and Eddie was straddling his thighs, curls wild, eyes dark like some feral thing perched above him.

Steve swallowed hard. This wasn’t a fantasy anymore, it was happening. And damn if it didn’t make his chest ache with wanting.

“God, you’re—” Steve’s voice cracked, and he tried again, softer. “You’re unreal.”

Eddie snorted. “Yeah, that’s me. Straight out of your fever dream.”

“More like nightmare,” Steve shot back, lips twitching. But his hands were trembling when he touched Eddie’s waist, fingers splaying against warm skin as if to prove to himself this was real.

Eddie rocked against him, slow and teasing, making Steve groan.

And that’s when the panic hit: sharp and sudden, cutting through the haze. Because Steve wasn’t Eddie. Steve wasn’t the reckless one who threw himself headfirst into things and laughed later. Steve cared too much about breaking people — breaking him.

He sat up a little, hand tightening on Eddie’s hip. “Wait.”

Eddie stilled instantly, scanning his face. “Too much?”

“No, it’s just—” Steve dragged a hand over his face, heat crawling up his neck. “I don’t… I don’t want you to think I’m—fuck, I don’t know—using you or something. This isn’t about, like, control. Or some macho bullshit. I just—” He exhaled hard, words tangling. “I just want you. Only you.”

Eddie’s expression softened in a way that made Steve’s chest ache. “Steve,” he murmured, leaning down until their foreheads touched. “You could never use me. Not unless I wanted you to.”

Steve barked out a shaky laugh. “That’s not reassuring."

“Not supposed to be.” Eddie grinned crookedly, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Supposed to be true.”

Steve searched his face, desperate for confirmation. “You’re sure? You really want this?”

“Sure as I’ve ever been about anything,” Eddie said without hesitation. Then, with a wicked glint: “Now shut up before I change my mind.”

The stretch of silence that followed was thick with anticipation, broken only by Eddie spitting into his hand, slicking himself, and reaching back. Steve’s stomach flipped, watching every move like it was burned into film.

And then Eddie was sinking down on him, slow, deliberate.

Steve’s head slammed back against the couch, a raw groan ripping from his chest. “Jesus Christ—”

Eddie hissed, teeth bared, riding the line between pain and pleasure. “Fuck, Steve—”

Steve’s hands clamped down on his hips, not to guide but to anchor, to keep himself from flying apart. His heart was a runaway train, his brain useless static. All he could process was heat and tightness and Eddie—Eddie everywhere, Eddie above him, taking him in like it was salvation.

“God, you look—” Steve’s voice fractured, helpless. “You look so good.”

Eddie laughed breathlessly, curls falling into his face as he began to move, rolling his hips slow, testing. “Not bad for a kid from Hawkins, huh?”

“Fuck Hawkins,” Steve gasped, dragging him down for a messy kiss. “You’re—shit—you’re perfect.”

The rhythm built, Eddie grinding down, Steve meeting him with shallow thrusts, the couch groaning like it was about to collapse under them. Steve barely cared. His hands roamed Eddie’s back, his thighs, desperate to touch every inch.

And for once, he didn’t feel invisible. Didn’t feel like the guy lurking in the wings while Eddie gave the world half-truths. For once, Eddie wasn’t holding back. Every sound, every motion, every breathless curse... it was all for Steve.

“Mine,” Steve whispered against Eddie’s mouth, half a plea, half a promise.

“Yours,” Eddie gasped, grinding harder. “Always yours.”

The words snapped something in him. Steve thrust up harder, grip bruising, and Eddie cried out, head tipping back, throat exposed. Steve bit at his collarbone, not gentle, just enough to mark, to prove.

“Steve—fuck—” Eddie’s voice cracked, and the sound was the most beautiful thing Steve had ever heard.

Steve was unraveling fast, the pleasure clawing up his spine, hot and relentless. “Gonna—shit—gonna—”

“Do it,” Eddie panted, rocking down, eyes wild. “Come on, baby, give it to me—”

And Steve did, with a groan that felt torn from the deepest part of him, his whole body jerking as he spilled inside Eddie.

Eddie followed, shuddering hard, grinding down through it, his own release streaking Steve’s stomach as he collapsed forward, boneless.

They stayed tangled like that, gasping, the couch creaking in protest under their combined weight.

Steve buried his face in Eddie’s shoulder, sweat dampening curls against his cheek. He felt raw, stripped open, but lighter somehow. Like maybe, for once, he didn’t have to doubt what they were.

“You okay?” Eddie murmured against his ear, voice hoarse.

Steve huffed out a laugh, still breathless. “You’re asking me?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, grinning, eyes soft. “Because you matter more.”

And Steve — sarcastic, oblivious, stubborn Steve — couldn’t find a single joke to hide behind.

So he just held on tighter

Steve was still catching his breath when he realized his back had stuck to the couch. Not the most glamorous aftermath — sweat and cheap upholstery — but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Eddie was sprawled across his chest like a cat that had claimed its favorite spot, hair damp, heartbeat still rabbit-fast against Steve’s ribs.

It should’ve felt suffocating. It didn’t.

Steve slid his fingers through Eddie’s curls, pushing them off his forehead. “You’re crushing my lungs, Munson.”

Eddie hummed, lazy and content. “Then die happy, Harrington.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his mouth. Typical Eddie: give him an inch of tenderness and he’d drown it in bravado.

But lying there, every nerve still buzzing, Steve felt something clawing up in his chest. Seven years, and it still hit him like a freight train sometimes. The way he wanted to say it. The words that lived on the back of his tongue, the ones he never let slip out loud.

Love.

It was too small, too flimsy a word for what Eddie was to him. For the way his heart twisted when Eddie kissed him, for the way his chest ached when Eddie laughed at something stupid, for the way he felt grounded and unmoored all at once when Eddie’s weight settled on top of him.

He tightened his arms around him, pressing his mouth to Eddie’s temple. The kiss was quick, almost clumsy, but heavy with everything he couldn’t say.

Eddie shifted, peering up at him with a grin that was softer than Steve deserved. “You’re staring.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.” Steve tried for sarcasm, but his voice cracked halfway through.

Eddie smirked like he’d heard it anyway. “Too late.”

Steve sighed, letting his head fall back against the couch. “You ever get tired of this?”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Of what? You? Never.”

“No, I mean—” Steve hesitated, thumb tracing absent circles against Eddie’s hip. “This. Hiding. Pretending like we’re… I don’t know. Just friends who happen to spend every waking second together.”

The words came out harsher than he meant, laced with a frustration he usually kept buried. Eddie’s expression didn’t harden, though. It softened. That almost made it worse.

“Stevie,” Eddie said quietly, “you know why we can’t—”

“I know.” Steve cut him off, voice tight. “I know. Indiana still thinks we’re Satan’s foot soldiers or some crap, and the label would probably drop you the second they found out. I know it’s not fair to ask. I just…” He exhaled, shoulders slumping. “Sometimes I wish I could tell people what you mean to me. That’s all.”

Eddie reached up, thumb brushing over Steve’s jaw. “You think I don’t want that too?”

Steve’s throat bobbed. He couldn’t answer. Didn’t trust himself to. Instead, Eddie kissed him. Slow, lingering. The kind of kiss that said everything words couldn’t.

When they finally pulled apart, Steve muttered, half against Eddie’s mouth, “Still feels like I’m shortchanging it. Like calling it love doesn’t even scratch the surface.”

Eddie smiled, and it wasn’t his usual sharp grin. It was small, wistful. “Then good thing we don’t need a word for it.”

Steve’s chest squeezed tight, painful and sweet all at once.

They stayed tangled for a while, the hum of the fluorescent light filling the silence. Steve let his eyes drift shut, basking in the rare moment of stillness.

Which, of course, was when someone knocked on the door.

Both of them froze.

Steve’s stomach plummeted. His brain spun through every worst-case scenario: station manager walking in, intern catching them half-naked, headlines in tomorrow’s paper.

Eddie scrambled off him like he’d been burned, muttering a string of curses as he yanked his jeans up. Steve fumbled for his shirt, heart pounding in his throat.

The knock came again, sharper this time. And then a slip of paper scraped under the door. Steve’s blood went cold. He shot Eddie a look, wide-eyed.

“What the hell is that?” he hissed.

Eddie, already halfway dressed, crouched down and picked it up. His face was unreadable as he unfolded it. Steve’s panic spiked. “Is it—what does it say?” His voice pitched higher than he’d like.

Eddie’s eyes scanned the page, and for a second he went perfectly still. Steve’s stomach twisted. This was it. Someone knew. Someone was going to ruin everything—

And then Eddie snorted. Loud. Then choked on a laugh. Then outright doubled over, wheezing.

Steve stared at him. “What the—?”

Eddie held the note out with a shaking hand, still laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Steve took it, bracing himself for disaster. In messy block letters, it read:

“My dressing room and Jeff’s are literally right next to yours. We heard everything. We are going to have nightmares until we die. —Gareth.”

Steve blinked. Once. Twice. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my God.”

Eddie collapsed onto the couch, wheezing with laughter, tears in his eyes. “Can you imagine his face? Poor kid probably tried to shove his ears full of tissues.”

Steve tossed the note at him, scowling even as his lips twitched. “We’re never living this down.”

“Damn right we’re not,” Eddie said, grinning wickedly. “But hey—at least it wasn’t the station manager. Count your blessings, Harrington.”

Steve couldn’t help it: he laughed. Shaky, incredulous, but real.

And when Eddie leaned into him, still chuckling, Steve let him. Because maybe the world didn’t know what they were. Maybe they never would.

But the people who mattered most already did.

Chapter Text

TRACK 04 – “Throne of Ruin” (1995)

The suite looked like it had been raided by pirates who got bored halfway through. Silver domes from room service lay overturned, steaks half-chewed and bleeding onto porcelain. Champagne flutes ringed with lipstick — except there were no women here, just Eddie and his entourage of ghosts. Cigarette ash spilled like gray snow across the carpet. Someone, maybe Eddie, had decided an ashtray made a perfectly good pill bowl.

Steve was on his knees by the coffee table, stacking plates like some second-rate waiter. The clink of china against china sounded too loud in the cavernous quiet between Eddie’s laughs.

Great. Guess I’m the maid now, too.

He poured the remains of a champagne bottle into the sink, watching the bubbles die fast in the drain. Expensive stuff, probably cost more than his old BMW, and here he was treating it like dish soap.

Behind him, MTV blared. The bassline of Gangsta’s Paradise rattled the cheap speakers, Coolio’s voice filling the space like smoke. Eddie had the volume cranked up, sunglasses perched on his face even though it was past ten at night, like he needed another layer between himself and the world.

Steve glanced over his shoulder. Eddie was sprawled across the couch like some ruined monarch on a throne of trash, whiskey glass balanced loosely in one hand, cigarette dangling dangerously in the other. His boots were still on. The smoke curled around him, lit orange whenever he took a drag, and for half a second Steve thought he looked untouchable.

Then Eddie laughed at nothing — loud, too loud — and the sound cracked at the edges.

Not untouchable. Just breaking.

Steve set the plates down harder than he meant to. “You planning on eating any of this, or should I just keep pretending I’m working at a diner?”

Eddie tilted his head, lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “You’d look hot in an apron. With the little paper hat. Maybe some roller skates.” His words slurred just enough to make Steve’s chest knot.

“Funny,” Steve muttered, grabbing the half-empty pill pack off the table and sliding it into his pocket. He was fast about it, but Eddie’s eyes — hidden behind the shades — still followed his hands.

“Party police,” Eddie sing-songed. He raised his glass in mock salute. Whiskey sloshed over his knuckles, dripping onto the already stained couch. “Always on duty.”

Steve ignored the jab. He was good at that, after years of practice. He picked up the ashtray-turned-drug-dish and dumped the mess into the trash. “You’ve got a show tomorrow night, remember?”

“Mm.” Eddie stretched like a cat, smoke curling out of his mouth. “Shows, shows, shows. That’s all it is. Doesn’t matter what state I’m in, long as I can scream into a mic, right?”

Steve clenched his jaw. He wanted to argue, to shake him, to remind him that it wasn’t just about screaming — that it mattered, the music, the fans, the fact that Eddie had clawed his way out of Indiana to be here. But the walls were up tonight. Steve could see them. Thick, jagged things Eddie built when he didn’t want to let anyone in.

So instead Steve tried for coaxing. “How about a shower? You’ll feel human again.”

Eddie snorted, taking another swallow of whiskey. “Define human.”

“Not smelling like an ashtray,” Steve shot back. That earned him a small grin, but Eddie didn’t move.

Steve sighed and sank onto the arm of the couch. Up close, he could see the fine tremor in Eddie’s hand, the way the cigarette shook just a little before he dragged on it. He could smell the mix of sweat and smoke and stale booze clinging to him. It hit Steve like a punch in the gut... this wasn’t rock ‘n roll excess anymore. This was Eddie chewing himself up alive.

“Babe,” Steve said quietly, “just… eat something, okay? Shower, sleep a few hours. You don’t have to keep…” He gestured vaguely at the wreckage around them. “This.”

Eddie tilted his head back against the cushions, glasses slipping just enough for Steve to see the dark smudges under his eyes. For a second, Steve thought maybe he’d gotten through.

But then Eddie grinned again, wide and reckless. “Relax, Harrington. I’m indestructible.”

Steve swallowed hard. He’d heard that line too many times this year. Every time it sounded less like bravado and more like a dare.

He thought about Gareth hiding empty bottles before soundcheck, about Jeff pocketing little baggies with quiet efficiency, about the way the rest of the band exchanged looks when Eddie stumbled through rehearsals. They were trying. God, they were all trying. But Eddie was faster. Eddie always had been.

Steve reached over and plucked the whiskey glass out of his hand before Eddie could react. “Hey—”

“No.” Steve’s voice cracked, sharper than he intended. He tightened his grip on the glass. “Enough.”

Eddie stared at him from behind the shades. Then, slowly, he leaned back, cigarette burning low between his fingers. “You’re no fun anymore.”

Steve almost laughed at that, bitter and raw. Fun. Like this was fun. Like watching the person you’d give anything for hollow himself out was some kind of party trick.

He set the glass down out of reach and rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m not your damn babysitter, Eddie.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Eddie muttered, smoke curling up like a shield.

Steve dropped his hands and looked at him, really looked. And underneath all the swagger and the sunglasses and the smoke, he caught it. Just for a split second. The flicker of something scared.

He wanted to grab it, to hold onto it, to tell Eddie he wasn’t alone, that he didn’t have to keep burying himself alive under all this noise. But the walls slammed shut again before Steve could even open his mouth.

So he sat there, helpless, in the glow of the TV while Coolio rapped about living in a gangster’s paradise. And Steve thought, not for the first time, that Eddie Munson was building himself a throne out of ruin.

And Steve was the idiot standing guard at the foot of it, trying to stop it from collapsing.

§

The limo hummed beneath them, smooth and heavy, like it was swallowing every bump in the road. Outside, neon bled across the windows, streaks of pink and green that smeared into nothing as the car cut through the city. The skyline was loud even without sound — billboards flashing, clubs spilling bodies onto sidewalks — but inside, the air was tight and still.

Eddie bounced his leg like a jackhammer, sunglasses on again, muttering half-formed lines under his breath. Steve caught a few words — throne, ruin, bleed — stitched together in that broken rhythm Eddie used when he was writing but already halfway gone. The whiskey still lingered on his breath.

Steve leaned back against the leather, jaw tight. Don’t say anything. Not here. Not in front of them.

The others were scattered across the seats, Gareth tucked into the corner with his drumsticks spinning between restless fingers, Jeff staring at the floor like it might offer him a map out of this mess, Grant pressing his temple against the tinted glass.

None of them spoke. None of them even tried anymore.

Steve couldn’t remember the last time someone had cracked a joke on the way to a show, the last time they’d laughed like a band instead of sat like pallbearers.

Eddie tapped his cigarette against an empty champagne flute, ashes falling into the crystal. “Listen,” he said suddenly, like he was mid-conversation with himself. “We’ll open with Shadow Lullaby, kill the lights halfway through, yeah? And then—then we drag ‘em through the dirt with Throne. Burn it down from the inside out. Leave ‘em ashes.”

His voice was loud, slurred at the edges, but burning bright in the middle. That manic fire. The kind that made arenas scream and, later, left Steve sitting awake in hotel bathrooms waiting for Eddie to stop shaking.

Steve’s fingers twitched in his lap. He told himself not to, not with everyone watching, but the instinct was stronger than his pride. He reached over and rested a hand on Eddie’s thigh. Just a grounding touch, nothing more.

Eddie turned his head, those sunglasses hiding whatever was left of him tonight, and smirked. “What, keeping me from levitating?” His knee didn’t stop bouncing.

Steve didn’t answer. He squeezed gently, once, then turned his eyes to the window. Neon, glass, the blur of strangers on the sidewalk who had no idea what was happening in here.

He’s going to burn himself down, Steve thought. And I’m the idiot sitting here with a fire extinguisher no one asked for.

The silence stretched. Gareth’s drumsticks clicked against his knuckles. Jeff sighed through his nose, sharp enough to cut glass. No one said anything to Eddie. No one said anything to Steve, either. They’d stopped trying months ago. He was the one who insisted on fighting every little fire, and maybe they were tired of watching him lose.

Eddie leaned forward suddenly, pointing at Jeff with the cigarette like a conductor with a baton. “Hey. The second chorus—give it teeth. Don’t baby it. I want it to bleed.”

Jeff nodded without looking up. Resigned, not inspired.

Steve wanted to scream.

Instead, he slid his thumb in small circles against Eddie’s thigh, grounding himself as much as Eddie. The heat of him, the twitch of muscle under denim, the reminder that he was still here. Still alive. Still Eddie, even if buried under layers of smoke and whiskey.

The limo slowed at a red light, brake lights outside casting the cabin in red glow. For a moment, the whole car looked like it was bleeding. Steve caught his reflection in the window: tired, older than twenty-eight should look, jaw set like stone.

Eddie chuckled at nothing again, cigarette bobbing dangerously close to the seat. Gareth leaned forward just enough to pluck it from his hand, stub it out in the ashtray without a word. Eddie didn’t even fight him. Just smirked like he was in on some joke no one else got.

The light turned green, and the limo rolled on.

Steve kept his hand where it was, anchored, even when the others glanced at him in the shadows. He didn’t care what it looked like anymore. He couldn’t stop Eddie from burning, but maybe... maybe he could hold on long enough to make sure the fire didn’t take everything with it.

And maybe that was worth looking like a fool.

§

The arena shook. Ten, maybe fifteen thousand people packed shoulder to shoulder, screaming like their lives depended on it. Spotlights cut through the dark like blades, smoke cannons hissed, and the crowd roared back in waves. From the wings, Steve could feel it in his bones, a heartbeat too big for one man to hold.

Eddie stormed out into it, guitar slung low, sunglasses still on despite the blinding strobes. He looked ten feet tall, bigger than anyone in the room, but Steve saw the sway in his step, the stumble before he caught himself at the mic.

“CHICAGO!” Eddie screamed, voice already raw. “You wanna bleed with me tonight?”

The arena answered in thunder.

Steve’s stomach sank. Sloppy. Too loud, too early. He was already off-balance, already chasing something he couldn’t hold.

The band crashed into Throne of Ruin, Gareth pounding drums like he was trying to hammer the stage into the dirt. Grant’s bass snarled. Jeff’s riffs burned hot. And then Eddie’s voice ripped through, venomous, breaking and bending at the edges.

“I built my throne of ruin 
From the bones of who I was 
Crowned myself with nothing 
Just a crown of rust and dust.”

The crowd lost their minds. Fists in the air, bodies thrashing, voices screaming the words back. They didn’t care about the slur in Eddie’s delivery, didn’t care that he dropped a line and laughed into the mic like it was all part of the show. To them, it was chaos. To them, it was perfect.

To Steve, it was a car crash in slow motion.

He gripped the edge of the curtain, heart pounding in his throat. Every instinct screamed at him to run out there, yank Eddie off before he could unravel further. But this was his stage. His kingdom. Steve was just the idiot in the wings, powerless while Eddie set himself on fire in front of thousands.

Halfway through the song, Eddie swung his guitar around and slammed it against the stage. The crack echoed like a gunshot. The arena went feral. He hit it again, strings snapping, wood splintering, until the body cracked open and the feedback screamed like a wounded animal.

Grant winced but kept playing, eyes flicking to Gareth, who only shook his head and pounded harder. Jeff gritted his teeth, jaw tight, hands steady on the neck of his guitar like he could keep the whole show from collapsing if he just held it together.

Eddie grabbed the mic stand, swung it like a spear, and hurled it into the wings. Steve had to step back or catch it in the ribs. The crowd howled their approval, deaf to the panic clawing through Steve’s chest.

“Bow down to your savior 
A king with nothing left
Burn the temple, burn the altar, 
I am ruin dressed in flesh!”

His voice cracked into a scream, raw and guttural, more pain than melody. Sweat poured down his face, hair plastered to his temples, sunglasses finally sliding off to reveal pupils blown wide and wild.

And then, just like that, he collapsed. Dropped to his knees mid-scream, guitar wreckage at his side, microphone clattering from his hand. He fell forward, chest heaving, soaking in the tidal wave of applause like gasoline poured over an open flame.

The crowd chanted his name. Eddie. Eddie. Eddie.

Steve didn’t wait for the others. He was already moving, ducking under the rigging, crossing the stage before the house lights even dipped. He grabbed Eddie by the arm, fingers digging in. Eddie’s head lolled back, grin feral, teeth flashing under the lights like he was victorious instead of wrecked.

“Show’s over,” Steve muttered, low and sharp, dragging him to his feet.

The noise of the arena blurred into static. Cheers, screams, stomping feet... it all sounded the same. All Steve could hear was Eddie’s ragged breath and the pounding in his own skull.

He hauled him offstage, ignoring the roar of the crowd, ignoring the stagehands scattering out of the way. Behind him, the Corroded Coffin played the outro like soldiers finishing a doomed march.

Eddie stumbled, laughed, tried to throw his arms wide like he wanted to go back out there and burn brighter. Steve tightened his grip and didn’t let go.

If Eddie wanted to burn, fine. But Steve was going to make damn sure he didn’t do it alone.

§

The crowd was still chanting Eddie’s name when Steve yanked him offstage. The noise rolled down the corridor like thunder trapped in concrete, every stomp and scream rattling the plaster walls. He didn’t even know where he was dragging him — just away. Away from the lights, the fire, the goddamn gasoline that Eddie kept pouring over himself.

“Let go of me,” Eddie snarled, twisting against his grip.

“Not a chance,” Steve shot back, hauling harder.

The hallway stank of sweat, beer, and the faint chemical bite of smoke machines. Posters curled off the walls. A roadie or two glanced their way, then wisely turned back. Nobody stopped them. Nobody ever did. Eddie Munson could torch a stadium and people would still clap for more.

Steve slammed him against the wall halfway down the corridor. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to get his attention. Eddie’s sunglasses were gone, his hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes glassy with whatever cocktail he’d poured into himself before the show.

“What the hell was that?” Steve’s voice cracked in the middle, half shout, half plea.

Eddie laughed. Actually laughed. It was hollow and sharp, the sound of glass breaking. “That, Stevie, was rock ‘n roll. Didn’t you hear the crowd? They fucking loved it.”

“They loved watching you fall apart!” Steve’s chest was heaving, hands still on Eddie’s shoulders like if he let go, Eddie would vanish. “You call that a show? You were out there trying to kill yourself, Eds!”

“Don’t treat me like I’m broken!” Eddie shoved him, hard enough to send Steve stumbling back a step. His voice rang down the hall, a wild snarl that didn’t sound like him anymore. “I’m not some charity case you get to fix in your spare time!”

Steve’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Not because he wanted to hit him — he couldn’t, never — but because if he didn’t, he’d shake himself apart.

“You are broken!” The words came out before he could stop them, raw and ugly. “You’re tearing yourself apart and I’m standing here watching you light the match, and I...” His throat closed up, the rest strangled before it could get out.

Eddie’s grin was feral, dangerous. “Maybe I like burning.”

The worst part? He meant it. Steve saw it in his eyes — saw the gleam of something reckless and hollow, like he’d already decided he didn’t deserve to crawl back out of the fire.

“Jesus Christ, Eds,” Steve whispered, and it wasn’t anger anymore, it was fear, hot and helpless. His chest ached with it, worse than any bruise, worse than any cut. He wanted to shake him until he came back, until the man he knew surfaced through the wreck.

Instead, Eddie shoved him again, harder this time. Steve’s back hit the wall with a thud. He barely had time to gasp before Eddie was on him, mouth crashing against his like a weapon.

The kiss was brutal. Teeth, breath, smoke, whiskey. Steve’s lip split under it, copper tang filling his mouth. Eddie’s hands fisted in his shirt, pulling, yanking, demanding.

For a second, Steve froze. Then instinct took over. He shoved back, clawed back, kissed him hard enough to bruise. If Eddie wanted war, fine. Steve could fight like hell.

Their mouths clashed, messy and unrelenting, the kind of kiss that wasn’t about tenderness or love... it was survival, bare and ugly. Eddie bit, Steve bit back. Eddie clawed, Steve held tighter.

Somewhere in the chaos, Eddie’s laughter broke through again, sharp and frantic, and Steve hated it because it wasn’t joy, it was a scream in disguise.

“Is this what you want?” Eddie gasped against his mouth, spit-slick and furious. “Huh, Harrington? You want the broken toy? Go ahead, play with me until I snap!”

“Shut up,” Steve growled, shoving him harder into the wall, kissing him again just to stop the words. He didn’t want to hear them. Couldn’t.

They staggered sideways, knocking into a stack of flight cases. A cymbal stand clattered to the floor. Someone down the hall yelled something, but neither of them cared. Steve’s whole world had shrunk to Eddie’s mouth, Eddie’s hands, the frantic pound of his own pulse.

Eddie pushed back, twisting them until it was Steve pinned, his spine slamming into the plaster. He kissed like he wanted to draw blood, like he wanted to tear Steve down into the same ruin he was living in.

Steve gave it right back. Because if this was what it took to tether Eddie here, to keep him from flying straight off the edge, then Steve would take it. All of it.

They stumbled into a side door — Steve didn’t even know if he pulled Eddie or Eddie shoved him through, just that suddenly they were in a storage room, dim and cluttered. Cardboard boxes towered around them, the smell of dust and old wood replacing the roar of the crowd.

The door slammed shut behind them, a hollow thud swallowed by the pulse of the arena still raging outside. The walls shook faintly with the roar of the crowd, the vibration like some sick heartbeat that wouldn’t die down, even though the show was over—no, not over, just cut short, torn apart. Just like him. Just like them.

Steve barely had time to breathe before Eddie was on him.

Hands everywhere now — Eddie’s fingers tugging at Steve’s shirt, dragging nails down his chest hard enough to sting. Steve’s own hands in Eddie’s hair, yanking him closer, like he could anchor him by sheer force.

It was violent, desperate, nothing like the quiet moments they sometimes found in the dead hours between shows. This wasn’t comfort. This was Eddie trying to drown himself in sensation, and Steve refusing to let him drown alone.

His lip was bleeding, his lungs burning, his heart shattering in his chest. And still, Steve couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t.

Because underneath the fury, underneath the wreckage, was the man he loved. And if kissing him like this was the only way to keep him tethered to reality, Steve would destroy himself doing it.

Eddie broke the kiss, panting, foreheads pressed together, eyes wild. “You don’t get it,” he hissed, voice shredded. “I’m already gone.”

Steve’s hands framed his face, rough, desperate. “Then I’ll follow you,” he said, voice shaking. “Wherever the hell you go, I’ll be there.”

Eddie stared at him, lips parted, chest heaving. For a second, Steve thought he’d laugh again. Instead, Eddie kissed him — harder, hungrier, dragging Steve down with him into the dark.

Boxes toppled as they crashed back into them, neither breaking away, both of them clinging like the other was the only thing left standing.

Steve’s thoughts blurred, his body aching, his soul screaming, but one thing cut through, sharp and certain. If this was what it took to keep Eddie here, to keep him alive... he’d take it.

Every last jagged piece.

This was the only language Eddie seemed to understand tonight.

Hands shoved up his shirt, fists tangling in fabric, yanking so hard the collar tore. Steve’s gasp echoed sharp in the room, not from pain but from the sheer ferocity of it. Eddie’s rings scraped his chest, left trails that stung, that would bruise by morning. Good. Proof. Something real in a haze of noise and fire and pills.

“Eds—” Steve started, but the name broke against another kiss, brutal, silencing. Eddie swallowed it like he was starving and Steve was the last scrap left in the world. His eyes were glassy, fever-bright, tears caught in the edges but refusing to fall.

Steve felt his own sting hot and useless. He wasn’t crying for himself... he was crying because Eddie looked like a man on the edge of a cliff, and Steve was dumb enough to stand at the bottom, arms wide, begging him to jump.

Eddie’s hands shoved lower, belt buckle clanging as he ripped it open with clumsy violence. Steve tried to help, fingers shaking, but Eddie batted them away like an insult, like he needed to be the one in control. His growl was low, ragged, almost animal: mine.

The word wasn’t spoken, but Steve heard it anyway, felt it in the way Eddie shoved his jeans down, nails scraping his hips, tearing skin.

He didn’t fight. He didn’t even flinch.

If Eddie needed to burn him down to keep from burning himself, then fine. Steve would be kindling.

The floor was cold concrete, littered with set lists and broken strings and a forgotten beer bottle that rolled when Eddie forced him down. Steve’s shoulder hit hard. Pain jolted, bright, sharp. His laugh was bitter, broken, “Guess this is romantic, huh?”

Eddie snarled against his throat and bit him there, sharp enough to bruise, to mark. His teeth closed like punishment, like apology, like both at once. Steve choked, hips jerking up, body betraying him even through the mess of it.

Clothes shredded between them — flannel torn, shirt ripped open, jeans shoved halfway down his thighs. Eddie’s breath came rough and fast, all desperation, no rhythm. Steve grabbed his hair, yanked his head back just enough to meet his eyes.

Glass. Fire. Tears he wouldn’t shed.

“I’m here,” Steve rasped, voice hoarse, chest tight. “I’m not going anywhere. Do you hear me? Do whatever the hell you need, just—don’t you dare disappear on me.”

Something flickered, a crack in Eddie’s rage, but then it twisted darker. He shoved Steve flat, pinned him by the wrists, kissed him so hard it split the corner of Steve’s mouth. Copper filled his tongue.

When he finally pushed inside, there was nothing gentle. No patience. No slow build. Just raw, punishing thrusts, every movement like he was trying to carve himself into Steve, like he could bury the screaming in his own skull by breaking the both of them.

Steve’s cry ripped out anyway, high, desperate, but not no. Never no. His hands scrabbled against Eddie’s arms, clung to the leather jacket still half-on, nails digging in to anchor himself.

Pain burned sharp, a shock that melted into something else... something brutal, consuming, the line between agony and pleasure blurring until Steve couldn’t tell where one ended. He arched up into it, tears streaking hot down his face, chest heaving.

Eddie was weeping now too, silent but unmistakable, his breath stuttering against Steve’s cheek, drops hitting his skin, mingling with sweat.

They were both breaking. Shattering against each other.

Every thrust was a scream Eddie couldn’t voice. Every kiss was a plea Steve refused to let die unanswered. Their mouths collided again and again, messy, wet, teeth cutting lips, blood mixing with salt and spit.

Steve’s mind kept looping the same useless thought: Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.

Eddie’s grip tightened at his throat, not enough to stop breath, just enough to remind him who held it. Steve let him. His pulse thundered against Eddie’s palm, proof of life and surrender.

“You hear that?” Steve gasped between thrusts, words ragged. “Still beating. Still yours.”

Eddie’s answering sound wasn’t a word. It was broken glass, it was a sob strangled to death, it was fury turned inward and spilling outward. He fucked him harder, desperate, as if he could force belief into himself by breaking Steve open.

And Steve let him. God help him, he let him.

The room blurred, walls rattling with the echo of thousands outside still screaming Eddie’s name, blind to the collapse happening backstage. Steve clung, nails dragging down Eddie’s back, leaving angry red lines, claiming him back.

When release came, it wasn’t pleasure. It was devastation. Eddie came like he was dying, head thrown back, a ragged wail that scraped raw from his throat. Steve followed not long after, body convulsing, vision blinding white for a second before crashing down into the dark again.

They collapsed together on the filthy floor, tangled, ruined, shaking.

Eddie buried his face in Steve’s neck, breath hot and wet with tears. His whole body trembled like a man wrung out, emptied.

Steve’s arms wrapped around him instinctively, even though they ached, even though he should’ve been furious, even though his chest still burned with the sharp edge of being used like a lifeline and a punching bag all at once.

He pressed his lips to Eddie’s temple, whispering into sweat-matted curls, “I’ve got you. Even like this... especially like this.”

Eddie didn’t answer. Maybe couldn’t. His silence was louder than the crowd still howling outside.

Steve closed his eyes, tears slipping free. If this was what it took to keep him here, to keep him breathing, then fine.

He’d take it.

He’d take all of it.

§

The hotel suite looked too clean. Too neat. Like someone had come in and erased the evidence with bleach and fresh linens, trying to trick him into thinking none of it had happened.

Steve sat on the edge of Eddie’s bed anyway, hands braced on his knees, head bowed. His whole body hummed with the kind of exhaustion that no sleep could fix. Not that he’d slept. He’d spent the night watching Eddie breathe, shallow and uneven, like the rhythm might slip if Steve looked away.

The curtains were drawn tight, but daylight still leaked in around the edges, sharp and merciless. Steve’s split lip throbbed. His throat burned where Eddie’s handprint still lingered, bruises rising purple against his skin. He hadn’t checked in the mirror... didn’t need to. He could feel them. Proof written across him like a headline no one would read but Eddie.

Gareth had helped him drag Eddie back here. No questions at first, just panic, both of them hauling dead weight into the service elevator because Eddie had gone out cold in the corridor. But Gareth wasn’t stupid. He’d seen Steve’s shirt torn down the middle, the bruise blooming on his neck, the red tracks on his chest. He’d asked, voice cracking, “What the hell happened?”

Steve hadn’t answered. He just said, “Help me,” and Gareth had swallowed it, jaw tight, eyes darting between them like he already knew too much. By the time they’d gotten Eddie into bed, some hotel staff had swept through, erased the chaos of last night’s mess.

Now it was just Steve, the stale taste of fear in his mouth, and Eddie’s unconscious form sprawled in clean sheets.

When Eddie finally stirred, it was slow. A groan, a twitch, then his eyelids fluttered like someone fighting the sun after a week underground. Steve straightened so fast his back cracked. His hand hovered, wanting to touch but not daring yet.

Eddie squinted at the ceiling. His voice rasped, dry, “Where—?” He coughed, winced, dragged a shaky hand over his face. “What the…? This isn’t—”

His words stumbled, brain still fogged by the cocktail of whatever he’d downed last night. Booze. Pills. Powder. Steve didn’t want to catalogue it.

Eddie shifted, tried to push himself upright. Steve caught him, steadying him before he face-planted. “Careful,” he murmured, softer than he meant to. “You’re in the hotel... your suite.”

Eddie blinked around the room, frowning at how spotless it looked. “Did we… already play?” His voice cracked on the word. “I—I don’t remember leaving here. Did I…?”

Steve’s throat tightened. He swallowed. “Yeah. You played.” His voice sounded like gravel. He couldn’t bring himself to say more.

Eddie looked at him then — really looked. His gaze dragged across Steve’s face, slow, like film catching in the reel. His brow furrowed at the split lip, the smear of dried blood at the corner. Then his eyes dropped to Steve’s throat.

Steve saw the moment it hit. Saw recognition cut through the fog like a blade.

Eddie froze. His pupils widened, black swallowing brown. His lips parted but no sound came. He just stared at the bruises he’d left with his own hand.

Steve wanted to look away, buy he forced himself to hold Eddie’s gaze, even though his eyes still burned from last night, still wet in ways he couldn’t stop.

“Jesus,” Eddie whispered, voice breaking. His hand shot out, stopped short of touching Steve’s throat like he’d been burned. He jerked it back as if he wasn’t allowed, as if he didn’t trust himself not to destroy everything he touched.

“No,” he croaked, shaking his head violently. His hair stuck to his damp forehead. “No, no, no—fuck!”

Steve reached for him then, couldn’t help it, but Eddie flinched away. Curled in on himself like an animal, arms wrapping around his knees. His chest hitched, a horrible sound ripping out of him, half-sob, half-choke.

“I didn’t—I wouldn’t—I could never—” His voice cracked in shreds. “Not you. Never you.”

Steve’s gut twisted. He scooted closer, ignoring the sting in his ribs, the ache in every muscle. “Eds...”

Eddie shook his head harder, fists pressing to his eyes. “I hurt you. Look at you. Look at what I did—”

“You weren’t—” Steve bit down on the words you weren’t you. Because Eddie was always Eddie, even under the haze, even under the rage. And saying it out loud would feel like making excuses when there weren’t any.

Eddie’s shoulders shook, tears leaking past his hands, dripping onto the sheets. “I’m sorry,” he kept gasping, over and over, a mantra that sounded like self-flagellation. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I swear—I’ll stop. I’ll quit. I’ll fucking stop, I swear to God—”

Steve’s chest tightened so hard he could barely breathe. He wanted to believe him. Wanted to take those words, carve them in stone, hold Eddie to them forever. But the truth sat heavy in his gut, cold and gnawing: he didn’t know if he could believe him.

Still, he reached out. Laid a hand on Eddie’s arm, light, cautious. “Hey, look at me.”

Eddie did, finally. His face was wrecked, red and wet, eyes swollen.

“You don’t have to swear to me right now,” Steve said, voice steady even though his insides felt like glass. “Just—just breathe, okay? One thing at a time.”

Eddie shook his head again, but weaker this time. “I’ll stop,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I’ll stop before I lose you. I swear. I can’t—I can’t lose you.”

Steve’s throat closed up. He wanted to say you already have me, idiot. He wanted to joke, to throw a sarcastic line at the ceiling and pretend it wasn’t killing him. But all he managed was a shaky, “You won’t... you won’t lose me, Eds.”

Eddie folded then, collapsing into him, head against Steve’s chest, hands clutching like Steve was the last rope on a cliffside. His sobs were muffled, broken.

Steve held him, lips pressed to tangled curls, eyes squeezed shut. His own tears slid silent down his cheeks, soaking into Eddie’s hair. He whispered, almost too soft to hear, “It’s gonna be okay. You’ll be okay, Eds... we’ll be okay.”

He didn’t say he believed him. He didn’t say he didn’t. He just held on.

Because that was all he could do.

And as the noise of the city bled faintly through the hotel windows, Steve sat there on the clean bed in the too-clean room, holding the wreckage of the man he loved, wondering how many more pieces they’d both have to break into before either of them could be whole again.